0 comments/ 19028 views/ 6 favorites Lara Croft & the Bad Boy By: justtheone Inspired by the art DeTomasso ... and also another chap calling himself Finister Foul. 1. Patrick wasn't difficult to find. Just as she'd expected, he had already been captured by the rebels. She was told they'd got him almost the moment he snuck across the border. Idiotic. She knew she could ransom him without too much difficulty, provided they hadn't hung the fool or shot him before she could get there. She'd helped the rebel commanders a few times in small but significant ways the last time she'd visited this country, so she could travel through their territory in safety—at least from their side. The soldiers wouldn't start any nonsense with her. The government's forces, on the other hand, were still a danger, but a minimal one, for at present the rebels had most of them pinned down around the capitol. She shouldn't run across any, not way the hell out in the hills. For several months Patrick Flannahaugh had become a project for her, or perhaps an experiment, and one she frequently regretted taking on. He was a nineteen year old up-and-comer, notably gifted, who had somehow and to her surprise gradually and inexorably established himself as her sort of semi-student. That was her own phrase for it: "sort of semi-student". The word he liked to use instead was "apprentice". She wasn't quite comfortable with that term herself. It felt a little old-fashioned and also too official. The connection wasn't that close or continuous. She wasn't assigning him homework to grade. All he did was visit her at home a lot to ask her countless questions and bounce crazy ideas off her. Sometimes he did a little gruntwork research for her, when she was short on time, and once she helped him at a dig when the team he was working for caught the attention of the local gangster element, who tried to spirit away all the beautiful priceless artifacts they'd just uncovered. She made the bad men return all those things and apologize. Then later there was another adventure she'd allowed him and a second sort of semi-student, named Margie Bannon, to accompany her on until things had got too hairy and she had to rush them both home. Patrick had never entirely forgiven her for "babying him" like that. It might be, whether he realized it or not, the root cause of the present difficulty. He had a theory about one of the so-called "chariots of the gods" that were supposedly ancient UFOs. He thought he knew where one had been, as he put it, parked. Not crashed or buried—just parked, three or four thousand years ago, give or take, on a particular mountaintop. He said you could see it on satellite pictures. Anybody who wanted could take a look at the damn thing on Google Earth. Lara thought his chariot would turn out to be just a funny colored rock, when they eventually got up there for a proper boots-on-the-ground survey. Even so, it was definitely worth investigating as soon as the time was right. Only that wouldn't be for a good little while. Because the particular mountain he wanted to visit happened to be located right in the middle of nasty civil war. All wars are nasty, sure. But this one was doing its damnedest to stand out from the herd. The participants were really putting their all into it. Germ weapons. Genocide. The complete sports package, no expense spared. She promised she'd go there with him as soon as the fighting was over, or at least when it had considerably simmered down. There was no reason to hurry, or risk anybody's life over it. None of the local population knew about the thing on their mountain, whatever it was. They never climbed it, because of a superstition that it was haunted or cursed. And Patrick hadn't shared his theory with any other Tomb Raider types who might try to get up there ahead of them. The fate of the world, this time, did not appear to be at stake. Patrick's funny colored rock had sat undisturbed up there for the majority of recorded history, and she was certain it would still be there waiting on them a few more months in the future. So what did he do? He rushed right in there by himself and got captured by the rebels in the hills. Never got within fifty miles of his fucking mountain. What a dumbass. And now who was go gonna save the idiot punk? Well, looks like it would have to be Lara Croft. Since she was his trusty dependable mentor or whatever. And she could afford the ridiculous ransom. Nobody else was volunteering, far as she could see. But soon as she had the little jerk safe and sound again, first thing she planned to do was kick the kid right in the balls as hard as she could. For his own good. But that wasn't to say she wouldn't take satisfaction from it. Because she sure as shit would. 2. Freddie met her at the border in an old pickup like he said he would, but he didn't have Patrick with him. It wasn't going to be as quick-and-easy as that. He had managed to find out which of his patrols caught Patrick, and he knew where they were camped, but he hadn't driven up there yet. He was close to the capitol when she contacted him to make the ransom arrangements. "If it had been on my way here I would have got him for you already," he told her, "But they're another two hours further up north." She'd got hold of him by email, of all things. It was the simplest way. Strange how easy that was. Strange times—the quirky image of this guy in a tent in the middle of a siege, logging on to his Hotmail account with a laptop while their artillery bangs away, shelling the city ... He was an old, hunched, mean-looking customer, but affable enough when you got to know him. His real name, like most of the names in this country, was difficult to spell and almost impossible to pronounce. There was a very long, very convoluted story behind her nickname for him, and even then you had to have been there at the time to appreciate why it was funny. He used to be an academic; now he was a revolutionary general. He wasn't the rebels' top guy, but he was pretty close—number three or four. He didn't wear any kind of military uniform. A very loud Hawaiian shirt instead, pink and yellow. Like always, he was fiddling with that gold lighter he claimed to have taken off a CIA spook that tried to kill him in the seventies. Freddie didn't smoke; he just loved playing with the thing, flicking