The fishbowl

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Cold.

That's the first thing.

Cold on my back, cold on my ass, cold everywhere, and my skull is ringing like somebody took a baseball bat to a church bell and shoved the sound between my ears.

I'm on the ground.

Concrete?

No… some kind of rubberized flooring, the kind we use in the free-weight section at my gym.

My gym.

Reynolds Fitness.

The one I built from nothing. The one I…

Focus.

I open my eyes and the world tilts sideways, a smear of industrial lighting and curved walls.

I blink.

Blink again.

The last thing I remember is standing on a warehouse floor, fists balled, staring at the back of Jack Dingle's worthless skull and fantasizing about caving it in with a tire iron.

Then… nothing.

A gap.

Like someone reached into my timeline and ripped out the pages.

I sit up too fast and my stomach lurches.

I try to get my head straight.

I’m Janice Reynolds.

I’m thirty-four years old.

I bench press two-twenty.

….I’m also completely fucking naked.

The realization hits like ice water.

I look down and there it is.

Everything.

My tanned skin, my abs, my tits just out there, nipples already hard from the cold, and absolutely nothing covering a single inch of me.

No sports bra, no leotard, no underwear. Not even the fucking collar.

No collar.

My hand flies to my throat. Bare skin. No leather. No tag. No leash.

For exactly one second, something like hope sparks in my chest.

Bright and disorienting, like sunlight after weeks underground.

And then I remember that hope is for people who haven't been turned into Jack Dingle's personal bitch, and I stomp it dead.

I take in the room.

It's small.

Circular, maybe fifteen feet across, with the same rubberized flooring as a wrestling mat. The walls are glass. Thick, clear glass panels curving all the way around like a fishbowl, rising up another six or seven feet to a ceiling studded with fluorescent tubes and what look like small speakers.

The whole setup screams arena.

Pit.

Cage.

I'm in a cage.

And I'm not alone.

The other woman is about ten feet away, also on the floor, also naked, also blinking herself awake with the dazed look of someone who just got roofied.

She's muscular.

Legitimately muscular, the kind of build that takes years of disciplined training, and I can respect that even through the haze of panic.

But what draws my eye, what I cannot stop staring at, are her breasts.

They're enormous.

Comically, absurdly, almost aggressively large on her athletic frame.

F-cups at minimum.

Sitting high and round and clearly surgically enhanced because gravity does not work like that.

Her hair is buzzed down to a flat-top, bleached white, sharp as a marine's.

She looks like someone designed a supersoldier and then let a plastic surgeon with a fetish loose on the prototype.

A bimbo soldier.

That's the phrase my brain generates, and I don't have the energy to feel guilty about it.

She catches me staring. Her eyes are blue and wide and confused.

We regard each other across the mat like two animals who've just been dumped into the same enclosure and aren't sure yet who's prey.

Movement at the glass.

I whip my head around.

And there he is.

Jack.

Standing on the other side of the glass, fully clothed, looking down at me with that expression.

That fucking expression.

The one that sits somewhere between ownership and concern.

Like I'm a racehorse he's evaluating and not a human woman he's systematically destroyed.

He presses a palm against the glass.

His mouth moves.

I can't hear him.

Not a goddamn word.

The glass is soundproof, or close enough that his voice is just lips and teeth and that stupid face making shapes.

I lunge toward the wall, slamming both palms against the glass.

I intend to shout.

"YOU PIECE OF..."

But nothing comes out.

Just a pathetic whimper that quickly dies.

My throat clamps.

Like a fist closing around my vocal cords from the inside.

My jaw works, my lungs push, but the words aimed at him just won't form.

Because he told me to shut up.

And for some godforsaken reason I can't disobey him.

I don't want to disobey. Or my body doesn't want to disobey.

I can't tell which one it is anymore.

I slam my fist against the glass so hard my knuckles crack.

The glass doesn't even vibrate.

There's someone standing next to Jack.

A woman. Short black hair, pale skin, sharp features, dressed in some kind of sleek black outfit that makes her look like a Bond villain's assistant.

She's watching me the way you'd watch a lab rat in a maze.

Clinical. Amused.

I have never seen her before in my life.

But she has the same energy Jack has.

That "I own a person" confidence that radiates off them like heat.

Jack is still mouthing words at me. I can't read lips.

I don't want to read his lips.

I want to reach through this glass and wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until something pops.

I turn away from him.

The other woman, the bimbo soldier, is on her feet now.

She's taller than me by a couple inches, and up close her body is genuinely impressive.

Defined deltoids, veined forearms, quads that could crack walnuts.

The huge tits bouncing slightly with each breath are almost an afterthought when you factor in the rest of her.

Almost.

We stare at each other.

Then… a voice.

It's not human.

It’s something pretending to be human.

AI?

