His evaluation continued its sweep. Perhaps half a stone more. And she really was a little too tall but he’d live with it if he must.
His eyes went to the upper half of the cinch’s fabric, visible over the lowered dress. Like a thunderbolt, his cock was rock, achingly hard, so hard his balls screamed their need from loins to chest. His need was agonizing, blinding, ripping away his control.
He lifted her insubstantial body from the chair, barely feeling its weight. Restraining himself from tossing her, he instead laid her onto the bed. He worked to pull her dress over her high heels. When it caught on itself, he tore it off her. The chains attached to D-rings affixed to the bed frame had never been used but were ready, hidden under the long luxurious coverlet. Frantically he stripped her of panties, leaving garter belt, stockings and heels, spread her knees and chained her there, at waist and at throat. Then he tore off his own clothes, needing to be naked against the metal.
That she was still unconscious and not ready gave him a moment’s pause. With bulging eyes and saliva-filled mouth, he stared down at the inner thighs’ thin, luminous skin, at the strands of metal penetrating pristine vagina and anus. Each new stimulus flailed against his cock, rendering it more stone-like, and against his spirit, decimating his disintegrating control.
A large, viscous glob of his saliva fell to the coverlet in a spreading stain. Like a ravenous dog, need drove him. He must lap at her delectable meat! Stripped of all reason he fell upon her. His dripping mouth buried itself in her sweet cunt, her sweet ass, licking, slobbering, even gnawing with perfect straight white teeth. But his mind knew none of it. Only the animalistic id, his beast, tasted her sex, tasted her flesh and found them delicious.
Only when he sank his teeth into her thigh’s white meat, tantalizingly exposed between the silver bands and cream garters, was the beast’s hunger subdued … but not sated.
He lifted up and once again fixed on the mucilaginous hole. His aching rod pulsed blue with blood and pent up jism, demanding satisfaction. Of its own volition, it forced its way inside her tight, almost virginal vagina, rubbing against the metal probe. Its exultation rang in his ears and throughout his being. “So good!” and then “Ours! No one else’s!” It had an immediate impulse to cum but resisted, he felt its unaccustomed control. “Not enough! More!”
His own mouth’s slime worked as lubricant, easing the passage. Still he felt the tissue tear. Yet the damage only served to further inflame the organ. It penetrated her vulnerable warmth, ramming its bulging head against the cervix’ delicate mound, then withdrew almost completely into the cool air – interminable, ecstatic sensation. The kneading strokes, the impact, the temperature changes engendered profound, celestial bliss that they – id, ego and the Michael that was separate alike – wished would last forever … until the beast began its screams for release.
Then the ego took charge and a thread of rationality emerged. “No birth control! Not ready for impregnation!”
But the id’s shrill continued. “Release! Release! Release!” …
… until the ego could no longer bear it. It offered a solution, “Between the breasts!” and the id took it. The next instant his organ was enveloped in the two wonderfully pliable cushions and soft, milky warmth filled his hands.
It was then Michael saw she was conscious. All three consciousnesses looked down on her and observed her pain, her degradation and, amid it all, her struggle to submit to their will. All were enthralled and, yes, enflamed by the creature beneath them. The fury of their beats increased. Unrecognized sounds rushed from them. And in one giant eruption of release that surged through every one of their cells they covered her head in semen.
Suddenly there was only Michael and the remaining “he” was alone, cruelly, loathsomely alone … and so wretchedly empty. Blackness devoid of life loomed up around him. He tried to push it away but it moved inexorably closer in an apocalyptic tide. In desperation he implored it, pleaded with it, “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry! Please, please forgive me!”
At his centre was one small bright life spark inscribed in his own steel, “This must never happen again!”
Chapter Eight
The plan had not taken long to formulate. She’d begun with the question “What will give me the most chance of saving Karen and beating,” her nose wrinkled in distaste, “that man?” It seemed an impossible task. He was so rich and powerful. The best she could do, Delia thought, was to learn his game, wait for an opportunity … and become strong.
