Andi’s Escape
When my ex-husband brings me back, I’m in a familiar situation. I’m in the basement, in a metal chair, naked, my feet shackled to the legs, my arms tethered to the armrests, my waist bound to the chair’s spine. My mouth is wrapped around a ball gag. And of course I’m in front of the enormous television screen. It’s longer than I am tall.
I’ve been brought back maybe fifteen times since my ex turned me into Candi. It bothers me a lot that I can’t recall exactly how many times. These are the only times when I’m alive, anymore. Not that it’s really a life. But these are the only times when I’m myself—when he brings me back to see what he’s done to me. And what he’s made me do.
I’m groggy. Although he uses a trigger phrase—that’s what he calls it, a “trigger phrase”—bringing me back isn’t like flipping a switch. It takes about 45 minutes, apparently. Candi shuts down. The jet fuel of endorphins and dopamine and adrenaline and that propels her sexual insanity drains off. She wanes; I wax; we pass each other in my mind and my biology. The subtler combinations of chemicals that sustain my personality fill my reservoir. Andi—that’s me—returns. To life. The only fragments of life I’m allowed, any more.
During the third waking, I asked why he kept bringing me back. If it was just to torture me with the videos. He said I had to come back every so often. If he kept Candi around full-time, this body’s brain would just burn out. He’d lose Candi, so the price of keeping Candi is bringing back Andi. Torturing me with the videos is just a bonus, he said. Just for fun.
From Candi to Andi. Cunt plus Andi equals Candi, he said. That fucker. Of all the fucking wounds my ex has inflicted, that’s the salt.
My vision clears. I’m looking at my midsection. Pubic hair in a strip—that’s not new—but now its princess pink. Toe- and fingernails, too. My ex knows I hate pink. I’m sure Candi loves it.
Other observations. My skin is flawlessly tanned. Even if it’s summer—and I have no idea what season it is—there’s no way this tan is natural. He must have Candi booth-tanning. I think of skin cancer, premature aging of the skin, wrinkles. If my ex has any brains at all, he’s protecting his investment by not overtanning me.
Her. Not me, her. I’m not her. We just share this body, that’s all.
What else do I see? I’m bigger. Not fat, just larger. More spread in the thighs, a bit of jiggle around the middle. Not surprising. He always said I was too skinny. He’s probably changed my diet. Easier to keep me on meat and carbs than my vegetarian diet. I wonder if he’s made Candi eat McDonalds. She’d probably love it. She loves all the bad things.
And of course my tits are larger, but that’s not just fat—that’s fakery. And it’s also not new, although every time I wake I’m just amazed. I discovered ten wakings ago that I’d gone from a B cup to a double-D. Big, soft tits onto my petite five-foot-three frame. When he woke me that time, my back muscles were sore, still straining to hold up these new jugs of mi—of hers. Hers, her jugs.
That’s what he calls them, her “jugs.” They’re called a lot of things. Men have so many words for breasts. And vaginas. And women. Especially women like Candi. The videos have taught me that.
I don’t see other changes, although I can only look down my front. Maybe the video will give me more information. It’s only through the videos that I know what Candi’s done. When Candi’s in charge, I’m just gone. When I wake, I don’t know what’s happened. I’m not even certain of how much time has passed. My body doesn’t look any older, just plumper. The last I knew, I was 23 years old. I might still be 23, or I might be 25—I really don’t know.
To my right is a groan. To my shock, I find another woman, maybe early 20s, nude and strapped into a chair just as I am. Her head hangs down, pale baby-blue hair obscuring her features. Blue toe- and fingernails, blue-dyed snatch. I’m Mrs. Pink and she’s Mrs. Blue. Or maybe Miss?
Who is she? Did my ex acquire another woman? Does she belong to someone else? What he did to me, he could do it to other people. Or maybe other people know how to do this, too?
New girl lifts her head. She’s also gagged, beads of drool stringing off her chin. Except for the blue, she looks normal: normal tits, normal thighs, normal everything else. Pale. She even has some cellulite. So she might really be new, a fresh capture. Or maybe whoever owns her wants to keep her natural. Although that seems unlikely. Natural doesn’t last long around here.
New girl looks around dazedly. She doesn’t see me yet. I wonder whether she’s been woken before. I hope so. If this is her first or second time waking, it’s gonna suck for both of us.
She tries to move her arms and legs—that’s a no-go, of course. Her breathing quickens, she struggles more. I’m out of luck. This is her first or second time waking, and it does, in fact, suck. She freaks out. She bounces on the metal seat like it’s a hot skillet, tries to push the chair backward to the floor.
