Chapter 13
"Your turn, Richard dear. Go ahead."
Richard picked up the dice, but hesitated. He was long since sick of this
particular game. He looked at Lady Briddington imploringly.
"Smack him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, this is delightful!" He winced and blinked back
tears as Ms. Reynolds stung his left thigh with an enthusiastic blow of her
riding crop. She was usually in attendance at these "amusements", as Lady
Briddington liked to call them; unlike Ms. Bonner, whose staunchly impersonal
manner made her a perfect trainer and disciplinarian, Ms. Reynolds was easily
infected by Lady Briddington's whimsical sadism. Richard knew she liked to make
him squeal. Even now, she was raising her crop for a second blow, and he hastily
bowed his head and tossed the dice.
"Oh, two fours! Rather unfortunate for you, I think..." Lady Briddington watched
eagerly, lips parted, as he slid his playing piece - a wooden carving of himself
in miniature, kneeling with hands clasped behind his back - over eight squares
of the long and winding pathway that curled its way across the enormous
gameboard. "Yes, a dark blue square! Roll again for the number of shocks." Only
four, but the dark colour of the square meant she would use the higher setting.
He moaned in pain and doubled over as the hated control belt sent stabs of pain
into his genitals, nearly upsetting the playing pieces. Ms. Reynolds instantly
grabbed him by the hair and dragged him upright, not at all gently.
"And he rolled doubles. That gives him an accoutrement card, doesn't it?" asked
Claire from her place by Lady Briddington's wheelchair.
"Of course. Go ahead and draw one from his deck."
"All right. I hope it's something nasty. Let's see... Hands cuffed behind back.
Shall I do it?"
"Oh, let Ms. Reynolds. That's what she's here for, and she so enjoys it. Make
them nice and tight, mind you." Richard sighed as his wrists were jerked behind
him and cuffed together. He was already wearing a clamp on his left nipple, and
a pair of silky pink thigh-high stockings. He particularly hated the
accoutrement cards.
"You now, Aladdin," Lady Briddington prompted. "You're getting quite near the
finish, aren't you, hmm?"
He was already handcuffed, so he had to lean forward to take the dice in his
mouth and awkwardly drop them on the board.
"Only a three! You're slowing down, my boy. And it's a pink square. Right, get
over here." Richard watched a bit jealously as Aladdin crawled over to Claire
and Lady Briddington, and then rose to stand rigid and motionless so they could
kiss him and toy with his superbly muscled brown body. Like Richard, he was
wearing a control belt that held his cock and balls in a tight metal cage, and
his inevitable erection would prove very uncomfortable. But far worse, as
Richard knew from experience, was the frustration of being lightly tickled by
those caressing hands and teasing lips. Aladdin trembled, clenched his fists,
gritted his teeth, and seemed almost relieved when he was sent back after a
couple of minutes to kneel by the board. Richard leaned forward to pick up the
dice with his teeth, inwardly cursing the handcuffs.
The pieces slid closer and closer to the end of the path, represented by an
astonishingly detailed drawing of Lady Briddington reclining in bed. The
artwork, courtesy of her talented friend Mrs. Lewis, showed her lying
half-concealed by a coverlet that left her shapely breasts bare, and smiling
with that peculiar combination of tenderness, possessiveness and sheer lust that
she always displayed in the bedroom. The dice were kind to Richard, inflicting
only a little teasing, a few strokes of the crop, and a two-minute tickling
session, but he accidentally knocked his piece over while pushing it along with
his lips and had his ears soundly boxed by Ms. Reynolds. A series of low rolls
kept Aladdin from the finish line, though he remained somewhat ahead, and when
he threw double ones Claire drew the dreaded dildo card from his accoutrement
deck. Richard watched in uncomfortable fascination as Lady Briddington touched a
button that opened a little window in the steel band that ran along the cleft
between his buttocks.
"Please, no, ma'am," Aladdin whispered. "Please, not that."
"Oh, hush. Surely you've had things put up your bottom before? I do this
frequently with Richard."
"Never, ma'am. I don't think my mistress likes the idea."
"I'm your mistress all this week, you fool, and I like the idea very much," she
snapped. "In view of your silly protests, I'll make you put the thing in
yourself. Where is it, Ms. Reynolds?"
She grinned nastily and held up a large and exquisitely sculpted phallus of
flesh-coloured plastic, complete with realistic veins and a pair of hairy
testicles at the base. She was already smearing lubricant along its length, and
looked almost as though she were masturbating a lover who had mysteriously
become invisible except in that one conspicuous part of his anatomy. She handed
the dildo to Aladdin.
