Screamland
by Willailla
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~ There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.~
-- Dylan
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Sometime in the near future:
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Five hundred million eyes were glued to the screen.
A naked, young woman was in a straight chair with clean, white tape binding
her ankles, knees, waist and wrists. A super adhesive strip of the tape sealed
her mouth.
There was fear on her pretty face and in her clear, blue eyes. Not just
fear but terror. Her body shook with it. Her ripe, full breasts quivered with
it. Occasionally she would glance at the screen toward her unseen viewers as if
wanting to beg for mercy.
But she, as well as they, knew there would be none of that. Mercy belonged
to a past that was no more. To a simpler, more naive time when mankind still
believed it had a soul, a destiny.
She was seated in the center of a small, private arena. Her red-nailed
toes scraped at the white sand. The fingers of her hands curled and flexed as
she twisted her wrists trying to loosen the tape.
Concealed in darkness, a live audience was seated on a podium surrounding
her.
The suave voice-over of a woman began:
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Screamland, the most popular reality
program on TV. Tonight we have for your entertainment a special series of
spectacles guaranteed to keep your heart pounding and your pulse racing. Blood,
sex and the screams of the damned. Beautiful, young women raped and tortured in
unusual ways for your amusement. And as always our cameras will be there, up
close, to record every tantalizing moment. As you can see we already have our
first victim awaiting her unknown fate, and I can assure you it will be
something quite unique; so stayed tuned. We guarantee you will be glad you did
-- but first these words from our sponsors."
Georg Reuth made a voice command and the volume of the wall-screen TV
muted. Another command and half the screen was filled with next day's schedule.
A frown formed on his handsome face as he saw the name Liza Hunter set for a
ten-thirty appointment. He asked for a photo and one appeared next to the name.
She was not hard to take. A short-haired blonde with blue eyes set in an
attractive, intelligent face. He vaguely recalled that she was a local news
anchors on a competing network.
He asked for her physical stats and vita: she was twenty-seven; 5'5" tall,
110 pds., 36-22-34. Single; a graduate of the University of California with
degrees in journalism and communication and a minor in drama. She had worked in
several out-of-the-way, small stations around the nation before arriving in
municipal Kullhorn, a year ago (where her good looks and pleasing on-air
personality -- no doubt, more than anything else -- got her a four year
contract).
Reuth's frown crinkled his brow. There was no note giving a reason for her
appointment. He turned on the intercom.
"Syl, come here a moment."
An attractive brunette, in a gray suit the color of her eyes, entered
though a double door with gold knobs.
Reuth nodded toward the screen.
"Syl, why am I seeing Ms. Hunter tomorrow?"
Syl's beautiful face was puzzled only for an instant as her efficient mind
clicked into gear.
"Ms. Hunter wants to interview you about Screamland. She's something of a
crusader, and -- although she wouldn't say so when I talked to her on the phone
-- I suspect she is planning a series of attacks against Screamland on moral
grounds."
"That being the case, Syl, why did you make an appointment? You know we
rarely give interviews to our critics. Why give them ammunition? And, in any
case, you should have given me prior warning so I would be prepared for such an
interview -- had I decided to give one."
"I posted your appointments last week for your approval; you never made any
cancellations. Besides --" Syl smiled slyly, "I assumed you would make an
exception for her . . . ."
"Because . . . ."
"Because she's very attractive."
Reuth relaxed; a slow smile spread on his face as he leaned back in his
chair.
"You know me too well, don't you?"
"A good secretary should know her boss well."
Reuth stood up and moved to an oversized leather couch nearer the TV.
"Fix us a couple of drinks, and watch the show with me. I may have to
punish you."
"Um, that sounds interesting; do you want me naked?"
"I'll assume that was a rhetorical question."
A muscular naked man with a silver mask over his head came out of a doorway
at the base of the podium and walked up to the young woman bound to the chair.
He held a dagger in his hand. His huge cock swung leadenly between his thighs.
Reuth turned the sound back up as Syl cozied up next to him on the couch
rubbing her naked body against him as her warm, moist tongue found his ear.
The masked man drew the needle-sharp point of the dagger lightly across her
breasts. A faint red line followed in its wake across the firm, milky white
skin.
After crisscrossing her breasts several times he pressed the point into a
nipple. The nude woman squealed and writhed within her binding trying to squirm
away from it. Blood squirted from the nipple onto her belly and trickled down
to her clean-shaven cunt.
A woman's seductive voice-over broke into the tense action.
"Easy, Charon, we don't want to end this delicious scenario too quickly, do
we?"
Charon backed off wagging his head.
Voice-over: "Poor Charon; he so loves his work; but patience, my darling;
everything in its due time.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, our first, pretty victim of the evening is
Susan Hampton. Susan is guilty of drug trafficking, aren't you Susan?"
Susan shook her head frantically.
"Ah, me, have we ever heard the condemned admit their guilt? Remove her
gag, Charon, so we can hear her lying words."
Charon stepped forward and ripped the tape from her mouth so violently that
her head was jerked sideways onto her shoulder.
"Oh, my, but you are so pretty; and now we will be able to hear you
scream."
"Please," the woman gasped. "You must believe me; I'm innocent; the police
framed me; I did nothing."
Voice-over chuckles seductively.
"Yes, that's what they all say; and you have broken the law again, just
now, slut, in front of millions, by falsely accusing our noble police of
criminal activity."
A look of hopeless incredulity spread over the woman face.
"But . . . but, the police are lying; I . . . . I'm innocent; oh, god,
please, you must believe me --"
"Enough, you lying bitch!" the voice-over shouted.
Then, once more calm, seductive:
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, if any of you ever had doubts
about the justice of publicly punishing criminals, I'm sure, now, you can see
the need for it as a deterrent. These people are incapable of being redeemed;
they have nothing but contempt for all that we hold decent; we are left with no
choice but to eliminate them.
Very well, Susan, here's the deal. To your left, about fifty feet, there
is a rope hanging from the ceiling; at the top of the rope is a bell; in a
moment Charon is going to cut you loose; if you can climb the rope and ring the
bell you will be set free. Do you understand?"
A sudden look of wariness and hope contended on her pretty face. Finally
hope won out; perhaps because she was young and healthy and climbing a rope
would not be that difficult. Or perhaps she gave into hope because the
alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
She nodded hesitantly.
Charon approached her and with quick, deft strokes of the dagger cut
through the tape binding her. Then he walked back to the panel door at the base
of the podium and disappeared.
Susan rubbed her ankles and wrists, then stood.
"OK, Susan," the voice-over said, "when I give the word you must race to
the rope and climb up and ring the bell, but . . . uh, there's just one
itty-bitty, teensy-weensy thing I forgot to mention. There's going to be a mild
obstacle you'll have to overcome . . . ."
From the base of the fifteen foot high podium panels opened and a score of
naked dwarves scurried onto the arena doing flips and somersaults, kicking up
sand, for the amusement of the audience in the stands. Some held whips and
others spiked sticks; a few were hairless with brilliantly colored tattoos while
others were shaggily hairy like animals. They all wore open-fingered, leather
gloves with sharp, metal studs over the knuckles.
They moved in a tight circle around Susan poking her rudely, rubbing their
deformed bodies up against her naked flesh, licking her thighs and buttocks with
obscenely long tongues and executing quick thrusts of their fingers up her cunt
and asshole. While she twisted and writhed concentrating to avoid their
lascivious gropings others would take advantage of her distraction to leap up
and bite her nipples with their sharp, little teeth, and hanging from her like
leeches.
Then, after a few minutes of this torment, they scurried off with quick,
wobbly steps and formed two parallel lines between Susan and the rope where they
waited looking back at her with sinister little grins.
". . . . You're going to have to run a gauntlet and if, if, you get through
it and manage to climb the rope to ring the bell, you'll be free. So, Susan
when I say go, you'd better haul that cute, little ass of yours.
Oh, and Suzy, I guess I should tell you that the dwarves have been
genetically engineered for cruelty and lack of compassion; they were raised in
captivity to eat and drink only raw human meat and blood; and they have been
highly dosed with sex hormones to make them extremely horny. So failure, babe,
is not an option you'll want to consider, hmm?"
The voice-over broke off with a chuckle and readdressed itself to the
viewing audience.
"OK, ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin!"
Just to ensure that the naked woman would run the gauntlet, black men,
heavily armored, with snarling mastiffs formed a semicircle behind her so there
could be no retreat or stalling.
Panic stricken the succulent victim glanced rapidly above seeking some
avenue of escape, but the smooth marble wall of the podium couldn't be scaled
and all the panel exits had been closed.
She waited, breasts heaving, until the snarling dogs were within just a few
feet. Crying out, almost with a wail of anguish, she backed slowly away from
the dogs and glanced over her shoulder as she drew nearer and nearer to the
double line of dwarves who were waving their spikes and whips.
She had no chance at all if she allowed herself to be slowly corralled
between the dwarves. She knew she would have to make a sudden dash and hope the
momentum would carry her through before they could inflict too much damage.
She gasped air deeply into her lungs and gritted her teeth as she twirled
quickly on the balls of her feet.
She made a mad dash toward the mouth of the double line. She lowered her
head instinctively as she reached it and brought her arms up to protect it as
the first blows rained down upon her. Only vaguely was she conscious of the
whooping shouts of the people in the stands and the taunts hurled at her by the
dwarves.
She felt dull thuds and whacks against her naked flesh as studded fists,
sticks and whiphandles plummeted her. But oddly there was no pain or sense of
time. Everything seemed dreamlike, slowed down; it was like floating --
Then -- WHAM!
Something hit her across the back of her head. Flashes of hot light
exploded behind her eyes. Pain like she had never felt before brought her back
to real time.
Hands grabbed her, forcing her down to her knees, then savage kicks and
punches forced her prone.
She tasted blood foaming in her mouth. Several teeth were loose.
She felt her legs being spread by tiny, callused hands.
Then a squirming weight and a huge cock was rammed up her asshole.
Her screams were buried beneath the flesh of her oppressors and their
hyena-like chortling.
Hands gripped her pussy, finger fucking her.
Then she was rolled over. Someone knocked her incisors out with the handle
of a spike. Blood fountained up out of her mouth as a dwarf shoved his cock in,
shoving it deep down into her throat.
She tried to bite, but with her front teeth missing, couldn't.
Dwarves crawled all over her; it was like being attacked by a swarm of
vile children. They lashed her, kicked and beat her; a cock rammed her pussy;
mouths bit at her nipples and tits. She tasted cum mixed with sweat and blood.
Three were fucking her at the same time. Others. One-two-three; one after
the other. Hungry children fighting over a candy bar, ripping it apart.
She was unconscious.
Then awake.
An evil, wrinkled face leered down; a wet, gross tongue went deep down
inside.
When they had sated their lust on her ravished flesh; when the last dwarf
rose up off her white, soft belly dripping the last of his cum, several black
men rolled out a large, empty whiskey barrel.
They picked her up and placed her face down over the wide part; while they
held her wrists and ankles, a black man brought out one of the huge mastiffs.
Susan saw its monstrous red cock swinging like a lead club between its tan
hind legs.
"No, please. No!"
She felt its dewclaws dig into the firm flesh of her waist as the black men
urged the dog upon her.
The dog hesitated, then backed off. She felt its cold nose sniffing her
asshole and cunt, then its warm, wet tongue licked up her slit; the soft, tender
skin between it and her asshole; and her asshole. It made a slurpy sound, the
sandpapery tip nudging her clit, stimulating her despite her revulsion and
terror.
Soon it was back up on top of her, and she felt the big-knobbed head nudging
forcefully at her openings. There was a stab of pain as the dog decided on her
cunt.
It hunched her firm body frantically, the knob of its thick cock the size
of a hardball. After jarring minutes of savage thrusting, she felt its heated
cum spurting into her, filling her belly.
The hands releashed her, and the dog jerked back, but the swollen ball of
its cock was stuck deep inside her cunt. As it jerked again it pulled her off
the barrel and began dragging her across the arena to the excited shouts of the
crowd.
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Reuth's cock was swollen as hard as a candle stick as he watched the
immense dog drag the naked woman across the sand. Syl's warm, wet mouth rode up
and down on it, knowing just when to back off, being a good secretary, keeping
him on the edge. He kept a finger up her shitter while his other hand stroked
her silky, black hair. A smear of lipstick streaked the base of his cock where
she had deep throated his thick ten incher.
"I want to cum when they kill her," he said.
