Dude'sonfire
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Hey George Clooney lookalikes. Now there is a fairly explicit lesbian scene in here ( i know it seems to happen very suddenly, but i'm trying to be concise as possible here! lol, Give me a break!) but hey, there's tickling too, so it's cool. 
Hope you all like it. Let me know if my style is getting too repetitive.
Sandra’s eyes fluttered open. Everything was blurry for a moment, and she couldn’t quite think, then suddenly memories shot back into her and she pulled her foot towards her in terror, but, to her surprise, it was free. She slowly became aware of her surroundings: she was in a cold, dry cell, light falling through a thick slab of glass in the ceiling and a large, solid iron door in one of the walls. There was another woman in there with her, who she now realised was staring at her, and both of them were naked.
“…Hello?” asked Sandra uneasily. She got no reply. “Em… I’m Sandra… do you mind if I ask your name?”
The woman scoffed. “You’re an eager one.”
Sandra was silent for a moment, not really knowing what to say. “Um…What did you do before… here…?”
The woman examined her for a moment, considering, then cleared her throat. “I was the Vice Director of Central Intelligence.”
“… At your age?”
“I was very good at my job.”
Sandra raised her eyebrows, then, realising she wasn’t going to be asked in return, decided to answer the question anyway. “… I was the Chairwoman of the IIRA.”
The woman laughed dryly. “The IIRA? What, did the Irish become even more pissed off?”
“No, it stands for Institute of Interrogation Research and Application.”
“…I knew that. It was a joke. You still know what a joke is? Or have they tickled you too much?”
The word tickle sent shudders up and down Sandra’s spine. “…Do you know what’s going on down here? All the files on this place were closed topside.”
The woman sighed. “There was a flaw in the androids’ original programming; they’ve got stuck in a loop where they think they have information to extract but don’t have answers coded in, so you can never tell them what they want to hear.”
Sandra felt herself immediately begin to hyperventilate. “No, I can’t be tickled again. They aren’t here are they? Are we their prisoners? I – there must be a way to get out of here, there must…”
“Oh hush. That attitude will drive you mad, trust me; I’ve seen it happen. It’s not so horrible. They feed us, albeit with those little pills they have in droves, and there’s only so many of them operating, so they can’t do everyone all of the time.”
“No, no, I don’t… We can’t just stay here! Can we not, I-I…” Tears swelled in Sandra’s eyes, and she squeezed her eyebrows down as she began crying.
“Shh, come here, it’s ok, shh…” The other woman crawled over to her and held her close, rocking her gently. “It’s ok… Sandra, we’re women, remember? It’s our job to look out for each other.” She smiled warmly. “…My… my name’s Vicky by the way.”
Sandra looked up at her, and, wiping her own nose, managed a small smile, before she choked up again.
“Shh, shh… Here, chin up, look at me. We need to help each other. That’s the only way you can stay sane in this place. Trust me; I’ll be here for you.”
Sandra looked up again, though this time with a slightly more developed feeling of trust. To her intense surprise, Vicky leaned in and their lips came together slowly in a soft kiss. Although Sandra was taken aback, and wasn’t a lesbian as such, it wasn’t so unusual, as all women in this age were used to seeking physical comfort and embrace in one another. The pleasure androids were exactly what their name implied: Gorgeous, synthetic men, all with suitably large genitalia and muscles - depending on preference of course – who knew everything there was to know about anatomy and technique, and who were programmed to give off pheromones for that extra chemical rush. But other woman offered that much needed emotional touch, the security and mental warmth that came from knowing you were sharing yourself with a living, thinking human being. Sandra’s fears partially melted away as Vicky’s soft, hot skin pressed against hers, as a velvety tongue massaged her own, not a cruel synthetic one, but a chaotic, beautiful one, belonging to a real, beautiful human woman. Fingertips caressed her breasts and ran down her sides and thighs, not tickling, but stroking gently, reassuring her, letting her know in a tactile way that it was going to be ok. Sandra stroked Vicky’s unkempt, wavy brown hair as she allowed her breasts to be explored and her nipples to be circled and played with by the warm, human tongue, and she made a little gasp as Vicky’s hand brushed the inside of her crotch as it teased up and down her inner thigh. She took deep, indulging breaths when her pleasurer descended, that tongue and those lips playing around her legs and crotch, not touching the spot, just dancing around it, causing Sandra to grow hot and flushed with desire, and those gentle fingers ran lightly across her buttocks and lower back all the while, making her shiver and sound little hums and mms of delight.