"Try to relax, and then just shove it in deep. You'll know when it's in properly
- there's a magnet on the front of the scrotum that should stick to the control
belt." Aladdin accepted it hesitantly, but balked at sliding it into his anus
until Ms. Reynolds took the riding crop to him with a vengeance. Finally he
burst into tears and pushed it inside himself with one awkward motion, sobbing
in pain and humiliation. Lady Briddington applauded dryly.
"There, that wasn't so bad, was it? I hope you now understand that your
hysterics were entirely unjustified. Ms. Reynolds, give him a few more on the
bottom for poor deportment."
"Ow! Please, ma'am!" Richard couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. He
remembered the first time he himself had been penetrated, by Amanda back at Camp
Thatcher - the burning discomfort, the sense of violation and emasculation. Ever
since Aladdin's arrival four days ago, Lady Briddington had staged an endless
series of contests between her two boys and frequently forced them to punish one
another, but even so Richard felt a sense of solidarity with the black conscript
who knelt opposite him. After all, they were in this together, brothers in
suffering.
"Your throw, Richard. Hurry up - I want a winner soon." He obediently scooped up
the dice and spat them onto the board. An eleven! For the first time since the
very first night they'd played, he was going to... no, he wasn't. His humble
little naked man ended up on a square two steps short of the finish. A black
square.
Claire giggled. "Too bad for you, Richard."
"Too bad indeed. Aladdin, you get to choose his punishment - he can be set back
twelve squares, shocked twelve times, or given twelve strokes with either the
cane or the crop. It's up to you."
Aladdin glanced down at the board. Richard knew what he was thinking - only four
squares from Lady Briddington's seductively smiling image, he would almost
certainly get in on the next throw whether Richard was set back or not. Of
course, he could make that choice just to spare Richard the pain of the other
punishments, but surely the ladies would like to see a little sweat and tears.
"Twelve with the crop," said Aladdin almost apologetically.
"You bastard!" Richard exclaimed.
"Six extra ones for that outburst," Lady Briddington ordered. "Bend forward to
take your punishment properly. Lay on hard please, Ms. Reynolds." She was only
too glad to, of course. Richard gave a full-throated scream of pain for the
first time that evening as Ms. Reynolds thrashed him with sharp, powerful blows
that followed one another with unbelievable rapidity. She didn't quite have Ms.
Bonner's muscle or almost mechanical efficiency when it came to corporal
punishment, but she was more enthusiastic about it. Shit and shingles, it hurt!
And it all seemed so unfair. Lady Briddington laughed as he straightened up,
still sniffling. Since the evening of her Christmas party and the lovemaking
that had followed she'd generally been somewhat gentler with him, if no less
demanding, but the excitement of having two slave boys to control and torture
seemed to have led to a great resurgence of her old sadism.
Aladdin rolled the dice without prompting, and grinned in triumph and relief
when he saw that they showed a four and a three. Easily enough to put him over.
He pushed his piece onto the image of Lady Briddington, and then turned to her
expectantly, still kneeling.
"Well," she purred, "I believe we have our winner. Congratulations, my dear. Ms.
Reynolds, perhaps you could take him upstairs so that Sara can prepare him for
me. I'll wait in the bedroom. Think of how much fun we'll be having, Richard, as
you toss and turn on the concrete floor downstairs. You seemed a bit sullen this
evening, dear; I'll have to have Ms. Bonner do something about that before she
puts you to bed."
Claire turned to Lady Briddington with the air of a woman plucking up her
courage. "If you won't be needing him tonight, couldn't I possibly..." She let
her voice trail off.
Lady Briddington frowned. "I really don't think it would be a terribly good
idea," she replied, a bit vaguely. "He's supposed to go to sleep lonely and
frustrated, the poor dear. Perhaps another time." Claire bit her lip, but didn't
argue further. A couple of minutes later Ms. Bonner came up to remove his
handcuffs and stockings, and that damned nipple clamp, and march him out of the
room while Claire looked on a bit resentfully.
"Your demeanour has displeased your mistress," Ms. Bonner said flatly as she led
him toward the elevator. "For practice, we will have a hard calisthenics session
and ball fetching game downstairs, and you will be beaten if you do not appear
to enjoy every minute of it." As always, her face was perfectly neutral and her
Germanic voice so level and matter-of-fact that Richard had no idea what she
might be thinking or feeling. Even when he was screaming and writhing on the
floor at her feet, spewing out vomit and pleas for mercy, he never saw any
indication of either sympathy or cruelty on that hard, square-jawed face. She
had never once failed to carry out Lady Briddington's orders in full, no matter
how cruel, but on the other hand she had never exceeded them. Her cool,
merciless professionalism was so perfect it was almost terrifying.
