The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection) (18 page)

rape shack

stuck inside

rape shack

stuck inside...

Her head finally came loose on her neck, swiveling to gaze around the small room.  Dingy.  Dirt floor.  Weird shutters made of branches, drawn closed over the openings.  A counter made from an uneven slat.  A rough, cloth curtain hiding shelves beneath.  Buckets beside it.  A pump protruding from the wall.

No table.

No toilet.

No couch.

Just a lumpy, stuffed nest of a bed on the floor.

Maeve's brain snapped back with the sting of a misfired rubber band.  The man followed her gaze to the bed.  He reacted at the same time she did, catching the toe of the boot that she meant to plow into his crotch.  He pushed her backward with her own foot and she fell hard on the makeshift bed.  She braced to sink through it and slam against the floor, but it was like falling on a marshmallow.  The bed was incredibly soft, but firm enough to stop her from sinking.  Before she could push herself off, the man was on her, pinning her again, like he had on the ground outside.

"Last time I ask.  Where did you come from?"

If she could get her hands free, she'd dig out his eyes, just for making her feel weak.  She pulled her limbs, but he gripped her tighter, squeezing her between his powerful thighs.  The weight of him, spread over the length of her body, began to unhinge her.  But for Maeve, unhinging didn't send her into some slobbering feminine hysteria.  Instead, it made her downright feral.

"From hell, how's that, you fuckwad!" She bucked and flailed her legs and tried to spit on him, but it only fell back on her own cheek.  He remained stoic as she struggled.  She wasn't getting anywhere—again.  When she lay panting—again—the man leaned over her and placed his hand softly on the lower part of neck.  His thumb rubbed lazily against the hollow between her collarbones.  She'd bite him if she could.  She'd rip off his tongue and spit it across the room if he tried to kiss her.

But he didn't.  He only stroked her neck and stared into her eyes, as if he was trying to unlock some door inside her.

"Get off me," she hissed.  He didn't reply.  Just stroked.  Gentle, even strokes.  "You're wearing my skin off!"

He didn't stop.  His touch was feather light and his gaze remained locked on hers, as unshakeable as his muscled body.  She closed her eyes, frustrated, but when she opened them, his eyes were still there. 

"Quit eye-raping me, you prick!"

His gaze remained.  His thumb smoothed along the tip of her collarbone.  She tried to arch her back, determined to give this one her all and knock him off for good.  She let all her energy go in one frantic fit.

He grabbed the rope he'd brought in.  It scratched the skin of her wrists as he bound her hands.  He attached the end of the rope to a loop on the wall and Maeve finally landed a sharp kick to his side.

"You little sheathen!" he said, gripping his rib, but Maeve didn't care.  She worked at the weave of rope around her wrists.  It wouldn't come loose, but tightened as she struggled.  She turned back and swung her leg out at him again.   This time, he chuckled.  "Who did you get away from?"

"Where is East King Street?  What is this place?  Where is the Archive?" she asked.  His forehead wrinkled as he gazed at her again, as if she were speaking some exotic language.  She groaned.  "Is this Lancaster?"

After a long pause he sat back, shaking his head.  

"No," he said softly.  "This is the lot of the Fly House."

"What about Lancaster?  How far away am I?"

"What is Lancaster?"

"A city?"  Her response oozed sarcasm.  He smiled at her like she was a child and she imagined ways to rip his throat out once she got loose.  "What state is this?"

"The state of this arrangement, you mean?"

"State...you moron!  Which state am I in?" she groaned.

"This is the Fly House.  Are you from Hold House?"

Maeve squinted at him as he rattled off places she never heard of:  Ice House, Hot House, Breed House. 

"Where is Fly House?  What state?" she asked.

"The state of it is none of your concern, woman," the
Neanderthal said.  "How is it that I haven't seen you before and you don't know who I am?"

"Luck," Maeve said, tugging on the ropes.  "Untie me if you want me to talk to you."

"I don't think so," he said with a dry smile.  Her hands made fists in the bindings.

