Voyager

 

I'm flying the airplane.

 

A wing dips and I turn the wheel, scraping ailerons on the frozen air.

The plane yaws; I reach up and adjust the trim. It rolls; I pull back on the yoke. We level off.

 

I'm scared, afraid of losing control, of falling. But still, I'm flying. It's my skill that keeps us in the air, keeps the passengers safe. The passengers...  

 

I look around the cockpit, confused. The plane starts to fall off. I correct. Concentrate, damn it! Straight and level!

 

What is this? I can't be the pilot. I boarded in New York as a passenger. Didn't I?

 

Then why am I in the hold?

 

I know this is the hold; I can hear the plane's joints creaking. That's not part of the "flying experience." I feel heavy duty blowers moving the air, alternately chilling and heating my bare skin like...

 

…My bare skin? I'm naked? Naked in a plane full of people!

 

My eyes spring open and I see…metal! Am I in a cage? Frightened, I try to get to my feet...can't. This is one weird dream! Naked in a small cage... I lean back and hug my legs. I look up; the cage has two compartments, another girl is in the upper.

 

The metal feels soft against my bare skin...soft metal? I'm confused and disoriented. "Just a dream; it's just a dream," I whisper, "I'm going to wake in a second." I hug myself more tightly. A man sits nearby under a light, watching me over the top of his magazine. Is he real? We stare at each other for a long time. He glances down. There's a metal rod at his feet. Memories return and my stomach knots. A squirt of adrenaline clears the cobwebs from my mind.

 

"Please, God, don't let him touch me with that thing." I lose control and start to pee. The warm liquid pools on my stomach.

 

How long has it been, hours, minutes? No way to tell. The girl above is angry, yelling, shaking the cage. The man walks over and runs his prod over the mesh. It sounds like a snake’s rattle. She ignores him. I watch from the lower cage paralyzed with fear. He waits a few seconds, then pushes the prod inside and touches her ass. There's a loud snap and she recoils as if on springs; her face frozen in stunned disbelief.

 

In slow motion, she opens her mouth and screams. It's not just the pain; it's the insult. I know the feeling—like a stranger slapping your face. The guard holds his finger to his lips and then shocks her again when she fails to stop. She passes out; he opens her door, moves her into a kneeling position with her hands behind, and ties her wrists and ankles to the mesh.

 

The prod is leaning on the mesh near my face. I look up at him, terrified. CELTs are often punished together for disobedience. He finishes his binding and glances at me. There's no pity in his eyes, none. I stare back, petrified. He smiles, amused by my terror; then with a single motion he picks up the prod and walks back to his chair.

 

I'm ashamed at my fear, but also happy. Electricity hurts!

 

I fall asleep immediately in the silence that follows. This happens a lot; girls get so stressed, so frightened that they just shut down when it’s over. It’s called trancing.

 

That must be what happened, but I'm awake now...right? I look up through the mesh that separates us. The girl is still tied and unconscious. It's okay; these CELT-Ex people know their business. She's probably just trancing just as I had been. An electric prod doesn't do real damage. She'll be fine. That's a painful tie though; her knees are going to hurt when she wakes.

 

Why didn't he shock me? That's the protocol. CELT-Ex would be pissed if they knew. I shudder. Electricity... I hate it more than anything. It rips at you; at least that's what it feels like. I don't even like to think about it. Silently, I move to my knees. The guard is back to his magazine. The cage is just long enough for me to grip the front mesh with my fingers and the back mesh with my toes. He's still reading. I push myself off the cage floor and hold the position—isometric pushups. I wait until my muscles hurt and then let myself down.

 

I push off again.

 

Her name is Virginia; I read it off the shipping label. It was dumb to shock her. In fact, I wouldn't give electric prods to guards at all. Shocking her was dumb: too much potential for damage. I push off again. It feels good to be using my cramped muscles. What if she'd been hurt banging around the cage? CELT-Ex is responsible; their reputation is on the line. It would be like delivering someone's precious Ferrari with a dent in the hood.

 

I smile. A new Ferrari...yes, that's appropriate. We're expensive boy-toys now, just like a new Ferrari. Victoria moans. I look back over my shoulder. She moves her head and blond hair cascades over the side of her face...beautiful! I squeeze the mesh as I watch.

 

The metal is soft, rubbery. These are the new cages. I know about them from the CELT-Ex ads. The mesh is actually stronger than titanium: some new kind of new nanotech alloy. It must cost a fortune…another silly BDSM toy for CELTs. Still, it saved my ass. I'm going to write CELT-Ex a note when I get back, "Dear CELT-Ex, You definitely need to do something about those dangerous electric prods, but your new Transporter cage saved my ass..."

 

I push off again, breathing a little heavier.

 

The assholes at JFK would have had themselves a piece of ass...two, if it weren't for our Transporter. Maybe I provoked it a little, but I was bored. They left us standing there for hours…no food, no water, dirty cages. When a warehouseman sticks his finger through the mesh, I playfully get to my hands and knees and suck it. I know I look good in that pose: strong long legs, a hard round ass, a flat stomach, a sexy curve in the small of my back...provocative…like a cheetah, a human cheetah.

 

He's turned on; I can see the bulge in his pants. He tries to open the cage; I back away, frightened. Another few seconds of frustration and then he grabs the fire ax. I watch the muscles in his neck bulge as he tries to pry open the cage door, imagining what happens to me when it pops, but it never does. Exhausted, he steps back and looks at me. I cock my head to the side and smile sympathetically. He walks away, embarrassed.

 

Most men are rapists and sadists. It's the testosterone. It's what makes a man a man. They suppress the urge of course, but under the right circumstances...

 

My muscles start to tremble and I lower myself to the floor.

 

Women want to cuddle with a strong man. It's the estrogen. Me too, I like being dominated by a strong man, even though I'm smarter, stronger, and a lot more capable than most of them.

 

Maybe we should be dominating them? Somehow, this idea doesn't resonate. A man is always going to be the sword and a woman, his scabbard...and that's not just a metaphor for fucking. It's nature's design that men rule, not women, no matter how un-fucking-worthy they are.

 

What about Howard? Where does he fit?

 

I glance back at Victoria again and push off. Exercise is necessary when you’re caged like this. I'm straight, but she takes my breath away. I've been staring at her for hours. Her body is built for sex. It's as if she has "Please Fuck Me" tattooed on her forehead. She's a sex kitten:  her hair, face, lips, eyes, tits, waist, hips, legs, feet, toes, skin...everything, everything about her screams pussy! Men will just strap her on to their dicks and never want to take her off.

 

My first reaction is jealousy. I know I’m beautiful, but my beauty is hard edged, athletic. Men like to dominate me for the sport of it. With an exotic, erotic beauty it’s different; they will get off on making her suffer. Her pain will excite them like blood excites a shark.

 

I push myself off the floor again.

 

I'm glad for the girl’s company, but being paired with another CELT, especially a bondage virgin, could mean trouble. Peer pressure is an important tool for keeping CELTs in line; everyone around her will suffer when she acts up.

 

I glance over at the guard. He's back to his magazine. It's probably a comic book. What other kind of intellect would take a job guarding women in a fucking cargo hold? I fall to the floor, my arms shaking.

 

Relax…relax! It's this fucking cargo hold; it's driving me nuts. We should be with the passengers! There’s no logical reason for us to be caged down here other than to soften us up: most men don't have the balls to have their CELT show up on the front doorstep. It's easier if she is delivered naked and cowed in a cage. CELT-Ex is being paid to both transport and condition up. Despite their Fortune-100 ranking, they’re just a bunch of pimps.

 

What about Howard? Was he like most men? A cool breeze blew over my wet midsection as the ventilation system kicked in again. "Oh, Howard, what have I done to us?" I whisper. The words just slip out. I quickly push off again, trying to block his memory, but it doesn't work.

 

I love him and he loves me. Well, maybe love isn't exactly the right word, but we did have our moments: indescribably tender moments that certainly qualify as love. Then there were the times he disciplined me, disciplined me so harshly that...that what? Get over yourself, Jesse! You choose this life, it was consensual; no one forced you into it.

 

I let myself down and almost immediately push off again, straining hard. Disciplining me was his right! I was a CELT, a Contracted-Escort Long-Term, a Contract Girl…whatever name you wanted to use. We agreed to the no-holds-barred discipline. It was part of the deal, written into our contracts, notarized and certified by lawyers. It's why a CELT contract is so valuable. Men loved the idea of it and paid huge sums to "own" their own girl. Without the discipline though, we'd just be expensive mistresses.

 

My arms and legs are shaking again. I let myself down and curl up on the cage bottom.

 

Most men would be eating out of "our" hands in a week without the discipline!

 

Howard was different. His discipline made our relationship stronger, more intimate. It's hard to explain. I loved him and feared him at the same time with equal intensity. He was my lover, but we slept in separate rooms. He was my companion, my best friend, but most of the time I called him Sir. He was often kind, but he was also my torturer. Was this love? Maybe there's no word for it. All I know is that my time with him was the happiest of my life. How fucked up is that; he hurt me more than any man, yet all I ever wanted to do was to make him happy.

 

CELT-ic slave love... It certainly seems to be catching on. The old kinds of relationships just don't seem to work anymore. Sure, there are some abuses, but for the most part the legal protections provided by the CELT laws keep things in check. People seem willing to accept CELTs as long as there are civilized controls in place.

 

CELT contracts have become big business. Nowadays, beautiful girls from all economic classes, not just the poor, sign up. It's an adventure, an easy way to make ten year's salary in three, at least for some.

 

Howard and I had had a lot more than an adventure. Our...relationship was special, filled with real intimacy and intensity...rare.

 

Then why is it over?

 

It's over because I needed the money! I feel suddenly nauseous

 

...I needed the money.

 

Bullshit! It was never about the money! I would have stayed with him for nothing, even as his contract girl...maybe "especially" as his contract girl.

 

So tell the truth, bitch, at least to yourself!

 

I feel tears forming. Pride! It was my fucking pride.

 

Howard had saved enough to renew my contract--about $300,000. He didn't talk about it, but I knew it was a done deal. We were both happy:  my brother would get the money for his therapy and Howard would get me as his CELT slave for another three years. I had had the dumb idea that he might just ask me to be his girlfriend, but continuing as his CELT was just as good. Anyway, my brother really needed the money; this was better.

 

Then we got the offer. Someone wanted to pay $450,000 for my contract. I was dazzled and flattered. Here was concrete proof of my value, my value... How fucking ridiculous that sounds now. At the time though, it seemed important. Somebody wants me, a lot!

 

I start joking around, teasing him about accepting the new offer, asking him when he would be able to come up with the extra cash. It was a joke! I would never have left him. A joke...

 

But he didn't think it was funny and went on the attack, belittling my sense of obligation, calling it stupid, absurd. "Haven't you given up your life for that useless brother of yours; what kind of moron are you anyway to throw your life away?"

 

Given up my life… useless brother… moron… I knew he felt betrayed, but those words hurt and I fought back. This was a different kind of pain: the more he hurt me, the more I tried to hurt him. How fucking stupid! I shift my position and wipe away the tears. I should have backed down. He was right. I had given up my life, become a CELT...for my family. Did that make sense? Did it make sense to even joke about giving up our love? But pride held me back.

 

Even when, despite his anger, Howard asked his high born Mother for a loan, I refused to relent. (She’d turned him down of course when she discovered it was for a contract-girl, even threatening to cut him out of her will.)

 

It wasn’t until our last night together that I finally swallowed my pride. I couldn't leave Howard, not for any amount of money! I was going to tell him that evening. I'd been hurt; he would understand.  I had it all worked out. I would tell him as soon as he got home.

 

I never got the chance. He had me gagged and hanging from our whipping post within second of bursting through the door. Then he whipped me like I had never been whipped before. I welcomed the pain; I deserved it. My apology could wait; maybe afterwards, when we made love, when I was sucking his cock.

 

Only this time, we didn't make love. He stopped his whipping on the stroke of midnight, the moment his ownership ended, and carried me stiffly into my room. I was still in the zone when he laid me in my bed and removed my gag. Later, when I went to his room, he was gone. Gone! We had ended accidentally...it was all just a tragic accident.

 

I left in the morning with tears in my eyes and a terrible ache in my gut. What else could I do? I had missed my opportunity. Technically, I didn’t belong to him anymore. People stared at me as I walked like a zombie to the CELT-Ex office. Mercifully they were all business, hustling me to a back room and into a Transporter. I was in a fog. Howard had left. Nothing else seemed to matter.

 

Maybe it was all for the best. I didn't deserve him. He could buy another girl, someone better; someone who would appreciate him. As for me, I was now committed to a new owner. It wouldn't be so bad. He was obviously rich; maybe he would be someone like Howard. I probably should have checked him out more carefully, but after all the shit with Howard, it just wasn't a priority. Anyway, my lawyer would have done that.

 

For some strange reason though, Shakespeare's words that "first, we kill all the lawyers" kept repeating in my mind.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Welcome

 

Air travel is a subtle form of torture. It's the seatbelt, the confinement, the noise, the stale air, the lack of privacy...and those are just the passengers’ woes. Imagine what it's like for cargo.

 

Our guard is losing it, pacing the narrow corridor like a trapped bear. His boredom has put him in a real dilemma—does he remain professional or play with the cargo. Who’s going to know? Every once in a while, he looks at us like a mean child and starts fingering his prod.

 

Victoria is scared and hurting. She's still on her knees with her wrists tied behind to the top of the cage. If she rests on her haunches, the agony is in her shoulders; if she pushes herself up, it’s in her legs and knees. I keep signaling her to stay quiet, but she can't. It's just a matter of time before the guard uses her whining as an excuse.

 

We all let out a sigh of relief when the plane starts to decent.

 

Terra firma! I've never been so happy to be on the ground. Three men manhandle the cage to the doorway as soon as the plane stops moving and load it into a small truck. I can see the guard signing papers. No one bothers to untie the girl. I catch the guard's eye just before the door closes and blow him a kiss then I give him the finger. He just smiles and turns away. We immediately forget each other forever.

 

The trip is hard on the girl, but thankfully short. I want to talk to her, but resist the temptation. I'm sure the driver has his own prod.

 

The driver unlocks my gate when we arrive.

 

"…Out!" Surprising, his tone is polite. I obey immediately, pleasantly surprised. "...Stomach!" I drop down and cross my wrists in the small of my back. Ah, space! It's all I can think about as I stretch my legs to their limits. The night air is warm; that's good. Cold weather is a problem for naked slaves. I'm lying on soft lush grass. That's also good since it means that we're probably not in the Middle East. CELTs are not treated well there. Warmth and grass, things could be worse.

 

The driver unties Victoria and lays her next to me. I can see buildings, but it's too dark to make out details. He handcuffs my wrists, slipping his hand between my legs in the process: a groper. I remain still. He moves back to the truck and lights up, watching us stretch. Despite the hand action, he seems more disciplined than usual and he's wearing fatigues...a soldier?

 

After a few minutes, another man walks over and snaps an order. Is he speaking Russian? Are we in Russia? The driver puts a leather collar on my neck and effortlessly lifts me to my feet. A man's strength...for the millionth time, I'm jealous. He connects our collars with a short length of chain, creating a two-girl slave coffle.

