A Stone Cut without Hands Ch. 11

CHAPTER 11

Report from the Swarm

TAYG7TM was caught by surprise. The virtual memories the pod had broadcast hadn't just been received, they had nearly dominated the mainframe when it began processing input again. The communication between the swarm and the mainframe was apparently much stronger than it had ever been. Even now, TAYG7TM could detect intermittent signals between the swarm and the mainframe.

Whatever the cause was, the essence was being compelled to act on the warning contained in the virtual memory. It also appeared likely that the mainframe would be open to additional warnings. Signals were being received from A5CD2 who was also actively seeking a solution.

If the mainframe remained open to the swarm's signals, another rescue was almost certain to be successful.

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Knowing it would soon be dark, George and Courtney went to work setting up for the swap meet that would begin before sunrise. The motor home had an awning along one side that they unfolded and proceeded to hang tarps on so their space was completely enclosed. While Courtney hauled tables and shelves out, George unloaded boxes of merchandise from the pickup into a pile behind them. They wouldn't set out the merchandise until morning.

When they were finished, George set up motion sensor alarms so that any movement inside the enclosed space would sound an alert. As a final touch, he added "Smile for the Camera" signs all over the outside. The effort that would have taken George 3 hours was finished in one with Courtney's help.

During the setup, they developed a pattern of cooperation. George would ask for help, Courtney would blush with pleasure and dive into the task as if her life depended upon its completion. George would tell how well she'd done, give her a pat or a caress that would cause her to shiver with pleasure, and finally, she would ask what needed to be done next.

Her actions and reactions were fascinating. This was better than the lab in Psychology 101. It was the chance of a lifetime to observe the effects of trained Pavlovian responses and instinctual compulsive behavior. It wasn't long before George concluded that sexual gratification had been used as a reward to modify Courtney's behavior. She was responding to orders like a cat reacts to petting.

In laymen's terms, she'd been rewarded with an orgasm whenever she obeyed an order. That she didn't remember was puzzling, but the link between sexual arousal and obedience was too obvious, so there was obviously some combination of drugs and hypnosis that blocked her memories.

On the personal side, the relief that George felt at having help nearly overwhelmed him. Courtney's loyalty and dedication were too perfect to be natural and far beyond George's wildest hope.

With the setup finished, Courtney followed him in and closed the door behind them. George pulled her into an embrace that brought tears to her eyes. Briefly, he worried about reinforcing her conditioning, but felt compelled to reward her anyway. "Courtney, my Angel, you are a dream come true." Then gazing into her face suffused with bliss from his touch, he continued. "Please accept this as a reward," bending over to plant a kiss.

Because of her conditioning, every time George asked for help, Courtney had experienced a jolt of sexual pleasure. Over the hour they'd worked, sexual tension had built until it left her charged like a high voltage wire. The sensation produced by obedience wasn't enough by itself, but the constant sexual current accumulated as in a capacitor, just waiting for a conductive path to discharge.

The praise and kiss George used as a reward were equivalent to a 5-pound doggie treat for a toy poodle. The sensation of her breast pressed against his chest lowered the resistance and the ionizing feel of his lips touching hers, short-circuited the stored sexual tension with a bolt of erotic lightening. With a shudder, Courtney fainted and George was left holding her dead weight. For someone who has never had the experience of trying to hold an unconscious person in an embrace, the effect is impossible to imagine.

George had some toys in his boxes that were like liquid-filled, hotdog-shaped balloons. If you attempted to pick one up, the liquid in the part of the balloon you were holding would move to the part of the balloon outside your grasp making it slip through your fingers. Effectively, the toy had nothing to hold onto. Courtney had suddenly turned into a 95-pound silly worm.

With a touch of fear, George grabbed desperately for the supple body that was oozing through his arms. He couldn't find anything solid to hold onto, so all he could do was slow her descent.

