The Twighlight Zone Ch. 04

I heard her return a few minutes later. If my traitorous cock had gone limp at all while she was gone, it more than returned to fully erect when she came in. Dressed neck to toe in a white cyre' catsuit, she looked the picture of kinky sex. White leather spike heeled boots adorned her feet, and white latex gloves adorned her hands. Her nipples stood erect through cutouts designed to show them off, and the lips of her pussy showed through the cutout between her legs. I was a bit dumbstruck, and simply stared.

"My, you look good enough to eat. No, don't say anything, just relax and enjoy. In fact, I don't want to here a word from you." She leaned over and took off my glasses, then reached under the bed at the side, and when I saw what she pulled out I started to buck frantically to get away. The strap around my balls and the tightened scarves at my ankles abruptly reminded me of my predicament, just in case I had forgotten. Knowing full well my helplessness, Tara took the black leather hood she had pulled out and wiggled it over my head, cinching it tight behind my head and under my chin. The hood had cutouts for eyes and mouth, but the nose was so firm against my own I couldn't breath that way. When I made the mistake of opening my mouth to protest she promptly filled it with a large pacifier shaped gag, which velcroed in place. The inside of the gag was big enough that I couldn't move my tongue, but was perforated at the front so that I could breathe. I tried to express my desperation and uneasiness with what she had just done, but managed only to get out some incomprehensible grunts. Then she undid the cock strap.

"That's better. Now, before we begin, let's set a few ground rules. One - I do to you what I want, when I want, and you accept, willingly or not. Hmm. Guess that about covers it." With that she moved back down to my now red prick and took it into her hands. She wrapped her left hand around the shaft and began to fondle my balls with her right as she stroked up and down. She must have felt me about to explode because she stopped and gripped my dick so tight that I couldn't cum. "Something's wrong here. I know!" She waited a few seconds to make sure I was relaxed enough so that I wouldn't cum, then dropped my cock and jumped of the bed and went back into the hallway, out of my sight. When she returned I saw that she carried a small spray can, a cup, a small bottle, and a large towel. She put the can, the cup and something else down on the ground at the foot of the bed and started wedging the towel under my legs from ankles to hips. "Cream can get so messy, you know." Cream? As in whipped cream? This was definitely getting different. I was starting to hyperventilate, and had to concentrate to calm my breathing. Visions of her suddenly pulling out an icepick and perforating my chest danced through my head.

She leaned off the edge of the bed and I heard the spray can. When she came back up her hand was filled with a large mound of foamy cream, which she proceeded to rub all over my cock and through my pubic hair. By the time she was finished the cool cream covered me from hips to knees. "Ready for the big surprise?"

What next? Chocolate syrup and a cherry?

Tara leaned back off the bed and came back up with a ten-pack of razors. My eyes must have bugged out in surprise because when she looked up she started to laugh. "Always did hate those pesky hairs getting in the way. Don't move; I don't want to cut you. Considering how much blood you have flowing down there, you would probably bleed out in thirty seconds or so." With that, she proceeded to shave my lower body clean. When she was done my body stung from the effects of the razors, but I was hairless. She went into the bathroom and came back with a washcloth and cleaned me up, then picked up the small bottle and poured oil into her hand. "This should help things from rubbing raw now that all that hair is gone." If I thought I was hard before, I now had a piece of steel growing from my groin as her hands made quick work of making me slick and slippery. She removed the towel and climbed on the bed again, straddling me.

"Guess I owe you a good fuck now." I could still protest. I wasn't going to be forced into adultery without putting up a fight, academic as it may have been, and violently shook my head 'no'.

"Oh? Consider yourself pretty well fucked already, don't you?" She smiled enough at her joke that I didn't have to respond.

"Tell you what," she said, as she reached over my head and grabbed something, which she pushed into the outside of the pacifier gag. "I'm in need of a model for some pieces I am working on. I'll give you one hell of a blow job right now, and in exchange you give me seven more of your Wednesdays to do with you as I wish. No harm will come to you, your wife will never know anything more than she knows now. You'll get to experience some great sex. And if you're really good, I'll give you your wedding ring back." With that, she lifted up my ring in front of my face. She must have taken it when I took it off for my shower! "Or - you could get up right now and leave. Which is it?"

