Author Topic: Portal Project - The Lottery Games by The Technician  (Read 20566 times)

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Portal Project - The Lottery Games by The Technician
« on: February 19, 2016, 11:56:56 am »
Portal Project - The Lottery Games

by The Technician

Fantasy / Science Fiction, Non-consent, Forced Competition, Forced Orgasm, Spanking, Flogging, Caning, Public Oral, Public Anal

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A portal is created to a very different "Man's World.”

The Portal Project is a scientific attempt to create a portal to other dimensions for the purpose of stealing ideas and weaponry.

The Lottery Games are a yearly game in another world/dimension in which 300 “selectees” are subjected to a brutal (and sexual) elimination process to determine the winner. The losers are sold, the winner lives in luxury for the rest of her life.

This is a Sci-Fi story with rather graphic BDSM content. As my standard warning below indicates, some of my stories are intense.

If Science Fiction is not your bag, skip the story– or at least the first section.

If Non-consent, Forced Competition, Forced Orgasm, Spanking, Flogging, Caning, Public Oral, Public Anal and a few other key words that I didn’t include are not your bag, skip the story.

If you are still reading this, the story is approximately 15K words long and there may be future episodes based on the worlds that are accessible through The Portal Project.

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WARNING!  All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY.  Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content.  All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article.  This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician ( [email protected]. )

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use.  Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (The Technician}
Senior Project
Handcuff Island

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 * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ryan Wetherington was an asshole. He preferred to call himself dominant or assertive. His favorite self-description was to say smugly, “I’m a take-charge kind of guy.” But the whispered word that followed him out the door from almost every meeting was “Asshole!”

Like many who think they are dominant, assertive, take-charge kinds of guys, he gravitated toward the military where his lackluster career would have quickly faded into nothingness except for the fact that he was a “lucky asshole” who always managed to transfer to another area just before the manure pile he had created hit the ventilator... except once.

He had somehow managed to rise all the way to Lieutenant Colonel before finally royally screwing the pooch. In his typical sloppy, incompetent fashion, he had neglected to order the proper routing of a set of top-secret orders in a timely manner. He had done– or failed to do–  such things many times before, but this time an extraction team who hadn’t gotten the delay notice was wiped out for lack of backup and air cover.

Typically, Ryan had covered his ass sufficiently that he could not be officially blamed, but everyone in the entire chain of command knew exactly who had screwed up.  So, as punishment and to put him somewhere where he couldn’t do any more damage, he was buried away in a useless assignment far away from the normal chain of command. Effectively, he was exiled until he– like many other Lieutenant Colonels before him who failed to advance further– could be forced into plateau retirement. The place of exile chosen for Lt. Colonel Ryan Wetherington was oversight liaison to a useless, dead end, science fiction program called “The Portal Project.”

Someone had convinced some idiot senator with a lot of influence that if we could spy on parallel universes we could see what great inventions they had and copy them, thus assuring that we would always have the technological advantage in warfare and economics. Toward this end, a series of “portals” were created that were supposed to bore through the fabric of time and space to see into other dimensions.

It was a stupid project that did nothing but attract off-the-wall scientists and tin-foil-hat weirdos. The actual team, however, was top-notch. There were seventeen people under Ryan’s command. All were geniuses and all were, to say the least, very non-conventional. Nine were civilian contractors who looked like they had just returned from a Cosplay convention. The other eight were theoretically military.
That was not immediately obvious as you looked at the team, however. It was difficult to tell who was military because of a complete lack of personal discipline. The only one dressed in anything approaching proper uniform was Johansson, who arrived every day smartly attired in the dress skirt and blouse of a naval midshipmen. The crisscrossed bow tie was even always perfectly in place.

The only problem with this perfect uniform was the fact that Midshipman Johansson was Midshipman David Allen Johansson. His IQ was somewhere above Einstein’s and the Navy needed his expertise on a regular basis. But they knew that he was also extremely high on the weird scale, so they needed someplace safe to keep him more or less out of sight when he wasn’t needed. The Portal Project was the perfect fire extinguisher cabinet in which to store his brilliance until it was needed elsewhere.

The whole project was a collection of strange ideas and even stranger people and should have been the perfect end of Ryan’s not so glorious career. But Ryan Wetherington was not just a lucky asshole, he was an unbelievably lucky asshole. Four months after joining The Portal Project, the  pixilated garbage on one of the monitor screens in the control room flickered to a slightly different color of chaos and then suddenly became a crystal clear image of desks and work areas.

At first, the image on the screen looked very much like the control room for The Portal Project, and Ryan’s immediate reaction was to bellow out, “OK, which one of you dweebs is screwing around with the video feeds?”

A rather timid voice answered him with “That’s not THIS control room, sir.” That had to have been Johansson. No one else addressed him as “Sir.”

The midshipmen was correct. Watching the image on the monitor it was readily-apparent that it was not The Portal Project’s control room. For one thing, it was laid out slightly differently. For another, everything seemed... off. There wasn’t any one thing that you could put your finger on, but the colors, the shapes, even the perspective seemed... wrong.

One of the figures working in the image’s control room suddenly looked directly into the monitor with a very surprised expression on his– or was it her– face. They ran out of the image for a moment and returned with a large piece of white cardboard which they held up in front of themselves facing the monitor– actually the portal. It almost looked like it had writing on it, but it seemed to be backward... or twisted... or something.

“What the hell is that?” snarled Ryan.

“I can read it,” stuttered one of the female scientists. “I have severe dyslexia and normal print is all scrambled in my mind... but that is clear. It says, ‘Can you see us?’”

“Answer them,” ordered Ryan, and Ruthie, the dyslexic scientist, ran over to the supply cupboard and brought back a sheet of poster board. She wrote rapidly on it in the strange, scrambled way that she wrote everything in her personal notebooks. When she held it up to the portal which was displayed on monitor seven, the other control room broke into cheers and applause.

