Emergence

Soon I'm pretty fucking hard, and Ava leans in with the tape measure. It's almost as erotically charged as the video and I half expect her to start sucking me. Instead I pause my stroking long enough for her to measure my length and girth. After she's pulled back I don't know quite what to do. My dick is too hard to stuff back into my jeans so I just let it hang there, slowly retreating from its maximum size.

After a moment, Ava looks up from her notes, doing her best not to stare at my still engorged penis. "It's like I suspected," she says, and I can see that there's a note of pride in her voice. "Stephanie sent me the results from the last time she measured you in the hospital. Compared with those, you've grown more than half an inch in both length and circumference."

I remember thinking that my dick looked bigger, and this seems to confirm it. "That doesn't make sense though," I say. "If Kapp and Salan are working on some sort of male enhancement treatment, then wouldn't I have gotten bigger in the hospital, then shrink now that I'm no longer getting the medication?"

Ava lets out a frustrated sigh. She's quite driven, and I can tell this is bothering her. "It might have something to do with what I learned last night, though." She closes the video, gives me a glance which says it's time to put away my dick, then opens an article about KapGen, dated just two days ago.

KapGen Announces 'Breakthrough' Treatment for Restoring Male Sexual Function. The article goes on to say how KapGen, despite being under scrutiny by the FDA, and pressured by angry investors, has announced a new medication that it will send to trials soon. There's even a quote from Kapp himself, describing what a shame it would be if due to 'unfounded regulatory concerns' the world was deprived of such an important breakthrough.

"Why me, though? There must be hundreds of guys in porn."

"You were at the top of the business though. Celebrity in porn isn't like in other kinds of entertainment, but it does exist. You were sought after for high-production-value shows, and you won competitions several years in a row."

My mind drifts back to the competition that Markus and I watched. The one with the two starlets facing off. "I see..."

"But mostly I think they were interested in your physical gifts. Not only do you have one of the largest penises in porn, you had great staying power and control. Starlets asked to be paired with you. And you, uh, ejaculate profusely. I think KapGen wanted to bottle some of that magic, so to speak.

"You suggest that I might be in danger."

"It's the timing of the announcement. Within days of your escape, KapGen announces their new medication. They know they fucked with your memory, but have to be concerned that at some point you'll get it back. If they can get the new medication registered with the FDA, then even if you come forward with allegations, the patent for the formula will still be there when the dust settles. KapGen could even go bankrupt, but as long as they can hold on to the rights for the medication they can profit from it at some point."

Ava seems to have fabricated a complicated narrative from a few dates, but I decide not to challenge her on it. Instead I ask, "So how does that put me in danger?"

She nods. "Kapp's background is in hormonal treatments, while Salan's is in genetic therapies. If they came up with some sort of treatment based on your DNA then as long as you're alive you can wreck their operation."

"So why is my dick growing, not shrinking?"

"My guess is an experiment gone wrong, and now it's wearing off. Would you rather it was getting smaller?"

"No," I blurt out, reflexively covering my crotch.

"Then don't complain," she says. "I want you to keep laying low. It isn't that I think KapGen has the streets swarming with informants looking for you, but at least in some circles you have a familiar face. I identified you, after all. If someone recognizes you and mentions it on social media, well, it wouldn't take long to track you down."

"So what are you going to do? I can't keep living like this, Ava. Messed up memory or not, I'd rather come out with my story and recover my identity. They wouldn't hurt me then, would they?"

She doesn't answer my question. "Look Jasper, I believe the best way to sink them is to come out with the complete story. If you start talking then they'll just bury everything they have and we'll never see justice done. Isn't eighteen months of your life worth another few weeks?"

I still suspect that Ava values her story more than me, but I agree. "Two weeks," I say.

"Two weeks. I have a couple of people that can help me dig into KapGen's computers, but it will take time. I'll keep visiting, too, make sure you aren't going stir crazy."

Two more weeks.

*

My memory is really starting to kick in now. Perhaps seeing myself in porn videos sets things in motion, or maybe it's the ever growing number of days since Kapp last doped me with whatever memory suppressor they were using.