It’s all useless. The straps are too strong, the chair is bolted to the floor. All she’s going to do is pull her muscles and abrade her skin beneath the straps, just like I did my first couple times. Only by my third awakening did I realize I was only hurting myself. I needed to start thinking my way out of this situation instead of struggling out of it. Somehow.
Still, I get it. I feel like she does. But I need to be smarter than that. Not just for me, now. For me and new girl, both.
Still weak from waking, new girl gives up the fight. Her head lolls to the left, and she regards me blearily. I try to convey some kind of reassurance with my eyes—
And now her expression is that of utter horror. As if she has seen a true devil. She screams and bounces and struggles. This time she doesn’t flail her head around, though. She won’t stop looking at me.
What is wrong with her? Why is she reacting this way to me? I’m no danger. I’m strapped in, just like her. And I don’t know her—
—oh. Oh, wait. Yes, I do know her. The blue hair and pubes threw me, and I’ve never seen her naked before, and the ball gag is mangling her face. But this is Jenna, the wife of a friend of my ex. Jenna, who I knew from holiday parties. Jenna, who was sweet and shy and kind. Jenna whose husband cheated, everyone knew, including Jenna. Jenna who loved her cheating husband so well that she tried to change him into a better man.
Well, that hasn’t worked out. Instead of Jenna changing her husband into a better man, I’m betting her husband has started changing Jenna into a much worse woman. Not a woman at all, actually. He’s turning her into porn.
But none of that explains her reaction to me. She’s not porn right now—she’s just panic. And she might well piss and maybe shit herself in terror. I did, the first time I woke.
I look away. I can’t help her calm down. The best thing I can do is ignore her. I look away, at the floor—
—and it hits me. I know exactly why Jenna is terrified of me. Well, not me: Candi. Candi did something to her. Oh, God. What did Candi do?
I hear creaks above me. Footfalls. The basement door opens and footsteps come down the stairs. Three men enter the room. My ex. Jenna’s husband. And a third man I don’t recognize. All white, trim, and well-muscled. Clean-shaven with short hair. Handsome men.
Bad men.
Jenna starts screaming again. My ex slaps her; her husband smirks; the new guy blanches. She stops screaming and hangs her head, blubbering. She’s going to get dehydrated from all the tears and snot and drool falling out of her head.
“Jesus Christ,” says the guy I don’t know. He looks stricken. “I know you warned me, but did you really need to do that?”
“Yup,” my ex says. He points at me. “Notice how she’s just sitting there, nice and tame? You think she was like that the first few times I brought her back? Bullshit. I had to slap her around.”
The man considers. That sounds reasonable.
My ex keeps talking. “But you have to take precautions when you bring ’em back. Be prepared. If Andi were free, she’d be a fucking hellcat. Claw your eyes out and smash your skull and then escape. I don’t think three of us could take her. She is that fucking tough and has that much to lose. Now, this other one“—here he points at Jenna—“is brand new. Kind of. We’ve already let Andi have a crack at her.” My ex grips Jenna’s hair to lift her head. “Right, baby-doll? You remember what Andi did to you?”
Jenna won’t open her eyes. She’s trying to keep an ounce of autonomy. You can’t make me look.
Wrong. My ex takes one of her nipples and pinches, twists, and pulls it as hard as he can. Jenna screams, and her eyes fly open.
“You don’t get to look away. Do you understand me?” Jenna blubbers around the ball gag. So, of course, my ex keeps at her. “DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ME.” He punctuates each word with a long, sharp twist of her tit.
Jenna’s eyes clearly communicate her reply. Yes. I understand you. Please stop hurting me. Just tell me what I need to do so you’ll stop hurting me.
Jenna’s husband says, “You should let me do that. She’s mine.”
“Then step up, Dwayne. If she’s yours, act like it.”
Dwayne steps forward. She looks at him pleadingly. He doesn’t hit her. Instead, he caresses her blue hair. “Hey, baby,” he says, and she shudders. It’s weirdly tender. Then he moves to wipe tears from her eyes, and she pulls back. Of course she doesn’t want him to touch her.
My ex says, “Okay, now, you need to let her know she can’t do that.”
Dwayne clears his throat. “Jenna. Look at me.”
She shakes her head.
“JENNA, look at me.”
She shakes her head violently. So he grips her hair and hisses loudly, “This is why you are where you are. You didn’t LISTEN TO ME, and I need you to LISTEN TO ME.”
Jenna flails and hollers. Her horror fills up the room. She can’t help herself. She’s out of her mind with fear.
“Enough of this.” My ex pulls a syringe from his jeans pocket, pops the cap off, and deftly plunges the needle into Jenna’s thigh. Her eyes go saucer-wide with shock, then glaze. Her breathing slows. In less than a minute, Jenna goes from terrified to bovine.