A few minutes later, when the excitement had begun to die down, another piece of cardboard was held up to the monitor. “It says ‘transfer,’” said Ruthie. “I think it’s a question.”

The figure then pushed the cardboard toward the monitor. “They are going to try to push the note through the portal!” exclaimed another of the techies.

The piece of cardboard seemed to push against the glass on the front of the monitor, but nothing emerged from the portal. The frustration on the face of the person pushing the cardboard was obvious as the sign crumpled and bent.

Suddenly, another of the workers in the monitor ran over to the first and began an excited conversation. The first figure then picked up both signs on their sides and turned toward the monitor with their arms held straight out to their sides. They rocked their arms up and down a couple of times and then held them even. They then set both signs back down on their desktop and slid them one over the other until they were switched, hand to hand.

Midshipmen Johansson shouted, “They think that cosmic balance is preventing the transfer.” He picked up one of Ruthie’s signs in their control room and added, “We have to send something more or less equal back to their dimension at the same time for it to work.”

He then began to slowly push the sign against the portal on the project’s side. The image in the monitor did the same with their sign and suddenly the sign in Johansson’s hands began to slip through the portal. As it did, a piece of cardboard began to emerge alongside it.

Ryan ran over to the portal and tugged at the emerging sign. As he did, one of the figures in the monitor mirrored his action. A moment later, Ryan was standing in the control room of The Portal Project with proof that cross-dimensional transfer was possible. In his hands, on a piece of black cardboard, written in white lettering, was the word, ‘Transfer?’”

“Why in the hell is it black?” he asked loudly in perturbed wonderment.

“It must be an anti-dimension,” answered Johansson. “It is somehow the opposite of our universe. Things change when they go through the portal, or we don’t see them properly in the monitors. Either way, things are very different on the other side of the portal.”

“Look at the monitor,” Ruthie suddenly said. They were holding up another sign. “It says ‘Transfer video machine.’” The figure holding the sign was also speaking and pointing to a cabinet very similar to The Portal Project’s controlled power supply.

 “I think they are saying that holding the full portal takes too much power.” added Johansson.
A new sign was held up. “They are going into a dark period,” said Ruthie, “... and can’t sustain the energy. Maybe the video machines will keep contact at lower power.”

“Grab the TV out of the lunch room,” shouted one of the other techs.

“No!” yelled another. “Send them a computer. That’s probably what they are trying to send us. Grab one of the big tablets on our wireless network.”

A few moments later, a large display tablet was being pushed against the face of the portal while at the same time a similar-looking device was slowly emerging from the swirling entry to another dimension.

As soon as the unit was clear of the portal, another sign was held up to the monitor. It seemed to have an equation written on it. “It says, ‘Five cycles,’” Ruthie explained. “Beneath it is says ‘five equals thirty,’ but I’m not sure what that means.”

The figure holding the sign then pointed to a spot on the sign and then to themselves. They then pointed to a different spot on the sign and then up at the portal/monitor. “Five of their cycles equals thirty of our cycles.” said Ruthie excitedly. “But I don’t know what cycle they are talking about.

The figure on the monitor raised their hand straight above their head and slowly lowered it to one side. They then raised it up on the other side and brought it once again over their head to the other side. “Days!” yelped Johansson. “Five of their days is thirty of ours. They will power back up in thirty of our days.”

The screen returned to its former pixelated garbage and the portal section of the wall in The Portal Project stopped swirling.


It took the team almost an hour to figure out how to turn on the alien computer. The screen was clear, but the images were strangely distorted and no one– except Ruthie– could read the menus. Finally she said, “I’ve got it!” and selected one of the strange icons. A new window of some sort opened on the monitor and Ruthie again selected one of the icons. She sat mumbling to herself softly as she went rapidly through several more screens.

The images were now clear and undistorted, but the colors were reversed. “Just a minute,” said Ruthie as she selected another icon. In a few moments, the screen flickered and the colors were right... almost. There was still something about the image that was slightly off, but it was otherwise sharp and clear.

“What do you think we should do?” asked Ryan.

“Well,” answered Ruthie. “This one says ‘Play Me,’ so I think that’s what they intended.
“Do it!” snapped Ryan and a few moments later a video appeared on the screen. This time, after a screen with the typical scrambled writing on it, a title appeared written in clear English. “The first writing said that what follows has been modified for cross-dimensional distortion,” explained Ruthie as everyone gathered to watch.

The video was entitled, “An Explanation of Our World.” A figure appeared on the screen. His voice was not understandable– except by Ruthie– but closed-caption style text scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

“Our world is very much like your world,” began the spokesperson. “Our portal project was started with the idea of capturing electronic signals from other dimensions. We have been able to access your audio, video, and internet feeds for some time. That is how we were able to create this cross-dimensional translation. Hopefully it works in reverse as well as it did to translate your world for us.

“Recently, one of our scientists determined that you were also working on a portal. He theorized that if we linked the portals we would be able to see your world live through portal monitors and perhaps even create a true portal from our world to yours.”

The figure on the screen then stepped to one side and a graphic appeared alongside him. “We have determined that there are three major differences between our worlds,” he continued. “The first is the speed of rotation of our planet. Our light cycle is much slower than yours. Five of our cycles is almost exactly the same as thirty of your cycles.

“The second difference is that you appear to have much greater access to sources of power, or at least you are willing to use sources of power that would poison our world... maybe it is poisoning your world and you do not care. In any case, our power capabilities are much more limited than yours.

“And the third difference is that our entire world is under one government. We have absolute peace but it is at a tremendous cost. Our government is very authoritarian and brutal with total and absolute power and authority. It is also totally male-dominated. Women have some degree of freedom within our society, but they know their place. Female slavery is allowed, but is very tightly controlled and primarily exists as a way to vent certain traits that are necessary for the preservation of such a society.

