Loading...When you’re a Villain, there are certain things you sign up for.
The risk of arrest, the risk of getting shot by police, the risk of getting hunted and severely beaten up by heroes. The risk of what happens when your secret identity is uncovered.
The risk of other Villains hunting you for their own ends.
Oh yes, don’t believe that only Heroines get hunted, trapped and put through slave training by Villains. Villains get it worse.
There is a code between Heroes and Villains. Sure, heroes hunt and beat up Villains, but that’s just the natural way of things—and nobody tries to kill anybody for real. Part of designing traps is making sure you don’t use lethal force on a non-immortal opponent. Sure, Heroes and Heroines get trapped and humiliated by Villains and have compromising photos taken, that’s also the natural way of things—but there are lines you don’t step over. After all, you want the public to see, and you want the public to hate you but to hate you fondly and see you as entertainment, not hate you with contempt and fury and howl for your blood. Ever seen a photo of a Heroine totally naked? Ever seen the inside of their labia? Ever seen them wearing cum? No, you haven’t, you’ve only seen their nipples and camel toe because they’re always wearing panties. It’s always quite tasteful bondage.
But Villains? Villains are fair game. If you’re a Hero, you have a good-guy reputation to protect, but everybody looks the other way when Villains and Villains throw down. Keep bystanders out of it, and even Heroes will leave you alone. What do they care? It’s better for them if we thin our own numbers. Heroes get sexually molested, but never truly abused. But Villains? It’s game on torture, rape, brain-washing, drugs, long-term sexual slavery, you name it. Some just love how much damage they can do to a woman who is all but guaranteed to heal from it.
Trust me, being a female Villain is the job that takes the real balls. Some of us can’t hack it after the first capture, and retire. But what do you do instead? Try getting a job with that on your CV. Anybody who thinks sex work would be a good option is probably already doing it—the hours are better, it’s safer, and the pay is reasonably steady.
I’ve only been captured once. I got beaten nearly senseless and then raped good and hard for a day, by a thug Villain and all his goons, then discarded with the trash. Literally. They threw me into a dumpster. It took me three days until I could walk comfortably again, and I have highly accelerated healing. Try doing that to a Heroine and every goodie-two-shoes parahuman within flying range will be hunting your arse down like a dog.
Like the vast majority of my peers, I have no unusual powers. I’m parahuman, sure, but all I have are strength and endurance and toughness. I can’t fly, I’m not physically indestructible or immune to toxins and I have no powers of influence or suggestion, so I had to rely upon years and years of damn hard training based on a precociously active childhood. Oh, and I have great but not perfect night vision.
The reason I became a Villain, not just a thief, though, had more to do with tossing up risks than with my innate übermenschery. Get caught as a thief, and it’s all very depressing. Get caught as a Villain, and you get special treatment but at least you can keep yourself entertained and they put you where there’s a high likelihood of being able to take advantage of someone else’s breakout attempt.
Get caught as a thief and get discovered to have any sort of powers, though, and you get special treatment.
I became a Villain.
I chose dark greens and blues as my costume, simply because they blend into darkness better than true black. As my identity I decided to associate with animals not nouns or verbs, but since cats were overdone, bats were taken and I didn’t feel very birdlike, I became The Lemur in the hopes it would confuse at least a few people.
Tonight, I’m on a job to order, hunting a small piece of statuary that my client wants in order to be a dick to the owner. I get a lot of contracts like that, and I like them. I get money without having to fence something tricky, and the motivations are usually clear enough to untangle.
It’s one of those big, old houses that were built back when there was enough spare land to put them on. The owner is the third generation after the builder, and is mildly reclusive in the way of successful businessmen who have more time for business than public relations and make their money through shell companies and manipulation not one big, successful firm. That’s fine by me, too.
Believe it or not, it’s often easier to break into somewhere when you can assume a certain minimum level of competence and seriousness about the security system. It removes a lot of uncertainty and gives you a proper job to do. That helps you concentrate.
I get through the perimeter alarms easily, and cross the outer grounds without leaving scent or attracting attention because I found my way into the camera data network and I’m wearing a suit that masks or contains all odours.
The movement sensors close to the house are a little trickier because they’re independent, but since they’re also not perfect and have false positives, I get by them by activating one, waiting for a guard to investigate, then ghosting past his back before the timer has wound down.
Getting into the house itself requires first climbing up to the roof. I had mapped out a course past the sensors, but have to take it in three carefully timed rushes to avoid human eyes.
Inside, I have to avoid cameras but my going is much easier.
Then I turn a corner.
She has no chance of seeing me, but see still makes me freeze.
She’s dressed in a fetish maid outfit: Frilly skirt that doesn’t quite cover her arse, visible chastity belt, fishnets, 4″ heels, a waistcoat with nothing under it so her tits are hanging out, a chain between nipple rings, and her arms in a binder behind her back, so her posture is excellent. She’s dusting with a feather duster attached to a face dildo harness.
I retreat back into the shadows like a startled cockroach.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Anyone, but anyone who has bondage girls hanging around is bad fucking news. There are plenty of ways for someone to be perverted and a Villain and to be into sadism, but at this level of power and money, only two people have bondage girls doing the dusting—lifestylers, and sick fucks, and lifestylers rarely have maids dusting this impractically, at this time of night.
I wait until I can see her eyes.
She’s broken inside. She’s so terrified she’s numbed into hopeless submission.
She’s not a lifestyler. He is a sick fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
What to do?
Not much question of that. I’m here, now. It’s not far to my target, and I am not wasting all the effort of getting in, just to turn tail and flee when I’m this close.
I proceed with every sense ratcheted up to 11.
I see another maid, also dusting. I easily avoid two guards.
I make it to the gallery as described with no more surprises, nasty or otherwise.
I scan, I check, I double-check. I bypass two security systems.
The statuary is fairly nice, but wouldn’t be worth a fraction of my fee, if it wasn’t personal.
Oh, well.
I begin checking the base for triggers.
Something sharp punches into my left thigh.
Fuck!
I’m already moving, jerking it out and registering it as a dart as another one whistles through where I would have been if I had moved like a normal, predictable person.
Double fuck, drugged!
I snatch the statue and I’m moving, sprinting down the gallery trying to keep myself shielded from where that dart probably came from. I’m not done yet, my metabolism can deal with drugs a lot better than yours can.
Another one whistles past me.
