Dead Rising 2 - Sex is Life

Author's Note: YEP. DEAD RISING 2 FIC. You know who has no hentai? Stacey Forsythe. You know who needs it? Stacey Forsythe. I've seen plenty of the Bailey sisters, and of Rebecca Chang, but nobody seems to care about the redhead hottie zombie rights activist. Time to correct that with written porn! Oh, and a certain necklace in the fic is real, I just lifted it for use here because I felt it fit well. For anyone who cares about me specifically, check my profile for an update on what's happening with me and writing, and remember: writers can't reply to reviews of their work in the review section on AFF anymore.


"Katey, we need to... go."

Stacey's sweet affectionate voice faded as she entered the security room. Empty. She scoured details for a note or a footstep, something to give her a clue on where the little girl wandered off. Instead, she kicked something. Something small, and light. She knelt down and held the pink backpack in her hands, every small outer stitch revealed in the Puff Puff cloud logo.

"You would never leave your backpack behind. Katey. Where did you go... ?"

Her answer came by sheer luck when her walkie talkie flared up with a buzz, a wavy signal, then a distinct, clear voice with a showman's flair. She scowled. Even the sound made her skin crawl.

"Hey hey hey, it's that time again. I'm your host T.K., and welcome to Terror... is... REALITYYYYYYY!"

It just had to be him. It had to be Tyrone King, the King of Zombie Exploitation who made a living off torturing and humiliating the infected. Stacey stormed over to the security desk, swooped up the walkie talkie in her hand and depressed the button on the side.

"What did you do to Katey?"

"Aw man, I was hopin for Chuckie Greene. What a downer. Then again, I can think of a few things to do with your sexy ass while I got you on the line."

"What. Did you do. To Katey?"

"Whoa, calm yourself. Damn. What you really wanna know isn't what, but where."

Stacey closed her eyes, rubbing the growing migraine out of her temples. He wasn't worth her anger, not that greedy sack of crap. She took a deep breath and answered, "Okay then, where is she?"

"She's right here with me, safe and sound... for now. If you wanna keep it that way, run your cute ass over to Robsaka Digital, get your own comm device and call me back when you get there."

"What is your... damn."

Stacey checked the device's frequency and set it on the counter. Opening her red belt pouch, she removed her local map of Fortune City. Markings of popular hotspots peppered the pamphlet in blue circles and lines. Notes scrawled on the outside margins detailed a schedule thrown out in the aftermath of the zombie outbreak, filled with concerts on the Silver Strip and demonstrations outside the arena. She made a note of her path to Robsaka Digital, ran to the ventilation shaft and crawled inside. The length stretched on into pitch dark.

"How did Chuck put up with all those trips in and out of the Shelter?" She sighed. "This is going to be a long day."


----------------------

Amid the supplies of laptops and routers, in the same aisle as a feature for cell phones, she found it. She cursed the wrapping as she grabbed a pair of scissors from the counter and snipped through thick plastic. This was T.K. she was dealing with. Every second she took risked Katey's life, she couldn't afford to put up with bulky packaging. Cutting out the back, she opened the walkie talkie's back panel and inserted the batteries included in the set. She didn't even take the time to snap the back panel cover in place, flipping the power on and tuning in to T.K.'s frequency.

"T.K.! T.K. come in, I made it to Robsaka Digital."

"I knew you could do it," Tyrone said with a zimming growl. His marbly voice held an edge, a fire, as he spoke to the outspoken CURE leader. "Now that you got yourself a comm device, you're gonna run a few errands for me."

"How do I know you're not lying to me about Katey? She could be dead." Stacey shot a look at the storefront. The zombies shuffled closer, groaning, clawing the air for a target several feet too far. She walked around the cashier counter, set the walkie talkie down and picked up her baseball bat. She tightened her grip for a swing as they moved in.

"You're gonna have to trust me, sweet thang," replied T.K.

"What if I said no?"

"Are you challenging me? Don't you know who I AM? I'm T.K., host of Terror is Reality, and you know where that puts you. You gotta risk it ALL if you're ever. REALLY. Gonna!-"

THWACK!

Stacey's bat slammed against the zombie's head, knocking the undead man into a pile of desktop towers. The redhead fell back against the wall from the effort and bounced herself to a stand, pressing the button on the walkie talkie as she did. "Listen, I've had enough of your bull. This isn't a game show, this is reality. I'm not doing this to entertain you. Tell me what I want to know or I'm not biting."

Zombie groans filled the growing silence, creeping in as the agonizing wails of an army. Finally, T.K. answered. "Damn, you always were a tenacious one. You really wanna know, cupcake? Alright then, but I'm afraid what you're about to hear might be too much for your bleedin' zombie-lovin' heart."

"Daddy?"

Stacey's hand touched over her mouth, miming a gasp. "Katey? Are you alright?"

"Stacey! AHH!"

"Katey? Katey?! KATEY!" Stacey shrieked into the walkie talkie. "T.K., leave her alone! God damnit, I said leave her alone."

"Whoa, watch the language. There are kids around." T.K.'s gloat went beyond sound. His raw, unchallenged dominion over the world of Stacey poured through the speaker grill. "There you go, proof I've got the girl. Happy?"

"No..." Stacey glanced at the floor, reliving the terrified, painful cry of Chuck's daughter. It haunted her, floating like a damned tune in her ears. "But I'll do what you want."

"Good girl. I got a list of things you're gonna pick up. Head down to the grotto and grab a can of whipped cream."

