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Voyager

By: DianaP



I'm flying the airplane. 

A wing dips and I turn the wheel, scraping ailerons on the frozen air. 

The plane yaws; I reach up and adjust the trim. It rolls; I pull back on the yoke. We level off. 

I'm scared, afraid of losing control, of falling. But still, I'm flying. It's my skill that keeps us in the air, keeps the passengers safe. The passengers... 

I look around the cockpit, confused. The plane starts to fall off. I correct. Concentrate, damn it! Straight and level! 

What is this? I can't be the pilot. I boarded in New York as a passenger. Didn't I? 

Then why am I in the hold? 

I know this is the hold; I can hear the plane's joints creaking. That's not part of the "flying experience." I feel heavy duty blowers moving the air, alternately chilling and heating my bare skin like...

...My bare skin? I'm naked? Naked in a plane full of people!

My eyes spring open and I see...metal! Am I in a cage? Frightened, I try to get to my feet...can't. This is one weird dream! Naked in a small cage... I lean back and hug my legs. I look up; the cage has two compartments, another girl is in the upper.

The metal feels soft against my bare skin...soft metal? I'm confused and disoriented. "Just a dream; it's just a dream," I whisper, "I'm going to wake in a second." I hug myself more tightly. A man sits nearby under a light, watching me over the top of his magazine. Is he real? We stare at each other for a long time. He glances down. There's a metal rod at his feet. Memories return and my stomach knots. A squirt of adrenaline clears the cobwebs from my mind.

"Please, God, don't let him touch me with that thing." I lose control and start to pee. The warm liquid pools on my stomach.

How long has it been, hours, minutes? No way to tell. The girl above is angry, yelling, shaking the cage. The man walks over and runs his prod over the mesh. It sounds like a snake's rattle. She ignores him. I watch from the lower cage paralyzed with fear. He waits a few seconds, then pushes the prod inside and touches her ass. There's a loud snap and she recoils as if on springs; her face frozen in stunned disbelief.

In slow motion, she opens her mouth and screams. It's not just the pain; it's the insult. I know the feeling—like a stranger slapping your face. The guard holds his finger to his lips and then shocks her again when she fails to stop. She passes out; he opens her door, moves her into a kneeling position with her hands behind, and ties her wrists and ankles to the mesh. 

The prod is leaning on the mesh near my face. I look up at him, terrified. CELTs are often punished together for disobedience. He finishes his binding and glances at me. There's no pity in his eyes, none. I stare back, petrified. He smiles, amused by my terror; then with a single motion he picks up the prod and walks back to his chair.

I'm ashamed at my fear, but also happy. Electricity hurts!

I fall asleep immediately in the silence that follows. This happens a lot; girls get so stressed, so frightened that they just shut down when it's over. It's called trancing.

That must be what happened, but I'm awake now...right? I look up through the mesh that separates us. The girl is still tied and unconscious. It's okay; these CELT-Ex people know their business. She's probably just trancing just as I had been. An electric prod doesn't do real damage. She'll be fine. That's a painful tie though; her knees are going to hurt when she wakes.

Why didn't he shock me? That's the protocol. CELT-Ex would be pissed if they knew. I shudder. Electricity... I hate it more than anything. It rips at you; at least that's what it feels like. I don't even like to think about it. Silently, I move to my knees. The guard is back to his magazine. The cage is just long enough for me to grip the front mesh with my fingers and the back mesh with my toes. He's still reading. I push myself off the cage floor and hold the position—isometric pushups. I wait until my muscles hurt and then let myself down.

I push off again. 

Her name is Virginia; I read it off the shipping label. It was dumb to shock her. In fact, I wouldn't give electric prods to guards at all. Shocking her was dumb: too much potential for damage. I push off again. It feels good to be using my cramped muscles. What if she'd been hurt banging around the cage? CELT-Ex is responsible; their reputation is on the line. It would be like delivering someone's precious Ferrari with a dent in the hood.

I smile. A new Ferrari...yes, that's appropriate. We're expensive boy-toys now, just like a new Ferrari. Victoria moans. I look back over my shoulder. She moves her head and blond hair cascades over the side of her face...beautiful! I squeeze the mesh as I watch. 

The metal is soft, rubbery. These are the new cages. I know about them from the CELT-Ex ads. The mesh is actually stronger than titanium: some new kind of new nanotech alloy. It must cost a fortune...another silly BDSM toy for CELTs. Still, it saved my ass. I'm going to write CELT-Ex a note when I get back, "Dear CELT-Ex, You definitely need to do something about those dangerous electric prods, but your new Transporter cage saved my ass..." 

I push off again, breathing a little heavier. 

The assholes at JFK would have had themselves a piece of ass...two, if it weren't for our Transporter. Maybe I provoked it a little, but I was bored. They left us standing there for hours...no food, no water, dirty cages. When a warehouseman sticks his finger through the mesh, I playfully get to my hands and knees and suck it. I know I look good in that pose: strong long legs, a hard round ass, a flat stomach, a sexy curve in the small of my back...provocative...like a cheetah, a human cheetah.

He's turned on; I can see the bulge in his pants. He tries to open the cage; I back away, frightened. Another few seconds of frustration and then he grabs the fire ax. I watch the muscles in his neck bulge as he tries to pry open the cage door, imagining what happens to me when it pops, but it never does. Exhausted, he steps back and looks at me. I cock my head to the side and smile sympathetically. He walks away, embarrassed.

Most men are rapists and sadists. It's the testosterone. It's what makes a man a man. They suppress the urge of course, but under the right circumstances...

My muscles start to tremble and I lower myself to the floor.

Women want to cuddle with a strong man. It's the estrogen. Me too, I like being dominated by a strong man, even though I'm smarter, stronger, and a lot more capable than most of them. 

Maybe we should be dominating them? Somehow, this idea doesn't resonate. A man is always going to be the sword and a woman, his scabbard...and that's not just a metaphor for fucking. It's nature's design that men rule, not women, no matter how un-fucking-worthy they are.

What about Howard? Where does he fit?

I glance back at Victoria again and push off. Exercise is necessary when you're caged like this. I'm straight, but she takes my breath away. I've been staring at her for hours. Her body is built for sex. It's as if she has "Please Fuck Me" tattooed on her forehead. She's a sex kitten: her hair, face, lips, eyes, tits, waist, hips, legs, feet, toes, skin...everything, everything about her screams pussy! Men will just strap her on to their dicks and never want to take her off. 

My first reaction is jealousy. I know I'm beautiful, but my beauty is hard edged, athletic. Men like to dominate me for the sport of it. With an exotic, erotic beauty it's different; they will get off on making her suffer. Her pain will excite them like blood excites a shark.

I push myself off the floor again.

I'm glad for the girl's company, but being paired with another CELT, especially a bondage virgin, could mean trouble. Peer pressure is an important tool for keeping CELTs in line; everyone around her will suffer when she acts up.

I glance over at the guard. He's back to his magazine. It's probably a comic book. What other kind of intellect would take a job guarding women in a fucking cargo hold? I fall to the floor, my arms shaking.

Relax...relax! It's this fucking cargo hold; it's driving me nuts. We should be with the passengers! There's no logical reason for us to be caged down here other than to soften us up: most men don't have the balls to have their CELT show up on the front doorstep. It's easier if she is delivered naked and cowed in a cage. CELT-Ex is being paid to both transport and condition up. Despite their Fortune-100 ranking, they're just a bunch of pimps. 

What about Howard? Was he like most men? A cool breeze blew over my wet midsection as the ventilation system kicked in again. "Oh, Howard, what have I done to us?" I whisper. The words just slip out. I quickly push off again, trying to block his memory, but it doesn't work.

I love him and he loves me. Well, maybe love isn't exactly the right word, but we did have our moments: indescribably tender moments that certainly qualify as love. Then there were the times he disciplined me, disciplined me so harshly that...that what? Get over yourself, Jesse! You choose this life, it was consensual; no one forced you into it.

I let myself down and almost immediately push off again, straining hard. Disciplining me was his right! I was a CELT, a Contracted-Escort Long-Term, a Contract Girl...whatever name you wanted to use. We agreed to the no-holds-barred discipline. It was part of the deal, written into our contracts, notarized and certified by lawyers. It's why a CELT contract is so valuable. Men loved the idea of it and paid huge sums to "own" their own girl. Without the discipline though, we'd just be expensive mistresses.

My arms and legs are shaking again. I let myself down and curl up on the cage bottom. 

Most men would be eating out of "our" hands in a week without the discipline!

Howard was different. His discipline made our relationship stronger, more intimate. It's hard to explain. I loved him and feared him at the same time with equal intensity. He was my lover, but we slept in separate rooms. He was my companion, my best friend, but most of the time I called him Sir. He was often kind, but he was also my torturer. Was this love? Maybe there's no word for it. All I know is that my time with him was the happiest of my life. How fucked up is that; he hurt me more than any man, yet all I ever wanted to do was to make him happy.

CELT-ic slave love... It certainly seems to be catching on. The old kinds of relationships just don't seem to work anymore. Sure, there are some abuses, but for the most part the legal protections provided by the CELT laws keep things in check. People seem willing to accept CELTs as long as there are civilized controls in place.

CELT contracts have become big business. Nowadays, beautiful girls from all economic classes, not just the poor, sign up. It's an adventure, an easy way to make ten year's salary in three, at least for some.

Howard and I had had a lot more than an adventure. Our...relationship was special, filled with real intimacy and intensity...rare.

Then why is it over? 

It's over because I needed the money! I feel suddenly nauseous 

...I needed the money.

Bullshit! It was never about the money! I would have stayed with him for nothing, even as his contract girl...maybe "especially" as his contract girl. 

So tell the truth, bitch, at least to yourself!

I feel tears forming. Pride! It was my fucking pride. 

Howard had saved enough to renew my contract--about $300,000. He didn't talk about it, but I knew it was a done deal. We were both happy: my brother would get the money for his therapy and Howard would get me as his CELT slave for another three years. I had had the dumb idea that he might just ask me to be his girlfriend, but continuing as his CELT was just as good. Anyway, my brother really needed the money; this was better.

Then we got the offer. Someone wanted to pay $450,000 for my contract. I was dazzled and flattered. Here was concrete proof of my value, my value... How fucking ridiculous that sounds now. At the time though, it seemed important. Somebody wants me, a lot! 

I start joking around, teasing him about accepting the new offer, asking him when he would be able to come up with the extra cash. It was a joke! I would never have left him. A joke...

But he didn't think it was funny and went on the attack, belittling my sense of obligation, calling it stupid, absurd. "Haven't you given up your life for that useless brother of yours; what kind of moron are you anyway to throw your life away?"

Given up my life... useless brother... moron... I knew he felt betrayed, but those words hurt and I fought back. This was a different kind of pain: the more he hurt me, the more I tried to hurt him. How fucking stupid! I shift my position and wipe away the tears. I should have backed down. He was right. I had given up my life, become a CELT...for my family. Did that make sense? Did it make sense to even joke about giving up our love? But pride held me back.

Even when, despite his anger, Howard asked his high born Mother for a loan, I refused to relent. (She'd turned him down of course when she discovered it was for a contract-girl, even threatening to cut him out of her will.)

It wasn't until our last night together that I finally swallowed my pride. I couldn't leave Howard, not for any amount of money! I was going to tell him that evening. I'd been hurt; he would understand. I had it all worked out. I would tell him as soon as he got home. 

I never got the chance. He had me gagged and hanging from our whipping post within second of bursting through the door. Then he whipped me like I had never been whipped before. I welcomed the pain; I deserved it. My apology could wait; maybe afterwards, when we made love, when I was sucking his cock. 

