Chapter 16
It was a dreadful, blustery day, rain hammering at the window panes and mournful
gusts of wind moaning and sighing their way through the exquisitely pruned trees
in the gardens. Such weather was completely incongruous with Lady Briddington's
mood of delighted anticipation tinged with nervousness, and the impertinence of
the elements in attempting to dampen her spirits irritated her. With Richard's
farewell ceremony just around the corner, the skies had no right to display
anything other than sunlight and fair breezes.
"Or perhaps a melodramatic peal of thunder," she murmured.
"What, ma'am?" asked Sara from across the table. Today she was the image of the
perfect secretary, sitting attentively with her pencil poised above her notepad.
A large sheaf of official papers sat in front of her.
"Oh, nothing. I fear my thoughts are wandering. I do hope the preparations are
going well."
"For the celebration? I'm sure Ms. Reynolds has everything well in hand, ma'am.
I can hardly wait to find out exactly what you've planned. I do so want to see
Richard squirm and squeal one last time."
Lady Briddington allowed herself a brief smile. "Let us merely say it will be
like all well conceived graduation ceremonies - a combination of ritual, theatre
and pure silly amusement. Predictable in places, so as not to disappoint
anyone's expectations, but also containing elements that are intended to be
surprising and even shocking. I only hope the result is proportionate to the
amount of planning that has gone into it. I'll be dreadfully disappointed if
people are left with a feeling of anticlimax."
"Oh, I know it will be wonderful," soothed Sara. "Do you want to continue with
the proposals, ma'am, or shall we leave them?"
"Continue, I suppose. I did want to get through them today. Where were we?"
"Ms. Adrow from the United States. That businesswoman who wants to set up an
authentic 19th century cotton plantation, with black female overseers driving
some of our conscripts - preferably white men, the proposal says."
"Ah, yes, of course. It's an amusing idea, isn't it? I can just see the poor
boys scrambling to fill their daily quotas and then being herded inside for a
dinner of beans and cornbread, no doubt. But I'm not sure how well the racial
politics would sit with the public. I would hate to give the impression that
we're using our conscription system to support some sort of African revenge
crusade. Put that one in the 'mull over' pile."
"Most of them seem to be ending up there, ma'am," Sara smiled as she hurried to
jot down her employer's comments. Lady Briddington didn't have the last word on
any of this, of course, but the committee that was supposed to periodically
approve or reject new projects for the conscripts - she'd be hanged if she could
remember its official name - was due to meet in six weeks and she was supposed
to show up with her own preliminary opinions already formulated.
"Not all of them," she protested. "I thought we were going to recommend
acceptance of quite a few."
"Well, some." Sara flipped through the pile. "The wrestling league... the new
motorway restoration crews... the camera factory... the Punic War movie with
conscripts as Roman slaves... the chemical irritant tests at that perfume
company... and loans to other countries for officer training purposes, of
course. I suppose that's a fair list. But we've only got one for definite
rejection, the thing about the psychic hotline."
Lady Briddington sniffed. "I'm surprised that one even made it this far. We have
no business pandering to people's absurd superstitions. But yes, I see your
point. I suppose I shall be doing a lot of mulling between now and the meeting.
That committee can be such a lot of trouble."
"If you don't mind my saying so, ma'am, I really don't understand why you agreed
to serve on it at all. It's not as if they wouldn't listen to your opinions
anyway."
"Oh, they'd listen, but my comments would not carry quite the same weight
without being an official part of the committee's proceedings. And besides," she
murmured, speaking more to herself than to Sara now, "a proposal came up last
time that I simply had to ensure was accepted, over everyone else's objections.
The megalith at Skara Brae."
* * *
Lying bound and naked below decks, Ed Sanderson had become sufficiently
disorientated that he had no idea whether to expect darkness or sunlight when
the Serbian women finally dragged him to his feet and marched him firmly and
efficiently toward the ladder. Not even Erika, the younger of the two, showed
any inclination to toy with him; right now, they were all business, half leading
and half dragging him as he stumbled on rubbery legs that had been untied only a
moment ago. The rolling of the small vessel on the Aegean swells would have been
bad enough even under normal circumstances.
When they opened the hatch he looked up and saw Demetria's pale face surrounded
by a panoply of stars that would have been unthinkable in smoggy Athens. Her
dark trenchcoat gave it an oddly ghostly and disembodied appearance, and her
peculiar expression - a mingling of excitement, amusement and vague sympathy -
only enhanced the effect. Ed wanted desperately to throw himself at her feet and
beg her once more not to go through with the night's sinister transaction, as he
had begged her while they lay naked together below. She had smiled very tenderly
and tried to silence him with one of the softest, firmest kisses of his entire
life, but he had persisted until she finally forced the gag back into his mouth
and rolled him onto his back for yet another bout of passion. She had been
immensely gentle, as attentive to his pleasure as to her own, and yet utterly
determined not to even discuss what she was about to do to him. He was going to
be sold like an animal to the English conscription service, and he didn't even
know how much they'd decided his freedom was worth.
Tanja clambered straight up the ladder with the ease of the very tall as Erika
slapped his left buttock and pointed after her. "Up. Go." His hands were still
tightly tied together in front of him, but he managed to drag himself most of
the way up the ladder despite the constant motion of the boat, and Tanja grabbed
him roughly under the armpits to heave him up on deck. He ended up lying on the
coarsely finished boards at Demetria's feet, and when he started to rise she
planted one foot in the small of his back and forced him back down. Gently, of
course - always so gently, with her - but with implacable firmness. He gritted
his teeth and dug his fingernails once again into already deeply scored palms,
reminding himself once again that he had no intention of begging. Erika
clambered up after him.
Another vessel, just large enough that he was unsure whether to think of it as a
boat or a ship, loomed over them in the dark. Uniformed figures were already
climbing down a chain ladder to meet Demetria, and Ed swallowed hard and pressed
his forehead to the deck as he recognised the first of them as his old friend
Amanda Harris. The last person in the world he wanted to see right then.