There was no where to put her until he pulled down the folding bed over the cab, so George had to leave her on the floor. When he did scoop her up, he couldn't lift her dead weight to the shoulder height of the bed, so he cradled her to his chest and sat down in the passenger's bench-seat, hoping she would recover soon. He'd picked her up by placing his shortened left arm under her knees and his right arm behind her shoulders, so when he sat down, her feet came to rest on the seat beside him. Tiring quickly, George allowed the stub of his left arm to slump down against his thigh but maintained the horizontal pressure to prevent her knees from spreading.

He was so concerned about Courtney and feeling guilty for using a Pavlovian trigger without knowing its effect, that he was not even aware of the position of his arm with respect to Courtney. But when Courtney recovered, she was instantly and acutely aware of the pressure of his stump firmly pressed into her crotch. Without even realizing it, George had changed the reward from a 5-pound treat to a hundred-pound biscuit.

For several seconds she couldn't decide how to respond. Eight days ago, she would have been deathly afraid and too embarrassed for words. With the conditioning fully in control, she reacted exactly as she'd been trained. The residual embarrassment and the desire to please mixed with the sensations shooting through her from the contact, robbed her of any will of her own. She couldn't help but revel in the aroused warmth of his touch.

Throwing her arms around his neck and pulling his lips to hers, she let herself fall into a climax. Without conscious awareness of a decision, she affirmed George as her Master and unintentional lover.

Although oblivious to the cause of her climax, George couldn't help but notice the juices soaking his shirtsleeve and seeping into his pants. When she finally broke the kiss, George was speechless. The silence extended until she had to break it. She'd already decided that the act meant they were lovers, but she needed to know if George felt the same. When the involuntary muscle spasms produced by her first voluntary act of love had dissipated and George wouldn't meet her eyes, she asked, "Does this mean we're lovers?"

She tried to tell him with her smile that she hoped it did. Then seeing dismay on his face, she added in a serious tone, "George, you are my reason for being. That feeling you just gave me is the most incredible thing that has ever happened in my whole life. I'll treasure the memory of it as long as I live. But now I have a burning need. I want to make you feel the same way. Please, George, tell me what I can do to give you that pleasure."

"I really do understand. Pavlovian responses can be as powerful as drugs, but there are choices we both have to make before you can engage in intimacies that will make us both happy. Please, be patient until we learn more about each other. We need to know how deep the water is before we jump off the cliff."

"I promised, George. I promised to do whatever you asked. I am just so glad to be here where you can hold me and I can help you. But I hope you can understand that something inside is pushing me to please you. It's the same feeling I get when you order me to do something, but multiplied a thousand times. Do you think it could be the conditioning you told me about?"

"I am almost certain that it is, which reminds me of a couple of questions I need to ask. What made you leave home?"

The odd expression that crept over Courtney's face intrigued him. Still he was taken by surprise when she asserted, "You did. I hadn't actually met you yet, so it must have been a dream. I do remember bumping into you when I went to the bank with my mother the Wednesday before, but I barely touched you and I don't think you even saw me. That night and the next, you told me you were my Master and that I shouldn't take the pills. You promised to save me if I ran away. How did you do that?"

"I didn't see you or cause your dreams, but I might know who did. It's a long story and I'm not sure I believe it yet myself, so we'll talk about it some other time. Right now, I need to know about the pills your mother was giving you. Why do you suppose you were told in your dream not to take them?"

"There were two that I had to take. One of them makes it so I have to do what my mother tells me and the other makes me forget what happens for a day. I couldn't run away as long as she made me take the pills, so I figured out how to fool her. She was so surprised when I told her I wouldn't take them any more."

"One of them makes your tears taste like apricot pits and honey. Do you know which one?" George asked, taking 4 pill bottles from his pocket.

"They never had a taste that I noticed," Courtney shrugged.

"The nurse couldn't smell it either, so it has to be something about me that produces the taste. We'll just have to test them, but let's get something to eat first," George suggested. "Will you help me pick out something we both like?"

"Can that wait long enough to get some dry clothes?" Courtney grinned, picking up George's sopping shirtsleeve with only her fingernails. "I had no idea making love would be so messy."

"Would you settle for just taking off the shirt?" George asked with a leer.

