Whose Body Is It, Anyway?             by: Brandy Dewinter

 

Chapter 8 - Games Theory

I never knew why the portly guard didn’t come back that night. In the absence of any real data, I credited it to some threat or another from Dela and thanked her in absentia. The next person I saw was yet another in Enforcer uniform who came and released me after a long, long night.

This Enforcer, who had a missing front tooth, supported me as he took the strap loose from the overhead chain. Apparently, most women who had been forced to stand so still for so long would have collapsed when the support was removed. I had actually passed a relatively peaceful night, though it was long and boring. Titania had supported me as required, which allowed me to dream for long enough to be mentally refreshed. I didn’t need any physical rest, of course. Gap, the Enforcer, was surprised when I just stood there as casually as possible with hobbled ankles and and hammerlocked arms.

"Are you okay?" he asked with genuine surprise if not much genuine concern.

I just nodded, angry enough not to trust any other response I might make. Gap took my bound arm and urged me once again into a rapid-fire tapping as we went toward yet another section of the prison. The walk was longer this time, though time didn’t seem to have much to anchor to after the long night. Eventually we reached an area of head-high cubicles. I was ushered into one, another bare stone-walled cell though this was only 4 feet on a side. Inside there was a foot-wide hole in the floor; a drain with no grate. There was also a metal collar welded to a six-foot chain that was stapled to the wall at shoulder height. Gap locked the collar about the neck of my abbreviated jumpsuit and only then removed the cuffs that had cramped my arms all night.

"Okay, you got 5 minutes before the water turns on, then 5 minutes of water. Five minutes after that, I open the door and take you out. No delays, no excuses."

He closed and locked a solid steel door behind himself, leaving me alone and with my arms free for the first time since I had crossed the arrival portal threshold.

*That’s a relief,* I thought as I stretched my arms. Actually, there weren’t any muscle aches or anything. Still, psychically, it felt good to be able to move again.

I looked around again and realized there was a mirror, probably a one-way mirror on the inside of the cell door. Under it was a dirty brush and a small scrap of cloth.

*Titania, dear friend, I don’t think I’ve ever been as glad to have you with me as right at this minute. I don’t see how they can expect anyone to get clean under these conditions.*

*I don’t think that they do expect you to get clean,* Titania observed. *It would appear that you are receiving some sort of special attention.*

*Oh, joy,* I flatly replied. *But I expect you’re right.*

More time must have been spent in my inspection than I thought, or perhaps someone just hoped to catch me squatting over the hole in the floor, but all of the sudden icy cold water sprayed into the room from overhead nozzles. Titania took advantage of the opportunity to void waste and rehydrate. She didn’t need the brush to return our hair to shiny luster, and her own skin refinements made makeup unnecessary. So it was a stunningly beautiful prisoner who patiently awaited Gap’s return when the door swung open.

His response, after an initial instant of shock, was surprising worry. He didn’t say anything, but you could see that something was bothering him.

*Tough,* I thought, unsympathetically.

*Well, I obviously have no sympathy for him,* Titania cautioned, *but it might be good to know what is bothering him.*

*What do you want to bet we find out?* I challenged, feeling better despite everything after my shower.

The first thing Gap did, which was unfortunately *not* a surprise, was clamp my arms back into the hammerlock cuffs. Only then did he release me from the neck chain and drag me into another too-fast walk to the first place I saw other female prisoners since my own captivity. It was apparently a feeding pen of some sort. Gap pushed me into the room and locked the door behind me, leaving me to figure out the protocol for myself.

All of the women were bound much as I was. Though no one had any sort of physical restriction to speech, none were talking. They did look apprehensively at the guards circling on an elevated walkway, but seemed to be trying to ignore each other. The perimeter of the room was lined with some sort of spigots, with the majority of the women lined up at one or another of them, apparently feeding.

I approached one of the spigots, observing what the women at the nearby ones were doing to get a flow of whatever started.

It was obscene.

The spigots were not - quite - explicit, but there was no doubt what they were supposed to represent. The women that were feeding would take the thick spout a distressingly long way into their mouth, and suck vigorously. Periodically, they would be "rewarded" with a thick gruel that spurted quickly enough to overflow their mouths and dribble down the front of whatever clothes they wore.

