In the weeks since his arrival at the Sands Estate, his keepers had given Max Power greater freedom of movement than on that first day – he could go almost anywhere he liked, though he always had a shaven-headed guardian discreetly pacing him. It was, he knew, at The Boss’ orders; she was wagering that he wouldn’t run.

And she’s right, he thought as he strolled the grounds south of the old colonial mansion, quietly watching a small, nondescript and apparently unused outbuilding. There’s too much work to do here, after all.

Siouxsie herself spent, he’d quickly come to understand, only a small fraction of her week at the Estate itself. Clearly, her operations in Island City needed a hands-on approach, and she must have a second headquarters there. But it was just as clear that the Sands Estate was an important nerve centre of the Syndicate’s workings, a place where they kept important tools, weapons, and secrets that they couldn’t risk losing to their many enemies in Island City.

Secrets like Max ‘Fawkes’, he thought, watching his trailing guard out of the corner of his eye, feeling a sardonic flash of amusement as the man visibly tensed up when he seemed to stray too close to the outbuilding.

There was much more to the Estate than met the eye. Like the Foxxes’ Den in Midtown, he was convinced there were underground levels and facilities here. Likely not as elaborate as the Den, but good enough to conceal living quarters or armouries or operations centres you didn’t want visible. One of those facilities was probably a stable for whores; the endless procession of different girls who’d mewled and whined and begged in his bed as Max Power had spent his nights viciously fucking and whipping and degrading and abusing them... they weren’t being brought in from outside. They were on site, their purpose surely to test his "conversion," the long-term effects of Alethex on his disposition. He was certain he was being watched at all times, and he’d made sure there were no disappointments.

And keeping up appearances isn’t all work, after all, he reflected with a certain satisfaction. His member throbbed at the memory of the tight anal sheath of the creamy-skinned, mohawk-haired girl he’d used the night before, his mind’s eye playing back across her wide, terrified eyes as the wadded panties stuffed in her mouth had muffled her pleas for mercy, her young body jolting under each thrust of his big, hard cock as he pounded her tight asshole, her pussy hot and wet and clutching around his fingers as he’d spanked her hard with his other hand...

He yanked his wandering mind back. The facilities, yes, the underground facilities. He’d spent three weeks now observing the guards as he walked the grounds, and knew to a certainty that the outbuilding was a gateway into one of those facilities. He had quite openly asked Siouxsie about them, and repeatedly gotten the answer, Perhaps later. You must give these things some time.

He dined with Siouxsie, now, whenever she did come by the Estate. She was extraordinarily candid about the progress of Operation: Foxx Hunt... but then her whole purpose was to draw him in, to make him a collaborator. She’d even solicited suggestions from him; it had been his idea to start pre-testing Alethex on the Foxxes during the preliminary phase of Foxx Hunt, as Siouxsie gradually used them to eliminate her rivals before she gutted Operation Freedom itself.

"Are you sure?" she’d asked. "Introducing the Kitts to Alethex is one thing, there are certain kinds of leverage we can use with girls of that age, their inexperience will work against them. But won’t the Foxxes notice something amiss?"

"Individually they sure will," he’d replied. "But they’re not like a normal group of female friends. They’re comrades in arms and they love each other like sisters, but they’re also rivals for the affection of an absent father-figure."

"That’s right," he’d noddded, beckoning a topless serving-girl forward and enjoying a swallow of champagne poured over one of her pert tits, sucking the tasty drink off a hard pink nipple. He’d smacked his lips. "Ah. Yes. See, their rivalry for my imaginary affections makes them competitive. None of them wants to look weak in front of the others. Take the photo your Kitt brought us the other day; Raven McCoy managed to find out what I looked like, something I’d never thought any of them had done... and she never told a soul inside the Foxxes’ Den. And why? Because she was rubbing off to the photos! It would be admitting sexual weakness. There’s no way they’ll talk to each other, or anyone else, about any effects associated with the Alethex. Which means they won’t be able to isolate what’s causing those effects."

"Still," she’d said. "It could make them wary."

And she’d taken his advice, which really was sound. The Syndicate had tapped into Mylene Desange’s mission recorder, and Max had been allowed to watch the brutal gangbang she’d subjected herself to on her last mission, watch her lie to her FBI extraction team about what had happened only a few minutes after she’d been squealing in ecstasy with massive black cocks force-fucking her pussy and ass, watch as the recorder "accidentally" detached itself from her necklace and rolled its way down a gutter as she’d left the scene of her shame.

He couldn’t believe the old Max Fawkes had been so blind to how consistently he’d selected closet submissives for his team of heroines. Why hadn’t he ever wondered why they trusted him so implicitly, why they seemed in their own chaste (and not-so-chaste) ways to almost worship him? The old Max hadn’t been willing to see the darker forces underlying those bonds, those surface friendships. But Max Power would use them to his advantage. His advantage.

The infiltration of Operation Freedom was well advanced, now. Bailey Phillips had spent two weeks smuggling Alethex into the Den in various forms, and now she had a cadre of her own fellow-traitors to help her, her own depraved and perverted Kitt Force. He was sure that by now the substance was laced into a dozen different products the Foxxes used every day, from pre-made smoothies to skin creams to makeup to chewing gum to bottled water. They were women with a deadly serpent coiled in their bloodstreams, awaiting only the right moment to strike. Max had his own plans for how that game would play out.

But Siouxsie’s bigger game still wasn’t clear, and it needed to be. Dropped hints about her itinerary suggested she was paying visits to government officials – re-subverting the Syndicate’s old allies whom the old Max had once neutralized, he guessed. But in preparation for what? And who was the digital wizard who was making her total penetration and subversion of Operation Freedom’s systems possible, and who had enabled the infiltration of the Den by a crew of subverted Kitts? What other operatives did she have? He was sure she had cards in her hand that he had yet to see.

The first step was gaining access to the computer operations centre that he was almost certain lurked beneath the false "outbuilding." He paced, quietly testing the guards as he decided on the best approach.

* * * * *

Jed "Double J" Jackson, Warden of the Fort West Women’s Correctional Facility, was pacing agitatedly in his office as he awaited his unusual visitor.

Goddammit, he fumed inwardly, those Operation Freedom assholes said they’d protect me from any reprisals! "Just call this number if any of the criminals harass you." Right. Ten fucking calls and no answer!

He’d had no choice but to turn back on his promises to the Syndicate. It hadn’t been easy. Fort West had been a privately run facility for ten years, and for almost two of those years he’d lived like a king, making a healthy percentage from the funds he’d skimmed and transferred to an indecipherable maze of offshore accounts, boosting the prison revenues by whoring out the inmates in conjugal visit trailers to high-paying johns. It had been a great arrangement: any of the prisoners who complained quickly had accidents "while attempting escape," he got to embezzle prison labour profits without any telling shortfalls to tip off his superiors, the Syndicate got their money and valuable intel from the recorded conversations of the johns, his wife and kids got to live in style... why shouldn’t he go for it?

But then that improbably sexy "inspector" from the Department of Corrections had showed up, a tall drink of water if he’d ever seen one. She’d teased him mercilessly, outrageously, rubbed up against him with that sweet ripe peach of an ass, seared his brain with her luridly suggestive talk and ball-tightening dirty-little-bitch smile, left him frustrated with his cock practically bursting in his pants... and two weeks later an Operation Freedom goon was in his office showing him pictures of himself apparently "bribing" a Department official with sex. A classic spook trick, he’d realized at the time with real fear. Never go for complicated when simple will do. And they’d offered him a deal: Operation Freedom would take up the slack on his payments to the Syndicate, even provide fabricated "intel" along with it... and all his operations would stop. Immediately. He wouldn’t face legal sanction or even be reported for his illegal activities to his bosses so long as he kept his mouth shut.

He’d expected an unwelcome visit from a Syndicate goon not long after that, but whatever Operation Freedom had done had seemed to keep them fooled. But it had been a hellish year for him nevertheless: no more extra money. No more fancy cars, no more lavish renovations, no more trips to the spa for his wife or luxury toys for the kids. His wife had stopped putting out, was starting to call him a loser, and the kids were sassing him back no matter how hard he slapped them. And the spooks had to be watching him; he couldn’t even take his frustrations out on the inmates and didn’t dare go into Island City to buy a hooker. To make matters worse, the news these days was full of the very woman who’d ruined him, Mylene Desanges, the super-seductress of the so-called Foxx Force Five... and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He was left humiliated, jacking off in the basement to surreptitiously-purchased stroke mags like some teenager, knowing all the while that the slightest misstep could land him in a world of hurt.

But the world of hurt was here anyway. Somehow, the Syndicate had found out about his betrayal. I’m fucked, he thought in agitated terror. Fucked! The Boss herself, the mysterious Red Queen, was coming to visit him. And no way was it a social call. His greed had left him stuck between ruthless spooks and insane gangsters, the surest definition of "a rock and a hard place" he could think of.

Jackson watched a bank of cameras on the wall of his office, saw a fleet of five limousines pulling into the prison gates. At that moment his bulky second in command, Karl Jablonsky, popped his head in the door.

"Mr. Jackson..." he said tentatively.

"I know," answered Double J, proud of how calm his voice sounded. "She’s here."

I may be dead, he thought to himself as he switched off his cameras, sat behind his desk and puffed out his barrel chest, projecting an air of gravitas. But at least I can face death like a man.

* * * * *

Satin Rayne looked at herself in the mirror, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, dressed and ready for her workout. Her light coffee-coloured skin was flawless, and her long dark hair with its light brown highlights tumbled in cascades of sexy curls around her perfect face and down her back – a brand-new, more natural look she’d decided on as Operation Freedom moved into a new phase of action. Her green eyes were as arresting and her lips as pouty and kissable as ever, her ripe ass and firm D-cup tits straining against the teeny black sport bra and barely-there neon pink hotpants that struggled to keep her rich, sexy body covered.

You look good, girl, she thought to herself. You look damn good. And as always, somewhere in the back of her mind was tucked, unacknowledged, the thought of how Max Fawkes might react on seeing her now... how that famously smooth voice might falter in the face of so much sexy goodness.

As she turned from side to side, posing and admiring her taut figure, she reflected that it was a great time to be in the Foxxes’ Den. After their two weeks of dramatic raids against the Bloods, the media was practically orgasmic over the good that Operation Freedom was doing in Island City. Newspapers and television were running features on the Foxx Force Five practically nonstop. For the first time, companies were even starting to approach the girls with the possibility of endorsement deals, especially new companies looking to make a mark. Fresh new brands of everything from makeup to chewing gum to energy drinks to bottled water had appeared in the Den over the past week, with Max explaining where they came from on the daily calls, reassuring them that everything had been screened and instructing the Foxxes sternly not to talk to anyone about these products until they had details from Washington on how to handle the endorsement requests.

Satin hefted a bottle of the new energy drink she’d been asked to endorse, a green herbal concoction called ALT-X. "Alternative X-treme," a cheesy name if she’d ever heard one, but it was tasty enough and she’d taken, in the week since the first shipment came in, to doing mock commercials with herself in the mirror, imagining her gorgeous face and foxy body on national television, hordes of impressionable teenaged boys slavering over her as she said something like: "My name is Satin Rayne from Foxx Force Five, and I enjoy ALT-X for its dynamite taste and explosive energy boost! Boom!"

Yes, definitely a good time to be a Foxx.

But it was also a time with unique pressures. After their headline-making victories over the Bloods, the Foxxes were being given a short respite... but they knew that what was coming next would be the biggest challenge any of them had ever faced, a showdown with the most vicious and powerful villains Island City had to offer. It was bound to mess with their heads a little; Satin had noticed Mylene seeming distracted from time to time since her brilliant success on the Black Sun Nation raid, no doubt thinking nonstop about the even bigger, stiffer and more numerous challenges to come. On the surface, everybody seemed fine, but over the past week, Satin was starting to notice signs of the strain in the others too, moments of distraction and brief, out-of-place, quizzical silences.

