Lockdown - Day 01

"Her armpit or her pussy. You have fifteen seconds from the time I finish speaking to decide. If you don't choose in that time frame, I will choose an alternate punishment. Hmm, let me think..."

Five seconds later, the AI was done pondering.

"When Jessie takes a shit, you will have to lick her asshole clean."

There were more gasps.

Marisa's mind didn't automatically go to the humiliating punishment, as had the others, it seemed. She was thinking about the AI's words. "Hmm, let me think..." That was a very human expression. A quantum AI processed so fast it could have weighed a million punishments, done everyone's taxes, and composed a fucking symphony using only a minuscule fraction of its distributed processing power. And could still spit out a response instantaneously.

She'd have to come back to that. And only then did she allow the image that had horrified the others to take the forefront of her consciousness. Licking an unclean asshole. She gagged.

"Her armpit," Farrow screamed with a sob. Her voice broke. "I'm not fucking licking a woman's pussy."

"You will spend five minutes on each armpit. If you puke, or retch excessively, you will find yourself emulating toilet paper. And your husband will lose...a toe."

Jessie removed her jersey and top. She lifted her arms to display hairy blonde pits. They were dripping with sweat. Her white sports bra was soaked through, her nipples clearly visible through the material covering her small, pointed breasts. "Come to Brienne," Jessie said.

Farrow approached, hesitatant. "I can't," she said, only to hear an electric whir. Her head snapped up. A rotary blade was moving toward her husband's foot.

"Okay." Farrow closed her eyes. "Okay."

She reached Jessie's armpit, standing almost at her full height. The smell was terrible. She ran her tongue over the slick hairs, trying not to retch. Jessie grabbed the back of Farrow's head, pushing her fully into her sweat-soaked pit. She was enjoying her opponent's humiliation.

Everyone else looked on with horror, shocked fascination, or, in some cases, glee. Every woman in the gym silently vowed she'd never lose a match.

While all eyes were locked on Farrow's bobbing head, Marisa studied each of the women. It was hard to tell anything. There were a lot of personalities and many bitter rivalries on the circuit. Some of those gleeful expressions could be the result of seeing a rival humiliated. The looks of disgust on other faces were less ambiguous. Marisa noted the gleeful ones. Jessie, to be sure. And Stasie too. She's Parisian, Marisa thought, so by default, fucking hates everyone. And then there was Neeva, who looked amused, but not gleeful. That left two others. Zela, the Senegalese athlete, who'd recently missed four months to an injury when Farrow had awkwardly fallen on her arm, hyperextending her elbow. No surprise she looked gleeful. And last, one of the conditioning coaches, Asta, had a weird grin on her face. Marisa would be keeping a very close eye on her. She turned to watch the lewd punishment.

Farrow's mind couldn't process that her mouth was filled with the acrid tang of body odor. She was licking Jessie's right armpit with short strokes; its golden hairs sodden with sweat. She'd held her breath for as long as possible, until she drew a desperate sharp breath, swallowing a mouthful of the dripping sweat.

Jessie let out a moan. It wasn't turning her on--well maybe a bit--but she wanted to rub Farrow's face in it, both literally and figuratively.

Farrow was breathing hard through her nose as she lapped up the sour sweat. Her panties were wet with perspiration, but she was also starting to get turned on. She was being forced, but at the same time, she was--well, enjoying it wasn't the right word. She was tolerating it. The AI counted down from ten. When it hit zero, Jessie released Farrow's head.

Farrow blinked. Stare vacant. She moved to the other pit and pressed her face hard into the wet, smelly flesh. Jessie didn't have to force her closeness. Farrow's head was getting light as her tongue swiped greedily at the sweat. She felt moisture dripping down her thighs. She could no longer fool herself it was merely sweat. Her pussy was on fire.

Farrow glanced to the side to find Jessie's erect nipple straining at the wet, fully translucent material of her bra. She could make out each of the pebbled bumps dotting Jessie's areolae. One hand pressed against Jessie's back, pressing her tight, she lifted her right hand, wanting to reach out to take the nipple between her thumb and forefinger. She caught herself, instead resting the hand on Jessie's hip, brushing her taut abdomen, which trembled under the touch. If it hadn't been for the roomful of women watching, she'd have taken that nipple and tugged at it, palming the small, sweat-soaked breast. As it was, she stroked at Jessie's side with her thumb.

