What world is Don from, and why are they so like us . . . and unlike us?
The photo of deceased John Simmons in that dilapidated room is clearly imprinted in my mind.
11
At sundown (or what I believe is the hour, since I have no window to go by), they let Don into my room. The sight of him makes me weak in my knees. He seems a little worn, with a slight puffiness around his eyes. The same Band-aid dressing I saw earlier is still around his right forearm. But now there is another one on his left bicep.
Still, he looks like manna from heaven for my starving eyes. An angel whose wings have been clipped, but an angel nonetheless.
What is he doing here and why have they allowed him to see me?
I won’t complain, but I will keep my suspicion quotient up.
As soon as his minders lock the door, I collapse in his arms. He holds me as if he would never let me go.
Imbibing the scent of my freshly washed hair (well, there was nothing else for me to do but worry and wash my hair every day), he murmurs, “What did they tell you about me?”
“Everything.”
He’s silent for a long while.
He sighs. “They told me as much. Are you scared?”
“I’m still holding you. That says everything, doesn’t it?”
For answer, he bends down his head and kisses my mouth. It’s a long, lingering kiss, tasting of sweetness and hunger and regret all rolled into one. Heat begins to mount in my loins as his hands roam down my back. I’m wearing an elongated T-shirt, and he seizes its hem and lifts the thin cotton fabric over my belly and my arms.
“I was worried about you,” he says, kissing me again. He unclasps my brassiere at the back.
“And me you. What did they do to you?”
He’s wearing a white hospital gown. I undo its spaghetti straps at the back which have been tied up into butterfly wing knots. They come off easily.
“Everything they can think of. Scans, donut machines, probes, I don’t know what else. Sometimes I’m sedated. Other times I’m not. They took tissue samples off me.”
I clap my hand to my mouth. “Oh my God.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.” He slips his gown off and shows me the Band-aids. He’s naked underneath, and his cock springs up like a lever from his balls.
Oh, that cock. That wonderful, gorgeous cock.
“They told you that you’re from another world.”
“I still don’t remember. But I reckon it has a crimson lake and skies.” He smiles softly.
“Do you want to go back to that world?”
“Yes.”
“More than anything?” I am fearful of his answer.
“Not more than everything.” He kisses me deeply. Hungrily.
“Don.” The possibility has been on the edge of my mind ever since our visit to Neverlake. “What if . . . your world . . . is a world of the dead? Our dead?”
He looks troubled. “Maybe all worlds are aspects of another one’s detritus. Maybe we are all interconnected in ways we have never imagined.”
I never thought of that. It opens up vistas to realms of possibilities that I have never dreamed of. It’s simultaneously frightening, overwhelming and exhilarating.
It’s not something I’m comfortable to go into now, especially when we are both getting naked, and so I say, “Why did they allow you to come?”
He flashes me a wry smile. “They say it’s for good behavior.”
His good spirits recovering, he dives down and pulls my panties to my ankles.
“What do you say?” I open my legs at his parting of my thighs.
He kneels before me and presses his mouth to my pussy. His lips suck insistently at my clit. I can’t help but moan softly and grope at his hair with my fingers.
He gives my clit and pussy furrows a good tonguing before he replies, “I think they just want to spy on us.”
This is a heady possibility.
He returns to his exquisite licking and kissing of my swollen genitals. My pussy creams start to trickle out of my vagina, and he laps enthusiastically at the leakage as it comes as if it is nectar from the gods themselves.
He stops to grin at me. His lips and chin are smeared sexily with my juices.
“Do you care?”
“No,” I gasp, digging my fingers deeper into his hair. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He uses his fingers to open the petals of my pussy, so that my red throbbing clit is fully exposed. He applies his tongue onto the sides of my clit, pushing the wet tip deep into my clefts so that I am groaning and squealing with the sheer delight of it. He pushes two fingers into my vulva as he does this, so that I almost come with the agonizing bliss.
He stands up to lead me to the table. “I think they want us to drop something we would only say to each other.”
“If this room is bugged, do you think it’s wise for us to talk about it?”
He pushes me onto the table so that the upper half of my body is pressed flat against the surface. My breasts and belly face downwards and my haunches are in the air.
“Bugged?” he asks. “What’s that?”
Oh yes, he’s from another world where bugs probably only just mean insects.
“I think there are listening devices in here. Maybe even hidden cameras.”
“I told them everything I know.” He makes sure my legs are widely parted. “I have nothing to hide. It’s easy. I remember nothing.”
Again, he shoves two fingers into my vagina and wipes my walls in a circular motion. My pussy juices flow copiously.
“Do you think they are watching us now?” I say, my breath coming out in short, sharp pants.
“Maybe. But I don’t care. I need you so badly, Jean.” His penis head nestles against my pussy hole, poised to enter.
“Then shove it into me.”
If Pamela Sansky is watching us, then let her eat her heart out. Oh, I have no doubt that she’s envious of Don’s affection for me.
Me,
Ms. Everywoman.
Nothing special in Pamela Sansky’s own words.
