Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Rough,
Desc: Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Billionaire Jeremy Hamilton has been convicted of a heinous crime and is slated to be mind wiped. Will his wife finally win their vicious feud?
Jeremy stared at the woman with the snarl on her face. Her blond hair was being flung around and her pointed finger cut the air in front of him. The cost of those manicured nails and pampered tresses was unbelievable. The cost of her makeup alone would probably bankrupt several neighborhoods of the working poor.
He couldn't move. The nerve block had paralyzed all of the muscles below his neck. Sitting before his wife and a number of strangers in a diaper should have been humiliating, but Jeremy decided that dignity was an overrated concept in the present circumstances.
He was thinking, Damn, that bitch can spend credits.
In just a few more minutes, Jeremy Hamilton would cease to be, by order of the court. His eyes were drooping tiredly. Maybe they had given him tranqs to slow him down.
The walls were an institutional grey, probably centimeter-thick plastick, one of his most popular products for home, business and government. It took a combination of malic acid and ultraviolet light to break them down. Malic acid could be easily derived from apples, which made plastick a highly desirable building material. It was recyclable. He believed in recycling, which is how he had made his fortune.
The woman was still yelling. Her expensive dress suit was restricting her movements which humored him.
That's the price that fashion inflicts on those who must wear buttercup yellow to the most private of occasions, Jeremy thought with dry humor. The color was grating on his nerves and had been for years. She knew it too, the bitch ... He made a half-hearted bet with himself that if she kept flapping her arms she would pop the top button on her blouse.
God, she has great tits, he thought. She had always had great tits. They weren't huge or anything of that nature. They were round and firm. Or at least they used to be. She'd had two kids. He wasn't quite sure if he was remembering recent or ancient memories. Her legs weren't bad either. He didn't look at them though. He couldn't because the restraining collar held his chin up. He liked the idea of keeping his chin up even though it was useless gesture.
Am I drooling? Jeremy asked himself.
The woman in front of him was his wife. She had thought that she could take all of his billions of credits for herself when he was zapped. At the moment he couldn't remember how he had managed to keep all but a mere twenty million out of her hands, but the fact made him proud. Jeremy was sure that it had been twenty million, wondering why that number was important. He hadn't left anything for their two brats either.
She wanted the rest of the money.
"Where is the money?" she must have been screaming at him.
He hoped that she wrenched her vocal chords and that her face froze in that particular panicked, vitriolic expression.
I die and you suffer, bitch, all the days of your life. All those billions are sitting somewhere and you will never touch them. I hope the thought eats a hole in your stomach, slowly, every day sapping all the joy out of your life. Die a little each day for me, you bitch, Jeremy thought, although when he tried to speak the words, all that came out of his mouth was an insignificant moan.
She was pleading with him. She had her eyebrows raised and a sad puppy look. Jeremy judged that clowns could not have given a better performance.
Suddenly he remembered. He had known that she was going to move against him for at least two years. He had matched her move for move even as he had managed his reclamation empire. Then she had pulled off a feat that he had not anticipated. Business, government corruption, blackmail: he knew how to deal with all of them. Power grabs and corporate takeovers were mundane transactions. He had planned for each of these possibilities.
Still, he had been paranoid enough to put a failsafe switch on his personal fortune. Each morning he had to re-enter a code on his failsafe program or all of his money would seemingly disappear into the void. Jeremy had been anticipating assassination. What a laugh.
Why did she still have twenty million? Jeremy asked himself again trying to remember. Oh. She brought that twenty million with her into the marriage. He had borrowed against it early on but had never spent it. How many times had he kicked himself for not spending it somewhere along the way? A man can be too frugal.
Never in a million years would he have guessed that she would sacrifice the kids to get his wealth. She said that he had raped his kids. The court had believed her and her manufactured evidence. Why wouldn't they believe their testimony when his children, ages thirteen and ten, believed? All of his allies had withdrawn from him. He had suddenly become an isolated and shunned man, not that it mattered because from the moment of his arrest he had never left incarceration.
His daughter said he fondled her when she sat on the stand in court. Annabella told the court that he made her suck his penis and then stuck it in her. She bawled as she described her rape at the hands of her father.
