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breath of spirit
If you are younger than 18 years
If sex is to your neighborhood peers
If offended by words full of sexual sleaze
Do us both a favor and skip this please.
Please ask permission before posting this elsewhere.
(c)2002 by Sara Hart
Many thanks for the encouragement through trying times,
and for the inspiration so many of you given me. This
story, which promises to be much longer than this beginning
chapter, takes inspiration from many mainstream authors and
many of the authors I have met here.
At the risk of being terribly embarrassed, I wish once
more to thank EyeofSerpent and trilby else for their
incredible indulgence of my insecurity.
-Sara
***************************************
Breath of Spirit
by Sara H
Categories: MC,FF,F-dom,nc,mysticism
***************************************
Part One
*"No one should spend their vacation in the rainforest,
that's for sure,"* thought Stacey, as she walked through
the humid, misty umbrella of trees. For nearly three
weeks, she had been following her hired guides in search of
Kalabuzdi, a legendary witch-man in the area who was said
to have a potion that would "protect the lungs," loosely
translated. More accurately it was "save the spirit-
breath." Asking what this meant, she had been told that
several people had been cured of cystic fibrosis, lung
cancer, and emphysema by this inhalant. Promising, indeed.
Stacey was a field agent for Sanderson Pharmaceuticals.
Usually these legends had some true-to-life basis, and it
was her job to separate myth from fact, and get agreements
to harvest or produce the refined drugs, should they prove
useful. It was actually miserable work, but the financial
rewards were enough that she would be able to retire at the
age of thirty-two. She was twenty-eight now.
Her current assignment was looking fruitless, however, and
her patience, after months of preparatory work and several
weeks of wandering, was running a bit thin. Finally, the
small party decided to camp for the night, and Stacey
settled into her tent, logging the day's events in her
journal. It had been a particularly grueling day, and as
she finished her entries and observations, she fell asleep
in her folding canvas chair.
Suddenly, Stacey snapped awake. How long had she been
sleeping? She walked outside and stood straight. Looking up
at the canopy of trees in the bright moonlight, she thought
how it looked like a great hall in the moonlight. The
branches began to undulate, creating patterns of raised
triangles and rectangles, moving in and out, like the
breathing in her chest, but infinitely more intricate and
complex.
It occurred to her that she was either dreaming or under
the influence of some hallucinogenic agent, but the thought
was thin and flat, and turned sideways and slipped away.
Her body seemed suddenly stiff and she turned, seeking the
safety of her tent, but it was gone, along with the rest of
her hired associates. Had she been walking? It didn't seem
so, but the surroundings seemed foreign and surreal. She
shivered as she felt a cool wind rushing past her face.
Her thoughts **turned** again, and the memory of her
purpose in being here was modulated to a pitch too high to
understand. It was a hair on her head, inconsequential, as
hard to find as one particular hair would be; it was
nothing, it was less than nothing; she didn't even know it
existed.
The undulation of the trees was becoming more pronounced,
moving in subtle undercurrents into everything around her,
and she fought to remain still. Her body, however, was
beginning to sway and move in concert with it, and her
thoughts were becoming rhythmic and disjointed... trying to
think cohesively but only managing phrases that made no
sense to her even as she thought them.
She spun and saw a large mirror where she thought her
tent... no, where the mirror had been. Yes. The mirror.
Her eyes dilated and wide as saucers, so wide that her
eyelids hurt, she stiffly walked to the shimmering glass.
She saw her self in the mirror, fascinated as it began to
warp and bend, joining the orgy of movement around her. She
saw her fingers begin to open and close, and looked down to
see her hands. She saw them flexing over and over... she
held them up, and saw her skin rippling, falling into the
primal decadence dancing around her. She felt her jaw
working now, and her legs... her body in some kind of
dance, some kind of thrall of deep bestiality, but even
that simple recognition was beyond her racing mind.
She was vaguely aware that it felt... *erotic* but the
thought passed as she was consumed by the dance of her
body, pleasure beginning to pulse through her like
repeating blasts of heat from a white hot cauldron, searing
her brain, ripping open her thoughtless mind, the
undulations guiding her, seducing her, transforming her...
the heat of her loins irresistible, spreading through her
like beautiful poison, calling outward through her passion-
inflamed screams of lust...
*Kalabuzdi looked down at the writhing form of the female
pinkskin. Although she had no strict western concept for
it, the witch-woman knew that stealth was a good and proper
thing to use against the invasion of the ignorance of the
world outside the forest. She had made her own legend into
a fearsome male, and had kept the truth of Breath-of-Spirit
hidden in the subtle misdirection of great fortune. This
one would soon be surely a wonderful Breath-Maker...
As she watched her family-tribe carry the strange pink-
skinned woman away to her new and soon to be permanent
home, Kalabuzdi smiled for the first time in many ages.*
**************************************
Risa Latham watched the films that had been returned to
her by the covert CIA operatives in Africa for what was
likely close to the thousandth time. She watched as the
camera entered the thatch hut deep in the rainforest, and
panned around the inside walls, guided by an unseen
cameraman.
There were ten women standing with their backs to the
outside walls, their faces painted colors that were starkly
bright in the dark space. She estimated that the floor was
about sixteen feet square, with a floor of compressed dirt
and grass mats. Through the camera's microphone, she could
hear the sounds of deep, intense breathing. Even from a
room thousands of miles away, and months after the fact,
she got an eerie sense of ritual that she couldn't quite
place.
There was something she *could* place, however. It was the
face of the woman who now lay in a quasi-catatonic state in
Risa's isolation laboratory. It was the face of Stacey
Newman, scientist and pharmacological researcher, who had
been missing for nearly six years.
Risa's attention returned to the film which, up to this
point, looked like a standard field investigation
journal.
She watched as the agents, dressed in camouflaged
fatigues, approached one of the women. She unconsciously
leaned forward as she watched - this was where things got
interesting.