They hit my dreams first. I have tormented, highly sexual dreams where I'm surrounded by lights and onlookers. These, I'm sure, are memories of porno sets, except that in the dream world I'm either unable to locate my partner, or to consummate with her. Sometimes she comes and goes from the bed, undressing, rubbing against me, or engaging in sex positions that frustratingly never turn into sex. I wake up hard and angry.

Later, during waking hours, other memories pop into my mind. I'll see someone on a show who must look like a friend or acquaintance because I get a jolt of recognition. Ava brings Italian carry out for dinner one night and the scent jars another memory, meals with friends or family at a large table. So far there's nothing from my incarceration, although I intentionally avoid medical shows. I'm not sure I'm ready for those early memories quite yet.

The swings in my bodily chemistry must be smoothing out, because although I still wake up energetic and hungry, the experience isn't quite as tormented. I discover that if I limit myself to a single visit to the gym each day, but keep it intense, then I have a better workout. I don't have a scale but I'm sure I'm losing weight and getting stronger. I ask Ava to bring me pants a size smaller in the waist.

Friday, exactly two weeks later, Ava shows up for dinner with Thai carry out and a mysterious canvas bag. "Later," she explains.

Over dinner she's finally ready to share what she's learned, although it's clear she isn't completely pleased. "My friends weren't quite as helpful as I had hoped," she confesses. "They mostly rely on social engineering to break into systems, but there are so few people still employed at KapGen that they didn't have many targets."

I don't like the sound of this but I keep quiet.

Ava explains further. "The few people still working there seem to be packing up shop. They're selling their lab equipment, shedding leased space, giving buyouts to senior leaders, and in general turning off the lights. Only their legal department still has a pulse."

"They're getting ready to file for bankruptcy?"

"Probably," Ava says, "or to protect their final intellectual property."

"The 'male enhancement' treatment."

"Yep."

"Could your crew dig into that?"

"No," Ava says, pushing back her plate. "They did, rather. Dig into it, that is. Nada. It looks like Salan herself took possession of the most critical data. It's no longer on KapGen servers."

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit." Ava has brought a six pack of Singha beer, and we each open one.

"Dead end, then?"

Ava raises her eyes at me. She knows my opinion on her story. She wants a headline grabbing exposé that will cement her reputation. I want to go on with my life. If she's at an impasse then I see no reason for me to keep hiding out here. But apparently, she hasn't struck bottom quite yet.

"What if," she says slowly, "there was something you could do to unravel all of this?"

I'm immediately on guard. Whatever Ava has planned will almost certainly serve her more than it will me. "What?"

She smiles. "My hackers did turn up one, uh, surprise."

"Kapp is a pedophile?"

"No," Ava says swiftly. "I mean, he might be, but that isn't what we learned. This is about Salan."

She wants to raise my curiosity. I just want her to tell me what she knows, so I say nothing.

Ava yields first. "Elaine Salan," she says, putting down her beer and opening her holo display. "Impressive CV, but that isn't the interesting part."

"What's the interesting part?"

"Well for one thing, this." She turns the display so I can see it. On screen is a glamour shot of a severe woman who I assume must be Salan. In it she's posing seated on the front of a desk, turned toward the camera with an almost seductive smile. Her impeccable attire is highlighted by a tight skirt, a silk blouse unbuttoned just too much to be professional, and a single stiletto heel hanging just off of one toe. The other is laying on the floor. She's undeniably appealing, an aging but confident woman in her mid-forties, hair pulled back so tightly that it almost disappears.

Ava is right. I'm intrigued. "That can't be the shot from her CV," I say.

"No, although I think it was taken during the same photo shoot."

"Soooo," I say.

"So, there's another photo, too." Ava flicks at the screen and a new image appears. This one is darker and grainier, but no less compelling. Salan is in a room lit only by candlelight, facing the camera. The walls are exposed brick like one might expect to find in a basement. As in the first photo she's wearing a tight skirt, but under this one we see fishnet stockings. Before her kneel three men, facing her with heads bowed. Each appears to be naked, or at least shirtless. Salan's head is slightly lowered, but she's looking straight at the camera with a hungry intensity in her eyes. A delicate leather choker is tight around her neck.

