*This story is completely fictional and much of the implausibility relies on the central fantasy/sci-fi element. Expect a lot of teasing (groping, grinding, tit-fucking, etc) and buildup. That said, penetration is not completely ruled out. Stay tuned.*
*
I'm having a dream. I know I am. This
has
to be a dream. Why can't I move? I look down. Oh, that's why—I'm tied to a chair. I look around; I'm in some kind of dark warehouse, with only one large light fixture on, high above me; it's illuminating a broad space in front of me: maybe ten or fifteen feet, diameter. Everything else is very dim. I sense movement and realize I can't speak, either—no gag or he like, but my mouth is sealed. I don't even think I have lips. My memory flashes to The Matrix. But I'm not Neo; I'm not special. Am I? Mom always says I am, even my sisters say I am, but I don't see it or feel it. I'm just average, unlike them. I'm homely and kinda chubby. I'm just an average loser. A friendless introvert. The only friends I have are my family; I love them so much and I know they love me, too. We have game nights and movie nights. To everyone else, I'm just a Momma's Boy surrounded by hot sisters. I'm so glad Mom pulled me out of high school sophomore year. Now, I would've been graduating. Instead I'm tied to a chair with no lips. No voice.
A man in a ski-mask enters the light fifteen feet away. He sets a chair down. The same kind I'm on—thin black steel with a small black cushion. And then another masked man arrives. He's wielding two chairs, and he sets them down. When he turns around, I see a gun stuffed into the tail of his jeans. When they come back, one of them has Mom at gunpoint and the other guides her into the chair, then binds her wrists and ankles to it, like me. They vanish again.
I squirm fruitlessly and my brow furrows as I look at Mom with fear. Mom isn't gagged. I'm grateful for this; subconsciously, guiltily, I'm also grateful for her attire. It's a small white tanktop with no bra beneath, and a pair of white booty-shorts, I think they call them. Her impossibly all-natural figure is stressing the thin fabric. Her enormous breasts fill the top beautifully, and her nipples are unabashedly erect, almost threatening to pierce the tanktop. Almost all of her tattoos are visible—the winged crown below her navel, the archangel on her left bicep, the amalgamation of skulls on her right, and her children's first names halfway down her right thigh.
Pablo, Jailyne, Angie.
"Don't be afraid, Pablo, honey," she says endearingly, courage in her voice.
I nonetheless squirm, terrified, and now all of a sudden, aroused.
"Mommy will get us out of this mess," she assures me. Her voice is saccharine but strong. Everything about her is strong; nothing remotely frail. Her buxom, hourglass figure and petite waist aren't to be underestimated. She's a vigilante for a reason. In addition to superior hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship, she has the ability to put someone to sleep by touching her fingers to their temples.
However, she was somehow subdued. And now her hands are practically useless.
The men return, this time with my sisters. Jailyne is a year older than me, Angie is two. They are both plopped down into their chairs, one on either side of Mom and about four feet apart, then bound like she and I. They, however, are gagged.
They squirm and moan in panic.
"Relax, girls, remember, you're
strong
."
They slowly relax, but their beautiful faces are still horrorstruck.
Angie and Jailyne have very disparate body types. While both of them have phenomenal butts, Jailyne's is almost inhumanly big, especially compared to her tiny waist. However, she has very small breasts. Angie's are much bigger, while still being dwarfed by Mom's rack. They're both wearing very revealing clothes, too; Jailyne has a low-cut black halter-top and a pair of short denim shorts, while Angie is wearing a V-neck shirt, clearly a push-up bra, and a pair of tiny yoga shorts. I try not to stare; there are more pressing matters at hand.
But their skin...
Neither of them have many tattoos except one or two, here and there. Mom once admitted that most of hers were gotten when she was younger, in the limbo between dropping out of school and modeling. After a stint of futile acting gigs, she became a model. But after having Angie and Jailyne, she started taking self-defense classes and attending the gun range. Shortly after giving birth to me, still a single Mom—we never did learn about who our father was—she became a self-defense instructor, and eventually put her techniques to use. She claims that she learned about her 'super power' at age 19, after giving birth to me. Because of this, she has always treated me like a gift or treasure; believing the power to be developed in her not by age but childbirth, the notion of my sisters getting any of their own once they hit 19 was out of the question. Especially since Angie is 20 and Jailyne 19, now, still with no powers, except for the extensive training received by their mentor, Mom. As for me, I naturally cannot give birth, so does that leave me out of the possibility of developing a power? Mom thinks I'm different, that since I technically—in her belief—gave her a power in the wake of my birth, that I may be a carrier of something especially unique.
I still haven't noticed anything.
"What's a fat-titted bimbo like you doing with a loaded gun?" one of the masked men asks Mom, lifting one of her breasts with the barrel of his big stainless-steel pistol.
"Watch your mouth in front of my kids!" Mom snapped at him.
"Speaking of mouths," he said, and stooped to pinch her cheeks together. His masked face hovered in front of hers. He spoke just loud enough for me and my sisters to hear. "I can't wait to put yours to good use, whore."
