SAVE THE ANIMALS!
Part Two of ?
- INNER SIGNALS -
Rachel faces an alarming dawn.


'Brrrr.... Brrrrr....'
Oh damn! How could she have forgotten to turn off her mobile, here
in the cinema. Faces turning, glaring at her... She fumbles urgently
at her handbag in her lap, but... somehow, it won't open. 'Brrrr....'
How stupid of her... and now the lights are coming on, and they'll
see she's naked, how terrible! Ashamed, she presses the strangely
smooth bag into her lap, covering herself from the staring people
all around, as she rises to leave. But the phone rings and rings,
the heavy vibrations against her crotch setting fire to her sex.
Freezing her to the spot. She should stop pressing the bag there,
but if she doesn't they'll see her.... Now they are pointing, leering;
they know she can't run, know she is pressing the phone there because
it's... she is so hot, she wants to rub it against herself, but like
always she somehow can't manage to... Just the 'Brrrrr.... Brrrrr....'
that feels almost inside her, and the people watching, whispering,
disapproving. They know what she's wanting to do. She tries to turn
away, but something.... the handbag is tangled.... sensation of a
smooth soft surface against her face...  

Uhhhhh.... oh. Her hands are pressed against something hard and curved,
down near her waist. She is partly on her side, but her hips won't turn,
and its very uncomfortable. She rolls back, face upwards. Opens her
eyes. Dim light. White, spray-creted ceiling, pipes. A plain flouro
light fitting, off. Some dead bugs inside the plastic. That buzzing,
it really is down in her crotch, still there, and she has woken so
horny... There is no handbag, no crowd, and her hands are trying to
press to her buzzing sex, but are blocked, by..... what _is_ that?
Groggily, she lifts her head, looking down at herself.

It takes her several moments to take in a number of astonishing sights,
in the dim, flickering light.
One, she is naked, or mostly. No sheets, blankets, nightie. Just bare
breasts, and with nipples pointing accusingly. Her hands... are palm
down on a strange clear plastic... kind of skirt. Rigid, a single
hard shell, it starts with a tight band around her waist, then flares
out and down, to a wide curving edge as far down as her knees. Her
backside is resting on its inside, which seems to be as flat as the
front part she can see.
Which isn't all she can see. Its clear, and underneath it, she is
completely bare. *Completely* bare - her fur is gone! And in the
shock of seeing her cunt lips totally exposed, she reflexively tries
to bring her thighs together - only to discover that she cannot.
The strange clear, hard skirt, has two loops of webbing, attached to
its inner left and right sides, that circle her thighs, holding them
out fairly wide. Her knees will not close less than a foot apart!

So her sex cannot be hidden. Even from herself, and she is looking at
one pouting, excited slit. Because there isn't any dammed cell phone,
_something_ inside there is going 'BRRRRRRR.... BRRRRRR...' over and
over, vibrating so heavily that she can actually hear it through her
own flesh. Lifting up more, she peers down in the dim light, and can
just see two short objects sticking out of her sex. One is a very
thin, light coloured object sticking out several centimetres, from
the back of her slit. Another is a thin and flexible piece of tubing,
with a small knobby object at its end a few centimetres from her flesh.
Both are obviously totally out of her reach. No doubt the rear one
is how the large thing she can feel inside her vagina is to be removed.
When she tenses her vaginal muscles the little rod thing visibly moves,
and then she can feel it between her labia. Otherwise, its too small
to be felt.

That buzzing is going to drive her crazy! Its making her hot, but she
knows it is nowhere near enough to make her come. Just not the right
thing. That's her clit, which she can see sticking its swollen little
head up out of her puffy labia already.

Finally, she wonders where she is, and looks around. To discover she
is in a cage. Bars! A bare, clinical space, with a plastic-covered
single bunk, an odd looking knee-high contraption in one corner.
A small sink in another. Worse, now she remembers how she came to be
here. And other things. OH God! Please let her be still dreaming.
She must be asleep still, having a crazy erotic nightmare, probably
even fingering herself or something. She should try to wake up, and
stop herself.

But no. This is real. She can vividly remember her shocked outrage, as
the two beefy undergraduates dragged her, naked and struggling, deeper
into the university building, down raw, deserted fire stairs, to a stark
basement area. A place of paint-flaking metal lockers, and bright
stainless steel benches and medical instruments. How her struggling
was shocked into mute passivity as she was forced through a long room
lined with large cages - each with a naked, bored looking adult human.
Mostly female, but a couple of males at one end. All of them in strange,
frightening looking restraints of one sort or another. They had watched
her pass, silent, afraid looking. A silence, even at her shouted questions,
that had finally struck her helpless. Why didn't they answer? A fearful
realisation that she was actually in deep, deep shit, and probably not
going to be getting out of it.