*I am NOT doing that!* I screeched in my mind.

*You should not have to,* Titania calmed me, or at least tried to. *At least, not for another day or two. You’re burning carbohydrates, though, so the time will come when you need some sort of nutrient. Still, for a day or two I can catabolize proteins instead.

*Do that!* I ordered, turning away in disgust.

I might not have had time to "feed" anyway, since not long after I was placed in the pen, another door opened and men with some sort of sticks or thin clubs came pushing among the women. When they reached the far side of the pen from the door they had used to enter, they turned and started herding the women out of the feeding area. It turned out their sticks were electrified, as a few reluctant women found out to their dismay. I was enough taller than the majority of the women to be able to see where we were headed. It was another enclosure, this one outside and surrounded by metal fencing instead of stone walls.

Once outside, we could see that we were at the open end of a large, U-shaped arena of some sort. There was a track running just inside the lowest seats, plus a variety of equipment in the center. The stands were full of yelling men, some accompanied by silent women.

Once all the prisoners were in their enclosure, a squawky loud-speaker squealed and then one of the bass voices preferred by the Machovians started making announcements.

"Welcome to today’s Games. It would appear that there are many women who have not paid proper attention to public decency standards. They have gratefully volunteered to provide public service today, for your enjoyment. Let’s give them an appropriate welcome."

Apparently, the Machovian definition of propriety consisted of catcalls, whistles, and rude gestures. After it had died down, the announcer continued.

"Our first event today is a simple sprint. Protectors Bellio and Sloak will compete with women under their responsibility. If there are others who would like to sponsor a racer, they may proceed to select their women at this time."

None of the women had said a word, yet, but Xora overheard one of the guard with the electric prods, who were still in the enclosure with the prisoners, talking to another.

"What’s the sponsor fee today?"

"More than you can afford," his colleague snorted.

"Well, you get it back if your girl wins."

"Yeah, right, like anyone is going to beat Bellio’s blonde in a footrace."

"Oh, I don’t know. That tall girl, the new one, with the long dark hair looks like she’s rarin’ to go."

I realized they were talking about me as I paced nervously back and forth near the fence. Remembering Dela’s warning not to get selected too soon, I faded back into the crowd of prisoners.

One woman finally spoke. She called out to one of the sponsors as he neared the pen, "Choose me, Lord, I can run like the wind."

That earned her a stab from a nearby electrified prod. A long one.

It left her shrieking in agony, writhing on the ground.

"I doubt it," sneered one of the sponsors. "At least, not now."

From time to time one of the sponsors would indicate a particular girl. The guards were lead her to the fence for a closer examination. I was holding back too far to hear, but it appeared that a few were asked questions, which they were free to answer. In a few minutes three girls had been chosen. The additional would-be sponsors must have decided to save their money.

The chosen girls were led away to a some sort of preparation area under the stands. Meanwhile, the announcer was offering the opportunity to select candidates for subsequent events, longer races at least for the moment.

By the time competitors had been selected for a couple of more events, the girls for the first race were ready. I could see the favorite, a long-legged blonde who strutted with easy confidence, even in the spike-heeled boots the competitors were apparently going to wear while running the race.

*There’s a good recipe for a broken ankle,* I mused.

Not a consideration that seems to bother the sponsors, noted Titania with disgust.

*Welcome to the big bad galaxy,* I thought to my companion. *Now you can see why we do at least a bit of research before letting worlds into the Federation.*

*Of course, and I know that the Machovians are not typical of the cultures of the galaxy, especially not of those within the Federation, but this is very, very bad.*

I agreed. *I know. As soon as we get out of custody, we’ll go immediately to the Federation consulate and let them know this place has a rotten core.*

Titania’s sharp agreement came clearly, even through the roar as the first race began. The big blonde took an early lead and never surrendered it, winning easily. The sponsored prisoners never had a chance, gasping for breath before the first turn in what I estimated to be a race of perhaps 200 yards in the archaic system used on Machovia.

*At least no one was hurt,* Titania observed.

*Probably won’t be long,* I countered, hoping that I was wrong.