Sandra arched her back and rocked her pelvis slightly to encourage her lover. Vicky took the cue. Slowly, she slid her tongue in-between the moist skins of Sandra’s sex. Sandra gasped louder. Vicky ran her tongue up and down the sides, circled a couple times, glided in and out teasingly, before sending shocks of pleasure up and down Sandra’s body by pulling back her hood and smothering her clitoris with a writhing tongue.
Sandra looked down at the head of the woman who she had just met, buried between her legs, driving her into soul melting bliss, rubbing her clitoris with her moist taste buds then flicking it strongly, up and down, up and down, then doing again but going faster that time. Amidst her breathy moans and the gentle thrusting of her hips, she wondered what in the hell she was doing. She had never been a particularly promiscuous person. Had she really become this vulnerable, that a woman could say a few buzzwords, bat her eyelashes, stroke her and there, and that was it, she was laid? Her mind wanted to protest. Her body ignored her mind though. She didn’t complain.
Vicky’s tongue moved faster still, and Sandra groaned and rocked her hips, each in a greater capacity than she had before. She lay back and enjoyed it, her chest rising and falling with her quick, deep inhales and vocal exhales. It was like swimming in a sea of viscous, syrupy joy. Her mouth gaped and she held her breath as she felt an orgasm building and growing inside her. Every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation. It continued to ascend, like a beautiful crescendo waiting for the crash of the cymbals and the elated blast of the brass section. Then, as someone flicking a switch, the tension was released and the torrent rushed through her, her whole body seeming to shudder with waves of harmonious pleasure, Vicky’s tongue still massaging her spot gently as she rode the ecstasy all the way down, not wanting to give up a second of the body melting orgasm.
“…Oh shit…” managed Sandra.
Vicky chuckled as she re-emerged from between Sandra’s thighs, moving forward, pressing her body against Sandra’s, then giving her a long kiss when she reached her lips.
Sandra smiled at her. “You said you were very good at your job… but I didn’t realise CI looked for that sort of skill.”
Vicky laughed. She was lying in such a way that her legs intertwined with Sandra’s, and Sandra could feel the moistness of her, could see the ambiguous look in her eyes that was asking for reciprocation. Sandra moved to kiss her neck and stroke her back.
Then they heard footsteps. They held their breath as they drew nearer.
A lock was turned in the door.
Vicky squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force calm upon herself, touching Sandra’s shoulder reassuringly. “Be brave,” she whispered.
The huge slab of a door creaked open and two bulky androids walked in. “Prisoner 38 to interrogation,” one announced flatly.
Swallowing in a dry throat, Vicky stood up with an effort at outward dignity and an obvious attempt not to tremble. Her knees didn’t keep with her though, and she stumbled when she tried to walk. The two androids grabbed her by the arms and began leading her out.
“…No!” yelled Sandra.
She stood with intent to fight, but one of the androids pierced her with its cold eyes, and stated, quite simply, “Resistance will result in discipline.”
Sandra hesitated, looking on in unsure anxiety.
“Don’t worry,” said Vicky with a forced smile, “I’ll be fine.”
The androids began leading Vicky through a short tunnel of cells, originally used to house unwilling victims of the government’s research during the early days of the installation. Then, after leading her through a couple doors, they came to the research labs. Prototype tickling equipment was dotted all over, some of it with screaming, hysterical women locked inside them, an android next to them, telling them to talk, but not having sufficient programming to realise that because they had no questions to ask, it meant something was wrong. Luckily for the inmates of this now-made jail, the Mind Destruction unit had been a fairly recent development, and was not part of the large array of machinery. But there was still plenty of technology to inspire fear. There were of course the Boxes, devices in which small droids with licker implants were kept, where the container would be strapped to an area of the inmate’s body, or in the case of feet, the feet placed inside. The side facing the victim’s skin would then open up, and the lickers would tickle continuously for an indefinite period of time. Ideally it would be until the prisoner talked, but, and again luckily for the people incarcerated, the androids had too many interrogations to get through for that. There were the standard automated chairs, with various implements able to tickle in a variety of ways; there were frames, for those who just reacted better to a ten fingered approach, with racks of devices which the androids could utilise during the interrogation. Then there was the chamber where Vicky was going.