the flame on and off. She had a bag of money for him, which he immediately passed to his driver, who it seemed would no longer be driving him for the rest of this trip. They'd brought a motorbike in the back of the pickup—the guy hauled it down and sped off on it, returning to the capitol with her money. "By himself?" she asked. "He's a good lad. He'll get it where it needs to go. Let's find your troubled student." They got in the truck, Freddie driving. "I'm surprised you don't have anyone else with you," she said. Freddie shrugged. "Low key." She wondered how much of that money she just gave him would be put toward his cause and how much would end up elsewhere. The patrol camp was just about exactly what she pictured. Around a dozen soldiers. One biggish tent and a few smaller ones. A makeshift pen for goats. They had Patrick tied to a tree, with his shirt off. A female soldier was lining herself up behind him to start whacking him with a stick. She had a huge grin on her face, until Freddie's truck pulled up. "No need for that now, Commander," said Freddie, as he stepped out of the vehicle. "But sir!" she protested, "He just tried to escape! He hurt one of the men!" "Well, he's leaving now, in any case, as I informed you on the radio. Untie the chap." "Hello, Lara," Patrick said, "Good of you to come. Nick of time!" There was no sign of remorse in him. And she noticed he still hadn't trimmed his sideburns like she suggested. They did look rather dashing on him, though, exactly as he had hoped they would. It was infuriating. "You thoughtless smug little cunt," she said. "But I knew I could count on you, Lara. That's why I wasn't scared. I knew you'd never leave a fellow in the lurch. It's not in your nature." "Flattery is not going to get you out of this, Patrick. And will you stop grinning at me like that? You're only making me more furious. I've a mind to let the commander give you a jolly good birching, after all." 3. Freddie had just dropped them off. It was a different spot than where he met her—this was only five minutes from the patrol camp, still up in the forested hills. This was in fact the path Patrick himself had used to enter the country. The border from this spot was a twenty minute hike away. He'd been told the rebels didn't watch this route—he'd been lied to about that. They guarded it carefully, and he walked right into them. Of course Lara would rather have gone out the same place she came in—a bridge over a river, nice and official. It only took a minute to cross, and it was also right next to the airfield where her plane waited. But Freddie had got an urgent summons on his radio to another camp, even further north. It put him in too much of a hurry to drive them back to the bridge. "Sorry about this. But you'll be all right. I've made sure none of my people will pester you, from here on." Patrick actually believed they would continue on to his mountain, now they were on their own. "You heard what he said. He's put the word out, right? We've got a pass." "Only to let us leave!" "You can't be serious. If we just go now, then all of this was for nothing." "Exactly, Patrick. Except for saving your life, if that means anything to you. What's that in your hand?" "Souvenir of my folly," he said. "You have no idea." It was Freddie's gold lighter. Wonderful. "How did you fucking get hold of that?" He shrugged. "I swiped it from his pocket, in the truck." "Why? Why on earth?" "Just a mischievous whim, I suppose. To see if I could. You know how I get." "My God!" "What? It's just a lighter. Don't tell me this is supposed to be real gold." She heard the pickup coming back already. Freddie was driving a great deal faster now than he had before. One could tell just from the angry motor noise. The expression on his face matched that sound. She only got a momentary glimpse of him through the windscreen—but that was all she needed to see. It was immediately clear they weren't going to be able to sort this crap out in a sensible fashion. This was too personal for Freddie. He tried to run Patrick down. Lara entirely sympathized with the impulse, but she dived and shoved the fool clear. Freddie tried swerving around for another go, but the road was too narrow for that. He put the pickup over the side. The drop was fairly gentle, not a sheer cliff, but that wasn't much help since his truck rolled down the slope sideways until colliding with a tree and exploding. "I thought they only blew up like that in the movies," Patrick said. "Bugger. We gotta move. Come on." They probably made it over the border line before the soldiers caught up with them—summoned by the billowing black smoke from Freddie's wreck. But they didn't let the boundary stop them. It wasn't as if there was a fence across the path with a customs checkpoint, not up here in the hills. The soldiers kept up the chase, howling like wolves and firing their guns in the air. "That's cheating!" Patrick said. "We're off their land now, aren't we? They're not allowed to do this!" "Get behind those rocks and don't move until I come back for you." If he'd followed instructions, she might have been able to lead the whole bunch away by herself and shake them off somewhere in the woods. She knew a number of good nifty tricks for that sort of business. Of course the idiot didn't stay put. He stuck his head up too soon and got spotted. "Surrender, Lara Croft!" It was the female soldier that Freddie had addressed as Commander. Lara never did find out her name. She had a gun to Patrick's head. "One! Two!" She never actually specified how high she was gonna count, but Lara gave herself up at that point. Lara really wished she had it in herself to let the woman pull the trigger. All surrendering accomplished was to buy them a little time. And it almost wasn't worth it. Dying wasn't so much the issue. Dying was the least of it. If she was smart and kept her shit together long enough, she might find a clever way to save them, but let's be mature about this—it was a slim fucking hope. It was going to take a miracle or two. "I'm sorry, Lara," Patrick said, "I guess I really fucked this up." He still wasn't quite getting it, though. Lara could tell. He still wasn't properly scared yet. Perhaps that was for the best, in the current circumstances. Wising his arse up wouldn't improve things now; it was much too late for that. "Freddie said you are noble Englishwoman," the commander said—though she didn't say "Freddie". She used his real unspellable name instead. "He respect you. Great respect. Why you murder him?" Lara kept quiet. It would do no good denying or arguing the matter. "Freddie taught me things," the commander continued, "Many things. Good things and bad things. He was good man, but this is bad war. When we get back to camp, I will show you, noble Englishwoman, how much I learn from Freddie. Many bad things." 