 

We stand there naked and quiet. As I've been trained, I keep my back straight, shoulders back, and my head bowed. Coffle girls who slouch or make disrespectful eye contact often end up doing a jig to someone’s whip. I hope the girl is picking this up.

 

The driver moves to my front and leans over me as if to check my cuffs. Hidden from the other man, he grabs my breast. I’m surprised, but don't pull away. There's a sharp command and he backs away, smiling. His hand felt good. I flash my eyes at him and show him a little tongue. He hesitates and then walks away.

 

That was a funny little hesitation... CELT’s learn how to read such things. He'd be fucking me right now if his boss wasn't watching…too bad. It's hard for men, even well disciplined soldiers, to handle CELTs, especially when they're naked and bound. Why they don't use more women guards?

 

The commander takes a chain from the van and hooks it to the front of my collar. He looks strong and tough, but I can't see him very well in the dim light. His hand brushes a breast...nothing. I push them out a little farther and glance back at the driver. He's watching of course and I...

 

The shit jerks my chain hard. I follow.

 

Too bad, I'm horny and wet; what would it matter if he had given me to the driver for a few minutes? I think about his hard cock between my legs and come softly as we walk. It doesn't take much when you're chained like this.

We near one of the buildings. A group of men are loitering by the door...more soldiers? The man holding the chain barks an order and magically a path opens; still, one of them grabs my ass as we pass by. I twist away, but stay quiet.

 

I hope Victoria is catching on. We're chattel now, property. As such, we need to protect our bodies from abuse, but not insult the abuser. A CELT who wiggles away from a stranger, for example, is doing the right thing; but one who screams at a man sticking his finger up her cunt is not. It's obvious that she knows none of this as she starts swearing at the men touching her. The chain jerks hard and a flurry of words are directed at the crowd. The touching stops instantly and we move on amidst smiles and barely stifled guffaws.

 

The commander ignored Victoria swearing at the men. That's interesting; It's even more interesting that there's tomfoolery here, yet these hard men obey instantly when told to stop. What kind of soldiers act this way? What kind of... Combat troops! They're combat troops! Why are combat troops needed around CELTs?

 

He leads us to a well lit room. I can see his face clearly now. He's young and good looking on one side. The other is marred by a long scar from the tip of his eyebrow to his jaw. Still, the face is handsome with a kind of dashing rake to it...a Cossack.

 

Surprisingly, there is no fondling, none. He just hooks our collars to a ceiling chain and begins to clean us with soapy water and a sponge as if he's washing his car. I'm mystified; no man can bath a helplessly bound woman and not fondle her breasts. Then it hits me...he's gay.

 

This is a problem. Gays are immune to CELT wiles. My mouth, for example, which is readily available even when tied, moist, warm, pink, and tight has saved me from a lot of pain. That won’t work with gays!

 

I glance over at Victoria. She looks uncomfortable, but relieved that he's just washing. I study her again in this new light. What incredibly full lips! I wonder if she's also a decent cock-sucker. I'm sure she's done it before, who hasn't? But she's probably set the rules. It's unlikely that she's done it with her hands tied behind her back, with the threat of a whipping hanging over her head. That's how you really learn to suck cock. I'd never have learned properly without a whip. The first time I brought a man to a proper climax, he patted me on the head like a puppy. I was so giddy that I nearly fainted! This is all ahead for you, Beauty.

 

He dries us and stands back to admire his work then speaks. "I am Senior Lieutenant Alexsandr Evgeniy Kuznetsova. You will refer to me as Senior Lieutenant Kuz-net-sov-a...Kuznetsova. I am responsible for processing CELTs and for maintaining discipline here in the resort. Follow our rules, honor your contracts and you won't see me again until you leave.

 

The resort...?

 

"You will be with me for three days of observation and testing," he continues. "After that, Mr. Nemov will explain your role here more fully. You will rest now." There's a small accent, but the English is almost flawless. What's more telling is the body language. This is one uptight dude.

 

He releases my collar chain and leads me to a small, windowless room with a narrow bed, toilet and washbasin. I am repulsed by the touch of his hand on my bare skin. I wonder why. Shouldn't I be more put off by someone who wants to grope me?

 

Surprisingly, the room is nice, especially the floor which is a beautiful hardwood, polished to a sparkling glow. I wonder who does the cleaning, everything is spotless. He releases my cuffs and points towards the bed. Then he locks the door and turns out the light. The switch is outside the room. In absolute darkness, I feel my way to the bed and lie down, luxuriating in its warmth and softness. In seconds, I'm asleep.

 

Suddenly, the light comes on and the door opens. "Stomach!" he yells. I'm instantly awake and rolling out of bed onto my stomach. It's the faggot. Didn't he just leave? How long have I been asleep?

 

He quickly ties me with cord: left thumb to right toe, right thumb to left toe. I recognize the binding immediately. It's the lover's cross, so called because it splays the girl for easy fucking. Howard used it all the time.

 

Am I going to be fucked now? He turns me over onto my back and leaves, turning out the light. My cunt is in the air. I'm scared, but also excited. My nipples harden and my mouth begins to water. I ball my hands into fists and use them to prop up my ass, raising my cunt even higher. This response is nearly automatic. I wait, breathing hard. Like any junkie, I curse my addiction to sex and feel guilty about it, but still... My body vibrates in anticipation.

 

Anticipation! I'm about to be pig-fucked and I feel...anticipation! What's wrong with me! Why have I put myself in this position? Suddenly, the light comes on again and my world goes from black to white. Someone is in the room. I feel bare feet near my face, standing on my hair, holding my head in place. He half kneels, half sits on my chest. I can feel his bare ass cheeks touching my skin. My vision clears; I'm inside a long, hairy box canyon with a huge prick standing at the end.

 

I look up at him, frightened. He strokes my face. The fear subsides, replaced by a throbbing need to make contact. I turn my head and lick his bare foot. He laughs and straightens my head with his hands, moving forward so that his balls are over my mouth. I take him inside eagerly, moaning softly. The moaning turns him on and I can hear his mannish grunts as I tongue his sack. I hear blood whooshing in my ears.

 

After a while, he pulls out and turns. I tilt my head back, opening my throat, and he slips his cock inside. My lips close as he begins to fuck me and I time my breathing to his long strokes. There are wet sucking noises, but no gagging. His hands are on my breasts; I feel him pinching my nipples. The pain makes my body arch and my mouth tighten around his prick. The pinching gets harder.

 

I fade out... When I return, he's mounted me. Instinctually, I squeeze my cunt muscles in time to his thrusts. He groans and covers my mouth with his. Saliva flows down my throat. The thrusts are so powerful that my sweaty body begins to slide on the floor. I flatten my hands and try to wrap my legs around his. They won't move! I groan with the frustration of not being able to wrap myself around his body.

 

He lifts me off the ground like a doll and stares into my face. We stare into each other's eyes as he slowly impales me. His cock feels like a fence pole as he jerks me up and down, hypersensitive breasts rubbing on his chest hair. We explode together; his arms close with the crushing strength of a boa constrictor. I can't breathe...I don't care.

 

It is a few minutes before I can think straight. The beast is lying next to me, exhausted. I move to snuggle with him and can't. Fucking ropes! In a minute, he stirs and plays idly with my breasts; then he smiles. I smile back. It's enough for now. Slowly, he gets up and walks out of the room, forgetting to turn off the light. Somehow, I know that he's not my owner. This was a test. I look around the room for a camera. Why bother hiding it with a CELT? I spot a small imperfection in the ceiling; that's it. I wonder how I rated.

 

I have not fucked anyone other than Howard in more than a year. It feels strange. Sex with Howard had become deliciously sweet and familiar, no matter what he demanded. This was completely different: more typical of how a CELT is treated. As someone once told me, "I love my Harley, but I don't ask if it wants to go for a ride; I just get on and turn the key."

 

Alexsandr walks into the room and stands over me. I look up at him and know exactly what he's thinking: Why do men find you so appetizing, Bitch?

 

You'll never know, Faggot, I think to myself.

 

He turns me onto my stomach and unties the cords. "You have five minutes to clean yourself." I move slowly to the tiny washbasin and toilet. The light goes off before I'm finished, but I manage to finish in the dark and find the bed. Delicious aftershocks roll over me for a long time before I sleep.

 

...And dream.

 

Light! Again I go from black to white in an instant. "Stomach!" he yells. Half asleep, I roll onto my stomach. I know that the faggot is just itching for an excuse to whip me; I also have a feeling that as long as I obey his orders, I won't be punished. He's as straight-laced as they come, my little toy soldier. Straight-laced! I smile inside.

 

He straps leather cuffs to my wrists and ankles, then gathers up my hair and slips a hood over my head, tightening it at my neck. It has a built-in collar that provides a secure anchor point. I feel a zipper near my mouth and two holes near my nostrils; are these big enough? They've got to be, it's all I'm going to get. I begin to regulate my breathing...long and slow. A panic attack now would be a nightmare.

 

I hate fucking hoods! I also think they are impractical for transport; there are much better ways to maintain control. In fact, the only thing they’re really good for is punishment. Many men can't finish a whipping when they're watching their girl's face. A hood hides her pain. Of course, no one has ever asked my opinion!

 

Alexsandr lifts me to my feet and attaches a stiff leash to the collar. I feel a tug and start walking. The texture of the floor changes as we move into the corridor. After a while, he pushes back on the leash and I slow then stop.

 

"Kneel!" I drop to my knees. He pushes me down to my haunches and uses a hook to join my wrists and ankles. I straighten my back and spread my knees wide, trying to maintain good slave posture.  In a few minutes, I sense nearby motion; my wrists are unhooked and I scramble to my feet, brushing against something soft. I'm sure it's Victoria. We're being processed together. He pulls on the leash and I start walking. I can feel her at my side. I move my hip and bump her gently; she bumps me back. Okay, that's good; she's aware and responsive.

 

The floor changes again as we enter another room. I feel my leg being lifted over a long wooden beam which is maybe two inches wide and a foot high. My wrists and ankles are hooked to chains bolted to the floor; belts are tightened just below the beam to hold my arms and legs together. My toes are just touching the ground.

 

What is this, discipline already? ...Why?

 

I feel his hands on my ass; he spreads my cheeks and squirts something inside. I shake my head in useless protest. No! Please, no! The dildo is hard and thin; he clamps it to the beam. I strain reflexively to push it out...nothing. It hurts and I taste my tears. It could have been a lot bigger, I guess.

 

The faggot touches my collar and in a second the thing is off.  I'm blind, which makes it easy for him to shove another dildo into my mouth and clamp it to the beam. As my vision returns I can see that the beam is maybe six feet long. He makes some adjustment to square everything off. I'm naked strapped to a beam with dildos in my ass and mouth. Every part of my body is either precisely parallel to, or perpendicular with the floor. Why such precision? I try to relax, recognizing the first signs of hysterics. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Alexsandr place Victoria on her own beam. She twists violently and starts to convulse when the first dildo is pushed in. ...An ass virgin? I try to remember the first time I was sodomized. Alexsandr is also clearly surprised at her reaction, but aside from squirting on more oil, he basically ignores her. I wonder about my hood theory, would he be so fucking heartless if her hood were off...probably.

 

Did Victoria really understand that she was signing up for this? A CELT never knows how harshly she's going to be treated. The only consolation is that she always has her right to protest, an action that will end the contract immediately. It’s full of legal complications and financial implications, but it’s reassuring to know that it’s there. I hope she’s not close to pushing that button.

 

As he removes her hood I am again struck by her beauty; her long silver-blond hair is spectacular. Guiltily, I imagined her in a black leather outfit with her wrists and elbows tied tightly behind her back, being led around on a leash. She would be a sensation.

 

I watch as the dildo is pushed into her mouth and her head pushed back hard. Magnificent! The fact is that some girls become even more beautiful when they are bound and in pain; she's one of them. I want to fuck her myself; I can only imagine the reaction she has on a man.

 

Alexsandr uses a phone near the door. The three of us wait in painful silence. Several times, I meet the faggot's eye and we stare at each other with hateful glares. Finally, the door opens and a tall man enters. He nods to his man and takes his clipboard.

 

He moves to Victoria and starts talking; I can't make out what he's saying, but his hands never stop moving over her body. He fondles her breasts and cunt. I say "fondles," but a better word is "inspects." He carefully inspects her shape and fullness, but has no manly reaction; it's eerie, unnerving... Could he also be queer?

 

Pleased, he tests her for pain using a variety of implements. His actions continue to be mechanical, sterile. But somehow, he acts differently than the faggot; it's almost as if her pain is...unimportant.

 

This guy is straight; he's also a latent Sadist like most other men. But there's a difference. He's mastered his passions. For him, sex is about release and Sadism is about control; human feelings and desires simply don't exist. In other words, a monster! He stops and stands near her head, waiting patiently for her to calm down.

 

So far, I've met the faggot, the beast, and the monster; I wonder when I'll get to meet the fucking Wizard!

 

Checking his watch, he pinches her nose closed. In a few seconds she begins to convulse...rhythmically, as if she's in the throes of an intense fucking. It's hard to watch, yet fascinating. His lack of feeling is a weird backdrop to her suffering.

 

In the middle of this, she comes. The intensity of her orgasm is incredible. I'm glad that she is so tightly restrained; anything less and she would have broken bones. He releases her nose and makes another note.

 

The girl is disoriented and wide eyed, twisting piteously on the twin dildos. She's trying to get it together enough to scream. The man watches her for a few moments and then retrieves an electric vibrator which he pushes deeply into her exposed cunt. She comes again, almost immediately. Then he does it again, and again. The pain of multiple forced orgasms is excruciating; I'm surprised that she remains conscious. He makes more notes and moves to me.

 

Fuck! I know it's useless, but still I try to twist off the beam. All I manage is to stress my ass and my throat; there's no escape. I'm trembling, but look up at him defiantly and smile. He smiles in return and makes another note. Then he starts talking while running his hands over my body.

 

"This won't take long, Jesse." His English is perfect. "You're unusually beautiful. I just need to know how much you can take; what your limits are. You don't need to do anything. Your body will tell me everything. Just relax. I'll answer all your questions in the next few days." His tone is so reasonable and comforting that I almost do relax; then he begins... my silent scream is long and hard.

 

Finally, it's over... It's hard to tell with the waves of pain still coursing through my body, but he seems pleased when he finally leaves the room. I'm too weak to feel hatred yet, but I know it will come. This was more than sexual Sadism; this was criminal punishment without a crime: exactly the kind of thing the CELT laws were designed to prevent.

 

Alexsandr returns us to our rooms the same way we came. I climb into the bed in total blackness and try to think. The man said it was an evaluation. Why is an evaluation necessary? What is this place? Who are these people?

 

We're fucked of course! There's no other way to look at it. Getting fucked is part of the deal, but there's fucked and then there's really fucked. We are really fucked!

 

I cry myself to sleep in the dark. What have I done?

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Interview

 

The next morning, Alexsandr leads us to another part of the building. It's a bathing area. Three nude Asian girls wait outside. They are all young, thin, and small, with a similar kind of tight, strong body; a binding cord holds back their long hair. They bow together. They're all collared.

 

The faggot hands us over and we're led inside.