It was called Phobia Concentrated Therapy, or PCT, one of the crowning psychological developments of the IIRA. But for many, it was nightmares come to life. For those who were terrified of drowning, there was a tank filled with water, where they would be continuously submerged then brought back up, their bodies being monitored to ensure that they were always feeling about to drown, but that they had enough air to stay alive, all the while being tickled out of their minds by a variety of things: bristled brush like things, ribbed pads, bubble generators, rubber fingers; generally things would took advantage of the water and the wetness of her skin. For those afraid of heights, there was a pit, where the victim was balanced on a tiny ledge, with a pole provided above her head so that she could grab it to keep herself secure. She would then be tickled mercilessly by robotic arms installed in the platform, always knowing that if she kicked out she could slip and that if she tried to fight with her arms she could loose balance and fall. There was the insect box, where people would be placed within and a synthetic swarm – the victims were never told they were synthetic of course – of whatever it was they were most afraid of was released to crawl all over them – spiders were a popular choice. And of course during this torment they were tickled into a paranoid madness.
The one which Vicky was being led to however was designed for those who were deeply claustrophobic. She was first placed by the two androids onto a steel slab. All her body parts were then secured, so that she couldn’t move at all, not turn her neck, not wiggle her toes, nothing. She could tremble and vibrate, and budge her hips about a quarter of an inch, but other than that, she was static. The strap across her chest was designed to be so tight that she found it hard to breath; a classic trigger of claustrophobia. One of the androids hit a switch, and the slab began sliding towards the wall. A circular hole opened up. Slowly, agonisingly, for Vicky at least, she was entered into an incredibly close cylindrical space, which, once the entrance was shut, let in no sound and contained no light whatsoever. The surface above her was so close, she could feel her quick, hyperventilating breaths rebounding against it in the darkness. She tried in vain to calm herself down, but knowing that, of all her fears, she was a slave to this one, she soon gave in to her panic. A speaker crackled, and an android told her that the tickling would not stop until she talked. She knew nothing she said would make a difference, so she stayed silent, though that didn’t stop her from shaking all over in helpless terror.
Then she felt something brush against her stomach. She screamed, and, losing all control of herself, urinated on the spot, and tried to struggle against her gripping, stifling bonds despite all her knowledge of how useless it was. She moaned and cried as she felt large, soft, brush like begin to flutter over her stomach, her paranoia and fear making her infinitely susceptible to the sensations, and the sounds soon turned into cackling, screaming laughter, her lungs giving themselves up to wild abandon. Her legs had been secured apart from one another, and she knew that, although in normal situations the area was just like anywhere else ticklish, in this context, where she couldn’t move and was trapped and overwhelmed with fear, her genitals and crotch, vulnerable and completely locked in place, were extremely prone to being a zone of an unbearable tickling harvest. And sure enough, another one of those soft, but just stiff enough, big brushes soon submerged itself between her legs, spinning and stroking and flickering and just brushing and brushing and brushing until her ultra sensitive spot was on fire with too much tickling, far too much. She tried to close her legs, tried to pull away, tried in vain to tense the muscles which would have protected her from the maddening touch, but it was all useless. For her it was the worst kind of tickling, a teasing, caressing sort of tickle, which just seemed to get continually worse and worse, causing her to tense her muscles more and more tightly and tremble and vibrate more and more intensely. More brushes had emerged of course; there were a couple twirling in her armpits, a couple dancing their feathery touches across her feet, one lightly gliding across her breasts. But it was the one in-between her legs that was driving her mad. It just kept spinning and teasing and flicking and touching where it shouldn’t have been, slowly squeezing the sanity out of her.
It had been a while since Vicky had actually laughed now. Most of the time she was either struggling to breath, making odd, strenuous moans that conveyed her overwhelming desire for it to end, or, in the rare moments when her lungs found any power, screaming with a distorted, suffering grin.
Sandra sat in the cell and waited. And waited. After about an hour went past she began to get very worried. She had only just met Vicky, but the nature of the situation they were in had caused a bond to form between them immediately, and as such, she was terrified of what might have been happening to her. Eventually, after perhaps another hour, the androids finally returned, and they dumped Vicky back into the cell. The woman lay there, curled up, a twitching, shivering wreck. Her breath came in short, erratic gasps and her wide, staring eyes looked unfocused, just staring into nothing. She would occasionally spasm or convulse, or utter a random noise.
Sandra, with a deeply sympathetic expression moved to comfort her, but as soon as her hand touched Vicky’s skin, the poor woman jerked away, looking terrified. After some trying, Sandra finally managed to convince the trembling girl that her only intent was to comfort her. She held her close and kissed her head softly.
