Lioness’ Legacy IV—Torment

by Valerie J. Long

  “Your action yesterday angered the rulers.”

  “That must be the understatement of the year, mustn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Oh yes. They must fret and fume. Despite all their cops and guns and security, a little group of anarchists managed to spoil their show.”

  “A little group?”

  “I’d really like to know who’s been helping you. But I shouldn’t know—then I can’t tell.”

  “I’ve been alone.”

  The Fool jerked around and stared at my face. “Alone? But—people say the shots came from all sides!”

  “I’ve been alone. I changed my position very quickly. A little trick, and I’ll keep that to myself. What else do people say? The show’s been cancelled, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sure. All that’s part of it will be caught up next week at Madison Square Garden. I fear that will become even worse.” He gazed at the stones before him again. “And what for? A few dead cops.”

  “Plus a cleaning team and one of the four armor suits.”

  “Holy shit. They’ve kept that under the sheets well. Are you sure? Of course, Velvet won’t err with such things. Okay, that’s not a bad result. But it doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  “No, I’ve realized that, too. It won’t work that way. The people now think that Velvet will take care of all, and that they won’t have to do anything. I must change my strategy.”

  “How?”

  “One moment. Do you know how I can get a pre-paid cell phone in New York without a credit card? I must call a friend.”

  “Take mine.”

  “Hello, Cap.”

  “Jo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh damn. Where are you? Suddenly, you were gone.”

  “New York. I didn’t say goodbye.”

  “Oh. Okay. And, how’s it going?”

  “Velvet annoyed the people here a bit. They’re mad at her.”

  “Your messenger told us. And now Velvet needs help?”

  “Exactly.”

  “We have a clear order, Jo. There are no contacts between Velvet and the government or the military. Officially, I don’t know where you are and what you’re doing. I can only intervene once there’s an official request for help.”

  “From whom? The cops? The Mayor? The Governor? They’re all part of it. No, if nobody frees the people here, the misery will go on. With systematic torture, rape of minors, and human sacrifices. To close one’s eyes before that won’t lessen the guilt.”

  “I know, Jo. If you insist, we will come—as mutineers and rogues, and the New York authorities will have every right to fight us.”

  “That’s not what I want, Cap. Well, then. If there’s no other way, if your boss doesn’t have any creative ideas himself, I must give the official authorities here reason to call for help.”

  “Jo, we—”

  “No, Cap. America needs you more than I do. Perhaps you will still find me alive. Fare well, Cap.”

  Without backup, then. Well, that was nothing new, either.

  With an easy stroll, I returned to the Fool and handed him his cell phone. He lifted his head and made a questioning face.

  “No support?”

  “I’ve only said goodbye,” I explained. “I’ve thought it well through. They’ll raise the bounty, perhaps to a million dollar, perhaps more? Someone could feel tempted to sell me—and you—out. The Syndicate could come up with the idea to take and kill hostages, to force you to deliver me. And, as you said—next Sunday, they’ll sacrifice someone else again.”

  I placed one hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t say anything now. My actions caused this escalation. It’s my responsibility, and I’ll bear the consequences. I’ll surrender to the Syndicate.”

  “They will kill you.”

  “But not immediately. They’ll stage it well. Surely they’ll come up with something special for me. Something that makes a Jelly look like a good friend.”

  “Why would you want to do that to yourself?”

  “Because I don’t know any other way to awaken the people.”

  He gave me a pitiful glance. “Maybe. And maybe you’ll be dead by then.”

  “Yes. Such happens sometimes.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Before the nondescript door in a hardly inviting side alley, a short line of scarcely clad young women had formed. They gave me grumpy glances when I queued up at the end. With my tight shorts and the net top, I matched the line well.

  The fake blonde before me, who towered more than one head-length above me in her plateau shoes, scrutinized me in detail. She couldn’t fail to notice that my tits and legs were in very good shape.

