by Elle E. Ire
Between my legs, moisture pools. I swear I can feel Hodei’s sinuous tongue on my own lips, teasing, tasting, slipping between my folds to probe deep inside me and—
“Kelly,” I manage, voice croaking. My fingers grip the edge of the table. She turns to me, eyes widening at whatever expression I’m presenting. “I’m—” I can’t finish the thought. On the stage, Saarah/Cynthia groans, her back arching off the bed, her own tongue losing its place between Hodei’s legs above her.
I arch too, right into Cate’s palms that have found their way over my breasts. A low groan works its way free of my throat.
What was in that candy? I demand with my last bit of coherent thought.
I’m going to have an orgasm, I realize, the pressure building and building inside me with only one way to go. Right here, right now, in full public view of everyone at this barbaric event.
I cannot identify several ingredients within the dessert’s mixture, VC1 replies. And therefore, she adds, pounding the final nail in my lust-filled coffin, I can do nothing to counteract it.
Chapter 12: Kelly—Grit
Vick needs me.
GREEN AND lavender, discomfort and lust, swirl around Vick in great clouds, the feelings themselves so powerful they seep through my strongest shields. Not angry or aggressive like the strange source I detected earlier, just desperate. A moan of need escapes her. She flushes red and clamps her jaw shut, eyes squeezed tightly closed, then snapping open as another colorful wave of desire rushes down the length of her body.
I pick up the abandoned pink cellophane wrapper by her plate, giving it a pointed look, then meet her eyes for confirmation.
She nods, unable to speak. The muscles in her jaw pulse with the effort not to moan again.
I need to do something.
I have no idea what.
All along the table, the other buyers are in similar states, shifting, rocking, clothing rustling as hands beneath the tables hurry the feelings to their inevitable conclusions, but they don’t display Vick’s panic. Why should they? This is what they’re here for, after all. Instead, they’re laughing, smiling, pulling their servers into their laps and grinding against them while the slave servants paste fake grins on their faces and mutter soft encouragements.
“I see my most important guests are enjoying their special treat,” Jacks says from the side of the stage where he’s retreated so as not to block the view of the girls writhing on the bed. “Pleasure Candy. That’s what we’re calling it. A new sex enhancement drug encased in the finest of confections made by Harold Linzman himself.”
My eyes widen. Harold Linzman is famous on Earth for his exquisite chocolates. His family have been chocolatiers for at least seven generations. Every piece is handmade and outrageously expensive. I wonder if he’s in on the drug deal with Jacks or if they are simply incorporating their concoction into his sweets. If it’s the former, I may never indulge in a Linzman chocolate again.
All the datapads in the room give a choral beep. “If you’ll consult your pads, that is, when you have a free hand available….” He chuckles. The VIPs chuckle with him, except for Vick and the other woman at the table. “You’ll find I’ve sent you an order form for Pleasure Candy. We’re still doing some fine tuning on the potency. The female dosage can be a little… over-intense, so it will be a few weeks before shipping commences, but you can place a preorder as soon as you’d like.”
I don’t take my eyes off Vick to check the pad. I’m sure it’s ridiculously costly.
“Sorry I wasn’t willing to give free samples to everyone,” Jacks continues, waving to the “lesser” buyers in the rear of the cavern, “but you can witness the effects yourselves and imagine what my front-row customers are experiencing.” As if to punctuate his words, one of the men shouts in ecstasy, then falls back in his chair, limp and exhausted. “Whatever arousing stimuli they are exposed to, either visually or audibly, they feel it themselves. Imagine the possibilities!” Jacks gestures at the women on the bed, now with multiple fingers buried within each other. “All alone? Traveling for business? No entertainment available except for what you can bring up on your vidscreen? Sex shows not doing it for you? No worries! Pleasure Candy will ensure you achieve the ultimate release every time.” He sounds like a professional actor in an infomercial. “Regardless, enjoy my gift for now, and the rest of your evening, and ladies,” he says, leaning forward to focus on Vick and the other woman, oblivious to Vick’s discomfort or the fact that the other female buyer hasn’t eaten her dessert but rather has it tucked in the folds of her skirt, “don’t resist the need. We’re still tweaking the mixture for feminine hormones and other chemical makeup, but for now, the more you resist, the worse it gets.”
