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In her Prep Centre cell, Rachel was in a pretty sorry state. The guards and anyone else that felt like it had taken the opportunity presented by the “available” sign on her cell door. Someone had started chalking five bar gate counts on the wall by the door. It had reached twenty eight. As I got to her room, the Prep Centre’s receptionist was emerging with a smile, clutching a strap-on dildo and a harness. “Hi, Larry,” she said, “back again?” as she ticked off another stroke on the wall. Twenty nine.
I nodded.
“Your writer has been giving everyone a good time,” she said, hefting the strap-on with a smirk. “Makes a change for us support staff to get a chance to play.”
I edged past her into Rachel’s cell. As I got in the receptionist called after me. “Oh, Larry, I’ve left my tit clamps on her. Be a love and drop them off at the desk when you’ve done, could you?”
Rachel was sprawled on the floor in one corner of the room. She was in a terrible state and it had only been two days since I turned the guards loose on her. If she had looked shocked before, she was almost catatonic now. They’d replaced her standard collar with a broad one that forced her head upwards. Her mouth was distended by the wire frame gag that held it open. Her eyes were staring unblinking from dark hollows in her face. I couldn’t work out at first what she was wearing but finally realised it was the tattered remnants of the sweater and skirt that she had on when I’d last seen her, torn by the mistreatment that she had suffered over the last two days. Her tits were purple, and sore, the steel claws of the tit clamps, pinched into her nipples. Her hair was lank and greasy, sticky with I wasn’t sure what; her face puffy from where her mouth had been used repeatedly. They’d strapped her wrists to the tops of her arms and her ankles to the tops of her thighs, leaving her breasts, arse and cunt available for any intrusion. From the bruises on her legs, especially on the inside of her thighs, it was clear that she’d had a lot of attention. Seeing me, she gave a whimper of recognition.
I bent down and unfastened the ratchet on her gag. Even with the wire frame removed her mouth stayed open as though her jaws were locked wide. I took the nipple clamps off. She gave a sharp, animal-like, cry in the back of her throat as the blood started to rush back and feeling returned in a wave of pain. Minutes went by before she regained the use of the muscles that allowed her to talk.
“Th, th, thank you,” she stammered, hardly able to form the words, “I’m sorry. Please stop this. I’m sorry.”
“I stopped it before and look what happened. Why should I stop it again?”
“I, I, I know. I can’t bear this any more though. Over and over again. So many times. Please. I’ll do anything.”
“You say you will, Rachel, of course you say you will. And right now you believe, it too. But I’m not sure I can risk it. It took a long time to lose that headache.” She looked scared at the prospect that I would not relent. “We’ll give it one more try though.” Her expression changed to one of relief. “You’ll work on the script. There are some revisions.” She nodded animatedly. “You’ll be kept shackled, though.” More nods of agreement. “There’ll be no more rapes. IF you behave. But if you don’t you’ll be beaten and you’ll be back in here with the ‘available’ sign on the door. Do you understand?”
She nodded. I still wasn’t convinced. I should have let Rick do a proper orientation job on her. I aimed to mention it to him later. He could have a go as soon as we finished the first script. I left Rachel, giving instructions to the guards to clean her up and put her back to work on the script. They were disappointed of course but later I heard they were laying odds on how soon she’d be back on the available list. I gave the receptionist her tit clamps back. She grinned and asked if I fancied playing with them later. Somehow I wasn’t in the mood.
I was on my way over to see Rick when I bumped into Harry as he strolled down the corridor with a cheery smile on his face. “Uhhuh,” I said sensing that he’d had a good time the night before. “So you did get to date that waitress.”
“Is it that obvious?” he asked.
I nodded. “I hope she’s still footloose and fancy free. Tell me she isn’t languishing down stairs somewhere.”
“Don’t worry Larry, I took your advice. Absolutely no business whatsoever and some extremely agreeable and very conventional sex, right up to the point…”
“Oh, Harry!” I said, “that wasn’t the idea.”
“No, listen,” Harry responded. “Let me finish. Right up to the point where she said, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m kinky, but have you ever tied a girl up?’ It took all my self control to give her a less than honest answer.”
I guffawed in response. “Oh well,” I said, “at least you tried.”
“No, don’t knock it, Larry. It was good, straightforward, uncomplicated fun and we both ended up grinning like idiots and covered in sweat. I had a great time. I think I might do it again.”
“With the waitress?”
“Oh, I sort of have to really,” he said. “If only because of her name.”
I looked blank.