“Toward that end, each year 300 young women worldwide between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one are selected for slavery by a random process. To satisfy the entire male populace with such a small number would be impossible. But in the year of their selection, these young women are forced to compete is a series of ‘games’ which are broadcast throughout our world. To encourage the selectees to actually compete, there are punishments for the losers and the final winner is granted freedom and a lifetime of luxury. It is very difficult to describe what these games are, so we have linked to a separate video on this machine which will now play. It also has been translated– including voices– for your dimension.”

The screen flickered and went dark. Then a new video started. The title, “Highlights from The 174th Annual Lottery Games,” scrolled slowly up the screen in large letters as music played in the background. The image behind the title showed a coffle line of naked women walking slowly into a huge arena while a large band on the sidelines played a very stirring march of some sort. The women were bound to each other by chains and collars that kept them six abreast and held them about three feet from the woman in front and behind them. Their arms were held up by wrist cuffs also attached to the chains.  Evidently they were required to walk so that the chains between them remained taut. All of them were totally shaved. There was no evidence of hair on their heads or anywhere else on their bodies.

As they entered, text scrolled up the screen which said, “The 175th Annual Lottery Games will begin on Drune 8. The contestants have already been selected and will be rounded up one day before the games if they have not yet reported to the proper induction station. Those three hundred selectees will fight for the ultimate prize– a lifetime of freedom. The losers will be enslaved and sold to the highest bidder. The winner will be given her freedom and an annual prize of one million bullers.”

“I think that should be dollars,” said Ruthie. Their autotranslator must have kept their word for it.”

“Whatever,” mutter Ryan, who was now very intently watching the screen.

“And ‘Drune 8' is a date.” added Ruthie as she began working on her own tablet. “I’m pretty sure it is just a little more than one month from today by our calendar.”

After the text had scrolled off the screen, a figure appeared on screen holding a microphone. He had some sort of emblem on his jacket and there were insert windows of four other men dressed in the same jacket at each corner of the screen. When he spoke, his voice sounded somewhat artificial, but it was understandable.

“The games last year were some of the best in this century,” the announcer said. “On our program tonight, we will be looking at the four elimination events of those games, plus the finals.”

The image zoomed to one of the inserts, “Yes, Harold, I have some great coverage of the elimination race. It was a particularly nasty course this year and took its toll– both on the winners and the losers of the race.”

A second insert zoomed to full screen, “And the team takedown was just as nasty. These selectees were really motivated to win and it showed in how they fought.”

The third insert came to full. “The quarter-final elimination was also very rough. The final twenty-five knew that the field would be brought down to the final ten selectees and they stretched their body control to the maximum.” The announcer was speaking in that grandiose voice used almost exclusively by sports announcers.
“That semi-final tug of war competition held some real surprises this year,” the fourth insert said. “You really need to stayed tuned to see what unbelievable things happened in that round.”

The screen then switched back to the original announcer, “And I had the privilege of bringing you an unprecedented final round of competition.”

He smiled at the camera and said, “There were, indeed, many memorable moments in this past year’s games that we will get to all that, along with everything that came before them, but first, a word from our sponsor, LuxVolt, the supreme electric vehicle for the modern man.”


The screen faded to black for just a moment and then returned to the announcer. Evidently the commercials had been removed. “Let’s go to Leroy first and his coverage of the elimination race.”

“Thank you, Harold,” said Leroy. His image then faded away as the camera panned across the 300 naked women who were now bunched up at what was apparently a starting line. They were no longer chained or restrained in any way. The image zoomed in close on a couple of the women to show the large numbers painted on their back, arm and thigh. A cannon or something like it suddenly boomed and the those at the front of the pack began running frantically down the track.

As the mass of naked females surged forward, a small number of them– perhaps as many as a dozen or more– stood quietly to the side. After all of the runners had cleared the starting line, they turned towards the stadium-like bleachers which were filled with cheering men. They bowed their heads and then dropped to their knees and bowed down until their foreheads touched the ground.

“Well, you really hate to see that,” intoned Leroy, the sportscaster whose image was now in the corner of the screen, “but every year there are some selectees who know that they have no chance of winning and refuse to run. They know they will be severely punished and their value as slaves will be greatly reduced, but I guess they feel they would rather endure that than risk injury or death in the games.”

A large number of men dressed in black jumpsuits with yellow trim ran out onto the track. “The words on the back say ‘Security,’ said Ruthie.

Another group of men in similar jumpsuits with orange trim scrambled onto the track pushing small carts with punishment stocks on them. “Their suits say ‘Stagecrew’ or something like that,” Ruthie explained.

None of the women struggled as the security men led them over to the stocks and put them in place. Their heads and hands were held securely and a padded post pushed their asses high in the air. There were fourteen in all, and they were now in a line with their asses pointed toward the stadium seats.

Fourteen men carrying leather or wooden paddles walked slowly onto the track. “We are going to stay with this for a few minutes,” said the announcer. “Those who purchased specialty tickets for this event have first rights for any slaves which are created at this point.  These men drew the last fourteen numbers, so they have the rights to these lowest-ranking slaves. By administering the punishments, they are claiming their slaves.”

The main announcer cut in, “I see that one of them is carrying a bullwhip rather than a paddle.”

“That’s right, Harold,” the announcer on screen answered. “He must have ticket 299, because the bullwhip is allowed only for the lowest-ranking slave. I personally think that all of these early losers should be lowest, but the judges who are monitoring the race give that dis-honor to the first number that is entered on the tally board as the slaves drop out of the race. It was probably the selectee whose knees first touched the ground. ”

The fourteen men lined up, one behind each of the now bound slaves. A figure in a black jumpsuit with green trim raised his arm. When he snapped his arm down, the first blow was delivered.

“That’s one of the judges,” said Ruthie.

“We sort of guessed that,” answered another of the techies.

“Shut up, all of you!” snapped the Lieutenant Colonel. “I’m trying to watch this!”

When all eyes suddenly shifted to him, he added, “We need to understand this other world, don’t we?” Then he asked, “Is that the best you can do with the volume?”

