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Levels of Control Ch. 01

By: RamonaE



When Heather Atkins, insurance investigator for Amalgamated National, felt the sting high in her thigh she thought nothing about it. She crouched in the shadows, watching the Saudi ship unload its cargo in the dead of night, cargo that the Saudi firm had reported lost. She was too busy taking photos, until the moment her head began to swim and her vision receded down a black tunnel. She felt her hip with her rapidly weakening hand, and brushed the feathers of the tiny dart stuck through her black jeans. She tried to pull it free, but then everything went black and she felt nothing.

She awoke to a pounding headache, face down on a metal floor. It vibrated against her cheek as she turned her head, and she heard the distance sound of an engine. It must be the ship, she thought, the Falstaff, or at least a ship. She tried to sit up, and found that her hands were cuffed or manacled behind her back. She rolled onto her side. She wore only a man's wife-beater undershirt, which seemed uncomfortably small and tight.

She fought the rush of nausea as she got her legs under her and rose to a kneeling position. The weight of her unsupported breasts seemed unduly uncomfortable beneath the flimsy fabric. Her nipples were tight and hard as well, painfully so, which seemed odd in the hot little room. But before she had time to dwell on this a voice said, "Don't move around too much. Let the queasiness settle first."

Heather tossed her hair from her eyes. The room was lit by a dim bulb in a dirty fixture mounted in the very center of the ceiling. A hair-thin line of harsh bright light shone from under the door. There seemed to a toilet and sink in one corner, and a bed along the wall. The floor was barely twelve feet square, so she was able to slide to the wall and use its support to sit up. "Where is this?" she croaked, her throat dry.

"It's a ship," the voice said. She recognized it as another woman, and saw the dim figure curled up on the bed. "We've been at sea for several hours, I think. Hard to be sure since we were moving when I woke up."

Heather shook her head, trying to clear it. She should be terrified, or furious, but something else seemed to be overwhelming those normal emotions. Her stomach felt odd and fluttery, and her breasts ached like she was about to get her period, which wasn't due for another two weeks. She knew this sensation, but couldn't identify it.

"I don't feel well," she said, her words slurry. She'd never been seasick in her life, but perhaps this was the first time.

The woman on the bed swung her long, pale legs off the edge. She was older than Heather, close to fifty, but her body was lean and toned from regular exercise. Like Heather, the woman's hands seemed to be manacled behind her back, which made her breasts seem more prominent. The dark nipples stuck out long and erect, visible beneath her own tight undershirt.

"It passes," she said simply. "I think they give us too much of whatever sedative they use. Most of them work based on weight, and I doubt they spend a lot of time worrying about that."

The metal beneath Heather's bare behind was warm and slick. She took a deep breath and pushed her feet against the floor, forcing her shoulders against the wall. No, she corrected, bulkhead. This is a ship. Slowly she was able to stand, although the effort exhausted her. The undershirt barely reached her navel and left her feeling ridiculously exposed. She tried unsuccessfully to grab the back hem and pull it down.

"I'm Heather," she said. 

"Megan," the other woman replied. "Megan Capfield."

The name registered on Heather, but it took a moment. "Wait, Megan Capfield the attorney?"

The woman nodded. "That's me."

Heather had never met her, but everyone in the city knew her by reputation and from her frequent appearances on the news. Known as the Bitch Shark for her ruthless tactics, she was the attorney of choice for businessmen and politicians facing legal woes. She was rich, powerful and so well-connected she was considered untouchable. Yet here she was, apparently, her black hair unruly around her tanned, familiar face.

"Why are you here?" Heather asked.

Megan stood. Her own undershirt hung no lower than Heather's, exposing the dark curls between her still-firm thighs. Sweat gleamed on her skin, causing the undershirt to stick to her upper body. Her wrists were held behind her in simple police handcuffs. Heather knew that if they same sort bound her as well, there would be no breaking them.

"I am here," Megan said, "because of an ill-advised moment of guilt, patriotism and idealism. I finally found something a client did that I could not defend, and at that moment I ceased to be useful. So I was drugged, kidnapped, stripped and tossed in here."