"Then screw you, buddy."

He crossed the small space between them so quickly, Maeve's breath caught.  She tried to throw her hands up to guard her face against a strike, but he didn't hit her.  Worse, he waited until she lowered her hands again, so she had to take stock of her own cowardice.

"If you want to eat," he said, "then you're going to answer me."

"I'm full," Maeve shot back, but her venom fell short as he laughed at her.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Hot Season Six, Year 2095

Steven heard the sound from Supply, the tidal wave of rock and soil as it caved in, and he knew.   The Archivers howled and Casper stumbled lethargically from his room, hair like helicopter blades.

"One of the halls must've caved in," he said, wiping his eyes before pushing his glasses into place.

"No shit, Sherlock," Nearly Dead Dave had grumbled as he made his way toward the noise. 

Amber joined them in the hall.  "Sounds like it came from down by the Egg Room.  Nobody was down there, were they?"

She was looking at Steven because he was closest, but her gaze weighed down his shoulders.  Steven shrugged it off. 

"How am I supposed to know?"  But he was worried that he did know.  Maeve had gone off in that direction earlier.  He'd watched her go and he hadn't said a word.  In fact, he'd watched the way her rear end rocked as she had walked away.

Steven followed the throb of Archivers toward the hall.  He let Nearly Dead Dave and Casper take the lead.  The worry mounted within him, but he clung to the hope that maybe Maeve had returned without notice.

He tapped on her suite door as he passed.  He stopped, waited for her to open the door.  Nothing.  He knocked sharply the second time.  Every second that the door remained shut, an unclasped safety pin seemed to twist in his gut.  He already knew, but he desperately wanted to be wrong. 

He knew.

His Maeve was gone.

***

Diem brought in a chair from the porch and lit the lights on the walls with a bit of a fire seed.  She watched his every move.  It was hot in the shack and with it all closed up, the two of them were quickly soaked with sweat. 

But Maeve Aypotu, as she called herself, stared at him as she sat, shackled by the guide rein and tethered to a hook in the wall near his bed.  She couldn't lay back, but he didn't think she would even if she could.  She perched there, on the edge of his bed, leaning against the wall, her eyes sleepy, but never leaving him.

At least, not until Eon whistled.  It was the approaching whistle that Diem had taught his best friend, to keep Forge from frying him.  Diem opened the shack door.  Maeve, glistening with sweat, sat up and finally stared at the door, instead of Diem.

"Blessings," Eon greeted as he stepped inside. 

"Blessings, Eon," Diem returned.

"Came looking for you, since you didn't turn up at last meal.  By Ahanas, it's like a sheathen's breath in here, what are you..."

He caught sight of Maeve.  Eon's eyes ran over her, her bound hands, the rein attached to the wall.

"Who's this?" he asked as he peered at her face again.  "Leak in the dividing wall somewhere?"

"Do you know her?" Diem asked.  Eon stepped closer, studying Maeve.  She waited till she thought he was in close enough and shot her foot out to kick him.  She was slow from the heat and Eon hopped easily over her ankles, like a childhood game of twirl.

"I'm not the one all the women are presented to.  She's as jumpy as a swol before a hating, isn't she."  Eon turned to Diem with a grin.  "Did I interrupt you?"

"Fuck you," Maeve growled.  Eon turned to her with wide eyes before swinging them back to Diem.

"Archaic?  Out loud?" He gaped.  Diem moved around the side of Maeve, tugging her head back by her hair.  She stared up at him, hardly able to swallow as he studied her.

"I don't know her, from any of the Houses," he said.  "Take a good eye of her.  And look at her boots.  Have you ever seen anything like them?"

Eon whistled low once he took a good look at her footwear.  His eyes also travelled up her legs to the spot between.  It lingered a moment before hiking up to her breasts.

"I don't think I know her," he said.  "How can that be?"

Diem shook his head.  "I don't know."

"Do you think the other Houses are hiding women?"

