Resurrection

For this chapter Ginny takes a break while I remedy a problem I caused when I wrote

Gone for Six.

I loved creating and writing about Jen, but I made her die in my third story. This upset some of my readers and forced me to take implicit steps backward in the timeline to continue her development, as inevitably I felt compelled to do.

Parts 2 and 3 of Incipiunt Vitae Novae

haven't been all that successful to date, though part 1 seems to be doing reasonably well. Perhaps it's simply the quality of my writing, but I wonder if the introduction of science fiction themes doesn't fit so well into BDSM - as an experiment I'm submitting this chapter in Science Fiction and Fantasy. Oh, the opportunity, the new-found freedom! With time-travel, alternate universes, cyberspace and artificial intelligence legitimately in my toolbox, I can correct my error with Jen and ultimately, though not in this chapter, better "flesh out" Michela, who first displays evidence of sentience in part 3.

A trigger warning is in order. I've chosen, like JKR's Dobby, to punish myself for what I did to Jen, pulling out enough stops possibly to qualify for Erotic Horror. I hope that you enjoy reading that part as much as I did writing it, but if erotic executions turn you off just skip over it; the story of Jen's return resumes afterward, ending with my first attempt to write a more or less conventional sex scene. I'll be delighted if you enjoy either or both scenes and I hope you'll read my other stories, especially if you give me lots of fives! Please leave comments if you are so inclined - the next story I'm working on springs from a reader's suggestions.

*****

"What the FUCK," shouted the director. She wasn't known for vulgar outbursts, nor was she accustomed to receiving frantic calls to come to a laboratory at the Neuroscience Institute in the middle of the night. She glared at the peeled-back thermal covers as she fought to recover her composure. The gurneys which should have supported the bodies of Jen, Michael and Ariel for their chilled delivery from the JenLiz sacrifice scene groaned instead under the weight of notebooks, old computer drives, publication reprints and a modest quantity of biological material in various containers, but definitely no whole cadavers. They looked for all the world as if someone had dumped on the contents of a researcher's workspace, spiced up the piles with a shelf-worth of choice selections from the morgue, then spread it all out to look more or less like three bodies when covered by the thick insulating blankets. The only immediately decipherable artifact, prompting the call, was an envelope addressed "To the Director". She tore it open.

Jen, Michael and Ariel are safe - do not attempt to locate them, they are not accessible in your world. You will be able to find out everything you might have learned from their bodies using the materials we've provided.

The director scratched her head, thinking quickly. The situation didn't appear catastrophic; only her top two scientists had seen under the covers. They'd stayed late, anxious to begin work on the brains at their freshest, the moment they arrived. A cover-up was still practical. She prayed for the sake of the Institute's reputation that the information on the gurneys was genuine and would ultimately be corroborated by knowledge obtained using normal scientific methods.

***

Sara set her viola down gently on the elegant Chippendale side-table. She needed a rest. When her idol and long-distance friend Hermann Strauss offered to visit the following season to conduct her community orchestra in Richard Strauss's Don Quixote if Sara would play Sancho she was thrilled beyond measure - for Don Q he promised to produce an excellent professional cellist he thought she'd enjoy. Now she had to deliver. The piece was far from easy and some sections still eluded her. She hoped to be able to produce a musically informed performance, not just a technically satisfactory one, and to this end she practiced diligently every day. But today it just wasn't working. Once she stopped practicing she finally heard the impatient jangle of the doorbell - it had rung at least a half a dozen times already. She swore under her breath; unexpected visitors at the House of Bondage were rare and seldom welcome. She headed to the door.

Upstairs Liz, an official State Tormentor, sat reviewing the records of the miscreants scheduled for punishment the next day, and she wasn't really getting into it either. Since Jen, her lover and co-Tormentor died she'd had to work double time. She was getting very tired, and it didn't seem as if the Office of Correction was working nearly as hard on finding a replacement as she was on processing her caseload. She missed Jen terribly. Gabe wasn't much of a substitute - he'd moved in after the sacrifice, but that wasn't working either and now he was spending most of his time at the studio and sleeping at his old apartment.

Sara checked her phone - perhaps the front door camera would show her what trouble was brewing. She gasped. She threw the door wide open and stared in disbelief as Jen and Michael climbed the steps. That they hadn't yet reached the doorbell was the least surprising part. Forgetting even to invite them in, though they came in anyway, she yelled up the stairs.