"What..." Heather's mouth was dry, and she had to pause before she could speak again. "What will they do to us?"

Megan tossed a strand of black hair from her eyes. "How do you feel right now?"

Heather frowned. The odd feeling was growing stronger. Her breasts ached, her nipples throbbed, and she felt something slick on her inner thighs that was more than sweat. "I don't know, I'm...." Suddenly she realized. "My God, I'm...horny. Really horny."

Megan nodded. "Some sort of aphrodisiac, I think. I know I'm so turned on, I'd hump a knot on a log. Except..."

"Except what?" Heather gasped. It was growing stronger, and the empty pit below her stomach began to ache. "Why would they do this to us? Do they plan to rape us?"

The other woman laughed coldly and bitterly. "No, honey, we're being tortured. The drug they gave us will kill us if we come."

END OF PART 1.

Levels of Control Ch. 02



Heather had only a moment to absorb this information before the hatch behind them opened. A shaft of bright light made her wince, and she stepped back into the far wall. She bent and clamped her thighs together, trying to shield her intimacy from view. 

The room suddenly filled with men. They were swarthy, muscular Arabs with mustaches, reeking of sweat and maleness. Her overheated body involuntarily surged with new wetness at their proximity. She glanced at Meagan, still seated on the bed, and saw from her anxious expression that she was experiencing the same thing. It was awful, disgusting, and entirely impossible to resist. Her cunt twitched and tingled, stimulating itself with no extra encouragement needed.

As her eyes adjusted, she saw their smiles. They knew. The bastards, they knew what she was feeling. Her fists clenched and strained uselessly at the cuffs holding her wrists.

One of them pointed at her. "You," he said gutterally. "Come with us."

Heather looked at Meagan, who seemed unable to breathe. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, jutting nipples straining at the undershirt fabric. The older woman was feeling the same awful, uncontrollable response to the male nearness.

"I want my clothes," Heather hissed. "And my cell phone."

The men laughed. In the small room the sound was harsh and grating, like braying hyenas. One of them grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the corridor outside. The door slammed shut, leaving Meagan alone again.

She was pushed along ahead of them. The lights were harsh flourescent tubes, and she squinted against their glare. The air smelled of oil, fuel and sweat, male sweat, and she found herself whimpering softly with each step. Her thighs slid together as she walked, lubricated by her own uncontrollable juices.

"Stop here," the man who had spoken in the cell said. She felt hands at her wrists, and suddenly the cuffs were gone. Before she had time to adjust to this, she was shoved into the room ahead. She grabbed the hem of the undershirt and tried to pull it down enough to cover her pubic hair. The knowledge that she could now, in fact, touch those parts of her body that most ached battled with her self-control. Could she really die from an orgasm?

It was a doctor's office, and another with a stethoscope around his neck regarded her coldly. He gestured toward a metal folding chair. "Sit down, please," he said. His accent was much lighter. "I'll be with you in a moment. The rest of you can go."

Her escorts, still snickering, withdrew and closed the hatch behind them, leaving Heather alone with the doctor. He returned his attention to his laptop screen. On it, a video showed the face and bare shoulders of a young woman, whimpering and moaning in apparent sensual arousal. She did not look happy about it, though; in fact, it appeared to terrify her. Her cries were just audible through the tiny speakers.

Heather stepped forward, conscious of her near-nudity, her raging hormones and the fact that she both dreaded and craved the rape she expected soon. She had to fight, to hold out; her office knew where she was, after all. When they learned the ship had departed and she had not returned, it would be the first place they looked. But her aching clit, mere centimeters from the fingertips tugging on the undershirt hem, tingled with the friction of every step.

"What," she said through gritted teeth, "did you bastards do to me?"

The doctor looked up at her with exaggerated, paternal patience. "Do? We took away your clothes, yes, to ensure you would not try to escape. Do not worry, my men are under the strictest orders not to lay a hand on you." He grinned, emphasizing the double meaning in his statement.

