Devastation Pt. 02

"MMMMNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGH

MMMMMMNNNNGGGGGGHHHHHH

MMMMMMMMNNNNGGGGGGGGGGG."

Wave after wave, and Selena's stroking and pressing not diminishing, not letting up. Making wave after wave of cum more intense than the last.

"MMMMMMMNNNNNNGGGGGGGGHHHHH

MMMMMMMMNNNGGGGGGGGGGGG

NNNNNNNGGGGGMMMMMMMMMMMMM."

Only eventually letting off a little. Letting the girl come down slowly. Very slowly, letting the intense waves fade back slowly until she had to all-but-support the young girl on the stool.

"Goooood Girllllllllllll."

Selena's tone dripping with sexuality as she brings Stefani down. Selena sliding her two fingers out of the young girl. Looking at them, letting Stefani see them dripping and saturated with her own juices before she idly wipes the fingers down one of the young girl's thighs.

"Mmmmm, most definitely you are your mother's daughter, darling."

That almost huskily whispered statement accompanied by a wide grin as Selena takes out a cell phone from her bag and speed-dials one of her stored numbers. In just a few seconds, she is speaking into the phone.

"She'll be all bagged up here in a couple of hours. Just come to the underground car park and buzz the penthouse to let me know you're here. I'll take the service lift down and see you there....... Yeah, yeah, everything is cool. Putty in my hands.... bye....."

The other thing about shock, or more importantly, a near-death experience, is that you never get over it. Not really. Selena would have figured that in her pre-planning. Allowed for the fact that Stefani wouldn't be capable of giving her any trouble as she completed her work at the apartment. Knowing that the young girl's mind would be in turmoil. Incapable of logical thought. Even less capable of rational thought and impossible to, even in the murkiest depths of what she was experiencing right now, think of, let alone execute, an escape plan.

"B-but.... w-why? W-why me? W-what did I do?"

Stefani's voice, stuttering, escaping through the sliced latex between hisses of breath. Selena listening to, even enjoying, the purest form of dread that was dripping from the young girl's voice. Dread and uncertainty as to where this day was going to end for her. She could still die... or worse. How could anything be worse? Little did Stefani know. Little did she realize that death would be a release. Little did she know how sorry she would become for not choosing the 'death option.' Little did she, could she, know that her life from this point would be.... a nightmare. A living nightmare. How COULD a teenager know that? Or even comprehend it?

"Oh, this is nothing personal, honey. You have your mom to thank for this. But I figure you'll get to thank your mom in person at some point. Don't be too hard on her, though. Even she didn't 'do' anything wrong. Petra is Petra... and you are, well, 'you.'"

Selena's voice trails off as she continues her work, Stefani's arms, each bent at the elbows, doubled and brought together tightly, her wrists secured to corresponding upper-arms just below the shoulders using heavier duty, broad latex straps. Such simple bondage applied leaves the arms useless. In effect, flailing stumps. Comparable possibly to having the arms amputated at the elbows. The same then, for her deliciously long legs. Stefani laid carefully, almost lovingly, on the floor as one at a time her legs were bent at the knees, brought back up behind each thigh, tightly then secured, ankle to very upper thigh. The latex straps just brushing the delicate flesh where thighs meet crotch area. Selena allowing herself a little smile... the slick wetness, still leaking a little from Stefani's sex. The little quiverings of the girl's flesh partly due to her fright and her fear but also partly due to the intense orgasm she had enforcedly received at the fingers, and thumb, of her captor.

Selena, standing up slowly and back, taking a look at her work. A naked, immobilized, and pretty, helpless, young girl at her stiletto'd feet. Something quite adolescent, quite infant-like in the way Stefani moves her 'stumps' of arms and legs. Rolling onto her side, the plumpness of her still-developing, yet even now, large breasts rolling with her. Selena clenching her thighs at the sight. The latex hood still intact. Clinging to, and secured to, the pretty contours of her face and head. The only slight imperfection in the vision -- her long red hair -- now slightly matted and emerging from the back of the tight neck-collar of the hood. But another clench of the thighs, in the knowledge that Stefani would, indeed, be 'perfected' at some point in the future. For now, the imperfection adding to that naivety that dripped from every pore and every orifice of the helpless teenager.

"I have to go get something from my car. You won't go anywhere now... will you?"

