Arkapeligo- Rising

by Ma West

  Chapter 1

  No Tip

  At last, the moment had arrived. Her lips moistened, her shoulders perched, and her thighs tightened. This was what made it all worthwhile. The control, the mastery, and the excitement were all hers to command. When she said go, the one would go. When she said come, the one would come. To the baroness, all the people here were her play toys—such was the power of this place.

  They came in with the money, the fantasy, and the desire, but it was she who held the reins. The authority to decide who, which, and when was her untenable ace in the hole. The toughest, most decisive man would drop to his knees and beg when she held the fantasy so tantalizingly close yet so far out of reach. That was the experience she craved above all others. The leverage to conduct people, their purposes, and their methods was the strongest of all climaxes. Like a play written and performed live in her domain, the action flowed, with scenes being altered, edited, expanded, and revised in ways that she deemed fit until, at last, she released her dominance and sent them on their way.

  There were, of course, always exceptions, and she took a deep breath as she watched one of those exceptions walk in her front door. In truth, he wasn’t any different than the other johns who visited her establishment, well other than the fact he never tipped. Yet to her, there was something unspeakable, almost alien about him. It was more than just his spacey innocent look, but it was too hard to put into words what it was about him.

  He lounged about, waiting patiently to be tended to, wearing that dopey aloof expression. She pushed the call button for the girls she thought would be suitable. These girls were more than her employees; they were her family. It was only with their collective help that she was able to rise to her position. However, as she pressed each button now, she felt herself cursing them. It was this man—this loser of a man—who excited her emotions and genitals, and she hated herself for it. But she shoved her irrational jealousy aside, slipped into character, and headed toward the lobby.

  At last, the moment had arrived. His lips moistened, his mouth salivated, and his pants bulged. This was the experience he desired above all others. The so-called climax was nothing more than an ending and a transition on to the next. No, the physical enjoyments were nothing but a follow-through to the climax of the mind—a climax brought on not by touch but by power. The power to control people, their purpose, and their methods was the strongest of all hormones. Like a play written and performed live in his mind, the action flowed, with scenes being altered, edited, expanded, and revised in a battle between the actors and writers until, finally, the culmination erupted into the ejaculation of a perfect moment.

  He downed the last of his drink and grabbed another from a passing waitress, who flirtatiously slid her hips into him. As a routine, alcohol was not on the agenda, but he needed to loosen up. There had been occasions in the past when, as the fantasy was building, an outside thought imposed itself and destroyed that perfect moment, which could be quite an expensive embarrassment. The thoughts about his daughter were most deadly—the fact that she would have been the same age as the employees, had she still been around, sometimes acted as such a trigger. Alcohol, he had found through trial and error, proved the best at subduing these intruders. And the positive physical effect also added value to the evening.

  The baroness, a tightly shaped woman with a sharp face and a commanding posture, approached and wrapped her arms around him. Grabbing the back of the head, she pulled him in and passionately kissed him. “You are going to like these girls. They know how to please a man,” she looked deep into his eyes, “as dignified as such.”

  This was why he had come here. Other establishments had mistaken his preferences, recruiting unfortunately young employees. Those places never saw his business, or any business, ever again. The baroness knew—she understood. It was never about the physical. Youthful optimism was his aphrodisiac. It was about the trains of thought, the curiosity to explore and see everything, and the arrogance to believe it could be done. The baroness only recruited professionals, girls not only smart enough to hold a conversation but perceptive enough to shift moods and emotions to match the situation. Their professionalism brought confidence, which was an adequate replacement for youthful arrogance and curiosity, and having an explorative nature was easy enough to fake, if so instructed.

  Just as easy to fake, he thought, were power and status. That’s what this place was, an adult playground—one full of role-playing children seeking out the exploration of a life lived only in a dream. He was no stranger to this, and neither were the employees. Every client had a backstory, a tale of sorrow for the self-pitying, a tale of adventure for the insecure, a web of deception and betrayal for those who had betrayed. As for the employees, money had always been seen as the quick street out of their childhood neighborhoods, a replacement for a missing father figure, or the next hit of addiction, whether it be physical or emotional.

  His story, well he just made sure not to tell his story.

  The lighting in the room shifted as if calling them to attention. A group of nine women walked in a chaotic cluster, as schoolchildren might do after their lessons on a summer day. Some of the girls held hands and whispered into an adjoining ear. It was well choreographed, as none went too far with it. There was no chasing or childish behavior. It was erotic.

  The baroness found him sometime later. He sat alone in the locker adjacent to the shower, his back toward her. Her eyes carefully examined him—for what, she wasn’t sure. She took a deep breath and nearly wondered aloud what it was about him that made her so interested. He was like most other men, scared and unaware of what they really wanted. She had seen it in his eyes as well as in a hundred others’, the reflection of emptiness, an emptiness that they tried and failed to fill with shallow pursuits.

  She waved off the two security guards who were accompanying her. They protested with a stern glance, as it was a strict matter of protocol that she be escorted during all collections. Again she waved them off, using her shoulder and hips to reinforce the message. It would be her job if something were to happen, as her bosses were very unforgiving people. Yet she was still unable to stop herself. She closed her eyes, put herself into character, and stepped forward.