In response, Ruthie moved the odd-looking mouse pointer over to the corner of the screen and the screams of the women filled the room.

On the screen, the cameraman was moving down the row of women taking closeups of each of their faces as the blows fell. When he got to the last woman, she was screaming continuously and almost incoherently as the bullwhip slammed into her ass. In the background, you could hear the crowd counting, “ten, eleven, twelve...”

“We are going to rejoin the action on the track,” intoned the announcer. “If you want to see and hear all fifty strokes, you can purchase the full video. That punishment, as well as all punishments during the race are included with that package.”

The screen cut to the herd of women now running across what was apparently a very muddy field. “They have passed the two mile mark and entered the first thinning point,” said the announcer excitedly. “Just ahead is the pig walk.”
As he said that, the first of the women reached an area of mud which seemed to have iron bars lying flat across supports which kept them about three feet off the ground. The bars were eight or ten inches apart and about fifty yards long, running in the same direction as the track. The first woman threw herself down on the ground, slid beneath the bars in the muck, and began frantically crawling on her stomach.

“It looks like some of the selectees know the importance of being in the first one hundred through the pig walk,” the announcer observed. “As soon as the one-hundredth selectee stands up on the other side of the barred area, the muck beneath the grating is electrified.”

He laughed slightly, “The pulses will get stronger until by the time the 275th selectee stands up at the other end of the troughs, it will be almost impossible for the selectees still in the mud to move because of the muscle spasms. But that won’t make much difference, because anyone beyond 275 will be out of the race and in the punishment stocks.”

As he was talking, the cameras zoomed in for a closeup as the women in the mud began screaming. Evidently the electricity was flowing through the mud because they all twitched and screamed at the same time. Several fell on their faces into the muck. One woman pulled herself up on top of the girl in front of her and began pulling herself rapidly across the backs of the other women. The mud was evidently very slick because she seemed to slide almost effortlessly along.

“We’ve never seen that move before,” shouted the announcer. He held his earpiece more tightly to his ear and said, “The judges are saying that it is not specifically forbidden, so she won’t be disqualified, but that will be part of the post-race meeting discussions and may be banned for next year.”

The camera was now in a closeup shot following the woman as she slid over the backs of her fellow selectees. She was almost at the end when the woman she was attempting to slide over raised up and pushed her firmly against the overhead bars. She screamed loudly as she thrashed and twitched violently.

“Oh!” yelled the announcer. “The judges might not have to do anything about it after all! The selectees themselves will take care of it in the future. Those upper bars are alternately electrified and touching two of them at the same time delivers a really severe shock. That selectee is going to be lucky to be able to walk, let alone run, when she gets out of the trough.”

His prediction showed to be true as the camera followed the sliding woman as she dragged herself out from under the bars. She stood up on very wobbly legs and fell back to the ground several times before stumbling on with the rest of the pack. There were a series of gates a few hundred yards past the pig walk, and most of the field had passed her before she had gone more than half that distance. The gates snapped shut just before she reached them.

“There were fourteen who dropped out at the start, so there should be eleven at this elimination point,” the announcer explained. There were a half-dozen women standing at the gates. The remaining five were still under the bars screaming. Evidently the shocks were too great and too rapid for them to even move.

Several of the crewmen ran out onto the bars carrying ropes. Evidently the voltage on the bars themselves was shut off or they were wearing special clothing and boots. In any case, they reached down between the bars and looped the ropes over the wrists of the women thrashing in the mud beneath them. Walking down to the end of the bars and feeding the rope under the spacers and supports along the way brought the rope out from the end of the troughs. A different crewman standing in the muck at the end of the grating immediately pulled the women out and lifted them to their feet. Security men met them then led the women over to the punishment stocks.

“We are going to keep up with the race,” said the announcer, “but their punishments are also a part of the available complete video package.”

The image switched to a section of the course which seemed to have a wall across it. There were seven openings in the wall which led through long hallway-like slots that extended for about a hundred feet past the wall. The pack was racing toward the wall and those who had arrived were jostling and struggling for position to get through. The process was relatively slow because there were some sort of bars across the openings about three or four feet off the ground. The bars seemed to be on a belt or chain drive system because they moved slowly through the slot to the other end before looping back at the top of the opening.

“Again, there is real incentive to be in the first one hundred through the slots,” explained the announcer, “because the canes activate when the one hundredth selectee exits the slots.”

Harold, the primary announcer, suddenly appeared in the corner of the screen, “Once they come out the of the slots, it is a flat-out race the mile and a half to the final gates which lead back into the stadium. Those gates will close as soon as the one hundredth selectee goes through them.”

Screams could now be heard from the women in the slots. As they moved through the narrow hallways bent over clutching the bar in front of them, canes were whipping out from the walls snapping into their asses every few feet.

“Oh,” responded the announcer who had been describing the race. “It looks like we have some more selectees refusing to continue.” He laughed. “They would have been better off refusing at the start. At least there the punishment was done with paddles. Here it will be done with a cane.

“Even so,” he continued, “they would be better off going through the slots. They would only get twenty or thirty swats with the cane in the slots. Now they are definitely going to get fifty in the punishment stocks.”

“That’s true, Leroy,” Harold’s voice answered, “but on the other side of the slots there is still fifty swats with a punishment paddle awaiting those who don’t make it through those final gates with the first one hundred. And the paddles at this point are specially designed with holes and slots to increase the pain.”

“You have a point there, Harold,” Leroy responded. “I guess you have to decide if fifty with the cane is better or worse than twenty or so with a cane plus an additional fifty with the paddles.” He laughed again in his artificial way, “I’m glad I don’t have to make that choice.”

As the camera switched to a shot of the women running for the final gates he continued, “Remember, the caning and spanking punishments will be included in the full video when you purchase it.” The image then switched to a camera on the other side of one of the gates as it zoomed in on the face of one of the trailing women. Her face was contorted in anger as the gate slammed shut on her, driving her back into the crowd behind her. You could hear her screams of frustration as she grabbed the bars and attempted to push or pull the gate back open.

