Lockdown - Day 01

Author's Notes: This is the first part of a science fiction novel featuring female pairings. The story is long, and the sex starts slowly--very slowly--as I develop the characters and plot. I'm interested in story, not just sex scenes. Skip this story altogether if that doesn't appeal.

Content Warnings: Day One contains fetish sex: soiled panties, sweaty armpits, reluctance, and humiliation. There are dark themes. Consent is delayed. The characters are forced, but become willing participants in the end, as they give into unexplored desires and continue relationships started under duress.

Trigger Warnings: There's a reference to an attempted suicide. The AI (artificial intelligence) takes hostages to force compliance. Some hostages are harmed. Torture is threatened.

Editing: A warm thanks to shadysweet--volunteer Literotica editor and author--for proofreading this section.

Day One

Chapter 1: Snatch

When the air raid siren sounded, activity in the gymnasium stilled. Everyone went silent. The alert tone's pitch and volume slowly scaled up before tailing off again, repeating its cyclic wail.

Marisa tapped her toe impatiently, waiting for the siren to end. Her nervous energy always ramped up ahead of a competition. As a coach, Marisa felt the same anticipatory excitement that had prefaced her own high school and collegiate wrestling matches. Burning with a competitive fire, she channeled it into shaping every aspect of her star athlete's performance.

Marisa's style was to lead by example. Under her coaching, Kellen quickly rocketed up the collegiate rankings in the 55kg class. She'd been diligent before they'd teamed up. On seeing her coach, a woman twice her age, train alongside her on conditioning and strength, Kellen had upped her game to match Marisa's fierce intensity.

Before the alarm, Marisa had observed Kellen continuing to spend time with a boyfriend, Darian. Her focus, by then, should have switched to preparing for her second match: adhering to her established routines; centering herself and relaxing with deliberate, regulated breathing; preparing her mind with positive self-talk and visualization.

It had irked Marisa to see the two still talking. After a long internal debate--far too long--she'd finally decided to act subtly. Just walk over, using her proximity to send the message that Kellen needed to get on with things. The fact Marisa had hesitated at all, instead of going straight over, was a sign their dynamic had shifted. It sent up warning bells--just not as annoyingly loud as the damned klaxon. The fault was entirely hers. How many of her own rules had she broken?

The lapse couldn't have been more poorly timed. Kellen was about to square off against her fiercest rival, Fiona Holland. They were as evenly matched as any two wrestlers Marisa had ever known. Their record, in head-to-head competition, was four wins each with four losses. For the past year and a half, they were ranked second and third, internationally. Their respective positions flipped each time they faced one another. And now that Ciara Walsh had just aged out, collegiately, Fiona held the top ranking with Kellen second.

No, Kellen wasn't to blame. But at the same time, the young wrestler would be ill-served if Marisa started to second guess herself. She'd vowed, six weeks earlier, that if Kellen's focus slipped, they'd have to make changes. And that's where they stood.

Marisa ran a hand along the nape of her neck, compressing tense muscles. Her headache was intensifying. Tied in a messy top knot, her hair was a stunning uniform grey. Quickly tied without thought, her loose strands looked as if they'd been artfully teased into alluring, diaphanous wisps. They hung at her temples, and along the back of her slender neck. Marisa's ashen locks had always been much greyer than blonde, starting at fourteen. It had been striking as a young woman, turning heads. At forty, her smooth complexion, delicate bone structure and piercing blue eyes still conveyed youth. And she still turned heads.

Marisa's body had remained slender, her muscles toned. She was fifteen centimeters shorter than Kellen, at 1.55 meters. As an athlete, she'd competed in the 48kg class. Her diminutive stature and slight frame made her no less intimidating.

After her divorce, Marisa had craved a change. She'd adamantly refused to simply wait out the remaining year of her marriage contract with Magnus. Having already renewed their partnership three times, both admitted their spark was gone. They were merely best friends, raising a son together.

For Magnus, ending things in divorce hadn't stung. He understood that once Marisa made up her mind, she wouldn't be swayed. It wasn't personal.

