Lockdown - Day 01

Voices overlapped again.

"What the hell?"

"The fucking AI's gone rogue."

"This isn't happening."

The AI let out a metallic laugh, sending cold fear through the women's spines.

"Follow the tournament rules and they will not be harmed."

"But I'm bi," one woman said. Her name was Sora, but Marisa called her Sori. In her humble opinion, the young woman was a sorry excuse for an athlete. "I've kissed a woman, had her hands all over my body. I don't want any part of this. Put me in stasis."

"No," the AI stated. "Your cousin kissed you when you were younger. It doesn't make you bisexual. How did you react?"

Sora looked stunned. She didn't answer. The display under her name showed a live image of her boyfriend. A needle pierced his arm, and his vitals went haywire, heart rate spiking. The red line of text now read: Health at 89%.

"What the fuck did you do to him?" Sora screamed. And at the same time, she wondered: can this fucking thing read my mind? I never told anyone about Leslie.

"How did you react, when your cousin kissed you and put her hands on your tits?"

The screen showed a prod slowly approaching Sora's boyfriend.

"Stop," Sora yelled between sobs. Seventeen pairs of eyes were locked on her.

"How did you react?" the AI asked again.

"I pushed her. Knocked her flat on her ass. And I called her a perverted dyke. The whole thing was so fucking...gross"

It had thrown her. Leslie was her cousin. Wasn't finding it gross how she was supposed to react? Unexpected would have been closer to the truth. There was another reason she'd pushed Leslie away so forcefully. A deep lifelong insecurity. She'd apologized to Leslie, admitted her reaction was all out of proportion and revealed she was bi. When Leslie asked if Sora's reaction was because they were cousins, she'd nodded in response. It wasn't the whole story.

Sora tried to stifle her thoughts in case the AI was indeed somehow able to access them. Which, of course, only made her think about her unexplored sexuality more. She hadn't lied about being bi. She'd just never pursued a relationship with a woman.

"Not bisexual then," the AI chastised. "In fact, all eighteen of you are as straight as they come."

"It read my mind," Sora said without intonation, not sure if she'd voiced it aloud.

Marisa and Kellen exchanged glances. Kellen had recently come out to her coach, revealing her bisexuality. She'd completely lost focus in a match six weeks earlier and had suffered the worst defeat of her collegiate career. She was doing well, was in control of the match, when her opponent caught her in an illegal leglock to the head. Twisting in vain to free herself, her face was directly against her German competitor's warm, fragrant crotch. She was inhaling hard, and not merely from exertion. And her squirming wasn't entirely a result of trying to get free. She was so turned on that when the match resumed, despite her opponent starting in a penalty position, Kellen was soon pinned. It was a timed match. Things only got worse from there.

Marisa glared at Kellen.

"What the fuck just happened?"

She sounded furious, which was out of character. Sure, she was always stern--some said icy--but irate? Not ever. Kellen led her coach to a quiet corner of the gym, turning red as she debated what to say. She trusted Marisa. They'd been working together for three years. Kellen had no choice. Not if they were going to continue working together. For a second, Kellen thought of guarding her silence, but was unwilling to lose Marisa. There were eight months before qualifications for her first Olympic Games. And, more importantly, she liked her coach. She "like-liked" her, as they said when she was a girl. No, that wasn't even the half of it.

In a whispered tone, she admitted to being intimidated by her blonde German opponent's raw sexuality, even before they'd started. And, that the strong whiff of sweaty trim had turned her muscles to jelly. Marisa laughed, hugged her, and said it was okay, but never to be repeated.

"No more defeats," she said, "but Kellen, your sexuality is your own and I accept you fully for who you are. Who wouldn't? But you control it. It doesn't control you."

They shared another hug.

"No more snatch and jerk," Marisa added, her expression returning to its default strictness.

Kellen wasn't exactly sure what that meant. The snatch, clean and jerk was a weightlifting competition. Was an actual smile pushing up the sides of her coach's mouth? Kellen didn't want to be saddled with one of Marisa's nicknames. She asked anyway.

"It means one whiff of snatch and you turn into an irresponsible fucking jerk."

And then Marisa laughed again. She was enjoying the whole embarrassing situation.

Kellen shuffled into the locker room. Her coach followed. While Kellen's opponent showered, she sat dejected by her locker, head hung in shame at the loss, and embarrassment over the confession to her coach.