Only this time, we didn't make love. He stopped his whipping on the stroke of midnight, the moment his ownership ended, and carried me stiffly into my room. I was still in the zone when he laid me in my bed and removed my gag. Later, when I went to his room, he was gone. Gone! We had ended accidentally...it was all just a tragic accident.

I left in the morning with tears in my eyes and a terrible ache in my gut. What else could I do? I had missed my opportunity. Technically, I didn't belong to him anymore. People stared at me as I walked like a zombie to the CELT-Ex office. Mercifully they were all business, hustling me to a back room and into a Transporter. I was in a fog. Howard had left. Nothing else seemed to matter.

Maybe it was all for the best. I didn't deserve him. He could buy another girl, someone better; someone who would appreciate him. As for me, I was now committed to a new owner. It wouldn't be so bad. He was obviously rich; maybe he would be someone like Howard. I probably should have checked him out more carefully, but after all the shit with Howard, it just wasn't a priority. Anyway, my lawyer would have done that.

For some strange reason though, Shakespeare's words that "first, we kill all the lawyers" kept repeating in my mind.

++++++++++++

           Welcome

Air travel is a subtle form of torture. It's the seatbelt, the confinement, the noise, the stale air, the lack of privacy...and those are just the passengers' woes. Imagine what it's like for cargo. 

Our guard is losing it, pacing the narrow corridor like a trapped bear. His boredom has put him in a real dilemma—does he remain professional or play with the cargo. Who's going to know? Every once in a while, he looks at us like a mean child and starts fingering his prod.

Victoria is scared and hurting. She's still on her knees with her wrists tied behind to the top of the cage. If she rests on her haunches, the agony is in her shoulders; if she pushes herself up, it's in her legs and knees. I keep signaling her to stay quiet, but she can't. It's just a matter of time before the guard uses her whining as an excuse.

We all let out a sigh of relief when the plane starts to decent. 

Terra firma! I've never been so happy to be on the ground. Three men manhandle the cage to the doorway as soon as the plane stops moving and load it into a small truck. I can see the guard signing papers. No one bothers to untie the girl. I catch the guard's eye just before the door closes and blow him a kiss then I give him the finger. He just smiles and turns away. We immediately forget each other forever.

The trip is hard on the girl, but thankfully short. I want to talk to her, but resist the temptation. I'm sure the driver has his own prod.

The driver unlocks my gate when we arrive. 

"...Out!" Surprising, his tone is polite. I obey immediately, pleasantly surprised. "...Stomach!" I drop down and cross my wrists in the small of my back. Ah, space! It's all I can think about as I stretch my legs to their limits. The night air is warm; that's good. Cold weather is a problem for naked slaves. I'm lying on soft lush grass. That's also good since it means that we're probably not in the Middle East. CELTs are not treated well there. Warmth and grass, things could be worse.

The driver unties Victoria and lays her next to me. I can see buildings, but it's too dark to make out details. He handcuffs my wrists, slipping his hand between my legs in the process: a groper. I remain still. He moves back to the truck and lights up, watching us stretch. Despite the hand action, he seems more disciplined than usual and he's wearing fatigues...a soldier?

After a few minutes, another man walks over and snaps an order. Is he speaking Russian? Are we in Russia? The driver puts a leather collar on my neck and effortlessly lifts me to my feet. A man's strength...for the millionth time, I'm jealous. He connects our collars with a short length of chain, creating a two-girl slave coffle.

We stand there naked and quiet. As I've been trained, I keep my back straight, shoulders back, and my head bowed. Coffle girls who slouch or make disrespectful eye contact often end up doing a jig to someone's whip. I hope the girl is picking this up.

The driver moves to my front and leans over me as if to check my cuffs. Hidden from the other man, he grabs my breast. I'm surprised, but don't pull away. There's a sharp command and he backs away, smiling. His hand felt good. I flash my eyes at him and show him a little tongue. He hesitates and then walks away.

That was a funny little hesitation... CELT's learn how to read such things. He'd be fucking me right now if his boss wasn't watching...too bad. It's hard for men, even well disciplined soldiers, to handle CELTs, especially when they're naked and bound. Why they don't use more women guards?

The commander takes a chain from the van and hooks it to the front of my collar. He looks strong and tough, but I can't see him very well in the dim light. His hand brushes a breast...nothing. I push them out a little farther and glance back at the driver. He's watching of course and I...

The shit jerks my chain hard. I follow. 

Too bad, I'm horny and wet; what would it matter if he had given me to the driver for a few minutes? I think about his hard cock between my legs and come softly as we walk. It doesn't take much when you're chained like this. 

We near one of the buildings. A group of men are loitering by the door...more soldiers? The man holding the chain barks an order and magically a path opens; still, one of them grabs my ass as we pass by. I twist away, but stay quiet.

I hope Victoria is catching on. We're chattel now, property. As such, we need to protect our bodies from abuse, but not insult the abuser. A CELT who wiggles away from a stranger, for example, is doing the right thing; but one who screams at a man sticking his finger up her cunt is not. It's obvious that she knows none of this as she starts swearing at the men touching her. The chain jerks hard and a flurry of words are directed at the crowd. The touching stops instantly and we move on amidst smiles and barely stifled guffaws. 


Voyager: Seven Explores



Captain's Log, Stardate 50989.4: after a series of challenging misadventures, including our recent experience with the Borg, it has been a time of unusual quiet aboard Voyager. This sector of space is -- perhaps, mercifully -- devoid of bizarre phenomena and indigenous species. It has given us all a chance to relax and unwind; the crew has been in need of some downtime, and it's nice to be able to accommodate them for once. On a personal note, I am concerned for the well-being of our latest addition: Seven of Nine. Over the past few days, she has been less than her typically efficient self; she's becoming agitated, forgetful, even disorganised.

Her performance, however, remains in the realms of the acceptable, and I suppose a period of skittish behaviour would not be uncommon after what she has gone through in the last few weeks. All I can do is wait and watch, and hope that, if something is troubling her, she'll come to me or the Doctor for guidance.

Before she could complete her log entry, the door to Captain Kathryn Janeway's quarters chimed. The captain frowned, wondering who would be bothering her at this time of night. Alpha shift should've been soundly asleep, while beta shift kept things ticking over. Janeway set down the padd on the glass-topped coffee table, and tied a honey-coloured kimono around her waist; after straightening out her unruly mane of reddish hair, she felt presentable enough to deal with whomever it was. "Come!"

With a soft hiss of undulating servo-mechanisms, the door slid smoothly open and admitted Seven of Nine. The statuesque woman had been liberated from the Borg Collective around a month earlier, and Janeway and her crew had -- albeit grudgingly -- tried to turn her into one of their own. Apart from a few residual implants that the Doctor could not remove, as their functioning was vital to her well-being, she looked near-enough human. "Excuse me, Captain," she said falteringly, her eyes widening slightly at Janeway's attire. "I didn't realise you were regenerating. I shall return at a more convenient hour."

"That's all right," Janeway replied, holding up a hand to halt her departure. She smiled a little at Seven's misapprehension. Of course, she's been a Borg for so long, she wouldn't know the difference between sleep and regeneration. "Come in, sit down. What can I do for you?"

Clad in the metallic blue dermal coverings that the Doctor had fashioned to help heal the necrotic tissue of her skin -- the Borg, being partly cybernetic creatures, often neglected upkeep of their organic components -- every curve of her slender, flexible body was readily apparent, and when she sat, the tightening of the uniform put everything on display. Janeway couldn't help noting that Seven, apparently, went without undergarments of any sort. Well, naturally, the dermal bandages need to be in constant contact with her epidermis.

The younger woman looked uncomfortable, even tense. It wasn't like her to be quiet, especially when she had something to say; Seven was not the least bit recalcitrant, and would often argue her viewpoint long after the captain had made her decision. It was something that pleased and infuriated Janeway: she wanted the former drone to assert her individuality, but she also had to realise that she existed within a command structure. It was a difficult act to balance. The captain shook her head, trying to focus. "Well?"

Seven looked around the cabin; every detail was already familiar to her, as her photographic memory recorded everything that had ever happened to her. Including every scream of every individual I ever assimilated. Her mouth went dry. "It is a ... personal matter. It is not something I wish to inform the Doctor of, however, due to its sensitivity. As you are no doubt aware, my performance has been slipping as of late. I am unable to focus on my work as once I did, due to the influx of new thoughts and sensations since I was freed from the Collective."

Janeway nodded her understanding. Voyager's holographic doctor may have an extensive database of knowledge, but his bedside manner and overeager presence could sometimes have the exact opposite effect of what he intended. "What sort of ... thoughts and sensations?"

"While I was part of the Collective," Seven said, a scarlet shade reddened her cheeks, "certain biological aspects tend to go overlooked. They are irrelevant." That word, so typical of Borg communication, referred to anything that didn't involve the quest for assimilation and dominance over other species. "I am referring to sexuality."

An eyebrow rose slightly on Janeway's face, and for the sake of not embarrassing the former drone, she had to bury the wry grin threatening to break out on her lips. "Well, now that you're free of the Borg, I expect all manner of things you've previously thought irrelevant are suddenly, well, relevant. It can be quite confusing, but you know that I and the Doctor will help you in any way we can." The captain idly wondered: is that why she's here? Does she want my help with this problem?

Seven could've had her pick of the crew; with her ferocious intelligence, often acerbic sense of humour, to say nothing of her formidable good looks, men and women had often been found staring at her in the corridors. It wasn't that she was shy as such, but she simply had no idea how to go about procuring a mate.

"There are, uh, members of the crew who I know would be willing to help guide you in matters concerning intimacy," the captain was saying. "Lieutenant Jaris is an Argelian, and they're very open when it comes to sex. There's also Tom Paris, of course. Maybe the bad boy isn't your type, however," she added with a dry smile.

Looking hesitant, Seven of Nine's eyes drifted downwards, and she couldn't help noticing Janeway's strong, athletic legs. So many years spent dodging death in the Delta Quadrant had given her a lithe, powerful figure to go with the commanding attitude. "Frankly, Captain, I was hoping that my first experience would be with a female. My research suggests that they are more ... sympathetic to the desires of other females."

"Understandable," replied the captain. Seven wanted to feel safe, to be nurtured rather than pushed. "I'm sure there are, um, compatible women amongst the crew who would be happy to ..."

"I was hoping that you would provide the ... initial experience, Captain," Seven said, blurting the sentence out quickly before she had a chance to swallow the words and scurry away back to Cargo Bay 2.

A dumbstruck expression crossed the captain's face, and both her eyebrows shot skyward. Stupidly, all she could say was, "Really?"

Saying nothing, all Seven could do was shuffle miserably in her seat. She wasn't used to putting herself on the line like this, where her feelings were in danger, and she felt ... acutely chagrined by the whole situation; as a Borg, Seven was used to being in control of her body, being in control of maintaining its systems, but there was none of that now. She was a victim to random biological processes like every other human in the galaxy.

"That's, um," Janeway found herself lost for words for one of the few times in her life. "I'm very flattered, Seven, that you would consider me as a ... a mentor in this capacity."

"The distracting thoughts I have experienced-," Seven said, looking beyond the transparent aluminium window to a distant nebula. It gave the room a faint bluish glow that calmed her down somewhat. She realised she was zoning out and shook her head. "The distracting thoughts I mentioned earlier are ... fantasies, I believe. They involve members of the crew in various, um, narratives. Predominantly, they feature you." The blue tint wasn't hiding Seven's red one. "If this is inappropriate behaviour, I apologise. You have always encouraged me to come to you when dealing with difficult aspects of humanity, however."

Janeway sat down on the edge of her bed, scratching the back of her neck. "I'm glad you did," she said, smiling at the former Borg drone, putting her at her ease. "This is one of the more complex facets of human behaviour, and until you truly know what you want, I'd feel as though ... I were taking advantage."

