Stark: Just Another Day
In Hell
by Randalynn
"When you wake up from a nightmare
and it's worse when you're awake,
and there's no one you can turn to,
and there's nothing you can take.
(You gotta ask yourself)
Are you real or not? It's a fine line.
Are you ready or not for the light of day?
Are you real or not?
These are strange times
and I don't want to live this way."
-- Warren Zevon, "Real or Not?"
It's always
the same.
In the
instant just before I wake up, I smell the lavender. I am surrounded by
softness, slick silk caressing every inch of me. It feels warm, and safe, and
oh so wonderful. I just want to swim in it forever, and never come to back to
shore.
Then I
remember who I am. What I am. What I have become.
And the peace
is gone. I push it away as hard as I can, with every ounce of will I can
muster.
Because I am
Stark.
I don't want
to love the softness, and the smell. I don't want to feel warm and safe and oh
so wonderful. If I ever truly choose to swim in it, I will most certainly
drown.
Because they
made me love these things. They made me what I am. They stole the
man I was.
And they
left me
like this.
I open my
eyes and the reality hits me hard enough to make me wince. I stare into the
reflection in the full-length mirror mounted in the canopy above the
four-poster bed. I can't take the mirror down. They wanted me to see
myself this way, every morning when I woke. The tousled curly blonde hair
spilling over the pillows, the round full lips still half-smiling, framing
perfect white teeth, high cheekbones, dimpled chin. Arched brows that will
never need tweezers. Pale blue eyes framed by long lashes that will never need
mascara.
My eyes
travel down the length of the form outlined by the blue silk sheets. Breasts,
large and high and firm and oh so round, even when I'm lying down. Hard nipples
pushing up against the soft fabric. Chest tapering quickly past ribs to an
impossibly thin waist, then swelling to round full hips whose curves all seem
to point to the mound between my legs, surrounded by full sensual thighs.
The mound
where my penis used to be. Where my vagina is now.
Mine.
I shudder and
fight my way free of the soft sheets and sweet smell, just as I always do. I
need them to sleep at night
when I sleep at all. They made sure of
that. But of course getting free of the sheets makes it worse, because then
there's nothing at all hiding what I've become. Soft and pale, and so female I
ache just thinking about it.
I sit on the
edge of the bed, hang my head and take a few deep breaths, ignoring the mirror
on the canopy, and the one above the dresser. Ignoring the wide spread of my
hips, the softness of my well-rounded bottom pressing down into the softness of
the bed. My breasts quiver and bounce just a little with every breath, but
that's okay. They're my breasts, after all. Just because they don't belong
there, that's no reason to resent them.
Except I do.
Always.
Once again I
think about getting rid of them somehow, but the minute surgery pops into my
head I'm wracked with a nausea that makes me roll to my knees and gulp to avoid
vomiting.
They
won't let me fix me. Even though they're all dead, even though I killed them
all slowly and with great pleasure, the things they did to my mind remain. I can't
change me. I'm their masterpiece, after all. And if someone drugs me and tries
to change me in any way without my knowledge, I know I'll die when I wake up
from the surgery. I read the lab reports, all the files, when I first took over
their facilities. They put a self-termination trigger in there, somewhere, so I
couldn't even try to take control of my own body again.
I know
everything they did to me. All the little trigger and tricks. And I can't
change a thing.
Damn them.
When they
first changed me, they named me Bambi. They made me smile and eagerly embrace
my new name. And they laughed because they knew that, inside, the man who had
been Joseph Stark cringed and gibbered and went quietly mad, trapped in his own
flesh.
I'm so glad I
killed them. But sometimes, late at night, in the soft-skinned, sweet-smelling,
silk-wrapped prison of my own flesh, I wish they were still alive.
So I could
kill them all over again.
###
Nausea
dwindling, I rise to my feet and strut across the bedroom towards the bath. I
can't just walk anymore. My body and my mind work together to make sure every
move is a sexual invitation. I glide, I strut, I sway. My hips roll with a mind
of their own, calling to anything male in the vicinity. Screaming a message I
can never silence, because I'm not sending it. They are.