When she shoved him into the training room he knelt at once, upright with his
hands behind his neck. After a few preliminary stretches she demanded seemingly
endless push-ups and sit-ups, standing over him the whole while with the heavy
leather strap that was her favourite instrument of discipline. Then there was a
little leather-wrapped ball that he had to chase after, crawling, and bring back
to her in his mouth. It was terribly humiliating, and the hardwood floor of the
training room hurt his knees, but he tried to obey every order with alacrity and
keep an ingratiating smile pasted on his face the whole time. A beating from Ms.
Bonner was always hard, and thorough, and he wanted desperately to avoid further
punishment after the discomforts of the game upstairs. But in the end his
attention wandered, as he thought with boiling blood of Aladdin covering Lady
Briddington with hot kisses and thrusting inside her warm depths with that big
black cock of his, and Ms. Bonner grew exasperated with him. He ended the
evening shackled to the wall of the training room, choking on his screams as she
took the strap to his nude body with unhurried, impersonal, and utterly
implacable efficiency. A woman who took pride in her work.
* * *
Amanda was a bit surprised at herself. She had expected to feel sorry for the
new recruits as they were herded one by one into the main room of the Intake
Centre, clutching their "personals bags" and for the most part staring at the
bare concrete walls and stern officers with obvious unease as they took their
places. After all, these were women just like her, decent and patriotic ladies
who wanted to do their part in providing young conscripted men with the guidance
and firm discipline they would need to learn their proper place in society. They
were junior colleagues, not conscripts, and after a week of nudity, degradation
and discomfort they would be ready to put on uniforms and get on with the next
stage of their training, having acquired a firsthand knowledge of what the men
were going to experience as they entered the system. Amanda's job was to help
make it all as authentic as possible, and treat the ladies just as harshly as
she would a group of male conscripts, but of course it couldn't possibly be the
same from her viewpoint. She wasn't a lesbian, and the thought of having naked
women helpless under her control seemed more uncomfortable than appealing. But
when they actually started to shuffle in nervously through those big steel
doors, Amanda felt exactly the same excitement as when the room had filled up
with young men nearly six months ago.
They all looked so vulnerable - worried and off-balance, if not actually
frightened at this point. Several had the owlish look of people who had dragged
themselves out of bed at an unaccustomed hour, and most were clasping their
heavy canvas bags to their bodies like shields. They were a very mixed lot,
similar to the women Amanda remembered being locked up with during her own
training period. Some were no older than the conscripts they would be
overseeing, others well into their fifties; some looked hard, capable and only a
little nervous - the conscription service attracted a lot of military and police
types, and prison guards - while others were plump, flustered and practically in
tears; and there were quite a number of black and Asian women among them,
perhaps a somewhat higher proportion than you'd see out on the street. There
were also a dozen or so of the Japanese recruits, who would be returning to
their own country after their training was complete. All of them were wearing
formal gowns, as if they'd thought it would be a good idea to dress up to be
taken into custody, and their tense, controlled rigidity also set them apart
from the Englishwomen. But nearly every woman in the room had that look of
nervous anticipation, and from her own experience Amanda had a pretty good idea
of what they were feeling, that awful dilemma of wondering what will happen next
without really wanting to find out. And she realised to her amazement that she
was looking forward to showing them that it would be a lot worse than anything
they'd imagined. She wanted to yell at them to strip, to beat them into
submission with her strap, to work them at the training camp until they broke
down and wept and rebelled and earned themselves a really good thrashing and a
few agonising hours in the punishment cages. She wanted to hurt them and make
them obey her. As with the men, in fact, she could hardly wait to get her hands
on them. The urge to take control was less sexual this time around, but it was
just as real.
"They look like lambs being led into the slaughter," she whispered with a little
grin to the officer next to her, a stout woman called Tina.
"Um. Don't they though? We're going to have to toughen them up a lot. I could
almost feel sorry for them."
"Oh, I don't. To be honest, I can't wait to get started."
Tina curled her wide mouth into a lazy smile. "I said 'almost'. I can't wait
either. You see that one with the tattoo?" She nodded toward a compact, wiry
little woman in a leather jacket, one of the few displaying no obvious signs of
fear. In fact, she looked positively belligerent.
"Looks like a tough case."
"One hell of an attitude. I'm going to have fun smacking it out of her." Amanda
imagined those thin lips trembling as the tears started to flow, those lithe,
hard arms bound in unyielding steel. That plucky defiance shattered, cast aside
with the first sobbing plea for mercy. Oh, yes, this was going to be fun indeed.
She caught sight of her old teacher Mrs. Bradshaw being pushed through the
doors, plump and pale and as stricken as a deer caught in sudden headlights, and
her smile widened. This was getting better and better. A young Asian recruit
happened to glance in her direction and actually shuddered at her predatory
expression, and Amanda knew a moment of sheer delight. Power was power, whether
over men or over women, and it was a fine thing to have.