That camera was now panning across the one hundred women who had made it through the gates. They were standing in the middle of the stadium, muddy, trembling, bent over, and panting with exhaustion. The chief announcer’s face appeared in the corner. “That ends day one’s elimination, our highlights and the action for day two will resume following this word from Bear Claw, the Real Man’s Beer.”


Again, the commercial, itself, had been edited out. After a very brief black screen, the image returned with the primary announcer, Harold, standing high in a large circular stadium that was reminiscent of the Roman Coliseum. He pointed down to the arena and said. “You can see the combat arena below me. The selectees have been divided into ten teams of ten each. As you can see, there are ten home areas, each with ten restraint poles mounted on the outer circle. The idea is simple. You capture as many of your opponents as you can without being captured yourself. Once seventy-five restraint poles are filled, the round is over.”

Another announcer appeared in the corner of the screen. He said, “And remember, in the unlikely event that a team can fill their poles, that team, or any remaining members of that team who are still free, are exempt from further battle and are automatically moved into the next round.”

“That’s right, Bill,” bubbled Harold, “but we haven’t had a team move intact into the third round in over twenty years.” Loud music began to blare and he had to shout to be heard over the sound of bugles and drums. “The selectees are marching in now,” he yelled. “As soon as the music stops, the games begin. Take it away. Bill!”

The selectees marched more or less in time to the music. Each woman had two large bands of color painted around her abdomen. One half of them had a red stripe just below their breasts, the other half had blue. Beneath that was either white, yellow, gray, brown or black. As they entered, they  circled around to the home area that matched the colors painted on their bodies and stood in front of one of the poles which also carried their team colors.
When the music stopped, most of them immediately ran toward the center of the arena and began struggling with other selectees, trying to overpower them and drag them back to the posts. Three of the teams, however, held back. They gathered into a large group and moved as one toward the team on their left. Since they were fighting as a unit while all the others were fighting individually, the outcome was predictable.

“That is amazing,” shouted Bill. “I have never seen teams work together like this before. They must have planned this overnight in the holding pens. Look at how rapidly they are scooping up opponents.”

 It was only a few moments before they had carried a dozen captives back to their posts and soon there were six women hanging from the restraints of the poles of the red-white and red-gray teams. It was obvious from the body motions of the red-yellow team that they expected them to now get captives for their posts, but that was not the case. Instead, the red-whites and red-grays turned on them and quickly bound them to the red-white and red-gray posts.

“Unbelievable! Unbelievable! Unbelievable!” the announcer was chanting. “TWO teams have protected themselves and moved totally intact into the next round.”

“I see that they made sure that none of the red-yellows would be there to perhaps get revenge in the next round,” observed Harold with a laugh. “I have never seen selectees restrained on their own posts before, but there are two red-yellows hanging from their own red-yellow posts today.”

A loud klaxon-style horn buzzed loudly and all of the women suddenly stood still. “We have reached seventy-five captives,” screamed Bill. “This is the fastest this round has ever gone. The judges may have to make some new rules about this for next year just to keep the games interesting.”

“I don’t know,” said Harold. “After they betrayed their own partner team like that, it might be really tough to get anyone to trust another team next year. I predict the judges will wait at least another year before making any changes in the rules. Everyone will be on the edge of their seats next year waiting to see if any of the teams will work together and then who will betray whom first.”

“That would probably be best for the ratings,” agreed Bill. “It is going to be interesting to see what surprises these selectees might have in store for us in the next round as the field is reduced to ten.”

“In the meantime,” intoned Harold, “let’s look at the beginning of the punishment phase for this round. I understand that Wild Whip William is going to be doing the honors.”

As he spoke a man dressed in what looked like a white cowboy outfit walked out into the arena. He had a whip in each hand and was snapping and cracking them in the air as he walked. He walked first over to the two women hanging from their own posts and cracked the whips repeatedly just short of touching them. The crowd roared their approval. The two captives both twisted and turned so that they were facing the posts and pressed their bodies tightly against the rough wood.

“Twenty on the back or ten on the front,” came a loud voice from the speaker system. A few of the restrained women turned to face away from their post, but most followed the example of the two red-yellows and pressed the front of their bodies tightly against the uprights to which they were bound.

As Wild Whip snapped his whips against the bodies of the two women, their screams filled the stadium. When the twentieth blow had fallen from each hand, another nine men, also dressed in white cowboy outfits, came running into the arena snapping whips as they ran.

“Remember,” Bill once again reminded the audience, “you can watch the complete punishments of all seventy-five eliminated selectees by purchasing the video package.”

“And we will be back with even more action.” Harold said, “following this word from Eversharp, the sharpest name in shaving.”

The screen once again faded to black.


“This phase is all about bodily control,” explained a new announcer as the image returned.

The familiar face of Harold then appeared in the corner of the screen and said, “That’s right, Frank. The judges have separated the remaining twenty-five selectees into ten groups. Five of those groups are two women groupings, the other five are groups of three, but the object is the same for all of them.”

“Yes, Harold,” Frank replied. “And that object is to make the other selectee lose control before you do using hand... tongue... body... whatever it takes to force the other selectee to orgasm before she does the same to you.”

“It is not unusual for two of the selectees to work as a team and overpower the third in this competition,” added Harold. “And there is nothing in the rules against that, but as soon as the third selectee is out of the ring, it becomes a one-on-one competition.”

“Because we are down to so few competitors,” Frank said quietly. “There are only two combat rings. That means we will have five rounds to bring us down to the quarter-final ten.”

There were two square platforms set up in the middle of the stadium. Each looked very much like a boxing or wrestling ring, even to the ropes which were strung tightly from four posts at the corners.

As the women for the first round were being led into the arena, Frank appeared again on the screen. There was another man in a white coat standing with him. “I am with Dr Nelson, who is going to explain to us the steps that have been taken to prevent the scandal of two years ago.”

