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Message-ID: <47419asstr$1081757402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 39 {Imagineer} (MF blackmail nc ScFi)
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Date: Mon, 12 Apr 2004 04:10:02 -0400
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Cruel Summer

copyright 2001-2004 by Imagineer.

comments to 
imagineer 47: yahoo green eggs com ham
but without the green eggs or ham

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Imagineer/www/


// 39: Vanquished


  The late afternoon sun streamed in through the dust-caked windows.
Ricky moved to the other side of the kitchen table to get the notebook
screen out of direct sunlight. 

  "Fuck!" He was frustrated. He'd lost his connection again. Stupid
dialup!

  He'd been online for hours, hoping for some word of his dad or Eric
or Angela, but no one knew anything. 

  But he wasn't content to simply sit here and hope for some clue to
materialize; he was determined to find out for himself. And maybe if he
couldn't be there, at least he could help Eric and his dad see what
they were up against, help even the odds of five against two. He had to
do *something*. 

  With the help of some of Jimmy's tools -- which took almost an hour
to download -- he'd found the convention center network and started to
map hosts, but his dialup connection kept dropping. And while he'd get
the tantalizing first few frames of video feeds, he just didn't have
the bandwidth to keep up. Not that it would matter if he could; there
looked to be over a hundred cameras sending feeds to a dozen localized
video servers.

  No one could hope to find a half-dozen needles in a haystack this big.

  Well, no *one* could, but he didn't have to do it alone. A
surveillance network this big called for a network of his own. The
Sapphire Network.

  Ricky smiled. It could work. They could each watch a few feeds and
call out which ones were relevent, and Ricky could relay information by
cell phone to his dad and Eric. He'd still have to get a hold of Eric
to get photos or at least descriptions of the people they were looking
for, but he'd work that out later. Even if they didn't know exactly
what they were looking for they could keep an eye out for Sapphire. For
Angela.

  But he couldn't do it from here. He needed a better connection. And
he only had hours to get it.

  "Sorry, Dad, but I'm not gonna let you do this alone." He picked up
the phone.

  "Hey, Jimmy. [pause] I *know* I'm not supposed to call anybody; this
is an emergency. I need a favor. A *big* favor. [pause] I need to use
your Net connection. [pause] Yeah, I know. That's the other part of the
favor. I need you to come pick me up." 


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Exhausted. Lost. Hurt. So much hurt. Where is he taking me?


  Dark boots. Blue carpet. Bare feet.
  My feet.
  Why am I barefoot? Where are my shoes?
  She took them.
  She took everything.


  Let go of me. Bed. Soft.
  So tired.
  Ouch. Everything aches. Hurts to move.
  Hurts to see. 
  Hurts to think.
  Rest . . .


  "Hey, Johnson; I was beginning to wonder." Johnson looked over the
limp young woman dangling from the other Johnson's arm like an oversize
marionette. The other Johnson seemed to drop the girl toward the bed;
she collapsed like dead weight. "What happened to her?"
  "Ginger. I had to draw on her to get her to stop. Took three rounds
to get her attention."
  "Fuck, someone has issues."
  "Well, Ginger put her through the ringer, but our little trooper here
showed a lot of spunk."
  "I'm ready to show her some spunk," Johnson wisecracked. "But she
doesn't look ready for it. Fuckin' Ginger broke our new toy."
  "Relax. I think I can fix her."
  "You better." Johnson went back to watching porn. "Because this shit
ain't payin' the bills."
  The other Johnson opened an equipment case and pulled out a bottle of
Nuprin and a bottle of massage oil. "Fifteen minutes. You watch."
  "Three rounds, eh? Funny, I didn't hear anything. Must be really good
soundproofing."


  Rolling over. Why am I rolling over?
  Someone's hands on me. Strong hands. On my skin. Where are my clothes?
  She took them.
  She took everything.

  From rough bedspread to soft sheets. Satin. So soothing. Cool. 
  Oooh, goosebumps.
  I'm naked. Cover me. I don't want to be naked. Don't look at me.
  Don't touch me.
  Sitting up. Ouch, it hurts!
  Who's here? Ow, light's so bright. Hair in my eyes.
  Soft touches.

  "Take this; it will help with the pain." A soft voice.
  Something at my lips. No! But it comes back. Warm fingers pressing
something cool and small and hard. A pill.
  What is it?
  Something to help with the pain.
  So much pain. Please help. Please hurry.
  A cup at my lips. "Here, to help you swallow." Water. Cold and wet.
I'm so thirsty.
  "Okay, now lie back and relax."
  It hurts to move. Please don't make me move anymore.
  Ahh, the soft sheets. My body melts into them.

  I'm still naked. Please cover me.
  My arms feel so heavy. It hurts to move. But I can't let anyone see
me.
  So naked. So helpless.
  Please help me.

  Please don't hurt me.

  "Shhh, it's okay; I'm not going to hurt you."

  Did I say it out loud? 
  Something lays on me. Soft. Cool. Slippery. Like the sheets.

  So tired. It hurts all over. 
  She hurt me. She hurt me bad. It hurts so bad. Just leave me alone.
  Just leave me to rest.
  Just leave me to die.


  Something's holding my foot.
  Someone.
  No! Get away!
  "Shh, just relax. I promise this will make you feel better." A soft
voice.
  Where are my shoes?
  She took them.
  She took everything.
  She hurt me. Everything hurts. So tired.
  Squeezing. Rubbing. Why won't you leave me alone? Why won't- 
  --oohhhhh. Mmmm. Melting.