  “You must be quite the man. It’s not often the girls ask me about a customer. Seems you have made an impression.” If she startled him, he gave no impression. She approached quickly, wrapped her legs around his waist, and sat firmly on his crotch. It was a move she had performed many times. In addition to distracting the customers, who usually didn’t take well to security, it placed her in a position of control. She grabbed his shirt and worked on the buttons.

  “Only you, my dear, could make me so happy to hand over all my money.” He spoke in a playful tone, but his words always seemed to carry a deeper message just outside her grasp. He ran his hands up her back, exciting parts that should not be.

  She smelled his neck, sucking in his aroma. The lusty leftover pheromones from the girls snapped her back into work mode. It was a smell she was quite familiar with. No matter how hard they washed afterward, she could still always find the smell. Normally it didn’t bother her, but on him, now it bothered her greatly.

  “It’s not money, dear. It’s just a median. We scratch a little of yours. You scratch a little of ours. You wouldn’t want your girls going itchy now, would you?”

  “No, have to take care of the girls.” He paused, giving her a look that shot straight through her. “So we all get what we need.”

  She knew exactly what he needed. He needed to be making love to a woman, not fucking these sluts. The word “slut” surprised her. Even if it was her own thought, how could she refer to the people she cared for and managed that way? “How much more do you need?�
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  “It’s not how much—it’s who. The perfect girl doesn’t come along very often.”

  “And where are you going to find yourself one of those?” she asked, trying to be as cool and sexy as her emotions would allow.

  “Find? No, found. Now it’s just landing her.” Something about the way he still lusted for her even after being pleasured was so enticing.

  “Well you are sure scouting all the landing pads around here.” She hoped her voice didn’t reflect any of the jealously she was feeling as she said it.

  He let out a little chuckle. “You keep sending bad directions.”

  He was not the first to flirt with her when she came to collect, but he seemed to be the most sincere. She ran her hands down his back and along his arms, grabbed his hands, one of which was holding the payment for tonight, and brought them close to her heart. Slipping the money—devoid of any tip—from his hand, she softly whispered, “Some flights never land.”

  What a woman! He consciously controlled his hands. Touching the girls was a paid privilege, but touching a baroness, now that could get a guy thrown out or even trespassed. Security or not, he wasn’t about to lay a stray finger on her. Yet she made it so tempting. Her legs squeezed with just enough force to still feel smooth and powerful. Her smell drifted into his nose, and he felt intoxicated.

  While not erect, he was fully aroused. This was a woman who knew how to build suspense. “Come with me.” The sound excited him in a way no girl ever had before.

  She led him down the main hall, and they entered the elevator. She pushed in a code on a keypad above the elevator controls, and the machine began its ascent. She said nothing, made no eye contact, but continued to hold his hand. Not knowing quite what this was, he decided it better to say nothing than to say something wrong. Determining what or how a woman was thinking was never in his deck of cards.

  They got out on the roof floor of the three-story building. It was a cold New Jersey morning. Some of the city’s high-rises could be seen reaching into the sky, out from behind the adjoining buildings. The smell of spring lilacs filled the early-morning air. It was a living roof—vegetables, herbs, and plants he didn’t know the names of, because cooking wasn’t really his thing. The lilacs next to the elevator were the biggest of the plants. Large raised beds filled the center of the roof, while tomato cages lined the sides.

  Still, she said nothing but led him to the corner overlooking the front entrance. A chair sat on a small deck, where she motioned for him to sit. He complied, not sure what was about to happen. His heart raced, his hands sweat, and something between a tingle and a shiver ran up his spine. She sat on his lap but this time kept both legs to one side. He became very nervous. He had just performed—twice, in fact—that night. She would have known this. She couldn’t be expecting him to perform again, could she?

  She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. He felt helpless in her presence, too nervous to touch, too unsure of what was happening to guess. A warm freeze stiffened him into place. She ran her hands down his back and lay her head against his chest. Then, for a long time, she did nothing.

  Chapter 4

  Emilia

  For a military establishment, it was very nice, a VIP fallout shelter built in the forties as a WWII bomb shelter, converted over to offices and storage in the sixties. The government had only reestablished occupancy when Synied, a military research contractor, took over the building. Being in a post–9/11 world, it was decided that Manhattan would need increased VIP sheltering capacity. For now, however, nobody needed sheltering, so only a minimal staff of private security were occupying the premises.

  Emilia was six feet one of pure mixed-blood beauty. An early base subject, she was the product of genetic marriage but was denied the enhancements after scoring too low on the ability test. Her knowledge of the program, while limited, kept her under the military umbrella, with assigned caretakers and on-base education. Emilia was a girl who could understand the desperately lonely situation Sasha was coming from.

  Emilia had been escorted in prior to their arrival, and she sat thumbing a magazine as the elevator door opened. A strange tension built up between them as if the overripe nature of the thing had spoiled it. Drexter and Sasha approached Emilia, and she began to rise in greeting. Emilia’s cleavage was unmistakable as she rose, and it was the first time in quite a while that Drexter had felt anything of a libidinous nature.