"If you wish me to leave," Seven replied, trying not to sound hurt. She understood the captain's position, but couldn't help feeling a pang of rejection knot around her stomach. The former drone stood and made to leave.

"Stay!" Janeway said firmly, in the tone she often used on the bridge when she would brook no argument from anyone, even Seven. "Remove your clothes, please."

For just a second, Seven seemed reluctant, but her lips began to curl into a small smile. "Yes, Captain," she said, and her hands went for the clasp at the back of the uniform. Janeway watched her intently as she slipped out of the skin-tight outfit; her flesh was pale, and it still showed mottling from where Borg implants had once protruded, but it was looking a lot healthier than how Janeway had last seen it, and she was grateful that Seven was on her way to a full recovery.

So many people would throw away a fortune in latinum for one second of the sight I'm seeing right now before me, thought Janeway, not able to conceal a smirk. All thoughts about the impropriety of a captain taking advantage of a junior member of the crew were banished as the young woman stood fully naked before her. And what a sight it is.

For a start, her breasts were larger than they appeared; the bandages had obviously been stifling their true girth, and Janeway estimated that they were at least half a cup size bigger than she'd initially assumed. Her body was toned and fit, thanks to the Doctor's muscle-rebuilding concoctions that repaired the tendons ruined by the Borg's surgical techniques. Her legs were long and sinewy, and Janeway had no doubt that the former drone would best her in the academy marathon. Also, they could squeeze the life out of anyone foolish enough to get caught between them.

Janeway's eyes drifted to Seven's pubic region; either the hair there hadn't been regrown, or she kept it shaved, because it was completely bare and her pink lips gently protruded.

Seven swallowed loudly, refocusing Janeway's attention on her beautiful face. Funny how she'd never noticed before how her cobalt eyes glittered. Or was it an effect of the nebula? The eye on the right was a biogenic implant, she remembered, but it matched so perfectly with her organic eye it was impossible to tell. "Do you find me pleasing?"

"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life, Seven," Janeway replied. It was the only answer she could give: the young Borg woman was ... perfection. "Turn around and sit down here," she said, motioning to between her splayed legs on the bed.

Following the captain's instructions precisely, Seven positioned herself between Janeway's legs; she was still hunched over, however, looking tense. Janeway motioned herself forward slightly until the former drone's back was against the soft fabric of her robe. "You're more tense than a Melvaran cat afraid it's going to be stung by mud fleas." Slowly, Janeway began to rub Seven's shoulders, trying to ease the knot that gripped the younger woman like a vice. "Try and relax."

Soon, the rubbing began to have the desired effect; as if a live wire had been connected from her neck and shoulders to between her legs, Seven felt an unfamiliar electricity building inside her pelvis. The effect was only increased when she felt soft, moist lips on the nape of her neck. Seven shivered, feeling goosebumps forming on her newly-healed skin.

As Janeway's hands slid around her chest, encompassing her breasts, the former Borg drone sighed. "Does this feel good?"

"Pleasant," Seven said simply, and Janeway realised that Seven's sexual vocabulary was probably decidedly stunted. We'll have to work on that some day, I think. "Very pleasant."

Janeway's own vagina was beginning to get warm; she had her own needs, of course, but they had to go unfulfilled as there was no one that she could become intimate with without ruining the ship's command structure. Her own two hands had become her best friends in recent years. It contributed to a sense of urgency on her part, and she began to grope Seven's breasts harder, while teasing and caressing her nipples, excited by the way they hardened in response to her touch.

A moan escaped Seven's delicately-parted lips and Janeway was drawn to her mouth; the lips were pale, almost bloodless, but large and full, and a wet, pink tongue hung on them. The captain's hands trailed slowly downwards, stroking Seven's taut stomach, before alighting on her smooth, creamy thighs. Those muscular thighs that could collapse neutronium.

"Captain, this is," Seven began, but she didn't have the words to finish that sentence. "I am experiencing a degree of immanency, however."

"Patience," snapped the captain, reminding the younger woman just who was in charge of the situation here. "It doesn't pay to rush these things, you know."

"Sorry, Captain," the former Borg drone said contritely, and Janeway was quietly amused by the deadpan expression of mock dolour she conjured. "I will endeavour to restrain my-," was as far as she got for the captain had just slid one finger inside her tight, wet vagina. Before she had even gotten it all the way in, the former Borg drone's moans intensified and a torrent of milky liquid was unleashed. Her entire body went rigid, she pushed back against Janeway, and the captain could feel her finger being compressed by Seven's highly-developed muscles.

Eventually, the wave of euphoria subsided and Janeway retrieved her bruised finger, flexing it experimentally to ensure she had no need of the EMH's services.

All too soon, Seven of Nine was in control of herself; if she hadn't been naked, and her inner thighs hadn't been coated with fluids, she could've been simply attending to her daily tasks. "That was extremely pleasurable, Captain. You are injured?" she added with a trace of concern.

"Nothing," Janeway said as she held the former Borg drone's waist tenderly, content just to inhale the heady scent of her sweat and juices. "Did you like that?"

Seven nodded, scarcely able to accept that such pleasure was even possible; up until this point, she had thought that the harmonious voice of the Collective had been the pinnacle of organic bliss. It seems that she was mistaken in that assumption.

"Then," Janeway said mischievously, cutting into the former drone's thoughts, "I think you'll like this even more." Before Seven could ask, the captain had two fingers deep inside her damp vagina; with them thrusting in and out of her, she was already on the brink, but when Janeway began to use the index finger of her other hand to trace a lazy circle around her clitoris, it was that which pushed her over the cliff.

"Oh, my ...-," Seven said, feeling her entire vocabulary subprocessor giving up in its search to find a suitable word or expression to fit in this hitherto unknown realm of delight that she was experiencing. If the Borg Queen used these techniques, very few species would resist assimilation, she found herself thinking before her brain short-circuited.

Janeway held the young woman tight in her arms as the orgasm rocketed through her body; her skin, already drenched in sweat from before, felt like it was burning up. Every single muscle in her body was rigid, taut to the point of snapping, before softening as the pleasure coursed through her. For a long time afterwards, Seven was content just to quiver in the wake of the experience.

"So, Seven," said Janeway, nuzzling softly against the former Borg drone's ear. "How was it? Your first orgasm?"

"Very ..." It seemed as though she still couldn't find the right way to express herself, so she settled for gripping Janeway's hands and holding them around her stomach. "Pleasant. Extremely pleasurable."

"You've really never done anything like this before?" the captain asked, amazed. There was nothing more human than asserting one's sexuality, but then, she was assimilated so young, and she never even had the chance to experience the joys of growing into a beautiful young woman. A pang of sympathy flooded through her. Seven had been forced, with implants and surgery over an eighteen-year-period, into the person she was now.

"I have done some research on the computer on the sexual practices of various species, but they struck me as ... limited when attempted by oneself," explained Seven. "I think that this was the correct way to attack the problem," she added, squeezing Janeway's hand.

A long moment went by; they looked out the window, both finding the view of the nebula drifting by enchanting. Janeway imagined the beta shift team on the bridge running all sorts of scans on it; for one of the few times in her life, amazingly, she found that was glad that there were others to do the work she would normally want to do herself.

"Captain?" asked Seven, managing to turn herself around, despite being rather shaky after all the energy had been knocked out of her body. "Would it be appropriate to, um, reciprocate?"

"Yes, Seven," the captain replied, hoping that the former drone would not want to end their dalliance so soon. "That would be entirely appropriate." She stood up and untied the robe, letting it fall down her broad shoulders slowly; underneath, she had on a pair of silky white panties that were clammy from sweat and the moisture from Janeway's aroused vagina.

Seven of Nine had been expecting Janeway's body to be in shape, knowing that life in the Delta Quadrant had kept her physically active, but she knew the captain wasn't vain and hadn't expected it to be in quite the peak condition that it was. She was momentarily lost for words. "Captain," she said, biting her lower lip, "your breasts are wonderful."

It was Janeway's turn to blush and she felt her desire growing under the scrutiny from the former Borg drone. It had been a while since she had presented herself to someone in this way. "Thank you."

Hesitantly, Seven of Nine reached out to touch Janeway's firm breasts; once she felt the soft, yielding flesh, she felt more comfortable and began to squeeze them in the manner that the captain had done with her own earlier. "May I ...-," but rather than complete the question, she felt emboldened enough to lean down and take the aroused nipple in her mouth.

"Yes," the captain said, enjoying the attentions of Seven's delicate, perfect lips on her engorged nipple. "That's good. Just like that," she added breathily.

Seven's inexperienced hands explored her captain's body; her research had indicated that certain areas responded to different intensities of touch, but there was a difference between theory and practice, but she ploughed on gamely. She moved her hands down Janeway's sides, kneading the flesh of her hips, before gripping her firm, silk-clad behind and squeezing it; this elicited an audible gasp from the captain, followed by a sigh of gratification.

Janeway, for her part, was consumed by desire, need, lust. She tried to keep her legs straight, knowing that she only needed to lose focus for a moment to keel over, but when she felt something cool and metallic probing at her vagina, she could no longer trust herself to remain standing; the captain fell backward on to the bed, Seven deftly laying her out on the mattress in a movement that was swift, and more to the point, efficient.

The metallic object turned out to be the glove-like apparatus entwined in the flesh of Seven of Nine's right hand; it was part of the assimilation mechanism, and as it was an important part of the Borg nanoprobes' functioning, the Doctor had elected to leave it as part of her body. It made the fingers of her right hand about twice as thick, and despite the coldness of the metal, Janeway was curious as to how it would feel inside her.




Voyager: Seven Explores



With a deft tug, Seven pulled down Janeway's panties and exposed a tuft of red hair just above her vagina. The former Borg drone thought of her own pubic nakedness and wondered if it was a failing. The Doctor had only restored the hair on her head; either ignorant of, or too polite to mention, the hair on the rest of her body. If it was deemed important, she would see to its restoration in the fullness of time. Returning her thoughts to the present, Seven said, "I will now bring you to orgasm," while stroking the captain's tightly drawn thighs.

Her entire body trembling with anticipation, Janeway nodded, and felt her hands encircling the former drone's beck to bring her head closer. "Please."

"My, uh, research included methods of oral pleasuring, Captain, but I must point out that my lack of experience in these techniques may, um, inadvertently be the cause some deficiencies in the ..."

"Seven!" Janeway snapped, losing her patience with the Borg's meandering explanations and eager to get on with the business at hand. "Shut up and eat me."

The former Borg drone smiled, enjoying the sound of the captain's voice in all its authoritarian glory. "As you wish, Captain," she said with a touch of sardonic humour.

Kneeling on the bed between Janeway's legs, Seven first made a visual survey of the captain's vagina, comparing it to the many she had studied while preparing for this moment; it was, without a doubt, the most wondrous and beautiful example she had ever seen. Moistening her tongue, she swirled it over the captain's clitoris, sending tiny little shock waves through her body; Janeway's fingers entwined themselves in Seven's hair, pulling her close.

Thrusting her hips forward urgently alerted Seven to the captain's need, and she slid her tongue inside the dewy, sweet hole that she craved. The smell of sweat and vaginal fluids filled her nostrils, inflaming her ardour; she assailed the captain's vagina just as she had read, and any weaknesses in her technique were offset by her own enthusiasm and Janeway's passion.

With all the adeptness she had learned in her eighteen years as a Borg drone, Seven of Nine set to the task of bringing the captain's vagina to the heights of human felicificness with rigorous efficiency. If Janeway's moans and grunts were anything to go by, she was doing an adequate job. With her free hand, Seven reached under the captain's legs and clutched her behind, making her yelp in surprise; Seven was about to stop, but the captain shook her head, motioning for her to continue her ministrations.

