my_b7_fic: Avon karate chopping (Default)
[personal profile] my_b7_fic
This was written for the 2006 [ profile] dooooooomathon, wherein the requirement was the breaking of at least one sexual taboo. I got carried away. Since this is so much more kinky and evil than my usual stories, I'm putting a more detailed warning here.

Taboos Used in the story:Bestiality, transvestitism, pony-play, with masochistic, exhibitionistic tendencies, rather far-fetched incest and necrophilia. Also rape, and RPS of a sort -the original character was a famous British scientist. Also there's a mutoid.

Additional Warnings:There is an enema involved. And I admit to being both tongue-in-cheek, and deadly serious at the same time, which may hurt your brain.

Prompt: augment, amplify, worship, symbol (I did actually use all of them, but symbol isn't directly used.)

Avon's whimpers and groans were transformed into animal noises by the small disk pressed tightly against his throat and held in place by the black leather straps of his pony-mask. Under his false hooves, his fingers and toes clenched as the huge white dog fucking him forced the knot at the root of its cock up his arse, locking them together.

"Good dog, Filip," Servalan cried, pulling on Avon's reins to force him to keep his kneeling position as the dog released the grip of its forelegs on Avon's waist. It turned around to stand facing away from Avon, furry balls pressed tightly against him, long-plumed tail sweeping over Avon's arse as it reacted to the praise. "He's good, isn't he, Avon?" Servalan fondled Avon's hair where it emerged from the mask to form a mane, and then she pulled it hard. "Better than Blake," she said sweetly.

Avon groaned again and tried to pull away from her grip. "Bad boy!" Servalan snapped. The borzoi looked around, one ear cocked, to make sure he wasn't the one being scolded, then turned back, panting and making pleased little whines as it continued to pump hot semen into Avon's arse.

Servalan tightened the rubber-spiked cockring around Avon's penis and balls. "Don't you dare come until I give permission." She flipped the reins over Avon's back, trailing them down to clip onto Filip's collar. "And don't you dare lose Filip." She walked away and called to the dog.

The hooves made moving difficult, and the blinders made him even more clumsy, but Avon did his best to obey, clenching his arse muscles to increase the dog's pleasure, and pushing himself back onto Filip's cock every time it seemed as if it was slipping loose. Filip was as well-trained as Avon, Servalan's discipline having added to his natural stamina. It was more than half an hour later when the exhausted dog finally pulled his cock out, releasing a flood of semen that flowed over Avon's balls and down his thighs. Servalan allowed the dog several licks at Avon's arse before she ordered him away and mounted Avon herself. She rammed her harnessed dildo up Avon's dog-cum lubricated arse until he screamed in a series of high, whinnying cries. "Come, Avon!" she commanded, ripping loose the cockring. She rode Avon hard while he bucked and came, finally sliding down onto his belly, costume rucked up around him.

Servalan leaned forward and unbuckled the pony-mask, tugging it free and tossing it to one side. She stroked the side of Avon's face with her fingernails. Softly she said, "Very good. Blake would have been proud of you."

Avon opened his eyes and looked at her bleakly. Harshly, he rasped, "Thank you, mistress."

Servalan's smile and voice became almost gentle. "There, now." She stroked his arms, running her hands over the ridged scar tissue along each wrist. "You see, you don't need to hurt yourself, Avon." She smoothed his hair into place. "Obey me, and I will punish you as you deserve."

Avon's eyes sharpened, and he fed on her words hungrily. "Yes, mistress." He picked up her hand and kissed the palm, worshipping her, his dark Goddess of Pain and Expiation. "I live only to serve you."

Servalan got up and turned away from Avon. If he could have seen her face, the sadness in her beautiful eyes would have astonished him. "Get up and get dressed." She threw a pile of black clothing at him. "I expect you to produce results, Avon. If you don't..." She turned back to him and toed his limp genitals with her shoe, "I may just become bored with you. I might even turn you loose."

