Surrendering Sarah

Chapter 15

In Sport's world, the weeks that followed seemed like years. Ever increasing dosages of Shayla's drugs made his body twitch constantly and deepened his depression. Mindlessly submitting to Shayla at work all day followed by servicing Janey at night became his life. Sleep came to him in restless fits of unconsciousness, always plagued by nightmares of Sarah and Rock together with Shayla's commanding voice laughing in the background. He had even lost the ability to orgasm, thanks to the drugs, but that still didn't stop Janey from torturing him by fingering his erection as she verbally humiliated him. "What a shame," she'd tell him over and over as she stroked him. "Such a hard dick attached to such a useless excuse of a man." But by that time, Sport knew no humiliation. Janey's words settled in through layers of fatigue as an accepted truth. In fact, the final surrender was calming to Sport - once he let his resistance drift away, his frayed nerves nagged at him a little less, and a little less anxiety was a considerable level of relief. What remained was the relentless sexual frustration accompanied by an erection that constantly throbbed for relief, an itch that could never be scratched as long as Shayla's drugs saturated his frail body.

It was a Monday morning like most other Mondays, except that his weekend with Janey had been particularly unpleasant. She had invited her friends over, two women in impeccable white tennis outfits who also wore predictably cruel smiles. Sport tried not to stare at their athletic figures, at the long, suntanned legs bared beneath short white pleated skirts. When they caught him looking, they giggled uncontrollably, pointing to his erection that bulged obscenely beneath his spandex shorts. Janey had ordered him to strip, and one of the women wanted to see him dance. Sport felt his erection bob in all directions as he tried his best, but he was no dancer, and his amateurish hopping and wiggling made the women laugh until tears streaked over their faces. Afterward, they each stroked and pulled at his cock in a contest to see who could make him cum. Janey stood by and gloated with the secret knowledge that it was a competition that could never be won. It was a new low, even in Sport's world.

When he arrived at the office, he noticed Shannon wasn't there to greet him. Her unexpected absence was suddenly more than a passing curiosity. Although her fresh-faced smile and cheery, "Hi, Mr. B!" always lifted his spirits a bit as he passed by on his way to Shayla's office, he had never realized how it was the nudge that got him through Shayla's door each morning, and through the rest of day. He paused a second, felt the emptiness close in around him a bit more than most days, then went to Shayla's door and opened it.

"Well, it's about time, pussy-boy. Come in and join the party."

Rock stood a few feet in front of him, hands on his hips, grinning as though he was savoring in advance some obscene joke that Sport had yet to comprehend. As he stepped aside, Sport stared in horror at the scene before him. Behind Shayla's desk stood a gleaming chrome framework of steel and leather, an elaborate scaffold designed to accommodate the human form in an endless variety of positions. The body contained within it was one of bronzed perfection, the firm young thighs held in place by padded leather bands, the flat quivering belly stretched taught as the structure seemed to breathe in subtle movements that mimicked a living entity. Tiny sensors and motors guided agile appendages that clasped her arms and legs, moving in a bizarre dance that seemed only partly voluntary, a perverse ballet of flesh and machine. Shayla stood between her legs, staring at the flexible snake of silicone that weaved and probed within the light patch of golden pubic hair now wet with arousal. Shayla rested her hand on her belly, smiling at the immediate response, a returned loving gaze from within the machine. Slowly, the gaze moved to Sport, but changed from adoration to derision. As Shannon's blue eyes met his, her full lips curled into a warped smile that betrayed everything she had been to him.

Shayla looked up at Sport and smiled a kinder smile. "Sport, you look like you've seen a ghost," she said. Her tone was almost genuine; enough so to reach the part of Sport that relied on her for security in times of doubt and confusion. "Oh my, you didn't think she saw you as anything but a weak and pathetic creature, did you? Really Sport, if you imagined she considered you anything slightly more than that, maybe you need more training."

Shannon closed her eyes and moaned as the machine lifted her hips up into the jittering probe between her thighs. Shayla moved her hand upward over the fluttering stomach, finally cupping a large full breast in her palm. "Now Shannon, my Sweet, who do you live to please? Who makes your little cunt drip? Tell us, my Sweet. Tell us." But the only reply was a more drawn-out moan from the young girl, a confession of surrender to her master, but not one of her master's identity.