Janeway's eyes were locked on the stars; they were streaking by as the ship went to warp, but they might as well have been just above her own head, so insensate was she thanks to the former Borg drone's attentions; she felt cool air tickling her pelvis, and her clitoris was being kneaded and teased between two fingers. "Very good, Seven," she whispered.

From her position between her legs, Seven looked up at the captain's face and saw it transfixed by the view out the window, a look of blissful contentment that made the former Borg drone's heart leap plastered on to it. "Are you about to orgasm, Captain?"

It was a distraction, but Janeway tried not to let her irritation show. It would only hurt Seven's feelings and, so far, she had done a sterling job. She just needed to learn to be in the moment more, that was all. "Yes, Seven. I'm about to come."

Nodding her understanding, Seven worked two fingers deep inside the captain's vagina and moved them in and out of her moist hole with studied care; it was competent, if a tad bereft of passion, but it got the job done. Janeway bucked, her body throbbing, and she thrashed in the sheets, grabbing great handfuls of the silky material as if afraid she would fall off the universe if she had nothing to hold on to.

With a final spasm that produced a trickle of fluid, Janeway's own orgasm began to subside. "Thank you, Seven," she said, gently pushing the younger woman away. "I believe that's enough for now," she added, drawing a deep breath and feeling the residual glow pulsate through her body.

Pushing a stray lock of her out of her eyeline, Seven cast a scrutinising glance over herself and her captain. "Was that adequate? I am prepared to make another attempt if my initial efforts were unsatisfactory."

Janeway silenced the former Borg drone with a passionate kiss; for a second, Seven tried to form more words, but soon, she surrendered to the kiss and let her captain explore her dainty mouth her strong, probing tongue.

When finally they broke for air, the captain said, "Yes, that was more than adequate. There are some things I still need to teach you, but we have plenty of time for them."

"What sort of things?" asked Seven, curiosity overwhelming her. She knew there was a whole welter of experiences for her to enjoy, but she wanted to know what the captain had in mind; she imagined, with her greater knowledge of human sexual practices, it would be far more stimulating than anything her meagre research could throw up.

Without a word, Janeway walked over to the Replicator; it was, perhaps, the single greatest piece of technology the Federation had ever designed. Once a pattern was stored in its buffer, it could be recreated using an equivalent quantity of matter stored deep in the ship's holding tanks. Food, clothing, weapons ... and more personal items were capable of being manufactured by it. "Computer, create item number six-five-two/four-seven from library three-five."

With a fizzle of light similar to that of a transporter beam, an object materialised in the Replicator alcove; it was reasonably flesh-coloured, although a bit off human normal. It was around six inches long, and was replete with veins and nodules to make it more realistic-looking, and was finished off with a harness designed to wrap around the waist.

Once Janeway had donned the object, fiddling for a moment with the unfamiliar design of the locking mechanism, she turned to Seven of Nine for her appraisal. "What do you think?"

Seven looked at the member, designed to imitate an average-length human penis. It was not, perhaps, the most attractive thing in the galaxy, but it didn't matter what it looked like, only who it was attached to. "I believe the correct response is: oh, you have a large penis."

The captain couldn't help laughing. "Human males do place unnecessary emphasis on the size of their genitals, yes, but that's not a problem here. If you think it is too big, given that you're still a virgin, I can replicate something smaller."

With an air of confidence, Seven replied, "I believe I can accommodate it easily, Captain." With a look that might've been seductive on someone more practised, she added, "Please, penetrate my vagina with your penis, Captain."

"Seven," Janeway said, placing a hand sternly on her hip, "you have to try and loosen-up a bit, not be so formal. This is supposed to be a pleasurable activity and you make it feel like a medical exam. Also, the name's Kathryn."

The former Borg drone frowned, thinking for a moment; she recalled the various words and phrases that had peppered the various articles on human sexuality she had perused, and several had stood out simply due to repetition. "Kathryn, will you fuck me with your big, hard cock?"

With a grin, Janeway nodded, almost giggling at the innocent-yet-devious expression on Seven's face. It would still be some time before the young woman was fully comfortable with these kinds of encounters, but she was making rapid progress.

Seven sat on the bed, sliding herself upwards until she was almost at the headrest, then lay down and spread her long, flexed legs as wide as possible. "This is the, ah, typical posture, is it not?"

"Yes, I suppose it is, at that," Janeway replied with a frown, "but," she grabbed the former drone's hip and motioned for her to roll over, "I prefer this method."

The younger woman turned so that she was now lying on her stomach, with her feet firmly planted on the floor. "Ah, yes," she murmured. "This position is often used when one wishes to assert dominance over-," she suddenly barked out a guttural roar as something thick rammed inside her.

Captain Janeway hadn't had much call to use a strap-on in the last few years; the last time had been on her previous ship, the Al-Batani, where she had struck up a friendship with a beautiful Orion lieutenant. One time, when they had been trapped inside a proto-nebula, they had spent the three days finding creative new ways to pleasure each other until the gravimetric forces softened enough for them to escape. Still, she wasn't finding it nearly as difficult to get to grips with the implement as she'd imagined.

"Is this pleasurable for you, too, Captain?" Seven asked, panting as each thrust opened her up even more. There was a small amount of pain involved, but she was Borg, and she would adapt. The pleasure more than outweighed any discomfort. "I wish for you to experience the maximum enjoyment possible. You are, uh, quite skilled at this form of coitus."

"I'm just fine," the captain replied, feeling a little of what Seven herself was currently enjoying. There was a small nub in the base of the shaft that ground her clitoris on each stroke, and it was sending delectable tingles through her pelvis. Listening to Seven's delicious little moans were making her nipples hard; one hand idly traced the distended bud, while the other groped the former drone's bottom.

On impulse, she delivered a short, firm smack to Seven's behind; the drone looked over her shoulder at her, her face a mask of heartache. "Have I displeased you in some way, Captain?" she asked with perfect schoolgirl innocence.

For a moment, Janeway thought that Seven wasn't acting, but when she saw the trace of a smile tugging at the edges of her beautiful lips, she realised that the former drone was playing along. The captain spanked her again, calling her a a naughty cockslut and a depraved little Borg whore.

After a few minutes of brutal pounding, Seven looked over her shoulder again, red and out of breath. "Cap- Kathryn, would it be possible for me to, ah, be on top? That is to say ... I would like to ride your cock."

"Well, how could I deny a request like that?" Janeway asked with a grin. She carefully extracted the shaft from Seven's oozing vagina, then lay down on the bed with her member thrust proudly upwards. It was slick and shiny with juices. "By all means, make yourself comfortable."

With a smile, Seven worked herself into position, her amazingly long legs curled on either side of Janeway's hips, and with her hands placed on the captain's shoulders, she slowly lowered herself on to the glistening shaft. Seven licked her lips then bit them as she felt it enter her, disappearing deeper inside her than Janeway had managed to get it with her own efforts. "Once I find the correct rhythm," she said, rocking back and forth experimentally, "this ought to be enjoyable for both."

Janeway's moans of approval told her that she was doing something right, even if she was entirely unused to taking matters into her own hands in this way. Seven began to pick up the pace, moving up and down quicker, veritably hammering the nub into the captain's clitoris; they were both breathing as one, juices running down their thighs.

The captain began to thrust her hips forcefully, meeting each motion of Seven's; she grabbed the former drone's ample breasts, and Seven leaned forward to allow her a better grip. A soft gasp escaped her as she felt her nipples being pinched between Janeway's strong fingers.

"This is ... this is amazing, Kathryn," Seven muttered, somehow able to speak between breaths. "Being in control like this, feeling every vein of the shaft inside me, touching my insides ... I mean, having your hard cock in my pussy is unbelievable. I feel like my body is on fire."

Seven writhed again, the double assault on her already sensitive vagina and nipples was sending sparks of excitement through her, and she knew that she was about to orgasm again. The former Borg drone reared back, and with a final hard thrust, felt herself go rigid; everything had gone curiously quiet, even though she felt she should be screaming.

Once returned to her senses -- all too soon, she thought, with an annoyed expression crossing her face -- she saw that Janeway was lost in her own ecstasy. The bed was soaked through with their combined fluids, and during the commotion, the shaft of the strap-on had slipped free and fell to the floor.

"Captain," Seven said, her voice cool and composed as if she were reading a daily status report from a padd, "I trust you have achieved orgasm?"

"Yes, Seven," Janeway replied tiredly, too worn-out to correct the former Borg drone. "I believe that this was one of the most intense sexual experiences of my life. One that I would like to repeat some day, if you are willing."

"Indeed," Seven nodded. "This has been most educational," she added with an ironic grin. "And stimulating, too, of course. After some rest, I should think that I'll be ready for more training."

After bidding each other good night, Seven quickly dressed and returned to Cargo Bay 2 in order to regenerate; Janeway, too, had some recuperating to do, but she couldn't sleep without first making some plans. There was a lot Seven of Nine still had to learn about her humanity, particularly about sexual matters, and she would see to it that her friend would get the best tutelage possible.



Voyager



My arrogant walk is in stark contrast to the other girls we pass. The Asian and Latin women all are all bare breasted and collared, with a red sash around their hips. They all look docile and subservient--cowed. The black girls are all dressed in a tiny white loincloth that barely covers their hard round asses. They are all hobbled with short chains at their knees and elbows. They all look dangerous and surly. Stereotypes! Amazingly, everyone here has been forced into a particular stereotype. The white girls, who all seem to be tall, thin, and athletic, either wear the leathers or are nude. They are all on a leash like me or part of a coffle accompanied by a guard. It's as if the white girls are valuable, while the non-whites are not.

The psychological impact of being clothed is also amazing; it's impossible to walk past a half naked girl, white, yellow, or black, and not feel superior. I wonder if the people who run this place purposely cultivate racism as a way to keep the CELTs divided.

We enter the anteroom of an important looking office. The faggot checks with a male secretary then leaves after chaining me to a wall ring. I glance back at the man who is clearly appraising me out of the corner of his eye. In a few minutes, the door opens and the tall man walks out.

"Please come in, Jesse," he said pleasantly as he unhooks me from the wall. Fucking hypocrite; just a few hours ago he was torturing me, now he's being sociable. I want to smash his smug Russian face into the wall, but instead just follow him inside and stand respectfully until he points to the chair. The desk is empty except for a clipboard which is positioned in the exact center.

"My name is Grigoriy Yelena Nemov," he begins. "You can call me Mr. Nemov." "For all practical purposes, I am your contract owner." He speaks slowly and clearly as if I am a little slow. "Your formal owner is a Russian holding company called RDE, Ltd. which you've probably never heard of; it's incorporated in Switzerland." "First, let me remind you that you have the right to protest your treatment here at any time as per our agreement. Our staff understands this and all you need to do is say the word 'protest' and you will immediately be taken to a telephone." I nod, but stay silent. This is obviously the party line; I want to hear the kicker before reacting.

"Contract girls who protest their treatment here are segregated from the others until the issue is resolved. If the protest leads to your repatriation back into..." he consults the papers in front of him, "the U.S., our policy is to immediately stop all contract payments and sue you for any payments already made. Do you understand?"

I nod again. So far, this is standard procedure.

"Good. Let me explain about this place. You are now in Russian Kurdistan in a private mountain resort called Turkslaw. It covers about 1,500 square kilometers. RDE uses it to entertain corporate guests; we can accommodate 100. They usually stay about one week, although there are some exceptions." He looked bothered that there were exceptions. "A unit of 100 mountain troops guards the perimeter under special arrangement with the government." He pauses and leans back in his chair. "Senior Lieutenant Kuznetsova works for me under this contract with the Army."

