Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Author: Hoop
Title: Incarceration Ch.27
Part: Chapter 27
Summary: Claire endures inescapable forced orgasms; Emma prepares for
her next session.
Keywords: FF, MF, bd

   Zoe rolled over drowsily, vaguely aware that her arm had gone numb from
being rested on so long.  She knew that she should be able to tell which of
the many different possible drugs the redhead had administered, but trying
to recall any particular piece of her knowledge whatsoever was futile.  She
struggled with vague conceptions of chemical structures and lists of
effects, all things she had worked on herself not too long ago, but which
were now inaccessible through the stupefying, pharmaceutical haze.



   The other girl came and stood by the bed, pulling Zoe's eyelid up with
her thumb and checking the response of her pupils.  Whatever expressions
she had were concealed beneath her surgical mask, which made Zoe feel
uneasy somehow.  Apparently satisfied, the redhead returned to her chair.
Zoe entertained vague thoughts of climbing out of her bed, but her limbs
felt heavy as stone, the air outside the covers exaggeratedly chilly.  She
breathed deeply, trying and failing to bring clarity to her thoughts.  The
ceiling swam in and out of focus.



   Perhaps an hour later, the redhead left the room silently, returning
with an additional person Zoe hadn't seen before.  The redhead leaned in to
speak something into the ear of the new arrival, and then departed once
more.



   Zoe's brain was in slightly better shape now - enough to recognise a few
elements of the new girl's outfit that identified her as a chemist. 
Probably Zoe's replacement.  The girl was wearing polycarbonate safety
glasses, her hair tied back in a sensible arrangement for doing practical
work.  The metal tips of a spatula and a pair of tweezers were visible in
her shirt pocket, and the cuffs of a pair of nitrile gloves hung from her
pocket.  Careless, Zoe thought.



   Apparently there were to be more drugs.  The girl pierced the foil lid
of a sterilised bottle with a needle, drawing up a millilitre of its
contents.  She sat on the bed, halfway down, and took hold of Zoe's hand.

   "It's going in your upper arm," she said.  "Just lie still, please."

   Her voice lacked the total confidence of Helen's tone, her physical
presence not quite so unsettling as the masked, silent redhead.  She looked
to be about Zoe's age, if not younger, with limpid, blue eyes and pale,
thin lips.  She set the bottle down beside the bed, and poised the needle
against Zoe's bicep.



   "You'll end up like us, you know..." Zoe murmured.  It took a great deal
of effort to speak.  "I was...  as well.  I worked for her."

   "Sure you did," the girl said.

   Zoe could feel her eyes straining to focus on the label of the bottle: a
hand-drawn structure on a torn scrap of paper, affixed with clear tape. 
Perhaps she could convince her.

   "The stuff you're giving me," she said.  She had to pause for a couple
of breaths, during which she felt a scratch of pain as the new needle sank
into her.  "The label's picture is four...  no...  five-methoxy," (it took
all of her will not to slur her way through the lengthy name) "dimethyl
tryptamine."

   Her head flopped back onto the pillow.  Dredging up the name from the
murky depths of memory had worn her out already.  The girl, now most of the
way through depressing the syringe plunger, showed a brief expression of
consternation before regaining her composure.  She glanced down at the
bottle.

   "Okay, so you know chemistry," she said, "doesn't prove anything. 
Wouldn't be the first time Miss Stanford took someone from university. 
Nice try, though."



   From deciphering the label, Zoe knew what effects to expect from the new
compound.  She could already feel them; her fingers were twitching.  The
blanket around her seemed to melt into her skin as the boundary between her
body and the rest of the world became indistinct.  With a supreme effort of
will, she managed to raise her head up and look at the girl.

   "I also know," she said, "that you'd have made it from my aldehyde...  5
grams...  in a brown glass bottle..."

   "Wait, what?"

   Zoe thought that she might have laid down again, but the sensation of
falling backwards never ceased.  The shivering intensified.  There was the
vague sense of pressure on her shoulders, and a distant voice shouting to
someone.

   "What did you just say?  How..."



   Either the dose was stronger than it was supposed to be, or Zoe had
drastically underestimated the compound's potency.  She fell forever.  She
spoke with God.



   --



   Claire sweltered in the warmth of the straitjacket wrapped around her.
Her face was damp from sweat that had nowhere to evaporate to, from beneath
her blindfold and the canvas hood covering her face.  She struggled for
breath through the small holes in the mask, her mouth filled with the plug
of rubbery material held tightly in place by her gag.  There was a
significant amount of sticky moisture between her legs, where the two
probes of Helen's device were drilling into her.  Their intermittent
pulsations came in time with the screams through her earphones, which felt
as if they were being piped directly into her brain.



