0 comments/ 8337 views/ 5 favorites Stimuli By: justtheone 1. This wasn't the first time Margie Bannon's striking resemblance to her former mentor Lara Croft had got her into dangerous trouble ... but this time was scarier than how it was before. Much scarier. She'd been invited to a flashy party on a boat. A big fancy yacht. A buddy of hers from grad school—her name was Staci—had started dating a film director, although Margie had never heard of any of the guy's films. The yacht, if Margie understood the detail's correctly, belonged to the guy's stepfather, who paid for most of his projects. Margie didn't think much of him. He seemed like a pretentious spoiled hipster. Kind of guy that never took off his sunglasses. An embodied cliché. In fairness, she'd never actually spoken to him—only seen him at a distance, and heard a lot of off-color stories about him. She hadn't wanted to go to the thing, but her friends had begged her. Not Staci herself so much, but all their other friends from school, none of which would be attending. None of them liked Staci's new beau any better than Margie did. They wanted her to go as Lara Croft again, and try to fool the guy and all the other ritzy film people that were supposed to be there. She had pulled off the trick before, at an even larger event—she didn't feel any need to repeat it. Yet her friends just kept pressing her until she finally gave in. Just to shut them up. She expected it would be dockside thing, which she always thought was kind of silly—if you're not gonna go anywhere, why be on a boat? But right after she went aboard, they did actually sail out to sea a good distance. Or motor or chug or whatever you were supposed to call it, when your boat or your ship didn't actually use sails. Somebody had told her once there was difference between a boat and a ship, and that it was more than just a size thing, but it hadn't made sense to her, the way the person tried to explain it. She tried to look it up on her smartphone, but couldn't get a good web connection. Also the party wasn't as big a deal as she was led to believe, and neither was the yacht itself. Not to say it was tiny, or that it wasn't nice. But she'd expected something twice as big at least, from what she'd been told. This one was a good, like, family size, but not big enough for a real party crowd. It was just her, then Staci and the cheesedick director guy, with two other couples and two other unattached dudes. More of a get-together number than a party. And even that made the yacht feel crammed, like they were about to tip over. No big deal movie stars or anybody like that. The guy was always promising Staci he'd introduce her to all the top names, but it had never happened so far and it wasn't happening tonight. Guy was full of shit. Shame Staci couldn't see that yet. He spent the entire time hitting on Margie, trying to cast her in his next movie. She couldn't tell if he seriously believed she was Lara Croft, or was just pretending to. It occurred to her it might not make a difference, either way. If she 'fessed up to the truth, he'd still keep smiling and going through the same shallow motions ... He was so overenthusiastic about everything, it was almost amazing. When a guy is so completely fake absolutely all the time, does that become his true self? Then things got serious. Another boat showed up. It was a little larger than the yacht—not much—but seemed to go about a hundred times faster. Looked like it was going to ram them. She thought something was wrong with it—like their steering was busted, or the driver was wasted, something like that. Only then at the last moment it slewed around sideways and pulled up neatly next to them, hull to hull, with the gentlest of bumps. Their driver was actually quite skillful. Then four or five men jumped over from that boat, with masks and guns. It wasn't a robbery; it was a kidnapping. They took Margie and Stacie and the other two women. None of the men on the yacht seemed particularly upset or surprised about this—they'd known this was gonna happen. It must have all been planned. Turned out those other two girls had only just met the guys they'd come with. They'd all been played. Just before a black bag was pulled over her head, Margie saw Stacie's shitty boyfriend taking a briefcase. That would be his pay. She couldn't help but wonder how much the fucker was getting for this crap. 2. They were lowering her upside down into a pit, dangling her on the end of a rope. She had no clothes on and her hands were tied behind her back. Her ankles were also tied together, with a hook stuck through the loop between her heels. The hook was on the end of a separate thicker cable that the men were using to lower her. They were doing it slowly; the strain and jostling on her joints wasn't too bad. Not to say it was at all pleasant but she could bear it. All the blood rushing to her head was a harder problem. Felt like her skull was