Maximillia never felt that awkwardness around Zenna, as if there were some seductive undertones in their interactions. She always gave off this vibe of a harmless, willing mentor; Zenna was a kindly old sage, rather than some seasoned sex predator. The elder tarian’s advice was always eerily prescient. She had been around the block many a time and was always calm, cool and collected. Maximillia was always used to absorbing damage, either from Mardo, Dom, or some of her more sadistic clients from her stint at Xartha’s. Her passivity disgusted Zenna, who blasted into her ear the benefits of self-defense, both from a physical and a psychological level.
Zenna had been in an abusive relationship in the past which culminated in a bloody massacre. She emerged unscathed, but her abusive lover did not. At least, that was what the mythical rumors of the elder tarian insinuated, anyways. The result of her actions landed her in her present dwellings. Her first cellmate was a kylaxian former professional pitscrapper named Wll’x who’d even fought for a title at one point. She taught Zenna the ropes and turned her once soft, fragile frame into a finely chiseled block of sinewy intimidation. The first female to make the mistake of getting mouthy in the rec zone with Zenna got a thundering fist plowing its way through her teeth.
The tarian only had a few years left on her guest contract with Angel Falls and was more than happy to pass on her pugilistic knowledge to Maximillia. The now shaved-headed human took her licks, covered in bruises by the end of the first week, but they were badges of honor indicating her painful progress.
Getting up at dawn to inflict on herself a masochistic regimen of physical exercise until lung-crushing exhaustion set in was simply par for the course for Maximillia. Over a few weeks she began to feed on the rush. Whenever she got some time in the rec zone she’d hit the track for a warm-up run and then hit the weight room. Maximillia’s cell became a gym and between pull-ups, sit-ups and a myriad of improvisational exercises, her body was in constant muscular confusion, which further fueled her development. She would wake up mid-morning when every other soul was asleep and break into a nearly obsessing streak of pull-ups on her cell door leaving her a sweaty mess and her sleepy cellmates worriedly confounded.
Whenever they had access to the kitchen, Zenna would cook up some tarian delicacies for Maximillia and some of the other girls. Cooking was just another notch on the mountainous list of proficiencies that the tarian could call her own. The nutrient-dense diet provided to Maximillia was what her body needed to build her body up from the wracking pain she allowed to be inflicted on her.
Under Zenna’s tutelage, Maximillia’s shadow boxing in the rec zone evoked the rhythm of stone-sharpened phenom. To commemorate her slow, budding physical transformation, Zenna arranged for one of the best body ink artists to brand Maximillia with a traditional tarian warrior mark that symbolized the strength derived from one of her people’s most notable female deities. The symbol was a series of twisting, intertwining lines contained in a circle; a matronly symbol of gentle, truehearted strength. The young human admired her new graphic enhancement with an earned pride. This engendered in her a growing inner strength. Every morning when she opened her eyes she felt herself a more evolved version than the one that had fallen asleep the night before. She felt emboldened, becoming a deeply set fortification whose walls were constantly being reinforced. As her confidence rose, her world shrank. She trusted few and cared for fewer.
Over a few months Maximillia’s once bony, pale frame morphed into a chiseled slab of curvaceous muscle. She’d never had a suffocating level of cleavage, but her rear end had filled out nicely, inflating into a swollen convexity worthy of worship by any heterosexual man or homosexual woman. Zenna often joked that all of Maximillia’s working out scared all of her fat into her ass where it stayed.
The Zohtahni were laughably misinformed about their previous target’s physical proficiencies. A few scrappy fist fights in the rec zone scared off the cattish coven of Zohtahni for good, leaving their wilted membership a bashed, bloody embarrassment. Maximillia was not one to be trifled with. Not anymore. The mashed faces of her once dominant foes illustrated this. It was a quick lesson, but one that bore deep into the minds of the rest of the girls in population.