There wasn't much more to that train of memory. They'd led her into
another room, mostly empty save for a starkly clinical examination
table, complete with straps. A few battered wooden cupboards in one
corner, looking more like second hand cast-offs than cousins to the
shining metal of the exam table. She'd struggled, but they had still
strapped her down to the table, nonchalantly, effortlessly. She'd
found herself, panting from exertion, exposed in a 'legs wide and
high' position, that she'd always imagined in nightmares. The main reason she'd
never dared go for a 'female medical check up' herself. But with the
added outrage of wide leather straps, tightly securing every point
of her body. One of the men had begun applying shaving cream to her
pubes, shocking her with the cold lather and his casual brushing of
it over and into her most sensitive parts. He wasn't even making a
pretence of 'medical professionalism' - he'd been blatantly twisting
the shaving brush into her vagina, and wagging it back and forth over
her clitoris, all the while grinning at her. Smiling more toothily
at her every shudder and complaint. Much to her dismay, that brushing
had the effect she'd been dreading, and her clit had sprung into
full hardness with an almost audible 'sproing'. The oaf with the brush
leered at her sex in amazement when he noticed the stiff little
finger of flesh poking up, covered in shaving foam. He'd grabbed it
roughly, wiping the foam off with his fingers, to reveal its redness
among the surrounding white. Somehow that made it look even worse.

She had been convinced she was about to experience a long evening of
demented sexual abuse, when the other man had walked to her side, and
held a pneumatic injector gun in front of her face. So far neither of
them had bothered to say a word to her, and when he spoke then it
surprised her; taking her mind off the sensations in her sex, where
the creamy brush was back to twisting and tickling. Where her clit was
already starting to ache, and judging by the brush's attentions, was
going to be aching a whole lot more.

"Now, this won't hurt a bit. We need for you to have a good night's
rest, so you are nice and fresh for some tests tomorrow. This is
just some stuff to help you sleep."

He'd applied the tip to her arm, and there'd been a 'thkt!' noise,
and a slight pinprick feeling in her arm. He'd continued talking
while putting the injector gun away again.

"Its fast acting, so just relax. You'll be OK. A quick shave to
neaten things up down there, a catheter, isolation shield, and
you'll be off to a comfy bed for the night. Oh, and another little
surprise you'll find in the morning." He pauses, with a grin that
reminds her of a wolf. A wolf with a dirty imagination. "Actually,
not so very little. Couldn't have it just falling out! Anyway,
you'll see. Just remember, its there for a purpose - to arouse
you sexually. Saves time if you are already there by the time we
will be in tomorrow. Some of the tests require you to be, hmmmm,
'panting for it.' Not to bore you with medical terms. Are you..?"

He pauses, looking questioningly at her. Passes his hand in front
of her face. She realises that she is feeling a bit dizzy. It had
crept up on her, what with the distractions of that dammed shaving
brush still raping her sex, and the cascade of implications of his
words. She shakes her head, feeling the world tilt and sway. Looks
back at him, trying to find something defiant and clever to say.
She isn't thinking too clearly either, it sees. It might help to
think, if her sex wasn't reacting so predictably to all that
soapy brushing of her aching hard clit.  He nods.

"That's the way. Just relax, let your eyes close. Not long now.
Its a wonderful, generous thing you've done." Her vision is
getting a bit confused, but she clearly feels his hand coming
to rest on her breast. He is stroking it, rolling her nipple.
That seems to have become quite hard again, by its feel.

"Very generous! We all greatly appreciate your selfless gesture.
Now, just remember in the morning - you may want to pee, but that
has to wait till during the tests. The catheter will prevent any
little accidents in the meantime. You'll be woken when the timer
in your ... 'surprise' starts it up, and there's no use fighting
that. It won't stop till we turn it off, later. You can try what
you like, the shield will prevent you doing anything you shouldn't.
You needn't worry about doing the equipment any harm, so no need
to hold back. I'm afraid it will be quite frustrating though.
No orgasms in the test schedule till quite late in the day. Still,
all in a good cause, eh!"

