The Wards of Harwell Tusker

Chapter 9: Reviewing Investments

Two days later, confident that the girls could be left without fears for their chastity, I found myself once more at the portals of Whitworth House, visiting the Institute of Practicing Engineers. Standing at the foot of the staircase that led up through the Institute’s splendid cast bronze doors, I had a few moments to consider the conversation that I was about to have with Sir Bristow Merriweather.

I was met in reception by Sir Bristow’s Bantu — as I had discovered — assistant, Ngoya Mbute. She was as pleasant as on our previous meeting, similarly dressed in high-collared blouse and long skirt. She moved through the lobby of the building as though gliding across the marble-paved floor, a beaming smile on her face as though nothing could bring her more pleasure than doing what she was doing right at that instant. She showed me to the elevator that would take us up to Sir Bristow’s office. I couldn’t help but feel, as we got in, that the elevator’s cage was only a little more comfortable than the accommodation which the Tusker girls were then enjoying.

The elevator’s cables creaked as we were winched upwards. Miss Mbute seemed unconcerned by the sounds of stretching wire and metal upon metal. Almost at once, we had reached our destination and stopped with a jolt, accompanied by a sighing from the cables. I found myself unconvinced of the benefits of this metallic cage over the more conventional stairs that I had used on my previous visit. Sir Bristow, who greeted us in the corridor, seemed anxious to praise the contrivance, however. “First rate,” he said. “Imagine, it will become possible to construct ever higher buildings now people can be whisked skywards in one of these.”

I kept my counsel on the matter. As far as I recalled, it was less than a week since one of the same devices had plunged to earth from a height of only three stories, killing a dozen souls within its metallic grasp.

In the doorway to his office, Sir Bristow continued to extoll the virtues of the elevator. To my disappointment, Miss Mbute abandoned us, withdrawing to another room that opened off the opposite side of the corridor. A few minutes passed, during which I thought I would learn more of powered lifting cages than any man has the need of. Then Sir Bristow suddenly stopped. His florid face took on a conspiratorial expression. “Here,” he said. “Enough of this talk of machines of iron and steel. Let me show you some even more remarkable equipment.”

He stepped across the corridor and, without pausing or knocking, opened the door through which Miss Mbute had gone minutes before.

No longer wearing her long skirt, Ngoya Mbute was sprawled on her back across the top of a large oak desk, one of her dark-skinned legs drawn up sinuously, the other draped over the end of the desk. Between her thighs, a naked, pale woman, hands bound crudely behind her back with thick rope, was applying her mouth and tongue to Miss Mbute’s sex. Ngoya Mbute was growling appreciatively with each application of the other woman’s ministrations. The pale back of the woman crouched between Ngoya’s thighs seemed familiar.

“Don’t let us disturb you, Miss Mbute,” Sir Bristow called. From her lack of response I concluded that her attention was sufficiently diverted as to be unconcerned by our presence. “I thought you would like to see this,” Merriweather went on. “You remember Nicola James, of course?”

“Indeed I do.” It was then that I remembered Sir Bristow speaking of his meeting with Meriel James.

“Meriel was good enough to help me out. Poor Miss Mbute has a particularly powerful drive in the matter of carnal desire. It was becoming something of a distraction for her and, I must confess, for myself. There is only so much time a man can spare for amusement during the working day. Anyway, the good Mr James obligingly suggested that his wife would help out. Most generous; most thoughtful. Exactly the sort of chap the Institute should be working with. I was very happy to extend his contract.”

I’m pleased to hear it, I thought, knowing that an improvement in Meriel’s fortunes would find its way in part to myself. As for Nicola, even though nothing in her original adjustment had prepared her for it, she seemed happy enough with her face buried in the moist, pale pink flesh between the dark brown of Ngoya’s labial lips.

“Well, come back to my office,” Sir Bristow invited. “Let’s talk about your latest project. I was hoping to suggest that some of our members might come and see how things were progressing.”

We discussed the idea. At first I was not keen. It seemed that Sir Bristow’s motivations were mainly voyeuristic and there was the danger that such a visit might disrupt the girls’ learning. As we talked though, I began to see the potential benefit to my working relationship with the Institute and the contribution it could make to the girls’ learning as well. In the end we agreed that a small party, four of the Institute’s Board of Trustees and Sir Bristow, would visit Highgate in the coming week to see both my facilities and the two Tusker sisters.

When I returned to Highgate, I felt it was the time to share my progress with the twins. Although my methods are strict, there is nothing in my approach that is intended to be brutal and it is often helpful to involve my students in the assessment of their own progress.