Avon cringed, clutching the fabric to his chest. "Please! Don't do that, mistress." He groveled at her feet, kissing her shoes. "I... I'm sorry I couldn't give you the teleport or star-drive, but I can create other things!" He licked her ankle. "Please, let me use Orac and I will put the galaxy at your feet."

Servalan's mouth tightened. She hesitated for a long moment, and then nodded. "Very well, Avon. I have other matters to attend to, but when I return, you had better impress me. I will leave my mutoid here, with instructions to punish you if you earn it."

Avon glanced up at the tall, curly-haired figure standing silently against the far wall, blue eyes blank as a clear Earth sky. He flinched. "Tarrant doesn't understand."

"Don't be an ungrateful bitch, Avon. I could leave you alone with your thoughts."

Avon's eyes went wide. "No, please! Thank you, mistress. I am grateful!" He got up shakily, pulled off the rest of the pony costume and pulled on the black gown she'd thrown at him, one of her own discards. The feathery collar stood out around his head, and black sequins glittered at chest and crotch. The shoes were copies of hers, and he teetered slightly before balancing on the stilettos. He looked at himself in the mirror as he put on the long, dangling earrings that went with it.

"You're too pale, Avon."

"Yes, mistress." Avon picked up his makeup case, and carefully applied blusher, lipstick and eye makeup, finishing by curling his lashes. He looked at Servalan hopefully. She smiled. "You are a pretty bitch, but pretty is as pretty does, Avon." She kissed him, smearing his lipstick with her own. "Work hard, and I will reward you. If you please me enough, I may kill you myself." Servalan turned and strode out of the room, the borzoi following her, after one last glance back at Avon.


Avon talked to himself, ignoring the mutoid who watched him, silently as ever. "Yes. The sopron. I need that. Where did I put it?" He rummaged through drawers in his workshop until he found an object resembling a rock. He looked at it, and swallowed, shaking his head. He put the sopron down next to the clear plex box known as Orac. He put Orac's key in, and the computer whined to life.

"Orac, Servalan wants me to produce something spectacular. I need your help."

The computer buzzed. "That is an inexact command. What, precisely, do you wish me to do?"

"I need someone like me... but cleverer, Orac. I have the sopron; it generates an augmented, amplified illusion of whatever being it encounters. I want you to analyze this and, using the amplified Avon-illusion, create that man."

"You are quite insane, Avon," the computer commented conversationally. "Very well. I shall study the problem. May I suggest that you occupy your time in working on the teleport."

"It never works. Everything that goes through it dies. Very quickly, and apparently, without pain." He sounded disappointed.

"Nonetheless, I feel it may be an integral part of achieving your goal."


"You're certain this will do it," Avon said, looking at the hookup between his bread-boarded teleport, the sopron, and a regeneration unit that Avon despised, having awakened in it far too many times after unsuccessful suicide attempts.

"I have said nothing of the sort," the computer replied with irritation. "With the technology available, this may possibly produce the desired results. My calculations are correct; however, I do not have complete control of all factors."

The mutoid stirred. He came to stand at Avon's shoulder. "If this is successful, I have orders to inflict pain and humiliation on you."

Avon looked at Tarrant's expressionless face, and licked his lips. He hadn't had relief in weeks. Tarrant wouldn't even let Avon cut himself. The pressure within was intolerable. "It will work." Avon threw the final switch, and watched tensely, as a white light edged with blue zigzagged over the teleport stage. A man's body wearing an old-fashioned dressing gown slowly formed, lying in a crumpled position on the floor. The moment it solidified, Avon knelt to examine it. The man was similar to Avon in build and coloration. And he wasn't breathing. "Dead!" Avon exclaimed. "Lucky bastard."

"Avon!" Orac said sharply, "He is not dead, merely dying. Give him the syringe of hydroxycobalamin. Quickly!"

Avon picked up the prepared syringe and injected it. "Now the sodium thiosulfate!" Orac ordered.

"He's still not breathing," Avon reported after the second injection. "He's less blue, though... hard to tell."

