by Paul Kenyon
She walked forward on her knees until she came to the obstruction at his center.
"Low bridge," he said.
"Or high something else."
She hobbled on her knees, and the rigid member bent like a tree toward his belly. She could feel the rubbery acorn of the glans as it slid agreeably down her vaginal cleft. Then, as she continued to hobble, it slid between her buttocks and sprang to attention again behind her. She sat down on Pickering's belly.
"Well, here we are, dear."
"Here we are."
"What next?"
Penelope's chained hands found his peter and grasped it. She leaned forward, her breasts swinging into Pickering's face. He caressed them with a rough, strong tongue that seemed to have a life of its own. He swabbed them round, exploring their fullness, nuzzling them outward when he reached the undersides. Then he zeroed in on one of the nipples. Penelope shivered with delight as he used his lips, tongue, cheek, chin, to palpate the stiffened bud.
Grasping his stem in both hands, she massaged the fleshy plum at the end with both thumbs. She scratched the base of her spine with it, and he heaved in sexual torment.
Pickering gathered his ropelike muscles and, with a grunt, sat up, his hands behind him. Penelope slid back a little on his loins and found herself sitting on his stick. They pressed against one another, front to front, and nuzzled one another's faces.
"Intolerable not to have my arms around you," he said.
She fastened her mouth on his and they kissed deeply, hungrily. His mustache was bristly against her nose. She poked with her tongue and he parted his lips. Her tongue slithered inside and found its mate there. She traced the cleft, probed for the roots. She could taste the strong tobacco on his breath. His tongue fenced with hers in an ancient game of parry and thrust.
"Shall we try?" he finally said.
"I'm ready."
She slid off his lap and knelt on the satin sheets, her knees braced apart. She bent from the waist until her cheek touched the sheet. Pickering rolled over, his back to her. His chained hands found her vulva and played with its slippery folds. He found the crimpled nub of her clitoris and worked it back and forth. Penelope could feel a fluttering warmth spread through her loins.
"Hurry, darling, hurry," she said.
Pickering worked himself to his knees. He gazed appreciatively at the apple-round buttocks and the pink crevice between them that was his target. He edged closer, his livid post bobbing heavily in front of him. He moved his hips and made a stabbing movement. His probe blunted itself on one of her buttocks.
"Rather like playing darts, what?" he said.
"You need a better target." She spread her knees apart more and raised her behind. Pickering tried again.
He made a quick lunge and ended up pressed against the inside of her thigh. She tried to lower herself on his stem, but the angle was wrong. He pulled back for another try.
"This time, ease it in slowly," she said. "Dock it, don't stab it."
He grunted his agreement and eased his post between her legs. The torpedo head pushed aside the distended outer labia and slid easily into her scabbard. They both gasped with sudden pleasure. Penelope found she was able to get her bound hands between his legs. She cradled his balls in one hand and braced her other hand awkwardly against one hard, spare buttock. Pickering leaned his chest against her back and rested his cheek on her shoulder. They were well braced.
Tentatively he began to move in and out, not daring to go more than an inch or two either way at first. Penelope pushed her bottom into his lap, and gradually their movement grew more confident.
After several minutes he no longer was plastered against her back. He arched his spine, thrust his pelvis forward to penetrate her more deeply at each stroke. He was grunting with effort. Penelope raised her bottom and contributed a wiggling motion that drove them both wild.
He worked like a great steam press, pumping faster and faster, his hands shackled behind him, maintaining his position with the hard muscles of his thighs and belly. Penelope, her cheek on the bed, could see him through the arch of her thighs, the dangling testicles swaying at each bump. Her senses were swimming; there was an unusual warmth that a dim corner of her mind wondered about; was it Mr. Sim's aphrodisiac? What a laugh it would be if he knew it wasn't necessary.