It’s smooth, genderless, and projected from the ceiling speakers with the calm authority of a flight attendant announcing turbulence.

"The rules for the fourth bout will now be explained."

Bout. Fourth bout.

WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I BEEN DRAGGED TO?

"The subject that orgasms first is the loser."

The words register individually but refuse to form a coherent meaning.

I hear them.

I understand English.

But my brain just keeps bouncing them back, returning them to sender, because no.

No. Absolutely no.

"This is a test of strength, skill, and ruthlessness. All methods are allowed."

And just like that, like everything’s now neatly explained, the voice cuts off.

A mechanical whirring from above.

I look up just in time to see a panel in the ceiling slide open, and then objects are raining down around us.

Bouncing, clattering, rolling across the rubberized floor.

I flinch, covering my head, and when I lower my arms and look at what's been delivered, my stomach drops through the floor.

Dildos.

Vibrators.

Strap-ons.

At least a dozen of them scattered across the pit like party favors from Hell.

Thick ones, ribbed ones, curved ones, a massive double-ended monstrosity, a harness with a realistic silicone cock already attached, another with something curved and knobbed that looks designed for purposes I don't want to imagine.

One of the vibrators has already turned itself on somehow, buzzing against the floor with a low, insistent hum.

I stare at the collection.

I stare at the glass walls.

I stare at Jack.

I stare at the woman across the mat.

I am standing naked in a small arena, surrounded by sex toys, with a muscular stranger, while two people watch through soundproof glass, and a voice has just told us that whoever cums first loses.

What kind of…

What fucking kind of…

I need to get out of here.

How did any of this…

I was a gym owner.

I was a gym owner with a reputation and a life, and now I'm standing bare-ass naked in a gladiator pit full of dildos being told to sexually dominate a stranger or be sexually dominated by one and I can't even scream at the man who did this to me because he told me to shut up and I'm still obeying.

My vision whites out at the edges.

Every muscle in my body locks at once. The rage has nowhere to go. It just cycles through me, a closed loop of voltage with no ground wire, burning every circuit it touches.

Suddenly, the bimbo soldier speaks.

"Roxanne," she says.

Her voice is surprisingly soft. Midwestern. The voice of someone who once had a normal life in a normal town.

There's a slight tremor in it.

"My name is Roxanne."

I open my mouth.

Wait, what was Jack's order to me?

It was… "You shut up as well", if I remember correctly.

Surely it meant only that I shouldn't talk to him? And I guess the main thing was that he didn't want to hear my voice at that moment?

Well… now he wouldn't, I guess? Surely that meant I could talk to…

God! I shouldn't be this worried about obeying his words to the letter!

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I could talk to the woman.

I DEFINITELY could talk to the woman.

I- I had to prove to myself I still could.

"J-Janice," I managed to push out through my vocal cords.

I hated how unsure I sounded.

Roxanne takes a breath. Those massive tits rise and fall.

She meets my eyes and I see something in hers that I don't like.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"W-Why?"

"Years ago," she says slowly, like she's reciting something she's rehearsed, "I was in a group of awful, malignant cunts. I was the muscle of the group, the dumb cunt that could hold her down while the others spat on her. We ruined our mistress's life. Our g-goddess's life."

Her voice cracked on the word goddess, and her throat worked like she was swallowing something sharp, but she pushed forward without stopping.

"And now it's this m-muscle cunt's duty to make her happy. To keep her happy."

She bends down and picks up one of the dildos.

It's a fat, veiny thing, flesh-colored, about eight inches long.

She holds it in her fist like a weapon, knuckles white.

And I understand.

The woman with the short black hair out there.

She's Roxanne's Jack.

And whoever this black-haired woman was, she has rebuilt Roxanne into her attack dog.

Her obedient, surgically inflated attack dog.

And right now that dog has been given a command.

Make me cum.

No.

FUCK THAT.

Roxanne takes a step toward me.

Then another.

She holds the dildo at her side, apologetic expression still plastered across her face.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to…"

I snap-kick.

Twenty-two years of martial arts training, starting with taekwondo at age twelve and branching into kickboxing at nineteen. My body knows what to do before my brain gives the order.

My right leg fires out, ball of the foot connecting with the dildo dead-center, and the thing goes flying out of her grip, sailing across the pit and bouncing off the far glass wall with a rubbery thwack.

Roxanne blinks.

Looks at her empty hand.

Looks at me.

"Don't," I tell her. "Don't you fucking dare."

She hesitates.

For one beautiful second, she hesitates, and I think maybe.

Maybe she'll back down.

Maybe there's enough human being left in there to…

She rushes me.

She's fast.

Faster than she should be.

She's got maybe fifteen pounds on me, most of it in those ridiculous tits but enough of it in her shoulders and thighs to matter.

