Chapter 9: Mistress Minerva

When I’m put in a black babydoll nightgown, I think little of it. When a nurse comes in to brush my cum-sticky hair and help me wash out my mouth, I think little of that as well. But when two large guards, both wearing armored uniforms, carry in a velvet-lined box with a padlock on the outside lid, I scream.

It takes a third guard to get me inside. Two keep my arms from flailing in the air while the other contorts my legs to fit them inside the box’s plush interior. Tears pour down my cheeks as I plead through gargled screams not to go inside, but my cries fall on deaf ears. The guards angrily mutter to one another that I’ve been denied sedatives and brute force, so they have to get creative in order to ball me up tight enough to slam the lid shut over my head. I pound on my walls from the inside, kicking and screaming like my life depends on it, but the fight does me no good. The latch falls shut and the padlock clicks, sealing my fate. I’m draped in pure darkness, allowing nothing more than a mesh hold by my face for fresh air. Hopefully, that means I won’t be trapped that long. I shudder and cling to my arms.

The box is bigger than my old cage was, but it’s more constrictive. At least the cage was breezy, albeit a harsh prison of iron bars. My head pounds as I am pulled into the air. Two guards carry me through the screaming halls of the medical bay. I am greeted by the familiar noises of the elevator, then the shuttle station shortly after. Neither man speaks. They’re as stoic as they are strong. The only voices I hear comes from the various doctors, nurses, and shrieking subjects that surround me. Of course, that all comes to a stop when we get on our shuttle. The space is private and enclosed, giving the men a respite to leave me on the ground. I whimper as the vehicle stumbles to life. We’re rocketed toward an unknown destination, where the air is warm and smells of liquor.

Distant jazz music wafts in when I’m pulled out of the station. I don’t feel like I’m in the institute anymore. It’s like I’ve been transported to another world. A flicker of my past life appears on the backs of my eyelids. Studying the roaring 20s as a tween. Reading Great Gatsby. I liked the flapper gowns and the finger waves. But all that government prohibition stuff made me confused. I think I had a test on it in school. I think I failed it.

The box hits the ground, knocking me back into reality. A snicker rings out from nearby onlookers. There are wisps of voices all around me, but they’re hushed. I can’t make out what they’re saying through the sonnet of brass instruments and plucking strings.

The latch opens, and my sweat-glistened face is welcomed with a warm gust of cinnamon breath. The guards yank me to my feet and throw me onto a plush floor. The snickers continue. I look up and stifle a yelp.

I’m in the center of a large, yet cozy room. Red and black velvet curtains cover the walls, ceiling, and many canopy-covered coves that speckle the floor. The ground is as soft as puppy fur, despite the carnal sins being committed atop it. Several of these coves are inhabited by men and women; mostly pairs of two, but some hold as many as three, four, and even five. They lap decadent food off each other’s naked bodies. Men suckle women’s breasts like they’re babies. Women drink wine out of men’s open mouths. There is a radiant song of moans and cries all around me. The noises entrap me like a cyclone until I find myself on my feet with my hands over my ears.

There’s a couple staring at me through a thin black veil that hides their circular table. They’re the source of the snickers. The woman swirls a wine glass, her lips curled into a grin. There’s cum on her cheek and a man inside of her. She rides his cock backwards, maintaining eye contact with me while she teases her clit. The man chokes each time the woman’s plump ass slaps his stomach. He’s wearing a large ball gag and his hands are shackled to his neck. He cries out, and the woman rises. The cock that penetrated her swings to the side with twitching excitement, but it can’t explode. There’s a thick metal rod, the same size as a jumbo marker, that pokes out from his urethra. The woman winks at me as she yanks it out. The man screams, his body tensing, before his cock explodes with creamy white cum. There’s a snapdragon on his belly. The same flower that pup I saw the other day had.

“Want to clean him for me?” The woman asks. She beckons me closer, curling her lips until I recognize the devil on her face.

I shake my head and stumble back, nearly tripping into a table behind me. Another woman is splayed out across it like a starfish, her lips stained with wine. She bursts with laughter as her body violently shakes. Sitting at the table’s booth are two men; one stands, straddling the other. One man has his cock in the woman’s asshole while the other works his into her pussy. The human pretzel abomination before me bursts with shrieks as the three of them fall into tandem orgasms. I trip over my feet to get away before they explode.

Why am I here? What do these people want with me? I scan the coves for any hints as to what I am expected to do, but I find none. Everyone behind their curtains has a companion or two to play with. All except for one.

There’s a woman in the back, sipping on a large glass of red wine. I can’t see her face through the black veil, but I can tell she’s busty, and she has a head full of long, dark waves. I can also tell she’s staring at me. I bunch up the hem of my teeny-tiny dress and shuffle my bare feet forward. There’s a tether between us—a heavy red rope that tugs me along. The woman swirls her glass, keeping her eyes locked onto me. Her merlot-painted lips smile when I open the curtain. There’s chocolate-covered strawberries and a bullet vibrator on the table. The woman sets her glass down and folds her hands in her lap.

“Do you remember me?” She asks.

Of course I do. She’s the image of vintage beauty. Her perfect features, plump breasts, tiny waist, and transatlantic accent are too iconic to forget. I know her name is Minerva, but that’s not what I’m supposed to call her.