Deadly Sexiness Ch 03

Author's note: I meant to get this out about a couple months ago, but I was in the middle of moving. Plus I felt like I rushed the last one, so I really wanted to expand this world a little and see where it goes (I'll admit the exposition is a little clunky in the beginning but it gets fun). So yeah more plot in this one, and intense lemons at the end.

Low key don't know if I'll have time to keep writing though, cause I'm broke. But I'mma try.

~

I survey the scene, knife in hand, as I try to figure out what to do next. Semen stains the floor in several places now. Strips of clothing lie about after I cut my legs free from the chair. I'm butt ass naked from the waist down. She lies out cold on the floor, body bare except for my belt, which hangs loosely around her waist. Time to leave.

"Open room." I say into a mic next to the door while placing my left hand on the only red tile on the wall. It reads my handprint, checks my voice against the database, then with a soft click the door opens. I glance behind me once more at the mess, then head through the door toward the supply closet. The door shuts automatically behind me.

The facility I'm in was once used by a now-dead organization.

ABISMO. Autonomic Body Systems Information and Manipulation Organization. They were the first to discover channelling. Well... not exactly the first. But the first of the modern world to discover its potential.

They were a sub organization of DARPA, looking into natural physical and mental performance enhancement through voluntary control of different 'autonomic' parts of the body, such as the nervous system. Autonomic, as in usually you shouldn't be able to control them, they'd happen automatically, regulated by your body. One of these was the sympathetic nervous system. The 'fight or flight' response.

I think back to the days before I knew what channelling was. Before I knew what I was capable of. At the time, ABISMO hadn't existed. But, an extremely small percentage of the population were trying to figure out what was going on with them, a skinny, nineteen year old me being one of these people.

As I walk down the long hallway toward the supply closet, I remember, remember scouring the internet in search of what this weird voluntary, tingling, nervous feeling was, that I couldn't sustain for very long, but it would make me sweat, make me twitch with energy. Before long, I found others like me in forums, where we discussed it and tried to understand it.

Then some idiot made a youtube video about it, talking about the forums, the possible explanations for what it could be, and all sorts of stupid shit.

It was taken down a day later, but not before getting multiple thousands of views. I remember that day vividly. Staring at the screen, at the error message. Feeling a sense of foreboding. Then I was met at my door by a very excited-looking professor flanked by two large, tough looking men in black suits.

I shake my head of the memories as I open the door to the walk-in supply closet. I throw my knife into a bucket, grab it and a mop from the corner, and take the soap from the top shelf and toss it into the bucket as well. I turn to go, but pause, the rope on one of the lower shelves catching my eye. I pick it up and toss it into the bucket too. She escaped the cuffs pretty easily, but I notion with rope I'll be able to make just a little more difficult.

As I walk back to the interrogation room, I'm once again flooded with memories.

I was escorted from my humble apartment to this facility in a lavish limo by the trio, the professor talking with me animatedly the entire time. I was to become part of a very important 'research project', one that would serve the country. Did I have any choice in the matter? No.

Did I really care?

No.

I was young and lost. No direction. Not enough money for college, and I was adamantly against using student loans.

I was more than happy to finally have a purpose. I didn't even stop to consider how many laws they'd broken to find me.

At the facility I was tested. They strapped me to an EMG and a heart rate monitor and watched my pupils. I was asked to surge for as long as I could, surging being what they termed the process of voluntarily activating your sympathetic nervous system. I remember the professor distinctly smiling at the results, then me. Afterwards, I was put with the rest of the people like me. Some were disgruntled, some vehemently angry. None were as calm or as at piece as I. All had previous lives they wanted back, whereas I had just started mine.

I come back to the present, palming the biometric reader next to the door.

"Open room."

The door clicks open. I push it forward warily, half expecting an onslaught of attack from inside. But none comes. I sigh with relief.

I walk over to her naked body. Even in my post-orgasm tiredness, I can appreciate her supple form. I drop the bucket and mop, flip her over onto her front and begin tying her up, looping her thumbs first. As I pull the rope tight, her thumb hyperextends back to a gruesome-looking angle.

Holy fuck.