Sport watched in stunned disbelief as Shannon tensed her stomach and tilted her hips forward and up, straining to suck the thin, agile phallus inside her. As though sensing her intent, the machine exaggerated her movements, guiding her hips upward in a quick, almost violent succession of thrusts while the rubbery probe teased her with a series of shallow penetrations calculated to excite, but not to satisfy. Beads of sweat formed over her breasts and belly, finally wetting the leather pads that supported her. She seemed to be a living part of the machine, her damp, smooth skin so like the slick, shiny leather - her lean, tanned arms and legs the warm blood and nerves that gave life to the slender steel rods and purring motors.

Shayla stood beside her, gently scraping the long, manicured nail of her index finger over Shannon's turgid nipple. "You mustn't be shy, my Sweet. Tell me what you want." Shayla's voice was velvety and soothing, more of a purr than a command. "Do you want someone to finish you? Do you want to cum, my Sweet?" "Yesssss...," Shannon hissed, her eyes still closed, concentrating, as though she might try to trigger her orgasm by sheer will alone.

"Who do you want, my Sweet? Who makes you cum harder than anyone ever has? Who do you live to please?"

Shannon's eyes drifted open, then scanned the room slowly.

"Him," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I want him."

A familiar, sick revulsion settled in Sport's gut as he watched the scene before him. Shannon's eyes were fixed on Rock, her full lips moist and parted. Her body, her face, her words - all had become a betrayal to Sport. The innocence and empathy Sport had come to love in her was gone, replaced by twisted sexual obsession for the same grinning biker who had so easily taken Sarah from him, the very same animal that had spawned Sarah's unquenchable addiction for satisfaction from "bigger", "better" men. "She's not Sarah," a distant, feeble voice within him warned. "She's not Sarah". But the fragile, unraveling thread to reality was a droplet of reason in an ocean of delusion and defeat. It was overwhelmed and silenced in an instant.

Shannon babbled wildly as Rock approached her. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she whimpered and thrashed against the machine. Rock moved between her outstretched legs, lowered his jeans, and leaned over her, balancing his weight on the polished chrome supports.

Shannon was crying openly, begging him to enter her, begging him to use her, begging for things Sport had never imagined coming from her perfect, pink lips. As the head of his cock inched inside her, two slippery, spaghetti-like appendages caressed her lower belly, then slid maddeningly lower, nestling along each side of her swollen clitoris where they writhed like miniature snakes. As Rock ****** his cock into her, the life-like machine-tentacles read her response to their touch and refined their dance, coaxing and lifting the pink bud of flesh until the two slithering fingers held the rubbery meat of her clit in a swirling, throbbing embrace.

Shannon came within seconds. Her arms and legs shuddered within the confines of the machine as her climax approached. The sudden onset of spasms that rippled through her body overwhelmed the machine's ability to interpret them and respond, wrenching her lithe arms and legs in a rapid succession of halting, random excursions that delivered brief twinges of pain to straining tendons and ligaments within her fragile body. The confused tendrils that encircled her clitoris collided and retreated, slashing and stabbing between moments of their maddening feather touch.

Sport watched with an odd mix of desire and disgust. Shannon's tanned body convulsed in orgasm before his eyes. Exquisitely toned muscles flexed and stretched beneath the velvet golden skin of her legs and belly. Silken hair covered much of her face, revealing only her full, wide mouth. Her moist lips were parted, but far from the way he remembered them when she greeted him at work each day. Now she had become this unimaginable sexual creature of tantalizing flesh and gleaming steel, lost in a bizarre, frenzied dance of lust that she craved but could no longer control.

Rock stood over her wearing an amused grin as the machine-girl thrashed and moaned. Her sex swallowed him so perfectly while in the embrace of the machine that he simply stood between her legs and let her do all the work. Her hips were guided forward and upward in a precise arc, measured and refined to the shape and size of his rigid cock. When he saw her wince in pain as the machine tried to amplify her orgasm, his grin widened, and he fought the urge to come in her on the spot.

It was only after her orgasm subsided that Rock began his slow, even strokes, merely grinning down at her as she lay recovering in the still-pulsating network of rods and beams. When she didn't respond, he began to batter her with his cock, shaking the machine as he plowed into her limp, twitching body.