I can feel numbness spreading through my leg, almost making me stumble. What the hell was the dose?
This is bad, this is very bad.
Two guards burst through the door carrying drawn Tasers. The first one dies quickly. The second one almost draws a bead, then makes my life briefly difficult before he dies.
A second dart slams into my right buttock. It fucking hurts, and it fucking near panics me.
I jerk it out as well. It’s a hypodermic, and it’s fully depressed.
Triple fuck!
I barely make it halfway through the door when my left leg buckles. I try to catch myself, but my right is going as well. The numb feeling is accelerating up my torso.
More guards appear, and I can’t do a single fucking thing about them. Even my arms are beginning to disobey me.
That doesn’t stop them tasing me until I stop screaming because the drugs have given me merciful unconsciousness.
#
Waking up naked is pretty much a given.
I’m strapped to a table, arms above my head. Pretty routine, then.
I recover from drugs or concussion quickly, and go straight into diagnostics. There are straps around my ankles, knees, and my upper thighs right up near my hips. Also wrists, elbows, and just by my shoulders. One over my belly just above my hip bones, and then two straps crossed over my chest between my breasts. And one over my forehead pulling my head into a depression in the table. Yep, designed for as much immobility as possible short of chemical restraints.
“Exactly on time.”
The rich fuck I had been trying to steal the statue from puts a stopwatch down. I can’t turn my head to get a better look at anything, I can just see him out of the corner of my eye. I run a quick mental inventory, and realise he must have injected me in my right thigh with something to counteract the sedatives. Cheerful thought: What else has he injected me with?
“You know my name,” he says, “but if you ever use it you will be punished. I am Master. You were the Lemur but are now fuckslut. It’s so nice to capture one of your kind. It’s so much harder to acquire regular slaves without attracting attention. Your real name is irrelevant, you’ll forget it soon enough.”
“Confident, aren’t you, Christian Rutherford?” I say. Like hell will I ever cooperate.
“I shouldn’t be too upset,” he says as he picks up a thick wand with a glass ball at the tip. “I enjoy breaking stubbornness.”
He flicks a switch and the violet wand flares to life. He cranks the dial viciously up to maximum, then jams it into my right breast.
Holy fuck, but it hurts. Those things can be turned down to the level of feeling like you’re being tickled, or they can be turned up until it feels basically like a Taser being applied directly to your nipple.
I try to lock my jaw, but that amount of pain just overrides all my self-control. I scream but good.
He leaves it on a little longer than is really necessary before abruptly pulling it away.
“Now you know what will happen each and every time you wilfully disobey me,” he says. “I advise you to keep your mouth shut and learn your place.”
I do not, right now, have the self-control to goad him again. My nipple is locking my mouth shut.
He turns away while I am trying to restore my breath and mentally force the pain to go away.
I nearly yelp when something hot lands on my hips barely above my pussy. “You’re waxing me?” I ask, incredulous.
He snatches up the wand again. I slam my jaw shut but my left nipple overrides my self-control and I scream again. I swear he holds it there for longer.
When he finally sets the wand down, I am almost in too much pain to hear his answer. “You are filthy,” he says. “Your legs are good, but this ugly mess has to go.”
I trim, you judgemental shit.
The sharp pain of the waxing is nothing after my nipples, and nothing I can’t ignore anyway. Then he does my underarms, which is more painful but something I can deal with.
I decide to restrain myself and bide my time.
He puts lotion on the waxed areas. Well, isn’t he fucking nice?
He holds up a squat glass jar. He’s wearing long gloves on both hands. I’m not sure if it looks ominous or if I’m relieved that it’s not his actual skin that’s touching me.
“This,” he says, “is a quite effective ointment to increase sensitivity. It’s quite popular in sex shops, but you can’t buy it this potent from anywhere.”
He scoops out a small dollop, then begins working it into my right nipple.
Having somebody you loath touching your nipples, let alone your genitals, is a queasy, disgusting experience. Unfortunately, your flesh is not entirely under your command. If it feels itself being stimulated, it’ll react. It’s just that instead of feeling nice and aroused, the rest of you wants to vomit.
He is startlingly gentle and patient. He spreads the ointment all over my aureole and nipple, and massages with steady circular motions that would be highly erotic from a lover and extremely pleasant if you did it to yourself. I try not to let him see me grit my teeth as my nipple stands up.
Around and around and around, steady and gentle and soft and persistent and patient.
I don’t know if the ointment begins to work, if it’s just suggestion or if it’s just the attention, but I begin to feel his touch keenly. His rubbing has my nipple hard despite my revulsion at his touch. Then I start to feel the sexual stimulation. Warmth grows in my breast. I feel tingles spread down to my cunt.
I try to control my breathing, but I can feel my heart beat a little faster.
My nipple is as hard as rubber. I almost want him to be cruel, to pinch or pull it, which would be easier to deal with. But no, he just keeps on gently rubbing.
Just as it becomes sheer torture, he takes his fingers away. Absent his touch, I can almost feel air currents. Holy hell, the ointment is ridiculously effective.
He leans down and blows on it. It’s like having a feather duster sweep across my breast.
“See? Effective,” he says, then he sticks his fingers back in the jar before starting on my left nipple.
Now my body knows what to expect, that nipple tightens and stands up much faster.
“Hey, Rutherford…” I begin.
He snatches up the wand, pressing it to my hyper-sensitised right nipple. My scream hits a new octave. He doesn’t even need to hold it there for long. When he takes it away I am crying. Actually sobbing.
My left breast is warm and tingly and aching with his touch before I can pull my scattered wits together.
“You may think that being punished will help you deal with this,” he says, “but I can assure you, it is not worth it.”
I’ll be the judge of that. But I’m almost agreeing with him.
When the pain fades from my right nipple, it goes right back to craving his touch again. It is still achingly hard and has just enough ointment left on it to keep it cool. It feels that coolness as endless little stabs of Arctic cold that only make my body more desperate for stimulation.
By the time he stops on my left nipple, I am all but screaming for him to do something, anything, else. My torso is quivering, completely outside my control. I’m just about to goad him again when he says, “The next time I need to punish you, I will apply current precisely to your clitoris.”
That makes my jaw lock shut. My body will not let me experience that pain, there.
He lets me watch as he coats his fingers thickly with the ointment, then he starts on my pussy.
Mother of God. All the attention to my nipples has made me wet. I feel sick at myself. I feel betrayed by my own body. I know my pussy lips are puffy, my clitoris is half out and I’m wet.