The woman's eyes opened, strangely pearlescent in the glow
of the lights, almost like those of a or other
creature of the night. She looked directly at the and,
almost as if she recognized him, her eyes widened as she
breathed in deeply. As her chest reached its fullness, her
lips, as if in slow motion, pursed into the tightened "o"
of someone blowing out a candle.
As her breath blew into the face of the man, Risa watched
as he staggered back, shaking his head as if he had been
given a sharp blow. He fell to his knees, looking as if he
were about to pass out, but instead, unzipped his pants and
pulled out his erect penis, his hand stroking with as much
intent as his vacant eyes no longer showed.
Then, all the women in the room breathed in, an exact
reproduction of the scene so recently displayed, and
breathed outward in a great sigh of unison.
Other agents appeared in the field of view, stripping out
of their clothes, in every appearance no longer aware of
their surroundings or mission, much less the fact that they
were now being filmed. All of them had cocks as hard as
Risa had ever imagined, and they surrounded the first
agent, masturbating, and chanting something softly as they
compulsively pumped their turgid poles.
Unexpectedly, the fell to the ground, showing
nothing at all but relentlessly the sounds as the
scene continued. In less than two minutes, the bare feet
of the cameraman scurried past the vigilant lens, and the
chant increased, the sounds of masturbation and voices
mixing in the spell of the powerful aphrodisiac air.
Finally, and as always, Risa could make out the chant.
*"Kah-lah-buhz-dee... Kah-lah-buhz-dee... Kah-lah-buhz-
dee..."*
And, completing a ritual that had begun with her first
viewing, Risa exploded into orgasm, whispering the
mysterious name in unison with the agents in the field...
*********************************
Risa stood in the isolation suit, watching Stacey as she
slept. At least, sleep was all she could think to call it.
It was more like a period of dormancy, a time when the
blank, staring eyes closed, and Stacey's metabolism slowed
for recuperation.
When she was awake, she would eat when given food, drink
when offered water, but it had to be fed to her by nurses.
It couldn't be called consciousness in any typical sense.
When roused, Stacey would breathe to them - long, wispy
breaths full of *something.* Whatever it was, it didn't
make it through the suits, and it was airborne. Risa was
fascinated.
Using human volunteers (having found that no were
affected by Stacey's breath), the scientists in Risa's
charge managed to find filters that would not allow the
substance to pass. Whatever it was it was incredibly
powerful, evidenced by the fact that it took two weeks of
constantly circulating air to collect a usable sample.
Analysis of the compound revealed its origin, which was a
witch's brew of some exotic chemical compound mixed with
Stacey's own DNA, which was ejected through the lungs into
the surrounding air, affecting anyone nearby. Eventually,
the compound broke down, making long-term study difficult,
if not impossible.
After interviewing several rainforest locals and the
agents who survived the final raid where Stacey was found,
a began to emerge. Apparently, a witch-woman named
Kalabuzdi would cause a victim to ingest a substance that
would create blissful, libido enhancing hallucinations, and
at the same time alter the genetic structure of that
person. The result was permanent psychosis and the
"substance" which, according to all the tests Risa had run,
was manufactured in the victim's own body.
Technology was not up to the task of reversing the
process. The victim was, in essence, a prisoner to her own
genetic code. The biggest mystery though, was in the
transference of "Kalabuzdi worship" and sexual abandon to
those who inhaled the intoxicating breath of Stacey and
those who shared her fate. It wasn't logical or reasonable,
but there it was, nonetheless.
Deep inside, Risa fought the temptation to remove her
headgear. There was something about the way the subjects
reacted that stirred a darkness deep within her. It was as
if her primal self was calling to her, seducing her,
begging her to share, to be set free. Shaking her head to
clear her thoughts, she turned to the task at hand.
It was time for an experiment.
Risa pulled out the pictures of the assassinated Kalabuzdi
and held them before Stacey's wide, unblinking, pearlescent
eyes. "Stacy," intoned Risa, "Kalabuzdi is no more.
Kalabuzdi is dead.
"There is no place left for those who worship Kalabuzdi.
Only those who move forward can survive. This means you, I
hope, Stacey."
Risa had half-turned to walk away when she noticed a
twitch at the corner of Risa's eyes... and she turned back.
"That's it..." Risa whispered. "Fight it. Come back..."
Without warning, Stacey's eyes filled with fear and dread.
She began to jerk her head around, her eyes quickly moving
from place to place in the room.
"You're in a special hospital Stacey," soothed Risa, her
concern showing in her face.
"Who... arrrrre... you..." Stacey choked out through her
long atrophied vocal cords.
"I'm Risa, your doctor," replied Risa, by rote.
"Reeeeesssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." rasped
Stacey.
Before she even had a chance to think, Risa reached up and
unfastened the clamp that held her airtight helmet to her
suit. Whether it was compassionate instinct or something
altogether different, it was too late to turn back. The
seal had been broken.
Risa finished removing her helmet and sniffed the air.
*"No unusual smell,"* she noted.
Stacey began to make a gurgling noise and Risa's doctor's
instincts took over. Grabbing Stacey by the shoulders,
Risa looked into her eyes for signs of trouble.
She never even saw the blast of air from Stacey's pursed
lips coming.
*******************************************************
Risa lifted herself from Stacey, her still tingling
from the ministrations of her beloved's tongue. She didn't
need to think... she knew what had happened. She shivered
as delicious waves of pleasure undulated through her in
complex patterns, crashing her lusts together in new and
insane ways.
Ways that she now embraced without hesitation.
As she left the confines of the isolation laboratory, she
looked at the coffee cup sitting on the table outside.
The name "Denise" was hand painted on its white surface.
Risa seemed confused for a moment, and then she visibly
relaxed. She placed a finger on her tongue and wiped her
newly tenacious spittle around the rim.