Maximillia's long, muscled limbs had grown into lusciously dangerous tools. The look in her eyes, once tortured, grew narrow, self-assured and even passively cruel. Her swagger left no room for interpretation. Mardo’s skinny little flower had bloomed. The shaved-headed goddess had buried her once withered form in a pathetic past. Some of the other women certainly noticed. Her unwanted physical interactions went from maliciously violent to brashly sexual in nature. Her body of silent admirers grew exponentially. At first it was merely hungry glances, then anonymous notes from craven devotees. This grew to bold slaps on the ass in the food line from courageous inmates. Maximillia’s confusion led her back to Zenna who had to explain the obvious: In lock-up, sex is a form a currency and she was increasingly wealthy.
Maximillia had to admit to herself that the carnal deprivations inherent in incarceration were having their effects on her, too. She hadn’t had a cock inside her in many months, even though the last one she did have was likely a john whose business she invariably regretted, as she regretted every client’s business. Even then, she was a red-blooded heterosexual woman who’d been suddenly forced into sexual dormancy. She did manage to get a dildo smuggled in through some of the guards who were on friendly terms with Zenna, and this helped a bit to alleviate the pressure, but it wasn’t enough.
She secretly fantasized, craving the feeling of being filled by an engorged, hot slab of meat connected to a man who desperately wanted her. This mystery man was faceless, but with a full head of dark, luscious hair and a flawless pink body; a boyish youth who had the energetic voracity to fulfill her sexual needs and who was just as soothing on the eyes. She imagined this firm stud hunched atop her, the two of them a sweaty, entwined super-organism that labored to bring each other to climax until he groaned urgently and spilled his seed into her welcoming crevasse. She’d imagine in these torrid moments that he’d then pull his ravaged member from her gooey sheath only to have his thick, warm seed slowly ooze out of her.
Maximillia would let her wand—and its phallic falseness—cast its magic on her in those lonely days, and it would console her in the quiet darkness, under the warmth of her blanket. She’d stab at her tumescent gash with her rubbery tool, emitting softened whimpers in the dark, careful not to awaken her cellmates. She’d close her eyes, night after night, and see that beautiful faceless boy, with that head of thick, dark hair, convulsing atop her as he planted his ejaculate deep into its proper home. She’d often end up a floppy, sweat-caked heap.
The sharks circled Maximillia. The inmates had to look for creative ways to relieve themselves and each other within the rigid confines of Angel Falls. Most of the girls were
sex-starved in one way or another, especially those with heightened libidos, of which there were many. Key’lah was one sex-starved inmate: A dark-skinned human with slick curves who made it clear one night in the shower room that she was interested in a discreet sexual outlet. Maximillia had never considered a lesbian sexual relationship in the past, but after six months in lock-up her dildo was looking less and less adequate. She wanted a warm, intimate physical connection.
Key’lah, with her caramel-colored skin, would be a proud notch on any man’s bedpost, but Maximillia wasn’t attracted to her. It wasn’t a physical attraction that drove her to secret nightly rendezvous in the mechanics’ shop room, the automated laundry room or in the custodial droids’ storage compartment, but an almost insatiable sexual compulsion that had to be addressed. Key’lah was the best candidate to contend with Maximillia’s deprivations.
There were others, too: Benelyn, a slinky saracian whose aptitude at cunnilingus relieved Maximillia on many occasions; Noba, a thoran whom she couldn’t understand a word of, but whose rubbery, tube-like digits masqueraded as perfect fingering tools.
She never kissed any of the girls, even though some of them wanted to. For Maximillia, none of their interactions were emotionally-charged, genuine fits of passion; they were merely mechanical expressions meant to off put the annoyances of a demanding libido that couldn’t be satisfied otherwise. Of course, she’d always oblige her sexual partners by returning the favor and performing on them, either giving their pussies a proper tongue lashing or merely fingering them into bliss. They always left satisfied.