She murmured something around his meathead; it was nothing new: his
request; she had heard it many times before in similar circumstances. The trick
was to keep him from cuming before his appointed time. If that happened, she
didn't want to think about it. He could be as vicious as anything that went on
in one of his Screamland shows. She remembered the snapping of her index finger
when she had squeezed his boys too tightly.
He had calmly told her what he was going to do to her; then he asked her to
place her fingers in his hand; he'd gone 'this little piggy went to market' etc.
until he'd decided on her index finger; he hadn't snapped it quickly, but very
slowly watching the expression on her face as the pain increased. He had really
got off on it. From then on she always strived to please him, no matter what.
Pain is a great teacher.
Georg Reuth didn't want your love or respect; he wanted your total
obedience. And it was what drove him to become one of the most powerful and
richest men in the world.
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The dog jerked its large frame from side to side trying to dislodge the
woman from the end of its cock. Then it placed its hind legs on her creamy
white buttocks digging its claws in the soft, firm flesh and with a powerful
extension of hind muscles broke free of the woman sending her sprawling onto the
arena sand.
Half conscious, Susan looked up and, and with amazement, saw the rope
dangling within feet of her. It was her last chance.
Drawing in all her remaining strength, and driven by desperation, she
managed one last burst of energy and sprang to her feet. With several short
steps she was gripping the rope and climbing, swiftly, arm over arm.
Dwarves' hands grabbed at her ankles then slipped off as she climbed out of
their reach.
Hope building in her, Susan climbed higher and higher feeling a growing
surge of energy as she saw the bell almost within reach.
The dwarves grabbed the end of the rope and began whipping it back and
forth trying to loosen her grip, but she hung on and continued upward.
Susan couldn't believe it; she was almost there; just a few more feet and
she would win her freedom -- then her hand slipped; something was wrong; the
rope was slick -- it had been greased.
Frantic, she raised her other hand, which encountered more slick goo.
Slowly she began sliding down the rope.
Below grinning dwarves waited for their meal.
.
Liza Hunter's blue eyes scanned the final draft of her copy of the evening
news. Most of the essential news had been blacked out by the station censors;
what remained was the usual tripe: half truths, lies and sentimental
irrelevancies.
The makeup girl gave a final dab of power to her cheeks and fussed for a
moment with her jaw-length ashen blonde hair.
Then she was left alone behind her shiny desk with her co-anchor, Bill
Windle, as the on-air sign lighted up on the wall. The camera focused in on her
pretty face and the dazzling, ivory smile.
"Today, in international news, New America was once more victorious in
suppressing guerrilla attacks on our noble troops in the Eurasia. Only one New
American soldier was injured and none reported killed during the conflict today
while 5,000 rebels were reported killed." ( Where the passage had not been
blacked out completely, Liza could make out that 4,000 Americans had died in the
conflict and only a 100 rebels).
Smiling, she went on. "And in other news, rumors of an impending oil
shortage have been strenuously denied by the O'Brien administration . . . .
'There is no immediate cause for alarm,' an upbeat and smiling President O'Brien
stated today at his weekly White House press conference. 'Oil is in plentiful
supply and new drillings in Alaska have revealed sources of oil greater than
heretofore presumed,' he went on to add."
On and on, Liza read through the barrage of bull shit, the smile on her
pretty face never wavering or showing any sign that she doubted one word of what
she was reading. Her look and voice grave when the subject required graveness;
light and playful when the subject required that; firm and unflinching when
patriotic fervor was indicated -- and, all in all, her convincing performance
was worthy of an Oscar -- and she hated herself for it.
At 11:40 p.m. she stepped out onto the top level of the parking garage and
headed for her BMW at Orange 23.
It was a balmy, spring night. She could see the diamond glitter of the
city lights spreading to the horizon where they fused with the stars sprinkled
about in a purple sky lighted with a comforting full moon.
She had no jacket and was simply dressed in a white blouse and short gray
skirt with black heels. She inhaled deeply sensing honeysuckle wafting through
the air. It had an exotic quality reminding her of a vacation in Belize several
years ago. She had been there with her l'amant du jour, Fred Mackley, whose
father was a wealthy used car dealer in California.
Her heels clicked briskly on the concrete roof; sodium vapor lamps, fixed
on tall poles, lighted her way. A camera fixed on one pole slowly turned its
steel neck following her every step.
As she drew near her car she clicked her clicker and the hydrogen-powered
engine began to idle, the door slid open and the lights came on. A song (We
Kill the Things We Fuck and Fuck the Things We Kill) of the rock group Idolum
was playing as she scooted behind the wheel:
~ Baby I wanna put it in you
while you're lying on the slab
I wanna fuck your pussy
before they take you to the lab
Baby, before they gut you
I wanna fuck your bun
Baby, before they stuff you
I wanna have some fun ~
Liza squinched her face up and gave a voice command to her private select;
instantly Faures's elegant Violin Sonata No. 1 filled the interior of the car.
The streets were mostly empty in the depressing yellow lights. Many
buildings were boarded up; only drunks and whores were loitering about in
isolated pockets of humanity on corners and in front of sleazy bars.
Liza always felt queasy driving through the area -- especially late at
night, hoping she wouldn't have some kind of mechanical trouble; her car was
equipped with GPS Rescue Service, but it wasn't always quick or reliable.
Half an hour later she was nodding at Hank the night security guard making
his rounds as she drove through Willow Heights. And in another four or five
minutes was pulling into her sheltered parking space across from her townhouse.
Hidden security cameras watched her as she emerged from the car, her short
skirt riding up revealing nicely shaped calves and thighs. The cameras followed
her as she crossed the street and stepped up onto the sidewalk. They focused in
on her firm, round ass, the arched back, the full tits that jiggled slightly
beneath her blouse.
The red door, with a small, violet-tinted, beveled glass insert, opened as
she approached.
Inside, she made her way up a thick-carpeted stairway to her bedroom where
she kicked off her heels and quickly stripped.
In the shower she bopped around to a bouncy tune coming from multiple
speakers while she soaped her nude body down, then stepped into the invigorating
surge of warm water coming from dual, chrome nozzles. It was like heaven after
putting in eight hours at the station.
Suddenly a hand came out of nowhere and covered her mouth; she felt a
hard-muscled body pressing her against the jade-green tile of the wall. Another
hand found a tit and cradled it. She felt a warm, moist mouth kissing the
tender skin at the nape of her neck.
The man twisted her around forcing her arms up over her head as he kissed
her throat, then her breasts, sucking on the pink nipples.
After a moment, he turned her back around forcing her over as he held her
hands behind her back.
She felt his cock enter her. It went in easily, for she was wet by this
time.
She backed onto him eagerly, thrusting and wriggling her firm, shapely ass
into his hard-muscled belly and groin, taking all of the huge swell of him into
her.
Their wet flesh made a noticeable slapping sound as their bodies collided
hungrily.
Desperate gasps and moans escaped her lips as he dropped her hands and
grabbed her tits squeezing and pinching her nipples until they were extended to
twice their normal size.
Her senses reeled; she grew dizzy with arousal; she could feel her heart
tripping against her ribs. Her legs quivered violently as he thrust harder and
harder into her.
He turned her once more and, shoving her against the wall, pulled her legs
up around his narrow waist and pushed his purple-headed cock back between her
swollen cunt lips, deep into her.
Their mouths met ravenously, each fighting to suck on the other's tongue.
Salvia flowed from lips which were nibbled and sucked and bitten with wild
abandonment.
He jerked her head back by the hair making her whimper with need and sucked
and bit on her throat while her pink nails raked up and down his tanned,
hard-muscled back.
She could feel the full hardness of his cock swell inside her and she
brought herself into a cum at the same instant he did. Both their nude, wet
bodies rocked feverishly against each other.
When it was over he remained in her for several minutes slowly working in
and out causing her to cum several more times before he withdrew.
They finished showering, then, wrapped in towels, headed for the kitchen
downstairs.
Liza placed a serving of olives, sliced carrots, cherry tomatoes, cheese,
and raw, coarse-salted fava beans with French bread on the gray slate table in
the dining room while Denver opened a bottle of red burgundy.
"What are we gonna do tomorrow?" he asked, pouring them each a glass full,
then plopping down in a pecan-framed chair of studded, black syn-leather.
"Un-un, can't do anything tomorrow. I've got an interview scheduled with
Georg Reuth, the new chairman of Screamland."
"Oh, yeah," Denver replied with a negative intonation. "I've heard of him,
all right."
"Right. I'd just as soon have nothing to do with him, but the station
wants a profile."
"Couldn't they get someone else?"
"I'm the anchor; it's my responsibility -- or I guess I could always resign
and sell pencils on a street corner," she said wryly.
"I can think of something you've got better than pencils," Denver grinned.
"Um hmm," Liza replied raising her brow.
"Wellup," he said plunking an olive in his mouth, "It's a shame; I'll be
headed for Zurich tomorrow evening to arrange some contracts for Global Tron;
probably be gone for a couple of weeks."
"Oh no, babe. I'll miss you."
"Hmm, not with all the guys you've got hanging around."
"Not that many,' she answered slightly defensively. "And what about all
those hot-looking secretaries and women you pick up, God knows where?"
Denver grinned, then his ruggedly handsome face formed a bemused
expression.
"We could get back together again -- give it another try?"
Liza shook her head.
"It wouldn't work; we gave it six months living together. We're great as
buddies, but lousy as lovers."
Denver nodded sadly, then brightened.
"Yeah you're right; but you'll have to admit we're great together sexually.
She moistened her lips sensuously and gave him an impish smile.
"You've got that right. What you did tonight scared the life out of me; I
thought I was being raped, then when I saw it was you I came almost instantly,
and then at the end I came again -- three or four times. That's the hottest
I've ever been in my whole life."
"Well . . . she likes it rough and wild," Denver pretended to muse.
"Perhaps I can think up some other things you would like."
"Let me know," she answered playfully. "I'm always willing to try
something new."
"I wish I'd known that when we were living together," he replied with
pretend grumpiness.
Liza smiled.
"We can still do things together -- even if we aren't living together
anymore, and it might even be better that way."
"What if you got married," he asked with an air of lewd speculation, "would
we still do things together?"
"I'm not planning on getting married for a long time," she hedged.
"Wouldn't it be something if we were both married; we could cheat on our
spouses with each other. Friends, and no one would suspect."
"Is adultery still a crime here?" she asked whimsically.
"If it is that would make it more exciting. Provided no one is watching."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," he shrugged, his tone becoming somewhat more serious. "There's a
rumor that the government is placing cameras in homes."
"Only those were someone is under house arrest or for parolees and ex-cons
who fit a certain dangerous profile." She tugged up on her towel where her full
breasts threatened to spill out.
"Well, perhaps, but according to a buddy of mine, who works in our
electronics division, micro surveillance cameras have been placed in millions of
homes. According to him in any building, private or commercial, that was built
after 2010."
Liza wrinkled her brow.
"My townhouse was built way after that; it's not more than three years old.
And I've never seen any cameras anywhere." She glanced around the dining room
waving with her hand."
Denver nodded.
"According to him they're very small -- about the size of half a grain of
rice. And that was back in 2010; they're probably much smaller now. You would
need a magnifier to see one and you would never know exactly where to look."
"You mean someone could have been watching us while we were --"
She glanced around the room uneasily. "Wouldn't that be a violation of
our right to privacy?"
"Not after the passage of the Freedom Act of 2008 passed as a rider on a
much larger bill; it gave the government unlimited authority to conduct covert
surveillance on all citizens in the interests of national security."
Denver refilled their glasses and took a sip.
"But I wouldn't worry; there's not enough man power for any government to
keep up constant surveillance on everyone all the time. But they do have chips
the size of a peanut that can keep a 24/7 record of your whole life kept on
computers. If you ever become a subject of interest I suppose your complete
file could be accessed."
"That's horrible," Liza lamented.
"Yes," Denver replied, and after a moment smirked and loosen his towel.
His cock was stiff and quivering.
"Has anyone ever tied you up?"
.
Liza was sitting in the waiting room; it was 11:12 a.m. and her appointment
had been for 10:30 a.m. It was a psychological ploy Liza recognized: an
important man's way of showing you that you are not.
Liza glanced at the pretty brunette behind the rosewood desk who had
introduced herself as Syl Dyce. Then she returned her attention to the walls
again as they slowly changed composition and colors from a soft pink to an
emerald green; one wall was an underwater scene of reefs and exotic fish
swimming around. Another was onyx black with galaxies and star clusters.
After a few more minutes, the receptionist motioned with a smile and
escorted Liza to a nearby door opening it for her.