She knew her friends too well to ask about them, they would just be embarrassed. But privately, she was glad she wasn’t alone. Satin, too, had been feeling the strain. The past four nights, she’d woken up gasping out of dreams she knew had been extraordinarily vivid... dreams she couldn’t remember, but that had left her sheets soaked, her pussy hot and wet and throbbing, her whole body tingling and her nipples rock-hard. More than just wet dreams, these were accompanied by an awful feeling of sick dread in the pit of her stomach, a terror that seemed only to stoke the heat in her tight, slippery snatch. On the first morning she’d touched her pussy wonderingly, then stroked it... and stroked it some more... and more, and more, and more, and more, until she quickly found herself on her knees, face-down with her delicious ass wriggling naked in the air as she bit her pillow to muffle her squeals, exploding in a wet, messy, convulsive, brain-scrambling orgasm, her clit pulsing under her fingers and her juices squirting copiously out of her twat in a way they’d never done before. She’d been somehow unable to stop her fingers from furiously frigging her to another half-dozen of those super-wet, killer-intense climaxes before she’d dragged herself shuddering out of bed, feeling dehydrated and weak as a kitten, her mind spinning and the morning practically shot. The three mornings since, she’d been careful to move gingerly and take long, cold showers before she dressed or touched herself.

She figured the dreams were probably about Max, about the possibility that they might finally meet him when it was all over. The end was drawing near, the often-fantasized moment when he would finally let down the iron wall of privacy and visit his precious Foxxes in the flesh, embodied as the exact sculpture of gorgeous salt-and-pepper masculinity she’d mentally extrapolated from his voice, embracing and congratulating them all... but with a specially warm hug and maybe a gentle caress, the briefest, most chaste and delicious of kisses for his ultra-sexy Satin Rayne, a discreet whisper in her ear that he wanted to congratulate her properly later, alone, in private. And fear there too, yes; the awful, barely-acknowledged fear of watching one of the other Foxxes walk away with that prize, her prize, at the finish line. Those thoughts were getting closer to the surface than ever these days, and the throbbing, tingling sensations produced by her unquiet nights would never quite fade during the day, sometimes intensifying at odd moments. Satin knew she was having those momentary flashes of distraction, too, and so she guessed something about what the others must be feeling right now. So we all, she thought, have our fantasies. And the possibility of death gives them strength.

Max, of course, had to have somehow noticed, showing the same uncanny instincts he always had. On today’s call, he’d announced the arrival of a new therapist in the Den, a man named Dr. Ryan "Ace" Nielson who was testing the very latest forms of machine-aided hypnotherapy, a technique so science-fictional that not even most people in the CIA knew about it. "We’re very lucky to have gotten Dr. Nielson, Foxxes," Max had said with his trademark, upbeat confidence. "He’s top flight. It’s important that we be mentally as well as physically tip-top for the upcoming missions. Appointments have been made for each of you to see him... starting with Satin!"

"What, you think I’m crazy, Max?" she’d said laughingly in her own defense as the others exploded in giggling and teasing... but she’d been privately relieved. Her demolitions work demanded nothing less than total focus, and she knew that right now, she didn’t quite have it. The pressure was getting to her, and some space-aged therapy was just what she needed right now.

Ten minutes, she thought suddenly, glancing at the clock on her wall. I’d better get up there. A quick session, then a good workout. With a last glance in the mirror, she took a deep, cool draught of ALT-X and picked up her exercise bag as she headed for the door. I’m sure the Doc can straighten me out.

* * * * *

The Boss proved to be a surprise in more ways than one.

Warden Jackson hadn’t really known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been the young, sexy, pouty-lipped platinum-blonde supermodel sitting in front of him, her hair swept back from her perfect face, her tall, lithe body mouth-wateringly filling out a tight, pinstriped and short-skirted powersuit, her mile-long stockinged legs ending in delicate feet clad in expensive Italian pumps, one elegantly-manicured hand nonchalantly holdng a huge Dominican cigar. The kind of woman who would normally start his mind to feverish fantasizing... were it not for the huge, intimidating shaven-headed goons on either side of her and the quiet, lethal coldness in her ice-coloured eyes.

"Ummm, welcome," Double J started off the conversation uncertainly. "What, uhhhh, what do I, uhhhh, call you?"

She didn’t reply, but the big black goon to her right said flatly: "Boss."

"Boss, yes, of course, Boss," the Warden had gushed desperately, trying to sound glad to have been admonished. As The Boss’ cold eyes measured him, she took a leisurely puff on the cigar and despite his earlier promise to himself to stand up like a man, he suddenly found himself babbling. "Anything you say, you know, anything you say, nothin’ too good for the Syndicate, that’s my motto. It’s uhhhh, it’s a real honour to have you here at Fort West, a real honour, you know? Never thought I’d get a chance to meet you, Boss, uhhhh, never thought and boy am I glad I was wrong, real glad, you know? How was your drive over, huh? Real uhhh, real nice weather this summer, I gotta say that much, real nice weather. It’s been uhhhh, you know, it’s been going real good here, Boss, you know, real regular, uhhhh, real, uhhhh –"

"Shut up."

Her first words were delivered in a throaty contralto which in a different situation would have been sexy, but the chill tone in the words matched the awful chill in those icy gray eyes, and Double J found himself stuttering into a shamed silence.

After a long, strained, still moment, she gestured one of the goons toward her, the man respectfully holding out a silver ashtray as she turned aside and deliberately, carefully stubbed out the fine cigar. Presently she said: "Warden Jackson, I’m sure you’re aware that aside from our own interests, our organization also represents the interests of the Commission and the Rubinetto Family."

Jackson felt his stomach drop and his blood run cold. No, he really hadn’t known that. This just gets better and better, he thought despairingly, but what could he say except: "Uhhh, sure Boss."

She gestured the goon with the ashtray back and looked Double J in the eyes again, the same level, reptilian stare. "Then you will also understand," she went on, "that if you should ever again encounter opponents of either of our organizations without immediately and directly notifying us, your life as you know it and your freedom will be forfeit. Your family’s lives and freedom will be forfeit. You, your wife, your adorable tow-headed children, your sweet sainted mother, your high school friends and sweethearts, anyone who drinks a pint with you at the bar, anyone who owes you money... all of you will vanish without a trace. And only the very luckiest ones will be killed."

The last sentence was delivered with an absolute, terrifyingly matter-of-fact sincerity and certainty that Jackson knew he would never forget as long as he lived.

But he also couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t talking about disappearing him now. The churning in his gut eased slightly as he allowed the slightest flicker of hope to enter his mind. "I understand completely, Boss," he said, more firmly this time.

She regarded him for a long moment more, as if seeking to satisfy herself about something. If you’re wondering whether you scare me enough, lady, Double J thought fervently, the answer is a definite "yes."

Finally, she nodded and stood up, snapping her fingers. The goon on her left turned and walked smartly out of the office, and another one, brown-skinned this time, smooth-pated like the rest, came in to replace him, a black briefcase in one hand. "Very well then," she said. "I’m pleased we understand each other. And while we don’t condone your betrayal, you should know that the Syndicate understands you were confronted by an exceptional opponent. It’s disappointing that you were not strong or intelligent enough to face him down, but not especially surprising."

Double J was so awash in blissful relief that he barely even heard the coldly-delivered insult. He felt as if a crushing, two-tonne weight had been removed from his shoulders, like a man who’d just been bailed out of a speeding car a split second before it rammed into a brick wall. "Just like you say, Boss, thank you, Boss," he said automatically.

"And so, Warden," she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. "The Syndicate is offering you a second chance. You will immediately reactivate your prior operations here in Fort West. You will, of course, waive your personal percentage. Your continued existence is now your personal percentage." She walked calmly around, studying the paintings on his walls as she talked, stopping in what looked like sardonic amusement in front of the velvet Elvis that was the prize of his office decorations. "And in order to recoup the considerable sum your betrayal has cost both the Syndicate and the Commission, you will quadruple the amount of your quarterly payments to us, and will now remit said amount on a monthly basis, not one day later than the last of the month. My associate Mister Beam here," she gestured absent-mindedly at the new thug as she went on examining the Elvis, "will provide you with the new offshore account numbers you’ll be using. At the end of one year, we will review your progress and revisit or terminate the agreement as necessary."

Double J stood stunned, his sense of relief evaporating as quickly as it had come. Quadruple the quarterly? he thought numbly. AND switch to monthly? That’s almost a fifty-fold annual increase! They have to know that’s impossible! They’re just drawing it out, just to fucking torture me!

After a moment, The Boss looked around, raised an eyebrow and said: "Warden? Is there a problem?"

Now trapped in his own prison of despair, the Warden shook his head numbly. "No problem, Boss, it’s just, it’s just," he said haltingly, trailing off under her unblinking stare.

"Perhaps," she said after a moment. "You’re wondering how you’ll be able to meet the payment schedule I’ve just outlined."

He hesitated, swallowed hard and nodded.

For the first time she smiled, and for all her gorgeous glamour it was a ghoulish, predatory, blood-curdling expression that the Warden immediately decided he never wanted to see again. "It won’t be easy," she said, walking back over to his desk, "but you’ll be pleased to know that we didn’t arrive at this figure simply to torment you. It can, in fact, be done... provided you’re willing to work your inmates around the clock, day and night, far harder than you’ve ever worked them before. And provided you have the aid of a certain tool that we’ll be supplying for you." The thug on her left, Mister Beam, came forward and set the briefcase down on Jackson’s desk. With a magnanimous gesture The Boss said: "Open it."

Almost afraid of what he’d find, Double J released the catches on the briefcase and lifted the lid. Inside was a stack of papers and folders, no doubt the account information she’d alluded to earlier. But on top of them was a large syringe, filled with a mysterious green liquid.

He looked at it blankly. "I don’t understand, Boss."

"Of course not. But you will." The Boss reseated herself, dismissing Mister Beam with a curt gesture. The previous goon returned to take his place, still carrying the big silver ashtray as she reached into her purse and produced another thick cigar, along with a cigar-cutter. As she snipped off the end, she said: "Which woman working at your facility do you admire the most?"

Double J gave it a moment or two (or four) of panicky thought, but he couldn’t come up with anything. Finally he repeated lamely: "Admire, Boss?"

"Fair enough, maybe ‘admire’ is the wrong word for a man like yourself." She lit the cigar, blew a series of perfect, leisurely smoke rings. "Let’s try it this way: which woman on your staff do you resent the most? The most confident, sassy, self-possessed, impudent, untouchable, maddening little wench you can think of?"

His mind immediately flashed to the newest guard Deena Ryder, a rookie hire that his superiors had pushed on him two months ago, claiming the prison didn’t have enough female guards. A five foot eight, angel-faced, rich-bodied twentysomething with her dark hair cut in a saucy bob, strikingly wide baby blues, a cock-teasing smile, a firm, ripe, fuckable ass and big double-D tits straining the buttons on her dark blue uniform, Deena had been a special torment in the hell of the past year: the kind of woman he could’ve had at will before that damnable Foxx had entrapped him, but who could and did treat the reduced, emasculated version of him with barely-concealed contempt. Many were the nights he’d fantasized about spunking all over her face and tits or busting a nut deep in her hot, tight, curvaceous ass while she whimperingly apologized for not being nicer to him. In many ways, she’d become an almost daily reminder of how far he’d fallen, the predicament in which he’d found himself.

"Officer Deena Ryder," he confirmed after a moment’s more thought.