It was all a black fantasy; none of it was true. Jeremy was horrified and crushed as his little girl testified. She was living a manufactured trauma and Jeremy was watching her being violated by her mother's machinations. His little girl, his precious little angel believed her father was a monster.
His son's testimony was the same, only he was angry. His young hands were clenched in tight, white fists.
What kind of person concocts such a sick, malevolent fantasy and implants it in her own children? One who wears buttercup yellow dress suits, he thought, answering his own question.
Were his kids really that weak? Did he give birth to children without spines? They aren't that young that they couldn't fight back, Jeremy mused. They didn't fight. They didn't give a shit in the end. They're just like their mother — twisted, shallow, and greedy.
Annabella and Shea had better watch their backs because when the money runs low, their mother is going to cut them loose. Karma's a bitch.
Jeremy wanted to laugh at the pain in his heart, but there was no strength left. The betrayal was thorough and complete. His mind was reeling and he felt like his soul had already crumpled into dust.
The jury had found him guilty. No appeal. Maybe she had bought off the judge or corrupted the jury, but he was no longer in a position to run down that hypothesis.
They were going to wipe his mind.
Leandra was yelling again and flailing her arms at him. He watched one her bodyguards put his arm around her waist and pull her back. Jeremy smiled at her impotence. Necessity was going to force her to cut back on her lifestyle. She wouldn't be able to afford bodyguards for long.
So little money for you, he tried to sing. The majority of the world would be more than happy to have twenty million credits at their beck and call. Leandra wasn't a part of that overwhelming majority. He hadn't seen such greed in her when they had met in college or even when he had made his first millions. Her greed had exploded out of a darkness apparently buried deep within her that he hadn't seen before. But no matter. His billions were safe from her, even if they rotted in digital accounts in banks and brokerage houses until eternity. She had come so close and, yet, she was still so far.
She had won a pyrrhic victory.
Jeremy wondered what she was doing here? How did she get in? Punishment was immediate, or as immediate as possible given the prep time required. He had been sentenced yesterday and sent packing to the penitentiary hospital for wiping. So how had she come to be here? That was another mystery that he would never answer.
As his wheelchair was turned away from Leandra, Jeremy managed to squeeze out a slight chuckle. He hoped she would be afflicted with hemorrhoids and her hair fall out.
The wheelchair traveled a couple of doors down the hallway before turning into a utilitarian room. A large metal machine occupied one end. There was a space between two jutting panels big enough for the wheelchair. The machine was protected by thin sheets of clear plastick which made him feel perversely proud. An electrical hum echoed in the room.
They backed him into the machine and maneuvered the dome into place over his skull. He heard a faint hum and the world went black.
Manuel heard the word echo inside of his skull and he couldn't understand it. He stood up to stretch the kinks in his back. He looked up at the sky and was delighted to see that the sun had moved far to the west. His clothes stank from five days of chopping sugar cane.
Tonight was pay day. Manuel was looking forward to getting a pitcher of rum drink and a horny chick-chick for the weekend. He even looked forward to a hangover on Monday morning when he dragged his sagging butt back into the field, broke and tired.
When you were born in South America, you either went to school or you went to the fields. Manuel had no luck, no parents, no family, and no chance in life. He chopped sugar cane. He harvested squash and corn or tomatoes or coffee beans and whatever else the boss man told him to. He soaked his feet in salts as he sharpened his machete every night. The guys in his hut played cards for whatever meager items they had but Manuel didn't play. He didn't have a head for such things. Card games required him to remember far too much for too long. He couldn't concentrate like that.
One of the guys had tried to teach him how to play a solo game. He couldn't do it. At first they laughed at him and made jokes. Manuel didn't particularly like those times but he still worked every day and the boss man paid him every Friday, so it wasn't so bad. The jokes stopped, but sometimes he noticed that others would look at him and whisper to each other. He didn't know what it meant and didn't think to ask. The guy who had tried to teach him had moved on to a different harvest and Manuel hadn't seen him since then.
The boss man left him alone most of the time. A few of the others, they grumbled and complained. When they were loud enough, the boss man beat them with a big stick. If they fought back, he brought out his bullwhip. Manuel liked to watch the bullwhip. He loved the sound when the whip cracked. He loved to watch it fly. It looked like a black snake. When the whip flayed the skin and made blood fly in gobbets off a man's back, he would applaud and hoot.