Jacks gives another signal, this time to staff members on the periphery. They scurry out of sight, and a moment later, the lighting in the cavern dims to a much more intimate level. It makes the women on stage stand out even more, but it also subtly hides the actions of those at the head table.
It signals an opportunity.
First things first. I gently but firmly reach over and take Cate’s wrists in my grip, tugging them away from Vick’s breasts. The nipples beneath Vick’s dress shirt protrude so prominently, I’m certain she must be experiencing pain at their hardness and sensitivity. Cate pouts at me and parts her lips to argue, but I shake my head. “This is my job,” I say, putting steel behind the words. “If she chooses you, it will become ours, but for now, it’s mine. Valeria doesn’t enjoy public displays with strangers.” I glance past Vick’s shoulder toward the tunnel where servants have been going for drinks. Lyle is there, his gaze scanning over our heads, not focusing on us, not watching what Vick would call this massive clusterfuck. “Get her something strong to drink. Stronger than that,” I say, gesturing at Vick’s empty glass. “She’s going to need it when this ends.”
I wish I were a precog and could know how that ending will go.
Cate turns and heads for the adjacent corridor, Jacks following her departure with a scowl on his face. I worry what this will mean later for the servant, but I have more immediate problems.
The green of discomfort swirls around Vick, emerald darkening to deep forest, testament to her worsening condition and struggle against the drugs in her body. I touch her cheek with my fingertips, the skin flushed and burning with heat. “It’s going to be all right,” I tell her. “This is why I’m here. But I’m not doing anything without your consent.” It’s a bit of a lie, and we both know it. I’d do something without her consent to save her life, to protect her, to stop her pain, but this is none of those, not yet, anyway. “So, do you want me to help you?”
For a long moment, emotions war with each other, crossing her face one after another: anger, desire, frustration, need. She nods once, a sharp, decisive movement. Still, I have to be as sure as I can be. “Is that the drug talking or you?”
“Me. I need my focus back,” she grinds out through clenched teeth. “If you help, it will be… faster. I hope.”
I slip from my chair, crouch beside her, and crawl on hands and knees beneath the table until the draping white tablecloth hides me from outside view.
The uneven stone flooring and loose pebbles dig into my knees, my skirt riding up high on my legs. I place my hands on Vick’s thighs; the muscles beneath her trouser fabric tremble in response. She’s hanging on, but barely. I can almost hear her in my head. Get me through this. Get it over with. Please, please make this stop.
There are no true telepaths, or so my professors at the Academy told us every term. Sometimes the bond between empath and subject is so intense it feels telepathic, but you are extrapolating what you think they’d say from your emotional impressions. That’s all.
Bullshit. I know what Vick’s thinking. I know it and I have to help her.
I tug until she’s at the edge of the seat. My fingers fumble with her zipper, then slide it down with a soft hiss. A few yanks and her shirt comes free, allowing me to slip my hands to her
taut, heated stomach. I’m all ice to her fire, and shivers travel across her abdomen at my touch. Parting her legs takes effort. She’s fighting her own responses, but I am relentless. The table shakes above me, her elbows hitting the surface as she braces herself.
In my skirt pocket, my comm buzzes—three short vibrations, one long, Morse code for the letter V. V for Vick. I’ve never liked that she uses that as her contact identifier. It’s always felt so… mechanical, but she insisted. Sometimes I think she wants to be part machine, like she doesn’t know herself without that part of her identity.
Maybe she doesn’t. It’s a battle we may fight for the rest of her life.
Of course, this caller could also be VC1, who uses the same code when Vick is incapable of speaking for herself and there are no other convenient options.