"Is she on shift today?"

"Yes," he said. "She’s patrolling D Block right now, Boss."

"Have her report to this office for a meeting, immediately." She took another puff on the cigar, then made an impatient gesture when he hesitated in puzzlement. "Do it, Warden. Everything will be made clear when she arrives."

Nodding, he picked up his phone to summon the sexy new prison guard, wondering what it was The Boss could have in mind. Nothing nice, he thought. But as his resentment of the smoking-hot brunette guard reignited, his heart began to thump with a mixture of trepidation and excitement while his cock stiffened. No, definitely nothing nice at all.

* * * * *

Max finally got into the outbuilding on a simple gamble, gesturing his trailing guard over to him and saying: "Look, I didn’t want to do this, but Siouxsie insisted. At our last dinner, she ordered me to test you, told me I should tell you that she wants me admitted to the computing facility to get an understanding of your counter-surveillance systems for Foxx Hunt. She said if you refused, I was to report you directly to her."

The big man looked at him flatly. "If there were any such order, she’d have told us directly."

Max’s heart hammered; had he guessed wrong? But he simply shrugged casually and said: "Probably. Unless she was testing your reasoning, your ability to think on your feet and anticipate what she wants. But I guess maybe she wouldn’t have very high standards for that, would she?"

A telling glimmer of uncertainty crept into the man’s eyes.

Bingo, Max thought triumphantly. A little glimpse of Siouxsie’s management style. Keep everyone on their toes, keep everyone in fear, never knowing what to expect. It’s just that fear is a double-edged sword, O Red Queen.

"I can let you in," the guard finally said after a long, reluctant pause, "but I’ll have to confirm the order with her when she returns."

But his ever-so-slightly hesitant tone gave him away. Max suspected that Siouxsie wasn’t the kind of boss of whom you could ask whether an order was valid after you’d executed it. Even if you were in the right, she might just decide to punish you out of sheer perversity, just for asking the question. In a bind, aren’t you, my friend? he thought with amusement. What happens if the order was real and I mention you obstructed it at our next dinner? Nothing pleasant, I’ll bet. Damned if you do, maybe even more damned if you don’t. A thousand says you never mention a thing to The Boss.

"Of course," he said aloud, affably. "I totally understand. And sorry, man, I don’t like working this way either."

The guard grunted sourly, producing a key from his pocket and opening the door, revealing a hollow structure with a staircase heading down.

A few moments later Max stood in a dank basement, a long narrow space more crowded with screens and computer equipment than any room he’d ever seen – and he’d seen plenty. And he was looking at perhaps one of the ugliest people he’d ever seen – and he’d seen plenty of those, too. The tiny man hunched in the middle of all that equipment, clad in a black t-shirt and sweats, bug-eyed and crater-skinned and worm-pale, stooped and hollow-chested and chinless and sucking absent-mindedly at his grossly rotten and uneven teeth, didn’t even look away from his screens as Max and the guard came thumping down the stairs. All he did was run his hand through an unkempt mop of greasy, dandruff-ridden brown hair and shout, nasal and grating: "No disturbances! I told her no disturbances!"

The guard wrinkled his nose in distaste, and so did Max before he controlled his reaction; the whole place was musty and reeked of enough stale body odour for fifty football players, let alone a single unkempt geek. The stench was horrific.

"You don’t tell her, Goblin," the guard said. "She tells you. You oughtta know that by now."

"Fuck that, I’m a special case," the Goblin replied, fingers rattling nonstop over his keyboard with preternatural speed. "Who’s that asshole with you?"

"Be nice, kid," the Guard said. "This is Her Nibs’ special guest, Max Fawkes. He’s come to pay you a visit."

At the name, the Goblin abruptly stopped typing and looked toward them. "Fawkes, no shit," he said after a long pause. Then: "I didn’t think she’d let you down here so soon."

Max shrugged. "A necessity for Foxx Hunt, is what she told me."

The Goblin gave him a long, measuring, hideously wall-eyed stare and then finally said, "Well you better come in and shut the fucking door then. And lose the ape."

The guard gritted his teeth. "I’ll be right outside," he said shortly to Max as he turned on his heel and left. The door of the outbuilding reverberated as he shut it behind him.

The Goblin snorted, turning back to his screen. "Hate those fucking guys," he muttered. "Buncha dumb jocks. Who cuts their fucking hair, Telly Savalas?" His fingers started over the keyboard again, moving in a blur, and as Max walked closer he could see blocks of text sweeping up the screen at an astonishing rate.

Could it be? he wondered to himself. Could all that brilliant digital work be coming from just one man? Aloud he asked: "So, anything else I should call you besides Goblin?"

"My name’s Frank," the nerd said after a moment. "But Goblin is fine. You know goblins were some of the greatest inventors on Middle Earth?"

Max shook his head. "No, I did not know that."

"Not many people do. Everybody always thinks ‘orcs orcs orcs, booga booga booga’! But that’s not how Tolkien saw it. You ask me, that Kiwi director oughta get strung the fuck up for those movies he did."

Max made a mild noise of agreement, looking at a bank of monitors behind him as he did so. Some, he realized, were showing satellite surveillance pictures, sometimes in infra-red or ultraviolet. One site in particular came flashing up regularly on one screen and then another, and after a moment’s thought he recognized the layout of the buildings. Fort West Women’s Correctional, he thought. That little sleaze Double J. Guess Siouxsie must be paying him a visit, getting the prison-brothel running again. He remembered something else about that particular prison, too... and he filed it away for further dissection later. The beginnings of an idea about what else the Red Queen might be up to.

But for the moment, another bank of monitors caught his eye, the images even more recognizable. They were coming from a battery of hidden cameras, showing dozens of rooms in...

"These here, these are pictures of the Den?"

The Goblin turned for a split second and nodded. "Those Kitts have been fucking busy," he said absently as his keyboard rattled. "We’ve already got full coverage on half the rooms in that place, including most of the Foxxes’ bedrooms... except O’Neale." There was a note of regret in his voice as he said that, but it was gone as he went on to leer: "Been a lotta restless nights this week, I can tell you that."

"I’ll bet," agreed Max mildly. With the amount of Alethex they were all probably consuming by now, it stood to reason.

The Goblin stopped typing for a moment, leaned back in his chair and gave Max a quizzical look. "Say, you, uhhh... you ever feel a little fucking conflicted about all this, man? I mean, you practically adopted those bitches, right?"

Max shrugged. "I’m a Company man, as you know," he said. And one who won’t be telling you anything about his reasons. "An operation goes bad, we tie it off and move on. That’s how it works."

The Goblin nodded. "Huh, that’s pretty cold, man." Then he gave a sudden, rotten brown-and-yellow grin. "I guess I could get to like you."

"Thanks, I think." Max gestured to the monitors and asked: "Who’s on the menu today?"

"Oh, it’s gonna get interesting," said the Goblin with another leer. "Siouxsie’s parachuted the Hound in there."

Max raised an eyebrow, and the repellent geek gave a snorting, braying laugh.

"You’ve met the Hound, you just don’t know it," he said. "He’s the guy interrogated you when they took you at the parking garage."

The revelation set Max’s blood pumping. That bizarre unconscious interrogation, he thought excitedly, and a little angrily. How did they do it? "So am I right in my guess?" he asked the Goblin, not bothering to hide his fascination. "Did he use a machine?"

The computer wizard nodded, grinning. "Neural Oscillation Synchronic Emulator. The NOSE. He invented it, I helped him program it, it’s why we call him the Hound. All kinds of shit you can sniff out with that thing... or make happen with it. It interprets the subconscious as graphical data, lets you do a little selecting and directing. If you’ve got some prep time and some pre-hypnosis work on your side, like he didn’t have with you, then you can do a lot of directing." He gestured up at the monitors. "Caliente told his Foxxes they have a new psychiatrist starting today testing out an advanced technique, we even sent fake authorization papers to Mosley to make it all look legit. That psychiatrist’s our fucking Hound. And this time he’s not just using a field box with a few electrodes, he’s got the full meal deal, the big chair, the real NOSE."

"I’ll be damned. And who’s his first vic... patient?"

"Why," said the geek with an awkward flourish, "none other than the Black Bombshell, Miss Satin Rayne! Matter of fact, she should be headed in now. You wanna watch?"

Mouth suddenly dry in anticipationi, Max simply nodded. The Goblin tapped a few keys, and one of the monitor images flickered and changed.

* * * * *

Dr. Ryan Nielson wasn’t what she had expected. He was stocky, barrel-chested, athletic looking, with a bald head and an immaculately-trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee. He wouldn’t have looked out of place onstage at a metal concert, Satin reflected. Or as a bouncer at a club. One of the Young Turks of the medical establishment.

"Miss Rayne," said the doctor graciously, his deep voice warm and friendly as she stepped into his office on the Den’s third level. Immediately her eyes were drawn to the curious looking chair that he’d installed in the centre of the room, a gleaming contraption something like a dentist’s chair – but with flashing lights and electrodes protruding from the headreast, and other subtle differences she couldn’t put a finger on. "I’d just like to say, before we get started, what an honour it is to meet the Black Bombshell in person," the doctor went on as he came around the chair to take her exercise bag and towel, sitting them to one side and taking her by the arm as he guided her gently into the room. "It’s a wonderful thing you Foxxes are doing for this city, hell, for America. Always great to see good people take out the trash."

"Thanks, Doc," she said, eyeing the chair dubiously. "So... you’ve used this thing before, right?"

"Oh, the government made sure we tested it out thoroughly before we brought it in here, believe you me," said the therapist with a self-deprecating laugh. "You Foxxes are worth more each than a fighter jet by now, you know that? Only the best will do. The system in the headrest alone is worth three state-of-the-art supercomputers. One day, these babies are going to totally replace the traditional therapist’s couch."

"Really," the heroine said with a wry smile, then nodded as she crossed her arms and confidently cocked her hips. "Okay, so what do we do, Doc?"

He smiled and nodded. "Right, first things first. I’ll need you to disrobe."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled saucily. "Don’t you think you should buy me dinner, first?"

"Ohhhh, never heard that one before," he riposted with a friendly grimace. "Come on now, you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen. I am a doctor on Operation Freedom’s payroll, it’s not like I’m going to molest you. Just the bra and the shorts, you can leave the sneakers on."

Satin laughed, liking his dry manner. Always good to feel at ease when you’re in a doctor’s office, she thought as she pulled her tiny sport bra over her head, setting her glorious tits free to bounce and goosepimple slightly as the air played over the naked flesh, stiffening her big brown nipples. She peeled the tiny hotpants down over her curvy ass next, sliding them down her long smooth legs and stepping out of them to stand spectacularly naked, wearing nothing but a pair of white sneakers, showing off a perfectly trimmed patch of dark pubic hair above her tight, ever-so-slightly moist snatch.

She was gratified to see the therapist swallow around a lump in his throat at the sight. Good for him, he’s not a fag, she thought brightly with an inward laugh. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

"Very good, please have a seat in the chair," he said presently, indicating the gleaming contraption with an open hand. "I’d better lock the door to give us some privacy."

As he closed and locked the door, Satin gingerly took her place in the chair. There were mouldings in the armrests into which the patient’s arms could settle... and she realized that there were separate mouldings for each leg too, going right up to the ass, so that as she settled into the chair she was forced to slightly spread her legs and felt her full ass-cheeks being cupped and separated by cool plastic, sending a waft of air over her puckered asshole. Hmmm, she thought curiously, trying not to grunt in surprise at the mildly crude sensation as she settled back into the contraption, her head sinking into the headrest. I wonder what the point of that is?

"Interesting design," was all she said aloud to Nielson as he came back to the chair.