“It’s Sally,” he said. “You know, ‘When Harry Met…”
“I’ve heard it,” I said and left him, still grinning, to search out Rick.
I found him in his office. I was clutching the version of the script that I already had. “How are we going to set this up then?” I asked as we sat together. “You’ve seen the script. We need to get the girls looking presentable and showing themselves off to best advantage.”
“Well, I’ve made a start,” said Rick. I’ve put a small team together to help. You’ve not really seen much of the Prep Centre staff yet have you?”
I shook my head.
Rick continued. “The Prep Centre isn’t just about basic slave conditioning. I also try to get the merchandise into a condition so it can get a better price when it gets up to Brian’s sales centre. We need to help the girls to look good and they need to be healthy too. They get quite a lot of physical mistreatment as part of their training but there’s nothing worse than a scrawny, bruised body on the auction block.”
“Well, I’ve only seen the guards. I hadn’t realised there were any other staff.”
“Not staff as such,” Rick smiled. “More sort of slaves. Well, not ‘sort of’ really.”
“Silly of me,” I said. “Freddie wouldn’t want to pay for that sort of thing would he?”
“Uh-huh,” said Rick shaking his head. “Very careful with his pennies, our Mr Clegg. Come and look in here, I’ve got the team together.” He opened the door of his office, walked across the corridor and unlocked the door to one of the Prep centre cells. As the door opened six girls, all dressed in identical, white, button-through, short sleeved, dresses, got to their feet, turned towards us and bowed their heads.
I looked around the cell. It was quite an improvement on the conditions that the merchandise had to put up with. There were two couches, a couple of arm chairs, two low tables. In one corner of the room there was a television. A pile of DVD’s stood beside it. On one of the tables was a heap of magazines.
“My training team,” said Rick. “Carry on girls.” They went back to what they had been doing before our arrival. One was busy working on the make up of another, a third was trying to create for a girl with long dark hair a particularly elaborate hairstyle modelled on a photograph in one of the magazines. Another sat cross legged on the floor in front of the TV watching a group of girls working out in a fitness video. “Now let’s see,” Rick went on, pointing out each of the girls in turn. “These two are our beauticians. This one is a qualified hair stylist; her guinea pig here is a choreographer. That one is a physical training instructor – she’d been a personal trainer in her local gym, now she’s making sure our merchandise is fit for purpose. And that one,” he pointed to the last of the girls sat reading on the couch, “that one was a medical student. Now she provides nursing services for the group. They have an easier life as long as they do what we ask of them. They’re excused rape – though I don’t mind if they want to get it on with any of the team willingly – and you can see their work cell is quite comfortable. We give them the stuff they need to keep up to date on their field of work. Plus their overnight accommodation is better too; sheets on the beds, lighter weight restraints, stuff like that. OK?”
“Yes fine,” I said, “and have they got
started with the cast yet? Oh rats!” I cursed as my mobile phone started to
ring. It was the
“Ah, Larry, so pleased to have caught you,” he said. “I wanted you to know that the shipment you organised for me has arrived in Kushtia.”
“Good, good,” I responded. “I hope you are satisfied with the goods.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the
“Well, I am glad you are pleased I hope that these items are soon gracing the bedrooms of your Councillors.”
“They are already, Mister Larry, they are all ready. And providing great comfort to all, I am very sure. The Councillors will find them a very appropriate gift, I will achieve my aims. Oh yes and the other piece, the one in ebony; most unusual for Kushtia.”
He was talking about Alessa.
“I’ve decided to keep that for myself. Not such a well aged piece as the other items but I think with time it will prove excellent. Let me say how much I appreciate your generosity with the ebony piece.”
I’d included Alessa
as a complementary. Well, after all the
“Now one more thing. I have a friend that I think you can help. A Mr Hannani. He will call you. He has my personal recommendation to you as you have to him. That is the way we like to do business in Kushtia. I am sure you can help him. I have told him of all the wonderful things you have done for my son and myself. Oh yes, I should say my son’s five piece suite is still proving most comfortable. He is hardly ever off of one of the couches or chairs.”
The
“Not at all. It is all I can do.” He said his goodbyes and hung up.
I apologised to Rick and returned to the matter in hand. “Sorry. Are they working with the cast yet?”
“Yes,” said Rick, “They had their first class with them this morning to get them set for a training session this afternoon. We can see how things are going, if you like.”