Supple indeed. She must've broken her thumbs to escape the cuffs. No. That can't be right, her thumbs would be swollen and immovable. And there's no way she stroked me that effectively with broken thumbs. She must just naturally be hypermobile. A useful trick.

Keeping this in mind, I finish connecting her thumbs, then her wrists with the rope, and then tie the lot to her waist. She's not getting out of this unless she's a serious contortionist.

I remove the belt from her midsection and my knife from the bucket, before sheathing it and walking out. I head down the hall to my old room, and pick out a new set of clothes before trodding tiredly to the showers. I throw it all on a chair and remove my hoodie and shirt in one motion. I turn on the shower, immersing myself in the feeling of the hot water. It brings back the memories once again.

----------5 YEARS AGO-----------

I've been put in a group of six, four of which are women, the other a sleazy middle aged man. All of them wanted out at first, all of them were angry. Two of them, the sleazy man and a tall, haughty woman, flat out refused to cooperate. They were escorted forcefully from the facility.

Only the woman came back, broken and wide-eyed. She doesn't talk anymore.

They leave us alone for a few days before beginning tests. We're each given our own room, a bed, a few personal items, and a meal plan. I'm given six medium sized meals a day. I don't ever finish them. Far too filling.

The first couple days are boring, there isn't much to do except watch TV in the 'living room' or read the provided books, which aren't much of a read. I mean, 'The Catcher in the Rye'? Really? Talk about boring. We ask the guards multiple times what we were waiting for.

"Paperwork." They say, tight lipped. I suppose I should be scared by my situation, with the woman coming back mentally broken and mute, and by the lack of information, but I somehow can only feel... excitement.

On the fifth day, the professor returns with a large smile. The paperwork is done, apparently, and the testing phase has begun. They started by hooking us up to multiple machines and having us surge while sitting, running, walking, jumping, etc. I'm the only one who actually talks with the professor anymore. That's the name we give him, because he wouldn't give us his actual name. I'm curious about the tests.

"Eh?" He responds, at first taken aback by my non-fearful disposition. "Oh. Well, your sympathetic response usually enhances your physical ability beyond normal boundaries," He stops, thinks a moment. "You ever see those movies where a guy touches an electric wire and flies back?" I nod.

"That's not the electricity that's doing that..." He pauses thoughtfully for a second. "Well, in a way I suppose it is... But I digress, it is actually

your own

muscles that contract to throw you across the room. The electricity just activates them."

He configures a force plate on the ground in front of me.

"You are far stronger than you realize, but your body naturally caps your voluntary strength to protect you, so you don't accidentally tear your connective tissue, like your ligaments and tendons."

He straightens, then gestures toward the now-ready force plate.

"Stand there."

I step on the plate. He presses a button on his computer.

"So basically, we're trying to see how far you can push past your natural voluntary boundaries by surging. One of the ways to do this is by testing how much extra force you can generate" He waves his hand at me to jump. I do. He consults the laptop for a second before turning back around.

"Now surge for two seconds before jumping." He holds up a stopwatch, and I when he presses down, I begin surging. When I reach two seconds, the energy has completely flooded my body and I tremble with the need to move. I jump far higher.

The professor examines the results, then makes an approving sound before turning back to me.

"Again."

Later we sit around the table, me trying to finish my sixth meal of the day. Chicken and brown rice, plus broccoli. I hardly touch the broccoli. Nasty stuff. The others talk about what they miss from life outside the facility. One of them addresses me.

"You don't say much, Flynn. What do you miss?" It's the older woman, Joanna. She looks at me tenderly. I resent it.

"Nothing." I say, and glare at my food, suddenly angry. I stab a broccoli with my fork.

"Surely, you must miss -"

"I said, I don't miss anything!" I shout, standing up. I can't think.

"Flynn, calm down-"

I flip the table, plates shattering, food spilling on to the ground. I stare at her angrily for a moment longer, then storm back toward my room. I sit on my bed, brooding. She knows nothing of my life. She has no business assuming things of me.

My door opens, and one of the others enters. Lily. A year or two my senior, she's the only one I can really relate to. Psychology major at University of Michigan before she was brought to the facility.

