Vesta - Painworld (22 page)

If Lianne had entertained any hopes of being released from the cart, they were quickly dashed. Having proved his complete mastery over her and also, if it had been needed, proved to Lianne how much a slave she was to her own deep desires, he simply proceeded to climb back into the driver's seat, flick her rump with his long whip and continue trotting her around the oval track for another two circuits, whistling tunelessly to himself as they went.

For some reason his apparent detachment and lack of concern or interest was far worse for Lianne than anything the youth had inflicted upon her so far. Being thrashed so she virtually raped herself on the shaft phallus had been humiliating enough, but at least he had shown involvement with her, had had a purpose in his actions. Now, it seemed, he had returned her to the status of unthinking beast, exercising her as a groom might exercise any four-legged equine charge, and yet still the insistent up and down motion of the dildo was threatening to throw all the wrong switches again.

Desperately Lianne fought to push her mind beyond that, to think of things other than the fact that she was being treated as nothing more than a beast, and concentrate on other matters. Ellen had told her that she was a natural submissive and Lianne had not thought to disagree with her, for there had been too many illustrated proofs of that, but this was something else again and she was grimly determined to hold some sort of charge over her rawest emotions.

Ellen.

Lianne wondered how she was faring right now. Probably coping better than she was, for Ellen had a steel core that very few people appreciated until the chips were down. She also had a sense of humour that was warped worse than a barn door in a rainstorm, and very little ever seemed to throw her. Lianne wondered if her friend was yet aware of what was happening outside; realised that they were all prisoners and that the game had become serious.

This thought reminded her again and for several minutes she trotted on blindly, the track just a vague outline through the mist of her tears, seeming to symbolise the fate that Christina had promised her; a captive at the mercy of the merest whims of a sadistic monster. And that was before James Naylor was taken into consideration.

The blonde sadistic Dane was bad enough, but Naylor, in his own way, was potentially worse. Christina was brutal, violent and a bully, using her sheer physical size to terrify her victims, but with Naylor there was something else, something deeper, more psychological and far far more sinister.

Lianne tried not to think about Naylor, turning her thoughts instead to Paul and trying to imagine what he might be doing now. Of course she knew exactly what he was doing: he was out there, lying in his own pod dressed in that damned rubber maid's uniform, hooked up to VESTA, the same as they all were in reality.

Except that this wasn't reality.

Just the only reality they had right now...

...And possibly the only reality left to any of them if Naylor and Christina had their way, and that was a reality too grim to contemplate. Shaking her head again, Lianne whinnied plaintively and trotted on, ignoring the regular cuts of William's driving whip.

 

Two attendants awaited Melissa within the small chamber in which she made her entry into VESTA. She came round laying flat on a narrow raised palette, the hard surface pressing against her naked body like so many cold fingers. For several seconds she made no attempt to rise, allowing her eyes to do the work, wondering if her half brother's marvel of science had perhaps failed to operate, for everything seemed so real about her, if she ignored the bizarre costumes of the two lurking females.

Those costumes, however, had not been designed not to be taken notice of, and the same could be said of their wearers. The pair were tall, olive-skinned, their dark hair cut into matching styles that immediately triggered memories of Cleopatra, and their slim height was emphasised further by the high heels of the brown, thigh length boots that sheathed their legs.

Above the tops of these boots only a slim band of brown flesh was visible beneath the hem of the matching brief pleated leather skirts. Then, further above the bare midriffs, skeletal halter tops, strapped assemblages supporting but not covering their breasts, studded leather chokers circling the slim necks and hawkishly beautiful visages with piercing green eyes.

Carefully, Clarissa eased herself into a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the plinth, resting her feet lightly on the tiled floor beneath. To her surprise she did not feel nauseous or shaky. But then her mind quickly seized on the reason, for this awakening was not like coming out of an anaesthetic at all, there being no chemical agents involved, simply a transfer of brain awareness via VESTA's probes and sensors, the brief sense of unconsciousness being nothing more than a necessity of the transition.

‘Yer dress sense is a bit old fashioned and predictable.' Clarissa's Australian twang sounded echoey around the bare walls, but it was as if neither attendant had heard her. However, as she made to stand up they swayed forward in unison. Immediately Clarissa tensed, hands coming up before her in the defensive posture she had learned so many years ago in her self defence classes at college.

‘First one to try it gets her tits shoved up her nostrils,' Clarissa snarled, trying to sound more confident than she felt. The women stopped and one - the one to Clarissa's left - spoke.

‘We are not here to harm you, mistress,' she said, ‘merely to prepare you for your coming battle.' She looked sideways to her companion, who nodded, sagely.

