A door opens in the little room next door and a woman enters, in a gray jumpsuit.  She holds up a card to the window, indicating that this is “Trial Seven.”  I notice there is a taser holstered at her waist.  She has long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and she is young, maybe twenty-one, twenty- two.  Her wholesome looks remind me of a cheerleader or long distance runner.

Two men have also come into the room, wearing identical, gray one-piece coveralls.  They are all business and have the stoic expressions of lion tamers.  They move at once to the chair to free the man.  They take the tape off his lips first.  He commences to growling and gurgling.  His eyes are wild and frightening.  The woman takes out her tazer and moves into a crouching stance.  They are taking the tape off his ankles now.  The prisoner starts kicking and thrashing.  It appears he will go berserk.  Sure enough, he is out of the chair as soon as they undo the second wrist.  Like some kind of possessed demon, frothing at the mouth, he runs straight at the plexi-glass.  The impact of his body makes a loud whoomping sound.  It seems to amaze him that the sound is all the results of his efforts, and he backs up and tries it again.

The second time he lets out a groan.  Staggering back, he notices, for the first time, the pretty young woman in the jumpsuit.

“Notice,” says the crouching blonde, her attractive voice carrying across the intercom to our side, “the subject’s current state of agitation.  At this frequency, he will be unable to resist attacking.”

I have no idea what she means by ‘frequency’, but sure enough he lunges the moment he sees her.  The woman is well prepared.  One touch of the tazer to his forehead and the poor bastard is down on the floor whimpering.

“Now,” says the girl with satisfaction, retrieving an electronic box with a series of buttons from one of the two men, “observe what happens when we change the control frequency.”

The woman manipulates a dial on the device, setting off an orange light at the top.  At once the man sits up, eyes wide, utterly docile.  He has a faraway look, like he’s been hypnotized.

“We’ve grasped this much of their technology,” explains the blonde, concentrating on punching the tiny colored buttons in some sort of sequence.  “Obviously there is more, much more…”

I watch in wonder as the man crawls to her and puts himself at her feet on his belly.  He is sniffing at her boot like a dog and now he begins to lick at it.     

“What the hell is this?” I whisper fiercely.

Milstrom elbows me.  “Just listen.  And observe.”

The blonde has pulled out an antenna on the box.  She continues to fidget with the box till the man is on his feet, standing straight and looking about himself in puzzlement in a way that seems—to my utter astonishment—completely normal.

“What is your name?”  The blonde asks.

“Richard,” he tells her.  “Richard Winslow.  But what am I doing—?”

She cuts him off, pushing another button that makes him fall like a domino.

“Erica, you seem to have overcome some of the earlier obstacles,” the dark- haired woman comments via the intercom.  “This new one was deciphered much quicker.  Do you think you’ll get their system licked anytime soon?

“No,” the blonde addresses the window—which on her side is just a mirror—“we haven’t even scratched the surface.  “That’s the point—whatever we are dealing with it is years ahead of our research.  Maybe decades.”

“What about the weapon capability?  How does this one compare to the others?”

She points to her own forehead.  “This one’s the worst yet.  A microchip disrupter has been implanted right here.  We can’t begin to guess till we take it out.  But the initial readings show it has a hundred mega-port charge.”

“The equivalent force of a medium sized hydrogen bomb,” supplies the woman with the black hair.

I whistle, drawing a corrective glare from Milstrom.

“You are right to react that way,” approves the dark eyed woman of my remark.  “Given that we are finding units like this all over the city.”

“Units?” I balk at the word.   

We watch as the blonde ‘resuscitates’ the collapsed subject.  A new button is pushed and the man enters a new kind of frenzy, tearing at his boxer shorts.  The material shreds in his hand revealing a throbbing, beet red erection of substantial proportions.  The two male assistants appear to know what to expect.  A rubber sex doll is thrown on the floor, a pink plastic cutie with life-like hair and rubber implants like melons.

“Fuck,” says the blonde to the subject, pronouncing the word not as a curse but a command.