"Come
get me, stud," they beckon with a seductive swivel that promises the ride
of a lifetime. "I live to be fucked. I want to be fucked. By you. All the
time."
And part of
me does, too. I fight it, every minute of every day. I crave that release.
Sometimes I wake up shaking all over, empty, needing a man like a junkie needs
a fix. Toys don't do it. I can use them and bring myself to orgasm if I want,
but that won't stop the craving.
I need a man
in me, on me, over me. Or I'll go mad. But that's not the worst part.
It's not just
the sex. I can't just prowl and find a quick easy stud to lay me down and
scratch my itch. No, I have to
submit to them. My body and brain need to be
ordered. I go out and find some man, go back to his place and become his bitch.
I kneel, and do whatever he says, give him whatever pleasures he desires. And
it fills me with an awful pleasure that makes me faint with longing. Being
used, a plaything, a toy
it fills me with an unholy joy I cannot fight.
Then he fills
me, and I cum.
And I get up,
get dressed, and get out as quickly as I can, eyes down, running from my own
shame. Afraid of being someone's slave again, and liking it so much.
Until the
next time, when my body commands, and I must obey.
Once, I
accidentally stumbled onto a sadistic Dom while prowling for release. His idea
of pleasure was to deny me his cock, which unfortunately happened to be the key
to my freedom. When I knelt at his feet, he commanded me to be
his. Of
course, I could not refuse. They saw to that.
I became his
pet, naked and collared. I slept in a cage at the foot of the bed, eating
scraps from a bowl. Every day he would allow me to use the toilet, just once,
then made me kneel in the tub so he could bathe me like an animal. Every time
he allowed me to speak, I begged and pleaded for his cock between my legs.
Every time I begged, he made me take him in my mouth and suck him until he
came, then swallow the cum and thank him politely.
And the worst
part was, I enjoyed every minute of it. All the triggers the bitches placed in
me came into play, and I was in Paradise, living as some stranger's piece of
meat.
I was in
Heaven. I didn't want to leave. And it still sickens me today.
I was there
for four days. Then Jeff and the recovery team tracked me down. When they saw
me in the cage, they almost shot him. I told them no, and in a voice I had to
wrestle from deep inside me, fighting the submission all the way, I ordered
them to order HIM to fuck me.
It would have
been comical if I hadn't been so crazed. Five combat-trained shock troops in
black stealth suits, automatic weapons at the ready, surrounding the bed until
he gave me an orgasm. Until I had my release, in every sense of the word.
I didn't have
him killed. How could he know what they did to me?
But I did
think about it. A lot.
Worst of all,
I had to tell Jeff what happened. About my need. After he stood there with the
recovery team and watch me get fucked. When it was over, and I was free of the
compulsion, I cried. I couldn't stop crying. I would have thrown myself out a
window if the programming would have let me.
Jeff just
held me tight, and I let him. And that made me feel worse.
I really
didn't want him to know about this part of my life. What I had been forced to
become. It's hard enough between the two of us as it is, since he knew me back
when I was
what I used to be.
###
I enter the
bathroom and use the toilet. I've been this way so long, sitting to pee is just
what I do now. It's long since lost its power to remind me of what I lost.
Anyway, there's no need. Every time a man looks at me, I know what I am. And
every time I look at a man, my body lets me know I'm not the man I was. Of course,
when they retrained me, they made it impossible for me to think about peeing
any other way.
I wonder what
the hell I'll do if I ever go camping again?
I run a hot
bath and take a quick shower to wash my hair while the tub is filling. The skin
and hair care regimen they set up is so well established I could do it in my
sleep. I leave the shower and wrap my hair in a towel as I walk to the bath. I
sink in and let the heat and the smell bring back an echo of the pleasure I
felt right before waking. It makes me dizzy, sometimes, fighting what feels so
damned good.
But I can't
enjoy it. I mustn't enjoy it. Ever.