 

I smile and try to speak with one of the girls; she points to the bright red marks on the back of another's legs. The message is clear: the no-talking rule is strictly enforced here. I step into the bath.

 

These girls are CELTS like me, but their contracts are much harsher, almost slave like. An Asian bondage contract typically sells on the Hong Kong exchange for about $60,000...and that's for a 12-year contract! This wouldn't be so bad except their governments are notoriously bad at tracking and monitoring their captivity. Protesting for Asians, for all practical purposes, is nonexistent. Even worse, Asians are simply "lost" all the time.

 

The Chinese are the worst. They encourage this high-volume, over-the-counter commodity trading in women for its cash flow. They also promote a healthy trade in female "exotics," beautiful girls sold off-the-block out of the Hong Kong auction houses.

 

The only thing they forbid, along with every other country is underage trafficking. If anything, the worldwide prohibitions against this have become stronger over time, even draconian. In many ways, it's all about public relations. Governments can get away with lots of other abuses by protecting the children.

 

In over populated China, poor parents are now certifying the age of their female children by embedding a tiny microchip birth certificate under the skin to prove that they are legally saleable as CERTs.

 

The warm water and the steamy air are relaxing.

 

It's all about numbers these days; the world has too many people chasing too few resources. Aside from CELT babies, no one wants a child; they're just too expensive.

 

Things aren't all bad though... For example, there are no more ideological wars, people worry about resources now not philosophies, and surprisingly, over-population has also led to more equality for women.

 

Not that this means much anymore; the woman in today’s civil union is almost always employed full time to keep the family above water. Some global corporations, which control the production of almost everything nowadays, even prohibit their employees from marrying outside the corporate family. It’s just more productive to marry a co-worker.

 

Modern man-women relationships are much more asexual now. This is one reason why CELTic arrangements are so popular. CELTs provide the intimacy and sexual interest that today's practical partnerships lack. Generally speaking, a beautiful and desirable woman is much more valuable as a CELTic sex slave than almost anything else. No wonder we are universally reviled by most females!

 

The bath maid shakes my shoulder and holds up a huge towel; then leads me to a dressing room where a leather vest and pants are waiting. The vest is sleeveless, with one perfectly sewn seam under each arm. It ties in the back with a leather cord, lifting and shaping my breasts in an incredibly provocative way. The pants are also skin tight, with a slight flare at the bottom for easier removal. I check myself out in the mirror. The outfit makes me look even taller. I stand on my toes and admire the line of my legs and butt. I wish I had heels, but my bare feet are also sexy. Victoria looks even better, like a model straight out of the pages of Vogue.

 

Alexsandr comes in and makes a quick inspection. Then he orders me to my knees and adds a leather collar and cuffs. The collar fits tightly and keeps my head straight, but it's not uncomfortable. All the restraints contain a metal ring; it won't take much to make us helpless again.

 

The bath maids bow and shuffle subserviently into a back room. Victoria and I look at each other and smile. It's amazing the difference a little clothing makes. Alexsandr catches the look and roughly turns her around, locking her wrists behind and chaining her to a wall ring. I notice that he lifts her to her toes. Cruelty seems to be the standard here.

 

The faggot then locks my arms and leads me away with a leash. As I've been taught, I follow a step behind and a step to the right, walking in the haughty manner of a champion show dog. I have been whipped too many times to do it any other way.

 

My arrogant walk is in stark contrast to the other girls we pass. The Asian and Latin women all are all bare breasted and collared, with a red sash around their hips. They all look docile and subservient--cowed. The black girls are all dressed in a tiny white loincloth that barely covers their hard round asses. They are all hobbled with short chains at their knees and elbows. They all look dangerous and surly. Stereotypes! Amazingly, everyone here has been forced into a particular stereotype. The white girls, who all seem to be tall, thin, and athletic, either wear the leathers or are nude. They are all on a leash like me or part of a coffle accompanied by a guard. It's as if the white girls are valuable, while the non-whites are not.

 

The psychological impact of being clothed is also amazing; it's impossible to walk past a half naked girl, white, yellow, or black, and not feel superior. I wonder if the people who run this place purposely cultivate racism as a way to keep the CELTs divided.

 

We enter the anteroom of an important looking office. The faggot checks with a male secretary then leaves after chaining me to a wall ring. I glance back at the man who is clearly appraising me out of the corner of his eye. In a few minutes, the door opens and the tall man walks out.

 

"Please come in, Jesse," he said pleasantly as he unhooks me from the wall. Fucking hypocrite; just a few hours ago he was torturing me, now he's being sociable. I want to smash his smug Russian face into the wall, but instead just follow him inside and stand respectfully until he points to the chair. The desk is empty except for a clipboard which is positioned in the exact center.

 

"My name is Grigoriy Yelena Nemov," he begins. "You can call me Mr. Nemov." "For all practical purposes, I am your contract owner." He speaks slowly and clearly as if I am a little slow. "Your formal owner is a Russian holding company called RDE, Ltd. which you've probably never heard of; it's incorporated in Switzerland." "First, let me remind you that you have the right to protest your treatment here at any time as per our agreement. Our staff understands this and all you need to do is say the word 'protest' and you will immediately be taken to a telephone." I nod, but stay silent. This is obviously the party line; I want to hear the kicker before reacting.

 

"Contract girls who protest their treatment here are segregated from the others until the issue is resolved. If the protest leads to your repatriation back into..." he consults the papers in front of him, "the U.S., our policy is to immediately stop all contract payments and sue you for any payments already made. Do you understand?"

 

I nod again. So far, this is standard procedure.

 

"Good. Let me explain about this place. You are now in Russian Kurdistan in a private mountain resort called Turkslaw. It covers about 1,500 square kilometers. RDE uses it to entertain corporate guests; we can accommodate 100. They usually stay about one week, although there are some exceptions." He looked bothered that there were exceptions. "A unit of 100 mountain troops guards the perimeter under special arrangement with the government." He pauses and leans back in his chair. "Senior Lieutenant Kuznetsova works for me under this contract with the Army."

 

"The primary activity for the guests is the hunt which I will explain in a moment. However, we also offer horseback riding, a small casino, a musical group, dancing, a pool, and a spa. Our restaurant is rated four star." He pauses again.

 

"We also maintain some 200 CELTs to entertain our guests. They are divided into four groups:  Jägers, runners, entertainers, and servers." I start to fidget. He looks at me with a hard stare. "You would do well, Jesse, to listen very closely." I lower my eyes respectfully. What an asshole!

 

He continues, "Jäger, which means hunter, are girls who have proven themselves to be of superior intelligence, physical ability, and resourcefulness. They live in private rooms and have the right to use any of the resort's facilities. They may engage in social interaction with the guests at their own discretion. Typically, they are not disciplined." Sounds good! Where do I sign up?

 

"The Jäger retain their status by capturing runners. Runners are girls who volunteer to 'escape' into the surrounding woods. They are hunted by guests, who are mounted on horseback...like your game of hide-and-seek." He stops and smiles. "A runner who evades capture twice is invited into the Jäger ranks. Runners who are unable to evade capture are punished as part of a show for our guests. Runners live in two-person rooms which are quite nice; they sometimes serve the guests, but only in exceptional circumstances; and they are disciplined. They may not use any of the resorts facilities except the exercise and training facilities." He stops again for emphasis.

 

"I hope you will become a runner, Jesse." He stares at me for a few unnerving seconds. I get the distinct impression that this is the way he gives orders.

 

"Entertainers act as escorts for the guests. When not assigned to a guest, they are locked in two-person cages. Entertainers are disciplined in the same way that any CELT is disciplined. You might find that we are somewhat more demanding here at Turkslaw, but we strive for perfection."

 

"Servers are girls from the lower races," he explains. ...the lower races! I'd heard that Russians were racists, but I'd never met anyone so open about it. "They serve the guests, but not as escorts, although again we sometimes make exceptions." Again, it sounds as if he is offended by "exceptions."

 

This guy is a psychiatrist's wet dream--a real head case. "Servers live in rooms which are separated by race." He looks up and smiles. "We don't mix races here." "Do you understand me so far? I know that you are educated and intelligent, but if you need any of this repeated, I'll be happy to do so." The contradiction is unnerving. He knows I'm intelligent, yet he is treating me as if I were retarded. For a second, I wonder if this is Russian sarcastic then discard the idea. Sarcasm requires subtlety.

 

"No thank you," I mumble softly.

 

"Yes, we know your background--family, educational achievements, athletic activities, CELT assignments--we also know that you have had pony-girl training, where you did quite well." They researched my background...through my lawyer? Isn't he supposed to keep that information confidential? I'll kill that fucking bastard!

 

"We were quite impressed with your pony-girl training; it should give you a clear advantage as a runner." It appears that my decision to be a runner has already been made.

 

"Any questions ...any at all?" again he uses the same insulting tone.

 

"Yes, I have a question." I keep my voice as level as possible. "I thought my contract was being purchased by an individual, not a corporation. I'm not sure that I want to be part of a...resort." My tone is polite.

 

He looks at me like I was an insect. "I'm sorry for the confusion, but our offer was explained very clearly to your lawyer and written into our agreement. As I said, however," he is speaking very slowly now, "you have the right to protest at any time, even now." He continues to stare at me. It's intimidating. It is very unlikely that the Court will be sympathetic to your confusion. We were very careful given the amount of your contract--$525,000.

 

$525,000! I'm confused for a second, then all the pieces fall into place. My fucking lawyer took a $75,000 commission from RDE and a 10% commission from me...a neat $120,000. No wonder he didn't insist that I study the contract's details.

 

"Also," Nemov continues, "the average stay in the holding cages, which are quite small, is about four months."

 

"Four months!" I blurt out before I can control myself. "Why?" I demand.

 

Nemov remains quiet and stares at me warningly.

 

I immediately realize the danger, "Please excuse me, Mr Nemov." I wait until the red flush goes out of his face then continue. "May I ask why it takes so long to process a protest?"

 

"We are perfectly within our rights," he replies evenly. "Girls who protest are not required to work, nor are they disciplined. Instead they are given food and shelter free of charge. We are not responsible for the length of time it takes the wheels of justice to turn in this country."  This is fucking blackmail and entirely illegal! I can feel my temper flaring and work desperately to control myself. The right to protest is fundamental to every CELT arrangement. It's what makes it a consensual "contract" between parties, rather than an act of illegal imprisonment. I resist the urge to bolt out the door and just keep running.

 

With a superhuman effort I get my emotions under control and begin to think. What are my options? Given the remoteness of this place, escape seems unlikely. I'm not going to voluntarily spend four months in a "holding" cage; the flight over here was bad enough. Maybe they would let me call my lawyer? No...he's not going to give back a $120,000 commission without a fight; he'll let this drag on forever. And no other lawyer will challenge him based on a phone call from someone in Russia. Maybe I can call the Russian police or a Russian lawyer? That path sounds silly, even to me. The bribes needed to keep this place running must be enormous. I wouldn't stand a chance. Not only that, but what's my actual complaint? RDE's $75,000 was probably paid legally. Clearly, it was clearly my responsibility to check contract details. And so what if I'm held in a cage while my protest is being processed; does the law specify the size of a protester's accommodations?

 

As I realized last night, I'm fucked!

 

"Would you like to protest?" he asks, clearly annoyed. It's infuriating how correct he is. I have the feeling that this was how the Nazis operated--

 

completely in accordance with "the legal rules."

 

I continue looking at the ground and answer, "No," feeling royally screwed. I'll just bide my time for now.

 

He waits.

 

"No, Mr Nemov, thank you." This guy is dangerous, maybe even psychotic.

 

"Good," he declares, satisfied. "I will list you as a runner."

 

It wasn't really a question, but I nod again. I know I can compete with the other girls.

 

"Excellent," he says, his mood instantly improved. "I will have you moved into the runner's quarters and assign you a mentor. She can start your orientation this afternoon. Remember, if you would like to protest or to be listed as an entertainer, just let your guards know."

 

I nod again, astonished. He wants me to agree to the illusion that everything's okay! Amazing, but maybe I can use this moment-of-reconciliation to my advantage.

 

"May I choose my roommate as a runner, Mr. Nemov?" I ask in my most subordinate voice. He stares at me again for a few seconds and then smiles.

 

"Why not," he replies; "as long as it's another runner, why not?"

 

"It's Victoria, the girl I was transported with from New York," I say. He smiles and nods his head.

 

"Victoria. Yes, a beautiful girl." I imagine him standing over her naked quivering body.

 

"I will see to it." Thank you for your time, Jesse, and again, welcome to Turkslaw. A guard is outside to take you to your new home." Incredibly, the bastard holds out his hand. I look at it and walk away. Maybe I don't have any contract options, but I can still choose my friends.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Victoria

 

The runner's cells are rustic, but nice. I relax for the first time in days. Nemov is a bastard, but it's my reactions to him that are the most worrying. Why am I so resistant...so filled with violence? I'm a CELT for crying out loud. Despite my recent stupidity, I know what to expect. Turkslaw might be extreme, but it still operates within the law.

 

The truth is that despite the pain and the humiliation, I want this life. Men are animals with primal, sadistic urges and frankly it's exciting to play with them, to poke at the tiger. Men also have a huge capability for love. It's this balance that makes being a CELT an adventure.

 

When this capability for love is absent, as I suspect it is with Nemov, everything is thrown out-of-balance. This is the problem.

 

Maybe my time with Howard was the anomaly; maybe this out-of-balance condition is the norm. The thought is profoundly depressing and...

 

The door opens and Victoria steps into the room. I roll out of bed and hold out my hand, "Jesse!"

 

Her return grip is strong, "Victoria," she says. "Tory, if you like." I look at her for a long moment and then pull her to me. We hug, hard. We've gone through a lot together in the last few days; a handshake seems...inadequate.

 

She clings to me for a long time, so long in fact that I begin to feel uncomfortable. I move to break it off. She tightens her grip. I can feel her body trembling. Poor kid, it's obvious that she's been holding it together with sheer courage. I lead her to the bed and try to calm her down. She needs a friend. Who wouldn't after what she's been through?

 

"Are you okay?" I ask, wiping away her tears. "That was pretty rough last night, especially after getting shocked on the plane." Her tears start flowing all over again. Dumb! She doesn't need to be reminded of this stuff right now. It's obvious that she's teetering on the edge. Fucking idiots, don't they know that she's new and fragile? All they can see is luscious, fresh meat. I bend over and kiss her softly on the lips. It's a friendship kiss, but she doesn't take it that way. She pushes her mouth into mine and French-kisses me in a way that is way beyond friendship. Her reactions are borne of desperation; it's as if I am the last person on earth. Maybe I am...for her. I just don't have the heart to push her away even as our bodies come together onto the narrow cot. "I'm not a lesbian, Tory," I whisper to her as gently as I can.

 

"Neither am I," she replies with equal softness. "Please, just hold me."

 

"You're just in shock. This place is a disaster. We both just need someone to talk to..."

 

"Yes," she says then pushes her tongue into my ear and kisses me on the neck.

 

I weaken and then finally give up. What's the problem? We can both use some TLC right now. I start playing with her long hair; it's a mane really, the color and luster of a silver cup. "I though you might protest today," I say, half-statement, half-question.

