Portal Project – The Lottery Games · Part 1

Portal Project – The Lottery Games · Part 1 (1/4)
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Fantasy / Science Fiction, Non-consent, Forced Competition, Forced Orgasm, Spanking, Flogging, Caning, Public Oral, Public Anal

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.

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…”

Portal Project – The Lottery Games · Part 1 (1/4)
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