CHAPTER SIX
The man sighed and stared into the blackness. So much for getting any
rest. Another night's sleep interrupted.
He lay on his small mattress pad and stared upward at the ceiling just
three meters above his head, invisible in the blackness. The mag-collar was
making his skin itch again and he scratched at his neck absently. The grunts
and shouts of Espering's daughter, Sylphie, echoed down the stone corridor. By
some trick of acoustics the stone walls amplified the sound -- she sounded like
she was in the cell with him instead of on the PowerBall court twenty meters
below the holding pods. She'd been practicing more and more frequently, keeping
to her own bizarre schedule, rousing him more than once in the middle of the
night with her yells and curses. Were the finals coming up already?
Above the sound of her exertions he could just barely hear the flat
whack of the ball as she raced around the court and drove it into the goal. She
was twenty meters below him, at the far end of a thirty-meter-long corridor and
an eighty meter long court, and still she was making enough noise to wake him
from a deep sleep.
No rest for the wicked, I guess.
His name was Bobbinson Ortika, and if he hadn't been dumb enough to try
to steal money from Garvin Espering he'd still be asleep, in his own bed, next
to his thirty-three-year-old girlfriend, instead of awake in a stone-walled cell
at two in the morning listening to a rawboned young girl beating the hell out of
a P-Ball.
As prisons went, he was in a vacation spot. Gourmet food, a spacious
cell all to himself, and a disappearing vidscreen that covered one entire wall.
Even the torments visited upon him by his captors had their positive side, and
he'd lost all the extra kilos he'd put on through the years. However, a prison
cell was a prison cell, and it was where he was going to stay until Espering
decided what to do with him.
He'd lost count how many days he'd been imprisoned. Well over a
hundred, probably closer to three. At one time he'd been the Chief Financial
Officer of Atlas Shipping, a very profitable subsidiary of GUP Inc. Then he'd
divorced his wife, taken up with a bubbly woman half his age who'd had some very
expensive tastes, and made some unwise investments. In a moment of weakness
he'd decided to dummy up some accounts so he could embezzle a few credits to
temporarily cover his debts. A few credits somehow turned into seven hundred
and seventeen thousand, which he buried in the billing records of ninety-two
different clients. It was too much money to hide, however, and one night he
went to sleep in his own bed only to wake up in Espering's private little
prison.
Ortika sat up on his small mattress, bones creaking, and stared out of
his cell. He always had the urge to just walk out, leave, but even if the
invisible magnetic field sealing his cell off from the hallway suddenly shut off
he'd have nowhere to go. His house had been seized, and Espering had left a
false paper trail for the Atlas fraud investigators to follow; right now they
were on Earth looking for him. No one knew where he was -- Espering could kill
him and nobody would be the wiser. Espering had already shown that he felt
Ortika was his to do with as he pleased, according to his whims. Not that he
was a special case -- Espering obviously felt that way about everyone.
Across the stone corridor was another cell identical to Ortika's, a
mirror image. He could just make out the pale form of the woman inside,
sleeping on her cot. She was on her side, turned away from him. It was too
dark to tell, of course, but he knew her skinny body was nude. Everyone here
was nude. Her clothes had been taken from her long ago, as had his, but she
really wasn't aware of too much outside her own head. Espering had her plugged
into FeelReals most of the day, most every day, and Ortika doubted if she even
knew where she was, much less why, and if she'd had her clothes, he doubted if
she could have comprehended why they no longer fit.
How long had she been Espering's guest? Sixty, seventy days, maybe
more. It was hard keeping track, he had nothing to write with. She certainly
had no clue, she barely was able to feed herself what with all they were putting
her through.
His ears detected a faint hum, and he turned his head toward the sound.
It could only be one thing. He heard voices, and then the lights in the
corridor flicked on as they detected motion.
Ortika had been Espering's guest long enough to guess who the voices
belonged to. As they got closer he recognized them -- Espering's wife, Lucia,
and her two obsequious assistants. He knew who they were here to see -- the
mini-prison's newest inmate. He couldn't see the man, as a meter of solid rock
separated their adjoining cells, but after he'd been brought in that same
afternoon they'd talked. He was a middle management drone named Davis, who
apparently had been busy the last few weeks doing a little embezzling of his own
from the payroll of a small GUP subsidiary that Ortika had never even heard of.