 

"I did," she answers slowly, "then they showed me the holding cages. You wouldn't believe it, Jess. They're tiny things like you would use for a small dog." She starts to cry again. "The girls can't move; they live in their own waste until the guard feels like washing them down. One's been caged for eight weeks...she thinks. It was horrible." She resumes the kissing.

 

"It takes time," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Making a protest is only the first step. Their lawyer needs to petition the court for emancipation. With fees on the line, they won't take any short-cuts." I was trying to give her this information as gently as possible. "This is the problem with an international assignment."

 

"At least they let me withdraw my protest." She was beginning to calm down. "Mr. Nemov said that normally once someone protests, they are required to follow procedure, but in my case, he would make an exception." I think about Nemov's pathological aversion to exceptions. I'm sure, Tory, it has nothing to do with your Virginia-Secret body! She starts to cry softly again. "What kind of a place is this, Jess?" I stroke her hair.

 

"It's a resort where men to indulge their sexual fantasies," I answer. "I've read about them. They're controversial, primarily because many don't follow the recommended international standards for CELT monitoring, but strictly speaking, they're legal. That's why there's already been so much bondage and discipline for us. They're conditioning us." I can feel her legs pressing into my crotch. "Even the holding cages you saw are technically legal. The boilerplate in our contracts says that a protesting CELT may be confined in 'minimal' conditions until the court or an arbitrator makes a ruling. 'Minimal' conditions can mean anything."

 

"How did you end up here, anyway?" I ask.

 

"I broke up with my boyfriend and then flunked out of school. I was embarrassed and didn't want to face people anymore. A CELT contract seemed like a good way to get away from it all. You know, like the foreign legion." She looked at me and flashed an embarrassed smiled.

 

"You don't need the money?" I ask dumbfounded. She shakes her head. "Oh, Tory," I feel incredibly sorry for her. "You have just made the biggest mistake of your life."

 

"I'm beginning to understand that," she says. "That ride on the plane and the craziness when we arrived; it's like something out of a Marquis de Sade nightmare..." She stops and whispers, "My asshole still hurts." I stay quiet, afraid that what happened last night is just the beginning. "I'm glad you agreed to be a runner," I say, changing the subject. "Are you fast?"

 

"Like the wind," she says with a lighter tone. I can feel the tension draining out of her body. Her leg continues to push its way between mine. I truly had no interest in women, but this was different. We were adrift on a raging sea in the black of night; holding each other felt right.

 

She rolls to her stomach and I untie her vest. I run my hand over the red stripes on her back. Her marks turn me on and unconsciously I work my hand into her leather pants; then push them off her hips. She frees her legs and moves onto her back. I begin to rub her breasts, kissing her hard nipples, saving her cunt for later.

 

"You know Tory," I say. “You looked incredibly beautiful last night on the spit.”

 

"The spit?" she asks, half listening.

 

"Yes, that's what I call it, that thing with the dildos."

 

"Yes, it was a horror..." She's losing interest in conversation. I gently push my finger into her hole; it's soaking wet! At the same time, I bite down hard on her nipple. She moans and her hips gyrate in response, I bite even harder. She moans again. I can't tell if it's in pain or excitement. It doesn't matter; I'm into it now and grab her other breast hard; I hear her breathing hard then start to spasm. Her orgasm is quick, violent; I feel the tiny stream of a woman's ejaculation on my fingers.

 

After a while she says, "You made me squirt." Her voice is deeper. "I never squirt!" Then she pushes me down and buries her face in my crotch. There is no nipple biting, but her long tongue reams and sucks both holes with enthusiasm. My climax is deliciously long and deep.

 

I don't know much about Lesbian sex, but as I lay in her arms I realize that she is submissive; she doesn't use pain. I nearly bit her nipples off and the worst she did to me was suck hard on my clit. Does that make me "the man" here? I shudder at the image.

 

Whatever...at this moment, I feel incredibly protective towards her. That's not good; emotional attachments can be painful for a CELT. What really bothers me, though, is that Tory is going to miss the good stuff in this place. Turkslaw is about pain, and pain without intelligence, without intimacy, without love--Nemov's pain--is simply that, pain.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Marina

 

The next afternoon our Jäger mentor pays us a visit. She looks quite fit.

 

"Jesse?" she asks.

 

"Yes," I answer, offering my hand. Tory does the same.

 

"Marina. I am happy to meet you," Her hand is hard like a man's. "I have been asked to provide orientation and instruction." As she speaks, she looks directly into my eyes with a piercing gaze that is disconcerting, bordering on rude. Her English is heavily accented. "Thanks," I reply. "We're all yours." Marina is dressed like us except that she wears boots and has no collar or cuffs. Tory and I are barefooted.

 

"Come." She leads us off the porch into the sunlight. "I am a Jäger. It means hunter." She looks back and smiles disarmingly, "You are rabbit-runners, our prey." Somehow, despite the smile, the words are menacing. I smile back, trying not to look bothered.

 

She maintains a steady monologue as we walk, pointing out the CELT living area, the barn, the dining room, the entertainment hall, the guest quarters, the pool... The men around the pool are almost all older, prosperous, and powerful-looking. The women are all young, long-legged, and beautiful. Suddenly, I feel stupid again. This place is little more than a brothel. Being one rich man's CELT is interesting and sophisticated--it even has social standing in some circles--but here, here I am just another...what, corporate escort?

 

"Who are these women?" I ask.

 

"They are entertainers," Marina answers, then adds softly, "They are nothing...whores...pigs." I glance over at Tory, cautioning her to say quiet. No sense getting into an argument now. It's obvious that the class structure around here is ironclad; this kind of talk is accepted, perhaps even expected.

 

"Those are the mountains we hunt in," she points north to the woods. They look quite rugged. The road leading into the valley is now visible. It seems to be lined with...crosses.

 

"Are those crosses?" I ask, confused.

 

"Yes. Runners who fail are caught are hung on the crosses. It's a kind of Roman spectacle for the guests. They can walk among them or watch from their balconies as the sun sets," she explains, literally without blinking an eyelash.

 

"Hung on crosses..." My voice is a little unsteady. "You mean crucified?"

 

"Yes," she says. "It's the tradition. It's only..." she searches for the right English words, "a play act..."

 

A play act... "You mean it's simulated?" I ask.

 

"Yes, simulated. No one is ever really hurt. It's just for show." It's clear that she doesn't want to linger on this subject.

 

A show like that does sound interesting. I guess if no one really gets hurt, where's the harm? It's a little extreme of course, but today people are more open about the things they found stimulating. A hundred years ago, no one would have dared walk a beautiful girl on a leash. Nowadays, it's common, trendy. Models vie to make the most daring and risqué fashion statements. Still, subtlety is important, but maybe it doesn't matter in a place like this.

 

Marina turns into the guest quarters. Tory and I follow. It is a large building with a spacious lobby. It feels like an expensive hunting lodge. A service desk stands on one side; a bar-lounge on the other. In the middle is a wooden platform, a stage, raised up about a foot off the ground.

 

Three naked girls are tied on the platform. For a few seconds, my mind refuses to accept this bizarre image of public bondage and pain.

 

Marina walks over. "These are lobby decoration--girls who are being punished." The nearest wears six-inch punishment heels which are chained to a floor ring. She's bent over at the waist and her wrists are chained to the same ring. Ropes around her neck and crotch are tied to an overhead beam. They ensure that any rest comes with extreme pain.  She stares at us, her muscles trembling.

 

"What did she do?" Tory asks in shock.

 

"Let's see." Marina lifts a small white card off the platform and reads, "Flora ...London ...She displeased a guest ...She's to be whipped at 6: 15 ...thirty-five lashes." She returns the card. "You can come back and watch if you want." Out of the corner of my eye I see Tory about to respond. Again, I signal her to stay quiet.

 

"That's a common offense," Marina says casually. "Girls are tied here in mid-afternoon so that their pain peaks during the cocktail hour, when they get their punishment. This one will be in agony by then; an interesting display for the guests...no?"

 

I nod. "Yes, interesting." CELTs are punished of course, but usually not in public. It's just considered bad taste.

 

Marina walks to the next "display." A gorgeous redhead is on a spit just as we had been the day before. Her hamstrings and calf muscles are straining to take the pressure off her ass. Heavy weights and bells have been clipped to her nipples. "This pig will be ringing her bells quite vigorously by the cocktail hour," Marina jokes.

 

The last girl is squatting on her toes with her outstretched arms belted tightly to a horizontal beam. Her ankles are strapped to her thighs and her knees are pulled to the side and tied to the beam, preventing her from taking weight off her bare feet. A ball gag is strapped deep in her mouth and she is drooling profusely. Her piteous eyes follow me as I walk to her front.

 

"This one won't last another two hours," I say to Marina.

 

"Yes," she replies, "she'll need to be repositioned. She's the current..." she thinks about the word, "...centerpiece. "The idea is to always have one pig in extreme pain. This way, whenever guests visit the lobby, something interesting is happening." She takes a bamboo rod from atop the beam and strikes the girl hard on her nipples. Her eyes widened and she wails into the gag. "A guest or one of the guards will animate them every few minutes," she explains. It's more interesting, no?" I watch as the girl tries to absorb the pain. Her eyes roll back and blink rapidly; she's on the verge of passing out. A guard walks over and says something to Marina in Russian. Obviously annoyed, she gives him a sharp reply and then turns her back. The guard is pissed, but he just begins to reposition the nearly unconscious girl. I get the impression that this is standard behavior for the haughty Jäger.

 

She walks to the back of the lobby. Half-a-dozen naked girls are chained to the wall with their wrists above their heads. She walks over to one and runs a finger between her cunt lips. "Wet," she announces, licking her finger. "She'll go fast." Marina pushes her finger back inside and the girl dances around a little on her toes. Annoyed, she grabs a nipple. The girl gasps, but says nothing. "These are the overnighters for the guests. Any pig not selected by a guest is available for the Jäger after 9: 00 p.m. This one will lick a Jäger's cunt and ass all night to avoid being whipped." The girl puts on a seductive pout and tilts her head. "I like that sometimes," she smiles and twists harder. "It makes for interesting dreams."

 

Tory and I look at each other.

 

A man in a golf shirt appears and starts touching the girls' breasts. Marina releases the nipple and steps back respectfully. The man nods and squeezes the girl's breast as if kneading dough. It's disgusting. This is not going to happen to me!

 

He turns and stands in front of Tory, undressing her with his eyes. I can feel my temper flaring, but just stand by with my head bowed. Marina's smirking.

 

"I hope you can run very fast," she says to Tory as we walk outside. This is the first time she has spoken to her directly. Tory is confused, but the meaning is crystal clear to me--as an entertainer, Tory will be hard-fucked and disciplined every night. She's simply too beautiful for a place like this. Men will be on her like a pack of wild dogs.

 

Marina leads us back to the runners' cells. "The hunt is in two days," she says. "Tomorrow, I'll explain the rules and give you some advice. I assume you want to be Jäger." She is looking only at me. Apparently, Tory has already been written off. I give an indefinite nod and she walks away.

 

"Charming," Tory whispers over my shoulder. I look back and smile. The image of the girl suffering on the bar comes into my mind. "We need a life raft, Tory, and the Jäger is the only one around," I say softly, watching Marina swagger away. "No sense crying over the stupidity that got us here; we need to survive."

 

Tory wraps her arms around my back, cupping my breasts. "Let's go to bed, Lover," she says, sticking her tongue into my ear. I don't argue.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 The Hunt

 

The black sky turns orange as we wait for the sun. We are naked; that's the tradition here, girls run naked in the hunt. I'm used to it, but I wonder how well our soft skin will fare in the forest. Some of the runners start to stretch. I elbow Tory and we followed suit. The girl is athletic and physically strong, but does she have the stamina? We'll soon find out.

 

A few guests watch from their balconies, drinking coffee and smoking. I assume they all have companions in their rooms, but only two or three women are visible at this ungodly hour. They are probably curious Russian whores.  It seems incredible to me with all the CELT beauties around that a man would bring his personal whore or mistress to this place, but there is no telling for taste.

 

Nemov walks into the middle of the runners and holds up his hand. "When the sun hits the valley floor, you may start running. The rules are simple:  you will have a one hour head start; you must evade capture until Noon; there will be no violence. I should also warn the new girls that the Jäger use dogs, so hiding under a rock probably won't do you much good." He pauses as if waiting for a laugh.

 

"Anyone who evades capture twice will be invited to join the Jäger." He points to a very tough looking group of maybe ten girls, including Marina, who stand nearby. Each is dressed in the standard leathers and boots with a long whip tied at the waist. "Runners who are captured are punished symbolically in the afternoon." He pauses and looks at us hard.

 

"Is there any runner who would like to withdraw?" I have the impression that this is a pro forma question being asked on-advice-of-counsel and that anyone taking the offer will be very sorry.

 

"Excellent," he declares after a moment of silence. As if on cue, the first ray of sunlight peaks over the mountain. "Let the race begin!"

 

The other runners bolt down the road. I grab Tory's arm; I want to see where they're headed. "Your only chance is to cross the valley and make it to the tree line on the other side." It's Nemov. "If you get there, you'll need a plan of some kind. Perhaps you should use your time crossing the valley to think of one." It's clear from his mocking tone that he doesn't think we have any chance.

 

"May I ask a question Mr. Nemov?" I ask politely.

 

"Certainly Jesse, that's what I'm here for," He replies.

 

"When are the Jäger released?"

 

"Good question." He looks at me with slightly more respect. "As I said, the guests will give chase first in one hour. They are mounted on horseback and accompanied by the dogs. One hour after that the guests are asked to pull back to the tree line and the Jäger are released. The Jäger take control of the dogs."

 

"Thank you." I turn to Tory, "Let's go." We set off at a good pace. The other girls have maybe half a mile on us, but we manage to close by the time they reach the tree line. As I guessed, Tory is in superb shape and runs as if she is training for a marathon.

 

"Do you trust me, Tory?" I ask when we reach the trees. She smiles and nods. "Okay, then listen. Let's circle the mountain at the timberline until we find a stream then you go upstream. I'll cross the stream and run farther on in the same line. At the right time, I'll double back and hide with you upstream."

 

She looks at me for a few seconds. "That's a good plan Jess, except I think I can run farther than you for half-an-hour."

 

I looked at her surprised. She's right of course; she understands that once we find the stream the critical element is distance. Too short a run and they will be on us right away; too long, and they will intercept the runner as she doubles back. Neither the guests nor the Jäger are stupid, they will realize that they have been fooled as soon as the trail stops. "OK, I agree," I kiss her fast and hard on the mouth then start racing through the woods. She follows.

 

We discover the first stream within a mile, but it's no good. "Too shallow..." She nods and we continue on to the next. "This is okay," I say, I'm tiring and breathing hard; Tory looks fresh, as if she just came out of the shower. She nods, kisses me again, and runs into the forest like a deer. I'm beginning to enjoy these kisses and for a fleeting second think about Lesbian lovers. I'd miss cock of course...

 

I smile again. No time for this now. I start moving upstream, looking for someplace to hide two bodies. The mounted guests and their dogs will be here soon; we need to hide. I pray that Tory doesn't cut it too close.