My ex is calm; Dwayne is worried; and the other guy looks pretty unhappy to be here. Like this wasn’t what he signed on for. He probably thought that he was going to sink his dick into some hot, horny chicks. Nope. At least, not yet. If my ex puts us back under, sure—anything’s game, then. But right now all he’s got is one drugged woman and another angry one.
My ex says, “Dwayne, over there is the laptop and headphones—right, yeah.” My ex turns toward me. “Hey, darling. You’re looking good. And probably wondering why Jenna here is so scared of you. Right?”
I nod. If I don’t nod, he’ll grab and twist my breasts.
“Well, let’s find out! Thanks, Dwayne”—my ex takes the laptop and an enormous pair of headphones—”you boys get set up while I get old Jenna ready here.”
Dwayne and other guy retrieve a couple of light beers and fill some bowls with pretzels and popcorn. My ex kneels behind Jenna, plugs the headphones into the laptop, and places the headphones on her. She doesn’t respond to the headphones going on her head, but when he presses a key on the laptop, her eyes widen and she takes a sharp breath and she starts twitching. He stays by her side until the twitching lessens, although it doesn’t stop entirely.
The men flop behind us on the couch. I hear munching and slurping behind us. The enormous screen flashes to life. Jenna watches intently. My latest horror show is starting.
There’s Candi, in a white sundress with blue flowers, barefoot. She’s setting two empty wine glasses and a bottle of red on the coffee table in front of the couch. Pink hair and nails, just like I have now. The dress is form-fitting, a little sexy, but not overmuch. Kind of a girl next door thing.
Candi wore that dress maybe four movies ago. In that flick, she played the hot neighborhood nympho who takes on five black guys at once. I’d never seen those guys before, so I asked my ex how he found them. He told me he sent Candi into a bar where she picked them up and brought them all home. My ex titled the movie “Hotwife Gangbang” and sold it to some pay-per-view site. He uploads all our movies. Tens of thousands of people have seen Candi fuck, now. Fuck and cum and cum and fuck.
But this movie isn’t like the others. Those were slick productions, ready for sale. Not this one. No title, no opening credits, no disclaimer about “models.” The camera isn’t steady, it’s handheld. And the image isn’t great, like a home movie. Why is this one different?
I hear my ex’s voice on the screen. The sound quality is low, but it’s clear. You ready for this, baby?
In her little-girl voice, Candi breathes: Candi’s ready, Master. Third person. Never first person. Always “Candi” or “she” or “her.”
Atta girl, he says. Candi shivers—something about that phrase? Just don’t mix up those glasses or this won’t work.
Candi knows. If Candi mixes up the glasses, she won’t get to teach Jenna what she needs to know.
Atta girl, says my ex. Okay, I’m leaving now. I can’t be anywhere near here. You just wait, make yourself pretty, think about all the great stuff you’re going to teach her.
My ex places the camera on a bookshelf maybe four feet above the floor, giving a full view of the room, and he leaves. Candi curls up on the couch and idly flips through a Cosmo. That’s the first evidence I have the bitch can read. Or maybe she’s just looking at the pictures.
Those wine glasses. . . they look empty, clean, but I know one of them is not.
My ex fast-forwards the video. The readout says that 10 minutes go by. What kind of video is this? Then the doorbell rings. Candi gets up, leans in to the camera—Christ, the cleavage!—and blows it a kiss. Showtime, she says, and she leaves the room.
The camera picks up distant noises: door opening and closing; footsteps; voices resolving themselves into those of two women who enter the room. Candi and Jenna. Jenna with her normal mousy brown hair.
Jenna says, I’m so sorry, I know it’s late, I just didn’t know who else to call— Her voice is hoarse and snuffly and weary. She’s been crying, maybe for a long time.
It’s okay, Jenna, says Candi. I’m glad you called me, and I’m glad you’re here. I’m just so sorry this is happening to you.
I’m flabbergasted. Candi doesn’t sound like Candi. None of the high-voiced breathiness, the third-person stupidity. This time, Candi sounds like . . . me?
I shiver. It’s uncanny. That’s me, but not.
Jenna keeps pacing the room and talking. It’s her husband; they had a huge fight, the biggest of their five-year marriage. He proposed a “solution” to his cheating problem: an open marriage. Jenna’s not on board. She’s devastated and betrayed. Why aren’t I enough? She keeps asking. What’s wrong with me?
Candi keeps pretending to be me. And she says all the right things. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re wonderful as you are. It’s him. Most men are like that. It doesn’t make it right, but that’s how a lot of them are.
Was your ex like that? Jenna asks.
Candi grimaces. My ex has all kinds of problems. I don’t think you should compare your man to him, though. Your man sounds pretty normal by comparison. I don’t think your marriage is over. I don’t think it’s beyond fixing.