Smiling, she turned and beckoned lovely Stacey, and they
walked out of the outer lab together. Neither spoke, nor
did they even acknowledge each other,
their newly born relationship of Mistress and slave
evidenced only by the fact that they were walking in the
same direction.
Risa thought of her new purpose, of her first slave... the
first of many yet to come. She thought of Denise, the cute
young nurse who would be having her first cup of coffee of
the day in less than seven hours.
*"What a wonderful Breath-Maker she will be."* She smiled
for the first time in ages.
******************************
Part Two
*Risa slept and dreamed. She was lying on the grass in a
meadow, looking up at the sky. There was nothing to do,
nothing to be, nothing calling her. Totally in the present,
there were no distractions - not even thought.
She watched as the sky began to swirl; a gentle whirlpool
of color, reaching down to her, as she felt herself become
the focus on the bottom of an ocean of air. The swirling
began to quicken, and then slowed and pulled away again.
Somewhere inside of herself, she realized her breathing
was pulling on the sky. As she breathed inward, the
swirling sky quickened and lowered, like a soft tornado,
reaching nearly to her nostrils. She became aware of a
craving to breathe it in.
She discovered that if she breathed in hard and quickly,
letting it out slowly, that the swirling sky did not
diminish as much... she began to breathe to pull it into
her... her body pulling and pulling to get the taste of...
*>something<* inside of herself.
Then, as if a light came on, she breathed in... and there
was no need to breathe out. Her lungs became a vacuum,
pulling in the essence of the sky in one unending, glorious
breath...*
In a moment of realization, she felt that she was in her
own bed, and saw that she was blankly staring at the
ceiling. She did not remember falling asleep, or waking up.
It was more a vision or a waking dream that had consumed
her, her in, to show her something mysterious and
wonderful. She felt, for the first time in her life, both
satisfied and full of clarity.
Looking back at the events of the last few days, Risa was
somehow, innately, beginning to understand the mysterious
process. The "rules" were complicated and a bit convoluted,
but the reality of her experience made it much easier to
understand... inevitable to accept.
The most important of these, at least to Risa, was a rite
of ascension through the death of Kalabuzdi, as there had
been with those who came before her. Upon her death, the
next person "infected" by a Breath-Maker would rise to
become the next "queen."
Rationally, Risa could still tell that it sounded tenuous
at best. Yet here she was, her blood burning, her need to
create her tribe coursing through her veins more strongly
with every moment. Through the rapture that she felt
increasingly washing through her, Risa had a brief moment
of realization that she was as much trapped in her destiny
as Stacey was, along with everyone Kalabuzdi had
"recruited". Then, the moment was gone, her opinions no
longer of any consequence, stronger compulsions now
chanting endlessly inside her rapidly surrendering mind.
And, for lack of a word that fit, she felt... hungry.
Stacey still lay beside her, her pearlescent eyes of green
staring upward at nothing. Risa was not one for automatons,
for mindless robots of flesh. Although Stacey was capable
of bringing Risa to shattering orgasms thanks to her
oblivious ministrations, Risa found herself wanting someone
who could interact... improvise, provide surprises.
Besides, Stacey's current state made it impossible for Risa
to return the favor.
Knowing instinctively what needed to be done, Risa kissed
across the face of her loving, enslaved researcher, and
pressed her lips to the subtle moistness of the girl's own
facial labia... and breathed a piece of the sky into her.
Now, there was nothing that Risa could do for Stacey but
wait for the change. In the meantime, she had work to do,
and she picked up the telephone, dialing a number she could
just barely remember.
*******************************************
Dr. Jessop didn't know what to say. Her classmate
Risa Latham was on the phone, telling her what had to be
the strangest she had ever heard. While slightly
incredulous, she listened patiently and intently, on the
chance that it might be true.
Once the closest of friends, in the time since medical
school and residency they had managed very little contact
except through email and websites. Time had done to them
what it does to so many, and they had lost track of each
other except for the occasional note. Dr. Jessop knew that
Risa had gone to work for the government, bypassing what
had promised to be a lucrative career. Specializing in
associative disorders, she had been a brilliant co-
intern as well as personal confidant. Distance and time had
not changed her affection.
And now, quite suddenly, here was Risa, telling her a
story that sounded a little like something from a third-
rate science fiction novel. It was full of government
conspiracies to kill a patient they thought was dangerous,
a patient that Risa had helped escape. Regardless, if true,
she had no choice but to help her friend, and the patient
in question.
"Risa, if this is some kind of silly joke..." began Dr.
Jessop, but Risa cut her off.
"No, really, Pam... I've never been more serious in my
life!" blurted Risa.
"But why would you need a gynecologist? I don't think I
have the skills to help you with this case. Besides, I
don't have half the knowledge you had even when you were in
school," worried Pam.
"Whatever this is, Pam, it's systemic. A gynecologist has
as much training as any other doctor, and I need help -
Stacey is a very ill woman. I wouldn't be surprised
at all to find that she's been given some kind of slow-
acting poison or other nasty chemical agent. You've just
*got* to help me figure this one out..."
"Okay, Risa, count me in. But if I get caught in
something illegal, I'll say you forced me at gunpoint." The
smile in her voice carried easily over the telephone line.
"Agreed, Pam," laughed Risa. "Thanks... you don't know how
much you're helping my goal - er - of helping this patient!
We'll be right over!"
With that, Dr. Pamela Jessop hung up the phone, a shadow
of both interest and concern crossing her face. *How very
odd,* she thought, as she walked out of her office.
******************************************
Pam looked at the woman lying on the examination table. If
she had fostered doubts before, they were erased now. The
girl was definitely not well, and there was something not
quite natural about it. In truth, she had never seen
anything like it, at least in real life. *So much for cheap
science fiction,* she noted.
