tagNonConsent/ReluctanceLevels of Control Ch. 01

Levels of Control Ch. 01


When Heather Atkins, insurance investigator for Amalgamated National, felt the sting high in her thigh she thought nothing about it. She crouched in the shadows, watching the Saudi ship unload its cargo in the dead of night, cargo that the Saudi firm had reported lost. She was too busy taking photos, until the moment her head began to swim and her vision receded down a black tunnel. She felt her hip with her rapidly weakening hand, and brushed the feathers of the tiny dart stuck through her black jeans. She tried to pull it free, but then everything went black and she felt nothing.

She awoke to a pounding headache, face down on a metal floor. It vibrated against her cheek as she turned her head, and she heard the distance sound of an engine. It must be the ship, she thought, the Falstaff, or at least a ship. She tried to sit up, and found that her hands were cuffed or manacled behind her back. She rolled onto her side. She wore only a man's wife-beater undershirt, which seemed uncomfortably small and tight.

She fought the rush of nausea as she got her legs under her and rose to a kneeling position. The weight of her unsupported breasts seemed unduly uncomfortable beneath the flimsy fabric. Her nipples were tight and hard as well, painfully so, which seemed odd in the hot little room. But before she had time to dwell on this a voice said, "Don't move around too much. Let the queasiness settle first."

Heather tossed her hair from her eyes. The room was lit by a dim bulb in a dirty fixture mounted in the very center of the ceiling. A hair-thin line of harsh bright light shone from under the door. There seemed to a toilet and sink in one corner, and a bed along the wall. The floor was barely twelve feet square, so she was able to slide to the wall and use its support to sit up. "Where is this?" she croaked, her throat dry.

"It's a ship," the voice said. She recognized it as another woman, and saw the dim figure curled up on the bed. "We've been at sea for several hours, I think. Hard to be sure since we were moving when I woke up."

Heather shook her head, trying to clear it. She should be terrified, or furious, but something else seemed to be overwhelming those normal emotions. Her stomach felt odd and fluttery, and her breasts ached like she was about to get her period, which wasn't due for another two weeks. She knew this sensation, but couldn't identify it.

"I don't feel well," she said, her words slurry. She'd never been seasick in her life, but perhaps this was the first time.

The woman on the bed swung her long, pale legs off the edge. She was older than Heather, close to fifty, but her body was lean and toned from regular exercise. Like Heather, the woman's hands seemed to be manacled behind her back, which made her breasts seem more prominent. The dark nipples stuck out long and erect, visible beneath her own tight undershirt.

"It passes," she said simply. "I think they give us too much of whatever sedative they use. Most of them work based on weight, and I doubt they spend a lot of time worrying about that."

The metal beneath Heather's bare behind was warm and slick. She took a deep breath and pushed her feet against the floor, forcing her shoulders against the wall. No, she corrected, bulkhead. This is a ship. Slowly she was able to stand, although the effort exhausted her. The undershirt barely reached her navel and left her feeling ridiculously exposed. She tried unsuccessfully to grab the back hem and pull it down.

"I'm Heather," she said.

"Megan," the other woman replied. "Megan Capfield."

The name registered on Heather, but it took a moment. "Wait, Megan Capfield the attorney?"

The woman nodded. "That's me."

Heather had never met her, but everyone in the city knew her by reputation and from her frequent appearances on the news. Known as the Bitch Shark for her ruthless tactics, she was the attorney of choice for businessmen and politicians facing legal woes. She was rich, powerful and so well-connected she was considered untouchable. Yet here she was, apparently, her black hair unruly around her tanned, familiar face.

"Why are you here?" Heather asked.

Megan stood. Her own undershirt hung no lower than Heather's, exposing the dark curls between her still-firm thighs. Sweat gleamed on her skin, causing the undershirt to stick to her upper body. Her wrists were held behind her in simple police handcuffs. Heather knew that if they same sort bound her as well, there would be no breaking them.

"I am here," Megan said, "because of an ill-advised moment of guilt, patriotism and idealism. I finally found something a client did that I could not defend, and at that moment I ceased to be useful. So I was drugged, kidnapped, stripped and tossed in here."

"What..." Heather's mouth was dry, and she had to pause before she could speak again. "What will they do to us?"

Megan tossed a strand of black hair from her eyes. "How do you feel right now?"

Heather frowned. The odd feeling was growing stronger. Her breasts ached, her nipples throbbed, and she felt something slick on her inner thighs that was more than sweat. "I don't know, I'm...." Suddenly she realized. "My God, I'm...horny. Really horny."

Megan nodded. "Some sort of aphrodisiac, I think. I know I'm so turned on, I'd hump a knot on a log. Except..."

"Except what?" Heather gasped. It was growing stronger, and the empty pit below her stomach began to ache. "Why would they do this to us? Do they plan to rape us?"

The other woman laughed coldly and bitterly. "No, honey, we're being tortured. The drug they gave us will kill us if we come."


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