The Aphrodite Project

Jon tottered back along the leafy path in a daze. Olwen's conduct would get her sacked from an ordinary job. But those rules didn't apply here. If there were a higher, benevolent reason for her behaviour, some sort of method to her sexually aggressive manner, then Jon was eager to know what it was.

Because now it was menacing. There's always a point in a horror film when he told wanted to shout at the screen and tell the protagonist to leave; get away from the haunted house when things start flying around the room, get the wife and kids to safety before it's too late.

But somehow, despite Olwen's cruelty, and swirling doubts, he didn't want to go home. Yes, he was afraid of Olwen, confused by Wyatt and wondering what he had got himself into, but every doubt and fear was numbed by arousal, which combined with pride made Jon feel he could take on anything that came his way. It made him bolder than he thought he could be. He remembered Fournier, the man who was like him but had done something with his life.

He slumped at the bench and downed a serving of gloop as he processed what had happened that day.

Twilight wafted over the woodland, and before long Jon could see small moths flitting outside the transparent panels of the dome's membrane. He relished the silence before the adrenaline and ardure of exercise with Jennifer.

It was mere minutes before she arrived briskly, eyeing Jon with caution, in a way she had never done before. She paused to enter something into the console and grunted tetchily. She was normally so blithe and chipper, but she looked like something was on her mind. Jon barely felt like he knew who she was, despite all the hours they had spent together. It wasn't like Alice; Jennifer kept Jon firmly behind a wall of sterile professionalism. He kept silent.

As she fiddled with the touchscreen, a hatch door swung silently open from the floor near where Jon was sitting. He peered inside with wonder and saw heavily-padded red equipment.

"It's for sparring. This stuff is very protective. You won't feel a thing."

There were gloves, chest protection that covered his throat, a head-guard with a mesh mask, and there were pads for the arms, feet, thighs, crotch and knees.

"Slip it on and we'll get going."

Her manner was snappy and impatient. This wasn't like her.

The gear had looked cumbersome, but when it was on his body he felt less inhibited than he expected; his arms and legs had a free range of motion and he was light on his feet. Whatever it was, this was expensive stuff. He jabbed his chest and felt nothing.

Jennifer was tying her sandy hair back into a tight ponytail, before swiftly donning the protection with ease of an experienced hand, her slender spandex-clad limbs sliding into the armour one by one.

Before long they were facing each other in the exercise area.

"We're not sparring here. There are no rules. The game is to fuck the other person up."

Jon would have thought that she was playing with him, but Jennifer wasn't much of a joker. He was at a loss to understand what was happening. Jennifer twisted so that she sideways on, smoothly adopting a guard position. Jon had no idea what to do, and remained square, standing back on his heels. Martial arts were for the movies, and he was expecting her to coach him a little. So naturally he was unprepared for what came next. His eyes casually followed Jennifer as she stooped, dropping her head towards the mat and spinning the ball of her right foot.

He had no idea that her left foot was flying towards his head at great speed. It slammed into his protective gear, which shielded the blow but not the shock. Jon was lifted off his feet and landed flat on his back. He was still wondering what had just happened when Jennifer's knee came crashing down on his chest. He winced at the blow and caught sight of her face above him, determined and snarly. She pulled away, giving him the chance to rise to his feet.

"You have to defend yourself, or you're going to have a horrible time. This stuff will absorb the blows, but you'll feel it after a while."

"I won't hit you", Jon protested.

"I doubt you'll get close enough", taunted Jennifer "Come on, I'm a big girl."

Jon rose weakly, and then did his best to get into a defensive posture. She attacked again, her fist driving into his shoulder, followed instantly by the sole of her foot clipping the top of his head gear. He tottered back, almost unable to keep his footing. Each blow was like an insult; a breach of the trust that he was placing in her, and making him angrier.

But he remained passive, and tried his best to stand guard. Jennifer waited for him to attack, and when he refused she tilted her head as if to say, "OK, you asked for it", licence granted for another volley. She crouched, kicking his shin with a downward motion, and when her feet were planted her head dropped back. Jon stared in wonder as she sprang a backflip, bringing first one foot and then the other into sharp contact with the underside of his head-guard.