A handsome man with slick, black hair was sitting on a gray sofa; a cup of
coffee sat on a small table of chrome and glass in front of him.
He didn't bother to rise but merely nodded toward an armchair across from
him while he made a show of studying figures on a hand-held viewer.
When he was finished he looked up letting his eyes take her in briefly.
She was wearing a gray suit and a peach-colored blouse with a scoop neckline and
a thin gold chain with a tiny cross.
The skirt was short enough to provoke interest but long enough to preserve
a business-like decorum. Two small circles of gold hung from her earlobes. Her
fingernails were long and painted a glossy gray. A few gold rings glittered on
her fingers.
"I can give you only a few moments," he stated matter-of-factly. "I don't
make it a practice to give interviews. My secretary scheduled you by mistake --
but since you are here --"
He raised his hand in a loose wave.
"You want to flesh out a profile, I understand."
Liza nodded.
"Yes, that's right, and something about your new position as head of
Screamland. I must say I find it amazing -- as I understand it -- that you ran
away from an orphanage when you were twelve and made your first million when you
were sixteen."
"Yes, that's right. In order to survive on the street I found work mowing
yards. Gradually I built it up into a fifty man business."
Liza shook her head with wonderment.
"And later you went to MIT on a scholarship where you earned a Ph.D.. in
bio-chemistry."
"Yes. After graduating I started a modest research firm with the money I
had accumulated from my mowing company and hired a small team of select
scientists to develop the drug that now is known as Katchin."
"The sex drug that works directly on the libido"
"Yes, and made me a billionaire a hundred times over."
"Isn't it addictive?"
A frown formed on Reuth's face.
"No, that is a rumor started by those who wanted to ban it. There's
absolutely no physical addiction whatsoever. And it has proven a boon to tens
of millions who could not achieve sexual gratification with their partners. It
works on both sexes: men who could not achieve an erection and women who could
not climax. To them Katchin was a godsend."
"Hasn't it also contributed to a dramatic rise in the number of sexual
assaults since it came on the market?"
Reuth gave a limp-wrist flip of his hand in a dismissive fashion.
"Statistics: crime is always up around election time -- or whenever the
government wants to increase your taxes to fight it; and it gives the
politicians a platform to run on --they have to have something to run on -- and
anything to do with sex gets peoples' attention."
"You've had an amazing life," Liza said, shifting the tone of the
discussion, fearing he might break off the interview if he became angry.
She gave him a flattering smile and shook her head again in wonderment.
"A billionaire by the time you were thirty with a pharmaceutical company
giant listed high in the Fortune 500 and now you have created your own
international communications network featuring the controversial show
Screamland."
"Screamland, yes. Fifty years ago such a program couldn't have been put on
the air, but today we recognize the value of public punishment as a deterrent to
crime. The ancient Romans knew this and wisely established the spectacle -- the
gladiatorial combats in the arena -- to demonstrate what would happen to anyone
who broke the laws of the empire. And it worked. Rome ruled the world for a
thousand years by instilling so much fear in its enemies that none dared
challenge its hegemony.
This is the goal I have set for Screamland: to make New America the
greatest nation on earth."
"And controversy continues to follow you," Liza added. "What do you say
to your detractors who claim that, instead on reducing crime, the horrors shown
on Screamland prompt people to go out and initiate them?"
"Well that's simply not borne out by the facts. It didn't cause the
ancient Romans to commit crimes. Indeed Rome was a model of morality contrary
to modern misconceptions. Most of our legal precepts originated with them:
women were the equal of men; there were slaves, of course, but these were formed
from the ranks of enemy prisoners taken in war, and, contrary to the treatment
received by our blacks in 19th century, they were treated benevolently and, more
often than not, were as capable of succeeding in society as easily as any Roman
citizen -- and ironically, many slaves were richer than their masters and slaves
in name only. There was, also, a liberal welfare and educational system setup
throughout the empire. Conquered provinces and countries were even allowed to
continue their way of life as long as they swore allegiance to Rome. All in all
it was quite a remarkable and advanced civilization for its time. But its
success was ultimately based on fear. The spectacle demonstrated to all what
would happen to anyone who dared defy its might.
One must rule with an iron fist. That is the message of the spectacle and
that is the message of Screamland."
.
After the pretty news anchor left, Reuth instructed a hologram of her visit
to be replayed. He replayed it several times walking leisurely around her
projected image so that he could view her from different angles.
Then he instructed the computer to simulate her in the nude based on her
heat patterns, and again he walked around; it wouldn't be an exact replication,
he knew, for the computer could only make approximations, but it would be close,
very close.
She was blonde with blue eyes so the computer had given her nipples a
pinkish cast. The color of her skin was based on the color of her facial skin,
lightened somewhat.
The computer had given the hologram blonde pussy hair. He gave an oral
command to give her a shaved look.
Yes.
She was perfect.
Reuth had a preference -- one could almost say a fetish -- for a certain
type woman. There was an indefinable something she must have; he couldn't say
exactly what, but she had to be feminine, pretty, blonde, blue eyed, of medium
height, with a certain hint of vulnerableness -- in her expression and manner --
underlying a calm, efficient facade.
He had only encountered a handful of women in his life that filled the
bill, and Liza Hunter promised to be the most exciting of the lot.
He felt himself becoming erect as he fantasized about her. Like a vintage
wine he was going to savor every moment of the scenario that was beginning to
form in his mind.
.
A few hours later, after her interview with Georg Reuth, Liza, with eager
steps, was clicking her heels up the oak stairs of a three-story walkup. It had
been a sudden impulse, and now she couldn't wait.
She pressed her thumb to the identifier and entered.
In the cozy living room with a wall lined with books, she took off her
jacket, blouse and skirt, kicking off her heels hurriedly. Her breathing became
rapid and shallow as she unhooked her bra and slid down her thong.
The nightmarish apparition in The Scream by Edvard Munch gazed upon her
nakedness as she entered a hallway leading to a bedroom.
A man was lying in bed; above the sheet, which covered him from the waist
down, he was bare chested. His tanned face was ruggedly handsome and
clean-shaven; the shoulders broad, the chest firm and muscular, the waist
narrow, and the stomach rippling with well-defined abdominals. His thick, wavy
hair was coal black and hung to his shoulders.
The eyes were closed in sleep, but she remembered their brilliant blueness
and the intenseness of their stare when they were fixed on you.
She shivered with excitement as she crawled onto the bed and straddled his
waist.
A faint smile and then a flash of white teeth greeted her.
"Well, is this what they call waking up to the morning news?"
"Hardly morning, Guy; it's two in the afternoon."
He reached around her neck and pulled her down. Their tongues met in a
deep kiss. His cock hard against her belly. She squirmed on it making a gentle
squiggly motion.
He reached down and gripped his cock guiding it to her cunt. She raised
her hips slightly allowing him entrance.
A tremor raced through her body as she felt the full length of him sliding
into her. Her cunt muscles were tight around the thick shaft, gripping and
squeezing.
He moved in and out of her slowly, rhythmically, at first. Then as his
need grew more intense, he began thrusting up into her more vigorously.
She came with an uncontrollable shudder, then felt herself instantly
aroused again, even more so. She gripped his hard muscled shoulders so fiercely
that her nails drew blood.
Suddenly he flipped her over so that he was on top and began ramming into
her with a force that almost became brutal.
She loved it, crying out with squeals and moans of anguished delight. Her
hips pounded up against his meeting his wild thrusts with those of her own.
Sweat covered their firm bodies.
He thrust his tongue in her mouth kissing her cruelly; his hands moved from
her cheeks to her hair.
Pulling her head back he kissed her smooth, white throat, licking down like
a hungry dog and sucking at the tender path of flesh that led to her breasts.
He pulled on the taut nipples with his teeth. Flicking the tips with his
tongue.
Liza arched her back and clawed at the bed sheet while wrapping her legs
around his ass, pulling him deeper inside her.
Frantically, she ran her hands up his arms squeezing at the hard, swollen
biceps; she gripped her hands behind his solidly-muscled neck and pulled her
sweat drenched body up against his.
Their naked body met with a staccato of wet, slapping sounds in the
stillness of the room; their half-articulated words, intertwined -- inaudible
and strained -- between gasps of wanton abandon.
Up in the corner of the room a microcamera lens watched the naked couple,
recording ever nuance of sight and sound for some nameless, bureaucratic
posterity -- if such a record should ever be needed.
Guy raised himself to his hands and knees with Liza still clinging to him
with her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs around his waist.
She fucked him while he remained still, then when she began to gasp, he
dropped down on top of her, supporting his 190 pound weight with his elbows as
he began thrusting into her rapidly bringing both of them to a breathless,
writhing climax.
.
When she came out of the bathroom in a white terry cloth robe after
showering there was coffee and bisque waiting for her on the coffee table in the
living room.
"It's been a while," Guy said, popping a bisque in his mouth. He was
wearing a towel around his waist. His coal-black hair glistened from the
shower. His cool, blue eyes took her in with an appreciative glance.
"Six months."
"How did you know I was back? I hadn't been in more than an hour when you
showed up."
"Didn't. It was just an impulse. I was in the area, more or less, and
drove by."
"I would have called, but I wanted to surprise you."
"I really missed you."
"I couldn't mail you; we were in a restricted zone where photojournalists
and New American troops weren't supposed to be. No communication was allowed.
You know how the government is; everything always has to be top secret. I was
afraid you might forget me."
"I know, and you ought to know better than that."
"You still my girl?"
Liza nodded. "Of course."
Guy smiled.
"I've got something for you."
He reached behind his back and handed her a small, hinged box.
Liza felt a tremor of excitement but was afraid to hope.
When she opened it she saw a sparkling, diamond ring set in a cushion of
blue silk.
"Oh, Guy. It's beautiful."
"Well, put it on damn it; don't just sit there goo gooing at it like an
idiot."
She took the ring out, then jumped up and went to the armchair where he sat
and plopped down on his lap.
She handed him the ring and extended the fingers of her left hand toward
him.
"You've got to put it on."
When it was on they kissed passionately for a long moment.
"I won't be going overseas for awhile; I'm writing a book about New
America's emerging role in the Middle East; according to my editor it could
possibly upset the current trend toward censorship; he thinks it has all the
elements to rock people out of their complaisancy. I've still got a couple of
more months writing left yet, but how 'bout us getting married then?"
"Yes, yes, yesyesyes," Liza replied, laughing with tears in her eyes.
.
Later that evening, candle lights and a second glass of wine, Liza became
somewhat somber.
"What's the matter, having second thoughts?"
She smiled.
"No, you're stuck now, but . . . I was thinking about my job."
"What about it?"
"Well, it's really depressing; every weekday I read the news like a good
little girl; and it's all bs -- or at least most of it. We get the daily wire
reports from all over the world and locally, then the station censors -- 'script
verifiers' -- begin blacking out words and inserting other words; anything that
doesn't fit the approved myths and conceptions continually fed to the public is
scrapped; it's such a farce. I feel like a fraud -- hell, I am a fraud."
Guy sighed sympathetically.
"I know what you mean; you ought to see the pictures I've taken of
atrocities committed by government troops -- ours as well as those of whatever
enemy we are currently contending with. The ones our troops commit are never
published -- only those of the enemy. The policy is always geared to demonizing
him while creating the illusion that our boys are knights in shinning armor."
"What about your book, will you be able to tell the truth in it?" A look
of sympathy and concern showed on her face.
Guy leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw slowly with the palm of his
hand.
"Yes. Fortunately a friend and fellow journalist sent several introductory
chapters to his father who is a wealthy publisher -- one of a diminishing group
of publishers who still has the balls to print the truth. He liked what he read
and agreed to publish it, if it held up. So far it has, and there are only
three more chapters left to finish."
The look of concern on her face became one of worry.
"But aren't you taking a risk -- publishing something critical of the
government? I believe -- I've heard rumors -- that people who criticize the
government are considered terrorists and can be arrested and held indefinitely."
Guy drew up his eyebrows and pressed his lips together in an introspective
pause.
"Yes, I suppose there's some risk," he sighed, "but someone has to speak
out before it's too late. We're losing all our freedoms and no one seems to
give a damn. Everybody's busy taking Kat and watching reality programs. Half
the damn country's living on welfare."
Liza took a sip of her wine."
"Speaking of Kat and reality programs, I had an interview with Georg Reuth
this morning."
The tip of her middle finger moved slowly around the rim of her glass.
"Oh, God, the current guru of immorality? On TV?"
