 |
|||
|
|
Sir Bristow had proposed that I bring the Tusker sisters to meet with him at Greenwich. He was using, he said, the splendid Painted Hall of the Royal Greenwich Hospital for Seamen as the venue to interview those Institute members adjudged as potential beneficiaries of the Institute’s bursary. There has been a deep relationship between the Institute and the Navy; so many of the innovations of the former have been of benefit to the latter. Such was the warmth of the relationship between the Navy and the Institute that the Navy was happy to make their facilities available whilst the Institute were engaged in advising on the creation of a museum of the country’s nautical past that might one day grace the site.
My client claimed that he needed the meeting to assist in the selection of suitable candidates. For my part, I suspected that it was as much a matter of salacious curiosity as of any genuine need to assess my pupils. It suited me to indulge him, however. The girls had not been outside the Highgate house since the day of their arrival and, while a pale complexion is often thought attractive, I am of the belief that fresh air can be beneficial. “Fresh” was not, however, the adjective that could be applied to the sultry atmosphere that hung over town on the morning of our expedition.
The girls were at first surprised and then pleased at the prospect of being allowed to dress for the first time since their arrival at Highgate; I had no wish to outrage public morality or to excite comment by parading two naked and crop-welted women through the streets. Equally, I chose to allow them to venture out unbound. They had been shackled, strapped or roped in one way or another for the preceding three weeks. They had become acclimatised to having their mouths filled or strapped shut. It would have been no difficulty to have contrived to have them helpless in such a way as to be unnoticeable to passers-by, but I determined that they would find it rather disorienting to be unfettered save for the belts that protected their maidenly status and that suited my purpose. So, for now, they were free except, of course, for the padlocked belts they wore beneath their clothes to protect against sexual exploitation by themselves or others. The two of them evidently found the experience novel, even disturbing, but, to their credit, conducted themselves well, accompanying me on the first stage of our journey through Highgate in silence.
We took the Over Rail. Its ingenious combination of pneumatic traction and a monorail track hung from gantries running over the streets of the capital gave us a smooth and almost silent ride. The great wrought-iron bi-pod gantries that carry the track bestride the capital in a most impressive way and while there are those that feel that the Over Rail is a blot on the city-scape I find the stateliness of the structures a constant source of wonder.
At the Over Rail Exchange near Hyde Park Corner, we disembarked from the glazed torpedo-like car to await our connection on the Dockside Line. Amanda and Estelle waited patiently, standing close to me and saying nothing to one another. The other travellers took little notice of us. I wondered what they would make of the fact that the two girls had belts of rubber and metal chained in place across their sexual parts and that both bore thick welts and bruises on their buttocks as a result of their recent education. I had little doubt that few of them would understand the benefits that my two charges gained from my treatment of them.
The Dockside Line Over Rail car arrived and we stepped through into the comfortable interior. Its padded seats and leather armrests meant that our journey would be no more tiring than it needed to be. The press of the early morning commuter traffic had dispersed and we had most of the car to ourselves as it pulled away with a quiet hiss from the Exchange. The Over Rail straddled Grosvenor Place as it headed down towards the Embankment. I remembered the outrage when it had first been proposed. The idea that people would be able to see from the Over Rail cars down into the grounds of Buckingham Palace had been a great source of scandal in the tabloid media. The fact that Her Majesty had seen fit to use the Over Rail on one of her own journeys soon overcame that!
The track took us onwards along the north bank of the Thames. The river was busy with barge traffic, small tugs dragging their strings of lighters upstream puffing hard against current and tide.
Estelle and Amanda sat silently. It was so very different from the first time that we had shared a carriage. Hands in their laps, they contented themselves with the view from the car. It may be that they had some apprehension regarding what awaited them in Greenwich but, if so, they gave no evidence of it.
The Pool of London was busy with steamers, paddle freighters and sailing vessels, all fighting for berth space to unload or load their cargoes. As we passed Limehouse, Amanda gave a nervous glance towards an ocean-going junk that was moored there. I suspected that, for a moment at least, she imagined she was about to be consigned to the fate that she had fantasised for herself so many times, but we soon left the Hong Kong company’s wharf behind us.
The car hissed to a stop at Island Gardens, a most inappropriately named stop, I feel. The small park was in shadow from the great forest of masts of the ships moored in the river. The road alongside was noisy with the toing and froing of numerous trucks carrying their cargoes on to the rail yards to the north. I ushered the girls towards the domed housing over the entrance to Sir Alexander Binnie’s foot tunnel1 under the river to Greenwich. They had evidently never heard of the footway and seemed surprised when we emerged on the southern riverside to be greeted by Sir Bristow on the steps of the Royal Naval College.
Ngoya Mbute was standing behind him. She was dressed in a cream silk outfit that hung closely to her figure. I found myself regretting that she was not a guest in my rooms at Highgate. Her appraisal of my companions seemed no less penetrating than that of Sir Bristow as she stared at them coolly; one hand slapping a long glove into the opposite palm and drawing it sensuously through a strong grip.
“Very nice,” Sir Bristow affirmed. He took the time to inspect my charges thoroughly, walking around the two girls, peering closely at their complexion, examining their hair, lifting each girl’s chin in turn to allow him to look them clearly in the eye.