He pauses, still fondling her breast. Her eyes had drifted closed
of their own accord as he spoke, and now she is floating, senses
fading away. Listening to his voice, the fear and horror seeming
to evaporate, leaving only the sensations of her skin and ears.
And the rising glow in her sex, which has started to feel like a
big, throbbing cloud, carrying her... her thoughts have almost
stopped. The last thing she can remember, is something he says to
the other. Distantly, disconnectedly, she hears...

"Right, she's out. Are you going to fuck her tonight? Yeah? Me too.
Dammed good looking woman, look at this thing here! Exceptional!
Can't wait till tomorrow. After she's shaved. That old bag Pelton
will probably come in over the weekend, for a looker like this.
Spoils it a bit, having her hovering around, and wanting to... "




In stunned shock now, recalling those moments, she tries to jump
up off the bed. This doesn't work as expected. The strange skirt-
like thing around her waist and enclosing her thighs, is rigid.
So she can't simply sit up since the movement of her hip joints
is very restricted. She discovers that her thighs and waist have
to stay more or less in a straight line. So to get off the bed,
she has to sort of slide off the side, and into a standing position
in one motion. She cannot sit, only either stand, or lie prone.
Nor can she lie on her side or front, due to the forced spread of
her thighs, and the flare of the 'skirt' to sides and front. In
back it doesn't flare away from her body much, instead conforming
closely to the curve of her buttocks. A small amount of clearance
behind her legs is filled by the skirt rocking upwards slightly as
she lies back on it.

The experimentation involved in discovering this does little to
calm her thoughts, spinning with the revelation that she has
apparently been raped, at least twice, on top of all her other
troubles. Damn them! Those cowardly beasts, she can just imagine
the animalistic scene of them taking turns, thrusting their stupid
erections into her unconscious pussy. Probably did it for ages,
taking their time, laughing at her, grunting and pawing her body
as they rutted in her. Shaved her _first_ did they? Bastards!
Bending forward while standing, she tries to tell if there is
any evidence of their... their... rape. Tries to concentrate on
the feelings from down there, looking for any hurts or soreness.

This is a mistake, since all she sees is a very swollen and wet
looking beaver, and all she feels is that organ letting her know
that something very stimulating is happening to it, and it would
like something a bit more clitoral, please. To remind her of that,
the pink spike in question is still standing out between the
thick folds of her swollen labia. It feels extra sensitive, a bit
chafed, and aching hard with that dammed need again. She tries not
to think of what the boys might have done with it last night. Not
very successfully, the thoughts keep creeping back in, of what it
would have felt like, had she been awake.  Feelings that are now
perceptibly growing stronger, and are already enough to cause an
involuntary tensing of her arse and thigh muscles, as her hips
rock her sex forward. She can't help her hands running over the
plastic shield skirt thing, exploring for a way to her poor sex,
to soothe its ache. There is definitely no way. She doesn't even
bother to try contorting herself in weird poses - its so obvious
that there is no way her fingers are going to be getting to her
slit. There it is, perfectly, obscenely visible in its shaven
smoothness, labia slightly parted to the cool air by her spread
thighs, clit obscenely visible, yet unless she sprouts tentacles
from her knees, its all out of reach.

Damn, damn! There's nothing hurting, but whatever is inside there
feels quite large. Sort of very fat but short, perhaps like a ball
of some kind. She can't feel anything pressing up deep into her
belly, or against her uterus. Nothing like... the absurdly sized
plastic dicks her boyfriend would sometimes have her... how did
he ever get her to allow that? Why did she submit to spending
whole evenings, with those things tied so deeply into her, them
vibrating so incessantly. He said he liked to watch as her desire
overpowered her upbringing, and she would beg him for relief from
the aching excitement. Over and over, since he would refuse to
allow her to remove them or turn them off for hours.

What a pervert! Voyeur! How ashamed she'd felt in the years after,
recalling how she'd flopped and twisted her naked, sweating body
about for his amusement. She'd thought then she enjoyed it too,
and her orgasms were a seal of their love. But she wasn't going
to make that sappy mistake this time!
Not that she'd be _able_ too, she thinks ruefully, hands resting
on the rigid plastic barrier isolating her body from the waist to
knees. God! That thing may not be very deep, but it does vibrate
strongly. She can't believe herself - raped by two men, probably
for _ages_, and already some dumb bit of plastic and motors has
her body wanting _more_?