He shoves two fingers right into me, hard up as they will go, ramming his knuckles against me to make sure that cursed ointment is coating as much of my cunt as possible.
I can’t stop myself clenching around him.
“See?” He says. “Your body is beginning to learn its place.”
That gives me an extra flash of anger and helps me focus. It’s just my body. It’s just nerves and hormones. I can deal with this. I can bide my time.
He keeps finger-fucking me. Two fingers, nice and steady, in and out, in and out, in and out, curled to rub against my walls, twisting a little to spread the stimulation out.
He hasn’t even touched my clit yet, and already I know that if he keeps going, I will come and there is not a damn thing I can do about it. I try to open my mouth, but the thought of that wand pressed against my clitoris is too much even for me to bear.
Fuck, he’s only just captured me and already he’s found my limit.
In and out, nice and steady, evenly spreading around an ointment that is so effective that his fingers inside me feel like the biggest dildo imaginable.
I can’t fight it. I can’t give him the pleasure. I can’t relax, exactly, but I let the orgasm build and I let it happen because I will not give him the satisfaction of watching me fight this as though I’m terrified of it.
Plus, I have the nasty feeling that if I fight it, it’s only going to be bigger when it hits.
It hits, after not too long. My torso clenches but I manage to restrain my vocal reaction to a muffled “Nnnf.”
“You can try to fight me by relaxing and trying to appear bored,” he says, “but I assure you, it won’t work.”
Then he smears more ointment on his fingers again.
I quail even before he touches my clitoris. After that orgasm, my body is desperate to betray me and sing for him.
I start reacting even before the ointment has a chance to work. My hips are pinned so I can’t even try to escape his fingers, but nothing can hide the way they twitch when he first touches me, or the way they keep quivering.
He has incredible discipline and patience, I’ll give him that much. His hand is moving with the same absolutely maddening, tireless pace.
“Good sluts learn their place quickly,” he says.
I have to clamp my jaws shut to stop reacting to that one, but at least I’m doing that already.
I don’t even notice when I start fighting my body. When I realise I’ve been doing it, I force myself to relax, and I come almost immediately.
Clitoral orgasms are different to vaginal orgasms. For me, vaginal orgasms are bigger, slower and more satisfying; clitoral orgasms are sharper and more explosive. This one punches me like a violet wand set on half.
I manage to restrain my response to “Gnnnffff!”
As I’m recovering, he moves out of the range of my limited vision.
“I’m going to leave you to become comfortable with the fact that your only purpose and use is fucking,” he says.
A dildo slides easily into my cunt, which tries to clench around it but has no hope of stopping it.
I try to tell myself that I’m trying to keep it out. I have to try quite hard.
He appears holding a venous catheter. “This will help you to relax and get used to your new life,” he says before bending down out of sight and inserting the catheter in the vein in my leg, right up near my groin.
I was half expecting a full hallucinatory trip, but all I get is floaty and detached. That does well enough at reducing my ability to fight my body’s reactions, though.
I feel the dildo inside me as a thick, warm, delicious sensation. I try to remind myself it’s a violation, that I’m being raped, but the feeling just floats away. The feeling of the dildo, and the feelings from my nipples, remain. I’m floating detached, but I’m floating on top of those erotic feelings.
After the orgasms, the multiple drugs in my system, and the violent punishment shocks, I’m tired enough to go to sleep. I fight it, but that resolve floats away as well.
#
I dream I’m being fucked, deep and slow, and revel in how fantastic it feels as a cock slides in and out of me. I can’t tell who’s fucking me, but they’re doing a fantastic job of it. I try to stretch, but a weight seems to be holding me down. I can’t move, I can just accept it.
It feels sooooo gooooood.
I wake to a moment of drugged confusion as I think that my pussy is now so sensitive it feels like the dildo is fucking me.
Then I realise it really is fucking me.
The dildo is moving in and out with long, steady, unvarying strokes. I can faintly hear a hydraulic hiss and mechanical clack before an orgasm rolls over me long and languid and smooth.
I fight to retain awareness, to wake up properly, but there are still drugs trickling into my system.
#
I hear a voice in my dreams. “I am Master.”
I know I’m tied down and being fucked into one delirious orgasm after another. I can feel ecstasy rolling through my body, before and after his voice.
“I am Master.”
I drift to the surface, confusion battling memory as I try to sort out delicious dream from nightmare.
“I am Master.”
I remember that the fucking is real, the dildo is real. The voice is real.
“I am Master.”
I recognise Rutherford’s voice. My eyes manage to open just enough to see blurs above me. His face resolves out of the blur, looking stern but kind.
“I am Master,” he says. I see his lips move.
He’s above me. I don’t know if it’s him or the dildo that’s fucking me. It still feels like the relentless mechanical dildo, but his fingers were like that. Maybe he has that much discipline.
“I am Master,” he says.
I make a mighty effort to wake up enough to tell him to go fuck himself, but the drugs keep me warm and fuzzy and detached and my mouth just doesn’t have the energy.
“I am Master, you are fuckslut.”
Orgasm rolls over me.
“I am Master, you are fuckslut.”
Right in the middle of the orgasm, the burst of heat and ecstasy: “I am Master, you are fuckslut.”
My struggle to wake up exhausted me.
I slip away.
“You are fuckslut.”
#
A spike of pure ecstasy catapults me out of a confused, formless dream about hands all over my body.
My nipples scream at me, waking me up enough to actually focus, really focus, on my surroundings.
I still can’t move my head, but I manage to look down enough to see two cylinders pointing at my nipples, with air lines running from them.
The suction on my nipples, the pressure, fades as the dildo withdraws. The drugs try to take me back down, but I hold on grimly.
The dildo begins to push back in, and pressure on my nipples grows, sending pleasure straight to my cunt. They’re sucked, but they’re also squeezed. I can vaguely see a membrane inside the cylinders, contracting with the pressure, squeezing my nipples from the sides.
This orgasm hits hard, and smacks me back down into the drugged depths.
#
Searing ecstasy banishes all effects of the drugs from my system. I howl as I strain against my bonds.
“You are fuckslut. You are only good for your flesh.”
Oh god, there’s one of those suction things on my clit.
I scream as it starts again.
“You are fuckslut.”
My body is on fire as my nipples, my clit, my cunt are stimulated all at once.