4. This might be the worst thing ever. Tomb Raiding is a high risk endeavor, obviously, and nobody's luck is good all the time, so of course she'd ended up in some very bad places before. She'd had to grit her teeth and tough it out through some seriously tough times. There were certain experiences she never talked about with anyone. Ugly things, humiliating things. She never even let herself think about them—kept all that stuff carefully locked away. But this bullshit—well, God. Wow. This might just manage to be worse than anything else any other evil fucker had ever dreamed up to do to her. She wasn't sure she was gonna get through this one, even if they didn't execute her afterward. Not with her sanity intact. It was so plain silly—that might be the worst part of it, strangely. The most maddening thing was how ridiculous and pointless it was. This wasn't a real interrogation—they weren't asking her any questions. This wasn't even proper grownup torture. Well, it was—but on a pretty mild level. She was only being toyed with. She was being mocked. Tortured with mockery. Turned into a laughingstock. You might think, compared to the gang-rape she'd anticipated, she'd be grateful for this alternative, because of its comparative mildness, but she wasn't. Was that foolish? Maybe it was—but right now, if they'd given her the choice, she'd have preferred some real nasty sadism. Something much more brutal and bloody, just for the sense that she was being taken seriously. Of course she wouldn't feel the same if something like that was actually happening to her. If things turned serious, she would no doubt change her mind real damn quick and wanna switch back to this juvenile nonsense. But knowing that wasn't much help, here in the moment ... In fact it didn't help at all. The soldiers had stripped her stark naked and put her in chains—and that hadn't surprised her at all. Par for the course. How many times had she been stripped in captivity? Now here was an even more depressing and soul-crushing thought: If she survived the current ordeal, how long would it be before it happened to her again? More enemies and villains had seen her unclothed than lovers, it seemed. Despite the significant number of lovers she'd racked up in her career. Jesus, she was almost used to this, wasn't she? Naked and bound and powerless. Well, no. Not really. It wasn't something you ever got used to. Each time it happened, she vowed she'd never let it happen again. Once again, she'd broken the promise. They took away everything, even her boots and socks, even her fingerless traction gloves. That was a bad sign, and it made her whimper a little before she could stop herself. The ones that took everything always wanted more from her than the ones that didn't bother with those parts. It was kind of a theory of hers, after various misadventures—the ones that left her boots on seemed primarily interested in getting themselves off as soon and as many times in a row as possible before they were exhausted. But the ones that wanted her completely naked instead tended to be more interested in seeing how much they could make her feel, and how loud they could make her holler. They wanted to impress her, before they got off, either with how horrid they were or, even creepier, how amazing they thought they could be. The ones that left her boots on were usually much easier to handle, and manipulate, and outlast—they just wanted to come. Then again, the creepy ones usually made her undress herself, while they watched holding a gun on her or a big wicked knife or whatever. They made a whole ritual out of that. But these soldiers didn't stretch it out that way. They did it to her, three or four guys undressing her at once, although undressing was too dignified a term for it. They tore her shit off every which in a big giddy giggling rush. Drunken frat boy behavior. It sucked—but it was preferable to the other way. They hung her things on the ends of tree branches. A large number of corroded helmets and caps also adorned that tree—trophies claimed from fallen foes. It wasn't all headgear. She saw some severed ears, with ants crawling all over them, and a set of teeth. Dentures, probably—hopefully. She also noticed that hers were not the first nor the second set of feminine underwear to join this ghastly collection. But then they hadn't proceeded to the next expected step. They marched her into the biggest tent, but not to rape her in there. Instead they made her stand in the middle up on a raised platform, straddling a long horizontal bar—a length of narrow pipe mounted on wooden trestles. It stood high enough off the ground that when they made her straddle the thing, her crotch—her bare cunt, let's not mince words—was mashed against the bar unless she held herself up on tiptoe. (Well, the balls of her feet, really. You can't really stand on the tips of your toes, unless you're a ballet dancer with the reinforced shoes.) Then her ankles were manacled together, the chain between them only a few inches long. Those inches gave her enough play that it was possible for her to widen her thighs enough so they didn't have to touch the sides of the pipe, but only just barely. "What is this? What the fuck is this for?" Her wrists were also manacled behind her back, with another chain attached to them running up to a clip on the back of a thick dog collar they'd buckled around her neck. That chain wasn't very long, so it kept her hands suspended just under her shoulder blades, and she couldn't lean her head forward at all without strangling herself. There was another clip on the front of the collar. They attached another short chain there, and then when Patrick was brought in and made to straddle the same bar right in front of her, the other end of that chain was clipped to the front of Patrick's