Drive by Porning
WAY NC-17, slash, kink, bdsm and pain. You have been warned.

The technicians don’t like us much. Jumpers, I mean. Sure, they’re good at what they do, and god knows we couldn’t do it without them, not for any length of time, anyway, but they just… look at you. Look at you, and you can tell they’re waiting, watching. Timing you out.

Because there's no such thing as a retired Jump Officer.

Never happen. Not once. Nobody who does this gets out. Not that we all die. I mean, sure, a huge proportion of us do, just expire right there on the table, brain flatlined and body buzzing with machinery. Happens, sometimes. Always a risk. Hell, you're gone, far away in some strange mind, and if it blows... well, it can be hard to find your way back. No time to get ready, to work out how to get home, and you're screwed. Not sure what happens then, but you don't end up brushing your own teeth that night.

And I'm damn sure that there are cops out there who just gave up, went riding in some flashy model somewhere and decided to never come back. Hard to test drive a sports-car and go home in a junker, know what I mean? So they give up the pink slip on the old model and trade up, blow the safety regs and kill off the subconscious that could fight back. Kinda more like carjacking than trading, but who's going to stop them?

So flatlining's something that just happens. Risk we take.

Not the only one, though. Not by a long shot.

No, the technicians don't much care if we flatline. That's not the big worry, that's not what they're watching for. Flatlining's easy to deal with; nice body bag and a can of Lysol for the smell, and that's it. It's the messy, violent reactions they watch for, the curl of fingers into murderous claws or the twist of lips into a psycotic smile.

You've got to understand, we don't mean to do it. Every single fucking one of us has gone through enough psyche evals to kill the average personality, but it still happens.

When you jump, you jump. You're there, inside them, living in the same brain, with the same chemicals, the same memories.

I guess it wouldn't be so bad if we got to stay in nice, safe, happy people, normal people, but we don't. Jump-cops by their nature end up in some of the worst filth imaginable.

And that's just the package boys.

Aww, I shouldn’t call them that. We'd be lost without them, too. They're the ones that actually go out there and beat the streets, getting us that one second of eye-contact with the mark we need to jump. Nice guys, real old-school cops, working the case and finding the leads, getting all the legwork done. They hate calling us, but we can do what they can't.

I look at the technician adjusting the IV drip into my arm. No telling how long I'd be gone, this time; early morning, the mark probably just woke up. If I jumped into him early, then I'd have all day before the mark's subconsious woke up enough to push me out. The technician isn't looking at me at all, just puttering around, making notes, checking gages.

I see him check the restraints hanging at the edge of the table before he goes.

Fucker. Probably wanted me to see him check those.

I hate waking up restrained.

Detective Mrumba comes in, and I smile at him, trying to be nice. He's fidgeting; this is his first time being jumped, and he's shit-scared, I can tell. New ones always are. He's dressed in a beat up jacket and jeans, his nails painted black and yellow. Nice costume. He's been undercover for weeks, trying to solve this without involving us.

"Um... you've got your information, you sure you're going to be able to ride him? He's pretty tough." he says, looking at my eyebrows instead of my eyes.

"Yup. You sure you'll be able to make contact with the mark?" I say, making it a bit sarcastic. This is my job, asshole.

His eyes flicker, and he glares at me. "You do your part, I'll do mine. I didn't even want to call you sick fuckers."

I smile again, knowing that it's not a nice smile. "You sure you want to be pissing off a guy that's going to be living in your head for a few hours?"

He goes slightly ashy at that. My smirk widens. "Let's do this thing."

The facilitator comes in (thank god, it's Rebecca), and sets Mrumba up. I only half listen to the customary pre-jump speech; I've heard it a thousand times. Mrumba gets himself under control, calms down, and I take a deep breath.

Christ I hate jumping new timers. If only I could have my nice comfortable Bosto, but he's off recouping after our last little adventure.

Bright light, and I count down in my head. Jumping itself is fast, but it's painful if I do it too quick.

Painful for me, that is. My mark'll never feel it.

I open my eyes, and Mrumba's staring right at me. Our eyes lock, and wham! I'm gone, diving into the soft mass of his personality like I'm delving into snow, burying myself deep and fast, pulling traces of my passage in behind me.

Mrumba looks confused when my body doesn't do anything.

"Well, detective? We gonna do this, or what?"

[Already done, Milton,] I say, 'voice' laced with more sarcasm. Ah, barbed wit; the jump-cop's weapon of choice.

"FUCK!" he says, and knocks the stool over, his ass hitting the ground with a thump.

*paintwinge-ass-ow(memory/tactile/recent: pulling hard at the sling, legs aching and open)*

[Well, well, well, what was that, Milton?]