Maximillia’s fleshly concerns were largely met, but she still felt this uneasy sense of emptiness. She couldn’t place it, but it was there and nagged at her constantly. A fit, voluptuous body wasn’t enough anymore. An idle mind craved attention and prodded her into action. She had a grease monkey's blood coursing through her veins. Her brain was wired for mechanical utility, to repair what was once broken. She was also a rebellious young woman who didn’t want to ape her father’s life course. She wanted to blaze her own trail. The facility had a computer terminal repair workshop where inmates could train and even become certified as repair technicians. Being legitimate? It was a long shot, but it was a shot.
Maximillia ruminated about her time in lock-up. Maybe it didn’t have to be a
self-contained world where she was forced to marinate in her misery for the next few years. Maybe it could be a period of self-discovery and self-improvement. What were her prospects if she didn’t? She remembered the look on her father’s face on sentencing day: disappointment, concern, yet ultimately, love. Her father had worked too hard and lost too much to suffer a daughter headed where she was headed.
Mardo and the rest of the Bruisers were circling the drain. Maximillia had heard rumors that the Tsen-Tzes—who were being assaulted on all sides by the feds—had declared war on the Bruisers. Mardo was on the run, possibly dead, and the rest of the gang had largely been scattered and decimated; some were dead while others in hiding.
The Tsen-Tzes were worse for wear, as well. Word was that the power vacuum within Mandra Bay’s criminal underworld created in the wake of Dom's death had evolved into open warfare. Dom’s living foot soldiers had their backs to the wall and the other gangs were hungry to devour up as many rackets from the falling Tsen-Tzes as they could. Their once consolidated power was now nothing more than a withering husk.
As far as Maximillia was concerned the heat was off her back so she could concern herself with more personal endeavors. Angel Falls was largely automated, but there were a handful of organics who served various functions. Some were in medical or administrative while others either ran maintenance on the security droids or handled other repair duties. The few males on the facility found ways to exploit the sexual needs of the willing women trapped inside the facility walls. Some would trade booze or drugs for sex, which the men would then smuggle in for them. Sometimes they’d hold access to the communications network hostage until the women put out in whatever way they desired.
One particularly repugnant cur working in administrative was a guy name Cort Bindinelli. He barely broke five feet tall, was almost equally wide, and his squinty-eyed face sported a nose tipped with a particularly noticeable wart. If you squeezed his skin, the liquid that was excreted could be synthesized into the ultimate female repellent. If an inmate wanted to file a report that had to go directly through administrative, he’d position himself as an expedient obstacle. He ended up carving out a nice little opportunistic niche for himself, getting unlikely sexual favors he’d never have enjoyed otherwise. Maximillia knew that if she wanted to apply for access to the terminal repair workshop she’d have to contend with him.
Zenna was proud that Maximillia was aiming to better herself, but she also knew quite well about Bindinelli’s abuses of powers and warned the young human. There was no way to get around the little pug, so she decided to attack the situation head on. She wasn’t going to let some little, sexually inviable worm obstruct her path.
She waited in the administrative office while her application for the terminal repair course was processed. Of course, as luck would have it, Bindinelli was the one handling the processing. She sat across from the greasy-skinned cad, staring into him with thinly veiled contempt as his hands swayed about his holoscreen control board, his eyes creepily darting back and forth between his screen and her.
“So, terminal repair, huh?” he asked awkwardly.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe they’ll hire you on here. Terminals around here are always glitching out.”
She cracked a half-smile that bordered on revulsion and feigned deference. It seemed that, as he gestured with his fingers about his holoscreen and filled out the necessary forms for her, he was bolstering his courage for some kind of attempt at verbal subterfuge. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You are aware of the protocols for access to the classrooms, correct?”
She rolled her eyes. This was the pitch. “Protocols?”
He looked up at her, beads of sweat crawling down his pock-marked forehead. “Yes, the protocol. There is an unofficial fee to get access.”
“Fee? What is this? Extortion?”
“Extortion is illegal, and not only is it frowned upon here, it’s highly punishable. Do you think I’m trying to extort you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Would you like to file a report against me?”