Diem released Maeve's hair.  She spit on his leg.  He ignored it.  "What purpose would it serve?  They would only lose generation for themselves," he said.  "She says she is from a Lancaster."

"Not a Lancaster, you moron," Maeve grumbled.  "It's a city.  Educated much?"

"She has a mouth," Eon shook his head.  "Is she loose in the mind?"

"I'll show you who's loose, you hairy mother fucker," Maeve snarled, but Diem sprang forward.  He grabbed her face and although he didn't apply the force he could, the pressure in his fingertips stalled her speech.

"I will bind your mouth, if that is what you want," he said.  "Last chance on this too.  You've tested my patience all evening and I'm through with it.  One more word, and I'll close your mouth for a while."

He stared down at her until her gray eyes darted away.  He released his grip and stepped away.

"Archaic can get you killed faster than anything else can," Eon said with a shake of his head. 

Diem waited for the woman's reply, but this time, she wisely sat silent.  He turned back to his friend.

"I'm not sure I trust her to stay quiet," he murmured.  "We don't need the Houses coming in to retrieve what shouldn't even be here."

"You think she was placed here for attack?" Eon asked.  Diem rubbed his chin. It was a distinct possibility.  If a woman was claimed to be taken, the House claiming could attack under the guise of searching for the woman they were missing.

"Possibly.  But the way she speaks, I think she's gone missing."  He gestured, mixing around his brain area, and the woman bucked from her place on the wall.

"Screw you both!" 

"That's it," Diem said as he took a piece of fabric from a shelf.  The woman kicked and wrestled, but the fabric was soon secured with a knot at the back of her head.  She drooled around the rough fabric as Diem leaned in close to her, waving a finger in front of her nose.  "You need to learn obedience, Maeve Aypotu.  I'm not sure who is responsible for letting you act the way you do, but I am the Rha of the House you are at now, so I will be the one to teach you."

Around the gag, she mumb
led a fairly clear, fuck you.

***

Phuck stumbled out of the spindlings, utterly empty.  His body was weak, his brain exhausted, and his ability to discharge another ounce of anything, in any way, was inconceivable. 

And Wind was hot on his tail. 

"Where are you going?" she called after him.  They'd had coitus, both of the human and Plutian varieties, so many times that Phuck couldn't even scramble up enough brain cells to figure out which way he needed to walk to reach his cabin. 

The woman was a machine; one that milked him of every sexual drop and still wanted more.  He'd tried to get away from her twice already, pleading once for a glass of water and again for the ability to walk and stretch the muscles in his lower back, but she'd insisted on staying with him for both excursions.  Both ended in sex.

But now, hours later, the novelty had been shaved right off the whole affair.  Phuck had felt it was important to mate the human well, to prove his standing as a powerful overseer in every way possible.  But after he'd proved it and proved it and proved it again, he was depleted to the point that he didn't give one care who was the most powerful entity on Earth anymore.  If the most powerful entity on Earth had been a hampig, and if it would've agreed to take Wind off Phuck's hands—and all his other extending appendages—the Plutian would've gladly bowed down and swore allegiance to the thing. 

Wind rushed after him, diving and grabbing Phuck's ankle.  Weakened as he was, her grip brought him down to the ground with her. 

"Don't leave me," she cried, rubbing her nose on her arm, while tightening her grip on the overseer's ankle.

"There's nothing left in me, woman!" Phuck tried to kick free of her, but she held tight.  All the commotion sent a waft of her scent to him and his urge to get away was steadily replaced with the inkling of a more rutting urge.  It wasn't as pressing as it had been a few hours ago, but still, his urine straw gave a hearty tap on
what was left of the front door of his trousers.

Wind climbed over the ground, scaling up Phuck's leg, until she was panting into the black pit of his face.  Her fingers worked at the front of his pants, dragging out his miserable straw.  Her hair fell from her shoulder, dusting the shadow where his obscured nose was, and he breathed in eagerly.