She steps awkwardly to the front bars of the cage, and tries to
pay attention to the details of her prison. It's a smallish room,
with the cage taking up part of it. Something like a toilet sits
in one corner inside the cage, where its bars are against the wall
of the room. Bed, toilet, a few square feet of floor - that's the
extent of the cage's interior.
Outside, the room is also fairly bare, with one opposite corner
holding a desk and a row of file cabinets. One door, solid, closed,
in another wall.
A computer on the desk. All the light in the room comes indirectly
from the computer screen, which is turned away from her. The light
varies in colour and brightness irregularly, sometimes dropping to
nothing. She imagines some pointless screen saver program must be
running, doodling meaningless coloured patterns.

On the wall behind the desk, illuminated directly by the monitor,
is a poster. It seems familiar in the dimness, and she waits, trying
to make it out as the light flickers. At first the writing comes
clear - 'THE TRUTH IS IN THERE'. Huh? Shouldn't that be 'out there'?
She recognises it now - its like a poster on the wall in Mulder's
basement X Files office. She can dimly make out the hovering disk...
and then the light flares up, and the image resolves. Its a woman's
private parts, in horizontal shaven close up, skin of inner thighs
a faded smooth tonal 'sky', with the sex a dark saucer-like slash
hovering in deliberate grainy miss-focus.  She wonders what sort
of X-files are in the cabinets of this basement office.

For a moment, she holds her breath, listening. Nothing, and its hard
to hold your breath while feeling this way, so she takes another
breath. Finds she is almost panting, and tries to slow her breathing
rhythm. It doesn't really work, since if she concentrates on her
breathing, her hips and arse start making obscene coital motions.
If she pays attention to stopping that, her breathing gets out of
hand again. Her clit is starting to seriously ache from its hardness.
Worse, somehow just thinking of that, knowing she can't soothe it
even if she allowed herself to want to, seems to have a powerful
amplifying effect.

Arrgh! she thinks. This is _terrible_ Can these bastards really
have her here _permanently_, like they claim? All those things
that arrogant arsehole Keil said, as if it was all obvious!
What were they again? 'Orgasmic profiling' - that one had stuck
in her memory. 'Cavity capacities' - that one sounded ominous too.
Plural! Surely not!? But then, given her current situation, it
doesn't seem likely that they'll care much for her dignity.

Speaking of cavities, she thinks, it feels like I'm really dripping
down there. Looking down, between her widely spaced legs, she sees
with dismay that she actually is dripping. There are two wet
splash spots on the floor, just visible as the flickering light
flares brighter for a moment.

'Orgasmic profiling' - she repeats the phrase softly out loud.

'Orgasmic' she says slowly, louder, as she watches the glint of
another fluid drop forming on her distended labia. 'Profiling'.

Its pretty clear what that will involve. Always so pedantically
statistical, those darned academics. If they want to 'profile'
her orgasms, it will probably involve as large a sample set as
they can obtain. They will put a lot of effort into it. With her
body the instrument. She wonders if they'll make her come many
different ways, or just one way, over and over? All the while
watching closely, writing notes, and making recordings of her...
her _performance_.

And all this as some sort of _baseline_? Which means its to be
compared with _later_ data? And that means that 'later' will
involve more of this kind of stuff! What was it? 'Research
disciplines' involving her and orgasms? And how about 'used for
education'? Education of who, in what?

At the back of her mind, is the thought that all this ought to
be driving her mad with terror. But it isn't. In fact, its mostly
making it harder to fight the still growing sexual excitement
she feels. That stupid thing buzzing inside her - its fiendish.
Impossible to think of sex as the crude, unwanted atavism it is,
when your body is more than ready to prove its animal nature.
Hormones, conditioning, whatever, she has to admit that by sometime
today, she is going to be forgetting all her resolve. Doing things
she'd rather not, if her mind was clearer. Enough of this buzzing,
and she'd probably even... even masturbate to order for them.
Huh! 'Probably'? Facing the truth, she'll certainly be begging
them to allow her, eventually. Considering those shameful times
lately when she couldn't even resist the need, free and alone in
her own home. Perhaps this Hell is her punishment for those sins?

With a despairing sigh, she lifts her hands to her breasts, now
also aching with her heat. Clasps them tight, and strokes her
pebble-hard nipples. Wonders to herself if it might, after all,
be possible to give herself an orgasm from just her breasts.
As if all those times her boyfriend had tried, and made her try,
mightn't have proved the negative. It made her more horny all
right, but never, ever got anywhere near that relief. She'd read
somewhere that some women could. She didn't seem to be one of
them.

