Chris s Surprise Prize Part 3
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Eyes On The Prize - Chapter 5 free porn video
EYES ON THE PRIZE - CHAPTER FIVE
I could see the blade descending and there was nothing I could do to stop
it. There was no plastic block to protect me. The razor-sharp edge sliced
cleanly through my exposed organ and sent blood fountaining into the air.
I opened my mouth to scream, but the bright red geyser filled it, choking
off any sound.
It was too late now to escape, but I tried anyway, desperately struggling
against the drug-induced paralysis that held me in the chair. With a
supreme effort I coughed the blood out of my mouth, but more was still
pouring in, and I was drowning in it, while below me the terrible blossom
of pain filled my lower torso.
And now there was nothing left to do except ... wake up.
There was bile in the back of my throat, and a terrible pressure on my
bladder. Soaked in sweat, I half rolled, half fell out of bed. Clambering
to my feet, I reached under the hem of the pink babydoll nightie to feel
for what I knew to be there, but feared would be missing. Blind panic
gripped me as my questing fingers found nothing ... but then I remembered.
My cock no longer hung free, nor stiffened with arousal. It was taped down
between my legs, unfeeling and unused. But it was still there and that was
all - or nearly all - that mattered.
With a half sob of relief I stumbled towards the toilet cubicle in my
cell. As always, I had to say my name to gain access. Not my real name,
the one I held tight inside me, but the hated one that the vicious women
who'd imprisoned me had bestowed: "Stacey." And not spoken in my true
voice, but the soft, high-pitched version I had cultivated, to satisfy the
monitor in the silver torc that now permanently encircled my neck.
My stomach heaving, I fell to my knees and retched into the toilet bowl.
But it was a dry heave - there was nothing left to come up. Wearily, I
changed position and endeavoured more successfully to relieve the pressure
on my bladder. With all the water I had drunk the night before, and the
regulator inserted into the base of my trapped member allowing only a
trickle of urine to emerge, I knew I would be sitting here for quite a
while. Which allowed time to think - and the thoughts weren't pleasant.
The good news was that I had survived to reach the third round of the
Competition - or at least so I presumed. I hadn't in fact seen anyone else
since being returned to my room after the ordeal in the guards' common
room. But if I had been one of the 12 inmates to be evicted after the
second round contests, surely I wouldn't be here now? Besides, I'd set a
record in the deepthroat test, and that should logically have scored me
enough to survive - shouldn't it?
Well, I had to assume I was safe now. But the bad news was that the tests
would surely only get harder - and after the way I'd been treated
yesterday, it seemed I was a marked man. (I refused to think of myself as
the woman that my captors were plainly intent on transforming me into.)
I wasn't going to stop doing whatever it took to win the Competition -
that was the only way I could keep my masculinity, it seemed. But I
plainly needed to be more careful, or perhaps more subtle, about my
tactics. Sneakily practising for a test that I had correctly foreseen
coming had been a lifesaver - or perhaps a cocksaver. But it had also
exposed me, bringing about both mental and physical punishments that had
been as swift as they were brutal.
The lasting scars of the fake guillotining of my organ were apparent from
the nightmare I had just endured. I wasn't sure I would ever forget the
terror of that moment. I could only hope I would not keep reliving it in
my sleep. And as for the physical reprisals ...
As I walked out of the cubicle, I glanced at the phallic feeder that, as
usual, had been inserted through the access hole in my cell door. My
stomach gave a lurch. There was no way I could face using it to gain the
protein shake that had become our sole source of nourishment. I would just
have to go hungry ...
I went to the wardrobe, which as usual had been replenished overnight. (I
still didn't know how they did that, although I assumed that we were given
a drug that made us sleep soundly enough that we didn't hear or notice the
change of clothes.)
Waiting for me was a skimpy school uniform, comprising a short pink plaid
skirt, a see-through white blouse, a pink striped tie, a white padded bra,
white cotton panties and long white socks. But instead of the flat shoes I
had been expecting, and which we had consistently been given so far, I
found the black high-heeled pumps that I had worn yesterday for my ill-
fated walk (or stagger, really) down the catwalk.