"You can't be... yes, T.K."

She clipped the walkie talkie to her belt. Leaping over the counter, she made a mad sprint for the store entrance, pushing the hordes of zombies back like waves in an ocean. In a desperate bid to speed her progress, she jumped the nearest railing and dropped.

"Agh."

Stacey staggered into a squat. Her legs weathered the impact with a brief twinge of pain. She rose, and ran down the hall toward the rocky central structure. Wading through water, jeans soaking in the kneehigh inner pond of Palisades Mall, she scanned the room and found it.

She unclipped her walkie talkie and pressed the send button. "Okay T.K., I got the whipped cream. Where next?"

"Not so fast, you know why I wanted you to get it?"

She grabbed the can of compressed cream and rolled it, thinking as she checked the ingredients. After a few seconds, her sarcasm welled up as she replied, "I don't know, you want me to bake you a disgusting cake?"

If T.K. was taken aback by her remark, he didn't show it. "Haha, a spunky young thing like you is gonna be loads of fun. All that self-righteous outrage, I wonder how strong you'll feel when you're runnin' around Fortune City in a whipped cream bikini."

Briefly, she lifted her finger from the button. "You pervert!" And back again as she put on a show for him. Popping the cap off the can, she held the nozzle near the transmitter and shot a few lines into the water. "There, are you satisfied?"

"You think I'm dumb, don't you? Maybe you'll learn your lesson when I take it out on Chuckie's little girl."

"What the hell?! I did what you asked me to do!" Though as she said it, a suspicion ran like quicksand into the pit of her thoughts. Tyrone soon added substance to her fears.

"I didn't wanna tell you so soon, but I can see your ass and you haven't done a damn thing."

Stacey panicked. A full, deep panic as she tossed her gaze across all the entrances to the grotto and every tiny hole that could offer a view inside. Her perception shifted, and her horror sank in as she saw the red blinking light of T.K.'s real eyes.

"The camera... damn."

"That's right sweet thang, I can see you all over the strip and the malls. The Shelter ain't the only place with security cameras. Now are you gonna work it for T.K., or his T.K. gonna have to give sweet Stacey an instant replay?"

Stacey grumbled. She slammed her balled up fist into the closest wall. T.K. just went on and on with his insane ramblings, spouting buzz words meant for a stupid, degenerate audience of thrill seekers... and she had to stomach every vile word of lines lousy enough to make her brain vomit.

She started at her zipper. It crept tight down her groin, as she tinkered with the tiny metal tassel. The tickling lick of its traverse over her clothed pinkness snagged on her prim white panties. She scowled and growled annoyance with the tangled flap.

"Might wanna hurry, I think your zombie friends are waitin for a piece of your grade-A tail."

T.K.'s crinkling static voice over the communicator warned of a danger that she only now remembered in the midst of her undressing. Zombies, groaning, moaning, shuffling and clawing toward each of the grotto openings. Like all zombies, they were slow... slow but determined. Stacey fiddled and flicked the brassy tong, splashing water around as she hopped on the spot.

"Come on, damn you. Coooome.... oooooon!" She grunted. One rough downward tear, thrusting all her strength into one motion, ripped the zipper free of its trap... and stole a little extra.

Her panties shredded apart at the seams. Her water-logged jeans and her tattered silk dignity sank to her feet. A furious red flush burned across her face, darting to hide her family pearl behind clammy hands.

"Hoo hoo, nice ass Stacey," T.K. hollered. "Maybe if you put that thang on display everywhere like a red light hussy, you'd be rollin' in members for CURE... and a little more membership cash on the side wouldn't hurt anyone, would it?"

"Auuugh, go to hell slimeball."

They were closer now, the walking, whimpering undead hungrily jawing at the mouth for more. Stacey sped through the rest on their impetus. She whipped her green jacket off her back, discarding it into the small grotto pond. Her fingers slipped under her yellow shirt next, her arms coning it around her head until she shimmied free. She tore off her bra and jostled her loose-hanging belt when Tyrone spoke up.

"Nah, keep that on. I want you to bring your outer clothes along for the ride."

"Great, now he tells me." Stacey rolled her eyes and threw her ruined bra at the nearest flesh-eater, the cloth wrapping around its mouth like a perverted gag. Bent forward to hide her feminine features, she viciously shook the can of whipped cream, stared down at her chest and began.

The cream fizzed from the nozzle and over her average expanse. That's what they were: average. They didn't sleek against her chest like tiny tributes to her girlish past, nor did they blossom out as giant tanks ready to knock over rows of books with a single wrong turn. They settled comfortably on her chest at the relative size of grapefruits when bra-bound, but the whipped cream left them looking considerably... bigger. Huge white globs gave the illusion of a watermelon-sized pair, her cleavage leading into a disappearing act that left the bottom edge unseen. She angled lower and sprayed down her messy red pube-tuft, over the slit, encasing her pinkness in a creamy protective seal. Seamlessly, she stood and switched hands at her thighs, riding up her ass. As the can fizzed out, she threw it at another zombie, conking the undead woman back into a collapsing huddled mass behind it.

Carefully, Stacey collected her soggy garments and opened the pouch on her remaining belt. Her clothes crushed unused CURE flyers and soaked through to the bottom. She reached for her bat.

"Now wait just a minute hot stuff," T.K. said, "you ain't goin anywhere without freshenin' up. I'm not a fan of that au naturale hippie crap, and girl, I know you haven't showered in four days."