Because it's
not really me. It's them. They put all this stuff in my head. If I give in to
the things they decided they wanted me to enjoy, they win. Even though they're
dead.
Unfortunately,
they took all the joy away from everything I used to love. So nothing gives me
true pleasure anymore.
Well, almost
nothing.
###
I stay in the
bath as long as I can before the peace and contentment becomes too much for me
to fight. Then I rise quickly, wrapping a huge bath towel around my altered
form and leave the bathroom at a near run. I am ashamed of my own cowardice --
all I want to do is dive back under the water and feel something other than
despair.
I hate this.
I have to FIGHT my body for the right to be miserable.
I blow-dry my
hair back and it falls in place without a struggle. It's some kind of
well,
permanent permanent. All bouncy golden curls that tumble halfway down my back.
It can't be cut. I don't even think it grows.
It may not
even be hair.
I get
dressed, all frillies and flouncies, black thong panties and matching bra,
black half-slip and a short skirt with flirty ruffles, and a wrap-around blouse
with a plunging neckline, covered by a short jacket that matches the skirt.
Black stockings caress my legs, with their tops peeking out from under the
skirt. And the matching pumps with their four-inch heels make my hips scream
their siren's song ever louder.
"FUCK
me, baby! You know you want to!" I shudder.
No need for
make-up my skin is flawless, my lips unnaturally red, my lashes unnaturally
long. The thought of doing anything to change that makes me queasy again, and I
push it aside.
"Accessorize,
darling!" a female voice suddenly shouts in my head, followed by a vivid
memory of an electric shock. I scramble to add bracelets, necklaces, earrings,
a choker -- anything I can find to stop the voice, and the pain.
Then out the
door and down the halls of my not-so-new home, heels clicking, body swaying. As
I cat-walk through the mansion I earned with murderous zeal, others pass me and
nod respectfully. I nod back, and they go on their way. But those who were like
me, the unwilling playthings of those who came before, almost fall to their
knees as I pass.
I am their
savior, you see. The psychopathic saint. I sigh.
As I reach
the stairs to the first floor, I look in the mirror mounted on the wall. That
stupid cheerleader smile has pasted itself onto my face again, like it always
does when I'm not paying attention. When I'm thinking of something else.
Click, click,
click. Down the stairs I go, fingers trailing lightly on the railing. I reach
the first floor, and instead of turning towards the dining room where breakfast
is served, I hesitate, then turn left and head into the office wing.
Jeff sits at
his desk in the anteroom to my office. He's on the phone, dealing with
something, and I take a moment just to watch him. The Bambi part of my mind is
screaming "DO him! DO him! He is SO hot!" And the part of me that's
still Joe agrees he was always a magnet for the ladies. Joe used to be the
wingman, courting the girl friends of the women Jeff charmed, happy to be
second. What was Joe, buried deep inside, freely acknowledges that Jeff is, in
fact, a hottie, and always was. Major league stud, Bambi agrees.
What's worse
is that the bitch thing I've become agrees with both of them. I feel the lust
making my insides throb, my chest feels swollen and heavy, my lips part eagerly.
My panties are soaked, and not for the last time today, either.
But I can't
play with Jeff. Not ever. I can't let anything happen between us.
He's not my
secretary, or even my assistant. He's my XO. My executive officer.
And my best
friend.
"Hey,
Jo," he says, hanging up the phone. He's the only one who calls me that.
To everyone else, I'm just Stark. Even to the people I've taken home with me,
the ones like myself, the mangled and twisted remnants of men beaten into a new
shape in the iron forge of a woman's revenge. Even to those who love me as a
savior and as a friend, I am and always will be Stark.
But to Jeff,
I am Joe. Or Jo, now. I know he writes it without the "e" to remind
him that I'm not the man I was.
One look
could tell him that. But I'm pretty sure it's not my outside he needs to be
reminded about.
"Had
breakfast?" I ask him. The voice is sultry, temptation incarnate. He
doesn't acknowledge the sexual overtones. He knows it's just how I'm wired to
speak to any man if I'm not working actively to stop it.