I looked closely at the bra, as it was the first time such an item had
been supplied. It had gel inserts that uncannily mimicked the weight and
pliability of real breasts - at least to a person fondling them. Even
though I'd taken off a few bras in my time and understood how the catches
worked, it took me several goes, working awkwardly behind my back, to
fasten the hooks. When I'd finished, I adjusted its position so that it
sat neatly above the corset that, as always, I had kept on overnight. I
couldn't resist giving the breastforms a squeeze, marvelling at how
lifelike they felt.
The one problem was that neither the bra nor the blouse went well with the
black corset. But there was nothing I could do about that. It had been
made clear that we had to wear a corset at all times, except when
showering. And even if I had a white one, I wouldn't have been able to get
it on and fasten the drawstrings on my own.
As I donned the rest of the uniform, I also worried about the fact that I
no longer felt humiliated or even vaguely embarrassed about wearing such
clothing. Though if it had been that pink ballet costume ...
When I was done, I mechanically put on my makeup, selected a brunette wig
(the blonde one I generally preferred had been left behind in the guards'
bathroom, in a revolting state) and sat down on the bed to wait.
Yesterday, I would have taken the opportunity to practise walking in the
unfamiliar heels. But for today at least, I was feeling too downtrodden.
I glanced again at the feeder, wondering if I could force myself to go
through the routine of fellating it to gain nourishment. But the mere
sight of it brought back the recollection of what had happened to me the
day before in the common room.
When I first saw five of the female guards wearing the same giant strapons
that had been used on me in the deepthroat test, I had feared they were
going to rape me. I had seen that treatment meted out to the earliest
evictees. But while I had clearly been given to them to play with, a
violation of that kind was off limits, it seemed. They still joked about
it, however, as they forced me over and over again to recreate my
performance in the test.
Had it just been a matter of taking their massive dildos down my throat, I
could perhaps have managed it. But I wasn't counting on a feature of the
strapons that had not been revealed during the test I had taken - or
perhaps the guards were wearing enhanced models. The sex toys each had a
special button that, when pressed, fired a foul-tasting cream out of a
nozzle in the tip. So the guards could effectively "come" in my mouth or
on my face. Which they did - repeatedly.
And that wasn't the worst of it. When they tired of using me, of slapping
me in the face with their dildos, of soaking me in their cream, they
insisted I "needed a drink to wash down all that delicious cum". I was
taken to the bathroom, where they and Ilona, their colleague who had
brought me to them and provided a raucous commentary on their fun, took
their turn to piss into my mouth. They insisted I drink it all down, or be
spanked as a punishment.
The flow each time was too great for me to hold in my mouth, so that I
spilled pee all over the floor and all over myself. Which earned me
several stinging blows on the buttocks, while spread humiliatingly over
the administering guard's knee.
To top it off, the second load of urine that found its way into my belly,
on top of the bucketloads of cream I had been forced to ingest, caused me
to violently throw up - though fortunately I had time to make it to a
basin. Had I vomited on the floor, I dread to think what they would have
done. But my weak stomach didn't cause them to stop either - they just
kept going. I would swallow their piss, cough up my guts, then rinse and
repeat. And all punctuated by spankings for not being able to swallow fast
enough.
When the guards had finally done with me, I was allowed to shower myself
to remove the accumulated pee, vomit and fake semen, then forced to clean
up the mess in the bathroom. When they were satisfied I had everything
spotless, I was taken back to my room, wearing only a clean corset they
had given me and abandoned for the rest of the day.
Left to my own devices, I could do little more than lie on my bed and
brood, apart from periodic attempts to wash the terrible taste out of my
mouth. Despite my exhaustion, it had taken a long time to get to sleep ...