“Sounds good to me.” I followed Rick out of the cell and he locked the door. He showed the way to a cell with a large open area. Inside it six women, faces immaculately made up, hair carefully coiffured, wearing nothing but their lingerie were walking slowly around in a circle. A girl in a white button through dress was standing to one side calling instructions. Three guards were sat in a corner of the room playing cards. “Head up ladies, posture is everything,” called the girl in the white dress, “shoulders back, please, and chests out, remember you have to show your assets off to their best advantage. And smile please, always remember to smile. Now step out. From the hips and one and two and one and two. That’s better. Good. Wait! Stop! 317 – you’re out of step. I’ve told you before. You must keep in step.”
One of the guards put his hand of cards down slowly, got his feet and walked across to the group.
“Alright, 317,” he said. “Take off the bra.”
The offender whimpered but slowly complied, dropping the garment into the middle of the circle where it joined a small pile of underwear. The guard went back to his seat and the girls started off again. “It’s all part of the training programme,” Rick explained. “They make a mistake, they lose one item of clothing, if one of them ends up naked she gets beaten, if they all lose more than ten pieces, they all get beaten.” Rick turned to the guard. “How many is that now?”
“Six, boss,” the Guard answered. The girls had gone into a huddle. 317 was coming under pressure from the others. “That’s your fourth item, you’re going to get us all thrashed. We’re going to be beaten just because you’re not paying attention,” one said.
“It’s not my fault,” 317 responded don’t the edge of tears. “I’ve never done anything like this. I am trying really.”
“She is you know – and you lost your robe when you missed your footing on those heels. And I lost mine when I wasn’t standing up straight.”
“Yes but that was only once. She’s lost her robe, both gloves and now her bra.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to get beaten because she can’t keep in step.”
“All of you, back in your circle,” the woman in white called. “Start again, heads up, chests out, think elegance, smile and step out. Step out. No! No! No! 317 again! You’re still out of step.”
The guard went across again. “Now the girdle,” he said. “I hope you’re all looking forward to your beating.” The four that had been attacking her looked furious, the one that had defended her was looking worried too. The four of them were murmuring under their breath until the guard told them to shut up.
“Start again,” the woman in white called. This time they managed to continue for a few more circuits. Before she called a halt. “335, you are not smiling. That is absolutely not acceptable. I’ve explained it all enough times now.”
335 added her robe to the pile. Rick spoke a few words quietly to the woman in white. She looked pale and put her hands up to her mouth. Rick came back to join me. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “They’re going to be at this for a while. I just told her that if the girls get beaten she’ll join them.”
I walked by the training room a little later on. All six girls and their trainer were strapped down, bent over a low beam with their arses pointing skyward. Two of the guards were making their selection of whips from a rack on the wall. Interestingly I noticed that 317 still had her stockings, shoes and garter belt on. She’d only lost one more item while the girl that had been criticising her had managed to loose everything but her panties. “There you go,” I thought. “It doesn’t do to criticise too soon.”
The training was finished, the script was finished. The first version of the video was shot. It was time to show it to Clegg.
Clegg sat back in his arm chair opposite the big video projection screen. “OK,” he said, “let’s see it.”
I sat in the chair alongside him and hit ‘play’ on the remote. The Clegg logo span around in the middle of the screen and then dissolved to show a helpless girl in a car boot. A girl standing with her hands chained over her head followed, then another shot of a girl bound helplessly and pushed into a crate. Then the scene switched to an office. The camera panned around to face a woman, seated behind a desk. It zoomed in on her face showing her wide smile. In her mid forties, with big hair and a suit jacket with shoulder pads thick enough to land a helicopter on, she looked like she had stepped out of 1985. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Angie Dennison. You’ll remember my hit 80’s show ‘Miami Detective’. Quite a few of our dramas dealt with ladies in distress. Even me sometimes!” She laughed. “Nothing in that series compares with what happens these days. Just watch…”
I could see Clegg was leaning forward appreciatively. “How the devil did you get [i]her[/i] to introduce this? And what on earth does she think she’s compèring?”
I let the video keep running.
The picture on the screen dissolved to the auction room in the Sales Centre. Angie’s voice continued. “What will be the fate of girls like these?” As the picture came into focus five women could be seen sitting on the stage. Each was perched on a tall bar stool and wore a low cut dress with a short tight skirt. They all sat identically, hands clasped in their laps. They all wore the collars and number tags that marked them out as victims of Clegg’s snatch squads.
The voice of a man off screen said, “Number 302 come forward please.” The first of the girls climbed down form her stool and walked towards the front of the stage, teetering on high heels and making effort to walk gracefully in a skirt that was both too tight and too short for comfort. “302, your details please.”