But she was crossing the deck with heavy, ominous steps, hardly bothered at all
by the cursed nautical rocking.
"Demetria, I presume," she said from somewhere above him.
"Officer Harris. Happy, happy meet you." Despite everything, Ed sighed in
irritation. Hadn't he managed to teach her better English than that? Had he
accomplished anything at all since fleeing Britain, other than delaying and
perhaps worsening the inevitable?
"I wish I could say the same," Amanda replied coldly. "We've got your money, you
greedy bitch."
"I have thing you want, I sell," Demetria said imperturbably. "English, you
should understand."
"I want to see the boy. Let him kneel up." Demetria lifted her foot from his
back after a brief show of hesitation, but Ed stayed exactly where he was. A
moment later a rough hand, certainly not Demetria's, grabbed him by the hair and
pulled him up to his knees.
"Hello, Ed," Amanda hissed. "If you really do like being pushed around and
beaten to a pulp by big strong women, then I'm prepared to make you absolutely
ecstatic."
"Demetria, please," he moaned, in Greek. "Don't do this!"
"Quiet, love," she murmured soothingly. "We're not going to let you go. In a
minute you'll be in her power - savour the feeling." Ed couldn't help it: sick
with terror, he started to cry, for the first time since his childhood. Amanda
grinned like a death's head. "I hope she's telling you something nice, because
you won't be getting that sort of thing from anyone else for a long, long, time.
I'm going to rip you into little -"
"Not now," Demetria cut in. "He here, he in good condition, yes? Give rest of
money."
Amanda gestured curtly with the hand that wasn't tangled in his hair, and one of
the officers with her stepped forward with a big black suitcase. She was a tough
looking woman, a compact brunette with a tattoo of some kind on the back of her
right hand. Demetria took the suitcase and knelt on the deck to flip it open.
"It's all there," Amanda insisted. Ed turned, trying to look, but she jerked his
head back around impatiently. "That's none of your business. You've got other
things to worry about."
For a couple of minutes there was silence, then the sound of the suitcase
snapping shut and Demetria getting back to her feet. Whatever quick, approximate
count she had done must have satisfied her. "He yours now," she said. "Pleasure
doing business with you."
"And take good care of him," Erika put in.
"Oh, I intend to. In the conscription service we believe in guidance - close
guidance - and firm discipline, and he'll get plenty of both." She turned to the
two women who had accompanied her, the one with the tattoo and another who was
standing a little way back in the shadows. "Get him properly handcuffed and
bring him over here. Christine should have lowered a rope - there it is."
Amanda released his hair and the other officers closed in on him, perhaps a bit
hesitantly. The one who'd been standing off to one side was a small, slender
woman with the delicate features of the Far East, who seemed a far cry from what
the internet propaganda had let him to expect in a conscription officer. But her
expression was stern as she took his arms in a grip of iron and held them while
the tattooed girl untied his wrists. The moment they were free she wrenched them
behind his back, abruptly enough to make him gasp with pain. His wrists were
pinioned again, this time in cold steel, and then he found himself walking
between the officers toward the looming bulk of their vessel. The Oriental
woman's fingers dug cruelly into one arm, while the tattooed officer held the
other firmly but almost comfortably.
"Bring him here," called Amanda, and he felt himself being turned. Amanda was
holding the free end of a long rope that dangled down from above, and she wound
it around his chest, over his shoulders and under his arms to make a crude
harness. She grinned as she brought a strand back between his legs and pulled it
very tight indeed. He squirmed and wept fresh tears when her hand brushed
against his humiliatingly erect penis.
There was an electronic whirring from high above and he felt himself being drawn
upward. Like any other commodity, he thought bitterly, a pricey bit of
merchandise being carefully brought aboard - and then strong hands were lifting
him onto another deck, one made of steel, and a towering woman who rather
resembled a younger version of Tanja the Serbian slave trader was unwinding the
harness.
"He stinks," said Amanda, pulling herself up over the rail. "Trisk, Adaka, take
him and get him cleaned up, then search him thoroughly and chain him to the bunk
in one of the detention cabins. You needn't give him any clothes, of course. If
he tries to talk, or doesn't cooperate, I want him strapped, but don't overdo
it." Her eyes seemed to linger on the petite Adaka for a moment. "Come report to
me when you're finished."
She and the tall officer turned away without another word. "Move!" snapped
Adaka, and shoved him hard in the direction of yet another hatch leading down
into yet another claustrophobic darkness. The woman with the tattoo, the one
called Trisk, descended first and supported him as he tried to clamber down with
his hands cuffed behind him, her tightly muscled body warm and powerful against
his legs and lower back. She wasn't exactly being gentle with him, but she
wasn't going out of her way to hurt him, either, and Ed caught himself feeling
grateful that he wasn't alone with this Officer Adaka. She seemed mean and
brutal, cruel in a way that made her very different from the sensual, purringly
sadistic goddesses of his fantasies.
Ed was perfectly docile and obedient as they pushed him under a shower, soaping
and rinsing and finally drying him with their own smooth, exciting hands, and
then subjected every crevice of his body to a thorough and utterly humiliating
search. Adaka's touch was rough and very impersonal, more appropriate for a
piece of inert meat than the body of a living human, but Trisk poked and teased
a little and gave him an almost conspiratorial smile despite her colleague's
glare of open disapproval. But she was as firm as ever as she took his arm to
lead him to a tiny and almost featureless room down the hall from the shower.
There was a steel bunk with a thin mattress - no pillow or bedding - and a
plastic bucket with a roll of toilet paper. Attached to one wall was a chain
that ended in a single open cuff, anchored near the head of the bunk and snaking
its way across the mattress like a sinister serpent of gleaming metal.