"Only in my dreams," and then, not sure that George had asked for help but determined to interpret his words as a request, she moved in and began popping the snaps of his shirt. When she reached the third snap, her fingers brushed the bare skin of his chest and her patience died. Instead of pulling the next snap apart, she jerked the remaining fasteners popping them one after another and continued pulling the edges of his shirt to his shoulders leaving his chest bare.

Courtney's hands were drawn to his chest and stomach like bees to honey. Her fingers traced the enormous scars she'd exposed with fascination. Three rectangles, 6 inches wide and extending all the way across the front of his body were shaded a lighter pink with slight ridges around the perimeter. The bottom scar was mostly hidden below his waist.

With interest bordering morbidity, Courtney ran her hands back and forth, working hard to resist the temptation to pull his pants down so that she could see them all. Then a look of panic marched across her face. She gazed into George's eyes and asked, "George, are you Bionic? Is this where they put the robot parts? Oh, please don't be a machine!" she continued, her fears rising to the edge of panic.

With amusement, George reassured her, "No, these scars are more than 40 years old and way before transplants or high tech medicine. Besides, they wouldn't build an android with missing parts. But I'm curious, if I were a robot, would it change your compulsions?"

The question was so unexpected that it rocked Courtney back on her heels. "I don't think so," she answered with hesitation. "It was just a flash of worry that if you were a robot, you couldn't be George at the same time. I know that sounds stupid, but I wasn't thinking because of the surprise. No, I'm sure the compulsion is aimed at George whether he is a man or a robot. But I'm glad you're a man," she finished, putting her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his chest.

George couldn't help wrapping Courtney in his arms when she hugged him and this brought the wet shirtsleeve back to their attention. "This is part of what I was trying to tell you about," George added, "There is so much about me and sex that you can't presently even imagine. Most teenagers think of sex as the simple process of inserting tab A into slot B, but a real understanding of it wouldn't fit in a 36 volume set of encyclopedias. "

With dismay, Courtney asked, not sure she really wanted the answer, "How many scars do you have?" The much more important questions about sex were simply beyond understanding because of her limited experience.

With a smile, George replied, "I haven't ever tried to count them, but there are a lot. One of the things I needed to tell you about is that 8 of my nine lives have already been used up. I need you now more than ever because the next disaster will be my last. With you to take care of, I will have to be more careful than I've ever been. You'll need to ..."

His voice tapered off, leaving the last sentence half finished as Courtney wriggled loose and attacked his shirtsleeves. Once the right cuff was unfastened and the sleeve was pulled over his hand, the shirt was left hanging on George's left shoulder. With trepidation, Courtney picked up the sopping sleeve with her fingertips and slowly pulled the shirt down his arm.

Staring at the missing hand that had been exposed, her hands were drawn to him again. This time she touched his arm. This scar was hard like a callous and had angry red ridges all the way around. On the inside of his arm, it reached from the end of the tapered stub at the mid forearm to a point two inches above the elbow and formed a hollow at the elbow.

It had a mesmerizing effect that absorbed Courtney's total attention. She forgot what they'd been talking about. She'd never seen a disfiguring scar and like a small child, couldn't resist the chance to touch. Her touch was feather light because she worried it might hurt. As she stroked it without seeing a reaction, she gained confidence until she found her hands wrapped around it.

Although Courtney couldn't fathom why, the feel of it in her hands reminded her of having her hand wrapped around the penises of the rapists. It had the same dual soft-hard substance as those she remembered and the surface skin moved on the its core of bone in the same way. Its appearance also reminded her of the shape of a penis. Her hands seemed irresistibly drawn to stroke it, and suddenly, the compulsion to kiss it and rub it against her face was overwhelming.

With her tongue extended, Courtney allowed the compulsion to control her briefly. At the last second, she managed to retract her tongue before making contact, kissing the end instead. With tears in her eyes, she looked into George's face and asked, "Was it awful?"