That fucking smell. She was contracting and releasing her thigh muscles. Squirming. That smell. Fuck, I'm going to come.

She sucked back as much of the tangy juice as she could, her tongue enjoying the feel of Jessie's soft hairs. When time ran out, she was shuddering. An orgasm tore through her. Trying to pretend it was from disgust, she collapsed, shaking and sobbing.

She was ashamed, sure, but mostly at how much she'd enjoyed it. Even so, it was humiliating, with all those women watching.

Jessie knelt and put an arm around Farrow's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Jessie whispered in the utterly defeated woman's ear. "It was the crack about my height. I didn't think about how horrible this was for you."

Farrow looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. "Thank you," she said. She didn't even know if she was thanking Jessie for the heart-felt apology, for the unimaginably erotic closeness Farrow had felt, or for her powerful orgasm.

The AI spoke. "You will follow the lighted path to the dorm rooms you were assigned yesterday. You will be isolated there each night and be released each morning."

As they set off, Jamie put her arm around Farrow's shoulders. The shorter woman leaned into her. Her proximity to the same armpit she'd just buried her face in made her pussy twitch. The smell was heavenly. The contact of their sweaty skin felt right. Farrow didn't want to ever let her go.

The others followed. Things were so fucked up.

"You will be locked in until breakfast. Your devices and implants can access the extensive media on the university cloud, but without incoming or outgoing connections. Or contact with each other."

As they reached the dorm, the AI made another announcement.

"Tomorrow's match will feature Frieda Friedrichs against Devlin Thomas."

As Jessie let her arm fall from Farrow's shoulder, she felt a mix of emotions. She was glad to avoid the humiliation of baring her pussy in front of all those women while Farrow licked at her sopping, sweaty wetness. And, at the same time, she wished Farrow had. It had started to turn her on as Farrow licked at her underarm, especially when she'd voluntarily pressed herself into the second sodden pit. She could tell something had switched in Farrow's mind when she'd attacked it. She could sense the other woman's eagerness. Jessie's nipples ached for Farrow's touch. And she'd felt the spasms of Farrow's orgasm. Jessie was going to frig herself hard once her door was closed. Farrow, with her sly, soft face, and reddish locks, made her so fucking wet. She was beyond sloppy, at her middle.

Farrow stretched on her bed. She knew she should brush her teeth, gargle with mouthwash, and shower. But the strong taste in her mouth was so fucking erotic. As she fingered herself to a second orgasm, she sniffed at her own rancid pits. She was glad she'd chosen the armpits. How could she have possibly known it would turn her on like it had? At the same time, she wished she'd licked the tall woman's snatch. That was another taste she had never wanted to try, until now. The thought made her squirm as her fingers stroked the walls of her pussy. She lifted her soaked fingers to her mouth and slurped greedily at their sticky wetness. As she stroked, she alternated hands, so one was buried deep inside herself while she sucked her essence from the other. She exploded with a shuddering climax. The walls of her vagina clamped down and fluttered against her fingers.

Chapter 3: The Jerk

Shortly after ten o'clock, invisible gas knocked out seventeen of the eighteen women. Neeva Roy lay back on her bed, hands laced behind her head. This was even better than she could have imagined. She was going to humiliate every single one of those bitches. Her face morphed into a scowl as she recalled her time at the Swiss boarding school. She'd been hazed, bullied, punched, kicked, and spat upon. In response to the slurs slung at her, she protested she wasn't a lesbian, which was a lie. She cried herself to sleep every night. She begged her father to let her return home. She'd been thirteen years old.

As her lifeblood leaked out in the tub, she'd felt herself slipping away. For the first time in months, she had a smile on her face.

And then she awoke. She was home. There were no scars on her wrists. She didn't understand. Her father acted as if nothing had happened.