I noticed that the women had been restricted by more than their heels in the race. Their arms were crossed behind their back, each hand able to touch the opposite elbow. That no doubt contributed to the difficulty the racers had in breathing. Still, it was a much easier position than the hammerlock that those in the pen wore. A condition to which the losers were returned soon after the conclusion of the race. The runners were thrown unceremoniously back into the pen, sobbing and gasping for breath. One collapsed, then struggled even to rise to a sitting position with her arms so useless behind her.

I walked over and quietly offered a gentle lift from the toe of my own spike-heeled boot. With that to lean against, the gasping girl was at least able to get to her hips, and then eventually to her knees. I could see her mouth open to form words of thanks, then close with an almost audible snap as her situation overcame her manners. She just nodded instead and I walked away.

The footraces had gotten progressively longer until I estimated they were perhaps a mile in length, though the distance was announced in some sort of archaic measurement called a "furlong". Whatever it was called, that distance would be a terrible trial for any woman wearing heels, let alone doing it at a running pace. Apparently it was as much of a trial as any would be expected to endure, for there were no Protector-entered women at that length. With that improvement in the odds, half a dozen sponsors entered prisoners, which sounded like a good deal for at least one of them.

Perhaps it would have been, most days. It appeared the grinding fatigue led to poor judgment though, because the girls began to lose their balance and fall as the race progressed. Even a sprained ankle would end their chances, and while the location where the first ones happened to fall was too great for clear observation, it appeared that a couple had suffered at least that great an injury. Four had in fact dropped out of the race when the real tragedy struck.

Two of the prisoner women were staying pretty close together, running a careful race where they were saving some sort of reserve for the end. As they were nearing the midpoint of the last lap, one of them, a thin dark-blonde woman who looked about thirty standard years old, started to accelerate. The other, a younger but somewhat heavier brunette picked up her own pace to match. They were rounding the last turn, a bit more than a hundred yards to go, when the blonde’s ankle broke with an audible snap. It collapsed under her, throwing her directly in front of the brunette, who tripped.

And destroyed her face.

With her arms bound helplessly behind her, she landed on her chin and slid, her chin dragging enough to pull her nose and forehead into the track. The material of the track was smooth enough to prevent irregularities from making running in heels totally impossible, but it was a lot harder than a woman’s chin and nose. I couldn’t be sure, but it appeared the force of impact might have even snapped the woman’s forehead into the ground hard enough to fracture her skull. If so, it would have been a mercy. She never stirred once her momentum was scrubbed off against the track material.

The blonde woman, wailing at the pain in her ankle and unable even to hold it, didn’t notice for a moment what had happened to her opponent. When the screams of the crowd stilled, though, she looked around and got a very close look at what had happened. At that, she started shrieking hysterically, way beyond personal pain and into terror. She tried to scramble away from the so-still brunette despite her bound arms and broken ankle, mindless of the additional damage she was doing to herself.

Attendants finally reached the scene, subduing the shrieking woman and examining the silent one. They actually stuck a wad of cloth in the screaming woman’s mouth, which acted as a very brutal sedative when she passed out as the restriction to her breathing deprived her hysteria of the oxygen it needed to sustain itself. The brunette never moved as they put her on a stretcher.

*We have got to do something about this place, more than just keeping them from the Federation,* I snarled.

Titania’s response was surprisingly calm. Yet, it had a stark certainty that reinforced my resolve even as it calmed it, *Yes, we will.*

*First, though, we have to get out of this place,* I observed. *I think it’s time to get noticed by a sponsor.*

*I can help with that,* Titania promised.

That had thankfully been the last footrace, but the next events were no better. Instead of running unencumbered, or at least, encumbered only by bound arms and high heels, the racers now were required to pull small carts in which their sponsors rode. Once again, the first races were relatively short, but the competitors for those had already been selected. I moved near the fence, standing tall and trying to resurrect the provocative stances of my Call Girl training. My heart wasn’t in it, but my body seemed to remember, and even with my hands held high on my back, I knew my hips and lips and smiling eyes were potent weapons.

Focusing on my own plans distracted me from the announcement that was going out over the loudspeaker, but apparently Titania had been listening.

*What’s a "Champion"?* she asked.