I writhe in my seat and groan behind my lipless mouth.
The man stands and looks over at me, then at Mom, whose cheeks are reddened from his hold. She glares up at him with spite in her light brown eyes.
"I don't get it. How do you even
live
?" he asks me. "With a fat-ass bimbo MILF and two made-for-cock teens?" He scoffs and smirks behind his mask, shrugging with the pistol in his hand. The other man is pacing back and forth behind the three occupied chairs, a shotgun in both hands. "Right," the man standing between Mom and me says. "You must beat it
constantly
. Hell, I bet you spy on them when you can, too. And sniff their clothes. Shit, I know I would. I'd probably nut in their coffee if I could, too." He spins back around to look down at Mom. He grabs his crotch emphatically and sticks his tongue out. "Extra cream, Mommy?"
"
Fuck
you, pig!" Mom spits at him.
"Aw, that's no way to speak to your captor," he says casually. "Especially in front of your
slut
daughters and
loser
kid."
"I'll kill you," she growls.
The man whistles at the guy with the shotgun. "Which one you wanna do first? Give this bitch a show."
"Tits over here," he says, standing behind Angie. "She kinda looks innocent."
"Nah, she'll look like her Mom after a few good dickings."
"Don't you
dare
touch her, scumbag!" Mom yells at them, frantically flipping her gaze between the two men. Her chair wobbles and scrapes the concrete floor as she writhes.
"Oh, I'm gonna do more than touch, bitch," the man says, and backhands Mom.
I don't know how or wht but all of a sudden I scream—my lips part, skin tearing, my mouth manifesting. It hurts but I scream nonetheless. No word, just a grating vocalization. Also, I stand up—the binds around my ankles snap, and then the ones around my wrists do, too, as soon as my knees lock. The chair clatters against the concrete.
"What the fuck?" the man that just slapped Mom says, turning to face me, dumbfounded.
"To hell with this shit," the other one says, swinging his shotgun to aim at me.
"Pablo!" Mom yells, gasping.
The shotgun goes off but I dive forward, avoiding it. I slide across the concrete floor on my clothed stomach, and try to strike the pistol-wielding man's ankle. To knock him down. But, I don't have the strength that Mom or even Angie has. The man curses under his breath and looks down at me, as I look up, peering into the pistol barrel pointing down at me. I frantically grab her ankle with both hands and try to unbalance him.
In that moment, with my hands wrapped around the skin above his ankle under her pantleg, I feel my body shudder. My fingers and palms tingle. The man suddenly wavers like rubber, and I see her eyelids flutter. The pistol falls beside me, not going off. The next thing I know, he staggers a few feet away, albeit now falling. I spring to my feet with the agility and strength of a trained martial artist. It startles me right away, but I don't let it distract me too much. I hear the distinct sound of a pump-action shotgun and then I lunge out, behind Mom's chair, and manage to strike the barrel of the weapon before it goes off. The blast is loud but the buckshot sprays emptiness. The man stumbles and curses.
Instead of hitting him, I grab his bare wrist with one of my hands. Again, the tingling sensation followed by a full-body shiver. When I let go, he staggers back as his eyes roll up. I immediately dart to Angie's ankles and wrists, untying her in record time. Before she knows it, Mom, too, is free. I go to help Jailyne but the other man has reoriented and is now scrambling back for the dropped pistol. Mom pushes me aside and scoops it up deftly. She raises it in time to shoot the man in the chest, dropping him. I look up from the floor, behind Jailyne's chair. Angie has attempted to wrestle the shotgun out of the other man's hands. He is clearly weakened by my touch. As if I drained his strength for myself.
"Get out of the way, Angie!" Mom yells.
Angie ducks and scampers away.
The man swings the shotgun toward Mom but she shoots him in the shoulder. He spins like a top, dropping the shotgun. I immediately tend to Jailyne. What if this
isn't
a dream? I never go out with Mom and the others during one of their vigilante runs, but maybe this time I stowed away in her SUV, and was caught. We all were!
"Come to me, sweetie!" Mom beckons Angie. She heads over.
A gunshot sounds, taking everyone by surprise. I stand up after releasing Jailyne. A red circle expands behind Mom's hand, placed on her stomach. Blood dapples the concrete. She staggers, dropping the pistol. Angie and Jailyne, ungagged, scream in grief-stricken terror. Angie immediately tends to her, crying already. I see the masked man on the floor, without his shotgun, but wielding a small revolver he must've pulled from his sock or something.
"Get down!" I yell, and rush toward Angie. Jailyne is between us, and I can't get there in time. Angie shrieks in unison with the revolver barking. She crumples immediately. Jailyne screams and I scream, throwing my arm around her and pulling her down, behind one of the chairs. The revolver, I hear it go off again, but it misses me. Jailyne slumps in my arms. I now look down, where she lies on the concrete, like a ragdoll. She's been shot in the head. I start to weep, and then I scream as I stand and rush the man with the revolver. He empties the cylinder. And so emptiness comes over me.