Jon's legs went out from under him, and he stayed there kneeling lazily on the floor, helpless and exposed to Jennifer. She danced, as if to tease him. Jon got up shakily. He was getting beaten up here. Pride told him to fight back.

In blind panic, he struck out. But because he had so little experience and his sense of equilibrium was off-kilter, Jennifer could anticipate his attacks with embarrassing ease. He lunged clumsily with both arms, with the vague aim of tackling her and pinning her to the ground. Jennifer just ducked, using Jon's own momentum to send him sprawling to the ground. The creeping panic had raised his heartbeat and quickened his breaths, and his energy drained quickly.

Her counter blows were less punishing, as if she were rewarding his aggression, and she patronised him with praise for each failed assault. Drunk, Jon had no idea how exhausted this was making him. In his addled mind he saw Jennifer's arrogance as a weakness and steeled himself for once last blow. He wanted to show her he'd had enough, and assert a manly superiority over this younger woman.

Jon roared, which was his first mistake, and charged naively at Jennifer, swinging a fist towards her head. Jennifer's reaction was so nonchalant it punctured his pride completely. She dodged and crouched, grabbing Jon's hand and guiding him over her shoulder, flipping him into a vulnerable, supine position once more. She mounted his chest, pinning his arms down with her shins and removing his faceguard.

Jon tried to push her off, but had no strength left and could only stare up with the last vestiges of defiance he could summon. It had been sapped by his frantic attempts to overcome her. As the sense of panic subsided, his helplessness and her dominance aroused him. He felt her weight on his chest, and could sense her body tightening and relaxing with each breath.

Without speaking Jennifer removed her gloves and brought a hand up to his face, idly stroking his cheeks with her forefinger. Jon began to cave to her dominance, as her finger traced his eyes and nose before gliding down to his closed mouth. She ran it along his lips and started to press. He saw her freckled face gripped in mischievous fascination. Now Jennifer started to push two fingers into Jon's mouth. Instinctively he resisted and clasped his lips together. Jennifer giggled and pinched his nose.

Already out of breath, it was seconds before Jon was gasping, and the rush of oxygen sent a wave of pleasure through his body. No sooner was his mouth open it was filled by Jennifer's fingers, slipping back and forth over his tongue.

"Suck them.", she ordered coldly, and Jon obeyed, and each time they filled his mouth he could sense his cock growing even more rigid. She probed his mouth over and over, before finally pulling her wet fingers away and languidly wiping his saliva on his cheek.

"I can do this to you any time I want. Remember that."

She got up and Jon, still flat out, lifted himself felt himself onto his elbows to see what she was doing. When, with relief, he saw that she was changing out of her gear and getting ready to leave, he collapsed onto his back and promptly passed out.

He woke again to see Alice above him.

Wordlessly she helped him to his feet and stripped him, efficiently removing each piece as he leant against her and stowing it away in the compartment. "She beat me - she bullied me, and I liked it", Jon confessed drunkenly. Alice didn't seem surprised.

Pulling his arm over her shoulder she manoeuvred him onto the bench and gave him some water. He recovered his senses in phases, and when he was almost lucid once more Alice reached into a handbag and pulled out a deck of cards. Jon was incredulous.

"I'm not sure I feel like playing cards right now-"

Alice cut him off. "I have to insist. We need to check you're OK."

"It's simple 21, or blackjack. I'll make it easy for you - just stick or twist."

Jon shifted in his seat, reluctantly acquiescing, comforted that Alice at least, had his best interest at heart. She shuffled the pack like a Las Vegas dealer and laid a card down with a delicately manicured finger.

"Just tell me stick or twist."

Jon drew seven. Alice drew 10.

"Twist"

Two

Alice drew a queen.

"Twist"

Four

"Twist"

King, and bust.

Jon lost the next hand, and the next one. On the fourth he grew impatient and was intently focussed on the game. His luck improved, and he started scoring in the high teens, but each time Alice managed to trump him. By the seventh hand he was suspicious that the deck was rigged and looked through the pack before shuffling it meticulously. But he continued losing.

By the tenth Jon was chasing losses and making rash decisions, playing the smallest percentages to get closer to 21 than Alice. By 12th hand he had all but given up, and by the 15th he was starting to come around to the idea of losing. Alice, who had been quiet up to this point, was now starting to chime in sympathetically. "Ooh, you were so close that time." "Jon, you didn't think that one through, did you?"