about to explode. The pit was enormously wide and deep, and perfectly circular, with perfectly smooth walls. Definitely not natural. It had black bars across the top, bigger than the girders of an office building. Wide enough across that the men could walk across the top of them without much danger, despite the fact they were rounded, cylindrical. No corrosion or filth on them. That seemed odd. Plenty of space between them for her to fit. Whatever these bars were meant to keep in this hole, it seemed it was very big. Bigger than an elephant. Fucking big. Her captors had been injecting her with something on a regular basis, the last few days. It didn't render her unconscious, just extremely spacey and pliable. She wasn't sure how much time had gone by since she was kidnapped. Today they hadn't drugged her again, allowing her mind to clear. Mostly. The clearing process hadn't completed. She still felt a dreamy disconnection from her surroundings, and much calmer about everything that was happening to her than she knew she should be. She should probably be screaming her head off, or bawling like a child. Yet she felt no inclination to do either of those things. She felt no fear, only a vague and almost eager curiosity to find out what was going to happen to her next. Like she was watching a movie or playing a computer game. Just fooling around. Above, standing on the bars, were four men. Four bad guys. The two guys lowering her together, with the aid of a little wobbly winch on a stand that they'd set up, were just unimportant thugs. Then there was a bald guy that seemed to be the leader, and a stocky Asian in a flashy suit with a Fu-Manchu mustache. She remembered him from the boats—both the first and the second. Well, the second and the third ... He was on the sleek speedy yacht that had swooped in to do the actual hijacking, and he had been the one that handed over the payment to Stacie's shitty boyfriend ... and then later on she saw him again a few times after she and the other women had got transferred to another boat, some kind of cargo ship, much bigger and much scummier-looking. She never saw any more of the rest of the guys from the kidnapping team—they seemed to have stayed on the smaller boat. Probably took it away to hide it or get rid of it somewhere. Then again, most of them could have been on the cargo ship too and she just never saw them, since she spent the whole trip isolated and doped in one little room. Stacie and the other girls had been separated from her, immediately after the transfer. Occasionally Margie had heard, or thought she heard, distant female cries and thumping sounds from other parts of the ship, accompanied by masculine laughter. Kind of shit she expected. They didn't rape Margie. At least not in the regular way. No, hell with that. They did. Not in the regular way, but they certainly did. Over and over. After her injection, her dress was removed and everything else, and then she was bound to a sturdy wooden high-backed chair in front of large mirror. They made her watch what they did to her. Watching herself helped it to work. Her wrists were tied to the armrests and her ankles were tied to the chair legs. The chair had a hole in the seat, with the handle of one of those power-massagers stuck down into it, so the head of the device was positioned right in front of her exposed crotch. She spent a lot of time trying to remember what the name of those power-massagers was. It became a way of trying to keep her mind off what the thing was doing to her, when they turned it on. It was one of those brand names like kleenex or jello or scotch tape that stopped being a brand name in general usage. The best thing that can happen to a brand name, and also the worst. The name was something like Hibazi or Hitochi. She couldn't remember for sure. A vibrator was what they were. A high-intensity dildo. Only they pretended like they weren't; you could buy one in regular stores like it wasn't a sex toy. She'd seen them in aisles with blow dryers and curling irons and makeup mirrors. Pictures on the boxes of people using them on their shoulders and necks. Yeah right. Like that's what people really needed them for. She'd owned a cheap one for a while. That had been a couple years previously. She stopped using it because it was too extreme, and also too noisy. It made her come too fast and too hard and left her aching. Made it hurt when she peed, for a few hours after using it. If you're not careful, you can mess up your parts with those things. You can get yourself hooked on them, and then not to be able to come any good from normal sex. Or maybe that was just an urban legend. She'd decided she didn't want to take the chance and got rid of the thing. The one built into the chair was a newer and fancier model. Had a much bigger and scarier head than her old one had, with ridges on it and triangular protrusions. It didn't hum or buzz. Fucking thing growled. Growled