She goes low, shooting for my hips like a wrestler, and I sprawl back instinctively, hands on her shoulders, driving her head down.

We collide, skin on skin, her forehead against my stomach, my hands sliding on her sweaty scalp.

She wraps her arms around my waist and lifts.

I knee her in the ribs.

She grunts but doesn't let go.

We stagger sideways, locked together, bare flesh grinding.

Her tits mashed against my abs, my thighs clamping around her torso.

She tries to trip me with her ankle and I go down, pulling her with me, and then we're rolling across the rubber floor in a tangle of limbs and I can feel… everything.

Her skin, her muscles, her nipples dragging across mine, the heat of her body against mine in ways that I absolutely do not want to process.

I get a forearm across her throat and push. She gasps, rears back, and I scramble free, getting to my knees.

She grabs my ankle.

I kick her hand loose and get to my feet, backing up until my ass hits the glass wall.

I glance over my shoulder.

Jack is right there, inches away on the other side, and he's shouting something, gesturing wildly toward the vibrators on the floor.

Pointing at them.

Pointing at Roxanne.

You fucking piece of shit.

You want me to shove a vibrator into a stranger's pussy while you watch through glass like I'm your personal pornographic gladiator, you WORTHLESS, DISGUSTING, VILE LITTLE…

Roxanne hits me from the side.

She tackles me away from the wall and we go down hard, her on top.

She pins my wrist with one hand and reaches with the other, snagging a harness-mounted strap-on from where it landed nearby.

I buck, thrash, twist, my abs burning, my free hand clawing at her forearm. But she's got leverage, sitting on my pelvis with her weight centered, and those ridiculous tits are hanging right over my face as she fumbles the harness around her hips with one hand.

"Get OFF me!" I roar.

"I'm sorry," she says again, breathless now, clicking the buckle into place.

The silicone cock juts from her crotch, obscene and absurd.

"I'm not… I'm not a lesbian. I’m not going to enjoy this. I had a husband. A life. But she made me into what she needed. And what she needs right now is for me to win."

"I don't give a SHIT about your sob story! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"

She shifts, trying to force my legs apart with her knee.

I clamp my thighs together so hard my muscles scream. She pushes harder.

I hook my leg around hers and bridge my hips, a move I learned from the one BJJ class I took before deciding ground fighting was beneath me.

A decision I am currently regretting with every fiber of my being.

The bridge works. She topples sideways and I slither out from under her, rolling, scrambling to my feet.

I'm breathing hard.

My skin is slick with sweat.

My nipples are hard. From the cold, from the friction, from the adrenaline.

I refuse to consider any other explanation.

Roxanne gets up slower this time.

She's winded too.

The strap-on bounces between her legs as she rises.

The image of a white-flat-topped musclebound woman with fake F-cups wearing a rubber cock and apologizing for being heterosexual has now surpassed all other horror images in my brain. And that's a competitive field.

I had to think.

Think like my life depended on it.

This woman is trying to force an orgasm out of me, and if she succeeds, Jack loses, and if Jack loses…

Wait.

If Jack loses.

Wouldn't that be… good?

The thought slides through my mind like a snake.

If I cum, Jack loses his bout.

But what does that even mean?

Is this whole thing just some sick bet he has with that woman over there?

To see whose slave can make the other one's cum?

And if I lose it's just something to chuckle about?

But still…

Maybe he has some serious money on this?

What if I just lie back, let it happen, and watch him lose while the orgasm rolls through me?

Except.

Except.

I don't want to cum for a stranger.

I don't want to be made to cum against my will, on a rubber floor, in a glass cage, while people watch.

I don't want to be a spectacle.

I don't want to be used.

I've been used enough.

I've been collared and leashed and walked and fed dog food and fucked in every hole and made to bark and piss in the yard and…

And if I give in now, even to spite Jack, I'm still the one on her back with someone else's fake cock inside her.

I'm still the one who lost.

Janice Reynolds does not lose.

I set my jaw.

Roxanne comes again.

She's smarter this time, feinting left and darting right, trying to get behind me.

I pivot, keeping her in front, and when she lunges I sidestep and shove her shoulder as she passes.

She stumbles into the wall and I'm on her back instantly, arm snaking around her throat in a rear choke.

I squeeze.

She claws at my forearm, her nails leaving white lines on my tanned skin, but I'm locked in. My hips against her ass, my bicep crushing her carotid.

Her massive tits are mashed against the glass and I can see the woman with the black hair on the other side, pressing close to watch, her expression sharp and focused.

Go to sleep, I think.

Go to sleep and this is over.

Neither of us have to get humiliated.

But Roxanne doesn't go to sleep.

She’s like a fucking mutant soldier.

She peels my arm loose. She's strong, stronger than me pound-for-pound, and the realization sends a cold spike through my gut.

She twists my arm, elbowing me in the ribs.