The girl looked to one side, obviously towards the voice that was directing her. “Your details, please,” the voice repeated. She turned back towards the camera.
“I’m twenty one years old, a trainee
accountant from Maidenhead in
“Thank you 302,” the voice said. “Please put your hands behind your back.” She did as asked. “Now tell us a little more about yourself, please.”
“I’ve recently completed the first year of an accountancy course which I passed. I play sports at weekends - I’m part of a women’s hockey team - and I exercise regularly. I’m, I’m,” she hesitated.
“Go on, 302, the voice urged.
.
“I’m not particularly sexually experienced with either men or women but I have learned many of the basic skills during my initial training here and I’m sure I will be able to satisfy any prospective buyer in that area.”
“Thank you very much, 302. Please take your seat.” She walked back towards her stool. “Number 317, please.”
The second girl came forward, her dress no less revealing than that of her predecessor, her heels no less high, her walk made slightly easier by the hip-high slit in her skirt. “Your details please, 317.” The girl stared at the source of the voice. “Go on.” She shook her head and held her face in her hands. “Go on, 317. I am sure you wish to be cooperative. You will remember how important this is for you. Do as you have been instructed.” The girl bit her lip, looking from side to side. “Go on!” the voice barked. “Your age, your measurements, your weight, your skills. Continue!”
Slowly, the girl began. “I’m, uh, twenty
three years old, from a small village in
“Look up, 317,” the voice ordered.
The girl appeared to pull herself together. “I’m a competent typist and I can handle most office administration. I like to go clubbing, I’m a good dancer and I’m good to watch.” She unfastened the front of her dress and took it off. She was clearly a little fatter and less fit than the first girl but her bigger breasts would be attractive to many. “I’ve had about twelve lovers, all but two of them men. You’ll find that I am sexually skilled with both my mouth and my hands.”
“Thank you 317, that was better,” the voice said. “Now please give us a smile and return to your seat.”
The girl did so.
The picture dissolved again to Angie Dennison. “Abduction, kidnapping, white slavery. Whatever you call it, these girls will have a whole new life.” The picture returned to the auction room.
The girls were back on their stools, dressed quite differently, still wearing their collars and tags but now all gagged. The voice spoke again. “Girls, now you have the opportunity to demonstrate your skills for your potential new owners. Number 323, please.”
A woman wearing a smart business suit, hat and gloves, stepped forward.
“Now, 323, you told us you were the sales manager for a packaging company. You also claimed you were used to using your charms on both your customers and your colleagues. Perhaps you can demonstrate that to us now?”
Music started and the girl looked straight into the camera. She struck a pose, hands on hips, head back. As the beat of the music picked up she began a sensuous striptease. Peeling her gloves off with the assistance of her teeth, she unbuttoned her jacket and trailed it behind her as she walked across the stage. She returned square to the camera and started to unbutton her blouse, bumping her hips as she did so. Her blouse followed her jacket to the floor of the stage, with her skirt and slip soon after. She spent longer parading herself in her underwear before removing her bra, stockings, shoes and finally panties.
The music faded. “Thank you, 323,” the voice said. “Return to your seat.” The camera zoomed in on the face of 323 as she stooped to collect her clothes. The camera caught the girl flushed with the effort of her dance; the beads of sweat, the drool from the gag and the streaks of mascara across her face.
“And now, 331, our
student from
The source of the voice could be heard applauding from off stage. “Impressive, 331, impressive. Thank you.” She picked up her dress and threw it over her shoulder triumphantly before skipping off stage.
The image of Angie Dennison returned to the screen again. “But that’s all in the future. Why are they here? How did their luck run out?” The screen split, Angie’s face still in one part seeming to watch the other where the camera was close-up on another gagged girl, her face filling the rest of the screen. A hand off screen unfastened the gag and pulled the ball from her mouth.
“My number is 335,
I was acquired for an owner in
She was followed by an athletic looking
blonde. Again the camera zoomed in on her face as her gag was removed. “My
number is 342. I was acquired for an owner in
Each of the others turned up in their own screen split in turn. “Acquired for an owner in Sinkiang”, “an owner in Kachin”, “to do the administration of his businesses”, “to teach his slaves English”, “to join his breeding slaves”.
The slaves faded out. Angie’s face filled the screen. The camera pulled back, She was sitting in a large arm chair smiling directly at the camera. “So, there you have it - we’ll listen to what you want. And we’ll see that you get it.” The picture froze as text scrolled across the screen, “Clegg Enterprises offers a custom service in slave acquisition, finding exactly the right property to meet your needs. We’d like to talk to you about how we can help.” The picture faded to black.