"Liz, come down, right now! Quickly!"

Liz rushed down, fearing some calamity, and broke into tears of joy as she reached the bottom. The four embraced fervently, then Sara remembered the door, still standing open. Stepping out to check if anyone might have seen in, she glanced up and down the street. She thought she saw the shimmering outline of a large SUV disappear around the corner at the bottom, followed by a muffled bang. She hoped there hadn't been an accident, but it didn't exactly sound like one, so she turned back and closed the door. The four of them went to the living room, Sara put away her viola and they sat down, Sara and Liz utterly flabbergasted, Jen and Michael looking rather tired, but all elated to be together once again.

Jen didn't want to talk about what she'd experienced, and in any case the memory of her time in the future was fading rapidly. She was simply happy to be back. Michael knew his memory would fade soon too - he'd been warned about that, along with the need not to give out too much information in the meantime. Soon the world would simply believe that the Neuroscience Institute had figured out how to save two of them - in time they would wonder themselves if that wasn't the truth, but Michael felt he owed his closest friends a better explanation for their sudden reappearance after what they were astonished to learn had been just two months.

Michael didn't have to be too secretive; anything he said about the future would fade not just from his own memory but from his listeners' also, as long as it wasn't too important and there weren't too many listeners. He'd been returned because his work would be critical to the emergence of the world they'd lived in for a year. At Jen's request, Michael insisted that she be returned also, and he had the chips for the bargain. The importance of his work to come was one thing he shouldn't talk about, and it was essential that he forget that fact soon, or catastrophe could ensue. But they'd be wondering why Ariel wasn't with them. The answer was simple enough - he liked it better where he was. It wasn't particularly her intention, but Jen was the reason he didn't come back with them.

***

Ugh, this is it. God, I hope it doesn't hurt too much. I hope she makes it quick. But I know it will. I know she won't.

I mounted a desperate but ultimately bootless fight against my Gabrielle and Xena-clad captors as they wrestled me backward to the stainless steel torture pole materializing out of nowhere at the leftmost end of the lineup. They subdued me with little effort, binding my wrists behind the pole before I even realized what was happening. A quick loop at my knees forestalled any further resistance. They cut off my clothing without ceremony, ripping it past my initial bonds wherever necessary. Within seconds I was stripped naked, exposed, utterly their prisoner.

But I could still move too much for Jen's taste - they fixed that next. Gabrielle moved behind me to pinion my arms and pull my shoulders together without mercy while Xena worked in front, securing me permanently with resilient bands at my ankles, knees, and thighs. Together they circled two more bands all the way around at my belly and chest, then checked them all, taking out every last millimeter of slack to force my legs, arms and spine hard up against the cold steel. I struggled for a minute or so, but the tough, unyielding material tightened further with each attempt at freedom, adhering to my skin with the heat of my exertion, driving home my helplessness.

Satisfied with my immobilization, Gabrielle closed her fingers around my testicles and penis, pulling them away from my body as her bracelet expanded into a thick rubbery ring loose on her arm. With her free hand she slipped it across her wrist and pressed it to my pubis, where it shrank around my hapless genitals, forcing my balls into my distended sack. As Gabrielle encircled my cock and balls, Xena slipped a larger ring over my head. It rested on my shoulders for a moment before it too shrank snugly around my neck. Their tasks completed for the moment, they smiled at me, wished me an easy execution, and vanished, reappearing a few minutes later with another victim as a fresh pole materialized to receive him. I gathered from the row of ringed pudendi to my right that today's executionees must all be men.

From time to time our forlorn company moved one space over, advancing us to our fate, while more unfortunates accumulated to our left. Each move brought me closer to my terminal date with Jen. The screams of anguish, at first barely audible, grew relentlessly louder. My right-hand neighbor let out a loud groan - I turned my head just in time to see the loop around his neck expand into a wide tight-fitting collar, rounding up under his chin, spreading a little over his shoulders as it sprouted a thin tendril at the back. His rubbery cock-and-ball ring had already morphed to enclose his scrotum in a transparent pouch. With horror I watched his balls balloon, tripling their size inside the elastic enclosure to dangle grotesquely against the band encircling his thighs. Then his cock began to swell. The shape-shifting ring offered him an enclosing sheath as his erection grew to double the size I could possibly imagine he'd ever been before.