"A while
back," he replies, rising anyway. "I can keep you company, though.
After all, you can never drink too much coffee."
I smiled.
Damn, I love this man.
"Why
don't you tell them to bring it to the table?" I struggle for
matter-of-fact instead of bitch in heat, and succeed. A minor victory.
"I'll be in shortly." There is an awkward pause. I want to ask, and
he knows I want to ask. So I do. "Is she here?"
Jeff looks
away, a tiny flicker but I catch it. He nods.
"In the
basement. The nursery." He grimaces and slips out towards the dining room,
so he cannot see the grin as it spreads across my face. Not just happy. Savage.
###
I know he
disapproves of my personal involvement in cases like these, but he's too much
of a friend to ever say so. And truthfully, I don't think he minds that much.
After all, he understands what I went through. He loved me, as a brother, long
before this all started.
He loved me
so much, he came to get me. Even though I told him not to.
I snuck onto
one of their computers and sent him an e-mail, because I knew Jeff would look
for me after I'd disappeared. I didn't want him to. Dont try to find me, I
said. It's too dangerous, I said. If they catch you and do to you what they've
done to me, it will kill me, I said. Please stay away.
He tracked me
down anyway. Using the e-mail I sent to help him find me.
Men.
He found me
here, right after my killing spree was over. I was naked and bloody in the
mansion's great hall, a she-demon crouching like an animal, holding the
gardener's machete and a butcher's cleaver, surrounded by pieces of the bodies
of the inhuman monsters who did this to me. The other prisoners stayed away
during the slaughter, half cheering me on but still deathly afraid of what I
had become.
When he
walked in, I was cold as ice, frozen in place by the horrors I had committed,
but my eyes held a fire he'd never seen in any eyes before.
I dropped my
weapons and launched myself at him, and came this close to raping the best
friend I ever had. Or killing him. I was so out of my head, I don't know what
it was I wanted in that moment. Desire and the need for revenge threatened to
consume everything that was left of Joe Stark.
Jeff wouldn't
let it.
He looked
into my eyes and knew I was his friend. Naked and feminized, mad with hate and
fear and lust. But still, his friend.
He knocked me
cold as I flew towards him, with one single punch to the jaw. He tied me down
before I woke, and waited patiently beside the bed, caring for me for days. I
ranted, I raved, I cursed, and the whole story of what had happened, how I
became what I am now, just poured out. The months of surgery and torture, of
drugs and shocks. Of feeling my brain rewired and my body altered forever. My
first blow job. My first orgy. The time they made me walk through the red light
district and fuck everyone I met. I told him everything that had happened since
they snatched me off a Baltimore street corner while I was waiting for a bus.
Including the
moment when something inside just snapped, and I suddenly found myself thinking
seriously about killing all of them, slowly and painfully. It pushed the all
the programmed submissiveness aside, placed it in a box surrounded by high
walls of anger that pulsed red and white hot in the corner of my mind. I
watched and waited and plotted and schemed, quiet as a wolverine pretending to
be a mouse.
Then my
chance came. A gathering of the inner circle, from all over. All women. A
coming-out party. For me.
Bambi, their
newest living doll.
Sometimes, I
can still hear their screams. It makes me smile.
###
After I told
him everything, Jeff kept me tied to the bed until some semblance of sanity
came back to my eyes. Not the real thing -- just something like sanity.
Both he and I
knew I would never truly be sane again.
Still, he
couldn't blame me for what I had done, not really. And he couldn't leave me to
fend for myself. I was
damaged, possibly beyond repair.
So my cause
became his. He helped me find the billions these women had hidden away in banks
and investments all over the world -- the money that funded the evil that they
did because the very concept of men as men offended them. We found the money,
the property, the blackmail photos, the dirty little secrets they used to get
things done. And we created an organization to find others like them and stop
them, and help the men they had twisted if we could.
The only real
surprise I had was how much work we had to do. Who knew how many women out
there preyed on and betrayed the men who loved them?
I do. Now.