 

About two kilometers upstream, I find an ideal overhang. It will hide us from all but a determined foot search down the middle of the stream. I don't think the quests are going to go to that much trouble, but I'm not so sure about the Jäger. It doesn't matter though, we're out of time.

 

I tuck myself inside the hole and wait. In a few minutes, I hear a gentle splash and see Tory moving carefully upstream. I call out softly and she wiggles inside the hole, nestling her nude body into my outstretched arms. Despite the dampness and the desperate situation, we laugh like two Catholic schoolgirls hiding from Sister Perpetua.

 

In a while, we hear horse hooves; we hold our breath, but don't see anything. In the distance, I hear dogs braying; another girl captured. I'm sorry for them, but happy that we are safe. It's a game...I've nearly forgotten the crosses.

 

In a few minutes, I see someone walking up the middle of the stream. I pull Tory inside and wiggle farther into the mud. It's one of the Jäger. She passes by without noticing. I can feel bugs crawling on my back and into my hair.

 

"Let's take a look," I whisper when I'm sure the Jäger is out of sight. We step out into the sunlight and look around...no one in sight. Quietly, we clean ourselves in the stream. I keep looking upstream in case the Jäger decides to retrace her steps. Why would she do that? She's already searched this ground.

 

Suddenly, something bites me on the leg and I fall head first into the stream. I can't...move my legs. What's wrong? The panic is instantaneous and overwhelming! I desperately need to breathe, but can't get to the air. I take water into my lungs. The next moment, I'm lying on the grass, coughing. I still can't move my legs, but now my arms are also paralyzed.

 

Slowly, I realize that hands are chained and that my legs are encircled by some kind of whip. I turn my head painfully. Tory is lying next to me. Marina and another Jäger are standing by the stream talking. Another girl walks out of the stream, looks over at us and smiles.

 

How stupid of me; one girl walks the stream to draw out dumb rabbits, trailed by two others walking along the banks. I feel like an idiot.

 

The two Jäger walk over and release our legs, tying their whips to their waists. One cuts a branch and uses it as a switch to move us downhill. I look over at Tory; she has the frightened look of a deer caught in the headlights. When we get to the road that circles the mountain, they make us sit and wait. Soon a wagon pulled by two horses appears and we're ordered to stand. The wagon has no sides, just an overhead center beam supported by wooden tripods at each end. As it gets closer, I spot two bare chested men sitting in the front. Half a dozen runners are standing, chained to the overhead beam. I looked at Tory and smile encouragement that I don't feel. She smiles back, but it's clear that she's frightened to death.

 

The men jump down and lift us into the wagon, chaining our arms over the rail. There's no unnecessary groping--a bad sign; they're all business. My nipples push into Tory's back as we are moved forward on the beam. The wagon makes several more stops. I notice two runners emerging from the trees as we pass. It's clear that once the wagon had passed, the road is safe ground for those who have evaded capture. Several Jäger nod in their direction; I am incredibly jealous.

 

After a few minutes, we come to the first cross. The men climb down. Lunch! We stand chained and naked in the sun. Tory's hair is in my face and her hard round ass is pressed against my crotch. "Don't be afraid," I whisper. "This is a show for the guests. We'll beat them next time, Tory." Her head nods and she pushes her butt back; I respond by rubbing my breasts over her back. The distraction takes our minds off the cross looming over us at the side of the wagon.

 

When lunch is over, the men lie back in the grass and wait. In a while, a bell rings three times. Several guests stand nearby. It's time.

 

One of the men extracts large leather cuffs from a bag and straps them on the first girl's forearms and ankles. They're designed to spread her hanging weight over a larger area. She begs piteously as they take her off the beam and walk her to the cross. It's useless of course, but appropriate.

 

I can see everything now. She pleads with the men as they stretch her arms, attaching each wrist to the short chain hanging from the end of the horizontal beam. Then, one at a time, they lift her ankles off the wagon floor and attach them to chains near her knees. She is suspended now by her arms and legs. She can't pull herself up by her arms as they are too stretched out too far, but she can use her legs to take the weight off her arms. This doesn't seem too bad. One of the men pulls a braided whip out of the bag and positions himself in front of her. She moans and shakes her head; he gives her 20 strokes. She's screaming hysterically by the time he's done. The girls on the beam are crying and jerking their chains in fright.

 

Bitterly, I remember Marina's words, "It's just for show." This is no show, and her ordeal is just beginning! The pain will be unbearable when her legs tire. I can feel Tory shaking; in fact, the entire beam seems to be vibrating with fear.

 

The wagon moves off to the next cross.

 

By the time it's Tory's turn, the wagon smells of girl piss and vomit. Several are crying and pulling hopelessly on their chains. I stand quietly and whisper in Tory's ear, trying to keep her calm. I can't remember anything I say and I'm sure she's not listening. It's just the sound of my voice. She goes up without a sound and only screams when her whipping starts. I am incredibly proud, but my heart breaks watching her body writhe under the lash. I glance down at the crowd. Several men stare at her longingly. You sick fucking bastards! I want to scream at them, but again the evil thought crosses my mind that she does look incredibly beautiful.

 

I also go on my cross without a sound and even manage to withstand ten of my twenty strokes before screaming. I can see one of the Russian whores looking at me with a smile and licking her lips. I know she's getting off on this. I watch the wagon and most of the crowd move off to the next cross. The whore stands at my feet alone. Her head is level with my crotch. She waits until my pain subsides and then speaks.

 

"It's about two hours until the sun sets," she says. "By that time you'll be really hurting. I watched this last week; once the legs go your chest will feel as if it's being crushed and every breath will be excruciating. It wouldn't be so bad if they just let you go numb, but they come back two more times with the whip."

 

I looked down at her, but say nothing.

 

"If no one is looking, I can let you rest your feet on my shoulders. Do you want that?" I continue to stare down at her, but don't say anything." She laughs. "Maybe in a couple of hours, you'll be friendlier." She walks off in the direction of the wagon.

 

The sun is still high in the Western sky when my leg muscles begin to burn. I looked over at Tory's cross, but can't see much. At some point, the wagon passes in front of me, returning to the first cross. I can hear the screams as each girl is whipped. It's true; they are being revived with pain. When my turn comes, I smile at my torturer and he smiles back. But the whip strikes my body with horrifying intensity. My screams are as loud as anyone's.

 

After a long while, the wagon passes me again. The Russian girl walks behind and stops at my feet. "It takes a while for the wagon to make this last circuit," she explains. "After their final whipping, each girl is taken down and secured. That takes time."

 

I try to concentrate on what she was saying. There's a red haze over my eyes and it feel as if my entire body is on fire; I am also strangling ever so slowly as my chest muscles slowly give out.

 

"Would you like to use my shoulders now?" she asks. I nod in desperation and she moves in closer, positioning my legs on top of her shoulders. The burning subsides; it is like a cold drink in the desert. Even my cunt starts to throb again with life.  I looked down; she is sucking me off. I can feel her tongue inside. I start to spasm and then black out for a few seconds; I have never come like that before.

 

The girl steps back. "Orgasms are amazing on the cross," she says laughing then walks away.

 

"Please..." I call after hoarsely. She looks back. "Please help my friend." I look in the direction of Tory's cross.

 

"Sorry," she said. "If they catch me interfering, I might be up there tomorrow myself." My rule is pussy, once-a-day. Then she laughs again and turns away.

 

The wagon seems to take a lifetime to return. The pain is constant and unbearable, I'm not sure I can last. I keep telling myself that this is all a big show; no one is in any real danger... I welcome my last twenty strokes. After this, it's over. This is my only thought. It is dark when we are finally carried back to our cell. I painfully climb into bed with Tory and hold her close to me as she cries.

 

In the morning, without any discussion, she walks out and asks to become entertainer. I cry for the entire day.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Entertainment

 

I rest the next day, heartsick over Tory's decision. I don't blame her; the thought of the cross is terrifying and I'm not sure that I'm making the right decision for myself, but the thought of being a sex slave for guests is just as bad.

 

I try to concentrate on the next hunt. We came close...so fucking close. It isn't impossible; it's not... I need to overcome my fear, to stop worrying about the cross. Winners are not afraid of losing; it's just not an option.

 

Surprisingly, many of the other runners don't really think of themselves as winners; they view their time on the cross as payment for the privileges they have as runners. Sure, they try to evade, but there's no fire in them to win.

 

I can't accept this. I'd rather die on their fucking cross then give into this bunch of thugs. This place is operating illegally in clear violation of international law, Russian law, and our contracts. Their private rules wouldn't stand a chance in a fair hearing in front of an impartial court.

 

This growing fury is driving me these days. CELTs cater to two of man's most primitive drives--lust and power--and earn good money doing it. But there are limits, and these people are way over the edge. Keeping us incommunicado and prevent us from exercising our legal rights was, well...slavery. Something the world still abhors and something that I did not agree to in any form. There's not much I can do about it right now, but I am not going to become part of the system.

 

In the late afternoon, I dress and go for a walk. Another hunt is scheduled in four days; I should be exercising with the other runners, but somehow it's more important for me to have a plan. Winning here is not about muscle, it's about brains. The lack of any real intelligence about the terrain is the biggest problem. Frantically running off into the woods and hiding is not going to work.

 

I stop in front of the guest's dining area. Several girls are chained on the porch, waiting. I spot Tory. Her amazing silver-blond hair and dark skin stand out even from a distance. I walk over and stand next to her. Four other entertainers are also chained to the wall, waiting. A guard is lounging nearby.

 

She's naked with her wrists and elbows tied behind her back. Her nipples have been pierced and small gold rings inserted. These are attached to light chains that keep her face to the wall. A ball gag is wedged deep in her mouth. She turns and looks at me then drops her eyes.

 

"How are you?" I ask softly. It's painful for me to see her like this. She nods her head and shrugs, but still doesn't look at me. I know she is ashamed for quitting.

 

"It's okay, Tory," I say. "You needed to make the choice that was right for you." She nods again and shuffles a little. I can see that she's been here a while--her legs are tired. I slip my hand between her legs and massage her cunt, pushing my finger deep into her hole. She looks at me with longing and begins to move her pelvis, slowly sucking my fingers inside with her cunt muscles.

 

I glance over at the guard. He appears to be dozing in the afternoon sun. I rub her harder. The other girls on the wall glance over, but stay quiet.

 

Just as she is about to come, I hear men's voices and quickly step away. Two small, but powerfully built men walk onto the porch, drinks in hand. They are discussing something in a language I don't recognize...Farsi maybe? They sit down at a small table. I hang back on the porch.

 

After a few minutes, one of the men walks over and unlocks Tory from the wall. It's obvious that she is his, probably for the week. Girls as beautiful as Tory often stay with one guest for their full visit.

 

"Down," he says. Tory kneels on her haunches next to his chair. He sits down and resumes his conversation. Still talking to his friend, he pulls a leather strap from his pocket and wraps it around her neck. Then he starts to tighten. It isn't punishment or discipline, it's just sadistic play. Instead of prayer beads, he has a strap and a helpless girl. She is close to passing out when he finally backs it off then he starts twisting again. I glare at him. After a while the other man notices and points me out to his friend who turns around, curious.

 

"Is there something wrong?" he asks in English.

 

"No Sir," I say politely, trying to hide my loathing. I try to think of something to say that will get him to stop. "You may want to take it easy on her if you want her to last the evening." There's fear in Tory's eyes.

 

"Thanks for the advice," he says then turns away and resumes his conversation. Pointedly, he also continues his idle strangulation. The guard is now fully awake and watching the exchange from across the porch. He says something softly into the radio on his shoulder. The girls on the wall glance back nervously.

 

I try to get hold of my emotions; runners can be punished for bothering a guest. Tory continues to look at me, pleading for me to back away. I stand where I am and continue to glare at the two men.

 

Nemov appears at the bottom of the steps. "Is everything satisfactory, Colonel?" he says, directing himself to the man at the table.

 

"Fine, Grigoriy, one of your runners seems a little upset with me," the Colonel replies evenly.

 

Nemov replies in Russian and all three men laugh. Tory and I have obviously been cast as Lesbian lovers. Then he says something to the guard who handcuffs me and leads me away. I don't complain or resist. All I wanted to do was to let that Iranian bastard knows that someone is watching him. Maybe he'll treat her a little better. At least I did something; what ever happens now is okay. The guard takes me to the guest quarters and up to one of the rooms where he gags me and chains me to a wall. What's going on, I wonder. Runners aren't given to guests; that violates one of their cardinal rules. Nemov wants me as a runner, hanging on his cross for a very long time. He's not going to be distracted from that goal this easily. So why am I here?

 

A few hours pass; two guards lead Tory into the room. Her arms and elbows are tied tightly behind her back; she's been freshly bathed. A guard picks up a length of black chain attached to a floor ring near the bed and locks it on her collar. Tory can kneel, but not stand. They leave. I move and she looks over, surprised. Our positions are now reversed; she can talk, I am gagged. In an instant she understands that I'm here to watch. "I'm sorry, Jesse, I just couldn't handle going back on that cross again." I nod amazed that she is still fretting about my feelings.

 

"I think I can handle life here as an entertainer," she continues. "It's not forever, just a few years. This is what I signed up for, right?" She smiles. My heart breaks; there is no way that she is going to come out of Turkslaw the same way she went in. She'll be broken in a month.

 

I shake my head. This is not what you signed up for, my love! There are rules, even for CELTs, and these bastards are breaking every one of them. I shake my head again in anger and frustration. She looks at me.

 

"Please don't be mad at me, Jess." There are tears in her eyes. I don't want to lose you; you're my only friend. The other girls... The gag is infuriating. It's okay, Tory; I love you! Fuck everyone else! But the more I struggle, the more it looks like I'm angry.

 

The door opens and the Iranian walks into the room. It's obvious that he's been drinking. He looks at Tory and then smiles at me. He knew I'd be here. This is not revenge for him. I'm not worth his revenge. He's just glad to have the opportunity to teach me some manners.

 

He walks over to Tory and runs his hands through her hair then plays with her breasts, rubbing her nipples between his fingers. I watch and he watches me watch, enjoying the look in my eyes. The message is clear--she's mine and I can do whatever I want to her.

 

He walks to the dresser and gets alligator clips for her nipples. She moans as they bite into her skin. I try to look unaffected. He just smiles; there's a riding crop in his hand. The Colonel stares looks down at Tory and then strips slowly, enjoying the captive audience. Grudgingly, I have to admit that he's in pretty good shape. He stands by her for a while and then inserts his penis into her mouth. Tory cock-sucking is unimpressive even to me; maybe she's embarrassed. He strikes her with the crop, then again, and again; finally she responds with significantly more enthusiasm, sucking him off with a fury. She has all the right moves, just needs a little more technique.  In a few seconds, he comes in her mouth; she swallows every drop and sucks him dry. It's amazing what can be accomplished with a crop.

 

I stare at them and imagine myself holding the crop. She's incredibly desirable in her pain, too tempting for a human being to resist... How am I any different from this pig with thoughts like these?

