Skulkers

Anna-

My shoes thumped softly on the floor of the apartment building hallway as I made my way to the stairs. A few people might have wished me good evening, or I might have imagined it; either way, I ignored them.

At the top of the stairs, I climbed the ladder and emerged onto the rooftop, feeling a wave of cold, gritty air blow past my face. The night skies above were cloudy and starless, and the city beneath me glowed with a thousand little points of electric light.

I sat down and recited that one paragraph that I had memorized three years ago:

"We, the common women of the kingdom of Fulzore, hereby proclaim our right to self-government. We declare the creation of a constitutional republic, run by and for the good of the people. We believe that every woman is fit to rule herself, and no woman is fit to rule another."

I shook my head. That paragraph had been written down two hundred years ago.

"Fulzore," I sighed, "how have you fallen so far?"

That republic was a thing of the past. Now, we Fulzorans lived in fear. The buildings were all shiny black monoliths, draped in propaganda and studded with loudspeakers and searchlights. Shiny armored cars rumbled cantankerously through the streets, their turreted machine guns swiveling idly. On the sidewalk, policewomen stood at thirty-yard intervals, deathly still, covered in armor from head to toe. The citizens cowered as they walked past them.

This was our nation. No woman could speak without risking her life, and spies haunted the population, sowing distrust, turning sister against sister.

Most of us just kept our heads down and tried to survive. Most of us just hoped the police never noticed us. Most of us never lifted a finger to fight back.

But not me.

Alicia-

"The prisoner is ready, inquisitor."

I turned around. A guard saluted me, then stood up straight and waited for a reply. Her eyes seemed to stare straight past me.

"Very good," I mumbled. "Dismissed."

The guard hustled away, and, with a despondent shrug, I hauled open the metal door and entered the interrogation chamber.

There, a harsh cone of light that beat down from the ceiling, focusing on a stone slab shaped like a hospital bed. On it was the sprawled form of a man.

The man may have been as old as forty, but he was in good shape. His full head of light brown hair framed his cheeks, leading down to a firm set of features. A small mouth rested between his low-slung cheekbones, and his tightly shut eyes were shaded by a smooth, even brow. There was a nice, even spread of facial stubbles on his chin.

His arms bulged in all the right places, drawing firm, masculine lines to the side of the bed, where his wrists were shackled. His chest, from his shoulders straight down to his waist, was a blanket of muscles, and his skin was pulled tightly over it, exposing every groove and crevasse that ran over his flesh, which glistened with sweat and heaved with every breath. His legs, pulled apart by the shackles that held his ankles, revealed a flaccid treasure, hanging just above his testicles, which rested on the cold stone beneath him.

The man breathed deeply and evenly, and, as I banged the door shut, he did not move. He had, at least for the moment, given himself up.

Walking up to him, I pulled off my glove and placed my three longest fingers over his chin, then traced them down to his right nipple. I passed over it once, then again, and felt it rise.

Touching the prisoner was one way to establish dominance, which was the first step in a successful interrogation. Most other inquisitors would have said that I was not coming on strong enough, but I found that, at least with men, resistance only crystallized when faced with brute force.

I was supposed to start talking to him now, but I found myself distracted. My hand stayed on his nipple, squeezing and playing with it. The man did not react.

I tried to focus on his face, but, as I walked up to him, something else caught my eye. Looking back, I saw that his masculinity was hardening.

Looking away, I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my mouth.

"To hell with it," I mumbled, "I need a distraction."

My hand crawled down his flesh, feeling the tension in each muscle that rippled across his body, until it finally reached his manhood. One finger at a time, I clasped it.

Now the man reacted. His brow clenched, then his eyes shot open, and he stared at me with fear and befuddlement.

"What?" he breathed, "what are you doing?"

"Hush," I whispered. "I need this. Just take it."

"Y-yes ma'am."

I gripped his shaft between my thumb and forefinger and swung it up and down for a few seconds, watching as its resistance grew. Then, finally, I let it go, and it stood straight up for me.

I stepped back, and, in just a few seconds, stripped off my uniform. Layers of cloth and leather rumpled to the concrete floor, freeing my overheating body. I palmed my pussy for a few seconds, and my hands slickened with juice.

I brought my hand up and slathered his upper lip, forcing him to smell my arousal. I could smell his, too. The air was heavy with his musky readiness; his body was offering him to me.