matching dog collar, to hold them both in that position, face to face, and almost but not quite nose to nose. Patrick had also been stripped entirely naked, and his wrists and ankles got manacled the same as hers. And just like her, he had to stretch himself on his toes as high as he could reach to keep the pipe from mashing his genitals. Since he was a little tiny bit shorter than her, it was harder for him. A greater strain. He could just barely get his balls high enough to break the painful contact with the hot gritty metal, and he had a much tougher time keeping himself from wobbling around. And of course, since they were linked at the throat, every time he wobbled, it tugged on her and made her wobble as well. Lara Croft & the Bad Boy It was very strange to be seeing Patrick naked, and for Patrick to be seeing her the same way. It had been awkward before, seeing him just without his shirt on. Now she was looking at his junk. Her student's junk. And her student was seeing all of her. Which should never have happened, ever, under any circumstances. She was his mentor, he was too young, and he was also too foolish and cocky and irritating. Those fucking highwayman sideburns! And she knew he had always lusted for her—and in fairness, she had sometimes faintly, vaguely lusted a little bit for him. He had always wanted to see her like this, and all right, she had wanted to see him the same way, and it should absolutely never have been permitted to occur because obviously that was inappropriate in every possible aspect. But now this bullshit was happening, thanks to his idiocy. It was deeply unfair and aggravating and embarrassing that he should get to see her naked. And not only undressed, but bound and powerless and in disgrace. The fact that it was all his fault and also that he was in no fit state to take any sick perverse pleasure in the spectacle didn't mitigate her outrage. Not so much at him anymore but at Destiny and the Universe in general. The metal bar had wires stuck on the ends. Those wires connected to a battered, antiquated-looking apparatus with switches and dials and knobs on it, on a little stand on wheels parked next to the elevated platform they were mounted on, so all the surrounding rebel troops crowded in the tent could have a good clear view of them. The commander woman operated the machine. Smiling up at them and wiggling her eyebrows, she flipped its switches and turned its knobs. The box hummed and the needles jiggered around in its dials. So the bar between their legs right under their bare genitals had been electrified. The juice going through it wasn't very high. They weren't going to get fried. The soldiers were only playing with them. You can only hold yourself on the balls of your feet for so long. Not very long at all, in fact. Human feet just aren't made that way. And while you're doing it, it's very difficult to keep your balance. You tremble. You sway. Especially when you're chained at the neck to another person who isn't as tall as you, or half as fit, and so is having a tougher time. Each and every time Patrick wobbled or twitched, it made Lara wobble or twitch. She wasn't strong enough to keep still, when he jerked against her—at least not while she was strained up on her toes like that. Lara didn't often wear high heels—she had mixed feelings about them—but right now she really wished she had some on. They'd be ideal for this. In fact she knew just the pair she'd pick, in her closet. "Patrick, look at me. Look in my eyes." Not my tits. Not my pussy. He keeps looking at my tits and at my pussy. But I keep looking at his stupid junk too. "Concentrate. We have to work together. We have to help each other. Work with me, Patrick." "I can't! Lara I can't do this! I can't keep still! I've got no balance!" "Patrick, you have to try! You have to concentrate! Look in my eyes and focus, dammit! We'll get through this together but—Urrhh!" "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Gahh! I can't! I'm sorry! Shit! Fuhhuuhh!" So they kept brushing the bar. Their thighs, their genitals. Bzzt! Bzzt! Even if she was by herself, Lara knew it would still have happened. Athletic as she was, she wouldn't have been able to keep herself from touching the damn thing indefinitely. Nobody could have, unless they were superhuman. But thanks to Patrick, she was jerked against the bar much sooner and much, much more often. Bzzt! Bzzt! Each time he got shocked, she got shocked. And soon as it started, it kept happening. More and more, faster and faster. Each shock made them jump and jerk, of course. It was impossible to hold themselves up clear of the thing for longer than a few seconds. They were too traumatized and weakened. After a minute, Lara's feet were giving out as often as Patrick's. It wasn't just him getting her shocked, after that point—she was shocking herself and shocking him. Each jolt would instantly make them strain upward again—sheer involuntary reflex. But they would only be able to hold the stretch for another moment or two ... then they'd drop—one or the other or both at once—and get themselves zapped again, and so on and on, repeating this horrible inescapable cycle. Bzzt! Bzzt! The shocks weren't severe. Just jolts. They didn't hurt much at all but it was still impossible not to jerk away from the bar when you got one. And the longer it went on, the more and more zaps they got, it gradually worsened. Not the shocks themselves but the after-affects. Terrible throbbing stinging aches, strongest in her thighs and her cunt, like huge sharkbites had been chomped out of her legs and her guts, but it wasn't just there ... The fiery cramps were spreading inside all the rest of her muscles as well, from her cheeks and her shoulders, clear down to her calves, and the arches of her feet—not quite as bad but still bad and getting worse and worse, with every new shock. "Yahhrrrahh!! God! God! Fuck! Huuhhaarrhh!" Patrick was screaming and so was she. She'd been able to keep pretty quiet at first—just grunting a little—but not for long. "Ghhnn. Huurrhh. Guhhrrahhrr! Huuhhooww!" She would maybe have held it all in better if she was dealing with this alone. But having to hear him and having to look him in the face ... Seeing his pathetic, appalling horror and his shame, just inches away right in front of her nose. And