I gasp, lose my grip, and she reverses, wrapping her legs around my waist from behind in a body triangle.

We crash to the floor together.

Her legs squeeze my midsection like a python and I can feel the strap-on pressing against my lower back, hard and rigid.

She snakes a hand around my hip.

Her fingers find me between my legs.

"No!" I grab her wrist but she's already there, fingertips sliding along my slit, and I'm…

I'm wet.

I'm wet, and I want to scream.

This is what Jack has done to me. Weeks of him using my body like a toy, training it to respond, keeping me on edge. My pussy doesn't know the difference anymore between violence and foreplay. It just reacts.

Like a muscle with no brain attached.

My clit throbs and her finger grazes it and a jolt runs through me that I feel in my teeth.

"Just let it happen," Roxanne murmurs behind me, her breath hot on my ear. "It'll be over quick."

I slam my head backward into her face.

The crack is satisfying.

Nasal cartilage against the back of my skull.

She yelps, her grip loosens, and I rip free, crawling forward on my hands and knees, scrambling away from her.

I get to my feet, chest heaving, fists raised. Roxanne is on her knees, one hand cupped over her face. She looks up at me with eyes gone flat and cold.

No more apologies.

She stands. Adjusts the strap-on.

And charges.

This time there's no feint.

She hits me center-mass like a linebacker, driving me backward into the glass. My back slams against it.

Before I can recover she's got both my wrists pinned above my head in one big hand, her body crushing mine against the wall, and I can feel every inch of her, her abs against my stomach, her nipples grazing against mine, the strap-on pressed hard against my inner thigh.

With her free hand she hooks my leg, lifting it, opening me up.

The silicone head finds my entrance and pushes.

"NO…"

It slides in.

My body accepts it because my body has been trained to accept things.

Weeks of Jack.

Weeks of violation.

My cunt is a traitor.

It clenches around the shaft, hot and tight, and Roxanne drives it home with a sharp thrust of her hips that pins me even harder against the glass.

I look to my right.

Jack is standing there.

Through the glass.

Right there.

Close enough that if the wall weren't between us I could reach out and touch him.

His mouth is still moving. Still shouting words I can't hear.

He’s furious.

He's watching his bitch lose and there's nothing he can do about it.

Good, some part of me thinks.

Choke on it.

Roxanne pulls out, roughly turns me around and pushes me against the glass.

I'm too spent to fight back anymore. My arms feel like wet rope.

She enters me from behind.

She begins thrusting again.

Hard, rhythmic thrusts that drive the air from my lungs.

Her free hand finds my clit and she works it with the efficient, mechanical precision of someone who's been drilled in exactly this. Trained for it. Perfected.

Circular motions.

Varying pressure.

She knows what she's doing, and my hips are starting to move on their own, rocking back against her, matching her rhythm, and I hate myself, I hate myself with a purity and completeness that transcends anything I've ever felt for Jack.

My breasts are smashed flat against the glass, nipples dragging on the cold smooth surface, and the sensation, the pressure and the friction and the temperature… sends signals screaming down neural pathways that Jack burned into me with weeks of pinching and twisting and yanking until my chest became a direct line to my cunt.

Roxanne's other hand comes up and starts pinching my nipples.

My weakest point.

The one thing I've begged Jack to do to me so many times.

I won't last long now. I know it. She knows it. Everybody watching knows it.

My eyes are locked on Jack's face as the orgasm builds.

I watch his jaw tighten.

I watch his fists clench.

I should be happy that he’s hating this.

But…

Somehow…

In a small, unknown part of myself…

I hate that I’m disappointing him.

Roxanne drives deep and her thumb grinds my clit and her fingers twist my nipple and my back arches and my mouth opens and…

I cum.

I cum with my cunt spasming around the silicone cock, my legs shaking so badly that only Roxanne's body holds me up, and the sound that comes out of me is raw, animal, pulled from somewhere deeper than speech.

It echoes off the glass walls and comes back to me, and I hear what I sound like, and I want to die.

Through the glass, past Jack's stricken expression, the woman with the short black hair is celebrating.

She pumps a fist.

She grins, wide and vicious and victorious.

Somewhere above me, muffled by the blood pounding in my ears, I hear the AI voice from the speakers.

"Orgasm has been detected. Bout four is now over. The winner is Daphne Redford."

Roxanne pulls out.

Steps back.

I slide down the glass wall and collapse on the rubber floor, legs apart, chest heaving, the ghost of the orgasm still twitching through my muscles.

Between my legs I'm soaked and swollen and aching, and I want to curl into a ball and die right here on this disgusting floor in this disgusting cage.

I lost.

Janice Reynolds does not lose.

But the thing on this floor…

That thing isn't Janice Reynolds anymore.

It's just a pile of flesh that's still cumming.

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