"It's au naturel, and T.K., this is a zombie outbreak. Cleanliness isn't an option when you're trapped in a shelter, and if you think I'm going to lie down and shampoo my hair with zombies around, you-"

"Calm down. I left somethin' for ya in the Grotto for an easy out. Spray it all under your armpits and you'll be good to go."

Her first new item stood out among the floating glasses and soda cups: a perfume bottle. She plucked it from the water, aimed, and pressed the cap. It misted over her red stubbly armpit, wafting to her sensitive nose. She coughed as its potence bloomed, its fragrance progressing from an elegant spritz of fragrance into an invisible dizzying cloud. Lifting her other arm, she began the process anew on the other side. Rubbing her temples did little to assuage the growing perfume headache, the bottle's essence spitting from the cap. She went for her bat again when she noticed the zombies' patterns shift.

The zombies shambled away, around, past her, as if she was but a ghost in their midst. She stared at the bottle.

Tyrone said, "That's right, sprayin' all that perfume on you covered your scent. No way the zombies will catch you."

"Gee, thanks T.K., getting past zombies without a scratch is worth looking and smelling like a cheap Fortune hooker," Stacey snapped back. She turned. "Where do you want me to go now, creep? The red light district to pick up some zombies?"

"Haha, if you want some necro lovin', do that on your own time and dime princess. I got better plans for you."


---------------------------

The neon light flashed above her head. It was a seedy, scummy place, typical of Fortune City's rampant pleasure city thrills. She stomached mental flashes of Chuck's regular visits to this location, for 'experience' he said. She knew what kind to expect from here, with promises of LIVE GIRLS in big bright lights and a suggestive, gimmicky key hole plastered everywhere as decor.

To Stacey, it was a pit of perversion, a den of filthy sexual antics and pleasures one would expect in the country's new Las Vegas. To everyone else, it was The Peep Hole.

She scowled, looking down at the pretty bubble gum pink 'Massager' T.K. forced her to carry with her to the place. Her whipped cream bikini dripped into a milky mess, no better than a bath's suds evaporating in the Nevada heat.

She pushed back the door, stepped inside and squinted as a spotlight blasted into her eyes. She raised a hand over her eyebrows and blinked her sight to adjust.

"Hello? Hello?" she called.

"Girls, she's here! The star of today's episode is here!"

The cheerful, giggly voice came from the unknown, riddling her with a dozen confused questions. "Star? Episode? What are you... oh no. You're psychopaths, aren't you?"

"Hey, watch who you're calling psychos, little miss cream top."

Just as suddenly as she stepped into it, the spotlight vanished. As her vision cleared, she saw vague shapes of the women hiding out in the abandoned strip club. Their blurred features slowly defined into clarity, but not enough as the three pulled and shoved her along. Stumbling over fallen chairs, banging against tables, climbing up to the stage and stopping at dead center, she felt the loss of her comm device's weight on her belt and Massager in her hand. She had only enough time to spot out the cameras in front of her before their red lights signaled action.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a very special episode of today's show."

"T.K.!" Stacey shouted.

The man announced the proceedings through speakers in the room as the unce and tang of sleazy strip dance music mellowed to compensate. "Are you sick of watchin' reruns of Amber and Crystal Bailey gettin' their freak on in Master Shafter, or Rebecca Chang reportin' on a hail of hot cum up her slutty ass in Ball Buster? Have we got a treat for you today. Earlier this week, Fortune City had the pleasure of hostin' protests from undead rights group CURE. Haha, undead rights, sounds like a bad joke."

Stacey protested the insult, to no avail. T.K. drowned out her every complaint with the sheer volume the speakers pumped up his voice.

"After seein' the sights and sounds of pleasure party central for the past few days, CURE's leader in Nevada decided it was time she loosened up her tight little cunt and got a piece of that Fortune City heat for herself. Here to win big is CURE's very own Stacey Forsythe!"

The eerie canned applause of an empty house jarred Stacey's senses, and the combined distinction as she knew the cameras must have focused on her made her want to rush off the stage with her tits and nether covered. Instead, she froze. Locked up. The power to speak so surely and confidently in front of reporters and flashing bulbs at the center of a demonstration abandoned her when she needed it most. She fought to regain it, mind running with the stakes of Chuck's infected daughter as T.K. fulfilled his announcer role.

"But she ain't competin'. This is a very special episode, and this time Stacey gets to be the hot, sexy number our contestants use to score points. She's already won big, let's see who's ready to show they got the stuff to make it on their own. First up we have Eileen!"

The first stripper, a woody chestnut-haired woman, stepped out. A filthy, bloodied pink and white striped shirt tightly fit to her bust and sleevelessly displayed a few scrapes and cuts along her arms. Stacey's fleeting concern for the struggles Eileen must have encountered during the zombie outbreak faded as she noticed her lack of pants, Eileen's ass stuffed whole with a bottle-sized pink 'Massager'. Stacey saw the woman's bare-shaved sex as Eileen returned to the lineup.

"Next, the outrageous Nina!"

Nina bounced forth. Her hot pink skirt billowed in the rise and fall momentum of her body. Her hand snaked over the chains wrapping around her bare midriff, rubbing the long cut above her navel as her other hand rubbed dry blood on her cheek. She winked at the camera and lifted her skirt, shaved pubes commanding all viewers to "Eat This" dyed in the same platinum blonde as her shoulder-length hair.

