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You can tell a lot about a man from the way he keeps his women.
The man who locks them in the cupboard that came with his house, beats them with his fists and uses them as footstools is, in all polite respects, the sort of man who reaches for the bottom shelf in life. You might say that, given the man I had come to meet was a Senator, it was no great deduction of mine to say he was ambitious. More than that, the detail and care given to every aspect of the lives of his females was, for a man who held outward contempt for their inferior species, a sign of a chronic overachiever.
‘Good evening, Sir. The Master will be with you very soon.
’
She was bound by an elaborate lace bodice that kept her elbows bent behind her back and the most meagre of reach for her fastened wrists. Her breasts were utterly exposed, pushed outward in exaggeration by the forceful binding of her arms. What must have been a spring-operated contraption around her hips and waist prevented her from closing her legs fully, as if to deny her even the briefest moment of privacy. Her taught face was still quite pretty, graced with a kind of numbed pain of a woman who had lived like this for years.
Rising out of the couch I approached the woman, aware that without my permission she could do nothing but stand quietly waiting to be dismissed. I examined the bodice, its intricate and fascinating layers and coils – no doubt custom-made, nothing I had ever seen on the market was so perfectly designed for the practicalities of keeping women just as one chooses –
and found myself already unlocking the psyche of the man I was to meet.
I cupped one of her exposed breasts and found there were no whip marks, burns or bruises. Either he rotated his girls carefully – tortured only those in the basement, let the serving-girls off lightly –
or he only ever punished those areas of skin covered by the extremely tight bodice. Both possibilities told me something else. He was a man of careful planning and meticulous exection. He would likely never act impulsively, not even strike his women out of anger. Tempered, even and precise, I saw a die-hard misogynist with the mechanical thinking of a fighter pilot. A powerful combination
The girl whimpered as I felt her warm flesh, and for it she got a slap on the behind. Light – I did not want to spoil this ideal image he had created. Indeed, it was as if he saw his women as canvases on which to paint. At once I felt ashamed of my own brutal unleashing of rage on the women living – or otherwise – in Wilkes’
basement.
‘Quite the specimen, isn’t it?
’
Hobart held a tall presence despite not being a particularly tall man, a straight back and trim beard, a moderate voice. His eyes were confidently focused. Nothing about him was aloof.
I stopped my analysis long enough to clear my throat, and greet him.
‘Yes, she is.
’
‘Not the girl, the bodice. One of your chaps made it. Really quality work.
’
I became aware of two things; one, that my mouth was wide open, and second that my hand was still cupping the naked breast of the female. I withdrew both hand and jaw as Hobart took a seat on the magnificent rocking-chair beside the tall window and lit up a pipe. I vaguely registered the lawns outside where women were milling about in the illustrious gardens, carrying out meticulous pruning and weeding with inches of hand manouverability in the same restricting bodice the woman I had just examined was wearing.
‘I trust you didn’t just come here to take a look at my dickless servants, amusing though they are,’ said Hobart behind a haze of thick pipe smoke, ‘so I invite you to begin business.
’
I took a seat on the couch, acutely aware that it was not normal for the visitor to begin business negotiations with the man who had invited him.
‘Coffee’
he said without looking at the girl, and she turned to leave the room on command.
‘Thank you for inviting me here tonight.
’
‘You are welcome.
’
‘Grateful though we are, I just wondered what you want from us?
’
Hobart lowered his pipe and surveyed me carefully. I could almost hear the cogs whirring inside his articulate mind as a tightly framed girl bopped past the window, a pair of hedge trimmers clipping carefully between her prime tits at a rosebush.
‘I had imagined we had similar ambitions. I thought it would be obvious after you saw my home.
’
‘Very obvious!’ I blurted out, unsure why I was so jittery, ‘You seem to be the only member of Senate who is outwardly anti-women.
’
‘You may be right, though its hard for me to speak from an outsider’s perspective.
’
His woman returned with a silver tray laden with coffee, balancing the set immaculately with trained fingertips that shook as she laid it on the table and then retreated, holding a position just out of sight of Hobart. I had a fleeting desire to measure the degree and distance between them, and see if it was the same next time.
‘I apologise if the way we behave seems... indiscipline to a man like yourself. You must think of us as pests.
’
‘The only pest around her is her kind,’ he said, jabbing a finger straight at his servant, ‘I admire you boys for your courage, even if you are a little overzealous. I have wanted to silence feminists for years, and then I see you go one better – turn them on their own kind. Beautiful.
’
I smiled in appreciation.
‘Now,’ said Hobart, tapping the ash out of his pipe, ‘I assume you’re ready to take the next step.
’
For the first time the girl just outside of his vision winced uncomfortably.
‘I think we are. Its just a question of whether or not we agree on what that next step should be.