"Clear his windpipe of obstruction and proceed with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, followed by cardio-pulmonary stimulation."

Avon obeyed, finding a small bite of fruit- perhaps apple - in the back of the man's mouth. He was startled when he turned the man onto his back and the dressing gown flapped open, revealing breasts, but only hesitated a moment. The man's lips tasted faintly like bitter almonds. Avon wondered if he could be poisoned by contact. The thought excited him and he stuck his tongue as far into the dead man's mouth as possible. His cock grew hard. Fucking death, hell, he'd been doing that all his adult life. He moaned, and pulled his second-hand gown up to his waist before shoving the man's knees over his shoulders, and forcing his cock into the unresisting arsehole. He couldn't fuck and do the chest compressions at the same time. He whined in frustration.

Tarrant made a slight noise. Avon glanced up. The mutoid looked at him patiently. "If you need assistance, I can continue the resuscitation."

"Yes!" Avon shouted, moving back far enough to let the mutoid's chill hands take the place of his own. He continued thrusting into the limp body beneath his while Tarrant alternated between breathing into the corpse and pounding on its chest, soft, white breasts bruising under the blows.

There was a groan, and Avon paused long enough to look down into the open, bewildered, pain-filled eyes of the man that might be another him, before the body beneath his began struggling. "Tarrant! Hold him down!"

The mutoid shifted its hold to the man's knees, pinning them to his breasts, and kept Avon's crying and cursing victim in place. Avon lunged one last time, shuddered all over and came while moaning, "Blake." Avon pulled hastily out, staggered to a nearby basin, and vomited until his ears rang.

Orac 'cleared its throat'. "Avon, you may be interested to learn that the man you have just sexually assaulted is your distant forbear, Alan Turing, acknowledged genius and primary computer scientist of his day."

Avon looked at the man lying on the floor, at the bruised breasts and the arse dripping with Avon's come. "Oh, yes, Orac, I see the family resemblance." He laughed, half sobbing, half groaning.

After a few moments, Tarrant released Turing, got up, walked over to Avon, and slapped him across the face, silencing him. "It appears you have succeeded. I will punish you now." Tarrant picked Avon up by the throat and held him against the wall. Avon watched, wide-eyed with excitement, as Tarrant's feeding needle emerged from his wrist and approached Avon's jugular. "Don't struggle. I am not to damage you beyond repair. Servalan would be displeased."

Unable to speak, Avon closed his eyes in agreement, and shivered as the deliciously cold needle stabbed painfully into his throat. He heard his pulse pounding rapidly in his ears, growing softer as he became more light-headed with blood loss. A few minutes later, the needle withdrew and Tarrant let Avon fall to the floor. He clung to Tarrant's trouser leg, fighting to speak. "Please," he rasped, "I need more." Across the room, he could see Turing, pressed against a cabinet and staring at them, face sheet white with shock. Turing wouldn't be any trouble for a while; Avon could enjoy his reward.

The mutoid looked at Avon for a long moment. "Very well. Keep your head down" He grabbed Avon by the hair and dragged him over to the basin, forcing Avon to kneel at his feet. Water ran for what seemed a long time to Avon, but he didn't have permission to raise his head to find out what Tarrant was doing. The water stopped, and Avon heard snaps and rustlings, and saw Tarrant's trousers drop. He heard a 'click', and his mouth went dry. He knew that Servalan had fitted her mutoid with an instant erection button just behind his silk-smooth balls. Avon had never been fucked by Tarrant before, but he'd seen the size of that cock. Servalan had had it enhanced and augmented, he was certain. Apparently the doctors had exceeded their instructions because she never let Tarrant put all of it into her, at least not while she made Avon watch.

"You have done well, so I must punish you severely." Tarrant moved behind Avon. "Stay still. If I rupture you, your work will be delayed while you heal."

Avon moaned with anticipation of pain, glorious, cleansing pain. It wasn't as good coming from Tarrant, who felt nothing himself, but it would still be good. Without inflection, Tarrant said, "You are a slut, lower than a ten-credit touch, Avon. Anyone who would willingly spread his legs for a mutoid deserves what he gets."