Stacey scowled at the zombie Pac-Man tattoo on the stripper's inner thigh. It was one of many, from the star surrounding her naked tit to a slew of dog paw tramp stamps riddled down her lower back. Stacey tried to ignore how they disappeared into the skirt's waistband of not so hidden forbidden territory.

"And finally, the seductive Jeane!"

Jeane strutted, hips sliding along the inner contours of her silver sequined dress. Her clothes matched her shining dyed hair, bundled in a loose ponytail. In her purple high heels, she swayed and bent to show her mass of cleavage. A light tug of her bust line, a hand-fanning of her chest, and a blown kiss teased with her acquired arts of seduction. Turning, she exaggerated the sashay of her rear for viewing pleasure and rejoined her fellow strippers.

The three contestants stood together, decked out in their own styles of appeal. Dumpy and down to earth, rebellious and spirited, elegant and luxurious, they ran the gamut of tastes... and Stacey stood there, next to these women in their expensive dresses and weathered tops, in nothing but a sloppy mess of whipped cream. It was the burlap sack of stripper fashion, and she modeled it front and center of the camera's focus.

She clutched her peace sign necklace. "You can't-"

"There's your contestants, America, now let's begin Sex. is. Life!"

"This is insane. All of you, you're taking this too far. There's a little girl's life at stake." Stacey's cries went unheard to their audience, muted through the wonders of time lag and remote-triggered applause.

"If you're so concerned about a little girl, shouldn't you go along with the plan?" Jeane suggested. "Surely irritating T.K. won't make him merciful."

"Yeah, your rep's gonna be blown to hell anyway, stop being bitchy like you always are and have fun!" Nina said.

Stacey scowled. "It's not 'bitchy' to care about how others see you, or to want to avoid being made an example of by the host of a sick game show that's completely lost it. You shouldn't be helping him torment me, you should be working with me to get Katey away from him."

"But then we'd lose our chance for a little payback ourselves." Eileen said this as she wriggled her butt for the camera, sidled beside Stacey and pulled her arm over the back of Stacey's shoulders like a good pal comforting her friend. She whispered their contrived motive with a mocking faux-friendly tone. "Your protests have been killing our ratings after you used your blog to denounce all of T.K.'s operations. How's a girl supposed to make a few thousand bucks in a sexy game show when nobody wants to watch?"

"Forcing me to participate is supposed to make you rich?!" Stacey questioned.

"Who cares if it does? When videos of you from tonight hit the web, everything you said will go out the window and people will pay top dollar to watch for whatever surprise guest we might have on the show. Now cram it, and remember, we can always do a lot worse to a zombie lover like you."

Eileen's choice of label wasn't by accident. Stacey knew this, and as Eileen shoved a pink ball gag in her mouth, Stacey shivered at the millions of worse things clawing at the door outside.

T.K.'s voice blared from the speakers again, with renewed vigor. "I know what you're thinkin'. This fine honey could use a little sprucin' up, give her some style. Yeah, it's that time America: Style By Jury!"

From the side, Jeane wheeled out a giant cart. A white sheet obscured the top, many bumps, grooves, ridges vaguely implied in its stretch from end to end. Stacey stared at it, an array of devices playing in her mind that could lurk within the unknown.

"We're playin' it a little different this time," T.K. explained. "After our contestants give sweet Stacey her makeover, you vote on what you like the most. The girl with the most votes wins the round."

An automated, robotic countdown served as starting gun for the Peep Hole strippers. Each eagerly assessed the CURE leader with spirited, creative eyes, sizing her up for ideas as time dragged. 2... 1.... The loud beep set them off. Jeane yanked the sheet from the cart.

She should have kept an eye on their choices. Three women, different tastes, the variance in what they wore for themselves could mishmash into a bizarre, senseless amalgam. In the frantic frenzy to gather their supplies from the cart, everything blurred in Stacey's view, glimpses caught only as they applied their chosen insults to her body.

The smell of red ketchup flooded her nose as watery runoff dripped down her right lip corner, exploded in a tiny red circle, spread wide and thick above her upper lip and curled on her left cheek.

A flash of a yellow bottle preceded a messy wet squirt into her hair, soaking the spot until mustard squeezed out the nozzle. Delicate hands guided the container's path into crude hot dog highlights in her dirty red hair.

Her golden looped earrings slipped from her earlobes, passed to the bag with her normal clothes as new jewelry clipped in their place. She caught sight of their replacements in time to imagine how garish they would look framing her face. A lone spinnerbait dangled fresh off her right earlobe, the bright orange fishing lure curving a tail at the end of its rubbery worm. Its opposite spoon spinner added lower weight across a thin metal strip, while a fluffy neon green fly lure hung on her left lobe. The attending stripper capped the lures' single-barbed hooks with small, cheap plastic balls.

Next, they lifted her arms. First, a loud metal rattle, then a sustained hiss, as Stacey looked toward the ceiling to avoid a spray of color in her eyes. Green paint gathered in her stubble-ridden armpits, reaching front and back toward her shoulders as spray crept past the bounds of the strippers' aim. The final insult clicked around her neck, released by the woman who chose it for her, and it sagged to rest its ornament on a cheap beaded metal chain below her peace sign necklace.

With the flurry of action winding down, she lifted the corks with her palm and observed the black markings along their rounded sides. On one, she saw the common recycling symbol, three arrows angled into a rounded equilateral triangle, while on the other, three very simple words smacked her with a double whammy against her makeover appearance and the alternative lifestyle she so proudly displayed as leader of CURE. Three words were all it took to spin their changes into a harsh, teasing slap to her identity: "Don't Be Trashy."