Manuel suddenly didn't feel well. His head was starting to ache and his vision was a little blurry. He bent his knees and gathered up his last load of cane. He staggered to the truck and threw the armful into the back.
"Get in truck, Manuel. It's time to call it quits for the day," the boss man called. He was standing on top of the cab looking down on all of the laborers spread across the field.
"That's good, boss," Manuel said. "I don't feel so good. I'm going to sleep until we get back."
The boss man didn't answer because he had already turned his attention elsewhere.
The insects were fierce but Manuel had learned to ignore them a long time ago. He climbed into the truck and lay down on the cane. His makeshift bed wasn't very comfortable, but it was fine for the moment. He slept.
His fellows helped him out of the truck and over to the hut where he lived when they harvested sugar cane. Manuel felt a little better. Grabbing his other set of clothes, he hit the showers and washed a week's worth of filth from his body. He washed his dirty clothes and set them out to dry over the weekend. He stood in line for his pay and then stood in line again to board the bus that would take them to the town of Porangatu.
Manuel figured the town was pretty big; it had a bus station after all. He only knew two streets in the entire town. The first one had the bars and the whores. Once in a great while someone would tell him that he needed a new shirt or shoes. He could find them on the other street. He lived for the weekends in Porangatu.
During the bus ride over, Manuel's headache came back in force. After his nap on the truck he had felt better, even if his legs were a bit wobbly. Now he was not doing well again. His eyes were blurry and he could feel his stomach going topsy-turvy. His fingers were tingling.
He held on until they got to the town. Manuel pushed himself through the crowd to get off of the bus and ran behind the station. On his knees, he vomited up his evening meal and followed it with yellow bile. He even had a few heaves with nothing coming up. He thought that maybe he had eaten something bad earlier. It wouldn't be the first time, but no other time seemed quite like this. He shook his head to clear it and stood up again.
Manuel walked back to the main street, tucking his shirt back into his pants. Turning towards the bars and brothels, he wondered if he was going to able to drink. He thought he was doing better until he stumbled into the person in front of him. Manuel was embarrassed and immediately offered his apologies to the man. The guy was an understanding fellow and left with a friendly clap on Manuel's shoulder. Manuel leaned against the wall of a store and drew in deep breaths. He was scared.
His headache shifted from the front to a tight band of constriction around the back of his head. His blurriness eased even as his neck began to tighten and throb. Feeling like he had some control back, he started walking slowly, being careful to keep a couple of strides back from anyone in front of him. He passed his favorite bar. He passed the whorehouse next door. He kept walking until he came to a little inn that he had seen every weekend but never before entered. He went in and got the cheapest room they had. Stumbling into the room, Manuel let himself fall into the bed. He slept.
Manuel awoke utterly confused. He looked around the room but didn't recognize a thing. The air had a strong smell to it that he didn't recognize. Rising to a sitting position, he ran his fingers through his greasy hair. The window with the two faded curtains down each side caught his attention. He strode to the open window and stuck his head out to breathe. The smell was out there as well. The world was hot and humid with buzzing insects. The sun was bright in the sky, which was amazingly blue. He looked out and saw the jungle. He hadn't seen an Amazonian rainforest in a long, long time.
His hands felt a splinter in the wood pressing against his palm. He lifted his hands and stared at the calluses over his palms and fingers, surprised to find them on his hands. Confused and frightened, Manuel pulled his head back inside and slid down to his knees. He turned his back to the wall and sat facing the door. He stared at nothing for a long time. His stomach rumbled and but he couldn't move.
His name: he needed to know his name. Whoever the fuck Manuel was, it wasn't him. Manuel was a ghost, a fiction of some sort that was blocking the truth. Manuel was a paper manikin standing in front of him. In his mind he lifted his arms and shredded it. He pulled at the dummy but it resisted as if it wasn't paper, but plastick. Plastick is tough stuff which meant he had to use his nails. He tore and then he tore some more, making small tears in the material. He rested and tried again. Finally a corner gave and the manikin began to shred. The dummy lost its form and unraveled, like it was no longer plastick but string. The remnants fell to the floor and melted away in a puddle of apple juice.
He sat there awhile longer until it came to him. His name was ... Jeremy.