"Yes and no, in private. The station wanted a profile. According to Reuth
he doesn't give interviews -- public or private. But I lucked out. His
secretary screwed up and made an appointment for me when she shouldn't have. He
seems to think that reality programs, like Screamland, that deal out punishments
to criminals, are good for society."
"Humph. In the same way that Old America's concentration camps at
Guantanamo were good for us -- what eventually became a reversion to Hitler-like
death camps and led to the current state of affairs with these insane reality
programs."
"Umm, after the interview was over, he asked me out. He said I was his
'type'."
"Should I be asking for my ring back?" Guy asked with mock irony, raising
an eyebrow.
"Only when you pry it from my cold, dead hand."
"And you said . . . ."
"And I said I would have to ask my soon-to-be fiance first." She gave him
an impish grin.
"And he said," Guy stood up slowly, "he would have to punish you for being
a teaser."
"And how would you punish me, O' master?" Liza asked with a wry face.
"Take your robe off."
Liza complied with a quick series of wiggles.
He picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and headed toward the bedroom.
"I think I'm going to like my punishment," Liza giggled, mildly tanked.
1,500 miles away on the 74th level of a modern, federal megalith, a red
warning light blinked on under the words CRIME THINK. There was no one in the
huge, silent room where thousands of computers tracked and recorded all human
endeavors with unfailing diligence. The linoleum floor was shined and spotless,
the rows of fluorescent lights overhead disallowed shadows. In time the silence
would be punctuated by the sound of unhurried, hard-soled footsteps; someone
would observe; someone would notify and metaphorical wheels would begin their
slow, but extremely thorough, grind.
.
"Buddy, you're smashed," Dot exclaimed with a laugh and a wink at Liza.
Dot was a fiery redhead with green eyes, large tits and a wasp waist. She
and the lanky Buddy had been living together for over a year. Buddy was Liza's
camera man.
"Well, I'm just celebrating Liza's engagement," Buddy replied. "Besides I
think you all are more sloshed than me."
"Not true, Cowboy," Liza grinned, raising her gin and tonic in a playful
toast, but things did seem a little warm and fuzzy.
Cowboy was Buddy's predestined nickname being a transplant from west Texas,
and he never failed to draw attention to himself by playing it to the hilt
wearing the stereotypical western outfit: a Stetson, pearl-button shirt, jeans
with a large, silver, belt buckle and cowboy boots. His fingers were weighed
down with large silver and turquoise rings. He was handsome on the lean side;
just twenty, he still needed a few more years to add some meat to his
broadshouldered, rangy frame.
Liza had been attracted to him when she had started to work at the
station. But a seven year age difference had presented a barrier; besides he
and Dot were an item.
A pudgy, balding man from the station's accounting department came up to
them and asked Liza for a dance. She had passed him in occasionally in the
station halls coming and going, but she didn't know him.
Mayner Cleveland was the owner of the station, and once a month on every
third Saturday evening, he held a soiree on his fifty acre estate for station
employees, friends and family. For employees off the clock it was de rigueur to
show up for at least a few hours.
The pudgy man held her close, sweaty and smelling rankly of whiskey and
cigar. As they danced he let his hand creep down to her ass while he held his
other hand just under her armpit so that his thumbnail gouged into the side of
her breast.
In one corner of the large hall at the opposite end from where a rock band
was playing, she saw Guy talking with a group of men.
Just when she thought she couldn't put up with the accountant's groping
another second, a hand touched him on the shoulder.
"Mind if I cut in?"
A sour look formed on the pudgy man's face, then quickly disappeared as he
saw to whom the hand belonged.
Sulking, the pudgy man drifted off through the crowded dance floor.
The man before her was darkly tanned and only a few inches taller than she.
Latino in appearance, very handsome, very forceful looking, with a strong
aggressive air about him. Confident. That was the word that came to her.
He took her in his arms as if he owned her and began gliding her across the
floor to the beat of a slow number.
He was dressed in white slacks and black tee. She could feel the hardness
of muscle pressed against her.
When the band took a ten minute break, he placed his hand to the small of
her back and guided her out onto a spacious patio and moved to a low wall that
overlooked several tennis courts and a swimming pool to the side.
Catching a waiter's eye, he ordered two Dundees and some oyster pate on
rye and wheat crackers. Then they sat on the wall.
"I was drinking gin and tonic," Liza said.
"No, problem; this has gin in it with a splash of brandy and Drambuie to
give it a nice, sweet taste. You'll like it."
He rested his hands together on top of his thigh and took her in with his
dark brown eyes.
"My name is Michael Cleveland," he said, then laughed at the confused look
that came over her face.
"People always have that reaction at first -- you know, like what's a spic
got to do with calling himself a Cleveland."
"Well, you'll have to admit you don't look like an anglo," Liza smiled.
He grinned back, his dark eyes glittering, but she thought she detected a
faint trace of hatred in them.
The waiter, a young Mexican, returned wearing a white jacket with black
bowtie and set their order on the wall between them. A look passed briefly
between the two men, then the waiter was gone.
"My mother was Castilian."
"Was?"
"Yes. She was killed, years ago, in a car mishap. I am the only
offspring; the heir apparent to all this." he chuckled dryly, nodding his head
to the side, toward acres of rolling meadows and cultivated gardens beyond the
tennis courts and swimming pool.
Liza took another drink, enjoying the sweet taste of Scotch and feeling at
one with herself. The world was rosy! fuzzy! delightful!
"I'm sorry about your mother."
"It was a long time ago when I was a child; I hardly remember her."
Time passed. Small talk. The buzzing of a fly.
Liza had turned her attention to the tennis court without being aware of
having done so and found herself deeply intrigued by a ball being racketed back
and forth in slow motion between two female players. Following the motion made
her feel light headed. She looked back at Michael. His face was swimming in a
circle.
The strap of her summer dress was down her arm.
She took another drink.
"Perhaps you would like to see the rest of the house?" Michael invited.
He placed and arm around her narrow waist as she stood, wobbling on her
high-heeled sandals.
He pulled her close so that her breast was pressed against the side of his
chest.
He liked the feel of her warm, firm body touching him; he imagined what she
would feel like naked. He pressed his face against her head and took up the
fragrant aroma of her soft hair. There was a compliant innocence about her that
he found exciting.
He slipped his hand up her rib cage and palmed under the firm roundness of
her breast, feeling it heft and malleableness.
Her head was on his shoulder.
The waiter was by an open side door, but he was giving Michael a warning
look.
"I think I'd better take over here," a tall man, built like Tarzan, said
cynically. His eyes were cold and bore down on Michael uncompromisingly.
"Of course," Michael replied, with a smooth smile, releasing Liza and
watching her stagger into the arms of the man. "She was feeling ill; I was
going to show her where a lavatory was."
.
Michael cursed under his breath as he watched the couple move away from
him. The waiter came up next to him and stood by calmly watching also.
After a moment, Michael withdrew some bills from his pocket, peeled off a
couple and shoved them into the waiter's hand. A grin of understanding broke
out between them.
"Next time," the waiter smiled.
Michael gave him a light slap on the cheek and a friendly shove on the
shoulder, then set off to follow the couple in a circuitous manner.
.
"I see two Dots before my eyes," Liza muttered whimsically.
"That's because you're soused, hon," Dot replied dryly.
Liza was leaning against the slightly taller woman with her arm across her
shoulders while Dot held the wrist with her left hand and crooked her right arm
around her waist.
They were in a gilded elevator with oval mirrors and a brass gate rising
slowly to the third floor of the mansion.
In a guest bedroom, Dot unzipped her dress and lay her down on a twin bed
after pulling the covers down.
"I'll be back in awhile to check on you, hon."
She saw a small vase sitting on a table and placed it beside her.
"If you upchuck use this, but be careful it looks like it's probably worth
a couple of thousand at least."
After Dot had descended in the elevator, Michael stepped from a side
hallway and strolled across the plush, plum-colored carpet to the guest bedroom.
Inside he paused above the twin bed and stared down at her. She only had
on a flesh-colored bra and thong panties.
She had a nice firm body.
Her eyes flickered open as if she was trying to gain focus. Then she
licked her lips, flicked her eyes wide several more times and wagged her head
woozily.
Michael leaned over and turned her onto her side and unhooked her bra,
tugging it off. Then, turning her back over, he hooked his fingers under the
waistband of her panties and scrolled them down her shapely legs.
"Blonde at both ends," he murmured, as he stared at her nude body.
By the time he was naked his uncircumcised cock was a hard, wedge-shaped
club of swollen purple.
He climbed onto the bed eagerly and prodded her legs apart.
.
"How is she?" Guy asked, when Dot returned. He and Buddy were seated at a
patio table with a couple of Beer Busters in icy, 14 oz. mugs.
"She's out like a light and dreaming sweet dreams; don't worry; she'll be
fine; I'll check on her in a little while."
She patted him on the shoulder and sat down.
"What's to eat?"
"Baked veal chops; ought'a be ready purt soon," Buddy answered, punching
his Stetson back on his head and taking a long pull from his mug.
.
Liza tried to focus on the fuzzy face floating above her, but it was
useless; her eyes simply refused to respond.
She knew it wasn't Guy; this man was smaller, but hard muscled. She
realized they were both naked vaguely. She tried to remember where she was --
but couldn't.
She shoved at him, but her arms were made of rubber; there was no strength
in them.
She felt him push her legs apart.
He was going to fuck her!
She bucked under him.
He gave her a stinging slap to her face.
Then his cockhead was touching her cunt, moving up the slit, forcing her
lips apart.
There was a sudden, sharp pain as he entered her, thrusting into her hard.
She cried out and squirmed frantically beneath him, trying to dislodge him,
but he was too strong for her.
He forced her arms above her head and held them by the wrists while he
continued to ram his cock in and out of her.
He moved rapidly. She heard his gasps, felt his hot breath. His mouth was
wet against her ear.
She heard mournful moans and realized they were her own.
His thrust were getting harder and faster.
See could see beads of sweat on his forehead. His teeth were milky white
and clenched in a grimace. His eyes had a wild, bull-like stare.
There was a sudden wetness in her cunt, a faint smacking sound; his body
grew tense for a long moment; his breathing ragged and harsh; his cock was slick
as he pulled out of her.
She felt a warm drip on her belly. Something trickled down her inner
thighs forming a cool, wet spot on the sheet against her ass.
.
When Michael came out of the guest bedroom the waiter, with two others, was
standing close by.
Michael lit a cigarette and gave them a nod as he walked back toward the
side hall.
"Diviertase."
The waiters grinned and entered the bedroom.
.
In one of the many lounges in Kullhorn two businessmen types were sitting
at the bar. The heavyset one with gray temples was drinking a Bourbon Collins.
The other man with a neatly trimmed beard was nursing a San Juan Sling.
On a wall screen Liza Hunter was wrapping up a local story before turning
to the weather with Bill Baker.
The dimly lighted lounge was a cool, quiet cave only sparsely filled by
white collar types lingering over their drinks before heading home to nagging
wives and spoiled brats listening to loud-ass music that made no fucking sense
whatsoever.
"How'd you like to fuck that little cutie?" gray temples said, nodding at
the screen.
'Ah, she's a honey all right; that sweet and innocent look," beard replied.
"Yeah, but you can bet she's not. She didn't get to be an anchor without
spreading'em. You can bet on that."
"Had more dicks in her than a porcupine has quills."
Both men chuckled.
Beard pulled out a pipe. Gray temple a cigar.
The waitress, who was wiping off the bar nearby, smiled.
"Some sicko will get her, you wait and see," she said. "She's their type."
Gray temple was Peter Mann; beard was Phil Beck. They were members of an
elite, federal unit known as Special Police Operatives of the Republic (SPOOR),
responsible for keeping track of terrorists, radical groups or anybody else
considered to be potentially subversive.
Half an hour later, Mann's chip implant gave him a prompt.
"Well, we'd better get a move on it; don't want to be late for the
meeting."
"Wonder what the unit coordinator's got in mind this time?"
"No tellin'; but we'd know pretty soon."
After Mann and Beck were gone the waitress trayed their empty glasses and
wiped up condensation. She glanced at the screen where a smiling Liza Hunter
was saying good evening.
"Yeah, you think you've got it made, babe; but you just wait, wait until
those sickos get hold of your young, firm body."
The aging waitress shivered.
"I just wish I could be there to watch."
.
Liza took off her on-air suit in the employee's dressing room and put on a
pair of red jogging shorts, tank top and jogging shoes. She grabbed her safety
helmet and headed for the parking lot.