’
‘I don’t see how we could disagree. You can tell me of all the things you plan, expanding the compound further, perhaps building new Bluenorth sites, putting ever more women behind bars and more men at the tools – but how can you do any of that without taking out your major obstacle, the laws that protect the pestilential female species?
’
I gathered myself as the conversation turned to planning. I knew now why I was nervous; I was star-struck, something I did not think was still possible.
‘If we can remove every law that protects them, we will. If we can make a few laws that do the opposite, we will do that too. But among us are no lawmakers, only businessmen. What can you offer us?
’
These were Wilkes’
words I repeated, and as such tempered more than mine would have been.
Hobart got to his feet, strode across the room and headed for the door. It took me too long to realise I was supposed to follow, but eventually I did.
His stairway broke open into an underground passage, and before he had even opened the door to his subterranean home I knew what was hidden there, so similar as it was to the dungeons at Bluenorth.
Sure enough when that door opened I smelled oil, burning and blood; I saw irons and brickwork hammered together; I saw sweaty female flesh crammed in tight against more female flesh with cruel sharp caging, and the unmistakeable squeals and cries of female suffering.
‘Nothing new to you,’
he said to me as I walked past a girl being skewed apart and rutted with a silvery shaft studded with red thorns.
‘The only difference is you have girls up top as well’
I observed, only half-hearing myself as I saw the girl writhe in agony, the studded shaft now making her womanhood a mockery.
‘The girls upstairs are here voluntarily. Well, they are now’ he added with a savage smile, ‘they may not all have come that way. The ones who serve well down here, and survive – and thats not most of them – get to serve me up there.
’
He stopped to watch a woman all wrapped up in ropes twisted into an agonising contortion by the tormentor. As he brought her body to the very limit of its stretching ability he paused, and pushed it further so the wretched woman tore apart in an explosion of screams and blood. He tutted.
‘No, no, that’s too much then...
’
‘I see not every girl gets an equal chance at survival’
I said subtly to Hobart.
‘Whoever said I believe in equal opportunities?’
he replied.
‘So this is your plan?’ I spoke loudly, fighting against the orchestra of screams to be heard, ‘nothing unlike what we do at Bluenorth.
’
‘I am just bringing you to a place in which you might feel a little more comfortable,’
Hobart winked, the first real candid movement he had made all day. I felt reassured he was actually human.
‘I appreciate the gesture’ I said, as a scream nearby broke into a gargle and something tore open, ‘So what is the plan?
’
A pair of male assistants appeared, dressed no less impressively than Hobart himself. Apparently when it came to his human servants, Hobart had a much more progressive attitude. The besuited gentlemen proceeded to wheel out a cage containing a bloodied, whipped female who winced at every movement. As they pulled her from the cage they shoved her ass-first onto the table between Hobart and myself, forced her legs open and showed me my first glimpse of the Vaglock.
Protruding from her cunt-hole was a chrome steel object the shape of a faucet. One of Hobarts black-clad workers reached toward the dial and turned it to the left; the girl squealed with pain.
‘The most efficient and simple form of subduing a female ever devised’
Hobart announced proudly.
Back then, of course, it was still a prototype, and the bloodstained counter-top and production-line of chained up girls heading into the testing area was enough evidence that Hobart’s boys hadn’
t quite worked all the kinks out of the tech yet.
The next girl, a supple tanned little filly, was hoisted legs-spread onto a wooden table, shackled up by wrist-and-ankle to each corner. She whimpered and twitched as if she wanted to struggle, but Hobart’
s training held her mind in place. Two of Hobarts black-clad workers busied themselves between her legs, the first of them working with a pair of what looked like small foreceps and the other brandishing what I knew now to be the vaglock, a pear-shaped expanding tool. I watched in fascination as they began to force the lock inside her, and stared in amazement as they applied a high-voltage electric shock to the pear that sent her legs twitching and her tongue hollering.
‘The shock overwhelms the muscles in the crotch,’ a jagged-jawed worker explained to me in passing, ‘stops her from pushing it out before it gets in.
’
Push, expand, shock. Push, expand, shock. It took seventeen rounds of inching forward until the vaglock was fully inserted and expanded. The girl trembled and shook, letting out a slow, constant whimpering moan as they lifted her back up off the table. She almost crumpled immediately, feet facing inwards and hands forming little fists of restrained agony at her hips. Her black hair hid her face as she sobbed.
‘What do you say, bitch?’
Hobart asked the girl.
‘T-t-thank-you, S-S-Sir…
’
Hobart flicked his hand through the air, signalling his workers to cart her away, presumably to sit in a cage until needed. The he turned to me.
‘Its based on a medieval instrument known as the Pear of Anguish. Quite the ingenious innovation, and more than mindless punishment for the sake of it. This is torture that achieves something other than satisfying your own urges. Do you understand me?
’
As the next girl was brought up, legs spread and pinned down, I realised that for the first time, I really could understand a man like Hobart.
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