Author's Note: This is a sequel series to Amy, Captured. To get the full experience, please read that one first.
I have returned! My apologies for the lengthy wait, fellows! I took some time off to focus on a larger project: my first kink novel. Big news, about that: it's been published! In celebration of this happy day I've pushed to get this chapter finished for the release day, with another chapter to follow in just a week or two (seriously, I'm already like halfway done with it, don't worry!)
In any case, please do check out my profile if you'd like to know more about my debut sexy novel, "Suit, Tie, & Chains." If you like Panic Moon I'm sure you'll like the flavor of kink present there. Otherwise, enjoy the chapter, and thanks for your patience, you wonderful people!
-Kurokami
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Amy collapsed onto what she was increasingly beginning to call her bed. She couldn't stop trembling.
The low blue light streamed out from the depression above the bed, spilling over the abundance of exposed skin that she sported. That was the point, she supposed; the light was colored strangely, designed to caress the skin, enhance her natural charms while playing down her imperfections. Exactly what one would expect, from a sexual technician like Fiori.
It had been a week, since Sander had pushed her into Fiori's grasp and, without stopping to listen to her objections, or even looking back, left Amy behind. But oh, the Olivan had been there. The Olivan had enfolded her like a suffocating hug, and before she knew it, Amy had become a part of it.
In some ways, this place reminded her of her past job as a kissogram; there was certainly no end to the costumes. She had been cycled through all manner of prurient, visually pleasing finery in these past seven days, from standard clothing through to elaborate, skimpy costumes, and even just layers of body paint, the colors constantly shifting in complex patterns over the curves of her body. None of them she would have chosen for herself. All of them bared parts of her she would rather have covered.
Even Amy had had to admit that she had looked like some kind of artwork daubed in the paint, but the fact that so many strangers had been given the same eyeful rather soured the memory. She had been on display, given a day job as just another ornament for the Olivan, scuttling around the front rooms like any other club girl. There was always something to do; drinks to serve, dark corners to light, and always, the endless supply of patrons looking for something to grab onto. They took to her warm body with an easy nonchalance, entitled in a dizzyingly offensive way.
But the front rooms were infinitely preferable to being sent to the back, no matter how many groping hands she had to deal with. Amy had been told on her first day in the Olivan that the back rooms were where the money was made, and after spending a few hours there at the end of the day, she knew why.
When she had started her job back in Leadworth, before she had so much as slipped into that tight little policewoman's outfit, Amy had met with a woman from her agency who had laid out, in no uncertain terms, what the limits of her responsibilities would be. This was important, because the agency was
respectable;
the list was based more around the things she should not do, rather than those that she should.
Over the course of those few hours she had been made to cross all of those lines; the collar at her neck had made her leap gleefully over that border and into impropriety. The Olivan represented an inversion of her kissogram job; the simple act of winding up men was the purview of the front rooms. The rear guard took them all the way to satisfaction.
And when a portion of the wall faded away and a tall figure entered the room, Amy remembered the
other
difference.
Fiori...
Amy found herself kneeling beside the bed almost automatically now, palms down on her thighs. The near silent, imposing man had taught her this on her first day, and the tone of his voice had made it clear that disobedience was not an option. He almost never used her collar to control her, merely relying on expectation and Amy's natural uncertainty about how far he would go to combat defiance.
The bald man looked her over dispassionately, but Amy knew better than to think he was
actually
uninterested. She had spent a lot of time watching him, she
had
to, and by now she knew that his cool exterior was just a façade, and inside he was deciding how to punish her.
Oh god, oh god, what had she done
now?
'I had a number of guest reports on you tonight, Amelia,' The rules were so numerous, none were ever explained until she had broken them... 'Very few of them were satisfactory.'
The meaning behind the words dropped into place without Amy even needing to hear the sentences themselves: pain was coming. Of course, it wouldn't have mattered how she had performed out there tonight, her customers would have given bad ratings anyway, because they
knew
what would happen to her when they did, and frankly, they liked the idea. It left her with the choice of
trying
to please them, betraying her inner need for defiance in the process, or just surrendering and allowing the inevitable to take place.