  When did I turn over?
  Mmmm. Ohhh... 
  So deep. Strong hands, chasing away the hurt.
  So relaxing.
  Calves.
  Thighs.
  You shouldn't go there... okay. Shoulders are okay.
  Back.
  Sides. Ouch, that tickles. Tickling hurts. Mmm, that's better.
  Back. Lower.
  It doesn't hurt so much to breathe anymore.
  Lower. Ohhh.
  Can't move.
  Don't want to move.
  So relaxed.
  Hey, you're uncovering a little too much... ohhh, nevermind...
  Mmm.
  You're touching my butt- ohhh, melting.
  That's not supposed to feel good. Mmm, that's nice.
  You shouldn't go there... okay. Turn over.
  Yeah, my tummy hurts.
  Ow, my ribs.
  Hey, I'm nake- ohhh, nevermind...
  Shoulders feel good.
  Chest. Mmmm.
  -Hey... ohngghwow.
  Knees? Ow. Oh. Tickles. Ohhh...
  Thighs. Higher.
  Melting. Higher.
  Ummm... oooh.
  Oooh.

  Oooh.
  Mmm.
  Yyeeaahhhhmmmm...


  Forced to acknowledge the absence of his "magic" hands, her brow
furrowed. She opened her eyes, blinking and squinting. Looking around
the room. Her eyes caressed his face.


  Him. He saved me.


  "Hey there, sweetie, you feeling okay?"
  No, of course not; she'd been stripped, humiliated, defiled, beaten
to within an inch of her life, and robbed of her powers. But he knew
when he looked down at her with all the perfect false sincerity at his
command, gracing her face with the tender touch of his hand, still
basking in the wonderful glow his strong, sensitive hands had given
her, soothing away the hurt, probably imagining some profound
attachment to him, attaching all kinds of syrupy romantic heroic
gentleman crap to him... the horrible trauma she'd experienced would be
suppressed, blocked out from her conscious memory, labeled a horrible
nightmare that was best forgotten.  
  "A little woozy and sore," she said in a soft little-girl voice.

  Johnson smiled as he brushed the hair away from her face, staring
into those big, beautiful eyes, so innocent despite what she'd been
through. So naive. So blissfully ignorant of what was yet to come.
Johnson suppressed a chuckle at his own internal monologue. What was
yet to cum...

  "I'd love to let you crash and sleep it off, but we need to leave
soon, so you have to get dressed."
  "Leave?" The girl's brow furrowed; fear began to creep back into her
eyes.
  "Shhh," Johnson hushed, gently drawing his hand down her cheek, "it's
okay. You're gonna be okay. You're gonna get through this, I promise."
He paused, impressing his sincerity upon her with the unblinking gaze
of his deep brown eyes. Tragic, caring eyes.
  "What do you want with me? I don't understand. I gave you
everything," the girl began sobbing.
  "Shh. I'm here for you. I'm going to help you, but you have to be
strong for me, okay?" He lifted her chin with a gentle caress of his
hand. He looked again into her eyes. He smiled a crooked smile. "You
have to trust me."
  He could feel her begin to relax as she stared into his eyes,
searching for incongruity but finding none.


  "Okay." My voice. It's so hard to think. It's better not to think.
Not to worry.
  I'm at their mercy anyway. It's better just to go with the flow.
It'll all be over sooner that way.

  "That's my girl. Do you think you can get dressed on your own?"
  Yes. Oooh, don't nod so hard. Dizzy. Woah.
  At least I don't hurt so much.
  "Okay, I put some clothes in the bathroom. Come on."
  He seems nice. Why is he being nice?
  He saved me. He stopped her. She wanted to hurt me worse. 
  She wanted to kill me. He stopped her. Why?
  "Why?"
  "Because we have to leave soon," his soothing voice answers.
  "No; why are you nice to me?"
  "Because you didn't ask for any of this. I don't think you should
have to suffer anymore."
  "Where are we going?"
  "Ginger doesn't know I'm helping you; can you keep a secret?"
  Ginger! No! Please, don't let her hurt me anymore.
  "Shhh, it's okay." His hand on my head. Stroking my hair. 
  He's so good to me.
  "As soon as she leaves, I'm going to sneak you out of here. We're
just waiting for her to leave. Then I'm going to take you out of here,
away from her, somewhere she won't find you, to a safe place. I have a
friend who can take care of you."
  He's risking a lot for me.
  He's a good man.
  Everything's going to be okay.
  The nightmare is almost over.
  "Come on. Here you go. I'll be right outside this door, okay?"


  Angela looked at herself in the mirror. If she felt beaten, she
didn't look it.

  She eyed her smooth skin and taut curves critically, almost
clinically. There wasn't a scratch, not a blemish, nothing. It was as
if the horrible beating had never happened. Somehow, that made it all
the more traumatic. She felt her blood rise, her heart pound, her
breath grow short just thinking about it. Snap out of it, Angela. This
doesn't do you any good. It's over. Be thankful you survived. If it
hadn't been for the sapphires' protection you wouldn't be alive right
now.

  But if it hadn't been for the sapphires, Ginger never would have
beaten her so cruelly.
  If it hadn't been for the sapphires, she wouldn't have to live with
what had happened. And with what her surrender would unleash upon the
world.

