Slavery Conscription Story

Slavery conscription story
Chapter 1

Richard still felt half-asleep when his parents' car pulled up outside the
Intake Centre. The glowing numerals on his watch made it 7:48 a.m. - only just
in time, and the notice that had arrived at the house six months ago had made it
clear that there were harsh penalties for lateness. There were harsh penalties,
apparently, for quite a number of things.
"Here we are, son," his father said gently. His mother turned back to touch his
cheek.
"Be good, all right?" she said in a tender voice he remembered from childhood.
"Do everything they tell you, and try not to get into any trouble. I know it's
hard, but... well, they say it will do you good, in the end."
"I've got to go," said Richard with another glance at his watch. "Love you
mother, father. See you - see you in two years, I guess." He climbed out of the
car.
The Intake Centre was a large, very modern building that seemed to be all
concrete, steel and reinforced glass. Behind it was a parking lot with a few
long grey buses, surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire. He rubbed
the sleep out of his eyes, ran a nervous hand through his curly brown hair, and
finally pulled the glass door open and stepped inside.
The reception room was disappointingly conventional. A line of what had to be
forty or fifty young men, their expressions displaying various combinations of
fatigue, nervousness and irritation, snaked its way back and forth across the
room before ending up at a long desk where three prim-looking women sat at
computer terminals. The five or six other women in the room were all heavily
built, and wore grey outfits that looked vaguely like military uniforms. One of
them, carrying a clipboard, put a hand on Richard's shoulder as he came through
the door.
"ID, please." She didn't sound exactly hostile, just brisk and not in the mood
for any nonsense. He fumbled out his wallet and showed her his driver's license.
"Richard Tipper..." she consulted her clipboard. "There we are... 21 years old
of course... and you haven't applied for exemption, is that correct? It's not
too late."
"I would if I had grounds," he said sourly.
She gave him a weary, humourless smile. "Don't blame you, son, but the law's the
law. Put your palms up flat against the wall, please."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw another uniformed woman, younger with short
dark hair, step quickly forward. As he leaned against the wall she felt her way
impersonally over his body with firm, professional hands.
"Didn't bring any cigarettes or pocket knives or anything. Good lad. Get in
line, and keep your ID out for the ladies at the desk. No talking." She gave him
a gentle push in the right direction; the officer (was that the term?) with the
clipboard had already moved on to two new arrivals. Richard settled down to
wait, although the line seemed to be moving quite quickly. Each man stepped up
to the desk, spoke briefly to one of the women at the computers, had some sort
of metal bracelet put around his wrist, and was promptly herded by one of the
uniformed women (they apparently didn't want anyone having second thoughts about
compliance) toward a grey metal door off to one side. It opened for each young
man, revealing some sort of larger room where more women in uniform stood
waiting, and banged shut behind him with an air of finality. Richard sighed. He
wasn't sure he wanted to find out exactly what was back there, but struggling to
stay awake as he stood in the queue wasn't much fun either. He could almost
pretend he was waiting at the bank, or the check-in counter at an airport. Only
the guards and the neatly lettered sign above the desk ("CONSCRIPTS WILL REMAIN
SILENT AT ALL TIMES. CONSCRIPTS WILL FOLLOW ALL INSTRUCTIONS IMMEDIATELY AND TO
THE LETTER. CONSCRIPTS ARE REMINDED THAT THEY ARE WARDS OF THE STATE AND SUBJECT
TO SUMMARY PUNISHMENT FOR ANY AND ALL INFRACTIONS.") hinted that the Intake
Centre was something more ominous.
Finally his turn came. The East Indian woman behind the desk, looking so bright
and cheerful that he wanted to strangle her, glanced at his driver's license and
tapped rapidly on her keyboard. "Good morning, Mr. Tipper. No allergies or
medical difficulties, is that correct?" He nodded, not sure if he was supposed
to answer aloud. "All right." She pressed another key, with a slight flourish.
"You are now officially conscripted, due for release on October 1, 2007. Left
hand up here, please." She fished a solid-looking chain bracelet, bearing a
metal plate stamped with his name and an identification number, out of an
alphabetised file. It clicked shut around his wrist.
"That can't be removed, and you could be disciplined if you attempt to tamper
with it in any way, so please leave it alone." She handed back his driver's
license, which he slipped back into his wallet, and another metal tag with the
same information that was on his bracelet. "Don't lose this. It's for your
personals bag - you'll see when they take you inside. Welcome to slavery, Mr.
Tipper. Just step that way." There might have been a trace of sympathy in her
smile. Welcome to slavery. He wasn't sure he'd really believed it until he heard
her say those words.
"This way, please, sir." A big blond woman took his arm and ushered him to the
grey door, then gently pushed him through. On the other side was an enormous
room full of young men standing silently in rows. Female guards - that was a
good word for them - accosted him as the crash of metal at his back confirmed
his captivity. One of them pushed a canvas bag into his hands.
"Take this, and stand over there. Row J, number" - she craned her neck -
"fifteen. Stand still, no talking." He made his way over to what seemed to be
the appropriate place, a red line drawn across the room with numerals painted
along its length. Row J was about half-full, which meant there had to be close
to three hundred other men in there with him. And more still trickling in from
outside. Rows K through N were still empty; either a lot of local guys were
non-compliant, or the Centre had been built with population growth in mind. At
the front of the room was a platform where a short, stubby brunette with a
slightly more elaborate uniform than those of the other guards was standing
patiently with a megaphone. There were dozens of regular guards scattered around
the edges of the room, too, watching their charges closely. He could hardly
believe his eyes when he noticed that each of them had what was unmistakeably a
braided leather whip coiled at her belt, and a few were carrying guns of some
sort. No wonder none of the men were making a fuss, or even whispering to each
other as far as he could tell. When a thin, bespectacled man moved into place
beside him, dragging his bag on the floor and almost trembling with terror,
Richard greeted him with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He didn't dare
do more. They were past the polite facade of the reception area: this was the
real thing.
"That's all, ma'am!" called the blond woman from outside, as she herded the last
arrival through the door. "A few latecomers out here, but we'll deal with them
separately."
The woman with the megaphone waited for the last man to settle into his place
before stepping forward to address them. She let her gaze sweep slowly over the
assembled men, smiled in what looked to Richard like smug satisfaction, and
raised the megaphone to her lips.
"Today Britain embarks on a grand experiment," she announced. "All over the
country young men your age are turning themselves in at Intake Centres for
conscription. Preliminary reports suggest a high-level of non-compliance, which
will of course be dealt with firmly and fairly, but we estimate that over two
hundred thousand men are nevertheless in custody at this moment, including
yourselves. In six months a similar number will follow.
"You all know what you are here for, and you all know why it is necessary. In a
society where men are becoming increasingly rude, increasingly indolent,
increasingly violent and increasingly disrespectful of others, particularly
women, strict measures must be taken to curb this undesirable behaviour. Your
Prime Minister, Carolyn Hayward, believes that the only satisfactory remedy is
to have all young men spend two years in service to the state - two years as
slaves, not to mince words. All your life you have been coddled, overindulged
and allowed to get away with everything short of murder, but all that stops
right now. You will be worked hard, you will be kept under the harshest
discipline we can devise without crossing the line into brutality, and you will
live a life essentially devoid of the comforts and privileges you have all grown
used to. You will be guarded, commanded and disciplined by highly trained female
professionals, the Conscription Officers, whose ranks include many of your
mothers, aunts, older sisters, and doubtless girlfriends. To be blunt once
again: your arse - all your arses - are ours for two years. Don't think you can
get away with flouting our authority or ignoring the rules we make for you. We
will come down on you very, very hard. If anyone would like to test our
strictness this morning, I'll be more than happy to make an example of you."
There was an awkward shuffling, but of course no one spoke.
"Most of you probably loathe me already. I don't mind, because there isn't a
damn thing you can do about it. You will loathe the officers who have authority
over you, you will loathe the tasks you are made to carry out, and you will
certainly loathe the living conditions we are going to impose on you. You may
find yourself loathing every single moment of your conscription, starting this
morning. I agree it won't be easy or pleasant - you spoiled boys need a good
strong dose of hard work and discipline, and we're going to provide it. But when
your two years are up and you're discharged, you'll be glad you experienced
conscription, and so will those around you. You'll be more industrious, more
courteous, and more respectful of others, especially the women in your lives.
You'll probably be fitter, and you may pick up some useful skills. You'll
certainly be tougher. Despite what you may feel during the first few weeks, it
is possible to survive conscription, and to benefit from it. Remember that you
are now an honest-to-goodness slave, and act accordingly, and you may find it
slightly easier."
She cleared her throat. "I have one or two more things to say, but first we'll
finish getting you processed. Officer Sherman will take over, and it goes
without saying that you'd damn well better do what she tells you."
Officer Sherman was a powerfully built woman with greying hair and an expression
that would have suited a Rottweiler. She waved aside the microphone and boomed
at them in her own rather deep voice.
"First - the officers in this room are equipped with whips and tranquiliser
guns. We will subdue you and beat the hell out of you if you attempt escape or
resistance. Don't test us." There was an uneasy murmur.
"Shut up! You will remain silent at all times except when responding to direct
questions. Is that clear?" More murmuring. "I said is that clear, you pieces of
shit?" This time the response was a ragged chorus of "Yes," "Yes, ma'am," and
"Yes, Officer Sherman."
"When speaking to any officer, you will address her as 'ma'am'. Failing to do so
is punishable. Clear?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Good. Each of you was issued a canvas bag and a metal tag with your name and
number. You will now attach your tag to the ring on your bag." There was a
rustling as the men obeyed. Richard reached first into the wrong pocket, and
suffered a horrible moment of panic - he was already feeling practically sick to
his stomach, after hearing that speech - but found his tag a moment later and
clipped it into place. He glanced apprehensively up and down the row, but nobody
seemed to be having a problem.
"You will now place all of your clothing and personal articles in your bag and
tie it shut," Officer Sherman bellowed. "When finished, stand quietly at
attention with your bag in front of you."
The men made disconcerted noises and looked at one another. Nobody seemed to be
actually undressing. Surely she didn't mean... But Richard thought she did. Most
of the guards seemed to be trying to hide little smiles.
"You want us to take our clothes off, ma'am?" called a voice from near the
front. Brave lad. Sherman whirled toward the sound.
"Who said that? Who? Step forward, or it's mass punishment!"
A big, truculent-looking fellow moved up a step, perhaps a bit reluctantly. Two
guards immediately darted forward and grasped him by the arms.
"Down on the floor. Strip him!"
He tried to pull free with a cry of protest, but it changed to a squeal of pain
as one of the guards - a black woman, even bigger than most of the other guards
- slammed her knee into his crotch. He fell to his knees, and was pushed forward
to lie face down on the floor. The black woman knelt on his back, pinning him,
while the other guard roughly began pulling his clothing from him. He struggled
and thrashed until he saw a third woman approaching with her whip uncoiled, then
lay unresisting. In no time at all they had him naked.
"It is forbidden to speak without permission," Officer Sherman rapped out. "It
is forbidden to resist the Conscription Officers. Give him six." The black woman
shifted position, pinning his wrists above his head, while the other took hold
of his ankles. The one with the whip, a well-groomed middle aged brunette who
would have looked like a well-to-do matronly housewife in ordinary clothes,
brought it slashing down across his buttocks as the other men watched in stunned
silence. He howled and writhed, but was helpless in the grip of the two guards.
The whip fell again and again.
"Right," said Officer Sherman briskly when it was finished and the man lay
sobbing. "Chain him and take him straight out. The rest of you, strip. Now!"
Richard was literally trembling, but managed to fumble the watch off his wrist
and drop it in the bag. No thought at all about the other men, or even all those
female eyes - the only thing that mattered was avoiding the whip. They were
bloody serious about the harshness, about the discipline, about everything. He
was a slave. He tore two buttons off his shirt in his haste, but didn't even
pause. Self-consciousness half-returned as he shed his pants, and finally his
briefs, but there was no question of disobeying for the sake of modesty. His bag
full, he pulled the drawstring tight and tied it off, then stood straight with
his hands cupped over his balls and limp penis. Then he remembered that she'd
said "at attention", and reluctantly moved his hands to his sides. He wasn't
going to take any chances.
Nearly everyone else was naked now as well, although here and there stern-faced
women were still cracking whips and shouting to ensure obedience. Others were
moving along the lines; they seemed to be searching their captives, poking and
prodding at their bodies, and then shackling them somehow and forcing them to
their knees. Richard trembled as the pair of women assigned to Row J moved
inexorably closer. A very pale blonde who couldn't have been more than a year or
two older than himself was doing the actual searching and restraining, while a
dark-skinned guard followed with an armload of restraints.
"Spectacles in the bag," said the blonde to the man beside Richard, her tone
civil but firm. "They're not allowed."
"But I need them to -" She promptly slapped him across the face.
"Sorry, love, but you're not allowed to argue," she said unconcernedly, and
plucked the glasses off his nose. "You won't need them the first little while,
and afterwards we'll issue you a pair if necessary. You're not allowed to hold
onto any personal possessions at all."
Richard turned away to give the poor man some privacy as he was searched and
chained, but his turn came all too soon. The blonde smiled and poked his bare
stomach.
"Bit soft around here, aren't we, love? Don't worry, we'll have you whipped into
shape in no time. Legs apart, please, and hands on the back of your neck,
there's a good lad."
She continued to direct him in that same bantering tone as she ran her fingers
through his hair, looked inside his mouth and even his ears, and had him display
the soles of his feet for her inspection.
"They had a prison officer teach us to do this searching bit," she confided.
"She said we wouldn't believe where some boys try to hide things." She grasped
his penis with a very assured hand and pulled back the foreskin - he winced in
sudden discomfort - and then lifted his penis and testicles to look underneath.
She seemed to be moving her fingers a little more than was slightly necessary,
and grinned as she felt his cock stiffen a little in her hand. "Are we getting
excited, love? You're going to like the next bit, then. Turn around and bend
over."
It was happening all over the room - if they could do it, so could he. He turned
his back to the girl and bent forward, blushing as he felt her cool, gloved
hands spread his buttocks apart.
"I don't think I've ever seen so many bare bottoms in one day before," the young
officer commented cheerily. "All right, turn back to me and we'll get you
properly trussed up." That meant an uncomfortably tight band of leather around
his waist, with an attached pair of handcuffs in the front. She secured his
wrists snugly ("Can't have you slipping out, you know, love!") before kneeling
to fetter his ankles in steel cuffs separated by a metre or so of heavy chain.
She pushed him to his knees, patted his cheek in almost the same way his mother
had earlier that morning, and moved on to the next conscript.
So there he was. Naked, chained, and on his knees, under the strict supervision
of hard women who had already demonstrated their ability to use the whips they
carried. A slave, one more among hundreds. He was absolutely terrified, and
wasn't the least bit surprised to see that more than one of the young men near
him were actually weeping with fear and humiliation. The guards, on the other
hand, seemed to be quite enjoying themselves. Many of them were eyeing the naked
bodies of their charges quite openly, and he saw two giggling over some private
joke as they forced yet another conscript to his knees. The most frightening
thing about them was that they seemed to be perfectly ordinary Englishwomen;
he'd been subconsciously picturing the Conscription Officers as statuesque
she-devils with foreign accents and years of paramilitary experience, but these
were just housewives and schoolteachers and things who had found that their
physical strength and ability to take on an air of authority had come into
demand with the implementation of conscription. Even his aunt Elsie in
Nottingham had joined up, apparently, and was probably putting chains on some
frightened young man at that very moment. Richard found it hard to picture. He
shifted and squirmed on the hardwood floor, trying to relieve the ache that was
already developing in his knees.
In a few minutes the last man was chained and kneeling, and the few who had
resisted had been unceremoniously beaten and hauled out through the big steel
doors at one side of the room. The short brunette with the megaphone took her
place on the platform again.
"Welcome to slavery, boys. I hope you are beginning to appreciate that we are
absolutely serious about this, and that there are very real consequences for
misbehaviour. By the way, you'll be kept naked for a little while, so you'd best
get used to it. It's time for you to feel like defenceless, vulnerable eye candy
for a change." There was a brief silence, punctuated by scattered sobs and
sniffling. "For now, there are buses waiting for you out in the parking lot.
During the ride we'll explain a little bit more about where you're going and
what we expect of you when you arrive there. Row A, stand and follow Officer
Powell outside." Chains clanked as they rose to their feet and marched toward
the doors, encouraged by the occasional whip-blow and the harsh shouts of the
nearby guards. The other rows followed in short order, and soon Richard found
himself being marched outside - being driven, he thought, as a whip stung his
left hip - into grey October rain. Perhaps it was the discomfort of the cold and
wet on his naked skin that broke him, or perhaps the stark reality of the
situation had finally hit home. As Richard stood in the fenced-in parking lot of
the Intake Centre, waiting to board the sinister grey bus that would take him
further into conscripted slavery, he bowed his head and began to cry.

Chapter 2

Sharon took her time strolling down the aisle to her seat at the back of the
bus. The air was heavy with the scent of male perspiration - quite
understandable, she supposed, under the circumstances - and the naked young men
that filled the seats were now beginning to look very meek and subdued indeed.
Other than a few scattered sobs and sniffles, they were almost perfectly silent.
It seemed that being stripped, chained, blindfolded, and placed under the
constant threat of corporal punishment was enough to break the spirit of just
about any bloke.

Some of the nude bodies that surrounded her were so well built that they could
have served as models for a Renaissance sculptor, and Sharon paused to
appreciate them as she passed by. Sometimes she reached out to feel the hard
muscles of a man's bicep or shoulder, or brush a stray lock of hair back into
place, or even pinch a small male nipple between her fingertips. That sort of
thing was actually encouraged; the poor lads were supposed to be made to feel
like property, like objects, and casual, possessive touching helped to drive
home the message. And besides, their toned masculinity felt so good underneath
her hands.
"Are the boys behaving themselves?" another officer asked as Sharon returned to
her seat. Rebecca was a plump, cheerful woman with masses of dark ringlets and
an impish sense of humour, but that morning she had terrorised the conscripts as
effectively as anyone. She wasn't afraid to use her whip, and she could yell
like a drill sergeant.
"Oh, they're being good," Sharon replied. "No talking or fussing or anything. I
think we put the fear of God into them after our little midday break." Sharon
had almost felt sorry for the miscreants as they groaned and pleaded under the
lash, but really, what did they expect to happen when they talked back to the
officers and refused to follow instructions?
"No wanking?" said Rebecca archly. Sharon looked at her in surprise.
"Would they really do that? Knowing that we're watching?"