'I'm sorry, Sir,' Still, backchatting to Fiori wasn't a mistake she would make again. She had been working her full Amy Pond, psychiatrist biting glory her first day here, and all it had gotten her were marks on her ass and breasts that had to be healed by a medi-com unit, and a series of mind-shattering orgasms wrung out of her until she had begged him, with every fiber of her being, for it to stop.
'I'm your slut! I'm your whore! I'm your slave!'
Yes, those had been the words that had satisfied him, made her torment recede for the day, but she had lost something valuable in the process of saying them.
She had lost that little spark that had made her defend the Raggedy Doctor all those lonely childhood years.
Fiori reached down, gripped the front of what passed for her outfit here, and pulled. Amy didn't know of these porny little costumes had been made tearaway or not, but she did know that Fiori loved doing so; under better circumstances, she might not have minded herself, but as the momentary pressure yielded with the sound of tearing cloth and she found herself naked yet again, Amy just wished for that familiar TARDIS noise.
The part that came next she knew all too well; it was the same every night. Amy simply closed her eyes at the sound of his fly descending, and opened her mouth accommodatingly before her new Master even had to tell her what to do. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed his cock into her mouth, over her tongue and to the back of her throat, in one continuous motion. Fiori wouldn't stop, Amy knew, until her lips were wrapped around the very base of his organ, and so all she could do was try her best to accomplish this goal. She gagged.
She could almost set her watch by Fiori's routine, at least in its early stages. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four; his hips shifted, bringing his cock from the tip of her tongue to the back of her throat in a slow circuit, topping out on the tenth stroke. He withdrew, and Amy desperately suppressed the cough that was brewing, along with the desire to spit the taste of him from her mouth. That lesson had been learned well.
Her place was to kneel, to be used; any deviation from this would be punished. She wasn't human anymore; she was a
slave.
'Present your tongue,' Fiori's voice was a leaden weight, a slapping threat that she had no choice but to obey. Her pink tongue, so well used these last few days, poked out from between soft bow lips.
Her new Master placed a small, multicolored tab there, and Amy obediently drew it into her mouth. It had already started dissolving, lasting no longer than a few seconds before disappearing completely, with the floating, helium feeling of chemicals racing through her system. Whatever it was, its effects were rapid onset, and the creeping warmth that followed was entirely familiar to her; Amy's thighs shifted almost imperceptibly, as her pussy near dripped in mere seconds.
Fiori nodded gently, and without looking away Amy opened her mouth again, closing her eyes as she accepted his cock once more. This final, eleventh stroke to her throat was always the worst; as the drugs she had been fed danced across every pleasure center she had, her mouth began to water at the hot, masculine taste of flesh against her tongue. It wasn't something that would be easily missed; above, Fiori smiled knowingly.
But of course, that wasn't the end of it; Fiori wasn't a particularly nice person, and the drugs he fed her would have been far kinder just to arouse her. When the flowing, twisting strands of memory had hit her the first time, it had come as a surprise. By now, Amy would have loved for them to have become routine, but they kept on taking her by surprise, each one too unique and intense to be anything other than a blow to her already battered mind. It was Fiori's fingers gripping her hair that did it, this time...
... and pain pulsed through her hindquarters yet again, to the rapturous cheering of the crowd. The metal bindings bit into her wrists as she fought against them, as the crop came down again, before she could even recover from the last blow. Her eyes stayed locked on it, staring over her shoulder; it was far worse not to see the strike coming. Rogue tendrils of electricity arced away from the tip, licking at the air, burning through it before dissipating.
The world shook...
... And Amy was back again, trembling with the memory and struggling not to bite down hard. The soothing nanogenes that suffused the air in her room had healed the marks and taken away the pain, but the recollection of it was all too sharp and present, and Amy felt herself shaking to her core, shamefully wet despite herself.