For years, Marisa's employer, the University of Oslo, had allowed her to pare back her scouting as she and Magnus raised a young son. She'd limited her activities to Europe and North Africa. Once Davis was older--and given Magnus's willingness to accommodate her travel schedule--she'd expanded her scouting to Asia, Australia, and the Americas.

As a talent scout, she'd discovered Akissi Djedje, convincing her to compete collegiately in Norway. The African wrestler won two Olympic silvers for the Ivory Coast. As a result, Marisa was accorded a great deal of leeway.

At a high school tournament in Victoria, British Columbia, Marisa had identified Kellen's talent immediately. The seventeen-year-old athlete was truly gifted. Marisa contacted the university's Athletic Director, praising Kellen's potential. During the conversation she dropped the O bomb: Olympics. That captured his interest. Then, she made a request; both parties understood that demand was closer to the mark. She'd make every effort to recruit the young Canadian, but only if she could coach her personally. She'd still scout, but Kellen would be her priority.

The AD hemmed and hawed before giving his response. "Sorry, but no."

Marisa didn't back down. Her resignation sat on the official doc server for the better part of a day before her implant signaled the receipt of an official communication. She read the cover letter, from the University President.

Dear Ms. Nyland,

We accede to your legitimate and reasonable proposition concerning Ms. Kellen Bennett's recruitment and training. Please see the attached, proposed employment contract. As you would be, henceforth, both coach and scout, I have authorized a commensurate annual salary increase. Additionally, please find the attached recruitment package that you may present to Ms. Bennett

With great esteem, Anita Enberg.

Rector, University of Oslo.

Kellen's parents had been anxious about the distance. As their first team act, the young wrestler raved about the university's academic and wrestling programs while Marisa impressed them with her steady charm and serious demeanor. She dropped the name of her greatest recruiting success. As Kellen's was a wrestling family, Marisa's role in Akissi's many accomplishments held weight with them.

The recruitment package was solid: the foreign student tuition, waved for four years; an unshared campus studio apartment at no charge; travel, food, academic tutoring, and incidental expenses, covered. And a generous top-up of Kellen's universal basic income. It had kicked in at sixteen. The UN had recently lowered the age of majority to sixteen for all member nations. That fall, Kellen moved to Oslo.

The air raid siren finally stopped. The noise had really been getting on Marisa's tits.

"Lockdown," the female AI voice stated calmly. "Lockdown."

A drill? Holographic displays and handhelds exploded around her with flashes and alerts. So, not a drill.

Marisa realized she'd disabled her implant. She could see others tilting their heads. It was something people just seemed to do, especially if they hadn't been implanted for long. Marisa blinked. The motion--and her clear intention behind it--reactivated her system. She started to lift hands to her ears, before quickly withdrawing them. It was an automatic gesture from her teenage years; something she'd always done to ensure her earbuds were firmly seated. She felt stupid doing it but hadn't been able to entirely break the habit. At least she wasn't tilting her head, like an idiot. Still, she didn't query the device. She did what she should have, long before, by approaching Kellen.

The four panels of the event display hanging from the gym's rafters switched to a grid of thumbnail views. They showed the university's perimeter cameras. Waterloo's Layton University was not one of the sprawling campuses of two decades earlier. It was one giant complex, designed to both lower its carbon footprint and make it more easily defensible. If the lockdown lasted for days, or even weeks, they'd have access to essentials, from food to accommodations. Marisa would push for the tournament to resume, of course, but ultimately, the AI would determine the protocols. It wasn't her first lockdown. If nothing else, she hoped to continue Kellen's training. Let her competitors get derailed and treat the interruption as a long, unanticipated break.

The central display cycled through full-screen views of various ingress points. Marisa watched as Wurtzite boron nitride plates slid into place, meeting in the middle. Self-repairing carbon fiber polymers strengthened the material, sealing the two halves. The measure would slow the aliens. External defense forces would slow them further or turn them to an easier target. As the laminae had silently met on screen, Marisa imagined a metallic clang as each door or window sealed over. The camera feeds weren't accompanied by audio, and even if they had been, Marisa knew the hermetic system was entirely silent. Her brain just thought there should be a sound, so provided one.