###
I walk down
the stairs to the basement, past the labs where they changed me, now staffed
with those like me who work for the cause. Past the rooms where I do my own
changing -- the bending and twisting of those I hunt.
The rooms
Jeff never enters. Ever.
And there she
is, right where Jeff said she'd be. In the oversized nursery, in an oversized
crib, surrounded by toys and stuffed animals.
When I enter,
Consuela nods a greeting as she fusses with the diapers and supplies at the
changing table. She was another of their victims, a Latina transformee with
long brown hair and huge brown eyes. Her blue jeans and sweatshirt say soccer
mom, but her size says something else. She is six-foot six inches tall and a
former body builder, so when they remade her, the bitches made her figure
proportionally large to compensate for her height -- wide round hips that roll
like a ship at sea when she walks, and massively oversized breasts she needs
all of her weight-trained muscles to carry.
A beautiful
giant.
They also
thought it would be amusing to make her always lactating, so her chest would
always be swollen and full of milk. I remember them leaving her naked in the
corner of the kitchen, her hands forced to hold up her heavy dripping breasts,
begging to be emptied by anyone around her. Some of the women would milk her
viciously, spraying her cream into their coffee cups, laughing while she cried.
She used to be always in pain, a source of endless amusement, but unable to
fight back.
Until my
murderous insanity saved her. Saved all the victims still in their hands. And
made them all insanely grateful.
To me.
Sometimes it
makes me uncomfortable. But sometimes, like now, it's good to be the king.
Or queen.
Consuela's
eyes flicker toward the crib, and her mouth forms a word.
"Mine?"
I nod back at
her, smiling. A slow smile grows on her face, matching my own.
"Thank
you," she whispers, and I give her shoulder a squeeze.
I walk over
to the side of the crib for a closer look, and the woman inside it turns to
face me. I can see the fear in her eyes, and I shiver all over.
"Hello,
Linda," I say softly, womanly concern dripping from each word. Her mouth
holds an oversized pacifier, and she sucks on it compulsively, unable to stop
for even an instant. Her eyes roll from the effort of trying to make her own
mouth do what she wants. So sweet.
Her hair is
cut short, in a little girl style. It is twisted into two pigtails on either
side of her head, held with place with pretty pink bows. She wears an adorable
pink baby doll nightie, with a ruffled plastic panty sticking out below hiding
an oversized cloth diaper. Tight thumbless mittens are locked onto her hands,
making them next to useless. Huge heavy white baby shoes hold down her feet
like blocks of wood, unyielding. Not that she'll ever need shoes again. The
drugs she's been given have weakened her, and ruined her sense of balance.
She'll never stand upright long enough to take a step again, let alone escape
and run.
I grin,
baring teeth.
"I think
you ought to know why you're here. Bobby died two weeks ago." Her eyes
flare. I nod. "You remember Bobby? Good. You should. After all, he loved
you enough to leave his family and friends and everything he knew behind, to
follow you to a new city and be your husband." I reach down and push an
errant hair off of her forehead. She flinches. "Of course, he didn't expect
you to drug him the night he arrived, and use more drugs, hypnosis, and
conditioning to turn him into a giant baby girl. Then you sold him to a pimp to
be rented out for sex parties."
She grows
very quiet. I don't.
"So you
got a new sports car and a few month's rent, and there's poor Bobby, riding
from state to state, wearing an oversized pink party dress, tied down in the
back of a van, lying in his own filth in a stinking diaper, force-fed baby
formula and crying, all the time. Poor Bobby. By the time we found him, he was
too sick to come back from what you did, but I was there with him when he died,
and he really needed to talk. He was hard to understand, since they'd pulled
out every tooth in his head to make blow jobs less dangerous for customers. But
I knew your betrayal still haunted him, months after the first time some creep
removed his diaper and raped him until he bled."
I look down
at her.
"Who
knows how many others you've done this to, before we found Bobby. Now there's a
scary thought."
Linda moans
behind the pacifier. She jerks her head at me, pleading for it to be removed. I
smile and shake my head.