 

Satisfied, he falls into the bed. Tory looks at me for a long moment and then curls up around the floor ring and drifts off to sleep. Near morning, the Colonel gets up to urinate. On his way back, he unties her and takes her into his bed. They fuck again. Surprisingly, their lovemaking is intense. Tory looks over at me just as she comes; her face is flushed with passion, the pain gone. I feel...envy. In a few hours, he wakes again and pulls a half asleep Tory to his crotch. Morning sex and good stamina for someone his age--the man is definitely a bull. Too bad he has such detestable habits.

 

In an hour or so, a black maid comes in and quietly straightens up the room, hanging up clothes, replacing towels, and chaining Tory back on the floor ring. A few minutes later, another guard comes in and quietly takes me off the wall. Tory's curled around the floor ring sleeping like a cat.

 

Nemov's object lesson is clear--I can't help Tory acting like her knight in shining armor. I need to become a Jäger.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Teresa

 

I see Tory several times after that. The Colonel enjoys walking her around the resort on a leash, drawing envious glances from the other guests. I notice that he continues to use his strangle cord. I would happily murder him if I could. I can only imagine her agony being with this horrid man.

 

His sadistic habit is actually contrary to the resort's official recommendation which is to use casual pain only when the CELT is left alone. The theory is that the CELT will associate the guest’s absence with pain. To me, this made sense for dogs and horses...not people! A harshly tethered girl knows who suspended her on her toes or forced her to kneel for hours; or bent her over a hitching rail; or chained her nipples to the wall... It is ridiculous to believe that she will be grateful to this person when she's released.

 

At least to me the idea is ridiculous, although I do have to admit that most of the girls act like excited puppies when they're un-tethered. Maybe it's the conditioning...in a place like this, after a while the only thing that matters is pain--a girl is either suffering or she's not, everything else is irrelevant.

 

Most of what happens here is stupid and pointless! If I were in charge, the sadism would be subtle. Torturing a girl day and night just makes her numb. Less pain and more anticipation would make her suffering...special. The clothing policy is another mistake; girls are kept naked most of the time. This makes nudity the norm. It would be much more effective to selectively deny clothing. Imagine how a girl would feel if she is the only one naked in a crowd or if she is naked only when she is being punished in public.

 

And that's another thing--public punishment! It's excessive. There's too much pain around to make any of it really meaningful. I admit that I find some of the pain-art interesting, but this is definitely a case where less is more.

 

One example of this is Teresa who, according to her card, scratched a guest. She was tied in a remote hallway every day for a week. There were no other displays around and very few people. Watching her was like being alone in a museum.

 

She was placed on her knees, wearing an arm sleeve, a chastity belt, and a head harness. The sleeve was chained to her ankles, bending her painfully backwards; the chastity belt was chained to a wall ring which pulled her torso forward, maintaining the arc in her back; and the head harness cum gag which pulled her in the other direction. After an hour or so, her muscles would begin vibrating like guitar strings and she would make a guttural sound in her throat. It was intense.

 

I would stand there for hours, sometimes playing with her protruding nipples, trying to distract her. She looked at me with doe-like eyes until she came, but the distraction was just temporary; the pain always came flooding back within seconds. She just moaned softly. We grew close through her pain without exchanging a single word.

 

This was life for an entertainer at Turkslaw--sex, humiliation, and small pain, punctuated by times of real agony. The Jäger also never let anyone forget that these girls were Turkslaw's weaklings and cowards, fit only for a slave's life. Marina had the reputation of being especially cruel with entertainers and frequently took an unused one for the night just to torment her.

 

Runners had more standing; after all, even if they failed to evade, they braved the cross. I thought about this a lot. Did courage come with gender? Were men naturally braver? I was terrified of the cross, but still chose to be a runner. What was that all about? Was it so bad to be on someone's leash? How many times could I endure the agony of the cross? Had I become so spoiled with Howard? Did I think I was too good now to just be an ordinary CELT?

 

I never found any answers, but it didn't matter. On the day of the hunt I was calm--I had a plan.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Victory

 

Nemov's starting-line speech is an opportunity to check out the guests. It isn't clear which are hunting this morning and which are just curious, but I study them all anyway, looking for weaknesses.

 

Surprisingly, Tory is in the crowd with her new man, a muscular, barrel-chested government official from Georgia. I'm happy to see that she wears a man's shirt against the morning cold and that she's unbound. Maybe this new guest is treating her better. She smiles at me and I know what's on her mind--win my darling, for both of us! I smile back, moved, but a little distracted studying the guests.

 

I also watch the other runners. They look scared, as usual, except for the two who evaded last week. These two look as if another victory is already in the bag. One is even strutting around wishing the other runners good luck. Phony bitch! I wouldn't mind giving her a few strokes with the crop. Maybe I will one day...

 

The Jäger are gathered in a small knot just as they had been the week before. Their merciless eyes frighten the naked runners, in exactly the same way that rabbits are frightened around wolves. Their fear is justified; I'm sure that if the Jäger were ordered to capture, cook, and eat us, they'd do it. It doesn't take much to create a master race.

 

I shudder...and this is what I aspire to!

 

Finally, the sun pops over the mountain and Nemov gives the signal. Everyone sprints for the trees. I fly down the grassy path feeling like I could run forever; my long legs barely touch the ground. Many of the other girl's are in small packs or partnered, I run alone.

 

I reach the woods and duck behind the trees as quickly as possible. Every instinct I have is screaming, run! ...keep running! But I resist the temptation; knowing that timing is everything! I need to wait here for the horses.

 

But it's not so easy to wait when you want to run. I pray silently to any God or fate that might be watching--save me, please save me from the cross! Finally, I spot the horses in the valley. They look magnificent; even the dogs look picturesque from this distance, running ahead, eager to close.

 

With frightening speed, the dogs are in the trees. I watch them sniff for scent trails. By staying this close, I could be the first one captured. The men arrive and give the dogs the signal to hunt. Several fairly leap into the air and charge into the woods. I'm not worried about these youngsters; they're too impetuous to be dangerous. It's the older, slower, wiser dogs that are the most dangerous. One of these moves closer. A girl crossed the ground between us, I remember her; will he follow her trail or mine?

 

It's a Laika, a steel-muscled Russian hunting dog often used to hunt bear and wild boar. He looks exactly like a wolf with funny ears and hunts the same way--silently. These Laikas are trained to flush the girl out, run her down, and pin her to the ground. I put the image of lying naked under one of these beasts out of my mind.

 

I watch as he picks up the trail leading into the woods. Instead of running off though, he continues sniffing and picks up my crossing trail. He raises his head and looks around...two trails! Laikas are extremely intelligent, but two trails are a dilemma for anyone...which one? I nearly cry out with relief as he runs into the woods after the other girl. This trick would not have worked if a Jäger were here; she would have taken the time to check both.

 

There's no time to think about this as the horsemen burst into the woods and race up the slope after the dogs. I spy one who's hanging back, a little unsteady with the forest's tricky footing, and move in to follow. When there is no other riders in sight, I run to his horse and grab its tail; then I close my eyes, reach underneath and squeeze. The shocked animal rears up; and something sails over my head, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

 

I did it...

 

I look over at the rider; he's unconscious, maybe even dead. Should I try to help him? Fuck no! We're playing by Turkslaw rules. They want to hunt girls on horseback, crucify them for fun; then they need to take some risks. Falling off your horse is just one of those risks. Of course, he didn't exactly fall off...

 

I grab the horse's reins and pull myself into the saddle. I'm no expert, but everyone learns to handle a horse where I grew up.

 

Riding slowly, I finally see the other horsemen through the trees. A number of runners have already been captured and tied over the horses. I can see their white asses flashing in the forest's sunny spots. I feel sorry for them. In a while, I hear the signal for guests to retire to the tree line. Everyone turns and starts back in my direction. Carefully, I move to the side and let them pass. The Jäger will be here soon, but for now I'm alone in the forest. Despite the danger, I'm excited. My plan is working. I kick the horse in the side and pull sharply on reins; he starts running up the mountain. Half a ton of muscle controlled with my bare feet and arms. Is he still mad at me? I reach over and stroke his neck.

 

Avoiding the Jäger is easy with a horse, I just move away when I hear dogs or hunters, being careful not to get too close to the troops guarding the mountain's perimeter. I don't want any reports of a naked girl on a horse.

 

At Noon, I move back to the tree line and watch for the wagon. When it passes, I dismount, give my faithful steed a big wet kiss, and run down to the road. The wagon is filled with chained girls. I spy Marina at the side of the road; she gives me a nod as do her friends. Despite everything, it feels good to have their respect. I don't want to think about what it means to be a Jäger right now; to put girls on the cross. All I can think about is sweet victory!  

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Defeat

 

Nemov stares at me as I walk back. There's a rumor that a guest's been seriously injured; Nemov must be beside himself--his perfect safety record ruined..."exceptions" galore. I avoid his stare and return to my cell. Later that day, I walk by the crosses; twenty girls are writhing in the afternoon sun, including the two who evaded last week. Surprisingly, most of the guests are here; it must be the excitement of a real injury. The man has a broken shoulder and is being flown back this evening...how terrible.

 

I watch the suffering of those being crucified; it's frightening, but also fascinating. Several times I consider offering my shoulders, but decide that I've already pushed my luck too far today. I'm also a victim here. Maybe when I get back to the world I can raise enough Hell to help, but there is nothing I can do right now. Sickeningly, I remember that I'm here for another three years. I must become Jäger; it's the only way! I'm halfway there.

 

I turn towards my cell then look back at the crosses. The sun is still high; they have a long way to go. I feel sad and angry. I spot Tory and her new guest approaching. She is naked again on a leash, but she flashes me a quick smile as we pass. I smile back.

 

She's proud of me. It often takes six months to evade the first time and a year to evade twice. This is only my second time out. Shit, even though I cheated, I have a right to be proud of myself. Once more and I'm a Jäger!

 

Nemov passes me and I pretend not to see him. I know he's suspicious. I want to give him the finger so much it hurts.

 

The next week flies by. This is it; if I can evade again, I'll be a Jäger then I can reserve Tory for myself. I know this is unlikely--Tory is practically a celebrity now and reserved by guests even before they arrive--but still there's a chance. Teresa also pops into my mind. She's also popular, but I might be able to take her every once in a while ...give her a break. Will I force her like the other Jäger...punish her? Is it possible to be a kind hunter...submissive or at least sympathetic to those who are submissive? These questions bother me, but I dismiss them for now...victory dilemmas aren't a problem until I've actually won.

 

On the day of the hunt I'm ready and feeling supremely confident that I can beat the system again. Nemov makes his usual speech, but keeps glancing in my direction. Fuck him. These are his rules; his lunatic asylum! I stretch in as insolent a way as I can manage. When the sun hits, I run like the wind to "my spot" and wait eagerly for the dogs. I'm so excited that I have to meditate for a minute to calm down. Tonight, I'll be Jäger!

 

Again, some of the dogs hesitate at the tree line, but eventually they all run after the herd of girls. It's working! All I needed to do now is pick another novice and spook his horse. Injuring someone else feels wrong, but what the Hell; they're the ones hunting naked girls, not me.

 

As the horsemen approach, I spot one who seems to be having trouble with his mount. I target him immediately and move into a hiding place close to where I guess he'll enter the forest. The other riders pass by, eagerly chasing the girls. I wait. After a few seconds, I hear him enter the forest and I change position. This guy is small and unsteady. I follow.

 

At exactly the right moment, I leap out and grab the animal's tail, reaching for his testicles. Suddenly, something bites me on the arm, then on the legs. I fall hard, stunned. The horse stops and the rider dismounts. Two Jäger move into my view, holding their long whips; I feel sick.

 

"Nice trick," one of them says. It's Marina, she's smiling. The other girl looks down at me without expression. The rider removes his jacket. He's one of the Jäger. It was a trap.

 

"Let's get her packed up," Marina orders. The other girl pulls out her binding straps and pig-ties me over the animals back. The rider remounts. "Take her back," Marina says, "and remember our orders." As soon as we're out of sight of Marina, the Jäger speaks, "so you were going to send me flying, huh?" Then she spanks me hard with her bare hand. It's not a man's spanking, but it hurts. Without waiting for the pain to stop, she begins to rub my vulva, moving her fingers into my wet cunt. I feel stupid and terrified, but her fingers, the motion of the horse, the feel of his hair and muscles on my bare skin...I come twice before we reach the road.

 

I know that my crucifixion will be agony, but only the first of many. Nemov will have no mercy for someone who purposely injures a guest. How could I have been so stupid...so arrogant?

 

We pass in front of the crosses, but don't stop. Instead, the Jäger guides the horse back to the compound. A strong man comes out and carries me inside the administration building. I'm locked in a tiny "protest" cage which is then covered with a blanket. What's going on? Aren't they going to crucify me?

 

No one bothers to explain; it's totally silent and dark. I wait in pain a long time, long enough so that I pray for another torment...anything. It takes an excruciatingly painful hour after they let me out before I can walk. Two men wash me down and lead me to another office.

 

An enormous wooden desk sits in the center of the room. I have never seen anything like it. It's designed to serve as a stock as well as a desk, with the victims head and hands held tight on the desktop. I back away, frightened but helpless with my hands bound behind. One guard pushes me to my knees while the other slides out the front of the desktop. He pushes me into the holes while the desktop is pushed back into position and locked. I struggle to pull my hands through the holes; it's impossible.

 

My ankles are cuffed and chained up to the sides of the desk. Metal clamps attached to my nipples; they don't hurt that much, but they are tight. Something cold is pushed into my cunt and asshole. They didn't feel like dildos, more like metal balls or cylinders. He straps on a leather chastity belt to keep them inside.

 

The guards stand behind the desk, watching me. My nipples start to ache but I stay quiet studying the grain of the wood under my nose.

 

In a few minutes, Nemov enters and the guards leave. He opens a draw and removes a small black box with dials and switches. I look up at him from the desktop.

 

"Good," he says, "now we're ready." He stares at my disembodied head. "This meeting will be used to confirm things that I already know, Jesse. I suggest you answer everything quickly and truthfully. Do you want to say anything before we begin?"

 

Somehow I find the courage to mutter a quick, "Fuck you, Asshole!"

 

He doesn't even blink. "Did you cause the injury to our guest last week?"

 

I remain silent. He waits a few seconds and then pulls a ball gag from the desk. I struggle, but it's no use. He turns a dial and touches a button. For those who have never experienced it, there are no words that can describe the pain of electricity; for those who have, no words are necessary. The shock enters through my breasts and travels to my ass. It feels as if someone is scraping out my insides along the way. I bite down on the gag and feel the rubber split; my eyes bulge and then roll back into my head; I feel beads of sweat on my forehead; there's a coppery taste in my mouth; I can't breathe. Breathing is the first priority once the pain stops. All I can manage for a while is a shallow pant that barely gets air into my mouth. I look up at Nemov; he's watching me with clinical interest. This is familiar territory for him. I feel...confused. How could he, any human being, do that and feel nothing? Even a squashed bug gets a moment of regret.

 

He removes the damaged gag then moves to press the button again. I pitifully shake my head and whine. He doesn't hesitate even a moment. I pass out. He uses smelling salts to bring me back to his private Hell.

 

"Did you cause the injury to our guest last week?" he asks again.

 

I struggle to speak, but am still unable to catch my breath. I begin to cry Like a baby; drool pours out of my mouth over the desktop. He presses the button again; I try to scream, but can't; I don't have enough breath.