"Over here," said Trisk, unnecessarily, and picked up the chain before Adaka
could get to it. She snapped the cuff around his right wrist, snugly but at
least not painfully tight, tethering him to the bunk. He could reach the bucket
easily enough, but the door was out of the question. Of course.
"You will remain here!" Adaka rapped out. Talk about unnecessary instructions.
"You will wait silently. You will not masturbate." Ed blushed and lowered his
head.
"Well, you look like you want to," said Trisk, more gently but with a wry glance
at his bobbing erection. "Look at me, Conscript Sanderson. You were very clever,
and you almost escaped, but in the end we caught you, and now you're going to
have to pay the price. We're really going to make you wish you'd never been
born, because that's our job, and we're bloody good at it. But remember, it's
only for the usual two years - that was part of the agreement with your father.
Good luck." She glanced back with a smile of what appeared to be genuine
sympathy as she and Adaka stepped out of the room, but it didn't make the harsh
clang of the steel door seem any less final. Ed moaned and curled into a little
ball on his bunk, really sobbing now that he was alone.
Eventually he had more or less cried himself out, and lay staring up at the
ceiling with only the occasional sniffle. He was burning with thirst and aching
with hunger - Demetria had fed him a little on the boat, from her mouth and
cunt, but that had been hours ago - and numb with the shock of what had happened
to him. Betrayed, stripped naked, tied up and sold. Handed over to a childhood
friend of his who had promptly ordered him chained in a little cell, and had
made it clear that she intended to torture him until he shook the whole ship
with his screaming - or would she wait until they were back on English soil? The
uncertainty was as bad as any of the rest of it. And yet, God help him, it was
all so horribly, undeniably exciting. Through all the crying, all the clawing at
the walls and the coarse fabric of the mattress, his erection had never quite
gone away. He was looking forward to seeing the expression on Amanda's face as
she brought the strap down on his body for the first time. If she suddenly
stepped into the tiny, unbearably bright little cell and announced it was all a
joke, offered him a cup of good English tea and a free ride back to Athens,
would he feel an undercurrent of disappointment along with the overwhelming
flood of relief? Well, of course he would.
As though summoned by his thoughts, footsteps sounded outside the door, echoing
harshly down the metal corridor. It was Amanda herself, of course, and the tall
officer with her. They stepped into the cell, the taller woman having to stoop a
little, and both looked down on his naked body with an air of satisfaction. He
reached down with his free hand to cover himself, but Amanda slapped it away
with the casual ease of swatting a fly.
"The trainees who brought you down here have gone off to bed," Amanda explained.
"Time for the big girls to have their fun."
"Trainees?" Ed echoed.
"Oh, they're quite far along. They've been practicing on real conscripts for
some time now, and they'll be ready to help break in the next lot when they're
called up in just a few days. What did you think of them?"
The question took him by surprise. "Definitely capable," he stammered after a
moment. "And scary, especially that Jap bit- the Japanese officer, that is.
Adaka, was it?"
"Yes. Certainly one of the more severe ladies in my training unit. She believes
that men are best controlled through pain and intimidation, both of which she
inflicts eagerly and often. Lots of shouting, harsh corporal punishments, no
affection or playfulness ever. It's a common attitude among our Japanese guests,
apparently - I have a feeling their system is going to be twice as unpleasant as
ours once it's up and running.
"Trisk, on the other hand," she continued, "is more like a strict but benevolent
older sister. She hurts the men only as much as they deserve, and she'll be nice
to them once in a while if she thinks they've earned it. But when they really
step out of line, you wouldn't believe how hard she can come down on them. I
prefer that sort of attitude, personally - positive reinforcement of obedience,
as we call it, as well as negative."
"That's encouraging," said Ed with a hint of his usual flippancy, but her faint
smile vanished abruptly.
"Oh, don't worry, I wasn't talking about you. You've stepped out of line in
almost the worst way I can imagine, and I'm going to make sure you live to
regret it. You see, Ed, I've got you. They've given you to me - you're all mine
until we get to England, of course, which will be a couple of days, and
afterwards you're going to enter the system as a conscript in my basic training
unit. I'll make sure you get plenty of extra chores and punishments, and I'll
recommend something really nasty for your first work assignment - the
psychological experimentation people like to get their hands on men with a
masochistic streak, for one thing, and that's no fun at all. It won't take them,
or me, very long to get well beyond anything you'd find the least bit kinky. In
fantasies you don't have to put up with being put to bed hungry, or woken up
before dawn for a brutal exercise session, or made to line up at a trench with a
row of other naked men when you have to take a piss. This is real slavery, and
you're not going to like it. Nobody does."
"But I'm getting so turned on just hearing you talk about it," Ed whispered.
"Oh, really? Well, I'm sure it all sounds very nice in theory, but now it's time
to try a little practice. Unlock him, will you, Christine?" She did, and Ed sat
up on the edge of the bed.
"You need the bucket?" Amanda asked peremptorily.
"No. But I could really use some water."
"Hmm. That's nice. On your feet, Sanderson." She grinned at his dismay. "This is
how it feels to have somebody else running your life. You'd better get used to
it. Oh, and call me ma'am from now on."
They led him back down the hall, holding him tightly but not bothering with
handcuffs, and then through a door that stood almost opposite the showers. It
was obviously some kind of punishment room, the walls hung with restraints and
disciplinary implements and the floor crowded with cages of various shapes and
heavy pieces of furniture that were ominously equipped with dangling leather
straps. Obviously, then, the ship - if it hadn't felt quite big enough to
deserve the word before, it certainly did now - was dedicated to transporting
conscripts, not merely a borrowed naval or commercial vessel. But the thought
vanished at once as Ed realised there was another woman waiting for them in the
room, a dignified and bespectacled figure with brown skin and long black hair
that had gone mostly silver. She was wearing a long purple wrap, printed with
floral patterns, rather than the uniform of a conscription officer. She stood
beside the only piece of equipment in the room that was covered or concealed in
any way, something tall and narrow and draped with thick fabric the colour of
dried blood. It was the same size and shape as one of the cages, the one that
looked just big enough for a man to stand in if he kept his body rigid and his
arms tightly pressed against his sides, and Ed wondered if the thing might be
some more sinister variation on the same idea.