I turned up the lights, peering at Clegg anxiously. He broke into a broad smile. “First class!” He exclaimed. “First class! Angie Dennison, good grief. Brings back fond memories of adolescent television viewing. For some of the older guys it’s The Avengers, for me it was Miami Detective. How did you get her to do that?”
“Well, we weren’t entirely honest,” I said. “Here watch this – it’s the video footage we shot of her doing the ‘come-on’ advertisement that we told her we were making to attract sponsors for a new series.”
I started the video player again. On came a shot of Angie in the armchair talking directly to the camera. “Can we get on with this? Jeez you guys are slow. I’ve worked with real film crews you know – MGM, UA, Touchstone, … “ A voice from someone off camera says quietly, “RKO.” “What was that?” said Angie but she was interrupted by a clapper board appearing. “Scene 105, take 14, mark!”
Angie composes herself instantly, smiles and continues, “Hello. I’m Angie Dennison. You’ll remember my hit 80’s show ‘Miami Detective’. Quite a few of our dramas dealt with ladies in distress. Even me sometimes! But nothing in that series compares with what happens these days. Just watch…
“This is a new series of Miami Detective for the new century. It will be must see viewing just the way the 1980’s series was. But now there are new crimes to combat. Abduction, kidnapping, white slavery. Whatever you call it, these girls will have a whole new life. But that’s all in the future. Why are they here? How did their luck run out? What will be the fate of girls like these?
“Each episode of Miami Detective ’06 will follow the fortunes of one victim of crime and how the perpetrators are brought to justice.
“I’ll be there too. You’ll see me again as ‘Salty’ Anders – Captain Anders this time – and no doubt I’ll get into some scrapes too. But here’s the trick and this is what makes Miami Detective ’06 different. Miami Detective ’06 will work with viewers. We’ll listen to what viewers want each week on our web site. Viewers will directly affect the story lines. We’ll listen to what they want. And we’ll see that they get it. Just like Miami Detective in the ‘80’s every episode will feature some of the most attractive young actresses around. Your company could be one of the lead sponsors on this show and help shape the story lines too. So, there you have it - we’ll listen to what you want. And we’ll see that you get it. I’m proud to be a part of Miami Detective ’06 – I hope you will be too.”
"Cut," another voice called. "That's fine Angie. We'll use that one. Great."
"About fucking time," Angie's scowl showed itself through her botox frozen forehead. "I've been pissed around all morning. Fuck know how you guys will make a series if you get the funding."
I turned the video off. “Marvellous what you can do with a bit of editing,” I said.
“First rate job,” Clegg enthused. “Shame you didn’t tell me you were shooting. I’d have liked to have met her. Liked to have more than met, if I’m honest.”
“I’m glad you said that,” I said getting to my feet. Clegg looked puzzled. I opened the door to Clegg’s office. Harry was outside as agreed. Without saying anything he wrestled a woman into the room.
Clegg got to his feet. “Angie Dennison!” he roared in a combination of recognition and approval. “Well I’m certainly delighted to meet you.”
“Hmmgh,” Angie grunted into her gag. We had dressed her in as close to the costume from the ‘80’s series as we could get. We’d got a blue short sleeved uniform shirt and tie, with the Miami Police insignia and a straight black skirt. We’d even managed the regulation handcuffs – even if they were locked around her wrists. They’d gone in for over the mouth gags in the original series so in deference to that Angie was wearing a scarf across her mouth. Of course her mouth was packed with foam and taped shut underneath it – there are limits to authenticity. I wasn’t keen to be around when Clegg took her gag off; I’d had enough of an ear bending from Angie when she found out what we had planned for her after filming the promo.
“We’ll leave you to get acquainted” I said.
“Thank you very much Larry. And by the way – I think you’ve proved your point about the value of matching what we do to what the customer’s want – I’d have paid a great deal for this. We’ll talk about what you want to do with the video at some other point.”
I grinned and waved to the pair of them as I made to leave.
“Oh,” said Clegg, “by the way. What happened to that red-head of Harry’s?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “I shot some footage with her but it didn’t really fit in when we came to cut the final version,” I said honestly, waving another disk. “I can let you see it if you like.”
“No,” said Freddie, “not a problem. I just wondered.”
Yes, I thought to myself and I wonder what you’d have said if I hadn’t done anything with her.
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