The doctor was holding a tube of some sort in his hand. “I’m sorry to say,” he began, “that there was some inappropriate action by game officials two years ago. As you know, there is a lot of both legal and illegal betting on these games and some of the more disreputable elements in our society evidently bribed a medical technician to give higher doses of the erotic stimulant to certain selectees and almost none to one particular selectee.”

He held the tube up to the camera. “This year we are using auto-injectors that have been prepared by the stimulant’s manufacturer. In addition to that, the injector is connected directly to the scale as the selectee is weighed so that the proper dose is automatically calculated. And just to make sure, the shot is given before the selectee steps off the scale.” He lowered the tube and completed his explanation by saying, “All of the injections will be given simultaneously to all participants just before they enter the ring, so all of the selectees will be equally aroused during the competition.”

Frank turned toward the camera and said, “That is good news for all you out there who have bets on this round.”

Harold appeared in the corner of the screen and added, “And bad news for the bookies who thought that they could fix these games.” He paused a few moments and then said, “Tell us about the action, Frank.”

“It was obvious,” he began with some smugness, “that one or two of these selectees were sluts at heart because they were already stroking themselves before the round even began. I think they knew that the losers of this round are almost always resold as pleasure slaves and wanted to lose. They will probably be bought or resold to some very rich and influential men as bedroom slaves...” His voice dropped in tone and volume, “... or perhaps, if they are of lower quality, to one of the government-licensed brothels.”

The camera showed that one of the women in the three-person ring was standing in the corner of the ring stroking her own breast with one hand and rubbing her slit with the other. A loud bell rang and she walked to the middle of the ring and lay down on her back. The other two women immediately pounced on her and began suckling at her tits and lapping her pussy. In just a few moments her screams of orgasm could be heard over the speaker system.

“That isn’t as stupid as it looks,” Frank explained. “If she had refused to participate, she would have been given fifty strokes of the cane, but submitting herself to her competition carries no additional penalty.”

“She will, however,” Harold said from the corner, “still have to service the twenty-five men who have paid for that privilege, but I don’t think that is really going to be punishment for this particular selectee.” He paused a moment and added, “Those gang sex punishment sessions will, of course, be on the complete video package. And don’t forget, video packages of previous years are also available.”

“Back to the action,” shouted Frank as the camera zoomed in on the second ring where a rather busty blue-eyed woman was grappling with a much darker-skinned woman. From her complexion, the blue-eyed woman’s hair, if she had retained any, would probably have been blond. Her opponent had her held tightly from behind and was rubbing her cunt while she struggled to free herself.

The fair-skinned woman’s legs began to shake as she fought to hold off the orgasm that was boiling within her. She threw back her head and began moaning. It was obvious that she was going to lose control very soon. The darker-skinned woman threw her to the ground and dropped down on top of her so that she could bury her face in the woman’s crotch.

The loud screams showed that the blue-eyed woman was having a tremendous orgasm, but the darker woman did not stop lapping. Instead, she continued driving her opponent higher and higher. When the lighter-skinned woman was almost out of her mind with pleasure, the darker-skinned woman thrust her own cunt down on her mouth and began grinding herself on her opponent’s face.

“I think that woman has read the rule books,” laughed Frank. “It doesn’t say that you lose if you orgasm. It says that you lose if you orgasm FIRST.”

The camera returned to the ring as the dark-skinned woman grabbed her own breasts and began squeezing them as she shouted out her climax.

“All of the competitions are on the full video,” Frank said excitedly, “but we have two others that we chose for our highlights. In this first one...” a new image appeared with two women standing face to face rubbing each other’s cunt, “... it was a true match of bodily control. Neither one of these selectees tried to overwhelm the other physically, but from the opening bell just stood there stimulating each other.”

The video changed to a quad-split screen which contained a zoomed closeup of each of the women’s faces as well as their cunts with a hand stroking and swirling their clits.

“Look at those faces,” Frank shouted. “They are showing almost no reaction to the stimulation.” He laughed slightly, “I know a lot of women who can be that un-responsive, but not once they have been given that erotic stimulant.”

“Look,” Harold shouted from the corner, “number twenty-seven is starting to crack.”

The camera now went to a full-screen shot of the one woman’s face as her mouth opened slightly and she began panting and grunting. It then went to a split screen showing both women’s faces. One remained almost totally impassive, while the other became more and more agitated. Suddenly she broke and thrust her head back and groaned loudly.  A light and bell signaled the judges decision that she had, indeed, orgasmed and lost.

Interestingly, as soon as the bell sounded, her opponent also threw her head back and shrieked out loudly, obviously also in orgasm. “That was an amazing display of control,” gushed Harold. “She was able to hold off until after the bell. And remember, the loser isn’t the one who orgasms. It is the one who orgasms first.”

“Our second highlight from this round,” said Frank in his over-done sports announcer voice, “is one of the most unusual rounds I have ever seen. If you haven’t seen or heard about it, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so let’s just watch.”

The camera switched to a shot of one of the rings with two women circling each other looking for an opening. Suddenly one of them dove at the other, obviously with the intent of knocking her down. The second woman went down, but it seemed to be an intentional fall and as she fell she pulled her attacker forward with her. She ended up sitting on the canvas with the other woman more or less in her lap. A quick move of her right leg trapped her victim’s legs . That was followed immediately by her pushing down hard with her left arm, pinning the would-be attacker in her lap.

“That looks like a useless move,” laughed Frank, “because she allowed her to turn face down before she pinned her, but watch this.”

The woman in the ring began spanking her opponent. The sounds of the slaps resounded in the stadium as they were picked up by the microphone above the two women. The blows became harder and harder, and soon the sounds of the slaps was joined by a low keening wail interspersed with grunts that were in time with the smacks. After about five minutes, the wail was louder and obviously sexual. It was definitely not a cry of pain. A few minutes later, the struggling woman’s wail became a loud scream of climax and the bell sounded ending the round.