  Don't think about that right now. Just concentrate on doing whatever
it takes to get out of here. Maybe... maybe you can find a way to help
fix this somehow.
  Maybe if they're keeping you around it's because they still need you
for something. Maybe you can still stop this.
  Don't be foolish! You've done enough damage. You can't help. You can
only make things worse. You can only hurt more people. How many times
do you have to screw up before you figure it out?
  But they still have Ricky. I can at least hang on for him. I can at
least try to save one life.
  What do you care about Ricky? He won't ever want to speak to you
again after this. Not when he finds out what you've done. How you've
failed. What you've become.
  No, but he's a good person. He deserves better than this. He deserves
better than me. He's kind and gentle and thoughtful and caring and
smart and strong and talented. He can make something of his life. If I
screw everything else up, if I can just have this one thing, just save
one person from all the destruction and chaos I've caused, maybe my
life won't be a total waste. Maybe fate will grant me this one tiny
victory. Maybe... my love for him won't betray me as everything else
has.

  Knock, knock. "Are you okay in there? Everything fit okay?"
  "Um, I don't know yet. I'm... it's taking me a little while, I'm
still a little sore."
  "Okay, but don't take too long; I don't know when Johnson's coming
back."


  Angela opened the department store bag and pulled out three clothing
boxes. Trembling hands tugged them open, digging through tissue paper
to free the trapped garments.

  First a top. A bustier. Dark purple, strapless, stretch lace, shaped
demicups, lace-up front. A brief moment of embarassment at how much
skin she could see through the lace faded in light of her myriad
midnight escapades, and flickered out entirely when the next box
released a tailored satin dress shirt. She wrapped them both around her
as quickly as she could.

  Next a black leather skirt. Mini-skirt. Micro-mini-skirt. She began
to get a bad feeling. The skirt held up where she thought the waist
should be wasn't even visible below the tails of the white blouse.
Maybe this wasn't the only choice.

  Another box revealed a bundle of straps and a package of black
stockings. Wait, she'd seen this kind of thing before -- a garter belt.
Set aside.

  A shoebox. Dark purple ankle-strap sandals. Platform heels. Who
picked this outfit?

  Her worrisome benefactor seemed to sense her apprehension. "I hope
everything's to your liking."
  "Ummm..."
  "I just had one of the store's personal shoppers pick everything out.
I told her I was taking my fiance to the Alluring Enduring Party as a
surprise. I didn't even look at what she picked, but it cost a fortune."

  A strange rush of guilt overcame the out-of-sorts young woman. It
wasn't his fault; he was trying to be nice. She supposed it really
wasn't that bad. Fashionable. Mature. Daring.

  The stockings might make the skirt's length less noticeable;
certainly darker than her lightly-tanned thighs. Garter belt hooked in
place beneath shirttails; stockings slid up gingerly, only snagged
thrice. Mysterious fasteners eventually revealed their operation to
probing fingers.

  Something was missing...

  Back in the first box, missed underwear. Dark purple stretch lace
thong matched the bustier. Slid up smooth nylon-clad legs, snapped into
place over taut garter straps.

  Skirt settled low on the hips, improving lower modesty at the cost of
exposed hipbones, garterbelt, and thong strings. Hem just hid garter
tabs. Shirttails dropped landed halfway down the smooth butter-soft
leather, covering otherwise-exposed underthings. Richly risque.

  Heels added six inches and significant sway. Legs lengthened, curves
accentuated beneath a shadow of nylon.

  Angela looked at the smoldering, stunning siren in the mirror. If she
didn't recognize herself, no one else would either. She felt a whisper
of confidence beneath lingering apprehension.

  Danger always seemed to find beauty. Even as her new look imbued a
sense of hope and faith in the kind soul who would help her escape her
nightmare, a sliver of foreboding fear lodged itself in her
subconscious.


  "Wow, you look... stunning. Like a totally different person. I think
this is gonna work. You'll blend right in downstairs. Nobody will even
notice us leaving." He seemed to realize he was staring; he shook his
head clear. "Everything fit okay?" he smiled. Angela nodded
appreciatively.

  "I heard from Johnson a minute ago. Ginger just left. He said he was
going to get something to eat downstairs. I think now's our chance.
Come on." He took her soft slender hand in his thick calloused paw and
led her toward the door.

  Suddenly the other Johnson burst into the room, looking perturbed.
"What the hell are you doing?"

  A whisper in her ear. "Go along with it. He doesn't recognize you.
But you have to be convincing or he'll know it's you, okay?" She nodded.
  "No matter what," he added.
  No matter what? That sounds scary. What's going to happen? What am I
going to have to do?

  "What the fuck did you dress her up for?"
  "This isn't her. This is, um, an escort."
  Oh, no. But that means I'm a... that I'm supposed to... that he's
going to... no, it won't come to that. He'll say we already... did, um,
that.
  Why did he say that? He could have said... um... what? I don't
know... 

  "What the fuck you need an escort for? If you're horny, just bang the
girl. She's free."
  "Johnson, that's cruel. After all she's been through, I just
couldn't."
  "Where is she, anyway?"
  "Umm... Ginger um, had some questions for her. About the sapphires. I
think they're on the roof or something."
  "Whatever. I hope this whore didn't cost you too much. She doesn't
look very... experienced." Johnson gave Angela a very suspicious look.
  "Show some manners, Johnson. You're in the presence of a lady."
  "Whatever. It's your money. So, you mind if I watch?"
  "Um, I guess not."
  He felt her stiffen as his mouth clamped down on her neck. He quickly
nibbled up toward her ear to explain. "He always watches. If I tell him
'no' he'll get suspicious. Just relax and go with it. He usually
finishes quickly."

  Johnson's hands lingered on her shoulders, fingers brushing gently
outward. His hands traveled slowly, luxuriously over her form, drinking
in her curves with an artist's touch. He was clearly stalling; Angela
looked up at him hopefully. His eyes flashed: Trust Me. Fingers snaked
delicately up, behind her head, meshing into her soft hair, pulling her
to him for a kiss.