I hate admitting it, but I’m impressed by Candi. She plays it just right. The temptation in a wronged-woman conversation is to tell the woman that the guy’s a shit and she’s better off without him. But that’s usually the wrong approach, especially if the woman loves the guy. Don’t badmouth him—the woman will just want to defend him, and she doesn’t need that extra pain. Be empathetic, and just listen.
Candi plays the part of me well. Except one time. Once, as Jenna walks past, Candi looks directly at the camera and rolls her eyes and pretends to stick her finger down her throat, gag me. You bitch. But before Jenna turns around, Candi is back, attentive.
Here, says Candi. Girlfriend needs some wine. I’d just opened this bottle. And she pours an equal amount into each glass, picks them both up, walks over to Jenna, and puts forth the one in her left hand.
To girlfriends, says Candi, proposing a toast. Who help us deal with our poor, misguided men.
Jenna snuffle-laughs, shivers, and takes the glass. Thank you so much. I am so sorry to be doing this to you—
Candi waves away the concern. The glasses clink, and the girls drink. Candi drains her entire glass in one go. Jenna is a little surprised, but in the spirit of solidarity, she gulps her glass, too. And then coughs.
Candi laughs. Do you want some water? It’s a pretty dry red.
Jenna smiles, coughing more. I’m fine. My throat is sore from all the crying.
Mmm, says Candi. And then she seems to have an idea. I’ve got something that can help with that. Just wait here, I’ll be back in a smidge.
Smidge. That’s my word. Fucking hell. I couldn’t act like Candi if my life depended on it. But Candi can apparently wear me like a suit. My mannerisms, everything. My ex must be training her, showing her old home movies of me, teaching her how to be Andi. But why?
Candi is gone for longer than just a “smidge.” Jenna paces the room, looking at books and pictures. But then her pacing slows. She runs her hands through her hair, fluffs out her shirt—she’s getting warm, and tired. Then mid-pace she stumbles and catches herself on the coffee table. And now her face shows panic of the “what is happening to me?” kind. She drags herself over the couch and flops onto it—barely—and calls out, Andi . . . Andi . . . Andi, help—
Behind us, I hear my ex unzip and fish out his cock. “C’mon,” he says. “We’re all buddies here.”
Dwayne laughs and follows suit. The third guy is more timid. My ex and Dwayne egg him on, but he demurs.
Onscreen, Jenna’s mouth only makes sounds. Her arms and legs twitch purposelessly. The thing is, she actually feels pretty good. Relaxed, floaty. All her senses are razor-sharp, sharper than normal. And she’s wondering why the hell she feels so good—why she’s not freaking out, even if her whole body has melted into incoherence.
She hasn’t yet figured out that she’s getting really horny, too. Like, really horny. She’ll realize it soon enough.
How do I know this? My ex pulled the same shit on me. He had come over to “talk” and he roofied me. Except the drug isn’t a roofie. It’s something else entirely. It’s how he began turning me into Candi.
I look over at real-life Jenna. She’s staring at the screen with dead-eyed intensity, one eyebrow twitching, beads of drool stringing down to her thigh. What the fuck are those headphones pumping into her brain?
Yoo-hoo, I hear onscreen. Candi, calling from upstairs. Are we ready? I have something for you. There’s a pause. On the couch, Jenna musters some mewing noises, but that’s all.
I hear footfalls as Candi comes downstairs. Your silence is consent, she says. She still sounds like me. But when she enters the room, the cute dress is gone. She’s naked, except for a harness with an unnervingly large, black, strap-on dildo. Candi is stripped down and strapped up and ready for action.
As good as Jenna is feeling, she doesn’t want what Candi’s selling. She makes noises: Nuuuh . . . . NUUH. . . .
Candi pads over and turns Jenna’s head and points. Jenna’s eyes widen as she sees the camera. Smile, baby, says Candi. You’re a star. Well, you will be soon, anyway.
From behind me, I hear my ex and Dwayne jacking off. New guy hasn’t folded, yet. He seems pretty uncertain, like he’s not sure he really wants any of this. I wonder if I can use that, somehow. If not now, later.
Onscreen, Candi has pulled off Jenna’s shoes, socks, and jeans. With some tussling, she gets Jenna’s T-shirt off, the dildo bouncing ridiculously as she does. From Jenna’s mouth come more nuuh. . . . nuuh . . . . noises. And as dreamy as Jenna feels, there’s panic in her eyes.
Now Jenna is in bra and panties. And they are dull, and mismatched. White granny-panties and peach-colored bra. Made all the duller by her being such a pale, mousy, slender thing. Yick.
I’m horrified. I’m judging the appearance of a woman about to be raped by someone who looks exactly like me.