Bringing them up from the cellar, out of their cages, I took them into the study. I loosened the straps of their gags but left them hanging about their necks and left their wrists cuffed behind them but allowed the two girls to sit. They looked at one another startled by the grant of this favour but then, being convinced that I was serious and without ulterior motive, did as I allowed.

“Tell me,” I said speaking in a kindly tone, so as to emphasise my concern for their well-being, "are you finding your experiences here as you anticipated?”

The two girls first of all looked at me as though I was quite mad but then, evidently deciding that it was opportune to indulge me, decided to respond.

"It is, Sir, a singular experience to be sure," Amanda began. I was pleased by her tone. I had taken trouble to encourage the girls in a proper use of the English language, avoiding the slang expression and casual sentence construction that is so common amongst young people today. It was evident that my views on language were being heard. “I suppose we had both imagined that your methods would be much as they have been, but, in honesty, I believe neither of us anticipated the way in which we would find ourselves so deeply and quickly affected by them.”

“I agree with my sister,” Estelle volunteered. “I do believe that we are both making progress in the directions that you desire. Is it your view that we can achieve a good match as our guardian desires?”

“It is not usually my habit to discuss my students’ progress,” I said, “but I consider that you have both made significant strides and it would be dishonest of me to say otherwise. You do, however, have a significant test approaching. We shall be visited by representatives of those with whom you will be paired. A visit of inspection. To see whether you will be acceptable.”

Amanda had bristled at the word ‘paired’ and looked towards me with a rather stern expression. “You speak as if this were merely some matter of allocation. Do we not get some opportunity to express our views on the individuals concerned?”

The thought had not occurred to me for a moment, I fear, and neither had I expected the girls to wish it. “Goodness no!” I exclaimed, shocking them by the extent to which I obviously considered this an absurd idea. “You must trust in the good judgement of your guardian and myself in this matter.”

I could see that this was not well received by my audience. Estelle and Amanda exchanged looks that I viewed as the likely precursors of some expression of disagreement or even resistance. It was not my wish to engage in a debate upon the matter. I quickly returned each girl’s gag to its proper position, pre-empting any proposed dispute. Their muffled disputations were of little relevance. “You will be visited shortly. I suggest you try to give as good an account of yourselves as possible. The arrangements for your future marriages are particularly important. Your acceptance of them is an essential part of the adjustment you must undergo. Please reconcile yourselves to the choices being made for you.”

Beyond this confrontation with the girls, I made little preparation for the visit. I am confident of my methods and, as for the girls, I was sure that Merriweather’s trustees would see all that they needed, or wished.

They arrived with the precise timeliness one would expect of engineers. All five were dressed for a night at the Opera. Top hats, white tie, tail coats, all spoke of men who had become prosperous in their profession. The fact that each wore a black domino mask gave them a theatrical appearance but, as Sir Bristow explained, the Trustees felt that they did not wish to be identified by the young ladies. It seemed unnecessary to me but I was happy for them to dress as they pleased. As an appreciator of the aesthetic muse, it seems entirely correct to dress in an appropriate way for the experience before you and there seemed something appropriately sinister in the appearance of the five as we made our way towards the cellar.

“There is nothing special about this part of the house,” Sir Bristow commented as we made our way towards the stairs.

“No,” I replied. “What is special is what goes on here. You will, however, consider this more individual.”

The door to the stairway to where the girls were imprisoned lay between two large portraits presented to me by the artist Beardsley. Their stark black and white figure work and flowing lines spoke of the contrasts of sensation in pleasure and pain and the ebb and flow of desire that is so characteristic of those embarked upon adjustment by my methods. The subject of the pair was Andromeda about to be consumed by the kraken. I will allow those of my readers with a classical leaning to judge what they will of the symbolism.

Upon entering the cellar room, I lit the lamps to give us sufficient light. The girls stirred in their cages, unused to being disturbed once confined after the completion of their duties.

“These are the two ladies in question,” I said gesturing to the naked Estelle and Amanda. “I think you should be able to see that they both have the physical attractiveness to satisfy the candidate in this role.”

Amanda gave a muffled squeal of protest. Surprisingly, given her fantasies of eastern enslavement, she was finding the thought of being on display to this collection of masked, moustachioed, booted and suited worthies less attractive than the fantasies with which she once passed her days. She tried to turn herself away from the group, curling around as best she could in the small space on the floor of her cage.

