Chapter 26: The chains rattle as the conveyor jerks forward, bringing Erin's dripping pussy closer to Isis's strapon-clad hips - Shane smirks as Ryan adjusts the speed, forcing Erin to impale herself violently on the silicone cock while Isis's muffled screams echo through the bloodstained chamber. Their bodies slap together in a grotesque parody of passion, juices mixing on the rusted metal beneath them.
The slaughterhouse held a different kind of silence. It wasn’t the vast, echoing emptiness of the warehouse; it was a dense, absorbing quiet, as if the walls, stained with the ghosts of a million deaths, swallowed sound whole. The air was cold, laced with the tang of old rust and something earthier, a mineral scent of long-dried blood trapped in the concrete floor. Fading evening light bled through broken skylights, casting angled bars of dusty orange across a macabre landscape of chains, pulley systems, and rusted metal tracks that ran along the ceiling.
Erin stood shivering in the center of the main floor, the cold seeping up through the soles of her bare feet. Isis was already there, her expression a closed door. The resentment from the warehouse was still there, but it had been banked, covered by a layer of ash-like resignation.
Shane and Ryan were inspecting a piece of apparatus—a length of rusted track from which dangled several heavy, tarnished meat hooks. It looked like a segment of an old conveyor system.
“Think it’ll hold?” Ryan asked, giving one of the hooks a solid pull. It squealed in protest but held firm.
“It’ll hold them,” Shane said, his voice bouncing off the hard surfaces. He turned, his boots crunching on grit. “Strip. Now.”
There was no hesitation this time. Erin’s fingers, clumsy with cold, pulled her shirt over her head. Isis was already naked, her skin prickling with goosebumps. Shane produced two sets of thick leather cuffs from his bag, along with two heavy-duty strap-on harnesses, the dildos already attached—thick, veined, and unsettlingly realistic in the dull light.
“Arms up,” Ryan said to Erin. He fastened the cuffs around her wrists, the leather cold and stiff. He then knelt and buckled the harness around her hips and thighs. The weight of the silicone appendage felt absurd, a grotesque caricature of masculinity jutting from her pelvis. She saw Isis undergoing the same treatment from Shane, her face a mask.
Shane clipped a lead to each set of cuffs. “Hook ‘em up,” he said to Ryan.
Ryan led Erin to one end of the conveyor track. He unclipped a heavy meat hook, its point dulled with time, and clipped her wrist cuffs to it. The metal was ice-cold against her skin. She watched as Shane did the same to Isis, twenty feet away at the opposite end. They were facing each other, dangling from the same track like sides of beef awaiting processing.
From a control box mounted on a rusted column, Ryan pulled a lever. With a shudder and a groan of long-unused machinery, the track jerked, then began to move. It was slow, inexorable. The hooks squealed as they inched along the rail, carrying the women toward each other.
“Oh, god,” Erin whispered. The mechanical movement robbed her of all autonomy. She was cargo.
“You see where this is going, don’t you?” Shane called out, his voice echoing. “When you meet in the middle, you fuck. You make it work. That’s your only job.”
The distance closed with agonizing slowness. Erin could see the dark fury in Isis’s eyes, the set of her jaw. The artificial cocks swayed with each jolt of the conveyor. The cold air kissed every part of her, making her nipples harden, a traitorous response to the terror.
Ten feet apart. Five. The hooks clanked to a sudden stop, leaving them suspended, facing each other, their harnessed dildos almost touching.
“You’re not close enough,” Ryan observed, his hand on the control lever. “Gonna have to make an effort.”
“Fuck you,” Isis spat, the first words she’d uttered.
Shane laughed, a flat, hard sound. “Wrong hole, sweetheart. Get to work.”
Erin’s mind blanked. How? The mechanics of it were impossible, humiliating. She tentatively raised her legs, hooking them around Isis’s hips, pulling their bodies closer. Isis, with a grimace of utter contempt, did the same. Their bodies slammed together, stomach to stomach, breasts crushed between them. The silicone heads of the dildos pressed against each other’s lower bellies, slipping, not finding purchase.