Pickering went back too far on one thrust and his mast slipped out of her entirely. One of them made a little mindless whimpering sound — she was too far gone to know which of them — and Pickering made a frantic series of stabs, trying to get it in again. Penelope grabbed the slippery tool with her bound hands and inserted it in place.
He was moving in and out in a corkscrew motion now. She butted him with her bottom at each jab, trying to get all of him inside her. One of her bumps was too violent. Pickering lost his balance and fell over backward. Before he could get to his knees again, she swung around, dragging the ankle chain with her, and squatted atop his mast. She lowered herself and it pushed deep within her. "I want to watch your face when you come," she whispered hoarsely.
"It's going to be a big one," he gasped. "I can feel it. That damn drug."
"Enjoy it," she said.
They were in the final long rideout now, moving like the intricate geared parts of a single oiled mechanism. It was easier in this position, with her knees firmly on the mattress, Pickering heaving up and down with all the muscles of his back and hips. A great shuddering intensity grew and grew within her. The part of herself that contained her pleasure stretched and stretched to the bursting point. Blurrily she looked at Pickering's face. His eyes were open but blind; he saw nothing but his own fast-approaching dissolution.
She thought, crazily, he's missing the show on the ceiling, and flung her head back to look at the suspended mirror. It showed her foreshortened, the top of her head with black hair spilling over her shoulders, the round melons of her breasts bouncing as she rocked back and forth, the spread knees with the man between them, her chained hands behind her resting on his thighs.
The scene above seemed to ripple and she was seeing nothing but her own interior joy. She was full to bursting. And then she exploded in a vast, lava-hot outpouring that seemed to bubble on and on forever. Pickering was arched, motionless, beneath her, pushing into her as hard as he could while his body convulsed in its own orgasm. When her shudderings died down, she moved her pelvis in a small intricate orbit that teased another exquisite shiver out of both of them.
Flushed and out of breath, she swung one knee over his middle and curled up beside him on one hip, her breasts pushing against his upper arm.
"Penny," he panted, "that was indescribable!"
The door swung open. Happy was there, silhouetted against the pink light from the corridor, a tombstone in rumpled blue serge. He stared incuriously at them for a moment, his eyes roving over the chains and stanchions, then stepped backward into the pink light and closed the door.
She smiled at Pickering. "And it took exactly an hour," she said.
18
They came for Pickering at six in the morning.
The Baroness was dozing lightly, her head cradled in the hollow of Pickering's shoulder. They'd made love all night, between Happy's hourly visits. The two of them were drained, at peace. Their last memories of reality would be good ones.
The door opened and Happy came in. He crossed ponderously to the window, keeping well away from the bed, and opened the drapes. Bright morning sunlight flooded the room.
Two white-clad attendants pushed a wheeled cot into the room. Straps and buckles hung from the sides. A nurse followed them holding a syringe. It was the same one Penelope had made use of during her escape.
Five burly gorillas in hospital orderly uniforms came next. Only two of them were Chinese. The others resembled the waterfront riffraff you can find all through western Europe.
"The man goes first," the nurse said. She gave Penelope an evil smile. "We'll be back for you in an hour, bitch, as soon as Dr. Jolly preps your boy
friend. I'm going to enjoy watching him drill a hole in your skull!"
The gorillas closed in swiftly and efficiently and pinned Penelope and Pickering to the bed. There wasn't much they could do with their hands chained behind their backs, but Pickering managed to knee one of the men in the groin. Penelope gave another gorilla a good bite in the arm.
The nurse approached Pickering with the syringe. She paused to check the calibration of the plunger, then leaned over. With a sudden violent effort Penelope got a leg free and lashed out. Her heel caught the nurse in one breast. The woman screamed and staggered backward, clutching at the breast.
The gorillas got Penelope's leg under control. The nurse advanced warily, her face looking sick and bloodless. She drew back a meaty arm and slapped Penelope hard across the face. "I'll kill you, you bitch!" she screamed.
One of the orderlies restrained her. "Dr. Jolly will be mad if she's damaged," he said. The nurse calmed down and gave Pickering a shot in the arm.