Estelle, on the other hand, chose to brazenly display herself, standing up squarely behind the bars of her cage, her breasts thrust forward at my guests, her legs apart, clearly displaying the metal plate that covered her crotch.

The penguin-suited engineers studied the two sisters as though they were some strange creatures in a zoo. “You say that you can tame their youthful wilfulness by your measures,” one said, leaning forward to get a better view of the recumbent Amanda.

“And these are the tools of your trade?” another reached for one of the collection of paddles and crops hanging on the wall.

“It is not simply a matter of these devices and restraints,” I said. “Rather it is an entire programme, a combination of measures that together meet my – well, my customers’ –objectives. These other devices are every bit as important.” I drew the attention of my guests to the Orrery on which a few months before Nicola James had been impaled. Although it was quite inappropriate for the Tusker sisters, it would see use again in the future. The engineers seemed confused by it at first but then, as they recognised its purpose and mode of operation, puzzlement turned to intrigue. A tall thin man amongst their number seemed astonished by the size of the artificial members angled for vaginal and anal penetration. “Ha,” he said, with a laugh that seemed to relax his companions, “just like a penis but so much smaller of course.”

Sir Bristow smiled. I directed my visitors to the other equipment. Of more relevance to my current project was the electrical generator and its shock machine. This, too, excited considerable attention from my visitors. The girls had both endured an hour of its attentions just before my guests’ arrival, and a faint whiff of ozone still hung in the air around it.

One of my guests, a stout man with an improbable ginger toupee balanced on his head and watery eyes blinking behind his mask, stood forward to examine the devices more closely. “Extraordinary,” he exclaimed. “The workmanship is of the highest order. To see the accuracy of the clockmaker’s art combined with the robustness that is evidently needed by these devices is most unusual.”

“Tell me,” Sir Bristow turned towards me. “When these two young ladies have completed their training will they need continued treatment of this sort?” The group of black and white suited engineers came together to hear the answer.

I felt this was probably the best point at which to explain what my plan set out to achieve. “Not usually,” I replied. “although there may be value in continuing it.” The girls looked toward me with an expression of distress. “By the completion of the adjustment a woman is able to act in order to assure her husband’s professional success through support in all those areas outside the husband’s professional sphere. The purpose of their adjustment is not to breed women that crave deviant sexual treatment – though that does seem to be a by-product – it is to produce wives whose motivation is to please in every respect, such that their partners have the support that they need in order to fulfil their own potential in the workplace.”

“I suppose it is too much to ask for a demonstration?” the ginger-wigged man enquired, his own gaze falling on the ample curves of the young Amanda. She looked up, clearly upset by the proposal, but she need not have feared.

“I fear so,” I responded. “This is very early in their adjustment process. Their responses are unpredictable,” I looked across to Estelle’s cage where she was still standing defiantly, “and inconsistent, as you may observe. In time they will meet the required standard but to try to make them run before they can walk? Why you might just as well send a locomotive across a bridge before the track has been laid!”

The assembled group smiled, pleased by the allusion to their own sphere of expertise. I took the opportunity to shepherd the group back up to my consulting room where I was able to offer them a little refreshment before they parted. It occurred to me later that to have had Horatia Allenby or one of my other students to hand would have been beneficial but it seemed not to have mattered; the group departed in good humour and Sir Bristow conveyed his hearty thanks.

I went back to see my charges.

Amanda was pressed face down in the small cage but managed to turn her head towards me. Estelle, in the larger cage, was sitting up but got to her knees as I entered.

“Thank you, Sir,” she volunteered. “Thank you for not requiring us to show anything of what we have learned.”

In some ways I was pleased by her polite address but such self-centred feelings would not, of course, do. I replied sternly. “This was not done to spare your feelings but to prevent interference with your progress. And, I can see there is still much progress to be made. Had I thought it useful for you, I would have asked you to provide some amusement for one or more of them.”

Amanda shivered at the thought. Estelle exuded disbelief that such a thing might have occurred.

I looked at the pair of them. “You would each do well,” I said, “to consider how you will overcome this tendency to see yourself as the most important part of your life. Put it in the context of your own fantasies if you wish. Amanda, perhaps you should contemplate not the dashing young captain of a pirate junk, but the ageing, pox-riddled, lecherous opium magnate as your imagined master. And you, Estelle, consider how you would fare as the victim of one of your admired muscular athletic types rather than they as yours.” Estelle provided a most unladylike scowl in response. “Good night. Use your time to think.”

I left them, extinguishing the lamps in the cellar as I closed the door behind me. Neither of the two sisters made any sound.

© Freddie Clegg 2012