The object of my affection thrusts himself into me, cleaving my wet walls apart like a boat’s prow gliding through waters. I let out a little cry. He starts to move his hips against my buttocks while his hands milk my squashed breasts. I’m so wet that I can hear the splish-splosh of his turgid flesh grinding into me.
I moan, “Deeper, please.”
He obliges. We are both aware we are putting up a show for whoever is watching or bugging us. But we are both too aroused to care. And besides, our lives are over anyway. We may as well take whatever precious moments the NPB will throw to us, like bones to a laboratory dog.
“Faster,” I plead.
His breathing quickens to match his pace. His cock accelerates, and I derive a certain sense of satisfaction that if Pamela Sansky were watching, she would be astounded as to how rapidly Don can fuck. The friction against my walls and G-spot climbs and climbs, until I’m clawing and raking my fingernails against the cold metal table and wailing from the sheer pleasure of it.
All my focus zooms down to that one spot – my vaginal tunnel. The air is rife with the aroma of our merging juices. His marvelous tool stretches and rubs and strokes and drives into me with the vigor of a fucking machine.
I don’t care what world Don comes from. I love him and desire him and crave his body like a drug. What matters is that he’s here with me now, and we are together for as long as they will allow us.
“Jean.” His voice is ragged. “I think I’m in love with you.”
I’m too pinned down to react, but my chest blossoms with a cloud of happiness that seems almost unbearable. It expands, filling my heart chambers with a tightness that travels all the way down to my abdomen. I feel almost delirious with joy.
My orgasm explodes within me before I realize it. I scream – a high-pitched keen that no doubt carries beyond the walls – because the door hisses open. Two agents run in, cocking
their guns and pointing their muzzles at us. I turn my head to regard them out of my glazed vision. My sweat trickles onto the table.
Don doesn’t heed them. He continues to hammer his cock into me until he too ejaculates. His warm semen jettisons into my vagina in a hot, seemingly endless tide. There’s plenty of it – so much that it spills from my crevices and drips down the undersides of my buttocks and my inner thighs. He steadies himself against my hips, panting hard.
The agents wear expressions that are ill at ease. They lower their guns. I know I should be mortified that they are seeing me naked and in this embarrassing condition to boot – but I don’t care. My bones sing with elation. My blood is high with an adrenaline rush that emboldens and liberates me.
Don loves me.
That is all that matters in the world.
My world.
“Uh, sorry,” one agent says as they back slowly out of the room.
“Close the door behind you,” Don jibes as he pulls his well-used cock out of me.
I half-lie there on the table as Don holds his spent cock up, its dripping head nudging my right buttock. I’m still delirious.
“Did you mean what you said?” I whisper, afraid of the answer. Perhaps that is something men only say in the throes of orgasm.
“About closing the door behind them?”
“You’re in a humorous mood.”
He laughs softly. “Yes, I am. And yes, I did.”
He gently raises me up. My legs are weak and I collapse into his arms. He scoops me up and carries me to my bed, where he lays me flat on my back. He climbs in beside me and stretches his body next to mine so that we are skin against skin, warm flesh against warm flesh.
Our faces are turned to each other’s. I can’t help but melt at how wondrous his features are. How perfectly chiseled his nose is, and how wide and deep ocean-like his eyes are. His irises are flecked with a thousand colors – blue and green and gold and brown and a rainbow of shades in between. I can look into those eyes forever and feel comforted and safe.
“I love you,” I say, abandoning caution to the wind.
“And I you.”
My heart soars to hear him affirm it.
“So what do we do?”
He smiles and places his lips against mine. He murmurs in a very low voice against my mouth, “We find a way out of here.”
12
Life is strange like that. Providence strikes when I least expect it to. And in a manner that neither Don nor I expect.
It has been three days into our captivity.
I am being led to what I have been told is a gynecological examination room. The door hisses open to the agent’s fingerprint.
“Go on in,” he motions to me.
I step inside. A pelvic examination chair occupies the middle portion of the room with its stirrups placed suggestively wide. The doctor I had seen earlier with Don – the one with the short white beard – turns to me as he straps on his latex gloves.
“Please, Ms. Mansfield, have a seat.”
The door slides noiselessly shut behind us.
“Is there anyone else in here?” I ask nervously.
“I believe Agent Sansky will be joining us.”
Okayyyyy.
“Why is she coming?”
“She wants to see how you are progressing.”
“Progressing in what?”
“Let’s wait for her.” He readies his instruments on the silver tray. I shudder as my eyes course over them. I’ve always hated gynecological examinations. They are so invasive, clinical and cold.
“Remarkable specimen of a man, your friend,” the doctor remarks.
“Why do you say so?”
“We had him perform a few physical tests. He clocked in the hundred meters in less than three seconds.”
He lets this sink in.
“Twice as faster than the world’s fastest man,” I say. But I already knew that.
“Indeed.”
The sound of a hissing door makes both of us turn. Agent Sansky strides in, dressed in her usual immaculate jacket and matching skirt.
“Begin,” she says without pleasantries and fanfare.
“Disrobe, please,” the doctor says to me.