She waited impatiently as the last few recruits were led in, and as a grim,
rather mannish officer rapped out what was clearly intended to be a rather
intimidating welcome speech. The next week will possibly be the most unpleasant
of your lives... you will be treated exactly like conscripts at all times, and
will be harshly punished if you step outside the rules in any way... show proper
respect and obedience to the officers at all times, and remember that they have
complete authority over you...good luck, girls, and do try to behave yourselves.
Most of the listening women were looking very worried indeed by the time she was
through.
She cleared her throat and drew herself upright to look over the assembled
recruits. "If any of you would like to withdraw from the training program at
this point, you may do so. I should warn you that you won't get another
opportunity for approximately seventy-two hours - long enough for us to make you
think you've died and gone to hell, believe me." As when Amanda had been
standing in this very room as a nervous new recruit, no one took advantage of
the offer. They were all a bit frightened, of course, but not frightened enough
to quit before their training had even started.
"Going once..." said the officer warningly. "Going twice... all right, all of
you are now in our custody. We'll be holding onto you at least until Thursday
morning, so don't waste your time pleading with us to let you go. Right now you
have to strip naked and put all your things in your personals bag. You'll get
them back at the end of the week."
Amanda remembered blinking in surprise at that order, wondering if the fat black
woman at the front of the room had been serious. Today no one had that problem,
at least; they all knew that conscripts were kept naked, and had been expecting
to be told to undress sooner or later. But all the same, more women were
fidgeting and plucking at their clothes than were actually taking them off.
Amanda could sympathise, knowing from experience how difficult it was to
actually go ahead and disrobe under the eyes of uniformed officers. They were
all women, of course, but nakedness still meant vulnerability, the end of
dignity and privacy. But even though Amanda could sympathise with the recruits'
hesitation, she couldn't condone it. As one of the sergeants present (the
last-minute promotion had been a pleasant surprise, apparently a reward for
diligence and initiative) it was her job to keep things moving. She picked out a
victim at random, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair who had so far
removed only her shoes and wristwatch, and was dithering with the buttons on her
very tasteful blouse. Amanda turned to Tina.
"That lady there looks a bit fragile. Make an example of her - give her a smack
and start ripping her clothes off." Action at last! Tina went for the woman like
a shark on the scent of fresh blood. She yelped and burst into tears as Tina's
meaty hand crashed across her cheek.
"Bitch! You think we've got all day!" A moment later Tina had the blouse off,
and was going for her bra.
"Ow! You don't have to be so rough. If you'd just let me-"
"Shut up! You had your chance." She jerked hard on the woman's hair for
emphasis, bringing fresh tears. Similar scenes were taking place all over the
room, and very few of the recruits were still hesitating. Mrs. Bradshaw was
already nude and literally trembling, one hand shielding her vulva and the other
arm thrown across her bosom. The tough woman in the leather jacket pulled her
clothes off almost eagerly, and kept the same cocksure posture when she was
naked, her small breasts jutting defiantly. Amanda somehow wasn't surprised to
see that she had more tattoos than had at first been visible, and hairy armpits.
The Japanese women, although scattered around the room, kept glancing at one
another for comfort; they had all been assigned to different training units, and
Amanda couldn't help wondering how they would take being split up. One of them,
a recruit Adaka, would be training with her.
"You've got the restraints ready?" she asked, turning to one of her officers.
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Then you might as well go ahead and start collecting our girls. I want them
searched very thoroughly - I doubt any of them will have anything, but they'll
find it unpleasant and embarrassing. Don't be afraid to hit them if they don't
cooperate."
They all took it so differently. The brunette woman whom Tina had beaten blushed
and squirmed, but submitted quietly to the probing gloved hands and then to the
chains and waistbelt that made her helplessness complete. The Tattoo Bitch (as
Amanda had mentally christened her) wriggled around shamelessly on the fingers
that penetrated her vagina, and hardly seemed to mind when the strap stung her
buttocks in retribution, though her eyes blazed in anger when she was made to
kneel. Slender little Adaka started to cry as soon they touched her, Mrs.
Bradshaw closed her eyes and screwed up her face like a child getting a needle
at the doctor's office, and one or two of the others resisted and had to be held
down and forcibly searched and shackled. Amanda wished she could take a more
active hand in things, but as sergeant of Unit 17 her job at this stage was that
of an overseer.
But when it was time to herd the women out to the buses she joined the other
officers in hauling them to their feet and driving them along with harsh orders
and blows of the strap. She took particular pleasure in sneaking up behind Mrs.
Bradshaw and suddenly jerking upward on the woman's long blond hair.
"Get up, you fat bitch!" she yelled cheerfully.
Mrs. Bradshaw squealed in panic. "Please, ma'am, that hurt!" She glanced at
Amanda resentfully, and her big round eyes somehow managed to stretch themselves
a little wider with the shock of recognition. "Amanda Harris! What the hell are
you doing here?"