  “Shortie, that won’t work. Those in the back won’t even see you.”

  “Fuck yourself, Blondie.”

  That effectively put an end to our conversation. Silently, we waited until the door was opened and we were led into a room with several plain benches. Our steps crunched on the floor, the benches felt sticky, and the dirt behind the benches was almost a finger deep.

  Strands of dust and old cobwebs were hanging from the ceiling. The walls finally had no color or all.

  A single guy in jeans and undershirt assumed a wide-legged stance before us, his hands placed to the hips.

  “Pay attention, girls, I will only explain it once. Those who don’t play ball are out at once. We have no time to waste. You’re not thirsty, and you don’t need to pee now. You’re only here for one reason—to show what you’ve got.”

  He glanced around. “Get undressed. Down with the clothes. All.”

  Some girls hesitated. I simply pulled the net top over my head, rose, and pushed the shorts down. Ordinary fabric, no nanos, dropped on the dirty floor. I wouldn’t need them anymore anyway.

  “You’ll go in one by one and dance. No talking, don‘t wait for anything, pull your thing through until someone tells you it’s enough. Then you’ll answer the questions and otherwise keep your mouth shut. That’s all for now. You’re coming with me.” He pointed at a young woman with pretty small tits and red hair—genuine, as her pussy showed—and then walked ahead.

  We others waited. Blondie watched another woman holding one hand before her crotch abashedly, and then said, “If you’re not about to help yourself, your hand’s got no business there.”

  The woman appeared startled, but let her hand drop down. Didn’t she know what she was in for?

  “Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” I chimed in.

  “What?” Blondie asked back.

  “To help myself.” I reached into my crotch and rubbed it. “I’m sure it will be appreciated if the pussy’s nicely wet while I’m dancing.”

  Blondie laughed. “Shortie, you’re okay.” Then she focused on the shy one. “Putting in belongs to it, too, clear?”

  “What?”

  “They’re fucking here. On stage, if the spectators dare.”

  “But—”

  “If you don’t want that, get lost.”

  I saw her insecurity. “How many men did you have before? Aside from your friend, if you have one. Strangers.”

  “Hum.”

  “Not one, what?” I briefly glanced at Blondie, who raised her eyebrows, and then I turned to the shy girl again. “Girl, the first time’s bad enough if you’re doing it in a car or a no-tell hotel. But on the stage, before a few hundred jeering guys, that’s only for women who really feel good with it. Go home and think about it again. Or go down to Fourth Street and get nailed a few times there. If you like it and you want more, come back.”

  At my words, she had turned pale. Now she took her G-string to put it on. I piled on. “Only return once you don’t need panties under your mini skirt anymore. Or if you don’t even need a mini skirt.”

  She blushed, grabbed her stuff and ran away nude.

  Blondie examined me again. “Respect, Shortie. You know the rules.”

  “I’m a pro.”

  “You’ve danced before an audience before?”

&nbs
p; “And fucked. I like boners.”

  “Unprotected?”

  I didn’t have to answer. The guys knew the risk, too—the rougher the setup, the greater the danger on both sides. A woman who did it with ten guys every night had to pick up something within a week—because those were the guys who did it with another unprotected girl every night.

  Rich guys could then go to the doctor. Successful whores could, too. All others were poor bastards.

  The first candidate came back crying, ran to her stuff, and hurried away. The usher pointed at Blondie. “You.”

  The other women weren’t interested in conversation, so I waited silently. One by one, they were waved inside, came back out, took their stuff and left. On some faces, I could see disappointment, on others tense expectation—those who had been taken into consideration and were probably tested next.

  Finally, I was alone. The usher came and scrutinized me. “Okay, Shortie, come.”

  He led me around some corners, and then he pointed at a two-winged door. Behind it, I could already see a pole on a brightly-lit stage. Okay.

  Showtime.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  There was only me and the pole. I stepped out into the spotlight, focused on my target and hesitated. Straight stance, chest forward, the pelvis tilted back, I placed every step individually and deliberately, let my body turn and sway in tense expectation.