Now, I think that if I had ever found myself in this position when I was younger and not married, I might have looked at things differently. But as far as I was concerned, at that very moment, I was trapped by some psycho out of some fantastic nightmare. The constant teasing and happy talk on her part was pushing me over the edge.

I was going to be as stubborn as a mule, despite the obviousness of my predicament. I shook my head 'no' again, and let out a few pleading grunts. She looked at me as if waiting for me to do something else. As if I was physically able. "You don't seem to be leaving, so I'll take that as a 'yes - I will stay'. Good. Now, I have a special kind of blow job in mind for you, and I am willing to bet your freedom on it. If you can cum without passing out, I'll let you go. If not, well, I'll take that as an acceptance on your part to help me out with my special project. Grunt once if you think you can handle those parameters."

I grunted once. In reality, though, I knew there was no chance for me. There never had been, not since I agreed to the racquetball game.

"Alan, see how easy things are when you cooperate? Of course, I will need a little help. There is no telling how accomplished you may be at not passing out from an orgasm."

Who ever heard of somebody actually passing out from an orgasm?

"Better hold your breathe." She reached behind the pillows and turned something and suddenly there was something flowing in through the gag. I closed my mouth tight and pressed my tongue over the perforations to try to keep the gas out. I didn't remember her saying anything about gassing me.

"Alan, I've always prided myself on my sexual abilities. Let's see if I still have what it takes." Her hands once again enveloped my oil covered cock. I closed my eyes and concentrated on cuming before the gas knocked me out. One of Tara's hands started to massage my ass and balls as the other pumped up and down my shaft, teasing and tickling my manhood like her life depended on it.

That's when I realized the deviousness of the whole situation. The rush of blood in my body due to the handjob would use oxygen faster and force me to breathe, while holding my breathe actually prolonged the onset of the orgasm. My head started to spin as my tongue weakened. The gas and the approaching orgasm had there effect. My breathing got heavier, forcing more of the unknown gas into my lungs, and the room seemed to spin around me. My body bucked as I came, and Tara directed the tip off my cock towards my face. She deftly continued stroking with one hand while she picked up the small cup with her other.

Cum erupted from my cock in the most intense orgasm I had had in months. One hand stroked my now twitching cock while her other held steady to catch shot after shot of my ejaculate. Seconds later the gas had it's intended effect and I faded from consciousness. Just before I passed out, I thought I heard her say, "Aw, too bad" in that slight English accent.

* * * * * * * * * *

In my mind I saw myself, an observer in my own life. I saw my wife as she was when we first met; plain yet attractive, and how she changed through the years of our relationship. Our wedding day, the two years since, the changes in her and the changes in me. I had changed, too.

Things had slowed for us, become routine. Sex happened once or twice a month if our schedules meshed perfectly. Nights of passion were interspersed with art shows, odd jobs, racquetball games, and her choir practice. In fact, we hardly saw each other during most evenings; I played racquetball Monday and Thursday and had a regular art opening on Tuesdays, and she had choir on Wednesdays. Weekends were spent visiting relatives, doing housework, or simply recovering from the week. It was one particular art show that stood out in my head, and the racquetball game the following night that put me where I was now.

I met Tara Worthington at one of those art openings. I was there to write a review and hopefully get some insight into the artist, she was there as the artist. She was attractive by all accounts. Long curly black hair framed a perfect face with full lips and blue eyes; she was short next to me, her firm five-four frame dwarfed by my lanky six-four.

But while I found her attractive, I was not the type of guy that gets into the panties of every woman he meets. Heck, I'm not the type that even *tries* to get into the panties of every woman he meets. Instead, I was the stable type. Tried and true. Faithful to the end, if only given the chance.

Tara and I got to talking about things, such as her sculptures (mostly wrought iron and mannequin parts), my racquetball, and the world in general. Finally, we decided to take the interview a little further, and play a game the next night. I thought it would give me a chance to get to know the artist better, and that always makes for a better article. I wasn't sure what she had in mind then, but If I knew then what was to be the result of the game, I probably would have given up the sport.