"Oh, probably not yet. But just wait a week or so and see what happens. They'll
start to get desperate. They'll be doing it with themselves, maybe with each
other - and with us, in their imaginations. It's just the way their minds work.
We'll have to keep a close eye on them to make sure they don't get away with
anything."
"Well, if you say so. You're the one who worked in a prison for three years."
Rebecca laughed. "You were a bartender. I'd think you'd know all about lonely
men and their problems."
"Not many had problems that involved being locked up under guard for weeks on
end." She sighed. "Say, you don't think we're being too rough on them, do you? I
know they need a firm hand and all that, but some of those boys look absolutely
terrified. I don't like to think that we're traumatising them or anything."
"The average young man these days needs a little trauma in his life, don't you
think? Don't you dare feel guilty. We're just giving them the discipline they
need and deserve, and probably should have had all their lives. This only comes
as such a shock to them because they're used to having everything their own way,
day in and day out. It's really a wonderful opportunity for them to get a stiff
dose of reality. The tougher you are with them, the more grateful they'll be
five or ten years down the road." She smiled mischievously. "Besides, it's so
much fun. Did you notice those teenage girls waving at the bus and blowing
kisses, just before we got out of town? They loved what they were seeing, and
I'll bet it drove the men crazy. They know they're not going to get their hands
on a woman for a long, long time."
"But we can get our hands on them whenever we want, of course. It's wonderfully
unfair, isn't it?"
"Got something on the radio," announced another guard from the seat behind them,
pulling off her headphones. "They say that three hundred and seventy-two lads in
our zone turned themselves in on time, and another forty or so showed up late.
That means a hell of a lot of non-compliance - almost twenty percent."
"This is why they need to be conscripted in the first place," sighed Rebecca.
"No respect for rules at all."
"What are they going to do about it, then?" asked Sharon.
"They've got policewomen out looking for the silly sods right now. Apparently
they've already taken dozens of them into custody. A lot of them were just
sitting at home, hoping they'd somehow get away with it."
"So what's going to happen to them?"
"Same thing that happens to the rest of the conscripts. They'll be
strip-searched and transported to the camp in restraints. It's just that it'll
be lady coppers doing it, instead of us. But when they arrive I expect we'll get
to punish them."
Rebecca grinned. "Can't wait."
"You might not have to," said Sharon suddenly. "I think we've arrived. Time to
look tough again." She grinned conspiratorially, then squared her broad
shoulders and put on what she hoped was a cold, intimidating expression.
"Not for a little bit," said the guard with the radio. "I heard Sergeant Hallee
say we were going to wait a few minutes before unloading the lads."
"What for?" asked Rebecca.
"Why, to see if any of them are stupid enough to yell out questions about what's
going on. If they do, they'll have to be punished."
***
Richard was miserable by the time the bus shuddered to a halt. His legs were
cramped and stiff from hours of being made to sit still, and the hard seat -
considerably less comfortable than the padded ones he'd seen at the very back
and very front, where the guards were clustered - made his buttocks ache. It
hadn't been so bad on the motorway, but eventually they'd passed onto uneven
dirt roads that made the bus constantly rock and bounce. Despite the hunk of
stale bread and half-cup of water he'd been given at lunchtime, he was hungry
and thirsty, and he was beginning to feel the need to urinate again. The air
stank of nervous sweat, the temperature felt uncomfortably warm despite his
nudity, and he didn't like the way the narrowness of the seat forced his body
into contact with that of the equally naked black conscript who sat chained
beside him. And he was terrified. At lunch some of the men had rebelled; he
hadn't found out whether it was the meagre rations, the fact that they'd only
been allowed to go to the toilet in full view of their female overseers, or the
blindfolds they'd had put on when it was time to re-board the bus. They'd been
thrown down right there on the side of the road, about half a dozen of them, and
flogged mercilessly while passing motorists slowed down to get a better look and
even in one case snap photos. Everyone had been very well behaved after that.
The bus was no longer moving, but he sat where he was, waiting for instructions
or a firm hand on his arm. From outside he could hear barking dogs, women
shouting, the occasional crack of a whip. During the ride Sergeant Hallee, a
middle-aged officer from Bangladesh who had said she would be acting as their
overseer during the "entry phase" of their conscription, had told them they were
going to some sort of training camp. Apparently they had to learn to be good
slaves before actually being put to work. Thanks to the blindfold, he had no
idea where they were. It could be anywhere within a few hours' drive of
Birmingham. Were they ever going to get moving? His legs ached more than ever.
Finally the doors of the bus creaked open, and Hallee's firm, lightly accented
voice broke the silence. "We have arrived at Camp Thatcher," she announced,
unnecessarily. "The officers will be coming by to remove your blindfolds. When
yours is off, you will rise and exit the bus." Richard heard the clank of chains
from near the front, accompanied by the occasional chivvying slap and
exasperated "Move along, lad." When one of the officers - the big one, with the
dark curly hair - freed him from his blindfold he immediately got to his feet,
ignoring the sudden pain in his cramped thighs, and shuffled toward the front of
the bus. Strong hands helped him down the stairs and out.
He was seized at once and marched over to where the rest of the naked conscripts
from his bus stood in a sodden, unhappy cluster under the steadily falling rain.
An officer began unfastening his restraints, a welcome surprise.
"Stand still and stay quiet once these are off," she said warningly. "Just take
a look around before you even think of doing anything stupid. You couldn't get
out of here in a million years." He nodded meekly and followed her suggestion,
letting his eyes sweep slowly around Camp Thatcher.
What he saw overwhelmed and frightened him. The camp seemed to consist of an
enormous open space surrounding a small central cluster of buildings. Everywhere
he looked were more buses, more conscripts, and more officers - dozens and
dozens of them, maybe hundreds, shouting and cracking those damned whips as they
herded their naked charges from place to place or directed them in any of a
dozen different tasks. Richard saw men unloading supplies, setting up enormous
white tents, and digging holes and trenches; others were disappearing into the
central buildings. It seemed they were being required to build their own prison
camp from the ground up, and none of the officers was lifting a finger except to
direct the straining conscripts or encourage faltering men with a sharp crack of
the whip. The whole nightmarish scene was surrounded by two concentric fences
that had to be ten metres high, and topped with cruel barbed wire. There were
towers of some sort along the perimeter, and the space between the fences was
patrolled by pairs of officers with German shepherds whose deep, menacing
barking provided a savage counterpoint to the human sounds all around Richard.
There was only one gate, heavily guarded and flanked by two of those towers.
More buses were lined up outside it, and there had to be well over a thousand
conscripts in the camp already. Richard didn't need a second look to know that
the woman's advice had been absolutely correct. He would never, ever, succeed in
escaping from this place.
The whole busload of forty men had now disembarked, and stood uneasily under the
close scrutiny of their eight officers.
"Welcome to Camp Thatcher," Sgt. Hallee said briskly. "You will be sharing this
regional training facility with about three thousand other conscripts, but the
forty of you will remain under my direct supervision. We are Unit 34 - do not
forget that number. Because you belong to my unit, I run your life. I am
responsible for overseeing and disciplining you, and when the initial training
period is over I will decide whether each of you is ready to move on or needs to
be held here for further instruction. I also have a great deal of influence over
where you'll be sent afterwards, so I suggest you try to stay on my good side. I
expect orderly behaviour, strict adherence to the rules, and unquestioning
obedience at all times." Her gaze swept over them imperiously.
"What unit do you belong to?"
"Thirty-four," they chorused, grudgingly.
"Thirty-four, ma'am! Always address me and the other officers properly. I don't
tolerate disrespect. What unit?"
"Thirty-four, ma'am!"
"Right. Any questions, boys?" One man actually raised his hand, a little
nervously.
"Yes?"
"How long is the initial training period you mentioned, ma'am?"
"You don't need to know that. What you need to know is that you don't get out of
here until I say you do. Anything else?" There was a long silence. Men shuffled
uncomfortably.
"Good. While you're here you can expect hard work, drill and discipline,
starting now. You don't get to shower and eat until the camp is set up, so I
suggest you work diligently." She glanced down at some sort of document.
"Horton!"
"Yes, ma'am!" a tall blond officer near the back replied instantly.
"Get ten of these maggots in work boots, and take them to dig latrine pits." The
woman immediately began pulling men out of the crowd, seemingly at random.
"Desalle, take ten others to help unload the supply lorries, wherever they're
needed. The rest of you, over there to help with your dormitory tent. You'll be
sharing it with units 31 through 40."
Richard ended up with Desalle, the stout dark-haired woman who had removed his
blindfold on the bus; that is, he was one of the ones she grabbed and began to
herd toward the part of the camp where the white supply lorries were parked in a
tidy row. He exchanged glances with the other conscripts as they marched
together under her watchful eye. Everyone had to be thinking the same thing. No
matter how big and strong Desalle was, she was just a woman, and they were ten
to one. But there were more guards everywhere, some with dogs and tranquiliser
guns, and of course they'd be sure to come down hard on any sign of rebellion
before it could spread. Better to endure the indignities of being shouted at and
marched around naked, and maybe whipped occasionally - and wait for a better
opportunity.
"Start them at lorry sixteen," called the officer who seemed to be in charge of
the unloading operation as they approached. "We're running a little behind, so
hurry them along."
"You heard her!" Desalle roared. "Move, you useless male parasites!" One man
yelped in pain as her whip found his buttocks, and they broke into a shuffling
trot across the muddy grass. Another officer was waiting at lorry sixteen to
direct them while Desalle encouraged them in their efforts with creatively
abusive shouting and liberal use of her whip. Richard found himself lifting what
seemed to be bags of potatoes and onions down from the back of the lorry, and
passing them on to other sweating men who relayed them to the central buildings.
The bags were heavy, and with Desalle cracking her whip and screaming "Faster!
My grandmother could do better than that!" he didn't dare stop for a moment. So
this is slavery, he thought grimly, as the burning ache in his arms grew worse
and worse. Despite his best efforts, he knew he was slowing down, and he wasn't
really surprised when he felt a sudden, stinging pain across his buttocks.
"Pick up the pace, Tipper!" Desalle boomed from behind him. "This isn't a bloody
vacation at the seaside."
"But ma'am, I'm exhausted," he pleaded.
She snorted. "Nonsense. Exhausted is on your knees, vomiting and seeing stars.
Just you wait till we really put you to work. Now get on with it, you little
wanker!" She hit him again, casually, across the shoulders. Blinking back tears,
he turned back to his task.
The rest of the afternoon was a nightmare of sore muscles, stinging welts from
the whip, and seemingly endless physical labour, all played out against a harsh
background of shouted insults and orders and the incessant barking of the dogs.
After lorry sixteen there was another to be unloaded, and then another. Richard
didn't fall to his knees and vomit, but once or twice it seemed like more than a
remote possibility as the merciless Desalle kept working them at the same
relentless pace. The woman was a slave driver - quite literally, come to think
of it. The only time her stern overseer's face relaxed into a smile was when
they lifted four large steel cages down from one of the lorries, stoutly built
things that looked large enough for a man to sit or crouch in but too low for
standing up and too narrow for lying flat. Desalle laughed as they were lifted
down.
"Hoping those are for the dogs, boys? Don't worry - if you behave yourselves
this is as close to them as you'll ever have to get." There were about a score
of cages in all, emerging from several of the lorries, and they ended up in a
grim row facing the line of white dormitory tents.

But finally their task seemed to be complete, and shortly after sunset the
conscripts of unit 34 were assembled and led over to the trenches that served as
lavatories (none too soon for Richard) and then paraded to the middle of the
camp for a shower, a very close haircut, and a bowl of cold and congealing beef
stew. Ordinarily it would have revolted Richard, but after a day of hard work
and almost no food (he'd risen too late for anything resembling a proper
breakfast) he wolfed it down and was sorry there wasn't more. The water in the
shower block was actually fairly warm - probably just a detail they'd
overlooked, he thought sourly. Everything was done in a spirit of brisk
efficiency, leaving no time to appreciate the comfort of being fed, clean, and
in out of the rain. Five minutes in the shower, five more for a sour-faced blond
girl to shave most of his hair off (he was almost glad there wasn't a mirror in
the room), ten for dinner, which they had to shovel into their mouths with their
bare hands, and fifteen for washing up, toothbrushing and shaving. Sergeant
Hallee herself gave most of the orders, in a calmly assured tone that was
nothing like Desalle's bellowing outside, and when two or three bearded men
protested about being made to shave it was her whip that stung them back into
obedience. But the other officers were always ready to back up her commands,
herding the men through the whole vaguely humiliating process and hurrying them
along with shoves or well placed slaps. Richard wished more than ever for
something to wear. Being kept naked under the scrutiny of fully clothed women
was bad enough, but when they touched him - prodding him along, grabbing his
wrist or elbow to guide him through a doorway, or sometimes just reaching out to
fondle his shoulder or bottom with shockingly casual intimacy - he felt twice as
ashamed and vulnerable. And when they were led outside, still a little damp from
the showers, the evening chill made gooseflesh rise on every inch of his bare
body.
"We're putting you to bed early today," Hallee announced. "You're all sore and
tired, and we'll be waking you up before dawn tomorrow for calisthenics, so try
to get some rest. Does anyone need a last trip to the toilet?" Richard decided
he was fine, but a few of the men raised their hands. Sergeant Hallee grinned in
cold, unpitying amusement. "Then I hope you can hold it," she almost sneered.
"The dormitory overseers will punish you severely if you wet your cots. Come on,
boys - over to the tent." It had stopped raining, but the damp grass was cold on
their feet and ankles. As they moved past the row of punishment cages toward
their tent - number four, apparently - Richard was amazed to see that two or
three of them were already occupied. He got a good look at one of the prisoners,
a pudgy man who sat cross-legged with his hands cuffed behind him and some sort
of dark mass crammed between his parted lips to keep him silent, and turned
hurriedly away at the expression of abject suffering on his florid face. The
young brunette standing guard gave him a cool smile.
Bed turned out to be a narrow little cot, one of hundreds lined up in rows
within the enormous tent. Hallee and the others went off to dinner, leaving them
in the charge of another set of officers who would apparently be guarding them
as they slept. They endured a sharp lecture from a thin, humourless-looking
woman with a faint moustache - keep your cot tidy, you will be watched at all
times so don't think you can get away with masturbating or whispering to your
neighbours, when told to rise in the morning you will get up at once and stand
at attention at the foot of your cot, etc., etc. - before being led to the cots
assigned to their unit and finally allowed to crawl under the shelter of the
coarse sheets and thin blankets that had been provided for them. There were no
pillows, and because adjacent cots were actually touching one another Richard
found himself sleeping only inches from the two men flanking him, but
nevertheless he felt warm and almost comfortable for the first time since
entering the Intake Centre that morning. He was starting to think like a slave
already: cold stew made an acceptable dinner, an adequately warm shower was a
pleasant surprise, a cramped cot in which he could cover his nakedness with a
threadbare blanket seemed luxurious. His warm bedroom in his parents' house in
Birmingham might have been on the other side of the world. Two years of this, he
thought wretchedly. Two bloody years. Why couldn't I have been born a girl? He
wanted desperately to sleep, dreading the moment when he would be hauled out of
bed and marched outside for undoubtedly strenuous morning exercises, but a kind
of muted panic kept him wide awake. How on Earth was he going to survive in a
place like this, naked and subject to the lash? Terrified and sleepless, Richard
lay in the semi-darkness, listening to the snoring of the other men and the
ceaseless tread of the dormitory officers as they patrolled the aisles between
the rows of cots.