I slithered up his body until my face opposed his. He looked directly up at me, and I hungrily returned his gaze for a moment. Then, opening my legs, I lowered myself and, all at once and took him in.

The minute I felt him pressing into me, energy shot through my whole body. I let out a squeal and quickened my pace, savoring every push and pull. Beneath my hands, his body responded to me, tightening and flexing with every movement I made.

A mighty force built up in the pit up my stomach, and I knew what was coming. Reaching down, I stroked my clitoris, adding a sizzling spice to the friction.

The next moment, the force got out. Pleasure paralyzed me, and I howled incoherently as I released myself on my victim.

For a few seconds, I straddled him, dripping sweat and juice, huffing in heavy breaths. The man, too, breathed heavily, but there was a strained look on his face; his shaft was still erect, ready to give more.

But I had had enough. Very slowly, the fog in my head cleared away, and I saw what I had just done- again. Shame washed over me, and I hastily wiped off my pussy and pulled on my clothes. My body was still hot, and there was still dampness between my legs, but I wasn't about to rape this man twice in a row.

I sighed miserably. This is what I had been reduced to. My job was to root out rebels and eliminate them, but the government demanded too many confessions too quickly. To meet quotas, I had to pull some poor cock off the street and torture a false confession out of him. If I didn't do it, I knew, the government would replace me with someone who would.

"This isn't right," I mumbled to myself, for the thousandth time.

I had already cheated on my husband, and I was in no mood to cheat the people. I pulled out my radio and dialed my assistant.

"Yes, inquisitor?" she said.

"Let this one go," I ordered.

"As you wish."

The assistant registered no complaint: just "As you wish."

I turned to the door, then, just before opening it, I looked back at my prisoner. Then I shook my head and hurried away.

Petrus-

Gaily, I strutted down the sidewalk, nodding to each policewoman as I passed her. Every time I did, the people around me flinched, but they had nothing to fear; thanks to my wife, I was in no danger of arrest.

I turned a corner that I knew by heart, then turned straight in to pair of grand, black metal double doors.

"Stop where you are," said a voice on a loudspeaker. "State your name and purpose."

"I'm Petrus," I cheerfully returned. "I'm here to see Alicia."

"Oh... hello, Petrus. Come on in."

There was a tremendous rattle, and the doors yawned welcomingly open, groaning as the old hinges faithfully kept to their duty.

I folded my arms behind my back, the way my wife always did, and marched primly into the huge, spotless hallway that led to my wife's workplace.

Up a flight of stairs, I reached a suite equipped with a desk, beside which two lamps stood like loyal guards.

"Mrs. Salkavar," said a voice on a loudspeaker, "your husband is here."

I stood at attention, an eager smile slowly growing on my face. Then, at last, a door in the side of the room opened, and out came my wife.

Her trench coat fluttered behind her like a cape, and her crush cap was askew on her liquid mane of inky black hair. Her boots clopped loudly on the stone floor, and her black leather gloves peeked out from her sleeves.

Beneath her finery, the poor woman looked a mess. Her gait was uneven, her eyes were bloodshot and her forehead glistened with sweat.

"Petrus?" she gasped. "Oh, Petrus, don't do that to me!"

"What?" I asked. "What's wrong? I finished all the housework, dear. Then I got lonely, so... I wanted to come see you."

Her face contorted with pity, and she ran up and threw her arms around me. I returned her embrace, going slowly limp as I felt the smooth leather of her gloves brush softly across my skin.

"Honey," she sighed, "you can't surprise me at work like that."

"What do you mean? The receptionist called ahead."

"You need to call ahead before you come."

I blushed and smiled guiltily. My wife's eyes started to shine with tears and she pressed into me again.

"It's okay," she cooed, "it's okay. Just do it next time, will you?"

"I will."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

There was a pause.

"Dear?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Is... is something wrong? You're shaking."

Even through the padding of her jacket and her overcoat, I could feel that her muscles were as tight as violin strings, and they trembled like an idling engine.

"Yes," she said. "But it's nothing. It's just been a long day."

I backed away a few inches and looked into her eyes. She smiled uncertainly for a few seconds, then, silently, we both dropped the pretense.

"If you want to talk about it," I said, "I'm always ready."