Amanda whacked her with the strap, right across her jiggling arse. "I'm in
charge of you, you stupid cow. And I'm going to enjoy it, too." She yielded to a
surprising impulse, and reached out to give one of the other woman's yielding
breasts a rough squeeze. The officers weren't required to touch the female
recruits sexually if they didn't want to, but if they felt the urge they were
encouraged to indulge themselves - anything to make the women feel humiliated
and uncomfortable. Amanda liked the way Mrs. Bradshaw's face twisted in helpless
aversion when she touched her, and she gave her bottom a good hard pinch before
shoving her into line with the other recruits. Amanda wasn't a lesbian - of
course she wasn't - but still, there was something rather satisfying about it,
wasn't there? That sense of power again. Like a little girl experimenting with a
new toy she groped at another naked breast, and then another, and even tugged
Adaka along by her cute little tuft of black pubic hair when she hesitated at
the doorway that led out into the cold February morning. The Japanese woman's
muted whimper of distress was music to her ears, a prelude to the symphony that
would begin once they arrived at Camp Shelley.
* * *
"No, no, I said Basel, not Brazil. Aren't you paying attention?"
"Sorry, sir," Claire muttered. She normally liked her work at the travel agency
- a bit repetitive, maybe, but at least there was always something to do.
Lately, though, she'd been finding it a bit difficult to concentrate, troubled
as she was by thoughts that tended to recur at the most awkward times. It was
ironic, really - a couple of the other girls had actually congratulated her on
her "tall, dark and handsome" boyfriend after seeing Clive pick her up after
work a few times. They would have been shocked to learn that her real boyfriend,
or at least her main one, was a naked slave locked away in the house of one of
the most powerful women in the country. Locked away in her house, and in her
power. Claire was beginning to feel a deadly resentment toward her.
Even now, her thoughts were only half on the task at hand as she booked the
whiny little architect's flight to Basel. Seats for him, his wife, and two
children who hopefully wouldn't grow up to be half as irritating as their
father.
"And they'll let me smoke, won't they?" No, of course they wouldn't. Claire
tried to explain this to him patiently, but her polite facade was wearing more
than a little thin by the time he had finished his tirade about the way he was
endlessly persecuted for his habit. No, she said with forced sympathy, there
wasn't another flight at the same time that would permit smoking. In fact, she
doubted there was a single airline left in the western world that would let him
smoke in the cabin when flying anywhere at any time. Yes, she was sure. He could
phone them all himself and check. It was so much easier with Clive - when he got
whiny, she could just get a nasty, nail-digging grip on his balls and twist hard
until he shut up. He hated that, but he'd learned better than to complain.
On the other hand, she reflected as the nattily dressed weasel of a man stalked
out in a huff, the conversation had at least taken her mind off Richard for a
moment. Before Christmas Lady Briddington had invited her over every weekend to
help with the training, without a single exception that Claire could recall. Her
ladyship had been almost deferential at times, letting Claire take the lead in
choosing tasks for Richard and handing out his occasional rewards and frequent
punishments. After all, he was to be Claire's husband and plaything after his
release, and Lady Briddington agreed that it was only proper that he get used to
Claire's way of doing things as soon as possible. But then she had taken Richard
to her bed after that damnable party, and everything had changed. She hadn't cut
Claire out entirely, but suddenly the invitations were much less frequent - when
Claire telephoned she was often told that her ladyship wasn't feeling well
enough for visitors, or that she was too busy with her backroom political
projects, or even that Richard had been such a bad boy that he was going to be
kept locked in a cage all weekend and wouldn't be available for their usual fun
and games. And even when Lady Briddington couldn't think of an excuse and had to
let Claire come over, she was careful not to allow her much actual contact with
Richard. Watching from the sidelines while Ms. Bonner or Ms. Reynolds pushed him
around and punished him was almost more frustrating than not being there at all,
and when Lady Briddington took a personal hand in things it was even worse.
Last weekend, when Aladdin had been visiting, was a case in point. Lady
Briddington no longer seemed to need Claire's help in thinking of ways to amuse
herself with helpless male captives; that diabolical board game, which must have
taken an absurd amount of effort to invent and produce, had been her very own
little brainchild. There had also been the usual cart rides in the garden,
playful spankings, and a long series of humiliating chores for the two
conscripts. Claire remembered watching them scrub the floor in the kitchen after
Sara and Lady Briddington had carefully befouled it with everything from mud to
urine to the remains of the previous day's dinner; they had been naked, stripped
even of their control belts for the occasion, and chained together by locked
steel rings that went around their cocks and balls. Aladdin had been allowed to
avenge the thrashing Richard had given him at the Christmas party, and Richard
had howled and sobbed like a baby under the black man's powerful, relentless
blows. Finally - and worst of all for the two men, Claire thought - they had
been made to pose together for Lady Briddington's friend Mrs. Lewis, the one who
fancied herself an artist. "Kneel, Aladdin love, and take Richard's penis in
your mouth. Just the tip, mind you, so the rest will show in the painting. Lick
it till it's nice and hard - such good boys, aren't they, Gloria? But do stop
grimacing, Richard! You're supposed to look as though you're enjoying yourself.
