Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 18

Thank you for reading this chapter! If you have not read the previous chapters, please do so (particularly 16 and 17). I have been away for a while; life (and death) tend to get in the way of many things, including writing. Special thanks to "Giraffe" for helping me through perhaps the worst writer's block ever AND for being the one to hold my hand these last several months, keeping me as sane as I have been! Note: This chapter is not very sex-heavy; it is about advancing the plot.

* * * * * * * *

"This just in from the IPD newsroom: Dr. James Alvarez, Nobel Laureate chemist, has been found dead outside of a laboratory testing facility only two blocks from these IPD headquarters. Preliminary evidence indicates he was murdered. We will bring you further updates as more information becomes available."

As if in a deep sleep, Bitsy heard the words. Swimming back to full consciousness, she turned the name over in her mind and remembered a visit from the agitated eminent scientist just last week during one of her "counseling sessions with her cousin" to "break her from her catatonia" following the abuse at the after party of the ball a month ago.

Hiding her seething anger at both Tracy Bathory and her followers and Stuart-she must never call him Tristan again-behind an impenetrable wall of mechanical docility and blankness, Bitsy had managed to set in motion several stages of her plan to destroy the witch leader and her minions once and for all.

And, she thought, her thoughts tinged with traitorous regret, if I need to bring Stuart down in the process, so be it.

She pondered the events of the past month.

It was quite by lucky accident, really, that she came across the broken down van two days after that night on her way to IPD Headquarters as Alyssa Mason. Something about the set up had seemed not really right.

The driver, a swarthy, hulking figure, was accompanied by an even more monolithic, armed guard. By comparison, her 5'5" figure seemed almost diminutive-even with the extra three inches her heels afforded.

And, even though her treasonous hands still insisted on clothing her in red-HIS color, she inwardly seethed, even now, she was the one who saw red from their disdain of her as a mere woman.

Until she pulled out her revolver and her badge.

Not surprisingly, the name Alyssa Mason, when coupled with the mention of the IPD, had a pronounced effect on these two low-level goons.

Their tough facades quickly fell as she ordered them out of the van and onto the ground. Although she recognized the markings on the vehicle and knew it belonged to Tracy Bathory, the fact that they did not mention the duchess's name made Bitsy's Vampiran senses tingle.

Pretending ignorance, while at the same time cheering her good luck, Bitsy prodded them or information about their boss and about the contents of the van. They kept understandably mute. No one snitched on Tracy Bathory and lived for long. The deaths were usually immediate and painful.

After securing them in her department-issued vehicle, she wrenched open the back doors of the cargo van to discover a horrific scene.

Time spent in the stark regions of Stuart's dungeon should have prepared her for the vision, but truly nothing could have prepared her for this.

Heavy chains with even heavier manacles were bolted into the floor of the van. And-they weren't empty. Two rows of six women each, naked, dirty, bruised, and bloody, with visible evidence of violation-possibly from the two men stinking up her car-sat mutely facing each other.

All twelve were in their early twenties, as far as she could tell. Different races. Different "looks." But what terrified Bitsy, what made her want to run away screaming, were the expressions on their faces.

The ones that were the easiest to accept were the five girls who looked as if they were waking up from a dream into a nightmarish reality. Those she soothed, "Shh. I'm here to help. You have nothing to fear from me."

No, the ones that scared her were those who sat, placidly serene. Not in a safe place of their own construct to escape the horrors lavished upon them. Bitsy's mind railed at her, providing the solution even as her stomach churned. They had been drugged into passive submission.

She made a few decisions right then. First, she needed backup. Second, drawing blood immediately from the young women was imperative. Returning to her car, she retrieved a few kits from the trunk. Dripping a few drops of a blood stabilizer Chris had made into each vial, she entered the van as calmly as she could and extracted blood from three of the quiescent women and two of those who were quite obviously "coming to."

There, in the corner, she made another grisly discovery: two more women, tossed aside as if rubbish, gone. Her eyes made contact with a set more rational than the others, a violet pair of orbs that would have matched her younger sister's.

"Overdose." The voice was harsh, scratchy, hoarse-from screaming? Bitsy nodded and covered the two bodies as best as she could with her jacket.