Stefani shaking her head, agreeing that she wouldn't be going anywhere. The dryness of her own joke didn't escape Selena as she headed out of the door towards the service lift. Using the service lift lessened the chances of being seen by anyone else in the block of luxury apartments that Petra's company owned.

An hour later, Stefani had been secured into a loose, heavy-duty latex body bag. The package resembled a bag of laundry. Indeed, if anyone were to see Selena, plus bag, on her way to the service lift on the way down to the waiting van, that's what they would think -- private laundry company. A discreet change of clothes for Selena to reflect that. A work suit, a boiler suit with the badge of a non-existent laundry company embroidered onto the breast pocket. OK, OK, the high-heels stayed, but they wouldn't be noticed in a passing, fleeting moment. Neither would the tiny tube emerging from the uppermost end of the bag, either. The breathing tube, clenched gratefully between Stefani's teeth and lips and just emerging into the open air, allowing her to continue to breathe. And the threat, the chilling threat, just before the bag was sealed.

"Don't move. Don't make a sound. Or I will make your death a slow, very slow painful one.... understand?"

The threat, almost making Stefani lose control of her bladder, but not quite. A nod of the eyes. A blink also of her latex-covered eyes. She understood. Understood completely.

The buzzer sounded. The transport had arrived. Selena dragged the bag to the service lift. She didn't see anyone. Didn't pass anyone in the corridor or in the lift. She exchanged polite pleasantries with the two fearsome men in the blacked-out van as the bag containing Stefani was lifted and bundled in. The van was locked, secured, and left the building first. Selena stripped off the boiler suit. She hated it. Then left in her own car. Mission accomplished!

TWO - Petra

That was then. A lot of water has passed under the bridge between then and now...

The secure unit was so detached, so secluded in its existence and in its relationship with the main clinic that the effects on 'inmates' were all-but-guaranteed just by being placed there. Housed in the subbasement levels and deliberately dark and stark. Any form of contact from outside was a no-no. A deathly, insipid dread was always the first thing that crept up on Sabirah's victims. That, and the lack of any contact with anyone except Debra - the little old lady who ran the unit. And, of course, with Sabirah herself during her infrequent visits.

In Petra's case, she had all of that, and some more. The clinical psychologist had made extra-special provisions for Petra. She was her 'special subject.' She was The One. The former mother, the former city whiz-girl, was already convinced that she was being held completely legally and above-board. That she was all but a sexual offender who needed to be held in a secure unit for her own good. And for the good of others. She already thought she was so terribly sick because of her high sexuality, and that the 'illness' had been passed on to her own daughter, her own offspring... How could a mother do that to her child? Did she deserve to be a mother at all? In her head, already a definite 'no' to that question. That in itself had been a major contribution to her mental breakdown. The guilt. The terrible, terrible creeping all-consuming guilt. And the shame. The paralyzing, soul-destroying shame.

But through all that... the awful, 'obscene' changes that had happened to her intimacies whilst at the gradual, creeping mercy of Sabirah's state-of-the-art laser systems. Not tissue-destroying laser beams. But tissue-enhancing, tissue-sensitizing beams that cajoled and massaged the molecules of Petra's most sensitive feminine flesh into almost bare, intense, orgasm-producing nerve endings. Enlarged... permanently dripping clitoris, all thick and quivering like it had a drooling, dribbling life of its own. Swollen, and filled, its membrane-sack stretched to its limit. Always quivering in that obscene way.

Thick, distended labia... all enlarged, extra-sensitive, feeding the clitoris more. Perma-wet and slippery, its sensitivity causing it to produce its own thick juices constantly. Feeding it with those throbs, and thrums. Permanent hypersensitivity fed by those constant, tortuous throbs.

".....Oh God, those throbs!....'

If only they would make their way all the way to the tip of her clitoris. So she could orgasm. For an orgasm, the tip had to be touched. Had to be pressed, caressed. But that wasn't her call. Just like her teat-like nipples. Swollen, heavy, and with throbs of their own emanating from the inner bases. Like itches that couldn't be scratched. Deep, deep itches. Mind-numbing itches that never abate. Tugging at those invisible strings between nipples and clitoris. The tips of her nipples and/or her clitoris had to be touched, caressed, or pressed in order for her to orgasm. No contact with the tips, no orgasm. Just the throbs. The throbs that always, but always, fell short of the mind-numbing orgasms.

