Slave Wife

by Frances Gaines Bennett

  Every morning, at Michael’s order, Steve weighed her on the medical scale in her bathroom. If she had not lost weight – and God forbid if she’d gained! – she had to sit on the toilet. Steve would turn a dial and she would lose control of her bowels. She’d thought she’d numbed to every disgrace. But her body’s noxious and rude betrayal, as if an alien hand cracked her intestines like a long whip convulsively emptying them, was almost unendurable physically as well as emotionally. Like a wracking illness, she was devoid of control. The contractions ripped through her beyond tolerance, beyond sanity, until nausea overcame her entire digestive tract even into her throat.

  That vileness was not the end. When nothing more was inside her, Steve’s ham hand reached between her legs with a squeeze bottle filled with warm water. He squirted her to remove – she shuddered at the memory – foul effluvia then forced the long tip into her anus and squeezed, filling her empty cavity. Only at that point did he flush away her mess.

  She, however, had to remain there until her bowels emptied once again – emptied of all but Mr. Smith’s long metal trigger.

  Chapter Six

  The campaign was not going well. He’d begun to wonder if he’d made the right decision and his doubts, along with the problems assaulting him daily, were destroying not only his days but his sleep as well. Restlessly he manoeuvred his long, scraggy shanks to another position and plumped his pillow. Maybe he should have stayed with his soothingly insular law practice. He turned again and corkscrewed his bony knees foetally to his chest. Maybe he should have continued his effortless milking of his family’s lavish two hundred year old Louisiana connections.

  He’d had such confidence in his abilities. Without even a shred of equivocation he’d felt his impending success deep inside his body and, yes – he acknowledged the strange certainty he’d felt – in his soul. So, he gave in eagerly to the very important men’s very flattering pleas for his help. As he sank into sleep’s black hole, a thunderbolt of anxiety lit the back of his eye sockets. It all seemed to be going wrong.

  Iridescent wings, gleaming with midnight blues and greens in their blackness, beat warm air like loving fingers against his face. In his dream he saw blue eyes as brilliant as his own. He saw a heartbreakingly beautiful heart-shaped face surrounded by lush hair black and lucent as obsidian. And though he couldn’t remember the words when he woke, the voluptuous red lips spoke to him softly, comfortingly, revitalizingly, in the French Creole of his ancestors. Then, at the same dream time, the woman was a black bird and she flew away leaving him in peace for the first time in many nights.

  Night after night the woman bird came to him. Each night her lilting voice became more audible. Soon he heard the words with perfect understanding as she beat her wings tenderly down into his face. “I’ve searched for someone strong enough – for you – for so many ages. Open yourself to me and I will give you your desires.” In his dream he opened himself. His grief was almost unbearable when she flew away.

  The next night she sat on his bedside. She slid out of her glistening plumage, allowing it to fall slowly, inch by ripe, dusky inch, off her magnificent shoulders, off her slim, exquisitely well-formed arms, off her heavy, rounded breasts. Like a cloak, she lowered the feathers loosely to her waist, allowing him a glimpse of the darkness below. He watched, awed.

  The bright eyes floated above him in aquamarine starlight until only they held his attention, even when she bent toward him. His eyes, identical in colour and vibrance, were locked with hers so that he was only remotely aware of her red lips’ fullness pressing against his own narrow, pale reflections and her effulgent breasts compressed against his meagre chest.

  She spoke in low tones, right against his lips, and her voice sounded musical, like small bells ringing. He remembered her words and she repeated them, “Open yourself to me and I will give you your desires.”

  Avidly he responded but she placed a long nail the colour of antique ivory against his lips. She raised her torso off his and spread her arms.