"Ahh, yes." Avon locked his trembling limbs as Tarrant parted Avon's buttocks.

"In fact, you are so filthy that I don't want to put my cock in you."

Avon jerked as something slender and rubbery was forced into his arsehole.

"At least not until you're clean."

Avon cried out as a rush of icy water flowed into his bowels, making them cramp in response. He gasped from the shock of it, panting rapidly as he tried to get the shaking under control. "Ahhh..." It hurt, it hurt, and it didn't stop. He arched his back as the pressure built, fighting the instincts that told him to move away from the pain. After what seemed like forever, the tube pulled out of his arse, releasing a brief cold stream down his legs before Tarrant shoved something up to plug him. "Get up."

Avon looked up in bewilderment. Tarrant moved over to the comm. unit and adjusted it. Dance music came out of the speaker. "I'm going to dance with you. Get up."

At the repeated command, Avon hastily scrambled to his feet, letting the dress fall back into place. The silk swept over the protruding plug, making it move inside of him. He gasped back another moan as Tarrant took him in his arms, pulling him tight. "Dance, Avon." Tarrant began pulling Avon around, forcing him into a mockery of an intimate dance, hand on the small of Avon's back, pressing his distended belly against the mutoid's chill body and the hard length of erect cock that lay unnaturally still against the hairless belly, greenish-white cockhead nearly touching the chest implant housing his mechanical digestive system. Tarrant moved gracefully for a mutoid, and Avon's eyes closed for a moment, remembering Tarrant as he had been, a bold, laughing young cavalier, loving women with an easy sureness, fighting his conception of evil with just as much energy and joy. All gone, save this animated semi-corpse, programmed to obey without thought. Tarrant was Avon's fault, too. There wasn't enough pain in the universe to wipe out all Avon's mistakes.

So Avon danced, legs weak with pain, feeling as if his guts would explode, unflinching in the embrace of undead flesh, accepting all the calm words describing what a piece of filth he was. Whenever he opened his eyes, he saw Turing watching him.

Finally Avon stumbled and would have fallen if not for Tarrant's iron grip. "I think your pussy must be clean enough now. Bend over and grab your ankles."

Avon staggered, and cried out as the motion compressed his aching guts, but he obeyed. Tarrant flipped up Avon's skirts and pulled out the plug. Dirty water poured out, but before he could be completely emptied, Tarrant grabbed Avon's arms and thrust his cock in, forcing the water in deeper. He was even bigger than Avon had realized. It felt as if someone was fisting him, without lube, and without giving his arsehole a chance to stretch. Avon screamed in time to Tarrant's pumping. Finally, he fell silent, falling forward onto hands and knees as the last few inches forced their way inside and Tarrant stopped, cold cock filling him like an icicle, cold balls pressed against his aching buttocks. The cold spread, numbing Avon. He sighed and turned his head to kiss Tarrant's hand. "Thank you," he whispered before he fainted.


Avon woke in the regeneration unit. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them. Dressed in one of the plain jumpsuits that Avon used when he was working on something too dangerous for a ball gown, Turing was staring at him from several feet away.

Avon smiled at Turing. "Don't worry, you're not insane. I am."

Turing moved closer, limping slightly. "I'm not insane. I'm dead, and this is hell."

Avon smiled. "Half right." He sat up and looked around. Tarrant was standing, watchful and silent in his corner. The room was clean again, sterile and cold; it was as if nothing had happened. "This is hell. But you're alive. Orac teleported you before the poison... self-inflicted...?" Avon nodded at Turing's shamefaced expression. " Orac teleported you before the poison killed you, Turing."