"Thanks," he replied, coming to the headrest and fiddling with some electrodes, and she felt cool suction on her temples as he began to attach them, one, two, three and then four. "Every one of these chairs is personalized for a special user. We’ve designed one for each of you, fitted to your height and physique. It’s a step up from the original generics we used to use. We wanted the Machine to be a total body experience for every Foxx."

"That’s what you call it?" she asked a little archly. " ‘The Machine’?"

"Marketing’s working on a better name." He grimaced apologetically. "Don’t worry, I won’t turn it up to fifty."

Ahhhh, a movie buff, she thought with another inward laugh. He was bringing more electrodes out of the chair, attaching them to various points of her body. Some very sensitive points, she noted. Electrodes on her arms, her fingers... then one on each rock-hard nipple, and several more spaced around the flesh of each of her firm, gently heaving tits. One at her belly button. She tried hard to hold still as he started to work up from the bottom of the chair, tried not think of the part of her body he was working towards, electrodes now on her calves, thighs, inner thighs...

"Okay," he said. "You guessed where I have to put the last one?"

She found herself swallowing hard, her clit already starting to engorge and her pussy starting to moisten as she nodded. "It’s alright," she managed to say.

He smiled. "Just close your eyes and think ‘amber waves of grain,’" he suggested, his hand reaching in warm and intimate to pull the last electrode from an invisible cache between her slightly-spread legs. She did close her eyes, but couldn’t help squirming as she felt the cool suction on her stiff little clit. She was helpless to stop a small moan from passing her lips.

"There!" he said. "All done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?"

He took hold of one of her hands reassuringly, and she found herself gripping it gratefully, her shining eyes smiling at him, the human contact just what she needed. You know, she thought to herself suddenly, he looks a little like Max must look. And she found herself holding his hand tighter, her pussy getting a little hotter and wetter as the thought percolated insistently through her brain.

"Okay, there’s one more thing, and I want you to be ready for it," he said, gravely serious now. "The Machine involves hypnosis, a deep suspension of your conscious mind so we can get directly into your subconscious and figure out what’s going on. Sometimes, when a person’s under in a session with the Machine, they can thrash around and break the electrode connections. We need the electrode connections to make it work. So... the chair is going to restrain you." Her grip on his hand tightened further, almost painfully, and he must have noted a look of fear in her eyes, because he leaned in with concern and asked: "Are you sure you’re okay with this?"

She found her breath coming short and fast. Terrifying memories stirring of a basement and shackles, years ago, a feeling of total helplessness, the very situation that had brought her to Foxx Force Five. And confusingly, for some reason an insistent throbbing had started up in her snatch. Adamantly, she controlled her breathing, repeating a silent mantra to herself: You are a strong, confident, independant woman. You are a strong, confident, independant woman. Finally, she let her fingers loosen their grip, turned to the doctor, was about to nod... and then found herself asking: "Can I trust you, Doc?"

He closed his other hand compassionately over top of hers. His face was the picture of fatherly protectiveness as he said: "Completely. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Stick a needle in your eye?"

"And cook my liver in a pie." He squeezed her hand reassuringly and said: "You ready?"

She swallowed and nodded. He set her arm back in the armrest, reached down and flicked a switch on the side of the chair... and with lightning speed, padded steel restraints secured her wrists, her ankles, her knees and elbows, and her forehead! Desperately, she fought down the urge to fight her way free, to struggle against the confinement. It’s just therapy, Satin, she told herself impatiently. You are a strong, confident, independant woman! For some reason, though, she found her hips squirming ever so slightly as the feeling of confinement kicked the hot slipperiness in her twat up another notch; she could already feel her juices starting to drip down her thighs. You are a strong, confident... wet... woman... Wow, really wet... Why so fucking wet?

"Okay, we’re all set." He swivelled the chair to face a blank screen on the office’s west wall. "I just need you to look at the screen."

"How long does this... hypnosis take, Doc?" she asked, knowing with embarrassment that her tits were heaving perceptibly up and down from the hot, horny sensations pulsating irresistibly in her tight young snatch, that a light sheen of sweat was starting to break out all over her taut, naked flesh.

"Oh, not long. Just watch the screen... watch the screen..."

A rapid, barely perceptible sequence of coloured lights suddenly flashed in front of her eyes... and the room, her body, the Foxxes’ Den vanished.

The bootylicious Foxx found herself standing, abruptly, in a dark tunnel. The air was warm and close and dank, the light dim, the sound of dripping water and the distant, mysterious shuffling of rats all-pervasive, an occasional reeking breeze wafting through her abundant curls. There was a crazed, dense network of pipes overhead.

I recognize this tunnel, she realized. She was in the abandoned underground workings of Majestic Midway Station, the haphazard mole-like catacombs that had once housed the great 19^th-century landmark’s steam-power generators, now long since torn out and sent to the Johnsonian as relics. This was two years ago! The 12K Triad had hired the infamous Midnight Bomber to hold the tourists at Majestic Midway hostage, demanding that their recently-jailed leader – caught the week before in compromising photos with a petite blonde food safety inspector sporting double-D tits – be extradited to Hong Kong. This had been her first covert ops test, long before the Foxxes had gone public. She’d just turned nineteen, and she’d been terrified... but she’d found the bomb, and disarmed it. She had remembered being worried about encountering the Midnight Bomber himself, but he’d been nowhere to be found, then or since. Nobody, in the final analysis, ever knew if it was really he who’d planted the bomb, or who he was if he had.

Well, one thing’s different this time, she thought with a grimace, looking down at herself. She was wearing an earpiece just like she’d been that night, to keep in touch with the other Foxxes, but she didn’t have her black operational jumpsuit on; instead her mind had clothed her in her barely-there exercise gear from the Den, the pink hotpants riding up into her ass and gathering into a pronounced camel toe at her crotch, her nipples proudly and provocatively stiff against the black fabric of the sport bra. She wondered why that had happened?

No matter. There were worse ways to spend a therapy session than reliving your first great triumph. What did it matter what clothes you wore doing it? It was basically just a dream anyway.

Satin felt a surge of happy confidence as she took off into the tunnels. She knew the way precisely. You are a strong, confident, independant woman, she thought to herself. And this is gonna be seriously fun.

* * * * *

There was already a sound of struggling outside the office door as sexy little Officer Deena Ryder arrived for her "meeting." Apparently the Syndicate thugs had wasted no time grabbing her; there wasn’t going to be any pretense. The woman’s alarmed shouts and squeals alternated with the sound of tearing fabric, and then the door banged open.

There stood Jimmy Beam holding the rookie corrections officer by the throat, her baby blues wide with terror and outrage as she kicked and struggled, her double-D’s heaving and straining and her hips writhing ineffectually, rubbing her haplessly up against the already obvious tent in the goon’s crotch. The pants of her dark blue uniform had been simply ripped off and lay in tatters on the floor in the hallway alongside her officers’ utility belt and nightstick, leaving the girl’s black laced panties bare, her puffy pussy lips clearly visible in outline through the sheer fabric. The shirt of her uniform had been ripped open, too; buttons were scattered everywhere, and the girl’s pink nipples could be seen clearly through the fabric of her lacy black bra as her tits bounced and jiggled enticingly with her struggles. Her hands were restrained behind her, and it was a second before Double J realized they must have used her own cuffs for the job.

How humiliating for you, little Deena, thought the Warden in secret triumph. That must be really humiliating! But he found his eyes sliding away from her furious blue gaze when the rookie glared daggers at him, choking and gasping as Beam’s powerful hand cut off her air supply.

"Welcome, Officer Ryder," said The Boss smoothly, standing up from her chair. "Oddly appropriate name, if you don’t mind my saying so. Thank you for joining us." She moved the chair aside and walked over to stand under the Elvis painting as she gestured another goon in the from the hallway. The man came in carrying, Jackson noted with alarm, a camcorder and a tripod, and busily started setting them up and pointing them at the desk as Beam marched Deena over to it, bending her over its dark surface and holding her down brutally by the neck as he ripped her panties down her wriggling, kicking legs, exposing her sweet round ass and carefully-trimmed, tight pussy.

"Jackson..." the rookie officer gasped as she suffered the awful indignity of having her ass and pussy so brutishly, rudely exposed in a room full of menacing strangers. Beam was holding her face down, at least she couldn’t raise her head to put those accusing eyes on him as she grated: "Always heard... you were a crooked... bastard... you won’t... get away... with this..."

"Oh, but he will. We will," The Boss corrected her victim mildly as she stepped forward to take a look through the camcorder’s viewfinder. "You can take my word for it, we’ve been at this a long time. Warden Jackson, if you wouldn’t mind taking out that syringe, please."

Somehow, the abstract idea of humiliating Deena had seemed much less terrifying than the reality of having her bent over and exposed in his office, being instructed by a crimelord to inject her with drugs. On camera, no less, a measure clearly designed to further entrap him. This, this is heavy, he thought numbly... but even so, his cock was still engorged, still tenting his slacks as he came around the desk with the full syringe in hand.

As he did so, Beam produced a bandana from his pocket and promptly stuffed Ryder’s mouth full of her own wadded-up panties, tying the bandana around her head to gag her. "Mmmmmmppphhhh!" the woman squealed, trying to scream for help as Beam shifted his grip to let up some of the pressure on her neck... but her muffled cries would avail her nothing. "Hmmmmhmmmmmppphhhh!" she squealed again, more desperately, turning her head frantically to see what was going on behind her, her hands tugging desperately at the steel cuffs, her eyes wide now with terror, big tears starting to roll down her cheeks as the full horror of her predicament, the utter futility of her struggles and the cold mercilessness of her captors started to sink in.

"What’s inside that syringe," explained The Boss calmly, for all the world as though she were a professor in a lecture hall, "is called Alethex. It’s a compound we usually administer orally, letting it gradually take effect over a half hour to an hour with an initial large dose or set of small doses. That method has subtle advantages, but for your purposes you’ll be needing an approach with less finesse. We’re recommending mainline injection, directly into the buttock of the subject, putting the compound straight into the bloodstream and rendering its effects instantaneous."

Double J felt his hand shake slightly as he held the syringe. "And... what are the effects, Boss?"

"It varies depending on personality type," she said. "Generally speaking, you’ll find that people with outwardly mild-mannered personalities can become extremely dominant, violent and sadistic. If that happens with any of your female prisoners, don’t be afraid to make use of it; they’ll be very useful for keeping the others in line and pushing forward the new regime. For most of your female prisoner population, though, I would expect a result not unlike what I’m quite sure our little friend here is about to demonstrate."

"And what would that be, Boss?"

"The transformation of a veneer of confidence into absolute, ecstatic submission. The creation of a complete and utter slut who lives only to be humiliated, degraded, fucked, whipped, used and abused by any and all comers. Go on, inject her, see for yourself."

Hearing The Boss’ coldly lurid description of her impending fate, Deena began to kick and struggle with renewed desperation, her adrenaline surging. "Nnnnnnnnn!" she whimpered from behind her makeshift gag, eyes panicky on the dripping tip of the syringe as Jackson tentatively approach her with it. Her taut ass-flesh jiggling sexily, she writhed and waggled in a desperate attempt to present a harder target for the drug of doom destined for her veins. But it was no use; Beam simply kicked her legs apart and set a hand at the base of her spine, leaning in with a bit of his weight to hold her still, her struggles coming to nothing, the rookie reduced in mere minutes from a proud law enforcement officer to a shivering, despairing victim. "Nnnnnnhnnnnnnn!" she moaned pitifully again as Double J poised the syringe above her left ass-cheek.

Moment of truth, baby, he thought madly to himself, and with a sharp jabbing motion he brought the needle home in the flesh of her curvaceous ass, pressing down the plunger and sending the drug deep into the captive rookie’s bloodstream.

