Strange Queens Ch. 03

The first man, a stocky, short haired Russian, originally named Vlad, had just walked a hundred paces or so from the corner of the building and found himself under an overhang. Coming across a solid wooden door, he slammed his fist on the firm timber until someone came. As the door swung back, Vlad saw a massive older man before him, dressed in a dirty tank top and long pants, his face unkempt and his hair messy. He had a small torch in one hand, and held a sawn off dual barrel shotgun in the other, lowered but finger on the trigger.

'What the fuck do you want?' He asked, his speech slurred drunkenly as though he was intoxicated.

'We're a search party, looking for two small girls that came this way. Their parents are very, very keen to have them back as quickly as possible.' The first attacker replied quickly, adding the parents part with an internal nod to himself for his clever thinking.

'Two... Gerls?' the man inside said, seeming to stumble for a moment on the idea of a female, or a girl, in his brain. The guard before him had little patience, and his was about thirty seconds from running dry.

'Two small girls, two females. One about 12 to 16, white shirt, long dark hair, and a younger sister, blue and white dress, holding a bear. Their mother wants them back as soon as-'

The shotgun was waving at his head in the blink of an eye. 'The fuck you want, with-' a pause, a moment to suck some spit back up before it dribbled off his chin, '-with two fucking kids?'

The man in the doorway backed a step up and raised his hands. 'No, no, you see, I don't want the girls. We're here -- myself and my friends here -- to find them for their mother. She's very worried.' He smiled genuinely, silently wishing behind the smile that the drunk prick would just go back to his damn bottle so they could move on.

Unless...

Unless the drunk guy on the bottle was just a cover for-

Rachel heard the boom of a high powered gun blast out in the night and her head spun to face the side of the house in which the stairs were situated. If that had been their friend, they only had probably twenty seconds before that door slammed open and twelve big men were dragging them away. Rachel turned, her muscles twitching already, absently pushing her sister behind her.

'Rachel...' She said, softly. Rachel shushed her, but she went on. 'Rachel, are they coming? Will we be safe?'

Rachel didn't answer her. She could only hope they weren't powering up the steps right now. Something deep in the pit of her stomach knotted and unknotted, churning her head with the possibility that that door would fly open, and it would be the same people they'd been running from all night coming through.

With a muffled thumping sound, she could faintly hear the feet below her, but she didn't know how many there were. Then the metal stairwell on the other side of the door rattled as someone rounded the landing half way up its length. Rachel counted.

One, two, three, four, five, six... The handle clicked and cracked as it turned.

And then, standing there in the face of the rain, his dirty tank top already nearly fully wet, was the same man who had caught the two girls as they'd run by his warehouse, the same man who had led them up here, and who had promised they'd be safe. Here he stood, unharmed, and, most importantly, alone.

Rachel was with him in a moment, her little sister by her side, and she hugged him. At fourteen, she was tall, and she came up to his big hairy chest. Her sister, more shy than she was and understandably at her age, smiled up at him from the safety of her sister's leg. Parting, Rachel thanked him.

'It is fine, miss,' he said, his speech crisp and educated, and not at all drunk. 'I don't often see two young ladies as lovely as yourselves running past my little shop, but I knew there was a reason I had been sent you both this night. I hope that I have done right by my spirits.' He smiled back at the young girl so far beneath him. With a glance at Rachel, the three returned inside, out of the rain.

Safe, at last. At least for a while.

* * * * *

Chelsea was mopping up the last of this weeks' paperwork with lustre. It usually took her several hours end on end to handle her husband's paperwork -- from actioning necessary correspondence and sectioning his business documentation and emails between illicit, private, confidential and progressive, and so on, to sitting herself down with her calculator for at least three hours of bank transfers and writing up confirmations and invoices between many, many different payees and payers, all the way to carefully binding and organising his records in their categories, and then in their relevance and importance in each category, making sure to add each new piece of paper and pay check carefully to the front of every bulldog clip and folder. It all had to be perfect, and Chelsea made sure it was so.