Of course, there were the eyes... pearlescent and green,
as if she were shining a light into a cat's eyes at night.
There was something else, too, buzzing around in the back
of her mind, but she couldn't quite place it; something
nagging at her thoughts.
She began her examination by checking for motor reflexes,
response to stimulation and other signs of present
consciousness. Stacey could react to guided manipulation,
such as holding her head where Pam placed it, but did not
appear to have reflexive reactions based on external
stimuli. Pam noticed the odd mix of vulnerability and
strength, and found herself almost feeling a kind of muted
admiration for the unresponsive woman. Vulnerable because
she had no protection, strong because nothing seemed to
affect her. It had a kind of mystique, almost... *erotic*,
although Pam was not sure the adjective fit. Even so, she
let her eyes wander up and down the naked female, and was
slightly surprised to find her hands shaking.
Looking in Stacey's ears, but finding nothing, Pam moved
quickly to her eyes. Although they seemed cloudy with green
iridescence, they reacted normally to light. Next she
looked into the girl's nostrils, and into her mouth and
throat, but couldn't find anything that would indicate an
infection. Feeling the girl's breath against her face, the
doctor felt a surge of warmth move down her body and let
herself enjoy the intimacy of the moment... immediately
feeling guilty and returning to her objective analysis.
The swimming thoughts in the back of her head were getting
annoying now... clearly stronger... they were almost
audible as she continued to look over the green-eyed
researcher, noting that Stacey's state almost seemed like a
form of autism. She took a step back and shook her head.
Letting her eyes again creep down Stacey's body, Pam
realized her nipples were becoming erect. The strange hum
in her head was starting to throb, and it was affecting her
ability to think clearly. Her hands moved to her breasts,
as if to rub dirt off her lab coat, and she shivered as the
touch sent sparks of pleasure to her moistening folds.
*What a sexy woman,* mused Pam, blushing as she caught
herself flushing with the tendrils of unfamiliar arousal.
She paused at the foreign feelings of sapphic desire and,
blinking her eyes a few times, somehow managed to get her
wandering thoughts back to a professional level.
Almost.
Pam pulled out her dictation recorder and began to speak
into it. "Subject is thirty-four years old, Caucasian, with
associative disorders similar to autism, which appear to be
caused by being so damned cute - um, I mean caused by non-
biological agents, at least on first examination." Pam
frowned to herself at the distraction and nuisance of her
wandering, rebellious thoughts. *But so nice,* the voices
inside her whispered.
"The condition doesn't appear to be natural - perhaps
caused by a chemical agent ground into her... her...
by searching, needy fingers - no, strike that. Introduced
to her orally, from the... the lips of my hot little slit -
I mean, by pill or perhaps even hypodermic."
*What the fuck is wrong with me?* Pam shouted inwardly,
before attempting to relax and continue. "Stacey is
possibly under the influence of some mind altering... mind
altering..." Pam fought to find the right word now, feeling
profoundly shaken and dizzy, "...ORGASM! Fucking HOT
orgasm from a slick little burning pointed tongue like
mine!" she suddenly blurted out.
Now visibly shaken, she quickly turned off the dictation
machine and tried again to collect herself. Her brain was
alive with harmonic phasing now, her thoughts coming faster
than she could keep pace. Thoughts of sex... so
delicious... so nasty... so wonderfully perverted... *Dear
God I have to quit this... I have to finish my initial
report... analyze... observe... fuck... tongue...cum with
her... help her... cum... burnnnn... *
Her heavily dilated eyes now gazed at Stacey with dread
and pure burning lust, locked in an unholy marriage of
thoughts that were dissipating like sprinkled confetti
around Pam's exhausted defenses. Her nipples were a blazing
torrent of need, a need she was unable to ignore...
*pulling* her... ripping into her eyes and mind and
and clit and body and soul like a sexual ball of hot plasma.
Struggling to gain control of the raging wildfire within
her, she breathed slowly and deeply to try and ease her
building passion. Desperately she tried to push down the
lascivious, brazen thoughts, but her years of trained
analytical objectivity betrayed her, abandoned her, and she
could not call it back, could not remember how.
She tried to scream away the lustful, intruding thoughts
that were taking over her mind, but all that would come
forth was a sound she only knew by her effort was her own.
She could hear her moans as they left her mouth, rippling
down her body and through the charged air... and still she
fought for control, for something to grasp that would pull
her up from the deadly quicksand of her explosive fucklust.
Then she found it, the branch she needed, the saving grace
of reason... only to have it turn and ravage her with a
thousand million tongues of mocking sexual depravity and
wanton pleasure.
Looking in vain for anything familiar to save her from the
sensual avalanche, she blindly turned on the dictation
machine again, and began to babble into it, "Secondary
causes of... slut cumming mind fire... inoculation of...
anal violation... ecstatic mucous membrane... medically
necessary... tongue fucking... no... treatment of same...
hot flowing juices... cumming hard... nerve endings... no
control... cummmmm together... "
Somewhere deep inside, with the last remaining part of her
that knew she was in trouble, she fought to find safety.
Her fear was a sandy beach washed with waves of
unquenchable desire. Her eyes filled with panic and
desperation, but it was impossible to tell if it was
desperation to back away, or to plunge carelessly onward;
in fact, they were exactly, irrationally, the very same
thing.
Pam staggered back in confused, raw heat, her mind
splintering. Looking up, it appeared that the light on the
ceiling was glowing with orange and green streamers
cascading away from it... making her sex begin to emit a
stream of electric jolts in concert with the colors that
were both compelling and alien... powerfully relentless and
irresistible.
Her legs began to buck with the culmination of the attack
on her pleasure centers, her fingers and toes out of
control with ecstatic spasms. Too disoriented to think, too
possessed to move, the last tiny fragment of self-
preservation suddenly leapt out from a pocket in her mind,
crashing her body to the floor and forcing the door open,
even as her body caved in to the orgasmic mind-numbing fire
that was the apex of the assault. Her moans transformed to
unearthly screams of universal passion and bliss, and her
eyes saw only the pinwheeling colors of unstoppable
pleasure that was now her world...