I’m uncomfortable to be doing it in front of Agent Sansky, whose piercing eyes crinkle into an amused expression. She enjoys watching me humiliated. Well, I don’t blame her. Don and I did pull a fast one on her back in my house.
I am wearing a T-shirt and pants, and I take these off slowly, revealing my bra and panties. Their eyes never leave my body, but it’s not in a voyeuristic or sexual manner. I’m made to feel as if I’m a chimpanzee in a lab. I unclasp my bra and pull down my panties. Agent Sansky’s mouth twists in a smirk when she sees the matted hair on my pussy.
“I still don’t know what he sees in you,” she says.
“Why?” I shoot back. “Are you jealous?”
A twitch passes over her features. She says contemptuously, “Why should I be jealous of a brood mare?”
The doctor helps me up the examination chair.
“What do you mean?” I demand as he spreads my legs and places them into the stirrups.
“It means exactly what it does. Why do you think we put the two of you together night after night? We told him to fuck you, which is exactly what he does.”
Wait a minute. Don is fucking me on behest of someone else? A shiver of doubt creeps into my mind.
Jean, I think I’m in love with you.
But it was real! He said it when I was in his arms. He said it and really meant it.
The doctor begins his examination of my breasts. He palpates my right tit, feeling for lumps. My thighs are splayed embarrassingly wide open, and Agent Sansky moves to stand right in front of me so that she can have a good view of my genitals.
“We told him to fuck you good, and we would keep you in good health.”
I remember what she had told Don on his examination bed. If you would like to keep her that way, it would wise for you to comply with everything we ask of you. But Don is not making love to me because of that, surely? I remember his urgency to undress me, to kiss me and mount me on the table that first night.
If my doubt was a shiver before this, it becomes a veritable wedge in my brain now.
But he told me he loved me.
How much of that is true, and how much of that is wrought out of compliance because he was told he had to fuck me to keep me safe?
Am I imagining things?
I should believe in Don. He loves me. Yes, keep telling myself that.
Still, my mind is a strobe machine of wild, telescoping thoughts. We are too early in our relationship for me to be fully certain about him.
The doctor has finished with my breasts. He pulls a stool and sits in front of my open legs. He straps on a forehead torch which is mounted on a headband. Agent Sansky moves to his right so that she can peer in on what he’s doing.
“Is she ovulating, doctor?” she asks.
Brood mare. Everything falls into place. I knew there was a reason behind them putting me and Don together. It was never his reward for good behavior.
The doctor gels up the duckbill-shaped speculum. “Breathe in deeply, Ms. Mansfield.”
I take in a deep breath, my mind churning over. Brood mare. They want Don to breed with me.
Why?
The answer is obvious. To create a child between two worlds in some sort of government experiment. Project Oz Part Two.
They are trying to make something that is wonderful and precious between me and Don into something clinical and experimental and unethical.
The speculum slides inside me.
“You’ve had sex this morning, Ms. Mansfield?”
“Yes.”
“You still have semen in your vagina. Allow me to take a sample, please.”
He inserts a swab and cores out a generous spool of Don’s sperm. Then he takes another swab from my vaginal walls and smears it onto a slide. He gets up and
goes to a microscope in another part of the room.
Agent Sansky moves in again. Grinning, she inspects my open legs. I grit my teeth and grip the sides of the chair.
“I’ve been watching you in your bedroom,” she says.
It is as I suspected, but my gut still recoils in disgust.
“Like what you see?” I challenge.
“He’s a very interesting man. A very, very interesting man indeed. Pity he’s wasted on you.”
“I take it that it wasn’t your decision to select me as his brood mare?” I say sarcastically.
“Certainly not. I would have chosen someone far worthier, and certainly much more attractive.”
I grimace. She’s trying to needle me, and she’s getting exactly the reaction she wants.
“Well, at least he’s fucking me and not you,” I declare. I know it’s childish, but I’m so steamed up that I don’t care.
She laughs mirthlessly. “What makes you think I want to fuck him?”
“Oh, I think you do. He resembles a god and has the manners of a prince. Which woman wouldn’t want to fuck him?”
We face off, staring murder into each other’s eyes.
The doctor looks up from the microscope. “She’s not in her ovulation phase yet.”
Pamela Sansky says, “Well and good. Then seeing as you’re not ready to be bred, you wouldn’t mind taking a little time away from your lover boy, would you?”
My heart grows cold. “What do you mean?”
She smiles mysteriously. “You’ll see.”
13
It is exactly what the bitch meant.
Don doesn’t appear at my doorstep that night. Or the night after.
I spend them fretting on the bed, the very bed we shared, wondering where he is and what they are making him do. Are they making him run the gauntlet, clocking him to do it faster and faster each time? Are they taking ghastly samples from his deep tissues to see what makes him tick – such as from his liver, and God forbid, his heart, which beats so strong and true?
Or is the dreadful Pamela Sansky doing something abominable to and with him?
I can’t bear to think of it, but like an obsession, those horrible images keep intruding into my mind. I am bleary and sleepless. I listlessly pick at my meals. During the evenings, when they take me out for exercise, I shuffle my feet upon the cemented yard.
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) Page 8