Chapter 3

Richard woke suddenly, jerked out of his fitful sleep by the harsh blaring of
some sort of electric alarm. Brief confusion followed as his mind registered the
thinness of the mattress, the lack of a pillow, the white canvas of a tent roof
overhead rather than the familiar plaster of his bedroom. But then it all came
crashing back in a flood of sudden recollection, and Richard knew a moment of
pure despair. Of course he was sleeping in an uncomfortable cot in a crowded
dormitory tent - he was a slave.
But there was no time for self-pity. He heard the tramp of booted feet and the
shouts of the dormitory officers even as the alarm faded into silence. "Get up,
you lazy sods! Out of bed, make up your cot neatly and stand at attention. Up, I
said!"
"What time is it, ma'am?" someone groaned a few cots down.
"Time to get up, you little bastard." One of the younger officers paused by the
man's cot and threw back his sheet and blanket, exposing his lean nude body. She
landed a stinging slap across his upturned buttocks. "Get moving!"
Richard sat up, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, and slowly pulled himself
out of bed. For Christ's sake, it was still dark; the only light in the tent was
coming from the overhead lanterns they'd apparently left burning through the
night. He still felt sore and exhausted from yesterday's ordeal, and worse was
probably coming. He pulled his covers into some semblance of straightness and
then lined up with the others at the foot of his cot - hands at his sides, chin
up, and cock humiliatingly half-stiffened with the need to urinate.
"Disgraceful," sneered one of the officers as she stalked along the line of
naked men. It was the same woman who'd given them the speech before bed last
night, she of the wiry thin body, straggly brown hair and ugly little moustache.
Her mouth was set in a disdainful frown. "Heels together, eyes forward. And you
straighten up." She prodded Richard in the stomach, not gently, and he quickly
adjusted his posture. She swept her gaze up and down the line.
"Didn't your mothers even teach you how to make a bloody bed properly? Do it
again, all of you, and get it right this time. Ladies, encourage them." That
meant whips, of course. Nobody was spared; the women moved up and down the row,
striking almost indiscriminately. Richard felt a sharp blow across the backs of
his thighs, and then another low on his back. He couldn't help giving a little
moan of pain, but a moment later he had his blanket properly aligned and the
corners neatly tucked in. He drew himself up to attention and was relieved when
the brown-haired officer gave a grudging nod. "Good enough for your first day.
We'll take you to the latrines, then it's over to the exercise yard to earn your
breakfast."
The latrines were a crude affair, as Richard remember from yesterday - if you
had to urinate, you did it in a very deep, broad trench, and if you had to
defecate you squatted over one of several vertical round holes and hoped you
didn't lose your balance. Afterwards you cleaned yourself not with paper but
with a cold jet of water from a nearby hose. You did it all, of course, in full
view of both your fellow conscripts and the female guards, and you did it
quickly unless you wanted a taste of the whip. As Richard crouched naked with
his bowels churning unpleasantly - stress, he supposed, and the drastic change
in his diet and routine - he blushed, and lowered his face so he wouldn't have
to watch the guards watching him.
Hallee, Desalle and the others were there to meet the men of Unit 34 at the
exercise yard, which turned out to be nothing more than a fenced-off area within
the camp; although the fence was only waist-high, Richard still felt like an
animal being herded into a stockade. They shared the yard with the other units
from their dormitory tent, and in the distance other groups of men were being
led into similar enclosures or out to open fields where they formed up in
precise ranks according to the shouted commands of their officers.
"Good morning, lads," Hallee called almost cheerfully. She and the other
officers looked fresh and rested, despite the early hour. "Are you ready to work
hard for me this morning?"
"Yes, ma'am," they replied dutifully, but with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
"Glad to hear it. Down on your bellies, boys. No, right down! I don't care how
cold and wet the grass is. We'll start with push ups. One! Two!" They were
allowed to stop at twenty; Richard's arms were burning, but he had managed to
maintain Hallee's brisk pace and hadn't yet felt the whip. Some of the less fit
men hadn't been so lucky, as the officers moved among them with shouts of "get
that fat arse down!" and "keep up, you bloody maggot!". One fat, pasty-skinned
fellow was crying and already trembling with fatigue as a blond Nordic goddess
of an officer screamed abuse and kicked him in the chest and belly.
"No slacking off," Hallee shouted. "You work till you collapse, and if you
collapse you spend the rest of the morning in the punishment cages. Now get up
and follow Officer Murray around the edge of the yard. Go!" Murray was one of
the younger officers, and she trotted off at a pace that made Richard's already
strained muscles scream in protest. Other women were running behind them, of
course, "encouraging" the stragglers, and now Richard felt the already-familiar
sting of the lash on his back and buttocks. With an effort he moved up to the
middle of the jostling pack, losing himself among the other sweaty male bodies.
Hallee watched it all with a faint smile on her hard brown face.
Mercifully, Murray began to slow down as they approached their starting point,
but Hallee shook her head. "Pick up the pace!" she grinned. "You don't stop till
you're told. You can go a little faster, Murray, now that they're all warmed
up." There was a chorus of groans from the men. By the end of the second lap
some were flagging badly, and at the rear of the pack the sound of cracking
whips and thin cries of pain was almost continuous. Richard, panting, aching and
blinded by sweat, was inevitably beginning to slip toward the back himself. He
envied the knot of men ahead of him who seemed to be holding the pace easily,
with their hard, lean bodies and rippling muscles. He did his best to keep in
shape, but had never been fanatical or even particularly conscientious about it.
Now he was paying the price.
On the third lap the fat man who'd been having so much trouble with the push-ups
finally collapsed, and lay unmoving as the blond woman - Officer Horton, Richard
thought she was called - hit him again and again with her whip.
"He's finished," Hallee sneered. "Get him in a cage before he has a heart attack
or something." The poor bloke looked almost relieved as Horton hauled him easily
to his feet, despite his bulk, and led him away. Everyone else managed to finish
the full ten laps, although Richard's lungs were on fire and his eyes were
half-blind with dripping sweat by the time they were finished. And of course
there were more orders to be followed, more strenuous exercises to push them all
closer and closer to complete exhaustion. They strained and sweated and howled
under the lash as the sun slowly crept up over the horizon and Hallee barked out
brisk commands and smiled to herself at their discomfort. Richard was feeling
giddy and nauseated when she finally called a halt, just after the fourth man
keeled over in a pool of his own vomit and had to be half-carried to the cages
by Horton and Desalle.
"We have sixteen more minutes of exercise scheduled," said Hallee scornfully,
"but today I'll let you rest. I'm not impressed, lads. I'm aware the average
young man is far too sedentary these days - lazy might be a better term - but
this is absolutely pathetic. I want all of you to get down on your knees and
think about how soft and weak you are, and how badly you need us to whip you
into shape. Many of you will be performing heavy physical labour after your
training period is finished, and we expect you to be able to get through a full
day's work without collapsing. I'll see about scheduling a little extra physical
training. It seems to be urgently needed. Murray, go get a little water for the
lazy bastards, will you?" She had been leading most of their exercises, and
although she was flushed and sweaty she hardly looked exhausted as she jogged
off to get the water. Richard sighed and let his eyes fall closed, wishing he
could lie down but grateful to be allowed a few minutes' relaxation. He had
almost got his breath back by the time they were marched off for a quick shower
and a cold, cheerless breakfast. Everyone was moving stiffly, and Richard didn't
think there was a single man who didn't have at least a few angry red welts on
his legs, or his back, or his buttocks. And the day was just beginning!
They were made to wait on their knees for a few more minutes after breakfast,
but finally a nearby loudspeaker crackled into life.
"All units are to assemble on the East Parade Ground at once," a woman's voice
announced, clear and cultured despite the faint hiss of accompanying static.
"This your camp commander. Repeat, all units to assemble on the East Parade
Ground."
"That means you, boys. On your feet, and hurry. Run!" With the welts fresh on
their bodies, no one needed to be told twice, and soon they were joining a crowd
of thousands of other nude, tired men and their uniformed overseers. The East
Parade Ground was right next to the camp's only gate, and Richard cast a longing
glance toward the rolling hills just outside the confining double fence. But the
barbed wire, the heavy chains and padlocks that sealed the gate, and the guards
with their dogs and tranquiliser guns made escape not only impossible but almost
unthinkable.
"Welcome to Training Camp Thatcher," the same invisible voice announced. "As I
said, I am your Camp Commander, Major Judith Stevens. You will not see much of
me during your stay here - unless you commit a serious breach of discipline, in
which case I assure you the time we spend together will not be pleasant - but
rest assured that I have ultimate authority over you at this stage of your
conscription. Your sergeants will already have explained most of what you need
to know, but I want to say one or two things before your training begins in
earnest.
"Firstly, I am sure you are all aware that men are not coddled at Camp Thatcher.
You will be worked hard, disciplined severely, and made to do unpleasant,
degrading things to which you would never ordinarily agree. However, conditions
may get somewhat more bearable once you are past the training stage and ready to
be put to work. In the labour camps, factories and so on where you will serve
out your period of conscription, you may be provided with occasional luxuries
such as sweets, playing cards, and access to literature we consider appropriate
for impressionable young men. You may be allowed free time to relax and
socialise with one another. Contact with free males is out of the question, but
you may be permitted to correspond with and telephone female friends and
relatives - subject to our censorship, of course - and perhaps even receive them
as visitors. We might even let you jerk off once in a while." The mild vulgarity
was almost shocking, when delivered in that calm, dignified voice that might
have belonged to a baroness addressing the House of Lords.
"But all these things are privileges," she continued, "and our philosophy in the
conscription system is that privileges must be earned by demonstrating your
ability to work hard, obey instructions and follow the rules. That is why
conditions here are so rigorous, and that is why we expect that you will be
eager to conform to our expectations so that you can graduate from Camp Thatcher
in the minimum time rather than being held for additional training.
"The other side of the coin, of course, is that disobedience and undisciplined
behaviour will be severely punished, as I now propose to demonstrate. All of you
turn to the east, please." Richard obeyed without thinking, and found himself
squinting into the bright morning sun. For a few long minutes there was nothing,
but then they all heard the distant rumble of motors. It was another minute or
two before several long grey buses of the kind Richard had first seen yesterday
(only yesterday?!) at the Intake Centre crested the low hill to the east of the
camp. As they approached women ran forward to unlock the gates and pull them
wide open. There was a stirring among the men, but nobody actually moved. Nobody
dared, Richard supposed.
"Bloody idiots," the man next to him whispered. "They're thinking of running for
it."
Richard glanced around nervously, but no officers seemed to be paying any
attention to them. "Aren't you?" he replied. The other man was thin and very
lightly built, with finely chiselled features; the stubble on his head was
black.
"Sure, but I know I'd never get anywhere. The bitches have us right where they
want us. And I think we're about to see exactly how they can put us in our place
when they feel like it."
"Why? How do you know?"
The other man smiled wryly. "My mother's a civil servant with the Ministry of
Social Order - you know, the new outfit that planned this whole thing. Let's
just say she isn't always careful with her confidential documents, and I saw a
few things I technically shouldn't have. Don't be fooled by what that Stevens
bitch said. This is hell, and it's going to stay hell until the day they let us
go."
"Cheerful thought," Richard murmured.
"Yeah. I'll tell you about it later - one of the bitches just looked in our
direction. I'm Carl, by the way."
"Richard. Nice to meet you." It sounded ridiculous, under the circumstances, as
soon as it was out of his mouth. But the buses were inside the camp now, and
officers were herding a line of frightened young men out of each one. They were
all naked, and chained just as Richard had been at his arrival, with their hands
cuffed to the front of a leather waist-belt and their ankles fettered with a
long chain. More conscripts, apparently, and hundreds of them. They must have
been packed into those buses like sardines.
"Some young men," said Major Stevens through the loudspeakers, "neglected to
report to their local Intake Centre yesterday despite being on the conscription
list. Thanks to the efforts of Britain's fine policewomen, most of these
miscreants are now with us. I'm glad you could join us, boys, and I am sure you
will understand that your failure to comply with the clear instructions in your
notification papers demands serious punishment. Officer Ludovich!"
"Yes ma'am!" boomed a woman from among those who had led the new arrivals off
the buses.
"You have charge of these ill-behaved louts until further notice. Please take
them over to the latrine trenches to begin with. Have them crawl."
"You heard her!" Ludovich shouted. A big blond woman, she looked as Slavic as
her name. "All of you down!" She seized the nearest man and hurled him bodily to
the ground, and the other officers in the vicinity immediately began forcing the
chained conscripts down with brutal efficiency. Most lay down voluntarily once
they realised what was happening, but Richard saw several who had to be shoved,
kicked and whipped into obedience. The men were being handled far more roughly
than seemed to be the norm at Camp Thatcher - part of their punishment, Richard
supposed, but all the same he found it difficult to watch as Ludovich and the
others began driving their victims off toward the latrines with blows of the
whip and well-placed kicks. In their chains they were crawling awkwardly, almost
comically, and their slow pace certainly did not satisfy their tormentors. Whips
stung exposed backs and buttocks, hard leather boots drove into the soft flesh
of naked flanks or occasionally came up between a man's legs to make him howl
with pain. Richard shuddered as the men passed near enough for him to see the
hot tears that stained their faces and the naked panic in their eyes, not to
mention the stern unsympathetic faces of the following officers.
"You will see more of their punishment as the day progresses," the loudspeaker
informed them with an air of satisfaction as the chained men were led away.
"Keep in mind that you will be treated with equal severity if you step outside
the rules in any substantial way. Have a nice day, gentlemen."
But in fact they saw nothing of the chained men throughout the rest of the
morning, as Hallee kept them on the parade ground for a long session of marching
and drilling that was apparently supposed to instill discipline. The rain and
cool weather of yesterday had given way to bright, clear skies, and Richard
hated every sweaty moment of marching, pivoting and saluting under the hot sun
while Hallee screamed orders and reprimands and the other officers used their
whips ruthlessly on anyone who dared fall out of step for even a moment. The
irrelevance of the whole exercise was maddening - they were slaves, after all,
not soldiers, and he didn't see what all this stomping about was supposed to
accomplish. It was a relief to be allowed to stop for lunch and a generous
ration of cold water.
"Chores all afternoon," Hallee announced, "but you get another toilet break
first. There's a surprise waiting for you at the latrines - let's go." Were the
officers really exchanging conspiratorial smiles? Richard noticed Carl sidling
up to him, trying not to be too obvious about it, and moved over to join him.
"Is it going to be something awful?" he whispered.
"Probably. Surprises aren't usually pleasant around here, are they?"
The surprise turned out to be that the latrine trenches were full of chained,
naked men. They looked wretched and miserable as they stood ankle-deep in
stinking mud, their bodies pressed together in the confined space. The tops of
their heads were a couple of inches below ground level, but they would certainly
be able to see and hear Unit 34 approaching. Richard heard groans of trepidation
from inside the trench.
"This is of course the next stage of their punishment," said Hallee coolly. "The
superior officers here understand that degradation and humiliation can be as
effective as pain in encouraging obedience. These men showed complete disregard
for the rules, and they need to be taught a sharp lesson. You will line up along
both sides of the trench and urinate on them."
Richard felt a firm hand on his shoulder, shoving him toward the trench. He
stepped forward hesitantly with the other men, finding a place between Carl and
a burly thick-necked bloke who had looked as though he'd actually been enjoying
their session on the parade ground. Richard hated the idea of being used as a
tool to punish these men, no matter what they'd done, but he wasn't about to
disobey a direct order when all those women - those bitches, as Carl liked to
call them - were standing around with their whips ready. He grasped his penis
and glanced down, hoping to aim between the tightly packed men as much as
possible.
It was that glance, he supposed, that changed his mind. The despair and sheer
misery he saw on the tear-stained faces in the trench was like something out of
a Medieval vision of hell. Without really thinking about it he stepped back from
the edge, and immediately - of course - yelped in pain as a whip cracked
viciously across his buttocks.
"Don't be stupid," whispered Carl urgently, just as Desalle's harsh voice
shouted "Tipper! What the hell do you think you're doing!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he gasped. God, she'd hit him hard that time. "I - I just
can't. Punish me if you have to, ma'am."
"Punish you! I'm going to skin you alive, you little runt." She punctuated her
words with another blow. "You do not disobey orders." This time she hit him
between the shoulder blades. "You do not talk back to the officers. And if you
know what's good for you, you don't request punishment." She reached between his
thighs and grabbed his balls, her grip tightening until he moaned in pain. "Do
you understand!"
"Yes ma'am!" he sobbed. "But I won't - you can't make me -"
"Like hell I can't! I'll whip your skinny little arse until -"
"Just a minute," Hallee cut in smoothly. "Let go, Rebecca." She grabbed
Richard's chin and forced him to meet her eyes. "Listen, Tipper, you've got
three choices. First, you can do as you're told. I think you'd find that
easiest." He shook his head stubbornly. "Fine. Second, you can go to the
punishment cages and stay there until midnight. Or third, you can climb down
into that trench with the other bad boys." He swallowed hard. He couldn't give
up his little act of defiance now, and he knew he'd be screaming in agony after
twelve hours in one of those cramped little cages. He took a deep breath and
swung his legs over the edge of the trench.
"All right, Tipper, it's your decision." Hallee sounded exasperated. She kicked
him viciously in the shoulder so that he fell back among the other men in the
trench. The nauseating smell and the feel of the other men's bodies against his
- damp with sweat and God knew what else - assaulted his senses. He looked up
and saw Carl almost directly above him, wearing a wry, apologetic smile. And
then, at Sergeant Hallee's curt nod, Carl pissed in his face.
***
"We're doing a good job, ladies," said Hallee, as the naked conscripts assigned
to serve in the officers' mess cleared away the remains of their dinner. "The
boys hate us, but I think they definitely respect us. All of you have been very
strict and demanding with them, but very fair, which is exactly the necessary
attitude."
"Should we ease up a little from now on?" asked Sharon Dowling. "Now that we've
shown them who's in control?"
"Definitely not. If anything we should get tougher as their training progresses.
But I think we're at about the right level for now. Remember that this stage is
designed to be extremely frightening, humbling and stressful for them. It's all
right if they break down and cry for their mothers once in a while." To
emphasise the point she reached out and pinched the bottom of one of the passing
conscripts, hard enough to make him wince in pain. "Sheena, can you remind me
what we have scheduled tomorrow?"
Sheena Murray, a compact woman with short dark hair, pulled out her notebook.
"Exercises at dawn again, of course, and then vocational training with sewing
machines for the rest of the morning - the lads will love that. Laundry work
after lunch, then parade drill, then more exercises until dinner. You said they
needed extra."
"Sewing machines?" said Sharon quizzically.
"A lot of them are going to end up in garment factories, apparently," said
Hallee. "Sheena, that sounds fine, but we're also going to need to pencil in our
first sex session soon. We're going to need five to get through the whole unit.
How do you girls feel about the evening after next?" They fidgeted and glanced
at one another, but no one spoke up.
"Listen, we can't be embarrassed about this. It's an important part of their
training - basic obedience, and it'll be good for them to serve a woman's needs
without getting any relief themselves. It might wake them up to the fact that
our desires are just as important as theirs, and their wives and girlfriends
will appreciate it later." She looked around the table. "I didn't hear any
objections, so Thursday night it is. Have you got the conscript list, Sheena?
Everyone needs to pick a man for at least her first session."
Rebecca grinned at her. "Why don't you go ahead? Commander's privilege, you
know."
"All right, let's see... there he is. Damon Reilly. I always did like blond
boys." She put her initials beside one of the names on the list and pushed it
across the table to Rebecca.
"I want Richard Tipper. No question."
"The martyr from the latrine trench? All right, but I want you to put him very
firmly in his place. When I let him climb out of the trench he was pretty
shaken, of course, but I also got the impression he was proud of what he'd done,
as though he thinks he's defying us somehow. And remember that this was three
hours and several urine-showers after his little outburst. The sex training is a
good opportunity to take him down a notch or two - you'll have him one-on-one,
in private, and you can get as demanding and degrading as you want. Don't be
afraid to be creative. Do you think you can make him crawl?"
Rebecca smiled again and settled her bulk back in her chair. "Oh, yeah. Remember
I was the one he first started talking back to today. I've got plans for young
Richard, and I promise he won't like them."