“You are fuckslut.”
I scream again.
The orgasm wipes me out completely.
#
I wake up lying on a hard bed with nothing covering me, in a warm padded cell.
I wake up fast. In seconds, I have scouted the room, noting the camera, the speaker, and a set of manacles lying on the floor.
I’m not sore. I heal so quickly I’ve already recovered from the pounding, and the stimulation, and the orgasms. However long I was out, was enough.
I’m not thirsty, though, or hungry. Intravenous drip, probably.
“Good morning!”
There is so little crackle through the speaker I wonder if he’s really just on the other side of it.
“Fuck you,” I say, automatically.
“Put the manacles on, with your hands behind you, kneel, and wait for my guards. Disobey me or them in any way, and they will tase you, then one of them will fuck you in the arse.”
I get up, take a step, and pick up the manacles. There’s a sturdy collar connected by short chains to two thick handcuffs which are themselves chained together. Wearing them would put my arms crossed behind my back.
I hurl them at the wall. “Come get some,” I say.
The guards cheat. They don’t open the door first. They must have fucking hatches in the walls or something.
The first Taser dart hits me in the right buttock, making me convulse but I clamp down on my scream.
The second one hits me in the left breast.
Then the door bursts open, while I’m not in any immediate condition to do anything about them as they pile in.
Another Taser dart slams into my right thigh, then they’re jamming shocksticks into me.
I go down twitching uncontrollably.
They keep jamming the shocksticks into me, making me dance on the floor, then kick me until between muscle contractions and their kicks, I’m lying face-down.
Then they pile on, a very professional takedown, two to each limb, one pressing down hard on my head and one kneeling in the middle of my back.
Someone smears a thick dollop of something cold and slippery on my arse before sliding right on in.
It fucking hurts. It’s a searing, tearing pain. He’s not being gentle or easing his way in, it’s just in and get down to business.
I try to hurl them off me, but I’m just extra strong, not super strong, and what seems like 10 trained guys bigger than me have no trouble keeping me there.
A sound manages to seep out between my lips before I clamp down on any others, but I can’t stop them entirely.
The fucker takes too long about it. Maybe he’s really disciplined, maybe he gets this a lot and he’s a bit desensitised.
Pulling out hurts almost as much as pushing it in did.
Then they close the manacles on my neck, wrench my arms into position and shackle them, and then haul me to my feet.
I’m just about recovering from the Tasers and the shocksticks, but having fully-grown fucktards holding my legs down, and being arse-raped, mean I can barely walk. But it turns out that it’s walk or be hit by a shockstick while hanging from either my neck or my hair, so I manage to walk.
Fuckstick Rutherford is waiting in a room too far down a featureless corridor.
He doesn’t even say hello, his goons just march me up to a sort of chair and slam me into it.
The back is cut out for my manacles. Something clips onto the collar, holding my head in place.
Straps go around my ankles, shins, knees and thighs.
I’m not really sitting, because my thighs are at 45 degrees down and then there’s a right-angle in my knees, but I’m being held up. I am anything but comfortable.
“Who am I?” he asks me when the goons have gone. He’s holding a violet wand with a funny pointed end on it.
“Fuckstick Rutherford,” I say. I’ve just been tasered, shocked repeatedly and then anally raped. I don’t fucking care what he’s going to do.
I have forgotten what he said he would do.
He jams the wand right against my clit.
He holds it there.
I scream, because I can’t help it. I keep screaming because he doesn’t take it away.
By the time he stops, there are tears running my face, snot running out of my nose, and I’m about to throw up.
“Who am I?” he asks, in precisely the same tone of voice.
I can’t get my breath to say anything. I’m gasping and nearly choking, trying to clear my nose, and my mouth, and catch enough breath to run my vocal cords.
He taps me lightly on the clit again.
I scream again.
“Get your breath faster,” he says. “Who am I?”
“Master!” I manage to gasp, although it’s more sort of a bubble. “Master!”
“Who are you?”
For a moment, I don’t even remember.
Obviously, I delayed too long.
I barely have breath to scream that time, but I do anyway.
“Who are you?”
“Fuckslut!”
“Who are you?”
“Fuckslut!”
He taps me for half a second, but it’s still enough to make me scream.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut!” I’m absolutely desperate to get it right.
He doesn’t tap me again.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
I feel his fingers on my right nipple spreading cold ointment in slow, even, gentle circles. My body remembers this so well my nipple stands to immediate attention.
Apparently, at some point my eyes stopped focusing on anything.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
Cool fingers, moving evenly, steadily, smoothly, rhythmically, all around my nipple.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.” I hear a slight catch in my voice.
Slow, steady, massaging fingers on my nipple.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.” My voice is definitely ragged.
Cool, gentle fingers on a hot, burning, needy nipple.
“Who are you?”
“I’m… fuckslut!”
His fingers go away.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut!”
His fingers come back, this time on my left nipple. It hardens just as quickly.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut!”
I beg, I plead, I sob, but all I actually say is those two words, and all he does is ask, and gently rub.
He asks, I reply, he rubs, I try to writhe in my bonds. I have more freedom of movement in this chair. My torso can move between my hips and my neck. It means my wanton flesh can offer itself to him, demonstrate how weak it is.
He takes his fingers away when I’m almost unable to answer coherently. I hang, gasping almost as though I had just orgasmed.
“Who are you?”
“I… I’m… fuckslut.”
Wet, cold, slippery fingers push into my cunt.
My cunt spasms violently. I come.
I scream.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut!”
Long, patient fingers sliding in and out of me, rubbing ointment all over my insides.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut!”
Long, steady, even, patient strokes of his fingers in and out and in out and in and out of my hot, needy, grovelling cunt.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut!”
He keeps asking. He keeps finger-fucking me. I answer. I sob. I become incoherent. I become totally unable to speak, but he must be happy with my attempts to speak, because he doesn’t punish me, he just keeps sliding in and out of me while I have two more orgasms.
When he pulls his fingers out, my face is wet with tears and snot and I’m pretty sure I’ve drooled onto my breasts. My body aches all over.
Fingers press wet ointment against my clitoris.
“Who are you?”
I don’t even answer one time coherently.
He doesn’t punish me, though. He just rubs, gently, evenly, around and around and around and I come and I come and I come.
When I drag myself back to some sort of consciousness, he has cleaned my face without me noticing. My nipples still throb, my cunt and clit are full of exquisitely erotic pain from their abuse and how hard I came, and my traitorous parahuman body is begging for more.