“We have to get out of here…” Sandra whispered. “…We have to get out.”
Hope you all like it. Let me know if my style is getting too repetitive. Sandra’s eyes fluttered open. Everything was blurry for a moment, and she couldn’t quite think, then suddenly memories shot back into her and she pulled her foot towards her in terror, but, to her surprise, it was free. She slowly became aware of her surroundings: she was in a cold, dry cell, light falling through a thick slab of glass in the ceiling and a large, solid iron door in one of the walls. There was another woman in there with her, who she now realised was staring at her, and both of them were naked.
“…Hello?” asked Sandra uneasily. She got no reply. “Em… I’m Sandra… do you mind if I ask your name?”
The woman scoffed. “You’re an eager one.”
Sandra was silent for a moment, not really knowing what to say. “Um…What did you do before… here…?”
The woman examined her for a moment, considering, then cleared her throat. “I was the Vice Director of Central Intelligence.”
“… At your age?”
“I was very good at my job.”
Sandra raised her eyebrows, then, realising she wasn’t going to be asked in return, decided to answer the question anyway. “… I was the Chairwoman of the IIRA.”
The woman laughed dryly. “The IIRA? What, did the Irish become even more pissed off?”
“No, it stands for Institute of Interrogation Research and Application.”
“…I knew that. It was a joke. You still know what a joke is? Or have they tickled you too much?”
The word tickle sent shudders up and down Sandra’s spine. “…Do you know what’s going on down here? All the files on this place were closed topside.”
The woman sighed. “There was a flaw in the androids’ original programming; they’ve got stuck in a loop where they think they have information to extract but don’t have answers coded in, so you can never tell them what they want to hear.”
Sandra felt herself immediately begin to hyperventilate. “No, I can’t be tickled again. They aren’t here are they? Are we their prisoners? I – there must be a way to get out of here, there must…”
“Oh hush. That attitude will drive you mad, trust me; I’ve seen it happen. It’s not so horrible. They feed us, albeit with those little pills they have in droves, and there’s only so many of them operating, so they can’t do everyone all of the time.”
“No, no, I don’t… We can’t just stay here! Can we not, I-I…” Tears swelled in Sandra’s eyes, and she squeezed her eyebrows down as she began crying.
“Shh, come here, it’s ok, shh…” The other woman crawled over to her and held her close, rocking her gently. “It’s ok… Sandra, we’re women, remember? It’s our job to look out for each other.” She smiled warmly. “…My… my name’s Vicky by the way.”
Sandra looked up at her, and, wiping her own nose, managed a small smile, before she choked up again.
“Shh, shh… Here, chin up, look at me. We need to help each other. That’s the only way you can stay sane in this place. Trust me; I’ll be here for you.”
Sandra looked up again, though this time with a slightly more developed feeling of trust. To her intense surprise, Vicky leaned in and their lips came together slowly in a soft kiss. Although Sandra was taken aback, and wasn’t a lesbian as such, it wasn’t so unusual, as all women in this age were used to seeking physical comfort and embrace in one another. The pleasure androids were exactly what their name implied: Gorgeous, synthetic men, all with suitably large genitalia and muscles - depending on preference of course – who knew everything there was to know about anatomy and technique, and who were programmed to give off pheromones for that extra chemical rush. But other woman offered that much needed emotional touch, the security and mental warmth that came from knowing you were sharing yourself with a living, thinking human being. Sandra’s fears partially melted away as Vicky’s soft, hot skin pressed against hers, as a velvety tongue massaged her own, not a cruel synthetic one, but a chaotic, beautiful one, belonging to a real, beautiful human woman. Fingertips caressed her breasts and ran down her sides and thighs, not tickling, but stroking gently, reassuring her, letting her know in a tactile way that it was going to be ok. Sandra stroked Vicky’s unkempt, wavy brown hair as she allowed her breasts to be explored and her nipples to be circled and played with by the warm, human tongue, and she made a little gasp as Vicky’s hand brushed the inside of her crotch as it teased up and down her inner thigh. She took deep, indulging breaths when her pleasurer descended, that tongue and those lips playing around her legs and crotch, not touching the spot, just dancing around it, causing Sandra to grow hot and flushed with desire, and those gentle fingers ran lightly across her buttocks and lower back all the while, making her shiver and sound little hums and mms of delight.