Davis had been confused as to why Espering's personal security staff had
arrested him instead of the Garshak Blues.
Ortika patiently explained to the man the facts as he'd learned them
firsthand; firstly, that Garvin Espering took embezzlement of his money as a
personal affront. Secondly, since he was inarguably the most powerful man on
Monsipur, he had the resources --such as his own personal jail -- to deal with
transgressors as he saw fit. Davis couldn't quite comprehend the situation he'd
gotten himself into, but Ortika was confident that wouldn't last long. He
thought to warn Davis not to eat the dinner that had been delivered to his cell,
but knew that would only delay the inevitable. He could hear him over there
making plaintive sounds, whimpers and groans, as well as a few other, wetter
noises.
The footsteps stopped just short of Ortika's bay and he stood.
Espering's wife wandered into view, casually examining the resident of each cell
like she was at a zoo.
She looked only half her fifty-seven years (S), thanks to the miracles
of modern science. A multicolored tongi was draped over her thin frame and
swayed back and forth as she walked. The rumors Ortika had for years heard
about her and her husband's personal habits, which he'd been wont to dismiss,
had turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg. He guessed she had several
medicos on personal retainer, so unusual were her personal hobbies. Ortika
wasn't sure if she or her daughter ever slept.
"Bobbinson," she said cordially, nodding her head at him like they were
at a formal social event. She looked back down the corridor. "We're getting
quite a crowd in here."
"You can thank your husband for that," Ortika said.
An assistant hovered into view, and she and Lucia stared took a few
moments to watch whatever was going on in Davis' cell.
"Look at that," the assistant said. "I'd say the trial's a success."
The assistant was a compact, tanned brunette in a navy blue two piece business
suit, long hair done up in a braided bun.
Lucia turned her head back to Ortika with a greasy smile on her
attractive face. Her blonde hair was long and cut in a style that didn't suit
her, but he was sure no one had dared tell her that.
"Enjoying your stay?" She seemed genuinely pleased with herself, in a
jovial mood. He could only imagine what was in store for Davis.
"Every second. Especially that feelie your people plugged me into a few
days ago. Now I know what thirty hours of labor and childbirth without
painkillers feels like."
"Don't pout, at least it gave you something to do." She looked around,
then stopped to peer at the female form still asleep in the bay opposite Ortika.
"How is Garvin's latest pet project coming along?" she asked, eyeing the
skinny body curled up facing the wall.
"That depends on your point of view. What he wants to end up with I
couldn't even guess."
"He says she's really responded to the feelie behaviormod program."
"Considering most days she's hooked up from dawn to dusk, twitching and
grunting, I don't see how she could not respond. At first I thought you had her
on Triggrr. What are you pumping through her mind, anyway?"
"You'd have to ask my husband," she said. "Something delicious, I'm
sure." She ran her tongue along the front of her teeth and smiled.
The sounds coming from Davis' cell had been growing louder and louder as
Lucia spoke, until it became obvious that he was trying to get her attention.
Finally she turned to him.
"Yes, little man?"
"Mrs. Espering, I ... oh GOD . . . can you--" there was a loud series
of squelching noises. "What did you . . . I can't stop it," he whimpered, his
voice strange. "Nothing's big enough, and I can't reach . . . ." The words
trailed off and all Ortika could hear was a strange wet sucking sound and heavy
breathing.
"What did you give him?" He could hear Davis whimpering and giving tiny
grunts.
"A concentrated, hybrid hormonal derivative of X-Cite-R the lab boys
have been toying with for about a year. They've developed organ-specific
stimulants, which in this case they combined with a heavy dose of
intestinal/rectal dilators and psychosexual hallucinogens. You should see what
he's doing -- well, trying to do." Lucia swept her robe open and let it fall to
the stone floor. Ortika had seen her body before, but each time it was a shock.