Frank appeared back on the screen smiling broadly. “We investigated this and found out that number forty-six had bragged in the pens the night before that she couldn’t lose this round because the only thing that turned her on was pain.”

Harold joined Frank’s laugher and said, “I don’t think giving away your best secrets to your opponents was very bright, but maybe she secretly wanted to lose this round. I can think of several rich connoisseurs who wouldn’t mind adding a pain-slut to their stable of slaves.”

He then turned to the screen and said, “Tomorrow afternoon is the semi-final where we trim the field to the Final Five and the next evening, in prime time, is the final. We will have those highlights in just a moment, but first this word from Henry Trucks, a Man’s Truck for a Man’s World.”


After the brief black screen, Harold returned. “Jim will be bringing us the commentary on the tug of war competition, but first I think we should get some background on how the selectees are prepared for this event.”

“Yes, Harold,” Jim responded. “These images were taken while the selectees were being prepared for competition.” The camera zoomed in to a naked woman standing restrained between two large wooden posts. “All of the selectees are prepared at the same time,” explained Jim, “so no one has the advantage.”

A man in a white coat picked up a large, shiny, steel object. It was more or less J-shaped and had a large ball on the short end of the J. The longer portion of the J ended in a large loop. “That is a specially-shaped anal hook,” Jim said as he pointed to the image which appeared on the screen behind him. The image had frozen and Jim was using a pointer that made lines on the screen as he spoke.

“Obviously,” he said, “this large bulb goes in the selectee’s ass, but the hook is not brought up the back as expected.” He drew a circle around a small ring on the inside curve of the hook. “This ring needs to be positioned in the front to connect to a clit clip.” A circle was then drawn around the large loop on the long end. “A neck strap connects here holding the hook tight against the front of the selectee’s body.” He then drew a line straight out from the loop and said, “And of course, the main pulling chain also connects to the loop.”

Motion returned to the video as the technician applied a glob of lube to the hook and held it between the selectee’s legs so that the large bulb was aligned with her asshole. He pulled slightly forward and she gasped as it slid within her. He then put a leather strap around her neck and connected it to the large loop on the end of the hook.

After adjusting it slightly, he picked up something on a very short metal chain and reached again between her legs. This time, her gasp was sharper and accompanied by shrill grunt of pain as the clip closed on her most tender spot. The camera zoomed in to show his hands as he attached the chain to the small loop on the curve of the hook.

“If that hook is pulled away from her body, it pulls directly on her clit,” observed Jim.

The technician then picked up a short length of heavy chain and clipped it to the large loop on the hook. Apparently it had some sort of quick connect link on the end of it. He let that chain dangle in front of the selectee and picked up two more smaller chains. One end of these chains appeared to have a small quick connect link on it. The other end looked very much like a Japanese Butterfly nipple clamp. The tech pinched one of the clamps to open it and then positioned it on the selectee’s right nipple. The second clamp soon joined it, but on the left nipple. After the three chains were in place, two security men released her from the restraints and pulled her arms behind her back. An arm restraint glove was slipped over her arms and secured in place before she was walked out to the staging area.

“That’s how they are prepared,” said Jim. “And now lets watch as they are connected for the contest.”
The ten women were led out onto a large rectangular area in the center of the arena. It looked almost like a section of a racing track with five wide lanes marked on it. There was a very wide white line marking the very center of the length of track. The middle portion of the track on either side of the white line was colored a bright green. A few yards down the track from the center line, there was a wide band of yellow. And finally, the last fourth of the track on each end was bright red. The women were brought to the middle of the track so that there were five pairs of women standing at the center line facing each other.

A voice over the speakers said, “Chain one,” and the technicians or doctors or whatever they were who accompanied the women out onto the track quickly connected the paired women together by their larger chains.

The voice then said, “Secondary chains,” and the techs connected the nipple chains. They crossed them before they connected them so that they formed an X in the air between the two women. As soon as they had finished, two judges raced onto the track to inspect the connections. After viewing all five pairs, both judges turned toward the cameras– or perhaps the stadium seats– and moved their arm up and down in what was apparently a signal that all was ready.

“The rules of this contest are simple,” Jim explained. “All you have to do is drag your opponent into your red area. As soon your opponent’s foot touches your red area, you win.”

There was a loud sound similar to the cannon that started the first race and all ten women began pulling back against the chains. Jim pointed out the obvious, “The problem for these selectees is that no matter how you pull against your opponent, you are effectively pulling with either your tits or your clit. If you bend slightly forward like number three is doing, it protects your breasts, but it creates slack in the neck strap and the hook moves away from your body.”

The camera zoomed in on number three, and then moved to the lane alongside her. “But if you put your shoulders way back like number six there, you protect your clit but put additional pull on your nipples.”

Harold appeared in the corner, “That’s right, Jim, and those nipple clamps tighten more as the tension increases on the chain. They aren’t going to slip off, but they are going to get really painful before this contest is over.”

“Whoa!” Jim yelled. “Look at that action in lane one.”

One of the women was bucking her body forward and then snapping it back in an exaggerated pelvic thrust. As she leaned forward, the breast chains between them would go slack. The pelvic thrust action that followed would cause her to lean back snapping the chains taught once again. The woman chained to her screamed each time that happened but more importantly, when the bucking woman again leaned forward and pushed her ass back, she would also take a step backward.

“That has to be a very painful technique, but it is very effective. I don’t think that number nine even realizes that she is in the yellow area. A couple more steps and she is going to be in the red. Annnnd ... there’s the bell. We have our first elimination in what has to be close to record time.”

One of the judges came running out accompanied by two security men and disconnected the chains which bound the two women to each other. The winner was allowed to walk back into the preparation area, but the loser was taken to a set of posts where her arms were released from the restraint glove and raised above her head to where they were attached to the posts. The competition chains were still hanging from her body.