".....Oh God, those throbs.... please God, those throbs!....."

The 'always there,' nagging, deep-seated throbs that teased and denied orgasms all at the same time, constantly, all of the time. Making her focus, even through her guilt. Even through her shame. Through everything, making them -- the throbs, the little constant tingles of pleasure -- the second most important feelings in her ever-diminishing world. Second only to the super-intense, absolute, mega-nerve-shattering orgasms that she was sometimes, occasionally, treated to. It cannot have escaped her that, in all this... her daughter, her offspring, had been demoted to third place in her list of priorities. But... she was always there. Always. Her beloved daughter, the gorgeous, impossibly pretty Stefani, who, after one of the super-orgasms, nagged and nagged and fed the guilt deep, deep inside her.

Petra knew that Stefani was already housed somewhere, somehow, in the same establishment as herself. And that she was going through her own form of hell. She had seen her through that one-way glass. Poor, poor Stefani. Sabirah had played an ace card with the latex mock-up of her old school uniform for Stefani to wear. The turmoil in Petra's head. The recognition of the uniform and harking back to the time when she had been caught, by another teacher, sucking the cock of her English teacher. That hadn't been long after Petra had been introduced to her own G spot by her own sisters. That, another story. All now linked, and servicing a deep-seated guilt inside Petra.

"So we agree, that rehabilitation for you cannot happen. Whatever is wrong with you has gone too far. You're not the same person you were. Quite frankly, I think you are beyond any kind of help...and this kind of narrows down the options somewhat..."

Sabirah spoke to Petra slowly. Deliberately slowly, ensuring each word dripped into her psyche, and stayed there. The former city executive was in a secured state. That was a way of life for her these days. Unable to move, barely a muscle, and in excruciating restraint that both exposed her and continued to break her, just that little more, with every passing minute.

She was in a seated position. On a low wooden stool but her stiletto'd, booted feet had been pulled back, right back, off the floor and each ankle secured to each corresponding thigh. Consequently, her thighs were wide apart, knees pointing down floor-wards. Her arms were behind her. This way, her full weight was focused on her tailbone, and on her intimacies, which were pressed into the wooden seat of the stool. Far from subduing the constant throbs down there, this position contained, and yet focused them, intensely even more. With even the slightest muscle twitch came an even slighter friction. The friction caused an enhanced throb. Maybe coaxing it a little closer to the clitoris tip. But never quite all the way there. Always, but always, falling just a little short. A little short of that erupting volcano.

Her elbows had been secured, touching together, rigidly forcing her shoulders right back, not quite touching. From the tight, inescapable wristbands, a length of bungee elastic pulling the wrists down behind her, and then secured to an eye in the floor. Just the tiniest of movement available, if it was really needed, or wanted, but always followed by an elasticized 'snap' back into position. The effort required not making it a desirable movement at all.

The deep red plume that was her hair had been plaited and intertwined also with some bungee cord. This cord, complete with plaited hair, had been pulled directly upwards. It had been fixed into the hook of a pulley system and then pulled upwards until tight. Taught. Forcing Petra to sit on the stool bolt upright. Her neck stretched, still inside its organic-like, tight-fitting neck corset. Shoulders back, and D cup, shrink-wrapped breasts forced to thrust out in front of her. As though in themselves, begging for attention.

A bizarre sight. Even in such a gratuitously fucked-up position, an inner-beauty, an inner-radiance still exuded from the depleted, almost insane woman. She still wore the transparent latex under-suit. She still wore the all-in-one shiny black latex cat suit, too. And still, her grotesquely enlarged, engorged nipples protruded, exposed. And her clitoris, and labia, also exposed and in hard-pressing contact with the wood of the stool. The attached hood allowing her full, always deep red lips to protrude. Mostly trembling, deliciously so. The eyes, rimmed with distorting latex rims, bulging, open wide, staring, stark. On this occasion, her eyes partly inhibited by the films of latex secured via the velcro sealing-point above, below, and to either side of each eye. Limited vision was better, marginally, than if a completed blindfold were fitted. Her nose, invisible except for the two tiny holes in the rubber hood. Nostrils held open by little inserted nipples. And then there were the two feeding tubes... redundant for this particular episode in Petra's life, just dangling loosely, one from each nostril, the end of each resting on her permanently pouting top lip.