Fortunately the University of Minnesota housed one of the top U.S. business schools. So into the venerable classical, columned Vincent Hall she went.
That taken care of she focused on “strong”. Symbolically, she cut her gold streaked brown hair into spikes and dyed it black. She ran and pumped iron in the University’s well-equipped gym. It made her hard and strong but, she soon realized, didn’t help her fight.
She began to research – talking to people about locally available techniques and instructors and trying a few of the suggestions. At the end, the consensus said a small Shotokan dojo over an Indian restaurant on the seedier Western edge of the University had no equal in intensity and brutality.
The restaurant was a dingy hole in the wall with great, if not necessarily germ-free, food. A plain door recessed above a single concrete stair sat unobtrusively alongside the restaurant’s gaudy painted glass. Taped to the door was a small laminated rectangle bearing the words “Karate, 2nd Floor”. Her stomach growled at the spicy smells as she climbed the worn but clean stairs and knocked on the dojo door.
“Enter.” The voice was deep and mellifluous.
The single large room was bright with clear fall sunlight. The light reflected from gleaming mirrored walls and immaculately polished hardwood floors. Something she guessed was a shrine, though she’d never before seen one, sat against the far wall – a two foot high golden Buddha surrounded by flowers, flags and bronze objects she didn’t recognize. To its left, six heavy punching bags were chained to the high exposed ceiling.
From behind an old, square, dark wood desk nestled in the opposite corner, a black man in bare feet, white pants and a white jacket held together by what was obviously a black belt came to meet her. Delia restrained a gasp. He moved his awesome height – probably 6’4” – and spectacular, sleek muscles, evident even under the thick cloth, toward her with fluid grace and silence so profound her senses had an instant of asynchronism.
She held out her hand to him. He hesitated but then gripped it firmly in a hand twice its size. And all the while he looked calmly but piercingly down on her out of a strikingly handsome face and deep, dark, disturbing brown eyes.
Delia had heard that humility was a Shotokan watchword. This man did not seem to her humble. Not that he seemed proud. What he really seemed was frightening with a recognizable dose of paternalism.
He smiled, showing gleaming white teeth with long canines. “Like a big cat,” she thought.
“How can I help you?”
His lush voice rippled her skin like a warm wind. She felt heat rise into her cheeks. She steeled her spine and hardened her eyes. “I hear your classes are the hardest in Minneapolis. I want to learn to fight.”
“Why?” His smile was infuriating, asserting his power and taunting her to react.
And she so wanted to – to punch him in the stomach, kick him in the nuts or, at the very least, scream at him. But she didn’t. She extinguished her anger and met his irritating, gorgeous gaze, smile for smile. She shrugged and unaccountably told him the truth. “I need to protect a friend from someone very strong,” her smile became as hard as his, “and I want to win.”
Almost but not quite imperceptibly, his demeanour changed. She peered into his eyes and wondered if she was reading him correctly. He seemed way too pointedly, predatorily male and, this surprised her even more, not quite nice. Then the hypnotic voice. “My name is Jones but you will call me Sensei.” He lifted her hand and squeezed a little too hard. “Yo
u will be in my special class.”
Shit! It was cold! Even in the closed van the pre-dawn chill penetrated her bones, contracting muscles already tensed in preparation for the agonizing run. She pulled her sweatshirt hood tighter around her face and discreetly pressed closer to the hooded figure next to her.
Seven people huddled together on the stripped down van’s bare benches. One more, a slim blond girl – the only other female – with a rather plain face and a spectacular body honed by years as Sensei’s assistant (and some said lover) drove. Sensei sat in the front passenger seat, a stopwatch and clipboard in his lap.
Delia – and she was certain the six men agreed – wondered for the hundredth time why she put herself through this. She tried not to look at the dark trees whipping forbiddingly in what she knew was a freezing wind along the steep incline down 22nd into the Mississippi River gorge. Another minute and the van slowed and stopped in the long empty parking lot. She sighed. They were, of course, the first in the park.