  Suddenly he saw the dense, crackling, awful blackness surrounding her. He neither had time to flee nor even to flinch before it was on him, sucking his spirit. In frozen despair, he felt himself weaken, felt his life force flow out of his grasp and vanish into the formless black, never, he knew, to return unto his death. And far more horrific, as his consciousness slipped into the void, he espied thousands of faded wraiths screaming hell’s agony at him … and one of them was himself. Then he went out like a candle flame …

  … until an eternity later when he awoke to her touch on his loins. He watched from some other place as the darkness flowed through her elegant hand into his manhood, watched his penis become hard and potent as an iron lighting rod. He watched her ravishing form, encased not in feathers but in silken skin the same old ivory colour of her fingernails, straddle him.

  His penis submerged in her intoxicating heat and then, before he could pull away – though God, or perhaps the Devil he mused, knew he did not want to pull away – the awful darkness rushed through her into his waiting totem. He understood and was shocked by his rank readiness for it, whatever it was.

  It raced through her and she threw back her head. In paralytic fascination, he saw her throat, stretched long and sleek above her magnificent breasts, contort. A sound like a raven’s shrill call reverberated on his eardrums.

  Infinite blackness poured into him, filling him up to overflowing and beyond in a ceaseless torrent. He swirled in sensation, acutely aware of her primeval, orgiastic female hunger at the centre of the vortex. Then he felt his skin give way. Indeed he exploded in one terrifying, ear-splitting pop and in doing so he merged with the blackness.

  Some indeterminate time later, he had become the blackness. It had its own consciousness also and that consciousness was beside him, even, he realized with fear that burst in his vision in vibrant manifestation, inside him … and it was huge and horrible and terrifying. Whatever it was – at first he had no idea – it was old as time. Its ghastly laughter pealed in his ears as it played its gruesome history across his awareness. It showed him not only events but techniques – how it had done its awful deeds, how it had captured and held the spirits drifting hellishly in its wake, and so much more – and the experiences became his.

  In an ecstasy of power and knowledge he spread out his arms and revelled in the sibilant current flowing from his fingertips, from his very being. He turned his head and observed the agonized entities swimming in his etheric wake, saw he could feed off their energy. He sucked and a burst of power flowed through his mouth to his genitalia. He looked upward and again saw the blue eyes but now they seemed more tame, more manageable.

  He pulled her down against his chest, her lips and breasts and pelvis against his. His desire was to mate her and for some time he did, their heated juices intermixing like fluid curtains of electricity. He’d never before experienced such sex – so gorged, so alive with rapture, power … and dominance, his dominance.

  Effortlessly, as if she was insubstantial as his dream, he flicked her off him onto her side and mounted her. One lush libertine leg nestled at his waist and the second was trapped between his thin thighs. He looked down on her from his awesome height and was caught by the site of his own penis. Current, like electricity, rippled through veins running along a fecund rod – he marvelled at the instrument’s potent fertility – far longer, thicker and harder than he’d ever known. He watched the member spark with animus and knew he could now bring intense pleasure and – his cruel lips lifted – pain.

  A sound turned his attention. Her gaze held more than exultation and triumph. The sparkling blue eyes held fear. He knew she recognized his power and that he could feed off her fear as surely as he could the wraiths. Now it was he who locked eyes with her. Now it was his visage stamped with mastery and ruthlessness. He smiled down into her eyes and with exquisite brutality impaled her to the womb.

  Her scream rent the undulating ether and the blackness’ bestial laugh harmonized
with the sound. Together he and the blackness raped her accompanied all the while by her banshee wail. With each penetration, her power became his.

  Amidst his thrusts grew a new desire, strange to him yet overpowering. He wanted, needed, to impregnate her. But did she exist in corporeal form? What would he impregnate? The blackness whispered in his ear, “You must seed her with your power and through her the world.”

  The desire grew overwhelming, building inside his testicles in a giant tide that lapped back into every microscopic aspect of his physical and psychic being. He was torn between that need and his pleasure in her violation. He looked down upon her, watched her vivid tortured blue pools become increasingly vacant, with gratification previously unimaginable. To the blackness he asked, “Can I do this again? Rape whenever, whoever I desire? Crush them beneath my feet?”