And now I had to worry about what was in store for the third round. It was
with an empty and still queasy stomach, and dark thoughts in my head, that
I was escorted to the Studio for the first exercise of the day. As I
entered, I noticed the room was much emptier than it had been the day
before. But I didn't have time to do a headcount, because I was scarcely
through the door before someone was flinging their arms around me and
crying: "Oh Stacey, are you all right? I was so worried!"
Reflexively, I returned the hug, then gently disengaged Natasha. She - I
was too frazzled to bother appending the male pronoun, even mentally - was
looking at me with concern on her pretty face. She was wearing the same
schoolgirl uniform, but on her it looked positively sexy. As it had done
before, the sight of her sent a strange warmth through my crotch. I had to
shake myself to stop staring - and beg her to repeat whatever question she
had just asked.
"I said", she began, her expression concerned but her eyes twinkling and a
hint of a smile at the corners of her ruby red lips, "what happened to you
after the last test yesterday? You didn't come back, and you weren't with
the others."
I wanted to ask who she meant by the "others", but my instinctive reaction
was to direct an anxious look at the nearest guard, who was clearly close
enough to overhear us. This wasn't the kind of conversation we were to
permitted to have. Unless ...
"They've changed the rules", said Natasha, clearly guessing what I was
concerned about. She laid a familiar hand on my arm, and I both resisted
the temptation to strike it away and endeavoured to ignore the tingle in
my groin. "We were told we can talk about whatever we want, though we're
encouraged to be as feminine as possible - and of course they can listen
in."
"So who's we?" I asked, looking around. One or two of our fellow captives
were still drifting in, but my initial impression had been correct - the
size of the group had indeed diminished. "I mean, how many are left? The
bo-" I stopped and inwardly cursed my lack of attention. I had nearly said
"boss bitch" aloud. "The boss lady said we'd be down to twelve. Is that
what happened?"
"Well, now that you're here, I guess so", said Natasha. "So we've got
Krystal, Lola, Brittany ... Kaylee, of course."
Well of course, I thought. Natasha continued, counting on her fingers.
"Then there's Madison, Nikki, Candy ..." She snapped her fingers a couple
of times. "Oh yes, Ashlee. And then Chelsea. Um, you and me. And one more
..." She squirted around the Studio. "Plus the tall girl over there whose
name I've totally forgotten." She giggled. "I'm such an airhead!"
No, you're a guy who's really good at playing an airhead. But I kept that
to myself. "So", I said aloud, "the rest are gone? Courtney, Chantelle, er
..." I groped for further names. "Tiffany, Bambi ... they're all out?"
"Yep", answered Natasha, all hint of amusement vanished. "And the rest.
They were called out and taken away. We weren't told the final results,
but it was pretty obvious they hadn't done well enough in Round 2. Most of
them were crying, but none of them really put up a fight."
"And did they get, you know ..." I couldn't bring myself to say it aloud.
"Castrated? Well, yes and no. We didn't see anything happen to them, but
we were told they'd be chemically, you know, neutered - given drugs that
would make their private parts shrivel up. And they'd still be sent off to
a prison camp somewhere." Natasha gave a shudder. "It's too horrible to
think about."
Indeed, I thought - but it wasn't the departed inmates I was feeling sorry
for, so much as myself. The likes of Courtney and Tiffany were hopeless at
being women - which is why I'd much rather they'd stayed around, so I
could beat them in a future round. But of course that was the very reason
they'd been eliminated.
"As for you", continued Natasha, "we saw how you did in the last test, cos
they showed a replay." She gave me an admiring look. "That was amazing. I
wish I could do that!"
Oh I'm sure you'll learn quickly enough, I thought. But I contented myself
with saying: "Just lucky really." My erstwhile shower-buddy raised a
sceptical eyebrow at that, as she had every right to do, but opted not to
challenge me. "I guess. But you didn't come back afterwards. So what
happened?"
I pondered telling her the truth, but decided that wouldn't go down well
with our captors. "I, er, was feeling very sick and got taken back to my
room." That much was of course true ... if woefully incomplete.