Feeling foolish standing there at the bars, her lust dripping
steadily onto the floor, she moans and walks back to the bed,
dejected and hot. Lies down, with some awkwardness. One hand on
her breast, the other clenched hopelessly on the plastic shell
arched inches above her aching sex. She massages her breasts, one
and the other, knowing it will only make things worse in the long
run. Resigned to await her new owners, fuming in the knowledge
that they will find her exactly as expected - hot and panting
for it.
And also, in need to pee, judging by the sensations from her
bladder every time she involuntarily tightens her stomach muscles
in a futile thrust of her hips. Dammed catheter. They couldn't
even leave her that bodily function.
There is no way she is going to be able to sleep any more.


Some minutes later, she is considering whether anyone might be
concerned by her absence from work next Monday. Playing back the
scenes in her mind, from Friday, when she'd ended up walking out
in vocal disgust, she has to admit to herself that they'll probably
all just assume she meant 'leaving for good'. And to think that
she'd sneered at the stories of how Francine had come to be trapped
in that absurd bondage contraption, and had to be rescued by the fire
department. How stupid she'd thought them, Francine and the courier
fellow, to arrange that sick game and then have a mix up with the
dates, that left Francine stuck for the whole weekend. The girl had
been lucky to have finally managed to chew through the gag by Sunday
night, and call for help before everyone else turned up for work 
on Monday morning. God knows what she'd had to do to keep her job
as it was. The mess on the carpet, eeuww!

If only the fire department would show up now! Though whether the
university would be able to tell the firemen to go dry their hoses,
since she was legally university property...   She didn't think that
was possible. But then, there was some stuff on the news last year,
she remembers vaguely. Something about some nutty conspiracy freaks,
complaining about, what was it? A change to the contract law, for
corporations? They said it allowed for um... contractual slavery.
There'd been a crazy story about some senators, and a Temp Agency,
and migrant girls... but who believed that stuff? Passing laws, paid
off with sex. Couldn't happen, she'd thought. Thinking about it, she
remembers feeling that those stupid Russian and Asian girls deserved
what happened to them - if there was any truth to the story at all.
Perhaps she should have paid a bit more attention.
Sexual slavery, in America, it sounded so bizarre! And why does the
thought that she may really be stuck here, really _will_ be used for
weird kinky experiments... why does that make her feel like she is
melting or something, between her legs?

Her mind drifts off into sexual fantasies, distracted by the desire
of her body. An image of professor Keil arguing with several full
dress firemen, standing around her naked body strapped wide to an
examination table, in the middle of some perverted sex experiment.
The firemen agreeing that, yes, everything was perfectly above board,
false alarm and they should be going now, but did the professor mind
if they stayed to watch? How they all admired the medical sciences,
and could they perhaps be of ....

Shattering her fantasy, a phone rings loudly in the room. Turning
her head, she guesses that it must be on the desk, behind the computer.
Several long rings, and she is just thinking 'sorry, we're captive right
now, please leave a...' when the sound of an answering machine cuts in.
"Sorry, the lab is unattended. Whazzup? click... beeeeep!" Immediately
a woman's voice answers. Rachel grimaces as she recognises the prim
tones of Ms Pelton.

"Jeff, Fred, just letting you know I'll be in after lunch. Doctor mentioned
you might need some assistance, but this morning I have gym classes, then
some shopping to be done. Now don't you forget the correct test regime!
You boys will have to restrain yourselves, that shield had better still
be on the subject when I get there. I'm sure there'll be time for some
unstructured investigation later in the programme." She snickers, a rather
chilling sound. A few seconds silence, then "Ah, I suppose you secured her
in the office? So, hello Rachel, if you can hear me. Its seven in the
morning, and the fellows will be in sometime after nine. No doubt you have
discovered your alarm clock? They should only have set it for half an hour
before they got there; that would have been sufficient to prepare you for
the tests. But boys will be boys - they always give the pretty ones hell.
Well, happy hunching! See you later, sweaty."

The line goes silent, and after a moment the answering machine grinds
through the rest of its role "You have... one... new messages." Then there
is no more sound but the creak of the bed as her thighs tighten, pushing
her frustrated, burning sex up into the inviolable space of the shielding
plastic skirt. At least two more hours of this. She supposes she'll survive
alive, but not necessarily sane. God, its driving her nuts already.


