The FT Virus - Chapter 0 (Prelude)

The FT Virus – Prelude – Chapter 0

You never really accept that trouble is happening until it's all too obvious. The human mind is quite adept at compartmentalization. The problem isn't real at first, then you hear rumours, conspiracy theories and so on. Those eventually blossom into leaks, whistle-blowers and more, although they are swiftly silenced. Then eventually, after enough time passes, the original conspiracy theory is – essentially – confirmed. However, because it is served to the public through the medium of the media at a perfect luke-warm temperature, tempered by extreme double-speak, padded by a dozen false equivalences... no one seems to care.

Or at least, most people don't. The people who cared in the first place still do, if anything much more so now. Most people don't even see the trouble as a problem, at this point. They explain it away, rationalize it to themselves. “I always knew etcetera”, “Well it was bound to happen some time”. It exists, but it's not a problem. Then eventually they will be forced, over time, to accept that it is a problem. Heels in the dirt they eventually, begrudgingly accept that it is a problem. It's not a real problem though... because it's etcetera. It's a small thing, it's far away, it only affects this or that, any number of diminishing strategies they can use to force themselves to not be forced to see the truth.

All this time, of course, the trouble – the problem – hasn't stopped being a problem. If anything it has been greatly exacerbated by the vast majority of people being so unilaterally unwilling to process the issue within their minds. Then the problem is, at last, undeniable. It's no longer far away, in small numbers, affecting things they don't care about. It is real, it is here, and it is affecting them right now. And of course, by then, it is often far, far too late.

The first signs of trouble, real trouble as far as the stubborn were concerned, trouble they could no loner ignore... was when the news anchor, Lydia MacAverie, appeared on the news in a rather dishevelled state. Her usual curt, professional attire was ruffled, her hair was a matted mess, and her glasses askew. Not to mention her lips seemed slick, and had a sheen to them which gave immediate cause for concern. This was much in contrast to her appearance only hours ago, when she was giving live updates on the FT Virus Crisis before the news station went down due to a 'Technical Error'.

“G-good evening,” she began, with a lazy and slackened smile, which was characteristic of the photos which had been circulating... of those infected with the virus, “on behalf of the... mmm... transitionary government, I am pleased to announce that the FT Virus is no... ugh... longer an issue.”

Lydia MacAverie's eyes seemed to widen for a moment, and she gasped, a hand over her mouth. The close in zoom didn't allow much of a view of what was happening, but it was obvious now she was leaning over her news desk.

“Th-there is...” she muttered, before groaning, as there was movement behind her. A rhythmic series of plap-plap-plap could soon be heard, as she tried to keep reading.

“The-re is no re-eas-on to pan-ic,” she continued, and yet the evidently less than above board situation was having the opposite effect, as her body began to shudder forwards, closer to the camera, with every wet slap.

At that moment, two larger figures appeared at either side of her, heads cut off by the camera's focus but their massively endowed assets left very little to the imagination. Each sported a pair of breasts larger than most women's heads, and despite Lydia being seated, they were each evidently at least a foot taller than her, with thick, powerful builds.

“A-as you can see, we at the station have...” Lydia began, reading from the teleprompter, but being distracted by the movement of the figures next to her, “b-been... given new... information...”

She trailed off as the figures to either side of her began to move their hands just out of view behind the desk, but the reason soon became apparent as two massive cocks rose at either side of Lydia's face. One laid a hand on Lydia's head and forced her squealing, grinning face back to the script, which she began to hurriedly read from.

“T-there is n-no cause for alarm! All civilians are requested to return to their homes, and await further instructions...” she began while surreptitiously reaching out to stroke the cocks which bobbed and throbbed inches from her, seemingly without even realizing she was doing it, and began to pant with evident arousal, “However... those who wish to volunteer for immediate... r-re-education... should call the number on screen now, or proceed to any of the following evacuation shelters which have been converted to...”

As a cock began to probe her cheek, anchorwoman Lydia MacAverie shuddered bodily, and began open-mouthedly salivate, barely able to get out the last words:

“Converted... to... non-stop, mass... orgy... fuck fests... for submissive... little... sluts!”

For the next seven hours straight, Lydia MacAverie was fucked to near blindness on live TV, her echoing, constant orgasms and desperate cries and moans were the soundtrack to all the madness that followed. The fact that the broadcast continued unabated, and in fact, the cameras were panning to follow the action perfectly was proof enough that this coup ran far deeper than any had realized.

The women at either side of her wore skimpy, deliberately provocative clothing which seemed to accentuate their utterly erotic figures. Their plump bodies seemed to crease and swell in just the right places... and it made looking away from the spectacle just a little harder than most would care to admit.

They moved with almost preternatural grace, and seemed at once to possess the most sensual, yet most possessive and controlling of demeanour. Lydia was putty in their hands, head lolling and drooling over every shaft she could reach, obviously doped up on the body chemicals the virus was pumping through her system. That, or, maybe it really did just feel that good...

At first it was just her two handlers who began to press their voluptuous forms against her, content to let her worship their cocks, basking in the sheer command they now held over such a formerly respected figure. The woman who had until now been fucking her began to continue in earnest, her thick, voluptuous thighs lending a wet cracking staccato to the societal revolution occurring on the streets below.

Lydia's eyes rolled into the back of her head as another stomach-clenching orgasm racked through her, and she giggled in delight as she was lifted up and flipped onto her back. All the better to worship the two massive cocks vying for the attention of her obedient mouth.

Somewhere deep down Lydia knew that something was wrong, but it felt as if every thought was being coated in a thick, fluffy layer of calm acceptance. She knew that she must, by this point, be massively infected. That explained why she was so wet her thighs were sticking to the varnished wooden table, hell, why she was dripping down to her feet. Trying to push coherent thoughts through the thick morass clouding her mind, as thick as the heady strands of cum which now adorned her face, and weighed down her nearly-totally destroyed clothing, was like fighting against a dozen weighted blankets.

Every time that cock hilted itself inside her, stretching her in ways only her best-hidden toys at home ever had, it was like a hammer demolishing any semblance of sanity she still held on to. As her head bobbed eagerly, up and down, along the shaft that was luxuriously sliding in and out of her lips, she tried to mouth some kind of protest, but it just came out as a gleeful, giddy moan. The futanari woman fucking her mouth gripped her shoulders tighter, and began to throat fuck her with vigour, and Lydia pliantly flicked her tongue, encouraging the giant woman to mate with her face, as if any further encouragement was needed. As a crescendo of cries echoed the increasingly fervent thrusts between her sucking lips, Lydia felt another hot load of cum being jetted down her throat, and soon began to wonder what it was she had been so worried about.