We moved again, and my own pubic ring flattened and thinned, oozing a slippery coating as it encased my testicles and squeezed between my legs, feeling its way to my anus. It entered me, expanding and stretching my sphincter, effortlessly overcoming my attempt to expel it. I groaned with pain-pleasure as it drove deep inside and ejaculated copiously. My gut cramped fiercely. In short order an intense prickling fever spread through my body, dissipating into the background discomfort of my bondage after a minute or so. I sensed my testicles beginning their frightful expansion, though I could no longer look down, my collar by now severely limiting my head movement. How humiliated I felt as the alien substance took control of my body, making my balls grow larger, heavier, seemingly without limit.

My penis twinged and lifted from my ponderous scrotal encasement, reminding me of what would happen next. As my involuntary erection took hold the animated ring-material folded my privy member into its moist embrace, lengthening in tandem as I grew far beyond any prior personal best. For a minute or so delightful waves radiated up and down my lover-sheath, stiffening me thoroughly, distracting me from the collar's tendril slithering through the cramped spaces between my arms and the pole to seek its partner between my legs. The instant they consummated their union the pleasurable massage ended with an ominous electric sting, telegraphing their true purpose.

We continued moving rightward. Our monstrous cocks ached in exquisite torment as we grew ever harder in our elastic sleeves, swelling intimately against the slippery-smooth conductive surfaces. The screams grew louder. We couldn't yet see the actual executions on account of the limited movement our collars permitted, but it wasn't long before we reached an area with mirrors positioned so we could. The full dreadfulness of my situation sank in as I finally caught sight of Jen administering the coup de grâce, her victim screaming in terror as she spoke the dark command to initiate the deadly current between his neck and genitals. But his was not the only scream. I felt a strong buzz myself; my neighbor struggled against his bonds. As each execution occurs, we experience a growing taste of our impending fate. Those nearest scream almost as much as the one thrashing in his final deathly paroxysm.

Jen is so beautiful. My heart aches together with my swollen genitals just to see her, her long black hair waving wildly as she wields the whip, her strong, angular features and dark eyes, so severe, so inviting, calling me to her thrall. At each step I'm nearer, at each execution I struggle more fiercely as my neck, cock and balls spasm more intensely - the collar oozes a conductive gel which eases the stinging there, but not below. I'm close enough now to see each victim forced to orgasm before his whipping. They struggle with confused, intense pleasure for a few minutes as Jen gazes into their eyes; she dances gleefully when they convulse in climax, squirting their semen into their sleeves, squeezing it all over their cocks and balls to enhance their enclosing membrane's conductive effectiveness several times over.

Then she whips them mercilessly. The crack of the whip, the screams, Jen's joyful athletics as they bellow with each impact, the pain magnified tenfold by the orgasm they've just experienced - my turn is coming.

What did I do to deserve this? Nothing I can remember. Vague memories churn through my head; courtrooms, endless hearings, terrifying pronouncements, but nothing I can recall about any crime, in fact, nothing very coherent at all. The only image I can clearly conjure is of Jen's uniform - a woman's gothic executioner's outfit I considered ordering on the web, with no idea who I would persuade to wear it - she's wearing it so beautifully now, the smooth leather flowing over her lithe, robust figure, her breasts mounding beneath its shiny surface, her elegant, towering posture supported in the ornately decorated boots, the various deadly implements for which she has no need today swinging at her side. I squirm defiantly in my bonds and they grip me tighter. Escape is impossible - perhaps I don't really want to.

I'm up. To my left the next victim will watch me struggle in agony just as I watched my predecessor tortured to death moments before. His lifeless body, shifting rightward as I'm moved into execution position, remains suspended in its bonds, the death-grimacing face supported by the wide, tight collar. A wisp of steam rises from the shriveled sleeve draped limply over his wrinkled ball-case. How many more line up on my left, scheduled to die today, I wonder as I wait for Jen to return from a brief break to execute my sentence, to whip me until I beg for deliverance, then kill me with an excruciating flow of electricity through my cock and balls to the collar around my neck. When she forces me to come I'll know it's for her pleasure, not mine - she loves to watch men writhe in tight bondage regardless of the reason. I won't be saved by shrinking post-orgasm from the contacts - our preparation ensures that we stay Priapus-hard in our lethally semen-infused electrodes until our hearts stop beating, no matter how long she makes that take - and she's back.