"Oh no,
missy. The only time that binky's coming out of your mouth is when a breast or
a bottle goes in. I left your teeth alone, for now. But you won't even think of
biting the breast, or a bottle. You can't even imagine it, because we went into
your mind and made damned sure you couldn't. You can't even stop sucking on
that pacifier unless I tell you to." She moans again, and I pretend to relent.
"Sssssssh, baby. I can be a nice aunt to my new niece. Here, I'll let you
stop for a minute."
I say a word
she can't understand, a trigger she can never remember consciously, and the
pacifier falls out of her mouth. She immediately starts talking. Or tries to.
All that
comes out is a stream of baby talk.
I laugh, and
she stops, startled. And tries again. I laugh harder. She stops, and looks
scared. I breathe deep, and smile down at her.
"See,
baby? You don't need to talk. You just need to listen."
"I'm not
sure what I'm going to do with you yet. Maybe keep you like this for the rest
of your life. Imagine that. Twenty, thirty, forty years trapped in this room,
in diapers. A perpetual baby. No talking, no friendship, no love
no sex? No
solid food ever again. Just Consuela and others like her for company. People
who know what you did, and have absolutely no sympathy for you at all. Like
me." She starts shaking her head then, babbling louder.
"Or
maybe I'll give you all the playtime Bobby got and more. Maybe I'll make very
sure you stay alive and on the adult baby play circuit for a good long time.
Much longer than Bobby lasted, I assure you. I do shut down these people when I
find them, but I leave a few operating. Just so I have a place to send people
like yourself, you understand. After all, there seem to be so many like you,
it's downright scary." She starts moving her whole body, babbling louder.
I say another word and she calms immediately as all her muscles stopped
listening completely to her brain. I can hear her diaper filling, and see the
disgust in her eyes.
"Or
maybe I'll just give you to one rich sleaze as a baby playtoy, with the
understanding that he never abuse you enough to kill you. I'm still thinking it
over."
I lean over
the crib and stare into her eyes, the smell of her excrement rising to meet me.
"But one
thing is for sure. This is your life now. Whatever I choose for you.
Baby." I let her see a little of the madness slip into my eyes, and she
shakes with fear. "This is your hell. And I'm going to enjoy your stay
here for a very long time."
I straighten
up and nod to Consuela. She lifts her sweatshirt and unhooks one side of her
custom-made nursing bra. Linda gets to stew in her own mess for a while.
Consuela doesn't mind the stink, and her breasts are hurting too much to wait
anymore, anyway. She lifts Linda and carries her to the rocking chair by the
changing table, settling her down in her lap as she sits. I say another word,
and Linda's mouth begins rooting for something, anything to suck on. She
latches onto a waiting nipple so hard Consuela gasps, then smiles as the milk
begins to flow.
I walk over
to the rocking chair in the corner and sit gracefully -- the only way I can,
these days. I smile as Consuela whispers mocking endearments to her new
"baby," watching Linda swallow in spite of herself, and enjoy the
moment. Jeff will have to hold breakfast for a few minutes. This is too
precious to miss.
What was it
Milton had his Lucifer say? "It is better to rule in Hell than serve in
Heaven?"
Some days I
can't decide, but today ... maybe Lucifer had it right.
I see the
endless stream of tears falling from Linda's eyes, dripping onto Consuela's
arm, and I grin. Her time in Hell is just beginning, trapped in this small
corner of the Hell I rule. Her suffering is just a small repayment for the Hell
I was trapped in so long ago -- the one I can never leave, because I carry it
with me in this pretty flesh I wear.
Payback is a
bitch, I think with satisfaction. And now, so am I.
Because this
hate is all I have left
that's truly mine.
###
NOTE: This is sort of an experiment for me, a "first
person present tense" walk into the damaged mind of my new protagonist.
It's dark, but so is her outlook, and I look forward to hearing what others
think about walking a mile in Stark's heels. *hugs* Thanks for reading! --
Randalynn
since 1/25/06