While still hunkered there in the fetid aroma of the unwashed and abused women, Bitsy called Ginger for assistance, then worried that this scene would trigger her normally unflappable older sister.

Oddly enough, the sight before her did not trigger either Ginger or herself. Ginger had been...violated..several times in the past and worked tirelessly as a counselor at a women's shelter that Bitsy had set up under the governance of the IPD-a community outreach program.

While waiting for Ginger, Bitsy addressed the woman who appeared more older than the rest and more hardened to life's realities.

Blue, as she addressed herself, was 25 and nearing the end of her usefulness turning tricks on the streets. Her pimp had sold her to the two men, she explained to Bitsy, but it was clear that they were working for someone else. Blue did not know where they had been headed.

She was quick to note that she, Blue, was the only one who had prostituted before. The other girls were pulled off of the street, subdued by the drug, and shackled to the inside of the van.

"The drug scared me," she told Bitsy succinctly and without fanfare. "I've seen too many friends zombie-out or die from an overdose to escape, for just a few hours at a time, the job they had to do. I simply face the johns sober. Seemed safer."

Ginger arrived shortly thereafter, and Bitsy dropped the henchmen off at the headquarters for processing before delivering the blood-filled vials to a testing lab two blocks away.

The results came back two days later. Bitsy had Ginger go public with the information of what the contents contained but sat on the information concerning the human trafficking bust.

Patience, she cautioned herself. The goons were not talking, Blue had given her all of the information she knew, and the other girls, all safely ensconced in the women's shelter as they healed, knew nothing.

Bitsy realized she could not publicly accuse Tracy Bathory. That time was months, if not years, away. But operations like this could provide enough evidence to rid the world of her presence permanently when the time came.

Two days after her lead lab technician placed the results in her hands, Marcos approached her at IPD headquarters. They had not spoken since the night of the ball. Oddly enough, her rage seemed directed only at Stuart and not at the elder brother.

He entered her office with quiet intent, but he still betrayed a nervous energy that Bitsy noticed immediately. For the first time, she discerned that no one, save the three of them-Stuart, Marcos, and herself-knew about her less-than-innocent relationship with Marcos. No one at IPD headquarters had the merest clue.

Pacing in front of her desk, he cleared his throat, all the while studiously not looking at her.

Finally, the stretched silence unnerved her. "Marcos?"

He stopped, nearly dead still, save for the fine tremors that shook his clothes, making a soft rustling sound that interrupted the silence.

"I love you," he spoke in a halted pace. "But I need to leave. I know you are angry with him, know if I asked, you would insist to me that you hated him, even." He spun on his heel and bent until his nose brushed hers. "But you love him. A toxic love that will end badly, but you love him in a way that you will NEVER love me."

The usually confident Commandant General could only hold his gaze a few seconds before her eyes dropped and her chin tipped down. Her "I'm sorry" was barely audible.

"It's not your fault. It's not my fault. I'm not even sure it is his fault. I just cannot be here while you and he...interact," he finished with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Bitsy cleared her throat. "I understand. I can send you on a mission of sorts. I need to collect evidence of Tracy Bathory's illegal and immoral business dealings. Prostitution. Drugs. Murder. Corruption. I need an unbiased investigation of her work so that, when we do push forward, we will be able to end her trail of terror."

Marcos's expression was perhaps more eager than it should have been, unless one considered his inner torment. "I agree to it."

Bitsy, as Alyssa, swallowed hard. "I wish you good luck and safe travels. You need to begin in Gypsum, Texas, where my exposure to her began."

She stood and came around her desk to wrap her arms tight around him. "I do love you, Marc. I'm just...not in love with you."

His knowing gaze turned bleak. "That is a shattering distinction."

They both nodded, their expressions both sheepish and contrite.

"Goodbye, for now, Bitsy," he intoned before turning his back to her and exiting her office.

Pressing the pads of her fingers to her temples, she contemplated the fallacy of her decision to send him away. After several minutes, she pulled down her hands, her ruminations turning to Stuart.

Hurt. Betrayal. Anger. Rage. Fury. The dichotomy of Tristan, who wanted her so desperately, who cherished her, contrasted with the coldly autocratic Stuart, who used her mechanically then set her up for further abuse both galvanized her anger and destroyed her anew every time she allowed herself to scrutinize the events and emotions from that night.

