THE CURE 7 / Her Implant
The short sharp shocks are like an invisible vibrating fist around your cock. Electric eels coil and probe your insides.
Keeping very very still, the rocking flame of the fire-stick shielding you from from Blaze’s penetrating gaze, you stare at the racing carousel horses outside. Tears and smoke blur your vision, but isn’t there a hulking figure mounted on the gilded stallion?
‘You did this?’ you managed to croak ‘Made the carousel start?’
‘You think you got power? Lording it over mere mortals?’ her throaty, amused, chuckle is somehow more frighting then a shout. The unclasped wire codpiece dangling form her hip chimes.
‘You are nothing but a little parasite. A soldier ant, issued with just enough juice to perform a few dirty task. ‘
Her cunt’s grip loosens. You no longer feel even a shred of desire. But your cock is still hard. Like something detached from your body. Held stiff by her manipulation of your mental and physical functions.
She is still pinning you down with her powerful tights, the fire stick held inches from your face.
‘Open your mouth’.
You do nothing. Terrified. Is she going to retaliate and make you suck her burning shaft?
Then the current hits you, snaking from your genitals upward, twisting every nerve in your body. Reaching behind your eyeballs.
You open your mouth.
She shoves the base of the fire-stick between your gaping lips.
You clench your teeth around the glittery purple silicon hand-grip. It tastes bitter. But if your hold will weaken, the fire-stick will fall on your face. Naked flames eating through your features.
You could be disfigured for life, like a victim of one of the acid gangs of the last decade, which spread random terror before the indefinite temporary state of emergency was declared.
Blaze reaches back and removes your hands from the peacock tails tattooed on her muscularly bouncy arse cheeks, then grabs your chin.
‘Look at me, mind fucker!’
You are waiting for a blow, a jolt. The rough shaft of the fire-stick hurts your splayed jaws. It’s hard to breath, and the paraffin fumes make you queasy.
You become acutely aware that spewing is not an option.
Blaze does nothing. At first, she doesn’t move a muscle, just fixes you with her stare. Then she starts sensually stroking your cheek with the back or her hand.
The smooth, slightly sweat slicked texture of her skin startles you: something is wrong with her hands. A tiny yet crucial disfigurement, an improbable flawlessness.
How could you have missed this before? Perhaps it was your shaken state, blocking out the recent memory and meaning of having your mind taken over at Theo’s flat, that made you so unobservant. Or maybe this was just another symptom of your predatory arrogance.
But now you feel it. Or rather, it’s absence. The skin between her thumb and finger is completely soft and even. No trace of the hardened cylindrical bump, the tiny worm -like device which is implanted under the skin of every resident of the Island on the 1st day or pre-school.
Blaze hasn’t got a chip implant.
Illogically, this astonishes and frightens you more then her vast electro-kinetic powers.
Everyone has a chip. Even the CEO’s of Central. The chip is how we communicate, shop, travel, get paid, get laid, work, socialise, get updated.
People used to be ridiculously paranoid about the chips feeding information into Central’s data base. But now it’s common knowledge that the flow of data is far too vast and complex to allow for effective monitoring.
And of course, such surveillance would be unreliable anyhow, as chips are notoriously easy to hack. Any reasonably tech savvy kid can simulate the electronic finger print of someone’s chip, or covertly harvest information and data.
You were never great with technology. But one of the advantages of your newly evolved bio-electrical powers is that you don’t need to be.
You’ve been making chips dance to your tune ever since you started transforming.
Well, or so you thought, until that bitch hijacked yours at Theo’s flat, making cryptic threats forcing you to watch yourself performing his exquisite slashing in fast forward close up.
You banish the images from your mind. Focus!
Right now you need to deal with a more pressing problem. Process the new information and see how you get out of this predicament.
So, the chip. While snotty noised hackers, second rate data harvesters, or nut-case radicals and cults can disrupt the transmission and flow of data on the chips, no one can de-activate them.
Let alone physically remove the implants from the back of their own hands or the flesh of others.
The chips are directly wired into the the brain core. Any attempt to naturalise a chip or rip it out should trigger a lethal charge, resulting in death. Or permanent brain damage.
Some say the latter is worst. As such attempts are considered terrorist sabotage.
There are tales of old debunked NHS hospitals converted into mass organ harvesting factories.
So no-one, absolutely no-one, is chip-free.
And yet, here you are, flat on your back on a tour bus kitchenette table under a tattooed carnival Valkyrie, with a flaming torch in your mouth, your organs engorged by electric pulses generating from her cunt, and the slut has no chip!
Shaping the sound in your throat, careful to keep your hold on the stick, you manage a guttural, hardly intelligible ‘How…?’
‘Shush.’ Blaze murmurs, sending another jolt of electricity through you. Not too strong. An almost pleasant throb. But the message is clear- this is a warning shot. The next round will be fatal.
She traces your stretched lips with her chip-less hand. You were always told you have sexy, invitingly bruising lips. But now they are pale and bone dry. You wish you could say the same about other parts of your augmented anatomy.
You try to get a better look at the offending extremity. Not a dainty lady’s hand. Blaze has long, elegant, fingers, but her knuckled are lumpy, the skin callused. There is also something odd about her nails, which you thought before were merely painted a gaudy thick coat of silver. To match the aluminium foil coating the shaft of her torches.
Blaze’s nails are too thick. Too cool and solid.
Registering your wondering gaze, she slaps you, sending the torch swaying dangerously .
‘I said look at me, boy!’
You stare into her glinting rusty green eyes, the smeared mascara no longer looking fetchingly wanton, but rather, forming an assassin’s black mask.
Blaze leans forward, her toned left arm supporting her full body weight. Her ruby nipples studs millimetres from your mouth.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, she lifts herself up.
Your mind is boiling, nearly short-circuiting from the effort to reconcile between the terrible sense of loss when your organs are gradually deprived from the searing heat of her cunt, and the immense relief that the threat of shocks is being removed.
Another compartment of your brain frantically kicks into strategical configurations mode: you can raise your head, thrusting the burning torch in the beautiful homicidal clown face, then grab her hair with your left hand, punching up with your right, hitting Blaze’s temple and sending an amplified lethal charge through your diamond knuckle duster.
You tense. You are fast enough to do this. You know you are. One, two…
A swooshing sound cuts through the air, and five sharp points press against your neck.
Scalpels! The bitch has switchblade scalpels under her nails.
‘Easy boy. That’s a very bad idea.’ She growls.
Your body goes limp. You strive to radiate placid compliance.
Should you try hypnoses? No. Too risky. Her mind is well guarded, and no telling how she’d react if sensing an invasion.
If you could only speak, work your charm, reason, plea.
But you can’t even attempt this with a fire-stick stuffed in your mouth.
She looks down at you, almost tenderly.
‘What a let down. They told me you were more then just a pretty face. Don’t you get it? I don’t even need those spiky babies to keep you in line. Did you already forgot that I can zap long distance?’
As you try to nod, a spark land, hissing, on the saliva which started dribbling on your chin.
Blaze detract her nails, and stands up, towering above you. Her heaving, charged, crotch dominates your vision.
She reaches down, and, rather roughly, extracts the fire-stick from your mouth.
‘Don’t try anything stupid, mind fucker. He’s coming for you now.’