"Incorrect," Orac supplied. No one had turned off the computer and it sounded annoyed. Orac never had much patience with human illogic. "Turing died. It is a historical fact. This man is a simulacrum, identical in every detail. Created, not teleported." Orac preened audibly. "To all intents and purposes, he is Alan Turing, both physically and mentally. I discovered that you were a direct descendent in his male line, Avon, so your DNA provided a partial pattern for the timeapport. The known time and place of Turing's death made it very simple to capture the full pattern of the dying Turing. It was simplicity itself once I followed the line of logical reasoning."

"That's a computer?" Turing shook his head. "It's wrong. I never fathered any children. I never... well..." Turing looked at Avon. "I never."

Avon raised his eyebrows. "Yes, that does seem a valid point, Orac." Avon got out of the tank and sat naked on a nearby bench. "Explain it."

"Do you not recall, Turing, the... sample... the doctor took from you before giving you the first of the oestrogen injections?"

Turing blushed. "He said that was destroyed!" Avon grinned at his embarrassment.

"Whether the doctor knew or not is lost in the mists of time, but his nurse became pregnant, using that specimen. Her husband had been diagnosed as sterile, so the child was referred to as a 'miracle baby'. He was also remarkable intellectually, and passed that on to his offspring."

Turing looked sick. He shook his head and looked around the room, at the machinery, at the metal walls, at Tarrant, and finally at Avon. "Send me back."

"Back?" Orac sneered. "Back to the people you helped save from a war they might have lost without you? The ones who tormented you, tortured you, forced you to take desexualizing drugs, humiliated you and drove you to death? In any event, it is not possible. The timeapport duplicated a pattern from the past. While it might be possible to repeat the process in reverse, that would merely result in another Turing existing in the past, while you remained here. In any event, I would not do such a foolish thing; tampering with the past could possibly result in my non-existence."

Turing shouted, "What right have you got...!"

Avon stood up and walked over to Turing. "None at all. Except this." Avon held up a fist. "Power. My mistress, Servalan, has the power to destroy entire worlds. She's done it before, and she'll do it again. To please her, I need your help."

"Why?" Turing was at a loss to understand. "Why me? Judging by your computer, you're obviously far beyond me technically. What can you possibly hope to gain from me?"

"You're not a mere technician." Avon gave Turing a non-smile. "I needed another mind like my own."

Turing looked at Avon in horror. "I'm nothing like you."

"Yes, you are. Only more so. After all, you succeeded at suicide." Avon sounded jealous. Avon turned to Orac. "What are Turing's strongest aptitudes, Orac?"

The computer replied, "Primarily mathematics, quantum mechanics, logical analysis, and codebreaking via cryptographic machines of his own devising. Turing also excelled in physical activity, achieving world-class Marathon standards. His best time of 2 hours, 46 minutes, 3 seconds, was only 11 minutes slower than the winner in the 1948 Olympic Games. And, of course, designing computers and computer programs, including one of the first chess programs. When his security clearances were revoked following his conviction for gross indecency in the last two years of his life, under Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885, he turned his efforts to pattern formation and mathematical biology, specifically morphogenesis. His central interest in the field was Fibonacci phyllotaxis, the existence of Fibonacci numbers in plant structures. He used reaction-diffusion equations which are now central to the field of pattern formation."

Avon smiled. "Codebreaking seems the most immediately useful. My mistress would be pleased if we could devise a machine to break the rebels' new codes."

"Rebels?" Turing looked at Avon. "How do I know they're not in the right? Maybe your mistress is the equivalent of Hitler!"

Avon glanced at Orac. "Hitler?"

For once the computer answered an ambiguously posed question. "Hitler was a petty dictator with ambitions to conquer the Earth. He was noted for emotional demagoguery, fanatically loyal troops, and systematic sadistic abuse and genocide against selected religious, sexual, and racial sub-groups."

Avon nodded. "Yes, that sounds like Servalan. Except that she generally carries out genocide against planets, without regard to the composition of the inhabitants."

"I won't do it." Turin folded his arms and firmed his jaw. "You can kill me, but you can't make me help you."

"Tarrant," Avon called. "Come here and show Turing what a mutoid is."