"MMMMMMmmmmmmHHHHMMMmmmmmmmpppphhh!" screamed Deena helplessly around her gag as the drug took effect, scrambling her mind in an instant and turning her whole world upside down. Double J watched in amazement as she writhed and tugged desperately against her bonds, watched as her pussy visibly juiced up with each useless tug, each futile jerk against the powerful gangster’s hands holding her down and digging cruelly into her taut young flesh, and within a minute her juices were starting to spatter down her thighs and her clit was visibly pulsating. "NNNNNNnnnnnnn-HHHNNNNNNnnnnnnnn!!" she screamed despairingly as her tight snatch started to seize up and then to squirt, once, twice, three times, four, then five, all over the office floor as a soul-searing climax convulsed the core of her being. "NNNNnnnHHHHNNnnnnn!" She was sobbing in abject fear and humiliation, her eyes looking back over her shoulder in wide bewilderment and shock, unable to understand what was happening to her, how any drug could upend a whole life of confidence and discipline and transform her pussy into a molten pool of orgasmic, wanton lust in mere seconds.

"And so you see," he heard The Boss’ calm voice cut into the blindingly erotic tableau of Deena’s first orgasmic submission. "Under the influence of Alethex, the mere fact of restraint, humiliation and defeat is a powerful erotic stimulus for our Officer Ryder. And the shame and terror make the pleasure even more intense. You’ll notice that the drug tends to make orgasms a little more dramatic than the norm, as well; we’re confident this will allow you to charge significantly more for sessions with your inmates once they’ve been treated. Mister Beam," she continued mildly, "best give young Officer Ryder here a thorough cavity search. Just to be on the safe side, before we start the real festivities."

Double J was in shock himself... but his cock had never been harder. It knew how to feel about this situation, even if the rest of him didn’t. Fucking extreme, he thought. Seriously fucking extreme. A little graft is one thing, but this shit can completely destroy people with one dose! It’s too much power... way too much power!

Aloud he asked: "Real festivities, Boss?"

"Yes, the gangbang." The word "gangbang" caused the helpless prisoner to arch and squeal again, drawing another sharp squirt out of her snatch. Beam gave her round ass a swat of admonishment, causing her to writhe sexily and let out a pathetic, defeated moan as he walked around behind her. "Once Mister Beam is through with the preliminaries, my men will get the ball rolling of course, but you and the rest of your senior staff will be the main event." The thug was reaching into his pocket now and producing a set of white surgical gloves, pulling them on with menacing latex snaps, his prisoner jolting and shivering in terror at the sounds.

Double J stopped himself from blankly repeating that last statement. Of course, her intention was clear; he and his whole senior staff would be put on film abusing Deena Ryder, ensuring their silent complicity with the new order of things at Fort West – and with them, the whole prison hierarchy. And anyone who declined... well, it was a sure bet The Boss had plans for dealing with them.

Numbly, he went to the phone, not needing instructions to dial up the prison intercom and issue an extraordinary general lockdown order, demanding all senior staff at the facility attend an immediate general meeting in the foyer of his office. There was a hollow, trapped feeling in his gut as he did it, but his cock was still hard at the spectacle of the rookie bound and writhing helplessly in front of him as a common thug humiliated her with the utmost intimacy. He walked almost robotically back around the desk to watch.

The cavity search was the ultimate expression of an officer’s power over the prisoners, the ultimate humiliation. In her short time at Fort West, Deena had revelled in it, had always seemed to look for excuses to subject the prisoners to cavity searches... hell, if anyone even just sassed her back while she was processing them, they could look forward to a long, thorough latex-gloved probing. But now, the tables were turned; now it was little Deena Ryder bent over, handcuffed and powerless, her ripe ass and sweet young pussy exposed and completely defenseless, her uniform shirt hanging tattered from her shoulders in humiliating reminder of her easily and quickly she’d fallen, and it was her holes that were to be violated by the crude fingers of a common thug!

The girl was craning desperately over her shoulder, her eyes wide in horrified disbelief and her breath coming in rapid animalistic snorts through her nose, her body rigid and shuddering with shameful, degrading sensation, no longer thinking to kick or struggle, her entire world reduced to the horrible fact of the thick, brutish finger relentlessly probing her virgin ass. Every time Beam’s finger shafted into her tight, inexperienced butt, her body jolted forward in a futile attempt to shrink away and a little whining, "Nnnnnnnnnn," came from behind her gag, and her pussy juices leaked in clear, glossy rivulets down her thighs. And each time she’d try to wriggle away, Beam would land a sharp spank on one of her ass-cheeks, causing her to jolt back again in pain and drive herself unwittingly back on his finger, her pussy pulsating and her juice running more freely with every hapless twitch of her young body.

"Now now, girly," said Beam warningly. "No getting off. If you cum, I’m gonna have put fingers in both your holes and really treat you like a slut."

"NNNNNnnnnHHHHnnnnn," moaned Deena miserably as the sadistically impossible instruction clearly kicked the heat in her snatch into overdrive. Another spank and her body jerked back extra hard against the invading, violating finger, and she tried again to twist away until another harder spank jerked her back, and again, and again, and again, harder, harder, harder, harder, Beam working his victim’s hapless, puppet-like twitching into a vicious rhythm of reaming and spanking clearly designed to drive her to a mind-wrecking multiple orgasm. "HHNNnnnHHHNNnnnHHHNNnnnHHHHNNNNnnn," she panted despairingly as the hot, searing lust in her young snatch started to boil over, her mind spinning. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Her beautiful ass writhed and wriggled and jiggled under Beam’s punishing hand and drove the ravishing finger deeper and deeper and deeper inside her, and finally, her body tensing and a helpless squeal coming from deep in her throat, the rookie cop lost it. "NNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnn-HHHHHHNNNNNNnnnnnHHHHNNNNNNNnnnnnHNNNNNnnnnnnn!!" she wailed brokenly as her snatch betrayed her, squirting copiously, her sweet juices splashing all over her tormentor as he continued to punish her ass with brutal swats and an unending fingerbang, drawing out the forced, tormenting pleasure as it seized and ravaged her soul over and over and over again, her full breasts heaving and her body losing itself in abused delight as one slutty, humiliating climax blended into another. "MMMMMMMmmm-mmmHHHMMMMMMMmmmmphhhh!"

Sobbing disconsolately as the climaxes finally ebbed, more humiliated than she’d probably ever dreamed was possible, Deena Ryder sank back down and laid her face on the desk, no doubt already praying for some kind of respite. Double J’s blood pounded in his temples as he watched the scene, his cock throbbing insistently. His resentment for the bound rookie cop had resurfaced, drowning his brief qualms and profoundly sweetening the sight of watching a brutal thug force her to give up a multiple orgasm to an anal finger-banging.

"Just the beginning," remarked The Boss in a cool, clinical voice behind him. "Watch her reaction to the next stage of treatment." The Warden nodded his head in agreement, wondering how she could be so unaffected by the blinding eroticism of Deena’s enforced submission. Maybe she’s really not human, he wondered briefly.

Deena, meanwhile, would get no respite. "I warned you what I’d have to do, girly," Beam said with quiet menace. "Now it’s a finger in each hole. No getting off this time or I’ll put it up to two fingers a hole." The girl’s body jerked as she moaned in resignation... and then Beam snapped his gloved fingers. "I’ve got an idea! Let’s make it fair. Maybe you need a distraction. Jerry," he gestured to the big black goon who had stood impassively watching everything. "Why don’t you come sit on the edge of the desk here and give little Deena something to do with her mouth?"

"Nnnnnngggghhh??!!" The crude suggestion, and the grinning approach of the massive black thug, brought Deena out of her passive swoon and the she watched in sudden terror as Jerry prepared to introduce her to a fresh humiliation. Beam jerked her body up to make way for his companion, who promptly grabbed hold of the fabric of her shirt and tore it completely off, tossing the shreds off into a corner before carefully unsnapping and removing her bra, moving with sadistic deliberation and making her whimper as her big, glistening tits heaved free, her rock-hard nipples exposed to the gloating eyes of her roomful of captors.

Unzipping his pants, Jerry leaned back against the desk and hauled out a foot-long black trouser snake, tumescent and veiny, the rookie cop’s eyes bugging out as she regarded it with undisguised terror. Almost gently, Jerry reached up and untied her gag, taking the wadded panties out of her mouth... and immediately she started begging.

"Look please don’t make me do this please you can let me go I won’t say anything I’ll do anything else you want I’ll get you any information you want just don’t MMMMMMPHHHHHH!" A mouthful of hard man-meat cut off her pitiful pleas as Jerry grabbed her by the hair and pushed her hot, wet mouth down on his massive cock. Sloppy, gulping sounds emerged from her throat as her spit started to run down his shaft and drip all over his balls; he wasn’t waiting to find out if she had any technique, opting to give her a coarse, vicious throat-fucking instead. "NNNNnnnnGLLCKKHHhhhh-GLLCKKHHHhhhGLLCKHHHhhhhh!" she gobbled and gagged despairingly around the hot, throbbing cockflesh, then jolted, "NNNNNNNGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" True to his word, Beam had shoved one thick finger up her pussy and another up her ass and was brutally reaming both holes as her hips jerked and twisted and writhed, unconsciously trying to maximize her pleasure. "NNNNNNNGHHHHHHHHNNNNNNGHHHHHHH!!"

The combined stimulation of being penetrated in every hole was far too much for the captive rookie; her eyes started to roll back in her head as she vigorously bobbed her mouth up and down on Jerry’s cock, moaning as she blew him loudly, sloppily, whorishly, giving in to the heated lust that swamped her abused young body as her mind fractured, and it wasn’t long before her pussy started to grip-squirt, grip-squirt, grip-squirt copiously and repeatedly around Beam’s finger once again. "NNNGGHHNNNnnnnHHHHNNNNnnnnghh!" she wailed despairingly as the ripping climax shredded her will and the thug punished her for yielding to the inevitable with a series of resoundingly brutal slaps on her wriggling hiney.

"I told you no getting off, girly," he said menacingly as he smacked the sweet little bitch-cop’s jiggling ass and drew out her mind-destroying orgasm with rapid, vicious thrusts of his fingers. "If all you wanna do is get off, I guess we’re gonna have to plant your wet little snatch on Jerry’s cock and whip you til you cum like the little slut fucking whore you are, is that what you want?"

The lurid mixture of threat and promise drove Deena straight over the edge again, her young pussy squirting even harder than before, "NNNNNNNNNN-NGGGGGGGHHHHHHHNGGGHHHHHHHNGHHHH!" There was a desperate pleading note in the bound slut’s cock-stifled squeals, like she was begging for mercy, but Beam was merciless, his slam-fucking fingers reaming every last possible twitch and squirt out of his victim as her ass turned bright red from the spanking, until finally the multiple orgasms gave out, leaving her reeling, thighs and buttocks quivering, a pool of her sticky nectar puddling between her legs.

Hard on the heels of her loud, long, messy climax, her hornily sucking mouth had worked its magic on her face-rapist. Jerry started fucking her throat rapidly, then tensed up and held her head down as far as it would on his mammoth cock, gasping, "I’m gonna fucking cum!" and his nuts started jumping as he forced her to miserably choke down his load, the girl’s throat desperately working as she swallowed and swallowed and swallowed with loud gulps, her tearful eyes bugging out in anguish as though she were being made to chug a gallon of rotten milk.

There was a chortling sound from behind Double J, and he turned to see The Boss grinning with detached, malevolent amusement at the scene. "Welcome, Officer Deena Ryder," she said laughingly, "to the first day of the rest of your life. Truly remarkable, isn’t it, Warden?"