Grab the back of his head with one hand, and his ear with the other. That's it.
I want an expression of sensuality, of ecstastic abandon. "
At least Aladdin had won the board game on both the evenings Claire had spent at
the estate, and been duly taken upstairs to Lady Briddington's bedroom. She knew
that Richard slept with her two or three nights a week under normal
circumstances, but she didn't much like thinking about it, and wasn't sure she
could have borne to see him actually being led away for her ladyship's carnal
pleasure. She had never been so jealous in her life - and to think she had
actually encouraged the woman to start exploring the erotic possibilities of
having a male slave at her beck and call! Lady Briddington had seemed such an
utter emotional cripple, almost to the point of pathos, that Claire hadn't
imagined she could ever become a serious competitor for Richard's devotion. But
that seemed to be exactly what was happening. Crawling into his mistress' bed
night after night, suffering for her and obeying her, how could he not develop
some sort of attachment that went deeper than the bond of slavery? Claire knew
she was being pushed slowly but inexorably aside, and she had absolutely no idea
what to do about it.
The service bell on the desk in front of her suddenly clanged, and Claire looked
up with a start to see an Asian woman old enough to be her grandmother scowling
down at her.
"You are available, aren't you? I need a flight to Australia."
"Goodness, ma'am, of course. Terribly sorry - just lost in thought, ha, ha - I'm
with you now. Would you like to fly into Vienna, or Salzburg?"
* * *
Sometimes, Amanda thought, being a colonial power had its advantages. Even a
greatly diminished colonial power. Why let your recruits put clothes on, in
deference to England's cruel February temperatures, when you could simply ship
the whole operation off to balmy Gibraltar? Of course, it had drizzled all
afternoon, but in her waterproof raincoat she hadn't minded a bit. It was the
naked women under her command who had had to suffer, shivering and splashing
through a sea of mud as they struggled to get the training camp set up while
Amanda and her officers screamed and cursed at them and chased them around with
flailing straps. There'd been plenty of tears and pleading, of course. Most of
the girls were such babies, almost as soft and spoiled as the boys had been at
Camp Thatcher. They moaned and cried when the officers hit them, begged for
mercy when they were made to work to the brink of exhaustion, and actually
complained aloud - well, a few of them had - over not being allowed to comb
their hair, shave their legs or otherwise preen themselves after their
mercilessly cold shower at the end of the day. They'd been harshly silenced, of
course. It was fun to put them through their paces, but it had been a long day
and Amanda was rather glad to be marching them off for a final latrine break and
then bed.
"Here we are, bitches," she called. She'd had to prepare a whole new catalogue
of female-appropriate insults. "Do whatever you need to do, and then line up
again. You've got five minutes." Most of them scurried over to the trench quite
eagerly, to crouch on two planks with an open space between, but a few were
still shy about relieving themselves under the eyes of the officers and stayed
back. Adaka, the most reluctant of all, had somehow managed to hold her bladder
all day. Amanda admired her fortitude, but this was getting ridiculous. She
cracked the strap lazily across the woman's tight little arse.
"Do you have any idea how hard I'm going to beat you if you wet your bed, you
stupid slut? Get over there and squat!" The poor girl burst into tears, but ran
to obey. She was an odd little thing, seemingly able to absorb endless pain with
hardly a murmur but reduced to helpless tears and trembling at the least little
humiliation. Even eating with her fingers at dinner had proved hard for her.
Mrs. Bradshaw - Recruit Bradshaw, now - was the polar opposite, willing to do
anything if she thought it would spare her a beating. And the Tattoo Bitch,
known more formally as Recruit Trisk, had endured absolutely everything with
infuriating poise. She grinned bravely when she was strapped, flaunted her body
instead of trying to hide it, and seemed to positively enjoy being roughly
groped by the officers, although so far the only ones in the unit who were at
all eager to inflict that particular indignity were Amanda herself and an
absurdly tall woman called Christine Yarrow who cheerfully described herself as
"more or less homosexual, at least when surrounded by naked women". Well before
they were finished setting up Camp Shelley, Amanda had decided that breaking
Recruit Trisk was going to be her special project for the week.
She and the other officers rounded up the girls and drove them into their
dormitory tent with a sense of relief. They would get a harsh speech about being
quiet and not wanking, and then finally be allowed to crawl into uncomfortable
cots that were so narrow and tightly packed as to leave only six inches or so of
space between one recruit and the next, exactly as was done for the male
conscripts. As for the officers... Christine gave Amanda a friendly nudge.