Marisa didn't coddle. She left her charge to her own devices. Instead, she boldly strode over to the blonde athlete's locker. Without so much as a glance to see if she was being observed, she reached into side pocket of the woman's gym bag. Marisa extricated the woman's sopping panties. She knew a training aid when she saw one.

That evening, Kellen was forced to do an additional practice with Marisa. It had never happened before, not in the middle of a tournament. All the while, Kellen had to wear the blonde woman's fragrant panties tied over her lower face, stretched over her mouth and nose. Tied in the back. The mask was extremely tight, as the blonde's underwear was small. Time and again, Marisa easily pinned her.

That scent. That wonderful fucking scent. Finally, Kellen became pissed off at her own weakness. She grappled with her coach, the two locked together. Kellen inhaled sharply. It was a decoy. At long last, she was able to ignore the tantalizing whiff of pussy. Marisa, expecting another lapse in focus, went for the pin, but this time Kellen had her wits about her. She countered and achieved her first pin.

Marisa wanted to ensure Kellen's competitive and libidinal drives would never again be in conflict. Shame was a tool she'd use if it made Kellen a better athlete.

Kellen had been relieved that Marisa hadn't asked why she'd hidden her attraction to women. No one really cared, one way or the other. Kellen felt that her fierce longing for her coach needed to remain a tightly guarded secret; she could no longer remember a time when she wasn't in love with her. The string of boyfriends masked her true feelings. They never lasted. She wasn't all that interested.

If one of Marisa's rules was don't fall in love with your coach, she'd never gotten the memo.

In their shared room, Kellen still felt the burning humiliation, but it paled in comparison to how pissed off she was at Marisa's panty stunt. Her revenge was childish, but oh so satisfying. When it was Marisa's turn to shower, Kellen returned to the bathroom, scooping Marisa's panties up off the tiles, leaving the German athlete's soiled underwear in their place.

When Marisa climbed into her bed, and turned off her light, Kellen was determined to prevent her coach from sleeping.

Kellen fingered herself, all the while very loudly inhaling the intoxicating aroma of Marisa's panties. She was building towards a much-needed orgasm. The scent of pussy--first the wrestler's and then her coach's--had her near the edge in short order. Her exaggerated moans were accompanied by repeated phrases like "fuck, your cunt smells good" and--to be sure that Marisa was clued in--she sighed in ecstasy. "Oh Marisa, your snatch smells even better than the blonde's."

Marisa's bedside light flicked on. She patted the floor until she snagged a pair of dirty underwear. To her horror, they weren't hers. That fucking sneak, she thought. Her own panties were bunched under Kellen's nose.

Kellen grinned in the dim light, covers thrown aside, two fingers buried deep in her pussy. Marisa's unamused glare made Kellen shudder with an orgasm, hips bucking wildly.

Marisa squeezed her thighs together at the erotic display and decided she couldn't let the smug satisfaction of the revenge stand. Well played, she admitted reluctantly.

Marisa straddled her star wrestler and wrangled the panties--her panties--from Kellen's hand. Kellen was laughing so hard that Marisa easily pinned her arms behind her head. Then, she hitched up her nightshirt with one hand and moved to kneel astride the young woman's face. She settled in as Kellen snaked her tongue out to taste her coach's vulva.

Kellen was greedy for Marisa's wetness. She couldn't get enough of that wonderful smell: the delicate florid musk. She inhaled sharply. Wanted to touch herself, but her arms were pinned by Marisa's splayed knees. Kellen rolled a fleshy labium between her lips, tugging it, before delving between the folds. Marisa's prominent outer lips were dark, a burnt umber color. It was striking against the milky white skin of soft, parted thighs. The inner color of the petals lightened, in a gradient, until lovely greys gave way to pinks, at her opening.

Each long, needy tongue stroke lapped at Marisa's cleft, moving up and then retreating. Kellen brushed against the sides of Marisa's clitoral hood. Just light touches. Attuned to every reaction, each change in her coach's breathing, she gauged the responses her mouth created. She wanted Marisa's pleasure to build. Slowly. Steadily. And only then, would she shorten her strokes, the contact firmer. She was enjoying it far too much to rush. Relished the sound of Marisa's ragged breathing.

Kellen's tongue circled her clit. Her lips formed an O. She sucked lightly on the stiffened nub. Varying the pressure, not moving too fast. As her hitched breathing and undulating hips signaled that Marisa was on the precipice, Kellen eased off.