After a while Jon wanted to lose. He enjoyed being patronised and humiliated. It seemed insane to him that he could lost so many hands, even to someone who was clearly more intelligent. "Yes, she must be some kind of genius", he thought. Internally he bowed to her greater intellect.

Soon Alice started laughing. A melodic, teasing laugh, and Jon was in no doubt that he was the butt of the joke. Almost delirious, Jon was now spurting out random calls. Twisting on 20, sticking on four. And with each ridiculous mistake Alice was increasingly amused, her breasts bouncing as she laughed, and those round eyes gradually became wet with tears.

Jon laughed too. As with his bout against Jennifer he felt comfortable in defeat. Not only had he stopped trying to win, he was now trying to lose, without realising.

When the game drew to a hysterical close, Alice reproached him, "You weren't even trying at the end there, were you? Do you want to lose so to make me feel better?"

"I don't think so. I just don't know what happened. I think I was trying my hardest."

"Well then, it's OK to feel comfortable losing, if you trust that the person beating you is superior. You're a smart guy - I know your background. One of the benefits of this program is that it will help you find your place in the world. Once you know that, you'll begin to thrive."

Jon had often confided in Alice, complaining at turns about Lauren's mystery and Olwen's cruelty. But tonight he was distracted by the intrigue of Wyatt, the wristwatch on the branch and the second dome, and Olwen's strange advances earlier in the day. He could live with fear and uncertainty if it was joined by excitement. The thrill of losing control, and being accelerated on a ride to where? He kept his thoughts to himself, and they chatted warmly into the night.

Lauren didn't show that night, leaving Jon to make his own way to his pod for the first time. He climbed in, and the transparent hood descended above him. He heard Lauren's voice "five", which gave him a start. In the cramped space he rolled to work out where it was coming from "four", and when he found the source, a small speaker behind his head "three". Dread took over, and he tried to push against the glass "two". But no sooner had he lifted his arms, they fell back by his side "one". The last image in his awake mind was Olwen propped on her desk as she teased him.

9

"Olwen" was the rootlet that undulated down easily from the waking world into a lucid dreamscape, Jon held on as he went under and found himself on a plush spiral stairway bordered by golden handrails. He was wearing a tuxedo, and noticed how dashing he appeared, hair-parted and clean-shaven, in the mirrors that lined the walls.

The broad steps had the absurdly shallow incline of the staircase in the house. Jon had to take three silent strides for each decrement, but he took them steadily down into what he perceived to be a dark hallway, still unseen below. Up the stairwell wafted a feminine voice, resonant yet breathy and light.

"Don't slip, Jon."

Slipping on this scarlet rug would be impossible. And, so what if he fell? He'd still be on the same step. There was no danger. As he considered this truth he noticed that his shoes were missing, and looking back he could see them several steps above and around the curve.

"Forget about those. Keep walking, but don't slip."

He pulled one foot up to touch the material of his sock, but this was gone now, and turned just in time to see one settle in place two steps behind. Refocusing on his course down the stairs he observed the carpet's fabric change from red velvet pile to taught red satin.

"Watch yourself", the voice warned playfully.

"OK, the satin is smoother, especially in barefoot, but the slope is so gentl-"

His heart fluttered as his foot skimmed across the next step, which angled downwards, and Jon lunged for the security of the handrail. The task had become more difficult, but if he could keep his mind on it he would find out what woman wanted in the hallway. He wondered who she was, and rebuked himself that it should take him so long to realise it was Olwen.

"Of course!"

"Don't slip."

It was warmer. The air, which had been dry and had the opulent aroma of a stately home, was now balmier, more organic. He knew the smell intimately from Kathy, and the time he'd spent buried between her legs. The memories fired numbed strobes of excitement down his body, which gathered busily in his tumid penis.

"Keep your balance." The voice quivered.

"Stop distracting me.", he called back, starting to fluster.

Another step, with the safety of the handrail—which was dripping wet. He held up his hand and slicked the clear mucus between his index finger and thumb. Jon pushed forward, barefoot down the sloping satin stairway. Leading with his right foot for traction.