After lying there squirming for many more minutes, she gets up again,
unable to stand it. Has a mouthful of water at the sink, rinses the sleep
from her face, realises that there is no towel. Dripping, she moves over
to the strange object in the other corner of her cage, hoping to take her
mind off her buzzing sex by examining it.

It is more like some strange piece of laboratory equipment, than anything
she recognises. In the dim, flickering light, it seems to be made of
moulded white plastic. Set at the centre of a shower-recess like white
plastic depression in the floor, it is a squat, tapering column, with a
deeply concave top containing several complex, articulated nozzle-ish
projections. The body of the column is flat and featureless, joining with
the floor in a kind of flexible concertina arrangement, that implies the
whole thing is movable in some way.
The outer lip of the top concavity, is not flat, but a complex, two-lobed
organic curve, one side looping high, the other side a smaller, tighter cup.
Walking round it, she suddenly realises that its the shape you'd get, if
someone squatted down in a big wad of play dough, letting it form tightly
up over their pubic region, press firmly into their thighs, and wrap on
around and up their buttocks to above the crease of their arse. Realizing
that, the various objects nestled down in the cavity within take on an
entirely more suggestive air. This is some kind of perverted sex-thing,
she thinks. If a person sat on this, those would be pointed right at,
well, everywhere.

Touching it, she finds that although the body of the column is hard, the
thick folds of the almost flower-like top are firm but flexible. They have
a softly yielding, smooth outer layer, but some kind of inner rigidity.
Its too dark to see down into the depths of the top cavity, but she feels
around inside, and discovers that it contains a pool of water. With an
'ugh!' she flicks her fingers, sniffs them. Smell of disinfectant.

She is walking around it again, peering at the shadowy objects inside,
when her foot feels a 'click' in the floor, and the column follows with
a 'whoosh' of water swirling around in the opening. She can see it spraying
in from small openings around the rim.

Dropping to her knees, and peering at the floor, she sees now that there
are several small bumps in a line, just to the 'front' of the column.
They have some symbols, and after a little while, a flare up in the dim
lighting lets her read them. There are two arrows, an X, 1, 2, 3, a pair of
dots, and a circle with a diagonal slash through it, like a 'no whatever'
sign. Which tells her absolutely nothing, she thinks. The flushing has
made her think maybe its just some insane kind of toilet, rather than...
something. She tries pressing the buttons, and finds that with her fingers,
she can't even get them to click. Standing, awkwardly in the weird skirt,
she tries again with her foot.

This works, and she is startled to discover that the two arrows make the
entire column raise and lower, smoothly and slowly. The 'X' seems to do
nothing, as do the others, except for the 'stop' sign, which makes the
'toilet' flush again. The sound of the water reminds her that she really,
really wishes she could go to the toilet herself. Maybe, if she relaxed
enough, she could pee around that catheter thing? But how to get over
the 'bowl', in this chastity skirt?

It takes her a few more moments, idly playing with the buttons, before
it occurs to her to wonder how low the column will go. So she holds the
'down' arrow, waiting as the column very slowly sinks lower... and lower.
Seems to take forever, but it keeps going, and eventually the top curvy-
floppy bit is below the level of her plastic skirt hem. She steps above
the column, and toes the 'up' arrow. The contraption begins slowly rising
into the confines of her shield.

Its almost immediately obvious that the skirt and the toilet are made
to suit each other. From front to back, the 'body-fitting' part of the
toilet is a close fit with the skirt. The hollow sides of the thing are
comfortable for her legs, and clear the straps holding her legs apart.
As the opening of the device approaches her crotch, the back riser is
slipping up over her buttocks, and up, between the skirt and her skin.
Wiggling as it all finally presses into place, she finds that it seems
to make a complete seal all around, and is quite comfortable to settle
down on. Except that its line of contact is all well away from all the
places that are currently begging for contact. The front lip comes up
well over the top of her pubic bone, resting softly against her lower
belly. It had never touched her clit as it passed, despite her trying.
Its tight fit inside the skirt prevented her from shifting her hips
enough to rub that.

She supposes that now would be the time to try and pee. She tries.
Its not easy, with the vibrating thing inside her, and a sex that's
dying, swollen for sex. After some concentration, She can feel herself
relaxing, but nothing happens. The pressure in her bladder remains.
Seems the catheter does too good a job. Annoyed, she wonders what the
other buttons do.