Sandra arched her back and rocked her pelvis slightly to encourage her lover. Vicky took the cue. Slowly, she slid her tongue in-between the moist skins of Sandra’s sex. Sandra gasped louder. Vicky ran her tongue up and down the sides, circled a couple times, glided in and out teasingly, before sending shocks of pleasure up and down Sandra’s body by pulling back her hood and smothering her clitoris with a writhing tongue.
Sandra looked down at the head of the woman who she had just met, buried between her legs, driving her into soul melting bliss, rubbing her clitoris with her moist taste buds then flicking it strongly, up and down, up and down, then doing again but going faster that time. Amidst her breathy moans and the gentle thrusting of her hips, she wondered what in the hell she was doing. She had never been a particularly promiscuous person. Had she really become this vulnerable, that a woman could say a few buzzwords, bat her eyelashes, stroke her and there, and that was it, she was laid? Her mind wanted to protest. Her body ignored her mind though. She didn’t complain.
Vicky’s tongue moved faster still, and Sandra groaned and rocked her hips, each in a greater capacity than she had before. She lay back and enjoyed it, her chest rising and falling with her quick, deep inhales and vocal exhales. It was like swimming in a sea of viscous, syrupy joy. Her mouth gaped and she held her breath as she felt an orgasm building and growing inside her. Every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation. It continued to ascend, like a beautiful crescendo waiting for the crash of the cymbals and the elated blast of the brass section. Then, as someone flicking a switch, the tension was released and the torrent rushed through her, her whole body seeming to shudder with waves of harmonious pleasure, Vicky’s tongue still massaging her spot gently as she rode the ecstasy all the way down, not wanting to give up a second of the body melting orgasm.
“…Oh shit…” managed Sandra.
Vicky chuckled as she re-emerged from between Sandra’s thighs, moving forward, pressing her body against Sandra’s, then giving her a long kiss when she reached her lips.
Sandra smiled at her. “You said you were very good at your job… but I didn’t realise CI looked for that sort of skill.”
Vicky laughed. She was lying in such a way that her legs intertwined with Sandra’s, and Sandra could feel the moistness of her, could see the ambiguous look in her eyes that was asking for reciprocation. Sandra moved to kiss her neck and stroke her back.
Then they heard footsteps. They held their breath as they drew nearer.
A lock was turned in the door.
Vicky squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force calm upon herself, touching Sandra’s shoulder reassuringly. “Be brave,” she whispered.
The huge slab of a door creaked open and two bulky androids walked in. “Prisoner 38 to interrogation,” one announced flatly.
Swallowing in a dry throat, Vicky stood up with an effort at outward dignity and an obvious attempt not to tremble. Her knees didn’t keep with her though, and she stumbled when she tried to walk. The two androids grabbed her by the arms and began leading her out.
“…No!” yelled Sandra.
She stood with intent to fight, but one of the androids pierced her with its cold eyes, and stated, quite simply, “Resistance will result in discipline.”
Sandra hesitated, looking on in unsure anxiety.
“Don’t worry,” said Vicky with a forced smile, “I’ll be fine.”
The androids began leading Vicky through a short tunnel of cells, originally used to house unwilling victims of the government’s research during the early days of the installation. Then, after leading her through a couple doors, they came to the research labs. Prototype tickling equipment was dotted all over, some of it with screaming, hysterical women locked inside them, an android next to them, telling them to talk, but not having sufficient programming to realise that because they had no questions to ask, it meant something was wrong. Luckily for the inmates of this now-made jail, the Mind Destruction unit had been a fairly recent development, and was not part of the large array of machinery. But there was still plenty of technology to inspire fear. There were of course the Boxes, devices in which small droids with licker implants were kept, where the container would be strapped to an area of the inmate’s body, or in the case of feet, the feet placed inside. The side facing the victim’s skin would then open up, and the lickers would tickle continuously for an indefinite period of time. Ideally it would be until the prisoner talked, but, and again luckily for the people incarcerated, the androids had too many interrogations to get through for that. There were the standard automated chairs, with various implements able to tickle in a variety of ways; there were frames, for those who just reacted better to a ten fingered approach, with racks of devices which the androids could utilise during the interrogation. Then there was the chamber where Vicky was going.
