Enhanced Methods Day 02

[The characters in this work of fiction are (still) over the age of 18.]

*

Tommy drove. Jerry sat rigid beside him, icily regarding the rainy night outside. They'd been in total silence since the journey began.

Edwina, or "Dongle," was a touchy subject with Jerry. Especially now that she was missing. Tommy was sure there was something there. He wasn't sure what exactly. The whole relationship dynamic was strange at the NCC. Of course, any relationship with the infamous Agent Heretic was bound to be complicated on its own.

Crucible and Balleraphon chirped in Tommy's earpiece reporting that they were ten minutes away.

They stopped on the street and watched.

"That's them," said Tommy.

Jerry said nothing.

The men in black suits walked into the hotel.

"When they come out, wait for me to light up, that's the signal to go in," said Tomlin. "Are you listening to me?"

Heretic was fiddling with his phone.

"Great," said Tommy. "Just great. If this fucks up, Rico's gonna...what the hell are you doing? ...Jerry?"

Jerry was staring at his phone.

"What is it?"

The man ignored him. Then he shouldered the car door open. The lifting of the handle was a formality. Tomlin watched, stunned as Heretic marched, then stormed, then charged into the hotel.

"Oh..." he said, "...christ..."

---

--DAY 2--

The day before, Edwina Bradshaw, or Case 771, had been subjected to equipment designed not to cause undue wear or bruising. Though far from merciful, they functioned with no physical action, and served to overwhelm the senses, not damage the equipment. The experience could be generously described as "gentle."

Today found her captors markedly less charitable.

She didn't remember where she woke up. Just her bonds being removed and the feeling of being hauled upright. She was damp, like they'd washed her again, and still naked except for an unfamiliar pair of heels, which she would have toppled over on if she wasn't supported by about four pairs of hands leading her in her groggy stupor to parts unknown.

She wasn't really cognizant of anything solid until she realized she was looking into the eyes of one of the black-haired, almond-eyed technicians from the previous night. She also realized the woman was supporting her dizzy head up by her chin in one hand and shining a light into her eyes with the other. She blinked, her mind clearing. Her heart picked up speed, and she started feeling jittery.

"I th...thought," she said, her tongue sluggishly returning to its duty, "you said no dru...drugs..."

"Oh," said the woman, calmly releasing her, "epinephrine is more of a medicine than a drug. You're lucky we can't hit you with the psychotropics."

She gently withdrew the needle and stood up, revealing an array of nine large monitors behind her. They were all blue for the moment. It all appeared to be part of a larger machine, which she realized was sitting on. Or more precisely, straddling. She was on her knees over what gave a passing resemblance to that sybian thing she'd seen on the internet, where she lived. She could feel that she was, in fact, sitting on an "attachment." Two in fact, already comfortably slick. She tried not to squirm.

This device was different from the ones she'd seen on the interwebz, however. Besides filling two openings instead of one, it was higher off the ground, and long like a bench, part of the assembly in front of her. Her knees and ankles were strapped to the pads, and her thighs were strapped to what could be called the "saddle," holding her firmly onto the protrusions under her, and a textured hump nestled against her clitoris. When her arms finally answered her mental roll-call, they reported that they were bound in thick cuffs behind her back, attached by a strap to a collar on her neck. Her hair had been tied back in a tight bun for the occasion. Her nipples tingled, and felt a little encumbered. A glance revealed that they were under opaque plastic suction bulbs connected to hoses, not at all like the things from yesterday. The cords led off somewhere and connected to the machine. These leads twisted together with some surgical tubing. It appeared to have a clear liquid in it. She shivered. They were IV tubes. They were using her nipples as an injection point. So that's where the adrenaline shot came from. This was just sick. She couldn't help herself frantically expressing as such.