  Angela felt her pulse quicken. Her heart felt nothing but simple
gratitude toward this man, and yet her body made no compunction over
its response.

  If he was trying to slow things down, he was doing a bad job of it.

  Angela stole glances over Johnson's shoulder. The other Johnson sat
in the corner chair, slowly rubbing his hands hard up and down the
front of his pants, less specific stimulation as much as bored rutting.

  Johnson's touch was damning; Angela did her best to push the physical
sensation far out of her mind. She closed her eyes, gripping a focus on
something else, anything else. Why was she letting this happen?

  Ricky. Angela's mind grabbed hold of the name and spread it like a
salve upon the sweet sorrow she now felt. If only this were just a bad
dream. If only she could wake up and feel his slight but strong arms
around her, comforting her, caressing her... Ricky. He was the last ray
of hope in her life, the last reminder of what was supposed to have
been. The only boy she'd ever respected. The first man who'd respected
her. Maybe the only man. Kind. Caring. Sweet. Cheerful. Hopeful.
Talented. Creative. Smart. Strong. Passionate. Sexy... she'd never
thought of him that way before; well, once or twice... Angela again
retreated from the rising heat her consort was unwittingly drawing out
of her. He was trying, trying so hard... so hard.

  She felt his hand take hers and push it toward his crotch. She tugged
away, but he was insistent, grabbing her hand more forcefully...
something inside Angela told her that no escort would refuse such
advances. She shivered as her fingers splayed around his bulge,
stroking through the tented material, hesitantly at first, but soon
with legitimate conviction.

  Suddenly Angela's eyelashes fluttered with surprised elation. She
knew that Johnson was drawing things out as much as he could, avoiding
direct stimulation, instead caressing, stroking, grazing fingertips all
over her body. He was doing his best to be convincing without stoking
her fire, but did he have to be *so* convincing? His muddled attempts
to spread his touch over as much of her body as possible, to somehow
water down the effect of his staged advances, he was unknowingly
awakening her physically, his diffuse touch proving quite accidentally
to be far more devastating than any ham-fisted groping could have been.
Angela was tempted to say something to her facetious lover, but she'd
let it go too long; now she feared no matter how or where he touched
her it would only make things worse. If only he would stop nibbling and
suckling on her neck, her chin, her chest... ggggawd...!

  She hadn't felt this out-of-sorts, this frightened and yet
passionately liquified since... since... no, this experience wasn't
uncommon at all. It had become all too familiar to her, but it had
always been at the behest of the infernal sapphires, taking control of
her and pushing her to the brink of ecstacy. Yet the stones were gone;
how could this still be happening? How could she let this be happening?
Had the sapphire curse somehow embedded itself so deeply within her
that now even without their presence she felt their sweet wrath? Or had
the gems merely been an unfortunate scapegoat all this time?

  Her battered mind and lust-addled body fought for control as Angela
drifted in a swirling sea of emotions. She withdrew from the anxious
reality to imagine Ricky with her. She always felt safe with Ricky. It
was Ricky who was holding her, Ricky who respected her, Ricky who was
trying to make the best of a bad situation, Ricky who was her partner
in plotting a course out of peril. Ricky who was her lover. Ricky who
made her feel safe. Understanding, forgiving Ricky, who knew of her
good intentions and troubled temptations and didn't judge her for them.
Ricky who would help her conquer her nightmares and find a path away
from unbidden lust and toward loving embrace. Ricky, the kind of man
she'd always dreamed of finding, Ricky who'd been right there in front
of her.

  Ricky who now showed surprising sexual prowess despite apparent youth
and inexperience. Ricky who'd studied her, idolized her, knew every
inch of her body, even those he'd never laid hand nor eye upon before,
somehow he knew.

  Ricky who somehow knew just how to bring her out of her shell. Who
knew just where and how to touch her. Who knew how to soothe even as he
inflamed her.

  Angela suddenly felt weak; a warm, wonderful weakness enveloped her,
drew her down into a well of serenity, defusing her body's debilitating
lust in a wash of lost happiness.

  "Oh, Ricky..."

  Wicked laughter jolted Angela out of her dreamworld. Ricky faded
away, replaced by this stranger. This man who'd said he would help her.
Johnson. This man who was now staring at her with an expression wholly
incompatible with the reassurances he'd given, the contract they'd had.

  She pushed away from him in shock and horrified despair.

  They were lies. All lies.

  He spoke, but his apologetic tone belied his withering look. "Oh,
God, I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't laugh, but... Oh, man, that's rich."
He wiped his hand, soaked with her juices, up and down the tails of her
blouse.

  "After everything that's happened, everything he's put you through,
all the things you've done, you still think you have a chance together?
Maybe if you're real lucky and the nice guy thing is just an act and
he's really a total asshole he might fuck your brains out once or twice
before he dumps your sorry little slut ass for a cheerleader his age,
somebody who doesn't have all your emotional baggage, not to mention
your reputation as a whore."


  Slap! 

  Johnson suddenly found himself looking at the wall. A huge blur of a
man lunged past him to grab the whore's arm, spinning her, throwing her
violently onto the bed.

  "Woah, calm down there, killer!" Johnson subdued his partner. He
stared hard at Angela, who laid on the bed like a disfavored plaything,
to make sure she felt the full effect of his next words.

  "It didn't even hurt."


  "Fucking worthless cunt," the other Johnson spat, kicking at the bed
to make her jump.
  "Come on," Johnson called, "she's no good. I don't even want her
anymore. Let's go kill the kid. Maybe he'll be more entertaining."