"Well, I'm glad you made it through", beamed Natasha and once again
enveloped me in a hug. If it was an act, it was a very convincing one -
although a horrid thought struck me. What if she was pleased I had
progressed for the same reason I'd been hoping to see the likes of
Chantelle survive? Did she like me because I was so easy to beat?
But further speculation along those lines had to be put aside, because it
was time for our morning dance class. And with a new outfit came a new
routine - poledancing. We were each shown how to use the pole to gyrate
and look sexy, and even to strip off our new uniform, one piece at a time.
I was chided for wearing a black corset and told I should have asked for a
white or flesh-coloured one, as several of the other "girls" (including
Natasha) had done. The lesson in that was as painful as my calves after a
morning spent in high heels - others were ahead of me in the Competition,
and I would need to show more initiative just to make it through the next
round. Or more of the right kind of initiative anyway.
When the dancing was done, it was shower time, a brief break for lunch
(which I again decided to pass) and then another innovation - a visit to
the hairdresser. The stylist who took care of me, Emma, was by far the
friendliest (and indeed the prettiest) staff member I'd encountered so far
at the prison. She was also the first to introduce herself by name.
She explained that the time had come to lose the wigs. From now on, all
the contestants would grow their hair out and be given feminine cuts.
These would be refined once a week. Taking the opportunity right away to
be more proactive in improving my appearance, I engaged her in an animated
discussion about possible styles, asking her about options I'd seen in the
women's magazines that were still our only reading material.
Given that my hair was still fairly short, we settled on something that
Emma called a "fringed pixie", with a tousled look that really appealed to
me. But the more dramatic decision was to dye my hair an ash blonde,
matching the wig that (at least until today) I had generally preferred.
Emma agreed that the new colour would be a better match for my complexion
- or at least the very different complexion I was achieving now through
makeup - than my naturally black locks.
I assumed that my eyebrows would also be dyed blonde, but Emma opted to
leave them as they were, explaining that this allowed for a more dramatic
look. She helpfully gave me advice, which I carefully noted, on particular
colours to use in my makeup, and indeed showed me what was possible by
changing my eyeshadow and lipstick.
By the time she was finished, I was positively excited - I had never
looked so feminine. For the first time, I could look at myself in the
mirror and see someone who might just be taken for a woman - and an
attractive one at that. But there were still two more touches to come.
My ears were pierced and little diamond studs inserted. I was told that
these would stay in for at least the four to six weeks it would take for
the holes to heal, though I would gradually be permitted to wear more
substantial earrings if I wanted.
And both my steadily growing fingernails and toenails were manicured and
painted in the colour of my choice. I opted for a sparkly silver and again
was very happy with the results. I kept on holding my hands up, just see
them glitter under the lights of the salon. Far from mocking me, Emma
seemed to delight in my girlish enthusiasm. We hugged before I left, and I
couldn't resist the thought that I'd made one friend at least in this
horrible place.
At the end of the afternoon, the contestants were gathered together once
again in the Studio. I was astounded, but also more than a little
perturbed, by the transformation that had come over the group, compared to
the previous day. What had predominantly seemed a bunch of men in drag now
looked at first glance much more like of collection of women. Women
dressed bizarrely as slutty schoolgirls, but women nonetheless.
The main sources of the change were obvious. The padded bras, steadily
narrowing waistlines and high heels combined to create a much more
feminine figure. And professionally styled hair, makeup and nails enhanced
the effect.
There were still exceptions, of course. Some faces didn't stand up to
close inspection. And some contestants let themselves down as soon as they
moved - they simply didn't hold themselves correctly. But where Kaylee and
Natasha had previously stood out, now they had some real competitors. And
I worried that I might not be one of them ...
A squeal of delight broke into my train of thought. "Stacey - you look
gorgeous!" Natasha had a look of pure delight on her face. For once, there
was nothing insincere about the grin I returned, nor the compliment. "Only
if I'm not standing next to you!" And that was the truth. The auburn wig
had gone, but the brunette bangs that now framed her face were far more
appealing.