"The primary activity for the guests is the hunt which I will explain in a moment. However, we also offer horseback riding, a small casino, a musical group, dancing, a pool, and a spa. Our restaurant is rated four star." He pauses again.

"We also maintain some 200 CELTs to entertain our guests. They are divided into four groups: Jägers, runners, entertainers, and servers." I start to fidget. He looks at me with a hard stare. "You would do well, Jesse, to listen very closely." I lower my eyes respectfully. What an asshole!

He continues, "Jäger, which means hunter, are girls who have proven themselves to be of superior intelligence, physical ability, and resourcefulness. They live in private rooms and have the right to use any of the resort's facilities. They may engage in social interaction with the guests at their own discretion. Typically, they are not disciplined." Sounds good! Where do I sign up?

"The Jäger retain their status by capturing runners. Runners are girls who volunteer to 'escape' into the surrounding woods. They are hunted by guests, who are mounted on horseback...like your game of hide-and-seek." He stops and smiles. "A runner who evades capture twice is invited into the Jäger ranks. Runners who are unable to evade capture are punished as part of a show for our guests. Runners live in two-person rooms which are quite nice; they sometimes serve the guests, but only in exceptional circumstances; and they are disciplined. They may not use any of the resorts facilities except the exercise and training facilities." He stops again for emphasis.

"I hope you will become a runner, Jesse." He stares at me for a few unnerving seconds. I get the distinct impression that this is the way he gives orders.

"Entertainers act as escorts for the guests. When not assigned to a guest, they are locked in two-person cages. Entertainers are disciplined in the same way that any CELT is disciplined. You might find that we are somewhat more demanding here at Turkslaw, but we strive for perfection."

"Servers are girls from the lower races," he explains. ...the lower races! I'd heard that Russians were racists, but I'd never met anyone so open about it. "They serve the guests, but not as escorts, although again we sometimes make exceptions." Again, it sounds as if he is offended by "exceptions."

This guy is a psychiatrist's wet dream--a real head case. "Servers live in rooms which are separated by race." He looks up and smiles. "We don't mix races here." "Do you understand me so far? I know that you are educated and intelligent, but if you need any of this repeated, I'll be happy to do so." The contradiction is unnerving. He knows I'm intelligent, yet he is treating me as if I were retarded. For a second, I wonder if this is Russian sarcastic then discard the idea. Sarcasm requires subtlety.

"No thank you," I mumble softly.

"Yes, we know your background--family, educational achievements, athletic activities, CELT assignments--we also know that you have had pony-girl training, where you did quite well." They researched my background...through my lawyer? Isn't he supposed to keep that information confidential? I'll kill that fucking bastard!

"We were quite impressed with your pony-girl training; it should give you a clear advantage as a runner." It appears that my decision to be a runner has already been made.

"Any questions ...any at all?" again he uses the same insulting tone.

"Yes, I have a question." I keep my voice as level as possible. "I thought my contract was being purchased by an individual, not a corporation. I'm not sure that I want to be part of a...resort." My tone is polite.

He looks at me like I was an insect. "I'm sorry for the confusion, but our offer was explained very clearly to your lawyer and written into our agreement. As I said, however," he is speaking very slowly now, "you have the right to protest at any time, even now." He continues to stare at me. It's intimidating. It is very unlikely that the Court will be sympathetic to your confusion. We were very careful given the amount of your contract--$525,000.

$525,000! I'm confused for a second, then all the pieces fall into place. My fucking lawyer took a $75,000 commission from RDE and a 10% commission from me...a neat $120,000. No wonder he didn't insist that I study the contract's details.

"Also," Nemov continues, "the average stay in the holding cages, which are quite small, is about four months."

"Four months!" I blurt out before I can control myself. "Why?" I demand.

Nemov remains quiet and stares at me warningly.

I immediately realize the danger, "Please excuse me, Mr Nemov." I wait until the red flush goes out of his face then continue. "May I ask why it takes so long to process a protest?"

"We are perfectly within our rights," he replies evenly. "Girls who protest are not required to work, nor are they disciplined. Instead they are given food and shelter free of charge. We are not responsible for the length of time it takes the wheels of justice to turn in this country." This is fucking blackmail and entirely illegal! I can feel my temper flaring and work desperately to control myself. The right to protest is fundamental to every CELT arrangement. It's what makes it a consensual "contract" between parties, rather than an act of illegal imprisonment. I resist the urge to bolt out the door and just keep running.

With a superhuman effort I get my emotions under control and begin to think. What are my options? Given the remoteness of this place, escape seems unlikely. I'm not going to voluntarily spend four months in a "holding" cage; the flight over here was bad enough. Maybe they would let me call my lawyer? No...he's not going to give back a $120,000 commission without a fight; he'll let this drag on forever. And no other lawyer will challenge him based on a phone call from someone in Russia. Maybe I can call the Russian police or a Russian lawyer? That path sounds silly, even to me. The bribes needed to keep this place running must be enormous. I wouldn't stand a chance. Not only that, but what's my actual complaint? RDE's $75,000 was probably paid legally. Clearly, it was clearly my responsibility to check contract details. And so what if I'm held in a cage while my protest is being processed; does the law specify the size of a protester's accommodations?

As I realized last night, I'm fucked!

"Would you like to protest?" he asks, clearly annoyed. It's infuriating how correct he is. I have the feeling that this was how the Nazis operated--

completely in accordance with "the legal rules."

I continue looking at the ground and answer, "No," feeling royally screwed. I'll just bide my time for now.

He waits.

"No, Mr Nemov, thank you." This guy is dangerous, maybe even psychotic.

"Good," he declares, satisfied. "I will list you as a runner."

It wasn't really a question, but I nod again. I know I can compete with the other girls.

"Excellent," he says, his mood instantly improved. "I will have you moved into the runner's quarters and assign you a mentor. She can start your orientation this afternoon. Remember, if you would like to protest or to be listed as an entertainer, just let your guards know."

I nod again, astonished. He wants me to agree to the illusion that everything's okay! Amazing, but maybe I can use this moment-of-reconciliation to my advantage.

"May I choose my roommate as a runner, Mr. Nemov?" I ask in my most subordinate voice. He stares at me again for a few seconds and then smiles.

"Why not," he replies; "as long as it's another runner, why not?"

"It's Victoria, the girl I was transported with from New York," I say. He smiles and nods his head.

"Victoria. Yes, a beautiful girl." I imagine him standing over her naked quivering body.

"I will see to it." Thank you for your time, Jesse, and again, welcome to Turkslaw. A guard is outside to take you to your new home." Incredibly, the bastard holds out his hand. I look at it and walk away. Maybe I don't have any contract options, but I can still choose my friends.

++++++++++++

           Victoria

The runner's cells are rustic, but nice. I relax for the first time in days. Nemov is a bastard, but it's my reactions to him that are the most worrying. Why am I so resistant...so filled with violence? I'm a CELT for crying out loud. Despite my recent stupidity, I know what to expect. Turkslaw might be extreme, but it still operates within the law.

The truth is that despite the pain and the humiliation, I want this life. Men are animals with primal, sadistic urges and frankly it's exciting to play with them, to poke at the tiger. Men also have a huge capability for love. It's this balance that makes being a CELT an adventure.

When this capability for love is absent, as I suspect it is with Nemov, everything is thrown out-of-balance. This is the problem.

Maybe my time with Howard was the anomaly; maybe this out-of-balance condition is the norm. The thought is profoundly depressing and...

The door opens and Victoria steps into the room. I roll out of bed and hold out my hand, "Jesse!"

Her return grip is strong, "Victoria," she says. "Tory, if you like." I look at her for a long moment and then pull her to me. We hug, hard. We've gone through a lot together in the last few days; a handshake seems...inadequate.

She clings to me for a long time, so long in fact that I begin to feel uncomfortable. I move to break it off. She tightens her grip. I can feel her body trembling. Poor kid, it's obvious that she's been holding it together with sheer courage. I lead her to the bed and try to calm her down. She needs a friend. Who wouldn't after what she's been through?

"Are you okay?" I ask, wiping away her tears. "That was pretty rough last night, especially after getting shocked on the plane." Her tears start flowing all over again. Dumb! She doesn't need to be reminded of this stuff right now. It's obvious that she's teetering on the edge. Fucking idiots, don't they know that she's new and fragile? All they can see is luscious, fresh meat. I bend over and kiss her softly on the lips. It's a friendship kiss, but she doesn't take it that way. She pushes her mouth into mine and French-kisses me in a way that is way beyond friendship. Her reactions are borne of desperation; it's as if I am the last person on earth. Maybe I am...for her. I just don't have the heart to push her away even as our bodies come together onto the narrow cot. "I'm not a lesbian, Tory," I whisper to her as gently as I can.

"Neither am I," she replies with equal softness. "Please, just hold me."

"You're just in shock. This place is a disaster. We both just need someone to talk to..."

"Yes," she says then pushes her tongue into my ear and kisses me on the neck.

I weaken and then finally give up. What's the problem? We can both use some TLC right now. I start playing with her long hair; it's a mane really, the color and luster of a silver cup. "I though you might protest today," I say, half-statement, half-question.

"I did," she answers slowly, "then they showed me the holding cages. You wouldn't believe it, Jess. They're tiny things like you would use for a small dog." She starts to cry again. "The girls can't move; they live in their own waste until the guard feels like washing them down. One's been caged for eight weeks...she thinks. It was horrible." She resumes the kissing.

"It takes time," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Making a protest is only the first step. Their lawyer needs to petition the court for emancipation. With fees on the line, they won't take any short-cuts." I was trying to give her this information as gently as possible. "This is the problem with an international assignment."

"At least they let me withdraw my protest." She was beginning to calm down. "Mr. Nemov said that normally once someone protests, they are required to follow procedure, but in my case, he would make an exception." I think about Nemov's pathological aversion to exceptions. I'm sure, Tory, it has nothing to do with your Virginia-Secret body! She starts to cry softly again. "What kind of a place is this, Jess?" I stroke her hair.

"It's a resort where men to indulge their sexual fantasies," I answer. "I've read about them. They're controversial, primarily because many don't follow the recommended international standards for CELT monitoring, but strictly speaking, they're legal. That's why there's already been so much bondage and discipline for us. They're conditioning us." I can feel her legs pressing into my crotch. "Even the holding cages you saw are technically legal. The boilerplate in our contracts says that a protesting CELT may be confined in 'minimal' conditions until the court or an arbitrator makes a ruling. 'Minimal' conditions can mean anything."

"How did you end up here, anyway?" I ask.

"I broke up with my boyfriend and then flunked out of school. I was embarrassed and didn't want to face people anymore. A CELT contract seemed like a good way to get away from it all. You know, like the foreign legion." She looked at me and flashed an embarrassed smiled.

"You don't need the money?" I ask dumbfounded. She shakes her head. "Oh, Tory," I feel incredibly sorry for her. "You have just made the biggest mistake of your life."

"I'm beginning to understand that," she says. "That ride on the plane and the craziness when we arrived; it's like something out of a Marquis de Sade nightmare..." She stops and whispers, "My asshole still hurts." I stay quiet, afraid that what happened last night is just the beginning. "I'm glad you agreed to be a runner," I say, changing the subject. "Are you fast?"

"Like the wind," she says with a lighter tone. I can feel the tension draining out of her body. Her leg continues to push its way between mine. I truly had no interest in women, but this was different. We were adrift on a raging sea in the black of night; holding each other felt right.

She rolls to her stomach and I untie her vest. I run my hand over the red stripes on her back. Her marks turn me on and unconsciously I work my hand into her leather pants; then push them off her hips. She frees her legs and moves onto her back. I begin to rub her breasts, kissing her hard nipples, saving her cunt for later.