As her mind began to clear from the rapturous episode, Pam
looked up to see Risa standing in the doorway above her.
Expecting to see alarm in her friend, some sign of help,
she shriveled as the reality of her situation swept over
her... manifested in Risa's wide, knowing smile.
Risa reached down to take her friend's hand, and, helping
her slowly to her feet, guided her back to the table.
Pressing Dr. Jessop gently over, she guided the pliant
doctor's head until her lips were a scant half-inch from
Stacey's own.
"It's easy, isn't it, Pam," reassured Risa. "All you have
to do is breathe..."
**********************************************
Pam screamed, biting into her fist again as she came so
hard that she saw stars dance. Every time it was better and
better... a gift from Risa that she could not deny herself.
How long had it been since she gave herself to her
Mistress? Certainly at least a week, but time had no real
meaning to her at this point.
Just the thought of Risa... beautiful, irresistible
Risa... made her juices flow even more strongly and her hot
pussy yearn for another release. But Mistress had given her
a duty, a solemn purpose she would have to accomplish
before she could play again.
She got up from the examination table in her office, the
musk of hot sex and arousal wafting behind her. She caught
a glance of herself in the mirror, and stopped to stare,
taking a brief moment to reach inside her lab coat and
sharply pinch her nipples. *"So obscene,* she thought, *so
hot...*
She recognized the Heat-Giver in the reflection not as
Pamela Jessop, but only as the property of her Mistress,
and felt a shiver run through her body at the unspeakable
honor of what she had been allowed to become. She slowly,
reluctantly, let her hands fall to her sides in obedience
to her mission.
She turned and left the room, walked out to the reception
desk, and looked down the list of patients. Checking
through the statistical questionnaires, she found what she
was looking for. "Sheila Crandall?" she called. A
woman of perhaps twenty, with long hair and a cute
roundish face stood and walked to the door that led from
the waiting area the examination rooms.
Pam smiled at the nervous woman, and said, "Just go on
into Examination Room Three, and I'll be with you in a
moment." Satisfied the woman could find the proper room,
Pam slipped into the nearby stockroom for a moment. Picking
up a douche, she remembered how long it had taken to
collect enough of Mistress' juices to mix effectively with
the cleansing wash. She laughed for a moment, remembering
her curiosity about Risa's choice of a gynecologist to help
her. Actually, it was perfect.
After knocking on the door and entering the room where
Sheila waited, Pam instructed her to go into the adjoining
bathroom and use the douche, prior to the examination.
Sheila objected slightly, "But I used one before I came in,
Doctor."
"And I *do* appreciate it, but those products leave
chemical traces that can corrupt any tests we do, if
needed, and this will neutralize anything that might give
us a false result." Pam shrugged," It's really no big deal,
and it'll just take a minute, okay?"
Sheila nodded, apparently satisfied, and went into the
bathroom to use the adulterated douche, while Pam went
outside, checking her watch.
Risa's sexual lubricants were the most potent of her mind-
and-body altering secretions. After only ten minutes, Pam
prepared herself to go in and harvest the new Breath-Maker.
While true that it would take another day for Sheila to
begin producing the Breath of Obedience, her mind would
already be in the throes of deep and permanent change.
Even though she knew what she would find, she felt a rush
of sexual pleasure race through her as she saw the
partially transformed Sheila, writhing on the floor in a
will-shattering orgasm that would become her only
experience until Mistress decided to bring her back to
consciousness, if ever.
Unable to stop her own burning passion, Pam slipped two
fingers into her slick, satin wellspring of bliss, thumbing
her clit, pressing and bruising it, taking herself farther
and farther into ecstasy as she watched Sheila's motions
become more and more obscene. Pressing her other finger
into her hot, clenching asshole, she let herself free into
the unbound worlds for which she now constantly ached.
Pam felt her toes curl and her belly quake as she let the
hot, pure waves of blissful worship and sexual abandon take
over her body and soul, sending her into the realm of Kala -
Spirit - where she found the Will of her Mistress guiding
her, the Will of Kalarisa, pulling her ever deeper into
need and surrender, shaking her soul with orgasmic
creation, higher and higher, until she could remember
nothing but Mistress... Kalarisa... and she passed into the
oblivion of obedient rewards....
**************************************
When she regained consciousness, Pam walked over to the
still writhing Sheila, and placed the finger covered with
her own sexual nectar to the woman's lips. Instantly,
Sheila calmed, and her eyes opened, staring blankly upward,
her orgasm internalizing, the writhing still uninterrupted
in her newly remade mind.
Pam noted that her eyes were already beginning to show
signs of the green crystals, a sign of who and what she
was, and forever would be: Breath-Maker for Mistress Risa
and her Heirs.
Taking the newborn Breath-Maker Sheila by the hand, she
raised her gently to her feet, and guided her down the
hallway to what had once been Examination Room Five, but
had since been emptied, needed for a higher purpose.
Pausing outside the entrance, she relished the sound of
deep, unison breaths that issued softly through the door.
Pam opened the wide door and guided Sheila to a place on
the wall, backing her up to it, and looked around. Sheila
was joining five other Breath-Makers, ranging in age from
sixteen to thirty-eight. Unable to help herself, Pam
breathed deeply of the air that had consumed her will,
relishing the even deeper surrender she felt galloping
through her mind. Soon, as the Breath-Makers matured, it
would only take seconds for the transformation from woman
to Heat-Giver to transpire.
Reluctantly leaving the Breath-Makers to their unified
task, Pam returned to her office and private examination
table, where, placing her feet in the stirrups, bodily
offered homage and obedience to the woman who was now the
reason for her feeble existence... and as she began her
climb back to the spirit-world, she softly joined the chant
which was becoming her mantra...
*"Rrrrrrreeeeeessssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh..."*
****************************
Part Three
It would be the epitome of understatement to say that the
lab was in an uproar. The disappearance of both Stacey
Newman and Risa Latham was mysterious at best. Even with
the security cameras, it was hard to tell exactly what had
happened. The with infrared devices and fingerprint
brushes had turned up plenty of evidence, but nothing of
use. Likewise, the bio techs had found nothing that was not
already known.
Pete Duncan watched the security videotape again,
searching for any clue that he might have missed. He
watched as Dr. Latham entered the isolation room where
Stacey lay and began an attempt, the last in a long series,
to communicate with the catatonic patient.
There apparently had been a breakthrough. It appeared as
if Stacey had finally capitulated. With no real warning,
she reacted strongly, seeming alarmed and disoriented. Dr.
Latham obviously had tried to comfort her, and even had
some success as the patient calmed. They appeared to be
talking when Stacey suddenly appeared to grow agitated
again, possibly from choking. Up to this point, it all made
sense. But then, suddenly, Dr. Latham reached up to remove
the helmet of her isolation suit, going against all safety
protocols, especially considering what they had discovered.
The doctor reached over to shake Stacey's shoulders,
obviously concerned about something... and then
straightened, her movements strangely slow and deliberate.
Her hands reached to the side zippers of the suit, and
slowly Dr. Latham shed the protective shield that had been
her safety net. Her clothes came next, and Pete watched as
she shed the jumpsuit, bra and that were her only
clothes when working inside the bulky protective gear.
Outrageous, but it only became moreso as the raven-haired
Risa climbed up on the table and perversely straddled
Stacey's partially open mouth. Pete watched as Dr.
Latham's hands fell forward to the edges of the table, eyes
closed, her upper body leaned towards Stacey's feet, and
her hips grinding slowly, and then with increasing fervor
and speed. Within moments, her hips grinding harder, her
back arching and reversing with impossible agility, the
wanton and obviously crazed doctor screamed and bucked so
forcefully that Pete could almost hear it despite the lack
of sound.
Then, inexplicably, Risa became still. After nearly ten
minutes of shivering and drooling in place, her mouth
closed, her eyes opened, and she dismounted the patient,
whose tongue, still extended and writhing, stilled and
returned to its dark cavern. *Must had been the 'Big O' to
end all 'Big O's',* thought the voyeuristic Security
Director.
Bringing the patient to her feet (a feat which had
initially surprised Pete), Risa dressed the woman in a
hospital gown, and herself in her recently discarded
jumpsuit. They left the lab through the previously sealed
escape door, and were lost for a moment until picked up by
the hallway camera.
Risa and her charge walked the rest of the way out of the
building virtually unnoticed, with only the cameras as
witness to their departure. Whatever had happened to Risa
had not affected her ability to think... she had quite
handily bypassed the rather daunting security of the
protected facility.
Pete unconsciously rubbed his swollen prick. This whole
thing was so fucking *weird*. It was like watching
something from his worst security nightmare and a triple-x
video at the same time, and it had only happened six hours
ago.
There was a knock on the door and he quickly jerked his
hand away from his crotch and gruffly called, "Come in!"
It was Denise Masterson, whose help he hoped would prove
invaluable, since she was the only person other than Risa
Latham intimately involved with the work surrounding the
enigmatic Stacey Newman.
"Find anything?" asked Pete, his eyes wandering over the
assistant. *Great hooters, nice ass... but a face that's
too fucking horsey for my taste,* he thought.
"Well, we *did* find a pinhole in the left armpit of
Risa's... I mean Dr. Latham's isolation suit, which would
perhaps explain her initial variance from protocol - and
the properties of the patient's breath would, at least in
part, help to explain her... increasing impropriety,"
Denise blushed. She had seen the tape, along with a handful
of other people who had been called in at three in the
morning.
"As for why they left, or the differences in the effects
of Stacey's genetically altered breath on Risa as compared
with other test subjects, I have no clue, Mr. Duncan. Of
course, I'm still trying to find something that will tell
me more than the videotape." Looking down at the swell in
Pete's crotch, she added, "Besides, the tape is a little...
um... distracting, don't you think?"
*Damned intrusive bitch* thought Pete, but he said, "Well,
I suppose. I hadn't really noticed." Taking the tape from
the machine, he handed it to her, saying, "Take this over
to the vault in Building One for the time being. I haven't
had time to make a copy yet, so don't lose it, whatever you
do. We'll need it later for the report, and it may help
piece together what's happened. Other than your pinhole,
it's the only solid evidence we have."
Denise nodded and took the tape, and added, "I was just on
my way to finally get a cup of coffee. I haven't had a
chance to wake up with all the hoo-ha of this thing. Can I
get you a cup?"
"No thanks, I've already got some. And don't take too long
getting it. We still have a lot of work to do." grumped
Pete, gruffly waving her away.
Denise left the security office and walked down the hall
to the break room. *What an asshole,* she thought angrily.
*You'd think I was the one that did this to him! Fucking
bullshit!* Pulling her regular mug out of her lab coat, she
poured herself a cup and took a sip. She looked at the
stoneware mug with her name painted on it. It had been a
gift from Risa after working together for two years. Tears
formed in her eyes and she silently cursed, *Why couldn't
it be THIS bullshit asshole who took off instead of Risa?*
She decided she must have been more tired than she
thought. The walls seemed to be moving as she sat there
fuming. Almost like they were breathing... She stood and
grabbed the elevator to the first floor, trying to clear
her head.
As she left the building for her car, she felt a wave of
what she thought was drowsiness wash over her, nearly
making her keel over. *God, I need to get some rest. Soon
as I get this tape over to Building One I'm going home for
a bit,* she decided.