The dead, creepy look in her eyes never wavered, and despite his arousal, the Warden felt his blood run cold again. "Sure is, Boss," he agreed hastily.

* * * * *

It wasn’t long after she set off into the tunnels that things began to go wrong.

Satin at first felt confident she knew the way, revelled in the feeling she’d had that night of deciphering a supposedly impossible maze... but then she remembered she’d been guided through large parts of it by Summerset O’Neale, who had memorized every published account of the tunnels and cobbled together a likely map by cross-referencing the results in her head. Shit, she thought at reaching the third fork in the narrow passageways, was this one left or right, now?

She lifted a hand to the earpiece, inquired hesitantly, "Summerset?"

Nothing. Just a burst of unintelligible static.

Huh, she thought. But then, Summerset isn’t in this dream. This isn’t real. This is just my head. So she’d set out again, confident that her intuition would supply her with the right route. If this was her "subconscious," there was no reason it shouldn’t.

She was impressed at how real everything felt, through. The cold brick, the water chilling her feet through her sneakers, the wafts of dank, reeking air blowing through the tunnels... it was all very vivid and authentic, almost disturbingly so. This Machine is really something, she thought, twisting left through the tunnels, then right, then left again, turning, twisting, turning, doubling back, right, then left, then right, then left... and coming up short.

Blank wall. Dead end.

Her ears pricked up at a distant noise that seemed to stutter to a halt just out of synch with her own footsteps. Not the scuttling of rats, more like... human feet? Could it be?

Was somebody down here with her?

She shrugged. Whoever or whatever it was, they surely couldn’t hurt her. Dr. Nielson would keep her safe. She turned back to retrace her steps... and got another surprise.

The tunnels I just came through... they’ve completely changed! She’d come to the dead end through a left turn out of a straight passageway, but now there were four separate tunnel forks facing her, and eerie popping and tapping sounds echoing through at least one of them, but it was hard to tell which one. I guess that’s my subconscious, opening some doors, the scantily-clad Foxx told herself uneasily, and she picked a tunnel at random and started down it, starting to feel a trace of unease.

Abruptly, her earpiece gabbled into staticky life without her prompting, making her nearly jump out of her skin. "Hello?" she said into it, puzzled. "Hello?" Still just unintelligible static... but no... not entirely unintelligible. There were words there, sibilant, distinct, impossible to make out. Maybe not even English. The sound was vaguely sinister, and abruptly she switched the earpiece off again. She quickened her pace. You’ve got this, girl, she said to herself. You’ve got this. Just find the bomb and it’s over.

She twisted and turned through another seemingly endless sequence of tunnels. More than once, she heard that telltale sound of footsteps, stopping almost but not quite when she stopped, evoking a vague sense of dread. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that the tunnels were getting narrower, more stifling with every turn. It wasn’t long before she was wandering completely aimlessly, the layout of the tunnels seeming to change randomly around her with every turn, and she started to feel a chill seeping into her skin.

This seems... this seems like it’s been a long time, she thought to herself after what felt like several hours. What did the Machine do to perceptions of time? Was there something wrong with it? Wandering around scared in the dark, well not scared exactly, okay, but wandering aimlessly around in the dark didn’t seem very therapeutic.

At one point she stopped and said experimentally, out loud to the darkness surrounding her, "Doctor Nielson? Are you there?"

She really jumped this time when her earpiece gabbled back into life, again apparently of its own will. The angry static hissed in her ear, and as she listened this time she could make out a furious snarling voice, and two- and three-word snatches of what it was saying. She deciphered a few of the phrases, and a cold lance of terror shot through her body; she momentarily forgot herself, squealing like a little girl as she threw the earpiece away from her...

And then she froze, hearing the sound of footsteps again.

This time, whoever it was was not trying to conceal themselves. She stood stock-still as she heard the slow, deliberate steps stop, move away for a moment, seeming to lapse into silence, and she was briefly alone with the earpiece in a pool of stagnant water by her feet, gabbling hatefully away to itself. And then suddenly, decisively, the steps were returning, much faster, whoever it was running in her direction with a powerful, menacing, martial stride.

Another bolt of pure fear shot through her as she took off at a dead run into the nearest tunnel, her body seized with an animal need to get away, her mind whirling with the words she’d heard from the demonic, snarling voice in her earpiece. "WHORE... SLUT... SLUTS GET FUCKED... COMING FOR YOU... WHORE... STUPID CUNT... DUMB BITCH..." Satin found herself running, frightened in a way she’d never experienced in real life even in its worst moments, the blank tunnels seeming to mock her as they wound and twisted randomly like the innards of a living, demonic thing.

"BITCH... BREAK YOU, BITCH... WHORE... TURN YOU INSIDE-OUT... FUCKSLUT... CUM BUCKET... MAKE YOU CHOKE..." The evil words hung in her mind, taunting her, terrifying her... and worse, paradoxically, they were igniting something inside her, distracting her. She realized as she ran that her pussy was shamefully hot and slippery and wet, her clit rubbing sensitively against the gusset of her tight hotpants, adding a weird charge to her dread and the dread in turn stoking the heat in her snatch. Oh God why am I so fucking WET not now NOT NOW, she babbled desperately to herself as she ran for her life.

The footsteps were rarely out of earshot now, the pursuit going on and on. Finally she gave up all pretense and starting shouting as she ran, "Dr. Nielson! Anybody! Somebody help me! I want out! Please stop this! PLEASE stop this! I don’t LIKE this anymore! Somebody PLEASE help me! PLEEEAASE! DOCTOR NIELSON! MAX! JOHNNY! SUMMER! KEIKO! ANYBODY! PLEASE HELP ME!" But every time she screamed, only the mocking echoes of the tunnels answered her, and it sapped her strength, and the booted feet of her pursuer seemed to get closer with every attempt, the reverberations of its footsteps in the dark pulsating precisely in time with her throbbing clit, with the humiliating juices dribbling and spurting down her thighs. Bewildered, disoriented, not knowing what else to do, she ran, and she ran, and she ran.

Finally she came to a particularly narrow tunnel, her tits heaving and jiggling and her body covered in a cold sweat, her skin tingling and her limbs feeling like lead after the nonstop headlong flight from her implacable pursuer, the nonstop stimulation of her wet pussy’s terror-fuelled lust. She could make out a different colour of light at the tunnel’s end, something brighter...

... and she could hear the tramping footsteps of her pursuer in the tunnel! Right behind her! Close enough to touch her!

Galvanized into a desperate burst of speed, she shot forward, not daring to look back as whoever, whatever it was reached for her in the dark. She could feel something leathery brush the small of her back, sending chills coursing through her body and a hot gush of sweet juice spurting from her tight slit, soiling her little hotpants again as she plunged onward... and then something clawlike hooked into the back of her bra, snagging her, and something else had hooked into the seat of her hotpants... she was caught!

She struggled and writhed in unthinking terror, desperate to get away, and the pressure from her bra was sending a powerful tingling simulation through her tits, her clit was rubbing more intensely than ever against the tight fabric at her crotch, her pussy juices were running freely as she could feel, with horror, the thing slowly pulling her back toward it, inch by scrabbling inch, and she could smell its musky stench in her nostrils! Something smooth and leathery ran teasingly across the lower curve of one half-bared ass-cheek as she jolted and squealed in unwanted arousal, and then without warning something smacked hard against her desperately writhing ass! "Mommeeee!" she squealed, all pride fleeing as she felt another smack on her ass, and another, and another, and another, the humiliating spanks echoing in the tunnel’s confines, sending thunderbolts of sensation through her body, her juices starting to squirt, her clit throbbing harder and harder as she struggled vainly... and she realized with horror that her body was seizing up...

... oh God...

She was CUMMING! "AHHHHHHHHHAAAHHHHHH!" she screamed aloud in bewilderment as her pussy overloaded with stimulation, convulsing and exploding messily, her juices squirting, squirting everywhere as stars burst in front of her eyes and she writhed helplessly in abandon, and as the horrible leathery thing landed another smack on her ass she was pushed over the edge again! "HHHHAHHHHHAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" she twisted and spasmed and spurted helplessly, her hands fluttering desperately, trying to deny what was happening, her mind whirling...

... and then she heard tearing! The fabric of her clothing was starting to rip! I can get free I’ve GOT to get free, she thought desperately, and fighting through the hot, wet waves of horrifying orgasmic sensation, she reached down and ripped at her sports bra, jolting forward as the fabric ripped away and her tits sprang free, frantically reaching down to rip at her hotpants once, then twice, and she was free and stumbling out naked and shuddering from the crushing confines of the tunnel and into a lit room!

She tumbled on her ass and thought she heard unearthly, mocking laughter behind her, and she looked back at the tunnel in terror, her glistening pussy letting out a last involuntary orgasmic spurt as she waited for the horror to come through... but the tunnel was gone!

For a long moment, she just lay there, letting the waves of relief and terror and confusion and shame and horrid pleasure chase each other through her naked, disoriented body and thrill through her taut flesh.

Eventually, shuddering in the aftermath of her vivid near-capture, her humiliating orgasmic response to the abuse of her ripe ass, Satin hugged her arms weakly around her and stood up to take a nervous look at her surroundings. She was in a large brick chamber with a vaulted ceiling, lit all around with candles, and with a machine the size of a photocopier sitting in the middle. No apparent entrances or exits. There was a huge, weird mural on one wall, a crude chalk drawing of a woman with shackles at her ankles and wrists, knees and elbows and around her forehead, her legs splayed to bare her vulnerable holes, ready for use and abuse, big phallic objects hovering around her pussy and ass as if getting ready to fuck them mercilessly... elemental terror and arousal came churning powerfully back into Satin’s hot snatch as she looked at the figure, it looked like a crude approximation of her, and she bit her lip and turned away, breathing heavily, trying to steady herself, as she looked at the machine in the middle of the room.

It was displaying a ticking countdown, counting down from sixty minutes, and for the first time in ages she felt a brief shaft of relief. It’s the bomb! she thought, her eyes almost tearing up in gratitude. Thank God! Thank you Jesus! Thank you Max! All I’ve gotta do is disarm it and this’ll all be over! She took a deep breath, and half-despairingly she realized her pussy was still dripping, the image of the crude mural assaulting her mind’s eye, the ghost of a monstrous touch still thrilling her sensitive flesh and sending spasms through the hot, bubbling pool of lust at her core. But she had to focus. Focus! She wouldn’t be made to cum again, wouldn’t be diverted from her task. This was all a test, and she had to pass it, she had to be ready for the next level, to be the best Foxx she could be.

She hugged her arms closer around her tits for a moment, then scolded herself sternly. Stop hunching around like Quasimoto already! You got away from that thing, whatever fucking kind of Freud-monster it was, now start acting like a Foxx! And with that, Satin Rayne stood tall again in all her proud, gloriously naked Black Bombshell glory, and stepped toward the bomb. Now this, you know how to do, girl.

But the bomb, too, wasn’t like she remembered. Or maybe her mind was just distracted, unfocused, frayed by everything that had happened.

As she opened the killer mechanism up she found herself looking at it blankly, its glowing innards Greek to her, as if everything she’d learned had fled. Or as if her dream bomb, if this really was a dream, were completely different from the real thing, as though it has actually been built by an alien. Or a demon. She fought a rising sense of panic and despair as she studied it, feeling like a student who’d turned up to a final exam without attending a single class... and before a few minutes ticked by, she came to realize, to top it all off, that her bladder was disconcertingly, distractingly full.