Things got better. Neeva was homeschooled by private tutors for a year. She rarely saw her father, who spent his time at his lab. At her psychiatrist's recommendation, she was allowed to participate in sports. She was active in swimming, tennis, and wrestling. She liked the first two better, but as she and another girl practiced wrestling holds, their eyes met and locked. Later, she and Faiza shared their first kiss. Neeva fell hard. When Faiza lost interest, six months later, the chaste kisses and hand holding stopped. Neeva's heart broke. Her mental health declined. She became obsessed with revenge against the racist, homophobic girls from the boarding school. But she couldn't bring herself to hate Faiza.

And then, one day, Neeva ran into one of the girls from the Swiss academy, at a Sephora perfume store in Paris. The girl, Leela, met her eyes, and to Neeva's satisfaction, couldn't hold her gaze. Outside the store, Leela sputtered an apology. Neeva issued a resounding slap to the girl's face. Satisfied, she walked away.

She forgot about revenge. She regretted her uncharacteristic violence, thought a thousand times of contacting Leela to apologize. They barely knew one another. She didn't even recall Leela as being one of her tormentors. Back in school and doing well, she also regretted the attempt on her life. She'd gotten on with life. So, she was confused as to why, now, in the city of Waterloo, she'd decided to have her symbolic revenge on every straight girl who had humiliated her. Her stomach clenched. She was shaking. What am I doing? This isn't me.

And then her expression hardened as her alien implant asserted control. She laughed as she thought of Sora. The dumb bitch shouldn't keep a secret diary if she didn't want resourceful, augmented humans to access her private thoughts. And now the others all feared the AI more than she'd dared hope. Neeva mocked Sora in a contemptuous tone: "Oh no, the AI read my mind."

Neeva had been snatched a few days earlier. Weren't you supposed to be unaware of the abduction?

The aliens didn't waste a resource, it seemed. Neeva's burning hatred was a tool they were determined to exploit.

What burning hatred? she questioned herself. It had been short-lived. Years ago. She'd moved on.

She was so confused.

Neeva hadn't questioned the motivations of her alien abductors, nor did she care. Their goals aligned so perfectly with hers that there was no need.

But no, they didn't align. What's going on?

Her self-esteem had recovered. She hadn't thought about the Swiss Academy in years. They said that the snatched, who were returned, had been changed; that they were programmed for a goal.

I've been changed.

They said the snatched weren't aware they'd been taken, yet Neeva could remember everything. And they said the taken couldn't be cured, but she was fighting for control of herself.

Her anger boiled up, as the altered chemical wetware asserted itself. Her puppeted synapses of her brain drove doubts from her head. Her thoughts darkened. She was going to ramp up the punishments, all the while torturing the men--and boy--locked in stasis. Not stasis, though. Their minds and nerves would be active during their paralysis. They were fully conscious and would feel every insult inflicted on them; they'd die in extreme agony while the paralytic prevented the slightest movement or the most minuscule escape from the torture. The other people at the university didn't interest her. They were truly in stasis.

Neeva's father, who appeared under her name on the game grid, had died years ago in a car accident. The nanobots that had kept Neeva alive when she'd been thirteen--as she later learned when her father's research was published, and his company's IPO issued--couldn't counter the enormous crush damage to his broken body.

Neeva played back the scene of Farrow's humiliation in her mind. As she did, the doors on the floor opened. Neeva had initiated an auto-surgeon which entered the rooms and whirred into action, working on the unconscious women, in turns. The athletes all carried minor injuries, or, like Devlin, major ones. Scar tissue would melt away. Bad joints would work like new, cartilage regrown. And then, when each was fully restored, she'd slowly chip away at each woman's health, ego and sanity. And there would be no further visits from the auto-doc. Well, not for healing, anyway. Neeva could hardly wait for the first death match. But for now, she was going to pull back on the humiliation of the punishments. Well, a bit anyway. Keep everyone off balance.

Neeva fell asleep, dreaming of crippling wrestling injuries and humiliated bitch-cunts. At the same time, hot tears streaked her cheeks. Her nanobots battled against the controlling alien influence. She was at war with herself.