Liquid ice, that infernal northern combination of rain and hail, pelts the lash gashes on your bottom and shoulders. Cold. So cold. Even the blood drops from your pierced crotch seem to chatter against each other as they flow down your bruised inner thighs.
This isn’t right. The roaring fire by the bear-rug should have kept the chill out. And where had the wood and tapestry panelled walls, the vaulted ceiling gone? Where is the Colonel? Wolf girl? The machine gun totting leather troopers? Troopers. The mercury eyed stud… Rotdong, professor Rotdong. But you can’t help thinking of him as the mercury man, he was there, that mesmerising mad neurologist, disguised as a trooper, and saved you from the colonel’s wrath.
Ancient stones still surround you, but this isn’t a castle, or even a manor house. The crumbling walls are moss-grown, the floor barely visible through a crust of mud. Night skies creep in through soggy pine needles.
You try to get up. A chain rattles, then chimes when dragged against the flagstones, the resonating high note of precious metal, as the heavy double-sided studded collar tightens around your neck. A collar? You didn’t wear a…and you can’t stand properly, even on all fours. Not with those paw stilettos. You kick them off, trying to ignore the pain in your torn cunt and your abused nipples, stiffening in the frosty darkness. The only part of you which isn’t frozen, throbbing and erect is your cock. That monster-tool seemed to have retreated completely inside your body.
A large gloved hang strokes your luxurious tangled mane. You snap, but the rubber clad fingers grip your hair, and your porcelain fangs close on empty, dump, air.
‘Down, girl,‘ a baritone voice chides.
Girl? You try to say “what the fuck?” but what comes out of your mouth is something between a hiss and a growl. The…mad stud, for there is no mistaking that treacle -tar voice, squats, his mercury eyes glimmering, level with your own, and tells you how after Blaze, your tormentor and his co-conspirator, was killed by trooper fire in the deserted hospital, he feigned being shot dead to trick the colonel into triggering your transformation.
While he speaks, his hand roves all over your body, in the light, assertive, petting motion one would employ to calm a ferocious animal. Brushing your breasts and liver-pink nipples, then travelling downwards. Everywhere he touches, your body thaws, now shaking with hot, rather than hypothermic, shivers. His other hand keeps a firm hold on your head.
Where did the roof go? You want to ask. While blinded when the troopers marched you off that chopper and down the stony passages, you clearly remember regaining your sight and being flogged into a fuck-fight in an opulent hall. How did you get to this rain-swept ruin?
Those are safer question than “what transformation.” You dimly recall the colonel mentioning hive brains. But its your body, not mind, which feels alien. And, considering the absence of any light source, apart from clouded moonlight, it’s odd how well you can make out the scarlet moss on the stones, the swelling bulge in the huge man’s leather jumpsuit. You can also discern the contorted features, dead horror in black mirror eyes, of the slim body swinging from the tree branch, where the vaulted ceiling should have been, hang by a serpentine brown leather lash. You sense, rater then see, the second body. An acrid bulk spread- out on the floor somewhere behind you, but you can’t even articulate a human scream.
You whimper in frustration as the mad-stud’s rough fingers flutter, surprisingly gentle, over your cunt lips.
‘You were interrogated and operated on by the colonel and a couple of her Central henchman in the dungeon of an old bombed-out prison . There was no castle. Or fem-bot trooper squads. Those were just VR environments she projected through your chip,‘ he says, tapping your clit with a heavy rubbery digit, eliciting a yip. ‘But now that both chip and the colonel were removed, you can see this place as it is.’
Of course, how could you forget: like the executed colonel, this mad stud could…can, probe your mind. Pray that he can’t read your wordless need. You have never felt a desire this naked. Fight it! This renegade scientist had deflowered your arse in a public toilet, infecting you with a bio-engineered virus which augmented your genitals, awakened rabid blood-lusts, and endowed you with neuro -electric and serotonin receptors manipulating powers. To be fair, that was fun. That was awesome, but then, he and Blaze, or whatever her real name was, and her psycho brother, kidnapped, tortured, fucked and degraded you in every imaginable way in that abandoned mental hospital, and had just started the chip-removal operation, when the colonel’s troopers came, blasted them and whisked you away in a chopper.
He said your chip was removed, but that’s impossible. Any attempt to disconnect fries the brain. A self -destruct mechanism installed by Central. Blaze and the the mercury eyed stud himself claimed that there were around thirty thousand chip-less people, all comatose, kept in abandoned NHS hospitals, ripe for organ-harvesting.
You look at your hand, scratched, daintier than it should be, outstretched in the mud next to a discarded paw- stiletto. But there it is, at the base of the thumb, the familiar bump of your chip.