knowing he had to be seeing the exact same feelings reflected on her face. Knowing he was reacting to her agony and despair just as she was reacting to his. And knowing this was also what all the soldiers were seeing, watching them. The way Patrick looked, naked and writhing, bawling and screeching, was exactly as bad as she must look—and sound—to them. Utterly disgraced and pathetic. "God! Fuck! Oh God! Oh Fuck! Oh Gahhhahhhawwd!" "Nuuhhahhrr! Naaharrhh! Naahuurrhh!" It was unbearable. She wasn't gonna survive this. It was too shameful. She'd never be able to look herself in the eye again, knowing she'd let this be done to her. She'd let these soldiers reduce her to such a disgraceful spectacle. Naked and writhing, bawling and screeching. Bouncing her burning cunt up and down on the shock bar almost like she was humping the damn thing even as it zapped her, because she couldn't stop herself. She had no self-control or human dignity left at all. And now Patrick had a boner, too. His cock was jutting straight up at her chin, flapping up and down against his belly as his balls bounced on the shock bar the same way her cunt kept doing. She knew it was just a mindless stress reaction, the same reason her nipples had hardened—she knew he couldn't possibly be taking any sexual gratification in what was happening to them. She knew he'd be ashamed of it, if he was even sane enough still to realize it had popped up like that, and he might not be. But it still made her furious, to see it. And he seemed to keep looking at her big tits, jiggling, and the sweat swishing off them, droplets flying every which way. Despite all the torment in his expression, he still seemed to keep deliberately aiming his gaze down at her tits rather than meet her face eye-to-eye. Even now, even as he was being tortured, the little fucker couldn't help ogling her goddamn fucking boobs. She tried to tell herself she was being crazy and unfair, but no, she couldn't believe that, not in her heart, not in her guts. On some level of his shattered consciousness, this fucking guy was getting off on the sight of her electrified tits bouncing loose in front of him, stiff-nippled and shiny-slick with sweat. And she could take that realization further, couldn't she? Oh yes, she certainly could ... The fact was, if this was only happening to her—if Patrick had been safe down in the audience, among the soldiers—he would be enjoying this whole show every bit as much as they all were, wouldn't he? Damn right he would. He would be getting off on it just like all the rest of them. Seeing her reduced to this. Seeing her defiled and shamed. "Nuuhhhuurrhh!" There was a flipside to it ... Because as much as she hated seeing him get hard, part of her was pleased. In fact crazy as it sounds, that part of her would have been pissed if it hadn't happened, with her tits jiggling in front of his face, and her pussy too. If he got to see her this way, all of her, then he better goddamn appreciate it at least, like all these other fuckers. That didn't mean her anger and disgust weren't real, because they were. They goddamn definitely were. If her hands weren't cuffed behind her, she would have ripped that erection off his body and bashed him over the head with it until she shattered his skull. But in the same moment, underneath those feelings were other feelings. A wry voice saying: "Of course he got stiff. How could he not? You're no better. If you had yourself a dingus, it would sticking straight up too—don't try to pretend otherwise!" It was a kind of escape route, if she let herself take it ... Patrick's hard-on was pointing the way ... Like that movie where the guy goes crazy at the end, so his torturers can't hurt him anymore. Lara started inching closer to him, along the bar. Hardly even aware she was doing it, until the tip of his cock was almost touching her belly. "Patrick! Look at me! Look in my eyes! You have to! You must! Patrick! Listen!" He still wouldn't or couldn't hold her gaze for more than a second. Was he even trying? He kept looking down and back, down and back ... If she could just hold his eyes on her, and if they pressed closer—she could almost ignore the rest of it. The soldiers and the chains. The shocks. God oh God! But Patrick and her could tune them out, if they worked together. She could see how to do it. They could lose themselves in each other's eyes, cheesy as that sounds. They could really do it. If they stared nose to nose like lovers. But they had to lock their eyes together. They had to hold the goddamn look! She had to focus on his face, and make him focus with her—but she was focusing on his cock, too. Feeling his cock against her belly, and her mound. Feeling her breasts against his chest. God oh God. I can feel him. If she pressed herself tighter, close as she could go, until she was bashing against him, tits to chest and cock to belly, as tight as they could squeeze—then if she let herself she could pretend they weren't bouncing up and down like this because of the electricity, but because they were fucking. She could pretend the shocks weren't shocks, but the thrusts of his cock—she could pretend she was feeling it inside her instead of just on her skin, outside her belly. She could pretend she was screaming in joy instead of agony. She could transform all this dreadful torture into pleasure. Almost. If he'd work with her. If she let herself. But the soldiers spoiled this approach. They applauded and laughed, when they realized what she was doing. They were too loud and too horrible to tune out. She couldn't go through with it in front of them. She couldn't complete the transformation. It was too shameful. They'd enjoy it too much. Like she was putting on a show for them. Like a whore. So she gave up on the mad fantasy and backed off. In a few bunny-hops she'd retreated from Patrick and his cock, pulling as far away from his body as the chain between their necks would let her. Which wasn't far, but far enough they were no longing touching. And she felt herself immediately diminishing, once again a helpless powerless victim, under torture. The shocks turned back into shocks. The agony and ugliness reasserted itself. "Gahhrr! Yuuhhrrahhrr! Nggrrhhnn!" She reached the point where she regretted her entire life. Where she realized she'd been stupid to become the famous Tomb