Marisa groaned her displeasure.

"Don't you dare fucking tease."

At the desperation in her tone, Kellen smiled as she went back to Marisa's clit. She circled it. Her tongue insistent. She licked directly against the sensitive flesh. Marisa's hips were moving faster. Her head was thrown back. She was gulping air in shuddering irregular gasps.

Kellen's lips firmly encircled the hard nub. She sucked; cheeks hollowed with the force. It sent Marisa tumbling towards her ecstasy. The spasms went on and on. Thighs clamped down on Kellen's face. She was beyond turned by the force of her coach's contractions. Kellen didn't release the engorged flesh until the pressure of clamping thighs became too much. She released the nub with an emphatic, final slurping suck.

Lying side by side, they opened their mouths to one another. Marisa tasted herself on Kellen's tongue. After they'd made out for far too short a time, Marisa brushed hair back from Kellen's ear.

"First sleep," she whispered softly.

"Then compete," she added, before nibbling the young woman's lobe.

"And if you win your matches, more sex."

As Kellen slept in her arms, Marisa's mind was in turmoil. She'd never had such a strong orgasm, and never with a new lover. And, most definitely, never with a woman. She needed more. Craved it. But at the first slip in Kellen's focus, they'd stop sharing rooms on the road and Marisa would hang a "no entry" sign on her very satisfied pussy.

Kellen crushed her remaining competitors. In the final, she once again faced Lola Fischer--the unranked German with the fragrant entre-cuisses. It was no contest. Marisa and Kellen became lovers.

Kellen announced her plan to break things off with Darian when they saw each other in Waterloo. She finally had her heart's desire.

"Wait until after the tournament," Marisa responded. Marisa would have protested she didn't have to end things at all, that she wasn't the jealous type. But she also wasn't an idiot. She'd known for some time that Kellen had fallen for her. Marisa's own fondness for Kellen, too, had progressively turned into something more, as her emotional gradient shifted over time: respect; tenderness; pesky feelings; desire; love. She'd just done a better job of hiding it. The tipping point had been the match with Lola, when it became clear the distraction of a relationship was far weaker than the fatiguing business of both women denying the attraction.

But then, at the start of the Waterloo tournament, Marisa had fucked up. Afterall, she'd instructed Kellen to break up with Darian after the tournament. Minimize distractions. Hold off on things that can wait. Their lovemaking was molten hot, but the kissing...that had always been her weakness. That wonderful, passionate, weak-in-the-knees fucking kissing. She inhaled Kellen's ragged breaths as her fingers sent the beautiful young woman over the tipping point. She loved the taste of Kellen's center. The intoxicating aroma of her wetness. But lips locked, tongues lightly flitting, then pressing harder with need, it was the feel of Kellen's slick tightness gripping her fingers that was most exhilarating. Spent, after their hours' long carnal workout, she'd pulled back, looking into Kellen's liquid brown eyes. And it just slipped out: "I love you, Kellen."

In the bunker, the two women's knowing glances were all they'd needed to communicate. Sora was dead wrong. The fucking AI, of course, couldn't read minds. Marisa vowed to question every assumption, her own and those of the women around her. There was no other way to gain the upper hand in a desperate situation. Marisa's thoughts were interrupted by a loud, strident voice.

"Wait a minute. Wait a goddamned minute," Fiona Holland said, pointing at Kellen. Fiona and Kellen despised one another. Always had.

"Why does she get to have her coach? That's not fucking fair at all."

"You have your physical therapist, Malena. And how is that fucking fair?" Kellen responded.

Malena and Marisa shared an eye roll as the two young wrestlers faced off. Some of the women were nodding at the points each woman had raised. They had no support personnel there.

The AI laughed again. It was chilling.

"There are no coaches, trainers, or medical professionals here. Only competitors."

"What?" Devlin Thomas yelled. She was a thirty-something physical trainer. Kellen knew her well and didn't think her voice could even reach the high octave it had just achieved. "I can't compete. I destroyed my knee years ago. A replacement wasn't viable. I almost lost the leg. I can't wrestle anymore. Some days, I can barely walk."

"It will be repaired," the AI said, evenly.

"What the fuck? If it could be fixed, I'd have already done it. I didn't endure five years of agony for shits and giggles. So what? You're going to magically transform me into the six-million-dollar fucking woman?"