But the presence of the woman was completely incongrous. She nodded politely and
favoured him with a smile that seemed almost benevolent as Amanda and the other
officer shoved him roughly into the room and pulled the door closed behind the
three of them. She looked like a kindly Indian grandmother, someone who had no
business whatsoever being in a torture chamber, but nevertheless she seemed
perfectly at ease with their surroundings and with his nudity. Ed watched her
curiously, not daring to break a pregnant silence in which he could hear quite
clearly the breathing of the two women beside him. Each of them had a hand
resting lightly on one of his wrists, as if they were afraid of sudden violence
or a crazy dash for freedom. They needn't have worried, Ed thought bitterly; he
was trapped and utterly helpless, and he knew it.
"Today you're going to be greatly honoured, Ed," Amanda said finally, her tone
only vaguely sarcastic. "Have you ever heard of Camp Bathori?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied carefully, with a sinking feeling. "There was something
about it on the website. Isn't that the punishment camp?"
"Absolutely. Where we send the incorrigibles, the worst of the worst. Do you
know how it got its name?"
"Named after some woman, I suppose, like the others," he said a bit sulkily.
Amanda grabbed his wrist and twisted it. "Ow!" he yelped.
"No petulance. And always remember the proper address. But you're right. They
looked through the history books, but couldn't find an Englishwoman cruel enough
to give her name to a place that existed purely to administer severe,
unrelenting discipline. So they settled on a Hungarian lady called Elizabeth
Bathori, a noblewoman from I think the sixteen-hundreds - it doesn't matter. She
apparently used to torture people to death by the dozen, though most of her
victims were unfortunately young women. But beggars can't be choosers. They took
the name, and decided it would be only appropriate to include a modernised
version of a favourite device of hers in the camp. Thanks to the efforts of Dr.
Chagramutri here, it's now ready, and you're to be the first living victim to
test it - right now, prior to its actual installation. I think you'll find it
quite an experience, Ed. But since we have the inventor on hand, I'll let her
explain it to you."
"Perhaps it is better that the boy find out for himself," said the Indian woman
mildly. "Here, let me show you." She reached up and swept the covering off the
mysterous device, with a gasp of effort. "I did not do the external sculpting,"
she hastened to point out. "Only the interior mechanics." The words barely
registered. Ed was staring at a stature of one of the few Hindu deities he could
recognise - Kali, the great destroyer goddess, in all her terrible glory. Her
skin was almost black, her eyes wide and bloodshot, her teeth long fangs. She
was naked, long-haired and four-armed, though without her traditional weapons.
Her necklace of human skulls was only the most obvious of her several grotesque
adornments. But it was the sheer realism of the sculpture that struck Ed, to the
point that he had to consciously remind himself that this apparition could not
possibly be a creature of flesh and blood. The visual texture of the gleaming
skin and lustrous hair - at her crotch, and under all four arms, as well as on
her head - was almost frightening in its perfection. But Ed had no idea how the
thing could possibly be described as an implement of torture, unless the intent
was simply to give him nightmares.
"Needless to say, the Countess Bathori did not own a Hindu icon," Dr.
Chagramutri continued in the tone of one lecturing to a scholarly audience. "Her
statue was blond, and quite European, to say nothing of the number of limbs. But
I took the liberty of honouring the traditions of my homeland."
Ed looked at her in complete bewilderment.
"Step forward," she said gently. "Touch her."
"Do it," snapped Amanda, when he hesitated. What on Earth was supposed to
happen? He walked up to the statue cautiously, and stretched a hand toward its
shoulder. He could feel faint heat radiating from it, as from a living body, but
the scent was of new plastic. He pressed his finger quickly to the smooth brown
surface, yielding to the touch, and pulled it back. Nothing at all happened.
"More slowly," murmured Dr. Chagramutri from behind him. "Feel a bit of her
skin. She will forgive you if your touch strays onto her bosom." He obeyed
reluctantly, surprised once again at how perfectly the material mimicked the
flesh of a living body. He did prod the breasts, just a little, and found them
hardly less yielding than Demetria's had been.
"And her hair." He felt under her arms, ran his fingers through the sable
curtain that fell from her head, and was amazed all over again. The individual
hairs were perhaps just a bit too coarse, but otherwise perfect. "You will see
that every anatomical detail has been rendered. Try between her legs."
He blushed, and it took a warning look from Amanda to make him reach down there.
The pubic hair was just like a woman's of course, and he was hardly surprised to
find an intricately sculpted vulva beneath. There were the labia, the clitoris -
the moment he touched it, the statue grabbed him.
There was no other way to describe it. The thing suddenly and spontaneously
moved, its arms jerkier than life but nevertheless swift and horribly powerful.
All four twined around his back and pulled him into a close embrace, so that his
chest was pressed up against the soft breasts he had been fondling a moment ago.
He could feel her skull necklace digging into him. One hand grabbed his two
wrists, and held them tightly pinned in the small of his back. Others descended
to take his thighs and lift his feet an inch or two off the floor, so that he
was hanging on her with his legs danglingly helplessly to either side of her
body and his whole torso pressed against hers. The strands of her long black
hair lifted in a filmy veil of darkness and twined around the back of his head.
Individually light as threads, they collectively exerted enough force to pull
his face to hers and tilt his head a little sideways so that she could kiss him
full on the lips. He struggled, trying to pull free of an embrace that was not
only terrifying but also tight enough to be mildly painful, and the thing simply
bore down with its implacable mechanical strength until the only movement left
to him was the impotent swinging of his lower legs against empty air. He
whimpered in terror, the sound muffled against the soft lips of the death
goddess.