  He skimmed the top sheet of paper in his right hand and began reading aloud: “Emilia Echoheart and Sasha are hereby granted twelve hours’ leave with the following restrictions. There are no off-base privileges, no weapon privileges, no vehicle privileges. Both of you are to report back to me at no later than,” he looked at his watch, “2030 hours. Any questions?” Both girls looked rather blankly at him like children watching TV in another room.

  Rather than press the issue, he decided to retire to his own rest and relaxation. He peeked into all the rooms before choosing a couch in a study at the far end of the corridor that connected the rooms, similar to an office building. The smell of his feet, while not pleasant to the nose, was soothing to the soul. This must be what it is like for single parents on the outside, he thought, always looking to pawn their children off on a playmate or trustworthy adult so as to find that peace-of-mind time.

  For several minutes, he let his mind wander, from past memories to future dreams and back again. A burst of girlish laughter brought a smile to his face. Children having a good time and, via extension, the parent getting credit for that fun while not actually having to be physically involved—that’s a win-win. He thought back to the one and only attempt the program had made to throw a birthday party for one of the program subjects. The idea of children’s games seemed appropriate, and in the right spirit, but placing balloons around genetically engineered warriors showed bad judgment. The administrators were forced to use their last resort in order to get the situation under control. They had to gas the whole lot. Developing social skills, they thought, could be done later in the program. Developing loyalty, obedience, and courage was a higher priority. The birthday-party fiasco was one of many examples disproving their first thoughts.

  Daddy left the room, and Sasha stood there not quite knowing what to say or what to do. After a second, she walked up and hugged Emilia. “Thank you for being my friend.” Even to Sasha, it sounded a little desperate, but she didn’t care. For so long, she had been lonely, longing for companionship. Daddy had always been good, but when it came to socializing, he was a poor example. She remembered playing Barbies with him. Time after time, the tea party or big date would always get redirected to a mission or be interrupted by some villain. Daddy was the king of trying, but often the king of failing too. How she longed to play dress up, wear makeup, or even go on a date. Now there was someone to do all those things with. Sasha imagined herself and Emilia laughing together as they tried on elegant dresses and talked about impossible futures. She had no idea how to make that happen. Luckily, Emilia broke the ice by offering Sasha some soda and cookies.

  The two sat in awkward silence for a few long minutes, staring at the cookies. A thousand thoughts ran through Sasha’s mind. Long before the birthday-party incident had left her completely isolated from anyone her own age, much less female, she would daydream about this moment. She would imagine holding hands, whispering secrets, and giggling. Her thoughts raced faster as the nervousness over the silence grew. This was nothing like what she had imagined, and a sense of panic grew inside her. She blurted out the first question that came to mind. “Can you tell if your boobs are still getting bigger?”

  The sheer bluntness and personal nature clearly caught Emilia off guard. Her face expressed surprise and disbelief, yet she took her time and smiled before answering. “I know, isn’t it the most annoying thing in the world? It’s like, please don’t stop, please don’t stop, but then they don’t, and suddenly they just get in the way whenever you’re trying to do anything.” Emilia wiggled her
arms around her chest. “Then,” she stressed the word, “there is the boob sweat. As if the new hormones and smells weren’t enough, now I have to worry about boob sweat too. It’s like, give me a break.”

  Sasha laughed more genuinely than ever before, now relieved of the emotional and physical tension. The hair along her back stood up, and a shiver ran down her spine and even lower, as she realized that they would be close friends—close not because of her but because of Emilia.

  The sound of cupboards opening and closing stirred Drexter back to life. Expecting to see teenagers on the prowl for food, he instead found Emilia in a slightly bewildered hunt, for despite searching the pantries, she was moving too fast to consider any of the options. “How is it going?”

  “First I thought it was kinda childish for her to want to play hide-and-seek, but she is actually kinda hard to find.”

  He chuckled. “I know from firsthand knowledge how true that can be. How are you two getting along?”

  Her lips suggested she was about to speak, when she pulled back and changed her facial expression. “Fine,” her voice dropped off a little, “sir.”

  “Relax, Emilia, this isn’t some sort of test, trial, or exam. There are no cameras, no examiners. The program you knew is long gone. Sasha is just a ruminant fighting to survive in a world not yet ready for her.”

  “So she will be fighting, then?”

  “Life is a battle, Emilia. But some battlefields are easier to see than others. Somewhere down inside Sasha is a young woman engaged in battle, fighting her situation, her conditioning, her upbringing. All of that fighting just to be the young woman she is supposed to be. You, Emilia, I’m counting on you to be the catalyst that desperate young girl needs to flourish. So let me ask you again, how is it going?”

  Emilia’s hard look softened. She still measured her words, but they felt more honest. “She has all the hallmarks of a homeschooled child. Some private things she just can’t wait to tell me, despite the newness of our relationship, and many common things she wants to avoid as if deeply personal in nature.”