"That's not what I meant," Heather said. Her legs were weak and wobbly from his male nearness. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. Why am I so horny?"

The doctor pondered a moment, then deadpanned, "Because you are an American whore?"

Her rage surged up, but before she could express it he reached forward and pinched one nipple through the thin undershirt. 

The sensation that rocketed through her, a mix of humiliation and delicious pain, made her fall to the floor with a cry. Her hands involuntarily cupped both breasts, squeezing the aching flesh. She felt a fresh surge of juices wet her inner thighs.

The doctor grabbed one arm and pulled her to her feet. Then he slammed her down into the chair. The metal was cold against her bare buttocks, and she immediately felt her juices pool beneath her. There would be no hiding it when she stood. As she gasped and tried to compose herself, the doctor took her pulse and then bent down to examine her eyes. She felt his rank breath on her face and her clit tingled. She should be fighting, trying to escape, at least trying to learn more about who these people were and where they were taking her. But her body overwhelmed all these considerations.

"Please," she whispered, "tell me. Is it true? Will an orgasm kill me?" She clenched her fists, wanting desperately to either pull this man atop her or fondle her own body. She realized his crotch was at her eye level, and unbidden the sensation of an erection in her mouth rose in her memory. She wanted to feel semen spurt into her mouth, pooling on her cupped tongue. The desire came with no face attached, no previous or fantasy lover, simply the overpowering urge to perform the act. Dear God, what had they done to her?

The doctor stepped away and banged on the door. Heather's gaze was drawn to the girl on the computer screen, writhing and tossing her head in undeniable sensual experience. She was sweating, and crying, an seemed to be begging for something to begin, or stop. Was this live? Was the girl somewhere on the ship? Was this Heather's own future?

The door opened, and the same group of men stepped in. One grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. She felt her butt and thighs slide on the little puddle of sexual juices she left behind. She was forced out the door and back down the same hallway, undeniably back to her cell. Unless, she thought suddenly, these men were taking her somewhere else, to bend her over a desk and ram into her, filling the aching void with hot, rancid cocks and spurts of semen...

She wrung her hands as she walked. She wanted to fondle herself, to lift her aching breasts and feel the slick sides of her vagina as her fingers penetrated it. Once she was back in the cell she doubted she could resist the urge for long. The thought of lightly pinching her swollen, aching clit made her almost moan on the spot. She didn't have to come, she told herself, just the relief of touching her own skin would clear her head. Then she could try and make a plan for escape.

It was only when she reached the cell that she realized she'd made no effort to cover herself this time, that her neat triangle of pubic hair, damp with her juices, had been on display. Before the shame of this could set in, though, her arms were yanked behind her and the cuffs again placed on her wrists.

"What? No! Please, don't do this!" She thrashed madly and tried to kick, but her legs were too wobbly, and she was shoved into the cell again, hands bound behind her back, her clit as out of reach as if she'd worn a chastity belt. The door closed firmly, and she heard the lock click back into place. The dark room smelled of sweat and female arousal.

She rammed her shoulder into the metal and cried, "You motherfuckers, either fuck me or kill me, don't leave me like this!" But there was no answer, not even the mocking laughter.

She sank to the floor, sobbing, until Meagan's trembling voice said, "So they brought you back. I guess they didn't make you come."

END OF PART 2



Levels of Control Ch. 03



Heather shook her head and got her tears under control. "Some Arab doctor examined me. Probably a Saudi. He called me a whore...god knows I feel like one." She pushed herself to her feet, using the metal bulkhead as support. "He pinched my boob and it was like...it just dropped me in my tracks. I always heard aphrodisiacs were a myth, that you couldn't make a person's body...feel that. Feel this."

Meagan crawled off the bed. "The nipple thing is a secondary effect. The drug makes our breasts swell slightly and grow sensitive, like they do just before our periods. And it keeps our nipples hard." She took a deep breath. With her hands cuffed behind her, her breasts pushed against the undershirt, dark aureolas and jutting nipples visible through the thin, sweat-damp fabric. The overhead light cast dark shadows beneath her breasts, making them look even larger.