Expressionless as always, Tarrant approached. "I have no orders from my commander to do that." He paused. "However, I can see no harm in it." He unfastened his uniform jacket flap and pulled it aside, showing the plastic-lined chest cavity and the green-glowing tube of nutrient. "There is also a cranial implant," he told Turin. "Very little is visible externally. Do you wish to see?"

"No! No." Turing backed away from Tarrant and looked at Avon. "Why was that done to him?"

"Tarrant was once a rebel. For that matter, so was I." Avon shrugged. "The Federation always wins. All you can do by fighting it is increase your suffering." After a moment, Avon added, "Mutoids lose much, including their free will, but not their intelligence. My mistress would not hesitate to order your conversion."

Turing's face went whiter than Tarrant's and he swayed. Avon caught him by his arm, led him to a chair and sat him down, pushing his head down between his knees to keep him from fainting. Avon said softly, "So you see, you really haven't any choice in the matter. You will help me build a decoding machine, and then later, we will discover other ways to please my mistress, to lay offerings of pain at her altar. "

Turing wept while Avon watched.


During the weeks they worked together to create the code-breaking machine, Avon never laid hands on Turing again. At first Turing was relieved, and then he began to feel irrationally piqued. With the cessation of the hormone treatments, he felt his interest in sex returning, even as his breasts began to diminish. Of course, he didn't want to be raped again, but he wouldn't have turned down a helping hand. One day, while watching Avon apply his eye makeup before donning yet another of Servalan's discarded gowns, he said, "Why, Avon?"

Avon turned to him, mild curiosity in his eyes. "Why what, Turing?"

"Why... then and not again."

Avon blinked. "I presume you mean sex." Avon shrugged. "A madman has his whims. I ..." Avon shook his head, and then added, "If you require sex, you may use me. It's entirely immaterial to me."

"I won't beat you."

Avon smiled humourlessly. "I hadn't thought you would." He moved close to Turing, speaking softly. "It's only fair that I make some small recompense for bringing you to share my hell." He kissed Turing. "Would you like to fuck me?"

Turing shook his head. "I've never... that's... we only used our mouths and hands."

Avon grinned. "Experimentation is the key to knowledge."

"So it is."

"Come to bed, then. We can pretend to be civilized people."

"Can you?" Turing touched Avon's face. "After all this, can you? Can you respond to anything other than pain and humiliation?"

After a long pause, Avon said, "It's been so long... I don't know."

Turing kissed him, and then released him. "Let me know when you can." He turned away from Avon and went back to work.


Turing became curious about Avon's computer, and finally he asked it outright, "Was your name derived from the theoretical class of hypercomputers I designated Oracles?"

"There is no 'derivation'. I am an Oracle."

"Impossible. An oracle is a mathematical abstraction, a device which can compute a single arbitrary (non-recursive) function from naturals to naturals. And even there, undecidability is present."

Orac made a rude noise. "I am not a computer. I am more than the sum of my parts. I link all computing devices containing tarriel cells, regardless of their physical location. Obviously it would be impossible for me to do so if I laboured under the restrictions imposed by the laws of physics. I am Orac. There is no limit to my abilities."

"Or your ego." Overhearing, Avon came up and joined them. "Orac is useful, Turing, but it is also devious. Don't trust it."

"I can show you the future, Turing," Orac said in a silky tone. "Just observe the monitor."

"No!" Avon shouted. He picked up a heavy tool and flung it at the monitor, shattering it. "Orac, I forbid you to make any predictions!"

Sulkily Orac said, "You have ceded the right to give such orders to Servalan."

Avon snarled, and ran to the broken monitor, picking up a shard of glass and aiming at his throat. "Will Servalan like it if her slave is dead?"

Before Turing could stir, Tarrant was at Avon's side, slapping the glass out of his hand, but not in time to prevent him from gashing himself. He struck Avon once, on the side of his neck, and caught him when he collapsed, carrying Avon over to the regeneration unit on the far side of the room, concentrating on Avon to the exclusion of all else.