It was called Phobia Concentrated Therapy, or PCT, one of the crowning psychological developments of the IIRA. But for many, it was nightmares come to life. For those who were terrified of drowning, there was a tank filled with water, where they would be continuously submerged then brought back up, their bodies being monitored to ensure that they were always feeling about to drown, but that they had enough air to stay alive, all the while being tickled out of their minds by a variety of things: bristled brush like things, ribbed pads, bubble generators, rubber fingers; generally things would took advantage of the water and the wetness of her skin. For those afraid of heights, there was a pit, where the victim was balanced on a tiny ledge, with a pole provided above her head so that she could grab it to keep herself secure. She would then be tickled mercilessly by robotic arms installed in the platform, always knowing that if she kicked out she could slip and that if she tried to fight with her arms she could loose balance and fall. There was the insect box, where people would be placed within and a synthetic swarm – the victims were never told they were synthetic of course – of whatever it was they were most afraid of was released to crawl all over them – spiders were a popular choice. And of course during this torment they were tickled into a paranoid madness.
The one which Vicky was being led to however was designed for those who were deeply claustrophobic. She was first placed by the two androids onto a steel slab. All her body parts were then secured, so that she couldn’t move at all, not turn her neck, not wiggle her toes, nothing. She could tremble and vibrate, and budge her hips about a quarter of an inch, but other than that, she was static. The strap across her chest was designed to be so tight that she found it hard to breath; a classic trigger of claustrophobia. One of the androids hit a switch, and the slab began sliding towards the wall. A circular hole opened up. Slowly, agonisingly, for Vicky at least, she was entered into an incredibly close cylindrical space, which, once the entrance was shut, let in no sound and contained no light whatsoever. The surface above her was so close, she could feel her quick, hyperventilating breaths rebounding against it in the darkness. She tried in vain to calm herself down, but knowing that, of all her fears, she was a slave to this one, she soon gave in to her panic. A speaker crackled, and an android told her that the tickling would not stop until she talked. She knew nothing she said would make a difference, so she stayed silent, though that didn’t stop her from shaking all over in helpless terror.
Then she felt something brush against her stomach. She screamed, and, losing all control of herself, urinated on the spot, and tried to struggle against her gripping, stifling bonds despite all her knowledge of how useless it was. She moaned and cried as she felt large, soft, brush like begin to flutter over her stomach, her paranoia and fear making her infinitely susceptible to the sensations, and the sounds soon turned into cackling, screaming laughter, her lungs giving themselves up to wild abandon. Her legs had been secured apart from one another, and she knew that, although in normal situations the area was just like anywhere else ticklish, in this context, where she couldn’t move and was trapped and overwhelmed with fear, her genitals and crotch, vulnerable and completely locked in place, were extremely prone to being a zone of an unbearable tickling harvest. And sure enough, another one of those soft, but just stiff enough, big brushes soon submerged itself between her legs, spinning and stroking and flickering and just brushing and brushing and brushing until her ultra sensitive spot was on fire with too much tickling, far too much. She tried to close her legs, tried to pull away, tried in vain to tense the muscles which would have protected her from the maddening touch, but it was all useless. For her it was the worst kind of tickling, a teasing, caressing sort of tickle, which just seemed to get continually worse and worse, causing her to tense her muscles more and more tightly and tremble and vibrate more and more intensely. More brushes had emerged of course; there were a couple twirling in her armpits, a couple dancing their feathery touches across her feet, one lightly gliding across her breasts. But it was the one in-between her legs that was driving her mad. It just kept spinning and teasing and flicking and touching where it shouldn’t have been, slowly squeezing the sanity out of her.
It had been a while since Vicky had actually laughed now. Most of the time she was either struggling to breath, making odd, strenuous moans that conveyed her overwhelming desire for it to end, or, in the rare moments when her lungs found any power, screaming with a distorted, suffering grin.
Sandra sat in the cell and waited. And waited. After about an hour went past she began to get very worried. She had only just met Vicky, but the nature of the situation they were in had caused a bond to form between them immediately, and as such, she was terrified of what might have been happening to her. Eventually, after perhaps another hour, the androids finally returned, and they dumped Vicky back into the cell. The woman lay there, curled up, a twitching, shivering wreck. Her breath came in short, erratic gasps and her wide, staring eyes looked unfocused, just staring into nothing. She would occasionally spasm or convulse, or utter a random noise.
Sandra, with a deeply sympathetic expression moved to comfort her, but as soon as her hand touched Vicky’s skin, the poor woman jerked away, looking terrified. After some trying, Sandra finally managed to convince the trembling girl that her only intent was to comfort her. She held her close and kissed her head softly.
“We have to get out of here…” Sandra whispered. “…We have to get out.”