Chapter 4

"Bedtime, boys. March!" Richard fell into step with the other naked conscripts
as they all emerged from the shower block, shivering as their wet bodies met the
chill evening air. Without being told they formed a neat double line and moved
off toward the dormitory tent under the watchful eyes of their officers. They
were expected to march everywhere like this now, and falling out of step would
almost invariably be punished with the lash if one of the officers noticed. It
was amazing how fast they were learning under that kind of iron discipline.
As usual, Richard had ended up beside Carl Jacobs, the only other conscript he
had managed to become well acquainted with. He remembered four or five of the
others from his school days, but that had been a few years ago and he hadn't
seen much of them since. Only one of Richard's close friends was the right age
to have ended up at Camp Thatcher, and he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps his
crazy plan for evading the whole thing had actually succeeded.
Theoretically the conscripts were all supposed to remain silent except when
responding to direct questions from the officers, but they had learned that a
little whispering was sometimes tolerated, or at worst punished with a slap, a
blow of the whip, or a few push ups. Of course, Richard had seen two or three
men handcuffed and hauled off to the punishment cages for breaking silence, but
it seemed to be a rare occurrence.
"I think something's up," he murmured to Carl.
"So you've noticed too. The bitches have another nasty surprise for us, I'm sure
of it. They get these sort of conspiratorial grins when they think we're not
looking."
"What do you think it is? Not another bedtime body search?" Even the memory of
the humiliating moment - bent over in front of the dormitory tent, spreading his
own buttocks while Officer Dowling's cool gloved finger probed his rectum, his
cock erect and throbbing from her intimate handling - was enough to make him
blush a little.
"Doubt it," Carl replied. "I don't think they want to make that a regular event
- then we could anticipate it and make sure we weren't caught with anything. My
guess -"
"Shh!" hissed Richard, a moment too late. Officer Flagg, a wiry woman with more
grey than brown in her hair, slashed her whip across Carl's buttocks. "Shut up,
Jacobs!" It was a tribute to the toughening effect of four days at Camp Thatcher
that he only gasped instead of yelling in pain. Flagg stayed close to them until
they arrived at the tent, and they both kept their mouths shut and their eyes
down, like good conscripts. Oh, yes, they were learning.
"Form up!" Sergeant Hallee called as they reached their destination. "Single
line!" This was unusual - normally they went straight in to their cots. But you
didn't question orders. Richard lined up with the other men and came to
attention almost automatically. Hallee approached with the thin, slightly amused
smile that usually meant she was about to do something unpleasant. She grabbed
one of the conscripts by the arm. "Reilly, step forward. Hands behind your
back." He obeyed instantly, an uncertain look on his lightly tanned face. She
snapped her handcuffs around his wrists and began to lead him away toward the
middle of the camp. Richard and Carl exchanged puzzled glances, but the other
officers were moving in, each of them pulling a man from the line. Richard
cursed inwardly as Officer Desalle stepped up to him and put her fleshy hand on
his shoulder. She was probably the strictest of them all, except maybe for the
Sergeant herself, and she seemed to have a particular antipathy toward Conscript
Richard Tipper. She jerked his arms roughly behind his back - she was
surprisingly strong under all that flab - and cuffed him, his palms turned
uncomfortably outwards. Instead of taking him by the arm she looped her whip
around his neck and led him off with the other officers and their own captives,
like a dog on a leash. He wanted very badly to ask her where they were going,
but he knew it would only invite punishment. He glanced back over his shoulder
and saw the other men, the ones who hadn't been chosen, being rounded up and
taken into the tent by the dormitory officers.
It was a long walk to the cluster of ugly concrete buildings that formed the
heart of Camp Thatcher. Richard had been in the area twice before, once to work
in the laundry and once to help tidy the officers' quarters, but the building
they seemed to be headed toward was new to him. It was one of the smaller ones,
squat and windowless. Richard caught sight of the lettering on the grey steel
doors - "Special Training Facility" - and wished he hadn't. Training at Camp
Thatcher usually meant sweat, tears and intense abuse from the officers, and
Richard was already exhausted after a long day of drill, chores and exercise,
which seemed to be the three main components of conscript life so far. He
followed Desalle and the others into the building with trepidation.
"You all know your room numbers, ladies?" asked Hallee from the front. There was
a chorus of "Yes, ma'am," from the other officers.
"Good. I think we're all on the second floor. Just take the boys back to the
tent when you're done with them - and have fun. Come on, Reilly."
Have fun? Richard felt himself break out in a nervous sweat as Desalle led him
up a narrow stairwell, jerking impatiently on the whip looped round his neck as
his footsteps began to drag. Upstairs was a corridor lined with numbered metal
doors, toward one of which each man was briskly herded by the officer escorting
him. Richard swallowed hard as he stumbled after Desalle into Room 207, but once
inside it looked surprisingly ordinary. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting
- some exotic torture machine, perhaps - but in fact it was just a small room
with bare concrete walls, empty except for a toilet, a metal locker and a bed
that looked even more comfortable than the bunks in the officers' quarters.
Richard had always imagined that a cell in a prison would look more or less like
this. More confused than ever, he waited as Desalle pushed the door closed and
bolted it, then turned to him with a smile of undisguised anticipation. She
reached out and slapped him hard across the face. "Ow!" he yelped, taken off
guard.
"Just getting your attention, Richard." That was ominous - the officers never
used their first names. "Stand straight with your chin up and your legs apart.
Mm, that's right."
He blushed and fidgeted a little as her gaze slowly travelled up and down his
naked body. Without warning she reached out and touched his cheek, almost a
caress, and then felt and prodded her way over his chest and shoulders. He
squirmed uncomfortably as her strong hands squeezed and kneaded his muscles.
"Please, ma'am, may I ask-" This time she backhanded him across the mouth.
"Shut up, Richard," she said curtly. "And for fuck's sake stop squirming." She
played with his nipples, prodded his stomach, then moved behind him. He gasped
as her open hand cracked across his bottom and then began to pinch and stroke
the soft flesh. The officers were always casually touching them - rubbing,
prodding, slapping, or whatever, and sometimes in rather intimate places - but
this was definitely something a little more deliberate. In a moment she moved
back in front of him, looked him in the eye, and grabbed his penis.
Officer Desalle wasn't a pretty woman - maybe thirty pounds overweight, with a
heavy build and a fleshy face framed by black curly hair - and her severe grey
uniform and habitual stern expression wouldn't earn her many points in a beauty
contest either. But she was also a long way from repulsive, and as her fingers
began to move on his cock he felt it spring to attention with the same alacrity
he tried to display on the parade ground. God, if only she wouldn't stop. She
stepped closer; he smelled spicy perfume mingled with the sweat of a long day's
work.
"Four days," she said softly. "Four days we don't let you boys touch your hungry
little pricks, and look what happens. What's going on here, Richard? You want to
fuck me?"
"No, ma'am," he whispered, blushing. It must have been the wrong answer. Her
fingers shifted to his balls and clamped down hard.
"Why the hell not? Are you saying I'm ugly?"
"Of course not, ma'am," he almost whimpered. Her grip was getting tighter and
tighter. "But you're an officer - it wouldn't be respectful - please, ma'am, it
hurts!"
"I'll bet it does. So you do want to fuck me?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"You're right, that is pretty damn disrespectful." She twisted viciously.
"Ow! Please, ma'am! I'm sorry!" Tears were welling up in his eyes. He struggled
frantically, but of course uselessly, against the handcuffs that prevented him
from defending himself.
"You should be, you dirty little bastard." Mercifully, she released him. "Show
me you're sorry. Down on your knees and lick my boots."
"Ma'am?"
"You heard me, Richard. Get down!" She grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and
forced him to his knees. Immediately he bent forward and began to kiss and lick
the stiff leather, still a little dirty from all that marching around on the
muddy parade ground. He tried to swallow his disgust. It was degrading,
humiliating, but if it was really what she wanted... Suddenly her whip stung his
buttocks and he squealed and jerked his head up.
"Did I tell you to stop?" she snapped. He sighed and returned to his task,
continuing even as the occasional blow descended across his arse or his
shoulders, or caught the outside of his thigh. The welts stung, the cuffs were
biting into his wrists, the concrete floor hurt his knees, and the taste of
Desalle's mud-encrusted boots made him feel even more helpless and downtrodden
than when he'd first been stripped and chained in the Intake Centre. Desalle
chuckled as he trembled with the first of his sobs.
"Want your mother, boy? Think she'd give you a nice kiss and protect you from
the mean, nasty Conscription Officer? Too bad she's not here. Right now I'm the
only woman who can see that you're suffering, and the more you cry the more I
like it. Poor baby." She hit him once more with the whip, almost an
afterthought, and then shooed him away with her foot. "All right, kneel up."
She studied him. "You've gone a bit soft, Richard. Rub against my boot." It
seemed only a small additional humiliation, and soon he was fully, pathetically
stiff again. She sat down on the edge of the bed and nudged his genitals with
her toe.
"Poor little Richard. So desperate, so helpless. So when did you last have sex?
Or haven't you ever done it?"
"Last weekend," he replied, sniffling. Her bulky form was a blur, seen through
blinding tears. "Saturday night."
"Tell me about it."
"I wanted one last fling with my mates before the start of conscription. My
parents obligingly left for the weekend, and a few of us got together and just
partied - vodka, beer, pot, the whole bit. Claire - my girlfriend - was there,
and after the others had gone home we - we went upstairs to my bedroom."
"And?"
"And fucked!" he replied almost angrily. "What the hell do you think?" She
sighed and raised her whip. "She knew two years of conscription wasn't going to
be easy," he went on in a somewhat more moderate tone, "so she was really nice
to me. She did everything just the way I wanted, even put my cock in her mouth.
She never did that before."
Officer Desalle grinned and, to Richard's amazement, started to unbutton her
shirt. "Well, Richard, now you're going to do everything just the way I want.
You're going to be licking a hell of a lot more than my boots, and I'm going to
hurt you a little bit while you're doing it. If you don't satisfy me, or if you
get all reluctant, I'm going to hurt you more. You're going to see me naked, and
you're going to touch me all over, but you're not going to get to cum. You're
going to go to bed frustrated, humiliated and in pain, and the more you fuss
about it the worse it's going to be. You can cry all you want, but you'd better
do as you're told. Understood?" Fat or not, she had magnificent breasts, soft
and enormous and barely constrained by her white little bra. The view contrasted
so sharply with her harsh words. He swallowed and nodded, more desperately
aroused than ever.
"Right, then. I want you to understand that this is for your own good, like
everything else that happens to you at Camp Thatcher. It'll help your obedience
and self-control, and you'll learn a lot about pleasing a woman. In two years
you'll be able to make Claire very happy - unless she's found herself another
bloke by then, of course." She unclasped her bra and went over to rummage in the
locker, her plump body blocking Richard's view of its contents. When she turned
back to him she was holding a brown leather collar on a steel chain, and she
gave him a tight approving smile when he lifted his chin so that she could
buckle it tightly around his neck. She lay back on the bed and drew him to her
with the leash.
"Get over here, Richard. No, climb right up here with me. Good boy." She pulled
his lips to hers. It wasn't like Claire's shy, chaste kisses; Desalle kissed him
hungrily and possessively, raping his mouth with her tongue and grinding his
lips painfully back against his teeth. He was lying half on top of her, bare
chest to bare chest, his erection pressed against the rough cloth of her uniform
trousers. One of her hands played with his buttocks; the other hooked around the
collar and dragged his head down toward her breasts.
"I think you know what to do," she murmured throatily as he began to lick and
kiss her soft white flesh. He heard her sigh as she moved his mouth to her right
nipple, but a moment later her free hand dropped to his scrotum and clamped down
until he whimpered in pain. "Damn it, Richard. Slow down. And use your tongue
more. Try to roll it around my nipple... mm... that's it. Good lad. A little
faster now." He obeyed every instruction as best he could, and when his
performance was inadequate she was always ready to correct him with a
strategically placed slap or pinch. Mostly she kept his mouth on her nipples,
but she also had him kiss between her breasts, nuzzle at her neck, even lick her
armpits. He balked at that for a moment, but when she twisted his nipples
savagely he meekly began tonguing the sweat from her coarse stubble. Finally she
kicked off her boots, slipped out of her trousers, and pulled his head down to
her crotch.
"Get my panties off, Richard."
"Ma'am?" He wriggled his fingers, emphasising the helplessness of his cuffed
hands.
"With your teeth, stupid," she said roughly. "Hurry up, I want your tongue
inside me." Her dark bush was thick, and already moist with the fluids of her
arousal. With a growl of impatience she grabbed the collar again and almost
smashed his face into her groin, pressing him into her folds so hard he wondered
if she was hurting herself a little. "Lick, damn it!" she hissed, and he obeyed
at once. The taste was musky, but he didn't find it exactly unpleasant, and soon
his tongue was buried deep between her thighs. Her fingernails dug painfully
into his neck and scalp as she bucked and squirmed beneath him. It was a relief
when she relaxed her grip momentarily, but she allowed him only a quick gulp of
air before forcing him back to his task. She began to slap his head, his
shoulders, anything she could reach - urging him on, or maybe just amusing
herself. Either way, it hurt like hell as her heavy hand descended over and
over. When she reached her climax it was with a loud groan of pleasure - so
different, again, from Claire's demure sighs and gasps - and a final blow that
made him yell with frustration as much as with pain. It seemed so unfair; his
cock was stiff and practically dripping with desire, and she hadn't paid the
least attention to it since they'd gotten into bed. If he hadn't been for those
damn cuffs, he would have tried to pin her down and thrust into her until she
was moaning in pain instead of pleasure, officer or not.
"So how do you like being my little bitch, Richard?" she asked almost
affectionately. "You're not doing badly so far. Just one more orifice for you to
attend to. I want you on your back for this one - let me get at your cuffs."
"Ma'am? You don't mean..."
But from the way she was grinning at him he knew she did. "Mean what, Richard?
You'll have to speak up, dear."
"I'm not going to kiss your arsehole, ma'am."
"No?" Her voice was suddenly very hard. "You think I can't make you, you sack of
shit?" She unlocked one handcuff. "Down on your back, Richard, and we'll see
about what you're not going to do." Just the thought of it revolted him. His
nose buried between those pendulous buttocks, his lips tasting... Jesus. And he
didn't doubt that she was really going to try to make him do it. He felt the
same inner swelling of mingled defiance, anger and panic that had come over him
on his second day, when Desalle had tried to make him piss on the men in the
latrine trench. He knew there would be consequences, but somehow he couldn't
help himself. As though watching another person he saw Richard Tipper start to
roll over and reach up above his head as though preparing to be shackled to the
bedframe, then suddenly change direction and surge to his feet, swinging the
open handcuff against the side of Officer Desalle's head as he did so. He saw
Desalle fall back with a bellow of pain, saw Richard lunge for the door - but
where on Earth did he think he could go? - and fumble with the bolt. He didn't
see Desalle get to her feet behind him just as he got the bolt open, but he
certainly felt her strong arm go around his neck, choking off his air as she
drove her left fist into his side. At the second blow he sagged in her arms, and
she threw him hard to the ground, face down. She dragged him over to the bed and
cuffed his wrists around one of its sturdy steel legs.
"You think you can fight me, you little bastard? Or do you just like making
things hard on yourself? Is that it, Richard? Do you like being hurt?" Her whip
cut cruelly across his back, as hard a blow as he'd ever felt. "Do you like
screaming and begging for mercy? I hope so, because you're going to scream now."
And she whipped him. So far he'd only felt the lash as a casual disciplinary
measure, which meant no more than two or three blows at a time. But this was
real punishment, and it went on and on. Around the sixth or seventh blow he
burst into tears again, and after a dozen he was screaming himself hoarse, just
as Desalle had promised. He hadn't imagined anything could hurt so much, and it
kept getting worse and worse as her whip tore new furrows into his flesh or
revisited old ones. It was as though she'd poured petrol all over the back side
of his body and set it alight. He shrieked, he writhed in agony, and soon he
began to mix incoherent pleas in with his screams of pain. "Please, ma'am,
please stop. I didn't mean to disobey! I'll kiss your arse, I'll do anything you
want if you'll just stop hurting me. I'll be your bitch, I'll drink your piss,
anything. Anything!"
Finally she tossed the whip aside and knelt on his back to undo the handcuffs.
He sobbed and gasped under her weight.
"All right, Richard. I'm going to give you one chance. You lie down on the bed,
on your back, and do my arse-hole with your tongue just as nicely as you did my
cunt. If you don't do it well enough, I'll hurt you. If your cock doesn't stay
stiff while you're doing it, I'll hurt you. You can rub yourself if you want,
but don't you dare cum, or I'll REALLY hurt you. Now get in position." Her tone
was deadly serious, and he scrambled to obey, defiance forgotten. The bedding
felt terribly rough on his welted back and bottom. He began to stroke and pull
at his penis, trying desperately to get hard again, as he watched her straddle
his torso and lower her sizeable bottom toward his face. Tentatively,
hesitantly, he put out his tongue to lick the sweaty crack between her cheeks,
then began to gently probe her anus. Her fist drove hard into his belly and he
wailed in pain.
"Harder! Get right inside me." Trying not to gag, he obeyed, and thrust his
tongue into this much tighter opening. At least his penis was now stiffening -
for once, he was glad of his four days of enforced chastity. He began to lick
her almost desperately, and trembled in relief when she rewarded him with a sigh
of satisfaction. Two or three minutes later she moved away and stretched herself
out beside him, as though she didn't find the arse-kissing terribly enjoyable
but had simply wanted to torture him with it. She slapped his hands away from
his penis and began to fondle it herself.
"Poor little Richard," she said almost gently. "That was hard for you, wasn't
it?"
"It was horrible, ma'am," he replied honestly.
"You still want to fuck me?"
"Yes ma'am."
"But you can't. Does that make you upset?"
"Of course it does, ma'am. Please, can't you just let me get off? Even if you
just stroke me, or make me do it myself. It's not like I'll tell anyone."
"You really are desperate, aren't you? What if I made you come on my boots and
then lick it off? Would you still want it?"
"Yes ma'am."
She laughed. "Poor baby. It's going to be a long, lonely, hungry night for you
in the dormitory tent, then. And sadistic old Officer Desalle is going to make
it even worse. Lie still." She leaned over and took his penis in her mouth. God!
Claire had been good, but Desalle's evidently more experienced tongue worked
magic. In moments he was literally whimpering with desire and straining wildly
against the firm grip she had on his hips. All too soon, of course, she got up
and began to put on her uniform.
"Bedtime at last. I think you'll probably want to sleep on your front tonight. I
really marked you up this time." She sounded pleased with herself. "You'll try
to behave yourself from now on, won't you?"
"Yes, ma'am." But he knew it was a lie.
***
Richard lay in his little cot that night with an aching hard-on. The dormitory
officers knew exactly where he'd been, and one of them - a young black girl,
prettier than most - had petted and fondled him mercilessly when Desalle brought
him in. The more desperate the conscripts became, the more the officers seemed
to enjoy teasing them. And Richard was definitely desperate. There was a little
wet spot on the sheet beneath him, and his mind was full of images he was
powerless to dispel. Claire's soft red hair spilling over his thighs as her warm
little mouth settled over his penis, the blond and beautiful Officer Horton
stretching out her firm, toned body atop his as they lay together in the privacy
of his own bedroom, even Desalle grinding his face into her cunt. Desalle and
Horton - why not - guiding an apprehensive but obviously excited Claire into a
special training room and gently but firmly stripping her of her clothing. "Do
you like women, Claire?" Horton asked coldly. "We certainly do." Why on Earth
couldn't they have conscription for girls, anyway? They'd be kept naked, their
firm young breasts bouncing as they sweated and strained for their tough and
unsympathetic male officers. Perhaps that was the job for Richard Tipper. He'd
drive them hard, he'd humiliate them, he'd hurt them, and he'd find himself a
plump little bitch who reminded him of Desalle for one of those sessions in the
Special Training Facility. His hand was moving on his penis, furtively under the
sheets, but for God's sake he couldn't stop himself. He wasn't going to finish,
just stroke a little and think of those nude female bodies obedient to his every
harsh command...
Suddenly his sheets were flung back and the black officer who'd been teasing him
was standing over him with a wide, unpleasant grin on her dark face. "Well,
well, what have we here? On your feet, Tipper. Move!"
"Please, ma'am, I was just-"
"Just wanking off. You know that's not allowed. Shut up and put your hands
behind you." For the second time that night he felt cold steel close around his
wrists. She grabbed his stiff cock and used it to lead him out into the cold
darkness, toward the ominous line of punishment cages. The woman standing guard
came forward.
"What's this? Another wanker, I suppose? We've got plenty of room for him. Bring
him over here." The black woman pushed him forward, into the spotlight that
illuminated the row of cages.
"Why, it's Richard Tipper!" the guard exclaimed. "Fancy meeting you here." At
the same moment he recognised her. They'd been in school together, with her a
year ahead, and afterwards she'd worked at one of the local fish and chip shops,
of all places. Amanda, that was her name. She'd put on some muscle and cut her
brown hair short, but there was no mistaking her. He wanted to die of
embarrassment.
"All right, Richard," she said briskly. "Thought you'd have a little more
self-control, but I guess one never knows." She opened a cage for him. "Sit down
and back in."
"You're not going to uncuff me?"
"No, I'm not. You seem to have trouble keeping your hands where they belong. And
you address me properly, conscript Tipper." She took his arm and forced him to
the ground, then guided him back into the little cage. "Come on, get your feet
right in. I know it isn't comfortable - it isn't meant to be." She pushed the
door shut and snapped the padlock into place, leaving him with his knees drawn
up to his chest and his head bowed.
"Haven't seen you in a while," she remarked, studying him through the bars. Her
tone seemed friendly enough. "How's conscription suiting you, aside from the
chastity problems?"
"I hate it, ma'am," he replied irritably. "Every bloody minute. How do you like
being an officer?"
"Oh, it's great fun. I feel a bit sorry for some of the lads sometimes - the
soft ones who spend all their time blubbering, I'm sure you know the type - but
I don't feel at all bad about getting tough with brash fellows like you. Spare
the lash and spoil the conscript, as the Major likes to say. And it's nice
having men almost my age do everything I tell them instead of expecting it to be
the other way around."
"I'm sure it is, ma'am."
"Come on, don't be petulant. You've probably heard this a dozen times by now,
but you'll be grateful for this when it's all over. And so will your girl - are
you still seeing Clea Nesbitt, by the way?"
"Claire," Richard corrected. "Yes, I'm still seeing her. Or I was."
"Claire, that's right," Amanda mused. "You know," she said with a mischievous
smile, "I think I've still got her telephone number in my little book. I'll have
to ring her up before dinner tomorrow and tell her I had to lock you in a cage
because you were masturbating in the dormitory. I hope it was her you were
thinking about, at least."
"Come on, Amanda. Please don't tell her." To his amazement she reached through
the widely spaced bars and pinched his nipple painfully between her fingernails.
"That's 'Come on, ma'am'. I already warned you once. And of course I'm going to
tell her, so no more whining." She rose to her feet and stretched. "You've got
less than five hours till morning exercises. Try to get some sleep. And no more
talking, or I'll gag you. Good night, Tipper." She moved away down the line of
cages, checking on her other captives. Richard, cramped and shivering, closed
his eyes and tried to rest.
***
To Richard's surprise, the next few days weren't so bad. The officers worked
them hard, as always, but he was beginning to find it easier and easier to keep
up with the relentless pace they set. The morning exercises were still bloody
murder, and the military-style parades always involved a lot of yelling and
punishment as the manoeuvres they were expected to carry out became increasingly
complex, but the rest of their training seemed almost comfortable by comparison.
They had plenty of chores to do around the camp, but it was mostly fairly light
work - hauling rubbish, doing laundry, cooking and serving the officers' meals
and tidying their quarters, unloading the food supplies that were shipped in
every morning. There was vocational training for their future work, ranging from
bricklaying to paving a mock roadway (later used, with characteristic
efficiency, to practice hauling rickshaws) to those damn sewing machines. Carl,
who had managed to learn a little bit about the system before conscription, said
that most conscripts were going to be rotated constantly from job to job and
from location to location, partly to prevent them from getting to comfortable
but also to broaden their horizons a bit. It seemed that the whole thing really
had been meticulously designed to do them some good, as well as to punish them -
or at least, as Carl liked to point out, to give them what the arrogant bitches
in charge of the Civil Society Party's increasingly confident government thought
young British males needed. There were also brief medical and psychiatric
interviews with prim lady doctors, to make sure they were all sane and healthy
despite their ordeal and to determine what jobs they would be best suited for.
Of course, it still wasn't like a vacation. Richard went to bed with fresh welts
every night, like most of the other men, and woke up each morning to harsh
shouting and a raging erection that he didn't dare touch - that privilege was
reserved for the officers, who seldom missed an opportunity for a little casual
tickling and teasing. The public had also discovered Camp Thatcher, and around
dawn a few curious spectators would always show up outside the camp with a
terrifying array of photographic equipment that made Richard feel like some poor
zoo animal on display. Women over 18 and men over 21 (apparently conscription
was supposed to be more or less mysterious to all males who had yet to
experience it) were allowed to come right up to the outer fence and watch the
lads being put through their paces, though not everyone wanted to get that close
to the dogs and the watchtowers and all the rest of it. A local news crew had
even been inside the camp, filming everything from communal showers to morning
exercises to men being forced kicking and screaming into the punishment cages.
Rumour had it that five of the eighty or so training camps around the country
(all named after famous Englishwomen, such as the Prime Minister Margaret
Thatcher he remembered from history class; apparently there was even a Camp
Godiva) had been chosen as "display sites" with 24 hour video coverage on the
internet, but Richard found that hard to believe. It was clear, though, that the
Ministry of Social Order didn't feel they had anything to hide in their
conscription training camps.
Every day brought him a little closer to freedom. He was going to survive this;
he was going to work hard, learn a lot and go home to a proud mother and a
lustful Claire in 2007. He'd obey the bitches while he had to, but he wasn't
going to let them break him. Carl and some of the other lads were beginning to
make noises about rebellion, one desperate try at creating chaos and proving
that the whole system was unworkable before they got shipped off to their work
assignments, but Richard stayed clear of it. He was resigned to the situation,
if not exactly cheerful, and he thought he was in most of the officers' good
books. Even Desalle had been less than usually brutal to him since that night in
the Special Training Facility. He was well into his second week of conscription
when things went disastrously wrong.