Off come Jenna’s panties and—with considerably more clumsiness—her bra. Candi caresses Jenna’s body, saying Pretty, pretty girl. I’m going to teach you sooo much. Then she straddles Jenna’s midsection, grips the base of the dildo, and waggles it over Jenna’s face. This is probably bigger than your husband—
“Hey, now—” says Dwayne, but my ex shushes him.
Onscreen: . . . anything you’ve ever had in you before. Right?
Yuuuh . . . .
Goodie. I’m going to start teaching you, now. This is school. This couch is my classroom. And I’m your teacher. Do you know what I’m going to teach you?
Nuuuh… .
Candi giggles. I’m teaching you that no means yes. I’m teaching you that consent isn’t sexy. Consent is booooorrrrring. But lack of consent. . . that’s as sexy as it gets. I’ll teach you that. And you’ll give me a little fun, too.
Candi fiddles with something at the base of the strap-on. I can’t see it, but it’s a bullet-sized vibrator snugged up against her clitoris. I know this because Candi’s used this contraption in other movies. The harder Candi grinds into Jenna, the more stimulation Candi’ll get.
Candi moves between Jenna’s legs, splays her, and slips a finger into Jenna’s pussy. That solicits a throatily surprised groan from Jenna. Nice and wet, says Candi, pumping Jenna’s pussy slowly. Naughty. But I knew you were a bad girl. So horny from this. See? No means yes. And lack of consent is sexy. That’s what our bodies tell us. Our bodies are ourselves, after all.
Jenna’s shocked. Nothing about this should be making her horny, but the evidence is pretty clear. She isn’t just trapped in her body. Her body is actively betraying her.
Candi pumps a few more moans out of Jenna, then she slips out her finger and licks it clean. Yummy. Not yummy like cum, but yummy. She slips two fingers into herself, pumps out a few moans, and then pokes her fingers into Jenna’s nostrils. Here. Smell my cunt. Yummy like yours.
“This is twisted,” says Dwayne. My ex laughs. New guy chuckles.
Candi moves down and plants her head between Jenna’s legs and starts eating her. I’m surprised. I figured she’d just ram the cock in. But, no—instead we’re treated to slow cunnilingus. Jenna’s protests aren’t very convincing, now. Her mind doesn’t want this, but her body is deeply into it. Is this part of the process for changing her? Or is Candi just having fun?
Behind us, new guy unzips and starts stroking himself. He’s given up.
Full disclosure: Jenna isn’t my first woman. And I’m not even talking about all the other shit my ex has made Candi do. Back in college, I messed around some—well, a lot, really—with a girl. We didn’t date, and it’s weird for me to think of her as a “lover,” but we did fuck around a lot, including with a strap-on. So . . . well, lesbian sex isn’t the turn-off to me that it is to most women.
Lesbian rape, though—that’s probably a turn-off. Especially when I’m the rapist.
On screen, Jenna’s moans mount. The drug is really in full swing. Before she can cum, though, Candi pulls her mouth off her snatch, gets on her knees, and plants the fake cock at the mouth of Jenna’s pussy. She leans over, licks Jenna’s face, whispers in and nibbles her ear. And slowly she pushes the dildo in, letting Jenna’s vagina stretch to accommodate the fake cock’s girth. Jenna cries out, not nuuh but aaaaaaaahhh.
It’s almost considerate. I wonder why Candi doesn’t just start pummeling her, but that’s not in whatever she and my ex worked out.
Eventually Candi presses all the way in, and the vibrator against her clit starts working its magic. For a while she grinds herself against Jenna, taking in the buzz, making happy sounds. Yeah . . . oh, yeah . . . . yeah, fuck . . . .
A motion at the corner of my eye. I look over at Jenna. Same dead-eyed stare at the screen. But something is happening. She’s squirming. Breathing faster. Her nipples are gumdrop big and firm. And between her legs is a growing puddle, not of drool or urine but of vaginal juice. Jenna is producing a pool of arousal.
Impossible. But this whole thing is impossible. Mind control, all of it. And most disturbing is that whatever they’re pumping into Jenna’s skull is getting her grotesquely horny at watching Candi rape her. Even if the rape is gentle.
Gentle rape. Christ, Andi. Listen to yourself.
Onscreen, Candi’s thrusts expand, pulling the dildo almost all the way out, then slowly pushing it back in, grinding a little to stimulate her clit, then doing it again. Jenna’s moans are authentic. I think her eyes have rolled back into her head—it’s a little hard to see. Why is the video such low quality?
Candi’s thrusts grow more vigorous, her noises throatier, louder. Soon she’s pounding away at Jenna, big, fake tits bouncing, hair flailing, hands clutching Jenna’s hips. Jenna’s smaller, natural breasts jiggle with the thrusts. The contrast is fascinating. Professional porn fucking an amateur body.