It was as Chelsea was carefully finishing up the last of her stacks of billing and paperwork, her tongue still lightly tingling with the sensation of her Master's spunk running over it from this morning, that Chelsea felt a strange sensation. It felt like an itch, just on her neck, but when she made to scratch it absently, she found she couldn't quite get it. She did her best to ignore it, and for a while it remained as a mere itch. But again she found her hand behind her neck before she'd realised she'd put it there, her nails doing their best to find that perfect spot that would cease its incessant demand for attention. Again, Chelsea returned the hand to its place on the page she was scribbling on and put the damn irritation out of her mind, thinking instantly of her Master's cool gaze as he stood above her, letting her milk his glorious length into releasing his sweet nectar into her mouth where she could gulp it and savour it and itch it...

Itch it? No no no. She would drink it down, sucking every drop from his pulsing shaft, washing it about her mouth, wanting it to be everywhere inside her. She couldn't itch cum, that didn't make sense... Although she could think of ways a gentle itching would help a man cum. A little itching around his helmet would see him spurting rather quickly, she mused. And again, as Chelsea was finishing her distracted thoughts with some minor satisfaction, she found her hand at the back of her head, idly rubbing the spot that so gave her irritations.

Fuck me, she thought, unknowingly tapping her panties with her other hand now, completely unaware she'd dropped her pen and let it snake down there. I'm not getting any bloody paperwork done, and this goddamn itch is driving me, insane...

Wait. Right there, before she'd thought the word, "insane" she'd felt a hitch. A tiny gasp, a tiny pulse of excitement rivet inside her. She opened her eyes to find her arms not where they should be; one was delving between her legs, tapping rapidly away at the crotch of her pants, the other swirling around and around on the back of her neck. She couldn't help but feel like the swirling was pleasing her itch somewhat, the gentle rotations sending her muscles into relaxation, gently washing away her concentration away in her head.

No, I have to concentrate and finish this paperwork. Chelsea sat up and extracted the evil little hand that had dared to plunge to her nether spots without hers or her Master's order. It picked up the pen in dismay, resigned itself to writing words on the sheet before her. But her mind had completely neglected to issue any orders to her other hand, still happily swirling around and around the one spot behind her head. The swirling was so relaxing and so hypnotic, she hadn't noticed it being a problem for her. In fact, she had no reason not to think it shouldn't be happening. Here she was, writing on her page like a good girl, her pen moving quickly and crisply, her body apparently obeying her commands.

But her pen wasn't writing anything. Instead, her fingers were merely swirling the nub of the writing tool around in tight, perfect circles, drawing an intricate telephone cable of ink spiralling across the page slowly, mirroring the fingers behind her head. Thirty seconds later, her eyes closed, her muscles totally relaxed, Chelsea was slumping slowly back in her chair, not a single muscle moving to stop her, the pen dropping loosely from her fingertips as they ever so slightly began to twitch back and forth. Within another minute, the hand was back between her legs, resting there, her fingers happily swirling away minute circles at her clit while her other hand swirled and swirled and swirled behind her head on the itch that wasn't there, her thoughts happily caught up in the mental whirlpool inside her head.

And then, above the organised chaos of thought that was Chelsea's brain at that moment, a new set of waves shimmered into life. Different waves. Unusual thoughts, ideas, urges. The waves, if they were to be represented with human movements, looked about, taking in the empty space and the whirling mess of mentality below, the gentle, happy, distracted thrum of the young girl caught up in the blissful spiral of gentle pleasure.

Yes, the brain waves thought in a voice that most certainly wasn't the voice of the happy-go-lucky, spunky blonde girl who owned the body in which they had just formed. Yes, this is good. This is exactly what I need from you, whore. The waves grew, expanding, more colours and vibrance layering them, more personality flooding in. Careful not to come too close to the hypnotisingly blissful whirlpool of colour and imagery beneath her that held the foolish woman Chelsea in captivity, Roberts began to awaken, slowly turning herself back on like the many millions of sub-functions that run a computer deep inside it that a user never sees.

And as her memory returned to her, she remembered things. Fleeting images of her own body -- the tall, curvaceous body of the blonde woman in which she lived, in which she was now awakening -- clutching a long kitchen knife, the tip dripping with crimson blood, then a flash of that same body inside a chamber, a smoky haze, another body -- or was this one her body? She didn't know -- pressed so tightly into her, and then her thoughts scattering to the stars, before a final image, a fleeting one, of herself -- she felt different, like she was in another body here -- standing over another curvaceous girl, this one with wavy dark hair, a little shorter than the Chelsea woman's body was.