   She could only imagine what was happening to Laura, and that made it
worse.  She had held out at first - the early sounds had been Laura's
breath hissed through clenched teeth in response to the pain.  It had taken
mere minutes minutes to break her resolve, though, and now she was crying
at the top of her lungs every time Helen did whatever it was she was doing.
Her sobs, in between screams, were translated by the machine into a less
intense thrumming of the smaller vibrators stuck to Claire's body.

   "Enjoying it, 314?" came Helen's voice.  "523 is.  Aren't you?"

   Laura's response was a short, loud cry.  Then a few sobs.

   "Please stop," she was saying.

   Another cry.

   "No!  You can't-"

   Yet another cry, even more frantic.  It felt like the dildoes were
trying to burrow into Claire's body.  She shifted her hips as much as the
outfit would allow her, about a quarter of an inch, and it didn't help at
all.  The gag silenced her moans.  Her toes curled.  It felt as if another
climax might be coming on.  She'd already lost count of them.  The devices
were too powerful, the sensations too intense.  A more drawn-out cry had
Claire clenching her thighs together, driving the thick probes somehow even
deeper.  It began to feel a lot more wet down there.  The mask clung to her
face with each rapid breath.  Her body attempted to spasm, but, entirely
immobilised, the result was something like a pervasive cramp as her
restricted limbs fought uselessly against her bonds.



   There was a brief respite as Laura's screams ceased.  There were the
faint sounds of struggling and resistance, and then a retching noise. 
Laura whined, and the sound trailed off in a way that suggested she hadn't
been able to close her mouth.  She was panting.  Claire assumed from the
sounds that Helen had fitted her with an o-ring gag, which would make her
unable to actually speak, but no less audible.



   "I think she was trying not to scream, for you," Helen's voice came
again.  "Can't have that, can we?"

   "Aaauuuh!"

   "What's that?  You don't like it when I do that, 523?"

   "Haah."

   "Maybe I'll put it in your mouth instead then, now that you can't do
anything about it."

   "Uuh!"

   There were more scuffling sounds.

   "Lick it!"

   "Haau- gmphh-"

   Wet noises came through the earphones.  Whatever was happening, Laura
seemed to be having some difficulty with it.  After what felt like a minute
of hearing her gagging, Laura choked for air, breathing heavily.  She
whimpered.  There was just enough time for her to shriek briefly before the
whole process was repeated, Laura gasping and coughing afer the second
ordeal was over.



   "You're doing very well, 523.  I'm sure 314 is enjoying your efforts,
too...  I wonder what else I can do to you, though?"

   There was a pause for a few breaths, before Laura reacted to something.

   "Auuh.  Uh-uh.  Hleeeeh.  Auh."

   "I think it would be interesting to try though, 523.  I don't normally
do this myself."

   "Auhh."

   "There's nothing to worry about, they're sterile.  271 was fine after
her session, and you saw how many she had stuck in her by the end.  Let's
just try one or two.  Maybe we can even turn them into proper piercings!"

   "Auuuh!  Haah!"

   "Hold still, 523.  Otherwise it's going to hurt a lot more."

   "AAAH!"



   Claire flinched at the sound of the screams, as the electronics
diligently processed them into powerful vibrations in her nethers.  She
found herself crying out in unison, or at least trying to, with Laura. 
Straps creaked and seemed to tighten around her, she was still unable to
move an inch.  Her ears filled with the sounds of Laura's suffering as she
lost herself to another brutally intense orgasm conjured from the
transduced noise.  The cries didn't abate, and hence the stimulation
continued.  Just as the pulsations deep within her cunt and anus started to
become painful, the sensation would be eclipsed with another body-wracking
wave of pleasure.  The straitjacket was wet with her sweat now, her arms
and chest slick.  She was fairly sure that she was close to passing out,
but the constant cries of the other girl were keeping her conscious.  She
found herself wishing that Laura would lose consciousness herself, or reach
the point past which screaming no longer mattered to her.  Anything that
would stop the exhausting barrage to which her body was being subjected.



   There was no such luck, though.  Laura was apparently remaining lucid
throughout the entirety of her tortures, and Claire was going to suffer the
consequences.  Ten minutes later she wasn't able to sense the individual
climaxes any more, her body gripped with constant, ecstatic tremors.  She
didn't know how long it had continued, but Laura's cries were definitely
becoming weaker, and more exhausted.  It might have been as long as an hour
by the time she was making weak little whimpers in response to Helen's
torments, her vocal cords apparently no longer able to function.



   A little while after that she went completely quiet.  There were a few
more faint noises, and then a low-pitched buzz, followed by a clunk.  The
earphones went completely silent, and the last sense connecting Claire to
the outside world was cut off.  The vibrators seemed to have stopped, too.



