Heather had only a moment to absorb this information before the hatch behind them opened. A shaft of bright light made her wince, and she stepped back into the far wall. She bent and clamped her thighs together, trying to shield her intimacy from view.
The room suddenly filled with men. They were swarthy, muscular Arabs with mustaches, reeking of sweat and maleness. Her overheated body involuntarily surged with new wetness at their proximity. She glanced at Meagan, still seated on the bed, and saw from her anxious expression that she was experiencing the same thing. It was awful, disgusting, and entirely impossible to resist. Her cunt twitched and tingled, stimulating itself with no extra encouragement needed.
As her eyes adjusted, she saw their smiles. They
knew.
The bastards, they knew what she was feeling. Her fists clenched and strained uselessly at the cuffs holding her wrists.
One of them pointed at her. "You," he said gutterally. "Come with us."
Heather looked at Meagan, who seemed unable to breathe. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, jutting nipples straining at the undershirt fabric. The older woman was feeling the same awful, uncontrollable response to the male nearness.
"I want my clothes," Heather hissed. "And my cell phone."
The men laughed. In the small room the sound was harsh and grating, like braying hyenas. One of them grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the corridor outside. The door slammed shut, leaving Meagan alone again.
She was pushed along ahead of them. The lights were harsh flourescent tubes, and she squinted against their glare. The air smelled of oil, fuel and sweat, male sweat, and she found herself whimpering softly with each step. Her thighs slid together as she walked, lubricated by her own uncontrollable juices.
"Stop here," the man who had spoken in the cell said. She felt hands at her wrists, and suddenly the cuffs were gone. Before she had time to adjust to this, she was shoved into the room ahead. She grabbed the hem of the undershirt and tried to pull it down enough to cover her pubic hair. The knowledge that she could now, in fact, touch those parts of her body that most ached battled with her self-control. Could she really die from an orgasm?
It was a doctor's office, and another with a stethoscope around his neck regarded her coldly. He gestured toward a metal folding chair. "Sit down, please," he said. His accent was much lighter. "I'll be with you in a moment. The rest of you can go."
Her escorts, still snickering, withdrew and closed the hatch behind them, leaving Heather alone with the doctor. He returned his attention to his laptop screen. On it, a video showed the face and bare shoulders of a young woman, whimpering and moaning in apparent sensual arousal. She did not look happy about it, though; in fact, it appeared to terrify her. Her cries were just audible through the tiny speakers.
Heather stepped forward, conscious of her near-nudity, her raging hormones and the fact that she both dreaded and craved the rape she expected soon. She had to fight, to hold out; her office knew where she was, after all. When they learned the ship had departed and she had not returned, it would be the first place they looked. But her aching clit, mere centimeters from the fingertips tugging on the undershirt hem, tingled with the friction of every step.
"What," she said through gritted teeth, "did you bastards do to me?"
The doctor looked up at her with exaggerated, paternal patience. "Do? We took away your clothes, yes, to ensure you would not try to escape. Do not worry, my men are under the strictest orders not to lay a hand on you." He grinned, emphasizing the double meaning in his statement.
"That's not what I meant," Heather said. Her legs were weak and wobbly from his male nearness. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. Why am I so horny?"
The doctor pondered a moment, then deadpanned, "Because you are an American whore?"
