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The first sight that James got of the place was when they took him out of the van on the inside of the wire fence that ran around the facility. A white curved wall, may forty feet high with doors at regular intervals along its base hardly seemed like a prison or a police station but he didn’t have too long to think about it as the police urged him out of the van.
He found it difficult to climb down from the van; the shackles on his ankles made sure of that. Under the haranguing of his police escorts he made his way as quickly as he could, shuffling across the tarmac covered surface of the yard, towards one of the doors where another policewoman was waiting.
Only later, locked in a cell inside a large hut, did he get the chance to try to work out where he was. Balancing on the foot rail of the metal frame bed that was almost the only furniture in his cell he managed to just pull himself up by the two bars of the semicircular window that lit his cell from high on the back wall.
Through the semi-circular window, as long as his aching arms could hold him there, he could see out at some of the camp. To the right stretched a row of single story huts each with their own semi-circular roof windows that James assumed lit cells like his own. To the left a high fence and barricade of razor wire separated the huts from an open grassed area. Beyond this were rows of seating and white painted pavilions. At the far end, a high, oval, glass fronted building stared down like an enormous, single, eye. Behind its glass, James could make out white shirted camp staff moving backwards and forward. Occasional glints of sunshine reflected on the binoculars of those charged to watch over the camp.
Slowly James realised where the camp was. It had been set up with its huts on one half of the pitch of Lords Cricket Ground. The huts were being watched from the vantage point of the Media Centre. He wondered what the score board said. Certainly New Order seemed to be winning.
James’s eyes were drawn to a movement in the stands. Three figures in black sweaters and grey camouflage combat trousers were edging their way down towards the level of the pitch. They carried semi-automatic weapons; evidently the women were part of the camp’s security guard.
James lowered himself down until he stood on the rail again so that he could rest his arms. He took a few moments to stretch and regain his strength and then pulled himself up once more. Now the guards had gone. Down on the field a group of younger women were involved in some ball game or other. In their black kilts and tight white sweaters there was only one group that they could belong to, New Opportunity, the youth conscription organisation that all girls joined between the ages of eighteen and twenty one. Two of their mentors, girls barely a year or two older, were dressed in the same white sweaters but wearing black track suit trousers. They were watching as the girls passed a ball between themselves, obviously enjoying their exercise.
He craned his neck to see as much as he could, out across the camp and on to the exercise ground beyond. Focused on the activities outside, James didn’t hear the door to his cell slide open. The first he knew of the arrival of the guard was the burning sting of a cane across the back of his thighs. He half jumped, half fell from the bed rail under a rain of blows.
“Get a good look at the New Opportunity girls, did you?” the guard snarled as she cut again and again at the backs of his legs and buttocks.
“No, no. Please stop,” begged James. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
“That’s what they all say,” the guard snapped but she stopped the beating, leaving him sprawled on the floor of his cell, staring up at her. In her white, short sleeved, shirt, dark tie and straight khaki skirt, it was obvious that she was one of the camp staff. The red epaulettes on her shoulders made James think that she wasn’t one of the regular guards but he didn’t have the chance to discover who she was. “If you’re going to survive in here, you’d better pay attention when the guards are around. Make sure you’re standing up, hands behind your back, looking at the ground when there’s one of us present. Understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said James, judging that it was better to comply than to earn another beating. He struggled to his feet and took up the position that she had described.
As he did so, he heard another woman’s voice. “Sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t realise you were coming straight down here.”
“Don’t worry, Whittaker,” the first woman said. “I just thought I’d give our friend here his first chance to learn how we do things.”
“With us long, is he?”
“Hard to tell with these politicos.”
“Excuse me,” James said, as politely as he could. “I haven’t done anything, I was rescued from...”
“Save it,” Whittaker said. “No one’s done anything in here if I listened to any of you.”
“There’s going to be some sort of hearing,” the senior guard said. “When they get around to getting the lawyers together. Back end of the week maybe, next week possibly. Who knows? They certainly take their time. Don’t you worry though,” James felt less than reassured by her tone. “We’ll take great care of you until then. Just do as Whittaker here tells you and you’ll be all right.”
The door to his cell clanged shut and the two women walked away talking to one another. It was only once the sound of their voices had disappeared that James felt safe enough to lift his eyes and move.
**** **** **** **** ****
Janice, Celia & Nadine met at the Morpeth Arms pub, just around the corner from Pimlico Underground. Celia and Nadine were already on their second vodka and tonic by the time Janice appeared.
“Are you sure this is going to be fun?” Celia said frowning.
Janice waved at the bar boy pointed at Celia’s drink and then to herself. He seemed to get the idea. “Of course,” she said. “Trust me.”
Both Celia and Nadine gave a sceptical look. Janice’s drink appeared. “Can’t we just stay here and watch his cute little arse?” Nadine said plaintively.
“No,” said Janice firmly. “It’s time for a dose of culture. So drink those down and follow me. Believe me you’ll enjoy it.”