"Time's up! Let's see how our audience likes the new Stacey Forsythe!" T.K. announced.

Searing anger burned in Stacey's eyes as she glared at each of the strippers. A snort of frustration, nostrils flared, passed over her new condiment mustache as she bit into her gag. She looked down, toward the stage edge, at a monitor displaying the mess they made of her alongside raw voting data for viewer choices. Red, blue, green, purple, each bar represented itself with a different color, and as the last seconds of voting time diminished, the collective 284,283 viewers made their picks known.

"We have a winner! Round one goes to Jeane for helpin' Stacey become a walkin' PSA with that slutty necklace."

Jeane giggled. "Teehee, I thought it was a nice touch."

T.K. added, "Let's see what our viewers have to say."

White text flooded on black background on the screen, as Stacey's face reddened mad with what she read.

"The necklace is hilarious! I love it when hipster girls think they're being ironic with their bodies when all they've done is show how super-trashy they are."

"The recycle sign should be tattooed over her pussy. Advertise, advertise, advertise! Stacey needs to be sluttier if she wants to make CURE the next HETA."

"Is the spray paint under her armpits some artsy shit about going green? I can never tell what these crazy nature chicks are thinking anymore."

Hipster? HETA? Nature chick? If not for the gag in her mouth, she would've let loose on the bastards tacking these mindless labels on her. Helplessly captive to the vindictive game, she listened to T.K. drone on with self-love before finally getting on with it and announcing the next event.

"We're comin' to you live from Fortune City people, and you know what the ladies come here for. Sometimes, the thrills of Fortune City are so strong, they have to sit down before they collapse. It's time for Shock... 'Til... You... Drop!"

T.K. explained the madness planned for her as the girls wheeled a new contraption to the stage arena and lifted her upon it. Bands strapped to her wrists, cranked high to an unseen contraption above her as a second pair shackled her feet. They spun her once on the circular platform, showcasing the rotate function of her new stand. The last remnants of her slim cover from full nudity whipped off with the motion. Her tiny, cute pink nipples stiffed at a tweak from Eileen. Her bare, soft quim reacted with a suckle on Jeane's prying digits. She scowled and glared at Nina from a swift, heavy spank to her plush ass. All treated her as a toy, a plaything as they approached their carts for the next round of her humiliation.

"Ready ladies?" T.K. asked. The counter beeped, and with the final barrier dropped, the three descended upon her with the tools of the game in their hands.

Stacey winced as a smack to her pussy officially started the event. Every circular shove to her sides whirled her faster, longer, like a top helplessly besieged by the forces of nature. Disoriented by the spin, she failed to disrupt their perverted fun with hip-bucks and squirms as every movement she made only served them another target. The chains on her arms dropped her, bent forward as Nina slapped one of her red pads onto her ass. They tugged her up again, Jeane slipping one of her own blue ones into the tight channel of her puffy pink loins while Eileen squeezed green handfuls against her freshly exposed bosom. As they covered her naked form in a tangle of pads and wires, she soon learned the true nature of this round amid the dizzying marionette dance they made her perform.

"NGGGHHH!!!"

Her body writhed with the jolts. Her slim tits bounced. Her marshmallow ass quaked. The steady, hot leak from her pussy sizzled into vapor that soaked into the rising sweat on her weak, shivering muscles. The flurry of pads once bonded so tight to her skin fell like autumn leaves to the floor.

"If you thought that was rough," Eileen teased, "you have fifty seconds left."

"MMPHH!"

Stacey's muffled cry came with a burst of hip-squeezes. Her legs pressed to trap the pad inside, as her conscious mind deplored her unconscious desires with the red blinking camera catching every second. Her body thrashed wild, the pads and their wires flinging off with the raw power only possible in a woman pushed to her limits. She bit into her gag, panted through her nostrils, spray paint running streaks from her armpits.

"Hey girls, she's getting off on it! She's gonna cum!" Nina stated.

"Well then, we'll have to focus elsewhere, won't we?" Jeane answered.

Relief and anguish teased her as her pussy hungered for the very thing these strippers denied her. It flexed on the empty vacuum where once they stuffed her full, awaiting a shock that came only to the quivering bulging mass of her enormous ass and the modest bumps on her chest. Drool escaped the corner of her mouth, her mustard highlights soaking in as she tossed her damp red ponytail.

Then, as fast as it began, the buzzing end timer drilled the loss of satisfaction into her mind. She spun to a slow halt, sweating as she hung on her puppet chains. Her fish tackle earring lightly smacked her cheek, and as she looked at her ravaged self in the monitor, point totals for each stripper calculated on the side.

"The winner of round two goes to Nina!" T.K. announced.

"Aw yeah," Nina coolly said.

"I'm afraid Eileen's out of the game as a contestant, but as a runner-up prize she gets to be our Hanna Veight for roooound three!"

If Eileen was distraught over the loss, she didn't show it. Her exuberance came in a flirtatious swagger as she walked up to the redhead and unclipped the back of Stacey's ball gag. "Are you ready for the next round, sweet cheeks? T.K.'s told me you're gonna have loads of hot, sticky fun!"