Chapter 5

The young men had been allowed to put on light orange uniforms, presumably
because of the light snow that swirled down all around them, but they still
looked rather cold and miserable as they hauled in nets full of seaweed and the
occasional fish. Their overseer of the moment, a powerfully built woman with big
shoulders and a shaven head, paced up and down the gravelly beach shouting at
them in Gaelic and frequently lashing out with the wide leather strap she
carried. Soaked with seawater and melting snow, the men's uniforms clung tight
to the skin and seemed to provide only minimal protection. The poor lads
certainly yelped and cringed quite prettily when she hit them.
"Not looking at that thing again," called Connie Tipper's husband in a tone of
exasperation, and she turned away from the computer screen with mild regret.
"I'm looking for our Richie, dear," she explained a bit defensively. "He must be
on here somewhere. I'm worried about him."
Ronald Tipper, a stout man with greying hair, shook his head. "No, love, he
ain't on there. You can only see five of the training camps on the computer.
Here, if you just right-click out of the video stream..."
Connie looked at him in total bemusement. She had her talents, but computer
literacy was not among them. Ronald obligingly took the mouse and got the screen
back to a diagrammatic map of the United Kingdom, with the locations of the
training camps indicated by coloured dots.
"See, the green ones are the only camps with video feeds. One in Wales, one in
the Hebrides - that was the one you were watching - one in Northern Ireland, one
in Yorkshire and the big one just outside London. They'll have taken Richard to
Camp Thatcher, which is somewhere in here." He gestured vaguely over an area
near the Welsh border.
"Taken him," Connie repeated. "It sounds so ominous. And the ladies at those
places look awfully tough. I hope they aren't being too hard on him."
"They know what they're doing, love," Ronald replied reassuringly. "Your sister
Elsie works as a Conscription Officer, for heaven's sake, and Lenore from the
bridge club. It's not like they're brutes - just regular women doing a job. It
might even be good for the lads, like they say."
"Might be good for more than the lads," said Connie with a mischievous grin. She
poked her husband's sizeable belly. "I think they need to introduce conscription
for sedentary middle-aged men. You wouldn't think so kindly of those 'regular
women' after they'd made you trot around the prison yard naked a few times."
"Sounds a bit sexy, actually, with the uniforms and leather straps and all
that."
"Oh, really?" she rose to her feet, pulled down the blinds, and turned back to
her husband with a stern expression. "All right, then, conscript. Strip!" He
looked taken aback for a moment, but then grinned like a schoolboy and hastily
undressed as she looked on impatiently.
"Good. Come on then, get moving. Quick march!"
"March? Where?"
She looked quickly around the room. "To - to the fishtank and back." She
snatched up the nearest halfway suitable object, a copy of the Guardian, rolled
it up tightly and used it to swat his buttocks as he started across the room.
"Move, conscript! No dawdling!"
By the third trip to the fishtank they were both almost helpless with laughter,
their son's plight forgotten. After all, thought Connie, Ronald had to be right.
She didn't like to think of her only son being yelled at and beaten by the
hard-looking ladies who ran those camps, but it wasn't as though he was coming
to any actual harm. And perhaps (though she hated to admit it) a little rough
handling was just what he needed. He could be damnably lazy at times, and since
graduating from school his main interests had been football matches, alcohol and
that equally self-indulgent Nesbitt girl. Perhaps the Conscription Officers
could give him the motivation and discipline he'd need to make something of
himself.
* * *
Richard and the other nude conscripts of Unit 34 had dinner hall duty, which
meant waiting hand and foot on the officers as they consumed a meal that was
hardly gourmet fare but was still divine ambrosia compared to the cold stew and
stale bread that had formed their own diet since their arrival at Camp Thatcher.
Tonight, of course, they would eat only what individual officers decided to feed
them during the meal, which certainly encouraged them to be even more obedient
and attentive than usual.
His old school acquaintance Amanda Harris had somehow arranged to have him
assigned to the table she shared with the seven other officers of her unit, and
she'd been teasing him mercilessly throughout the meal. Now she beckoned him
over from where he stood with his hands behind his back and his head
respectfully bowed, a greasy piece of lamb between her fingers.
"Keep your hands behind you," she ordered. "Lean forward - that's it." She
pushed the lamb into his mouth, and it disappeared instantly; Richard couldn't
remember the last time he hadn't been at least a little hungry.
"My fingers are still greasy," she said coldly as he started to draw back. "Lick
them." That did it. As he ran his tongue over her pale, smooth skin he felt his
penis begin to stiffen, and heard snickering from the other women at the table,
some of whom were old enough to be his mother. After nearly two weeks of
strictly enforced chastity, it didn't take much to bring him into a state of
humiliatingly obvious arousal. One of the other officers gave his swollen cock a
swat to get his attention, then handed him her second alcohol token for the
night and sent him off to the bar for a beer. More hands prodded and pinched him
as he passed other tables.
When he returned he found that Amanda and her friends had no more immediate
tasks for him, and went back to standing quietly in the required posture. At
least he wasn't the only one being thoroughly humiliated; at another table he
saw a kneeling conscript eating bits of bread off the bare hardwood floor, and
one man was shivering and squirming as an officer found creative uses for the
ice cubes in her water glass. By contrast, the high-ranking officers at the
neighbouring table were practically ignoring their naked servers, and seemed
intent on an earnest conversation of their own. Richard had never actually seen
the women who ran Camp Thatcher, but those elaborate uniforms and icily
dignified manners were a dead giveaway.
"I know we've been trying not to discuss business at dinner-time," a
bespectacled blonde was saying, "but there's been some urgent news from the
Central Intake Office."
"I thought that was all wrapped up," said the older woman at the head of the
table, in a voice that sounded oddly familiar for some reason. Her trim build
and short salt-and-pepper hair gave her a very military appearance. "We have
nearly all the men in custody-"
"Over ninety-seven percent, ma'am," the blonde put in hastily.
"Thank you, Margaret. Over ninety-seven percent in custody, and I thought the
Office had tacitly decided not to pursue the rest. Evidently the law of
diminishing returns applies even to boorish male miscreants." There was a murmur
of polite laughter around the table.
"Yes, but I understand this is something of a special case," the officer called
Margaret replied. "Apparently the press have got wind of the fact that one of
the missing conscripts - one Edwin Sanderson, I believe - is the son of Gerald
Sanderson the cabinet minister. They haven't done much with the story yet, but
if the lad isn't apprehended soon they'll be screaming nepotism - you know,
'they'd have rounded him up quick enough if he were the son of Gerry the Plumber
instead of Gerry the Minister of Foreign Affairs', or some nonsense like that."
Richard blinked in surprise. So Ed really had slipped through their clutches,
just as he'd always said he would. Richard remembered their last conversation.
Ed had been desperate, sure that he wouldn't be able to stand two years of harsh
discipline and hard labour, and had invited Richard to join him in what had
sounded like an absolutely ridiculous plan of evasion. Richard had of course
decided not to take the risk, and gone quietly to the local Intake Centre when
the time came. But Ed - shy, handsome, intelligent, and painfully sensitive Ed -
had apparently got away with it. Richard kept a careful ear on the conversation.
"And the lad's resident in our region, of course," the woman at the head of the
table said sourly.
"I'm afraid he is, ma'am."
"And you obviously haven't been able to find him so far."
"We took all the usual steps," said Margaret hastily. "I had a team search his
house, and speak to his parents. Mr. Sanderson - senior, of course - denies any
knowledge of his son's whereabouts, but it still looks bad. I'm sure you've
heard the rumours that he and the other men in cabinet were dead set against the
whole idea of conscription when it was first proposed."
"Indeed I have," she sneered. "That fellow could probably do with a week or two
in here himself." More laughter. "So how are we going to catch him? Have you
formulated a plan?"
"I have people arranging interviews with his friends and acquaintances right
now, and we're checking with airlines on the off chance that he went abroad and
didn't cover his tracks. Since conscription is a matter of British law we
shouldn't have any problem getting him extradited, if that's what's happened."
"I also want you to talk to Gerry Sanderson again, and make it clear that
there's the possibility of a scandal if his son isn't apprehended in the very
near future. It's amazing how much information that sort of thing can shake
loose, in my experience. And when I get my hands on the boy I'll make him wish
he'd never been born. If he thinks he can get away with -"
Richard's attention was rudely interrupted by the crack of a leather strap
across his naked buttocks. He yelped in pain and whirled around to see one of
the older women from Amanda's table glaring at him in exasperation. "Tipper!
What the hell do you think you're doing? Eavesdropping? I'm finished - get over
here and get rid of my plate."
"Just a minute," said Amanda thoughtfully. "Richard, you knew Ed Sanderson
pretty well, didn't you? I remember you were practically always together in
school." Obviously she'd been eavesdropping a bit herself. She didn't wait for
his answer, but rose instantly to her feet.
"Major Stevens, excuse, me, ma'am."
The woman at the head of the other table glanced over in annoyance. Major
Stevens? The head of the whole bloody camp? Richard swallowed hard and kept his
eyes on the floor.
"What is it?" she said curtly.
"I've known this conscript here - Richard Tipper - for some time, ma'am, and I
believe he's closely acquainted with the man you're looking for. He might have
some knowledge of his whereabouts."
"Ma'am, I don't know a thing," said Richard, a little desperately. This sounded
like real trouble. "Amanda, please..."
"Shut up, Tipper," said the major coolly, not even glancing in his direction.
"Officer, are you sure about this?"
"Quite sure, ma'am."
"Very well. I don't see any reason to question your information. Would you like
to interrogate him, Margaret?"
"Ma'am, please, as I said -" This time Amanda cut him off with a blow of her
strap, and shot him a warning look that spoke volumes.
"I don't feel entirely competent, ma'am," said Margaret. "I'll do it if you
want, of course, but I really would recommend one of our specialists. We could
probably have her here early tomorrow morning." She sighed. "It would be a lot
simpler, Tipper, if you were to just tell us whatever you know about your
friend's little vanishing trick. I happen to know the interrogator assigned to
our area, and I assure you that she won't be gentle with you. She's on loan, as
it were, from the Peruvian armed forces and she has extensive experience in
questioning communist guerrillas. Are you sure there isn't anything you'd like
to tell us?"
"I really don't know anything that would be useful to you, ma'am," he lied. "Ed
and I have known each other for years, and I can tell you that he hated the idea
of being conscripted even more than most of us, but I don't know where he might
have gone. Everything seemed normal last time I saw him, but that was three or
four weeks before reporting day."
"And he didn't say anything about his plans? Anything at all?" pressed Major
Stevens.
"Nothing, ma'am."
She sniffed. "Well, we'll find out for certain tomorrow. I apologise in advance
if you're telling the truth, but I'm sure you appreciate that we can't just take
your word on a matter like this." She smiled with a peculiar kind of cold
sympathy. "Officer, I think you'd better take Tipper to one of the special
holding cells for the night. Strict confinement, of course."
"Yes, ma'am." She touched Richard's arm. "Hands behind you. Come on."
Richard couldn't help but feel the first stirrings of panic as she handcuffed
him and led him unresisting out of the mess hall, into the cold night air. He
turned to her as soon as they were outside.
"Why the fuck did you have to tell her?"
"Because it's my duty, stupid," she snapped. "For God's sake, not to mention
yours, I really hope you're telling the truth."
"It's your duty," he repeated mockingly. "What a load of pretentious hogwash.
You just enjoyed- ow!"
"You watch it, Conscript Tipper. I know you're scared, but that's no excuse."
He opened his mouth for an angry reply, but then thought better of it. He
wouldn't have thought Amanda could be such a bitch. "Did you talk to Claire?" he
asked aloud.
"Of course. She laughed herself silly over your little masturbatory episode. And
she said she hoped we were all being strict with you, so that you'd behave
yourself when we let you out."
"I trust you told her that strict does begin to describe it."
"Oh, come on, Richard. We may be firm, but we're fair."
"Whatever. Look, Amanda, if you talk to her again..."
"Yes?"
"Tell her I'm all right, will you? And that I love her."
To Richard's surprise, Amanda stopped in her tracks, and turned to him
seriously. For the first time that evening she looked genuinely sympathetic.
"Richard, listen. She didn't want me telling you this, but I think you have a
right to know. She said she'd try, but she wasn't sure if she could wait for
you. Not for two whole years."
"I guess I can't blame her," he said in a tight voice. "Hell, I've got worse
problems - that Peruvian cunt, for one. But tell her - tell her anyway, okay?
"All right, Richard, I'll tell her. Look, we'd better go get you locked up. And
behave yourself once we're inside. I can't let you take any liberties in front
of the other officers."
"Yes, ma'am," he sighed.
She took him to a nondescript little building in the central cluster, which
turned out to be a kind of miniature prison with only a dozen or so cells, two
of which were already occupied. Amanda identified him to the guard on duty but
led him to a cell herself, and herded him briskly inside. It turned out to be a
bare concrete cube, maybe eight feet on a side, with a barred metal door and no
furnishings whatsoever. She locked him in before reaching through the bars to
take off his cuffs.
"Richard, the major put you under strict confinement, which means no food, no
water and no sleep. She probably wants to wear you down a little for the
interrogator. There'll be an officer coming down the hall every half hour or so
to check on you. When she comes by she'll expect you to stand at attention, or
else you'll get the strap. If you need to go to the loo just point at your penis
when she comes past, but granting the request is completely at her discretion.
Understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Richard, you've got yourself into one hell of a mess. Please just tell
them the truth right away, okay?"
"I've told you the truth already."
Amanda sighed. "I hope so, Richard. I really do." She moved off down the
corridor. Richard shuddered and bowed his head the moment her back was turned.
The idea of facing a professional interrogator made him almost physically sick
with dread, but on the other hand he wasn't going to betray Ed without a fight.
If only the bastard hadn't told him!
* * *
Carl waited only a few minutes after settling into bed before prodding the man
in the neighbouring cot. Being crowded together like this might be a bit
uncomfortable, but it certainly made it easy to conduct illicit conversations
when the dormitory officers had their backs turned.
"Hey, Neil," he whispered. "Richard's still gone. Did you notice?"
"Yeah. What the hell have the bitches done with him?"
"According to Simon, they dragged him off to some kind of holding cell. Simon
didn't hear why - he was licking applesauce off some officer's boots at the
time."
They fell silent for a moment as an officer came tramping past. After nearly two
weeks, the survival skills were pretty well ingrained.
"So what do we do?" asked Neil when she'd moved on.
"About Richard? I don't think we can do much. I hate to say it, but he's turning
into a bloody officer's pet anyway."
"About raising hell and getting out of here, then," whispered Neil in his deep,
insistent voice.
"Just like we've been discussing. But if they've started hauling chaps off and
locking them up, it had better be fucking soon. We're on for tomorrow night -
pass the word." He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling of the
tent. He could hear the patter of light rain, which meant mud on the exercise
yard tomorrow. Wonderful. "And if Richard comes back with cuts and bruises all
over him, or something," murmured Carl almost to himself, "so much the better.
It'll give the lads something to get properly angry about."
* * *
Richard had lost all track of time. His eyes were bleary with exhaustion, his
throat aching with thirst. He'd fallen asleep briefly at some point, but true to
Amanda's word the officer on duty had woken him up with her strap and beaten him
until he was in tears. Every time she came by after that she'd given him a cold
little smile, just daring him to slip up once more. But the welts on his back
and buttocks reminded him to stay wide awake.
He heard the harsh echo of booted footsteps again, and dragged himself wearily
to his feet. But it took him only a moment to realise that something was wrong -
it sounded like there were three or four people out there, this time. Were they
finally coming for him? His head spun with visions of vicious females in ornate
military uniforms, savagely thrusting electrodes against his tortured flesh as
he moaned and writhed in agony.
But the woman who came into view really looked quite ordinary. She was much
younger than he had expected, probably not even thirty, and less
fearsome-looking; she was wearing civilian jeans and a leather jacket, for one
thing, vaguely shocking after seeing nothing but uniformed women and naked men
for days on end, and her build was almost petite. But there was just the
slightest hint of cruelty in her sharp, swarthy features and severely braided
black hair, perhaps something about her flat dark eyes or the hard set of her
mouth. She looked Richard over with a quick, professional eye, her expression
inscrutable.
"Bring him," she said curtly over her shoulder, and proceeded down the hall. Two
of the biggest women Richard had ever seen, wearing the ordinary grey uniforms
of conscription officers, came forward to unlock the cell door and swing it
open. They were both taller than him, one by several inches, and solid with
muscle besides. They grabbed his arms, not bothering with handcuffs, and hauled
him roughly out into the corridor. The other woman - presumably his
interrogator, he thought with an inward shudder - was already disappearing into
an elevator. Richard went meekly where he was led, thoroughly intimidated by the
two guards' cold professionalism and the ease with which they handled him. He
was sweating freely and literally trembling by the time they herded him into a
small room on the lower level of the building. The interrogator was already
seated at a heavy wooden desk, and seemed to be looking through the contents of
her briefcase. She motioned toward another chair, and Richard was only too happy
to collapse into it despite the ominous straps attached. One of the guards
remained standing behind him, her heavy hand firm on his shoulder.
"Richard Tipper, isn't it?" The woman behind the desk said suddenly. He nodded
warily.
"My name is Theresa." Her voice was heavily accented, but quite comprehensible.
"Your file says there have been a couple of discipline problems with you
already." She glanced up from her papers and looked him in the eye. "Are you
going to give me any trouble today, Richard?"
"Of course not, ma'am."
"Please, just call me Theresa. We don't need to, ah, stand on ceremony here.
Okay?"
"Sure, Theresa."
"Good!" She turned to the other officer, who was standing off to one side. "Hit
Richard, will you? Right in the belly."
"What?" He started to rise, but the woman behind him immediately grabbed his
arms and jerked them back behind the chair. The other one stepped forward and
drove her fist into his abdomen with considerable force. He groaned in pain and
would have doubled over if it hadn't been for the iron grip on his biceps.
"You're not going to throw up, are you?" she said doubtfully. "Such a mess. Now
listen, Richard, that was just a tiny little example of what will happen if you
are not fully cooperative. I'm not just a disciplinarian, like the regular
officers. I like hurting people, especially young men, and I'm very good at it.
I have a certificate from the special operations school. Hit him again."
"Ow! Oh God! Please ma'am - Theresa -"
"Nothing like driving home a point. So do you want to talk about your friend
Edwin?"
"I've already told everyone I don't know where he is," said Richard sullenly.
She shrugged. "Who asked where he is? Just tell me a bit about him. Describe him
to me." Richard was sure he'd read somewhere that interrogators were always
supposed to distract their subjects with irrelevant questions before getting to
the point, but he was only too happy to play the game so long as nobody was
going to punch him for the time being.
"He's about my height, I guess. Kind of thin, long dark hair, glasses."
"What about his personality? I understand he is a polite, reclusive young man.
It's surprising that he would have the nerve to try to avoid conscription, don't
you think?"
"He was terrified of it," said Richard, almost eager to be discussing something
relatively harmless. "He was sure he wouldn't be able to take it, and he was
trying desperately to think of some way of getting out of it, some excuse. I
know he applied for exemption."
"And was rejected, like over ninety percent of such applicants. Yes, I have that
information. Time for another punch." This time he did throw up, all over the
front of his body. The pain was awful.
"Please," he whimpered through his tears. "I'm cooperating!"
"Yes, and we want to make sure you keep cooperating," she explained patiently.
"No more belly punches, though. We don't want anything to rupture at this
point." She glanced around the room. "Interrogation cells should always have
spray hoses," she muttered to herself. "Wipe him off, will you?" She pulled a
rag from her briefcase and tossed it to the guard who'd been hitting him. "Good
thing I came prepared."
When the worst of the vomit was gone she moved around the desk and took him by
the chin, forcing him to look up at her. "All right, Richard. You're in pain,
you know that I'm a sadistic bitch, and you're terrified of me. You know how
easily I can hurt you. Right?"
"Jesus, it hurts. Yes, Theresa. Right."
"So why don't you tell me where Edwin Sanderson is?"
"Because I have absolutely no idea. How often do I have to keep repeating
myself?"
She stroked his brow almost tenderly. "You're sure? Absolutely certain? Think
hard, Richard." He felt qualified relief.
"Yes, I'm sure."
She sighed. "Richard, I know you're lying. I have a certificate from the special
school, remember?" She was so proud of that fucking certificate. "I don't like
it when people hold things back. But when they lie, that's much worse. I really
don't like lying, Richard, and I always punish people hard when they lie to me.
So this is nothing personal." She turned to the guard. "Give me his left hand."
She pulled something from her jacket pocket, a thin steel blade of some sort,
and drove it under his fingernail. Richard shrieked in agony as she withdrew the
instrument and blood began to well out in its wake. She did another finger, just
for good measure, and then took him by the chin again.
"Please, scream all you like. You won't disturb anyone down here."
"It hurts!" he howled.
"Of course it does. So, Richard, where's Edwin Sanderson? Think very carefully
before you answer."
"Go to hell, you fucking whore," he said instantly.
"I do believe we're getting somewhere. Okay, Richard, I'll hurt you a little
more if that's really what you want. What'll it be? More fingernails? Pliers on
your nipples? A little of the hydrochloric acid? Or I could just burn you with
my butane lighter." She eyed him consideringly, ignoring his sullen glare. "It
is like fishing - angling, you say? It is no good unless they give you a bit of
a fight."
She rummaged in her briefcase and came out with a syringe and a vial of pale
blue liquid. "This is a favourite," she remarked as she filled the syringe. "You
may choose - right arm or left?"
"What the hell does that stuff do?" asked Richard, simultaneously nervous and
defiant.
She chuckled. "Why tell you, when I can show you? Let me see..." She grabbed his
nipple and twisted it, so that he gasped with pain. "Hmm. You didn't quite yell,
so we'll go with the right arm. I should have brought a coin to flip, no?" She
moved around beside him. "This is really going to hurt," she confided cheerfully
as she pressed the cold steel into his right bicep.
He watched the blue fluid from the syringe drain into the muscles of his upper
arm, and a moment later felt a searing, burning agony from his elbow to his
shoulder. He screamed and bucked against the firm hands restraining him as his
muscles cramped and knotted uncontrollably. Theresa smiled as she wiped the
needle clean and refilled it.
"That stuff won't diffuse far," she remarked. "But I can always give you more if
I want to spread the pain around a little."
"No! Stop! I'm begging you!" he pleaded through his tears.
"You know how to make it stop, Richard." She pressed the tip of the syringe
lightly against the base of his limp penis. "Well?"
"Not there! No!"
"Don't worry, it wouldn't work anyway. I need a big muscle, not a skinny little
cock. This one will do." She jabbed the needle suddenly into his thigh, and he
felt a second explosion of pain. He kicked out spasmodically, but she only
smiled thinly as his bare foot struck her shin and knelt to fasten the ankle
straps attached to the chair. He heard himself screaming, and wished desperately
that he would just pass out or have a heart attack or something. He felt like
his bones were disintegrating. When he saw her filling the syringe a third time
he suddenly knew that he would do anything, absolutely anything, to prevent the
agony from increasing.
"All right!" he sobbed. "I'll talk. Please, just put that down."
"So talk," she said coolly, approaching him with the full syringe. "I'll just
have my fun in the meantime. Hold him still, ladies."
"No! Ed left the country four days before he was supposed to report," gasped
Richard in one long breath. "He wanted me to come with him, but I wouldn't."
Theresa shrugged and touched the tip of the needle to his left shoulder - but
didn't press it home. Encouraged, he rushed on. "He talked to one of those
people smugglers that are always in the news, a fellow who'd just brought a load
of Kurds from Turkey direct to the UK. I have no idea how Ed met him. Apparently
this guy thought the idea of smuggling somebody out of England for a change was
just hilarious, but he agreed to take Ed for three thousand quid and some
cocaine. Like I said, Ed was desperate."
"Agreed to take him where?" asked Theresa quietly.
"Oh, please don't make me - Ahh! God!" Now his shoulder. He screamed in pain
beyond anything he could ever remember imagining. "Greece!" he howled, utterly
defeated. "He spent a year there as an exchange student once, and he speaks the
language. He said a friend - Nikos Korlasios, in Athens - could get him some
sort of job with no questions asked. I don't know whether he was planning to
stay there forever or not. I don't even know if he had a plan." Richard looked
up at her with tear-filled eyes. "Please just leave him alone. If you can prove
his father didn't help him get away, what's the harm?"
"It's not my decision to make," Theresa said calmly. "But I will pass your, ah,
recommendation on to Major Stevens. I'll give you an antidote for the pain, and
then you can sleep a few hours before rejoining your unit. I know that wasn't
easy for you, Richard. Thank you so much." She kissed him lightly on the lips
and turned away to find the antidote.
But even later, after he'd been allowed to shower, eat, drink and use the
toilet, and was bedded down on a reasonably comfortable mattress in one of the
cells, the tears wouldn't stop. He imagined Ed being hunted down, subdued and
stripped naked by pitiless female hands, dragged off in chains as he pleaded for
mercy. And it would all be his fault.
* * *
"Faster!" shouted Sergeant Hallee. "Faster, you lazy bastards! You did better
yesterday!"
Carl heard the smack of leather straps striking flesh all along the line of
naked men, and the ensuing cries of pain. They were pulling themselves, hand
over hand, along the length of an elevated metal bar; it was one of several
stages in a complicated obstacle course another unit of conscripts had been made
to construct a few days ago. He reached the end and dropped down without feeling
the strap himself, fortunately, but was immediately seized and pushed to the
ground by a predictably aggressive Officer Desalle. Her boot on his backside
sent him crawling off across the gravel pit that formed the next stage, hoping
that the abrasions on his hands and knees wouldn't be too bad this time.
Deprived of her favourite victim - where the hell was Richard, anyway? - Desalle
was apparently diversifying a little. He glanced over his shoulder at Hallee,
who was enthusiastically reddening the backsides of the last few men on the
overhead bar.
"Just wait till tonight," Carl muttered under his breath. "Just wait, you
bitch."