"The automata of the seventeeth century were wonderfully clever," Dr.
Changamutri continued as though nothing had happened. "We are told, for
instance, of mechanical ducks that could ingest food and excrete it as well as
paddling about in the water. Countess Bathori's statue could pull girls into its
embrace and impale them on hidden blades with wondrous precision. I have
constructed a modern descendant that is less horrendously damaging, but far more
sophisticated, and I think equally cruel. The most difficult technical challenge
was getting the individual hairs to move properly and with a degree of
coordination. Compared to that, everything you are about to experience was
child's play."
But things, in fact, were already happening. An unnaturally long and powerful
tongue was forcing itself between his teeth, into his mouth, and horribly
tickling the back of his throat. The statue's fourth hand had reached down
between his legs, and was guiding his erection into her (its?) warm, moist
sheath. And worst of all, tiny bits of metal were emerging all over her body,
torturing his flesh everywhere it touched hers. Blades cut, needles pierced, and
heated probes burned, all with a precision that seemed even beyond the
diabolical. He screamed and screamed into her lips and tongue, perceiving not
individual wounds but rather a mass of agony that covered the front of his body
from neck to navel. Lower still, the folds of her vagina pulled and squeezed his
stiff shaft as her long fingers massaged his scrotum and prodded gently at his
anus, never quite pushing inside. Some sort of saline fluid was beginning to
flow from her nose and the corners of her mouth, running down between their
bodies, finding the minute cuts and punctures all over his body and setting them
afire with agony. Consumed with pain and pleasure and terror, he sobbed and did
his best to scream even as hot semen burst from his cock into the interior of
his mechanical tormentress. Almost immediately his mouth was flooded with a
sickening, salty taste, and he realised at once that she was somehow pumping his
cum up through her robotic guts and out from the tip of her tongue. The hand
that had been working at his groin came up to pinch shut his nose until he
gulped down the vile stuff, then stroked his forehead in a hideous mockery of
tenderness. Her lips disengaged from his, and the head drew back a little, until
he could look into her dark eyes.
"My dear one," hissed a voice from deep inside her, although the movements of
her mouth were only roughly coordinated with the words. She seemed to have no
intention of releasing him.
"Well, Ed?" Amanda asked mockingly. "How do you like your punishment - so far?"
"Please!" he wailed. "Make her let me go! She's hurting me - she's going to kill
me -"
"Oh, nonsense," Amanda laughed. "You're hardly bleeding at all. Could we try the
higher setting, Dr. Changamutri?"
"Yes, of course. Kali! Full repeat, level 2." Voice recognition, on top of
everything else? But the hair was pulling him close again, the full lips
parting, the upper right hand slithering down his spine and between his
buttocks. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Indian woman's beaming
face as she regarded her creation and first victim with the expression of a
proud mother at a happy wedding. "So beautiful," she whispered as it all began
to happen over again, slower and harder and more thoroughly.
* * *
Andrea was having trouble concentrating. The music in the restaurant was a
little too loud, the lights were a little too bright, and the surprisingly
strong English beer she'd been drinking was starting to go to her head. Even if
she'd been able to keep her eyes off the naked male waiters for any length of
time, it wouldn't have been easy to stay focused. Among other things, she was
mightily puzzled as to why the slender brunette she'd met at the resistance
meeting would bring her here, of all places, to an establishment mired in the
very institution the humourless abolitionists of the Direct Action Group were
trying so hard to abolish. Not, of course, that she minded.
On the other hand, the woman sitting opposite her seemed anything but
humourless. She was petite and pretty, with a warm, vivacious face surrounded by
a cascade of crisp brown ringlets. She seemed to be one of the younger members
of the Group, certainly not much beyond thirty, and she was the only person
Andrea had seen at the meeting - aside from herself, of course - who seemed to
have any fashion sense whatsoever. Andrea knew her only as S.S., as one of the
Group's many security precautions forbade the use of full names. Despite her
involvement in the resistance, she looked like she enjoyed the sight of the nude
men scurrying to serve their female customers almost as much as Andrea did
herself.
"I still don't understand why you didn't just present all this at the meeting
today," Andrea said a bit unhappily, tormented by an obscure sense that she was
missing something obvious and important.
S.S. smiled. "I'm afraid the Group still don't really trust me - I'm on
probation, as it were. They sense that I'm not quite like the rest of them."
"Not like them?" Andrea echoed, completely thrown. "But - I don't -"
Her smile deepened. "Look over there," she said quietly, with a nod over
Andrea's shoulder. Andrea turned and gasped audibly in excitement - she couldn't
help it - as she saw one of the waiters at a nearby table bend over and place
his fingertips on the floor, thrusting his buttocks up and back. One of the
women seated there drew her chair over beside him and began to spank him with
hard, stinging, full-armed blows, reddening the pale flesh as he squirmed and
whimpered. "You like that?" S.S. asked. "It costs five pounds, but you get your
meal for free if you can make him scream in twenty spanks or less."
"Mom says it's wrong," mumbled Andrea, blushing.
"And yet so diverting."
"Well, maybe, but -" she broke off midsentence. "You mean you like it too?" she
asked incredulously. "It doesn't make you mad?"
"Oh, anything but," S.S. laughed. "I don't parade my attitudes in front of your
mother and her friends, naturally, but let's just say I disagree with a great
many of their ideas. I work for - well, let's just say I work for the Other
Side. Slipping inside the Group was something of a triumph, but I haven't
managed to gain their confidence quite as thoroughly as I would have liked.
That's why I think we may be able to help each other."