   With no ability to move, speak, or see or hear her surroundings, all she
could do was wait.  For all she knew it could have already been hours -
Claire had no reference points, no way to tell whether she was staying
conscious all the time.  She was totally depleted.  She felt like she might
sleep for a week.



   --



   An attendant arrived in the cell, and thrust a folded piece of paper
towards Emma.  She took it, and he leaned back against the door, watching
her through his mask.

   "Looks like you've got a fan," he said.  "One of the clients asked
specifically for you, for a session.  But you need to do what's on the
sheet first."

   Emma unfolded it and scanned over the words quickly.  They were a list
of warm-up exercises: stretches, that sort of thing.

   "Miss Stanford takes your health very seriously," the attendant
explained.  "She says she doesn't want you to pull a muscle or sprain
anything, during what you're about to do next, and to work through the
whole sheet.  She says you're one of the less cooperative ones, and that I
can use this," he gestured significantly to his electric baton, "to make
sure you play nice.  So I suggest you get to it."

   "Where are we going after this?" she asked.

   "You don't need to know that right now," he said.  "Get on with it."



   Emma sat down on the floor in accordance with the first entry on the
list.  She stretched her legs out in front of her, and tried to reach her
toes unsuccessfully.  She managed it on the third attempt, feeling a twinge
of pain in the back of her thigh as her fingertips just brushed her toes.
She put her arm behind her head, and began the second set of stretches. 
The attendant watched her throughout.



   "Maybe it'd be better if you stripped," he said.  "You're going to be
naked sooner or later."

   "I think I'm okay like this," she said, somehow not realising that it
had been an order, not a suggestion.

   "Let me rephrase.  Take your fucking clothes off.  Now."

   "But it doesn't say-"

   "NOW!  If I'm going to be sent to watch you go through this whole
fucking routine, I at least want something to look at!  Off!  Now now now
now now!"

   He barked the word at her repeatedly while she took off the few clothes
she had been wearing to start with: just a pair of panties and a white top.



   Emma bent over, trying to reach down to her toes in accord with the
list's third entry.

   "Turn around while you do that one," he said.

   Emma didn't want to provoke him again.  She shuddered as she turned her
back to him and repeated the stretch, forced to give the attendant a full
and comprehensive view.

   "God, you're a freak," he said.

   It wasn't the first time Emma had been called that, although the last
time certainly wasn't recent.  It still hurt.

   "I can't see why anyone's asking for you specifically," he continued. 
"DID I SAY YOU COULD STOP STRETCHING?  DO IT AGAIN!"

   She carried on, her mind now inevitably straying to memories from her
childhood, when her appearance had made her a frequent victim.

   "You look like a fucking ghost, or something," he said.  "Like an alien.
Like an experiment."

   She felt him directly behind her as she returned to standing, his voice
close by.  "Maybe you are," he said.  "Did they grow you in a tank?  In a
lab somewhere?  Because skin like that sure as hell ain't natural.  Your
mother bathe you in bleach when you were a baby or something?  Huh?"

   Emma breathed deep, trying to swallow down the lump in her throat.  She
was supposed to have learned to deal with this by now.

   "I've heard them all before," she said quietly.

   "Oh, you have?"

   She reached down again.  Seven more of these to go.  The attendant was
crouching down behind her now - she could see his masked face in between
her legs.

   "Christ, even your pubes are white.  Cunt's still nice and pink, though,
eh?"

   Emma flinched at the feeling of clumsy fingers pawing at her.  There was
nothing she could do.

   "Miss Stanford says we're not allowed to touch you girls too much now,
on account of the last clown who almost let one of you escape," he snarled.
He withdrew his hand.  "Says we're not allowed to help ourselves to her
merchandise.  Consider yourself lucky."



   Emma reached down again, and dry, coarse-skinned hands gripped around
her torso.  One of them made its way onto her breast and squeezed hard.  He
pulled her around to face him.

   "Look at those tits," he said.  "You're a mutant.  You're malformed. 
You call those nipples?" He grabbed one of them, hard, and twisted
savagely. "The same fucking colour as the rest of you!  It's just not
right, is it?  IS IT?"

   "N-no..."

   "Why would I even want to put my dick inside you, anyway?  I might catch
whatever it is you've got.  Even if I could.  Fucking clown, he had to go
and ruin the one perk of having you girls to ourselves.  What am I supposed
to do about this?" he screamed, gesturing at the tent of fabric upon his
crotch.  "I've got this fucking hard-on now, even from looking at your
disgusting body, and nowhere to put it!"



   Emma assumed it was a rhetorical question, and there was a long silence.
The attendant reached down, and unzipped his trousers.  He pulled out his
dick, the skin coarse and scaly like his hands.  A ring of white spots
dotted around the crown of the circumcised head, which was already smeared
with precum.  It seemed that his words hadn't reflected his true reaction
to seeing Emma's naked body.