  "Wait!" Angela called out desperately.
  "What?" Johnson said, looking over his shoulder.
  "Don't hurt Ricky."
  "Why not?" Johnson asked.
  "Yeah," the other Johnson added. "What are you gonna do about it?"
  "There's nothing she *can* do; she's just an ordinary girl now."
  "I'd hardly call those tits and those legs and that ass ordinary."
  "You've got a point."
  "So does she. Two of them, actually."

  Angela looked down; her nipples were poking through her blouse; the
bustier must have slipped; she hadn't realized it was chilly in here...
it was then that she noticed she still felt flushed. What was wrong
with her? How could she still be turned on at a time like this? How
much was enough? Why couldn't she control herself? Was it the massage?
Had Johnson slipped her some kind of aphrodesiac in that pill? Or
perhaps it was simpler than that. She was no longer Sapphire, powerful
heroine. She was just an ordinary girl. Her power was gone. These men
had her at their mercy. It was her recurring dark fantasy made real.
She burned hot with shame and arousal. She dropped her hands back down
to her sides as she kneeled on the bed.

  "Good point," Johnson agreed with his partner.

  "What do you want from me?" Angela said, choking back a sob.

  Johnson looked at his partner and shrugged. "Nothing, really. I mean,
from all those nights watching you in your bedroom, wearing frilly
little nighties and touching yourself, you seemed like you might be a
fun girl. But now, covering yourself all up and being shy, and then
cumming all over yourself so fast, I just don't think you'd be any
good." Johnson turned toward the door again.


  How could he not want her?
  What was wrong with her?
  Was he gay? Not the way he'd been touching her. Not the way he'd
looked at her on the bed.  But what did she know? She wasn't exactly
experienced with men. And she certainly didn't know how to actively
seduce one. She barely knew what to do with the boys who'd shown
interest, much less try to throw herself at one.

  But if she didn't do something fast...

  "Wait."
  Both Johnsons turned around. The first one looked cross. "What?" he
said sternly, arms akimbo.

  Adrenaline amplified endorphins. Of course you know how to seduce a
man, Angela. You know the way men look at you, where their eyes linger.
The way men looked at you when you were Sapphire. The way Josh looked
at you.

  The way these men are looking at you now.

  You know what they want to see.
  You know what they want to do.
  And you know how to make them believe you want them to do it.

  "I can be good," she said in a high, softly pleading voice.
  Whether you really want to or not doesn't matter.

  Johnson's face remained set, but his eyes wandered for a moment.
Evaluating her. Thinking. But not convinced.

  Come on, Angela. You can do this.
  Do it for Ricky.

  Angela slid off the bed. She took a step, feeling for balance. Her
shoes felt like stilts. But she'd worn such stilts before. And
subconsciously drawing on her experience as Sapphire, she knew how to
put them to good use.

  She walked around the end of the bed, each step taken leisurely, toes
on an imaginary line, hips cocking first one way, then the other,
falling into a fluid, swaggering motion that carried all the way up her
spine, affecting her arms, her shoulders, her chest.

  Her chest. As she walked she brought one hand up to her collar.
Fingers first touching, then undoing the top button. Sliding into the
opened space and down to the next button. Swirling around it before
slipping it out of its hole and sliding down to the next one.

  She saw Johnson's eyes drink in her seductive approach, darting down
to her feet, slithering up her taut calves and slender thighs. Shifting
to one hip, then the other. Drawing up the line of buttons, pausing at
whichever one she was fondling. Briefly bouncing back and forth between
her bobbing breasts before falling back down to make another pass. And
with each pass, his eyes burned brighter with lust.

  "I can be *very* good."

  Angela might not have known a lot about men, but she knew she had a
body most of them wanted to see more of. A body they would do anything
to touch.

  It was the only power she had left. But it was enough.

  "Maybe I misjudged you," Johnson said dully. Clearly, the big head
wasn't in charge. That meant that she was.

  She grabbed his package roughly. "You know you want it," she said
with all the dripping huskiness she could muster.

  In an instant she found herself thrown back onto the bed. The last of
her buttons flew in all directions as meaty hands ripped off her
blouse. Yanking it down around her back. Pinning her arms to her sides.

  Fingers clawed at the delicate lace between her legs, exposed by the
too-short leather miniskirt that had rucked up about her hips. She felt
the cool air nestle against her swollen flesh for but an instant before
it was pierced by his plunging shaft.

  Angela's mind slipped from its position of strength to one of
weakness. From master to servant. From victor to victim.

  The terrified teen lay there, helpless as she felt him reach back,
grabbing her ankles, hoisting her legs up onto his shoulders, hammering
away fast and hard. There was no pleasure in this; this was a
demonstration of power. His power.

  His cock slammed into her, driving home his point again and again
with increasing fury. You are mine to do with as I please. Your life is
over. You are nothing but a fucktoy.

  And almost as soon as it had begun, it was over. She felt him seize
up, his whole body arching with singular intent, his piledriver
gushing, squirting, splashing, seeping. He held himself over her for
several long moments, staring down into her frightened, frustrated eyes
with utter contempt. Finally, he peeled himself away and retreated to
the bathroom.

  Angela had taken too much; berated, belittled, beaten; teased and
tormented, orgasmed and abandoned. Her last act of will crushed, she
knew her actions were irrelevent. And yet looking at the other Johnson,
seeing his disgusted sneer at the helpless sweat-slickened slut before
him, she had nothing left but to throw herself at him, desperate to
persuade him not to leave the room. The idea of saving Ricky had
descended below consciousness to a despondent instinctual obsession to
distract these frightening beasts from their terrible task.