was the only word. Her kidnappers used that thing on her for hours and hours, while she was already half out of her mind from the drug they'd pumped into her veins. They'd just switch it on and leave her alone in front of the mirror. That was all they had to do; the machine did the rest, and watching herself in the mirror. The fat Asian guy would come in sometimes to check on her and study her. He would stand behind her chair, so they were both reflected together in the mirror. He was her only visitor and observer, unless the mirror was actually a two-way. The man never touched her, at least not that she could recall. She wasn't made to stay in the chair all the time. Other crewmen would set her loose to use the bathroom periodically, and to eat, and to sleep. They must have had a schedule. All she remembered with any clarity was her times in the chair. Watching herself in the mirror, and watching the Asian man watching her. He did not smile. His expression was always very serious and thoughtful. Like he was contemplating some deep philosophical mystery. Which she illustrated. Perhaps she truly had. Margie tried keeping her eyes closed and imagining herself in other places, using fantasy and happy memories to escape or at least improve her situation. The wonderful power of make-believe. It helped some, but only to a point. The stimulation of the sextoy was always too strong and too constant to ignore. Whatever her brain conjured, it would rapidly transform into another sexual scenario, whether she wanted it to or not. She soon learned to accept that and to embrace it. She could not prevent her body from being forced to orgasm again and again ... all she'd been able to do was use her imagination to pretend it was different people she liked that kept making her climax, not the dreadful merciless machine. The only way to fight had been not to fight—she played along instead. She thought about all her old boyfriends through the years—the good ones, anyway, or the ones that had been good in bed even if they didn't turn out to be good men beyond that. And she thought about all her favorite movie stars and pro athletes. She thought a lot about hang-gliding, which she'd tried for the first time in the spring, and had really loved. In her fantasies she always did it naked, over tropical beaches and over futuristic cities, with enormous awestruck crowds of people staring up at her, pointing and gasping ... And she had a number of much crazier fantasies, once the others started to go stale, about centaurs and about robots from the future and about Superman from the latest movie. And she thought a lot about the "Sting Clone" from the last time pretending to be Lara Croft had got into trouble—which then ended up being the greatest and the dirtiest and the most intense sexual experience of her life, up to that time. (This new one was finally topping it.) But she'd combine him with the other weirder ideas. So he would turn into a centaur or a robot, and/or doubleteam her with Henry Cavill's superfine Superman. Had her captors wanted to drive her insane? Had they wanted to break her spirit? If that was the plan, it hadn't succeeded. She never broke down crying. She never begged them to relent. When she was fed she ate, when she was put to bed she slept. When they put her in the chair for another session, she didn't resist. She'd just throw her head back and dig her toes into the scratchy red carpet and grind her pussy against the machine as it growled and zapped against her most sensitive place, and she'd dream her private dreams, as vividly as she could, completely tuning out the ugly and embarrassing reality she was trapped in, and in a few minutes, nice and easy, she'd start to come. She'd come and come and come and come, moaning and screaming and squirting jets of pussy juice all over the floor and the mirror (Margie, as you may remember from previous chronicles, had developed into a prodigious squirter when she came) and then screaming and moaning some more, until somebody would finally shut the massager off again and set her loose. Letting her pass out. Had they wanted her to turn into a sex addict—a helpless drooling nympho? That question was more difficult to answer. As the four men were leading her to the pit today—a hike of an hour or so, after they departed the cargo ship, first through a mosquito-haunted mangrove forest and then two thirds up the side of a dormant volcano to reach this cavern, the whole time as she marched she kept thinking not about their destination or the men's intentions when they got there, but just about the chair and the massager. She'd been, frankly, missing it. Yearning. No other word for the feeling than that. Given the option, even without the drug muddling her brain, she'd have been ready and willing to undergo another session in the chair. Hell, if a bunch of police had showed up and told her she was free, she'd still have asked if she could