"You know Tory," I say. "You looked incredibly beautiful last night on the spit."

"The spit?" she asks, half listening.

"Yes, that's what I call it, that thing with the dildos."

"Yes, it was a horror..." She's losing interest in conversation. I gently push my finger into her hole; it's soaking wet! At the same time, I bite down hard on her nipple. She moans and her hips gyrate in response, I bite even harder. She moans again. I can't tell if it's in pain or excitement. It doesn't matter; I'm into it now and grab her other breast hard; I hear her breathing hard then start to spasm. Her orgasm is quick, violent; I feel the tiny stream of a woman's ejaculation on my fingers.

After a while she says, "You made me squirt." Her voice is deeper. "I never squirt!" Then she pushes me down and buries her face in my crotch. There is no nipple biting, but her long tongue reams and sucks both holes with enthusiasm. My climax is deliciously long and deep.

I don't know much about Lesbian sex, but as I lay in her arms I realize that she is submissive; she doesn't use pain. I nearly bit her nipples off and the worst she did to me was suck hard on my clit. Does that make me "the man" here? I shudder at the image.

Whatever...at this moment, I feel incredibly protective towards her. That's not good; emotional attachments can be painful for a CELT. What really bothers me, though, is that Tory is going to miss the good stuff in this place. Turkslaw is about pain, and pain without intelligence, without intimacy, without love--Nemov's pain--is simply that, pain.

++++++++++++

           Marina

The next afternoon our Jäger mentor pays us a visit. She looks quite fit.

"Jesse?" she asks.

"Yes," I answer, offering my hand. Tory does the same.

"Marina. I am happy to meet you," Her hand is hard like a man's. "I have been asked to provide orientation and instruction." As she speaks, she looks directly into my eyes with a piercing gaze that is disconcerting, bordering on rude. Her English is heavily accented. "Thanks," I reply. "We're all yours." Marina is dressed like us except that she wears boots and has no collar or cuffs. Tory and I are barefooted.

"Come." She leads us off the porch into the sunlight. "I am a Jäger. It means hunter." She looks back and smiles disarmingly, "You are rabbit-runners, our prey." Somehow, despite the smile, the words are menacing. I smile back, trying not to look bothered.




Voyager



She maintains a steady monologue as we walk, pointing out the CELT living area, the barn, the dining room, the entertainment hall, the guest quarters, the pool... The men around the pool are almost all older, prosperous, and powerful-looking. The women are all young, long-legged, and beautiful. Suddenly, I feel stupid again. This place is little more than a brothel. Being one rich man's CELT is interesting and sophisticated--it even has social standing in some circles--but here, here I am just another...what, corporate escort?

"Who are these women?" I ask.

"They are entertainers," Marina answers, then adds softly, "They are nothing...whores...pigs." I glance over at Tory, cautioning her to say quiet. No sense getting into an argument now. It's obvious that the class structure around here is ironclad; this kind of talk is accepted, perhaps even expected.

"Those are the mountains we hunt in," she points north to the woods. They look quite rugged. The road leading into the valley is now visible. It seems to be lined with...crosses.

"Are those crosses?" I ask, confused.

"Yes. Runners who fail are caught are hung on the crosses. It's a kind of Roman spectacle for the guests. They can walk among them or watch from their balconies as the sun sets," she explains, literally without blinking an eyelash.

"Hung on crosses..." My voice is a little unsteady. "You mean crucified?"

"Yes," she says. "It's the tradition. It's only..." she searches for the right English words, "a play act..."

A play act... "You mean it's simulated?" I ask.

"Yes, simulated. No one is ever really hurt. It's just for show." It's clear that she doesn't want to linger on this subject.

A show like that does sound interesting. I guess if no one really gets hurt, where's the harm? It's a little extreme of course, but today people are more open about the things they found stimulating. A hundred years ago, no one would have dared walk a beautiful girl on a leash. Nowadays, it's common, trendy. Models vie to make the most daring and risqué fashion statements. Still, subtlety is important, but maybe it doesn't matter in a place like this.

Marina turns into the guest quarters. Tory and I follow. It is a large building with a spacious lobby. It feels like an expensive hunting lodge. A service desk stands on one side; a bar-lounge on the other. In the middle is a wooden platform, a stage, raised up about a foot off the ground.

Three naked girls are tied on the platform. For a few seconds, my mind refuses to accept this bizarre image of public bondage and pain.

Marina walks over. "These are lobby decoration--girls who are being punished." The nearest wears six-inch punishment heels which are chained to a floor ring. She's bent over at the waist and her wrists are chained to the same ring. Ropes around her neck and crotch are tied to an overhead beam. They ensure that any rest comes with extreme pain. She stares at us, her muscles trembling.

"What did she do?" Tory asks in shock.

"Let's see." Marina lifts a small white card off the platform and reads, "Flora ...London ...She displeased a guest ...She's to be whipped at 6: 15 ...thirty-five lashes." She returns the card. "You can come back and watch if you want." Out of the corner of my eye I see Tory about to respond. Again, I signal her to stay quiet.

"That's a common offense," Marina says casually. "Girls are tied here in mid-afternoon so that their pain peaks during the cocktail hour, when they get their punishment. This one will be in agony by then; an interesting display for the guests...no?"

I nod. "Yes, interesting." CELTs are punished of course, but usually not in public. It's just considered bad taste.

Marina walks to the next "display." A gorgeous redhead is on a spit just as we had been the day before. Her hamstrings and calf muscles are straining to take the pressure off her ass. Heavy weights and bells have been clipped to her nipples. "This pig will be ringing her bells quite vigorously by the cocktail hour," Marina jokes.

The last girl is squatting on her toes with her outstretched arms belted tightly to a horizontal beam. Her ankles are strapped to her thighs and her knees are pulled to the side and tied to the beam, preventing her from taking weight off her bare feet. A ball gag is strapped deep in her mouth and she is drooling profusely. Her piteous eyes follow me as I walk to her front.

"This one won't last another two hours," I say to Marina.

"Yes," she replies, "she'll need to be repositioned. She's the current..." she thinks about the word, "...centerpiece. "The idea is to always have one pig in extreme pain. This way, whenever guests visit the lobby, something interesting is happening." She takes a bamboo rod from atop the beam and strikes the girl hard on her nipples. Her eyes widened and she wails into the gag. "A guest or one of the guards will animate them every few minutes," she explains. It's more interesting, no?" I watch as the girl tries to absorb the pain. Her eyes roll back and blink rapidly; she's on the verge of passing out. A guard walks over and says something to Marina in Russian. Obviously annoyed, she gives him a sharp reply and then turns her back. The guard is pissed, but he just begins to reposition the nearly unconscious girl. I get the impression that this is standard behavior for the haughty Jäger.

She walks to the back of the lobby. Half-a-dozen naked girls are chained to the wall with their wrists above their heads. She walks over to one and runs a finger between her cunt lips. "Wet," she announces, licking her finger. "She'll go fast." Marina pushes her finger back inside and the girl dances around a little on her toes. Annoyed, she grabs a nipple. The girl gasps, but says nothing. "These are the overnighters for the guests. Any pig not selected by a guest is available for the Jäger after 9: 00 p.m. This one will lick a Jäger's cunt and ass all night to avoid being whipped." The girl puts on a seductive pout and tilts her head. "I like that sometimes," she smiles and twists harder. "It makes for interesting dreams."

Tory and I look at each other.

A man in a golf shirt appears and starts touching the girls' breasts. Marina releases the nipple and steps back respectfully. The man nods and squeezes the girl's breast as if kneading dough. It's disgusting. This is not going to happen to me!

He turns and stands in front of Tory, undressing her with his eyes. I can feel my temper flaring, but just stand by with my head bowed. Marina's smirking.

"I hope you can run very fast," she says to Tory as we walk outside. This is the first time she has spoken to her directly. Tory is confused, but the meaning is crystal clear to me--as an entertainer, Tory will be hard-fucked and disciplined every night. She's simply too beautiful for a place like this. Men will be on her like a pack of wild dogs.

Marina leads us back to the runners' cells. "The hunt is in two days," she says. "Tomorrow, I'll explain the rules and give you some advice. I assume you want to be Jäger." She is looking only at me. Apparently, Tory has already been written off. I give an indefinite nod and she walks away.

"Charming," Tory whispers over my shoulder. I look back and smile. The image of the girl suffering on the bar comes into my mind. "We need a life raft, Tory, and the Jäger is the only one around," I say softly, watching Marina swagger away. "No sense crying over the stupidity that got us here; we need to survive."

Tory wraps her arms around my back, cupping my breasts. "Let's go to bed, Lover," she says, sticking her tongue into my ear. I don't argue. 

++++++++++++

           The Hunt

The black sky turns orange as we wait for the sun. We are naked; that's the tradition here, girls run naked in the hunt. I'm used to it, but I wonder how well our soft skin will fare in the forest. Some of the runners start to stretch. I elbow Tory and we followed suit. The girl is athletic and physically strong, but does she have the stamina? We'll soon find out.

A few guests watch from their balconies, drinking coffee and smoking. I assume they all have companions in their rooms, but only two or three women are visible at this ungodly hour. They are probably curious Russian whores. It seems incredible to me with all the CELT beauties around that a man would bring his personal whore or mistress to this place, but there is no telling for taste.

Nemov walks into the middle of the runners and holds up his hand. "When the sun hits the valley floor, you may start running. The rules are simple: you will have a one hour head start; you must evade capture until Noon; there will be no violence. I should also warn the new girls that the Jäger use dogs, so hiding under a rock probably won't do you much good." He pauses as if waiting for a laugh.

"Anyone who evades capture twice will be invited to join the Jäger." He points to a very tough looking group of maybe ten girls, including Marina, who stand nearby. Each is dressed in the standard leathers and boots with a long whip tied at the waist. "Runners who are captured are punished symbolically in the afternoon." He pauses and looks at us hard.

"Is there any runner who would like to withdraw?" I have the impression that this is a pro forma question being asked on-advice-of-counsel and that anyone taking the offer will be very sorry.

"Excellent," he declares after a moment of silence. As if on cue, the first ray of sunlight peaks over the mountain. "Let the race begin!"

The other runners bolt down the road. I grab Tory's arm; I want to see where they're headed. "Your only chance is to cross the valley and make it to the tree line on the other side." It's Nemov. "If you get there, you'll need a plan of some kind. Perhaps you should use your time crossing the valley to think of one." It's clear from his mocking tone that he doesn't think we have any chance.

"May I ask a question Mr. Nemov?" I ask politely.

"Certainly Jesse, that's what I'm here for," He replies.

"When are the Jäger released?"

"Good question." He looks at me with slightly more respect. "As I said, the guests will give chase first in one hour. They are mounted on horseback and accompanied by the dogs. One hour after that the guests are asked to pull back to the tree line and the Jäger are released. The Jäger take control of the dogs."

"Thank you." I turn to Tory, "Let's go." We set off at a good pace. The other girls have maybe half a mile on us, but we manage to close by the time they reach the tree line. As I guessed, Tory is in superb shape and runs as if she is training for a marathon.

"Do you trust me, Tory?" I ask when we reach the trees. She smiles and nods. "Okay, then listen. Let's circle the mountain at the timberline until we find a stream then you go upstream. I'll cross the stream and run farther on in the same line. At the right time, I'll double back and hide with you upstream."

She looks at me for a few seconds. "That's a good plan Jess, except I think I can run farther than you for half-an-hour."

I looked at her surprised. She's right of course; she understands that once we find the stream the critical element is distance. Too short a run and they will be on us right away; too long, and they will intercept the runner as she doubles back. Neither the guests nor the Jäger are stupid, they will realize that they have been fooled as soon as the trail stops. "OK, I agree," I kiss her fast and hard on the mouth then start racing through the woods. She follows.