By the time she drove the several miles to the gate that
led to Building One, she had completely forgotten about the
delivery, and as she headed home, more from instinct than
awareness, all she could think about was bed and sleep.
Denise walked in the front door of her small house and
staggered through the living room to her bedroom, shedding
her shoes as she went. She tried to unbutton her blouse,
but her fingers simply weren't listening to her brain.
Besides that, her body was tingling in an odd way... not
that she minded... it felt awfully nice.
Falling onto the bed, she rolled onto her back, and stared
at the ceiling as it began to undulate, like the break
room, as if it were breathing...
*Wonderful,* she hummed, *fucking wonderful...* as her
body began to writhe with building pleasure. Her thoughts
filled with images of painted faces, melding with Risa's
face... faster and faster they danced, like a tornado,
ripping out the past, leaving an empty vessel... and now
she was dancing, too... *god, it feels like... like...,*
she gasped inside her mind, as the first tendrils of
impending orgasm swept over her body.
Very soon, she would have no thoughts at all.
*******************************
"God *damn* it! Goddamnedfuckingcocksuckingcuntheaded
*bitch*!!!!" shouted Pete, the first bit of a long string
of cursing that echoed through the hall outside his office
for ten full minutes.
Denise had not returned from her trip to Building One; in
fact, she hadn't even *been* to Building One. *I'm already
in deep enough shit with this fiasco - I don't need some
horsey-looking BITCH to fuck it up even more!* he shouted
from his office to no one in particular.
Not only that, but there was no answer from her home
phone, her cell phone, or her pager. He knew from rational
experience that it was probably something like a flat tire,
or running out of gas, but she'd been gone for four hours
without a word. Not that he cared about her problems; he
just wanted the fucking videotape saved. Without it, he was
dead meat. It was the only solid evidence they really had
that anything strange had happened, and, more importantly,
that he could not have prevented it.
Pete dialed a number. "Veronica? Listen, as of five p.m.
today, I want Denise Masterson terminated. <pause> No, not
killed, you idiot, just fired. Usual purge of records or
ability to reference. Okay? Oh, and the same for Risa
Latham. I don't think she's done anything we can prosecute
her for, but her status is now officially *persona non
grata*. Got it? <pause> Thanks."
He picked up the phone and quickly put it back down. "Fuck
this shit - I'm going to find that irresponsible
myself," he muttered as he stormed out of his office. The
slamming door didn't even raise any eyebrows. Pete was
upset again. It was business as usual.
********************************************
Outside the door to Denise's house, Pete stood for nearly
twenty minutes, trying unsuccessfully to calm down and rid
himself of the rage he felt. Not only had Denise come home,
but the door was ajar, allowing anyone to just wander in.
Luckily, at least in his opinion, that included Pete Duncan.
He stepped carefully into the house, looking around. While
he was fairly certain that Denise had just been a typically
careless, irresponsible woman, he wasn't stupid, and it was
just barely possible that there had been foul play.
Pistol at the ready, he went from room to room, checking
for signs of intrusion. *No sign of the fucking tape,
either,* he thought. Finally making his way to the bedroom,
he pushed the door wide open and felt his jaw drop,
literally.
On the bed, flat on her back, was Denise Masterson, still
partially clothed. She was writhing, hands gripping the
air, nearly foaming at the mouth, her mouth silently
working as if trying to moan softly. Her eyes, green-tinged
and wide, seemed to be looking at a spot on the ceiling, or
maybe nothing at all.
For the first time since this investigation began, he was
truly horrified. All thoughts of anger dissipated in fear
and panic at the lewd display. He was turning to go to the
phone when a wave of arousal hit him full force.
Like a needle on a compass turning to north, his suddenly
rock-hard prick spun him around. His eyes washed over with
lust and he realized he was in pain... struggling to
think... *have something to do... something... to get my
pants off... so painful... too tight...* As he released his
turgid single horn from his slacks, a wave of pleasure
nearly knocked him over as the air touched his skin. His
hands, following a new craving, ripped his remaining
clothes off to get to more of the addictive, blissful
feeling of nakedness, as he fell to his knees.
Then, for a moment, the feeling seemed to lessen, and he
remembered the tape, Denise, and why he had come here.
Sensing the danger he was in, he attempted to stand but
only managed to lunge for the door. He crawled across the
room, *almost...almost...*
Somewhere in his still-addled mind, he heard the front
door open and close, and footsteps. "Here!" he yelled,
"Don't come! Dan..ger..ous..." he screamed as he felt his
motivation wax and wane. His eyes fell to the carpet, which
was suddenly very interesting and... *arousing* as colors
began swimming through its fibers. His cock was screaming
to him now, begging for his hand, telling him to just
*feeeeel* how good it could be, like never before, like how
it feels in the deepest of wet dreams...
"Looking for this?" came a laughing, familiar voice. It
was the sound of heaven. It was the source of life and
purpose. Of love. His eyes jerked upward, against his will.
It was the voice of Risa Latham.
And she was holding the tape.
"You know, Pete, everyone at the lab has always hated your
chauvinistic bullshit. Even the have been embarrassed
at your sexist comments and attitude. I think they'd like
what you're going to become. And I don't think anyone will
miss you at all."
Pete listened, drinking in the words. He simply couldn't
help it. They were the fabric of the universe.
"Do you know what the real definition of chauvinist is?
It's someone who stubbornly holds on to a lost cause. You
might know that if you ever checked a dictionary.
"In your case, it's particularly appropriate, don't you
think?" grinned Risa.
Pete felt his head nodding up and down, and felt his
surprise shift to wonder at Risa's amazing wisdom.
"Now you," continued Risa, "would have run away, leaving
poor Denise to suffer." Pete watched as Risa reached under
her waistband, her fingers obviously delving into her most
intimate orifice. She pulled out her hand, fingers
glistening like dewy grass in the morning. Pete felt drool
drip off the bottom of his chin, unable to move or speak.