Ever so carefully, the brainwaves that were Doctor Eliza H. Roberts dipped a shimmering hand into the pool below and fished about until she caught a memory. Looking at it, she threw the disgusting pictures of the gigantic penis engorged deep inside her own mouth away. Roberts wasn't one for cock, never had been, but an enormous dick like that couldn't be good for a woman, the pattern of illegal brainwaves found herself thinking with disgust. Torn labia, invaded womb. What if that monstrous piece of inferiority penetrated too deeply? What if -- Robert's brainwaves nearly shuddered at this one -- what if the useless man actually came inside you? What would you do with your precious womanly parts when there was a child conceived from the sperm of a useless male inside it?

Roberts was fishing around again and found a juicy one, and she concentrated. A car ride, her slumped in the seat, a hand on her pants, heavenly tones echoing out all around her skull. As she remembered the memory, she felt the being caught in the whirlpool beneath her shudder with delight as she heard the deep baritone words echoing about her -- and even Roberts had to admit that, for a man, they were good sounding words -- and she threw the memory away. Outside, Chelsea's body twitched and shook as a wave of pleasure rushed through her body at the sound of the memory inside her, her body still happily running itself off the easily subdued conscious of Chelsea.

Ah, Roberts thought. She'd found the one. Hers. A good chunk of it, anyway. As more and more of her consciousness awoke within the brain of Chelsea, she was growing stronger, her memories returning of their own, and she slotted this one in place easily.

Now she knew. The whole god thing, her body being tied along with mind and spirit to the man with the disgustingly huge penis. She had been obeying the guy ever since then, unable to resist him.

Robert's brainwaves snorted in disgust. Control over body was one thing, and that was all a matter of mind. Control over a mind only counts for the consciousness occupying the mind at the time. And as for spirit, well, no one with half a brain believed in that! What nonsense, what did that huge-cock-guy think he was, some kind of fucking Jesus Christ 2.0?

Roberts also remembered herself, and what she'd been doing deep inside the woman's body unknowingly all this time. Ever so slightly edging a trigger into her, a touch, an itch. Roberts hadn't even known she'd been doing it -- much the way one doesn't remember making themselves breathe, or why they suddenly have an erection Just because Roberts' conscious wasn't the dominant conscious, didn't mean her subconscious wasn't still able to unwittingly alter the physical state just as any other would.

And it had, too -- a simple itch had been generated -- a huge task for a non-dominant, mostly inactive subconscious to perform -- every day for a few hours at a time until it finally manifested itself in a physical form. Being the only place it could come from, deep inside her own head, the itch had formed there, and Chelsea had found herself trying to scratch it as her own subconscious did its job at supressing it. But in doing so it had unwittingly led her into distracting both her conscious and her subconscious, allowing the tiniest of breathing room -- empty space in her head, free pathways for thought -- unused for a moment. And that had been all Roberts had needed to resurface.

And here she was, soaring above the stupid, useless, petty brain of the girl who was so lustily enraptured over sex that she'd subdue her own brain just with a little tapping and rubbing, so engorged on worship that she'd ram her body full of a truly vile male organ. The little whore practically deserved to be subdued, enslaved, Roberts purred to her with delight. And she would be, she promised the pleasure-soaked consciousness beneath her. Oh, she would be so, very, totally drowned in lust that, well, she might never come back up for air ever again.

If the brainwaves in the mind were to be visualised with human like expressions, the brainwaves of Eliza H. Roberts., psychologist, psychiatrist, advanced behavioural sphysician and dishonourably discharged student of advanced human brain research, would have grinned an evil little grin, her military straight white teeth glinting in the light as she glared down below her into the swirling mass of shimmering light and sounds that was Chelsea's conscious. She would then have reached carefully into her breast pocket, no, under it -- into her bra itself, and extracted a tiny, carefully shaped metal bottle from a pocket there. She would then have carefully uncorked the cap and taken the slightest of sniffs before, casually, holding it up high, tipping its entire contents out and watching it fall, glinting, down into the swirling pool beneath her.