At once the man falls on the doll, stuffing himself into her lifeless, waiting hole.  Like a piston, he goes at her, so fast that were it a real girl, she would suffer whiplash.

“Stop,” the blonde tells him, inducing him to roll off onto his back, his chest heaving from the effort.

“Fuck,” she repeats, and again he goes into the doll.

“Ejaculate.”

The man begins to shudder, giving clear indication that he has obeyed.

“Yes,” the dark eyed woman concludes as soon as the exercise is completed.  “Units.”

I tug at my shirt collar, trying to keep my cool.  I had nearly gone over the edge with the subject, I was so turned on.  Whatever it was that had been done to him and by whom, there was no doubting it was sexy as hell, at least to the controller and the on-lookers.

“You,” the dark-eyed woman addresses me.  “Come with me.”

Milstrom makes no effort to rise; apparently I’m going to fly solo on this mission.  I follow the click of heels and sway of ass down the hall.  She shakes like she doesn’t give a fuck who’s looking—or better still like she dares any man to do anything about it.

I’m more than a little uneasy, and more than a little jazzed when she leads me into another small interview room and closes the door.  There is a table and two chairs, along with a large mirror.  Another two sided one, perhaps?  If so, then who if anyone would be watching us?

“Do you think I’m a lesbian?” she asks me right off the bat, reaching behind her neck to undo the string of pearls that is such a sharp contrast to the punk hairdo.

The motion makes her bosom lift under the jacket.  I’m sure now there’s at least a 42-cup under that confining blouse.  “I wouldn’t want to delve into anybody’s personal life,” I say diplomatically.  “I’m a terrible judge of things like that, anyhow.”

“How about now?” she hooks her heel onto the side of one of the chairs, pulling the tight skirt up her left thigh.  “Does this make it easier…to judge?”

‘This’ was the top of her sexy, black stocking, attached to garters.  Higher up, as she traces her long, blood red nails, I could make out the shadow of her shaved, utterly naked pussy.

The glorious sight makes me weak in the knees.  Supposedly, it makes a man feel hard and strong to see a woman’s bared sex, but for me it connotes so much power, so much desire that it is all I can do to remain on my feet in the presence of one.  “I still wouldn’t feel qualified,” I demur.

She gives me a little wink.  “Don’t be modest,” she says, parting the red, juicy lips and stroking the protruding clit.  “I want your honest opinion—do you think I’m a dyke, or would I be a good, old fashioned, heterosexual lay?  A good quick fuck, say, over that table?”

My mouth goes dry.  The very idea of using this creature as a receptacle for casual sex, of taking her instead of being taken by her repulses me.     

“What’s the matter?” she coos.  “Cat got your tongue?”

I watch her swing her leg back to the floor, thinking as she saunters toward me that she is very like a cat; playful, curious, teasing, and yet very, very deadly.

“How long,” she asks, running her fingernails claw-like over my cheeks to my lips, “have you been a submissive?”

I accept the fingertips, sucking them gently.  How could she have gathered my secret so quickly?  My mouth is slack, the power is receding from my muscles; I am hers now and she knows it.  Though I am four inches taller, and far more muscular, it means nothing.  She is aggressor, I am prey.

“I- I - I don’t know,” I stall as her hand moves to my chest, undoing the buttons on my shirt. 

My head is swimming.  Where did it begin?  In childhood, playing games with the neighbor girls, wanting to be their ‘horsy’ every time, wanting them to ride me on my hands and knees, hard and long till I got blisters?  Or maybe it was my mother, the way she enjoyed punishing me with her hot, moist hand on my bare buttocks.

“I have to do this, Kurt,” she would explain as she laid me over her lap and pulled down my pants.  “On account of your daddy’s being gone and me having to fill in for him.”

Or maybe it was Bonnie Sue, the girl who bossed me around in junior high and made me carry her books and do her homework.  She would wait for me at the door, to take my lunch money and any of my assignments she might need for herself.