On screen, Jenna’s eyes are closed, her aaahhs are now yuuuhs. It’s a nightmare situation, her body’s pleasure corroding coherent thought and emotional resistance. She’s escaping into the pleasure, the only place she can go.
Candi stops thrusting, grinds herself against Jenna, and brings herself to a shuddering orgasm. I’ve seen Candi cum on screen a bunch, and they’re all real, every one of them. It’s all she lives for. That, and pleasing my ex.
Candi collapses onto Jenna. Smiles, kisses her cheek, caresses her hair, whispers in her ear. Like a lover. The dildo is still buried deep in Jenna. I wonder if she can feel the vibrator against her clit, too.
It’s all silent for a while, the only sounds being our own breathing and the guys’ behind us.
“It’s getting slow,” Dwayne eventually says.
“Be patient,” says my ex. “We’re getting to act two. Need another beer?”
“Sure.”
My ex passes in front of me, erection bobbing. He leans in, kisses my forehead, and wipes his fingers under my nose. “Enjoying the show, darling? Have you figured out why we did this? Made this video?”
I shake my head. Enlighten me, fucker.
“So, up until now, nothing you’ve done is illegal,” he says. “Candi’s just another over-18 porn actress, nothing wrong with that. But now? Well”—and he gestures at the screen—”now you’ve clearly drugged and raped that girl. This girl sitting right over here. And rape, that isn’t legal. Rapists go to jail.”
I look down at my gag and raise my chin and nod my head. He removes the gag.
I work my jaw to loosen it up, then say, “So what. That’s just another video. Jenna could be acting, too.”
“Sure,” he says, caressing my left tit. “Except that she isn’t. She thinks you drugged her, stripped her, and raped her. She’ll testify to that. So even if you manage to escape and go for help, you’re a felon. We’ve got a witness and a home-quality video that you clearly made.”
I finally get it. “You think I won’t go to the police. Because you’re making me into a rapist.”
“Yup,” he says. “And not just Jenna, either. Candi’s going to make a few more of these videos with other girls, acting like Andi every time. We’re filming the evidence that you’re a serial rapist. And if you escape, these tapes are clear evidence of that. I’ll erase my part in the tape, start it with you saying ‘showtime.’ You’ll go to prison.”
I process this, and I realize: All his time fucking and whoring out Candi has made him really stupid.
First up, I’d rather be in jail than let my body be moneymaking bimbomeat for him and his buddies.
Second, if Jenna runs away, she won’t just talk about me. She’ll talk about him, Dwayne, and new guy—everyone she saw in this room right before he drugged her and stuck the headphones on. They’ll be as fucked as I supposedly am.
Finally, he’s assuming that if I escape I’ll run. No. If I do get free, the first thing I’ll do is kill him. Chop him up and feed him to those fucking Rottweilers he’s set on me. And if I go to prison for that, fantastic. I’d rather be free on death row than a slave in my body.
But I don’t tell him any of this. I want him to think I’m buying it. If he thinks I’m too scared to escape, maybe he’ll get sloppy, give me an opening. So I scream, “You fucking bastard,” and try to sound frightened and sad and defeated all at once. I scream it a few more times.
The ex smirks, soaking up my screams, looks at Dwayne and new guy as if to say, See how smart I am? Then he wrestles the ball gag back in my mouth. “You’re stuck, baby, and you know it. You’ve gotta stay with us, now.”
My ex leaves me to retrieve the beers. His erection is gone and his dick is its usual tiny self. On-screen, Candi has dragged Jenna to be stomach-side down on the coffee table. Her head and upper body rest on the table, and her ass and legs hang off the edge. She stares out dazedly at the camera.
Candi comes forward and retrieves the camera. After some jostling, we see the room from Candi’s point of view. She’s strapped the camera to her head. Candi plants herself behind Jenna, and now we’re looking down over Candi’s big, tan tits at Jenna’s ass. It’s white and soft and ample and a little dimpled. Again, a normal woman’s ass.
Even I have to admit this is hot. It reminds me of my fucking my girl in college. And because it’s gentle and not violent, it is turning me on. Goddammit.
Candi spreads Jenna’s cheeks and plants the head of the dildo on her asshole. Jenna makes an alarmed sound.
First time? Asks Candi. She traces the head in little circles around Jenna’s pucker. Am I taking your anal cherry? Hm? Is this your first buttfuck? Answer me, lover.
Jenna doesn’t answer, so Candi spanks her, hard. Answer me, lover, or I’ll do it dry. Is this your first time taking it up the ass?
From Jenna we hear yuhhhhh.