"Of course it is," said what's-her-name. The others always seemed to be working, but she seemed to be the only one doing any talking. "We're not here to converse. The others don't even speak English. In fact the moment this thing turns on you're Case 117 again, Ms. Bradshaw, so if I were you I'd be using this time to the fullest by seriously considering my loyalties and cut right to the lies we have to shake out of you before you tell us about the Godspike. This is costly, after all. In fact I think I want you to end this more than you do. So let's take this one step at a time. Godspike."

"I don't know what that is!"

"You know, hypnosis is a cute parlor trick," said the technician, as one of her colleagues handed her a remote, "When you add things like aversion therapy or food sleep and fluid depravation, you can erase memories or even alter components of the subject's identity, and you get what we call 'brainwashing.'" She leaned on the console, expectantly.

"...I've never heard of God's Spike!"

"We know you to be a heterosexual woman, Ms. Bradshaw, is it true?"

"What? Y-yes...yes, of course, I--"

"It won't be."

Dongle squirmed. The attachments squished wetly inside her, but held her in place. "Wh...what do...you can't..."

The woman clicked the remote. The monitors all came to life. Each had a different pornographic scene on it, all female. Lesbians, girls masturbating, more than a few instances of bondage, and one or two with helpless women strapped to ominously familiar-looking machines. As if the footage was taken from this very lab.

"If you don't start singing, and I mean immediately, I'll leave you on this thing until you don't even remember how to give a blowjob," she said.

Dongle wasn't sure she knew how to do that anyway.

"Despite what your friends may have said in high school, your skill with a soldering iron and preference for suits doesn't make you gay. But this will. Now talk."

"Uh..." Edwina stammered. The woman cocked her head expectantly. "It's a...it's a...it's a weapon?"

"Uh-huh...?"

"It uses zero-point energy field manipulation to...um..."

"Launch energy balls at the Combine? That's really cute." The woman nodded. Eddie squealed as something was popped into her ears from behind. Earbuds. Suddenly she could hear all the moaning and cumming and wanton throes of orgasm from the scenes before her. The woman's voice clicked on in her ears. "Here are the rules. You will hear them once, and learn the hard way thereafter. If you close your eyes for more than two seconds, or try to look away from the provided media, or try to talk, you will receive a correction."

"A correc--eek!" She jumped.

"Like that."

It had come through those nipple bulbs. Probably through the IV needles in her areolae.

"You will watch all of it except one thing. You will receive a correction if you look at any monitor with a red light on in the corner. I'll be back to switch your attachments every two hours."

She instinctively went to protest, but was stunned by the sudden waves of pleasure rolling against her from below, and an eerie but effective sucking sensation on her nipples. So she moaned instead. This didn't seem to count as talking. She didn't get a shock, but the clit hump started vibrating as did the dildos inside her. They resonated at a low intensity, as if just warming up. They also slid deeper inside, gliding into her on a layer of lubricant, which they seemed to be pumping into her, surely laced with some kind of sensitivity agent.

She couldn't tell if this was better or worse than sudden, lightswitch-activated orgasms. She was being raped by a machine, but at least she had the familiarity of being penetrated. And the images...

They were roiling around in front of her. Most of them didn't continue for more than a minute at a time. But they were wanton and explicit. A lot of it didn't look consensual. A girl strapped into a gyno chair being eaten out by her female doctor until she was too distracted to protest, a young woman masturbating slowly while staring at the camera, three girls holding down another one while a fifth showed her the vibrator they were going to penetrate her with...

This wasn't what she liked or wanted to see. But the machine was merciless. She was moaning freely after five minutes. After ten, she was allowing herself to shop for vibrators on the screens, but no more. After 20, she envied the girls masturbating.

After 30 minutes she began to think it wasn't envy. She'd heard from friends about their experiences with lesbian sex. According to them it was really amazing, owing to the fact that their partners were already familiar with their anatomy. And their skin was smooth, and their fingers were really gentle and their mouths so soft, and their wet, nectary--no!

She cringed, shaking her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

No, no, no.

Yes?

No!