"There was a caption," Ava explains. I have to admit that she's played me well. Two minutes earlier I was ready to declare defeat and ask that she go to press with what she already had on KapGen. Now I'm curious what the fuck I'm looking at.

Flick. Ava brings up another image, a screenshot from a web page. It's a text block, which Ava explains accompanied the photo she just showed me.

*** (Not) Mistress E ***

What do you see? Do you see three subs kneeling before their mistress? Three pathetic men lucky to serve her, accept her scorn, and endure her punishments? Three slaves? If that is what you see then you are blind. Look through my eyes and you will see three men who have merely disappointed me, who have failed in the most fundamental task a man is given - to bring pleasure to a woman. They aren't slaves, they're discards. My challenge is a simple one - to bring pleasure. Prove your skill and earn my respect, bring bliss and be my equal, bring ecstasy and be my King.

"Sheezus," I mutter. "What is this, her dating profile?"

"Sort of," Ava says. "It turns out that she runs a sex club of sorts out of her home. Not a BDSM club," she hastily clarifies. "Men and women are invited to participate. Some are invited back, some are not. From the photo and caption I think we can safely assume that only men who are skilled in bed are asked back."

This sinks in, and for once I don't have to ask Ava to spell it out. "Salan has the documents you need to complete your investigation, presumably stored in her home. People interested in her sex club are invited in. You think I'm good in bed."

"Think?" Ava says, raising an eyebrow. "You showed Stephanie a good time and that was at the very beginning of your recovery. How about that woman you picked up at the bar?"

My mind goes back to my encounter with Carole - how she had said she rarely came during sex then later orgasmed so hard it practically shook the house. "She picked me up."

"And was she glad she did?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Well then?"

"Salan will recognize me," I say, "and I'm not a spy."

"You can wear a mask. Apparently it's common enough, especially among first-time visitors. And you won't have to be much of a spy. Just get a minute alone with her computer."

"You've figured this all out."

"Like I told you Jasper, I'm a journalist."

"Yeah. I'm wondering if you could turn off your inner journalist for a minute?"

"Okay, I-"

"I mean just talk to me as a friend, not the subject of your story."

Ava stares at me blankly for a moment before answering. "Sure, yes. Hello Jasper."

"Hello Ava." I like that she's trying. "I get that this is your story, and that it means a lot to you. You want to tell the world what is happening, and bring justice to Salan and Kapp. But for me the stakes are a lot higher. I've already spent eighteen months drugged and in captivity, and now this." I gesture at the apartment's four walls. "The food is better, and I'm not being drugged, but it's not exactly freedom, is it? What would you say to a friend? Would you tell him to keep cooperating, living the life of a fugitive, postponing his return to reality? Or would you say enough is enough, tell him to get the fuck out?"

To her credit, Ava doesn't respond immediately, doesn't throw back the same argument that telling the most thorough story is the best way to bring closure. Instead she takes several deep breaths while she considers the question. "I'd want my friend to be happy."

"I'm not happy, Ava. I'm caged up here. I want out."

"Okay," she says. "Okay. Two weeks ago I said that you'd only have to wait two more weeks. I won't ask you to stay here any longer. Here." Ava opens her purse and pulls all of the bills from her wallet. "Here's some cash. Go out, go to the bars, listen to music, find someone and fuck them. Live. Or just walk the streets and be free."

"Thanks," I say, but I'm reluctant to scoop up the bills.

"I have a folder at the office," she continues. "Secured there. Names and addresses. Family, friends, places you lived. Copies of the news that accompanied your disappearance. I'll bring it tomorrow."

I had been prepared for an argument. Not having encountered one I'm not sure what my next move should be. "What will you do about your story?"

"I'll prepare it for publication," she says. "I'll want to do an official interview with you, on the record, and my editor will need to fact-check it. It won't be a slam dunk, but it doesn't necessarily need to be. At the very least the FDA won't be quick to approve any drug applications that come from Kapp or Salan."

I consider all of this. "I like my friend Ava," I say. "Does journalist Ava have anything she'd like to add?"

"Journalist Ava wonders if you plan to get laid again?"

"I like getting laid. So, yes."

"In that case, journalist Ava wonders if you can hold off until Thursday?"