Stacey's head, like the rest of her body, drooped low. She defiantly peered toward the camera and the newly appointed game show co-hostess from her eyes' upper edges, sniffling the ketchup scent wafting from her lip. When her ball gag freed from her mouth, bouncing on the floor, she answered. "Go to hell."

"Aww, I thought you would be more vulgar by now. Not even a 'fuck you'?" Eileen caressed Stacey's creamy belly, rubbing fingers into her captive's innie with the trepidation of an experienced partner testing the limits of a virgin's most sacred crevice. "I had a demeaning comeback prepared and everything!"

"You'll have to get your jollies elsewhere," Stacey said.

"Hmm, I think I will. With your body." Eileen grinned.

Stacey tumbled forward as the bonds on her wrists came undone. A last-minute upward tug of her ankle restraints narrowly saved her from a bruising head-smash into the wooden stage. She dangled, rotating in slow circles before she collapsed into a heap with the final bit of freedom.

She rose to her feet. Her legs shook. Her posture slumped. She fingered the contours of her peace necklace as she clasped it in one hand.

"Hahaha, what are you doing now? Praying?" Eileen asked.

Stacey raised an eyebrow at the auburn whore. "I'm a pacifist, and I'm trying real hard to remember why I shouldn't slap you right now."

This answer only amused Eileen more, egging on today's star with a pert swat to her ass. "That's why you sound so angry when you're protesting! And after what we've put you through already, you must really want to bitch about zombie mistreatment. I'll get your sign."

"What does my sign have to do with anything?!" Stacey received no answer, Eileen strutting off as T.K. announced the next event.

"Every girl could use a little target practice, am I right or am I right? How can we expect a hot young number to catch what we're packin' when she hasn't had a chance to show her moves? It's time for Cuuuum Blaster! In a normal game, the girls would aim at each other for boo-koo points, but sweet Stacey wants to get real nasty for the camera, don't you?"

"No. NO!" Stacey again protested under the quell of fake applause, her hand soon occupied with the C.U.R.E. sign thrust upon her by Eileen.

"In this round, Jeane and Nina go to town on her, paintin' her grade-A trashy ass with the man-meal she really wants. But that's not all. Stacey didn't come here just to get her freak on, she wants to get the word out about CURE... if she can keep from guzzlin' cum the whole round. Ain't that right Stacey?"

She had her opening... and lost it. She barely drew a breath before T.K. skipped her to address his two contestants.

"Ready girls?"

"You bet!" Nina shouted.

"This will be fun." Jeane giggled, holstering her modified water gun.

Stacey waited long, agonizing seconds for the buzzer. Her mind raced, warring with what she should do once the event started. Silence... Katey's safety... T.K. hinted at what he wanted from her, what it would take to keep Katey safe for another round of the madman's demented schemes. As she heard the siren blare, she swallowed what pride she had.

"This'll never work. The guns will jam, they're not made f-GMPH."

Stacey's mouth snapped shut as she ate her own words and more. Her lips pursed out, her light blue eyes darting to the edges of her lower eyelids. Cum. Hot, sticky, gooey cum. It melted in her mouth like chocolate, its tang saturating her tongue. Once the shock wore off, she spat it aside.

"What d-GMPH!" Another load. This time she gagged on the ooze running down her throat. A spluttering cough shot a burning line out her nostrils. She instinctively collected the offage in her upraised palm.

"Don't you think she's slacking a little in supporting her cause, Jeane?" Nina suggested.

"You're right, maybe she doesn't care anymore about all the infected little girls she could save."

A fresh splatter burst on Stacey's chest, passing over the ridge of her soft nipple. It dipped into her bellybutton, and when she looked down, another shot dazed her as it smacked the mole under her left eye.

"Ooh, how lucky!" Eileen beamed. "They say a mole in that spot means boundless sensuality. That means you're gonna get fucked real good."

"I already am," Stacey muttered under her breath. She lifted her sign high. It was her banner, the organization's acronym painted in black on a plain white board. She called on memories of her past, of the many TIR episodes that haunted her dead sister, of untold suicide reports due to lack of Zombrex. Lips crooked into a scowl, hand pressed to her chest in restrained outrage, she played into T.K.'s demands of her as the strippers redressed her in the seed of men.

"We... we will no longer accept the cruel, barbaric treatment of the infected! CURE aims to do more than build houses and erect swingsets. If we let maniacs like Tyrone King have their way, thousands more will suffer. Every day, infected citizens have to endure oppression caused by hateful TV shows made by the King of Zombie Exploita-GCK!"

Stacey gagged on a double dose of spunk. The heavy hot musk of fresh sperm clogged her nostrils as thoroughly as it clogged her throat. The soaker shot was like a mallet to the neck, but as she went to discard it again, Eileen halted her.

"Your breath is much too fresh, Stacey," Eileen suggested. "I think you should take... oh... about ten seconds, to really savor the taste of a man's cum in your mouth before you swallow. Let it sink in and turn you into a regular cum sucker, you know?"

Stacey's ice cold glare failed to impress. Her cheeks puffed as she swished the fluid content in her mouth. Left and right, swirling in the oral vacuum, the salty warmth imbued a lasting impression of the assembled taste of a man's fruits. While fresh layers of spunk painted over her simple bosom, she listened to the women humiliate her on-camera.

"She knows Sex is Life funds TIR, right?" Jeane asked.

"Don't you know anything, Jeane?" Nina said. "Hipster whores like Stacey would do anything to get on TV, especially if it means they get to show their grungy naked bodies to an audience. They love the thought of people getting off to nudes of them."