Only when he was thoroughly tranquilized did they unchain him. Happy fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the manacles. They lifted Pickering's limp body off the bed and strapped him to the cot. He was conscious but helpless. His head lolled and he said in a slurred voice, "Feels… feels marvelous, Penny m'dear. What's in a brain anyway?" He began laughing helplessly.
The nurse glared maliciously at Penelope. "It may interest you to know that he's going to remain conscious all during the operation. The brain doesn't feel pain, but he'll know everything that's happening to him. And so will you!"
The gorillas released Penelope as if on signal and stepped back quickly from the bed. Not quickly enough. Penelope jabbed a hard elbow into a muscle-bound solar plexus. The man doubled over, making a retching sound.
"Don't be nervous when you come to give me my injection," Penelope called to the nurse, "but I'm going to get you in the other boob!"
The nurse turned a shade paler. She marched from the room without a word, followed by the orderlies pushing Pickering on the cot. The gorillas left, one of them limping, one doubled over, and one bleeding from the bite on his arm.
"I may bite it off!" Penelope yelled out the door.
Happy started to leave, circling widely around the bed.
"Happy!" Penelope said sharply.
Dull chimpanzee eyes swung toward her. "Whaddaya want?"
"My chain's coming loose."
Furrows appeared in the huge dented head. "Whaddaya trying to pull?"
"You can't afford not to check, Happy. If I get away, Mr. Sim will be angry with you. You won't get your five-minute jolt of pleasure."
He considered it laboriously. Finally he walked around and peered at the steel stanchion from a safe distance. "You're just trying to mix me up. That chain's okay."
Penelope sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her chained hands supporting her in back. She thrust out her breasts. "Happy, darling, wouldn't you like to have a little fun with me? I'd like to have a last fling before they open my head."
He shook his great misshapen head. "Lady, there's nothing as good as what I get from this." He tapped the rectangular outline of the transistorized device in his pocket. "I wouldn't do nothing to make Mr. Sim mad at me."
"How about money? I'm a very rich woman. Get me out of here and I'll make you rich… rich enough to be free of Mr. Sim."
Something like panic flickered in his dim eyes. "Free of Mr. Sim? You're crazy! Listen, I ain't talking to you no more. You're trying to mix me up." He started toward the door.
"Happy! When do you get your jolt of pleasure?"
"Later on today, after I done my job." He continued walking.
"How would you like to have it right now? This minute?"
He stopped. "Whaddaya mean?"
"I know how you can stimulate your pleasure center. And not for just five minutes. As long as you want."
His eyes came alive for the first time. They shimmered darkly like pools of machine oil. "You're outta your mind," he said. He patted the transistor device in his pocket. "This is the only thing that'll give me a jolt. It's turned to the right, whaddaya call it, frequency. It's a different number every day. Only Mr. Sim knows the right number."
"You don't need that."
"Whaddaya talking about? You're driving me crazy!" Tears flowed from his eyes, trickled down the great craggy cheeks.
She spoke with cold authority. "Get me that pillbox on the dressing table. There's something in it."
He turned automatically to obey. When he had the Fragonard pillbox in his giant paw, he suddenly frowned.
"No, I ain't coming near the bed. Tell me from there."
Penelope didn't let the disappointment show in her voice. "All right. But come a little closer."
He lumbered forward and stopped just out of reach of the chain. He opened the lid of the box.
"There ain't nothing in it!" he said.
"The box has something called a two-plate magnetron built into it. It works like a radar or a microwave oven. You can adjust the frequency by sliding the lid. Somewhere on the scale is the frequency that will induce an electric current in the wire that Dr. Jolly planted in your brain."
He stood there, uncomprehending.
"Go ahead," she said impatiently. "Slide the lid about half an inch." His thick thumb moved the lid. "What do you feel?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just, like, it's sort of warm on my face."