Striding over, Marisa studied Kellen. She was twenty years old. For the match, her long, medium-brown hair was tied in a loose ponytail. Her hair matched lovely brown eyes that sparked with intelligence. The light caramel highlights in her hair softened the irises, adding depth. They were her best feature. Marisa wasn't alone in the assessment.

Kellen smiled when she spotted her coach. Their eyes met. Marisa's stern expression never wavered, but she gave a quick wink in return. Kellen's smile broadened.

When the alarms had gone off, Kellen automatically reached for her handheld. It wasn't there. She was about an hour from the start of her match. Marisa's number one rule was no distractions before a bout. Well, Marisa had about a hundred number one rules, and that was one of them. Kellen saw the event display, realizing there had been an hour--about twenty minutes earlier. Marisa would not be happy, quick wink or not.

Kellen glanced up at Darian. She'd been distracted. Darian should have taken his spot in the stands much earlier. Those words, though--the ones she'd longed to hear for so long--kept creeping up on her, stealing her focus: "I love you, Kellen."

"What's going on?" Marisa asked.

Darian's eyes went wide. "It's a snatch. A full-scale attack," he said.

Kellen side-eyed Darian's holographic display. His fingers spread apart in the air and the projected display widened.

The growing panic in the gym was understandable. An attack was frightening, but everyone feared abduction by the aliens. Not the same fears that had worked their way into pop culture when alien invasions were pure science fiction. People didn't fear living out their days in some sort of galactic zoo. Or being put on the alien's lunch menu. And certainly not the homophobic alien fear of a rectal probe. Or being forced into sex with tentacled creatures. The taken were altered in fundamental ways and then quickly returned.

Once released, a person could be activated at any point, like a dormant terrorist cell. Some lived their lives normally, for years, no one the wiser, including the abductee. And then, one day, they were triggered to commit heinous acts. Others went on a rampage almost instantly.

And then there was the flipside of the coin. The paranoid. Those who believed others had been snatched, often on the scant evidence that their whereabouts, for a length of time, were unaccounted for. It led to a fair number of senseless killings.

There was no way, to tell, on autopsy, that a person had been altered. There was no implant or apparent physiological changes.

Those out in the open were at the greatest risk of abduction. Lockdowns provided the best security. But panic was contagious, and sometimes, as dangerous as the extraterrestrial threat. The AI launched autoinjectors, seeking those requiring sedation. As the needles met flesh, hysterical men and women slumped sideways, heavily sedated. Crisis averted.

"Thank fuck for that," Marisa said. Her hyperacusis made her intolerant of noise. It was her personality, however, that made her intolerant of moaning, bitching, and in this case, vacuous men and women screaming. Her implant, once activated, could have kicked in to filter the sound if she'd allowed it. It could also have provided a moderate sedative effect if the annoyance got bad enough. Marisa wanted to have her wits about her for the duration of the crisis.

The AI lit up directional floor lights in various colors to guide people to their designated muster points. Kellen and Darian's colors led them in opposite directions. They didn't think, just moved. You didn't question the AI. Not if you wanted to live. Not if you wanted to avoid being snatched.

Kellen didn't spare a thought to parting with Darian. She started to move, and then stopped in her tracks, closing her eyes. She pictured herself parting with Marisa, their interlocked fingers sliding apart until only the tips were touching. And then, as the contact broke, the two followed their respective colored paths...

A touch on her arm brought her back to reality. Marisa was at Kellen's side. She relaxed instantly. Not being with Darian didn't bother her in the least. It was far better to be with her coach. Infinitely better, she thought as she side-eyed Marisa's shapely tits.

The two women went down a flight of stairs as indicated by the yellow lights. Follow the yellow brick road, Marisa thought. They didn't find the Emerald City. Instead, they entered a sparsely appointed bunker. Soon, they were joined by sixteen other women. Devlin Thomas was last to enter. She moved slowly and had taken the elevator. They were all either wrestlers, coaches, trainers, or specialists of one kind or another. The bunker doors sealed. The women sat, silently.