‘Time to go.” Sensei shooed them from the van’s meagre warmth onto the grey pavement.
A hundred feet away below the flat brownish bank, the big river grumbled and slapped at its opaque expanse, visible only as unbroken darkness in the spectral morn. As she’d done three times a week under darkness’ cloak, Delia bowed to the river, told “the old man” she loved him and asked his blessing. She didn’t completely understand why the river moved her so. When she looked at its vast strength and potency she saw the benevolent Father whose long arms nourished the country from the stark Canadian border to the fertile Mississippi delta, all-seeing and all-doing.
Everyone except Sensei stood stretching or stomping feet and waving arms against the cold. Sensei had slipped into the van’s driver’s seat. His dark skin shone in the faint overhead lamplight as he peered at his stopwatch. Delia saw his arm lower and heard the faint click. “Go!”
They all took off, racing out the parking lot entrance toward the 22nd Avenue hill. Delia was with the pack until they hit the incline. Then, gradually, she lagged further behind. Her heart buffeted her chest. The van moved slowly past. She glanced to the side and saw Sensei’s white teeth – his sadistic smile at her struggle up the hard slope – but she paid no real attention. Her entire focus consisted of eating up as much ground as possible in the shortest time, as he’d ordered.
Over the hill’s top the ground levelled significantly. Scattered early morning lights outlined Riverview Tower’s tall, stark façade directly ahead. The concrete rectangle’s ugly rows of black metal windows poked like a lone monument to warmth above the thick, looming trees. Only on her first run had she believed the big building’s illusion of closeness. She knew the remaining three-quarter of a mile stretched before her through the dark alley of glowering trees. Her feet and heart pounded in her ears as she watched the luminescent glint of high tech heels grow distant in front of her. She told herself over and over, “It’s only a mile, only eight minutes,” but at this level of intense effort it seemed like a million.
When she finally stopped panting next to the van, everyone else was inside and Sensei was back in the front passenger seat waiting for her, his cruel smile gleaming bright. He gave the stopwatch a final click. “Eight minutes twenty two seconds. You’re improving.” He pulled the door closed with a bang. “Now sprints.” They drove back down to the gorge.
After fifteen minutes of thirty second sprints up the onerous incline with sixty second rests in-between – she was again, of course, last to the top – they returned to the dojo.
Half an hour of squat kicks on the polished floor that made her quads and gluts scream in agony and they began the real workout. The others were all brown belts, except the girl who wore a black belt – far along in their training. Initially, Delia’d found the movements awkward. She was still much slower than anyone else in the class. But she’d worked hard and was almost ready for testing on the first kata, an elaborate series of movements that defined the first level.
After half an hour of kata practice, Sensei ordered kumite – sparring with a partner. The others, who were fairly well matched, paired off. So if she was lucky, she sparred with the assistant. If she was unlucky she got Sensei … a painful but excellent workout with probably a bruise or two. This morning Sensei stood before her.
Delia could not believe his speed. She could see him move but was never fast enough to touch him – not his hand nor any part of his body – unless he allowed it. If he attacked she would be on her back on the floor before she blinked. And he was merciless, coming on ceaselessly, pushing her relentlessly. She knew he took pleasure in standing triumphantly over her after he’d dumped her onto inflexible bones.
Only once, in fury and humiliation as she lay below him, had she tried street fighting techniques – to grab his balls, a manoeuvre she knew he’d sanction if, and it was a big if, she was successful. Her eyes had processed his movement even while her body hadn’t been fast enough. He’d almost broken her wrist.
Chapter Nine
Karen hadn’t had time to adequately consider the bite-shaped bruise on her inner thigh though she’d seen it when he’d finished with her. She’d fingered it surreptitiously, testing its size and tenderness, whenever Steve turned away during her clean up.
Really her whole body ached, even inside. Fear that something was wrong in her belly managed to penetrate the residue of shocked numbness. But she had no time to think even of that.
