3. FIBER NAZIS (KEY OF B&D MINOR)
The little man scrubbed my body with eyes bulging above his crocodile grin.
Flaming with humiliation, I tried to fold my naked body in on itself, just fold myself right up into a three inch square bit of non-descript flesh. Stephens yanked hard on my arm, forcing me to stand straight, albeit with one arm across my nipples and the other arm trailed down my belly to cup my sex with a palm.
Stephens stared down at the little officer with a mixture of amusement and distaste. "Not just yet, Mr. Chuang," he said. "And I'll be handling this account personally, in any event." He took my arm and started to pull me past the soldier, but the latter stuck a fist against his chest.
"She kill three of my men," Chuang said. "One, my brother. I will want my piece."
"And you'll have it, if you're a good boy," Stephens told him. "Now I've got business to attend to."
He took me into another cell, this one padded, as I suppose they had taken into account the very real possibility that I'd lose my mind soon. I had been stripped naked, hypno-doped, and seriously groped, none of which I'd particularly enjoyed -- and yet, my body was still having a blast. Like that chica in "Hot Blooded," you could check it and see: I had a fever of a hundred and three. Face it, baby; you can't do more than that. When Stephens snapped the door shut, the light switched to a witchy moon ultra-violet fog.
Larry, Curly and Mao were putting leather cuffs on my wrists. They latched them high above my head to a chain depending from a ring hanging from a pulley in the ceiling, which the boys obligingly began to raise higher. The boys were in over-salivation mood, yellow drool all over their chin as they drew me up on to my tip toes in this new cell, my brown body swaying like a taut satin void in the blued red haze. Each took his time surveying my curves and sampling the wares, their calloused hands pressing and swirling until it felt like someone had run sandpaper over my hips, tits and -- down there.
Yet for all the "tender romance" they brought to the moment, I was wet -- down there.
I couldn't help it. My body had turned into one big juiced up swollen nipple, and every poke, prod or (God help me, Stephen now and then threw in a) caress sweated a wave of pink hot blush and puckered flesh behind it.
Don't think I was having fun. The ick factor had mushroomed through the roof into a cloud of pure yuck. The fact that my body was in heat and taking that lower half of the brain with it only made things worse. I hated myself almost as much as I hated them.
"Is this where you whip me?" I said, but the scornful courage I'd tried to throw into my voice dried up and came out vapor.
"Some of our clients find whipping amusing," Stephens said. "I don't. A woman twisting in pain is a sickening sight. A woman writhing in passion, on the other hand ...." He cupped my breast with his palm, working the nipple, smiling as my stomach quivered and I gulped air.
"Don't flatter yourself, buddy," I rasped. "This is dope, not passion."
"Chemistry is as chemistry does." His palm flattened, ran down my rib cage, firm, warm, cupping here and there, a gentle squeeze that whirled pleasure around my waist to settle in my hips. My squirming hips -- which his hands now gripped, thumbs pressing in slightly just below my belly. "Who was it that flew you here? What's his name?"
From speakers tucked in the walls, a deep voice perfect for luxury car commercials calmly recited words for my benefit, the same words ("obey, slave girl") reapted in various number with a smooth Corinthian leather sway. I focused on the pattern, something familiar tingling there, focused harder, trying to keep some logic in the middle of the gooey puddle in my head that matched the slick, sticky flow down my thighs. Something about the sequence --
Got it!
The words were being spoken in a particular sequence, specifically a Fibonacci sequence. The Fibonacci sequence builds each number by the sum of the two proceeding numbers: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and so on.
It's much more than a parlor trick; it seems to be encoded into our reality matrix and has amazing elasticity in application. There's a form of technical analysis of stocks, for instance, that relies in part on reviewing trends against Fibonacci patterns. It has a mathematical relationship with the "golden ratio" that defines the exact measure of aesthetic beauty in a building, in music, or in a person's face. It's been attributed to the exteriors of the Great Pyramid of Giza. From that perspective, I felt a little bit honored by this attention. I was, I realized, being turned into a work of submissive art.
I forced my eyes as open as they'd go, which was just enough to show the room a half-lidded slut, her thighs slip-sliding away. I looked around wildly, and noted that the three stooges leaning against the wall, their own eyes heavy-lidded.
"Obey slave obey slave slave girl girl girl obey obey obey obey obey slave slave slave slave slave slave slave slave girl girl girl" -- you get the idea? Way I remembered it, the sequence ran up to twenty eight thousand and change, so I was pleased that they didn't run full sequence. I suspect that "slave" or "obey" said twenty eight thousand times might have gone from hypnotic to silly and on into liberating laughability. Thirty four iterations of "slave" and then the thing reversed on itself, marching back down the sequence and then up again like a flat iron mobius strip pounding on my brain.
Well -- no. My brain was already mashed. This beat was driving that mash into my soul where starched lust waxed it into a warped form of will. A pounding will to serve sexually, and revel in sexual service. All around me, the world warped in beat with my will.
No doubt the drugs helped in that regard, as did the . I was at a loss to explain the walls, otherwise, because the walls were moving. Writhing might be a better way of putting it. Fucking would be more precise. With me in the middle of the mash. A hot, liquid stew and I was the slowly broiling meat.
The ceiling and the floor were making eyes at each other as well. The entire room was living sex, shadows twisting with the light. Ambient music wafted down from above -- female moans, male laughter amid chains clinking together and the occasional snap of a whip. Added to the very real wrap of leather cuffs around my wrists, the chain intertwined in my fingers, it made the moans in my throat seem familiar, reminded me of those two evenings when I let Billy tie me up, back in college.
The incantation took on a baroque quality, the sequence running from different points in different voices, like a tantric sing-along at a camping trip for sexually wired zombie monks and monkettes. The male voice was joined by a female voice, then another, and while the guy chanted "obey obey obey obey obey" the other was chanting "slave slave slave" and her little friend whispered "girl" over and over, and I was turning in the rhythm, turning, pressing myself against the pair of arms that wrapped around me.