As she reached the exit door she had a momentary flashback of being naked
with three men in a shower. Their faces and the surroundings were a blur; they
were touching her intimately, and she felt a sexy rush. The image was gone as
soon as it appeared leaving her puzzled; she wasn't in the habit of fantasizing
during the daytime.
On the top level of the parking garage she unchained her bike from a meter
pipe and started to mount up when a stretch limo pulled up beside her.
The rear passenger door opened before the chauffeur's could and Michael
Cleveland stepped out dressed in a dark suit and a blue, silk tie.
"Hello, Liza; I hope you're feeling better than the last time we met."
His smile was charming; there was a twinkle in his dark, lustrous eyes.
"Yes, loads." She returned his smile. "I'm not much of a drinker. My
friends were polite enough to blame everything on too much sun, too little to
eat."
The dark eyes continued to twinkle, but Liza thought she sensed a faint
mockingness in them. Perhaps she had cut a ridiculous figure and made a fool of
herself.
She suddenly felt awkward, but, if it showed, Michael Cleveland didn't seem
to notice.
She was, all at once, aware of how handsome and polished he was. She
doubted that he would ever be ruffled by anything. His whole manner and
appearance spelled out the three C's: cool, calm and collected. A man who
would take charge of any situation with a snap of the fingers. Fancifully, Liza
found herself being impressed . . . and faintly attracted.
"I need to talk with you," he said.
"What, right now?
"Yes, are you hungry? We can grab something at The Club."
"Well . . . but I'm supposed to meet my fiance in a --"
"You can call him on the way," Michael cut in. " I have some business I
need to discuss with you."
"But, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly dressed for The Club."
Michael nodded toward the chauffeur who was standing by the limo.
"That's no problem. I own The Club."
The chauffeur picked up Liza's bike and put it in the limo out of the way.
They entered The Club through a gleaming, stainless-steel kitchen and went
up a back stairway to a private balcony that overlooked the main dining area
under a high-arched ceiling with thick wooden beams for support. A huge,
freestanding, stone fireplace was in the center of the dining area and around
the stone walls exotic plants were interspersed with modern art and
floor-to-ceiling tinted windows.
A waiter brought them a light meal of Florentine Minestrone with wine.
After some brief small talk, Michael arrived at the business at hand.
He sat his wine glass down and raked his teeth over his lower lip. Slowly,
he picked his spoon up and posed it over his bowl, but that's all; he was
looking at Liza and paying no attention to his meal.
"My father has turned the operation of the station over to me. He wants to
spend more time perfecting his golf game."
Michael paused and dabbed his spoon into his soup stirring it slowly.
There was a cold look in his eyes.
"But the real reason is he has grown old, outdated; he no longer knows how
to function in the modern world; he still holds on to the old values, integrity,
honesty, etc. Ideals which no longer work in New America. If the old
expression 'dog eat dog' ever had meaning it's nowhere more applicable than in
today's world.
In order to survive one has to look out for himself; the other person be
damned." Michael paused to shrug. "I don't like it, but that's the way it is.
And I intend to survive."
"Well," Liza said, shaking her head slowly, "that's a sad estimate of the
world if that's the way things really stack up -- but what has all this to do
with me?"
"Competition . . . ratings. We're going to have to change our format to
keep up with our competitors. Global Tron has bought out Tri Inc., our parent
company. I've been in conference with Global Tron executives for the last three
days. We're only getting 40 percent of the available market. They want to kick
it up to 60 percent within the next quarter -- or else."
"Or else what?"
"Or else buy us out or drive us out, and Global Tron has the clout to do
it."
"What changes are they proposing?" Liza asked.
"A whole new concept -- which I'll have to agree, given the desires of
today's viewers, will boost our ratings. This is the way it lies: news is no
longer vital or needed -- real news went out the window thirty years ago.
Everything's censored now days. Hell, ninety percent of what we report is bull
shit or fluff --"
Liza nodded; it was true.
"-- so news becomes entertainment, and in today's climate that spells sex.
T and A.
Liza cringed mentally.
"And this is where I come in?"
"Yes . . ."
.
President O'Brien came into Con Room 5. Seated around the long oval table
of curly maple -- that had cost the taxpayers over $250,000 -- were his National
Security Advisor; the VP; the head of Vital Information, Inc.; the CEO of Sim
Com; the Director of SPOOR; and several representatives of the National
Association of Media Advertisers.
After preliminary greetings, he introduced the CEO of Sim Com, Edward
Justin, a small man with a Hitlerian profile, down to a shock of hair over the
forehead and a short mustache.
"Gentlemen . . . and ladies," he began, ramrod straight, shoulders thrown
back, "it has always been the desire of Sim Com to facilitate the goal of its
government which is the same as that of Big Business: in a word, profits -- how
to make the consumers consume more is our goal as well as yours. The chip
implant was a major step forward in achieving this goal. As you know it was
sold to the public as a security device which would help eliminate the threat of
terrorism by creating an electronic national ID base. But in order to get
people to 'buy' the chip we needed to scare them. It was necessary to create an
act of terrorism dramatic enough to make them give up their rights and place
their complete trust in the government, their savior --"
Justin chuckled briefly, shaking his head.
"Thus the attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon back in 2001 which
also gave us an excuse later to attack the 'Stans' and open up the Caspian for
oil profiteering which made us trillions of dollars in sales to China. Profit,
profit -- that's what it's all about, and no one knows that more or appreciates
it more than Sim Com.
And in that respect our scientists have come up with a new development in
the chip implant. With it we are now able to send messages from a central
location via the chip to the audio and visual centers of the brain. At first,
we will have to sell people on the idea of implanting the new chip by telling
them that it is necessary in order to communicate vital information to them in
case of a national crisis brought on, of course, by terrorists.
However, the real purpose of these new chips will be to receive commercial
advertisements. Commercials we will sneak in gradually, at first, among public
service announcements, but in time we estimate we can be sending as many as
fifteen to twenty minutes of commercial messages per hour. We will arrange it
so that if the person doesn't buy a certain product being advertised the
message will begin to be repeated with greater and greater frequency -- the
person will have to buy or go nuts."
There were nods of approval around the table as Justin sat down.
The Director of SPOOR stood up.
"And that's where we at Special Ops come in. Our agency will arrange for a
'terrorist' attack sufficiently dramatic to cow the sheep into their pens. And
you ladies and gentlemen," he glanced around the table smiling, "will soon
thereafter be raking in the huge profits."
A distinguished-looking young woman from one of the ad agencies spoke up.
"But won't people rebel at the intrusiveness of fifteen to twenty-minute
commercials playing in their heads every hour?"
O'Brien answered her with a relishing smile.
"No. People already watch and listen to thirty minutes of commercials
every hour on TV and radio. And everywhere they go they see commercial messages
on signs, billboards, T-shirts, books, etc. They're used to them; hell, the
idiots would be lost without them."
A few chuckles sounded among the gathered.
"But," Justin added, speaking for the President, "if someone were to rebel,
we have installed another feature in our new chip version which causes extreme
pain -- something like a migraine, only five times worse and is triggered by
antipathy. That will stop any rebellion."
O'Brien nodded happily and spoke out with a grandiose voice.
"At last a glorious age has dawned for mankind. We now have the means to
control negative human behavior one hundred percent. Soon there will be total
compliance. No more disruptive dissidents, no more resistance. A great age is
upon us, ladies and gentlemen. The horn of plenty has opened and poured its
blessings upon us."
There was a round of applause, and the President, bowing, ordered brunch to
be served.
.
"How did you like Zurich?" Liza asked Denver.
She had found him drinking a Scotch with his feet propped on her coffee
table when she got home from the station.
"Great. The weather was great and the women were great, too. Is that Guy
on the phone?"
Liza had just picked up the phone. She nodded.
"How's the book coming, hon? Yes, it's Denver; he just got back from
Zurich."
Denver got up to follow her as she went into the kitchen to pour herself a
drink.
"Guy says 'hi'," Liza said, leaning her back to the counter and looking at
Denver.
"He's waving," she said dryly into the phone. "Yes, I'll be over tomorrow
round noonish; we can grab a bite somewhere. Love yuh bunches."
Denver moved up close to her and ran his index finger along the edge of her
blouse with its string straps.
"Since when did you start wearing thin, low-cut blouses without a bra?
another half inch and you'd be showing nipple."
"It's all part of my new on-air image to boost the ratings; I don't have
any choice."
'Hey, don't blush; I like it; especially the mini dress and the tinted
eyelids; makes you look sexy as hell."
Liza gave him a slight grimace and took a drink of her scotch.
"It makes me look like a whore."
She glanced down at her feet.
"Four inch spiked heels; they don't want a journalist; they want a sex
object."
"And the Scotch; you never touched anything stronger than wine before."
"I'm developing bad habits; every night practically, the station has been
making me attend private parties as publicity ploys to advertise the new image
they have created for me. They fix me up with some good-looking-hunk escort to
make everyone think I'm this wild, uninhibited party-girl dating all these guys.
And it's working; ratings are going through the roof."
"What about Guy; what's he think?"
"I haven't told him yet; he's so busy trying to get his book finished on
time he does nothing but write and sleep; and I think he may be popping pills,
too, in order to stay with it."
Denver pulled her to him and rubbed his palms along her bare shoulders and
the small of her back down her buttocks.
"What you need is something to make you relax, sweet thing; and old Denver
has just what the doctor ordered; on my way back from Zurich, I stopped off at a
friend of mine back east and picked up a couple of ounces of kick ass Indisat."
When Denver came back from his car carrying a baggy with a clay pipe, Liza
had poured herself another Scotch and was sitting on the sofa staring down at
her hands holding the amber splash.
.
(His hand moved down her belly with tantalizing slowness and paused on the
freshly shaved cunt. "I like it," Guy said. Liza smiled, "I thought you would,
that's why I did it.")
"It's strong," Liza said, gritting her teeth.
"Take another hit; it gets better."
His hand slipped the string strap off one shoulder while she inhaled
deeply. The fabric of her blouse dipped down revealing a nipple.
"That's it; now another."
His hand was on her breast, fingers massaging the nipple.
His other hand moved up the silky smooth thigh.
His mouth moved softly over the nape of her neck.
"Aren't you going to smoke any?"
"I just did."
"Oh . . ."
("What did old Denver have to say?" "Oh, nothing really; just talk; you
know; all business; boring . . .)
She felt his finger in her.
His wet mouth was sucking on her nipple.
Her blouse was down around her waist; her skirt was up over her hips; her
panties had somehow got onto the coffee table.
She remembered flashes of her clothes being removed; the room spinning
slowly; the phone was beeping somewhere; Guy? She was speadeagled on a bed; her
wrists and ankles were ties tightly; so tightly they hurt; there were three
blurry figures standing over her; a warm, sticky goo rained down on her; someone
was lying on top of her; moving deep inside her; in and out; slow, then fast;
over and over; she came three . . . four times. She could hear herself crying
out.
.
When she woke up she 'was' tied to her bed; there was a gag in her mouth
and her cunt hairs had been shaved off.
From downstairs came the monotonous sounds of a ball game being ratcheted
out on TV.
She glanced at her hands and feet; they were a deep purple; she couldn't
feel them; the skin burned painfully were ropes had been tightened around the
wrists and ankles; there was dried cum on her breasts and belly.
She tried to call out, but the gag prevented her from doing so; not only
was there a gag but something -- perhaps a handkerchief or panties -- had been
stuffed in her mouth, which was as dry as the Sahara.
The muscles of her arms and legs ached miserably from being stretched for
so long in such an unnatural position.
She wanted to scream.
For a moment anger boiled over; if she could get her hands on Denver she
would kill him.
She listened to the ball game break for commercials that seemed to go on
forever; she didn't know which was worse, the commercials with their idiot
refrains or the ball game with its idiot refrains.
Exasperated, she wondered how Denver could watch a goddamn ball game while
she was tied up; he surely had to know she was in agony; he couldn't be that
stupid, goddamnit!
Then she had another horrifying thought.
What if he is dead? What if he OD'd?
How would she get loose?
She heard movement.
Someone, a man cleared his throat; it didn't sound like Denver; but then,
how did Denver sound clearing his throat?
She heard muffled voices of at least two men; the racket from the TV made
it impossible to understand what was being discussed.
She heard laughter.
A woman!
The voices couldn't be coming from the TV; she could hear the announcers
giving their running commentary.
She heard thumping sounds coming up the carpeted stairway.
A young man and an older woman came into the bedroom.
The youth had spiked blond hair and was totally naked; he had numerous
crude tattoos covering his well-built body. His cock hung thick and heavy from
his groin which had been completely shaved in order, no doubt, Liza thought, to
make his cock appear even longer than it was; unnecessary since he was huge.