Exhaling heavily, I slip the earpiece out and tuck it in my right ear, the fingers of my other hand working their way down into Vick’s trousers until they reach her wet heat.
I’ve always been good at multitasking. Time to put that skill to a real test.
Chapter 13: Vick—Humiliation
I am ashamed.
PICK UP the comm, Kel. Pick it up, pick it up. Fuck! Another wave of arousal heat crashes through me, harder and stronger than the last. Cate’s no longer massaging my breasts, but I feel lips and tongues on my nipples, swirling, teasing, tugging, biting. Against my will, my eyes remain fixed on the stage where Saarah/Cynthia is doing exactly those things to Hodei, who thrashes her head from side to side in apparent torturous bliss.
Beneath the table, Kelly has my trousers unzipped, the waistband folded downward to give her as much access as possible without revealing me to my tablemates, not like they’re paying any attention anyway. My enhanced hearing picks up the buzzing of the comm signal I’ve sent via the implants. If I can hear it, she damn well should too. Why doesn’t she fucking answer?
Her thumb slips beneath the elastic of my underwear, slides lower, lower, then brushes my clit. I jerk upright, banging one knee on the underside of the hard wood table. Damn, that’s gonna leave one helluva bruise, but the pain brings more clarity. I blink and focus. I can’t fight, but my flight response is kicking in with full thrusters. I need to calm the fuck down.
“Vick.”
Kelly’s lowered, sultry voice carries over my internal speakers, fills my head with a warmth that has nothing to do with whatever drugs Jacks has given me.
“Breathe, Vick. You’re okay.”
I want to shake her. “I am definitely not okay,” I subvocalize, my teeth clenched. “I need you to—”
“I know what you need.” She gives a soft laugh. “Believe me, I know.”
Right. Everything I feel, she feels. Muted, yes, especially if her shields are fully up, but I’m affecting her too. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”
“Not your fault. You didn’t know.”
No, but I shouldn’t have eaten or drunk anything without having VC1 check it out first. I’ve grown too dependent on the AI’s skills, counting her to neutralize anything harmful to my system. I need to remember she is not without limits.
Kelly’s other hand slides up my trouser leg, over my thigh, then splays across my bare hip, applying pressure to hold me better in place. Well, at least I shouldn’t be banging my knee again. It’s still throbbing from the first time.
It’s not the only thing that’s throbbing.
My pulse seems to have settled between my legs, the low, steady beat of raw want pounding and echoing in my skull. Kelly’s thumb shifts lower, between my folds, finding the slick wetness there and spreading it over my lips, my clit, making everything so sensitive I want to squirm out of my own skin.
I need this. I just wish I didn’t need it here.
I tear my gaze from the stage, amazed at how much effort that takes, and study first one exit tunnel, then another, judging distances, traffic flow, how many people between me and the nearest dark corridor. I’d have to zip up, move my heavy chair, navigate around servers. Hell, my leg muscles are trembling to the point where I’m not certain I can even stand, let alone powerwalk my way out of here. I can’t run away to some dark hallway with her.
Kelly’s thumb moves in circles over my slick clit. I bang the other knee.
Yay, they’ll match.
I swallow a sob of frustration. “Kel. You’re making me—”
She pauses, her thumb no longer in contact while I hear her shift her position.
All hell breaks loose in my body.
A wave of aching arousal rolls through me. My hips jerk, trying to force the connection between me and her hand, then jerk again like I’m having some kind of erotic seizure. The drugs tear at the layers of my inhibitions, stripping them away like paint remover on a weathered fence.
I have about a half second to wonder where that analogy came from, a flash of a childhood memory of me helping the landscaper outside our Kansas home. So weird to have access to everything now.
Then another pleasure-pain wave hits and I can’t think about anything else.
Do something! I beg my symbiotic partner.
Still analyzing, she returns, and I swear she sounds strained. The toll on my body is affecting her too.
I feel like I’m dying.
“I’m here, Vick. I’m here for you. Don’t fight it,” Kelly says over our still open comm connection.