She played his game, knowing exactly where it was going and what his subsequent answers would be. “I think I might. Who do I have to talk to if I want to file a report?”
His face tightened, deathly serious. “You’re looking at him.”
Perfect. She didn’t avert her gaze. In her mind she had Bindinelli in a full choke, strangling him as he flailed into unconsciousness. Unfortunately, the real world invaded on her fantasy. “Would you like me to finish processing your application or would you like to go back to your cell?” He knew he had her over a barrel.
With a vicious ire simmering under her skin, she muttered through tight lips and scraping teeth, “I want to take the class.”
He perked up, his expression switching gears to sickeningly sunny. “Great!” He then leaned forward slightly and spoke low, “I’m going to unlock your cell at 1300. You’re going to meet me in the resource management office. Got it?”
Her face twisted, clearly revolted. “How many times are we going to have to do this? I’m not doing this for every class.”
“Not every time. I promise.”
She rolled her eyes, stood up and walked out.
After lights out, Maximillia lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, just waiting. Suddenly a high-pitched ping rang out. She swung over and saw the security light on her cell door switch from red to green and the magnetizers deactivated. She slid off of her bed, noting her still sleeping cellmates, and gently nudged the door. It opened, so she threw on her slippers and left her cell, venturing out into the unlit hallway.
Everyone else was asleep. She paced down the coldly smooth hatholite floor, heading towards the dim lights emanating from the administrative sector. As she approached the security doors leading into the adjacent wing, their lock lights flickered to green, their mag-locks deactivating. She pushed her way through and found the sector eerily dormant. It was usually a bustling den of controlled bedlam.
The resource management office was right around the corner. As she reached the end of the corridor she eyed the door and noticed that it, too, was unlocked. The lights inside weren’t on. She opened the door and stepped inside. Bindinelli was sitting in the dark, eyes on a
terminal’s holoscreen.
“Alright, come on in," he said, not bothering to acknowledge her by looking up. He was too busy watching a dream-state burn of a massive kylaxian male vociferously drilling into a thick-assed tarian female from behind. The poor girl was wincing as his meaty girth stretched her petite hole.
Maximillia noticed that Bindinelli’s pants were around his ankles and he was energetically fisting his pathetic erection. As the tarian girl’s muffled cries whined aloud, the t
ubby mongrel called her over with a curl of his finger. She stepped closer apathetically.
“Drop them pants,” he commanded, still not bothering to look her in the eyes or cease his fervent masturbating.
She stood there for a pregnant moment. Finally, he drew his eyes over to her, mild irritation brimming just under his skin. “Now.”
She sighed, thumbing the waistband on her sweat pants and slid them down her legs, stepping out of them. He glanced over at her for a moment before returning his glare to the animalistic fucking on his screen. “The panties. Lose ‘em, too.”
Maximillia growled. He glanced over at her again, shrugging. “Hey, if you don’t want this, you can always go back to your cell. There’s plenty of girls who can take your spot in that class.”
Biting her tongue, she ever so slowly slid her panties down until they piled up at her feet. Looking over and seeing her bare nude from the waist down, his attention was finally drawn. He slid his chair out to get a clean head-to-toe view of her. He was clearly impressed.
“Holy shit,” he exclaimed, jerking his pitiable cock to an even more heightened fervor.
She rolled her eyes; he was truly a filth-ball worthy of derision. He didn’t care. He was too busy strafing her tight, young body with his hungry eyes. Her well-trimmed mound of dark pubes framed her taut little cunny. He began to salivate.
With eyes locked on her pussy, he gestured her with a circling finger. “Spin around. Let’s see the back.”
She couldn’t have looked less enthralled as she spun a slow one-eighty. The second he saw her scrumptious ass his eyes nearly tore their way out of their sockets. “Fuck me...” he muttered, using his feet to shuffle closer to her, still seated.
Cracked Porcelain Page 9