The sight of Petra was bizarre. Shocking even. But she was even more accentuated, even more enhanced in the dimly lit gloom and starkness of the bare room. The thick, firm, latex neck corset-come-brace making it look all the more harsh. Just the stool she was 'rested' on. A table a little way in front of her and a chair behind that table for Sabirah. Sometimes Sabirah sat. Other times she stood and circled the girl. In sight. Out of sight. Round and back in front of her. She spent a lot of time studying Petra. Enjoying the sight of this former carefree woman now experiencing the kind of Hell that cannot even be imagined in someone's worse nightmares.

"Y-yesssss, y-yesssss, w-we a-agree."

Petra's full lips barely moved as she acknowledged that any form of rehabilitation was out of the question for her. It was strange to hear such a well-educated woman, so very used to speaking clearly and distinctly to other people on all levels, reduced to practically a dribbling, drooling 'hiss-like' whispering. Her tongue slipped out and swiped across the width of her mouth as another of those constant, deep throbs washed through the deeper of her intimacies.

"Good Girl. So, we have to decide a way ahead..."

The forty-nine-year old clinical psychologist had got off her chair and was pacing the room side-to-side in full, if a little restricted, view of Petra. The clip-clop of her high-heels on the bare tiled floor, created quite a sharp, distinct sound that cut through the hissing of breath through Petra's nasal cavities.

"Actually letting you go... back into the 'normal' world is really not an option. I couldn't do that. You need to understand that."

Sabirah waited for an acknowledgment

"Y-yessss, yes I understand..."

"Good Girl... So, I have to think of how best to use this situation. This predicament that we have here now. I think... well, I know that we can come up with something that suits both myself, and you. How would you like that, Petra?"

Again, Sabirah spoke slowly, very clearly, so that she could be sure it was all sinking in to the mind-in-turmoil that was Petra's.

"Mmmmmm, y-yesss, yesssss please."

Sabirah liked the tones of gratitude that came from Petra quite regularly these days.

"Ok... well... You are already out of the circulation of the 'normal' population. And out of the minds of the people you used to be associated with. I see no reason to change that. Indeed, I doubt that any of the people in your other life, before your 'problems' became evident, would want to be associated with you now... what do you think? Do you think I am right, Petra? Hmmmmm?"

A deep intake of breath by Petra, then a 'blow out' of her famously gorgeous lips as she exhaled.

"Y-yessssss, y-yes, y-you are right. T-they wouldn't want to know me.... t-they would be disgusted with me... totally...Y-you always know what is best for me.... y-you always know..."

There was just a desolate acceptance and defeat in her voice. It dripped with melancholy and was followed by another hiss through her nostrils as the throbs continued from the base of her nipples and clitoris.

"That's right, Petra. I do know what's best for you. I know all too well. Sooooo... I suggest instead of trying to rehabilitate you back into 'normal' society, with 'normal' people... we go in the other direction.... Instead of trying to 'fix' this sexual 'illness' you have... Instead of trying to 'repair' you... we 'accept' that you will never be the same again and that we simply make 'use' of you.... and your 'illness'.... take you to a different level. Focus entirely on your 'twisted' 'perverted' 'sexuality.' Really let you exist for no other reason..."

Sabirah deliberately emphasizing certain words so the helplessness, and enormity of Petra's situation, is highlighted. Petra sitting, secured painfully, listening, letting every word sink in. Every word resting on her psyche. Always deliberately kept just on the side of sane so that she can understand everything that is happening. Everything that is happening to her and everything that is being explained to her. Would this mean she would get more pleasure.... more orgasms? Those fucking beautiful, nerve-shattering orgasms? Would all she have to think about was those throbbings.... and those orgasms....?

"W-what about.... m-my d-daughter... Stefani...?"

Her question was kind of open-ended. Another bolt of guilt had reminded her of her daughter. Oh god, yes, her daughter!

"Well... if you agree that this is the way ahead... I see no reason why yourself and Stefani cannot be reunited at some point. Of course... she has issues as well. Very similar to yours, so our agreement must encompass Stefani as well. But most-definitely, I see you both being reunited some time in the future. In one form or another."