When she'd first met Garvin Espering, Lucia had been a young lackey
having trouble keeping up her production. Her parents had volunteered their
unborn daughter because they needed the money, but she hated the demands her
dictated profession placed on her time and body. The story was that it had been
love at first sight, and after just a few months she and Garvin were married.
The Espering name had always been magical on Monsipur, and he had to make but
one vidcall to get her released from her government milking contract and off the
production schedule. Free from the demands of milk production, Lucia was free
to start changing her body to a form more desirable to Garvin -- and herself.
Lucia's topmost pair of breasts looked normal enough for a former
lackey, large with big dark knobby nipples. Her bottom four breasts, however,
revealed as she undid her elaborate corset, were now barely more than swellings
topped by lackey nipples, which then looked ridulously oversized by comparison.
Lucia had pierced her middle two of nipples less than a year after
getting married. Now, over thirty years later, she could fit her thumbs in the
stretched holes, and often did just that. Her bottom set of nipples had been
normal enough the first time Ortika had seen them, but over the past few weeks
they'd changed. Her nipples and areolae had swollen to double their original
size, the skin now shiny and taut. Not her breasts -- her bottom pair were
still faint swells -- just her nipples and areola. Ortika had no clue what that
signified. She seemed to like pinching them.
Her body was whipcord skinny, her ribs prominent and her stomach muscles
plainly visible under her lower set of breasts. Her pointy hipbones threw
shadows across her concave belly, which sloped inward, then back out to a wide
smooth mound. Her clit and hood were the size of Ortika's nose, and he didn't
have a small nose. She'd done something to herself, had her pelvis altered
somehow. Ortika noticed her hips seemed wider, her stomach flatter, and her
mound stuck out farther, than the first time he'd seen her at a party about a
year before becoming her husband's unwilling guest. Her labia had always been
long and slack, but now they were ridiculously so, and swept back and up between
her buttocks.
Lucia's other assistant stepped into view carrying a hardsided black
case. Ortika suspected that at one time the assistant had been male, but no
longer. A bland androgynous face, lips permdyed bright red, perched atop a
slender body clad in a loosecut woman's dark blue business suit. Very short
brown hair in a vaguely feminine cut. Small breasts with perky nipples pushed
against the suit fabric, above hips that were just a hair too wide to belong to
a man. Still, there was just something about the way . . . she . . . moved.
The crotch of the suit was too baggy for him to tell anything one way or the
other. It seemed to be the latest trend, all these gender ambiguous people
wandering around. He just couldn't get used to it. Maybe he was just
old-fashioned, wanting men to look like men and women to look like women.
Dating was a nightmare, because he was ignorant of all the codewords and
telltales. Half the time he'd brought home a beautiful woman after a wonderful,
romantic evening, only to discover she had a penis larger than his. What was
the term? Cocktail. His girlfriend -- make that former girlfriend, he had no
doubt she'd found another wealthy benefactor to take care of her needs -- had
been all woman below the waist, which he'd liked just fine.
The assistant popped the case open and Lucia reached inside and withdrew
an arm. Ortika blinked in surprise. It was a man's hand and forearm, full
size, lightly muscled and covered in babylike pink skin. Lucia grinned
deliciously and ran her hands over it. The androgynous assistant licked her
lips and stared at it, while the pert one stared into Davis' cell.
"A new toy?" Ortika asked.
"Can someone please help me?" Davis pleaded pitifully. "I can't . . .
why's it so big? I just can't . . . OH God!" he panted, accompanied by more
wet sucking sounds.
"Oh, you're an evil witch," Ortika told Lucia. She just smiled at him,
taking it as a compliment as he knew she would.
"And more." Holding the disembodied arm by the wrist she pulled the
slack skin of her pubic mound taut. She nodded at the androgynous assistant and
the assistant stretched out a hand. Ortika couldn't see the flesh colored
socket protector until it was sitting in the assistant's palm. A small dimple
revealed itself to be a prosthetic neural port installed at the base of Lucia's
pubic bone.