Oh the surge of terror, the love I feel for her as she gazes into my eyes for the last time. She asks me a simple question.

"Do you know why you are here?"

I mumble incoherently, but the gist is "no."

"You killed me."

I remember now. "Jen, that was just a story," I dissemble. " I was just..."

"SHUT UP. Perhaps it was just a story for you, but not for me. I suffered, far more than you did. You wanted to die - I didn't. I loved my life, my job, my friends, and you ended it, and your readers suffered with me too. You made me die to fulfill your fantasy, not mine."

The consequences of my despicable crime flood my mind. "I suppose I am guilty as charged - I killed Michael too. Make me suffer now as you suffered then."

"Do you think it's your choice to submit, impudent worm? Look at you, strapped so tightly to that pole you can hardly move a centimeter. Yes, struggle against my expert bondage. How could you escape? I have your swollen balls encased, I've made your cock twice as large as it's ever been, the better to torture you, to kill you with my lightning bolts. My whip is ready to make you beg for the end, but it will be my choice, not yours, when you do."

I try to speak but the collar tightens around my neck and presses hard on my jaw - no words come even when she eases the force slightly.

"Good, you know your place - prepare to suffer." Her fierce look softens as she looks deeply into my eyes, penetrating my being as my strange anal invader awakens and my sleeve starts its slow massage. "Dance for me, make one last choice, give me the pleasure of watching you writhe in pleasure and explode in your tightly bound orgasm, as if you really have a choice to yield to me."

Not four minutes, maybe one or two. I writhe and squirm as commanded, my mysterious bonds responding in kind as my arousal intensifies. What started as a thick rubbery ring has become an extension of her own body, stimulating me unbearably, more than I ever imagined possible - I struggle harder, as if I could burst the bands enclosing me, though that's impossible. My orgasm surges through my body, I thrash fiercely, pumping out my electrolyte-laden cum as Jen milks my swollen shaft unrelentingly, until I collapse exhausted, my thrashing enfeebled to pathetic twitching. Then a new infusion in my gut brings every nerve in my body alive once again. She uncoils the whip and rears back.

"Then again, you're here, really, just because you're a man. There are far too many - we need to cull the herd."

ARRGGG, AIEEE - I'm screaming in pain as her whip smashes across my chest, flies around my back to land its searing sting, rending my skin with every blow. How long can I bear this? What's the point of holding out? But I must, must try to stay alive a few minutes more. Giving in will terminate the scourging but my shuddering, swollen electrode-enshrouded genitalia still convince me that the agony of the heart-arresting current will surely exceed the pain of the whip by far. There's nothing on my scalp - I will be fully conscious to the very end.

***

Jen and Michael stared at the screen, watching the lurid execution as they sat comfortably in their recovery chairs - the seats, backrests, sides and armrests automatically molding around their bodies, exerting precisely the pressure needed on each square centimeter to balance their weight with minimum distress, allowing them to stay out of their life-support pods for almost a normal waking day. The three therapeutic pods stood behind them, the covers of Jen's and Michael's hinged open, ready for them to return when they reached their safe activity limit. The third was closed - in it, Ariel's body twitched slightly as Jen's whip thundered, but appeared to suffer no damage.

"Christ, how does he stand it?" Michael asked, turning away from the screen for a moment to look at Jen. Michael was quite a pain slut himself, but wouldn't in a million years volunteer for what he was watching. Jen was smiling - she could, indeed was imagining doing what she was watching though she would never in good conscience do it directly to a living body. Ariel endured it over and over. By now Jen was getting rather tired of inventing variations, but it wouldn't be necessary to keep adjusting the experience for ever - egged on by Ariel, she finally had it just about right. Occasionally she'd enter the cyberscene live, though Ariel had no way to tell the difference. She had to admit she really did enjoy her occasional visits, the chance to give full vent to her brutality knowing no permanent harm would come of it. She needed whip practice, more than she could manage with her real body. She longed to be back in her own time and place, mistress of the punishment chamber, lover, friend, fully human woman. Every day she got a little stronger, every week they could set the gravity a little higher - it wouldn't be so very long now.