"Thank you, honey. Now, please, go home. I'll be there in just an hour."

I nodded and gave her one more squeeze, then turned and began for the exit.

"Petrus!" came her voice, "one more thing!"

I stopped and turned.

"Please," she intoned, "find someone to drive you home. Don't walk."

"I will, dear."

In the hallway to the sidewalk outside, I prepared to walk home. I knew my wife had forbidden me, but the poor woman was only worrying too much. I was in no danger.

Martha-

"Hey Martha?"

I grunted with discomfort.

"Hey! Martha, wake up!"

I shuffled under the sheets. Then my muscles all contracted at once, then loosened. My eyes rolled open, and I saw Anna standing over me.

All around me, a dozen other resistance fighters shuddered and rose heavily from their beds.

Anna's hand opened in front of me, callused and dressed in a fingerless glove. I took it and braced my arm, and she hauled me to my feet. The cold, rough concrete met my souls, and I was awake.

Anna looked into my eyes, which were at least an inch below hers, and asked, "Are you ready for your first ambush?"

I gathered my bravado and said, "You bet I am!"

Anna nodded with distant approval, then turned around and said, "I like your enthusiasm. Keep it- it'll help you. Just make sure you stay focused."

"Yes!" I protested, "Come on, Anna, I know what to do! Seriously, how long have I been training with you? Like, two months?"

"Calm down, Martha. This is exactly what I was talking about yesterday. You've got to stay collected."

As I followed her to the kitchen, I mumbled, "Screw you too."

Maybe she didn't deserve that, but, damn it, she still didn't trust me. She should have trusted me by now.

Our hideout was an abandoned underground car garage that the government hadn't bothered to demolish. At this floor, we had a few handmade picnic tables spread out in front of a makeshift kitchen. There, the other insurgents and I lined up in front of the counter, where Ernest the cook said 'good luck' under his breath as he handed out cups of his signature ten-minute chili.

Laugh if you want, but it's the best chili I've ever tasted.

Some of the fighters sat down at one of the few ramshackle tables we had in our hideout. I didn't. Instead, I leaned against the wall and tipped the scavenged teapot up to my lips. The Chili burned my mouth as it went down- just how I liked it.

When I finished, most of the others were still halfway through breakfast.

After tossing my cup into Ernest's sink, my eyes adjusted, I found a roomy corner and started practicing my fighting moves.

I faced the wall, placed my feet and brought up my fists. Like a snake's head, one fist darted out, then the other. I brought my fists in and took a step back. By now, any policewoman there would have been coughing up her own teeth.

"Hey," said a smooth male voice.

I looked back. Charles was walking up to me. Charles was the best of our male fighters, and he knew how to look like it. From his slick black boots to his shining knee pads, up his tight, strong legs to his torso, which rippled with muscles, he looked like he could give any woman a run for her money. His vest, made of a cloth base and covered with sewn-on plates of bulletproof plastic armor, gave full view of the muscular grill on his stomach, plus a titillating hint of his pecs. Even in the dim glow of the LED lamps on the walls, I could have sworn I saw his skin glisten.

His face was even better. The arrow-straight edges of his chin converged at a sharp point beneath his gently curved lips, which curled into a confident smirk. His understated nose accented his rich blue eyes, and his thin, straight-edged, obsidian-black eyebrows narrowed into a concentrated stare.

"Why, Charles," I said, with sarcastic formality, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Hey, girl," he whispered, in his deep, clear murmur. "You're getting pretty good. And it looks like we've got a few minutes here before you have to go. What do you say we spar?"

"With you? Are you kidding?"

"What?" he grinned, opening his arms, "don't you want some of this?"

"You're the fifth-best hand-to-hand fighter here," I said. "I'm new."

"What, so you don't think you're ready?"

His eyebrows lifted, and he leaned in close.

"Let me tell you something," he purred, "That's not how it works. You're never ready. So what are you waiting for? Go for it now."

"Alright," I said. "Just... later."

Charles folded his long, thin arms and said, "Fine. We'll do this your way; there's a martial arts tournament this afternoon. Be there."

It wasn't a question; it was a command. Without even waiting for my reply, he turned and sauntered off. The highlights on his tight black pants showed off every contour of his ass.

"Alright," I whispered, "you're on."