There is a dildo inside me.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
I don’t even think. I just react. It just comes out as naturally as breathing. I realise I really should be crazily mad about that. I’m not. I don’t have the energy.
“Who am I?”
“Master.”
“From now on, every time I give you an order, you obey or be punished. Every time I ask you a question, you always respond with my name as well as your answer. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
He doesn’t say “Good,” or anything, he doesn’t reward me, he just doesn’t punish me.
I realise I’m pathetically grateful for that.
“That dildo is self-lubricating. It pumps a little more ointment out every time it moves. Every time it enters you, you will say who you are. Every time it pulls out, you will say who I am.”
He presses a button.
That’s all the warning I get.
“I’m fuckslut!” I gasp out.
Oh god, I’m so horny. I’m so needy. My body is so trained. It pushes into me and I’m on fire for it.
It goes deep, almost as deep as I can bear, before pulling out.
“You’re Master!” I remember to say.
The dildo doesn’t quite pull out before reversing direction.
“I’m fuckslut!”
It slides all the way in oh god it feels so good I can’t stand it I will come and I know it will not stop moving it’ll just keep stroking oh god it’s pulling out.
“You’re Master!”
In, long and slow and steady, making my entire body helplessly weak and my mind delirious.
“I’m fuckslut!”
Out, making me want to beg it to stay inside me.
“You’re Master!”
In, pushing a wave of orgasm ahead of it.
“I’m fuuuuuck!”
I don’t say it properly, but he doesn’t punish me.
“You’re… Mas…ter.”
In, and already it’s pushing me towards my next orgasm.
“I’m fuckslut!”
Out I can’t believe how close I am already I can’t believe I’m reacting like this i can’t believe i want it so bad i can’t…
“You’re Master!”
“I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuck…”
#
I dream it. It echoes in my head. I’m fuckslut, you’re Master, i’m fuckslut, you’re Master, as the words themselves tear orgasm after orgasm from me, drilling themselves into my mind and body.
I dream over and over again. I’m fuckslut you’re Master I come i’m fucklust you’re Master i’m fuckslut I’m coming you’re Master.
I wake up.
Same bed, same cell, I think. Not thirsty or hungry. Not needing the toilet, either. I have a slight feeling that they inserted a catheter in me while I was unconscious.
“Good morning, fuckslut! Put the manacles on, hands in front of you, kneel, and wait for my guards.”
I roll off the bed, landing heavily, still with i’m fuckslut, you’re Master, revolving around my head, still with memory echoes exploding between my legs.
The manacles this time are rigid, a tall fleece-lined steel collar with two rods attached at 45 degrees off centre, cuffs on the end, so my hands will be held up level with my neck.
I go cold inside.
I finally wake up properly.
Drugs and pain do not change who I am.
I hurl the manacles at the wall again, and rise to my feet.
“Come…”
Taser darts slam into both breasts at once, and one thigh.
I hit the ground screaming.
They burst in. They shock me. They hold shocksticks against me until I almost smell burning.
They kick me until I’m lying face down. They pin me. They lube me. One of them fucks me.
He’s no quicker than the first guy.
As they hold me on the slightly yielding, cool floor, my nipples ache and my cunt aches as tearing pain fills my arse.
I get angry. The voice in my head stops.
They shackle me, they march me. I’m in so much pain I don’t care and I try to punch one halfway along the corridor. They shock me until they have to carry me the rest of the way.
In the room, they attach a bar between my ankles, then make me kneel on some sort of bizarre framework. They push me down into a hands and knees position. Another metal cuff goes around my belly, tightly, pressing between my hips and my floating ribs to hold me in place. More straps go over my calves. The bar between my wrists is locked to the frame.
“My guards are carrying out my orders, disobeying them is disobeying me,” fuckstick says behind me, before holding the wand against my clit.
I don’t see it coming, but I swear there is no gap between it touching me, and me screaming.
When he takes it away I go limp and hang there, highly uncomfortable, head down, gasping for breath, snot filling my inverted nose.
“Who am I?” he asks.
It’s a fresh start, my mind isn’t scrambled with sex yet, so I almost try to defy him before the words push themselves out of me. “You’re Master.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
“Fucksluts do what Masters tell them.”
I scream again, trying to writhe away from the wand.
I’m hanging, gasping for breath, recovering, when insistent fingers start spreading cool ointment around my right nipple.
My body responds almost quicker than my mind does. My body wants this. My weak, traitorous body is already craving his touch and trying to move into it. My body is begging for him to continue, to do what he wants with me, to give me those orgasms.
I’m gasping and whining by the time he moves around me to reach my left nipple.
I’m trying to hump the air by the time he moves behind me. Sweat is running down my face. I’m breathing raggedly but this time because my body is burning with lust. I can’t help any of this. He’s broken my body. He’s making it respond to his touch. He’s trained me that well, already.
Two cool, wet fingers slip straight into me and I welcome them.
“Who am I?”
“You’re Master.”
I don’t even think about responding, it just happens, and it makes me feel warmer.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
Just saying that puts me a step closer to the orgasm that’s already almost upon me.
“Who am I?”
“You’re Master.”
I can hear a whine in my voice as my body tries to fuck back against his fingers.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut!”
I’m teetering on the verge of orgasm already. All I am is a bundle of nerves and fuckflesh.
“Who am I?”
“You’re Masterrrr!”
I come violently.
He keeps stroking inside me.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut.”
I barely get it out. My head is hanging, I’m nearly choking on air, my body is on fire, my cunt is greedily swallowing his fingers.
“Who am I?”
He pushes me through another orgasm before withdrawing his fingers.
I assume I keep responding. I’m not sure if my mouth makes the words or it just happens inside my head.
It keeps happening inside my head. The words keep circling my brain.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
Cool, wet fingers touch my clitoris.
I cry out. There must be words in it, my mouth is shaping them without me needing to think about it, now.
Another orgasm. More words, over and over again.
More stroking, more words, more desperate burning need.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
More stroking, more words.
Another orgasm, this one almost wiping me out.
I dimly hear him moving something. I dimly hear his feet behind me. I know my cunt is pointing straight at him, and I’m desperate for him to push something, anything, else inside me.
He does.
It might be the same dildo. My body remembers what it did to me, and a spasm shakes every part of me.
“Lift your head.”