Pressing the 'X' had no effect before, but now when she tries it, she
shrieks in surprise. With a sudden clench, the whole outer edge of the
'toilet' clamps tight against her body. Her body jolts, as her hips
are instantly shifted an inch or two back, and into a new angle, in
which her posterior is a bit more thrust back than before.
Instinctively, she tries to push herself up out of it, straining her
calf muscles to stand on tiptoe. But to no effect. The thing is like
a hand, wrapped around her, flat against her lower spine at rear, and
pressing in above her pubis at front. It is now utterly rigid, beneath
the thin layer of soft surface rubber. With the way it wraps around
the sides of her hips, she simply cannot move her pelvis at all.

After a moment of panicked struggling, she realises the futility
and remembers that this is, after all, probably just a ridiculously
over-engineered toilet. Albeit a Venus Fly Toilet. With the controls
at her feet. She presses the 'X' button again with her toe. Nothing
happens.

A few more presses of that 'X', and she admits to herself that for
reasons unknown, it isn't going to let her free. This makes her feel
very vulnerable - here she is, a vibrator up her vagina, bladder near
redline, clit achingly hard, locked into some kinky ablutional, with
strange mechanical attachments poised not far below her private parts,
which are stuck in an open legged, screw-me pose. She wonders if she
dares to try the other buttons again. For the moment, no.

Several minutes go by, her mind pretty much occupied with the unwanted,
unchanging intermittent pulsing of her internal vibrator, and the
counterpoint monotonous aching need in her clitoris. This is much
worse than simply lying on the bed, she thinks. She tries caressing
her breasts, hoping this might take her mind off 'down there'. It
doesn't - just making things even more frustrating. Eventually, she
comes back to the idea of trying the other buttons.

For starters, she tries the 'no' button, and to her great relief, it
does what it did before - flushes the toilet. Except, now the spray
jets seem to be angled differently, for she feels the jets striking
her all over the skin hidden inside the clamshell's grip. _All_ over
too - it feels like her slit and clit are being needled by about a
hundred sharp little sprays. Its a very nice feeling... very very nice,
so as soon as the flush finishes after a few seconds, she presses the
button again. This time, nothing happens.

In anger and frustration, she stomps her foot down. Dammit! What idiot
designed this stupid toilet! Why doesn't it do what its supposed to!
Impatiently, she tries the others - '1' does nothing, '2' - nothing.
'3' - and something in the mechanism makes a 'thunk' sound, and a motor
whines up to speed. She freezes, wondering what this time. She can
feel some kind of vibration, and it isn't from the thing inside her.
Next the entire clamshell fitted around her hips quite suddenly jerks
upwards several more inches and stops, just high enough that her feet
lift right off the floor. 'Oops' she thinks, and reaches her foot to
the '3' button again. Only she finds she now can't reach *any* of the
buttons!

Then she jerks rigid, with a shocked 'Oh!' as a high pressure jet of
warm water strikes precisely on her little arsehole. She clenches it
reflexively, but can feel the heat inside, where some jetted in too
fast for her. It is a very hard, fast jet too, blasting away at her
clenched opening, pummelling and prodding her, just like a solid probe,
but more insinuating. Straining, grunting, still she can feel little
streams of water forcing their way inside. The water is increasing
in temperature too. Still comfortable, it is now more hot than warm.
Then it suddenly stops, and with a sigh of relief, she lets her tiring
muscle relax. That wasn't so bad, she thinks. Some kind of enema thing.

Just as she is thinking of expelling the hot water that got past her,
the jet abruptly strikes again. This time she is slower to respond,
and what feels like a great deal of quite hot water ends up inside
her, as she struggles to hold out the rest of it. She can feel the
liquid inside her working deeper, as her clenching anus squeezes tight.
The vibrator in her vagina gives another of its shaking bursts, and
she nearly loses concentration. Damn! She wasn't expecting that. How
many times is it going to do this anal jet thing? And the feeling in
her sex, as she clenches her arse... damn, dam, maybe this _is_ a
sex machine after all. If this is '3', are '1' and '2' what she thinks?

Then the jet stops again. She could swear it went for longer the second
time, but its hard to tell. Not knowing whether its going to repeat
again, she is in a quandary wondering whether to try and expel the
hot water now moving deeply inside, or to wait, clenched and ready
to resist another attack. She decides to wait.

So she sits there, resting her weight on the quite comfortable wrap
around her pelvis, concentrating on keeping her arsehole clenched
tight. Which is not so easy with the regular beats of vibration inside
her sex, and the still warm water gurgling inside her rear. She waits
for several times the length of the gap before, then relaxes, thinking
'ah, must have been just the two.'