"That's the microwaves. Move it another hair."
"Hey!" he said. "It's like I'm seeing flashing lights."
"You're getting warm," she said. "We're stimulating the visual centers in the thalamus. Keep going."
He sniffed. "I smell something. Like lemons."
"Keep going."
"It's coming! It's coming! I can feel it!" He held the box up near his head.
"Happy?" she said.
But he couldn't hear her. His face was wreathed in a profound inhuman joy. "It's stronger!" he said, "Better than it's ever been before!"
That wasn't surprising. It took only a couple of milliamperes of current to stimulate the pleasure center — no more than the natural electricity generated by the brain itself. The magnetron in the pillbox was inducing a current hundreds — possibly thousands — times stronger. The platinum wire in his head must be heating up like an electric toaster.
He rocked on his heels, making animal sounds. His steam-shovel jaw was open in a loose smile. She could see a huge tent growing at the fork of his trousers.
She could smell something burning. A thin wisp of smoke rose from his scalp. He went on smiling. He looked happier than she'd thought it possible for a human being to be.
The burning smell grew stronger. It was like cooked meat. He swayed, but managed to stay upright, the look of angelic joy transfiguring his face. The smoke circled his head like a halo.
A great animal cry of pleasure came from his throat. He toppled like a tree.
…And fell in the opposite direction.
Penelope cursed. She'd been banking on his falling toward her. She stretched herself along the floor, pulling the chain taut, her hands useless behind her. She tried to reach his trouser cuff with her strong white teeth, but she was several inches short. She stretched her spine till she thought it would crack, but it was no use.
She sat up, her breasts cradled against her knees, and thought it over. Something pink and wispy caught her eye.
It was her bra — the one made of superstrength polymers — still dangling along the leg chain where Mr. Sim had left it.
She worked it up the leg chain, up toward her wrists. She caught one end in her hand.
She hopped as close to Happy's body as she could and turned her back to him. She cast the bra two, three, four times. On the fifth try she managed to lasso his big feet with the loop of the shoulder strap. She hauled the body over toward her.
Her hands trembling, she fished in his pocket for the key. A moment later the chains were off.
Quickly she crossed to
the door and closed it. It had been a miracle that nobody had passed during the last few minutes.
She pried the Fragonard pillbox from his hand. Even in death he seemed reluctant to give it up. She searched him and found the transistorized device that Mr. Sim had given him.
With luck it would have the same circuit design as the one Skytop had taken from the dead Chinese who had trailed him when he was following Pickering. It did! With the Fragonard magnetron as a power source and tuner, she could adapt the transistors and computer-type modules to a primitive radio beacon.
It took her twenty minutes. She glanced toward the door all the while, half expecting to be interrupted by the nurse and orderlies. She tapped out a message in scrambled Morse — hoping and praying that Eric or Paul was listening. It was on their emergency frequency.
She repeated the message three times, then stopped. That would have to be good enough. The improvised transmitter couldn't receive; she had no idea whether they'd heard her. But at least she'd tried.
There was a tentative sound at the door. Quickly the Baroness rolled Happy's body under the bed and got back on top of the satin sheets. She arranged the chain, hiding her ankle under a fold of the sheet, and put her wrists behind her back.
The door opened. The nurse came in and closed the door behind her.
"I sneaked back ahead of the others," she said. "I just came from the operating room. I wanted you to know that they've already got your boyfriend's head in the cage. They're going to start scooping out his brain tissue any minute now."
"You came back to tell me that?" Penelope said dryly. "That was nice of you."
"No. I came back to get even with you — while you're still able to feel pain."
"If you come anywhere near me, you'll be sorry." Penelope said in an amused drawl.
"I'm not getting within reach, you she-devil! But this is!"
She stepped forward. Penelope could see a heavy leather strap in her hand.
"Aren't you afraid of making Dr. Jolly angry?"
"Dr. Jolly is interested in your head. You're going to feel this on your body!"