‘Yes, you must be armoured and prepared, for your opponent is a worthy one.'

Clarissa straightened up, hands dropping to her hips. ‘What the blazes are you two on about?' she demanded. Again the two women looked at each other. Again the one to the left spoke first.

‘You are to fight the fair-haired one?' she said, half statement, half question. Clarissa blinked, trying to concentrate, half recalling.

‘If you mean that hulking great blonde bitch,' she said, ‘then I offered her, but she said bugger all to me about actually accepting.' She wrinkled her nose, scratching the side of her jaw.

‘You mean I'm actually going to get a chance to fight her?' she asked at length. The two women nodded and Clarissa let out a low whistle.

‘Fuck me,' she breathed. ‘Well, in that case you'd better get stuck in finding me this armour stuff. With her, you'd better make it steel plate, preferably tungsten plated, ‘cause I reckon I'm gonna need every bit of help going.'

‘You are both to wear the same,' the one on the left said. ‘There will be no advantage to either combatant - those are the rules.'

‘Is that so?' Clarissa laughed harshly. She jabbed a finger at the speaker. ‘What's your name, mongoose.'

The woman allowed herself the vestige of a smile. ‘I am called Alma,' she said, and indicated her companion. ‘This is Tara. We are your seconds.'

‘So when's this bloody fight supposed to be happening?'

Tara stepped forward. ‘It will be soon enough, mistress,' she said, ‘but there is time aplenty to prepare you.' She nodded towards the wall on the left, where Clarissa saw a doorway she was certain had not been there a moment earlier. ‘Perhaps you will follow me?' Tara suggested, turning and walking towards the opening. ‘Everything is ready.'

 

It took Ellen several minutes to recover her senses and strength sufficiently to wriggle herself off the boy-cat's still rigid penis and slide out from beneath him. He hadn't looked particularly heavy, but as a dead weight it required all the effort she could muster, and he made no attempt to lift himself clear.

Scrambling unsteadily to her feet, Ellen stood over him studying the unmoving form, and then prodded his midriff with one paw-booted foot. There was absolutely no reaction. She dropped to her knees again and placed her ear as close to the side of his face as she could manage, but either the latex head mask was blotting out too much sound, or...

Standing up she kicked him again, much harder this time, but with the same lack of result. Puzzled, she scratched her head, but stopped when one of the claws dug into her.

She turned slowly, her gaze travelling around the trees and bushes, looking for inspiration as much as anything else. But everything still seemed as it had appeared before the now lifeless form at her feet had first appeared.

 

The mysteriously materialising portal led into another chamber, a little larger than the one in which Clarissa had first arrived. But unlike the first, this room was cluttered with a bewildering array of racks, stands and chests, and immediately upon entering Clarissa's senses were filled with the now familiar aromas of rubber and leather. Alma and Tara lost no time in getting things started.

‘Please raise your arms, mistress,' Tara said, as her companion lifted a complicated looking piece of leatherwear from the nearest rail. Clarissa eyed the thing suspiciously. Alma held it out for inspection.

‘It is part of your armour,' she said. ‘You must be dressed correctly, as must your opponent. It is the rules.'

‘Fuck the rules,' Clarissa growled. ‘That thing doesn't look that much different from the bloody harness contraption that spiky bitch had me in before.'

‘But it is to protect your vital organs,' Tara persisted. She placed a hand against her own side, moving it about and then across her stomach. ‘Liver, kidneys, the solar plexus - the leather is thick and stiff and will deflect much force.'

‘And your opponent will be wearing the same,' Alma intoned, as if that were the end of any possible argument. Clarissa hesitated, considering the situation. It could easily be a trick, she knew. But then given what she understood of this VESTA world, there was no need for the blonde dyke to resort to such measures. If she wanted Clarissa to wear this paraphernalia for any reasons other than those currently being given, it surely would have been a simple enough matter to have her wake up already attired.

So why, she asked herself, whatever the reasons anyway, was it necessary to go through this rigmarole, this ritual?

Ritual?

Yes, that was it. The ritual, that all-important aspect of all human sexuality, whatever the proclivity or preference involved, was always paramount, an integral part of it and, in some cases, the major part of it, more important than the final act itself. In all probability, the Christina woman was somehow tuned in to this scene, watching, enjoying, probably controlling it overall.

Just observing, slut. The programme is self-generating now and, for the moment at least, will react to you
.