Suddenly, mad-stud is behind you, muscle bound arms imprisoning your neck in a chockehold.
‘Not YOUR chip. As such. The original software, your brain and nervous system, didn’t survive its extraction. I feared this might happen, which is the reason that your neural imprint had to be biologically transferred into the colonel’s pet. HER chip, isolated, yet active, that’s till in place. ‘
You scream. Your vocal cords certainty shape a blood curdling, human, scream. But all you can hear is a chocked whine.
‘Such a shame. Amelia – wolf girl – was an exceptionally bright women, a fierce dissident, before the colonel got her manicured talons on her. It’s fortunate Blaze couldn’t see her like this, she might have not been able to make the right decision.’
He’s holding you against his flinty warm body till you stop struggling, then grabs your collar, studs digging in, and rests his other hand against your dripping cunt lips. When did he lose the rubber glove? You’ve never seen his hands unsheathed
But the exposed trio of thick appendages spreading your labia, slowly pushing in, don’t feel like human skin. They’re almost searing, but there is something both coldly metallic and reptilian about them, like robotic Komodo dragon tails, twisting and turning in impossible angles.
Your raw desire turns into raging dread. You are no longer you. Or you are yourself, in a sense you can’t comprehend, but this isn’t your body. Your fearsome suction cock is gone, and this cunt, wolf girl’s tender cunt you had fucked so ruthlessly, is far more delicate than your former body’s augmented organ. Rearing, you attempt to zap mad- stud. But your bio-electric powers are gone. All this body has are taut muscles and recently implanted porcelain fangs and clews. You can’t run, chained as you are to an iron ring firmly fixed in the ancient wall, all you can do is curse him in your head and fight with all your – wolf girl’s – canine strength.
‘I’m a fucking corpse buggering dickhead cunt, am I?’ chuckles mercury-stud. He’s not even breathing heavily, while you buck with all your might. ‘I hope you’ll think better of me once we extract your chip. But right now, I’m going to fuck you harder than you’ve ever been fucked, till I wipe out every trace of Amelia’s deranged mind.’
And curling all five probing appendages, he rams his Brachiosaurus fist into your cunt. It rips you up. Must have. You howl, keening in pain and frustration. Nothing exists, you know nothing apart from the giant mechanical tentacles rotating inside you, tearing apart your reason and cunt.
He releases your neck. The iron lizard fist is holding you down more securely -and cruelly, than any studded collar. But what hurts real bad is your own body’s betrayal. The icy rain had stopped, but you are trembling and jerking even harder, in savage, ecstatic, hunger. You want to rip his jugular, you want to roar at him to stop, but the sounds you make, tongue hanging out, are yapping barks, begging for more. You, the fearsome super-human, are reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat, on all fours, being mounted from behind by a predatory cyborg-beast.
‘Lick your chip,‘ he commands, see-sawing that sledge hammer fist arm-deep inside your cunt, his other hand, still gloved, pressing your jaws, forcing your fanged mouth to open even further. Your claws extend, scratching the flagstones, but you do as you’re told: licking your – her- mud-caked hand. As the emery board tongue touches the chip, thousands, no, tens of thousands tongues, lick thirty-thousands hands.
‘Good girl. Now bite it off,’ the mad-stud grunts in your ear.
This is too much. In countless abandoned HNS facilities, zombie tongues pause. But you can’t, you can’t tear out the chip: your brain will be toast! This treacherous new body may not be up to standard, but its the only one you got.
‘Yes you can, mutant. Use those wolf fangs! Its the only way to neutralise the self-distract trigger.’
You remain frozen. And somehow, the lack of motion, the yearning for motion, forces you to orgasm, again. While you thrash and yelp, the other glove comes off. Three, no, four, scaly vibrating appendages penetrate your tight little arse-hole, wiggling. Your whimpers morph into a shrill desperate howl as sizzling sparks shoot through your convulsing body, invaded by ten slashing tentacles.
The chain clunks as you bite, porcelain fangs easily sinking into the soft skin, carving out flesh. The rotting teeth of thirty-thousand mouths bite down. Then spit.
The chip is tiny, a fine gold and green bejewelled ant-egg. It rolls into the crack between two chipped stones.
He climaxes on your rocking bum with a roaring cry, silver eyes glazing, as the augmented appendages burrowing further into your flesh, clench, then retract, and he collapses limply, drooling.
He is a big man, but it takes no effort at all to shake off the comatose piss-stained body, and only marginally more to smash your iron collar. After all, you have the strength of thirty-thousand mutants, all sitting up in stained beds. No one will come to harvest their organs.