   "Now you carry on stretching like a good girl," he said.  "You so much
as dare to look at me while I'm jacking off, and I'll make sure you get a
week in sens-dep."



   She gladly averted her eyes from him, completing the subset of exercises
while trying not to consider what was going on behind her.  His breathing
was becoming faster, and he was muttering something under his breath.  She
sat down and parted her legs, reaching sideways towards her right foot.

   "You can turn back around for those ones," he said.

   She shuffled around, and made the mistake of glancing up at him ever so
briefly.  He released his penis from his death-grip, and propelled himself
forward by slapping the wall behind him, hard.

   "You fucking looked at me!" he screamed.  Emma had already closed her
eyes reflexively, head hunched downwards.  She felt hands grab and shake
her by the shoulders.  One of them was slightly sticky.

   "What did I tell you?  Stupid whore!"

   "I didn't," she cried, "I didn't look!"

   "YOU DID!"

   "Please stop."

   "Fucking freak!"

   "You're hurting me!"



   He pushed her to the ground.  She didn't dare to open her eyes, but she
could feel that he'd taken his hands off her now.  There was the sound of a
few paces against the floor.  A sigh.  A rustle of fabric, and then the
return of a rhythmic squelch, squelch noise.

   "Carry on," he said.

   She reached sideways again, keeping her eyes closed as tightly as
possible: partly to avoid the chance she might accidentally look again, and
partly to stop the tears.

   "You're not trying very hard," he said.  "Spread your legs more."

   She adjusted her position a little.

   "WIDER!"

   Her hips ached with the effort.  A single tear escaped, and ran down her
cheek.

   "That's better."



   After a few dozen more stretches, she risked opening her eyes again,
making sure to look down only at the floor.  The list decreed that the next
of her exercises were star-jumps, and the attendant made sure that she was
facing him as she completed the set.  He laughed crudely at the jiggling
caused by her lack of supporting clothes.  She worked through the rest of
the sheet of instructions, trying not to scowl at the sounds of the
attendant tugging at his prick, and his rasping breaths.



   He inhaled sharply, pushed himself off from the wall, and walked towards
her.  He had stopped masturbating, at least temporarily.  When he spoke,
his voice was strained.

   "Gonna finish now," he croaked.  "Do those bending-over ones again."

   She bent over, legs straight, fingers outstretched towards her toes,
trying not to think of the very real possibility that the attendant might
simply decide to disobey his instructions and rape her.  At least if he
did, it didn't sound like it would take long.  She shivered at the thought
all the same.

   "Spread them," he said, "legs apart.  Wider.  Wider."

   She reached a separation of about four feet, fingertips against the
floor.  She felt his hand pushing down on her back.

   "Yeah.  Just there.  That's good."



   She gazed down at the floor, listening to him breathing through clenched
teeth.  The wet noises started again, and after another minute, he finished
with a grunt.  Warm, sticky fluid splashed against her buttocks.  The man
made another sound from his throat, and a second stream of ejaculate
spattered across the small of her back.  Some of the first load trickled
downwards, finding its way to her inner thigh.  Pearly white drops rolled
down over her skin, leaving glistening trails.  She felt like she could
vomit.  The attendant sighed deeply.



   "Mmm," he said, "not bad.  Even though she won't let us fuck you girls,
doesn't mean I can't still get some satisfaction."



   He paced around to stand by her head, and took a handful of her hair in
his fist.  Not wanting to risk another outburst like before, she looked
away.  Although she couldn't see exactly what he was doing, she was fairly
certain he was wiping his dick off on her hair.  He let go, and a few wet
strands fell back and became stuck to her cheek.  She wanted to scream. 
She wanted so badly to grab the man's filthy prick and grip as hard as she
could, and dig in with her nails.  She imagined herself standing over him,
foot pressing down on his neck while he choked and begged for mercy, and
mourned the fact that the scenario could never happen.  She returned to
standing while the attendant put away his shrinking cock, and wiped his
hands off on one of the blankets on the floor.



   "Clean yourself off," he said.  "If she finds out what happened, I'll be
back for you.  With some others.  She can't watch over all of you all the
time."



   Emma wiped the worst of the mess off with toilet paper, and then stood
with her back to the sink, splashing water against herself.  She was
already thoroughly miserable, and this was only the beginning.  They hadn't
even started whatever Helen had planned for her next.  It could have been
worse, she consoled herself.  She peeled the strands of hair from her face,
and washed herself with soap and water as adequately as she could.  The
attendant seemed to be growing impatient.



   "Enough," he said.  "Time to go.  Can't have you being late for your
appointment with The Gimp."