The wind howls inside you. Whipping your naked skin and grating your mind. The wind, and the sound of blades slicing air.

You are no longer restrained. No, that’s not true. Not entirely. Not in any way that matters.

Granted, the physical bonds, the stainless steel hooks suspending your limbs and organs were neutralised by the masked storm troopers, but you are still hanging in mid air, more constrained then ever.

You are imprisoned by HER voice. Her voice is wrapped like a noose around your brain. Tagging at every nerve end, then releasing the tension, never letting you forget that you are still tethered.

There were Blades, Before the troopers snatched you away. A metal rod penetrating in your cock. A filthy boy with a blow- torch where his eye should be shoving his electric cock inside your tight hole while the blue ray starts to scorch the skin of your hand.

And four pairs of eyes, mercury and bronze flaked jade, laughing, threatening, promising liberty. And power. Then scarlet cunt fur crashing your face as Blaze raised her scalpel talons to make the final incision, to chop of your…

That bitch, Blaze, she should have just done it. But no, she was having too much fun tormenting you. And the stud with the rhinoceros prick and mercury eyes, he was so keen to convince you that you are both on the side of the angles. So he talked, how much he talked. Maybe he needed to convince himself. But he blubbered forever instead of getting on with the operation, instead of removing your chip chop chop, that the gust of wind got stronger and the roar of the generator was drowned by…Chop chop. A Chopper, hovering above the blown off roof of the abandoned mental hospital.

And the swarm of faceless figures who descended on cables through the shaft.

And you remember thinking, the cost of getting this baby in the air must be astronomical. All this fuel. Strange how the mind bumbles. You had much more urgent things to worry about.

You should have worried about The blade, about the blow torch flame, about the cock discharging electric pre-cum inside you, and most of all, you should have worried about that ludicrous operation going wrong.

You should have been dwelling on the extremely highly likelihood that instead of freedom and the power to …how did the stud put it? Yes, wake the dead, that instead of achieving that fantastic feat the attempt to remove the chip embedded in your hand would have the usual results: triggering self destruct and frying your brain.

That you would end up in a coma, like those tens of thousand mercury man was going on about, stashed away for some enigmatically nefarious purpose.

But the stud didn’t get around to reveal why the half zombies were kept there, or tell you what infecting you with dodgy bio-tech had to do with anything. He did start to tell you about your mutation, the cunt which grew around your cock, and the enhancement of both, but didn’t get far before the gale blew down the shaft.

No, when they came, you didn’t think about any of those things. You worried about fuel costs. And about how oddly light the long machine guns looked in the leather clad hands of the masked troopers, and how fast that nasty psycho’s   face, Blazes brother, exploded with shreds of metal and fire when the first round was silently discharged.

Blaze zapped them. Got a least two. You are pretty certain about that. But the stud, he did nothing.  Just stood above you, his bulging crotch obscuring the view, and shut his mercury eyes as the troopers closed in.

You thought how strangely childish that was, like pretending that if you can’t see monster it won’t be able to see you, till one of the troopers dropped her machine gun and raised both hands to where her temples must be under the the leather balaclava, you and realised what was really going down: the stud went on a rampage in their minds.

Ten heavenly armed storm troopers to a couple of vigilantes without one fire arm between the suddenly seemed pretty even odds. If anything, mercury stud and Blaze seemed to be gaining the upper hand. 

But that’s when SHE took over.

That stern contralto invaded your head. The plummy voice you tried so hard to forget since you left the remains of butchered Leo in his fancy river view flat in London, in what must have been only, what? Forty eight hours ago, max, but now seems like a long long time ago in a far away land, a story which happened to someone else, an alpha predator, not an automated lab rat.

So as the militia women – Central Co Corps? You suspect yes, but there were no emblems on their tight jump-suites of high gloss leather, as their machine guns started swaying under the double attack of Blaze’s electro-kinetic assault and mercury stud’s crushing mind, you went blind again, and the voice in your head commanded,

This is your chance. Blast him. Now!