"Quit calling me Milton," he says, rubbing at his head. Rebecca closes my eyes for me, which I appreciate. Some of the facilitators make the techs do it, and by then I'd have a headache when I jumped home.

[Tell Rebecca thanks, will you?]

"What?"

This guy was an idiot. Great. I hijack his vocal cords for a moment. "Thanks for the eye job, Rebecca. I appreciate it."

She looks up, smiles in a way she wouldn't at some painted-up undercover cop. "No problem, Detective Watts. Have a good jump."

Milton pulls his speech center away from me. "What the fuck was that?"

[I needed to say something.]

"So? You're my passenger, not the driver, got it?"

[Sure, Milton. Whatever you say.]

"Call me Detective, damnit!"

I make him wink at Rebecca, and he never notices.

I leave Milton alone as we head out to the car, settling myself into him a bit better. The mark wasn't even in the city proper; he was out in some shit-hole side city, and it'd take us an hour to get there. Some plainclothes guy was driving, but he wasn't going to talk to poor Milton. Milton had his own passenger.

I put up mental walls, making myself a little 'place' inside him. No other jumper could get into this spot I made, not without a lot of work, and Milton'd never know it was here. I thought of it as a hotel room; I'd never hang family photos here, but I'd certainly use the dresser.

I put my customary stuff up. Secondary walls, and a couple of trigger memories in case it was a very, very bad jump. I was even a good little rule monkey and put up the defense shield for Milton; if I did go crackers when I was gone, I wouldn't be able to make him off himself when I got back.

That done, I got a bit bored.

[Mind if I poke around in here, Milton?] I asked.

"Hell yes I do. You stay out of my mind, Watts."

[Too late for that, isn't it? You were warned when you approached us. I can't help seeing memories when they surface.]

"Yeah, but don't go pokin' around. They told us you're not allowed to go past surface thoughts."

[Sure thing.] I create a trigger event, shaping it carefully. [Thing is, Milton, the human mind has a tendency to think of exactly what you don't want it to. For instance, if I told you to not think of zebras-]

(Memory/visual/long-term: Striped horse, standing on vague dusty plain.)

"Hey!"

[There, ya see? So, for instance, if I was to ask you why your ass hurts right now...]

(Memory/full/recent: Abbot standing over him, huge hand slicked with lube. The feel of the sling digging into his back, the clink of the chain. Low thumping music, faint smoke in the air. Eyes on him watching, hands already on cocks. Abbot's low dark chuckle as he forces the first finger in.

"That's it, boy. Open right up for me. Gonna take this whole hand, aren’t you. Such a good boy."

His mouth dropping open, head falling back into waiting hands. Abbot pulling back and going right for three fingers, his other hand stroking up to the bent knee.

"Such a good, good boy. Deep breath,")

The memory lost clarity then, devolving into fullpainpleasure submission, the endorphins both sharpening and muddying the memory. I mentally smile.

Yeah, Milton was going to be fun.

He’s is fidgety, hands playing with the seat belt, the window. The driver is glancing at him in the rear view mirror from time to time, clearly worried.

Damnit. Why didn't psyche eval catch this? Milton had a treasure trove of memories he didn't want me looking at. This was exactly the kind of person that made a bad courier; he wasn't acting normal at all, too afraid I was going to out him.

[Milton, you have to calm down. The mark'll know something's up for sure if you go in there like this.]

He opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it. He doesn't want to alert the driver.

[Christ, think back to the training, will you? You don't have to talk out loud. Just... think the words.]

{Think them?}

[Yeah, like that.] I give his endorphin center a little brush, and he shivers.

{This is too weird, Watts. What'd you have to go looking around for?}

I am silent for a moment, mentally stretching in the little area, letting him feel me. [Why'd you let me jump if you had all this shit in here? You must have known I'd find it.]

{They told me...} he trails off, crossing his arms over his chest.

[I'm sure they did, but come on. You've heard the stories]

(memory/auditory/visual/composite: "You know them jumpers, they'll burrow in and look at everything." "Steel your soul, I swear to god" "Sick fuckers, make you gay, different, make you do shit," "Hear about Rodriguez? Straight as an arrow until that bastard jumped him. Made him leave his wife and went to suck off wrestlers down in Memphis. Can you believe the nerve of those fucks?”)

brief, bright flash of hope.

[Oh ho, is that it? You want out? You're using me as a convenient excuse?]

{No!} yes

[So, who do you want to out yourself to, Milton? No wife in here, no family left who'd care.]

"Quit digging in my mind!"