My mind drifted towards more recent memories, of a day and time close at hand. I felt myself sitting on our couch, watching TV during a rainstorm. If you could call it watching. Mostly I just sat there, remote control in hand, and flipped through the channels. On rainy days like this, that was all there was to do. That, or read the porn on the internet. I had collected over three thousand sex stories, and the number grew daily. Masturbation was one of the few outlets I had anymore, and the drop in my marital sex life drew me there often. Too often. So channel flipping became my new baseline alternative.

My wife came in to remind me to pick up lottery tickets on the way to my game that night. She was always playing the lottery. She said we would hit the big one some day - the Super Seven - and we could both retire. Retired at thirty, to do what ever we wanted, when we wanted, with no ties to anybody. Only in my dreams. She put on her coat over the suitably frumpy outfit she wore, kissed my forehead goodbye, and walked out the door to the garage. She loved me, and I her, but whereas I felt I hadn't changed much physically in the eight years since we'd met, she had put on weight. That, when combined with career problems and extracurricular lives, had killed our sex life and was stagnating our marriage. She wasn't happy with the way she looked, and when she wasn't happy, I wasn't happy.

Any of you in a long term relationship know what I am talking about.

Soon after she left, I went upstairs and changed into shorts and T-shirt for that night's game. Tara Worthington would either be easy kill or impossible to beat; I couldn't seem to find a player in the middle. Not that it made much difference. Just to see her in shorts would be enough to keep my masturbation fantasies going for weeks.

All this began to fade from my mind as the drug-fog lifted from my mind.

My eyes fluttered open once or twice, and tried to adjust to the bright light which surrounded me. As I awoke, I took mental stock of everything I could feel or sense. Arms straight out, fingers spread apart and held by some force. Body horizontal, head restrained by a strap over the forehead and another under the chin but over the neck. Another strap just above the knees, and another over the ankles. I flexed muscles or twitched limbs to gain information. If there was any chance of me escaping from where I was, I would need as much information concerning my situation and location as possible.

"Wakey, wakey, Alan. Glad to have you back."

It washer, Tara Worthingtom.

I tried to reply, but found that my mouth had been gagged with a dental dam. "Alan, I am so happy! Everything worked out just as I had planned. You have just become part of my latest art project. Tonight was only the first part, of course, and you've passed with flying colors. I realize that you'll have to get back to your darling wife soon, so I'll make this quick."

I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. She was still in the white catsuit, gloves, and boots, but now had a white lab technicians jacket over top.

"You will follow my directions for the next six Wednesday nights, and will follow all my orders. If you don't," she said, as she made a motion out of my view, "you'll experience a little discomfort." I saw her press a button on what looked to be a remote control, and a searing pain went through my cock and balls, centered at the base. I screamed into the gag, and tears fell from my eyes. It felt like a red hot poker had been shoved down inside my penis and swirled around for effect. It lasted for only a moment, but that was two moments too long.

"That was a low level. Imagine what could be done at a higher level. Disobey me, Alan, and you won't have to imagine. I'm very serious when it comes to my art." She removed the gag and head straps, and I immediately looked down at my cock. I saw nothing that wasn't there normally. Still missing was my pubic hair, and that was a little odd to me. I couldn't remember the last time there were no shrubs around the tree.

"What did you do to me? Why are you doing this to me? Why?" I blurted out, unable to control myself.

"Well Alan. I can call you Alan, can't I? I know that I was a little forward, calling you by your first name all this time, but I thought that under the circumstances, we were close enough that I could call you 'Alan'. Well, I did a little research into your life. Quite a fascination you have with the internet. Evidently you have saved over 3000 sex stories from the web. I, too, get a lot of my ideas from the internet. Female dominance, bondage, all the fun stuff. The predominant theme which also runs through those stories you saved. Which is why, when I was searching for a suitable subject, your name popped up. I simply tagged a few stories on a site I use, and watched to see who took the bait."