"My mom's not a criminal," Andrea said quickly. "I mean, she really believes in
what she's doing, she doesn't want to hurt anyone, she doesn't -"
"Of course," said S.S. soothingly. "And don't worry, nothing's going to happen
to her. I'm not going to arrest her or anything, if that's what you were afraid
of. In fact, as I was saying earlier, I want to point the Group toward a
boatload of slaves they can liberate - nearly a hundred men. It's just that I
need one of those men to be handed over to me rather than spirited away to a
sympathetic country. If you can help convince them to go along with this, I can
certainly arrange to do you a favour in return - a cash reward, if that's what
you want, or perhaps a very interesting evening with a couple of handsome young
conscripts."
"But I can't convince them to do anything. I don't have any real authority. Even
mom's sort of an outsider. We're from the States, you know."
"It's just a question of presenting the information properly. Don't mention me.
People saw us leaving the meeting together, so you'll have to say we separated
soon after - just in time for you to be accosted by a distraught elderly man who
saw you walking out of a suspected underground gathering place and naturally
thought you might be able to help rescue his grandson."
"Grandson?"
"Yes, the boy I want, one Conscript Tipper. He's about to be sent offshore to a
new work assigment, the one I described earlier-"
"The stone circle thing," said Andrea. "I still don't really get what that's all
about."
"Oh, that's all right, nobody does. Or almost nobody - I certainly don't. It's
one of the goddess churches that have really taken off lately in this country.
They've got this nonsensical idea about building a sort of miniature Stonehenge
near a Stone Age archaeological site called Skara Brae, to reconsecrate it to
the Earth Mother or something, and naturally they feel it all ought to be done
by male slaves instead of machinery. That's why they want to rent a boatload of
conscripts and ship them out to the Orkneys. All the Group needs to do is revive
the age-old tradition of piracy in those parts, and liberate the lot before they
arrive. Most of them will have to be smuggled quietly to a suitable nearby
country - I'd recommend Sweden - but Conscript Tipper's grandfather is willing
to hide him a little closer to home if only the lad can be set ashore on a
certain stretch of coast just north of Aberdeen. Trusted friends will be waiting
to pick him up. The details, and a map, are all in here." She pulled a thin
folder from her bag and set it on the table.
"What's really going to happen to him?"
"Oh, he'll disappear back into the system," said S.S. vaguely. "In a way. I
expect we'll eventually get most of the others back from the Swedes, too, if we
play our cards properly. But all you need to do is pass on what I've told you to
your mother, with an appropriate sense of outrage at the poor boys' plight and a
burning eagerness to rescue them, and I'm sure she'll be able to convince the
rest of the Group quite easily. She knows how to be persuasive, as we saw today,
and after all she's the one supplying the guns. For a resistance organisation in
search of a viable target, which seems to be more or less where things stand at
the moment, this ought to be nearly perfect. The conscripts are going to be
taken across on an old ferry, guarded by just a few officers, and they shouldn't
give a well armed team any trouble at all."
"I feel like I've walked into a James Bond movie," Andrea protested.
"Well, you can certainly take a little while to think it over, if you need to.
But remember, there are things I can do for you. In the meantime, do you want to
spank our waiter? He looks the type who'd redden up very nicely, with that fair
skin."
* * *
Carl was exultant as he ran through the cool spring night. Freedom at last! He
had managed to disappear quite thoroughly into the thick woods that surrounded
the labour camp, and it had been some time since he'd heard any sound of
pursuit.
"Carl, you've done it," he said out loud. After months of being permitted to
speak only at specific times, and always with the utmost deference, it was
almost a relief to hear the sound of his own voice. "You've escaped. No more
officers, no more environmental restoration, no more beatings, no more fucking
conscription. Ha! And you know right where you're going, don't you? Those guys
at the service station. No love lost between them and the bitches, that's for
sure. They're sure to know somebody who can help you find a good place to lie
low, or better yet slip out of the whole bloody country for a while. Or even
start the revolution..." But that was a dangerous train of thought. Revolution,
on a small scale, was what had got him caught last time. It was better to choose
one's battles carefully, avoid straying too far from cover, and sort of assume
that everybody else would be sensible enough to do the same. Attempted heroics
would only earn him another stint at Camp Bathori.
The service station he had referred to was owned and operated by the Jones
brothers, a pair of cantankerous middle aged bachelors who lived on the premises
and seemed to have every intention of eventually dying on them as well.
Everything Carl knew about them he had learned from overhearing the camp
officers' complaining about their rudeness and "disrespectful attitude", as the
prim Officer Jordan had once put it. Their station was so conveniently close to
the camp that it was really the only logical place to buy petrol and get their
few vehicles periodically serviced, but Carl had the distinct impression that
the officers would have stopped dealing with them months ago if there had been
any real alternative. Carl needed a ride to safer country; the Jones brothers
had to know most of the local lorry drivers, which meant they could help him,
and they apparently disliked the conscription service and everything it stood
for, which meant they would help him. And he had passed the station often
enough, while being driven out into the woods for his day's work, that he knew
almost exactly how to find it.
Everything was still and quiet, and dripping with the lingering damp of
yesterday's rain. There was no moonlight, and he had to walk very carefully
under the darkness of the trees, but on the other hand he had found a familiar
trail that ran almost parallel to the road. He wasn't sure exactly how long he'd
been walking, and he knew he wasn't making terribly good time, but all the same
he was sure that he was getting pretty close. "Any minute now," he murmured
exultantly.
When he glimpsed lights through the trees he grinned in relief and broke into a
loping run, only to stumble almost immediately over some treacherous stone and
fall sprawling on the hard earth of the trail. He picked himself up, too
accustomed to bruises to really be bothered, and proceeded somewhat more
cautiously. He had gone upstairs with Officer Collins around 8:30 - officers and
conscripts alike went to bed early, and rose early - and he guessed it was still
a bit short of midnight. Sure enough, light still glowed from an upstairs window
at the Jones' station, and Carl dashed to the door as soon as he was clear of
the trees and pounded on it as though he meant to smash it into oblivion.