He had tried to repair things. But, as each day passed, and she met his gentle considerations and tentative advances with blank emptiness, he tried less and less often.

This worked out handily for Bitsy to retreat to IPD headquarters under the guise of "counseling." Stuart, hoping Bitsy would return to her old self, encouraged the counseling sessions. And, as her mute rebuffs responded to each of his attempts, he started to make himself even less available during the day, not realizing how much of the time she, too, was absent.

About a week ago, she had resolved to pretend to forgive him-ostensibly to get more dirt on Tracy Bathory, particularly any involvement he had with the duchess.

Not even she completely believed that line of reasoning. She craved him, needed him...his touch, his domination, and his lust...in order to feel alive again.

Standing up behind her desk, she gathered her purse and water bottle in preparation of leaving. Suddenly, a tornado slammed through her office door.

Or at least that's what it seemed to be for several seconds.

A stocky, balding, bespectacled man in a disarrayed white lab coat sought to regain a normal breathing pattern while his chest heaved alarmingly.

"No. Please. I. Mean. No. Harm," he punctuated each of his words with a wheeze.

Folding her arms across her chest, Bitsy waited with barely concealed impatience.

"I'm sorry. I'm Dr. James Alvarez." He handed her a slightly crumpled sheaf of papers that she found to be his resume.

Her mouth fell open in shock. "You won the Nobel Prize two years ago! I remember now!"

His expression was, at once, both taciturn and flustered. "Why are you here?" Bitsy gently interrogated.

"The drug? The one whose chemical makeup your news station announced? I developed it twelve years ago. At the behest of a woman named Bathory."

Bitsy's gaze sharpened. "For what purpose was it created?"

Dr. Alvarez's face would appear almost cartoonishly glum if not for the gravity of the situation. "It was named DerTranq, a derivative of rohypnol used to tranquilize patients to the point of mild sedation for minor surgeries. I thought nothing was wrong until I heard mention of it on the news. How did you find out about it?"

She stared into his eyes, debating with herself whether he was honest and trustworthy. Accepting that his possible alliance with Tracy Bathory could make him an agent of the duchess's, she could still take a calculated risk and alert him to the truth while concealing her knowledge of Tracy Bathory's guilt.

"A group of fourteen women, two who overdosed when forced to take the drug, were found in a broken down cargo van, held against their will, probably with the goal of introducing them to sex trafficking." Her tone was matter-of-fact as if presenting a normal sequence of events.

"Two? Dead?" He managed to make it to the waste bin just in time. Retching sounds, coupled with the sour smell of acidic stomach contents, filled the room.

Pouring him a glass of water from the carafe on the tray located on her desk, Bitsy then offered it to him as he approached her. "Thank you," he muttered gratefully, taking small sips.

Bitsy nodded, mentally revising her plans. At least a bit longer, she thought with too much regret, deciding to maintain the appearance of catatonic blankness.

"I want to help. I can't accept...my work...why did this happen? How can I help?" The rapid-fire, nearly manic questions seemed indicative of his personality.

Meaning to take a deep cleansing breath, Bitsy's inhalation and exhalation were such as to be a heavy sigh. "As to why, I don't know. As to how you can help? I really cannot ask you to put yourself at that much risk."

Instead of dissuading him from the idea, it appeared to restore his resolve. "I need to help. I need to right the wrong my actions inadvertently caused."

Another heavy sigh, then, "If you insist. I need a sample. From the laboratory where it is made. In the sealed labeling. It needs to be taken to La Vie Labs two blocks away from here. But," Bitsy cautioned, "please be careful. We cannot risk anything happening to you."

"Yes, Ms. Mason."

"And, Dr. Alvarez, one more thing? Please, before you leave, write out your account of events as you just informed me, sign it, and date it. Just in case," she concluded, comprehending fully the grim possibility of what might happen.

Now, a week later, after an evening of experimenting with DerTranq to categorize its effects under the careful dosing by Dr. Alvarez, her worry came to fruition.

Only the flickering of her eyes from the television to an approaching Stuart relayed her agitation so subtly that the king missed the emotion completely.

But, behind her deadened eyes, nearly an opaque lime shade, her mind twisted around the news, fueling her need for a course of action.