Shitshitshit, she thought to herself, but kept trying to focus, willing there to be a way to figure out the puzzle. This was a psychological puzzle, she realized, not a demolitions puzzle, she couldn’t expect it to work like a real bomb. She puzzled at it, chewing her lip, her lower body gyrating as she tried to suppress the urge in her bladder, clenching her knees together, then switching tactics and bracing on the machine with her legs spread apart, trying to simply ignore the pressure. Her brain was scattering, unable to even begin to find the threads of a solution; the intensity of what she’d just experienced wouldn’t leave her so easily, most of her brain and body were still shiveringly wondering where that horrible thing from the tunnels was.

It can’t get in here, focus! Focus! she admonished herself. If you want to get away from it you’ve got to solve this thing, you’ve got to figure out how it works! So... how the fuck does it work? She fought back another burst of frustration by telling herself: Calm down, girl, focus. Just focus. You’ve got this. You are a strong, confident—

She went suddenly rigid as she heard a hard, booted footfall directly behind her.

As stark terror blanked out almost all conscious thought from her mind, the voluptuous, naked heroine desperately willed her body to choose fight over flight, to spin and strike whatever was behind her. But the prior shocks must have affected her: the awful dread of the endless morphing tunnels and the demonic presence within them, the shameful knowledge that she’d been forced to cum against her will, the vulnerable nudity that had been thrust upon her in this nightmare alien environment, the utter bewilderment and confusion and disorientation of her situation, the final panicked frustration of the bomb itself... it all conspired against her.

And so her body didn’t move, or do anything at all. Except to eject an arcing stream of hot, fragrant piss, reeking of fear, out of her pussy to hiss and drip and puddle around her sneakers.

Her ears burned hot in humiliation as the piss streamed out of her for a solid ten seconds; while it happened her mind seized, unable to deal with the inescapable fact that she was immobilized by her own terror, invitingly naked, her delicious round ass thrust out and her luscious legs spread wide, openly pissing herself in front of an enemy. As the last trickles added themselves to the noisome puddle at her feet, she wondered abstractly if it was physically possible to die of shame.

For a long, long moment the chamber was still, and desperately she began to wonder if maybe she’d imagined the sound, or maybe it would turn out to be something benign. Maybe I just overreacted, thought one of the stuttering fragments of her brain.

But it wasn’t going to be that easy.

The laughter started behind her, echoing mockingly off the walls, her ears burning even harder and tears starting to stream down her cheeks as it grew louder, and louder, and louder. It was fiendish, unearthly laughter, the laughter of a horrible thing that wasn’t going to spare her, that nobody was going to save her from. And as the horrid sound reveberated through the room, shaking her to her very core, she realized that the shameful liquid heat was rising in her snatch again, her clit pulsating, her body throbbing with unwanted desire as the paralyzing fear shafted into her innards like an icy phallus.

NonononoNONONO, her mind gabbled as she felt an inhuman, leathery grip on her upper arms, a powerful, crushing viselike grip, and she screwed her eyes tightly shut in desperation as she was spun around forcefully and lifted off her feet, a foot in the air.

* AN UNUSUAL GREETING, WHORE. * the thing said in an unearthly, grating voice. * BUT I LIKE IT. IT SHOWS A GOOD INSTINCT FOR YOUR PROPER PLACE. NOW, LOOK AT ME. *

Satin mewled pitifully in her throat as she shook her head helplessly, her juices dripping even more copiously as the creature’s awful voice rattled her body. Then she heard herself whine as the demonic grip on her arms tightened unbearably.

* I SAID: LOOK. AT. ME. *

Unable to take the pain any longer, she opened her eyes... and gasped in horror.

What stood in front of her was human up to the waist, the legs and feet of a truly massive man clad in black leather boots and pants a chaps, like a biker might wear, the buckle on its belt a grinning malevolent face with a protruding tongue. But above that... it really was a demon, or perhaps a horrible beast from some unnamed, perverted dimension of the human soul. It had a coarse, leathery black hide¸ like a gorilla, and its torso bulged massively, cartoonishly, with a complicated musculature supporting four clawed arms, two of which gripped her arms, the other two of which were fluttering their unnatural appendages in arabesques around her body, as if undecided about which part to abuse first. Above all this was an unnaturally long neck supporting a huge, elongated skull. The front of that skull was adorned with a dead, white, grinning human face... disoncerting and false, not unlike the Chinese human-faced fish she’d once seen on the Discovery channel. The thing had to be at least nine feet tall, cloaked in a powerful, heady cloud of reeking musk.

NO this isn’t real this isn’t real this isn’t real, thought the terrified Foxx desperately as the creature’s head craned in closer, but her quivering flesh and her pumping blood and her pulsating pussy said otherwise. Held immobilized, helpless as a kitten, Satin could feel the creature’s third and fourth hands starting to playfully stroke across her skin, dancing along her inner thighs, tweaking the sensitive nubs of her naked, heaving tits, insouciantly flicking her clit and making her jolt and whine pitifully. She shuddered helplessly, disbelievingly feeling her snatch still getting wetter as the hideous thing molested her at its whim.

* DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM? * asked the creature.

She shook her head miserably.

* I AM THE GRINNING MAN. I AM THE GOD OF ALL WHORES, ALL SLUTS, ALL WOMEN BORN TO SPREAD THEIR LEGS AND SERVE. I AM YOUR GOD. FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, I AM YOUR ONLY GOD. *

The thing’s mouth didn’t move when it spoke. Satin cowered in its grip as a long, unearthly tongue snaked out of its maw and rasped wetly along the side of her face, coating her liberally in foul, stinking spittle as its second pair of hands grew more insistent, coming up to cup and then maul and mash her sensitive breasts, making her gasp: "AHHHHHHH!" And as she gasped, the horrid demonic tongue invaded her mouth, forcing its way wetly down her throat. "MMMMMMHMMMMPHHHH!"

Her back arched as her hopeless situation and the loathsome invasion of her mouth and the relentless play on her tits stoked the slippery heat in her wanton pussy. Instinctively, she felt her legs rise and spread wide, unable to stop herself from offering her sopping wet, excruciatingly vulnerable fuckhole to the foul, reeking thing that called itself the Grinning Man, that called itself her God, her belly fluttering in need and terror as her juices dripped, dripped, dripped down from her cunt into her tight asshole, sliding in droplets to mix with the puddle of piss on the floor beneath her.

One of the creature’s hands slid down from her heaving breasts to stroke her clit, gently and first and then more insistently, showing surprising dexterity as it brought her in moments to a shuddering, spurting climax, "MMMMHHMMMMHMMMMMMPHHH!" Her mewls came helplessly around the demon’s tongue as her body writhed, abandoning itself to the lustful sensations overtaking it, and she knew that there could be no more running, that she could never have escaped this, that she was trapped in this God’s terrible grip and would be used precisely as it willed.

The creature’s long tongue finally pulled out of her mouth, leaving her gasping for air as it slavered, serpentine, down across her tingling breasts, tracing elaborate circles on her sensitive tits and making her gasp again, her body wriggling erotically. The hands that pinned her arms at her sides kept their viselike grip unbroken, but the second pair had driven down, one of them cupping and splaying her ample ass-cheeks with its unnatural fingers, the other busy at the creature’s crotch, opening a belt buckle and then a zipper. Gasping and moaning from the exquisite sensations tormenting her tits, Satin looked down at the creature’s crotch to see her fate... and her pussy pulsed and juiced as her heart almost stopped in terror.

The cock rearing up from the vile creature’s crotch was fourteen inches long, massively thick, studded with intricate patterns of knobs and whorls. It was a massive, bitch-taming cock to give a Succubus pause – not man-meat, truly, but Hell-meat of the first order.

"Oh no," the trapped Foxx found herself saying in a little-girl voice. "I couldn’t take that. Please... please don’t make me take it..."

The Grinning Man’s mocking laughter echoed around her once again, making her body shudder in fear as its second pair of arms came up to hold her legs immutably in their wide-splayed position, the demonic cock rearing up to press against her nether lips as her juices ran copiously out to lubricate the head. And slowly, implacably, inch by punishing, ravishing, slut-breaking inch, it pushed into her.

"AWWWWWWWWWWWWWHAWWWWWWWWWWWW!!" she squealed as she took the Grinning Man’s cock, as the whorls and ridges stimulated nerve centres in her sloppy, slutty little fuckhole that she’d never known existed, her head spinning and her mind breaking as she started to cum by the time it was eight inches in, her body bucking, her hips twisting and circling, her pussy gripping and squirting and milking the demonic member. "AWWWWWWWWWFUUUUUCCKKKKYYYYEEEAHHHHH! PLEASE DON’T STOP DON’T STOP OH FUCK I’M CUMMMINNNGG!!!" Her juices ran down the pitch-black shaft, squirted again and again around its girth as her eyes rolled back in her head, her snatch stretched out impossibly, her cunt wonderfully full to bursting... and then the cock pushed in another inch and she was cumming on it again, again, AGAIN. "AWWWWWWWWGAWWWWWDDDDDD AWWWWWHAWWW!"

The orgasms blended one into the other, all sense of time fleeing, the captured slut of a heroine coming damn near to forgetting her own name as the ravaging domination of the creature’s foul cockmeat made her into a mewling, begging bitch. Finally, just as she felt sure it would split her completely in half, she felt the demon’s hot balls nestling against the tight, lubricated star of her asshole... and she realized it was all the way in...

... and with a stab of cold terror and hotter lust, that that was just the first penetration.

The creature’s unnatural laughter echoed around her again as it started pumping her up and down on the cock, the broken bitch squealing in orgasmic bliss and defeat and despair as each trip up and down the demon dick brought another mind-wracking, will-shattering, ego-ruining climax. "UGGGGHHHH UGGGHHHHHHH UUUUGHHHHH UUUUUGHHHHHH!" she squealed as the Grinning Man mastered and dominated her utterly, reaming her harder and harder as her fractured consciousness started to drift into a semi-swoon, the increasing pace of its thrusts turning into sweet, horrific agony as it wrecked her tight little snatch over and over again.

Finally the creature’s pace quicked, its balls tightening... and it unleashed a massive, scalding torrent of demon seed deep inside its heroine fuck-victim, the vile liquid overflowing and bursting around its plunging cock, Satin wriggling to another messy climax as she took it helplessly, nearly passing out. "AAAAUUUUHAAAAUUUUUGHHHHHHHH!"

As the Foxx slowly came back to her senses, her body gave another vulnerable jolt and shudder of terror as she realized the Grinning Man was still there, not a dream at all, and its cock was still hard inside her, not slackening one iota. She whimpered as the creature’s tongue came back down to claim her mouth in other vile, sloppy, rotten-tasting kiss.

* DID YOU THINK I WAS DONE WITH YOU, WHORE? * it chortled darkly. * WE ARE JUST AT THE BEGINNING. *

And just before its supernatural cock began to vibrate inside her and her eyes rolled back in her head, Satin caught a glimpse of the crudely-splayed chalk-rendered girl on the wall. Yes, I do look just like her, she thought randomly before another crushing succession of forced multiple orgasms swept all thinking from her mind.

* * * * *

It was lucky for Max that the Goblin was profoundly vain about his abilities. And it’ll be lucky for the Foxxes, too, eventually, Max thought to himself as we watched the Hound’s subliminal domination of Satin Rayne on two different monitors. He had, rather unsubtly, practically dared the Goblin into hacking the graphical data from the NOSE in addition to the camera feed. The geek had been initially reluctant, but a few repetitions of the taunt, "What’re you, a fucking Hobbit?" had pushed him over the edge.

What he saw was even more deeply impressive and frightening than the procedure he’d undergone, a procedure he now understood was the barest minimum of the Hound’s capabilities. The man’s a virtuoso, he thought with awe, counting himself fortunate that he’d been spared the most intricate of the NOSE’s capabilities.