"Help!" he shouted. "Let me in. I've run away from the camp - open the door
quick!"
Footsteps from indoors, more lights flickering to life, and then a burly fellow
with bushy eyebrows and a formidable black mustache standing there with a
bemused frown on his broad forehead.
"Run away? What the hell do you mean, run away?"
"I'm a conscript," Carl answered, "or I was. I've escaped from the labour camp
up there" - he pointed - "and I desperately need somewhere to sleep until I can
move on in the morning." That was a good place to start, anyway. "I've heard
that you and your brother aren't exactly the biggest fans of the conscription
system, and I thought you might be glad to strike a blow for freedom, as it
were. Can you help me? I don't have anywhere else to go."
The man gave him a hard, unwelcoming look, and for a terrible moment Carl
thought he was going to be turned away. But then his expression softened a
little. "I'm not letting you in with that thing," he said warningly, with a
gesture toward Carl's tranquiliser pistol. "Hand it over, nice and easy." Well,
that was reasonably enough. Carl surrendered the weapon, keeping his movements
slow and the barrel pointed toward his own body. The other man nodded and
motioned Carl inside.
It was a relief when the door closed behind him, and he felt for the first time
in months that he had reached a place of safety and freedom. It was no wonder
Mr. Jones - one of the Mr. Joneses, anyway - wasn't exactly glad to see a
fugitive appear suddenly on his doorstep in the dark of the night, but surely he
would come around once Carl had the chance to explain exactly how unspeakably
awful it was in those camps. No one with a shred of human decency, especially a
man, could possibly refuse him help once the facts were out in the open. And
perhaps, if things went well here, the seeds of a great masculine rebellion
could be planted after all. Carl knew it was a dangerously seductive idea, but
being under a friendly roof with not a nasty, domineering woman in sight had
buoyed his spirits immensely.
Mr. Jones led Carl quickly through the business part of the building, into a
back room, and up a ladder - Carl shook his head in momentary amazement - to the
upstairs living area. The furniture up here was old, and every available surface
seemed to be cluttered with what had to be years and years of accumulated junk,
but the place had a comfortable, domestic feeling to it and Carl began to feel
at home almost at once. Moments later he was being waved into an old chair in
front of a crackling fire.
"Company?" called a voice from somewhere.
Mr. Jones - Jones One - gave an affirmative grunt. "Says he's run away from the
conscription service," he replied. Was Carl imagining the faint hint of approval
he heard in the man's tone?
Footsteps sounded immediately, and the second Mr. Jones appeared at the doorway.
He was older than his brother, his remaining fringe of hair a stern iron grey in
colour, but just as powerfully built. There was an obvious family resemblance in
their wide, craggy faces.
"You say you've run away?" asked Jones Two.
"Yes. I had to. It was nothing but torture in the camp - beatings, brutally hard
work, abuse of every kind imaginable. Thank God I was lucky enough to get away."
"I suppose we ought to get introduced," said Jones One cautiously. "I'm Allan
Jones, and this is my brother Arthur."
"Jacobs. Carl Jacobs."
"And what exactly do you think we can do for you, Mr. Jacobs?"
"Help me get further from the camp, I suppose. It won't be long before they
organise some kind of search, I know it won't. But you must know someone who
could let me ride east in the back of a lorry."
"Ah. I suppose we might," Arthur Jones put in. "You've come from the local work
camp? The one just up the road?"
"Yes, that's right."
"The officers come round here sometimes. Snooty lot."
Carl laughed, in relief as much as anything. "To say the least."
There was a momentary silence. The brothers exchanged a glance, and although
Carl could make nothing of their expressions he had the feeling that they knew
one another well enough to have communicated something of importance.
"I'll be back in a moment, then," said Arthur Jones decisively.
"Just sit tight," said Allan, apparently noting Carl's discomfiture. "You're all
right here."
"You can help me, can't you? If I can get away by dawn, maybe sooner or later
I'll be able to tell the world about this system of theirs. The people of
Britain - the men of Britain in particular - won't stand for it once they know
the truth."
"Ah, well, we see a great deal on the news, you know. Is it really as bad as all
that?"
"Of course!" Carl exclaimed. "You wouldn't believe how hard they work us, and
the beatings are horrendous. Wasn't corporal punishment outlawed in this country
decades ago? It's not good for Britain, or for anything, really, except some
sort of sick female revenge on the other half of the species. It doesn't make
the conscripts into model citizens, it makes them angry and resentful. I know
from experience."
"Perhaps it only takes time," Allan mused. "That's the effect of discipline, as
I remember from my time in the service. Resentment first, then acceptance, and
finally understanding that it's for the best. I daresay the government had to do
something. You wouldn't believe the way the local lads carry on sometimes, late
at night when they've been bingeing on a weekend. Smashed out half our windows
once."
Carl was beginning to feel uneasy. "But you do agree that they've gone too far,
haven't they? I did have to escape." Allan Jones only raised his eyebrows, and
Carl half rose to his feet. "What's going on here? Where did your brother go?"
"Sit tight," Allan all but growled, leaning forward a little. Carl suddenly saw
the man's bulk in a very different light, and settled back into his chair,
hoping for the best but suddenly fearing the worst. Why hadn't he insisted on
hanging on to the gun? Surely they weren't going to... He glanced nervously
around the room, willing to look at anything but Allan's stern, impassive face.
He started in his chair when Arthur strode in again, looking unhappy.
"They say we're to hold on to him for the night. They'll come get him in the
morning."
"Who? Not the -"
"Shut up!" snapped Arthur, with a violence that took Carl completely by
surprise. He had seemed by far the milder of the two. "You have no idea how much
trouble you're in, you little bastard. They say they've got an officer in a coma
- hit her head on some stairs - and they're not sure if she's going to wake up.
You just keep quiet and do what we tell you if you don't want to make it worse
for yourself. We're doing nothing but our legal duty." They both stepped toward
him, suddenly menacing. Carl instinctively retreated, stumbled into his chair,
and almost toppled back into it.