  The tears that shed the last of her self-respect went unnoticed by
the hulk of pent anger across the room; all he saw was her compulsive
self-ministration as an object of attractive lust.

  It failed to ensnare him. 
  He had another use in mind for the hapless harlot.

  "You're wasting your time."

  "Get over here."

  "Get your hand out of your snatch; you disgust me."

  "No. Not with your hands. You wish you got off that easy."

  "That's pathetic. Don't grind that ass up against me. You're makin'
me limp. Turn around. Face me."

  He grabbed her chin, yanking her face upward, staring down into her
eyes, looking for... anything left of the proud powerful heroine who'd
hammered him with frightening force just an hour earlier.

  There was nothing.

  He smiled. It was a soulless, black smile that chilled Angela to the
bone.

  "Get on your knees, bitch."
  Hands pressed down on her shoulders. She pushed back. But he was so
much bigger than her. Stronger. He relented for an instant, just long
enough to throw her off-balance; then drove her cruelly to fall forward
against him, crashing to her knees, arms flopping awkwardly around him,
vainly pushing at nothing but air to stop her descent. Her chest slid
down his torso as she fell, breasts briefly catching and bouncing over
his belt. Her cheek landed smack against his erection. It practically
leaped against his pants to greet her.

  Angela squealed in shock and disgust.

  Hands grabbed the sides of her head, forcing her to gaze straight
ahead at the tent he'd pitched on her behalf. Her arms flailed weakly
against his vicelike grip on her head, slapping his forearms and
wrists. He let go of her just long enough to wind up and belt her with
a mean slap.

  "Don't be all goody-two-shoes about this, baby. I bet if this was
your boyfriend's dick you'd suck it."
  Angela shook her head 'no' so furiously, loose strands of her hair
whipped back and forth across his trousers, the feathery contact barely
stronger than a breeze but nonetheless causing the thing to lurch
outward beneath its restrictive covering.
  "Tell you what, let's find out. Johnson!"
  "Yeah?" The other Johnson came out of the bathroom, zipping his fly.
  "Go cut Ricky's dick off and bring it in here."

  The disturbing image made Angela gag; the involuntary muscular
contractions pitched her head forward, nudging her nose and forehead
against her tormentor's swollen member.

  Johnson had to laugh. Careful, buddy, you could poke an eye out with
that thing.

  "How 'bout it, baby. His or mine?"

  Delicate fingers fumbled under the flap to find the metal key.

  Zzzzzip.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought."

  It was purple and red and angry, with a sandpaper-like helmet over a
long wrinkled nose, a silken collar and alienlike blue-black snakes
wiggling down its length. Halfway down was a white zigzag scar
demarking an unnatural-looking crook in the thing like a squished
flexi-straw.

  And it was smaller than she expected.

  Angela closed her eyes as her fingers slowly wrapped themselves
around its base.
  It's a finger.
  It's a popcicle.
  It's a hotdog.
  It's not so bad.

  "Lick it, bitch."
  Her tongue extended hesitantly, afraid to touch it.
  It won't take long.
  Girls do it all the time.
  It tastes kind of salty.
  It's no big deal.

  As her lips encircled the vile thing, she felt something grip the
back of her head. Suddenly she felt something itchy up her nose. And
something monstrous, like a giant rolled-up pancake unfurling in her
mouth, poking at the back of her throat and retreating, again and
again. The smell of sweat and dried mustard and old bread burned her
nostrils, making her gasp and retch. Horribly, this only seemed to make
the offensive object surge and swell...


  She's fuckin' choking on it, Johnson congratulated himself. That's
it, baby, relax. Relax your jaw. "Relax your jaw."

  He tugged back on her hair, then shoved her head forward. Slowly at
first, using her mouth as an extension of his hand. That's it, learn to
breathe. Don't choke on it. Relax. No teeth.
  "No teeth or I'll blow your fucking head off."

  In. The top ridges of her palate vibrating delicately over the head.
  Out. Her cheeks hollowed, tongue curled, sweetly caressing the
underside of the tip.
  In. Lips grazing the base of his shaft, brushing against her
squeezing thumb and forefinger.
  Out. Wet suction added auditory cues to his building pleasure.
  "Mmmmm," she hummed. He spasmed forward. Oh, fuck. His grip released
her; she formed her own mind-blowing rhythm.


  She pistoned back and forth of her own accord now, eyes long since
opened, revulsion suppressed by utter submission. Her knees ached; her
neck was sore; she felt lightheaded; and her free hand had found its
way below her bunched-up skirt...


  "Hey, Mikey, she likes it."
  "Very funny."
  "No, seriously. She's got *me* convinced. Or rather, Junior
Johnson..."
  "Who knew she was a natural?"
  "What'd you do, give her a different drug?"
  "Yeah, I switched to the No More Tears formula. Seriously, she's
clean."
  "Well, I hope -- ohhng! -- I hope she likes it dirty."

  She wasn't smooth. She wasn't practiced. She wasn't even enthusiastic
so much as vapidly focused, subconsciously attacking her task with a
grim determination to excel simply to prove the folly of the demand.

  But he was hardly disappointed. He didn't want a good blowjob.
  He wanted victory.
  He needed spirit broken.
  He demanded subjugation.

  He found release.

  The world turned magenta-black beneath his closed eyes as blood
rushed away to fill a void left by violent depressurization down below.
Streams of precocious payload felt forcibly stricken from his form; a
buzzing on the back of his neck marked systemic failure of specific
sensation, every nerve ending rejoicing in their master's
accomplishment.