take another hour or two in the chair before leaving the room. They'd given her hiking boots for the trip so she didn't destroy her feet, but nothing else, and kept her hands bound. And then soon as they reached the edge of the pit, they took the boots away before they tied her legs together and got started lowering her between the bars. She didn't struggle or complain, as they did this stuff. Didn't seem to be any point, and she wasn't particularly upset or anxious about the turn of events. Only excited. The bottom of the pit was full of water. You couldn't tell until it started to slosh and swirl around, and then a green light flared up under the surface. Then an enormous eye appeared, breaking that surface directly beneath her, and blinking. It was wreathed with a dozen thick tentacles, or no, actually lots and lots more than a dozen, which reached up to prod and caress her sweat-slick nudity. They were very warm and leathery, when they touched her skin. Margie still found herself incapable of reacting to this. She knew what an appropriate reaction would be, yet the feelings didn't come. She just hung limp in the thing's clutches like she was dead. Couldn't even make a sound. "Doorkeeper!" she heard someone shout—no doubt the leader, the bald guy up top, "Open the door! Here is your offering. The price is paid." The pupil of the great eye expanded. It changed from black to brilliant blue, and then other colors appeared, white and gold. Margie realized she was looking though a portal. On the other side was a field of tall grass under a gorgeous summer sky. A woman was walking toward her, leading two children by the hand. "At last! At last!" the bald man exclaimed. Then he jumped down between the bars. A tentacle intercepted him. Snagged him in the air right next to Margie. "Wait," boomed the creature. When it spoke, its eyelids articulated the words over the eyeball and the portal it contained, moving like lips. Freaky thing to watch. But also kind of fascinating. Hypnotic. "This is not what we agreed! This female is not Lara Croft!" The tentacles holding her moved her closer to the bald man, 'til they were face to face and nose to nose, and then shook her painfully, and him too. "What? What?" the bald man sputtered, "No! It is! It's her! I swear to you!" "Liar!" roared the creature, "Liar! Did you think you could fool me? Did you think I would not notice?" "Of course not! I swear to you, this is Lara Croft!" "It is not! It is NOT!" "He's right, you know," said Margie, "I just look a lot like her. It's funny. Just one of those crazy things." "But that's—but—I don't understand! I never meant—Oh God, please believe me! She's lying! She must be lying!" "No. Fool. It is you that is lying. Do you comprehend what you have done? The chance you have just so recklessly discarded? I guard a sacred portal into dreams. I offered you the doorway to your own fantasies. Once through, you could have existed there forever. The unreal rendered real." "I know! I understand! I'm grateful! I would never throw away this opportunity!" "Oh no? But you have, the moment you offered me false coinage." "I didn't! I didn't! Or if I did, I didn't mean to! It was a mistake! A stupid error! Nothing more!" "Your last, mortal." "No! Please! My wife! My children! I see them! Alive again! They're right there waiting for me! Let me go to them! You have to let me go to them! I'm begging you! I'm begging! Please! I didn't mean to trick you! I swear on my life! I'll make this right! Please let me make this right!" The images in the portal changed. The sky turned red, the grass withered, and then the woman and her children were engulfed in fire and consumed to ashes. "No! No! Oh God! My God! Please! Don't do that! Not like that! You're burning them! You're burning them again! Oh please stop! Bring them back! Bring them back!" "I shall not, but I shall allow you to join them. It must, however, be in a different setting. I am also, remember, a portal to your nightmares. All the nightmares of your depraved species, in fact. Look." Red devils with horns and batwings had crawled up from the dirt where the grass used to be, mere moments ago. Then the doorkeeper let go of the bald man, allowing him to fall through the portal into the devils' arms. While more devils flew out of the portal and up through the bars over the pit, to seize the other three men. The thugs pulled out gun to defend themselves—the bullets did no good. The Asian tried to run. He wasn't fast enough. Laughing, the devils carried the three men down into the portal with their boss, who Margie saw was already getting buttfucked. Then the eye blinked and all the men were gone. The portal had changed back to the black pupil of the eye again. She felt it focus upon her. "Now, girl," said the doorkeeper, "what shall we do with you?" "Let her go," said the voice of Lara Croft, "It's me you want. And here I am." She was standing on the bars up there in