‘Where are you?' The voice seemed at once inside and outside of Clarissa's head, though neither of the attendants seemed to have heard it and nor did they show any reaction to this last question. In fact, as she turned her head from side to side, trying to identify the source, Clarissa saw that Tara and Alma had frozen like statues, just a flickering aura about them in the manner of a video player on freeze frame.

At the moment I am out here, simply monitoring and waiting
.

‘Bitch! Have the bottle to come in here and face me!'

All in good time, slut! You'll have plenty of opportunity to regret it when I do. Meanwhile, let me explain.

You should understand that you are now inside VESTA, although, more accurately, VESTA is inside you, inside your head, as it is inside the head of everyone who enters it. But no matter. Enough of semantics.

What is important is that I intend to give you the chance to meet me face-to-face as you appeared to desire and, furthermore, I am prepared to concede certain of my natural physical advantages, to make the contest more interesting.

To that end and to all intents and purposes we shall start equal - equal stature, equal weight, equal armour and identical resources, as you shall see shortly
.

‘Why should I believe you?' Clarissa demanded. She heard a hollow laugh.

What alternative is there? Should I just return you as you were, my little pony bitch, put you in the stables with your bit and harness and trot and whip you once a day? That will come soon enough, believe me, so what have you to lose in the meantime?

‘And what happens if I beat you?'

Again the laugh.

You won't
.

‘Just supposing I did. Will you free me? And Marlon?'

More laughter.

I could hardly do that, could I? I think maybe you know too much for that to be a feasible option
.

‘Then why should I play along with your games?'

My games? Need I remind you that it was you who issued this challenge? I need not have given you even this opportunity
.

‘So why have you?'

Because it amuses me - and appeals to me. Now, have you changed your mind? If you like you can join the other slut here for a while, as the sort of pony girl I cannot yet create outside VESTA. See for yourself. Look!

Clarissa saw, as the rest of the room faded out around her and she was suddenly looking into a swirling mirror, to where a lone figure stood before a curious cart affair, stooped, beaten, humiliated, the traces laying across her supine back, bit and bells buckled tightly to the rigid harness, dull eyes staring ahead over a...

‘No!' The picture faded and the room came back. ‘No, I'll fight you, you twisted shit! But if you're that bloody confident there should be something more in it for me. C'mon, blondie, put your money where your mouth is!'

Very well, let me think. Ah yes, I have it. Should you beat me, then I will allow you and your brother to remain here as prisoners in the manner that aristocrats and royalty were prisoners centuries ago. In other words, although you will still be prisoners, you will be given comfortable quarters and left largely without interference
.

‘Is that the best you can do?' It was something at least, Clarissa thought. But she was prepared to try for more while the opportunity existed.

Take it or leave it. You are hardly in a position to bargain. Besides, you will not win
.

‘Because you've fixed it?'

Not at all. There would be no satisfaction in that. I shall rely on my training and experience, plus the strength of my inner self. Now, let the ladies prepare you and remember, everything they give you I shall also have. There will be no tricks
.

There was no actual sound, but Clarissa felt as if there had been an audible click, as if a switch had been thrown and she knew that Christina had gone again. Before her the two attendants were animated again.

‘Please, mistress,' Alma said, holding the leather garment out again. ‘If you would raise your arms.' With a sigh Clarissa complied and the girl stepped closer, wrapping the main section around her middle, hooking something at the rear to hold it temporarily in place.

Meantime, Tara had stepped behind her and quickly began fastening the heavy straps and buckles that not only effected a more permanent fit, but also drew the leather hourglass inexorably tight, drawing in Clarissa's waist to a seemingly impossible degree. However, to her astonishment although it felt constricting, it was not especially painful, nor did she have any trouble with her breathing, as she knew she would have done outside of this world.

As the two women fussed with the adjustments, Clarissa considered this and came to a rapid conclusion. This VESTA world might seem realistic, but it was only based on reality and anything that might have proved inconvenient in the real world was carefully doctored here, so that fantasies could be enacted to the full without the restrictions that normal human frailties might have imposed. That was an interesting concept, she thought, and carefully filed it away for future reference.

However, not every inconvenience had been removed, as Clarissa discovered when she made to move, for the tight bodice precluded any chance of her bending at the waist, regardless of how little it impeded her respiration. Evidently the removal of the human frailty factor was a selective business.

Having secured the corset-like section of the garment, which left Clarissa's breasts bared but supported with two narrow sections that came somewhat short of quarter cup dimensions, a baffling series of straps and cuffs followed, which Clarissa suspected might have proved a lot more difficult to sort out in any other existence. Her two attendants, though, moving like the automatons they so very nearly were, handled the intricate harness without hesitation.