Andi's Escape

Dear reader—

Unlike my other stories, there's no male-male sex. And, the femdom in this story is woman over woman, not woman over man. And it's fully nonconsensual and chock-full of humiliation. If none of that appeals, then best to skip this one. But if it is your thing, then by all means—go to.

When my ex-husband brings me back, I'm in a familiar situation. I'm in the basement, in a metal chair, naked, my feet shackled to the legs, my arms tethered to the armrests, my waist bound to the chair's spine. My mouth is wrapped around a ball gag. And of course I'm in front of the enormous television screen. It's longer than I am tall.

I've been brought back maybe fifteen times since my ex turned me into Candi. It bothers me a lot that I can't recall exactly how many times. These are the only times when I'm alive, anymore. Not that it's really a life. But these are the only times when I'm myself—when he brings me back to see what he's done to me. And what he's made me do.

I'm groggy. Although he uses a trigger phrase—that's what he calls it, a "trigger phrase"—bringing me back isn't like flipping a switch. It takes about 45 minutes, apparently. Candi shuts down. The jet fuel of endorphins and dopamine and adrenaline and that propels her sexual insanity drains off. She wanes; I wax; we pass each other in my mind and my biology. The subtler combinations of chemicals that sustain my personality fill my reservoir. Andi—that's me—returns. To life. The only fragments of life I'm allowed, any more.

During the third waking, I asked why he kept bringing me back. If it was just to torture me with the videos. He said I had to come back every so often. If he kept Candi around full-time, this body's brain would just burn out. He'd lose Candi, so the price of keeping Candi is bringing back Andi. Torturing me with the videos is just a bonus, he said. Just for fun.

From Candi to Andi. Cunt plus Andi equals Candi, he said. That fucker. Of all the fucking wounds my ex has inflicted, that's the salt.

My vision clears. I'm looking at my midsection. Pubic hair in a strip—that's not new—but now its princess pink. Toe- and fingernails, too. My ex knows I hate pink. I'm sure Candi loves it.

Other observations. My skin is flawlessly tanned. Even if it's summer—and I have no idea what season it is—there's no way this tan is natural. He must have Candi booth-tanning. I think of skin cancer, premature aging of the skin, wrinkles. If my ex has any brains at all, he's protecting his investment by not overtanning me.

Her. Not me, her. I'm not her. We just share this body, that's all.

What else do I see? I'm bigger. Not fat, just larger. More spread in the thighs, a bit of jiggle around the middle. Not surprising. He always said I was too skinny. He's probably changed my diet. Easier to keep me on meat and carbs than my vegetarian diet. I wonder if he's made Candi eat McDonalds. She'd probably love it. She loves all the bad things.

And of course my tits are larger, but that's not just fat—that's fakery. And it's also not new, although every time I wake I'm just amazed. I discovered ten wakings ago that I'd gone from a B cup to a double-D. Big, soft tits onto my petite five-foot-three frame. When he woke me that time, my back muscles were sore, still straining to hold up these new jugs of mi—of hers. Hers, her jugs.

That's what he calls them, her "jugs." They're called a lot of things. Men have so many words for breasts. And vaginas. And women. Especially women like Candi. The videos have taught me that.

I don't see other changes, although I can only look down my front. Maybe the video will give me more information. It's only through the videos that I know what Candi's done. When Candi's in charge, I'm just gone. When I wake, I don't know what's happened. I'm not even certain of how much time has passed. My body doesn't look any older, just plumper. The last I knew, I was 23 years old. I might still be 23, or I might be 25—I really don't know.

To my right is a groan. To my shock, I find another woman, maybe early 20s, nude and strapped into a chair just as I am. Her head hangs down, pale baby-blue hair obscuring her features. Blue toe- and fingernails, blue-dyed snatch. I'm Mrs. Pink and she's Mrs. Blue. Or maybe Miss?

Who is she? Did my ex acquire another woman? Does she belong to someone else? What he did to me, he could do it to other people. Or maybe other people know how to do this, too?

New girl lifts her head. She's also gagged, beads of drool stringing off her chin. Except for the blue, she looks normal: normal tits, normal thighs, normal everything else. Pale. She even has some cellulite. So she might really be new, a fresh capture. Or maybe whoever owns her wants to keep her natural. Although that seems unlikely. Natural doesn't last long around here.

New girl looks around dazedly. She doesn't see me yet. I wonder whether she's been woken before. I hope so. If this is her first or second time waking, it's gonna suck for both of us.