Raider. Because all her bold saucy brashness had done was lead her to this agony and humiliation. If she'd had any sense, she would have been a good little girl and got married and raised kids like women were supposed to, living quietly and humbly because that was sensible and safe. If she was really as strong and clever as she always thought she was, this wouldn't be happening to her. But it was. She'd brought this on herself with her arrogance and weakness. "Ahhaaarrrhh! Ahhaahhuurrhh!" That was the moment that would always stay with her and keep her up some nights, when for one reason or another she'd fail to keep these memories locked away safe and buried. She'd remember the fact that for that one moment, in her despair, they'd made her hate herself and blame herself instead of them. Just for a second, but still. She'd genuinely believed all that awful bullshit. Then unexpectedly the power was switched off; they were given a rest. A blessed relief—almost orgasmic, by itself. How long had the torment lasted? It had felt like forever. She felt like she'd aged a decade or a century. Like one of those shriveled old guys with long white hair they let out of a castle dungeon. Or like she'd even died and just been brought back to life, gasping ... Her true self had died, at least. Her spirit, if not her body. The soul is supposed to be immortal, but it's not. Our souls are vulnerable too. Really the shocking went on only a couple minutes. Perhaps just one. Patrick commenced begging. Well, sure. What else was gonna happen? "Please don't do this anymore. Please no more. I can't take anymore. I'll do anything you want. Please. Anything." It wouldn't do any good, but Lara knew she would probably have to beg the same way. She would have to say all the same stupid pathetic nonsense Patrick was babbling. It was what the soldiers would want to hear—and they would want it much more from her than from him. She would still try to hold off giving them that shit as long as she could. But in the end she'd give it to them. It was simple mechanics, more than anything else. "The hatred on your face," the commander said to her, "So much magnificent hatred. When you look at the boy. It's worse than when you look at me." "I'm sorry, Lara. I'm so sorry for everything. Really I am now. I didn't understand before. You tried to make me see but I couldn't. I'm so sorry." "Don't call me Lara," she hissed. "You keep calling me Lara. I am Professor Croft, to you." "Yes, Professor," he whimpered, "I'm sorry, Professor." "If I take you off the bar now," said the commander, "If I don't zap you no more, would you suck all my men's cocks?" No. Go to Hell. Lara didn't say either of those things. What she said was "Yes I will." She couldn't face the torture again. Not yet, anyway. Not ever. But she knew it was gonna happen. All she could do was delay it as long as possible. She'd have to do whatever it took to delay them. "Good, good. But one thing more. First I want you to suck the boy's cock. You made it get so big. Look how big it's got. Even all the zapping couldn't stop it from getting big for you. Oh, look, he's blushing now. But we both know he wants you to suck it." "No! No I don't! I swear! That's not what happened! It was the electricity that did this. It hurts now. It's hurting so bad. It's like it's been burned inside. I think it's been burned." "Your professor will give it a kiss and make it feel better, won't she?" Never, Lara didn't say. I'd rather die. I'd rather let every single one of your soldiers rail my arse, all night long. "Yes I will," she said, exactly as she'd said before. She'd do whatever they wanted, whatever they told her, no matter how disgusting. In her imagination, she'd keep fighting, but only in her mind. A fantasy to comfort herself, while she bided her time. A chance to turn things around might come up, eventually. Until then, she must do whatever she was told, whatever the fuckers wanted. "I'll suck his cock, if you'll unchain me from this bar." "No, Lara, don't do it! Don't let her you make you do it! Oh God I'm so sorry! Lara! I mean, Professor Croft! Please forgive me! I never meant for this to happen!" They unclipped the chain from the front of her collar, and removed the manacles from her ankles, so she could swing herself off the bar. They left her hands chained as they were. And they left Patrick straddling the bar. "If you zap us while I'm blowing him," Lara said, "you'll make me bite his cock off." The commander laughed. "Yes, I imagine you are correct. That is exactly what would happen." "Oh God. Oh Christ. Oh please no please no!" "Shut up, Patrick. Is that what you're going to do?" Lara asked. Her response was a coy shrug. Patrick's erection had dwindled, when Lara pointed out what might happen to it. But when she bent over beside him and took it in her mouth, she felt it almost immediately regain its full size. "Oh shit. Oh God. Oh my God. Oh ohhh ohhh ..." The wretched bastard. He was loving this, the cunt. But it was better to suck his cock than the soldiers'. Or was it worse? She couldn't decide. If you were forced to suck a cock against your will in front of an evil audience, was it better it belonged to a fellow captive, and someone you knew? Someone sharing your disgrace? Or would it be easier—at least more appropriate, more fitting—to do this for horrible strangers? Because this wasn't disgracing Patrick anymore—now it was just her. She probably wouldn't be feeling quite so much rage and hatred for Patrick if she didn't have to blow him, after everything else. Making her do this—and making him get hard in front of her, beforehand—had turned them against each other. Or at least it had turned her completely against him. Now in her eyes he seemed like just another enemy, no different than the rebels. Just as wicked and bestial. In fact she was angrier with him than with the soldiers. This was all his fault. No question. And even putting that aside, she knew she could have endured all this torture so much better if he wasn't sharing it with her, bringing them both down with his weakness. And now he was being rewarded for that, with a blowjob. Would she still feel that way when it was time to start blowing the soldiers instead? Because probably she would get to compare the experiences soon—they would make her go to work on the