She paused for effect. "As the saying goes, 'be careful what you wish for, even if it's in your dreams. You may get it.' Well Alan, you're gonna get it." She got up and started to untie my legs.

I noticed for the first time the shape and color of the room. All white, circular, and almost antiseptic in nature. A large electronic device shaped like a mixing board, hooked to a computer and a rack of components. A distinctive smell made of a mix of alcohol and cooked rubber.

"Why?"

"You are an experiment, Alan. A work of art in progress. A piece of Female Domination art."

Just my luck, to meet a 'Fatal Attraction' psycho. My head started to spin again from her revelation.

"Before I let you up, I want to warn you that to try to harm me would be very stupid and even more painful. You would live out your days wishing for death, the pain would be so great. All I ask for is a few evenings of your time. After that, any involvement I have in your life will be at your discretion. And I promise you that your wife will be as ignorant of our get-togethers when we are done as she is now. Unless you tell her, that is."

I started to get up, but by fingers were still tied down. "Do you mind?"

"As I said, don't do anything foolish." She pressed another button on the remote control, and my hands were suddenly free. I tried to get up, but my head spun, and as soon as I moved any of my muscles, my entire body ached like I had a bad sunburn. I decided to lie down for a few more minutes.

"The pain you feel is part of my project. I've laced your body with a crystal neurotransmitter, just under the surface of the skin. It covers nearly your entire body, a little less on your scalp, but it isn't easy working around all that hair. Now you know why I shaved you. The crystals are not noticeable but they are permanent; the skin sensitivity you feel is from their implantation, and will pass in a day or two. It's sort of an invisible tattoo.

"By themselves the crystals do nothing. However, they are linked by means of your own nerve synapses, creating a receiving net which covers your entire body. They are attuned to a set of oscillating high frequencies to this remote. When connected to another set of liqui-crystals, they will transmit electrical signals directly to nerve centers, allowing you to experience sensations through external media. What this means to you, my little confused friend, is that I can, with the help of my other toys, make you feel the rush of water, or the touch of a rose, or the pain of fire. This is all part of one of my artistic experiments, and you were lucky enough to be chosen. Don't you feel proud?"

I tried again to get up, and it didn't work. "Excuse me for being a little dense, but I was recently drugged. What the HELL is going on?"

She walked over to a small table and picked up a tube of some sort of gel, squeezed some into her hand, and rubbed it over my chest. She returned to the table and picked up two small objects, about the size of bean bags, and came back to me. "Do you like breasts, Alan? You know, tits? Something nice to suck on, a female erogenous zone, a sex object? Well, tell me what you think about these." She first pushed one onto my chest (which I noticed was shaved clean), centering my nipple into a small indentation on the back of the small falsey, then did the other. They were small and flesh colored, and would have been less than a half handful. Wiping what was left of the goop off her hand, she picked up the remote, and pressed a number of buttons.

The remote hummed for a second, then let out a beep. A wave of tingling swept across my chest, and before my eyes the fake breasts became part of my chest. "Hey! Wait a minute! What do you think you're doing?" She just smiled, and pressed a few more buttons on the remote. I got up and, still stumbling, tried to reach Tara. The control hummed, then beeped again. My new chest expanded greatly, now to a c-cup, standing high and firm. The weight threw me off balance, and I fell to the carpeting. Tara walked over to me, and smiled at my dilemma.

"My prosthetics are composed of a number of different crystals, which can simulate the feel of nearly any material, including skin. Once activated, the prosthetics integrate themselves with the crystal neuro-network. By exchanging moisture from the surrounding air and chemicals from the dead skin on which it lies, it can expand or contract as required. In effect, I can sculpt your body into anything I want, as long as it is skin tight. Like give you the kind of tits you always wanted in a girl."

"Please don't do this to me..."

"Oh Alan, so predictable. I'm not doing this on a permanent basis to you. The way this works will be simple. I've given you a small ring of extra skin around the base of your genitals. That was what caused you the pain. Follow my directions, and in a few weeks I'll take it off. Try to remove it yourself, or to have anybody else remove it, and the results will be painful and permanent. So calm down, please."