Risa walked over to Denise and touched her finger to
Denise's lips, and Pete heard rather than saw the
quiet and lay still. "Cause and cure, Pete," winked Risa.
"But Pete, I am merciful, as you can see. You deserve to
die. But you *can* be reclaimed. Is that what you would
like? Is that what you truly want?" Pete nodded again as he
felt tears begin to roll down his face. For the first time
since childhood, he felt ashamed. Ashamed of who he was,
ashamed of his arrogance, ashamed even of the turgid pole
that was screaming its need to fuck.
"You will bond with me, Pete. You will fuck me. Your puny
life will have real purpose which you will never need to
doubt or question. Once we are bonded, my life will be your
life. My death will be your death. Joy. Pain. All. And
perhaps for the first time, you will feel complete
surrender and love.
"Much better, don't you think? You may speak, Pete."
"Yesss," said Pete, in rapturous agreement. He had no
choice.
"Now, I know you want to fuck me. I know you want it more
than anything you have ever felt," Risa crooned, watching
Pete shudder in agreement. "But you must prove yourself
worthy."
"I have a list of things for you to accomplish. You will
not remember this meeting until you have accomplished them.
Then you will return to me to complete our bonding. There
will be nothing more important. Do you understand? Good boy.
"First, you must destroy the tape, and forget that it ever
existed. Then, you will forge papers showing the transfer
of Stacey, Denise and me to a privately held laboratory.
You will pretend that you have found these papers, and out
of the embarrassment of having created a crisis where none
existed, you will resign. You will do this in a way and in
a time that raises no suspicions.
"If you are caught, and cannot convince your persecutors
of your innocence, your heart will stop. Truly stop. You
will not breathe. You will not think. You will quietly die.
You know this is true, don't you?"
"Yes," replied Pete, filled with the clarity of Risa's
commands.
"You were not here. I was not here. None of this exists
until you can return. Go."
Risa smiled suddenly as she watched Pete stand, and added,
"Be sure to stop by home and put on some clothes. This
seems only natural, right? You always have to go home when
you lose your clothes..."
"Right."
"Go."
Risa watched the naked Pete Duncan get into his car and
stared as he drove down the street and turned the corner.
*Not the only corner he's turned today,* she smiled to
herself.
Then, turning to her first Breath-Maker, she finished
removing the tangle of clothes her assistant still wore
and, lifting herself to the bed, straddled her
protege's slightly open mouth, and said, simply, "Lick..."
***************************************
Pete Duncan, former Security Director for Isolation
Building Two, felt the rapture of breath on his body again.
The tasks he had been given had been easier than he could
have imagined. Risa, glorious Risa, had been right. No one
seemed to mind that he was leaving, and barely looked over
his report long enough to accept his humble resignation.
And now, he felt his arousal swelling to new heights as
Risa approached him. His cock had never been so hard, so
completely solid, and shivers ran through him from the tip
of his purple glans, through his asshole, all the way to
the base of his skull... and he knew deeply that it would
only get better.
Risa pulled him towards her, backing herself up to a wall,
her eyes burning, making his own vision hot and flushed.
Standing solid and tall, he allowed her to lift herself
upward... her sliding down his belly and finally
finding the tip of his swollen member.
Holding herself there, she whispered, "Now we bond. Now
you become Gaurdian of Kala..."
Her lowered slowly over his incredibly distended
steel pole... he could feel the incredible heat in her as
it quivered and clenched against him. Her lips met his and
he felt her breath flow into his lungs and he could *see*
his cock, like a candle, melting, but not getting any
smaller, waves moving downward along the shaft as he began
to pump. His mind was moving everywhere... he was driving a
busy street... walking in a field... chasing someone... all
memories he cherished... he watched as the dissipated like
fog in sunshine, never to return.
With every scene that washed away the pleasure
increased... the molten waxy waves moving further and
further into his body, until he was offering every nook and
cranny of his mind to the voracious dream-eater Risa...
every lost reality making her more real, more erotic, more
perfect, more worthy of his obedience...
He realized that he was embracing slavery, but by the time
the thought came there was nothing left to argue about.
There was only the bliss of Risa, of surrender, of slavery,
of obedience.
He felt his balls pulling up hotly, his whole body melting
and growing with the wax now, reshaping who and what he was
as the heat in his balls prepared to make his very essence
the gift that would seal his destiny to... *Risa*...
The heat filled his mind, his body, his every thought as
he pumped faster and faster, more and more urgently coaxing
the hot that was the last of his will out of him,
planting his will in... *Risa*... the friction was
unending, perfect, better than any dream or fantasy...
everything was Risa and Risa was everything...
He felt Risa's body shift slightly... and he *came* so
hard that he nearly pushed Risa through the wall with his
body... he screamed the scream of the dying, the lost, and
the depraved... pure ecstasy... his will spilling into her,
her coaxing every last drop of cum-will from his
spent tool. He could feel her cumming, body *undulating,*
her absorbing his semen, absorbing *him*, owning him,
Risa, her cunt, her words... his life... owning his soul in
life and in death...
As the bonded couple finally slid down the wall to the
floor, Risa tried to grasp a handhold, and merely waved her
hand in the air as the sweat dripped from her face and
body. Her face bore the exhaustion of bliss, of completion.
Finally, she wrestled herself free, standing before the
man who had been Pete, but was now a shell, an extension of
Risa's will. "Guardian," she said. "You are the first of my
protectors. Though there will be others, you will always be
cherished."
Guardian knelt in honor and obedience. As for his
happiness, Risa had been right. But then, Risa always was,
and always would be... right.
*******************************
This series is to be continued, eventually, maybe,
probably. Please send any comments to:
sara_h2020@yahoo.com
Thanks for reading!