2 Neck Collar (1/2)
”Get the fuck away from me!” I scream, pointing the muzzle at the next set of eyes that appears in front of me. They don't look human anymore. I can tell they belong to a man, but the expression in them is the same one a coyote wears when he finds a rabbit.
Boom!
An explosion echoes across the crowd. It is much louder than anything my gun can produce, and unlike my single shooter, it gets a respectful response from the lust-crazed men. They fall to the ground, covering their heads as the sheriff makes his entrance.
This man rolls deep. There are twelve armed guards, not shitty market guards. Real ones with real armor and real mating privileges. They have access to the state harem. They won't go feral just looking at me. The vicious rabble clears for them as they move through the market toward me.
”You find a woman, she belongs to the state! You know that!” The sheriff speaks in a booming voice translated through the microphone of his mech suit, an external skeleton that gives him the power of a hundred men, and the weaponry of a small army. I've seen a man in one of those things rip through a bandit camp in two minutes. In the end, there were just bits of criminals scattered everywhere. The land claimed them within hours. You haven't lived until you've seen a small hive of marching ants trying to drag an ear into their burrow.
This is not a rescue.
I could have shot my way out of the crowd, given enough courage and enough time. I could have maybe gotten free. But there's no chance of that with the sheriff and his soldiers. My weapons will glance off their armor, and they'll catch me.
My only chance is to run, now, through the chaos created by a hundred men all abandoning their goods and wares at once. While the sheriff yells at his unruly citizenry, I try to sneak from my hiding place, out around the bar.
”She's getting away!”
Some dickhead asshole motherfucker tells on me before I even have a chance to try to escape. The sheriff's soldiers come for me. Bigger, faster, fucking terrifying.
They swing me off my feet and carry me back to the sheriff, my slim body dangling between them. My toes don't even touch the ground. In their grasp, I am weak and vulnerable. The remnants of my clothing don't give me much in the way of modesty. My underwear is still on, and the wrap I put around my breasts to complete the male illusion is still there—until it isn't.
The sheriff reaches out, grabs the wrap, and yanks it. It unwinds like a mummy's cloth, revealing my breasts to the world. Blood rushes back into the compressed tissue, making me ache and swear.