I thought that was a strange question for one who had absorbed as much language as my symbiont half, *Huh? Oh, you know. Somebody who’s won some sort of contest, I expect.*

*I know that!* Titania snorted. *But these people seem to use the term in a particular way. And why would participation by a champion cause Protector Bellio to enter his blonde in another event?*

*Huh, what did you say?*

*Pay attention. There’s something strange going on here.*

Just then the announcer began repeating the situation for the next race, apparently due to further changes.

"Correction. For the 6 furlong cart event, Protector Tayner has decided to withdraw. Competitors now include Protector Bellio, Champion Eryx, and such other sponsors as wish to enter. All sponsors please proceed immediately to select your women."

A tall, extremely fit man with a slender moustache was moving from the stands toward the pen. He was accompanied by some sort of entourage, and it was no great leap of insight to decide that this must be the champion that had been announced. There were a few would-be sponsors following him, but for some reason I felt that I needed to capture his attention.

I did. It was probably inevitable, given my height, my salon-fresh beauty, and my hypno-disk driven mannerisms. Still, the man seemed to focus in on me from fifty feet away. His gaze swept the crowd of women, as though the selection were still open, but they came back to me again and again. Each time, he found my new green eyes focused on his, my own crimson lips curved in a smile that was both challenge and request. As he made his seemingly-casual way toward the gate to the holding pen, I sauntered with equal nonchalance, yet we kept pace together.

*This is the one!* Titania declared.

*Huh? What one? Don’t distract me!*

*This is the one we’ll use to see what sex is like from the female side.*

*What?!* I gasped. From the outside, though it just looked like my eyes momentarily widened from their already-huge depth. It caused a reflexive smile in the champion’s eyes as well.

Before I could decide what to do about Titania’s confident declaration, the champion was motioning one of the guards to usher me forward. His first words were to some sort of attendant, and I heard the words, "outlander, Federation". His eyes kept smiling easily, but his interest was obviously increasing.

Finally, he spoke directly to me, "I’ve never had a Federation woman before."

"Then you’ve never had a *woman* before," I claimed in that deep, rich contralto.

A guard moved forward with his electrified wand, but the champion waved him back.

"You’re certainly proud, for a woman in chains."

"Oh, these old things? They’re just something I slipped on this morning."

"Can you run?" he asked, returning to the nominal topic that brought them in to contact.

"For the right reason, I can do *lots* of things," I promised, tones straight out of the hypnodisk adding chords of additional promises to my basic words.

"I want to check her legs," the man declared. This hadn’t really been done with previous prisoners, but it was apparent that this champion got pretty much what he wanted.

I was escorted from the enclosure, my hips swaying with complex motions that had only a passing acquaintance with limitations of bones and muscles. A final sway that left my hips leaning precariously far toward my inspector and I stood with apparent indifference.

That lasted until his hand touched the smooth skin of my leg. Then I gasped, one that overcame even Titania’s corset effect, and felt a tingle in places I hadn’t even had just a few days before. The effect became even more incredibly intense as he slowly stroked the muscles pulled taut by the continuing requirements of balancing on my towering heels.

*What was that?* I demanded of my hidden partner.

*Just helping a little, like I said,* Titania smirked. *I have a good file on female responses via Bee and Tryx. I didn’t know they would be so much fun, though!*

*Fun?! Any more of that and I’ll pass out!*

*Oh, no you won’t partner,"* giggled Titania. *"I can fix that, too.*

Before I could say anything else, the champion sniffed the air as though catching an interesting scent.

"Yes, that’s me, too," Titania smirked before I could even comment.

"It would appear you appreciate a man’s touch," commented the champion.

"A *man’s* touch, yes," I purred.

"Can you win this race?" he asked.

My eyes were my answer, challenging him to find out, then my lips added their own invitation, with a silent "Try me" that was clear, yet voiceless. It looked more like a kiss than words, an effect not missed by either sender or receiver.

*Dammit, Titty, I feel like I’m pissing my pants!* I squawked.

*What did you call me?* Titania replied haughtily.

*I’ll call you any damn thing I please, if you don’t quit playing around with my hormones, or whatever it is you’re doing!*

*Hmmph!* Titania grumped, but I felt a little less intense stimulation. That loss was almost as bad as the presence had been, prompting me to shiver again.

"I’ll take this one," the champion finally announced his choice, though there had been no doubt since the first time our eyes had met.

 

(continued in part 9)

 

 

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© 1999 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.