*

We reach an agreement that seems to satisfy both of us. I'll be free to do whatever I want while Ava puts the finishing touches on her story. Or at least, one version of it. This coming Thursday I'll go to Elaine Salan's sex party. At the very least I'll get laid. Ideally, I can wrangle my way into the office and attach a spy device to her computer. If Ava gets the evidence she's looking for then she'll amend the story. Either way I'll be done.

Buoyed by the confidence that I'll be a free man in less than a week, I don't go too crazy. I keep up my gym routine, eat the annoyingly healthy food that Ava stocks me with, and disguise myself with a medical mask any time I go outside. I don't open the envelope with the names and addresses of my friends and family. I'm afraid that once I do I'll want to see them right away.

The canvas bag that Ava brought the previous week turns out to be sex club clothes, or at least her idea of what those might be. It's heavy on black. Bottom to top there's a pair of black boots, black jeans, a thick black belt, a black t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. I look pretty badass in the ensemble, but the jacket is just too much. I swap it out for a flannel shirt. It isn't Ava's idea of regulation, but it adds a grunge vibe that I like.

Neither Ava nor I are quite sure what to expect from the club. Her hackers have picked up mentions on other Boston-area sex club websites. They're almost universally critical, with comments like 'They only want beautiful people', 'Not a true lifestyle club', 'There's the regulars, then everyone else', and 'No real kinks being explored here except a bit of voyeurism and some light dom/sub'. I'll have to improvise.

The day of the party I gain a bit of confidence from a post-shower body check. I stand, still dripping, in front of the mirror, checking myself out. It's now undeniable that I'm transforming. I've shed weight, melting away most of my gut and love handles. My ass is harder, my limbs better defined, and the pockets of fat under my chin and cheeks are gone. It's helped by the muscle I've put on. I'm still not in the same league as the man I was before I was kidnapped. That would take many months to get back. But I've gained enough mass and definition to show on every major muscle group. I'll get noticed.

"It's right there." Ava has walked me to the block with Salan's house, and now stands just around the corner. The home is a gorgeous brownstone in a neighborhood that doesn't seem well suited for hosting sex parties. "You're supposed to say you're here for the fundraiser," Ava explains.

That's exactly what I do. Trying to combine the strut of someone going to a sex club with that of someone intent on donating to a good cause, I approach the front door and greet the man and woman standing out front. He's obviously a bouncer, with the sort of solidity that screams don't fuck with me. She's harder to place. Late forties, tatted up, blonde hair pulled back, and intense eyes. She turns those eyes on me, giving no sign whether or not she thinks I pass muster.

"I'm here for the fundraiser." I push my hair back with both hands, a move which should give a better view of my build, and possibly the outline of my cock against my jeans. Did I tell you my dick also got bigger these past weeks?

Blonde looks me over, but just barely. She whispers something into a microphone on her collar, then addresses me. "Basement door."

I must look fuckable.

On the way down I change from my medical mask to a simple leather masquerade mask.

A basement isn't exactly a subtle choice for a sex club, but I suppose if I owned a showpiece brownstone I'd want the revelries kept out of the way, too. There's a cramped coat check with no one staffing it, a hallway which runs back into darkness, and two main rooms on the right. That's where the action is. The first of these is the smaller from what I can tell, and from what I can tell it's where connections are made. A bar has been pushed up along one wall, staffed by a passably handsome man shaking cocktails. An equally appealing woman collects them onto a tray and circulates, allowing guests to either take a drink, deposit their empty glass, or both. I decline, but head toward the bar and ask for scotch. The bartender sizes me up before pouring rail whiskey. Do I not look scotchworthy?

I've timed my arrival well, neither so early that I stand out, nor so late that I miss out on the action. There are still plenty of pairings going on. A man of middle years is leaning close to two younger women, either deciding which one he will fuck, or working to convince them he has the power to do them both. Just beyond them, an attractive brunette who is still fully clothed has her hand on the cock of a young man mostly out of his. She's fondling him slowly, her slender fingers stroking and curling around his shaft, tugging him subtly toward her. It isn't clear whether this is foreplay, she is assessing him, or if she just wants a handful of cum.