The pleading in her tone comes through loud and clear. She wants to do this. I’m not forcing her actions. She’s not embarrassed. Of course, she’s also hidden from almost everyone. Still, I can’t help feeling like I’ve put her in this horrible, degrading position, treating her like all the other enslaved men and women in this cavern.
I’m responding when a third figure steps onto the stage, a male this time, wearing tight black briefs and nothing else. From the bulge, he’s large there like the rest of him—tall, muscular, deeply tan… and carrying an actual whip.
A combination of boos and cheers ripples through the audience of slave buyers—those who enjoy this sort of thing and those who don’t. I accept that many find it arousing, tantalizing, but I fall firmly into the don’t category.
A surge of mixed emotions: hope, worry, confusion rush through me. I’m not into BDSM. Never have been, especially after my ex-girlfriend surprised me with it on our last night together, followed a few years later by Rodwell’s rape.
Pain incurred in the line of duty, helping others, bringing criminals to justice or ending them altogether, is welcome pain. But I get enough of that. Off duty, I want gentleness. There’s so little of it in my life.
A twinge of panic and a quick flashback to that awful rape leave me panting, the blood draining from my now chilled face, but it stops there. I remember the assault with the remaining organic pieces of my brain, but I’m no longer tortured by the sight-sound-smell-feel clear-as-if-it’s-happening-now replay that my implants used to subject me to before VC1 transferred that memory elsewhere.
“Vick. Don’t go there,” Kelly whispers over the comm.
I won’t. It’s not my unconquerable tormenter anymore. I owe VC1 more than I can articulate.
My current worry is what kind of effect watching a whipping will have on me, factoring in Jacks’s see-it-experience-it drugs.
The male flicks a switch on the whip’s leather grip, and I realize it’s no ordinary variety. It’s vibrating, electrified, a crackling blue aura of energy tracing down the long leather tail. I’m analyzing the voltage when he flicks his wrist, a minimal movement up/down, the rest of his arm held straight and still. The sizzling leather licks out like a serpent’s tongue, landing squarely on Saarah’s exposed hip, molding itself to her curves. Its tip reaches just between her legs before he snaps it upward and away.
The effect is immediate and intense—a combination of mild electric shock and vibrating heat curling across my skin, causing all my stomach muscles to tremor, then ending at the juncture of my thighs, right beneath Kelly’s waiting hand. Not painful, but so stimulating.
And oh god it’s good.
I suck in a sharp gasp, releasing the breath on a shuddering exhale. “Now, Kelly,” I subvocalize. “Touch me now.”
She doesn’t argue. Her thumb retakes control of my center, moving faster and faster, applying more and more pressure.
It isn’t enough.
The need builds, pounding at my walls, growing and growing with a force I have never known before. Yes, Jacks does need to do something about the female variety of this fucking drug. It’s building, but it isn’t releasing, like thousands of gallons of water rising behind a floodgate with nowhere else to go. I get a mental image of metal holding it in, straining and bulging outward, expanding and stretching but not breaking through, and this visual is mine, all mine, not something VC1 is using as a metaphor.
I can’t stand it. I squirm in my seat, unable to keep still even if I wanted to, but no matter how much I concentrate on Kelly’s tantalizing actions, I can’t let it go. Something won’t allow me to let it go.
The mixture is imbalanced, VC1 supplies. My analysis suggests that it works in male chemistry but is not as effective with feminine biology. It will continue to arouse you, but you will need more than the drug to achieve the relief it forces you to seek.
Oh, that’s just great.
“Kel,” I whisper into my internal comm, “I need more, Kel. I can’t—” The pressure rises higher. I hiss out a breath. “Fuck, it hurts.”
“I’m not sure what else I can do,” she answers, voice out of breath and bouncing around in my skull. It’s an echo chamber in there, all other thoughts driven away except Kelly and my physical responses to the drug and her touch. “For more, I’d have to reveal you, and I know you don’t want that.” She pauses. “At least you won’t want it later, when whatever you took wears off.”