Heather squinted, her eyes still not fully adjusted to the dimness. "How do you know all this?"

"Because I read the file. I saw the autopsy reports. And because I wouldn't go along with it, they've murdered me this way."

"We're not dead yet," Heather said, with a determination she definitely didn't feel. Her legs were weak, as if she'd run a marathon, and her belly was empty and tingly. "They could've just killed us both, clean and simple. Why are they doing it this way?"

Meagan laughed harshly. "Why do you think? As a culture, they hate women. But when they interact with the outside world, it forces them to show respect to us. So they developed this. A drop or two in a drink, or a quick injection, and suddenly any woman is on her knees."

"Or her back," Heather added bitterly. "Fucking on her death bed, literally."

Meagan nodded. "And if you don't know you've been drugged, it gives a man tremendous power over you." She looked down. "I didn't know, at first. I did...things I never thought I would. Let myself be used. Then they told me what they'd done, and brought me here."

Heather walked over to Meagan. They were about the same height, although Meagan was older and heavier. "Listen to me," Heather said. "If it's a drug, it will wear off. We only have to..."

She stopped. They were so close their nipples almost touched, like tiny fingers straining toward each other.  The physical nearness, the intense smell of their bodies, suddenly choked the words in Heather's throat. She had never before been attracted to a woman, and even this wasn't an attraction as she knew it. It felt like what she imagined a junkie experienced as he waited for his heroin to cook in its spoon.

"Wait it out," Heather finished, the words a croak.

Neither was sure who made the next move, closing the miniscule distance between them, but their aching breasts suddenly pressed together, the soft pendulous weight crushing gently against the other's equally warm cushioning. Each felt the rock-hard nipples of the other against their own. Heather moaned in relief and more aching need, while Meagan keened in a high-pitched whimper of desperation.

Then Meagan lowered her lips to Heather's shoulder and kissed the soft flesh to one side of the shoulder strap. It was a gentle, wet brush of lips, and it made Heather almost sob. She realized she was writhing in slow motion, trying to burrow her own breasts into the other woman's.

"Oh, God, what is this?" Heather whispered. "I'm not gay, I've never...never wanted...."

Now Meagan's lips touched her neck, tasting the salt from Heather's sweat. "Just want to...touch you...feel skin against me..."

Heather shivered and sighed in renewed, aching agony. Suddenly she understood the insidious reason for the undershirts: they provided a barrier against even the most basic comfort of another's skin. With their hands cuffed, their was no way to remove them. "If we...what happens if we...."

Meagan's lips now found her earlobe, then her cheek. Then Heather felt the woman's lips against her own. When she gasped at the sensation rocketing through her, Meagan's tongue plunged into her mouth. It was small, and delicate, and completely unlike any man's. Heather felt tears in her eyes as she hungrily responded.

When they broke the kiss, she saw Meagan was crying as well. "Look what they've done to us," the older woman sobbed quietly, her shame evident. Yet she made no effort to step away, something Heather could not imagine doing, either.

Heather impulsively kissed one salty drop as it hung along Meagan's jawline. "Whatever we do, it's not our fault. We didn't ask for this to happen to us, and we can't stop it. We have to remember that."

Meagan looked at her. "What are you saying?"

"That whatever we do to get ourselves through this...is okay."

Slowly both women turned and looked at the bed.



Levels of Control Ch. 04



Heather leaned one shoulder against the nearest metal wall. She could feel the ship's engine trembling through it...or was it her own? She should be worrying about where these Saudis were taking her, what they planned to do with her, and how she could escape; not whether she could work up the nerve to have sex with another woman, a total stranger who, she knew, ached for it as much as she did. 

"God, Meagan, it's like...I'm so wide open inside," she said. "Everything tingles, like it wants...." She trailed off as her thoughts sent a surge of renewed desire and physical wetness through her. Even thinking about it affected her physically.