In what seemed like just a couple of minutes, the other insurgents finished their breakfast. One by one, each cup slammed down on a table with a dull metallic thunk, and the other women prepared to fight. Anna didn't even have to say anything; she just stood by the exit to the kitchen, and the other fighters and I joined up behind her.

"We're taking two cars on this ambush," said Anna. "Ava, you take the Scorcher, and I want Marcia, Martha and Lara gunning for you. The rest of you, take the Bighorn. I will drive. Does everyone understand?"

A chorus of 'yes sir' broke out, echoing off the concrete walls.

"Good," said Anna. "Good luck, everyone."

Eagerly, the three of us tracked down Ava, then followed her up one more decrepit car ramp and reached the Scorcher.

The Scorcher was a gorgeous beast. Its straight-edged front bumper sloped very slightly back from the center, and down from the lip of the hood. From there, the body subtly angled inward like an hourglass to the back of the front door, then flared back out for the rear, which was equipped with a square-yard rear deck and clinched with a duck-tail spoiler. The cab rose from the rear deck at a shallow angle, like a war bunker, and sloped back down onto the hood at an even shallower gradient. In the rear wheel wells, you could barely see the huge tires peeking out from behind the bulletproof plates that were welded on over them.

The whole vehicle was bathed in blazing orange, accented by black and white highlights on the corners, and bright yellow flames emblazoned the hood and rear flanks. On the narrow front and side of the chassis, the garage girls had painted bright white teeth, like what they used to have on fighter planes.

I smiled. This was one of the perks of fighting the government; the food was crappy, we slept like hoboes and we died all the time, but, until then, we got to ride around the most badass thing on four wheels.

As we stood there, admiring the Scorcher, a few boys lurched after us, hauling backpacks behind them, then slumped their loads on the ground in front of us. Anna mumbled her thanks to them, then dove into the packs and started handing out weapons.

Within the minute, every one of us was armed. I hefted an assault rifle that had been manufactured seventy years ago, but loaded with ammo stolen from a government depot two months ago. I trusted this gun; I had been training with it since practically my first day in the resistance, and, now I was ready to use it. A hunting knife and a machete hung on my bandolier, along with a pair of machine interrupters. I didn't know how they worked, but I knew how to use them; just stick it on some exposed circuitry, twist it and hit the red button on the bottom. The government lab girls did a great job designing these, and our spies had done a great job getting them to us.

Ava popped open the driver's side door and stepped in, and, a moment later, the rest of us lumbered in, rattling softly under the weight of our equipment.

The Scorcher had only one seat. The driver sat in a cheap easy chair welded to the floor, and the rest of us crouched by the thin windows, where we could fire at anything within a 120-degree arc, and duck down when we had to. If we ever had to abandon the machine, all we had to do was stomp on a lever in back, and all four doors would fly open.

The Scorcher was built to fight, just like we were. And now the time had come. Ava pulled a cable beneath the dashboard, and the machine jostled to life with a throaty snarl.

"Anna," said Ava, "you ready?"

Something crackled on the radio.

"Speak up, Ann. I can't hear ya."

"Yes, Ava, we are ready. Lead the way."

"Good. Gate guard, is the coast clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Awesome. Let's roll."

Ava put the pedal to the metal, and, all at once, we exploded into motion.

Petrus-

On my way back home, I heard the authoritative grumble of an armored car behind me. Looking back over my shoulder, I made sure that I was not in the car's way, then dropped it from my mind. A few minutes later, it occurred to me that the engine was still the same distance behind me. I stopped, and the car did likewise. Casually, I turned and walked up to the side of the car. A tiny panel popped open on the thing's impervious, angular exterior, and a helmeted face appeared. The woman's face broadcasted dull surprise; citizens rarely spoke to their protectors directly.

"Do you need something, ma'am?" I asked. "You seem to be following me."

"Keep moving, citizen."

"Fair enough. Pardon the interruption."

I turned and continued on my way, feeling sheepish, only to hear the car continue behind me. I decided to pay it no mind.

Then, in a less populated part of town, the engine revved with sudden power, and the car passed me and stopped in front of me, broadside to me.

"Hands up!" barked a woman.

I started, taken aback, and quickly obeyed. A policewoman emerged from the car, followed by three companions, all of whom shared the same expression of hard-eyed wariness that comes from being hunted by rebels.