"Feel like a beer before bed? I think Unit 7 is on serving duty tonight."
"Oh, no thanks. I have a phone call to make."
"Boyfriend?"
"No, business. Maybe I'll be over a bit later." She headed off to the officers'
quarters, wondering if Christine was just being friendly or if she'd got the
wrong impression from Amanda's willingness to get intimate with the recruits.
Really, of course, it was just another way of intimidating and humiliating them,
not genuinely sexual at all. Even if it did happen to be a little enjoyable at
times, especially with a slender young thing like that Recruit Adaka who blushed
and sobbed so prettily... Amanda shook her head irritably, not liking where this
particular train of thought was taking her, and quickened her pace.
Once inside, she lost no time in dialling the phone number she'd been given.
Greece was an hour or two ahead - Amanda wasn't sure, exactly - but it was still
fairly early. She'd been trying to vary the timing of her calls, hoping Ed would
eventually answer the phone himself. That Greek girl, Demetria, was absolutely
determined not to let an Englishwoman speak to her lover, even though Amanda had
identified herself only as an old friend of Ed's and had avoided mentioning the
conscription service.
The phone rang and rang. Didn't they have fucking answering machines in Greece?
Seven, eight... she would give up at ten. Twelve, thirteen... well, at fifteen.
"Yasou?" Greek, she supposed. But it was definitely him.
"Ed! I can't believe I found you!" Sound cheerful, she reminded herself. Upbeat.
Harmless.
There was a brief hesitation. "Who is this?" he asked warily. She could swear
his English now sounded a bit accented.
"Amanda Harris, silly! That girlfriend of yours has been driving me up the wall
- won't let me talk to you, won't pass on messages, and on top of all that I can
barely understand what she's saying. Is she just jealous, or what?"
"Hold on a minute. How did you manage to get this number?"
"Through the conscription people." There was an audible gasp. "Don't worry! It's
not like you're in any danger. There was a story in the paper a little while ago
about how they'd located you, but it also said they couldn't actually do
anything about it because the Greek government wouldn't stand for it. So I
thought 'Well, if things are like that, I can't see any reason why I shouldn't
get back in touch with the bloke.' So I called the Ministry of Social
Oppression, or whatever they're called, and persuaded them it wouldn't do any
harm for them to give me your number. I have a friend working there, actually -
she's called a 'Data management officer', but she's really just a secretary -
and she fished out your number as a sort of favour." That silly title was
genuine, actually, but Amanda supposed that sort of thing was endemic to
government agencies of any description.
He seemed to relax - she could tell from the sound of his breathing. "Well,
that's all right then. You'll have to understand I'm a bit nervous about women
calling from Britain these days."
"Well, I guess I would be too. But I really do think you're safe until you
decide to come back on your own."
"Why the hell would I do that? I like being here a lot better than I like the
idea of coming home and being promptly tossed into one of those training camps,
thank you very much. They look like something out of Dante's Inferno - the
torments of the damned, and all that."
"Oh, that's just the first month. It's meant to give the lads a sharp, intense
shock, to break them in and get them used to doing as they're told, but
afterwards things get a bit easier. Or at least," she added hastily, "that's
what they say."
"Still doesn't sound like my idea of a pleasant way to spend two years of my
absurdly prolonged childhood."
She grinned to herself. Ed was obviously still Ed. "Maybe not," she replied.
"But if hundreds of thousands of other men your age can handle it, I'm sure you
can too. I'm a bit worried about you, really. What are you going to do, stay
overseas for ever? Even if you wait for years, I'm sure they'll grab you and
pack you off to the camps the minute you set foot on British soil. Wouldn't you
rather just get it over with? As it is you're only prolonging the inevitable,
not to mention embarrassing the hell out of your famous father in the process."
"I know. Amanda, this is starting to sound like the conversations I have with
myself almost every day. Sometimes out loud. I don't much care about
embarrassing Dad - anyone as pompous as he is fully deserves it. But I agree
that I'm screwing myself in the long term. I almost wish I could work up the
nerve to turn myself in, but I can't. I mean, Imagine if you had to spend two
years letting male officers shove you around and beat the hell out of you - not
to mention what else they might do once they had you naked and helpless. Just
the thought of walking through the doors of one of those Intake Centres gives me
nightmares."
"As well as wet dreams, you mean?"
"What!"
Amanda giggled. "Sorry, couldn't resist. But that article about you also
mentioned masochistic impulses that you were struggling with, or something.
Maybe they talked to your girl. It really made you sound like quite a tragic
figure, equally tormented by lust and fear. They've had a surprising amount of
that in the system, actually."
"A surprising amount of what, exactly?" He still sounded a bit befuddled by the
sudden turn the conversation had taken, which was just as well.