Poor baby, says Candi. Never had an assfuck. Andi loves—I love assfucking. It feels so big, so dirty. Let me teach you what a good assfucking feels like.
Candi reaches behind the couch, pulls out a hidden bottle of lube, and applies it around and up Jenna’s asshole and along the black dildo. She steadies the cock at the entrance to Jenna’s anus. Jenna’s nuuuh sounds start again.
Oh, hush, says Candi. You only think you don’t want this. But you really do. All women really do. Let me show you.
Behind me, the men are jacking off again.
Candi starts out slowly, and I’m really surprised. The lube, the pace, the willingness to let Jenna’s ass adjust—I expected something a lot more vicious.
Screen-Jenna is moaning aaaahhh, aaaahhh, AAAHHHH . . . .
Good girl, says Candi. You’re doing great, taking this big cock up your ass. Doesn’t it feel good? When Jenna doesn’t respond, Candi spanks her again. Answer the question, little butt-slut. Doesn’t it feel good, having this great big cock up your ass?
Jenna whimpers. And then says yuuuuuh. It does feel good. That’s the thing about the drug she’s on. Although her mind is imploding in horror, what she’s feeling is enormously pleasurable, including the huge cock in her ass.
How the fuck did my ex do this? Where did the drug come from? The laptop and headphones? He’s a fucking plumber, for god’s sake. And if he’s got this technology, who else does? How many other people is this happening to? How many women? Or men, even?
What’s happening to the world?
On screen, Candi sinks into Jenna’s ass and slowly grinds. Jenna’s aaaahs fade as her ass adjusts. Then Candi slowly pulls the dildo out, almost all the way out, then slowly back in. It takes a long time, but eventually she strikes a rhythm. Soon she’s full on fucking Jenna. Her big tan tits sway, Jenna’s pale ass ripples. Soft slapping sounds of pelvis on ass cheek, like waves lapping at a boat.
I can’t help it. I like what I’m seeing and hearing. I get warm and wet below.
Behind me, the men’s breathing is ragged. “Nearly over,” gasps my ex. “Now or never, gents.”
Candi fucking; Jenna crying out; and the men behind us start popping off. My ex goes first, hollering through clenched teeth. I hear the familiar splatter of cum on his belly and chest.
Surprisingly, new guy is next. He’s grunts, and I hear the same ropy splats across his torso. I’m hoping that post-orgasm new guy feels like shit with guilt. Maybe I can use that.
On screen, Candi’s done being gentle. She saws the dildo in and out of Jenna’s ass. Yeah, yeah, oh yeah. oh fuck, oh fuck yeah. Soon she’s just burbling. The view lurches like they’re in tidal seas, then in a tornado. Then we’re looking at a juddering wall. Candi is cumming. Shrill and uncontrollable. Onscreen, Jenna is screaming too. Candi must be using Jenna’s tailbone to grind the vibrator into her clit, which means the dildo is parked all the way up Jenna’s ass.
I look at real-world Jenna. Same dead-eyed gaze, but now she’s quaking, thighs corded, hands and feet clenching and unclenching. The puddle at her crotch is overflowing onto my floor. The drugs and the headphones and the video have conspired to give her a devastating orgasm. And it just keeps going, and going.
Onscreen, Candi’s own orgasm has stopped, and she’s collapsed over Jenna. For a long time, there’s only muffled dark and huhhh-huhhh-huhhh sounds. Behind me, Dwayne finally blows like a bear, as noisy and stupid as if he’s been bucked off a bull. All three men have cum, now.
On screen are cooing noises. Candi is talking softly to Jenna. That’s such a good girl. You know you loved this. Tell me you loved this.
There’s a pause. Then screen-Jenna says yuuuhhh. Hard to know if she means it or is just playing along. Maybe both.
That’s good. And if you loved it, it’s not rape, is it? You won’t tell anyone, right? This will be our little secret.
Yuuhhh.
Good girl. We’ll do this a lot. More kissing sounds. Creepy-sweet. And the screen goes black. Video done.
At right, Jenna’s orgasm screeches to a halt. From behind me, my ex reaches forth to wipe his cum on my cheek and ear, then through my hair. Dwayne laughs and does the same to Jenna. So does new guy.
My ex stretches. “There you go, Dwayne. Nice and gentle, like you wanted. Although even gentle rape is rape, right?” Dwayne laughs. New guy chuckles. I can’t tell if I hear guilt.
Dwayne says: “So now—part two?”
Part two? What part two?
“Part two,” confirms my ex. And then I hear plastic popping off plastic and—ouch!—a needle plunges into my thigh.
Goddamn it, no. What did he just do to me?
“Let’s get Jenna ready. We’ve got about 45 minutes.”
