Warning: This chapter includes a bit of domination, threatened breeding, physical intimidation, and ominous threats to one of the main characters. Be warned - I don't want to freak anyone out. I'd write a sexy and interesting story where nothing bad ever happens to anyone, but I'm just not that good.
What Dreams May Come - Ch 06
As I waited in the surgical recovery room for them to send me back to the 8th Floor, Lake and I played "Would You Rather" to pass the time until I asked her the question: "Would you rather give Sloan a tentacle bath or make him listen to a bad reading of Shakespeare to get even with him?"
"Get even for what?" she asked, looking genuinely confused. I squirmed a little and confessed to having overheard Sloan's dream and how he popped her cherry. She actually laughed, "yeah, that happens quite a bit for us, sharing dreams... especially when we're in close proximity. You must have shared one of mine by now, right?" I confessed to having shared her Tom Waits dream. Her blackness had faded to the degree that I could see a blush go across her face.
"So, sounds like you two have some history, huh? Jeez. Why is it that otherwise smart women are fooled into falling in love with complete assholes?" I asked. "So, what would it be? Tentacle bath or Shakespeare?"
Lake smiled, "Neither, Cowboy... and we aren't fooled into falling for assholes, we usually go into it with our eyes wide open. How 'bout I tell you a story?" she asked, offering me her hand.
I reached to take it, but stopped before touching her, "You know that I get a whole tornado of stuff when I touch you, right? Not just the things you want to show me. It's all jumbled up and messy, but my brain starts sorting it out as I sleep and I'm worried it's gonna give me heartburn or something and I'll burp up a montage..."
"Shut up and take my hand, Pussy," she laughed.
***
It was in the seventeen seconds of dead air between KPIX-5 Reporter Laine Taylor's softball question to Silicon Valley wunderkind Simon Ellison and his one-word response that completely destroyed the live interview that I knew I wanted him. Laine Taylor had obviously veered off the approved interview material and asked about his social life in a flirtatious way. You know, throw in a human angle for the viewers. Her mistake was, there was no human angle to Simon Ellison. That rigid, ungracious, ass stared at her, completely without expression, for seventeen seconds without saying a thing just to punish her. I think I climaxed at the 13 second mark. That was the first time Simon made me come, and he did it without saying a damn thing.
Now, I was naked and soaking wet in a bedroom talking about my pussy with him, but other than that, my brilliant plan to meet Simon Ellison had gone all to hell. "You are a virgin," he said again, standing over the bed staring at me. He hadn't really asked a question, so I wasn't quite sure how to respond, or if I was allowed to respond. It seemed like he had enough on his plate for the moment, so I just stayed there wrapped in the sheet that I hoped I wasn't getting blood on. "You... are a virgin," he repeated, yet again. Then, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How did this happen?" he said, shaking his head.
"Well, there are different interpretations of virginity. Is it just not having had sex with a man or a woman? Do objects count if there's a human directing them? Is it simply the state of the hymen, and if so, does breaking it while horseback riding count? Does it have to bleed or is stretching it enough? What if your partner's really small and it doesn't break or stretch? Are you still a virgin, then? And what if someone has that surgery where they sew it back up again so that they can recreationally have a tentacle tear through it again? None of that is really going to tell you whether you're going to bed with someone who knows what they're doing, so really virginity's more of a cultural construct than a binary fact, if you ask me," I said. I really didn't know where I was going with this. I was just nervous that I'd destroyed his stuff and that he was probably considering having me killed. Then, he asked a question, which guaranteed that I would blurt out random information, especially when I was nervous. Without unpinching his nose, he opened his eyes and stared at me. I swallowed and felt a sudden swell of sympathy for Laine Taylor, then, because watching Simon Ellison stare someone else down was an entirely different thing from being the object of his laser beam focus. Then, I felt my pussy flutter, which did not help my situation at all. Thanks a lot, pussy.
"And as for 'how,'" I continued, thinking how I should really just shut up, but I guess my brain's survival mode didn't just include 'fight or flight,' but also 'babble like an insane person and hope for the best,' "I really wanted to meet you because the 17 seconds of on-air silence in your Laine Taylor interview made me come after 13 seconds, so I signed up to be a tester for your automated home thing, because I knew that I could show you, like, a billion things that you had wrong about your user interface, because you obviously like to control people more than connect with them, which is actually a disaster for anything that's supposed to help real people, and then I got the interview with the venture capital group, and I saw that the all people in the lobby who got picked had really big boobs, so I went to the bathroom and stuffed my socks into my bra and pulled my neckline down and acted dumb, but I couldn't stuff my bra here and still get naked, so my boobs are just regular now and I'm really, really, really sorry if I broke your tub by asking it to reboot. Please don't have me killed." Then, for some reason I started crying, because that's exactly what you should do when dealing with someone who obviously feeds off the weak and fearful.
Then, Simon got me a warm towel, dried my hair, told me I was beautiful, assured me that my boobs weren't too small without the socks, and cuddled me tenderly until I stopped crying in that vulnerable, yet beautiful, 'Demi Moore in Ghost' kind of way. Yeah, no. That jackass just stood there staring at me, his expression only changing to one of vague disgust when I wiped my swollen, runny nose on his sheet. Then, he turned and went to a wall panel that opened after scanning his eye. He pushed about three buttons and the normal room lights came on and the emergency lights went off. I saw a lot of red lights on the display next to the buttons, but some of them gradually turned to green again. He told the system to do a couple things I didn't understand and I started feeling like I should get out of there and just leave him to it, so I started to slide out of the bed to grab my towel and go find my clothes. The problem was, I was weirdly tangled up in the sheet. It felt like every time I got something loose, something else was wrapped around another place and I just couldn't manage to leave the bed.
When Simon finally turned around, I was halfway off the bed with my arms reaching toward my towel on the floor and the sheet had my legs tied up in some kind of Gordian knot. Then, he raised an eyebrow. He squatted down so that his eyes were level with mine. "Your reboot command did not 'break my stuff,'" he said, his tone making sure that I knew he found my casual phrasing annoying. "'Rebooting' is a command to which you, a mere test subject, do not have access. It was the breaking of your hymen that triggered the emergency failsafe, shut down the system, and ultimately 'broke' my tub."
His tub broke my hymen, and my hymen broke his tub. "Huh... that's ironic," I said, bemused.