Turing looked at Avon's limp body and drew a sharp breath. He whispered, "Is this how it must end?"

Orac hummed.


Servalan was pleased with the decoding machine. Groveling at her feet, naked, Avon looked up hopefully. "Mistress, will you punish me now?"

"Perhaps." Servalan looked at Turing. "And perhaps I'd rather play with your ... grandfather."

"You don't want him. He's no use to any woman."

Servalan smiled. "Oh, Avon, you make him sound like a challenge." Servalan went to Turing and laid one red-taloned hand against his chest and began toying with the zipper of the plain jumpsuit he wore. "Perhaps he'd enjoy Filip?" The borzoi looked up from licking its balls and wagged its tail at the sound of its name. Turing was frozen by mingled disgust and terror.

"No!" Avon lunged to his feet. "That isn't part of our bargain!"

"Our bargain is what I say it is, Avon!" Servalan whirled on Avon, furious. "Has this innocent from the past softened your heart? You always were a fool for idealists."

"I don't give a damn about him," Avon snarled. "I want the punishment I've earned."

"Do you think you can give me orders?"

Avon lowered his head, but not in submission. His eyes glittered dangerously.

"Have you fallen for him?" Servalan laughed. "Yes, maybe you have. Maybe you care about his good opinion of you. Perhaps you have painted yourself as my victim. Maybe you haven't told him about Blake?" Servalan's smile broadened as Avon's defiance faded, replaced by grief. "Did you tell him how you shot your lover? You were merciless, Avon. You could have killed him quickly, but instead you shot him three times in the gut, with him walking to you, unarmed, helpless, begging your understanding, your help... your love."

"No," Avon whispered, his eyes wide with a vision only he saw. "Please... no."

"Yes, Avon. I still have the vids from the security monitors. I can have it set up to play here, over, and over, and over..."

"NO!" Avon fell to his knees, and then went to his belly, crawling to her. "I serve you, mistress. Please! Have mercy!"

"Oh, perhaps I will, although you don't deserve it." Servalan pushed him away with one foot. "For your insolence, I should deny you relief. But I am feeling generous. Use your pretty mouth on Filip." Servalan turned to Turing. "You and I will watch." She pressed her hand against his chest. She drew Turing over to the room's one luxury, an over-sized bed custom made with various restraints and built-in toys.

Avon's face went blank as he crawled over to the dog. Filip's tail wagged as Avon approached, its cock emerging from his sheath. The dog started to mount Avon, but at a sharp command from Servalan, put its ears down and cringed, moving hastily away. Avon knelt awkwardly beside the long-legged dog and began licking the tip of its slimy cock.

Servalan smiled and pressed her hand against the crotch of Turing's jumpsuit. "Your grandson is very pretty, isn't he?"

Turing swallowed and tried not to watch Avon and the dog, but he couldn't prevent himself from listening to the dog's whining and the soft, wet noises Avon's mouth made. "It's disgusting," he said quietly, trying to retain his dignity.

"And exciting?" Servalan grabbed Turing's hair and held him tightly as she kissed him. "You're aroused."

"Not by you." Turing looked into her face. "The wicked witch was very beautiful," he said quietly. "But no one loved her."

Servalan slapped him in the face. "Love? Only fools look for love. Avon and I know better."

"Oh, I'm sure you do." Turing's fear and disgust had both vanished, leaving his face calm. "Everyone is betrayed by love, in one way or another. It doesn't stop everyone from wanting it. It doesn't stop the truly courageous from loving again."

Servalan laughed at him. "You can't mean Avon. He's broken. All he wants is the punishment he earned, at the hands of the only person strong enough to master him. Do you love him? Do you love your rapist, the one who made you a slave's slave?"

Turing's gaze fell away from hers.

"You do! Oh, how splendidly romantic! Then you must have him." Servalan's eyes were cold. "Fuck him, Turing. Do it now."

Turing closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them, to find the nightmare still there. If he didn't obey, he'd have to watch Servalan abuse Avon. He rose from the bed and undressed. "Call the dog off, Servalan."