soldiers as soon as she got Patrick done, wouldn't they? Of course they fucking would. She should try to make this last as long as she could. Of course that was more up to Patrick than to her. But then he said: "Lara it hurts. It's burning—you're making it burn me inside. I can't stand this. Oh God you're killing me! You're gonna kill me!" Good, she thought. Good. That almost made this worthwhile—it was comforting, and almost thrilling, to hear the agony in his voice. But then she was ashamed of herself. And then she got mad for feeling that shame. Why couldn't she enjoy his agony if she wanted to, if it helped her survive this? Why not take comfort where she could find it? Seemed only fair. Seemed like justice. "Don't do this! Not so hard like that! You're hurting it! Lara please!" Everybody else in this tent was getting off on the sadism. Why not, while she had the chance, let herself join in? Scream for me, you little shit. I know you've dreamed about me doing this. Now your dream has come true. Your famous mentor, the sex symbol Lara Croft, is sucking your cock ... What's the matter? Isn't it as good as you expected? "God! Oh shit! Oh God! Lara—I mean, Professor Croft! Please! Ahhrrhhh!!" When he hollered extra-loud at the end, Lara thought that meant the electricity had been switched on again and flinched away. But all it really meant was that he was coming already, even though she'd only started sucking him twenty seconds ago. Because she'd recoiled so fast, none of it got on her. Lara Croft & the Bad Boy As soon as he was done spurting, the commander cranked the juice back on. That made him scream again and spurt three more times. And then piss. As soon as he had no more jizz to pump out of himself, his cock started spraying urine. The stream arced quite a distance, and lasted a full minute before it tapered off. All the soldiers got a huge kick out of that. Their laughter was such an uproar Lara half-expected the whole tent to collapse on top of them all. But it was only Patrick that collapsed, toppling over sideways, since he was no longer anchored to Lara to keep him upright. He ended up dislocating his shoulder, where it impacted on the platform. The pain of that, on top of everything else he'd been subjected to, made him faint. Now his feet were sticking up in the air, suspended on the bar by the chain between his ankles, one foot on top the pipe and the other dangling below. "You dodged it all," the commander said, "I wanted to see him spray all over you, but you were too quick." "Sorry," Lara answered, "Reflex." The commander put her hand on Lara's crotch. She didn't jam her fingers into Lara's cunt, but rubbed along the slit. Lara screeched at the contact and backpedaled, almost falling over, but the touch didn't hurt as bad as she expected, sore as she was. It was the expectation alone that had made her screech. "You're wet," the commander said. "No I'm not." Was she? No, she couldn't be. The commander was fooling herself. Get your fingers off my pussy. But she couldn't say that. She just had to stand there and take it. Let the awful woman stick them wherever she felt like. "Slut," the commander called her, and pinched her clit. It made Lara screech again. It was a screech of agony and fury—the pinch had stung as bad as another electric shock, and that word as well—but she could tell from the look on the commander's face that the crazy bitch thought she'd just made Lara come. She hadn't. She didn't think she had. If she had, it had burned like Patrick's. But she didn't think she had. It was just that look on the crazy bitch's face was getting to her. She was too messed up to think straight anymore. "Now you take care of my men," the commander told her, taking hold of her arm and steering off the platform down among them. "Get on your knees, right here." Lara obeyed. The first cock—well, the second after Patrick's—was thrust between her lips before she'd finished settling herself to the grass. "Not so noble now, Englishwoman," the commander said. Depends who you ask, Lara thought. I would suggest that cocksucking is both quite aristocratic and very English, consensual or otherwise. The joke wasn't very good, but thinking it up made her feel better for a moment. Only a moment. Then, choking on the cock in her throat, she started weeping too, and she couldn't stop. God, I can't do this. I don't wanna do this. There's so many of them. How am I gonna do this? Somebody help me please please God please I can't do this and I can't get away! The other voice chimed in: Grow up, baby. It's just a bunch of cocks. You're not gonna die from sucking a bunch of cocks. Suck 'em and make 'em come and you'll be fine. You'll do just fine. You've sucked plenty of cocks before. No reason to be scared of it. But the soldiers were impatient and that was their undoing. They unchained her hands, so they could make her stroke another two cocks at the same time she was sucking one. If they hadn't done that, if they'd all just waited their turns with her, she would have ended up servicing every single one of the fuckers. And inevitably it would have gone beyond blowjobs, pretty soon. She'd have let them rail her, any way they wanted. But it didn't get that far, thank Christ. Because the dumbshits took off her manacles, not even thinking about it for a moment. They'd forgotten who she was, like she almost had, for a little bit there. So she only had to pleasure two—swallowing both their discharges. Gulp gulp. And then in the corner of her eye, even as her nose was pressed deep into a scratchy bristling thicket of ungroomed graying pubic hair that smelled of honey, for some reason—his soap or cologne, perhaps—and would haunt her dreams for many nights to come, she saw a chance to snatch a knife from the belt of the tall thin shitface she was cranking on her left side ... She didn't hesitate. She went right ahead and took that chance, and it paid off. Easy-peasy. Now then. Naked against a dozen, most of which had nice nifty guns of assorted sizes. And she was hardly in top form. Jesus God her pussy hurt. Her labia felt chewed and dried out, like hunks of old bubblegum, spat out on the sidewalk in the sun ... But it was now or never, do or die, so it had be now. Time to do. You fuck with the Tomb Raider, here's what happens. Lara fucks you back. Might take her a