Chapter 6

Officer Jane Harkin, chief overseer of Dormitory Tent D, stalked slowly along
the aisle between the two rows of sleeping conscripts. She prided herself on her
vigilance during these nocturnal inspections; most nights she managed to send
more men to the punishment cages for talking or masturbating than any of the
other overseers. Lately the lads had been growing restless, testing the limits a
little, but they had also become more furtive and cunning. Perhaps she could
persuade the major to take away those damn blankets and make them sleep
handcuffed with nothing at all to cover their naked bodies. Then they really
wouldn't be able to get away with anything. Jane didn't have much use for men in
any context, but she did find a certain bitter enjoyment in making their lives
as miserable as possible.
She smiled to herself as she spied her second victim of the night. The telltale
signs of illicit wanking were only too obvious - the heavy breathing, the hand
moving stealthily under the bedding about halfway down the cot. It was as though
the silly idiot wasn't even trying to conceal what he was doing. She noted
without particular interest that the name tag on his cot identified him as Carl
Jacobs, conscript #BI05284. Well, the night was about to get very uncomfortable
for the unfortunate Mr. Jacobs. She seized a corner of his blanket, threw it
back in one practiced motion, and leered down at him unpleasantly.
"Sorry, conscript, but I'm not blind and deaf," she sneered, slapping his hands
away from his groin. "On your feet! We'll see how you like - aagh!" A strong arm
wrapped itself around her neck from behind, and she felt her right wrist seized
and jerked behind her before she could pull her tranquiliser pistol from its
holster. She thrust backward with her left elbow, but it was like hitting an oak
plank and the arm around her neck tightened alarmingly until she forced herself
to relax and stop struggling. There was a female cry of alarm from somewhere off
to her right, but she couldn't take her eyes off the triumphantly grinning
conscript Jacobs as he rose slowly to his feet and slapped her hard across the
face.
"Maybe you're blind and deaf after all, bitch," he sneered. "Nice work, Tom.
Toss her on my cot and put the cuffs on her. And I'll take this." She watched in
helpless fury as he took her gun and spare ammunition clip. The big musclebound
brute who had subdued her now forced her down onto Jacobs' cot, and another
naked man came forward to lean over her and lock her wrists in her own
handcuffs. She fought down the urge to lunge with her teeth at the long penis
that dangled so invitingly close to her face. Tom's heavy hand thrust itself
down the front of her uniform top, but at a sharp word from Jacobs he hastily
withdrew it.
"None of that," said Jacobs urgently. "Remember the plan. After we get out of
here, we're going to have to argue that we were driven to it by the inhumane
discipline and all that stuff and were only protecting our human dignity. We'll
seem a lot less sympathetic if the bitches can prove that we beat them up and
raped them in the process - although I'd like to, so don't give me any excuses,
you hear? Not you though, you ugly moustached cunt. Maybe that Horton bitch."
Jane clenched her handcuffed fists until the fingernails dug painfully into her
palms. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the three other dormitory
officers assigned to the tent, all handcuffed and one with a nasty bruise on her
face, being led forward and unceremoniously pushed down on the adjacent cots.
Mary Ola, that high-strung black girl, was actually in tears.
"You boys had better release us and surrender right now," Jane said through
clenched teeth. "You can't imagine how bad it's going to be if they have to
subdue you by force."
"Nobody's going to subdue us," said Jacobs impatiently. "And if you say one more
word, I'll gag you with your own filthy panties." He turned back to the other
men. "Everyone all right?"
"They shot Noel, but he's breathing."
"And that black cunt kicked me in the balls!"
"In other words, no problem. And we've got all of them." Jacobs smiled in savage
glee. "Okay, stick to the plan. Seth, John, Neil, and Tom - since Noel's down -
take the guns and start liberating the other tents. When you've done all seven,
set off that damn wake-up alarm they use every morning. That'll be the signal to
rush the central buildings. Then we can see about getting more weapons and
taking control of this fucking hell-hole."
"And what're you going to do, Carl?" asked the burly one called Neil
truculently. "While we're doing all the fucking work?"
Jacobs glared at him. "If you're too much of a coward, I'll go instead. Give me
that gun and we're off. Remember, if you see an officer, just shoot her right
away. Can't take a chance on her raising the alarm."
Jane couldn't do anything. She was handcuffed, weaponless, and surrounded by
angry young men. She glared daggers at Jacobs' smooth bare back as he moved off
with the other three members of his little liberation squadron.
"Bloody General Carl," growled Neil the moment Jacobs was out of earshot. "Who
wants to take over this place anyway? I say we make a run for it before alarms
start ringing."
"And do what?" said another man anxiously. "The gates are locked, and we can't
climb the fences."
"I don't know!" Neil folded his arms across his bare, rather hairy chest. "Grab
the supply lorries, maybe, and drive right through them. Why the hell not?"
"It wouldn't work. The fences are too strong -"
"- and we don't have keys for the lorries," someone else put in.
"On my belt," said Mary in a low, beaten voice. Neil whirled on her.
"What was that, cunt? Speak up!"
"We all have keyrings," Mary said more clearly, "with three keys. One for
handcuffs, one for our quarters, and another - the black plastic one - for the
lorries." She turned to Jane miserably, her face still streaked with tears. "I'm
sorry, ma'am, but I just want them out of here before they decide to start
hurting us."
Jane looked back in utter confusion. "But - oh." She shut her mouth abruptly.
Meanwhile Neil had found the keys on Jane's belt, and was waving them at the
other conscripts like a banner of war.
"Okay! Thanks, bitch. We've got four sets of these, so we'll take four lorries."
There were uncertain murmurs from the other men.
"He's right!" someone yelled. "We've got to get out of here. Units 31 to 33 in
one lorry, 34 to 36 in another, and 37 with 38 and 39 with 40. There's lots of
room in those things."
"Not enough!"
"This is fucking crazy!"
"I don't care," said Neil angrily. "I'm going. Anyone else?" Everyone seemed to
want to talk at once; with any luck one of the officers outside would overhear
the stupid bastards and nip the whole thing in the bud. But within moments Neil
and maybe a third of the other conscripts had stormed off with their four sets
of keys, leaving the rest of the men to mill around and argue inside the tent.
She heard Neil outside yelling "This is it! Run! Run!" and then the screeching
of alarms and the sudden barking of dogs. The fight was on.
Mary smiled coldly. "I've got a spare handcuff key in my pocket," she announced
in a much more confident voice than she had used previously. "You'd better use
it to let us go, boys, and then get your pathetic little arses back in bed. Your
glorious revolution is over."
"What do you mean?" asked one of the men nervously.
"Well, with the alarms going already, your friend Carl doesn't have a prayer. He
can't have done more than two or three tents yet, and if the lads in them are as
gutless as you lot then he won't have more than maybe five hundred naked,
unarmed men. Pretty useless against about the same number of officers with
tranquilisers, German shepherds and tear gas canisters, don't you think?"
"You arrogant bitch," said someone angrily. "Just wait till Neil and them get
out of here and tell the world about this place."
"Oh, the world knows," sneered Mary. "It's been on the BBC, the internet,
everywhere. People love what we're doing to you. Older men want you to pick up
some discipline, and women just hope you'll learn to show them a little respect.
And as for Neil, he won't be going anywhere. Those keys aren't for the lorries,
they're for the supply buildings." She laughed at their shocked faces. "Just
remember, lads - when you're fighting a war, don't trust information the enemy
offers you on a silver platter. It could get you into real trouble." Her smile
became positively ominous.
One of the men ran outside, waving his arms and shouting "Neil! Hey, Neil!" But
it was already too late.
* * *
Neil had expected the alarms, and the scattered shooting from the perimeter
towers, and the pursuit by the two dozen or so women who'd been out patrolling
the camp. He saw a few men go down almost immediately - damn it, they were good
with those guns - but it didn't particularly worry him. There just weren't
enough officers out there to make more than a small dent in their ranks, and
he'd made sure that he and the other three "designated drivers" were near the
middle of the pack. The supply lorries were parked where they always were, in a
neat row awaiting their next trip into town. He headed for the second-nearest,
as had been arranged, and thrust his key triumphantly into the lock at the back
so his passengers could pile in. When it didn't fit he felt the first stirrings
of panic.
He tried the other keys on the ring, without success. From the look of things,
similar problems were occurring at the other three getaway vehicles. And now he
could see a wave of officers heading toward them from the central buildings.
There was some sort of commotion off on the far side of the camp - maybe that
arrogant bastard Carl was having better luck than he was - but the women moving
in their direction seemed calm and unhurried as they advanced with weapons at
the ready.
"Stop shooting!" an electronically distorted and greatly amplified voice
exclaimed suddenly. "Boys, I don't know what you think you're doing, but there
will be severe consequences if you do not move away from the lorries
immediately. Approach us slowly with your hands on your heads." The men
exchanged tense glances, but nobody moved. Neil was doing his best to think
fast. Even if they surrendered now, they'd get beaten within an inch of their
lives. Maybe it was better to risk everything and just charge the bitches...
"I'm waiting, boys. If you really want to experience tear gas, just ignore my
instructions for another ten seconds or so. Your position is completely
hopeless."
"What are you going to do to us?" someone called nervously.
"Eight seconds!"
Neil realised most of the others were looking at him as though expecting some
sort of signal. He took a deep breath, thought for a moment about what a lungful
of tear gas might feel like, and then reluctantly put his hands on top of his
head and began to walk forward with slow, hesitant steps. He suddenly felt very
naked, very vulnerable in the glare of the harsh spotlights they'd turned on the
clustered men. There a few sighs of relief as the other men hurried to follow
him toward the dark, menacing silhouettes of the officers.
"That's far enough," called the woman with the loudspeaker. "Get down on your
bellies and wait to be restrained." This time, with all that firepower arrayed
against them at point-blank range, there was no hesitation. The men dropped to
their knees almost in unison and proceeded to stretch themselves out on the cold
ground. A couple of minutes later Neil felt strong hands snap handcuffs around
his wrists and hobble his ankles with a longer chain. The officer subjected him
to a quick, rough search, spreading his buttocks and forcing open his mouth,
then plucked the keys from his hand and moved on to the next conscript. He saw
the leather boots of the officers moving back and forth across his field of
vision, heard the occasional crack of a strap if a man spoke or tried to
struggle. But for the most part, they seemed to have been terrified into abject
submission. When finally allowed to get to his knees, Neil saw the limp bodies
of tranquilised men being hauled over to join them, and what seemed to be
hundreds of others being herded from other parts of the camp. They were already
in chains, and many were coughing, weeping and stumbling like drunkards as the
officers guided them with firm hands and merciless blows of the strap. Carl was
near the front, a tough looking woman holding his arm and driving him along with
hard slaps to his buttocks.
Soon they were all kneeling together, naked, helpless and cowering in terror.
Subdued and defeated. The woman with the loudspeaker stepped forward, and Neil
wasn't surprised to see that it was Major Judith Stevens herself, commander of
Camp Thatcher. She was wearing her uniform jacket over a white nightgown, and
carrying a tranquiliser gun in her left hand. And her finely sculpted,
aristocratic face was full of cold anger. Officer Harkin, the nasty bitch with
the moustache from the dormitory tent, was at her side.
"I would not have imagined," Major Stevens announced flatly, "that so many of
you would show such flagrant disrespect for our authority. This demands severe
punishment, and all of you can count on being held here well beyond the ordinary
training period. We will come down particularly hard, of course, on the
ringleaders of this little escapade. Officer Harkin, I assume you can identify
them?"
"Yes, ma'am," she said vindictively. "I'd say that this conscript - Carl Jacobs
here, from unit 34 - instigated the whole thing. He was giving all the orders,
at least at first."
"Carl Jacobs," mused Stevens. "Another troublemaker from 34. I shall have to
speak to their sergeant. All right, someone bring him up here."
Neil watched in horrified fascination as Carl was hauled, still coughing, to his
feet and dragged forward to kneel in front of the two officers.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" demanded Stevens coldly.
"Please, ma'am, we were driven to it," blubbered Carl. It seemed the tear gas
had taken the fight right out of him. "We just couldn't stand the hard work any
more, and all the punishments. It's nothing to do with you, ma'am - I know
you're just doing your job. But this system isn't working. It's torture! Every
bloody minute of it!"
"Nonsense. All over Britain young men are going through exactly the same thing
you're going through, and they aren't disobeying orders. They aren't attacking
their own officers and trying to run away from their training camps. The
problem, Conscript Jacobs, isn't the system. It's you, and I find your behaviour
absolutely sickening. Harkin, you may strap him as much as you think
appropriate."
Harkin smiled viciously and unclipped the punishment strap from her belt. Carl
squealed in panic and tried to crawl away - it was pathetic, really - but the
two officers who'd brought him forward grabbed him and held him in place, face
down and vulnerable. Harkin stepped forward and hit him across the buttocks with
her full strength. Neil knew from experience that she wasn't one of the stronger
officers, but he still winced as blow after blow descended across Carl's
defenseless posterior with deadly accuracy and blistering speed. Carl started to
scream and sob almost immediately, but by the time the beating was over he was
twitching feebly in the grip of his captors and making only small whimpering
noises. Neil wasn't sure in the cold glare of the spotlights, but he thought he
could see blood welling up in a few places. At the Major's gesture Carl was
dragged to his knees again.
"Don't think your punishment is over," she said sternly. "Have you ever heard of
Camp Bathori?"
"No, ma'am."
"It's the only one of our camps that isn't named after an Englishwoman -
frankly, no one could think of one with a sufficient reputation for viciousness.
Camp Bathori is where seemingly incorrigible conscripts are sent to be punished.
If you think this place is torture, you're going to love Camp Bathori, Conscript
Jacobs. Here we try to get you into shape, instill a little discipline and
respect for authority - nothing so drastic, really. Apart from the corporal
punishment and the nudity, it isn't all that much worse than military boot
camps. Camp Bathori, on the other hand, is designed to be a living hell. If you
stop wanting to die for just one minute, the ladies will worry that they're not
doing their jobs properly. You'll be spending a week there as soon as it can be
arranged, which I expect will take a few days. Paperwork and so on. Afterwards
you'll be sent directly to your first work assignment, which I'm sure will be
something delightful like hauling manure on a pig farm. You've fucked up,
Conscript Jacobs, and you're going to be regretting it for a very long time."
She turned back to her officers. "All right, we'll all be able to go back to bed
shortly. Put Jacobs in a cell, and the rest of them in the cages - no, hang it,
there aren't enough. Just handcuff them standing to the outer fence for the rest
of the night. Give them each a dozen lashes, and hose them down with cold water
so they don't get too comfortable. Another dozen in the morning, and then they
can go back to their units. Just make sure you take all their names and numbers
first. And someone find the sergeant of unit 34 - an Officer Hallee, I believe
it is - and tell her I want to see her at once."
Major Stevens gathered her jacket around her and strode off toward the central
buildings without another word. Neil shivered as he was jerked roughly to his
feet and shoved toward the outer fence, from the thought of the strapping and
the long hours of discomfort ahead as much as from the chill night air. As he
moved toward the fence he saw that there was a small cluster of people standing
just outside the camp, a couple of them holding videocameras. He wondered how
much they'd seen. One of the women in the group had her hand down the front of
her pants and began madly jerking away without the least attempt at concealment
as she watched the naked conscripts being shackled to the fence and mercilessly
flogged by their officers.
* * *
Sergeant Hallee feared the worst. She already knew that her unit had been the
epicentre of that insane attempt at rebellion, and when she entered Major
Stevens' small office she found her superior looking grim, tired and exasperated
all at once. Hallee started a formal salute, but dropped it at the Major's
impatient scowl and hastily took a seat. No, this didn't look good.
"You wanted to see me, ma'am?" she asked deferentially.
"Yes. Officer Hallee - Biyana, isn't it? - I'm sure you'll understand that I'm a
bit concerned by the recurring discipline problems in your unit. First it was
that unpleasant business with Conscript Tipper, and now this. To be perfectly
honest, I can't help wondering if you're running a tight enough ship."
Hallee had been expecting something like this, but it still hurt to hear it said
aloud. "I really don't think that's the case, ma'am," she protested. "I'll admit
Tipper has been a handful at times, but most of the men have been remarkably
well behaved up till now. When they do step out of line, I always make sure they
regret it. Some of my officers have even wondered aloud if I'm being too strict
with the lads."
"And yet the fact remains that the most serious breach of discipline we've had
to date was centered in your unit."
"But others were certainly involved, ma'am. And there have been similar
rebellions, or whatever you want to call them, elsewhere. Didn't they actually
break out at one of the Scottish camps?"
"Yes, they did. Briefly." Major Stevens sighed. "What really worries me is the
fact that you apparently had no idea the rebellion was about to take place."
"I'd heard them whispering once or twice about wanting to break out, but that's
hardly surprising under the circumstances. I didn't hear any actual planning,
though, and if any of my officers did then I wasn't informed."
"I see you're already learning to pin things on your subordinates," she said
with an ironic smile. "All right, Biyana, I'm prepared to accept for the present
that it's only bad luck that these difficulties have cropped up among your men.
But if there's another major breach of discipline I'll have no alternative but
to replace you. Clear?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. There won't be any more trouble, I promise."
"Glad to hear it. I trust you don't have any problem with my decision to send
Jacobs to punishment camp? I need your co-signature on the papers."
"No, ma'am. I think he deserves it."
"Good. I'm contemplating doing the same with Tipper. I know he had a rough time
with the interrogator, but withholding important information is a serious
offence in itself. And he's been a handful, as you put it, all along, hasn't he?
He needs to be put in his place."
"He's been better lately, at least until last night. I really recommend keeping
him here, ma'am. I can discipline him appropriately myself."
"Do I detect a certain protectiveness here?" asked the Major skeptically. "I
understand that you have a son just a couple of years younger than our men."
"It's not that, ma'am, it really isn't. Tipper's one of my conscripts. I've
worked him, learned a fair bit about him, made him cry with pain and humiliation
once in a while. I'll admit that I do feel responsible for him."
"An understandable attitude, I suppose, if not exactly detached and
professional." She sighed. "I'm prepared to accept your judgment, but only if
you promise to be exceptionally firm with Conscript Tipper. Discipline him for
holding back about his friend, and I expect you to test his obedience strictly
over the rest of the training period. If there's the least hint of further
insubordination, we'll have to pack him off to Camp Bathori."
For the first time since entering the Major's office Hallee smiled. "Don't
worry, ma'am. I've planned a little graduation ceremony for the lads, and I have
a special role in mind for Tipper. If he can get through it without going
berserk, I think we can rest assured that we've made him into a model
conscript."
"Sounds good, Biyana. You can pick him up from the cells right away - I'll phone
down and tell them you're authorised. Good night, Sergeant."
Well, that hadn't been so bad. Somewhat relieved, but mildly furious with Tipper
and Jacobs for getting her into this mess in the first place, she stalked into
the confinement building, showed her ID to the woman on duty and went straight
to Tipper's cell. He was lying asleep on the bare mattress they'd given him, an
untroubled expression on his pale, handsome face. His physical condition hadn't
exactly been impressive when he'd first arrived at Camp Thatcher, but two weeks
of training had had their effect and his body had become lean, supple and
smoothly muscled, just the way Hallee liked her men. His thick penis was lying
half-erect in its nest of dark brown hair, and she couldn't help wondering what
her lustful little prisoner might be dreaming about. Probably not 47-year-old
Bangladeshi women, but that hardly mattered. She was looking forward to the
graduation ceremony.
"On your feet, Tipper!" she bellowed. He stirred and blinked into wakefulness.
"Wha..."
"Get up! Now! Get over here and give me your wrists." She reached through the
bars to cuff him and then pulled the cell door open.
"Your vacation's over, Tipper," she snapped as she took his arm and dragged him
out of the cell. "Time for your punishment."
"Punishment?" he asked in confusion. The poor man was still half asleep. "But
I've been locked up all day. What could I have done in there, with the guards
watching me?"
"It wasn't what you did today, stupid. You should have told us about your friend
right away. Instead you put us to the trouble of locking you up and having you
interrogated. The Major is not amused."
"Please, ma'am, didn't the interrogator do enough to me?"
"That wasn't punishment. It was just incidental." Now they were outside the
prison building, back in the cold early November night. She was fine in her
uniform, but her naked charge started shivering almost at once. "You're going to
spend the rest of the night in the cages, Tipper," she spat in her most
intimidating voice. "And over the next few days I'll have plenty of extra work
for you." She unclipped her strap and cracked it casually against his arse. "Off
to the cages! Move!" She ran behind him and lashed him mercilessly all the way,
so that he was squealing and crying by the time she got him packed into a cage
with a final few swats. That slender body of his looked even better when it was
trembling and reddened with a few good welts. Maybe Major Stevens was right -
the lads were just a little older than her own boy at home, and sometimes she
couldn't help thinking of herself as their guardian and protector as well as
their tormentor. But that didn't mean it wasn't fun to make them squeal.