I don’t even think about it. I just obey.
A dildo slides underneath my mouth, mounted on its own frame.
“Can fuckslut deep-throat?”
“Yes, Master.”
“This cock detects your movements. If you move, the cock in your slavecunt will move. If you do not move, then this will happen.”
Two violet wands press into my nipples.
I scream until after they’ve already gone away.
“Fellating this cock will keep them away from your nipples. Stopping at any point, or moving too slowly, will result in them automatically punishing you.”
He adjusts something, and the dildo rises towards my mouth. I open obediently. The tip pushes between my lips. It tastes faintly of latex. Of condoms. Of being used. I like the taste.
“Start.”
I have just enough movement to reach the bottom. As I go down, the dildo behind me slides in, and I shiver with how delicious that feeling is. When I pull back, it withdraws.
My nipples feel a static quiver, a bristling as if the wands are just out of range.
I move a little faster, down and up, down and up, down and up, while the dildo in my cunt moves in and out, in and out, in and out.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
The tingling in my nipples goes away.
I know how quickly I need to move.
I have to snatch breaths through my nose at the top of each stroke. I manage to establish a rhythm as an orgasm builds inside me.
I am fucking my mouth, and that makes the dildo fuck me.
I am fucking me. I am doing this to myself. I am giving myself this orgasm.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
I am not just broken in body and compliant in mind, I am complicit in my own breaking.
The thought makes me come.
I manage to keep moving. I have to keep moving. To stop moving means to be punished. I have to keep making the dildo fuck me as the orgasm crests and falls and I am briefly so sensitive I want to scream but the dildo just forces my body to react, forces it but my body welcomes it, craves it. My body is demanding that I do this to myself.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
My body is demanding I break myself more.
My body is Master’s.
I come again.
I keep moving, swallowing the cock over and over and over again, pushing it down my throat, feeling my throat stretch around it, spit-roasting myself.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
I come again.
I come again.
I come again.
#
I wake up.
I do not move. I stare across the room.
My body is refreshed, but my mind is exhausted.
I crack my eyes open. Same bed, same room, same temperature. Not a new set of manacles lying on the floor but an arm binder instead. There are a couple of small things lying next to it, too. They look like a collar and a gag.
I stare at them.
I can’t keep it up. I can’t defy him again. I can still shrug off the tasing and the shock prods, the beating and the anal rape, but I can’t keep subjecting myself to his violet wand.
I know he’s got me.
I know I’m broken inside.
I don’t have that strength.
I think of the eyes of the fetish maid. I’m going to look like that. It’s the only way to survive.
But it is survival. It is a way to take the next step.
I stir.
“Good morning, fuckslut. Kneel on the floor and put the collar on and the gag in, and wait for my guards. They will put the binder on, and then one of them will fuck your mouth.”
That doesn’t stir any further anger in me.
I slowly roll off the bed, kneel on the floor, and pick up the collar first. It’s thick, leather, and will limit how much I can move my neck. I put it on. I pick up the gag. I have to feel for it because I can’t quite look down. It’s a ring gag that stretches my jaw to the aching point. I’ve never met a cock that wouldn’t fit through. With it lodged behind my top and bottom teeth, I buckle it behind my head, put my hands behind me ready for the binder, and wait.
The guards come in with shocksticks out and crackling.
They fan around me. I wait, docile.
One kneels behind me, wraps the binder around my arms, and zips it up. I press my elbows together to make his job easier. The position thrusts my breasts forward and lifts them. I know the sight I make.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
The guards do not relax, but one of them steps in front of me while undoing his pants. I rise up on my knees to be at the right height.
He grabs my hair before pushing into my mouth.
He’s clean, and just smells of man. He’s a good size but not too huge. He tastes of man. He tastes of dominance. He tastes of a Master. He fucks my throat steadily and forcefully but not brutally.
I try to help him along to end this quicker, but there’s just not much I can do.
I can’t breathe very well since he doesn’t quite pull out far enough, so I’m struggling, my body screaming for oxygen, before he pulls out further. I desperately hold onto my breathing reflex until he’s finished emptying his balls into my mouth.
I manage to swallow before breathing through my nose.
They attach chains to my collar and pull me to my feet.
We return to the same room. I walk obediently between them.
Master points. “Kneel.”
I kneel. Guards stay in the room.
Master undoes his pants.
He’s slightly bigger than the guard, but shorter. He fucks my throat roughly, but I’m feeling numb and it just doesn’t matter.
When he comes, he pulls out to hit me in the face. I close my eyes in time.
“Binder,” Master says, doing up his pants and moving to his table.
A guard steps forward, unzips the binder and removes it. I relax my arms, but don’t move them yet.
Master comes back with the ointment. He holds it out to me.
“Who are you?”
“I’m fuckslut,” I say.
“Are you going to obey me?”
“Yes, Master.”
He doesn’t look pleased, satisfied or happy, he just doesn’t punish me.
“Rub this on your nipples until I tell you to stop. Use both hands at once.”
My nipples had tightened at the sight of it. Now, they go almost fully hard.
I slowly dip two fingers of each hand into the ointment. I still have the option of defying him, of being punished, or experiencing that impossible pain again. But my body will have this ointment. It locked my mouth to stop me insulting him. Now it’s moving without me, reaching for the ointment, taking it, and rubbing it into my eager, eager nipples.
I shudder at my first touch. I feel my entire breasts tingling with need. He hasn’t just broken me with pain, he’s broken me with a drug I didn’t even ingest.
I rub, trying to emulate his touch. I’m soon gasping. It’s my fingers, and I’m gasping with the arousal of it. I feel my cunt throbbing with need.
My whole body starts aching and still he watches and gives me no command to stop.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
I keep rubbing, and rubbing, and rubbing, until that’s the only thing I’m aware of apart from his gaze.
“Stop,” he says.
My hands drop to my thighs, my body so hungry I’m shaking.
He holds out the tub again. “Two fingers for your cunt, two for your clit.”
My hands are shaking so it’s hard for me to get my fingers in the jar at all.
I have to shift position on my knees to give myself better access. I have no trouble doing that at all.
I nearly fall forward when I push two fingers inside my cunt. I’m almost terrified to touch my clit because I know how sensitive it will already be, but my body decides for me and my arm moves.
I scream from how good it feels.
“Repeat,” he says.
He doesn’t have to elaborate.