  The hideous laugh rolled through him and, to his surprise, he gained strength and buoyancy on its abomination. “Of course,” it told him.

  His testicles grew heavy with dark power. He thrust savagely, violently, and in one massive expulsion he shot his manifold seeds inside her. Then he watched the spurts of his power make their way into her womb and into every part of her.

  He saw she absorbed his energy. Her eyes focused and she smiled a goddess smile. “My dearest nephew. The cycle has completed.” As before, her words chimed musically in his ears.

  At first he was stunned – his aunt many times removed, Marie LaVeau, the infamous Voodoo Queen of New Orleans? – until he realized how logical, how perfect it all was. Gloriously, he leaned over her like a bird of prey and observed his softly pulsing penis’s withdrawal between her flaxen thighs.

  And her womb opened and expelled his – their – cursed power into the world.

  Chapter Seven

  A horrible red beast was smothering her and disembowelling her simultaneously. It ripped at her insides with rapid relentless strokes. Crimson blood swirled in her eyes and her head pounded against its metal cage.

  Somehow she fought her way into the air. Her eyelids seemed glued together, too heavy and sticky to open, but somehow she pried them apart. Blearily she remembered her last action before mental disconnection – the fork moving between her lips. She peered upward and was paralysed by a jolt of hell’s sheer shock.

  Her husband’s distorted face loomed above hers. Gone – so thoroughly wiped away she could no longer believe its existence – was his genteel beauty. The face was raw with bestial carnality. The frightful sight gripped her attention, dissociating it from … the rest … for one moment that seemed ubiquitous.

  Karen was first aware that he had chained the steel garment’s thigh pieces tight to metal rings set in the bed-frame, spreading wide her knees and exposing her genitals. And his hard naked pelvis was between, pounding her mercilessly, rending her narrow, little-used vagina wide open with his unbearably long adamantine shaft.

  The hurting, burning sensations swamped her ability to understand. Yet the one perception of her wet, gooey vagina separated from the rest. She didn’t understand why. Certainly it wasn’t her fluid. Despite herself, she often found his physical presence breathtaking, particularly – or, perhaps, even – the few disturbing times she’d seen him naked. Then she’d lubricated. The present, though, was far too horrifying.

  His chest pressed against her ribcage, preventing adequate breath. When she tried to expand her lungs, desperately gasping with lack of oxygen and pain, she discovered he’d also chained the steel cage around her head at the throat. She couldn’t lift any part of her head or chest from the bed. She could only look up into the crazed, almost slavering face. His breath was laboured and hot. Truly she expected him to drip saliva from his gaping mouth to sear her flesh.

  She tried to somehow protect herself from his onslaught – to find a way to make it less agonizing, less frightening. But she didn’t know how. She fought to squelch the cries that would have surged from her lips. He smiled fiendishly down upon her and his lust, his fever, his breath, increased in intensity until he seemed a demon in man’s flesh. In fear she watched his control utterly abandon him, felt his chest heave against hers …

  … and then he was out of her vagina and between her breasts. She couldn’t feel the hardness against her, nor really see it. Her head’s movement was utterly restricted not only by its silver cage but by the chains locking it to the bed frame. When she lowered her eyes she saw just the round head’s single orifice, like a swollen eye amid purple flesh so engorged – the thought layered on her swirling overwhelm – it seemed to strain to explosion point.

  The organ lay on the metal strip between her velvety breasts, at first. He jerked it upward, his big hands simultaneously kneading her breasts together like lumps of insensate bread dough, trapping his penis between. His long body was almost folded in half above her, back curved, knees crushing her arms, eyes absent – an animal spasmed by rutting need.

  More horrible were his guttural grunts as his penis rubbed her skin raw, bruisingly thrust against her throat and chin, only stopped from causing real damage by the steel cage … then the animal howls accompanied by terrifying, out-of-control convulsions above her. Hot sticky expulsions stung her chin, dribbling cloyingly into her mouth, nostrils and eyes. She gagged and her chest heaved in time to his own pitching, keening breaths.