Janice led the way out of the pub and along Millbank towards the Houses of Parliament. It was only a short walk which was just as well given the height of the heels on Nadine’s shoes.
The entrance to the Tate Gallery was imposing, the steps up from the roadway seemed to beckon the girls inside, Janice striding out in front, Nadine and Celia following much less certainly behind. “We’re not at all sure about this culture stuff,” Nadine called as they got to the entrance.
“Trust me,” Janice called pointing to a poster which announced ‘Future Tension : Present Tense – Visions Of The New Order’
“This isn’t some political stunt, is it?” Celia said. “I know I voted for them, but I’m not really interested in the philosophical basis for female led societies or some such guff.”
“Don’t be such a cynic. Come on.” Janice led the way through the Tate Gallery. Originally intended to celebrate British Art it now focused on British Women’s Art. In spite of the work of the Trustees, the generosity of some donors and the assiduousness of the Government in what they referred to as illegally held assets, there were still more gaps on the walls than the curator would have liked. They’d been reduced to hanging a selection of Beryl Cooks, for heaven’s sake. The new exhibition was a critical and popular success, though.
The three women were standing in front of the picture that had been adopted as the exhibition’s signature image. “Click”, a picture by the artist Sardax had been reproduced so that it was a good twelve feet high, dominating the gallery that contained it. It showed half of a woman’s head and shoulders seen from the front, her right hand held aloft was about to click her fingers. In the background, over her shoulder a naked man stood passively, his eyes downcast, awaiting her command. “It combines a celebration of the assured confidence of today’s woman with a demonstration of the male acceptance of their new role,” the exhibition catalogue said.
“Now that is impressive,” Nadine said, looking up at the picture.
“I take it you’re not talking about his dick,” Celia laughed.
Janice rolled her eyes, sometimes Celia had no sense of place, she thought.
“Oh come on,” Nadine bridled, “be fair. Isn’t that exactly the sort of situation we all love to be in. I know things have got a lot better for women these days but it’s easy to forget how far we’ve come.”
The three of them elbowed their way through the growing crowds and into the next gallery. More Sardax paintings graced the walls. There had been a lot of debate about whether male art could be hung here, in spite of its subject. In the end though, Janice thought looking at the crowds in the gallery, the publicity had been good for the show.
A series of themed paintings entitled Shanghai Bizarre, each so large that they almost filled the height of the gallery wall from floor to ceiling, presented a larger than life size image of the artists vision of a society in which females had the upper hand. Nadine read from the guidebook for the benefit of her friends, “Although Sardax was painting some time before even the tenets of the New Order manifesto had been imagined, his ideas have come to life for many in our world today. His romantic images of the oriental mistresses in his imaginary word, albeit highly fetishised like those of his contemporary Nimrod, demonstrate the power available to those that chose to take it.”
“It’s a good point,” Celia chipped in, “that bit about ‘available to those that chose to take it.’ I think any of us could recreate the lifestyle of any of these pictures if we chose. Especially these days when anyone with put a sponsor is desperate to be taken on.”
“You know this is sort of interesting,” Celia conceded. “I mean of course, they’re his fantasies, but it does say something about how some men, at least, see themselves. And it makes me wonder,” she said as she looked at a large picture in which one man crouched bound as his mistress’s seat while another knelt helplessly secured as a telephone table and ashtray and a third, dressed as a maid, assisted his own mistress by straightening her stockings, “if we aren’t a bit too easy on them sometimes.”
“Easy?” Nadine would hardly have thought Celia timid about going after just what she wanted.
“Yes,” she said. “This has been great. One of the new interns has been trying to interest me in taking him on, perhaps I could find a position for him after all.”
“Why do I think that might involve him being on his knees,” Janice laughed. “Come on, there’s some Namshakh’s through here that I think you’ll like to see too.”
The three girls headed off into the next gallery, giggling as they discussed the prospects for Celia’s new project.
Anne Tenant watched them as they went. From what she had overheard their response had been exactly what she had predicted. She hoped that the other trustees were getting similar feedback. She turned the corner into another gallery hung with Sardax’s work. “The Dark Gallery” the catalogue announced by way of justifying the bringing together of a series of black and white images that brought the viewer close in to a series of encounters between a mistress and her slave.
She was looking closely at a picture showing ... when she heard a soft Scottish voice quietly growl behind her, “So good to see a male viewpoint that shares our agenda.”
Anne didn’t need to turn around. She recognised the voice of the PM’s fixer from occasional phone calls. “Well,” Anne said, “at least he did before ...”
“You doubt his integrity?” it seemed that this was possibly the highest insult that could be given.
“No, only his endurance.”
The fixer grunted. Of course it was hard to imagine how anyone could sustain the level of dedication implied in the pictures but whatever was the case the exhibition was having its desired effect. “I hear this was your idea. At least that’s the view the PM formed.”
So, Anne thought, the word had been passed. And if it hadn’t worked she’d have been in line for a bout of can carrying. “Well, I hope Ms Johannsen is encouraged by the response. I know the curators had a difficult job, treading the line between the banal and the debased, making a contribution to the debate without falling into the trap of espousing decadence.”