The men dress and unshackle Jenna. They drag her limp, pale form into the back room. New guy fetches more beers. I hear talking.
As cum crisps on my face, a familiar tingling from my pelvis. It’s the drug I gave Jenna, the drug my ex gave me. Soon I can’t move or hold up my head. All I can see are my tits and my crotch. And I’m getting really, really horny. Really horny.
Christ. Now what?
Time passes. Drool drops, then stops. My mouth must be dry. I’m so horny, panting through my nose. If I could move, I’d be squirming. I allow myself a moment of self-pity: It’s so unfair. Even when I’m Andi, my body isn’t my own. But that’s all the self-pity I allow. Self-pity is giving up, and I’m not going to give up.
I am going to escape this.
I hear a new voice in the back office. Jenna. She’s woken up. They’re talking to her, and she’s responding, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
Minutes pass. Then my ex, Dwayne, and new guy come out. My ex lifts my head by my hair. “Feeling it, darling?”
I glare dully.
“Atta girl. Well, look. Today’s a birthday. Did you know that? Someone’s having a birthday.”
My eyes show confusion.
“Why, it’s Janie’s birthday, of course. Janie’s the birthday girl. It’s her first day on earth. Here she comes now.”
Someone pads out of the office. I hear a giggle. The men step back to let Jenna—now Janie—stand in the center of them all. She’s naked except for a harness with a black strap-on dildo. The same one Candi raped her with. I can hear the buzzing of the bullet vibrator.
Janie stretches and shakes her blue hair, pushing out her tits and smiling lazily. “Morning, boys,” she says. “Thank you for waking Janie.” She kisses Dwayne on the cheek and caresses his crotch. “Especially you, Master. Thank you for making Janie. Janie is sooooooo grateful to be alive.”
“Happy birthday, Janie,” says my ex. He holds up my head to her. “We’ve got a gift for you. See here?”
Janie’s eyes grow wide. “The pink girl,” she breathes. “The one who hurt Jenna.”
Oh, no. They told her about me. About Candi.
“That’s right. It’s Andi, the pink girl who did Jenna wrong. Andi is a bad girl. What should we do with the bad girl?”
“We should punish her.” Janie’s gaze is cold. “We should make the pink girl sorry.”
“That’s right, Janie. You need justice. And what’s justice? It’s an eye for an eye. Do unto Andi what Andi did to Jenna.”
Janie smiles. It’s all teeth. She presses her fingers into the buzzing bullet. Her eyes roll back in her head.
The men unshackle me and toss me onto the couch face-up. Janie straddles my chest. She’s panting. The head of the dildo rests on my lips.
“She’s a bad one, Janie. Don’t be gentle. Punish her. She needs to learn a lesson.”
“Yes, sir,” she breathes. Her smile is insane. “Janie will fuck this cunt so hard. But first Janie wants to make the cunt’s face dirty.”
Janie pivots, planting her head at my pussy and her pussy over my face. Her cunt gleams at me acidly through the harness straps, the arousal of the last hour searing my nostrils. Then she starts licking me—oh, Christ, that feels so good, goddamnit, oh, fuck—and plants her sopping twat on my face, grinding it on my chin and nose, glazing me with her juice.
Fighting the drug would be useless, so I don’t even try. I just retreat, clutching my little victory like it’s hope. My ex thinks I believe his stupid plan. Over time, that lie might make him careless. And I might get free.
Janie tires of grinding my face, so she pivots off, kneels between my thighs, and pulls up my calves to rest on her shoulders. She rams the fake cock into me, fast, and I holler and quake. There’s nothing human in her eyes, just the need to get herself off. She pounds and grinds at me, and I can’t help it—because of the drug, I’m nearing orgasm myself. Fuck, yes. It feels great. I feel great. I can’t help it.
Over all the fucking, I hear new guy say: “Hey, what if she’s lying?”
“What?” says my ex. “You mean Janie? About being Janie?”
“No. Andi. About the rape video. You know, only pretending to go along. Maybe trick you into relaxing.”
I hear the shrug in my ex’s voice. “That’s not a problem. I’ll just ask Candi. She’s got access to everything Andi thinks and knows. That’s how she did such a great Andi imitation. She’ll tell us if Andi’s lying.”
Oh.
First Janie fucks me to orgasm—both mine and hers. Then the men get their cracks at me, first one at a time, then in pairs. Then they rest up, and laugh, and joke, and drink beer, and start in again. Janie almost seems like one of the guys, except she fucks them and blows them and spits their cum in my mouth and has a blast doing it.
Candi isn’t around, of course. She’s asleep, although she’ll know all about this when she wakes up. And Andi is nowhere, either. As Janie and the men annihilate me with pleasure, there’s nobody in Andi’s body at all. She’s escaped.