While a few mouth corners quirked up, most of the women queried their devices to look up the reference.

The AI spoke again. "We can repair you. Human meditech cannot fix you, but I am not limited to human technology. As you have likely gathered, the only alien invasion here today is mine. You will obey, and you will compete to your full abilities, or there will be punishment."

"This doesn't make a fucking lick of sense," someone commented. Heads nodded in agreement. "Why are you doing this?"

The metallic voice rang out after a long alien laugh.

"Because I can."

Marisa found it no more satisfying than George Leigh Mallory's famous response when asked why he climbed mountains. The phrase "because it's there" was more commonly attributed to Edmond Hillary, but erroneously. All those geezers had done was climb mountains, Marisa thought. The AI can snuff us out in a million fucking ways. Well, she conceded, up in the death zone, a mountain could kill you in a lot of ways too.

The AI continued. "Any nagging injuries will be healed. Destroyed knees," it added, as a live view Devlin's stunned face appeared on screen, "will be repaired. You will start on a level playing field. Only talent, desire and experience will determine the winners. The first match will be in fifteen minutes. Jessie Jenkins against Farrow Spalding."

Chapter 2: Clean

Jessie and Farrow eyed one another. Jessie was tall, at 188 centimeters. She had short blonde hair and long svelte limbs. She looked frail, for a wrestler, but bulk and strength didn't always go hand in hand. Farrow maxed out at 165 centimeters. She had powerful thighs and amongst the best leg drive on the circuit. Her skin was alabaster, ghost-like. Her bra-strap-length copper hair was tied in a single Dutch braid for the tournament.

"You may enter the gymnasium," the AI intoned. The doors released. "There is no time limit. The first legal pin wins."

Many of the women were already dressed in athletic gear, including Jessie and Farrow. Fifteen women followed the two competitors up the stairs to the gym. Devlin took the elevator. They were met with a furnace blast of hot air. It was summertime but the HVAC was pumping out intense heat; had been, apparently, the whole time they'd been in the bunker. It was infernally hot.

"This first match will test your conditioning. Can you wrestle under extreme conditions?"

The AI laughed. Hearing the bizarre metallic sound over and over didn't diminish its chilling effect. Everyone's flesh crawled.

Farrow put on a blue jersey. Jessie took red.

"Bring it, Brienne of Tarth," Farrow quipped, referring to the spin-off reboot show that featured the enormous warrior woman. The actress in the new series was the granddaughter, or maybe great-niece, of the woman from the original Game of Thrones. It wasn't even a good comparison, but Jessie had heard it used by some of the wrestlers.

Jessie rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I've never heard that one before." Sure, Jessie was tall, but unlike the fictional Brienne, slender. After all, she had more than half a foot on her opponent, but they were in the same weight class. Some felt the more compact wrestler should have the advantage, but Jessie was lightning quick, had a reach advantage, and her technique was impeccable.

Sweat was dripping in their eyes before the opening whistle, so they started tentatively, feeling one another out. They circled and feinted, each looking for an opening, each seeking an advantageous hold. When their arms met, the slick skin made it difficult to establish a grip. A hold on the back of a thigh failed from the dripping flesh. Their bodies were soon rank from the heat and exertion, their clothing soaked through.

The spectators, too, were drenched in sweat. They stripped off layers of clothing, down to sports bras and panties, in many cases. Sora made no move to remove her black top or the white racerback underneath it. She was sweating profusely, her bras and two shirts soaked through.

The two wrestlers were evenly matched. The bout went on for eight or nine long minutes. Both were panting. And then Farrow went low, trying to unbalance her tall opponent. Jessie used Farrow's momentum against her, quickly converted her advantage to a pin. The match was over. Jessie gloated. She always got pissed when someone took a dig at her height.

The AI intoned: "As the loser, Farrow, you have a choice."

Everyone waited. Farrow paced.

"Lick Jessie's armpits or lick her pussy."

Women gasped.

"What?" Farrow's protest was met with silence. There was murmuring in the gym. All eyes were on Farrow.

"There's no fucking way," she stated.

Farrow's young husband appeared on screen. A year earlier, they'd signed a two-year marriage contract, standard for young couples. An electric prod zapped his arm, leaving visible burns. Health at 92%, the display read. His heart rate and blood pressure shot up.