“Use your hands to guide it,” Ryan instructed calmly, as if talking them through a difficult assembly at the factory. “Aim.”
Crying now, hot tears cutting through the dust on her face, Erin reached a hand between their pressed bodies, fumbling for the strap-on harnessed to Isis. Her fingers found the hard, slick silicone. Isis mirrored the action, her hand rough as she grabbed Erin’s dildo. They guided the false cocks downward, the movements awkward and clumsy. The head of Erin’s dildo bumped against Isis’s outer lips.
“Now,” Shane commanded.
Ryan pushed the lever. The conveyor jolted forward another six inches.
The movement forced Erin’s hips forward. The dildo, positioned roughly, shoved its way into Isis’s cunt in one brutal, unnatural slide. At the same moment, Isis’s dildo breached Erin, a thick, unlubricated invasion that made her gasp at the sharp, stretching burn.
“Oh, Christ,” Isis choked, her head falling back.
The conveyor stopped. They were locked together, impaled on each other’s artificial shafts, swaying slightly from the momentum. The feeling was profoundly wrong—a deep, filling pressure with none of the heat or give of a real body. It was plastic and force.
“Good,” Shane said, walking a slow circle around them. “Now, the track moves slow. You move with it. You fuck. Or you get torn apart.”
Ryan adjusted a dial on the control box. The conveyor began to move again, with a slow, rhythmic clanking. One inch. Then another.
Erin had no choice. As the track pulled her hook forward, it pulled her body, and the dildo buried in Isis dragged through her channel. She had to rock her hips to accommodate the movement, to avoid being ripped. Isis groaned, a sound of pure anguish, and matched the motion. Their bodies began a pathetic, graceless simulation of sex, driven by the squealing gears above them.
The pace increased. The clanking came faster. They were now fucking in earnest, their hips pistoning out of brutal necessity. The slap of skin, the wet, squelching sound of silicone moving in and out of unwilling, tightening bodies filled the chilling air.
“Look at that,” Shane mused to Ryan. “Like a machine. Perfect.”
Erin’s cunt, betraying her utterly, began to warm, to slick around the invading toy. The relentless, mechanical rhythm was bypassing her mind, speaking directly to her nerves. Isis’s breath was hot and ragged against her neck, her own body trembling with a similar perverse response. Shame flushed hotter than any arousal. Her eyes met Isis’s, and in the other woman’s gaze, she saw the same shattered recognition—they were both just fleshy parts in this vile apparatus.
“Faster,” Shane said.
Ryan turned the dial. The conveyor clanked into a punishing, steady tempo. Their coupling became a violent, jarring slam. Erin’s thoughts dissolved into a static of sensation: the cold metal at her wrists, the brutal in-and-out, the crude noises of their use. The orgasm that ripped through her was a seizure, a wave of punishing pleasure that felt like punishment. She screamed, her body clamping viselike around the fake cock fucking her. Below her, Isis shuddered and cursed, her own climax wrenched from her by the machine’s relentless pace.
The conveyor didn’t stop. It dragged them through their spasms, the dildos becoming instruments of torturous overstimulation. Finally, Ryan pulled the lever back. The track jerked to a halt.
They hung, spent and dripping, still conjoined. Ryan reversed the direction. The hooks began moving backward, pulling the toys from their bodies with a slow, obscene withdrawal that made them both whimper.
When they were separated, dangling at opposite ends again, Shane unclipped them. They collapsed to the filthy floor, the harnesses seeming suddenly twice as heavy. Ryan tossed them towels.
“See?” Shane said, crouching in front of Erin, tipping her chin up. Her eyes were unfocused. “Even when you’re fucking, you’re not in control. You’re just following the track we set.” He stood, looking at Isis who was vomiting bile onto the concrete. “Get dressed. We’re done.”
In the truck, the heater blowing, Erin stared at her hands. The smell of the slaughterhouse—of rust, of decay, of their own sex—clung to her. She could still feel the ghost of that mechanical rhythm in her bones. It wasn’t pleasure they’d given her. It was a blueprint. She was the machine, and they held the controls. And the machine, she was beginning to understand, had no right to refuse.