"More than you can imagine. But physical pain is nothing compared to emotional pain. I can't remember it, except that it hurt really bad, but the emotional pain of losing a child still makes me cry. We've only known each other for three days, but already, losing you would hurt more than losing a million hands. Besides, now that I have you, your hands are enough for both of us."

One of the things George had learned to love about his "Angel" was the way her emotions played over her face so transparently. With a sense of intrigue, he watched her face painted first with concern and despair, then repainted with adoration and finally with lust as she responded to his soft words. "This is the only part of you with which you've made love to me, and so I think it should be the part of you that I love the most. At least until you let me use another part." With that she moved closer until she could rub her cheek over the stub. At the first contact, she closed her eyes and repainted her face with a dreamy look.

George watched, disturbed by the sense that her reaction was more like worship than sex. He'd come too terms with the realization that sexual intimacy was part of the price he'd have to pay to keep her. But he still had reservations about being worshiped. Although his belief would not survive a rational examination, he believed that to be worthy of being worshiped, his motives should be pure and his actions just. And he didn't feel worthy.

To avoid exploring that uncomfortable feeling, George grabbed her arm, spun her around, pulled her back against his chest using his left arm under her breast and pointed to the open cupboard. "Quit distracting me and help me choose something to eat," he ordered.

His brusque order produced a shudder and squeak. "Yes, Master." Reaching for a can of soup, she asked, "Do you have a microwave? Soup would be fast."

"Yes, open it while I will grab some mugs?" he ordered, still holding her.

Courtney carefully pulled the pop-top off and proceeded to pour the soup into the mugs being careful to divide both the juice and the solids equally and shaking the can to empty the last pieces. When George picked up the mugs to put them in the microwave, the pressure of his embrace eased so Courtney turned in his arms. She needed intimacy and knew that it pleased her Master. To get it, she pressed her face back into his chest.

George paid scant attention to her move while he was loading, setting and starting the microwave, but then he caught sight of her face reflected in a mirror above the sink and the discomfort of being worshiped returned with the momentum of a truck. Seeing no means of resolving his unease, he fidgeted. The soup was set for 3 minutes, he couldn't think of a distraction, and how could he ask his disciple to abandon her devotions.

Finally, George's discomfort grew to an intolerable level. He had to do something, anything. Courtney was turned with her cheek to the right side of his chest, which made it a stretch to reach her face with his hand, so in desperation, he fumbled awkwardly with his left arm to caress her cheek. "Using his gesture as an excuse, she removed the last traces of doubt about her motives. "George, if you want me to be your Angel, it would only be right for you to be my Master."

Just then the microwave finished and buzzed, "Oh my!" George exclaimed, as he opened the microwave and reached for the soup. Then with a sudden insight, he asked, "Courtney, did it make you uncomfortable when I called you "My Angel?""

With a little nod, she answered sheepishly, "How can someone who made love to your arm and who craves the sensation of your chest crushing her nipples, who is desperate to caress your love handle, how can a person that depraved be an Angel?"

George handed her a spoon and with a gentle push, directed her to sit. Taking a seat on the other side, he sipped while trying to decide how to answer. "Courtney, I want you to be my Angel, not God's. God's Angel would be pure in thought and do his bidding, but my Angel is a sweet, charming, girl who takes care of my baser needs, who desperately wants to do my bidding and who loves me with all her heart. Which of those descriptions fits you better?"

With a smile, Courtney sprang her loving, velvet lined, trap, "And I want you to be my Master, not the master. The master is a lord over his subjects, bending them to his will regardless of their wants. My Master is the one who holds my heart; whose every desire is my wish before he even knows it as an inclination. I can understand that you feel unworthy. I feel the same. Is it fair for you to express your love by calling me as "Your Angel" and then refuse me the chance to do the same? I'll do what you want, whatever that is, but addressing you as "My Master" satisfies a craving in my heart and gives me peace."

With a look of understanding and a trace of dismay, George responded, "When I think of not calling you "My Angel", it would leave me sad, disappointed and deprived of the ability to express how much you mean to me. I expect you feel the same, so I could never withhold that pleasure from you."