"Oh you're such a darling", she simpered, with a gesture of such
calculated sweetness that I instantly recalled both why I didn't like her,
and how difficult she would be to beat. "Oh and by the way, it was Amber",
she continued. "Sorry?" I said. "Amber", she repeated, inclining her head.
"The tall girl over there. I've just remembered her name."
But before I could take a proper look at the newly identified Amber, the
speakers above us came to life.
"Well, ladies, congratulations on making it through to the third round."
As always, the boss bitch's sardonic tone conveyed a deep-seated contempt
that undercut the supposed compliment.
"You'll have noticed some changes already to your daily regimen - and
there are more to come. Starting tomorrow, you'll be having lunch and
dinner together, eating real food. But" - she stressed the word - "you'll
still have to have your protein shake in the usual way each morning.
Failure to do so will incur a punishment. So those of you feeling a little
ill after yesterday's efforts will just need to get over it."
I waited to be named in this category, but she simply continued. "Also,
when you go back to your room for the evening, you'll find that you can
choose what to watch on your television -though I suggest you choose
wisely. And starting tonight, and then every few days from now on, you'll
get a special video to watch just before bedtime. This is not optional. As
you'll discover, watching will be required. The video will keep playing
until you make it stop. I'll leave you to work out how to do that, but
here's a hint - you just need to find the right button to press. Enjoy!"
This last sarcastic exhortation was still ringing in my ears when I was
led back to my cell and locked in for the evening. As promised, we now had
a choice of viewing, including all kinds of instructional videos, plus
fashion and entertainment channels that were heavy on female celebrities.
But there was no news - we were still cut off entirely from the outside
world.
Prompted by pangs of hunger, I fought down the nausea that the feeder was
still inducing and sucked it vigorously until it discharged its contents.
Feeling better for the effort, I then spent what was left of the evening
watching (and practising along with) a series of classes on how to walk in
high heels, before collapsing on the bed. After rousing myself to change
into my nightie, I settled down in front of a program about some
Kardashian or other, which I watched in a desultory fashion while musing
about the challenges ahead.
I was woken from my reverie by a radical increase in the volume on the
television. I made to get up and turn it down, but a sign came on the
screen, saying: "Do not adjust your set. Keep watching the following until
you are finished. Do not take your eyes from the screen."
O-kay, I thought, so this is what the boss bitch was talking about. What
had she said? That's right, we have to press the right button. But I'd
already discovered that there were no buttons on the television itself,
which was entirely controlled by a remote. And the remote was of a basic
variety, with nothing but an on/off switch, and up and down arrows for
both channel and volume. So what the hell was she on about?
I was still puzzling about this as a video clip started. It showed a
stunning young woman walking into a bedroom, where she proceeded to slowly
disrobe. Now this was more like it! Perhaps we were finally getting a
reward for all our efforts to be feminine?
But even if that was true, I received a reminder quickly enough of how
brutal and controlling this place could be. I glanced down at the remote
and received a sharp pain from the device embedded in my cock. This only
went away when I looked back at the screen. A quick experiment revealed
that while I could blink, closing my eyes for any longer than that, or
diverting them from the screen, would bring pain. They must have some kind
of retinal scanner in the tv screen.
Still, why did that matter if what was playing on the screen was so
attractive? The woman was clad now only in panties, suspenders and
stockings. Although a little too flat-chested for my taste, I drank in her
gorgeous face and perfect body. I was conscious of a growing warmth in my
groin, of a kind that I'd previously experienced briefly (and to my shame)
in looking at Kaylee or Natasha, but much stronger and more insistent now
as, for the first time in weeks, I enjoyed the sight of a semi-naked
woman.
The warmth grew stronger, turning into a kind of itch that needed to be
scratched ... but how could I do that? As I watched the young woman
lasciviously playing with her nipples, and then turning round on the bed
to stick out her butt and wiggle it invitingly, I felt the urge to grab my
cock and stroke it. But that was impossible. It was strapped down between
my legs and, despite my arousal, entirely flaccid.