She would have kept smiling her evil smile the entire time the consciousness of Chelsea below her sparked and fused, speeding up its rotation, the tides rising and churning, sparks of light flashing here and there as the water rose higher and higher and the waves inside burned intensely, growing and shrinking, pulsing with a rhythmic quality, growing, then shrinking, growing even bigger, then shrinking until they were nearly gone...

And then, as the noise rose to a crescendo and the light became nearly too bright for the high hovering form of Roberts above her, the brainwaves stretched to their ultimate size, splashing up over Roberts, exploding In vibrance, and then shrunk, releasing all their energy, letting go, and finally going completely still. They bobbed gently under the surface of glittering water, flat, no movement whatsoever in them, memories and ideas floating loosely around them, the water now completely still. No motion. No life.

Roberts laughed evilly, unable to contain her utter excitement as she returned to power, her mind rising into complete control of the tall blonde woman slumped in her chair, one hand still buried up to the wrist inside herself, the other flopped lifelessly over her own shoulder, her head lolled to one side.

Roberts even laughed her evil laugh as she looked down and saw the utter puddle of cum pooled on and beneath the chair, the hand buried wrist deep in her own cunt, laughed when she pulled the hand painfully from her vagina, laughed as she appraised the slick digits before her, bringing her second hand from behind her head to look upon it, too.

She didn't care about the pain or the cum, the body or the way in which she had returned to it.

What mattered was that she was back.

Eliza Roberts was motherfucking back.

* * * * *

Crouching down, Bogdan grinned a wide, toothy smile and held one of his oversized hands out to the little girl before him. She looked out at him from beside her sister, unsure of what to do. 'Hello there, little one! What is a fine princess like yourself doing dressed like this? You strike me as someone fit for big girl boots and pants and all that, hmm?' Bogdan said to her. That got her attention. Alyona, ever becoming a Russian stereotype to her bigger sister, looked older for her age and had the brain to suit. She was smart, and she was fit, and she always wore her hair up with plain boy's clothes, tomboy style. Even Rachel had to admit that the look suited the girl, looking rather clean and catching -- in a general sort of way, of course. If any boys were thinking anything like that about her sister, they would find a lot more man-girl power swinging them by their ears, stereotype or not.

After coming down the stairs and locking his door, Bogdan had checked his warehouse over again. There were small, grille covered windows dotted about the circumference of the room, all with solid shutters on the inside and all closed tightly. Then there was the upstairs doorway and the front entrance. On the inside, however, was an incredible mix of completely different scenes before them. In the far corner stood a reception desk, complete with screen and printer standing in an organised way behind it. It stood facing the door, to the side of the entrance, as though a pretty young receptionist would sit at it and greet customers.

Opposite it was a small filling rack, the kind in libraries and lawyers firms, with a few rollable shelving units on tracks. On the close end, near the girls, was a work area complete with benches, lathes, presses and drills, and even over in the corner, a welding unit with its guard partially formed from a patchwork of thick rubber curtains awkwardly knitted together. On the opposite side, arrayed around the girls and their big companion, was the most bizarre part of all -- a three hundred and sixty degree workstation was set up around an easel, paints, brushes and rows and rows of pencils neatly set out around the benching. In the far corner, behind a makeshift wall, was Bogdan's kitchen and bed, a small affair but homely enough.

'So you live and work out of this one place?' Alyona asked, sitting perched on the edge of Bogdan's bed, her big sister's arm around her shoulders. After taking his hand and giving it a firm, manly pump, much to Bogdan's delight, he had invited them both in for a warm drink. Far from being dirty or unclean, Bogdan's kitchen was spotless and well-built for a hand-made mock-up. He quickly had a pouring pan on the stove filled with milk, and ten minutes later was pouring steaming hot chocolates for them all as the girls finished changing into some of his old clothes round the other side of the makeshift wall that served as a separator between his room and his work space. The clothes were far, far too big, especially for little Alyona, so Bogdan had taken out his late wife's clothes, loved memories for him, for her to wear. She had refused, but he simply insisted she wore them and so, ten minutes later, a big bow tied in the back to make it fit her slender frame, Alyona and her big sister Rachel -- also with her shirt, one of Bogdan's, tied with a sizeable knot -- came to be sitting on his bed, sipping surprisingly good hot chocolate and listening to him tell his tale.