the exact same spot the bald man had been. A gun in one hand, and something else in the other. A large cylinder with a red light blinking on top. Stimuli "Lara," said the doorkeeper, almost moaning the name, "Lara. At last. At last. Lara." "I've come to free you, Clive. Only way it's possible." "Clive? Clive? Oh. Oh yes. That was my name, wasn't it? When I was still a man. Before you abandoned me here." She clicked her tongue. "I didn't abandon you, Clive. I tried to stop you. Don't you remember? Try. Just try. Are you brave enough to remember the truth? I warned you what would happen if you killed the original doorkeeper. You wouldn't listen. So you took his place. Just like I told you would happen. You didn't do enough preparatory research, old boy. You never did." "Is that a bomb in your hand? You can't use it, Lara—if you do, if you kill me, you'll just transform yourself. You'll become me." "Not if I destroy the portal too. That was Clive's mistake." "That won't work. You can't do it. The portal is inside me. The portal is my heart itself." "I know. That's why I brought a much bigger bomb than Clive used. Now release the girl. If you cooperate, I won't throw the bomb. Not unless you want me to. If you prefer, my student and I will just depart and let you be. You can stay down there and stew as you are, long as you like. Except that's not what you really want, is it? Or you wouldn't be so angry with me, and you wouldn't have told those other idiotic fuckers to find me and bring me to you." "All I want from you is revenge! Revenge! You know nothing of me! Nothing!" His tentacles lashed at her, groping clumsily through the gaps in the bars. She shot aside a couple, and then jumped to a neighboring bar, thus avoiding another three—yet another one still caught her tight around the waist from behind and pulled her off her feet, down into the pit. "Got you! Ha! At last! I've waited so long! So long and now I've got you! Got you! And you'll never get away! Never! Never! Never! Ha!" Margie heard her say "Bugger" and then Lara flung her bomb at the eye. Clive caught it with another tentacle, but then Lara shot off the tip of the limb, which allowed the bomb to fall the rest of the way into the pupil of the eye, where it vanished. The eyelids had snapped shut to try to block it—they closed fast enough to catch the cylinder between them, but it was too heavy. They couldn't keep it in place. It slipped free and plummeted down the hole with a whoosh. Wasn't there a lens over the pupil? Didn't seem to be ... Who knows how a crazy alien eye like this would work? Damn thing used its eyelids to talk with, for fuck's sake. "This is still gonna take a few more ... moments," Lara called, "It's on a short timer, and it has a long distance to travel inside this fucker, before it reaches the critical target. Be patient, Margie. We'll get through this. If we're patient." Clive had got the gun out of her hand with another of his arms. He used several others to remove the Tomb Raider's clothing ... Lara did not resist as he tumbled her around in the air like a doll, ripping away her things piece by piece. She closed her eyes and let him do whatever he wanted, biding her time. Margie was struck by her expression. She seemed strangely amused. There was a wry, sardonic half-smile on her face. Or it looked like there was to Margie. It puzzled and fascinated her. The huge creature could have killed them easily. Could have torn them apart, limb from limb. It didn't. That wasn't what it hungered for. Even now, at the brink of defeat and extinction. "Fuck you, Lara!" it roared, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" "Yes, yes," Lara sighed, "Whatever you say." Like Margie, she was suspended upside down now, but spread-eagle, wide as she could stretch, while Margie still had her hands tied behind her and her legs bound together. Margie found she envied Lara's position. They were both equally helpless; she wanted to be opened like Lara was, stretched out as wide as it was possible for a body to reach. She wanted to feel that openness and the quivering electric heat of such a stretch. Lara was still speaking. "You always wanted to. You and every other filthy son of a bitch with a cock. Maybe if you'd tried being nicer, now and again," she went on, "you might have had better luck with me. And I did give you the one chance, if you recall. You were too drunk and blew your shot. Perhaps you were too drunk to remember the occasion. In any case, nobody to blame but yourself. For everything, Clive. All of this!" "Shut up! Shut up!" He crammed the end of a tentacle into her mouth. "No more! No more smart remarks, Tomb Raider. No more tough talk! All I will hear from you is screams!" Having gagged her and divested her of her clothing (saving only her fingerless gloves and her boots), the creature commenced jamming another tentacle into Lara's ass. "Scream for me, Tomb Raider! Scream for me! Scream!" And