"Oh, quite a few of the conscripts seem to get turned on just by being in the
power of domineering women in uniform. More than you'd think, anyway. I guess it
makes a kind of sense when you think about it. I mean, there you are, stark
naked, probably a bit scared, and suddenly you've got women looking at your bare
body all the time, sometimes touching it, watching you at your most intimate
moments. Hurting you, disciplining you, telling you what to do, but also looking
after you. I can see how a man would find that sexy, in a Freudian kind of way."
She paused. "Ed? You're starting to sound excited."
"Is it really like that - I mean -" I've got him, she thought triumphantly.
"Well, not all the time, of course. Sometimes it's just hard work. But the men
really do have confident, demanding women in their faces all day every day. It's
not like they're all tough old bitches, either - some of those girls could
practically be fashion models, and I know they're encouraged to get sexual with
the men sometimes. They'd line up to get their hands on you, Ed. You've probably
got a great tan after all that time in the Mediterranean sun, for one thing."
"Are you kidding? It rains practically every day in the winter." But his voice
was more than a little unsteady.
"Just imagine it," she said musingly, sliding a hand down the front of her
pants. "There you are, naked and sweaty in the hot sun, working oh so hard to
please the big, bad officer who's standing over you with her strap. Pleading as
she hurts you and tells you what a useless little male shit you are. You like
the idea, Ed? And afterwards, of course, she'd have to drag you back to the
officers' quarters. Handcuff you to her bed so she could really make you sweat.
And she might just tell you you'd been a good boy and give you a soft, wet kiss
before sending you off to your hard little cot. Two years of that doesn't sound
so bad to me, erotically speaking. I almost wish they had conscription for us
girls, actually." That was a blatant lie, but in a good cause.
"I couldn't stand it!" he almost moaned. "What if they realised I was finding
the whole thing arousing? I think I'd die of pure humiliation."
"Oh, don't be silly. They'd just laugh at you, smack you a little harder and get
on with things. That's what we - what they, that is, always do when-"
"You bitch," hissed Ed suddenly. Realising her mistake, she closed her eyes and
bit her lower lip. Hard. Of course precise, exacting Ed wouldn't miss that kind
of thing. "You're with them, aren't you," he almost snarled. "Trying to trap me?
You're a lousy seductress, Amanda. You think I'm going to spend two years of my
life sweating for bitches like you just because I find the idea a bit kinky?
When I could stay here in Greece with a decent job, a loving girlfriend, and all
the calamari I can eat? Fuck off, Amanda. Just fuck off."
"Yes, all right," she snapped back, angered at his tone and at her own
clumsiness. "I'm a Conscription Officer now - a sergeant, even - and I've been
officially asked to try to get you to turn yourself in. But that doesn't change
anything we've been saying, so don't get all huffy. You'll still have to come
back sooner or later, and a certain kind of man really does find the whole
conscription thing unbearably sexy. Why don't you turn yourself in, Ed? I'll ask
them to have you assigned to my training unit - I'm sure they wouldn't say no -
and make sure you get all the rough handling and rough sex a skinny little
masochist like you could wish for. I'll make you squeal, Ed. I'll beat you till
you kneel down on the floor and beg for mercy. I'll make you work like you've
never worked before, and every single day I'll teach you all over again what it
means to be a slave. Maybe they'll even let me be there when they take you into
custody. I'd love to see the look on your face when they tell you to take your
clothes off. When they hit you for the first time. When they put cuffs on your
wrists, and you do that futile squirming thing that nobody can help trying right
at first. When they look you in the eye and grab you by the balls. You get back
here, Ed, and take what you've got coming."
"Fuck you."
"No Ed, I'm going to fuck you," she said furiously. "In a way you really won't
like, just as soon as I get my hands on you. We'll get you one way or another,
Ed. If you won't come back on your own, we'll find a way to drag you back, and
you can kick and scream all you want. Maybe that would even be more fun. But if
you decide to make things easier on yourself, just call the Conscription Office
and ask for me at Camp Shelley. The longer you wait, the worse it's going to be.
I'll make sure of that." She slammed down the phone.
"Now that must have been your boyfriend," said Christine Yarrow's voice from
behind her. Amanda whirled.
"Shit! You scared me. No, that was Mr. Edwin Sanderson." She gave the name a
sarcastic twist. "Our most famous fugitive, and our leaders in their wisdom seem
to think I'm qualified to - well, I'd rather not get into it. We've got to get
up at the crack of dawn to make forty naked women sweat through their first
calisthenics session - we should both get to bed."
"Yeah, we should." Christine took a step into the room, her eyes dancing. Amanda
looked at her, thought about what a long, complicated day it had been, and gave
a little shrug. She firmly pushed the door closed, and took Christine in her
arms.