"I bet the internet will be flooded with porn of her after this episode."

Nina cackled, ending in a vicious smirk. "I doubt that. Nobody wants to see porn of a hipster like her. Rebecca Chang and the Bailey sisters dress to impress, but this sorry excuse for a woman doesn't even have big boobs."

Their words, like the cum in her mouth, were hard to swallow. A sudden tug to her ponytail sent her head back, mouth naturally flying open and throat constricting as Eileen whispered what she wanted to see next. Stacey gave in: she gargled. Cum foamed and bubbled as air passed from her lungs, shifting the pool in her mouth. At last, as Eileen released her long flowing hair, Stacey gulped down well-used batter.

Renewed in her voice, Stacey started again. "I-"

She whiplashed. Rubbing the fresh white wad stinging her eye, Stacey bent forward... only to jolt upright as a probing finger stabbed its way into her tight puckered anus. She grit her teeth as a barrage assaulted her pristine face. The sharp slope of her nose, the brushy arches of her eyebrows, the gentle curve of her chin, they all disappeared under the indiscernible muck of thick pearly sheets. And as an inhale clogged her nostrils, she gasped for breath.

Eileen cheered, "Oh my, look at you! Your face is absolutely covered! I'd say this is a big improvement for an au naturel hipster slut, don't you?"

"Do you ever stop being a mean bitch?" Stacey huffed.

"Finally!" Eileen giggled. "Really though, don't you think it would be good to advertise to everyone that all this sperm is much better than cosmetics? I really think T.K. would agree with me."

Stacey glared at the devious wench. Her shoulders sank as she gave into Eileen's demand.

"At CURE, we find the use of zombies for experimental cosmetics deplorable. In this day and age, there are more natural solutions for a woman. For example, a thick coat of semen from trusted partners is a much safer, healthier alternative to mascara."

"Not only that," Eileen chirped, "you get to smell like a cumdump all day! After a while, all the boys are bound to save tons of money and supplies from blowing their loads on a trashy young girl like you than in a tissue, right?"

"Yes..." Stacey sneered.

As semen pelted her nubile flesh, she took Eileen's cue and turned her back to the camera. She puzzled, pausing, bent over with her ass upraised while Eileen's prying fingers entered and spread the folds of her pink pussy. She groaned as the stripper rubbed her dirty red pubes, stirring them out of the matted discomfort left by her long-discarded panties. She shivered as a cool jet of air blew from Eileen's lips, over her fatty tender mons and into the crested valley beyond. For an instant, she drifted off, pressing her forehead into a left-over cart as Eileen massaged into her clit.

She whimpered. She sighed. Pink flushed her chest, hidden behind layers of masculine muck as she inhaled its aroma. The fleeting therapeutic release from her worries shattered as Jeane cooed a reminder.

"Wow, she's so tight and clean down here! Makes you admire the resilience after how many zombies a zombie lover like her must have slept with."

"I'm not a necrophiliac! You've been-" Her voice cut out as a sharp swat to the ass disrupted the boiling rage, bubbling back from the edge.

"Careful sweetie," Eileen said, speaking low. "One wrong word and the little girl gets it."

A furious blush crept across Stacey's cummy face as she looked back, over her shoulder, to the monitor's straight-on view of the sloppy white coating they added to her revved up sex. She winced as one of them hit the mark.

"Yay! A hole in one!" Nina exclaimed, stopping to watch the instant replay on-screen. The shot flew dead-on, jetting its way across the gap, disappearing into the darkness beyond Stacey's spread red vulva.

After a few ending blasts to her rear, Stacey turned toward the camera, staring at the monitor as fresh gobs dripped off her perky nipples.

"And our winner for today's episode is... Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeane!"

"Aw, no fair!" Nina pouted, hands pressed to her miniskirted hips, scrutinizing the tiny fraction of advantage her busty stripper pal had in the graphed results.

"Teehee, what can I say? Substance comes before style, dear."

Stacey leered at Eileen as the woman wrapped an arm over her shoulder and leaned into her. Her hand shook with the urge to slap the chestnut-haired vixen, suppressed by an eye on the camera even as the peace sign on her necklace spun and swung with playful twists and flicks from Eileen.

"Come and get your prize, Jeane!" Eileen proclaimed.

"Wh-what?!" Stacey shrank back ever so slightly to the sauntering slut's approach, Jeane's hips swaying to an unheard rhythm. Yanked forward and bent back, she looked at herself in the monitor, posed like some helpless damsel turned prey to a bloodthirsty vampire, as Jeane sank in and planted plush pink lips against her untidy cum-smeared crests. Her breath sucked away, her lungs throbbed for air, and as the minute-long embrace came to a dramatic close, a dizzy Stacey Forsythe stumbled toward the camera.

"That's all we got for games today, people," T.K. announced, "but we got one bonus round left for sweet Stacey. After standin' around with her slutty tits, pussy and ass hangin out, she's gotta be tired. She's gotta sit down and stretch those muscles, if you know what I'm sayin'. That's right people, it's time for.... Schlickcycle!"

"What."

Cued with more canned applause, Stacey blinked the blur from her vision, and glanced over at the assemblage of strip joint whores to see them unveil the next and final object of her humiliation. The white cloth flew off, and in the gleaming bright spotlight she saw...

"A tricycle?" she said with a spot of confusion.