before much longer, Lara obliged. As soon as she did, Clive removed the tentacle from her mouth, so her cries were no longer muffled. "You! You bastard! BASTARD! You bloody buggering bastard! Youuuhhaarrhh! Yaahhuuhhaah! Bollocks! Bollocking bollock-eating bollocks! Yaahhuuhhuuuhhoooww!" "That's right, Lara! That's right! Take it! Take it! Take it all! And I've got more for you! So much more! Much much more! I'm not a man anymore—I've no man's limits! Let me show you! Let me show how powerful a monster I've become!" The tentacle he'd stuffed in her mouth—or maybe this was another one, Margie couldn't keep track—the end of it split open and folded back. A long, white, tri-forked tongue emerged from the slit, dripping with yellowish oil or gel. The tongue licked rapid circles over her face and then swirled downward, down her neck and torso, around and over her breasts ... Lara shuddered and groaned in disgust. But perhaps disgust wasn't the only reason she groaned. And then the tongue slid further, zigzagging down her belly and her thighs, and rapidly upward again to her cunt. Meanwhile, other tentacles had split their tips and put out matching tongues. They dove to work upon her nipples, and her ears, and her armpits. Her boots and socks were peeled away, so further tentacle tongues could attack the arches of her feet, and beneath and between her curled toes. Lara screamed and screamed, higher-pitched than before: "Yeeee! Yeeee! Yie-eeeeeee!" With her eyes rolled back in her head. Margie saw the first tongue—the one on Lara's cunt now—it hadn't penetrated her. It was only teasing the entrance and her clit. Yet the tentacle behind her, spearing her ass, continued its onslaught as before. Unremitting unrepentant violence. "Am I still hurting you, Lara Croft?," asked the monster, "I don't think I am, not anymore. I don't think I need to. This is much better, isn't it? A much better way to punish you? Don't you agree? Tell me, Lara. Tell me. Let me hear you say it. Say it, Lara. Surrender! Surrender everything and say it! SAY IT!" "Yes!" she squealed, "Yes! Yes! Dammit! Damn you! Yes! Yes! Yes! YES!" Margie could bear no more. "Please! Oh please! Me too! Don't just leave me hanging here! Don't just make me watch! Do it to me too! Do it all to me the same! Please! Let me feel it! Make me feel it! Please! I have to feel it too! I need it! I need this! Please! Don't spare me!" And so the monster ripped the ropes away and spread her limbs and gave her exactly what she asked for. How long did it go on for? How long did it take Lara's bomb to go off, and why the hell did it take so long? Because the inside of the doorkeeper was a jumble of different dimensions, the infinite and the infinitesimal wrapped 'round each other. Countless potential universes within his tangled guts, all overlapped and intermingled, and they could all fit in there like that because none of them were real, or at least not real in the same way that Lara's and Margie's were. Or were they? To us, of course, their existence is only another man's dream, or if you prefer, a nightmare. It might have been no more two minutes or two seconds. It might have took two hours or two days. A timeless eternity, was what it seemed like. Was what it was. An entire universe, start to finish, of nothing but fucking and orgasms and screams. No one alive in it except Lara and Margie and the monster that held them captive and tortured them and worshipped them and pleasured them—its sole reason for being. Lara and Margie ceased to be two people. Their minds and spirits and identities blended into one singular transcendent experience. They felt each other's feelings and thought each other's thoughts. It was easy, after all. There was no magic in it. There was no need. There was, after all, no other feeling in all of creation except ecstasy. While as to thought, well, phooey ... There was no longer any such thing as coherent thought at all. Then that bomb finally went off and ended it. Brought them back to themselves and the world they knew. Clive and all his tentacles instantly dissolved into silence and shadow and ash. Lara and Margie landed with a splash in the water at the bottom of the pit. It was only ordinary water now. Tepid with a bit of gritty scum floating on the surface. They were naked and they were exhausted and dazed and sore. Slimy, too. Clive's pungent emissions had not vanished from their flesh, when the rest of him did. Water alone did not immediately rinse the residue away. A great deal of soap and scrubbing would be required. And there was the matter of climbing out of this pit again. That was going to be problematic, with the walls as high and smooth as they were. But we needn't lose sleep over a mundane issue like that, not after everything else they've survived together. We can count on our girls to put their heads together and come up with something cool. We shall say farewell for now and leave them to it.