After about ten minutes, during which people accessed their devices or queried their implants, the plain grey walls morphed into floor-to-ceiling displays. The women in the room reacted when they saw loved ones climbing into the morgue-like sliding coffin pods, used for cryogenics. If they were freezing people, it heralded a lengthy lockdown.

Kellen wondered why she and the others weren't being put into stasis. The women, who had been completely silent, were now all talking at once.

Marisa noted that not all the tournament wrestlers and coaches were in the bunker with them. It was huge and could easily accommodate three times their number.

The displays shifted. A feed from a local news station played, displaying the word "live" at the bottom. The anchorwoman and her meteorological counterpart were exchanging idle banter. And then the displays shifted once more. They showed outside views of Waterloo, the small Canadian city. It was just a normal early September day. There were no alien craft, no fires, and no tall, armored extraterrestrial humanoids.

Voices overlapped.

"This doesn't feel right."

"What the fuck's going on?"

"Who's missing?"

Marisa had been the one to voice that last question.

"What do you mean, who's missing?" Kellen asked.

"We're all wrestlers or working with the athletes. But some of us aren't here. Where are Ciara and Geri?"

Ciara's presence--even now that she'd aged out--tended to dominate amongst the group of wrestlers. She'd twice been decorated with Olympic medals. The first, a bronze, as a sixteen-year-old. She won gold four years later. She was the favorite to do so again, in just under a year. Her wife, Geri, was entered in the tournament. She was ranked near the bottom of the group.

The displays changed again, and then Ciara appeared on the screen. She was hard to miss, with her flaming-red, voluminous curls. She climbed into her pod. Geri, who'd stripped to panties and t-shirt--as one did--slid onto the slab beside her. Once sealed, the pods moved up the wall, and empty pods slid into place, opening at ground level. The women on the display were all involved with the tournament.

Marisa idly wondered why people stripped down before stasis. It wouldn't make any difference to them. They'd be blissfully unaware the whole time. For circulation? she wondered. The suspension field would prevent contact with the slab surface. Muscles would be stimulated, and joints worked to prevent aches and stiffness upon revival--or the start of atrophy if the stasis were extended. Yes, she decided, a tight garment might not be ideal.

Marisa often focused on trivialities while her brain worked on deeper questions. It was puzzling, but she'd no sooner mentioned the absence of Ciara and Geri than they'd appeared on the display. What was that about? Coincidence?

The other thing gnawing at Marisa's consciousness was the division of the groups, both in the bunker and on the displays. She'd never seen people grouped by sex, and certainly never based on a common athletic interest. Logically, Ciara and the other women should be with them. And none of the male coaches or trainers were in the room with Ciara's group. The inconsistencies nagged at Marisa. She caught herself chewing on her bottom lip but stopped when she realized she was doing it.

The wall displays turned static. Gridlines divided the walls into eighteen columns, one for each woman there. Below their names were the names and vitals of loved ones, each of whom was in stasis. Beneath each name, along with the various stats such as blood oxygenation, heart rate, and blood pressure, there was a line of bold red text. It read: Health at 100%.

"Oh my god! No!" Marisa shouted when her eyes found her own name. Another woman had much the same reaction, but Marisa was oblivious to everything around her.

Kellen looked at her coach. It was so out of character for her to lose it. She followed Marisa's finger: Marisa Nyland, Kellen read. And below that was the name Davis Nyland, the coach's eleven-year-old son. And further down were his vitals and the red designation: Health at 100%.

"Davis isn't even here," Marisa said. "What the fuck's going on?"

"My father lives in France. How is he up there?" asked Neeva, a Bangladeshi woman based in Europe. She had thick dark eyebrows and a long straight nose that suited her handsome face.

The AI spoke with its calm, even tone.

"You each have someone who has been cryogenically frozen. Follow the rules of the tournament and no harm will befall them. And no punishment will befall you, other than when you lose a match."

The women gasped. Some shook their heads silently, eyes wide. The AI spoke again.

"Some of your competitors have been disqualified. They did not meet the threshold."

"What threshold?" Asta asked. She was a forty-three-year-old former multi-sport athlete turned conditioning coach.

The AI answered. "Your lesbian and bisexual colleagues have been barred from competing."