We discover the first stream within a mile, but it's no good. "Too shallow..." She nods and we continue on to the next. "This is okay," I say, I'm tiring and breathing hard; Tory looks fresh, as if she just came out of the shower. She nods, kisses me again, and runs into the forest like a deer. I'm beginning to enjoy these kisses and for a fleeting second think about Lesbian lovers. I'd miss cock of course...

I smile again. No time for this now. I start moving upstream, looking for someplace to hide two bodies. The mounted guests and their dogs will be here soon; we need to hide. I pray that Tory doesn't cut it too close.

About two kilometers upstream, I find an ideal overhang. It will hide us from all but a determined foot search down the middle of the stream. I don't think the quests are going to go to that much trouble, but I'm not so sure about the Jäger. It doesn't matter though, we're out of time.

I tuck myself inside the hole and wait. In a few minutes, I hear a gentle splash and see Tory moving carefully upstream. I call out softly and she wiggles inside the hole, nestling her nude body into my outstretched arms. Despite the dampness and the desperate situation, we laugh like two Catholic schoolgirls hiding from Sister Perpetua.

In a while, we hear horse hooves; we hold our breath, but don't see anything. In the distance, I hear dogs braying; another girl captured. I'm sorry for them, but happy that we are safe. It's a game...I've nearly forgotten the crosses.

In a few minutes, I see someone walking up the middle of the stream. I pull Tory inside and wiggle farther into the mud. It's one of the Jäger. She passes by without noticing. I can feel bugs crawling on my back and into my hair.

"Let's take a look," I whisper when I'm sure the Jäger is out of sight. We step out into the sunlight and look around...no one in sight. Quietly, we clean ourselves in the stream. I keep looking upstream in case the Jäger decides to retrace her steps. Why would she do that? She's already searched this ground.

Suddenly, something bites me on the leg and I fall head first into the stream. I can't...move my legs. What's wrong? The panic is instantaneous and overwhelming! I desperately need to breathe, but can't get to the air. I take water into my lungs. The next moment, I'm lying on the grass, coughing. I still can't move my legs, but now my arms are also paralyzed.

Slowly, I realize that hands are chained and that my legs are encircled by some kind of whip. I turn my head painfully. Tory is lying next to me. Marina and another Jäger are standing by the stream talking. Another girl walks out of the stream, looks over at us and smiles.

How stupid of me; one girl walks the stream to draw out dumb rabbits, trailed by two others walking along the banks. I feel like an idiot.

The two Jäger walk over and release our legs, tying their whips to their waists. One cuts a branch and uses it as a switch to move us downhill. I look over at Tory; she has the frightened look of a deer caught in the headlights. When we get to the road that circles the mountain, they make us sit and wait. Soon a wagon pulled by two horses appears and we're ordered to stand. The wagon has no sides, just an overhead center beam supported by wooden tripods at each end. As it gets closer, I spot two bare chested men sitting in the front. Half a dozen runners are standing, chained to the overhead beam. I looked at Tory and smile encouragement that I don't feel. She smiles back, but it's clear that she's frightened to death.

The men jump down and lift us into the wagon, chaining our arms over the rail. There's no unnecessary groping--a bad sign; they're all business. My nipples push into Tory's back as we are moved forward on the beam. The wagon makes several more stops. I notice two runners emerging from the trees as we pass. It's clear that once the wagon had passed, the road is safe ground for those who have evaded capture. Several Jäger nod in their direction; I am incredibly jealous.

After a few minutes, we come to the first cross. The men climb down. Lunch! We stand chained and naked in the sun. Tory's hair is in my face and her hard round ass is pressed against my crotch. "Don't be afraid," I whisper. "This is a show for the guests. We'll beat them next time, Tory." Her head nods and she pushes her butt back; I respond by rubbing my breasts over her back. The distraction takes our minds off the cross looming over us at the side of the wagon.

When lunch is over, the men lie back in the grass and wait. In a while, a bell rings three times. Several guests stand nearby. It's time.

One of the men extracts large leather cuffs from a bag and straps them on the first girl's forearms and ankles. They're designed to spread her hanging weight over a larger area. She begs piteously as they take her off the beam and walk her to the cross. It's useless of course, but appropriate.

I can see everything now. She pleads with the men as they stretch her arms, attaching each wrist to the short chain hanging from the end of the horizontal beam. Then, one at a time, they lift her ankles off the wagon floor and attach them to chains near her knees. She is suspended now by her arms and legs. She can't pull herself up by her arms as they are too stretched out too far, but she can use her legs to take the weight off her arms. This doesn't seem too bad. One of the men pulls a braided whip out of the bag and positions himself in front of her. She moans and shakes her head; he gives her 20 strokes. She's screaming hysterically by the time he's done. The girls on the beam are crying and jerking their chains in fright.

Bitterly, I remember Marina's words, "It's just for show." This is no show, and her ordeal is just beginning! The pain will be unbearable when her legs tire. I can feel Tory shaking; in fact, the entire beam seems to be vibrating with fear.

The wagon moves off to the next cross.

By the time it's Tory's turn, the wagon smells of girl piss and vomit. Several are crying and pulling hopelessly on their chains. I stand quietly and whisper in Tory's ear, trying to keep her calm. I can't remember anything I say and I'm sure she's not listening. It's just the sound of my voice. She goes up without a sound and only screams when her whipping starts. I am incredibly proud, but my heart breaks watching her body writhe under the lash. I glance down at the crowd. Several men stare at her longingly. You sick fucking bastards! I want to scream at them, but again the evil thought crosses my mind that she does look incredibly beautiful.

I also go on my cross without a sound and even manage to withstand ten of my twenty strokes before screaming. I can see one of the Russian whores looking at me with a smile and licking her lips. I know she's getting off on this. I watch the wagon and most of the crowd move off to the next cross. The whore stands at my feet alone. Her head is level with my crotch. She waits until my pain subsides and then speaks.

"It's about two hours until the sun sets," she says. "By that time you'll be really hurting. I watched this last week; once the legs go your chest will feel as if it's being crushed and every breath will be excruciating. It wouldn't be so bad if they just let you go numb, but they come back two more times with the whip."

I looked down at her, but say nothing.

"If no one is looking, I can let you rest your feet on my shoulders. Do you want that?" I continue to stare down at her, but don't say anything." She laughs. "Maybe in a couple of hours, you'll be friendlier." She walks off in the direction of the wagon.

The sun is still high in the Western sky when my leg muscles begin to burn. I looked over at Tory's cross, but can't see much. At some point, the wagon passes in front of me, returning to the first cross. I can hear the screams as each girl is whipped. It's true; they are being revived with pain. When my turn comes, I smile at my torturer and he smiles back. But the whip strikes my body with horrifying intensity. My screams are as loud as anyone's.

After a long while, the wagon passes me again. The Russian girl walks behind and stops at my feet. "It takes a while for the wagon to make this last circuit," she explains. "After their final whipping, each girl is taken down and secured. That takes time."




Voyager



I try to concentrate on what she was saying. There's a red haze over my eyes and it feel as if my entire body is on fire; I am also strangling ever so slowly as my chest muscles slowly give out.

"Would you like to use my shoulders now?" she asks. I nod in desperation and she moves in closer, positioning my legs on top of her shoulders. The burning subsides; it is like a cold drink in the desert. Even my cunt starts to throb again with life. I looked down; she is sucking me off. I can feel her tongue inside. I start to spasm and then black out for a few seconds; I have never come like that before.

The girl steps back. "Orgasms are amazing on the cross," she says laughing then walks away.

"Please..." I call after hoarsely. She looks back. "Please help my friend." I look in the direction of Tory's cross.

"Sorry," she said. "If they catch me interfering, I might be up there tomorrow myself." My rule is pussy, once-a-day. Then she laughs again and turns away.

The wagon seems to take a lifetime to return. The pain is constant and unbearable, I'm not sure I can last. I keep telling myself that this is all a big show; no one is in any real danger... I welcome my last twenty strokes. After this, it's over. This is my only thought. It is dark when we are finally carried back to our cell. I painfully climb into bed with Tory and hold her close to me as she cries.

In the morning, without any discussion, she walks out and asks to become entertainer. I cry for the entire day.

++++++++++++

           Entertainment

I rest the next day, heartsick over Tory's decision. I don't blame her; the thought of the cross is terrifying and I'm not sure that I'm making the right decision for myself, but the thought of being a sex slave for guests is just as bad.

I try to concentrate on the next hunt. We came close...so fucking close. It isn't impossible; it's not... I need to overcome my fear, to stop worrying about the cross. Winners are not afraid of losing; it's just not an option.

Surprisingly, many of the other runners don't really think of themselves as winners; they view their time on the cross as payment for the privileges they have as runners. Sure, they try to evade, but there's no fire in them to win.

I can't accept this. I'd rather die on their fucking cross then give into this bunch of thugs. This place is operating illegally in clear violation of international law, Russian law, and our contracts. Their private rules wouldn't stand a chance in a fair hearing in front of an impartial court.

This growing fury is driving me these days. CELTs cater to two of man's most primitive drives--lust and power--and earn good money doing it. But there are limits, and these people are way over the edge. Keeping us incommunicado and prevent us from exercising our legal rights was, well...slavery. Something the world still abhors and something that I did not agree to in any form. There's not much I can do about it right now, but I am not going to become part of the system.

In the late afternoon, I dress and go for a walk. Another hunt is scheduled in four days; I should be exercising with the other runners, but somehow it's more important for me to have a plan. Winning here is not about muscle, it's about brains. The lack of any real intelligence about the terrain is the biggest problem. Frantically running off into the woods and hiding is not going to work.

I stop in front of the guest's dining area. Several girls are chained on the porch, waiting. I spot Tory. Her amazing silver-blond hair and dark skin stand out even from a distance. I walk over and stand next to her. Four other entertainers are also chained to the wall, waiting. A guard is lounging nearby.

She's naked with her wrists and elbows tied behind her back. Her nipples have been pierced and small gold rings inserted. These are attached to light chains that keep her face to the wall. A ball gag is wedged deep in her mouth. She turns and looks at me then drops her eyes.

"How are you?" I ask softly. It's painful for me to see her like this. She nods her head and shrugs, but still doesn't look at me. I know she is ashamed for quitting.

"It's okay, Tory," I say. "You needed to make the choice that was right for you." She nods again and shuffles a little. I can see that she's been here a while--her legs are tired. I slip my hand between her legs and massage her cunt, pushing my finger deep into her hole. She looks at me with longing and begins to move her pelvis, slowly sucking my fingers inside with her cunt muscles.

I glance over at the guard. He appears to be dozing in the afternoon sun. I rub her harder. The other girls on the wall glance over, but stay quiet.

Just as she is about to come, I hear men's voices and quickly step away. Two small, but powerfully built men walk onto the porch, drinks in hand. They are discussing something in a language I don't recognize...Farsi maybe? They sit down at a small table. I hang back on the porch.

After a few minutes, one of the men walks over and unlocks Tory from the wall. It's obvious that she is his, probably for the week. Girls as beautiful as Tory often stay with one guest for their full visit.

"Down," he says. Tory kneels on her haunches next to his chair. He sits down and resumes his conversation. Still talking to his friend, he pulls a leather strap from his pocket and wraps it around her neck. Then he starts to tighten. It isn't punishment or discipline, it's just sadistic play. Instead of prayer beads, he has a strap and a helpless girl. She is close to passing out when he finally backs it off then he starts twisting again. I glare at him. After a while the other man notices and points me out to his friend who turns around, curious.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks in English.

