Levels of Control Ch. 02

Heather had only a moment to absorb this information before the hatch behind them opened. A shaft of bright light made her wince, and she stepped back into the far wall. She bent and clamped her thighs together, trying to shield her intimacy from view.

The room suddenly filled with men. They were swarthy, muscular Arabs with mustaches, reeking of sweat and maleness. Her overheated body involuntarily surged with new wetness at their proximity. She glanced at Meagan, still seated on the bed, and saw from her anxious expression that she was experiencing the same thing. It was awful, disgusting, and entirely impossible to resist. Her cunt twitched and tingled, stimulating itself with no extra encouragement needed.

As her eyes adjusted, she saw their smiles. They knew. The bastards, they knew what she was feeling. Her fists clenched and strained uselessly at the cuffs holding her wrists.

One of them pointed at her. "You," he said gutterally. "Come with us."

Heather looked at Meagan, who seemed unable to breathe. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, jutting nipples straining at the undershirt fabric. The older woman was feeling the same awful, uncontrollable response to the male nearness.

"I want my clothes," Heather hissed. "And my cell phone."

The men laughed. In the small room the sound was harsh and grating, like braying hyenas. One of them grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the corridor outside. The door slammed shut, leaving Meagan alone again.

She was pushed along ahead of them. The lights were harsh flourescent tubes, and she squinted against their glare. The air smelled of oil, fuel and sweat, male sweat, and she found herself whimpering softly with each step. Her thighs slid together as she walked, lubricated by her own uncontrollable juices.

"Stop here," the man who had spoken in the cell said. She felt hands at her wrists, and suddenly the cuffs were gone. Before she had time to adjust to this, she was shoved into the room ahead. She grabbed the hem of the undershirt and tried to pull it down enough to cover her pubic hair. The knowledge that she could now, in fact, touch those parts of her body that most ached battled with her self-control. Could she really die from an orgasm?

It was a doctor's office, and another with a stethoscope around his neck regarded her coldly. He gestured toward a metal folding chair. "Sit down, please," he said. His accent was much lighter. "I'll be with you in a moment. The rest of you can go."

Her escorts, still snickering, withdrew and closed the hatch behind them, leaving Heather alone with the doctor. He returned his attention to his laptop screen. On it, a video showed the face and bare shoulders of a young woman, whimpering and moaning in apparent sensual arousal. She did not look happy about it, though; in fact, it appeared to terrify her. Her cries were just audible through the tiny speakers.

Heather stepped forward, conscious of her near-nudity, her raging hormones and the fact that she both dreaded and craved the rape she expected soon. She had to fight, to hold out; her office knew where she was, after all. When they learned the ship had departed and she had not returned, it would be the first place they looked. But her aching clit, mere centimeters from the fingertips tugging on the undershirt hem, tingled with the friction of every step.

"What," she said through gritted teeth, "did you bastards do to me?"

The doctor looked up at her with exaggerated, paternal patience. "Do? We took away your clothes, yes, to ensure you would not try to escape. Do not worry, my men are under the strictest orders not to lay a hand on you." He grinned, emphasizing the double meaning in his statement.

"That's not what I meant," Heather said. Her legs were weak and wobbly from his male nearness. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. Why am I so horny?"

The doctor pondered a moment, then deadpanned, "Because you are an American whore?"

Her rage surged up, but before she could express it he reached forward and pinched one nipple through the thin undershirt.

The sensation that rocketed through her, a mix of humiliation and delicious pain, made her fall to the floor with a cry. Her hands involuntarily cupped both breasts, squeezing the aching flesh. She felt a fresh surge of juices wet her inner thighs.

The doctor grabbed one arm and pulled her to her feet. Then he slammed her down into the chair. The metal was cold against her bare buttocks, and she immediately felt her juices pool beneath her. There would be no hiding it when she stood. As she gasped and tried to compose herself, the doctor took her pulse and then bent down to examine her eyes. She felt his rank breath on her face and her clit tingled. She should be fighting, trying to escape, at least trying to learn more about who these people were and where they were taking her. But her body overwhelmed all these considerations.

"Please," she whispered, "tell me. Is it true? Will an orgasm kill me?" She clenched her fists, wanting desperately to either pull this man atop her or fondle her own body. She realized his crotch was at her eye level, and unbidden the sensation of an erection in her mouth rose in her memory. She wanted to feel semen spurt into her mouth, pooling on her cupped tongue. The desire came with no face attached, no previous or fantasy lover, simply the overpowering urge to perform the act. Dear God, what had they done to her?

The doctor stepped away and banged on the door. Heather's gaze was drawn to the girl on the computer screen, writhing and tossing her head in undeniable sensual experience. She was sweating, and crying, an seemed to be begging for something to begin, or stop. Was this live? Was the girl somewhere on the ship? Was this Heather's own future?

The door opened, and the same group of men stepped in. One grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. She felt her butt and thighs slide on the little puddle of sexual juices she left behind. She was forced out the door and back down the same hallway, undeniably back to her cell. Unless, she thought suddenly, these men were taking her somewhere else, to bend her over a desk and ram into her, filling the aching void with hot, rancid cocks and spurts of semen...

She wrung her hands as she walked. She wanted to fondle herself, to lift her aching breasts and feel the slick sides of her vagina as her fingers penetrated it. Once she was back in the cell she doubted she could resist the urge for long. The thought of lightly pinching her swollen, aching clit made her almost moan on the spot. She didn't have to come, she told herself, just the relief of touching her own skin would clear her head. Then she could try and make a plan for escape.

It was only when she reached the cell that she realized she'd made no effort to cover herself this time, that her neat triangle of pubic hair, damp with her juices, had been on display. Before the shame of this could set in, though, her arms were yanked behind her and the cuffs again placed on her wrists.

"What? No! Please, don't do this!" She thrashed madly and tried to kick, but her legs were too wobbly, and she was shoved into the cell again, hands bound behind her back, her clit as out of reach as if she'd worn a chastity belt. The door closed firmly, and she heard the lock click back into place. The dark room smelled of sweat and female arousal.

She rammed her shoulder into the metal and cried, "You motherfuckers, either fuck me or kill me, don't leave me like this!" But there was no answer, not even the mocking laughter.

She sank to the floor, sobbing, until Meagan's trembling voice said, "So they brought you back. I guess they didn't make you come."

END OF PART 2