She sits next to me on my bed. I become extremely aware of her close proximity, and suddenly I'm no longer angry. I'm extremely conscious of my skinny frame, my gauky body and defeated posture. I look up, face still set in a frown and she sits regally, legs crossed. Her back is straight, although she's short, so even though I slump, my head still rises above hers. Her dark eyes look intelligently into mine. She's not wearing much makeup. Yet still, very attractive, with high cheekbones, large eyes, and fit physique, apparently an outside in volleyball, she told me.

I fantasize for a second, imagining us in bed together, before cringing inwardly at myself. She could never want me.

She scoots forward and hugs me in one movement, and all awkwardness is gone. I feel...comforted.

"Breath in," She says quietly.

I breath in.

"And out."

I let it out. As I do, I feel my body begin to cleanse itself. A deep shudder runs through my spine, and to my surprise, I begin to cry. Almost as if I was a sponge and my emotions water, she begins to squeeze and it all flows out. I let it all go and sob in her arms, not enough left in me to feel embarrassed.

"It's okay."

She rocks me back and forth.

"It's okay." She repeats.

----------PRESENT-----------

The hot water runs out, shocking me out of my flashback. I turn off the shower, exit the stall and throw on my new set of clothes, buckling my belt on once more. My old clothes I toss into the wash basket on my way out. I head back to the cell, feeling slightly refreshed.

"Open room."

She explodes through the door, leading with her shoulder.

Fuck.

I drop instantly, but I'm not quick enough. She hits me, her shoulder lower than mine, ripping me violently off my feet.

I lock my right arm around her head in a guillotine choke hold mid-air. We both crash onto the ground, her on top, but with her hands still tied to the back of her waist she's all out of options. Or so I think. She turns her head in my arms, and I feel a stabbing pain on my right lat.

She's fucking biting me.

I grimace, and tighten my hold, putting pressure on the arteries in her neck. She struggles a moment longer, her legs clawing at the floor. Finally she falls limp. I release her and flop backwards, my head now next to hers. She drools on the ground. Cute once again.

I stand up, swaying. I lift my arm up in pain to assess the wound, but I can't see it under the clothing. I shake my head, then refocus.

I pick her up, sling her over my shoulder. I stumble one step at a time through the cell door, and place her on the table. Time to mop. I pick it up and begin to clean the whole cell of its mess. Half way through I exit the room to switch out the water and soap. I come back and continue cleaning the cell. It's a full minute before I realize.

She's gone.

The woman no longer on the table, I freak for a second, expecting a her to come out at any second and attack me. I take a moment then, considering my options. She can't do much short of tackling me, not with her hands bound the way they are, and she already tried that, to no avail. I take a second and put myself in her mind, and assess

her

options.

She could try to run, try to attack me again, or bide her time hiding, figure a way out of the rope.

Trying to run won't work. Can't open any important doors without my voice, the whole complex is practically a fortress. Attacking me already didn't work, even with my guard down. As insane as she seems, she's not stupid.

So. No choice but to hide.

I smile. This girl. What a piece of work. She faked being out cold, not to get me on a second attempt, which she knew to be futile, but to escape, pursue the long game. Well, nothing to be done now. I'll find her in the morning. I finish cleaning the room, leave the mop and bucket behind as I exit, not forgetting to relock the cell before finding the pantry, grabbing approximately twenty-six cereal bars (like all I could carry) and a gallon of milk. Don't judge me. For some reason I had a craving, and it needed to be addressed. I eat every single cereal bar except two, and feel sick and tired as fuck near the end. When I'm done, I walk half asleep to my room, lock the door, find my bunk and collapse into it.

I dream of the past.

----------5 YEARS AGO-----------

The days pass as everyone begins to accept their fate, their lack of freedom. They turn into weeks, then into months. I'm given a workout schedule, and the testing stops. Three days a week I train, and in my spare time I read anything I can get my hands on. I'm supervised and taught by a burly navy seal, who I give the name "Joe" (he won't give me his name). I like his manner. Extremely to the point, rude, some might say. But honest. The first time he sees me, he stands back, looks me over, grunts, then laughs, a loud guffaw.