“You’re Master, i’m fuckslut,” I begin, between gasps as I work my fingers as far in as I can and begin frantically jilling myself. “You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…”
I’m coming within two minutes, and barely interrupt my chant.
“You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…”
He keeps me going through two more orgasms, until I can barely stay upright, until my voice is so broken I’m not sure he can understand my words any more.
But the words are still going, looping around my head, saying themselves.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
When he tells me to stop, the words keep whispering.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
“Stand up.”
I am honestly surprised at myself that I manage it. But my body obeys his words even though I’m shaking like a leaf.
He has two horizontal bars set up, at about hip height. He has me stand at one and spread my legs until my ankles fit into cuffs.
He tells me to learn forwards, over the bar. It lifts me up onto the balls of my feet.
There are two straps attached to the other bar, which is too far away for me to reach. The straps have cuffs which go around my wrists. He tightens the straps until I’m stretched forward so the only loose part of me is my breasts, hanging beneath me.
All this time, inside my head, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
He opens his trousers again as he steps behind me. I feel a burst of lust, a thrill of expectation, that he is finally going to fuck me himself.
I scream as he enters me.
“Repeat,” he says.
“You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut!”
He fucks me with his cock just the way he fucked me with his fingers, just the way his machines fucked me. I remember everything I felt when strapped down and fucked, when strapped upright and fucked, when strapped kneeling and fucked.
“You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut!”
I come.
“You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut!”
He keeps going, steadily, every stroke an explosion inside my ointment-coated cunt.
“You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut! You’re Master, i’m fuckslut!”
I come again.
I come again.
I come again.
When he pulls out, I keep reciting, chanting in a hoarse whisper now, “You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…”
He moves something large and heavy behind me. He pushes a dildo inside me.
“You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…”
He wheels another machine next to me. I see the tubes this time as he attaches them to my nipples. Plastic with a thick-rimmed end, a flexible plastic sleeve inside them to squeeze with suction. They look like farmyard milking equipment, but too small for cows. Goats, maybe.
He has to start the suction to attach them, of course. Then calibrate them.
I’m still whispering. “You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…”
I’m barely conscious I’m doing it.
The burst of sensation from my nipples is almost just background at this point.
I keep whispering. “You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…”
“I will leave you to reinforce what you have learned,” he says. “Keep reciting.”
The dildo starts fucking. The milkers start sucking.
I keep repeating.
I start coming.
#
I wake up on the same bed in the same room.
I sit up immediately, waiting for Master.
“Good morning, fuckslut! Stand to attention and wait for my guards.”
I’m mildly curious why he doesn’t have the guards degrade me again, but it is not my place to wonder these things so I stop.
The guards come and take me to a lift. The lift opens on an upstairs corridor, with fine wood panelling and luxuriant carpet underfoot.
The guards lead me to a bedroom.
Master’s bedroom.
He is standing, waiting for me. Master.
He looks me up and down, not admiring just checking, then steps closer. “Feet together, hands by your side,” he says.
I straighten to attention.
“This is standing posture 1,” he says. “Feet apart, hands behind head.”
I move.
“This is standing posture 2.” He steps closer, reaches out, and starts gently stroking my right nipple.
There’s no ointment this time but oh god it feels just like there is. I’m soon shaking. I’m soon gasping. My legs are quivering. I feel my other nipple aching for attention. I feel my cunt clench. I feel myself grow moist. My eyelids flutter.
He moves to my left nipple. I struggle to remain standing. I feel wet trickling down my inner thighs. I can’t see anything, just a red and white haze.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
My hips are shaking violently. My arms are only holding in place by locking my fingers together.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
He takes his hand away.
I expect what is coming. My vision just has time to clear.
I cry out as he pushes his fingers inside me.
“If you make any noise at all, recite,” he says.
“You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckSLUT!”
I come. I do not know how I stay standing.
He pulls his fingers out. Then he pushes them into my mouth. “Suck them clean.”
I do, as eagerly as I would suck his cock.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
He points at the bed. “Hands and knees.”
When I’m in position, he climbs behind me.
I start whispering before he even enters me. “You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…”
He fucks me steadily, evenly, persistently, relentlessly, tirelessly.
I come.
“You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut!”
He fucks me steadily, evenly, persistently, relentlessly, tirelessly.
“You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut!”
He fucks me steadily, evenly, persistently, relentlessly, tirelessly.
I come.
I come.
I come.
He pulls out.
I feel the bed move, but can not pay enough attention to work out what he is doing.
“Suck it clean.”
I open my mouth wide to take in his cock. I suck it. I like it. I worship it. I love it. I adore it. I take it to the back of my throat and down my neck. I taste me and I taste him.
I feel it throb.
I open my mouth wide in reverence as he fills it.
I swallow.
“Kneel,” he says.
I blink stupidly to see where he is pointing. A Sybian is set up close to one wall.
I stumble to it. The vibrating pad is a dildo. I lower myself onto it, gasping “You’re Master!” as it enters me.
He puts a collar around my neck that is tall enough to hold my head up.
He attaches chains to the collar that will keep me upright and prevent me rising.
He puts an armbinder on me.
“You will reinforce everything you have learned,” he says. “Over and over again, until it is fixed in place.”
He turns the Sybian on.
“You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut!”
I come.
“You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut!”
I come.
“You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut! You’re Master! I’m fuckslut!”
I come.
I come.
I come.
I come in my dreams.
#
I wake up.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
I’m lying on the bed where he fucked me. I’m wearing a different collar, which is chained to the bedpost. The chain lets me reach an en suite bathroom.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
I go to the toilet.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
I’m walking back to the bed when he enters the room.
I stand instantly to attention.
“Standing position 2,” he says.
I instantly move.
He steps forward, looking me up and down.
Even though there is nothing in his gaze except clinical assessment, it warms me.
He reaches out to stroke my right nipple.
I quiver. I shake. I have to lock my knees. I feel my cunt clench. I feel my breasts grow warm. I tingle all over as though with kisses. I feel my other nipple ache for attention.
You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut, You’re Master, i’m fuckslut…
He moves to my left nipple.
I shake. I barely stay standing. I feel wetness run down my inner thighs. I gasp “You’re Master!”
He takes his hand away. I come almost as soon as he slides his fingers inside me.
“Suck them clean.”
I suck his fingers. I lick them. I worship them as I would his cock. They have given me such joy.