With the two feeds to compare, he could see that what the Hound was doing was a subtle blend of art and science, using suggestion and patterns of mild electrode jolts to guide and enhance and authenticate sensations and memories supplied by the subject’s subconscious. The private horror movie he’d conceived for Rayne had drawn on her past experiences and then tweaked and scrambled them for effect, warping her perception of time, making the work of a few minutes seem in her subjective consciousness to stretch out for countless hours, the electrodes subtly nudging her reactions in the direction of fear and helplessness at every turn. And he improvised astonishingly well, recovering quickly when his subject nearly pissed all over him (necessitating a pause in the program and a quick cleanup – lucky thing, those hardwood floors). Moreover, Max guessed the Grinning Man hadn’t been his idea at all, that it had surfaced from the swamp of Rayne’s own subconscious fetishes at the last second and he’d worked it in, discarding his previously-planned antagonist.

He used direct stimulus, too. While the Foxx was under, the legs of the NOSE chair had risen and spread, splaying her ass and glistening cunt open to his ministrations, and he was working a small, ordinary personal massager into Rayne’s jolting, orgasmic body as he talked into a microphone, his ordinary tones being transformed into the phantasm’s supernatural voice, the voice of Satin Rayne’s bitch-taming demon-god. The electrodes could magnify sensations in truly extraordinary ways, it seemed; in Rayne’s mind, that ordinary little vibrator had been transfigured into the Grinning Man’s enormous rape engine, the ultimate Satanic baby-maker. The demon had just spent several minutes taunting the Black Bombshell as it ass-raped her with that devastating cock, driving her near the point of insanity and stretching her out marvellously... but when Rayne woke up, she wouldn’t find any signficant changes, or feel anything except what the Hound told her to feel.

Now he was into the meat of it, the woman’s subconscious so stripped down and exposed and vulnerable that she’d be profoundly receptive to long-lasting suggestion, something deeper than mere hypnosis, instructions almost as fundamental as autonomic instinct or procedural memory.

On the NOSE monitor, Max could see Satin Rayne kneeling and trembling in front of her demon-deity, having just been forced to lick and suck the juices of her ass and cunt off its unnatural member and swallow nearly a pint of its hellish spew before the rest hosed down her face and tits. * NOW, WHORE, HEAR MY WILL, * the creature was intoning, and on the camera feed from the office Max could see the Hound working quickly from a script he’d jotted down for this moment over the course of the session. * FROM NOW ON, YOUR DREAMS BELONG TO ME. EVERY TIME YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES TO SLEEP, YOU WILL BE STALKED AND RAPED AND ABUSED BY YOUR GOD, AS MANY TIMES AS I SEE FIT TO DO SO. YOU WILL ALWAYS FLEE IN FEAR, IN ORDER THAT I BE PROVIDED WITH SPORT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, WHORE? *

"Yes, my Lord," sniffled the Foxx meekly on the NOSE feed, and Max watched her lips move vaguely on the camera feed from the office.

* YOU WILL REMEMBER NOTHING OF ME DURING WAKING HOURS. YOUR WAKING HOURS WILL BE FILLED WITH PEACE AND CONTENTMENT. YOU WILL BE FOCUSED, STRONG AND BRAVE, A FOXX AMONG FOXXES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? *

"Yes, my Lord," in a tone of pathetic gratitude. "Thank you, my Lord!"

* EXCEPT WHEN YOU ENCOUNTER ONE WHO SAYS TO YOU THESE WORDS: "I AM THE PROJECTOR OF THE PLANETARIUM." ON HEARING THESE WORDS YOU WILL REMEMBER ALL MY NIGHTLY VISITS, AND YOU WILL ECSTATICALLY AND IMMEDIATELY SERVE THOSE WHO SAY THEM OR YOU WILL SUFFER MY WRATH. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, WHORE? *

* EVEN IF IT MEANS GIVING OF YOUR BODY, YOUR HOLES, YOUR FLESH, YOUR SOUL, YOUR MORALS AND YOUR VERY LIFE, YOU WILL OBEY? EVEN IF IT MEANS BETRAYING THOSE YOU HOLD DEAREST, YOU WILL OBEY? *

He could see the Hound grimacing as he read some of this last-minute dialogue, but it certainly seemed to fit whatever it was that Satin expected from the Grinning Man. I wonder where the heck that thing came from? he thought wonderingly. Who knew Satin was that kinky? The Foxxes keep on surprising even me.

As the Hound went on, instructing the hapless Foxx on how she would wake up from the session and what innocuous things she would think had happened, Max leaned back in his chair. The Goblin leaned over, an orange globule in his grubby fingers: "Cheezo?"

Max smiled and shook his head. "Thanks anyway. Man, that’s some impressive work you guys did with that device."

"Of course it is," the Goblin snorted, popping the Cheezo in his mouth and chewing noisily, talking as he did so. "Fucking thing woulda never worked without me anyhow. Not that I get any fucking credit."

"Oh, you get credit from me, trust me on that one. I can tell you there’s about a dozen different agencies that’d love a crack at that thing."

"I don’t doubt it." A sour note crept into the Goblin’s voice. Lone Gunman type, Max realized. Selling his work to the Man wouldn’t appeal to him.

Siouxsie’s gambit with the Hound was ingenious, Max mused, a very subtle leveraging of the submissive tendencies exposed by the Alethex. It would keep the Foxxes intact on the surface as tools while she needed them, while giving them deep conditioning to make them utterly submissive to Syndicate agents at any time of her choosing. A conditioning so deep and profound that even if Max tamed separately them himself later, he wouldn’t come close to touching it.

At least, that was the plan, he thought. But you underestimate Max Power, O Red Queen. Now there was just the little matter of making sure that he had continued access to these feeds... and that he could conceal that access from Siouxsie Sexcrime. Good thing he was having a conversation with a brilliant but easily-led digital wizard.

"Say," he turned to the Goblin casually. "You know the girls living on the Estate here? Any of them ever come visit you?"

The repulsive nerd’s eyes boggled as he scratched a pockmark on his jaw. "No..." he said slowly. "Not really..."

"Not much of a reward for all this work you do. Tell you what, I’ve got an idea if you’re up to it..."

* * * * *

Deena Ryder had started living up to her last name in just the way that the thug, Mister Beam, had promised, her dripping twat forced onto Jerry’s huge black dick after she’d barely had time to recover her senses from her last round of orgasms. The girl hadn’t needed to be told to start pumping herself frantically up and down the hard shaft, her tight little fuckhole slopping and squelching wetly as she did it, the newly-born fuckslut clearly starting to endure waves of hot orgasmic sensation within a few thrusts... but it didn’t save her. Beam had taken off his belt and whipped her with it anyway, forcing extra-desperate writhing and wriggling fuck-motions out of the bitch as red weals criss-crossed her punished ass, bringing extra-abundant squirts of orgasmic juice out of her ravished cunt, imparting new notes of pleading and despair to her broken squeals as Jerry forced his fuck-victim to suck on his tongue while she rode him.

It was the start of the promised gangbang. It hadn’t taken long for the captured cop’s gushing, multiply-orgasmic twat to bring Jerry off inside her, but the goon had staying power and had somehow gone on pumping her up and down his pole even after she’d milked yet another hot load of spunk out of his balls. Frustrated, his fellow thugs had finally simply lined up to take her in the ass, or to climb up high on the desk and choke off her mewling and begging with mouthfuls of man-meat. It wasn’t long before Deena had three cocks spurting inside her instead of just one, her every hole stretched wide and ravaged, the bitch swooning as climax after hard climax tamed her over and over and over again.

Double J hadn’t lasted as long as any of The Boss’ enormous mutant human tanks, but when he finally took his turn, the divine feeling of Deena Ryder’s wet mouth closing over his hard tool, the look of absolute surrender and docility in her eyes as they met his and she’d resignedly started bobbing her head up and down and running her tongue along the underside of his shaft, the jerking of her exhausted body as she took Head Guard Karl Jablonsky and the Director of Human Resources in her well-stretched ass and pussy... he knew for a fact that these would be among the most potent erotic memories of his life until the day he died.

He had to thank The Boss for that much, at least.

The Syndicate’s leader had stayed in the room, casually and clinically observant, for every minute of the several hours it took for Deena Ryder’s breaking-by-gangbang to run its course. The longer she stayed, the more unsettling her cool, detachedly sardonic demeanor had become, and especially after he’d had his own tour of the rookie sex slave’s fuckholes and found his release, Warden Jackson had found the pit of dread in his stomach growing, his mind wandering to where all this was leading.

He wasn’t entirely stupid. To meet the new revenue targets, even with what he had to admit was the pharmaceutical miracle of Alethex, would require far more than just pimping out a couple dozen choice inmates in the conjugal visit trailers. He would have to turn virtually the entire prison into a full-time orgy, and sell admission to a much wider client base than he’d ever dealt with before. No matter much how much he and his senior staff leaned on everyone inside the walls to stay in line, there was just no way to keep a lid on something like that for any significant length of time. A month, maybe two months, tops, and the game would be up.

She’s not offering me a "second chance," he’d realized as he watched a trio of senior guards triple-teaming Ryder, two of them shoving their cocks in her ass at the same time and managing to bring a new kind of shrill, humilliated squeal out of her throat. And she’s not stupid enough to think that what she’s proposing can last for a year. She’s squeezing me for short-term cash because she knows I have no choice but to get it for her...

Was the Syndicate maybe planning a move out of Island City? There was no way of knowing. Speculative possibilities chased each other around inside Jackson’s skull for another three hours after that, until finally the senior staff had had their fun and Deena Ryder lay passed out on the floor of his office, virtually every inch of her naked body soaked with sweat and cum.

As Syndicate goons wearing gloves gingerly picked up the rookie and carried her out of the room, and took down the camera and tripod, The Boss finally turned to him. She held her hand out in friendly fashion, as if he’d just finished selling her a nice tupperware set, and after a surreal moment he shook it, surprised at the strength of her cool grip.

"It will be nice doing business with you again, Warden Jackson."

He nodded numbly. "So, what happens to Officer Ryder, Boss?"

Her mouth quirked in amusement. "Haven’t had your fill yet? Not to worry, Warden Jackson. She’ll continue working here. As a guard in name only, of course, she’s only of any real use to you now as the office slut. You might want to consider letting the prison populace know about her new status as well, especially after you’ve given them their Alethex treatments. The dominants will definitely have some fun with her."

"I’ll look into it. That’s all for her, then?"

"Not exactly." She pulled out a cigar, the first one she’d lit since the early minutes of their meeting, and snipped its end off efficiently. "I think I’ll have her work weekends for us as well, maybe moonlight a few nights a week. She could be profitable."

Hearing Ryder’s fate so casually pronounced, even Double J couldn’t help but feel a stab of sympathy for her. Humiliating her once was one thing... but they were talking about turning every single day of her life into a living sexual hell. Even he couldn’t wish that fate on the girl. Not that I have a choice.

"Well, thanks for visiting, Boss," he said. "And thanks for giving us the opportunity to help you again.""

"Don’t mention it, Warden." As she turned to leave, he fought down a surge of relief; he knew instinctively that there had to be one last catch. Sure enough, she stopped in the doorway as though something had just now occurred to her. "Oh, forgive me, Warden, there is one other thing I’d forgotten to discuss with you."

"No problem, Boss. What is it?" He kept his voice carefully neutral.

"Remind me of the name of that reservoir near here, the..."

"The Shari Choe?"

She snapped her fingers affirmatively. "That’s the one. Now, rumour has it you have a cousin in Public Works who runs that facility. Is that true?"

The Warden’s mind raced. Where is she going with this? "Didn’t know you knew my cousin, Boss. Yes, that’s true."

"Good, good," she said sunnily, and then favoured him with the most human-looking smile he’d yet seen her display. "I wonder if you wouldn’t mind doing me a favour..."