Tentatively, I reached down between my legs to touch it. As I ran my
fingers along the shaft, prodding and probing, there was no reaction
whatsoever. None. Until I reached the tip ... Pulling back the foreskin, I
lightly touched the exposed glans and was rewarded with a tingle that
seemed to reach down inside me. Moistening the tips of my fingers, I tried
again, this time giving it a more vigorous rub. The frisson of pleasure
this time was unmistakable.
I glanced downwards in surprise, but a jolt of pain reminded me to look at
the screen. The woman had her hand inside her panties now, playing with
herself - just like I was doing. Only she wasn't .... because to my
consternation she proceeded to pull a large dick out of her pants. And
unlike mine, it quickly stiffened into a monster erection.
She was a tranny! I had watched the odd video of this kind before, but
they generally did nothing for me. I liked my women to be, well, all
woman. On this occasion, however, it seemed I had no choice. Still, I
didn't have to look at her male parts, did I, I could just look at her
beautiful face and body ...
Except I couldn't do that. As soon as my eyes strayed too far from the
organ she was now vigorously stroking, the pain returned. I cursed
inwardly. So that was the game ... Maybe then I could just wait for
another clip to come along? I dutifully watched the transsexual beauty
bring herself to orgasm, shooting an impressive load onto her belly, which
she very sexily scooped up into her mouth and swallowed. And soon enough ,
a second video had started, with another gorgeous babe ... only she was a
tranny too, and this time her cock was exposed from the very start. It was
even bigger than the last one.
I groaned. How long was this going to go on? Well until I was "finished"
... And then I realised what I had to do, and which button it was I had to
press.
Reaching down again between my legs I began to rub the glans of my cock,
pausing only now and again to re-moisten my fingers. While the last scene
had not been entirely to my taste, I had still found it erotic enough. And
I did my best now to look directly at the second woman's huge member, but
nonetheless concentrate on what I could see on the periphery: her
beautiful face, the oil glistening on her perfect body, her long legs ...
I found that I could not rub myself too hard, because of how sensitive the
glans was. But by trial and experiment I found just the right amount of
pressure. The tingles now were growing stronger ... and something else was
growing as well, a feeling at once reassuringly familiar and entirely out
of place. I should be hard and thrusting and throbbing, and I wasn't ...
yet I was still experiencing the sensations inside me as if I were.
The contradiction kept throwing me off balance. Several times I felt the
stimulation falter, as if I were losing concentration. But then I began to
really focus on the monster cock at the centre of my vision, imagining
that it was my cock, that the hand gripping it was my own. And as I
brought the rhythm of my masturbation into harmony with the woman's own,
something seemed to click into place.
As the transsexual's hand moved faster and faster, pumping her mighty
appendage, so my fingers fluttered more delicately over my glans. There
was to be no interruption this time, the feeling of pressure was growing
inexorably to a climax. And even when the t-girl stopped abruptly, gripped
her cock and then gave several convulsive jerks that blasted gobs of cream
into the air, I kept going. Because nothing now was going to stop me from
enjoying the sweetest of releases.
And when the orgasm came, it rolled through my body like a wave, and I
cried out with it, my legs shaking uncontrollably as it vented its energy.
And I waited for the spurt of fluid to match the one I had seen on the
screen ...
But it never arrived. My howl of pleasure turned into a moan of
incomprehension. I had come, yet somehow hadn't ... If I hadn't just
imagined the climax, where was the evidence of it?
A sick feeling stole over me as I felt something drip onto my wrist, which
was still buried between my legs. I pulled my fingers back down the shaft
of my inert organ ... and there it was, the slightest dribble of semen,
leaking rather than flowing out of the plastic valve that had been
inserted into the side - the same small hole out of which I now had to sit
down to pee.
Wonderingly, I looked down at the thin film of fluid on my fingers. There
was no jab of pain - the screen had switched off as soon as I had come.
And as my lower body still shook with the after-effects of my orgasm, I
wondered if I would ever be allowed to come properly again ...
To be continued
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