  If I had heard bored murmurs from the dark auditorium upon my entrance, there now was deadly silence. I had got them!

  But that didn’t count. There, right before me, the pole waited, promised unrestrained pleasure—but should I dare? My hand outstretched, the fingertips only centimeters away, I paused, didn’t dare the last step. No!

  Oh, I wanted to feel this hard pole between my tits, my legs—as if subconsciously, my hands ran along where the pole should be, over my tits, over my labia.

  One step closer, and my body touched the pole—almost. I raised one leg, the knee almost chest-high, and balancing in this one-leg position, I directed the free leg around the pole, let my lower leg’s calf run up and down without touch.

  This exercise pulled my labia nicely apart, now allowed the spectators a first view on my wet gaping pink. Yes, I’d all too gladly press this wetness onto the hardness before me, my longing facial expression told.

  But my counterpart didn’t show any reaction, didn’t answer my longing—had to be seduced first. So I presented myself to the pole. Here, see my tits, firm and round, here, see my excitedly hardened nipples. Here, see my slender waist, my round hips.

  See, my ass is only there for you, and see how wet the bridge between my holes is. See how my lips open wide when I spread my legs. See how wet I am, how ready for you!

  Still you’re ignoring me. See, I’m opening for you—my fingers pulled my labia wide apart, and then I reached inside with my other hand—and now sample my nice taste! Oooh, that’s the taste of pure passion!

  Why don’t you reply to me? In not only mocked despair, I suddenly threw myself against the pole so fiercely that it trembled in its anchors. This might be the last time I could freely follow my passion, might be my Last Meal, and yet I was alone with my longing.

  Come, don’t be so cold and denying. I’m giving myself, take my sacrifice! One knee jerked up, wrapped around the pole, helped me to press my pubes against the metal, then I rubbed against it, moistened my unwilling counterpart with my wetness. More!

  Slowly, I stretched my free leg up. One foot on the floor, one foot pointing up to the ceiling—in this split, I showed my wide open pussy to the spectators, and then pressed it against my stiff partner again.

  Then I dropped to my knees and began to lick my juice away. Do you feel how lovingly my tongue treats you? With increasing voracity, I ran up and down the pole, licked, sucked, pressed my lips against it—even tried to bite it.

  All in vain. So I was left to demonstrate to my counterpart—and to the audience—what he missed. I leaned back, forced my hand into my crotch and rubbed, massaged, penetrated myself deeply, faster and faster, moaned with lust, and finally came with a loud cry and spraying wetness.

  I heard a wheezing echo from the parquet. There, someone seemed to have reached a climax, too. So I allowed myself to drop down on my buttocks, take a few deep breaths and only then patiently lick my hand clean.

  “Plain folly,” a deep voice said out of the dark. “Girl, you’re a gas—I never saw anything like that before. Top class!”

  “Thanks,” I uttered.

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  I had to smile. “Actually, I prefer a full auditorium, and at the end of my show, you shouldn’t be able to see the floor under the sea of sperm.”

  The speaker laughed out loud. “You’re right! What’s your name?”

  This was the moment of truth. I rose, stood straight, and focused on the silhouette in the dark.

  “I’m Velvet.”

  Chapter Seventy

  “What did you think you’ve been doing?” the looking-glass dwarf riddled. “Just walking into a show and tossing your name all over the place. After all those bothersome, but sadly very effective actions you’ve annoyed us with, that doesn’t match your profile at all.”

  No, inwardly I had to agree with him. But I remained silent. After I had literally uncovered myself in the show, I hadn’t said another word. Not to the people at the stage, not to the cops who had arrived first, not to the four men of the cleaning team who hadn’t needed much longer.