The woman was older, perhaps in her late thirties, and had a cruel,
lascivious look. Her hair was dyed a brilliant red, with short bangs, and hung
to her shoulders. She had on heavy purple makeup and was dressed like a hooker
in a skin tight, neon-orange minidress and ultra high heels. She was smoking a
cigarette and clutched a cheap looking vinyl case to her chest.
The youth stared at Liza with undisguised eagerness, his cock rising to the
occasion.
Neither one spoke. The woman sat down in a velvet armchair in one corner
and unzipped the vinyl case while glancing perfunctorily at Liza, the cigarette
dangling from her bright, red lips.
She handed the youth a length of tubing which he tied around Liza bicep.
Then she emptied some waxy looking crystals into a tablespoon and held a lighter
flame under it.
While she held the spoon the youth took a syringe out of the case and when
the crystals had turned into a clear liquid, he drew it into the syringe. He
held the syringe up so that the needle was top most and pushed in the plunger
slightly while flicking the syringe with his finger to get rid of any air
bubbles. Then he inserted the needle in a prominent vein in Liza's arm. He
released the tube and pushed the plunger all the way in.
Liza began to climax almost at once; she couldn't believe the powerful
sensations of ecstasy that rushed through her body; her pain and misery were
forgotten as rush after sweeping rush lifted her up onto a cloud of raw,
primitive lust and well being. She had never felt so alive. Every nerve in her
body vibrated with excitement; she thought she would die from the wonder of it.
How, she now thought, could she have been mad at Denver for tying her up?
That was all in the past. She was in Heaven now; nothing else matter.
The youth and the woman were angels; she loved them.
She had climaxed, but already she could feel herself becoming aroused
again. She could feel the wetness of her cunt. The need burning inside her.
The blond youth got on top of her and shoved his cock into her wet hole.
There was a dazed look in his eyes as if his mind were an apple without a core.
Liza stared at a skull tattoo on his left bicep above one of barbed wire which
encircled it. A leering, red demon on his chest bared its white fangs at her.
There were track marks on both arms.
She felt the hugeness of his cock filling her cunt. He rested his upper
body on his elbows and bit at her tits, pulling on her nipples with his teeth
until she thought he might bite them off. But she was too hot to care.
She raised her hips to meet his thrusts, moaning deep in her throat as each
of his thrusts brought her closer and closer to a heart pounding release. She
had never been fucked with such intensity. Her whole body trembled violently.
Wave after wave of sensual ecstasy engulfed her; tiny climaxes came and went,
each succession building toward others even more overpowering.
Suddenly the youth pulled his cock out of her and scooted up her body until
he straddled her tits with the slick, dripping head of his cock throbbing
against her chin.
He untied the gag and pulled out a wad of cloth that had been stuffed into
her mouth.
Slowly he fed thick-veined cock past her numb lips and down into her
throat; the muscles of her tongue and throat were paralyzed; her mouth hung
open, the jaw muscles too numb to work; all she could do was take his cock and
swallow it. Being able to breathe only when he withdrew.
He slid his kneecaps under her armpits and at the same time grabbed a
handful of her ashen-blonde hair and raised her head so he could ram more of his
cock into her.
She could feel his cock swelling, then there was a sudden hot rush of cum
building up and the acrid taste of it filling her mouth. She swallowed as the
muscles in her throat began to loosen up. He squirted several long burst, then
rested his belly against her nose while his balls hung down over her chin
against her throat.
After a moment he wiped his dick off in her hair and slid off.
The woman, naked now, climbed on the bed between Liza's painfully stretched
legs.
Liza could see gold hoops hanging from the woman's labia; there were hoops
through her nipples, too.
A fresh cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth, and from the harsh
smell Liza knew it was a joint.
The woman gave Liza an appraising look, then snapped her fingers.
The blond youth brought her a hand-sized, stainless steel device of two
parallel, hinged arms with a short lever connected to gears on the side.
The woman told Liza to open her mouth.
Liza hesitated, but relented, for she knew she had no choice.
The arms fit behind her teeth, upper and lower.
The woman cranked the lever and the arms spread Liza's mouth open with a
ratcheting sound.
When her mouth was fully opened, the woman stopped. Without paying any
attention she dropped some hot ash from her cigarette on Liza's belly.
Like an able scrub technician, the blond next brought her a large, curved
mosquito forcep with rubber tubing around the pincers. His huge cock flopped
contentedly against the inside of his thighs.
The woman spread the pinchers and ordered Liza to stick out her tongue.
Liza shook her head rapidly. A garbled refusal bubbled up from her throat.
Unperturbed, the woman took hold of Liza's right tit and flicked the nipple
with her index finger off her thumb several times. Slowly she took the
cigarette out of her mouth and blew on the end until it glowed red, then she
placed it against the nipple and held it there.
Liza's whole body arched up off the bed, squirming frantically from side to
side, but the woman held her tit firmly.
After what seemed an eternity to Liza, the woman withdrew the cigarette and
stuck it back in her mouth puffing contentedly for a moment.
She motioned again with the forcep; this time Liza didn't hesitate to stick
her tongue out.
The woman clenched the pinchers on the tip of the tongue and pulled it out
as far as it would go.
The blond handed her a thick piercing needle which the woman shoved halfway
through the middle of Liza's tongue, then took what looked like half of a
miniature, round barbell about three-fourths of an inch long and slipped it into
the needle's end. This she shoved the rest of the way though Liza's tongue.
The blond took a silver bead the size of a pearl and fitted it onto the stem of
the barbell with a metallic click locking it in place.
"The only way she'll get that out is with wire cutters," the woman said,
with a disengaged manner. She took her cigarette out and blew smoke toward the
wall with her lower lip puffed out.
She rubbed her shaved pussy against Liza's mouth while reaching back and
tweaking her clit lightly and stroking her cunt.
Liza murmured softly moving her pelvis up.
"She likes that, doesn't she?" the woman taunted.
The sensation of the woman's fingers toying with her ultra-sensitive clit
and pussy sent overpowering waves of immense pleasure coursing through her body.
The blond climbed on the bed and began licking her slit, probing deep into
her with the tapered point of his tongue.
Ripples of ecstasy were so intense her senses became confused. Her body
trembled; mumbled phrases of encouragement spilled from her lips. Shamelessly
she begged them not to stop.
And they didn't -- not for a long time.
Liza drifted in a cozy, fuzzy world of bliss.
When she opened her eyes, Denver was standing by the side of the bed naked,
his cock rigid.
The blond and the cerise-haired woman were gone.
Her tongue ached and felt swollen. Whatever drug they had given her had
worn off. She felt dazed, off-center, nauseous.
Denver untied her, then sit down on the side of the bed placing a warm palm
on her smooth belly.
"Stick your tongue out."
The dull ache increased as she did so.
"Now you'll be able to give better head," he said, poking the silver ball.
Then his large hand slipped down to her newly shaved cunt and his finger
tips brushed and teased her clit, which was almost painfully sensitive now.
"You know, Liza, in the six months we lived together and since, we've never
done oral or anal; and I'm thinking now, what a waste of a beautiful woman. We
ought to try everything, at least once, so that we'll have no regrets when we're
old and gray."
He turned her over onto her belly and squeezed the firm, soft flesh of her
buttocks.
"Nice," he murmured, staring lustfully at the perfect, twin mounds. "Your
tongue is going to be too sore for the next few days, so we can try some oral
next time, but right now I'm anxious to feel how tight you are back here."
He poked his fingertip against the pink pucker of her asshole.
Despite her previous abuse by the blond and the woman, Liza felt a mild
tingling sensation creep slowly though her body as radiant waves flowed from
where his finger toyed with her.
She made an attempt at resistance, but she was too weak; Denver merely
pushed her back down on the bed, by the back of the head, as she tried to rise.
"Not yet," he said. "It won't take long. Can't. I've got a business
appointment in an hour and a half."
It didn't really hurt after the first jab; he moved in and out
rhythmically. He bit her on the back of the neck; she could feel his pace
increasing; he panted hot and moist breaths in her ear. She could feel him
swelling inside her. He was squirting in her; he fumbled a reinsertion after
accidentally pulling out and shot warm splatters of cum on her asscheeks.
He lay pressed against her afterwards slowly stroking his cock up and down
the crevice of her ass, slick with his cum. She could feel his heart beating,
through the hairy chest, slower and slower with each stroke.
.
"This is the target," Jim Norton, team leader of SPs Unit 3, said, sliding
a tan folder across his metal desk to where Peter Mann and Phil Beck sat in
rigid metal chairs.
The men were in a subbasement of what had once been FBI headquarters in the
late 20th century.
Mann flipped open the cover.
One of the fluorescent lights had a slight flicker that irritated him.
There was a photo of a pretty, ashen-blonde with blue eyes.
Both men exchanged glances when they recognized the local TV anchor, Liza
Hunter.
Norton explained the proposed action to them going into only as much detail
as was needed for them to function effectively.
"The men you will need must have no knowledge of the department's
involvement, in case there are any complications; we must have complete
deniability. Is that understood?"
Both men nodded nonchalantly; they'd heard the speech before -- many times.
"It must look like a terrorist operation."
.
"But I don't understand, Mr. Pritchard, you said you wanted to publish my
book because it was a hard-hitting, unflinching expose of our government's
involvement in terrorist activities."
Stocky Sam Pritchard looked uncomfortable behind the rosewood desk. He
nodded slowly avoiding the younger man's eyes briefly. His gray hair and bushy
eyebrows set on a broad, high forehead over wise, blue eyes made Guy think that
this is the way God would look if he ever assumed human form.
"I know Guy, and I still do, but unfortunately things have undergone a
drastic change since then."
Pritchard's ruggedly handsome face took on a bitter look that hinted at a
concealed anger and frustration.
"Three days ago my partners, Bailey and Jacobs, informed me that they had
received an offer from a rival firm, a subsidiary of Global Tron, to buy us out.
Under our partnership agreement they had to give me first shot to buy up their
options -- if I could better Global Tron's offer. I couldn't -- no way. And so
I was forced to sell out too. As of today PB&J Publishers now belongs to Global
Tron's subsidiary. I've been reduced from CEO to Chief Managing Editor."
Guy shook his head as if in a daze. His black, shoulder length hair had a
purple sheen in the overhead lighting.
"For three years I tried to interest publishers in my book proposal; none
of them would touch it with a ten foot pole. Too controversial they said."
He gave a derisive laugh.
Pritchard gave him a sympathetic look.
"I know how you must feel, son. I'm truly sorry; I only wish there was
something I could do."
He waved his hands with a futile expression and shook his gray head -- and
seemed about to speak further but was hesitating.
"And I hate to say it, but there's even more bad news, I'm afraid. A few
days ago there were a couple of government types in here asking to see a copy of
your manuscript. I told them to get lost, but now I no longer have the
authority to stop them if they come back. And they will. Obviously word of
your book has leaked out and pissed someone off. If so you may be in danger. I
no longer have a team of lawyers to protect you."
Pritchard paused to scratch his ear reflectively.
"I know you won't like this, but it might be a good idea if you give up
trying to publish your book. It may not be too late, if you do. They might
back off. If you don't --"
"If I don't I might disappear, is that what your saying?" Guy laughed
cynically.
"That's the kind of world it's become," Pritchard said with a helpless
shrug and a voice drained of emotion.
Guy could see fear in the older man's eyes and for the first time in his
life he felt an almost supernaturally chilling sense of dread as if an all
pervasive evil had suddenly made itself manifest in the office.
Sam Pritchard wasn't the kind of man to scare easily. He had fought his
way from the bottom of the scrap heap to become a success in a highly vicious
and competitive industry against hard-nosed opponents who would stop at nothing
to defeat him -- and he had held his own without flinching.
To see fear, now, in the eyes of such a man shook Guy's confidence to the
core.
Pritchard glanced away from Guy's stare; when he looked back there was
shame on his face. He cleared his throat awkwardly. And when he finally spoke
his voice had a faint tremble.
"I hate to say this but . . . after our meeting today I won't be able to
see you again. I've been warned . . ."
He leaned his head forward and slowly rubbed his palm across his forehead,
then, eyes glistening with tears looked back up.
"I've got a wife, children, grandchildren . . . I . . ."
Guy held up his hand. He nodded with a weak smile, then stood up to leave.
"I know, I know," he murmured conciliatively.
But he didn't know anything.
.
Guy slipped back into his tan raincoat as he left the lobby of the Ajax
office building and stepped into a mizzle that fell from stark, gray clouds
drifting above the narrow canyons of skyscrapers.