She tries to move her arms and legs—that's a no-go, of course. Her breathing quickens, she struggles more. I'm out of luck. This is her first or second time waking, and it does, in fact, suck. She freaks out. She bounces on the metal seat like it's a hot skillet, tries to push the chair backward to the floor.

It's all useless. The straps are too strong, the chair is bolted to the floor. All she's going to do is pull her muscles and abrade her skin beneath the straps, just like I did my first couple times. Only by my third awakening did I realize I was only hurting myself. I needed to start thinking my way out of this situation instead of struggling out of it. Somehow.

Still, I get it. I feel like she does. But I need to be smarter than that. Not just for me, now. For me and new girl, both.

Still weak from waking, new girl gives up the fight. Her head lolls to the left, and she regards me blearily. I try to convey some kind of reassurance with my eyes—

And now her expression is that of utter horror. As if she has seen a true devil. She screams and bounces and struggles. This time she doesn't flail her head around, though. She won't stop looking at me.

What is wrong with her? Why is she reacting this way to me? I'm no danger. I'm strapped in, just like her. And I don't know her—

—oh. Oh, wait. Yes, I do know her. The blue hair and pubes threw me, and I've never seen her naked before, and the ball gag is mangling her face. But this is Jenna, the wife of a friend of my ex. Jenna, who I knew from holiday parties. Jenna, who was sweet and shy and kind. Jenna whose husband cheated, everyone knew, including Jenna. Jenna who loved her cheating husband so well that she tried to change him into a better man.

Well, that hasn't worked out. Instead of Jenna changing her husband into a better man, I'm betting her husband has started changing Jenna into a much worse woman. Not a woman at all, actually. He's turning her into porn.

But none of that explains her reaction to me. She's not porn right now—she's just panic. And she might well piss and maybe shit herself in terror. I did, the first time I woke.

I look away. I can't help her calm down. The best thing I can do is ignore her. I look away, at the floor—

—and it hits me. I know exactly why Jenna is terrified of me. Well, not me: Candi. Candi did something to her. Oh, God. What did Candi do?

I hear creaks above me. Footfalls. The basement door opens and footsteps come down the stairs. Three men enter the room. My ex. Jenna's husband. And a third man I don't recognize. All white, trim, and well-muscled. Clean-shaven with short hair. Handsome men.

Bad men.

Jenna starts screaming again. My ex slaps her; her husband smirks; the new guy blanches. She stops screaming and hangs her head, blubbering. She's going to get dehydrated from all the tears and snot and drool falling out of her head.

"Jesus Christ," says the guy I don't know. He looks stricken. "I know you warned me, but did you really need to do that?"

"Yup," my ex says. He points at me. "Notice how she's just sitting there, nice and tame? You think she was like that the first few times I brought her back? Bullshit. I had to slap her around."

The man considers. That sounds reasonable.

My ex keeps talking. "But you have to take precautions when you bring 'em back. Be prepared. If Andi were free, she'd be a fucking hellcat. Claw your eyes out and smash your skull and then escape. I don't think three of us could take her. She is that fucking tough and has that much to lose. Now, this other one"—here he points at Jenna—"is brand new. Kind of. We've already let Andi have a crack at her." My ex grips Jenna's hair to lift her head. "Right, baby-doll? You remember what Andi did to you?"

Jenna won't open her eyes. She's trying to keep an ounce of autonomy. You can't make me look.

Wrong. My ex takes one of her nipples and pinches, twists, and pulls it as hard as he can. Jenna screams, and her eyes fly open.

"You don't get to look away. Do you understand me?" Jenna blubbers around the ball gag. So, of course, my ex keeps at her. "DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ME." He punctuates each word with a long, sharp twist of her tit.

Jenna's eyes clearly communicate her reply. Yes. I understand you. Please stop hurting me. Just tell me what I need to do so you'll stop hurting me.

Jenna's husband says, "You should let me do that. She's mine."

"Then step up, Dwayne. If she's yours, act like it."

Dwayne steps forward. She looks at him pleadingly. He doesn't hit her. Instead, he caresses her blue hair. "Hey, baby," he says, and she shudders. It's weirdly tender. Then he moves to wipe tears from her eyes, and she pulls back. Of course she doesn't want him to touch her.

My ex says, "Okay, now, you need to let her know she can't do that."

