You open your mouth to ask the first of a hundred questions boiling in your head when the leather stud releases your chin and raises his black rubber gloved hand.
‘Are we ready?’
Your head is still spinning from the overdose or home coming memories so you fumble for an answer. Are you ready for what? And is this hulking stranger who has you so utterly at his mercy really asking for your permission to do anything other then what he wills with your bound body and captured mind?
‘As ready as we’ll ever be, Subcomendante.’ Says Blaze from beyond your line of vision.
Something slides above your head with an electrical hum. Something with far too many eyes. And tentacles. And claws.
The multi jointed limbs are synthetic, of course, and the whole apparatus with it’s scanning cameras and insectile arms looks like something out of those hospital dramas from the beginning of the century. Is this a surgical robot? Whatever it is, you hope it’s automated rather then sentient. You don’t think you can handle much more cyborg company without your mind giving up.
‘She doesn’t look cutting edge, but we had her extensively modified.’ Says the leather stud, ‘which is lucky for you. The lasers in the old model were a little…crude. And alas, you must be fully conscious for the operation to work.’
You find your swollen tongue at last.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ You squeal, sounding a lot like some dumb slut in a retro flick .
‘We’re going to set you free.’
‘By hacking me to pieces?’
‘That’s one way to look at at. And there is no denying there will be some incisions involved. And other…invasive procedures. But you are a tough one. And if all goes well, the rewards will be immense. Your liberty, and the power to wake the dead.’
And as the surgical robot blinked and extended a probing arm, which scanned your head and chest and slowly progressed towards your crutch, the mercury eyed man starts telling you about the Other’s movement.
How he, a neuroscientist working for Central discovered what really happens at all those deserted NHS hospitals and clinics, following the disappearance of a Central Operations doctor younger brother.
‘And there are tens of thousands kept in those facilities, all around the countryside, all in deep coma.’ He said, his beautiful deep voice twanging deep cords inside your head. And your new cunt.
‘You mean the stupid cunts who tried to remove their chips? Come on, there can’t be so many of them.’ You blurt before your brain catches up with the foolishness of contradicting this man with some dodgy net rumour.
But then again, challenging this smug brute makes you feel like your predatory self, so recently captured and subdued, but not domesticated. Not quite.
Anyhow, what have you got to lose now? And you have a pretty good idea just who that Central Ops doctor is. Damn. Can’t believe you bought her freak show girl act.
But he isn’t ruffled in the slightest by your outburst. Your words pack no punch. You both know it.
‘Yes, we estimate that there are over thirty thousands of them.’ He says, as the contraption above you retreats. But just as you exhale and turn your gaze back to the man, something jingles above you. Even with your head fixed into place by that strap you can see the swarm of hooks the surgical robot has just produced. Curved and and serrated, like slender hunting knifes.
There are at least eight of them, swaying in a gust of summer air which blows into the windowless room, likely through the shaft above you.
‘But sadly,’ he continues, ‘it’s true that there aren’t so many people brave enough to try and remove their chips. Not even a fraction of that figure.’
Blaze reappears and bends over you. Her scarlet hair is now concealed under a latex surgeon’s hood, but the flaming nether mane and gemstone nipples still taunt you under her multi-zip transparent rubber catsuit.
The stud with the mercury eyes keeps talking, his bulging fly fills your eyes again and his hot tar voice is pouring over you as Blaze starts to unbuckle the complicated white leather straps of the straitjacket.
He tells you of the organs factories. Of how easy it is to made someone disappear. After all, so many of us limit physical interactions to bare minimum. As long as you keep their profiles active, and bots can do this as well if not better then the original owner, the flesh and blood behind the avatar is rarely missed.
Blaze had undone the last strap.
When she unzips the slightly mouldy canvas exposing your sweating naked body like some alien wasp goddess slicing open a pod, your reflexes awaken.
This is the time to grab her by the jugular and zap her, before any of them has time to respond. The man obviously cares for her. You could threaten to break her neck. You could trade.
But before the thought translates into muscle response the metal hooks descend, diving for your tights, under your shoulder blades, your wrists, behind your knees, your ankles.
They do not pierce you.
Their sharp edges rotate and slot into the wider base, which is hollow, apparently, and form iron rings, snapping shut to imprison each segment of your limbs. The last two lock around your cock. One at the base, one under the head. They easily encircle the shaft. With the constricting sheath removed, there is no hiding your newly raging erection.
Your gingerly stretch your limbs, as if to relieve the cramped muscles. The hook-rings tighten. Just a tad, but with the promise of more arteries blocking, tendons ripping nerves crashing and joint dislocating force where that came from.
The man grins. This is not a reassuring sight. He is on to you. Somehow tracing your spark of rebellion, and relishing it. The fact you hadn’t giving up. Savouring this almost as much as watching it extinguished before flaring up.
But he continues as if nothing happened, spinning his yarn like you two were strangers enjoying a pre- curfew pint in some super-pub.
And soon you are truly engrossed in his tell of how he and the doctor unearthed a cancelled military personnel enhancement program, applied it to his own research and devised a method of extracting the chips without brain damage.
So engrossed, in fact, that you are taken entirely by surprise when Blaze – Dr Blaze? Inserts the cold cylindrical head of a slim stainless steel rod right into your cock.
You scream. More from affronted surprise then pain, at first.
Blaze says nothing. Just squeezes the head tighter, forcing your urethra to open further. Then she pushes the sound a little deeper, stretching the tight little tunnel, that delicate gateway leading deep inside you, wider and wider.
The stinging pain isn’t the only sensation produced by this outrageous probing assault on your cock.
Both of the bastards beam at you, and you realise that the burring sound echoing in your ears isn’t the generator but your own groans. Fuck them.
‘The rest: electro- kinetic and bio-chemical manipulation abilities were more or less just side effects, but we discovered that they do have some useful functions.’ The studs picks up the lecture were he left of, as if he was addressing envious colleagues or rapt students from a lecture podium. Well, guess he WAS a science dud. A sci-stud. How did he get those muscles working in a bloody lab?
But then, you could ask the same of Blazes statuesque built and powerful arms, currently occupied in expert penetration of your cock. What sort of doctoring did she do for CO, bare hand bone setting?
‘The blood lust remains a problem. But it has a practical utility: it means that our test subjects have no choice but to make themselves known to us when the first incubation period is over. This transition is clearly indicated by the trail victims they leave behind them. The dicey part is to get them in and complete the process before Central Co catches on.’
Test subjects? Incubation?
‘What did you put inside me?’ you croak.
You want to also ask what the hell does ‘process completion’ means, but Blaze has started sliding the metal rod up and down your cock, fucking you slowly, deliberately, and if you stop biting your lower lip and open your mouth, all the shameless noises will escape and run wild and naked.