The synthetic arm's three centimeter long titanium power plug glinted in
the light as Lucia maneuvered it toward her groin. She pressed it hard against
her mound, roatated the arm ninety degrees, and with a dull snick the prosthesis
clicked into place, the forearm's synthskin seamlessly mating with her mound.
She shivered with anticipation and delight.
"Do you know how much this little toy cost me?" Lucia said to no one in
particular. "It had to be totally custom made. The whole thing's covered in
synth KlitSkin," she told Ortika without looking up.
Originally developed for those people born with irreversible physical
deformities, or victims of industrial accidents, prosthetic neural ports had
been hailed by the medical community and some clergy as being a modern miracle.
When properly installed the wearer could operate the limb as well as one made of
flesh and bone, and with the advances in synthskin and artificial neural
pathways sensation was near ninety-five percent of the real thing, well within
normal sensation range. Ortika had first learned of sex-specific PNP's close to
a decade before when he'd seen a sexvid featuring lesbians. At the time he'd
been shocked, but now it was uncommon to find a lesbian who didn't have a PNP at
the base of her pubic bone. And impossible to find a lesbian top without one.
An added bonus to these women was the slight bump the PNP made on the inside
wall of the pubic bone. By coincidence it was directly underneath the nerve
plexus that some still referred to as the G-Spot, resulting in increased
pleasure with every penetration. The most common pelvic plug-ins were realistic
phalluses, sometimes featuring ejaculate-capable scrotums -- balls on plug-ins
seemed to go into and out of style fairly frequently. Most lesbian tops refused
to be seen in public without one, which made proper gender identification even
harder. Historically known as studs, a new descriptor was coming into fashion
for these women: plugs. Plug-ins were available in every conceivable shape and
size, designed to fit every bodily orifice, in a wide variety of colors. An
arm, however, pelvically mounted, now that was something unusual.
It sprouted from her mound, looking as real as such a sight could. It
was a right arm, thumb high as it should be, fingers together and pointing
straight out. Lucia stared down at the open hand and concentrated, and Ortika
watched it close into a fist. Fully articulated. He should've guessed.
"Let me explain something to you," Lucia said to Davis, walking out of
Ortika's sight, the arm bobbing from her crotch. Her two assistants followed,
hurriedly unbuttoning their suitjackets.
Ortika suddenly noticed the girl across the corridor was awake, sitting
up in bed. She stood up and walked to the edge of her bay and stared intently
at the activity taking place in the bay next to Ortika's. He was glad he
couldn't see what was happening; Davis' moans and yells were bad enough. He'd
experienced something similar not long after arriving, although luckily Lucia
hadn't had her synth-arm then.
The girl stared wide-eyed, her nude body white from being so long out of
the sun. She was lean almost to the point of emaciation, the muscles standing
out on her like cords. She appeared to not even notice the weight of her
breasts, impossible as that seemed, each of which was easily twice the size of
her head.
Ortika had never seen anything like what they'd done to the girl. In
two months she'd gone from being fat, flatchested, and a lesbian, to being
skinny with breasts so big that when she lay on her side, her two tits stacked
on top of one another stood up past her shoulders. As for the homosexual part .
. . .
Underneath the monstrosity of her breasts her skinny body looked even
smaller, but she moved like the pair weighed nothing at all. They swayed with
full authority, Ortika could see that, so he knew her back muscles had to've
been augmented.
Perfectly, naturally shaped, here and there showing the faint blue
traceries of veins, her breasts sloped outwards from her collarbones at a forty
five degree angle and came back to join her body at the base of her ribcage.
Her puffy areola were as big around as her face, a very light brown darkening
toward the center. Together with her areolae her stubby nipples formed swollen
cones which pointed at the ground a meter and a half in front of her feet. From
their shape and obvious softness Ortika could tell they hadn't used bodyfat
relocation to augment her chest. They hadn't used hormone treatments either, as
those would only have increased the overall size of her breasts. Since the
attachment points of her breasts to her body had moved -- expanded to the very
top and bottom of her ribcage -- he could conclude only one thing: Espering had
put a genesmith to work on her DNA. A talented one.