Meagan moved close and planted a soft kiss on Heather's shoulder. "I know, baby," she whispered. She took the undershirt's shoulder strap in her teeth and pulled it down Heather's arm. The fabric slid against her breast, stroking the tip and making her sigh. She couldn't wait for her nipple to be free of the garment's constant pressure.

Meagan tugged as hard as she could, though, but she couldn't quite expose Heather's nipple, which made Heather whimper. "God, they won't give us anything, will they?" she said, a whisper laced with a sob. She understood anew how thoroughly her captors knew how to torment her.

Meagan dropped to her knees and kissed the side of Heather's hip where the band of her panties should have been. Then she kissed the spot where her hip joined her thigh. It took a moment for Heather's fogged brain to realize where Meagan was going, and it hit her just as Meagan's tongue flicked through the damp curls and stroked the edge of her labia.

"No!" she cried, and backed away into the corner. Her muscles were tight with the effort of resisting the feelings rocketing through her. Mere centimeters more, she thought, and that tongue would've found my clit, those lips could've closed around it and sucked the hard nub...

Meagan stayed on her knees, nipples straining against the material of her own sweat-soaked undershirt. "I'm sorry!" she gasped.

"You said it would kill me," Heather said.

"I don't know that," Meagan said. "I know it can. I know they gave me a fatal dose, because they made sure I knew it. But I don't truly know what they did to you."

Heather swallowed. She clenched and unclenched her fists at the realization. "Then I might be able to...." She couldn't decide on a word. Come? Climax? Have an orgasm?

Meagan's lips were swollen now, as her own desire raged unsated. "Maybe. And I'm willing to...help you."

"Why?"

Meagan laughed, but almost at once it turned into tears. "Because I have to do something! Before you got here, I tried humping the edge of the mattress, the toilet seat, anything that I could rub up against. I was ready to die if it means not feeling this way. And besides, if I'm going down on you, maybe...maybe I can forget my own cunt for awhile."

The raw word, one that Heather never used, made her vaginal muscles tremble with nearness. Cunt. Twat. Slash. Pussy. She felt all those words now, her existence reduced to awareness of the untouchable organ between her legs. She couldn't even see it past the swollen globes of her aching breasts, her nipples like little rocks beneath the claustrophobic fabric. God damn these men for doing this to her! "I don't want to die," she whispered.

"Maybe you won't," Meagan said as she awkwardly got to her feet. She walked close, their breasts just brushing each other. "But believe me, it's better than feeling what I feel right now. You're looking at your future, Heather, by this time tomorrow."

Heather looked up into the older woman's drawn expression, lust-puffy lips and sweaty face. Agony gleamed in her eyes like a fever. For the first time Heather also noticed the dried blood on the older woman's wrists, where she'd struggled to free herself, or to simply get her hands within reach of her neediest parts.

Meagan bent to Heather and kissed her again. Heather whimpered, clamping her thighs together against the surge of new juices. But there was no stopping it, and when Meagan kissed the hollow of her throat, she sobbed. Then, when Meagan's mouth closed on one nipple through the fabric, she screamed.

She did not recall going to the bed, or falling on it, but somehow she was on her back, spine arched to keep the weight off her wrists, thighs spread wantonly wide. Meagan knelt at the foot of the bed, staring hungrily at the younger woman's swollen, dripping labia. Heather looked between the tiny peaks of her nipples, and saw Meagan bend to press her face against to the soft damp curls. She remembered watching her boyfriends in this same position, never imagining she could endure another woman doing it. Now, though, the gender of her lover was immaterial, just the thought that soon she would come, orgasm, climax, finish, reach the completion that she needed more than air.

It took only one swipe of Meagan's tongue across her swollen, button-hard clit. She felt a rush of tingling sweep over her, and then a sudden flash of pain and immobility as her overheated body sent a fatal surge of endorphins into her system. Her last sensations were the second flick of the other woman's tongue on her hypersensitive clitoris and the sound of her own death scream ringing off the metal walls.

***

Heather's nude body was found washed up on the beach south of the docks. The cause of death was never determined with certainty.

THE END