"Hurry up now."

Without reasoning why, Jon took a spontaneous stride forward and his foot gave when it touched something slicker than satin. What was this? Latex? It was more lustrous, silkier and ten times more treacherous to negotiate as the filmy liquid from the handrail was dappled on the floor too. The stairway now resembled more a ramp with fine ridges. It was softer than before; Jon's feet made indentations in a springy material that glossed like a wet balloon under the uncertain pressure of his steps.

"Faster now."

Bounding forward, Jon could not understand why he followed the voice's orders so readily. He considered turning back, but just the gesture made him feel like a drunkard teetering on an ice-rink, ready to fall at the slightest nudge. The idea that he shouldn't listen to the voice; that he was getting played for a chump turned him on violently, and he looked down to see his cock bolt upright, perilously exposed from its trousers and underwear.

"Don't stop." the voice called pleadingly. Now not so gossamer, but pleasured and authoritative, channelled directly through his ears and resounding in his core. He pushed off carelessly from his left foot and tottered forward onto fleshy white skin, lubricated by sweat and arousal. Looking down, he could see that the way ahead was suddenly precipitous; a narrow hollow occluded from two sides two soft, slick mounds that pressed together pleasingly to form a profound cleavage. Olwen's cleavage. The handrail was long gone, replaced by a length of rope that dangled from a distant ceiling. Jon was trapped, ankle deep in the crevasse.

"Let go. Don't stop." The voice responded.

Jon tried to find some purchase, but was rapidly engulfed to his knees, slipping jerkily down to his waist, the back of his penis pressed lasciviously against the smooth, spongy tissue. With a jolt he was up to his chest, restrained and compressed on both sides by endless breasts, the rope was about to slip through his fingers. He had just a second to gasp and was gone, flopping down between soft, wet tits, held in line but feeling just enough friction to elicit a sensation of unbearable pressure growing beneath his cock.

"Don't stop. Yes, Jon. Yes." The demands were now ecstatic, urgent cries, repeating over and over and rippling through his body.

The wall of the cleavage was tight against his tumescence, but couldn't prevent him pouring through its infinite, silky clutches. Inevitable, unstoppable and building constantly as he slipped down through Olwen's limitless, glabrous cleavage. The pleasure was relentless. Nothing could stop what was coming.

His voice chimed in agony with Jennifer, and a ballistic missile of cum surged from his cock blasting him into wakefulness. He was still at the peak when he woke, grinding his body into the bed long after the dreamscape had melted away. After driving himself recklessly into his costume for what felt like hours, he collapsed, spent in a pool of his juices, with consciousness a forgotten notion until daylight.

This dream would remain permanently vivid in his mind. As Jon got up, bewildered, he expected an ache in his crotch, the kind that often followed a large ejaculation. But there was none; when he pulled his hand down to touch his penis it became lewdly, unapologetically hard.

"Not safe". He remembered hearing Lauren's voice before he fell asleep. And it hadn't been the first time. Jon felt he owed it to the part of his mind that still listened to reason - a corner of his being that felt violated and scared - to get to the bottom of this, and planned the day ahead, making sure to find Wyatt at 12.

He breezed distractedly through a session with Jennifer, who was now back to her old self. "That time of the month?", he wondered as his body responded, detached, to each command to jump, squat and stretch. When she was gone he recovered the wristwatch. It was 11:30. He clutched it in his hand as he paced around anxiously inside the dome, before making the trip to meet his appointment, heart pounding. He traced the outline of exterior up to the metallic box and struggled through the foliage to the clearing.

The glade was as silent as the day before. He crawled through the undergrowth until he found the spot they had been in the day before, where the was grass was still flattened. He looked at the watch. It was 12:02, and Wyatt hadn't shown. He waited. It was a mild, grey day. Not quite warm enough to stay still in his outfit. By 12:15 he was impatient, which made him undaunted. He lifted his head and saw that the dome was empty. He weighed his options and noted the risk - some unknown danger that had spooked Wyatt - but the seed of curiosity had already been planted by the day before.

He wriggled through the long grass and took another look at the dome. There was no sign of anyone, inside or out. Jon took a deep breath, picked himself up and approached the door, which opened silently.