Amandir Pringler stared, fascinated, as Lucia and her assistants had
their way with Davis, after a while squatting so she could play with herself
more easily. As Ortika watched her expression remained blank -- if there was
anything going on inside there, it wasn't much.
Every other day or so since she'd arrived, someone had come to take the
girl out of her bay. Where exactly she was going Ortika didn't know for sure,
but after every disappearance, upon her return the girl was changed. Different.
Sometimes the change was drastic, other times it was barely noticeable. He
supposed it was Espering's people poking around in her head, flipping switches
on and off. She'd dropped the excess weight without any surgery, so obviously
they'd altered her body chemistry. Which also accounted for her greatly
enhanced sexual drive. More surprising was the monstrous, daily increase in the
size of her breasts. All apparently natural, driven by her new genetic code.
Every day they were a little bit larger, the change visible to Ortika clear
across the corridor, but she never showed signs of even one stretchmark. Of
course, the girl hardly seemed to notice they were there, other than
occasionally playing with her huge nipples. She walked around her bay, leaned
over and back, stood up and sat down, like her gigantic breasts had no mass at
all, or were filled with air. However, every day or two, a member or two of the
household staff or security team would come into her cell. Her visitors, far
from having to force themselves on her, practically had their clothes ripped
off. Ortika had seen the men over there, straining to move her fleshy globes
around with varied success. A few tugged her mountains around this way and that
using her nipples as palmfilling handles. They had to strain, but she never
complained at the rough treatment. More than once one of the visiting men had
been knocked off-balance by the impact of one of her breasts -- each one had to
weigh at least ten kilos.
Ortika heard rough panting in the corridor and at first though it was
Lucia or one of her assistants. But Lucia and her helpers were still in the
adjacent bay with Davis, groaning and cursing at him, while loud wet sucking
sounds echoed off the stone walls and he babbled incoherently. Then he saw
Espering's daughter in the corridor, chest heaving and covered in sweat from her
PowerBall practice. Sylphie Espering was just under two meters tall and had not
an ounce of fat on her lean body. Her short brown hair was cut in a pageboy,
and her body was deeply tanned from hours of PowerBall in the intense Monsipur
sun. The power forward of Monsipur's pro team, the Leopards, Sylphie worked hard
to keep her edge, and her muscle tone reflected that. Her practice attire
consisted of nothing more than springshoes and loose shorts rolled at the waist.
She looked around, hardly giving Davis' cell a second glance, and rested
her eyes on Ortika. He should've known it was going to be Sylphie. Her
PowerBall workouts always got her aroused, and she would come up into the
holding cells to work out her lust while at the same time satisfying her need to
dominate. The obvious bulge in her shorts was just a manifestation of that
need.
He was old enough to be her father, and physically unattractive, but
Sylphie wanted more than just sex, she wanted to dominate and humiliate. And
hurt. Sex was just the tool she used. Eyes locked on him she peeled off her
shorts and kicked them away. Her hormonally enhanced clitoris sprang free and
pointed down and out from her body. Nearly twenty centimeters long, Ortika had
at first thought it was a malformed penis, as its tip did resemble the glans of
a penis, but he soon realized the truth. Its tip was bright red and bobbed in
time to her heartbeat. Her clitoral hood was taut against the erect shaft near
the tip but swept down to her vagina in loose labial folds.
He crawled onto his mattress and got onto his knees and elbows. This
would be perhaps the fifteenth time he'd bent over for her. The first two times
it had been painful, but one of the biggest surprises of his captivity was
discovering just how much he liked being taken anally by the young woman. Maybe
it was all the feelies they plugged him into where he'd been the female. He'd
lost count of how many men and Danes and stud-dahlias with massive plug-ins had
mounted him in programs, where he'd been both man and woman, young and old, and
supposed it had to have some effect on him. He'd certainly never experienced
anything like it before his incarceration. He'd groan and moan for Sylphie, but
it wouldn't be because he was in pain. The last time he'd climaxed twice
without ever having to touch himself. He just hoped Sylphie wouldn't discover
his little secret -- if she found out he was enjoying her little visits, she'd
immediately switch gears and start doing something he was sure to hate.