He was drawn up short.  What suddenly greeted him was not the ambrosia that had called to him hours before.  Now, it was her—and only her—a sour mingling of armpit juice and the dirt they'd rolled in.  There was a hint of hampig pile on her as well.  The delicious scent had vanished.  He refused to take another breath, since he was still a little startled at what the last had to offer. 

His urine straw sank back to his thigh like a day old glop of
gorne.  Wind, however, wasn't detoured.  She worked the loose meat between Phuck's legs until he squealed.

"Come on!" she snapped. 

"I hardly think you can expect more from me," Phuck replied.  "My vital organs have already sacrificed their moisture to fund the last enterprise!  Anymore and I could die!"

"Just once!" she insisted.  She jerked his straw so hard, a sharp wire of pain scaled up through his belly.  That was enough.  He shoved her away and when she tried to dive back to her original position, he caught her in a headlock.  She twisted like a crazed woman, grabbing for his urine straw, until her face was wedged in his armpit.  

"By Ahanas, you reek of drait!" she screamed.  "Let go of me!"

Phuck was too exhausted to argue, but most likely she was right.  They probably had rolled in several different hampig piles, just as he suspected. 

"I will not let go, if you are planning to molest me again!"

"I wouldn't touch you if you begged me!  You stink!" she snapped as he shoved her away.  He was surprised to see that her sight holes glittered in the moonlight and the lower ledge of her food receptacle quivered as it pulled down at the edges.  Was this sadness?  Or just disappointment that he had squelched her attack on him?  Her gaze skittered away. 

"I wasn't the one running after you, grabbing your momentum sticks and wrestling your urine straw!" Phuck continued, trying to prove his case.  She covered her food receptacle and scent intake with the back of one sensory extension.  She sniffled behind the covering.  Phuck could not make sense of it.  She'd repulsed him and now she was showing the human characteristics of remorse.  Baffling.

"It was only because of how you did that...how you made me feel..." she sniffled.

"It seemed that you heartily enjoyed the Plutian mating..."

"I did," she insisted.  "I did enjoy it."

"Oh." 

Baffled before, Phuck was at an absolute loss now.  She did enjoy it, but she leaked from her sight holes.  He replayed the matings in his own cranial processor and found that he had enjoyed both matings as well.  At least, for that moment.  That is why it made no sense how he was consumed with the thought of having her hours ago, but now, she quite fully repulsed him.  Just looking at her made his lower region deflate like a suffocated ratfish.

"You don't like me," she said.  He was going to agree, it was only fair to tell her the truth, but then her entire face crumbled into such misery, Phuck lost his nerve. 

"I liked you enough," he said, but even his tone gave away how unsure he was of his own sentiment.  "I touched your flaps with my mouth.  I would surely say that indicates an enjoyment of you."

"You don't want me!  It wasn't real!" she shrieked.  She drew away with such a look of horror that Phuck felt a twinge of heat at the edges of his cheeks.  It was an odd sensation that left him wanting to look away, to rub a toe against the dirt, to sink into the ground.  He promptly shook it off, but she was back to sniffling.  "I mean nothing to you."

If she was going to pursue the answer so tirelessly, he felt it only right to give it to her. 

"That is true," he said.  She erupted in sobs that distressed him.  The sound pulled the tips of his ears toward the back of his head.  It made his cranium ache and the food sack, deep within him, roll unpleasantly.  "Many people mean nothing to me.  You should not despair.  You are in a majority."

"You don't understand, Phuck," she said, reaching out for the length that preceded his upper sensory extensions.  He didn't offer it, but she grabbed hold of him anyway.  "I need you.  What you did to me...no man has made me feel so much before.  You must love me, even a bit, to make me feel like that."

He shook his head.  "No, not a bit.  But you are human and it must overwhelm you, how superior Plutian mating is to your human rutting.  Humans poke only the urine straw between the flaps, which, while pleasurable, is also quite limited.  Plutians penetrate the entire body with their energy."

"The archaic for that was making love," she whispered.

"It does make one feel charmed for a moment," he said. 

"Could you try, Phuck?  Could you try to love me?"