"How 'bout that, you little bitch? That what you want? All of it at once, like - THAT! Aw fuck yeah, I'm gonna do you till you're raw, bitch. How d'ya like it NOW - like THAT! C'mon you little pig, squeal for it! Beg for it! THAT's how you like it, right?"

Rock pounded her with his hips, his cock pistoning into her with sudden violent thrusts. Shannon lay in the machine, unmoving, her head fallen to one side as she stared blankly into space. Her body was now like a marionette with half the strings severed. Nervous reflexes from Rock's assault were amplified by the machine, causing her body to move in a combination of erratic random jerks and unpredictable spasms.

Sport looked on helplessly as Rock's body tensed, his pace slowed, and his groan filled the office. Seconds seemed like minutes to Sport, minutes like hours. Finally, Rock pulled his cock from the broken doll of a girl strapped to the machine before him. Shannon lay quivering within the machine, dazed and barely breathing. Sport's hatred of Rock began to boil within him, just as his sympathy for Shannon became overwhelming. Then, when a wide, satisfied smile grew across Shannon's face, he began to sob uncontrollably.

Rock wheeled to face Sport. In seconds, his look of disbelief turned to one of disgust. Seething with anger, Rock headed straight for Sport, his jaw set, his fist clenched into a tight ball of muscle and bone. Sport stepped backward, his face a picture of pure horror. Just as Sport's eyes met Shayla's in a last- minute plea for help, Rock's fist slammed into his stomach with a sickening thud. He fell to his knees, eyes bulging, his stomach a cauldron of nausea that threatened to erupt at any second.

"Awww, look at that," Rock said, his all-to-familiar sneer locked on Sport. "Gonna be her hero, big guy? Think she would ever want a wimp like you? Tell ya what - I'll fight you for her - well, what's left of her. You gotta remember how I ruined your sweet little wife the first time I fucked her, right? This one's no different. She's the same kind of *****, all fresh and pretty on the outside..." Rock reached out and grabbed a fist-full of Sport's hair, his wild- eyed stare inches from Sport's face. "...all stupid, cock-hungry cunt on the inside. I thought I taught you that once. Now I gotta show your sorry ass all over again."

Sport's stomach caved inward as Rock's second blow knocked him to the floor. He began to vomit as his head hit the floor with a sharp crack. Sick and disoriented, his head pounding with a dull, distant pain, Sport remained conscious of only one thing - his hatred of Rock, amplified by the biker's revolting laughter that rang through the room. Slowly, using every once of energy he could rally, Sport pushed himself to his knees. He struggled to keep his balance, his body shaking violently, his hands clenched into fists at his side. He glared up at Rock, up at the laughing giant who had destroyed his life.

"S-she never l-loved y-you," Sport uttered haltingly as he strained to stay upright on his knees. "S-she never..."

Rock's boot carried all the power his massive leg could deliver. When it landed between Sport's legs, he collapsed backward onto the floor, groaning, then whimpering, tears of defeat streaming over his face. Now Sport's world was one of pain and loss, nothing else. Minutes ago a spark of resistance had still existed, a tiny flame that had become his only remaining connection to Sarah, the Sarah that he knew, Sarah, his wife. As dim as it had become, it was still there, almost unreachable, but there just the same. As skilled and relentless as Shayla's attempts to extinguish it had become, they merely pushed it farther into the distance. Lying there in his own vomit, in his own well of certain destruction, Sport felt it vanish as suddenly as if Rock had snuffed the flame between his thumb and finger. At that instant, he began to sob.

Rock stood over him, his laughter turned to a disgusted smirk.

"Faggot's no fun anymore. He just lays there. I say, kill him."

Shayla's footsteps came closer, the click, click, click of her black stilettos a familiar, welcome sound to Sport.

"Sorry, but it's not our call. I've found another plaything for you. See if she has a boyfriend. We can use some fresh meat."

Shayla's voice was now cold and calculating, no longer the refuge that Sport knew so well. Click, click, click - she was coming closer, so close to him now. Sport opened his eyes in time to see her kneeling beside him. Her blouse opened to reveal large, chocolate breasts as she leaned over him. So perfect, he thought. He had never been allowed to touch them. He saw the syringe in her hand, bright and glittering under the fluorescent lights of his former office.

"Ugh...he stinks," she complained as she lowered the syringe to the side of his neck. "I think he shit himself."

She looked into his eyes briefly, then looked away.