The vibrating and slow-fucking wasn't helping at all. She tried to imagine they weren't dildos, that she was being roughly double-penetrated by two long, hard, masculine--

She screamed. She'd forgotten the rules. Once again made to remember with electricity in her tits, her eyes were back on the monitors, and the thoughts were back in her head. Fantasizing about men while seeing hearing and effectively feeling sex with women was impossible. She tried looking at the margins between the monitors, but it only served to make her watch two different scenes at once.

Stop it, she screamed inwardly, stop thinking about sex! Period! Don't let them do this to you, it's sick!

...which is a difficult thing to tell oneself on a weapons-grade sybian machine. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Another fifteen minutes and she started struggling to get her hands free. She was aching. Sweat was running down her breasts, belly and thighs. She hadn't seen or heard anyone since she'd been switched on, but she was sure they were watching, even recording her and she didn't care. She couldn't stand it. She was ready to take matters into her own digits and bring herself off in the middle of the lab. If she could just get one hand free, if she could just reach her clit...

It had become evident after 45 minutes that the machine wasn't volunteering enough juice to get her off by itself. Even when she ground herself against the vibrating nub under her clitoris. She tried rocking back and forth and fucking the dildos, but even in the rare instance when they were on the same frequency, she couldn't get enough slack to really work them.

An hour in. She could tell by another digital readout on the console below the monitors. She was shaking. Tears, sweat and lubricant were freely rolling out of her, once again absorbed by some function of the machine. Whimpering noises. Every two hours, they'd said. Every two? How many times?

It hurt. She didn't care anymore. The mental bargaining began. Bisexual. She could deal with bisexuality. She'd readjust to men later. She locked eyes with the woman on the top-left screen, staring intensely back, masturbating at her, her legs akimbo in front of her. Yes. Yes. Give it to me. Then the girl tied to the table being fingered by the hot nurse. She hated how good it felt. But it felt so, so good. She pretended it was her vagina the catholic schoolgirl's face was buried in. It must feel so amazing. It DID feel so amazing. She imagined and watched what it must be like to pleasure another woman. To lick her breasts, her thighs, to lap her up...

She was moaning freely now. Loudly, in the way that wakes neighbors and disregards sleeping roommates, or recording devices in an interrogation room. Soon it would happen.

A half hour later, it was still "soon."

Come on, come on, come on, come on, why?!

The machine.

It "knew." They day before, they'd not only been manipulating her, they'd been mapping her out.

The program regulating her vibrations and penetrations was fluid, almost organic in controlling her. No matter how hard she wanted it, how hard she ground against the equipment, or how much she cried, it would not let her finish. And she couldn't stop trying, fervently looking for release in the faces of scores of women and girls before her, all writhing and bucking against their partners and toys, completely ignorant of how lucky they were. She couldn't help but perpetually make it worse, deepen her hormonal saturation and desperately try to satisfy her own body.

The machine unfeelingly teased away, holding the prize right out in front of her, never letting her get within an inch, but never letting her escape.

Another hour later. She was catatonic. The technician entered her field of view. She smelled like flowers and shampoo and female hormones. She looked like a bottle of Evian lying on its side on a block of ice in the Mojave, and Dongle didn't even feel the first correction for looking away. She'd take anything right now.

The woman looked her over. Then she activated Phase 2.

Dongle felt the smooth vibrators slide out of her. She cringed as different ones slid in. Studded this time. And suddenly the reverie that had saved her from consciously having to deal with the circumstances was gone as the lube-slick nubs tickled her back to life. Her chest started heaving again. These ones even rotated.

Then something else happened. On one of the monitors, was a huge, fat, throbbing, sweet, merciful cock. She gaped at it. Then she realized the pleasuring had stopped. Then it hurt her. A little at first. Then she saw it...a red light. Just in the corner of the screen. Then it hurt some more.

Her heart raced. No. She saw what they were doing. She wouldn't let them. She wouldn't. It hurt. She stared at it. Penises. It hurt more. Men. It hurt a lot. She screamed and locked her gaze on it until the sharp tingling feeling felt like it was covering her whole chest and her vision was blurring.