In college there was Lisa, the blonde cheerleader goddess who selected me out of hundreds of other jocks for the distinctly dubious pleasure of being her boyfriend.  More than once did the tan, slinky beauty take her delight in humiliating me in front of as many witnesses as possible.  When I objected to Leon Jones’ putting his tongue down her throat at the big beach party, for example, she made me watch as he fucked her right there on the sand, while I stood there, holding her tiny little bikini for her.

Afterwards, while the whole fraternity cheered us on, I licked Lisa’s snatch clean, removing all of Leon’s sperm with my tongue.  I then received a dozen hard blows from a paddle-wielding Leon, helpless on all fours as I begged forgiveness.

Then there was Cindy, the stripper and Callie the model, both of whom put me through paces in my rookie year on the force.  But nothing compared with Monica.  Nothing.  The raven-haired judge with her eyes of fire got in me deep—in my mind, in my soul.  Everything before her was a game, a mere appetizer.

That night she’d tied me down in the motel to teach me my place was in many ways the night of my birth.  When she’d freed me and told me I was to serve, willingly, the three wrestlers with my mouth and ass, I had never been so terrified, so disgusted—and yet, at the same time, so deeply, profoundly alive, sexually speaking.

It was euphoric; almost a religious experience, crawling to them, floating outside of my body, watching, so very weak, and yet all along it was myself choosing to do this thing, to offer myself up for acts I’d never had any desire for in my wildest dreams.

“Warm me up, sweetheart,” had growled the first of the three, the hairless steroid-pumped one, a grip of steel at the back of my neck, forcing my mouth onto his cock. 

Swollen man meat stuffed my mouth to the back of my throat.  Focusing solely on breathing through my nose, I fought desperately against the reflex to gag.  In my current position, it was all I could do to keep from fainting.  But I knew this was only the beginning.  Behind me the pony-tailed man was grabbing my hips and positioning himself.  He maneuvered me so that I was on my feet, bent at the waist so both men could use me at once.

“Don’t fight it,” warned Monica.  “Relax your ass cheeks.  It’s going to happen, because I want it to.  It’ll be this way from now on.  I own you; you eat and sleep and fuck when and how I tell you to.  Is that clear?”

I looked across at her, my eyes swollen with emotion.  It was true; I was doing this for her—taking a man in my mouth, and another in my ass. 

“Oh, yeah,” grunted the hairless one, his voice thick and guttural.  “Fuck, yeah.”

I thought he would come down my throat, but he wanted something else.  Pulling my neck back, he took aim, stroking the meat long and fast.  I took it between the eyes, offering no resistance.  The man’s sperm was warm and sticky and I could feel it on my cheeks and eyebrows.

“Leave it there,” he commanded, trading places with the third wrestler.

Then the new penis erupted into my anal cavity.  

“Take your time,” I heard Monica say as she put her street clothes back on and went to the door.  “I left your pay and a hefty bonus on the table.”

I felt so lost, knowing she wouldn’t use me herself.  That was the cruelest cut of all.  The rest, the round robin, sex, bondage and paddling was like a blur. 

The next thing I remembered, I was alone in the motel room, calling her.  In the dark, alone and naked, my body sore, my cavities filled with residue, my body sticky with emissions, I lifted the phone receiver with a trembling hand and dialed the number.  “Mistress,” I croaked as soon as the Judge answered.  “I need to see you.  When can I see you again?”

“You just don’t learn your lessons,” she said with deceptive sweetness.  “Do you?”

“No,” I agreed.   “Mistress.”

The spike-haired woman is working on my zipper now.  Without breaking eye contact, she manages to pull out my penis.  The flesh throbs maddeningly.  I am hot and hard and totally helpless.

“Men think having this makes them stronger, don’t they?” she challenges, squeezing my prick for emphasis.

“Y-yes,” I agree. 

“But it doesn’t, does it?”

I shake my head, having decided this would be a very poor time to start a debate.

“You know why it doesn’t make a man stronger?”

I don’t and prudently acknowledge the fact.

“Because,” she begins stroking me, emphasizing the long vein underneath.  “All a woman needs to do is get a hold of his cock and a man is in her total power.  Isn’t that so?”

I nod vigorously.   It is true.