 

"Did you cause the injury to our guest last week?" he asks again.

 

I concentrate and push the word out of my mouth, "Ye...yes." He nods, pulls out a piece of paper and writes something down. Then he waits while I try to calm down. Finally, he looks at me and I nod--I'm ready now, thanks for the break you fucking bastard. It's almost as if we're working together now.

 

He begins again. "Who are your friends here?" Still in a cloud of pain, I don't quite understand his question. His hand moves to another button. I try to ask what he means. My cunt catches fire. I feel as if someone has stuck me there with red hot needles. Again, I try to scream, but all that comes out is a pitiful gurgle and a large quantity of drool. Nemov smiles and uses a towel to clean the desktop around my head.

 

Who are your friends here," he asks again.

 

"Tor...y," I pant.

 

"Yes, I know about her; who else?" He is impatient.

 

"Ter...Ter...Teresa," I gasp. I would have given up my mother to stop this pain.

 

"Oh yes, Tory and Teresa. Thank you," he writes their names on the paper.

 

"I'm very disappointed in you, Jesse," he says sadly. "You are an incredibly beautiful creature. I had hoped that you would fit in here at Turkslaw... become one of our leaders." I'm only following a part of what he's saying, still trying to unscrambled my brain. "I even thought you would eventually become a trusted agent, more than just a Jäger. I can see now that my opinion was clouded by your allure."

 

What nonsense is this? I try to focus, to stop drooling.

 

"Maybe you can still be a model for the other girls, but now it will be as an example." I try to speak, but find that I am incapable of forming words.

 

Nemov seems eager for an answer and leans in to hear. "You wish to speak?"

 

"I...I pro...protest," I manage to get out the ultimate safe word; the word that he said would work under any circumstances. Even the cage is better than this.

 

"Ah, yes, 'protest.' I understand you wish to 'protest' your treatment," he draws out the magical word as if agreeing that it has supernatural powers. "I'm sorry, Jesse. Unfortunately, that right is no longer available to you. Assault is a very serious crime in this country, especially for a CELT. I am now officially investigating the matter and you are no longer free to protest while that investigation is underway.

 

This is bullshit of course. Until I call my lawyer or I am arrested, what he's doing is unlawful. Not that it matters, he holds all the cards here.

 

"Let me explain your punishment while the investigation is underway. You will spend the next 30 days in a dungeon cell. You will be bound in ways that maximize your pain at all times other than when you will eat, exercise, or wash. Every evening, you will be disciplined publicly for our guests. I promise you that your punishment will be the worst of your young life." He pauses as if for dramatic effect. "I won't say anymore now, I don't want to spoil it for you. Just remember my promise."

 

I am unmoved; in fact, I hardly hear what he says. I am concentrating on his fingers. Those ten digits are now my entire world. When they start to move towards the button again, I scream. Not really scream; I still don't have enough air yet for that; it's more like a high pitched groan. I also try to plead with my eyes; I've been told that they are quite beautiful and expressive.

 

Nemov leans over the desk and looks directly into my face. "You are extraordinarily beautiful, Jesse. Consider the next 30 days our courtship. After that, we'll be married for three long years. I'll need to be careful with your mind, but have no fear; you will feel everything. The current starts to build. My entire body hurts. I shake my head to expel a long anguished "nooooooo." He smiles for the first time; this is his finale. I begin to scream silently. My last rationale thought is of Howard; after that, it's all pain.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Punishment

 

My room is all pink. Warm California beaches and high school friends are in my dreams. Mom calls up for me to get out of bed. I try, but for some reason I can't throw off the covers. I open one eye and look up at my wrist; it's encased in a thick leather cuff. I look over at Mom and see...Alexsandr.

 

"Mr. Nemov says you are to suffer, my tall beauty, for thirty days." He checks my bindings as he talks. ...Quite a challenge. The pain is easy, but to do it without marking you or damaging your mind, that's more difficult. Interesting problem, no?"

 

I'm hanging naked by my wrists from a ceiling chain. I have no idea of the time or where I am; Nemov's desk is a vague memory. Funny thing about pain; it's impossible to remember the exact feelings, only the dread.

 

"Wake up now." He pinches a nipple. "You don't want to get the Senior Lieutenant in trouble, do you?" I looked at him absently. Nice dream...had all that been real once? It seems so distant; maybe it's somebody else's life?

 

"Fuck off, Faggot," I say quietly, no longer caring.

 

He grabs my hair and pulls back hard. "You know, I actually like you," he says. "Under different circumstances, we might be friends."

 

"I don't have any sadistic faggot friends," I reply, "and you know what? I don't want any."

 

He laughs as he unhooks me from the ceiling chain and pushes me to the floor. "This is good. You still have your spirit." He lifts my wrists and attached them to the chain then does the same for my ankles. I can't resist; my arms are like water. I hear the pulley; soon only my stomach and pelvis are touching the ground. My bent back is already starting to hurt. He gathers my hair and ties it back to keep my head upright. Thirty days! What day is this? I feel something cold touch my nipples and moan even before he releases the spring. They are Piranhas, round nipple clamps that use spring loaded triangular points. I know them well; the pain shoots into my brain. "Please, Lieutenant," I moan. "The Piranhas aren't necessary, are they?"

 

Alexsandr squeezes my breasts then stands back watching my body move. "No Beauty, they aren't necessary. In fact, it's more work for me. I'll need to change you sooner, but I take pride in my work. And by the way, it's Senior Lieutenant."

 

I groan inside... I will myself to stop moving, it's only making things worse. Use your mind! Isolate the pain and then push it away. He gently pushes an ass hook inside and then ties my hair to its loop. "You won't be able to hold your head back for long then the pain in your ass will begin," he says into my upturned face, "just when your nipples start to go numb."

 

It's true, he is an artist. The pain is unbearable, but I stayed quiet. Why give him the satisfaction? My nipples are already getting numb. Why didn't he lift me higher? This must be a low key torment by their definition, designed for longer periods. I try to return to my dream. It's impossible; I hurt too much...maybe in a little while. I suffer patiently, no other choice. That evening, or six positions later, which is how I'm beginning to tell time, Alexsandr returns and "baths" me; I say baths because there is water and soap involved, but it is more like another torture.

 

It's a simple process; he just chains my hands behind and lifts them to shoulder level. I'm standing on my toes in a wash tub. He washes me thoroughly with a long brush and a sponge. A cleaning rod is used inside. It hurts. He inserts a wooden mouth piece and brushes my teeth. I stare at him as he methodically steps through the process. It's a strangely intimate experience and I'm reminded of my time as a pony girl at Bitter Wells.

 

After, he ties my wrists and elbows behind my back and pulls on a hood. I'm led away on a leash. After a while, the floor changes from wood to plush rugs. He tethers me to an overhead chain.

 

I hear people shuffling into seats. A naked body is roughly pushed against mine. It's a woman. We're belted together face-to-face. My arms are tied to hers, pulled to the sides, and attached to a metal bar that's now between our necks. Slowly the bar is raised until we're on our toes.

 

Another whipping...who is this girl? My hood is loosened and lifted. Before I can adjust to the light, another larger hood goes over both of our heads and is tightened at the neck.

 

"Tory?" I whisper. "Jesse!" she cries happily. "I thought you were buried in the forest somewhere. There are all kinds of rumors. What happened?" Before I can answer she continues on. "The man who was hurt is suing. Nemov seems to be having some kind of breakdown. He spends all of his time in his office."  I was only half listening. The touch of her body is intoxicating. Tears of joy spilled out of my eyes.

 

"Tory, Tory," I keep repeating her name, running my tongue inside her ear, mashing my cunt into hers. I want to kiss, but we can't turn our heads that far. "Why are you here?" I ask.

 

"I don't know," she whispers, excited. "They took me away from my man and brought me here. Do you know anything?" she asks.

 

I remembered Nemov's words, "This punishment will be the worst of your young life." "I'm sorry Tory, they're going to punish me for tipping that rider. They probably think it will be worse if you are somehow part of it. I'm so sorry."

 

"Tipping a rider?" she asks confused.

 

“I made that man fall off his horse." Surprisingly, there's a hint of pride in my voice.

 

"You made him fall?" she says in awe, "...off his horse?"

 

"That's how I evaded the Jäger. I was trying to do it a second time when I got caught."

 

"No shit!" she says. "Jess, I want to go home. I didn't understand what this is place is all about. I don't care about the money anymore, I never did. I just want to go home." She rubs her cheek against mine and pushed her tongue into my ear.

 

"I know sweetheart," I answer, "but don't protest, OK? Nemov knows you're a friend of mine. He will make it twice as hard for you to get out. A month or two in those tiny cages isn't an option, and there's no guarantee he'll follow any rules now."

 

"I know, but..." she jumps and yelps in my ear. I can hear the echo of a leather paddle on bare skin. Someone is talking.

 

"Oh, that stings..." she cries.

 

"Quiet!" I say roughly, “let me listen.”

 

Nemov is addressing the crowd; I can just barely hear him through the leather hood. "...the specific nature of her crime is confidential, but trust me honored guests, it was serious. Instead of punishing her directly though, we thought it would be interesting to see how she responds to watching and feeling the pain of her friends, knowing that she is the cause of their suffering."

 

My body freezes and I stop listening. "What is he saying, Jess?" It was Tory."

 

"Ah, he says..." How can I tell her! "He says..." I try again, "that..."

 

Suddenly, our hood is removed. Again, the light is blinding. Someone grabs my head and turns it to the side, mashing my mouth into hers. I open wide to keep from biting her; another belt is tied behind our necks to keep us joined in the kiss. I can touch the back of her throat with my tongue. Slowly, my eyes adjust. Alexsandr is standing behind Tory holding a short, multi-strand flogger. He looks...angry. I try to turn us, but it's impossible with our feet tied together. He looks at me as he shakes out the whip then applies the first stroke. Tory takes it on the back of her legs and jerks in pain. I can feel her tongue curling. I try to turn us again. Another stroke on Tory's back, a little higher; she starts to breathe hard. I can feel her nipples hardening. More strokes... She's shaking now; her tongue is fluttering and her panting is making me hyperventilate.

 

I'm crying for her. Each time the lashes hits, I feel her pain and a wave of guilt washes over. I am spent when it's over; I was never touched. Tory of course is hysterical.

 

Men remove the belt at our necks and untie us from the bar. Nemov is talking again, but I can't focus on his words. They lead us back to my cell and chain us to the bed. The two-person hood is put back over our heads. The next hours are an endless nightmare of pain and hysterics. Nemov had been right; it is the worst torture of my life. I don't have the guts to tell Tory that this will last for 30 days. In the morning, she's returned to her man.

 

The next night it's a caning, but the girl isn't Tory, it's Teresa. She seems to recover faster and asks more questions. In the end, I am forced to tell her the truth--she is taking my punishment. She cries softly in my hair for a long time then we make love by rubbing our bodies together and chewing on each other's ears. I admire the girl; she forgives me. I'm not so sure I would be so kind. In the end, my love for her just makes it all that much harder.

 

I curse Nemov and his demented ego. This has nothing to do with discipline, or punishment, or even passion; it's about...it's about fucking neatness! I have made his life...messy. For a man psychotically obsessed with order and perfection, this is an unforgivable offense.

 

He alternates between Tory and Teresa, but this only increases their pain by giving them time to recover and to anticipate. After a while, they both become numb and our silent time inside the hood is just another part of the horror. No words of consolation or apology are adequate; they are suffering for my arrogance and pride. We all know it and every awful scream just repeats this fact again, and again, and again.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 The Hand of God

 

Nemov visits me on the last day. I'm in the birdcage suspended over a small heater. It amuses Alexsandr to make sweat pour off me in streams, to burn me. Of course it never gets hot enough to actually burn or even blister, but the pain...well, it hurts. He's certainly been challenged this last month. The smile of the condemned crosses my face. Pain and guilt are with me all the time now, but at least I'm not afraid anymore. Nemov looks like he's aged ten years. I'm happy for his trouble.

 

"This is your last day with the Senior Lieutenant, Jesse," he says. "Today you will rest. Tonight, I will take over your punishment myself. You have no idea the trouble your little crime spree has caused, but perhaps you will tonight. I don't intend to let you just walk away."

 

Walk away! Walk away! What an incredible asshole! Does he think that after the last 30 days I am just walking away? I remember Tory's words, "...he's having some kind of a breakdown." Fuck him, so am I. I've had a breakdown every time I watched my innocent friends suffer. The difference is that I've grown stronger. After all, what more can anyone do to me?

 

His face is infuriating and before I can stop myself, I spit at him. A huge glob of saliva sits in the middle of his astonished forehead. "Fuck you, Creep!" I scream. "When I get out of here, I'm going to make it my life's work to ruin you! I'm going to make sure that the world knows exactly what's happening here and who's behind it! What do you think your friends at RDE are going to say? And I'm going to start with the Russian government. I don't think they will be so casual about things when they get roasted in the world press."

 

I think about my own roasting ass and almost laugh in his face.

 

He looks at me with empty eyes and wipes the spit off his face. "Everything taking place here is legal," he says in a low voice. "Anyway, after tonight, maybe you won't remember things so well." A threat! Does he have the balls to really fuck me up? Does he have...What kind of stupid question is this? He's fucking nuts; and he's in charge! Of course he has the ball; more importantly, he has the opportunity!

 

But I don't care anymore. "Fuck off Grigoriy!" I reply evenly, "You're just a silly old man on a power trip. I'm not afraid of you anymore."

 

He stands up, "We'll see," and walks out. It isn't true of course. I am deathly afraid of him, but I've got nothing to lose... Alexsandr comes in and switches off the heater.

 

"Good news, Jess. You get a break today. He just told me to let you rest." He lowers the cage as he's talking. "Not only that, but tomorrow you'll be back with the others. I don't think they'll allow you to be a runner anymore, but being an entertainer isn't so bad. Maybe I'll visit you."

 

Alexsandr has become...what? I don't know. He is still my torturer, but there's more to it now, a lot more. He talks to me. I don't know why that's so important, but it is. We're intimate without being lovers, without even being friends...it's very strange.

 

Nemov on the other hand makes my skin crawl. His phony concern, his lack of any real feeling, his deviousness makes me want to join another species. Our suffering advances his personal agenda. Somehow this seems wrong, even in this world of spectacular wrongdoing.

 

"I admire you Jesse," Alexsandr says quietly, sincerely. He has me on my stomach on the floor with my wrists pulled back and chained straight up. He is using his bare hands to rub some kind of salve on my legs and vulva. "Not many girls could have made it through the last month. I'm kind of glad you're leaving; I'm just about out of tricks." He laughs.

 

I turn my head and look back at him. "May I come, Master?" His hand is driving me crazy.

 

"Sure, why not," he replies, pushing a finger into my cunt and sticking his thumb up my ass at the same time. Alexsandr is always considerate of my orgasms and does his best to make them intense. I come with a deliciously long series of muscle contractions and spasms. With almost loving consideration, he massages me with his hand until I'm finished.

 

"Thank you, Master."

 

"Let's get you to bed. One more session...hold on to that thought." He helps me to the bed and as usual chains my wrists and ankles to the frame. But he also covers me with a sheet. That's nice. Restful sleep comes instantly.