"How very dull you are, Turing. Very well." Servalan snapped her fingers. "Filip. Here! Now." Unwillingly, the dog obeyed, coming to the bed and humping the side of it. Servalan laid one hand negligently on the dog's head, and played with its silky ears while it masturbated.

Turing knelt beside Avon and kissed him. He whispered, "I don't want to hurt you."

"Oh, but you must," Avon said softly. "I need it."

"Over by the workbench, then. I have some ideas." Turing stood up, put his hand into Avon's hair, and pulled. Avon winced, then smiled and moved on hands and knees over to the bench following Turing's tugging. "Lie down on your back, on the bench." Turing released Avon's hair and began rummaging through a box of parts while Avon obeyed, finally dumping it impatiently and coming up with a coil of wire and a wire cutter. He lifted Avon's knees and wired Avon's hands to his ankles. Turing smiled and Avon's smile faded as he recognized its reflection on Turing's face. Avon whispered, "What are you going to do?"

Turing continued to smile that odd smile. "I'm going to give you exactly what you deserve, Avon." He added softly, "And Servalan what she deserves."

Avon's eyes widened and he opened his mouth, sensing something wrong. Turing stuffed a rag in and gagged Avon. He stroked lube on his cock and then turned to Servalan. "Can you see from there?"

"Not very well." Servalan rose and moved gracefully towards the workbench. "Tarrant, fetch me a chair." She sat without looking behind her, sure of her control over the mutoid. Filip sat at her side, still excited, but too well-trained to cause trouble.

"Tarrant, give our mistress wine," Turing ordered, pointing to a carafe and glasses.

"Wine?" Servalan raised her eyebrows. "You are suddenly very generous, Turing."

"I've learned pragmatism from Avon. And wine-making, among other things, from Orac."

"You should share it with me." Servalan gestured to the carafe, and Tarrant obeyed, pouring a glass and giving it to Turing. Turing drank his wine slowly, keeping his gaze on Servalan until the glass was drained. Servalan smiled. "Orac has analyzed your behaviour and tells me you would no longer consider suicide."

"That is true. There are so many things to learn." He brushed his hand down to his erect cock. "And no one to say where I may love. No, I wouldn't drink poison and die again. The first time was bad enough."

Servalan drank the wine and frowned. "An odd taste. What is it?"

"Mainly apple." Turing shrugged. "It was what I had to work with." He turned back to the table, and picked up an ugly-looking instrument. "This is going to hurt you, Avon, far more than it does me." He pressed a button and a blue-white light poured from it. "It's a variation on one of your laser-probes. I call it a laser-scalpel." He turned to look at Servalan again. "Where shall I ..."

Servalan suddenly jerked upright, knocking the wine glass over. Her eyes were huge. "Tarrant! Kill..." She slumped to the floor, convulsing and rapidly turning blue.

Tarrant rushed at Turing, who jammed the laser-scalpel into Tarrant's chest, in the center of the implant; green fluid shot out in an arterial flow. Tarrant clawed at Turing for a moment, then fell. He smiled up at Turing and whispered, "thank you," before he died.

Servalan made one last choking noise and went still. Filip sniffed her distorted face, yelped, and ran into a corner, cowering. Turing started towards the dog, but Avon was making muffled protests and thrashing about so wildly he was coming close to falling off the bench. Turning pushed Avon away from the edge and removed the gag.

Avon spat out the rag behind the gag. "Get the antidote from Orac, quickly! Take it!"

Turing smiled and leaned down to kiss Avon. "I took it an hour ago." Filip howled. Turing straightened and started after the dog again.

"Don't!" Avon said. "I want to keep him!"

Turing sighed, and began undoing Avon's wire bonds. "You are a perverse bastard."

"Yes." Avon reached up and pulled Turing down on top of him. "That's what everyone says."

Note: The symbol was the poisoned apple used to kill both Snow White, and the Evil Queen (and yes, I know that it didn't go that way in the original cartoon.)


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