He looked around the rain-swished streets half expecting to see
dark-cloaked figures spying on him, then felt foolish. Since the introduction
of chip implants the government was capable of ascertaining anyone's whereabouts
twenty-four hours a day. There was no longer the need for having someone
physically tailed.
He took out his communicator and punched L for Liza, but there was no
response. There were no batteries to go dead; it ran on a gyromagnet which
created a permanent charge.
All his bills were paid electronically by his bank, so it couldn't be that.
Foolishly he shook it, then punched the on button again, but it still did
not respond.
Shrugging, he shoved the communicator back in his pocket a flagged a cab
down that approached with tires hissing on the wet pavement.
Inside he voiced his destination and pressed his thumb against the
identifier.
"Sorry, Mac," the cabby said, "but I'm getting a nonperson reading on the
screen."
"But that's impossible," Guy said.
"Maybe so, bud, but I ain't movin' until I get a payment; either that or
you're gonna haf'ta get out."
"Listen," Guy said, giving the cabby Liza's number. "She'll transfer the
payment from her account to your company."
"Aw, Mac, that's a lot of hassle for nothin'."
"Please," Guy said, "It's important; I'll see that she tips you a hundred
e-credits."
The cabby, a bald, fat man, sighed, but put in the call. After a long
moment he shook his head.
"There's no answer, bud; you're gonna haf'ta get out."
Guy started to protest, then reconsidered and climbed out of the cab. He
stared after it suddenly feeling lost and terribly alone. He glanced around
feeling humiliated by the open stares of several passerbys.
Flipping up the collar of his raincoat, he started off in the direction of
his apartment, four miles away.
.
For a week Liza had called in sick. It had taken that long for the
swelling of her tongue to go down and for her speech to get back to normal.
Denver had stayed with her forcing her to perform sexually for him and canceling
all her calls. Once Dot and Buddy had dropped by and Denver told them that he
was apartment setting while she was out of town.
Finally he had had to leave on a business trip and she was free.
As rain dribbled down her patio windows, she called Guy but his
communicator was dead. There wasn't a tone.
Worried, she slipped on a blouse, skirt, high-heeled sandals and a raincoat
and drove to his apartment.
As she climbed the ancient, creaking stairs she heard raucous male laughter
coming from an open door on the second floor and smelled the pungent odor of
cigars and alcohol. A bald, fat, hairy-chested, old man dressed only in dungy
shorts came to the doorway and leered at her as she passed by.
On the third floor she pressed her thumb to the identifier, but nothing
happened. Guy's door remained shut. Stumped she tried again, then knocked on
the door, but no one answered.
She waited a minute, unsure what to do; the cloying smell of smoke and
alcohol drifted up the stairwell making her slightly nauseous.
Suddenly, below, she heard the entrance door jar open and leaning over the
railing she caught a glimpse of Guy's broad shoulders and glossy, long black
hair as he came across the small foyer.
Relief flooding through her, she hurried down the steps to meet him. But
as she passed the open door on the second floor a hand came from behind covering
her mouth and a hairy, gray arm encircled her narrow waist pulling her back
through the doorway into a trash-filled living room full of old men.
As Guy passed, a repugnant, hunched-shouldered, old man with a mocking
smile and shaggy beard was shutting the door.
Wincing at the sickening smells wafting up the stairwell, Guy waited for
the door sensor to recognize his chip implant, but nothing happened. Hoping
against hope he pressed his thumb against the identifier, even though his print
wouldn't be listed as a guest with entrance privileges.
There was nothing.
He shook the old fashioned doorknob, then, frustrated, angrily rammed his
shoulder against the door after hammering on it with the side of his fist, but
it was futile.
As he stormed back down the stairs, the faint, stifled cries of a woman
barely registered on his consciousness.
Outside he paused on the sidewalk, unsure of what to do, until he saw a
gray BMW parked farther down the street. Liza. He hurried toward it, and when
he peeked inside he saw some folders with her station's logo.
Suddenly, with a rank sinking feeling, he remembered the smothered cries he
had heard coming from the apartment on the second floor.
He turned but found his path blocked by four policemen.
"What are you up to, mister?" one of the burly officers asked.
"Officer, you have to help me; I think my fiancee is being assaulted."
The officer gave his partners a look. They had formed a semicircle around
Guy who was backed up to the BMW.
"And that's why you're here looking in people's cars, huh?"
A couple of the cops chuckled.
"Damnit, officer, I don't have time to argue with you; my fiancee is in
that --"
"'Damnit, officer'? Is that what you just said, asshole?"
The burly policeman placed his hand on Guy's chest and shoved him against
the BMW. He raised a fist up in front of Guy's face with the index finger
pointed straight up, the thumb off to the side.
One of the other officers was pointing an electronic device at him.
"Tell me why we're getting a nonperson reading on you, fuckhead."
"I don't know why in the hell you're getting anything; damnit, my fiancee
may be getting raped! Let me the hell go!"
Guy lunged forward shoving the burly cop to the side. Another cop stepped
in and brought his knee up into Guy's balls. As he doubled over the burly cop
recovered and brought his fist down hard on the back of Guys head.
Guy saw fireworks flashing like Catherine wheels in a dark space, then
there was only darkness.
.
When he came to his head felt like it had been split in two, filled with
dry ice and stitched back up. His crotch was numb and ached like fire. A pair
of hands gripped his shoulders, helping him sit up. A candle flickered nearby.
There was a dark stain around his zipper. He could hear the sound of rain
pelting on plastic.
At first everything was blurry, then slowly the fuzzy candle flame became
sharp and focused. A man with round glasses and a white beard was sitting
cross-legged opposite him on what appeared to be several layers of cardboard
flooring. A polyvinyl tarp, open at two ends, was stretched over a rope and
staked a foot or two off the ground on the sides tent style.
In occasional flashes of lightning, Guy could see other make-shift shelters
of various types scattered outside.
"Welcome to Noman's Land," the bearded man said. "I'm Dr. David Kelly."
The hands that had helped him sit up handed him a can steaming with the
smell of coffee. They were feminine hands that proved to belong to an
attractive, young woman with short black hair; she came around from behind him
and sat down cross-legged next to the professor.
"This is my assistant, Agnes Sullivan."
She was wearing jeans, navy T-shirt and sandals.
"I'm Guy Mathis, Doc. Where the hell am I and how did I get here?"
Kelly smiled. "The police dumped you off as they do all nonpersons.
Noman's Land is a place of several hundred acres in what used to be the heart of
the old city. Most all the buildings were razed years ago; all that remains now
are a few ruins, weeds and rubble upon which our tent city now sits."
Kelly motioned for Guy to drink his coffee.
"You must've really fucked up to arrive here," Kelly said with a chuckle.
"I was about to have had a book published linking the government to
terrorism," Guy mumbled, still woozy headed.
Kelly whistled softly.
"No wonder your here; you're lucky they didn't deactivate you -- to use
their bastard terminology."
Guy suddenly remembered Liza as his head cleared. He started to rise, then
dropped back down as dizziness overcame him. He didn't know how long he had
been out, but it was dark now; anything that was going to happen to Liza had
happened. There was nothing he could do to change that. But he had to get to
her somehow.
"How long have I been here?"
"Two days since the police dropped you off."
"Two days!" Guy exclaimed in shock.
"Yes, you'd been worked over pretty well."
Guy took a sip of his coffee, wincing as he probed aching ribs and tried to
collect the scattered thoughts swirling around in his head like a demolition
derby, then drank greedily, hungrily.
"There's soup on the stove," Agnes said, rising. She went over to it and
poured some from a kettle into another can and handed it to him.
It tasted like chili; he gulped it down enjoying the sudden slaking of his
hunger and the warmth that spread throughout his body.
He felt an abrupt renewal of strength and struggled to his feet, only to
see the ground coming up to meet his face.
.
The thin, old man with the shaggy beard had opened her raincoat and was
pulling off her skirt while the fat, bald guy was still holding his hand over
her mouth and his hairy arm around her waist.
There were several more old men who had been sitting on a sofa and
armchairs. Now they were standing close so they could see the action. One of
the men had a bulbous headed cane which he poked between her legs forcing her
panties up into her slit. One of his eyes was coated with a milky film.
There were lusty chuckles.
One old guy gave her a gummy, toothless grin and rubbed his gnarly, mottled
hand over her breasts while unbuttoning her blouse.
"Let's give old Morris a kiss, darlin'," he said, repeating the imperative
several times in an asthmatic wheeze.
A bald, hard-muscled black guy with a snow-white, neatly trimmed beard had
taken off his trunks and, naked, was stroking a massive cock that extended out
from a thick pad of white hair.
Shaggy-beard pulled her panties off.
White-eye continued to prod her with the bulbous head of his cane, wetting
it with her juices.
Toothless took a knife out of his pocket and cut her bra off, flinging the
remnants to the floor. He pushed the edges of her blouse to the sides so that
her firm, full tits were in view, and began tweaking the pink nipples between
his thumbs and forefingers.
The fat man and shaggy-beard carried her over to a coffee table in front of
the sofa.
The black man swept all the empty food containers and beer cans off onto
the floor. They placed her on top on her back. The edges of her raincoat and
blouse dropping to the sides. They didn't bother to remove her high-heeled
sandals.
"She ain't gunna scream. Besides, don't matter none," shaggy-beard said
holding one of her ankles while milky eye held the other. "Ain't no one to
hear her. Her boyfriend's gone, and there ain't no one living on the first
floor now."
The fat man removed his hand from her mouth; he was already holding her
right wrist; she gave him her left.
"See, she ain't gunna fight it, are yuh darling?" toothless said.
Shaggy beard and milky eye pulled her ass even with the edge of the coffee
table.
The fat man glanced up at the black man.
"Quit playing with yourself, Jake, and put that big'un where it'll do some
good."
The black man got on his knees and gripping his quivering cock, placed the
head against her slit.
The fat man dropped her arms and raised her head up by the hair.
"Wouldn't want you to miss anything," he said, as he forced her to stare
down over her tits and belly to the huge cock poised to enter her shaved mound.
Then she felt a shove and an immense fullness sliding in, filling her
belly. After a moment, he pulled his cock back out. She could see its thick
circumference wet with her internal juices.
She felt a wave of dizziness as he rammed his monster cock back in. Her
hands dropped helplessly to the floor. She could feel her tits jiggling in
tempo as he thrusted in and pulled out with an almost mechanical intensity.
"Give it to her, Jake; she's liking it."
He leaned forword, puffing; corded muscles bunching and flexing on his
chest and shoulders, from which sweat dripped onto her belly and trickled off.
She gasped softly with each jarring thrust, his sweat-slick hips waxy
against the inside of her thighs.
A warm, wet heat grew in her cunt. She felt the heat of his cock radiating
into her.
She grew more weak and compliant.
She was vaguely aware of dry, rubbing sounds, and glancing around she saw
that the old, wrinkled men had pulled their cocks out to jerk off.
There was the rancid smell of unwashed peter as the fat man leaned close
and pressed his purple knob against her cheek.
Toothless was gumming her nipples, and, despite her revulsion, she felt
them swelling, sending warm, tingling sensations down her spine.
The black man was thrusting faster and faster, when, all at once, his
muscular body stiffened -- his back arched, his head thrown back, face toward
the ceiling -- a tortured cry of release escaped from deep in his throat as
ounces of hot semen shot into her pussy.
When he pulled out, they forced her to get on her hands and knees on the
floor.
One after the other these vile, old men took her in every conceivable way
such men can take a woman.
Cum dripped from every orifice as they hogtied her and put her in a dingy
closet for future employment.
In the stale darkness, with her wrists tied to her ankles, she listened to
their idle small talk, their laughter and drunken revelry. It was like being
locked in a nursing home from hell. There was the sound of someone hawking,
above the soft play of a TV -- later, a loud fart.
She shuddered to think that the old, sagging flesh of their withered,
mottled bodies had rubbed hers -- that they had cumed in her -- that they had
forced her to kiss them, to lick them from behind.
She gagged -- a series of dry heaves shook her body, for she had nothing
left.
Later, as she squirmed about over old shoes and filthy smelling, empty
whiskey bottles, she managed to loosen the rope around her wrists. They had
been drunk when they tied her and had not done a very thorough job.
After several hours she heard the tramp of footsteps. The room grew silent
except for the murmur of a TV, then the sound of snoring.
Loosened from her bonds she cautiously opened the closet door and peeked
out.
The fat man was lying asleep on the sofa.