Chapter 7

It was as nice an afternoon as could be expected for November, clear and sunny
with just a hint of breeze in the air. It wasn't exactly warm, of course, but
even so the naked men down in Camp Thatcher were dripping with sweat as they
worked under the harsh direction of their female officers. The women were using
their straps very freely, perhaps even more than usual, and with each blow the
slap of leather on toned male flesh was faintly audible to Claire Nesbitt where
she sat beside a young man named Clive Johnson on the hillside overlooking the
camp.
It looked to Claire as though the boys were almost finished. About a third of
the squadron, or whatever it was called, had been taken away for calisthenics;
each of the remaining men had been made to dig a deep pit in the bare turf near
the perimeter of the camp and place inside it a long wooden pole with a crossbar
at the base. Now they were shovelling dirt back into the pits, leaving a line of
immobile stakes about six feet high. Claire watched them pack the earth down
around the stakes and then form up into a neat double line and march off toward
the middle of the camp.
"Where are they going?" she wondered aloud.
"Who cares?" replied Clive with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "It's all pretty
much the same. Grown men being treated like fucking animals and not doing a damn
thing about it. I'd like to see them make me strip naked and let some woman
chase me around all day with one of those leather straps."
Claire laughed and ran a hand through her companion's unkempt dark hair with
easy familiarity. "Do I detect a certain hostility here? Just remember that
you'd be down there with them if you'd been born a couple of years earlier,
Clive darling. Naked, sweaty, and just as submissive as the rest of them, I'm
quite sure. They did try to rebel last week, you know, and the whole thing was a
dismal fiasco. One lad got himself packed off to some kind of punishment
facility, and dozens more were beaten and assigned extra work. I think you'd be
a good boy if you were down there, Clive."
"Whatever. Look, it's almost dinner time. Can't we go? I've got plans for you
this evening, you know."
"What, leave already? But I'm having so much fun watching the boys. And watching
you watch them. You should see your face." She tried to imitate his sour
expression of distaste, but spoiled it with another round of giggling.
"I don't see why it's such a big deal. You've seen naked men before."
"Sure, but how often do I get to see dozens of them getting smacked and ordered
around by women?Although," she added musingly, "it might be even better if some
of those officers were male. They could hit a lot harder, and the lads might
find them more intimidating. But anyway, I still haven't seen Richard. I wanted
to show him to you."
"Your old boyfriend? What for? You've got me now, baby. Didn't you get enough
ancient history back in school?"
"He's not ancient history yet. I thought I'd explained the plan to you while we
were driving out here. While Richard's incarcerated I'm going to see you, and
maybe other blokes if this thing between us doesn't work out. But Richard's the
one I really want, at least if two years in this conscription system can make
him a bit less selfish and demanding. So in 2007 I'm going to have to choose one
of you, and it may very well not be you, Clive. But we can have a hell of a lot
of fun in the meantime."
He looked at her with what she could only describe as fond anger. "You're a
manipulative bitch, Claire, you know that?"
"Yeah, I've always liked pushing men around," she answered casually. "If I was a
bit bigger and stronger I could put on one of those uniforms and get it out of
my system that way. But I'm not, so I have to find other ways to have my fun. At
least I'm honest about it, though, and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to
forget the whole thing and try to find some other girl. There should be lots
around, with so many of the lads conscripted."
"Oh, come on. You know I wouldn't do that." Of course she did. She rewarded him
with a brief kiss. "Can we just go?" he added. "If you want to show Richard to
me, you must have a picture somewhere. Like I said -"
"I know, you've got plans for me. And believe me, Clive, I've got plans for you.
I just have to wait to find out whether I can spend the night with you or not."
She touched the pocket where she kept her cell phone.
"I wish you'd tell me what's going here. What do you mean, you have to wait to
find out? Whose permission do you need?"
"Richard's. Sort of. Just wait and I promise that everything will be made
clear."
"But Claire-"
"Shh. I hate it when you whine like that. Besides, the boys are coming back.
Look."
A look through her binoculars showed Claire that the men were considerably
cleaner than when she had last seen them - still damp from the showers, in fact.
Many of them were burdened with wooden chairs, others with ice buckets that held
what looked to be a more than ample supply of the beer that seemed to be the
favoured drink among the officers. The men began setting out the chairs in a
line facing the row of buried stakes, as though preparing seating for some sort
of peculiar stage show. And Claire felt her mouth begin to go dry with
excitement as each man came to attention with his back to one of the stakes and
his face toward the chairs, waiting submissively until an officer pulled his
hands behind the stake and cuffed them together. Usually the officer would pause
for long enough to pinch or slap the conscript a little, or at least fondle his
temptingly exposed genitals, before moving on to the next man. As they finished
their task the severe looking Asian who seemed to be in charge said something to
the men - threatening them, it sounded like, or maybe warning them, although
Claire didn't quite catch the words - and then the officers all moved off again,
leaving their victims standing naked and tethered. The way they were handcuffed
didn't prevent them from sitting down, but they all remained on their feet with
their eyes forward and their legs slightly apart. Apparently they took their
instructions seriously.
"Claire, I don't like this. I really don't."
"Well, you'd better get used to it," she said exasperatedly. "Amanda tells me
that this is a kind of graduation ceremony for the lads. The officers are going
to have a little fun with them tonight, and then tomorrow they'll be going off
to their first real jobs. That means you'll be seeing naked slaves everywhere,
Clive. You won't be able to walk down the street in any decent-sized town
without seeing conscripts cleaning streets, doing bits of construction work,
even giving people rides in pull-carts for all I know. Out here I suppose
they'll be put to work on farms, or maybe on those environmental reclamation
projects that are so trendy these days. Department stores are going to be full
of slave-made clothes, and you might find slaves filling your tank with petrol,
or serving your dinner, or bringing you the morning paper. You won't be able to
just close your eyes and pretend it isn't happening. Just be glad you don't have
to go through it yourself."
"Okay, okay. I just hope we don't have to stay out here much longer. When are
the women going to come back?"
"No idea. For all I know they've gone off to dinner or something. It is getting
to be that time. You did remember to pack those sandwiches, didn't you?" This
sent Clive back to the car, and soon they were enjoying a reasonably civilised
picnic meal on the hillside. After they ate Claire rewarded Clive's patience
with warm embraces, hot kisses, and a little fumbling around beneath one
another's clothing. She loved the feel of Clive's lips on hers and his strong
arms around her, but part of her attention never really wavered from the line of
handcuffed men as they waited with the inevitable patience of slaves, cold and
naked and completely helpless.
Dusk was falling as the officers returned, accompanied by a few more women who
were presumably guests from other units. They seemed to be in good spirits, and
the fact that a couple of them were carrying plates of left over food seemed to
confirm her dinner theory. They marched straight up to the tethered conscripts.
"Let's go closer. I want to hear what they're saying." Without waiting for
Clive's approval she moved further down the hillside. It was too bad the men had
their backs turned toward the outer fence, but by positioning herself off to one
side she could see most of what was going on. There didn't seem to be much
talking involved, as it turned out, but rather a prolonged session of teasing
and stroking and finger-feeding. They turned a spotlight on the conscripts as
the sky darkened, and in its cold white light Claire could see officers pushing
bits of food into the conscripts mouths, playing with their nipples, cocks and
balls, sometimes kissing them or whispering to them. She'd heard from Amanda
that the men were never, ever allowed sexual release, so it was no surprise when
they began to respond to the attentions of their officers with almost pathetic
desperation. Their penises came erect almost instantly, but it didn't stop there
- Claire didn't see one single male who wasn't struggling with his handcuffs and
pumping his hips toward whatever officer happened to be tormenting him at the
moment, or into the empty air.
"Please, ma'am!" one of them moaned, and his officer lost no time in strapping
him hard across the thighs.
"Shut up! You should know better by now!"
"No, it's all right," the Asian woman said mildly. "Tonight I want to hear them
beg. You hear that, boys? Plead and whine as much as you want, just keep it
respectful. And remember that it won't do you the least bit of good."
There was a predictable chorus of impassioned pleas. Claire giggled to herself
as the men poured out their desperation. Some of them seemed to be on the verge
of tears! Her panties were sopping. She wished she could be down there to
breathe in the scent of all that helpless masculine frustration, to feel their
straining muscles with her own hands. She imagined Richard, bound and naked and
begging her, begging her... Where on Earth was he, anyway? She had looked up and
down the row of conscripts again and again, and hadn't seen him. Amanda had been
sure his sergeant was going to let him graduate, despite the earlier discipline
problems. But then why wasn't he with the others?
"If you would take your seats, ladies," the sergeant announced, "I believe we're
ready for the main part of this evening's entertainment - the main public part,
anyway." The men exchanged apprehensive glances. According to Amanda, they
didn't even know this marked their graduation; they had no idea what was
happening tonight. "You can see," she continued, "that our naked victims are
desperately, hopelessly aroused. They've been away from their girlfriends for
almost a month now, the poor dears, they haven't been allowed to get any - ahem
- private sexual relief, and I'm sure they'd be ready and willing to leap on
their own grandmothers if the opportunity presented itself. Unfortunately, I
haven't been able to bring any of their grandmothers here tonight, but perhaps
this young lady will make an acceptable substitute."
A stout, dark-haired officer led her forward from the darkness behind the row of
chairs. There she was, the last thing Claire would have expected to see here - a
half-naked blonde with her hands cuffed behind her and a leash around her neck.
She was as tall and statuesque as any woman Claire had ever seen, and her tight
little top and short skirt exposed her well-muscled limbs admirably. The officer
leading her gave an impatient jerk on the leash, and the blonde woman stumbled
in her high heels and almost fell. Her extravangantly applied make-up was
already smudged with tears. Claire felt puzzled and a bit angry as the woman was
dragged forward toward the line of naked men. She just couldn't believe that the
officers would do this! Wasn't respect for women supposed to be one of the
central tenets of the whole conscription system? Why would they take a girl,
dress her up in that whorish costume, and then lead her, handcuffed and on a
fucking leash, toward a bunch of leering, erect males? Was this supposed to be
some sort of sick reward for the conscripts? It didn't make any sense, unless...
unless... Claire suddenly burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?" asked Clive in shock, without taking his eyes off the woman.
Typical, Claire supposed.
"It's Richard, silly!" she exclaimed. "That isn't a woman. Just look at his
muscles, and the shape of his face. Oh, but they've done a job on him, haven't
they? Wig, make-up, fake tits, shaved legs and armpits - it's perfect! I wonder
what they're going to make him do?" She grabbed Clive's hand and stuck it down
the front of her pants, and reached over to return the favour as soon as he
started stroking. Richard was on his knees, being driven toward the man at one
end of the line with ruthless blows of the escorting officer's strap. He was
crying and pulling at his handcuffs. Claire thought she might die of sheer
voyeuristic excitement.
"I'd like to introduce you to Rachel here, boys," said the sergeant coolly.
"She'll be giving you a little of the erotic attention you've probably been
craving for weeks now. If you want to refuse her services, just say so, but I'm
told she's an excellent little cocksucker. She's been practicing on toys all
afternoon."
The men knew what was going on, of course. They had to. Now that she knew Rachel
was really Richard, the clues were all perfectly obvious. The officers had done
a good job of dressing him up, but his decidedly masculine build and carriage
were impossible to conceal. Claire watched in fascination as the big officer
grabbed Richard by the scruff of the neck and pushed his head towards the first
man's crotch with a growl of "Open wide, Rachel!" Richard obeyed, choking back
tears, his disgust only too obvious. The man he was supposed to service was a
beefy, hairy specimen who looked anything but homosexual, and he was squirming
and averting his eyes even as he waved his engorged penis in Richard's face. It
had to be a terrible dilemma for a red-blooded young Englishman - either let a
man suck on your cock, or turn him down and stay desperate and frustrated until
the cruel, notoriously unsympathetic officers provided another opportunity. His
expression of distaste was only too obvious, but lust won out and he thrust
eagerly between Richard's parted lips. Richard's tears redoubled, but with her
binoculars Claire could see him sucking and licking for all he was worth, no
doubt mindful of the officer who held his leash in one hand and an upraised
strap in the other. After perhaps two minutes the man moaned in pleasure and
spurted a copious load of semen into Richard's mouth. Claire felt a surprising
moment of sympathy as Richard gagged, spat out most of the cum, and immediately
felt the strap across his shoulders.
"You swallow that stuff, whore!" the officer barked. "Every drop!" She was
already dragging him to the next man. Another woman came forward to release
Richard's first "client" from the stake, then re-fasten his handcuffs and lead
him over to where the watching officers sat drinking and applauding. One of them
instantly unzipped her pants and pulled the man's head to her crotch.
And so it went. Poor humiliated Richard had to use his mouth on man after man
while the officers jeered and yelled obscene encouragement, and the strap
spurred him on whenever he faltered or hesitated. Not one single conscript
refused his services, and two or three of them seemed positively delighted to
take their pleasure from a weeping tranvestite rather than a real woman. But for
most it was clearly an uncomfortable experience, and Claire found their disgust
almost as diverting as Richard's tears. She could practically see their
masculine pride going up in smoke as they took turns making faggots of
themselves. Most of them looked almost relieved to be handed over to the seated
officers afterwards, although some of the ladies were doing a lot of obviously
painful squeezing and slapping.
When Richard had finished with the last man the Asian sergeant rose to her feet,
pushing away the naked conscript who'd been nuzzling her breasts, and hastily
re-buttoned her uniform. "I have an announcement to make," she said grandly.
"Boys, your training at Camp Thatcher is finished." She smiled briefly at their
expressions of disbelief. "What more can we teach you here? You've learned to
obey orders, you've grown used to the food and sleeping arrangements that we
consider appropriate for slaves, and you are finally in adequate physical
condition. We've broken you and molded you, and you know it. Nakedness and
discomfort are second nature to you now. You're so subservient to our authority
that do as you're told even when you're exhausted or in pain, or when the
instructions we give you seem unbearably degrading. You act as our sexual
playthings whenever we want you, and you've just seen that we can make you so
desperate that you'll take your pleasure from a bloke in a slut costume if you
can't get it any other way. You're slaves, boys. You act like slaves, you think
like slaves, and for the next twenty-three months you're going to work as slaves
- starting tonight, if any of the officers decide to take you back to their
quarters. Some of your fellow conscripts will be kept here another few weeks,
but you are sufficiently far along to begin the working phase of your
conscription. Tomorrow morning you'll be getting your first labour assignments.
Good night, lads, and congratulations." And without a backward glance she took
Richard's leash and vanished with him into the night.
* * *
Richard was allowed to take off his feminine attire, wash off his make-up and
perfume under an ice-cold shower, and use the toilet before Sergeant Hallee took
him over to the Special Training Centre. He was no longer crying, but his mouth
was thick with the taste of semen and he felt a terrible nausea at the memory of
what he had just been forced to do. He could still feel the wet grass on his
knees, and see and smell the stiff, dripping penises hanging in front of his
lips. It was almost a relief to be alone with Hallee, though he had no idea what
she was going to do with him or whether he would be allowed to graduate with the
others. He wondered sourly if there was another lad waiting in the Special
Training Centre to suck him off.
But the room she led him to was empty, and identical to the one where Desalle
had used him so roughly during his first week of conscription. Hallee's manner
was completely different, very firm and decisive but with little of Desalle's
coarseness. She closed the door and removed his handcuffs; obedience was
something the officers could take for granted these days.
"Undress me, Richard. Slowly."
Did her breath quicken just a little as he slid her panties down her thighs? He
was certainly getting excited as he exposed more and more of that smooth brown
skin. She was a big woman, like nearly all of the officers, but nothing like
Desalle. He guessed she was at least as old as his mother, but her body was
still toned and muscular, her large breasts firm beneath his touch. Her
confident maturity was every bit as stimulating as the memory of Claire's
youthful passion.
"Kneel, Richard. Kiss my feet, then work your way up." He was only too glad to
obey. Lapping at her dark bush was infinitely better than wrapping his mouth
around all those hungry penises. He remembered what Desalle had seemed to enjoy
and slid his tongue inside her, probing the soft folds, and she gave a sigh of
pleasure.
"I'll have to teach my husband to do this," she murmured. "Ah - ah - slow down.
I don't want to finish quite yet. Lie back on the bed. And here - cuff your arms
above your head." He'd never had to do it himself before, and he felt more
subservient than ever as he locked the cold steel around his own wrists.
Helpless, he writhed frantically and tried to press his body against hers as she
lowered herself onto him, her crotch over his face and her lips teasing the head
of his cock. She didn't put it in her mouth, just kissed and licked a little
around the tip, but it was enough to make him moan in desperately longing.
Almost involuntarily he pumped his hips up into her face, and she slapped his
balls hard.
"Stop it! Lick me!" she hissed savagely, and he thrust his tongue back into her
warm recesses. She ground her vulva back against his face, drowning him in her
juices, and her mouth and hands were busy on his own genitals. The pleasure
built - and built - and abruptly stopped, even as she screamed out her own
ecstasy. The warm weight of her body collapsed onto his, and she twisted around
to face him. Her breath was hot against his cheek.
"Very good, Richard. I do love having you boys to take care of me like this."
"Aren't you going to take care of me, ma'am?" he pleaded.
"Someone else might. If she chooses. I promised I'd leave you for her."
"Not Desalle! Please!"
Hallee laughed. "You're really afraid of her, aren't you? Sorry, dear, but you
don't have any choice in the matter. You're property. Good night, conscript, and
thank you." She kissed him on the lips, gently, and moved away to dress and take
her leave. Richard was left helpless on the bed, his gaze and his erect penis
both directed upward at the cheerless grey ceiling. He had no idea how long he'd
been lying there when the door creaked open and Amanda stepped in.
She paused in the doorway to look him over thoroughly before moving into the
room. He watched nervously as she took off her pants and underwear ("Sorry," she
smiled, "but you don't get to look at my breasts just yet") and went over to the
locker that seemed to be a feature of all these "Special Training" rooms. He
couldn't take his eyes off the rippling muscles of her thighs and buttocks.
She came over to the bed with a black plastic phallus in each hand. Like the
ones Desalle and Flagg had made him practice on all afternoon, they were very
lifelike, with sculpted veins and a scrotum at the base. Amanda held one dildo
to his lips.
"I hear you're good at this cocksucking business," she said with a grin. "Just
give him a little kiss, Richard. Make friends with him." He brushed the thing
with his lips, which seemed to be satisfactory. "Good boy. Now, I'm going to do
something to you that you really won't like, but you can take comfort from the
fact that I'm going to enjoy it. And Claire approved, too. I want you to sort of
curl back - get your legs up over your head so I can tie them to the bedframe."
It was a horrible position - cock and balls practically dangling in his face,
arse uplifted and exposed. Amanda pulled the ropes tight around his ankles and
then began to smear one dildo, the one he'd kissed, with some sort of lubricant
cream.
"Just relax and this won't hurt so much," she cautioned.
"Ah! What are you doing? Please, Amanda!"
"Shut up. Relax, I said." She slapped his left buttock, hard. "Come on! Do you
really want me to go tearing your sphincter?" He closed his eyes, willed himself
to relax, and whimpered in discomfort as the hard shaft slid into his rectum. He
felt as though he was being ripped apart.
"I can't believe Claire said you could do this to me," he whined.
"She thought it was a wonderful idea, dear. She wants you tamed, you know.
Broken in and ready for the bit and bridle. I honestly think she loves you, but
she says you can be a selfish bastard at times. She thought it might do you good
to feel used and violated." She slid the other dildo inside herself, and then
took one plastic scrotum in each hand and began to move them in a slow, even
rhythm. Richard groaned and desperately willed himself not to tense up or
struggle as he felt the monstrosity inside him slide in and out, in and out.
Amanda was gasping and groaning in pleasure, her face flushed and sweaty. He
wished she'd take her shirt off. Once in a while her hand would leave the
phallus planted inside him and reach up to stroke his cock and balls, keeping
him on that desperate edge. He could have wept with frustrated as he heard a
woman moan in orgasm for the second time that night. His arse was throbbing.
"Please, Amanda! Don't leave me like this! It's been a month now, you know."
"Of course I know. And Richard, if you want me to, I'll take that thing out of
your arsehole, untie your legs, and make love to you as much as you want. I'll
even take the rest of my clothes off. There's just one catch."
"Anything!" he pleaded.
"Okay. But I should warn you that if I fuck you, Claire is going to fuck Clive
Johnson later tonight. That was the arrangement we made. She doesn't want you
having fun with other women unless she can play around a bit too."
"You're lying! Claire wouldn't-"
Amanda laughed. "Oh yes she would. Or she will, rather. I'll bet she'll enjoy
it, too. You remember Clive - that big bloke with icy blue eyes and curly black
hair a girl could play with all day." She reached out and began to rub her
fingers slowly up and down his shaft. "He could really make Claire scream, I'll
bet. I can just picture it now - her underneath him, moaning, clawing his back
with those lovely long nails - nice image, isn't it, Richard? Anyway, it's up to
you. It won't happen unless you want me to help out your stiff little friend
here."
His eyes were suddenly blurry with tears. "I can't - I just - I can't believe
you're doing this to me! Both of you. It's just fucking cruel."
"Yes. We like cruel sometimes. Shall I say goodnight, then?"
"No! Please, it's been so long. Please fuck me, Amanda. Claire can do what she
wants, so long as she's there for me when I get out of here."
"I think she will be, Richard. But she isn't making any promises. Are you sure
you want me to stay?"
When he nodded she broke into a broad grin. "Good. I've wanted to do this ever
since that night they caught you wanking." True to her word, she relieved him of
the dildo, untied his ankles, and slowly and seductively slipped out of her
shirt and bra. Her breasts were small, but very firm, and kissing them was like
drinking from an oasis in the desert. She slipped a condom onto him, stretched
out her body atop his, and kissed him almost chastely on the lips before burying
him to the hilt in her warmth and softness. It was hard to believe that the
passionate woman moaning and panting in his ear while her sweat mingled with his
was Amanda, his childhood schoolmate - but the thought fled as the bed creaked
beneath their urgent movements. So, mercifully, did images of what an equally
passionate Claire would soon be doing with Clive Johnson.
* * *
They were lined up in formation for the last time at Camp Thatcher, naked and
drawn up to rigid attention in front of a stern sergeant who seemed a different
woman from the one who had left Richard handcuffed in a training room the night
before. The morning had begun with the usual calisthenics, followed by breakfast
- but afterwards each of the graduating conscripts had had his name, number and
release date mechanically tattooed into his forearm. It was to be a lifelong
reminder of service to the state as well as an instant identifier that replaced
the metal bracelet each man had been issued upon first being conscripted. And it
hurt like hell, Richard thought as he stood with the other men.
"Each of you can expect to rotate through several different work assignments
during the remainder of your conscription," Hallee announced. "Your initial
tasks will be quite varied, and they have been assigned based on a combination
of your aptitudes, the present needs of the state, and what we feel will do each
of you the most good. Some of the jobs are humiliating and degrading, others
involve backbreaking physical labour that will leave you exhausted each and
every day, and others are merely dull and arduous. But none of them are easy,
none of them are pleasant, and you will never be allowed to forget that you are
slaves. In a couple of weeks you might find yourself longing to be back here
with me."
She glanced down at her list. "All right, let's deal with the workhorses first.
Nine of you will be heading for Northern Ireland to work in a limestone quarry -
Brideston, Hajeed, Farin, McDonald, Slater, Bryson, Jones, Conzi and Chadwick.
You can look forward to sore muscles, plenty of sweat, and lots of punishment if
you don't push yourselves as hard as you possibly can. Good luck." All of the
men she had named were among the bigger and stronger conscripts. Dowling and
Murray lost no time in pulling them from the line, shackling them and leading
them off to a waiting van.
"Marston, Bryant, Houseman and Ali will be taken back to Birmingham to act as
trash collectors. You'll be in the public eye more than most conscripts at this
stage, so behave yourselves. Keep in mind that you may very well be seen naked
and at work by friends and acquaintances." None of them looked exactly thrilled
at the prospect, but they all had the sense not to protest.
"Several more of you - let me see, Hooper, Callum, Resnick, Ryan, Tobias,
McNamara, Winston and McNab - have been assigned to a clothing factory. You'll
be chained to a sewing machine, producing designer garments for spoiled young
people all over the world."
"Ma'am, why on earth-"
"Because I said so! These assignments are arrived at by myself, the other
officers and the psychiatric staff, not by you. I don't care whether you approve
of them or not. Now let's see... the other six of you have more specialised work
to look forward to. Khandourian, you've been selected to narrate promotional
videos for export to other countries - 'Hello, I'm a slave, I have no rights and
I get smacked a lot but I'm happy because I know it's all for my own good,' that
sort of thing. Lewis and Scott, you'll be taken to a training facility for
conscription officers. They'll be practicing restraint and slave-handling
techniques on you. I expect it will get pretty rough at times." Both men looked
stricken, but allowed Murray to chain them and lead them away.
"Marcel, you're heading for Cambridge as a sort of guinea pig for the medical
and psychological people - female researchers, of course. You're going to be
involved in experiments that would normally be considered unethical because they
cause undue suffering, but of course with slaves that isn't a consideration. You
won't actually be damaged, but you can expect stress, fear, discomfort, pain,
and isolation. But don't worry - it's all in the name of science."
That left Richard and one other man, a well-muscled blond with piercing blue
eyes. Hallee smiled at them. "The two of you are among the few slaves who have
been rented out, as it were, to private individuals. Each of you will be the
property of a woman for the next five months." Richard felt Officer Dowling,
usually one of the gentler and more reasonable ones, snap handcuffs on his
wrists as Hallee continued. "Your owner will be able to do anything she wants
with you, provided it doesn't result in permanent injury. Needless to say, the
owners have been carefully screened, and the sites where you'll be held have
been thoroughly pre-checked for security and suitability. They are well up to
our standards, so don't think you'll be getting too comfortable. We'll be
checking up on you occasionally, but for the most part you are now in the
capable hands of your individual owners. I think both of you will find that the
women in question are very strict and demanding, and well able to keep you in
your place. This is something of an experiment - if it works out well, I expect
private use of slaves will increase in the future. Be good, boys, and always do
what your owners tell you."
And with that she turned away, just as Dowling finished chaining his ankles
together. He'd been sold, like a piece of livestock, to some woman he'd never
set eyes on. She could do anything she wanted to him. Trembling in the cold
morning air - there'd been frost earlier, though it was mostly melted now -
Richard allowed Officer Dowling's firm grip to direct him toward the periphery
of the camp, where two automobiles waited to take two young men into private
slavery. A woman in a conservative dark suit, powerfully built with short dark
hair, climbed out of one of the cars as Richard approached. She looked a bit
mannish except for the heavy swelling of her breasts.
"Richard Tipper?" She had a hint of a foreign accent, perhaps German.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered automatically.
"My name is Ms. Bonner. Follow my commands at all times and I think we will get
along very well."
"Of course, ma'am."
"Good. Sit down in the back of the automobile, please." He obeyed, and she
leaned forward to fasten his seatbelt - sitting back was a bit uncomfortable,
with his hands cuffed behind him, and he hoped it wasn't going to be a long ride
- and then blindfold him with a strip of dark cloth. He was leaving Camp
Thatcher just as he had entered it, naked, chained, and sightless. Before the
cloth was slipped into place he saw that another woman, also dark-haired but
older and rather less Amazonian, was seated behind the wheel of the car. He
heard Ms. Bonner thank Officer Dowling, and ask if she could keep "our boy's
restraints". Dowling readily agreed, and a moment later Ms. Bonner settled into
the seat beside him and pulled the door shut. The engine started up with a roar.
"You're going to learn something over the next few months, conscript," whispered
Ms. Bonner in a tone that held nothing of her former cool professionalism.
"There's slavery, and then there's slavery. You can't begin to imagine what's
going to happen to you. And neither can the officers." She stroked the back of
his neck almost reassuringly. "No, don't squirm like that, there's no point. You
can't get away. You belong to Lady Briddington now, and you'd better learn to
make the best of it."