“Kneel, knees apart, hands where they are,” he says.
I try to kneel gracefully but my legs are weak. I fall heavily, which hurts but is nothing I can’t deal with. My breasts bounce, which almost makes me come again.
“That is kneeling position 2,” he says.
“Today we mark you,” he says.
He kneels in front of me holding a pair of forceps and a needle.
It is not my place to wonder, so I do not.
He seizes my right nipple with the forceps.
The pain is sharp and intense, but he has done so much worse to me in teaching me proper behaviour, so I ignore it.
He slides the needle through the base of my nipple.
The pain is sharp, intense, and completely unlike anything he has done to me. It is not like the violet wand. It is more like the Taser darts, when I was fighting back. It is a fighting feeling, a danger feeling, a feeling that fuckslut does not know.
The Lemur knows it.
I stare stupidly at my hands, which are in front of my face not behind my head where they should be.
I stare stupidly at Master, who is lying on the ground with his neck bent at the wrong angle.
The Lemur broke his neck.
I broke his neck.
Master found a deep, deep behavioural drive he had not found before.
I am The Lemur.
Rage explodes inside me.
I jerk the needle out of my nipple, not caring how much it hurts, then unlatch the forceps. The blood coming back hurts almost more, but I ignore it.
I have not been hit by Tasers. There is no noise of running feet. There are no guards present.
There is no violet wand, there is no risk of pain, but my brain was in no state to evaluate the odds and remind me of that before now.
I surge to my feet, new energy coursing through me.
I stomp viciously on fuckstick Rutherford’s body, hearing ribs and larger bones crack under my bare foot.
I can not hear any noises from outside the room.
The room does not seem to contain much that would be useful as a weapon, so I keep the piercing needle as I cast about.
I wipe my nipple down with an alcohol wipe he has with the piercing equipment. He meant to put large rings through my nipples.
The intense sting of the alcohol and the sharp pain of the cold as it evaporates make my cunt spasm but my mind rage.
I carefully put a dressing on.
One of his pockets has the key to my collar, which I hurl so hard into a wall that it ends up embedded.
I hear running feet a second before the door bursts open.
The first guard dies quickly, and possibly in ignorance.
The second reacts in time, so I have to break his elbow and knee before I get to his neck.
Fuckstick has his watch in his pocket, as well. Lots of little dials in the dial, and a date function.
It’s barely been two days. He’s been wearing me down with sleep deprivation as well as drugs, keeping my brain hazy and rubbing away at the edges.
I jerk open a built-in wardrobe. There is a travesty of my Lemur suit hanging there, with holes for my breasts, an exposed face, crotchless pants and the most stupid fucking ridiculous Neko ears I have ever seen.
I slam the door so hard it breaks. If that’s the only clothing present, I’ll be naked until I can find something better. The guards have fucked my arse, I don’t care what they see while I’m killing them. I don’t care if my tits flop around, either, they can deal with this as well as everything else.
I take one of the guards’ utility belts so I can carry their Tasers, shocksticks and handcuffs. They have earpieces, too, so I take one of those.
I hear calm, authoritative orders give in an older, hard voice. “…peat, reinforcements to second slave bedroom. Suspect is para, proceed with extreme care and extreme force.”
Did you know there are places where you can ring up and just order goons? Fucking expensive, and they have to vet you, but it’s really not hard to hire a small private armour full of trained psychopaths.
I take my bearings by looking out the window, then turn right out the door and run.
I hear boots behind me, and boots in front of me.
I can run really quite quietly when I want to, particularly when my feet are bare and they’re in army boots.
I launch myself just as they come around the corner.
The first one dies because my knee crushes his chest against the wall.
The second dies quickly, the third gets tangled in the fourth and they go down 1-2.
The fifth almost gets me with a Taser and gets a shockstick to the throat for his trouble, the sixth does hit me with a dart but at this point the pain is fuel and I use the muscle spasm to hit his wrist with my shockstick, breaking his bones.
I break their necks, 1-2.
The other squad stops at the bedroom.
I start running again, when I hear an emergency beep in my ear.
“Summer days, Rutherford is down, repeat, summer days, Rutherford is down.”
“Confirm,” the hard voice demands.
A second voice cuts in, “Winter fields, confirm Rutherford is down, repeat, Winter fields, confirm Rutherford is down.”
Who thinks up these code phrases?
This is also why you send guards in pairs, children: In case one alone can be made to talk.
“Nuclear winter, the contract is terminated, repeat, nuclear winter, the contract is terminated. Withdraw, withdraw, withdraw. Suspect is parahuman, extremely dangerous, assumed armed, do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Defend but offer no resistance. Repeat, do not engage. Nuclear winter, withdraw, withdraw, withdraw.”
Well, isn’t that just a fucking stroke of luck?
Hired men lose all interest when the money stops flowing.
I find the first gallery just as two guards enter from the other end.
They freeze in defensive crouches. They are not staring at my tits, which earns them half a brownie point against their huge debt. There is a brief moment of stand-off before I turn my head to let them see my ear-piece, and tap it.
They bolt through a different door. Clever boys.
I go through that gallery without finding what I’m looking for, and enter the next.
A fetish maid is staring at me.
There is no surprise in her eyes, but they are not entirely dead, either. She’s not a robot inside, she’s a robot outside. The only emotion I could possibly identify would be wariness.
“Leave,” I say as I walk past. “Rutherford’s dead, the guards are leaving the sinking ship, nobody will stop you.”
She turns and walks away. She doesn’t beg, cry, or run. She doesn’t look at all hopeful. She just walks.
Clever girl.
I finally find it. There is no way that a man like Rutherford would not put my entire costume and kit on full display, undamaged. I can see the couple of spots where darts penetrated my kevlar (kevlar is shit at stopping sharp points, it’s a woven fabric, the fibres separate).
I take the time to get dressed properly. I don’t have underwear, and my nipples and cunt are still so sensitive that it’s uncomfortable, but I can deal.
I faintly hear vans and heavier vehicles drive away, quickly.
The last thing I take is that fucking statue.
Here’s a tip for aspiring Villains: Brainwashing takes weeks and weeks, and has its limits. It doesn’t take irrevocably after a couple of days. All his former slaves weren’t converted, they were living in a constant state of hostage terror.
Heroines talk a big game about taking risks and protecting the innocent, but they’re full of it.
The real balls are carried by female Villains. They’re so big we have to keep them on our chests.