Three massive fingers, clad in industrial black rubber join your tongue. Their first port of call is your mouth. Already chafed from the ministrations of Blaze’s mental brother, Shawn.
The invading digits move in and out, brutally, until you get the hint and start sucking. Satisfied, the intruders twist around and dive into Blaze’s simmering cunt like a pair of angry eels.
She rubs her clit against the slippery rubber fist. You can almost hear her struggling to keep control, trying hard not to make a sound.
The secretion is sending sparks into your mouth and down your nervous system. The shocks are sharp and random. Could this be an involuntary reaction to the invasion of her cunt, simultaneously stimulated by your darting tongue?
The idea of this utterly composed Valkyrie, who possesses enough electro – kinetic power to ignite a carousel, losing control of her internal current while sitting on your face is terrifying.
But then you hear a suction sound as Blaze props herself up, leaving you with your tongue pathetically and literally hanging out.
‘Really, Subcomandante,’ she breathes, ‘you know I need to keep my wits about me for this. We can’t afford to lose another one.’
He chuckles. A deep rumbling sound. ‘Or fuck it up like they did with your brother? Of course not, comrade. But a little self indulgence keeps us human. And I have every faith in your abilities. Particularly when aroused.’
Where did you hear this voice before? But your concentration is broken by Blaze jumping off the operation table.
‘Cheers, Subcomandante. Perks of the cause I suppose. Is everything ready Shawn?’
‘Aye Aye, Capitan.’
The blow torch boy sounds all too keen for your comfort. Cyborg Cyclops does not like you at all. Maybe you shouldn’t have provoked him.
Blaze joins her brother. Straining to turn your neck against the head restraint of the straitjacket to follow her movements, and find that Shawn is now standing by a trolley and fiddling with the content a kidney dish. You also identify the source of the diesel smell and noise: there is an ancient generator humming away a few feet from the operation table.
Behind it, the floor end in a sheer drop, at least as deep as the gaping pit above your head.
You are trapped on an island of concrete, likely all that survived of the second or third level of a five story building. You can’t see any doors. How the hell did they get you and all this gear up here?
Shawn reaches up and manipulates a clunky remote control, as Blaze adjusts a mass of wiring, and you are rolling your eyes like a rearing stallion to try and make out the machine the wires are plugged into, when the rubber gloved man behind you says, ‘we must stop meeting this way.’
Shawn and Blaze are instantly reduced into flickering images on a muted screen.
You turn your head as far back as the aluminium and allows.
Now that Blaze is no longer sitting on your face you can see the rubber gloved man.
It’s him! Looking down at you is the same man who started it all. The man who promised a cure. The man who wasn’t a man, but an other.
You avert your eyes, staring into the shaft were the ceiling should have been. But the dancing musty darkness does not protect you from the screeching flash mob of blocked memories.
And you are back there, in that slimy unisex cubical at the secret underground party you burned weeks and good contacts trying to find.
Your hands are stretched up, clutching the mouldy toilet pipe. Capped and trapped in place by just one of his massive paws. You remember thinking how helplessly pale your amber fingers look under his. Your knees are spread wide on the sticky plastic toilet sit as you beg and beg and beg.
The regained memory is still scrambled. What were you begging him for?
Were you begging him to be gentle? To go slowly? You remember turning your head to look at him. His bullet eyes, speckled with silver, fanning your glowing embers gaze.
And something glinted in his other hand. You stiffened, thinking: a knife!
You remember beating yourself for that yearning trust in this man’s whispered invitation. His hints of dissent on the improvised dance floor, spliced by strobe-lights . This man wasn’t about to show you the darkly shining path to the underground. He was just another city variety psycho. Or one of Central-Core’s swarm of undies.
Or worst. Maybe this man was everything you longed for him to be, but had you down as trading with the C.C guards.
Did you struggle? No. Back then, your super powers were a thing of the future. You were just an uncommonly desperate soul, a wise arse petty urban rat, a nosy mediocre meddler and smuggler who craved an in, a way out. So you didn’t fight. You begged. You begged for your life, at first.
And now, strapped into the operation table and looking into those steel core eyes, you shudder, your cock stretching the canvas as what happened next comes back to you with excruciating vividness.
Yes. You were convinced that you are about to be butchered, right there, kneeling on a filthy toilet in a semi submerged train on the dead docklands.
But he went for your mouth. A searing fleshy kiss, his tongue and the shock effortlessly breaching your clenched teeth.
Then he gently turned your head back to the wall. And as your still pouting lips kissed the cold dirty metal of the toilet pipe, rammed his cock into your ass-hole.
His cock. As fat and ridged as a pumped up bicycle tyre and as long as super-sized soda bottle. The biggest you’ve ever seen. And you had clapped eyes upon your fair share of big boys; in the locker room of the football club in your hood, and, on a few furtive occasions, in extreme close up while sucking a chip-date avatar. But you never let them bugger you. Not you, the ladies’ man.
And as the stranger’s cock shafted your virgin ass, you clean forgot the metal blade in his calloused fingers and you bit and sucked and dribbled on that pipe, your slight frame pinned by his bulk, howling like a hyena as his rhinoceros’ organ tore your insides, extending hot tarmac roads straight into your brain. Later you decided that the electric ecstasy was a hallucination. Like divers’ sickness.
Now you know better. And you are also reminded, a memory which makes you shut your eyes, your face and neck growing hot with humiliation, you now recall how your shock and rage turned into pleas for mercy, then melted into bobbling drivel.
How he slowly extracted his twitching weapon of mass destruction, eliciting desperate pleas of another kind.
How you yelped and whinnied and gravelled and begged him to keep fucking you, to please please please ride your ass again, ride it hard, even if it drills you into the crumbling wall, even if it splits you in halve.
And you remember your ass spasming as your cock was smashed into the toilet pipe, spurting pink cum, your entire frame gratefully writhing under his renewed attack .
He left the cubical before you regained your senses.
You searched for him up and down the train and even in the collapsing tunnels and rusting escalators of the station. You didn’t go as far as venturing out to the toxic docks. Then you kept partying. Another rave. Someone’s warehouse.
Only much later, days and nights fused together later, when the sting in your asshole had faded and you crawled back home and took a bath, you noticed the little x shape cut on your left hand, above your chip.
Then the blood dreams started. And the terrifying new orifice opening around your cock. Crowned by fat lips and a carnivorous clit nesting just above the base.
Somehow this freaked you out so much you that you weren’t quite as shocked when later discovering that you also gained the power to manipulate the minds and bodies of others. That you had developed the ability to control their serotonin receptors, and send electric currents into there nerve systems, their brain,
Suppose you thought of this as some sort of compensation for that offending ravenous organ, that hole. A bonus. and then you learned to use them all to your advantage.
Then the killer fucking sprees.
And here you are. Strapped into an ancient surgical table, your eyes wide open again, staring at that very same crotch, the powerful frame in a black leather boiler suit, and the eyes even more mercurial then you remember, set in the flawlessly sculptured ebony features.
He cups your face in his palm.
‘So, beautiful stranger, ready to meet your maker?’