"Not just any tricycle!" Eileen said. With a flair and a tug of one more sheet, she unveiled the final bit of their masterpiece. Alongside the glittery multicolor tassels on white handlebars, paired on a bubblegum pink metal frame held up by three tar black tires, a single offensive object jutted up from the tricycle's seat. A system of chains and gears enhanced its purpose, the ultimate perversion of the Combo Bikes Chuck used so often on the Platinum Strip.

The pink Massager stuck out clear as day, waiting for its rider.

"Giddyup," Nina said with a grin.

Stacey thought of arguing for an instant... then folded. Stepping over, she saddled herself over the seat and slid upon the upraised phallus. She gasped, its girth stretching her from within, its length penetrating untouched depths. Her pussy shifted to fit the vaginal probe. Placing her feet on the pedals, she looked to Eileen.

"What now?" Stacey jeered.

"Now you get ready for a trip down the Strip!"

"Down the Strip? But there are zombies out there!"

"That's right," T.K. announced. "Ain't it a thrill? You gotta risk it ALL if you wanna win BIG!"

"If I could hate you to death..." she muttered. As it was, Stacey bit her tongue, listening to the psycho's orders as Jeane clipped the comm device to her sagging belt and turned it back on.

"The game's simple, Stacey. You ride your ass out to the Fortune City Arena on your Schlickcycle without gettin' eaten by zombies. Obviously you ain't gonna get the chance to stop and ride out the orgasms. You gotta push through the pleasure and the pain if you wanna win. Oh, and everyone's watchin' ya live from the security cameras down the Strip, so no runnin' over the infected, it wouldn't fit the C.U.R.E. motto. Got it?"

"Yes," Stacey sneered.

"Then off ya go!"

A single button-press by Eileen on a nearby panel put everything into motion. A ramp descended from the stage. The entrance to the Strip remotely flew open. A perfect pathway cut clear ahead of her, and with a swat to her messy back and a squish of her sperm-soaked butt in the seat, she wheeled down the ramp and out the door.

"Damn that man," she cursed. "I'll make him pay for this. I'll... I'll..."

She shuddered as the mechanized dildo ripped through her loins. It had begun. The squeaking footwork that made the tricycle's wheels spin set into motion the meticulously crafted vehicle's sex design. The Massager rose and fell through the cut-out hole under her pussy in time with her rotations, made faster than an ordinary bike with much smaller and closer gears.

T.K.'s voice fizzled through the comm device grill. "We've been havin' so much fun today Stacey, don't you wanna keep goin' forever?"

"SHUT! UP!"

Stacey knew he couldn't hear her, yet she needed an outlet, a release from the fraying madness as zombies numbly shuffled toward her. The safety granted by dousing herself in perfume vanished with thick sloppy coats of sperm all over her naked body, already crusting in the sun. Swarms of undead gathered to assault the human in their midst, the rising scent of her arousal spreading her allure on the wind as she pedaled herself toward climax.

"Just... ungh... just.... UNGH!" She hated how her skin jittered like jell-o, as she fought to contain the sexual explosion working its way through her womb. The stench on her breath added to the smell in her nostrils as she panted wonderlust. Her eyes glazed as she perspired across the fair and few clean patches of her skin.

Worst of all was the squelch. Amid zombie groans, and the clawing scrapes of failed grabs for her handlebars, her wetness sounded every time the Massager pounded in and sucked out of her starving pussy. Her body betrayed and soothed her all at once. The pleasure of stimulation, the pain of defeat, she knew allowing her body to get rocked by her building desires would swell the madman's ego with pride. Yet, every stirring push of her foot to the pedal made it harder to resist the temptation.

She rang the tinkly, girly little bell on the handlebar. She hoped the loud, insulting sound might jerk her out of the blissful reverie thrusting into her loins. Instead, she channeled her vocalized moans into fervent tong presses, banging her forehead into the low handlebars and forcing herself to cycle onward as it finally ripped through her.

She grit her teeth as a wellspring of ecstasy shot up her spine. It fanned outward across her sensitive tired muscles, tickling goosebumps over her skin. Her thighs quaked around the tiny tricycle frame, her hands gripped the handles, yet she jerked ahead and bore the brunt of a fresh dildo-slam to her sore cunt as zombies shuffled after her. As the tires of her trike slicked a ground trail with her leaking wet orgasm, she glared through her sex-haze at the Arena in the distance.

"Only another half mile to go," she reminded herself.

---------------------------------

Wheeling into the stadium, Stacey leapt off her tricycle and threw it into a mass of zombies. She stomped up each set of stairs, passed down the hall and threw the double doors open.

"T.K.! I'm here, and I've put up with your disgusting games all day. You got what you wanted, now let Katey go."

A sharp, pained wail escaped her lips as a strong electric jolt ran currents through her sore, filthy body. She fell from the taser blast and turned on her back, looking up at the madman responsible for today's battering of sex trials.

"T.K. ... you..."

"Aww, you're still conscious. Guess I'll have to up the volts for Chuckie." As T.K. said this, he spun a dial on his prod. "Yeah, we had loads of fun girl, but your pal's on his way and I gotta get you ready for the next show."

"You... sick... horrible... disgusting..."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard it all before sweet thang. I gotta get you cleaned up, but before I do that, I think I'm gonna give you a little tattoo to remember all the good times we had."

"You can't.... NGGH!"

And as Stacey drifted off, she heard the last mad cackles from Tyrone King, the King of Zombie Exploitation.

CONCLUDED IN DEAD RISING 2, S Ending