And pondering when Dr. Alvarez's fate was decided. When he procured the sample? When he confessed his creation of the drug? When he created the drug? When he first met with the Bathorys? Did it even matter? The end result was the same: he was dead.

Lingering effects of the drug vanished in a millisecond as Stuart came closer. In a deliberate act, she blinked her eyes as if focusing and smiled innocently up at him.

Her Master took a measured step back in shock. "Pet?" he whispered wonderingly.

"Yes, Your Highness?" she stated with just a hint of her old sass injected into her tone.

His eyes warmed, and she had to remind herself to doubt his kindness and all warmth she perceived in him while still giving the appearance of softening to him, of serving him willingly again.

"You've...been ill. What's the last thing you remember?" His words and voice were cautious.

She imbued hesitancy into her words. "I remember...dancing with you at the ball." With effort, she pushed down the turbulence of her emotions caused by what happened after their dances.

He appeared visibly relieved. "You don't remember anything...after that?"

"No? What happened? Did I hit my head or something?" Again, she wanted her appearance to convey quizzical, not accusatory.

Stuart seemed not to notice anything amiss, so great was his happiness. "Something like that," he whispered, reaching for her hand and squeezing.

She released her lips to stretch into a tremulous smile, one concerned for her memory loss. His subterfuge proved, to her, that he was working with Tracy Bathory.

As his taut muscles melted into relaxation, she allowed her smile to become more natural, even adoring. "How long have I been...not myself?" she asked with her previous warmth for him.

Sure, that mocking tone in the back of her mind muttered, you do not trust him at all. But do not lie to yourself and say that you do not want him.

Fine! She argued with herself, all the while smiling flirtatiously with the king. I want to fuck him, okay! And I'm going to; I don't even CARE if he is in league with Tracy Bathory. Do you understand? I. Don't. Care!

Bitsy stood, falling heavily on purpose into Stuart, who caught her but did not let go. "Whoa! You might need to take things slow before you fall down," he cautioned, ignoring her previous question.

In response, she rubbed her body seductively against his, eliciting an answering action from his cock that soon bore into her upper thigh. Tilting her head back to gaze unblinkingly into Stuart's eyes, she purred, "What if I do not want to go slow, Master?"

His eyes, crimson-tinged, burned into hers, and his control, already weakened with weeks of unrequited need for her, snapped. LIke a hawk swooping down on its prey, Stuart's mouth smashed down on hers, his tongue plowing past her pillowy lips, plundering, claiming her again as his by right.

No longer blocking her from his thoughts, his mental defenses obliterated, she nearly winced as his mind broadcast a primal yell, "Fuck Alpha's Right. Fuck Marc. Fuck Tracy Bathory and her plans. Fuck anything and everything working to keep us apart. She is MINE!" The last his mind screamed in a tortured howl.

And, even while her mind absorbed it, took what he said about Tracy Bathory to be evidence of his complicity, she did not divulge by look or deed that she had "heard" him. Bitsy also did not allow the agonized emotion and sentiment behind his words to infuse her heart with hope...much.

It was, in fact, all she could do to meet his maelstrom of passion with hers. Wrenching her head back by her hair, he scattered pins holding her bun in place, twining his fingers through the raven locks.

"Mine," he growled, twisting tighter, making a fist with her hair, intertwined, captured, just as he held her there, her neck exposed as he devoured with ardent, open-mouthed kisses, tinged with desperation, punctuated by teasing nips just above the carotid artery in her neck.

Acknowledging his play, she raked her nails down his back, betraying her own need for him. His hands grasped her dress and rent it in twain, scattering the two halves of the crimson fabric, sturdier than his actions made the dress seem, to the floor. Dispatching her bra and panties in a similar fashion, he reached for her breasts, kneading the soft mounds of flesh until bruises would surely form, eliciting squeaky whimpers that, if she were cognizant of the noises she made, would cause her shame.

His grasp released her breasts, and she moaned as he reached below her ass to lift her up to him by her upper thighs. Bitsy aided his efforts by wrapping her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck. Her kiss, as her lips fastened to his, was voracious.

Walking her toward the nearest wall, he pinned her in place with his chest before ripping his belt from the loops and using the black leather to secure her wrists above her head to the wall. Bitsy mewled softly as his exertions ground his chest against hers, reminding her, once again, that she was all softness to his hardness.