She picked her raincoat up off the floor and slipped it over her naked
body.
There was still a hint of light in the west; the street lights were just
beginning to come on as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. She didn't begin to
breathe a sigh of relief until she had her clicker out and was about to enter
her car.
"Hey, lady, the police arrested some guy snooping around your car."
The voice belonged to a small, black youth in ragged jeans and a filthy
T-shirt.
"What did he look like?" Liza asked, once more holding her breath as she
waited for the answer she knew was coming.
"A big guy with long, black hair down to his shoulders." The youth tapped
his shoulder.
He looked at Liza and waited.
"What did the police do?"
"They arrested him, after they beat the crap out of him."
"You saw it? They took him away?"
The scraggly youth nodded, grinning.
"Oh, my God," Liza gasped.
.
A half smoked cigar stuck out from between the trimmed, white mustache and
beard.
A mist, that occasionally became a drizzle, hung in the air.
Noman's Land was a 300 acre warren of variously colored tarps, cardboard
and tin-sheeted, haphazardly setup shelters traversed by numerous twisting and
winding paths.
There was the odor of human shit in the air.
"I have to get out of here," Guy said, head down, shoulders hunched under
the tan raincoat, as they wandered along one of the pathways.
Kelly took the cigar from his mouth shaking his head and flicked ash off
the end with his little finger. His other hand was stuck in the pocket of his
rain slicker.
Small beads of water glistened in the hair of both men.
"Impossible," Kelly replied. "They can track you by your chip implant; the
minute you stepped one foot out of the compound they'd pick you up, and they
won't play with you the second time."
Kelly jerked his hand across his throat.
"But I have to get hold of Liza, let her know where I am."
"You'd better forget your pretty newswoman for the time being and
concentrate on what you're going to say to Jarred."
They were approaching a ramshackled, cinder block building of two stories.
Its rear, wooden porch had collapsed, but the main section of the building was
still intact. The concrete walls were covered with brilliantly-colored
graffiti. This was the headquarters of Jarred, the chief of Noman's Land.
As they came to the front steps a bald giant who looked like he could have
been a wrestler rose up from a straight-backed chair in a narrow hallway just
inside the opened door.
"Remember," Kelly said in an aside, "take whatever he offers you; it's your
only chance to survive; he rules here with an iron fist; piss him off and you're
dead -- quite literally."
Kelly turned to leave as the bald giant motioned for Guy to go upstairs.
On the second floor was a large open room; a thin man sat behind a scarred
oak desk next to a wired window; against the opposite wall was a leather sofa
and long coffee table; a refrigerator stood next to a breakfast table filled
with electrical appliances. The latest stock market reports scrolled across the
screen of a muted TV.
The thin man behind the desk stared at him through steel-rimmed glasses
without the slightest seeming interest or emotion.
He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then spoke.
"We don't have any use for writers in Noman's Land. If you were a woman I
could fuck you or sell your ass to the highest bidder. But you're not and
you're not quite the type that would be popular with the perverts-- not swish
enough. So what am I gonna do with you? I'm not running a fucking charity. If
you have nothing of value to offer you're worthless to me. I can't tolerate
worthless people."
Jarred gave him a blank stare, remaining motionless and silent for a full
minute.
"I didn't ask to be here," Guy finally replied, trying to keep his anger in
check and wondering what would happen if he suddenly were to choke the hell out
of this petty tyrant. No doubt the big goon downstairs would break him in half
and within hours another petty dictator would be installed without missing a
beat.
"Well, that's kinda the bitch Job had with the Jew God, isn't it? Didn't
get him any slack, won't get you any either. You're here, asshole; fair or not;
and you're a problem that needs solving.
Now there's two things I can do. I can have you killed and ground up for
cat food or . . . I can sell you to the arena. They're always looking for new
blood."
Jarred thin face formed into a brief grimace of merriment at the pun.
"The choice is yours."
.
The rain beat a steady tattoo on the overhead tarp as Guy, Agnes and Kelly
sat around the small cook stove eating supper, which consisted of hard-crust
bread, cheese, baked beans and a bottle of cheap wine.
"I was a microbiologist with a subsidiary of Global Tron," Kelly said, "and
the head of a team of scientist trying to come up with a plague virus, termed
Virus X, that would be one hundred percent effective in killing every man,
woman, and child on the Earth. The hang up wasn't in developing such a virus,
however, but in developing one in conjunction with a vaccine that would protect
the distributors and which the target subjects couldn't counter in a timely
enough manner to save themselves.
That has always been the obstacle throughout man's history: a way to
destroy the 'others' without destroying one's self.
And we finally succeeded in creating Virus X. But there were too many of
us who knew its secret. We had to be eliminated. Within two years the top
twenty scientists working on the projects committed 'suicide' or met with other
unexplained violent deaths -- hit and runs, electrocutions, lethal assaults by
unknown assailants, etc."
"But why didn't they get rid of you?" Guy asked, stuffing a chunk of cheese
in his mouth.
Kelly had finished eating and was lighting a fresh cigar.
"A safeguard, no doubt, just in case something goes wrong and doesn't work
out the way it was supposed to. Then they'll need a few experts left around who
know what's what. They can't afford to kill us all off -- at least for the
moment."
"What's it all for?" Guy asked, shaking his head with a mixture of
bewilderment and disgust. What is the goal of these assholes, whoever they
are?"
"It all goes back to Global Tron; it's the head that controls all the
tentacles worldwide." Kelly said. Find out who owns Global Tron and that's who
the assholes will be. Their goal is to create a paradise on Earth for
themselves with the rest of the people, whom they will genetically engineer, to
be their slave.
They want a pristine environment with no more than five hundred million
people worldwide. These millions will be programmed to serve the elite in a
variety of functions and they will be engineered to be submissive and compliant.
It will be a great world if you're one of the elite." Kelly finished
sarcastically.
In the silence that followed, Guy listened to the rain pitter-pattering on
the tent. He didn't bother to remind Kelly that he had consented to work on
their inhuman project when it was to his benefit.
It would be pointless.
Everything was pointless.
He had woke up in an insane world -- not just in the last few days but from
the day of his birth -- and there was no way out.
.
"I went to the police," Liza said, "but they denied having any knowledge of
Guy's arrest. You have to help me."
Georg Reuth smiled, sitting next to her on the leather sofa in the
oversized living room of his hundred room mansion.
He sat his drink down on the silver coffee table with its jade mosaic in
geometric designs.
He placed his hand on her bare thigh just below the hem of her miniskirt.
"Well, Liza, perhaps I can help you, but I have to ask what's in it for
me?"
Liza took a deep breath.
"Anything you want," she answered, looking him straight in the eye, then
trembling at the last moment glanced away.
Reuth smiled slyly and pressed a button on the communicator that was lying
on the jade table.
"Of course you realize," he cooed, tracing his fingers lightly along the
tender flesh at the nape of her neck, "that these things take time. Quid pro
quo and all that."
A redheaded woman, with a cigarette dangling from her lips, entered. Liza
recognized her with a sinking feeling. She was carrying a vinyl case which she
placed on the coffee table and opened.
Reuth leaned toward Liza and crudely ripped open her blouse.
.
Reuth had instructed her to wait on the corner of 10th and Main Streets.
He had told her that she would be approached by someone who would give her
information about Guy.
It was half an hour past the appointed time, and she was about to leave,
when a small, swarthy man with slick-backed hair approached her.
He handed her a thick envelope and instructed her not to open it until she
got home. Which she did, but when she opened it there were only blank scraps of
paper.
.
"Don't go to work this morning."
It was Reuth's voice on the phone.
Liza was still lying in bed naked. Denver had only left minutes before,
off on another business trip for Global Tron. He had sex with her whenever he
wanted now. She had no say.
"I'll send a limo around later to pick you up. I've already notified the
station that you won't be in."
Liza sat up on the side of the large bed and tickled the soles of her feet
on the thick, plush carpet. She stared at the half-full syringe lying on the
night table. She felt an invisible tug. She was beginning to relish the
delightful sensations produced by the powerful drug it contained. Denver
injected her with it everytime they had sex. It made her responsive, he said.
Responsive to his sick needs, she thought bitterly.
She picked up the syringe while brushing back an errant lock of hair from
her forehead. Her hand trembled slightly. She licked her lips, then picked up
the rubber tube used for a tourniquet.
Guy, where are you? I need you. God, I'm so . . . .
The needle went in smoothly; her thumb pressed the plunger.
"Aaaaaaah -- aaaw-- ooooh."
The syringe dropped to the floor as she fell back writhing on the bed as a
series of climaxes shook her.
Later there a knock at her door, but it wasn't the limo driver.
It was the police.
.
She was naked, seated on a stool underneath a shaded, bare bulb that hung
down from the ceiling on a long, frayed cord.
Her wrists were cuffed behind her back.
Six men in dark suits stood around her.
"Why didn't you go to work? You were supposed to."
"I've told you a dozen times already," she said. "How many more times do I
have to tell you?"
"Until we get the truth," one of the men said, flipping her on the back of
the head.
"Mr. Georg Reuth called me this morning . . . told me not to go into work .
. . that he had arranged everything with my station manager."
The men exchanged knowing looks.
"We checked, bitch. There is no such person as Georg Reuth. So why don't
you stop this nonsense and come clean."
"But I don't understand. What am I here for? What's this all about?"
The man standing before her gave her a snide grimace of a smile, indicating
that he didn't believe her.
She looked away, struggling to fight down the panic that was building in
her, numbing her ability to reason.
"I suppose you want us to believe you had nothing to do with the terrorist
attack on your TV station this morning in which ten people were killed?"
Liza was too stunned to reply. It was the first she had heard of it.
He nodded to someone behind her.
The wall in front of her became a screen.
She saw herself standing on a corner; a small, swarthy man with
slicked-back hair was handing her an envelope.
"How much did O' Mustafa pay you to set up your coworkers, bitch?"
"But . . . I . . . I was told to meet him; he was supposed to give me
information that would lead me to my fiance, Guy."
"Oh, we're back to the imaginary boyfriend now, are we? How stupid do you
think we are, bitch?"
"But it's true," Liza cried. "He was abducted by the police, and I was
trying to locate him --"
"Ah, enough," the man said, shooing her with a wave of his hand.
"The police don't abduct people, and, if he was arrested, how come there's
no record of him anywhere?"
Liza gave him a helpless look, her eyes wide with confusion.
The man gave the others a thin smile and cracked his knuckles slowly.
"OK, how 'bout we start from the beginning again, until we get it right."
.
Five hundred million eyes were glued to the screen.
A naked, young woman was in a straight chair with clean, white tape binding
her ankles, knees, waist and wrists. A super adhesive strip of the tape sealed
her mouth.
There was fear on her pretty face and in her clear, blue eyes. Not just
fear but terror. Her body shook with it. Her ripe, full breasts quivered with
it. Occasionally she would glance at the screen toward her unseen viewers as if
wanting to beg for mercy.
But she, as well as they, knew there would be none of that. Mercy belonged
to a past that was no more. To a simpler, more naive time when mankind still
believed it had a soul, a destiny.
She was seated in the center of a small, private arena. Her red-nailed
toes scraped at the white sand. The fingers of her hands curled and flexed as
she twisted her wrists trying to loosen the tape.
Concealed in darkness, a live audience was seated on a podium surrounding
her.
A woman arena-master in a green top hat, leotard and tails was standing in
a golden beam of spotlight announcing the evening's coming attraction:
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Screamland. Tonight we have something
really scrumptious for you. We all know her name; it has become an infamous,
household word in the last month. (The spotlight moved to shine down on Liza).
I give you our own Liza Hunter, the former news anchor who callously
conspired with terrorists in their failed attempt to take over our own Kullhorn
TV station. Ten innocent souls were slaughtered by this woman's terrorists
associates.
And now," the announcer rubbed her hands together gleefully, "she is going
to be punished for her crime.
But first these words from our sponsors."
While the commercials rolled, Liza saw a panel open in the wall of the
podium.
A naked man was standing there putting on a silver mask.
It was Guy!
As the commercials came to an end, bugles began to blow announcing the
beginning of the show.
Guy or the man in the silver mask, started toward her. He held a dagger in
his hand.
As he drew nearer hope faded into disbelief in her breast as she saw his
tumescent cock swaying from side to side.
Something wasn't right. He moved as if he were a zombie. His eyes were
dull, blank.
"Let the games begin!" the arena-master shouted.
The last thing Liza remembered clearly, as she started screaming, was a
horde of naked dwarves scurrying out as the man in the silver mask stuck his
dagger into her tit.
fini