"Fuckin' hell. Kid, you're a stick."

He puts me on compound lifts and a typical gym schedule, starting with high rep ranges and low weight, but slowly progressing toward less reps and more power based training. I become stronger, breaking new personal bests each week. My training shifts to 5 times a week. My body grows slowly, and I begin to get hungrier.

I finish all my meals now.

Joe explains basic strength and power building concepts, like progressive overload, eccentric overload, mechanical muscle breakdown, and sliding filament theory, all while we train. I soak it up. Something about learning while moving lets me focus to a degree I've never experienced before.

I begin look forward to my morning gym sessions. It becomes fun, exciting even. I get up groggily at five AM, train for two hours, then get ten hours of sleep at night. Joe tells me he's there to build up my basic fitness and strength.

"Training your engine." He's fond of saying.

When I'm not training, sleeping, or eating, I read. They let me request books. I start out with fantasy, but soon it bores me. I grow hungry for information. I ask for books on sports psychology and biomechanics, trying to compliment my training. I begin to grow mentally as well as physically. I relearn basic physics concepts like angular momentum and Newton's laws but from the perspective of sport and motion. I learn about how the human mind processes information, black box theory, hicks law, and how to take advantage of the psychological refractory period.

If I'm not reading, I'm talking with the others. As strange as it may seem, they've each adapted, either becoming extremely introverted and never talking to anyone (the mute woman and the japanese lady), or internalizing what the professor and guards tell us, that we're helping our country (both Lily and Joanna). I talk mostly only to Lily. I started by approaching her with sports-psychology concepts, and she responded in kind with her own opinions and with information she learned in college.

Joe won't tell me exactly what the end goal of the training is, but it doesn't matter. I love it. Soon he adds burnout complexes at the end of every workout that leave me weak and gasping for air. While I hate them in the moment, afterwards the high is incredible. I begin to grow steadily as months go by. My shoulders begin to take shape, separate muscular heads visible. My baby fat on my stomach disappears, then faint lines form. I see faint teardrops outlines in my legs when I flex them.

My pecs remain small. They don't want to grow, and my progress in the bench press and other push movements suffer because of this. Joe laughs at me when I ask what's happening.

"It's genetics son. Your pecs are your 'lagging' muscle group. Don't worry, we'll give them a little

special

therapy, and you'll be just fine."

He adds pectoral-specific movements at the beginning of each push workout. My pecs hurt like a bitch, but after the first couple weeks they stubbornly grow to match the rest of my body.

I'm no longer gauky. Well, not entirely. I'm fit, tall, strong, but not quite muscular.. I don't look like anybody's fitness icon's just yet, but you can tell I train. I have the body of a male catwalk model. Skinny, but fit.

Then, one day, Joe isn't in the gym when I enter. Neither is any of the usual gym equipment. Instead a tall, lithe man stands in the center of the room, facing the wall opposite the mirror. He's almost my height, well built, yet not burly. He wears no shirt, but a pair of tight jogging pants hug his lower body. His feet are bare. Something about him seems... strange, even from behind.

He turns to face me, and his eyes freeze me. They're both completely white. He's...blind.

But when he turned, his body moved like it was made of water. He seems in complete awareness of every inch of it, carefully monitoring, expending

just enough

energy to move in the direction that he wants.

I move my head a little to see if he can see me. His eyes do not follow my lead. Rather they stay slightly to my left.

"Hello?" I ask, somewhat scared, though I don't know why. Some buried instinct tells me I'm in the presence of a very, very dangerous predator.

His head snaps to my voice, and then he stalks toward me, taking three,

precise

steps. I automatically take several steps back in return. He stops, and smiles, as if forgetting himself.

"Yes?" He states simply. His voice has a middle eastern accent, matching his dark hair and olive skin.

"Who are you?" I ask, beginning to get worried. He smiles thinly.

"Your teacher." His tone is...indescribable. The closest description that I can come up with is 'terrifying', but it's more than that. There's a knowing edge to it, a piercing quality that lets you know that he knows everything you are thinking at that moment, as well as everything you aren't thinking and really

should

be thinking. He is, without a doubt, the scariest person I've ever seen.