  After the cops hadn’t dared to even touch me, the men in the long coats had simply grabbed me, ruggedly dragged me with them and shoved me into their car. Squeezed into the Martian back seat between two of them, I’d been taken straight to the Freedom Tower, pushed into an elevator, and in the already familiar conference room they had chained me to one of the chairs with handcuffs at wrists and ankles. Except for unfriendly prompts like “Go, bitch,” they hadn’t said anything to me, either.

  Shortly after, the looking-glass dwarf had arrived and introduced himself as Jasper.

  “I’m really asking myself what you’ve hoped to gain from it,” he went on.

  Yeah exactly, you’re asking yourself, not me, I thought. I could simply have surrendered to the cops. But then you might have had suspicions why I did it—you’d have guessed my hidden agenda. Now, you’re only puzzling why I applied for just this job and whether I really thought I wouldn’t give myself away by telling my name there.

  “In any case, it won’t help you anymore. It’s over, and you won’t spoil our show again. I’ll make sure you’re delivering a great show—the role of your life!” He laughed evilly. “And I’ll make sure that you’re ready until next Sunday. Personally—I don’t want any of my men botching it only because he’s after your tits and pussy. Mmm—a pity that you so much like to appear nude. Obviously, that’s part of the show, after all the people shall see what’s happening to you. But I fear that you might even have fun with that facet.”

  Unabashedly, he reached into my crotch, poked one finger between my labia. I gave him a little wetness, and disappointedly he pulled his hand back.

  “That makes you horny? A pity again, so I don’t need to treat you with a gang rape, do I?”

  No. It surely wouldn’t become as good as with the twelve Bones. But this prospect indeed couldn’t terrify me—after all, it was just sex. Nobody could torture or humiliate me this way.

  “You know, actually, I had planned to flog you. I love the sound of the wet whip hitting skin, and when the little metal shards in the tips then tear the flesh open. But I fear you can’t stand that for long, as there’s simply too little of you for it. Perhaps we’ll better leave the shards away, so that you won’t lose too much blood too quickly.”

  That guy really seemed to enjoy it. What kind of world was this, where such men could gain so much power without any of the good ones intervening?

  Oh, wait, yes, I was the good one who actually should have eliminated him and his fellow
leaders. For one moment, I considered tearing myself free and throwing him out through the window. On his way down, he’d have time to contemplate his misdoings.

  “We need something more subtle for you, something that takes more time. Like the Red Indians’ stake, you know?”

  No, not like that. A brave warrior who survived the torture would be set free. That wouldn’t fit into his plans at all. Moreover, a brave Red Indian shouldn’t show pain—but I should scream and whimper.

  “The Chinese knew a method they called Slow Slicing. I think that’s only appropriate, isn’t it?”

  I thought of Dandy, the man who had kidnapped, flogged, skinned, mutilated, and then dumped me dying. Been there, done that.

  While Jasper was elaborating on his ideas, I mentally compared Dandy’s brute torture methods with the exquisite pain of Hermann’s acupuncture needles. It was all just pain.

  Just pain.

  “Are you paying attention to me at all?”

  No, Jasper. But I looked up and gave him a silent smile.

  “Talk,” he ordered. In vain.

  I did without a defiant or arrogant face. I didn’t want to unnecessarily taunt him—my silence only should leave him unaware of my intentions. Nor should he get the impression that I’d be dangerous—if they took me from the show and killed me beforehand, my mission would have failed. I had to persevere until Sunday.

  “You will talk. You will be grateful for being allowed to talk.”

  What could he do unto me? My body had to be whole and enduring. Electric shocks? Waterboarding? With my Analogy’s aid I could control my reflexes, could quite well distinguish true suffocation from a wet cloth on my face.

  “A pity that you didn’t bring your special claws, but it’s probably futile to ask you about it, what? Did you bury them in the park or throw them into the Hudson?”

  Neither of those—but there was no trace of my nanos. Even if he’d torture me a little, he wouldn’t notice anything. Until Sunday—including—I had to bleed normally.