  Warm gumminess splashed the roof of her mouth. She pressed forward,
head turned, nose buried, fingers squeezing sequentially, drawing out
melting fat worms of fluid, oozing down the inside of her cheeks to
pool around her desperate tongue. Rhubarb and brussels sprouts and
salted yogurt assaulted her, coagulating into a singular flavor of sick
sweet submission.

  And as his seed leaked from her lips to coat her chin, her whole body
spasmed and shook in sickening depraved release.


  Angela felt the retreat of the doughy agent that had delivered her
unto moral darkness. Jaw slackened, glistened; breath hastened;
awareness saddened; sobs weakened.

  Ricky. She'd done it for Ricky. 

  Tears of streamed down her cheeks to thin the vile syrup of her shame.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  A growling Peterbilt pulls a tanker down into the shadows of the
half-covered delivery entrance.

  A light-blue uniform hustles out from a security booth. Waving arms
flag the semi to a halt.

  "Excuse me... Excuse me! Can I help you?"
  "Yeah, I need you to sign this."

  A clipboard is passed from a heavy work glove to a perforated leather
one.

  "No- no, this is a mistake. We're supposed to get 100 gallons of
propane, not 10,000 gallons!"
  "That ain't what my delivery order says."
  "I don't care what it says, it's wrong."
  "You sayin' you don't want no propane this weekend?"
  "No- no! But they can't use this."
  "Okay." Heavy work boots tromp back toward the tanker.
  "Wait! Do you need to use the phone, or do you have one in the truck?"
  "What for?"
  "To tell your office to send a hundred-gallon tank."
  "You're kidding, right Mac? Whaddayou, retarded? It's Labor Fuckin'
Day Weekend. Busiest weekend uh'da year inna propane business. We got
company picnics, RV Park refillings, emergency household deliveries up
in da mountains -- there ain't a tank left in the yard. If you was a RV
Park right now you'd be sportin' wood gettin' a tenner by mistake like
this. But if you don't want any propane for your big union family
barbecue shindig tomorrow, that's cool, I'll just hook back up an' haul
'er out to the KOA on 305..."
  "Hold on! Can you hold on for just a minute? Let me call my boss and
ask him what he wants to do."
  "Yeah, but hurry it up. I got a party of my own to get to, if ya know
what I'm sayin', and I think you do..."

  Hurried footsteps beat a path to the security office.

  Heavy work boots follow slowly.
  Heavy work gloves get shoved into a back pocket.
  An automatic pistol is drawn from a shoulder holster.

  A loud Pop! spreads a shower of red mist across the security office
window.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Cooper tried not to stare. A body like Ginger's made even a waiter's
uniform look good.

  Ginger turned around. A dress shirt hung from her waist by its tails.
She wore a sturdy-looking satin bra. She looked cross.

  Cooper kneeled and began poking and prodding at the garment while
Ginger continued to vent.

  "I wanted to kill Burnett for ordering 'shoot to kill.' Didn't he
know we didn't have the kid?"

  Cooper grumbled. Ginger always knew how to make a guy feel like shit.
Only a bitch of her caliber would have the temerity to rip a guy's dead
partner while that guy was strapping her with a biometric detonator for
a 10,000-gallon propane bomb.

  "He told you about it before we left," Cooper offered, weakly.
  "He interrupted me in the middle of an interrogation of a
double-agent. Forgive me if I didn't stop to change the battery in his
secret decoder ring!"

  Cooper bristled. Well, if she was going to pin the mess on Burnett
because she was too busy getting *fucked* to make a good decision, why
tiptoe around it?
  "Interrogation. That's a euphemism I haven't heard before. Where I
come from it's called riding the baloney pony. No wonder you weren't
thinking straight."
  "Hey, at least I was in the middle of getting laid. What was
Burnett's excuse?"
  "Maybe if you allowed your employees to make an occasional decision
they'd be better at it."
  "And monkeys might fly out of my butt."

  "Well, it didn't matter. You bluffed her. Now you've got her mojo.
And there's no time-traveling twin to drop in out of nowhere and help
her get it back."
  Ginger took a moment to recognize the Austin Powers reference; she
ignored it. "Well, thank God she's even dumber than Burnett."

  Cooper held his tongue while he finished his work. This was not the
kind of job that permitted distraction.

  A few moments later, Cooper stood up. "All done."
  "Take me through it."
  "The pulse meter on the wristwatch and the one in your left bra cup
each send a signal to the chip between the cups. If the chip loses both
signals for more than two seconds, it begins continuously transmitting
a code in the 900MHz range. The convention center has a private digital
walkie-talkie system with a page feature, and repeaters all over the
facility. The chip's code is picked up by that system as a page request
and broadcast over all the repeaters. That code triggers the fuse."
  "So if they shut down the communication system the trigger won't
work."
  "The system's used by both security and maintenance. It's fully
redundant with local battery backups. They couldn't shut it down if
they wanted to."
  "And to trigger it manually?"
  He handed her a car alarm fob. "Press the top button and then the
bottom button within one second. It sends the same code as the bra."

  Ginger rotated her shoulders and picked at the bra straps as she
looked in the mirror. "Did you have to pick a Cross-Your-Heart? I look
like a fucking Cadillac."
  "All of your bras were front-hook; I was afraid they'd pop open and
the transmitter would get disconnected from the pulse meters. And that
would be bad."
  "Cooper, bras only pop open spontaneously in your dreams."
  "I'm not taking any chances on premature activation. Besides, none of
your bras had enough cup material to put the pulse meter in the right
place. I don't see how they can support anything."
  "Some women are blessed with self-supporting assets."
  Women with implants, maybe; but Cooper would let that slide. "Then
why wear a bra at all?" he asked.
  "Beautiful art deserves a beautiful frame."
  "Well, tonight your 'art' gets a full truss."
  "Fine. I wasn't planning on getting screwed tonight anyway."