"No Sir," I say politely, trying to hide my loathing. I try to think of something to say that will get him to stop. "You may want to take it easy on her if you want her to last the evening." There's fear in Tory's eyes.

"Thanks for the advice," he says then turns away and resumes his conversation. Pointedly, he also continues his idle strangulation. The guard is now fully awake and watching the exchange from across the porch. He says something softly into the radio on his shoulder. The girls on the wall glance back nervously.

I try to get hold of my emotions; runners can be punished for bothering a guest. Tory continues to look at me, pleading for me to back away. I stand where I am and continue to glare at the two men.

Nemov appears at the bottom of the steps. "Is everything satisfactory, Colonel?" he says, directing himself to the man at the table.

"Fine, Grigoriy, one of your runners seems a little upset with me," the Colonel replies evenly.

Nemov replies in Russian and all three men laugh. Tory and I have obviously been cast as Lesbian lovers. Then he says something to the guard who handcuffs me and leads me away. I don't complain or resist. All I wanted to do was to let that Iranian bastard knows that someone is watching him. Maybe he'll treat her a little better. At least I did something; what ever happens now is okay. The guard takes me to the guest quarters and up to one of the rooms where he gags me and chains me to a wall. What's going on, I wonder. Runners aren't given to guests; that violates one of their cardinal rules. Nemov wants me as a runner, hanging on his cross for a very long time. He's not going to be distracted from that goal this easily. So why am I here?

A few hours pass; two guards lead Tory into the room. Her arms and elbows are tied tightly behind her back; she's been freshly bathed. A guard picks up a length of black chain attached to a floor ring near the bed and locks it on her collar. Tory can kneel, but not stand. They leave. I move and she looks over, surprised. Our positions are now reversed; she can talk, I am gagged. In an instant she understands that I'm here to watch. "I'm sorry, Jesse, I just couldn't handle going back on that cross again." I nod amazed that she is still fretting about my feelings.

"I think I can handle life here as an entertainer," she continues. "It's not forever, just a few years. This is what I signed up for, right?" She smiles. My heart breaks; there is no way that she is going to come out of Turkslaw the same way she went in. She'll be broken in a month.

I shake my head. This is not what you signed up for, my love! There are rules, even for CELTs, and these bastards are breaking every one of them. I shake my head again in anger and frustration. She looks at me.

"Please don't be mad at me, Jess." There are tears in her eyes. I don't want to lose you; you're my only friend. The other girls... The gag is infuriating. It's okay, Tory; I love you! Fuck everyone else! But the more I struggle, the more it looks like I'm angry.

The door opens and the Iranian walks into the room. It's obvious that he's been drinking. He looks at Tory and then smiles at me. He knew I'd be here. This is not revenge for him. I'm not worth his revenge. He's just glad to have the opportunity to teach me some manners.

He walks over to Tory and runs his hands through her hair then plays with her breasts, rubbing her nipples between his fingers. I watch and he watches me watch, enjoying the look in my eyes. The message is clear--she's mine and I can do whatever I want to her.

He walks to the dresser and gets alligator clips for her nipples. She moans as they bite into her skin. I try to look unaffected. He just smiles; there's a riding crop in his hand. The Colonel stares looks down at Tory and then strips slowly, enjoying the captive audience. Grudgingly, I have to admit that he's in pretty good shape. He stands by her for a while and then inserts his penis into her mouth. Tory cock-sucking is unimpressive even to me; maybe she's embarrassed. He strikes her with the crop, then again, and again; finally she responds with significantly more enthusiasm, sucking him off with a fury. She has all the right moves, just needs a little more technique. In a few seconds, he comes in her mouth; she swallows every drop and sucks him dry. It's amazing what can be accomplished with a crop.

I stare at them and imagine myself holding the crop. She's incredibly desirable in her pain, too tempting for a human being to resist... How am I any different from this pig with thoughts like these?

Satisfied, he falls into the bed. Tory looks at me for a long moment and then curls up around the floor ring and drifts off to sleep. Near morning, the Colonel gets up to urinate. On his way back, he unties her and takes her into his bed. They fuck again. Surprisingly, their lovemaking is intense. Tory looks over at me just as she comes; her face is flushed with passion, the pain gone. I feel...envy. In a few hours, he wakes again and pulls a half asleep Tory to his crotch. Morning sex and good stamina for someone his age--the man is definitely a bull. Too bad he has such detestable habits.

In an hour or so, a black maid comes in and quietly straightens up the room, hanging up clothes, replacing towels, and chaining Tory back on the floor ring. A few minutes later, another guard comes in and quietly takes me off the wall. Tory's curled around the floor ring sleeping like a cat.

Nemov's object lesson is clear--I can't help Tory acting like her knight in shining armor. I need to become a Jäger.

++++++++++++

           Teresa

I see Tory several times after that. The Colonel enjoys walking her around the resort on a leash, drawing envious glances from the other guests. I notice that he continues to use his strangle cord. I would happily murder him if I could. I can only imagine her agony being with this horrid man.

His sadistic habit is actually contrary to the resort's official recommendation which is to use casual pain only when the CELT is left alone. The theory is that the CELT will associate the guest's absence with pain. To me, this made sense for dogs and horses...not people! A harshly tethered girl knows who suspended her on her toes or forced her to kneel for hours; or bent her over a hitching rail; or chained her nipples to the wall... It is ridiculous to believe that she will be grateful to this person when she's released.

At least to me the idea is ridiculous, although I do have to admit that most of the girls act like excited puppies when they're un-tethered. Maybe it's the conditioning...in a place like this, after a while the only thing that matters is pain--a girl is either suffering or she's not, everything else is irrelevant.

Most of what happens here is stupid and pointless! If I were in charge, the sadism would be subtle. Torturing a girl day and night just makes her numb. Less pain and more anticipation would make her suffering...special. The clothing policy is another mistake; girls are kept naked most of the time. This makes nudity the norm. It would be much more effective to selectively deny clothing. Imagine how a girl would feel if she is the only one naked in a crowd or if she is naked only when she is being punished in public.

And that's another thing--public punishment! It's excessive. There's too much pain around to make any of it really meaningful. I admit that I find some of the pain-art interesting, but this is definitely a case where less is more.

One example of this is Teresa who, according to her card, scratched a guest. She was tied in a remote hallway every day for a week. There were no other displays around and very few people. Watching her was like being alone in a museum.

She was placed on her knees, wearing an arm sleeve, a chastity belt, and a head harness. The sleeve was chained to her ankles, bending her painfully backwards; the chastity belt was chained to a wall ring which pulled her torso forward, maintaining the arc in her back; and the head harness cum gag which pulled her in the other direction. After an hour or so, her muscles would begin vibrating like guitar strings and she would make a guttural sound in her throat. It was intense.

I would stand there for hours, sometimes playing with her protruding nipples, trying to distract her. She looked at me with doe-like eyes until she came, but the distraction was just temporary; the pain always came flooding back within seconds. She just moaned softly. We grew close through her pain without exchanging a single word.

This was life for an entertainer at Turkslaw--sex, humiliation, and small pain, punctuated by times of real agony. The Jäger also never let anyone forget that these girls were Turkslaw's weaklings and cowards, fit only for a slave's life. Marina had the reputation of being especially cruel with entertainers and frequently took an unused one for the night just to torment her.

Runners had more standing; after all, even if they failed to evade, they braved the cross. I thought about this a lot. Did courage come with gender? Were men naturally braver? I was terrified of the cross, but still chose to be a runner. What was that all about? Was it so bad to be on someone's leash? How many times could I endure the agony of the cross? Had I become so spoiled with Howard? Did I think I was too good now to just be an ordinary CELT?

I never found any answers, but it didn't matter. On the day of the hunt I was calm--I had a plan.

++++++++++++

           Victory

Nemov's starting-line speech is an opportunity to check out the guests. It isn't clear which are hunting this morning and which are just curious, but I study them all anyway, looking for weaknesses.

Surprisingly, Tory is in the crowd with her new man, a muscular, barrel-chested government official from Georgia. I'm happy to see that she wears a man's shirt against the morning cold and that she's unbound. Maybe this new guest is treating her better. She smiles at me and I know what's on her mind--win my darling, for both of us! I smile back, moved, but a little distracted studying the guests.

I also watch the other runners. They look scared, as usual, except for the two who evaded last week. These two look as if another victory is already in the bag. One is even strutting around wishing the other runners good luck. Phony bitch! I wouldn't mind giving her a few strokes with the crop. Maybe I will one day...

The Jäger are gathered in a small knot just as they had been the week before. Their merciless eyes frighten the naked runners, in exactly the same way that rabbits are frightened around wolves. Their fear is justified; I'm sure that if the Jäger were ordered to capture, cook, and eat us, they'd do it. It doesn't take much to create a master race.

I shudder...and this is what I aspire to!

Finally, the sun pops over the mountain and Nemov gives the signal. Everyone sprints for the trees. I fly down the grassy path feeling like I could run forever; my long legs barely touch the ground. Many of the other girl's are in small packs or partnered, I run alone.

I reach the woods and duck behind the trees as quickly as possible. Every instinct I have is screaming, run! ...keep running! But I resist the temptation; knowing that timing is everything! I need to wait here for the horses.

But it's not so easy to wait when you want to run. I pray silently to any God or fate that might be watching--save me, please save me from the cross! Finally, I spot the horses in the valley. They look magnificent; even the dogs look picturesque from this distance, running ahead, eager to close.

With frightening speed, the dogs are in the trees. I watch them sniff for scent trails. By staying this close, I could be the first one captured. The men arrive and give the dogs the signal to hunt. Several fairly leap into the air and charge into the woods. I'm not worried about these youngsters; they're too impetuous to be dangerous. It's the older, slower, wiser dogs that are the most dangerous. One of these moves closer. A girl crossed the ground between us, I remember her; will he follow her trail or mine?

It's a Laika, a steel-muscled Russian hunting dog often used to hunt bear and wild boar. He looks exactly like a wolf with funny ears and hunts the same way--silently. These Laikas are trained to flush the girl out, run her down, and pin her to the ground. I put the image of lying naked under one of these beasts out of my mind.

I watch as he picks up the trail leading into the woods. Instead of running off though, he continues sniffing and picks up my crossing trail. He raises his head and looks around...two trails! Laikas are extremely intelligent, but two trails are a dilemma for anyone...which one? I nearly cry out with relief as he runs into the woods after the other girl. This trick would not have worked if a Jäger were here; she would have taken the time to check both.

There's no time to think about this as the horsemen burst into the woods and race up the slope after the dogs. I spy one who's hanging back, a little unsteady with the forest's tricky footing, and move in to follow. When there is no other riders in sight, I run to his horse and grab its tail; then I close my eyes, reach underneath and squeeze. The shocked animal rears up; and something sails over my head, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

I did it...

I look over at the rider; he's unconscious, maybe even dead. Should I try to help him? Fuck no! We're playing by Turkslaw rules. They want to hunt girls on horseback, crucify them for fun; then they need to take some risks. Falling off your horse is just one of those risks. Of course, he didn't exactly fall off...

I grab the horse's reins and pull myself into the saddle. I'm no expert, but everyone learns to handle a horse where I grew up.

Riding slowly, I finally see the other horsemen through the trees. A number of runners have already been captured and tied over the horses. I can see their white asses flashing in the forest's sunny spots. I feel sorry for them. In a while, I hear the signal for guests to retire to the tree line. Everyone turns and starts back in my direction. Carefully, I move to the side and let them pass. The Jäger will be here soon, but for now I'm alone in the forest. Despite the danger, I'm excited. My plan is working. I kick the horse in the side and pull sharply on reins; he starts running up the mountain. Half a ton of muscle controlled with my bare feet and arms. Is he still mad at me? I reach over and stroke his neck.