Of course, when she tries to empty herself, almost nothing happens.
The water has been pushed far up inside by her clenching. She strains
for several moments, achieving nothing much more than a slight
trickling sensation. And just as she relaxes from a push, loose and
open, the jet spears up into her, shocking her right out of thinking
to clench. Its hot, and fast, and forceful, and rushes deep up into
her belly, an expanding warmth working into places she's never felt
anything before. She can feel the expansion of her abdomen, and when
she places her hands over her belly, can even feel the increase there.
Trying to stop it, she struggles to close herself, but the muscles
seem lethargic from the pummelling of hot water, and nothing comes of
the command. Then abruptly as it began, it stops again.

This time, still open and with volume inside, she can feel the water
cascading out of her. Objects in the flow cause ticks of sensation as
they pass. Her vagina spasms on another burst of the vibe, and her
disobedient arsehole spasms shut now too, blocking the outflow.
Trying to relax herself, her palms press reflexively on her still full
belly, massaging the discomfort. She has just got things flowing again,
when another jet strikes, and again she is filling up.

None of this is giving her much opportunity to think clearly, but it
seems to her like the interval then was much shorter than before. Could
it be... (the jet shuts down again) ..random? she thinks, as once again
she is draining. 'That would mean..' she starts, then her vaginal wake-
up call interrupts her train of thought again. She wonders if her clit
can get any harder and more painfully needy. Giving a desperate thrust
of her hips, if only to brush the tip of her clit against the inside of
the clamshell, she succeeds only in pressing the front lip painfully
against her over-full bladder. The jet fires again, thrusting its
finger of hot, probing water deep up her bowels, but this time stops
almost immediately. The feeling is as if a living bar had rammed into
her, then melted instantly into a return flow in her now loosely
relaxed interior. After a few seconds peace, it does that again, only
this time continuing for just long enough to start building up the
liquid swelling of her belly again. Then it stops.

She massages herself, draining, wondering how long this is going to
continue. Her sense of shock and outrage seems to have max'd out,
leaving a kind of numbness, but as she thinks of the men arriving at
nine, and finding her still shuddering and jerking on this machine,
her overworked body rallies with a blush she can feel rather than see,
as a wave of humiliation crashes over her. She signed a contract, stupid,
stupid, and so she is here, and will stay here, and they will do things
like this to her, for as long as they choose.

For what seems like minutes, she stands there, sobbing quietly in self
reproach, as the jet seems to have given up. Most of the water seems
gone now, and she thinks to try the flush. It works this time, the
sensation again intense and erotic, but far too brief to do anything
other than frustrate. Again, it doesn't go a second time when she
tries. It almost seems like the jet ordeal is over, and she is once
again finding the fullness of her bladder the major source of discomfort,
when *blam*, the jet strikes into her again. After the initial blow,
she manages to hold it out for a while, then gives up in resignation.
The waters course up into her again, swirling and filling. This time,
it seems to go on even longer, and by the time it stops her stomach
is very visibly distended. She has found that at moments when the
influx is painful, she can clench and hold back more, till that inside
has distributed itself. But the pounding on her arse is another kind
of pain, and one best to submit to eventually.

Time passes, and the irregular fillings and emptyings continue. The
water fortunately shifts in temperature to more nearly body temperature,
though now and then it surprises her with a hot or icy cold short blast.
She discovers that the flush process is automatic too, with one occurring
every ten or so cycles of the jet. She wishes they would stop. The jet
is intense, but not very sexually stimulating. The flush is something
else. It seems that just those few seconds of needling jets on her sex
will fully relight her need, every time. And despite the discomfort of
her repeatedly bloating and deflating belly, each time the little jets
tease her aching clit back to full hardness, it seems to remain that
way for longer and longer, clinging more stubbornly to its desire for
release. The regular pulsing of vibrations in her sheath, the rising
and falling of the aching need of her clit, and the random inflations
of her belly, all create a never repeating landscape of complex
interactions of sensation. She is hardly ever able to complete more
than a few snatched thoughts. Somewhere in the process, she is surprised
to realise that the animalistic moaning and gasping she hears, is herself.
She tries to stop it, but keeps forgetting, and the sexual sounds effects
resume.

One thought that flitters though her mind repeatedly, is 'This is just
a toilet! What will they do when they are serious?'

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