  Cooper wondered if he'd ever get to tap that ass again... oh, she was
being clever. Right. But who was left to screw her? The whole
pulse-rate trigger thing seemed a little paranoid -- she basically had
all the sapphires, Eric was as good as dead, the other agency team was
still on the ground in Washington, there was no sign of the Chinese,
the cops didn't have a clue... On the other hand, enough shit had gone
wrong on this mission that having a little insurance made sense. Cooper
just hoped it didn't backfire.

  "Did Taggert get the wire strung?"
  "He's doin' it now."
  "And the harness?"
  "Ready to go."
  "Rosewood get access to the spotlight?"
  "No problem."
  "Good. She needs to be seen, otherwise no one will know the sapphires
are responsible for the explosion."
  "You sure she'll go through with it?"
  "She's still a heroine at heart. Once I tell her there's a bomb down
there and what she has to do to disarm it, she'll do whatever I tell
her. And if not, who's to say her little boyfriend Ricky isn't strapped
to the bomb?"
  "She's gonna suspect something, you setting her up with a harness for
a 'flight' across the main hall."
  "You're right. She's dumb enough, I'll probably have to explain that
the whole point is that she's a diversion for our escape. Which, aside
from the magnitude of the diversion, is the truth."

  Ginger put her shirt back on and twirled in the mirror. She noticed
Cooper checking her out.

  "Are we done?"
  "Yeah, boss," Cooper said, recognizing his cue to leave.

  "By the way, Ginger: secret decoder rings don't have batteries."
  Ginger turned red. "Oh, so *now* you're fucking smart! Where the hell
were you when I needed someone to find my new hostage?"
  "Building the fuse. What was your excuse?"

  Ginger looked like she was ready to explode. Maybe it wasn't a good
idea to push her over the edge while she was wearing the Playtex
Cross-Your-Heart-and-Hope-To-Die bra.

  "Shut up, and go see if Rosewood needs help looking for that cop.
He's here somewhere."
  "How do you know?"
  "Because he's a hero, and you haven't killed him yet."


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Fingers snaked up her hips, tugging at the waistband of her skirt,
curling underneath to ensnare her garter belt, tugging back on it
insistently to speed up her thrusts.

  The girl flipped her sweat-matted hair up out of her face, looking up
vacantly, seeing the corner of the bedroom suite approach and retreat,
approach and retreat, back and forth over the same nine inches. The
sound of flesh slapping flesh marked her tempo like erotic rimshots.
Her mind had long since disconnected from her body, even disconnected
from thought itself; but as her sticky hair again fell over her eyes,
she looked up to part it, and noticed something looking down at her.

  A camera.

  The thought that someone might be watching -- might have watched her
pitiful descent into squalid depravity -- briefly stirred her with
horror, but it faded as fast as it rose. She didn't care anymore; it
didn't matter who saw her degradation now. Once Ricky figured out she
was Sapphire, once he learned what she'd done, he wouldn't want to have
anything to do with her anyway. Angela was doomed to be alone. Doomed
to find comfort only in debasement. But at least Ricky would be safe.
At least if she never saw him again, if he found her as repulsive as
she found herself, at least then she couldn't hurt him anymore.

  She felt her lover stiffen and spasm behind her; she whimpered in
frustration, desperately pushing back, squeezing herself around the
slowing, rapidly-softening intruder, hoping to eke out just a few more
thrusts, fighting in vain to capture a retreating climax.

  If she was only doing this to save Ricky, why was she so desperate to
enjoy it?


  "Fuck me, she wants to go again." Johnson pulled his limp member away
from the insatiable fuck-toy.
  The other Johnson had an enormous grin. Something else was enormous
too. "I know what you're thinking. 'Why, oh why didn't I take the
*blue* pill?'"
  "Fuck you, Johnson."
  "Well, since you're obviously not up to the task... I guess she'll
have to do. Step aside, squirt."


  The poor abused girl felt a stiff rod enter her from behind. She'd
lost count of the number of times they'd used her; as she began
thrusting mindlessly back to meet her partner's cruel, selfish thrusts,
she felt the sickness grow as her orgasm built. Her head lolled as her
insides tensed; she shivered as she came, her senses numbed to the
continued pounding. They weren't even fucking her anymore; they were
just using her as a sex toy, hardly even noticing when she came.

  A final tear left her cheek to disappear into the bedspread.

  Each orgasm made her feel smaller, weaker.
  Sadder.

  Each time she came it was less satisfying. And yet more compelling.

  Consciousness receded into a passive observer.
  Watching and judging the animal of mindless lust try desperately to
reach oblivion.
  Becoming more and more helplessly despondent with each carnal act. 
  Failing now to even get her tormenting saviors' attention.
  Unable even to finish herself.
  Used up.
  Discarded.
  But not gone.

  Wanting final release, but finding only more hopeless existence.

  Powerless to reach the end, but too lost to return.


  (Wake me up) Wake me up inside
  (I can't wake up) Wake me up inside

  Save me - Call my name and save me from the dark
  (Wake me up) Bid my blood to run
  (I can't wake up) Before I come undone

  Save me - Save me from the nothing I've become

  Bring me to life
  (I've been living a lie)
  (There's nothing inside)

  Bring me to life



   



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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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