Amanda and Estelle were obviously embarrassed by the close scrutiny. They were, however, sufficiently well versed in my requirements for their behaviour to know that they should neither say nor do anything. Instead they stood quietly. “Well formed and respectful. I can see you have made progress already,” he said encouragingly. He went on, “Miss Mbute,” Ngoya looked across towards Sir Bristow, “why not take the girls and show them the Queen’s House? I need to introduce our friend here to some of the candidates for the favours of these young ladies. We will be an hour or so, I fear.”
I wondered for a moment whether the girls would be safe in Miss Mbute’s care but concluded there was little harm likely to befall them and urged them to follow Sir Bristow’s aide.
The selection of aspiring members of the Institute that were introduced to me seemed worthy enough; earnest, anxious to impress, in some cases obviously talented. I listened patiently while they told me of their plans and hopes; the projects that they dreamed of realising. Two, I felt, stood head and shoulders above the rest, for their intentions embraced not only the desire to achieve great things but also to acquire wealth. That, to me, is the touchstone I seek in those with whom I engage. Their ideas were, without doubt, for extraordinary enterprises. One, Lewis Fairbody, was a man of nautical and navigational skills, in addition to being possessed of considerable ingenuity. He envisaged a great bridge joining ourselves to France, eliminating the tyrannical monopoly of the French cross-channel shipping lines. The other, Tim Lee, proposed a linked arrangement of communicating Babbage engines which would be able to share their calculating power across a telegraphic network. In both cases, their proposals included their own participation in the equity of such schemes, providing them not only with the satisfaction of having realised such ingenious designs but also allowing them to participate in their profits. Whether or not the plans for their engineering works proved feasible, their entrepreneurial spirit would carry them forward, I told Sir Bristow.
He nodded with approval. “My own thoughts exactly,” he said. “Shall we consider the decision made?”
“I feel so,” I replied.
“In which case, I suggest we re-join Miss Mbute.”
The threatening clouds that had made the morning so oppressive had dispersed. Sunshine now held sway. Rather than following the colonnaded walkway from the east wing we took the opportunity to make our way up into the park for a short detour. On the top of Castle Hill, Wren’s Flamsteed House — part of the Royal Observatory — stared down at us, the curlicues of its parapets seeming like querulous stone eyebrows on the building. The telescopes had long gone, exiled to Sussex by the fumes of the coal burning vessels on the river below, but the building still held the master chronometer at the hub of the network of telegraphic signals that carried Greenwich Mean Time to the Empire’s farthest corners. One of the Harrison family still tended it. It was another remarkable feat, I had to admit, but one which left the Park disfigured by the poles of the telegraph networks and their wires criss-crossing the hill like the knitting of some demented giant. Festoons of signal wire looked as though they were waiting for the bunting of some telegraphic festival.
Had we been aware of the scene that awaited us in the Queen’s House, however, we would have spent less time contemplating the wonders of electric telegraphy and hurried to prevent a disastrous occurrence.
Miss Ngoya Mbute had taken advantage of her access to my two charges to amuse herself. As we arrived, it was clear that she had rendered both girls helpless so as to indulge her own carnal desires. Ngoya was seated on a fine gold-ornamented chair, her skirt up about her waist and her blouse open to reveal her breasts. Estelle was stretched out, face down, on the marble top of a grand Louis XIV-style table. She was hog-tied so that her wrists and ankle bowed her body back. Her head was held up in such a position as to allow Ngoya to push it from behind so that Estelle’s mouth was clamped against her dark, full breasts. Estelle, who had evidently been held in that position for some time, was gasping for breath and struggling as Ngoya enjoyed the stimulation of the girl’s mouth on her nipples. Meanwhile, Amanda was crouched beneath the table. Helplessly bound as well, she was on her knees with her head between Ngoya’s thighs. Ngoya’s right hand clutched a handful of Amanda’s blonde hair, pulling her face hard against the African girl’s crotch as Ngoya thrust her hips forward to take advantage of Amanda’s attentions.
Ngoya Mbute was obviously close to climax and quite oblivious to our presence. “More, more,” she cried urging them on. As her own movements became more urgent, the girls’ struggles combined to arouse her further. “Oh, yes,” she cried, “and next my friend here!”
She let go of Estelle’s head for a moment and reached behind her. Triumphantly, she held up a large black rubber strap-on dildo. No doubt she would have been disturbed to discover its path blocked by the belts that Giacomo had devised for the girls. It may be that Ngoya would have found a way to subvert Giacomo’s purpose. The girls would, I am sure, have derived much amusement from it but, through good luck, Sir Bristow and I were on hand to prevent what would have been a most unfortunate disruption of my plans to maintain the girls in a state of virgo intacta until they arrived at their marriage beds.
As she held the thick black artificial penis aloft in aroused enthusiasm, she laughed. A moment later she turned and saw us.
Sir Bristow, understanding and approving my intensions in the matter of the girls’ virginity raised an admonishing finger. “My dear Miss Mbute, this will not do at all, I fear. You are taking advantage of the circumstance of these young ladies. Please release them at once.”
Ngoya’s response was one of sulky acceptance.
© Freddie Clegg 2012
1 A most extraordinary construction which can easily be viewed by those visiting the Capital. Those wishing to discover more about it can find details at one of the many useful entries on the Communicating Britannica Compendium of Facts which is now available on the Babbage-link.
|
|
|