  Without warning came silence as abysmally ear-splitting as the chaos before. And then, more ghastly than anything before, was Michael’s transformation. His beautiful face appeared to shatter apart, to collapse in on itself. Abruptly she was drowning, in a deluge of tears pouring from his limpid eyes.

  His hard pectorals concussed in distorted seizures and incomprehensible sounds escaped him. They were words, she realized. In tones so broken-hearted her own heart ruptured and opened to him, he repeated, over and over, “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry! Please, please forgive me!”

  At last, she was finally making discernable progress! Michael acknowledged a distinct zephyr of content, pleasure and, his brows and penis twitched simultaneously, arousal as the fingers of his left hand brushed the table’s rich linen drapes on their way to caress the dials of Smith’s radically customized electrostim unit.

  Yes! With satisfaction so exquisite it was erotic, he smiled into her lovely fragile – and apprehensive – eyes then took a leisurely survey. He’d managed to almost completely destroy that gross shell to expose the delicate grace underneath. Thus, he could now look at her without revulsion.

  His gaze made its way down her tender diminishing curves, enjoying the collar bones’ increasing definition, the narrowing of the beautifully shaped upper arms. The firm but pendant mammaries and the attenuated waist and thighs were almost visible under the dress’ softly embracing fabric. Almost there!

  Michael’s eyes traced the intricate metal fabrications running from head to feet and once again lauded the phenomenal luck that seemed his perpetual birthright. Despite the unequivocal certainty regarding Doud’s company, he never postulated acquiring a resource of Smith’s multifaceted usefulness.

  The headpiece proved constantly fascinating. Smith had explained that the volume of soft brain tissue generated operational uncertainty only ameliorated by direct experimentation on individual subjects. The pathway chosen by each electrical application was not predictable and, to add complication, unique between subjects. Even results from impulses applied directly to one isolated neural locus were only predictable as to general functionality (i.e. vision, speech, muscular, etc.), not specific occurrences (e.g. which visual memory is triggered). In other words, you had to shock each “victim” repeatedly at each particular point on the skull to know with certainty each current’s path and precise effect. The obsessively meticulous Smith had spent a week mapping Karen’s cranial pathways.

  Michael frowned ever so slightly. Smith had assured him he’d used the minimum current required. The wear and tear on his wife was unfortunate but necessary. The thought lingered for no more than thirty seconds.

  Really Mi
chael wanted her naked to better admire the elegantly flat, flexible steel bands, connectors and probes wrapping around and into her body to affect every critical function. To do so, however, was counter to her etiquette training program. So he contented himself by envisioning the remarkable low-profile components – ethereal contacts dispersed at key points on her feet’s pads, her ankle, knee and hip joints; the space-age filament wands inserted into vagina and anus; and for some undefined reason his favourite, the fiendish waist cinch constructed of gossamer steel “bones” set in a corset of silky NASA designed fabric simultaneously stretchy and unyielding.

  “Now eat before the delicious food gets cold.” Austerely he observed the fear then apathy chasing each other across her face, and her fingers’ palsy when the fork moved upward. Truly he regretted this had all been so difficult – for both of them – but every objective had a price and this one – he knew she agreed with him – was worth it. His long fingers caressed a dial. One moment. Two. He smiled kindly, as at a child. Then his fingers moved, her wide-open eyes emptied and the fork fell from her hand.

  For several moments he continued his passive appraisal … until the desire to see the whole of the apparatus became too great. He moved to the back of her chair, bent her forward and lowered the dress’ long zipper. Gently, so gently, he lifted the weightless wool off her shoulders, tugging when the tight sleeves snagged her arms, dropped it to her waist and returned her torso to the chair back. He too returned to his chair.

  Appreciatively he examined the fine steel web and her opalescent skin between. Such beautiful breasts – like luscious teardrops charged with archetypal femaleness! Once again he thrilled to his good fortune, to his incontestable intuition. She was so close! Almost perfect.