Dwayne clears his throat. "Jenna. Look at me."

She shakes her head.

"JENNA, look at me."

She shakes her head violently. So he grips her hair and hisses loudly, "This is why you are where you are. You didn't LISTEN TO ME, and I need you to LISTEN TO ME."

Jenna flails and hollers. Her horror fills up the room. She can't help herself. She's out of her mind with fear.

"Enough of this." My ex pulls a syringe from his jeans pocket, pops the cap off, and deftly plunges the needle into Jenna's thigh. Her eyes go saucer-wide with shock, then glaze. Her breathing slows. In less than a minute, Jenna goes from terrified to bovine.

My ex is calm; Dwayne is worried; and the other guy looks pretty unhappy to be here. Like this wasn't what he signed on for. He probably thought that he was going to sink his dick into some hot, horny chicks. Nope. At least, not yet. If my ex puts us back under, sure—anything's game, then. But right now all he's got is one drugged woman and another angry one.

My ex says, "Dwayne, over there is the laptop and headphones—right, yeah." My ex turns toward me. "Hey, darling. You're looking good. And probably wondering why Jenna here is so scared of you. Right?"

I nod. If I don't nod, he'll grab and twist my breasts.

"Well, let's find out! Thanks, Dwayne"—my ex takes the laptop and an enormous pair of headphones—"you boys get set up while I get old Jenna ready here."

Dwayne and other guy retrieve a couple of light beers and fill some bowls with pretzels and popcorn. My ex kneels behind Jenna, plugs the headphones into the laptop, and places the headphones on her. She doesn't respond to the headphones going on her head, but when he presses a key on the laptop, her eyes widen and she takes a sharp breath and she starts twitching. He stays by her side until the twitching lessens, although it doesn't stop entirely.

The men flop behind us on the couch. I hear munching and slurping behind us. The enormous screen flashes to life. Jenna watches intently. My latest horror show is starting.

There's Candi, in a white sundress with blue flowers, barefoot. She's setting two empty wine glasses and a bottle of red on the coffee table in front of the couch. Pink hair and nails, just like I have now. The dress is form-fitting, a little sexy, but not overmuch. Kind of a girl next door thing.

Candi wore that dress maybe four movies ago. In that flick, she played the hot neighborhood nympho who takes on five black guys at once. I'd never seen those guys before, so I asked my ex how he found them. He told me he sent Candi into a bar where she picked them up and brought them all home. My ex titled the movie "Hotwife Gangbang" and sold it to some pay-per-view site. He uploads all our movies. Tens of thousands of people have seen Candi fuck, now. Fuck and cum and cum and fuck.

But this movie isn't like the others. Those were slick productions, ready for sale. Not this one. No title, no opening credits, no disclaimer about "models." The camera isn't steady, it's handheld. And the image isn't great, like a home movie. Why is this one different?

I hear my ex's voice on the screen. The sound quality is low, but it's clear. You ready for this, baby?

In her little-girl voice, Candi breathes: Candi's ready, Master. Third person. Never first person. Always "Candi" or "she" or "her."

Atta girl, he says. Candi shivers—something about that phrase? Just don't mix up those glasses or this won't work.

Candi knows. If Candi mixes up the glasses, she won't get to teach Jenna what she needs to know.

Atta girl, says my ex. Okay, I'm leaving now. I can't be anywhere near here. You just wait, make yourself pretty, think about all the great stuff you're going to teach her.

My ex places the camera on a bookshelf maybe four feet above the floor, giving a full view of the room, and he leaves. Candi curls up on the couch and idly flips through a Cosmo. That's the first evidence I have the bitch can read. Or maybe she's just looking at the pictures.

Those wine glasses. . . they look empty, clean, but I know one of them is not.

My ex fast-forwards the video. The readout says that 10 minutes go by. What kind of video is this? Then the doorbell rings. Candi gets up, leans in to the camera—Christ, the cleavage!—and blows it a kiss. Showtime, she says, and she leaves the room.

The camera picks up distant noises: door opening and closing; footsteps; voices resolving themselves into those of two women who enter the room. Candi and Jenna. Jenna with her normal mousy brown hair.

Jenna says, I'm so sorry, I know it's late, I just didn't know who else to call— Her voice is hoarse and snuffly and weary. She's been crying, maybe for a long time.

It's okay, Jenna, says Candi. I'm glad you called me, and I'm glad you're here. I'm just so sorry this is happening to you.