“Decadence has its adherents too.”
“But not, I suspect, any that would advocate it in party hearing?”
The PM’s fixer hummphed again. Anne could almost feel the force of her bulk, as if the dark tweed of her suit was sucking light from the room. “Your people have done some work for Home Affairs.”
Anne responded carefully. She wasn’t sure if Florence Daniels was still in favour or not.”A small project. They seemed to find the technology useful. It was a limited trial but it worked as far as it went.”
“You’re being modest, Tenant. If you’re confident you can produce in volume I think you might find Daniels is keen on a broader based trial. I should get in touch with her. You might find it an opportune moment.”
“I certainly shall, thank ...” Anne turned around but the other woman had gone. The only sign of her presence was the way in which the jostling crowds in the next gallery could be seen to be parting as her bulk passed through. Anne took out her mobile to call Tanya Charles.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
“Still not quick enough!” Whittaker snapped as James suddenly realised she was standing outside his cell door.
He jumped up, hands behind his back, eyes down, and heard the door of his cell being unlocked.
“Don’t worry you’re not going far,” Whittaker said as she grabbed his collar and pulled him from the cell.
James found himself dragged out into the space in front of the cells. At the far end of the space a single wooden pillar stretched from floor to ceiling. Whittaker clipped his collar to a ring on the post so that his face was pressed against the wood of the pillar. A moment later, while James was still wondering what was going on, she grabbed his wrists and strapped them to the far side of the pillar.
Whittaker stood with her face close to his. In spite of the requirement to bow the head when a guard came in, James had built up a picture of his gaoler over the past few days. Unlike the officer he had seen on his first day, Whittaker’s uniform did little to enhance her appearance. She was short and dumpy. Her uniform blouse was crumpled and stained with sweat under her arm pits. It didn’t quite fit. Either it had always been too small or she had put on weight since it was issued. The buttons at the front seemed about to give up on the unequal struggle to keep it closed across her bulky breasts. The belt of her skirt did something to define her waist but her khaki skirt was having the same problem as her blouse in containing her thick thighs and spreading buttocks. Now, with her eyes inches from his, James could see her blotchy complexion, the small broken veins on her nose and the greasy sheen of her sallow skin.
“Safest place for a man,” Whittaker said. “Can’t get into any trouble with this,” she reached between his legs and gripped the base of his cock with a gloved hand, squeezing it painfully, while you’re like that.” She turned away from him and called over her shoulder. “All right girls you can come in now.”
James found himself surrounded by a giggling bunch of the New Order girls.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s not one of the dangerous ones in here,” Whittaker began, evidently having been charged with giving some sort of lecture to the girls, “Now as part of your orientation introduction to the role of the detention service we like to give you the opportunity to see the conditions that that the inmates enjoy.”
Enjoy! James thought; that’s hardly the word.
“Is he quite safe there?” a blonde girl with an improbably large chest only just contained by her white sweater asked as she studied the way that James’ collar was locked to the post.
“Oh, yes,” Whittaker responded. “Watch!”
James heard the swoosh shortly before the thump of the punishment paddle slapped against his buttocks. The force of the blow threw him forward against the post and his arms jerked against the thick, stiff leather straps that held his wrists. A second and a third blow followed. James knew what the results of this would be. His backside would already be reddening, his face bruised by its impact with the post, his wrists etched with red lines where the straps would have scored his flesh.
“We have one of these pillars in each cell block,” Whittaker went on. “It means we can deal with any problems swiftly so that problems don’t build up. It’s an important part of our job to take personal responsibility for good order in our huts – our pay packets are linked to the performance numbers! It also gives us,” James felt a finger tip slid lasciviously down his back towards his arse, “somewhere that we can amuse ourselves. It can be a bit boring being a guard you know.”
“Are they all dissidents in here, then?” the blonde asked.
“Don’t be silly,” a dark haired girl, with a sweater that didn’t quite reach the waist band of her skirt, leaving a tanned strip of belly on display, said as James turned his head towards her voice. “They keep the dissidents in high security, don’t you?”
“Very good,” said Whittaker. “No most of the lot in here are either remand prisoners awaiting trial or convicted ones waiting for sentencing. There’s a few low grade inmates and others in transit or waiting for a cell to become free elsewhere in the country. There’s no point in keeping long term inmates in London. This accommodation is expensive. We’re not some sort of hotel!”
“Have they all got cute arses like this one?” the blonde asked, reaching out with her palm to James’s throbbing backside.
“Please don’t touch the inmates,” Whittaker admonished. “That can cause all sorts of problems.”
James could feel his prick swelling at the girl’s touch, pressing against the post before slipping out beside it to a chorus of outraged giggles from Whittaker’s audience.
“There, you see what I mean,” she said. “Now follow me and we’ll have a look at the interview suite.”
The group left. James could only wait helpless against the post until Whittaker came to free him an hour or so later.
© Freddie Clegg 2009
All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.
All characters fictitious
E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Web Groups: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/
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