[Can't do that, my friend. I'm here for a while, and if I don't get you calmed down, we're both going to be little chalk outlines when we get to ghetto-ville or wherever the fuck we're going. Though your outline will be quite a bit bigger than mine.]

He's trembling now.

Fuck. This is going to hell right here.

[Tell the driver to stop.]

{What?}

[Tell him to stop. Tell him you've got to take a piss.] I push again on his endorphins, giving him a bit of positive reinforcement.

He does, and the driver pulls over at a diner. Milton gets out, goes inside to the bathroom.

His mind is spinning, making and discarding thoughts so fast I can't quite catch them, confused and upset and strangely aroused.

How to deal with this? We've got to reach some kind of accord, or we'll fuck this up. I could just jump home and abort the mission, I suppose, but it smacks of failure, and I hate to fail. So... Milton, on some level, knew I'd find out his dirty little secrets, the sex, the bondage, the pain. He knew I'd uncover it.

But who did he want me to tell? I poke a bit, accessing random thoughts, and pull them into a semblance of order.

Ah. Well, that made some kind of twisted sense. He wants an excuse. An out. He doesn't want to be outted, he wants me to be his alibi. So, if in the future, he gets caught with his pants down (or a fist up his ass) he could say "It wasn't me! I wasn't like this until I got Jumped!"

Fucker. I hate that. That's one way we get a bad name. Sure, I could make him do whatever I wanted, but he had all this shit here to begin with. Wants to blame his own internal filth on me, does he? What am I, some fucking sacrificial goat?

I almost yell at him, almost rip him to shreds. Anger is surprisingly effective coming from inside your own skull.

Almost.

I make myself pull back. I was inside this guy. I knew him, knew him like he didn't know himself. I might as well be him at this point. What good would it do to rip his psyche to bits?

Milton is staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, hot water running over one hand. Too hot; the pain is running up and down his arm, and his breath is steady. Endorphins are slowly filling his mind, and I take some in, feeling his pain, touching it and letting it fill me.

Oh yeah. Oh yeah. This is good.

I know how to fix this. Milton felt... Filthy. Filthy for feeling this, this pleasure. Maybe he was planning on me being his excuse, but instead I'd bee his housekeeper.

[Milton, turn the hot water up.]

{What?} He starts to pull his hand away, but I stop him. Fear shoots through him as he realizes he can't move his hand.

[I said, turn it up. Just a bit. You want more pain, don't you? Turn it up. I'm here. If you won't do it, I will.]

yes, do it

The un'voiced' thought goes through him before he can stop it, and I know I have him.

I smile. Yes. Milton wanted somebody else to take responsibility for this, for what he wanted. The ultimate excuse. He wanted me to make it ok. That's as good as permission, in my book. Fuck the rules. He wants it. I know it more than anyone. In a very real sense, he's asking for it.

Hot damn.

[Listen to me. While I'm in here, I'm in charge, you get that? You'll do what I say and you'll get what you want,] and I jab his pleasure center. He shudders. [You fuck around, and you'll get what you want, too, just not how you want it.]

I slam hard into his pleasure center, pushing it into pain instantly, and his knees try to buckle as he cries out. I stiffen his knees and pull his head up, making him stare into the mirror. His eyes are very wide, wet from pain.

His cock is hard.

"Now," I say to him, using his voice, "You're going to do exactly as I tell you, aren't you, boy?"

He nods at his reflection.

"Good, good boy. Now, turn up that water, and count to ten. Slowly."

I let go of his arms, and his hand trembles as he reaches for the tap. He cranks it, wincing, as the already hot water gets hotter.

"Count, boy."

"One, two, t-three..."

His jaw clenches.

[Finish it.]

"Four, five, six..."

I stroke my fingers into his mind, finding where the pain is becoming pleasure, and pushing it higher, sharper. He gasps. His cock jerks in his pants, the head wet and rubbing on cotton.

[Finish it!]

"Seven, eight, oh god, nine..."

I use his hand to turn the water hotter, and he lets out a short scream. "Ten, ten, god, please" and the pain is fantastic, writhing white hot, and I take it all, twisting it up as his just like his brain wants, and he comes, yanking his scalded hand from the water to press it, soaking and shaking, against his groin.

Mine. Mine. His mind is swimming in endorphins, pleasure, pain, synapses firing all around me. I push hard at him again, making a second, smaller orgasm rock through him, and he crumples to the ground, come dripping from his shorts down his leg, dampening everything. The air stinks of come.

I pet him as he comes down, wrapping his hand in cool wet paper towels, helping him wash up. He's so far down in his brain that he follows my instructions perfectly, humming with contentment.

Yes, mine now.

Yeah, the technicians are afraid of us. But, really, who can blame them?