I'm flabbergasted. Candi doesn't sound like Candi. None of the high-voiced breathiness, the third-person stupidity. This time, Candi sounds like . . . me?

I shiver. It's uncanny. That's me, but not.

Jenna keeps pacing the room and talking. It's her husband; they had a huge fight, the biggest of their five-year marriage. He proposed a "solution" to his cheating problem: an open marriage. Jenna's not on board. She's devastated and betrayed. Why aren't I enough? She keeps asking. What's wrong with me?

Candi keeps pretending to be me. And she says all the right things. There's nothing wrong with you. You're wonderful as you are. It's him. Most men are like that. It doesn't make it right, but that's how a lot of them are.

Was your ex like that? Jenna asks.

Candi grimaces. My ex has all kinds of problems. I don't think you should compare your man to him, though. Your man sounds pretty normal by comparison. I don't think your marriage is over. I don't think it's beyond fixing.

I hate admitting it, but I'm impressed by Candi. She plays it just right. The temptation in a wronged-woman conversation is to tell the woman that the guy's a shit and she's better off without him. But that's usually the wrong approach, especially if the woman loves the guy. Don't badmouth him—the woman will just want to defend him, and she doesn't need that extra pain. Be empathetic, and just listen.

Candi plays the part of me well. Except one time. Once, as Jenna walks past, Candi looks directly at the camera and rolls her eyes and pretends to stick her finger down her throat, gag me. You bitch. But before Jenna turns around, Candi is back, attentive.

Here, says Candi. Girlfriend needs some wine. I'd just opened this bottle. And she pours an equal amount into each glass, picks them both up, walks over to Jenna, and puts forth the one in her left hand.

To girlfriends, says Candi, proposing a toast. Who help us deal with our poor, misguided men.

Jenna snuffle-laughs, shivers, and takes the glass. Thank you so much. I am so sorry to be doing this to you—

Candi waves away the concern. The glasses clink, and the girls drink. Candi drains her entire glass in one go. Jenna is a little surprised, but in the spirit of solidarity, she gulps her glass, too. And then coughs.

Candi laughs. Do you want some water? It's a pretty dry red.

Jenna smiles, coughing more. I'm fine. My throat is sore from all the crying.

Mmm, says Candi. And then she seems to have an idea. I've got something that can help with that. Just wait here, I'll be back in a smidge.

Smidge. That's my word. Fucking hell. I couldn't act like Candi if my life depended on it. But Candi can apparently wear me like a suit. My mannerisms, everything. My ex must be training her, showing her old home movies of me, teaching her how to be Andi. But why?

Candi is gone for longer than just a "smidge." Jenna paces the room, looking at books and pictures. But then her pacing slows. She runs her hands through her hair, fluffs out her shirt—she's getting warm, and tired. Then mid-pace she stumbles and catches herself on the coffee table. And now her face shows panic of the "what is happening to me?" kind. She drags herself over the couch and flops onto it—barely—and calls out, Andi . . . Andi . . . Andi, help—

Behind us, I hear my ex unzip and fish out his cock. "C'mon," he says. "We're all buddies here."

Dwayne laughs and follows suit. The third guy is more timid. My ex and Dwayne egg him on, but he demurs.

Onscreen, Jenna's mouth only makes sounds. Her arms and legs twitch purposelessly. The thing is, she actually feels pretty good. Relaxed, floaty. All her senses are razor-sharp, sharper than normal. And she's wondering why the hell she feels so good—why she's not freaking out, even if her whole body has melted into incoherence.

She hasn't yet figured out that she's getting really horny, too. Like, really horny. She'll realize it soon enough.

How do I know this? My ex pulled the same shit on me. He had come over to "talk" and he roofied me. Except the drug isn't a roofie. It's something else entirely. It's how he began turning me into Candi.

I look over at real-life Jenna. She's staring at the screen with dead-eyed intensity, one eyebrow twitching, beads of drool stringing down to her thigh. What the fuck are those headphones pumping into her brain?

Yoo-hoo, I hear onscreen. Candi, calling from upstairs. Are we ready? I have something for you. There's a pause. On the couch, Jenna musters some mewing noises, but that's all.

I hear footfalls as Candi comes downstairs. Your silence is consent, she says. She still sounds like me. But when she enters the room, the cute dress is gone. She's naked, except for a harness with an unnervingly large, black, strap-on dildo. Candi is stripped down and strapped up and ready for action.