"Disgusting..." she whispered. Shayla stabbed the needle into his neck, pushed the plunger to the bottom of the barrel, and Sport's world went black.

***

The old warehouse was deserted at 2:00 AM. On the loading dock, shallow puddles reflected stray light from a single bulb mounted on a rusting sheet metal wall. Rain fell in a light mist, coating concrete and steel in a fever sweat of things sick and dying. Two burly men stood just inside the wide roll-up door. They stared impatiently into the foggy night.

"Gotta wonder where these sick fucks send this stuff," the fatter of the two men said, as though he might be talking to himself. His stained t-shirt barely covered the mound of gut that hung over the top of his jeans.

"None of yer damn business," the second man answered. "Like always, I take the money and git the hell outta here. If you ain't up to it, go ahead and leave - I'll take your share." He looked over at his accomplice and grinned.

"Fuck you," the fatter man answered, and went back to staring into the night.

Outside, at the edge of the dock, two large wire cages sat in the chilly rain. As usual, each cage held a naked, unconscious body, one male, one female. Both were placed inside crouching on hands and knees, their ankles and wrists tied to the wire, although the cages were too small to allow much if any movement. They appeared to be sleeping, their heads resting on the thick leather pads beneath them, their breathing slow and shallow.

"Did you get a good look at her?" the fatter man asked. "Mm, mm, mm, she's really somethin'."

"Yeah, yeah," the second man growled. "Whatta you gonna do, ask her for a date?"

"Heh, well, maybe you like the other one better."

"Right. Fuck you."

Sport shivered, partially rousing from his drug-induced sleep. His legs and back ached, his vision blurred. He was cold and wet, and the plastic ties holding his arms and legs to the wire cage cut into his flesh painfully. Somewhere in the distance someone was talking - who? It was so cold. So wet and clammy. Where was he?

His vision began to clear, only to fade to a blur again within seconds. In, then out. Clear, then a blur. Eventually, when he could see for longer periods, Sarah's cage became recognizable. She was naked, on her knees, but it was unmistakably her. Sarah's pale skin glowed in the darkness, her slim legs folded under her, her supple torso and full breasts an angelic vision to Sport. He could see her closed eyes and inviting mouth through parted strands of golden hair that spilled over her face and creamy bare shoulders. If her eyes would open, she would be looking right at him. But she slept, peacefully, beautifully - a rare, delicious treasure, caged and trussed as though she would be sold like meat, by the pound. Then, just as the vision took form, he blacked out again, losing her to Shayla's drugs.

Sport woke a second time to sounds and movement much closer to his cage. The door to Sarah's cage stood open. A very large man leaned over it, panting and thrusting, his cock buried between Sarah's legs. Sport watched helplessly, as if dreaming. Unconscious, trapped within the confines of her cage, Sarah showed no sign that she objected to the violation. In fact, as the fat man's flabby gut hammered the cage, Sarah seemed to raise her ass to accept him, arching her back a little like an animal in heat. Sarah's mouth opened slightly, then formed a wide, satisfied smile across her angelic face. Sport closed his eyes, and again, as another of his dreams became a nightmare, he prayed for his escape. His prayer was answered as the drugs brought sleep once again.

It was 3:00 AM when approaching lights in the distance signaled the men to ready the cargo. The rear door of the brown step-van was three feet below the dock, which meant the cages had to be lowered over the edge, then lifted into the truck. The two burly men accomplished it easily, each pausing to stare into Sarah's cage as they hoisted it into the back of the van. The driver handed them envelopes thick with cash, and the truck disappeared into the fog.

"What the hell were you up to while I was takin' a shit?"

The fatter man grinned. "Just askin' her for a date, like you said."

"And what do you think they'll do when your "date" is delivered with cum leaking out of her?"

"Hell, I dunno - maybe they won't notice."

"Well, I noticed. Christ man, she was soaked."

The two men walked quietly back through the warehouse, then across a railroad siding to their cars. Neither knew who "they" were, or what trouble the fatter man might have created. But for the time being, the weight of the money in their pockets was comfort enough.

When they reached their cars, the fatter man glanced over his shoulder.

"What the fuck. She was probably just some stupid slut anyway."

The other man closed his car door without answering.

"Right. Probably just some stupid slut," he muttered to himself as he drove hastily into the night.