while, but she'll getcha. Dizzy and weak as she felt, the knife allowed her to open a throat and a belly, swish swash—clumsy, girly, embarrassing slashes, but they got the job done, poor as they were—and slice off one chap's cock and another chap's balls, and then take one of those nice nifty guns away from that last fellow, after she'd emasculated him. It was a largish one she got hold of. A proper assault weapon. After that, it was pretty much a done-deal. The rest of the men were all too astonished by the turn of events to give her any trouble. They just stood around still as statues and gaping sheepishly at her, with their stinking atrocious cocks drooping out their unzipped flies, and each man took his medicine from her, one after the other. Pop pop poppity pop. It took her less than a minute, to kill them all, except for the commander. She almost got away, trying to scramble under the back rim of the tent. But she wasn't quite quick enough. Lara took the bitch's fatigues and her boots for herself, and then after she was clothed, she chained the hateful woman to the bar. She didn't go to the trouble of making her straddle it—just cuffed her hands to it. And she still had her underwear on. But when Lara turned on the electricity, she cranked up the power knob as far as it would go. "No! Wait! Don't! D—uuhhnnnnnnn ..." It was quick for the bitch. Two seconds. Lara didn't indulge herself, making a big thing out of it. She just did what needed doing. She was, admittedly, tempted to have left Patrick's unconscious carcass attached to the bar next to the commander, when she did that. Putting them both out of the game for good at the same time. But in end she didn't do that. She freed the stupid shitheel. Didn't wake him up until after she'd killed the commander. And then resetting his shoulder put his lights right out again. 5. He woke her in the middle of the night with a strangled cry. She thought they were being attacked. Or else he'd fallen asleep on his watch and was having a nightmare. But when she sat up and looked over at him, she saw he'd just been masturbating. He still had his cock in one hand, sopping up his jizz off his belly with the other, using a handful of leaves. When she moved, she startled him. He tried to roll over and hide what he was doing, but he wasn't nearly fast enough. "Damn it, Patrick. What the fuck is your problem?" "I didn't mean to wake you. Sorry. I didn't mean to be so loud." "You are supposed to be on watch." They were over the border again, out of the official warzone, more or less safe. But far from completely safe. Still a great deal of rough ground to cover tomorrow before they reached the airfield. "How can you keep a proper watch while I rest if you're too busy beating off?" "I was worried it wouldn't work anymore. After the electricity and all. I had to see if it still worked." "Appears it does, eh?" "But it felt really weird when I came. It still burned a little inside, when it came out. Do you think it always will, from now on?" "Depends on whether you can leave the poor thing alone for five minutes, and give it half a chance to recover. Hang on a moment." She had suddenly realized her camo shirt was hanging open. She had no bra underneath, since she hadn't bothered taking the commander's—it wouldn't have fit her anyway. "Did you unbutton my shirt while I was asleep?" "No." "You're lying. You're a liar." "You only had one button done. All the rest had come loose on their own." Well, the shirt was rather tight on her. "You were sprawled out right there in front of me, flat on your back with your arms over your head, dead to world and snoring like a chainsaw." "I don't snore." "Well, somebody sure was. Anyway, I just did it to help myself along. So I'd get done quicker, was the only reason. I wanted to check myself, like I said. The only reason was to check myself. But I had trouble getting going and I started to get scared. I needed something to like, focus on. To take my mind off everything else. And your boobs were right there, you know. Perfect to focus on in that way. But I never touched you—I'd never dare. I just reached over real quick and flicked your shirt open—the one last button was already half-out its hole. All it took was a quick flick. A breeze could have done it by itself, if there happened to be a breeze tonight. And I swear I would have tried to cover you back up after I cleaned myself, if I hadn't made too much noise and woken you up accidentally. You'd never have known a thing about it." She acted without knowing what she was doing. Or at least without a moment of conscious decision. She never thought to herself: Here's what I need to do now. Instead her body just flew into action on its own. Surprising herself as much as him. Possibly more so. She grabbed him by the front of his Tshirt and dragged him over across her lap, facedown. "Hey! What? Lara!" His pants were still down around his knees. His bare arse was so snow white it seemed to glow. But she made it change color. It darkened considerably, by the time she was done with him. He squealed and kicked and begged for mercy, but all the same she felt his cock get hard again, on top her thigh. He probably would have come again, if she let him. She did not. But Lara herself nearly did. Not quite, but nearly. If she'd kept at it, if she'd let herself ... But that wasn't the point—that wasn't supposed to be why she acted. That wasn't why she did what she did to him. She had a simpler and nobler purpose. It was simply that he was her student and he misbehaved. He just kept misbehaving over and over, worse and worse. As his mentor, it was time she took him in hand. Sometimes the old ways are the best ways. Not always, but sometimes. If the lad won't learn any other easier way, well then ... She enjoyed it, though. God she enjoyed it. She wouldn't have thought herself the type. Maybe it was only this guy, in the current context. Because he deserved it so much. But God she enjoyed beating his bare arse. It felt really good, on a whole bunch of different levels at once, just walloping those buttocks hard as she could, again and again and again. Making him holler and kick and beg. She could have got herself off, doing that. And she might have, except she could feel he would have got off again too. And that would have spoiled the lesson, probably.