Steve laid her on the bed and replaced the metal suit. He slid a sterile field under her hips and set a metal tray filled with small implements beside her. She didn’t bother to look and, as if in substantiation of her indifference, he spoke flatly, as usual. “I’m going to insert a catheter now.”
She no longer flinched when he manipulated her genitals, was no longer even humiliated. Just more deadening indignity to add to the rest. She stared blankly at the ceiling and dully felt him spread her vaginal walls and slide the plastic tubing into her urethra. He turned away and did something on the metal tray.
When he turned back his voice held something different. A touch of remorse? The thought sent chills of terror racing through her. “This will be easier if you try to relax and breathe deeply. Okay?”
He waited until she whispered, “Okay.” His big fingers pressed her outer labia together. She screamed at the deep sharp pain and her body involuntarily contorted.
He pressed her against the bed, stopping her motion. Still his tone was flat. “I have to make ten stitches. I’ll try to be quick but,” he paused, “I have to do it,” another pause, “and I’m going to have to sew you up every day so you better get used to it. If you try to relax it won’t be so bad.”
Actually each stitch was not one but two distinct, painful, terrifying piercings as the needle was forced into and then passed through each labium. Each time, rather than ending there, the agony continued as the surgical thread slid like fire through her skin and was tugged tight. Silent tears poured from blank eyes but she no longer moved, lying limp and hopeless.
He was on the ninth stitch when she heard the lock clank and Michael enter the room. His gently smiling face leaned over her and her vacant gaze instantly snapped to attention.
His fingers softly caressed the stitches while Steve took the last. “Very neatly done.” He straightened and wiped a small trace of blood from his fingers with a white, monogrammed handkerchief. Oddly she found his next words more harrowing than the needle’s passage through her flesh. “Please dress her for lunch. I think something red.” He left the room.
She was again seated at the piecrust table, her hands folded in her lap and eyes downcast inside the metal headpiece, when he returned followed by his chef pushing a steam table. Steve had dressed her in a sleeveless vermillion Armani sheath of Jackie Kennedy classicism. It was only a little snug. The awareness flitted across her mind’s spiritless panorama but offered no real relief.
He pulled a fat key ring out of his perfectly cut trousers’ pocket, selected a sma
ll silver key and unlocked her metal mouthpiece. Once face to face, his warm smile soothed her. “You look very nice, my dear.”
The chef served some sort of broiled white fish with a simple lemon sauce and grilled vegetables. Karen waited for Michael to take a taste and nod approval to the chef before she lifted her fork. Its path to her mouth seemed interminable and as difficult as lifting heavy weight. She was simultaneously afraid to look and fascinated by his hand motions. But, to her great relief, the bite of fish made it uneventfully to her mouth. She chewed slowly, savouring the bite as if it would be alone – as it very well might.
Still he smiled congenially. “You are becoming so beautiful now that our program is having success …”
Timidly the corners of her mouth lifted, grateful for the compliment and his approval. “Thank you, Michael,” was her mandated response.
“… I might not be able to control myself.” The comment was made lightly, as if in jest, but it sent a fearful jolt through her empty stomach. She raised her eyes to him, trying to determine if he was explaining what had happened. Was the awful sex her fault too?
Revelation momentarily deafened her. That’s why he had her stitched closed! So he wouldn’t hurt her again. Once again she was profoundly grateful to him. She vowed to be strong – for him – and accept the stitching willingly.
With a start she grasped that Michael had said something. His expression was kind but stern. “Did you understand me, my dear?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “Now that you’re so close to achieving our objectives I’ve arranged for the remaining alterations to be made surgically.” He patted her hand. “There’ll be some rehabilitation but,” his smile became radiant, “just a few inches shorter and you’ll be perfect. Just think how wonderful that will be!”
In her mind’s eye Karen goggled at him, dumb and senseless. In reality she’d been too well trained to goggle. She sat demurely but still mute and without one iota’s comprehension of his words except the knowledge that she would be subject to some other horrible abasement. Her head dropped inconspicuously lower. It didn’t really matter. Her life belonged to him.
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