The cameras switched back to the track where the four remaining pairs were slowly moving back and forth within the green area. One of the women screamed as her opponent pulled especially hard, tugging the nipple clamps, causing them to squeeze down hard on her nipples. She lost her concentration and stumbled forward slightly in an attempt to relieve the tension. That was all the opening her opponent needed, and she began backing up rapidly. Soon they were both standing in the red area.

“That’s another elimination,” shouted Jim as the winner walked back to the staging area and the loser was strung up between two more of the posts. He started to say something about the selectee who had just been eliminated when Harold shouted, “Back to the track... Back to the track.” and the cameras snapped back to the action.

One of the selectees of the couple in the center lane was slowly rotating, pulling her opponent around with her. “What is she doing?” Harold asked in amazement.

“I don’t know,” answered Jim. “If she goes outside her lane, or forces her opponent outside the lane, she will automatically be disqualified. Maybe that’s what she trying to do.”

Both announcers remained silent as the couple continued to circle slowly within the center lane for several minutes before coming to a stop. “Maybe she was trying to get her opponent dizzy,” suggested Harold.

“Whatever she was doing,” replied Jim, “it didn’t work.” He laughed. “All she did was wear herself out. Look at how easily she is being dragged toward the red zone.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” screamed Harold. “That is her own red zone. She turned them around and her opponent doesn’t realize it. She is moving herself into the wrong red zone.”

As soon as the foot of the woman who thought that she was winning touched the red zone, a bell sounded and three judges ran onto the track. “It looks like they are not sure who to declare the winner,” Jim said. “I think one of the judges wants to disqualify our spinning selectee, but the other two are saying that she didn’t violate any rules.”

He held his hand against his earpiece for a moment and then said excitedly, “It’s official. That’s another loophole they are going to have to plug, but our spinning selectee has been declared the winner.”

“And the loser really doesn’t look happy about it,” added Harold as four security men rushed forward to subdue the very surprised– and very angry– loser.

“Only two contests left in this round,” Jim said. “This could go on for a long time... or maybe not.”

One of the four women on the track began screaming as her opponent began doing a shoulder shake that pulled alternately on the nipple chains.

“That has to be really painful for both of them,” Harold noted.

“But its working,” replied Jim. “Look at how much ground she has gained. Another foot or two and...” Before he could finish his sentence, the bell sounded and the judges ran onto the track to declare the winner.

“Only one contest left now,” Jim said excitedly. Several minutes later, he added, “I don’t remember this round ever going this long before. We had a record-breaking win at the beginning, but this is going on forever.”

Two judges walked out onto the track and spoke loudly with the two contestants. “I’m being told that they are being warned that they are almost out of time,” said Jim. “If one of them does not pull the other into the red in the next five minutes, both will be declared losers.”

An inset on the lower corner of the screen appeared showing the face of what appeared to be a clock. It looked somehow wrong, and it took the techs watching a moment to realize what was off. It was divided into ten rather than twelve segments, but it was obviously a clock. There were two hands on it, one moving rapidly like a second hand and the other moving more slowly like a minute hand.

The two women continued to pull each other back and forth in the green area of the track, but neither could gain the advantage. “Less than a minute left,” said Jim in almost a whisper. As the clock’s hand approached the top, the crowd began to chant. The voices from the crowd were not translated and no one– except Ruthie– could understand them, but it was obvious they were counting down the final seconds.

When the hand reached the top, two bells rang simultaneous and the judges ran out onto the track to lead both contestants to the restraining posts.

“These games have been absolutely amazing,” Jim gushed. “The judges will have a lot to discuss at their post games meeting.”

Harold added in an almost equally gushing voice, “I have been announcing these games for almost twenty years and I have never seen an overtime disqualification. It has only occurred eleven times before in the history of the games.”

“Well,” Jim said, “that means that there will be only four contestants tomorrow for the finals. I have a feeling they will be as exciting and surprising as the games have been up to this point.”

He suddenly brightened and faced the camera smiling, “That does mean however, that there are six, rather than five, who will be receiving the bamboo cane punishments this afternoon. We don’t have time for those in our highlight show, but everything is shown in crystal clarity in the full package available for purchase.”

Harold re-appeared in the corner of the screen. “I’m sure tomorrow will, indeed, be very exciting,” he said enthusiastically. His image was then brought to full screen as he said, “And we will be bringing you all of the highlights of that final day following this word from Bear Claw Lite, the Real Man’s Beer for real men who are worried about their weight.”


When the image returned, it was dark and the stadium was illuminated by banks of lights. The tracks and competition rings had been replaced by what looked like a large stage. Harold appeared on the screen. He beamed at the camera and said, “Welcome to the finals of The Lottery Games.” It was obvious that he was going to be doing the commentary on the finals himself.

“All of the events leading up to this have been direct competitions of one sort or another,” he said as he pointed to pictures of the four finalists. “But in this round the selectee is effectively competing against herself. She will be alone on the stage and will be judged by the quality of her performance.”

The camera panned across the stage which looked somewhat like a combination of a bedroom and a strip club. There was a bed, but there was also a stripper pole and three, small, round tables like you would find in a club. There was one chair at each of the tables.

“The selectee,” Harold explained, “will have to sexually satisfy three of the judges, one in each of her holes, but it isn’t just a matter of getting them off. She will be judged by the entire judging panel on the quality of her performance as she gets them aroused and also by each of the three participant judges on the quality of her sexual act.

“And in addition to that,” he gushed, “viewers on the video link cast their votes. The panel of judges is 50% of her score; the three participating judges is 25%; and on-line voting is 25%.” He laughed slightly, “But remember, this is a highlights video, so when the comlink numbers appear on the screen, please don’t call, no matter how exciting you think a particular performer has been.”

The four finalists were led into a waiting area on the edge of the stage. They were now clothed and were wearing wigs and makeup. Each of the four was a stunning beauty. A group of three judges approached them and held up a small bag. They each reached into the ba


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