There was a moment of agonized panic. Then she was staring at her girlfriends again. The pleasure was back.

Nipples throbbing, she forced herself not to look at the image of the naked man, doing something, she couldn't tell.

Over time, it moved, a different monitor with a red light, showing something she only got a glimpse of before she was put back in line.

So it went. It moved, she automatically looked at it and was driven away. By the end of the first hour, she was automatically retreating from it as it appeared. She had to force herself to try to look and endure the shock, and even then it was to prove to herself she still could. But it took great force of will to do so. The only thing worse than the machine's teasing was when it stopped stimulating her. Let alone the painful electric shocks. Soon she didn't even see the men.

The avoidance of certain images kept her mind painfully engaged. It kept her in agonized suspense until Phase 3.

The two studded attachments were replaced by wickedly ribbed ones. Then they changed the texture on her clit hump. This one involved a tiny suction cup right on her clitoris, and somehow felt like someone gently giving her oral sex.

Now there were two images floating around for her not to watch. The lesbian scenes got more graphic, if that was possible. It didn't even need to shock her anymore, the vibrations and penetration stopping physically hurt enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes, and pleadingly find another bound woman to watch, another orgasm to enjoy vicariously.

She felt the piston-motion inside her holes die off and withdraw. They were replaced by a bulb in back and a bent one in front. The one in front did nothing but press against her G-spot and vibrate. A new and different kind of pleasure that forced her to keep "playing" into Phase 4.

It was harder now. Half the screens were men, flexing, masturbating, fucking women and other men. She feared them. The time stretched on, longer and longer. She'd given up trying to cum. She just wanted the pleasuring not to stop. It hurt too much.

Then there were more. One by one. More red lights and videos of men. She retreated her eyes to the women's bodies, locked together. Soft and safe. Her body hummed with the soft, safe pleasure. Her mind was barely involved by now. Her legs ached from quivering, and her body from shivering and convulsing. Her lungs burned.

And then...

Red.

Everything stopped. After a grand total of ten hours on the machine with no orgasms to speak of, she saw red.. She blinked. All the monitors showed red lights. Males. She couldn't close her eyes or look away.

"No!" She shrieked. "NO!"

The last thing she remembered was the beginning of a blind, agonized panic.

Her eyes fluttered open. She immediately started struggling again. She was strapped to what felt like a hospital bed. Her body hurt. She needed it. They hadn't finished her. She needed it. If she could escape, she'd attack any of the technicians surrounding her and tear her lab coat off with her teeth. It was like withdrawal from painkillers.

"End of Phase 5," said the familiar one.

She was theirs. They had her. These were her last thoughts as the drugs hit her to put her under for the night...

--

Agent Crucible kicked in the door to Suite 1006, his S&W Model 500 revolver out in front of him. It was easier than he expected. Someone far mightier than him had already kicked it in once. He stood there in stunned silence a long time.

Crucible was young and handsome, but not like Tommy. Michael "The Crucible" Gray was more...realistic in appearance. His form was wrapped in a long, black trench coat, black gloves and black boots, which flowed gently with him as he cautiously glided into the room.

It was a disaster. More than ten men. Fourteen, he counted. Strewn around. Guns. Flung and dropped, bullet holes, spent shells. Blood. Furniture upturned. Tables broken. Drapes torn, blowing in the breeze of a huge broken plate glass window, where an unfortunate fifteenth occupant had been violently punted into the infinite blackness of a stormy night. It would explain the car alarm he heard. The whole hotel room had been hit by Hurricane Hardesty.

He'd arrived just after it ended. It had probably been in full swing when he ran into the building and hit its crescendo while he was dashing up the steps. And now Jerry was gone. Great. Now they'd be tracking him too. At least he wouldn't be hard to follow.

Sensing he'd only arrived minutes before the authorities, he disappeared out the back stairs to await the next fiasco...