 

When I wake, he is pulling a hood over my head. We don't talk. I can tell from his movements that something's bothering him. You get to know a lot about the person who "handles" you for a month. But this is not the time for talking. He walks me to another room.

 

This is Nemov's finale and I'm terrified. Not of the pain; I'm now strong enough to handle anything Nemov can dish out. And not for my life or even my sanity; Turkslaw I've decided is too public for a sane person to do anything too extreme. It's one thing to bend the CELT laws, it is quite another to commit murder.

 

But is he sane? Am I about to be handed over to a head case?

 

Alexsandr chains my arms up behind and then positions my feet about a foot apart. I recognize the position. This is the spit room. He confirms it by slipping the metal brace over my bare toes. I'm still frightened, but also a bit relieved. At least I know what's coming; I've already beaten this place. I relax, even as he pushed the dildo into my ass.

 

In a few minutes, I'm ready. Every part of my body is as perfectly square as it was the first night. Alexsandr looks miserable; I give him a reassuring wink. He sees the wink and nods, but there is no smile.

 

Nemov enters the room carrying a small leather satchel and inspects me, running his hateful hands over my body. He pulls on the chain to be sure it's tight then turns to Alexsandr sitting by the door and says something in Russian. They exchange words, and Alexsandr leaves to room in a huff.

 

Were they arguing? ...About me?

 

Nemov pulls a small black box and a collection of wires out of his bag. It's an electrical transformer! I try to shout for help, but the dildo makes it impossible to do more than grunt.

 

He drops to one knee and wraps copper wire around each big toe. I'm whining furiously and begging with my eyes; I know what's coming. He just looks at me and smiles. I watch helplessly as he slips a metal cylinder into my cunt and places clips on my nipples and earlobes. Carefully, he straightens all the wires and connects them to the transformer, which he places on the table by the wall outlet. I notice that he also has a copper wand connected. This will be how he directs the pain. The last item out of the bag is a large spray bottle of water. He looks at me. He's ready.

 

Without a word, he sprays me with the water, taking care to wet each contact. Then he plugs in the transformer and turns its dial. I close my eyes and brace for the shock...nothing. When I open them he's standing in front of me holding the wand. Strangely, he's also drooling from the mouth. He's lost it!

 

He steps in close and runs the wand down my spine. A jolt of electricity passes to my nipples. It feels as if someone is ripping them out from the inside. I try to scream, but the best I can manage is a weak high pitched moan. He moves to the table and flips a switch. This time he places the wand on the wet dildo in my mouth; the current passes to my cunt. I realize that the switches control which contacts are active.

 

I feel myself getting numb. He sees it as well and activates low voltage current from my ears to my toes. This is to be background pain against which the wand will provide painful accents. By judiciously controlling this background current, he can keep the pain intense for hours.

 

He uses the water bottle again and returns it to the table.

 

Though a mist, I watch him adjusting the switches once again. The wires look like evil snakes lying on the floor... My mind seems to be floating outside my body and I have the weird thought that it's dangerous to have water and glass and electricity on the same small table.

 

I pull my foot as hard as I can. Nothing, I try again and feel the bone dislocating. Don't pass out! I keep pulling. My toes come free. Under normal circumstances, this would just mean more pain as freeing a toe is meaningless in such a position. But my toe is attached to the transformer! Nemov walks half way back to me and notices my free foot. I can see his eyes following the cord from my foot to the transformer and then to the water bottle perched precariously on the table edge.

 

He looks at me then turns and leaps for the bottle. Wrong move, Fathead; you should have just stepped on the wire. I yank with my foot and pull both the water bottle and the transformer to the floor. Nemov falls to his knees in a desperate final attempt to catch the water. He misses and the bottle, the water, the electrical transformer, and Nemov's hands all hit the floor at the same time.

 

I brace for the flying sparks promised by years of old Frankenstein movies, instead there is nothing; he just kneels there in the puddle with his eyes wide open, starring madly at me. I stare back defiantly.

 

Alexsandr runs into the room and stops short of the water. He understands immediately what's happened and uses a wooden chair to push the plug out of the wall socket. Nemov slumps to the floor. I can tell he's dead and Alexsandr confirms it with his expression.

 

Good! Finally, some fucking justice in the world!

 

But Alexsandr has a different reaction. With great gentleness, he puts my foot back into its brace and tightens it down hard then he pushes my bone back into its socket. I pass out. When I wake, there are three men in the room leaning over the body and taking pictures, something that is strictly forbidden in Turkslaw. I pass out again.

 

The next day I wake up in a bed in a runner's cell. My feet and wrists are tied tightly to the bed frame. There's a small splint and a bandage around my big toe and an I.V. in my arm. I faint and sleep like the dead for a long time.

 

++++++++++++

 

                                                 Salvation

 

I wake up in a two-person entertainer's cage. My cage mate is a German girl who doesn't speak any English. We cuddled with each other, but I don't try to get too close--being my friend in this place is dangerous. The splint is off my toe, but it still hurts and I'm very glad that no one asks me to do any walking. Or maybe the splint was just another part of my dream. Who knows? Drugs often make their own realities.

 

The next day a new guest takes the German girl away and I have the tiny cage to myself. After some time, I get a bath and new leathers. My spirits climb with the clothes. I've been naked for more than a month.

 

A guard walks me to Nemov's special office. Is he really dead? I think so... I killed him...didn't I? The guard leads me to the hard backed chair in front of his desk. I stare at the desk's built in stock and electrical connections and shudder, remembering.

 

Alexsandr walks in and sits behind Nemov's desk.

 

"Good morning, Jesse," he says. "I'm glad to see that you are feeling better today."

 

"Where...where's Mr. Nemov?" I ask.

 

"Yes, unfortunately during your last disciplinary session, Mr. Nemov slipped on the wet floor and was electrocuted. He's dead. It was an unfortunate accident. I have replaced him temporarily as resort manager. In fact, the Army is likely to take over the contract for the management of this facility in the future. So, this may be my assignment for a while."

 

"...Accident?" The word falls out of my mouth.

 

"Yes, an accident," he replies sternly, staring at me. "The case was just closed this morning by a colonel from the Inspector General's office." We look at each other for a long moment.

 

"Isn't this too important assignment for a Senior Lieutenant, Alexsandr?" I ask evenly.

 

"Yes, it is. It's much too important and much too sensitive for a Senior Lieutenant. That's why they promoted me to Captain." He looks pleased.

 

"Congratulations." The word falls dryly from my mouth. He stares at me with an ironic smirk on his face.

 

"I have given you two weeks convalescent leave while your foot heals. We think the accident occurred when Mr. Nemov fell. Your panic was so great that you tried to pull your foot out of the metal brace," he explains. "That's impossible of course, but an injury caused by extreme panic is not. We will obviously need to strengthen the brace."

 

"Once your foot is better, you can return to runner status," he says. "Of course, I will need your promise to stay inside the rules of the contest."

 

I stare at him.

 

He continues evenly. "I've made a number of changes in the resort. The crucifixions are now truly more of a spectacle than a penalty. They only last one hour and there is only one whipping.

 

"Yes, I'm sure those on the cross will appreciate your kindness." The sarcasm drips from my lips.

 

"Jesse, this place is what it is. You, most of all, know that I get no personal pleasure from the suffering, but others do. More importantly, most of our CELTs want to be here; they are, in fact, happy for the opportunity--we pay very well. The best I can do is to ensure that the rules are followed."

 

I think about this for a moment. "May I protest my treatment?" I ask.

 

"Of course," he answers. "Protest is a CELT's most fundamental right. I have already banned the caging of CELTs who chose to protest. I can't do much about the delay, but I can make sure that the CELTs who protest are treated fairly while they wait.

 

I look him in the eyes and see no deception. I think about the pain this man has caused me and I want to hate him, but I can't.

 

"Do you want to protest," he asks.

 

"I'll let you know, Faggot," I answer.

 

He smiles, "Now that I am in charge, I would very much appreciate it if you called me Captain Chernickoff."

 

"I'll think about it, Captain."

 

Reunion

 

One week later, I'm back in his office

 

"Your contract has been sold," he says without preamble. I stare at him, unable to comprehend the words. "Your contract has been sold," he repeats. I continued to stare stupidly. Finally, the meaning of those incredible words began to sink in to my brain.

 

"To whom?" I ask. My voice squeaks.

 

"Apparently, someone in Geneva decided that having you around was not such a great idea for RDE, especially given all the unpleasantness with Mr. Nemov, and put your contract back on the market. I suggest you stop using a transferable contract. The offer they received was significantly more Than they paid." He paused. "What did you cost by the way?"

 

"Believe me, Captain, you don't want to know," I reply. He shrugs. "He's coming for you tomorrow. This is actually, goodbye."

 

I stare at him dumbfounded. I don't know what to say. What can I say; my contract's been sold. It's perfectly legal; done all the time. He gets up and walks over to me. "I'm sorry now that I talked you out of protesting. A contract under protest can't be sold. I would have liked to have you around a while longer."

 

I think about this for a second. In just two weeks, Alexsandr's reforms have made a huge difference in Turkslaw. By reinstating a CELT's right to protest, he has made the arrangements with CELTs, once again, consensual. All the other improvements, which were mostly about moderation, have followed from that one decision.

 

I stand up as he holds out his hand. I brush by his hand and give him a hug. "I hate you, Fucking Faggot," I whisper.

 

"Yes, I hate you too, you cock-sucking whore." I turn and walk away. There are tears in my eyes. I do hate him, but he is also my sado-buddy, which I guess qualifies as a friend of some kind...weird.

 

Later, a guard comes to my cell and orders me to strip then chains me to the wall by the collar. "We need to wait and see how your new master wants you treated," he says as he locks my wrists together and pulls a hood over my head. I understand; buyers are very particular about how their CELTs get treated. Turkslaw is a hard place for CELTs, but some private masters might want even more restraint or discipline. Later that evening, I hear people in the cell and someone spins me around. I'm sure this is the inspection by my new owner. Surprisingly, the hood stays on. I had been hoping to see him. I'm curious; is he young, old, handsome, ugly, rich, how rich, where does he live? Must be old, who else would piss away this much money on a CELT? And stupid as well! For this much money, he could have two CELTs, one for each arm.

 

In any case, it's out of my hands. In some ways, I'll miss this place. I was actually looking forward to my next hunt. I also wonder how Tory and Teresa are doing. I owe them. Maybe someday I'll be able to make it right. I must have fallen asleep leaning against the wall. When I awake, there is someone in the cell. I can sense him. I stay quiet. CELTs are not allowed to speak without permission. He walks over to me, feels me up, and unlocks my chain; then I'm leashed and lead away to his room in the guest quarters.

 

"Jesse," he says. My head snaps up. His voice sounds so much like Howard's that it's uncanny. Of course with the hood on it could be anyone, still... "Jesse." I jump back in panic and start to lose my footing. Am I going nuts? He grabs me and prevents me from falling then lifts the hood fully off. I stare into his face, disbelieving. "Howard?" I ask hesitantly. Then promptly faint in his arms.

 

I awaken in a fog, lying on the bed. I'm naked, but unbound. Howard is lying next to me. This wasn't a dream. I snuggle in closer and put my head on his chest.

 

"Is it really you and if it is, why did you come for me?" I ask quietly.

 

"It's me," he says; "because I love you."

 

I slither on top of him and kiss him. After a while, I move down to his cock and lovingly suck his balls into my mouth. They taste salty, just as I remember. When he's close to coming, I take his cock into my mouth and suck hard. His cum feels hot, I swallow it and suck him dry. After a while, he moves on top and fucks me. I wrap my legs around his and scream a little just before I come. I am in Heaven. By pacing ourselves, we manage to suck and fuck each other all night. In the morning, I am wonderfully sore and satiated.

 

I lie next to him thinking, waiting for him wake up. Finally, too impatient to wait any longer, I move my head to his crotch and gently take his cock into my mouth. I hold it there for a long time, letting it adjust to being in my mouth. Then I start to move my head and suck softly. I don't touch his body or make any disturbance. Slowly, I feel his penis hardening in his sleep.

 

He's dreaming now, I'm now partnered with his most erotic imagination. I can hear him moaning softly in his sleep, I close my mouth more tightly around his prick and gently moved my hand to caress his balls. Under normal circumstances, he would have come long ago, but he fucked me all night--he's dry. This morning is all about his mind.

 

Amazingly, his body starts to move in a fucking motion. He is still asleep and fucking me in the mouth. I adjust myself and move my head in synchronization. After a few seconds, he starts to shake and buck. It is an incredible orgasm; I get off as well.

 

Later, I ask him when he woke up. "Just as I was coming; I never felt anything like that in my entire life." I feel happy and push myself more tightly into his arms."

 

"Let's get going Jess," he whispers to me. "The sooner we're out of this place the better." "May I ask you something, Howard?"

 

"My Mother died," he replies, anticipating. "That's where I got the money." I'm her only heir.

 

"I'm so sorry. At that moment, I want to fuck him more than I ever had before--the nurturing instinct, I guess."

 

"Thank you," he says. "Let's go."

 

"Howard?" I say, dreading this moment.

 

"What is it?" He's impatient now. I remember that he can swing his whip just as well as Alexsandr.

 

"I can't go," I say simply.

 

"What do you mean?" he asks confused.

 

"I can't go. I have two friends here who have suffered for me. I just can't leave of my own accord. I'm sorry. I love you. I just can't go." I am crying now on his chest.

 

I can feel his body tensing up. "In this situation you don't get a vote," he says. "You're a fucking CELT, remember...my fucking property. You go where I tell you to go."

 

"I know you, Howard," I reply softly. It's no good; even though I am your CELT and you'll punish me, I know you won't force me to go. That's the problem. Because it's you, the decision is now back in my hands and I won't leave them of my own accord."

 

"That's too bad," he says coldly, "because there is no way that I am going to take on any more of your 'burdens.' If you recall, we are only here because you felt responsible for your brother. Now you're telling me that you would let these two girls come between us. No fucking way, Jess; not again. I'm out of here."

 

With that, he rolls out of bed on the other side. Looking back, he walks over to my side and rolls me to my stomach; grabbing a belt from his bathrobe, he ties my hands, pulls back my head, and wraps the rest around my mouth. I can't move or talk. I watch him pack his bag and walk out of the room.

 

In a few minutes, Alexsandr walks in and rolls me to my side. He looks at me, shaking his head.

 

"That's one really pissed off young man," he says. "Good looking too. Why did you let him get away? He's given me some very specific instructions about you that, I'm afraid, aren't going to be much fun for you."

 

He removes the cord, gags me, and puts me back in the hood. After a while I'm placed in a small cage and forced to take a sleeping pill. I awaken on my side, hooded and chained inside a cage. It sounds and feels as if I'm in the belly of another airplane. I feel the metal; it's soft. Is this a CELT-Ex cage? There's a slight bump and I feel something pushing into my back...a women's breast? I lift my knee. Sure enough, there is another girl spooned to my front. I know these bodies. I also know that Howard's Mother is rich, certainly rich enough for him to buy three CELTs. What will it be like sharing him with these two beauties? I didn't know. Whatever, we're going home, together.

 

                                                    The End