"Please, try to see it my way. I'm sorry about Officer Ingram, but I didn't mean
to really hurt her. The camp was awful - nothing but slavery - you're men, for
fuck's sake! Surely you're not going to let the bitches -" Allan stepped forward
and punched him in the stomach. He'd been hit harder during the period of his
conscription (much harder, at Camp Bathori), but no blow had ever come as a
greater surprise, not even that first little crack of the strap in the Intake
Centre. He groaned and clutched at himself.
"The officers," said Allan darkly, "can do whatever they damn well please to
spoiled hooligans like yourself if it results in the restoration of a little
social order in this country. They're doing you a favour, and you're too
pig-headed stupid to see it. Stand straight, I didn't hit you that hard."
"Please! If you'd just -" Allan raised his hand again, and Carl quieted.
"That's better," Arthur snapped. "Get out of that uniform."
"But I don't have anything underneath," said Carl sulkily, his mind numb with
betrayal.
"They want you kept naked. Get it off." Stripping in front of these men was
almost worse than it was with the female officers - there wasn't the least hint
of eroticism, only awkward embarrassment, and Carl didn't much like comparing
his slight physique to the hefty bulk that seemed to run in the Jones family.
When he stood nude before them he bowed his head in shame.
"Where are we going to put him?" Arthur asked. "They say he's got to be chained
so he can't jerk himself off."
"The old cowshed, I suppose. I'll take him, you get a chain and a couple of
padlocks." He took Carl roughly by the arm, his grip frighteningly strong and
not at all gentle. "And don't you even think of resisting. One more word and
I'll bash you again."
Carl knew he couldn't hope to fight a man of Mr. Jones' size, and he had little
hope of finding an opportunity to quickly slip free. Why wouldn't they just
listen to him? His eyes filled with hot, humiliating tears as he was led down a
rickety set of back stairs and out into the chill of a spring night. It was all
so unfair. Why, why, wouldn't they just listen to him? The cowshed, evidently
long unused, was a small brick building, squat and menacing in the dark. Carl
felt sick despair overcome him the minute he was pushed through the door of his
makeshift prison. The beam of Allan's torch, hastily grabbed on the way out,
played over a cheerless stone floor and the rotted remains of wooden stalls. It
was no warmer in here than it was outside.
Allan gestured brusquely toward a corner. "Sit there and wait for my brother."
Carl lowered himself into the inevitable position of a naked prisoner, head down
and knees drawn up to his chest to hide as much of his bare, vulnerable body as
possible, hugging his legs in a futile grasp at the straw of comfort. Allan
towered above him, as menacing and unmerciful as any officer Carl had ever
faced. But he swallowed in renewed dread when he heard the crunch of Arthur
Jones' footsteps on the gravel outside. They were going to put a chain on him,
and leave him here naked.
Arthur had not only the chain and padlocks, but a plastic bucket which he
dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Carl had been hoping for a blanket, but no
such luck, of course.
"Kneel up," said Arthur. "Face the wall." Carl obeyed the commands as they were
given, and didn't resist when he felt rough hands, presumably Arthur's, pull his
wrists behind him and wrap them deftly in the cold links of the chain. Locks
clicked, and suddenly he was a captive again. He saw them fasten the other end
to a metal ring in the wall.
"One more thing the lady from the camp wanted," said Arthur, now sounding a bit
apologetic. "Lie face down."
"Come on, what are you-"
"Don't make it worse. Down!"
Carl stretched himself out, the old flagstones cold and hard against his body,
worse even than Officer Collins' floor. He wasn't really surprised when he heard
a belt being unbuckled, but he yelped with pain as the very first blow landed
across his buttocks. There weren't many officers who could swing that hard, and
the fact that it was coming from a man somehow made it worse, added an element
of cruel treachery.
"They say," Arthur intoned as the beating continued, "that this isn't the first
time you've made trouble. They're going to tack an extra six months onto your
service time - they can do that, now, by order of the Prime Minister herself -
and when they get you back they're going to make you wish you'd never even
considered running away. You just take what you've got coming like a man this
time, and don't try to weasel out."
Carl began to squirm despite himself. "Ow! Ow! Please stop - just for a minute
-" Allan's heavy boot descended between his shoulder blades, pinning him. This
was like a nightmare. If even the men were starting to think this way, what hope
was there for England?
* * *
Dr. Lancaster had been working late again, chewing through a pile of
neurological data that was proving - as usual - far easier to collect than to
interpret. Her research program was turning out to be an unqualified success, a
veritable gold mine of insights they could never hope to acquire within
conventional boundaries, but at times she did wonder if some of the things that
were being done to the boys were really justified. It was all right to make them
suffer, of course; judiciously applied suffering was one of the cornerstones of
the conscription system, and it did seem to be effective both in toughening the
men up a little and in teaching them to think about the disciplinary
consequences of their behaviour. But conditioning exotic stimulus-response
pathways, messing around with their sexuality, inducing phobias and neuroses -
it all seemed so extreme, and Dr. Lancaster couldn't escape lingering worries
that some of this might have permanent consequences despite the deconditioning
process they were all going to be put through upon release from the facility.
But on the other hand, it was also fascinating. Just today she had been promised
two new subjects, very interesting ones. One was apparently a hard core
masochist, perhaps one of the most extreme that had so far come to her
attention, and the other was an incorrigible fellow who had just been
apprehended following his second escape attempt. One who would risk anything to
evade suffering, another who positively enjoyed it, at least up to a point.
Well, she had plans for both of these unfortunate young men, plans involving
extremes of fear and pain that would hopefully break the resistance of the
rebellious one and push the masochist well beyond the point of erotic enjoyment.
The boys would hate her for it, but science would someday thank her. Any
pleasure she might receive from the process was of course secondary.