And for the first time since Blaze turned the tables on you in her freak show carnival bus, you found that old self again, that sleekly brutal mutant.

You reached out to touch the stud, fumbling for the nearest part of his anatomy, that tool he kept shoving in your face. You capped his cock and balls and gave him everything you had, opening his receptors and sending shocks of pleasure and pain through every nerve in his system, flooding his brain.

He went down with a monstrous hard-on.

Now the chopper is landing.

You are still blinded, open eyes registering nothing but intricate gold and green patterns flashing in white darkness. At first you are reminded of some art, Aztec, or was it Mayan? You’ve seen in the British museum when they dragged you there on school trip, two or three before it shut down for good. 

But then it strikes you; the maze like pattern blocking your view aren’t some ancient scribblings, what fills your eyes now is a chip. At an extreme close up. As the chopper descends you can’t help but wonder if what you are shown is your very own chip, the one still embedded under your skin despite your former abductors’ attempt to remove it. Or maybe it’s HER chip?

Either way, you can’t see. So you have to lean on the hard bodies leading you off the chopper into balmy country air, then inside, where deep chill and dust reign.

They push and drag you up and down polished stone stairs, then in a nearly straight line for what feels like eternity. The thick carpet swallows their footsteps before you get a chance to try and calculate how many of the troopers are guarding the rear and the front, apart from the pair flanking you. How many survived.

They should be sweating after all this exertions but you smell nothing human. Only the machine gun oil and the heady aroma of supple leather.

It doesn’t matter how many there are though, does it? The voice in your head is silent. But by no means it is absent. SHE is there, biding her time behind your sightless eyes.

The troopers lift you over another threshold. It’s warm in here. And smoky. You sense that you are no longer negotiating a narrow passage. Your bare feet grow heavy against marble, then all ten toes curl in the depth of something impossibly soft.

Your captors halt. The one on your right pushes your head down. For some unfathomable reason you refuse to budge. So the other promptly punches you in the gut, which bring down into something resembling a kneeling position.

The chip patterns dissolve. A fanged mouth roars soundlessly at you. Wild eyes stare, furiously glassy above the huge head.

The long white winter coat and legs are stretched around it like a star under your spread knees.

A snow white bear. Weren’t those long extinct even in, what’s it called? The pole something.

The bear’s fur tickles your full balls. You lean forward a little, attempting to hide your engorged cock, but this is pointless, isn’t it? She knows. She must know. The one who’s impossibly elegant and impeccably shiny riding boots are planted precisely where the beast’s anus was when alive.

After all, she’s not only standing here, in this plush mahogany panelled room, looking like she stepped right out of the tapestries, or went for a wonder having grown bored poising with a faithful hound in one of the oil portraits.

She’s also inside your head.

Well, you say she, but then, in those old portraits the painter would have been immortalising a young man. A uniformed Adonis striking a hero’s pose. That painter would have lingered too long on the outline of his subject in tight riding breeches, one leg bent, his brush nuzzling the firm but insanely sensuous cupid bow under the Roman nose.

The painter would had some troubles explaining, perhaps excusing himself with a classical reference, the chest bared under the rows of brass buttons and gold tussles of the antique admiral’s coat.

Without a doubt the artist would have had to answer some rather pointy questions about those Kalamata olives nipples, not quite hidden by the wide sash.

If you were that painter, you’d likely erased the two scantly clad but fully masked troopers behind the dashing officer, big- game bows slang over their shoulders.

The sitter herself would have been better advised to oblige tradition and wear a hat, if nothing else, a hat would serve to divert attention, and bullets, from the shapely close cropped skull.

Her eyes would be tricky to capture. Her eyes are a hansom matching pair of mirrors.

You fancy you can see a minuscule version of yourself kneeling inside them. You can’t discern their colour, but your cock gets even harder under this gazer’s searing pleasure.

Something crystalline glints on her right hand, the one resting on a silver headed cane. You’d bet your life there is a blade concealed in the ebony shaft. But at the moment, your life isn’t worth much.

And then, there is the naked girl on all fours at her feet.