Chapter 8

It was a lovely day, perhaps the best an English November could offer. The
bright morning sun had melted away the early frost, and it was now warm enough
that Connie Tipper and her sister Elsie felt quite comfortable as they sat
outdoors with tall glasses of Connie's husband's home-brewed beer. Physically
comfortable, anyway; Connie was actually feeling a little flustered. It was
wonderful that Elsie had come over from Nottingham to visit for a week of
well-earned rest after her first full month of active duty as a conscription
officer, but the experience had subtly changed her from the cheerful, motherly
woman she had been all her life, made her a little harder around the edges. And
Connie's conscripted son Richard might be anywhere, now that the initial
training period had just ended and the boys were on their way to their first
work assignments. Elsie had said they'd be contacted sometime during the day,
but it was late afternoon and the call hadn't come yet.
The silence had become awkward, each woman lost in her own thoughts. There was
only one thing Connie really wanted to discuss, of course, but she wasn't quite
sure how to bring it up. They'd been carefully skirting the edges of the topic
ever since Elsie's arrival earlier that day. Finally she sighed and looked
straight at her sister.
"So what was it like?" Connie asked. "Really, I mean."
"Hard work," answered Elsie with a grin. "We didn't have it much easier than the
conscripts, when you really think about it. We had to chase them around and yell
at them all day, and then spend most of our evenings planning and preparing. You
feel almost like a prisoner yourself when you have to wear an ugly uniform and
get up at the crack of dawn every day to ride herd on a bunch of obstinate young
men."
"They must have hated every minute of it. Didn't you feel sorry for them?"
Elsie shrugged her massive shoulders. She'd always been a big woman, but
conscription officer training had turned her soft, voluptuous bulk into firm
muscle. "Sometimes, sure. The men took it so differently. Some clicked into the
system right away and didn't seem to have much trouble adjusting, but then again
there were others - the ones that were a bit shy, or nervous, or just not in
very good shape - who couldn't stand what we were doing to them and seemed to
spend half their time in tears. I think we all felt a bit sorry for those ones,
but that didn't stop us from doing our job and punishing them when they deserved
it.
"And sometimes," she went on, "we even had fun making them suffer. Don't look so
shocked! Maybe it's a case of power corrupting, but it happened to everyone. As
trainee officers we were all telling each other that we were going to be very
firm and strict, but only because the conscripts needed to be whipped into shape
if they were going to survive two years of slavery; it was almost a case of
tough love, really. We weren't going to hurt them any more than was absolutely
necessary, and we definitely weren't going to be at all... at all sadistic about
it. But when you're surrounded by naked men who jump at your every command and
literally live in fear of you, things get very tempting. It's so easy to hit a
man just to hear him whimper, or yell in his face to see him cringe and maybe do
a little grovelling. And after a week or so without any sex-"
Connie's eyes were wide. "You mean you didn't even let them... That is, they
didn't get any relief, any..."
"Right." Elsie glanced through the glass doors behind her, but Connie's husband
Ronald was still nowhere in sight - probably reading, or more likely snoozing,
in his study upstairs. "No masturbation, no nothing. After a week or so of that
they all got so desperate, it just took a look or a caress from any one of us to
get them instantly aroused. Even if it didn't show up in their faces, the things
between their legs couldn't lie. And remember we're talking about young, fit
guys who normally wouldn't look twice at a fat old lady like me. Just picture
it, Connie, and tell me honestly you wouldn't be tempted to take advantage of
the situation. Dozens of young men, completely in your power. Naked, trembling,
totally helpless, desiring you, and eager to please."
"All right, all right! Maybe just a little. It's... well, it's fun to imagine,
anyway. But I don't like to think of all that happening to Richard. I'm so
worried about him."
"I know, it's hard. I'll be honest with you - Richard probably did his share of
screaming and crying, just like all the other conscripts, and he probably spent
a lot of time fantasising about running away or taking horrible revenge on his
officers or something. It's designed to be the most unpleasant experience that
these men have ever gone through in their lives. But you have to believe them
when they say it will do the lads good in the long run. You could see it even
after they'd spent a month with us, actually. They were fitter, more capable,
and definitely a lot more respectful. They were turning from spoiled boys into
men - real, decent men - right in front of our eyes."
"I still think you're lucky you don't have any children - any male children,
that is. I just wish I could go to Richard, wherever he is, and comfort him a
little. I suppose it sounds silly..."
Elsie put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "No, not at all. Listen, I may not
have boys of my own, but I know a lovely lad - my friend Helena's boy, you must
remember Helena - who's due to be conscripted next April. I feel almost the same
way about him as you must about Richard. When I go home to Nottingham and see
him again, I suppose I won't be able to help picturing him naked and in tears,
with some musclebound officer putting him through living hell, and I won't like
it. The worst part is that he's going to be at Camp Marian, where I work, and
I'll be duty bound to be just as tough with him as I am with everyone else, even
though I've known him since he was in diapers. But we can't go making
exceptions." She sighed. "I suppose I'll have to sit down with Keith and give
him a few hints about getting ready for conscription. We're not really supposed
to, of course, but I'll be careful not to give away too many details. I just
can't let him go in totally unprepared."
"What could you say to him, though?" Connie wondered aloud. "What could you
possibly tell a man that would help him get through a month of sheer torture?"
"I'd tell him to get himself into good physical condition, for one thing. And
maybe to practice going without all the little luxuries - sweets, hot showers,
and of course masturbation. I'd make sure he understood that the women aren't
cruel man-haters, but just yell at the conscripts and hit them because it's part
of their job. And I'd tell him to invite all his friends over for a big, loud,
decadent party just before his conscription date, because he won't have many
chances to indulge himself once he's in custody. It seems awfully hard, doesn't
it? But after a few years I suppose we'll all think of it as routine. Just a
stage in a young man's life, like passing a driving test or something."
"Or going off to university. I mean, it really is a kind of education, isn't it?
The whole idea -" The glass doors that led into the kitchen suddenly rattled
open, and Ronald Tipper stepped out on to the patio.
"What is it, dear?" asked Connie sharply. "You look like you've seen a bloody
ghost!"
"The Birmingham Conscription Office was just on the phone," Ronald said heavily.
"About Richard."
"And? What have they done with him?"
"Dear, I... I'm not sure I understood quite right, but they say he's been rented
out as a sort of personal servant -"
"It sounds better than hauling rubbish or something," interrupted Connie
nervously.
"- to Lady Briddington," Ronald finished. Connie was on her feet before she
realised she'd moved; her half-empty beer glass fell unnoticed to the hard stone
of the patio.
"No! There must have been some mistake. I'll call them right now and - Let go of
me, damn it! They can't give my Richie to that - that unspeakable bitch. I just
won't let it happen."
"Connie, if you'd just -"
She tried again to shake Elsie's hand off her arm, unsuccessfully. "No I won't
just! Not when we're talking about my son."
"Connie, SHUT UP!" She closed her mouth in complete shock. That was probably the
same voice Elsie had used on the conscripts she'd been in charge of all last
month, and it was definitely effective.
"Have I got your attention? Good. Now listen, Connie. If half of what the papers
say about Lady Briddington is true, 'unspeakable bitch' doesn't even begin to
cover it. She wanted to go to war with Estonia over that stupid business with
the disappearing balloonists, for God's sake. Everyone knows she's been working
behind the scenes to try to get the Civil Society Party to take the toughest
possible line on law and order - and everything else, for that matter - and
rumour among the officers has it that most of the really unpleasant aspects of
conscription were her idea. She's supposedly the one who insisted on keeping the
men naked all the time, for instance. That woman would probably like nothing
better than for her new slave's mother to start making a huge fuss and demanding
to have him reassigned. She'll just laugh at you, and probably punish Richard
every time you complain."
"But I've got to do something for him! She's going to really hurt him, Elsie, I
know she is. It wasn't so bad when I knew the women looking after Richard were
just regular ladies doing their jobs, like you said. But now we're talking about
a vicious aristocrat who's built an entire political career on demanding
jingoistic foreign policies and totalitarian female government at home. She
makes Maggie Thatcher - remember her? - look sweet and cuddly. I can't just sit
here knowing that she's got Richard and can do whatever she wants to him."
"Yes you can. You've got to. The best thing you can do for him is to just stay
calm and put a cheerful face on things. Remember that she only has him for a
five-month rotation, she can't do anything to hurt him permanently, and she's
required to allow monthly visits. He'll probably feel like he's died and gone to
hell, but he'll survive. Or maybe she'll even be nice to him - turn him into a
happy slave she can show off to the press."
"She hates the press."
"Sometimes you're exasperating, Connie. Just sit down, have another beer, and
when you're calmer you can telephone the high and mighty Lady Briddington to
schedule your first visit with your son. If Richard can get through it, so can
you."
"The Office did leave a phone number for her Ladyship," said Ronald helpfully.
"They said you could call at your convenience to talk about a visit - he's only
allowed to see women, of course, so I can't go. I'm personally not sure it's
going to be all that bad. You said it yourself, Connie - Lady Briddington hates
the press, and of course they hate her right back. They love making her sound
like some kind of sadistic would-be tyrant, but you've got to expect that when
she won't give interviews, won't go on the telly, and has all sorts of radical
ideas that make her an easy target. Media censorship, for one. It's no wonder
they don't like her. She's so reclusive that nobody has the least idea what
she's like in person, except I suppose for her cronies in the CSP."
"I'll phone her this evening," said Connie through clenched teeth. "When I'm
calmer."
"And you'll be perfectly civil," said Elsie warningly. "No threatening, no
demanding, and above all no pleading."
"Perfectly civil," Connie hissed.
* * *
Richard was in pain. When Ms. Bonner had chained him to the wall and told him to
keep quiet until she returned, he'd assumed she would be back for him in a few
minutes. It was hard to tell time down here - underground, in the dark, in what
seemed like an honest-to-God dungeon - but Richard was sure that had been hours
ago. Now his whole body ached; his wrists and arms, stretched above his head,
were taking more than their fair share of his weight, and he had to strain to
keep the balls of his feet on the floor. The air was cold against his naked
skin, the concrete wall rough against his back. How long had it been? He
remembered riding for hours in the car, then being led a considerable distance
along a footpath and then indoors. Ms. Bonner had been patient with him as he'd
stumbled along in his blindfold and the shackles that confined his wrists and
ankles, her commands firm but so detached and professional that they almost
sounded polite. The blindfold and restraints had come off once they were
downstairs, in what Ms. Bonner had smilingly called the Care and Feeding Room.
He'd been allowed to shower and shave, use the toilet, enjoy a badly needed
drink of cold water, and wolf down a bowl of pasta that had been considerably
better than anything he'd been given at Camp Thatcher. Then Ms. Bonner had led
him into this bare stone cell, or whatever it was, and told him in that same
cool, civilised voice to stand against the wall so she could chain him.
Being alone felt strange. At Camp Thatcher he had almost always been one of a
crowd of naked conscripts, under the very conspicuous supervision of the
officers. Now he was the only slave within miles, as far as he knew, and there
was no one in the room to watch over him. He had noticed a surveillance camera
hanging from the ceiling before Ms. Bonner had switched the light off and pulled
the door closed; infra-red or something, no doubt, so whoever was watching would
be able to see him even in the dark. Would it be Ms. Bonner, monitoring
Conscript Tipper on a video screen as he squirmed in his chains? Or perhaps even
Lady Briddington herself? He wished he knew more about the woman who was to be
his owner until April. He had a vague idea that she was politically linked to
the Civil Society Party, and once in a while her name had come up on the
internet news sites he used to scan for football results - usually in connection
with some unpleasant-sounding proposed government policy, as he recalled. On the
other hand, he didn't think he'd ever seen a picture of her. Those reports
always described her as "the reclusive Lady Briddington". He almost looked
forward to meeting her, actually, if only to satisfy his curiosity. What kind of
woman would even want a personal slave, in this day and age? And would have an
actual dungeon, complete with chains and heavy steel doors, to keep him locked
up in? The thought brought him back to his present predicament, and he sighed
heavily and rattled his chains. He wished something would happen. He'd had his
share of problems at Camp Thatcher, but hours of dull inactivity hadn't been
among them.
He blinked at the sudden light when the door finally swung open. Ms. Bonner
stepped in to the room, looking energetic and immaculately groomed as always,
but this time there was another woman on her heels, one Richard didn't know. She
was dressed, like Ms. Bonner, in a no-nonsense sort of dark suit, and seemed
equally formidable; a little less heavily built, maybe, and more feminine, but
also taller and without Ms. Bonner's air of infinite patience. Her red hair was
streaked with grey and drawn back into a severe bun, but with it down around her
lightly freckled face she would probably have looked almost pretty.
"Hello, Richard," said Ms. Bonner in her light Germanic accent. "Terribly sorry
to have kept you waiting so long. This is Ms. Reynolds, my assistant. Although
you belong to Lady Briddington, you will be seeing far more of us than of her,
at least initially. One of us will be monitoring you at all times, in one way or
another, and we will be mainly responsible for your training and supervision. We
will sometimes have to be very harsh with you, but I think I speak for both of
us when I say it is not to be taken personally. We will treat you as humanely as
possible, within the bounds of her Ladyship's instructions."
"And if you make a sincere effort to be cooperative and obedient, your stay here
will be much more comfortable," Ms. Reynolds chimed in. "You'll find us strict
taskmistresses, but not unreasonable ones. Just remember you can't escape, you
can't resist, and you can't persuade us to go against Lady Briddington's wishes,
so you might as well behave yourself and make the best of it."
"In other words," added Ms. Bonner, "we'll be decent to you - as decent as
circumstances allow - if you cooperate with us. Do we have an understanding?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'll try to obey, ma'am."
"Good. Are you ready to start your training?"
"Of course, ma'am." Anything to get down from this blasted wall. Both women
immediately stepped forward and began unfastening his restraints, steadying him
as he found his footing.
"Rub your muscles, walk around a bit, whatever you need to do," Ms. Reynolds
instructed. It felt awfully good to finally have the chance to stretch and
massage his aching limbs. His taskmistresses, as they had called themselves,
watched calmly as he paced, swung his arms, and bounced on the balls of his
feet.
"I think I'm all right now, ma'am," he said after a couple of minutes.
"Excellent," replied Ms. Bonner. "Our first duty as your trainers," she
continued in that same cool tone, "is simply to beat you. You need to learn the
consequences of disobedience, and you need to learn that resistance to our
demands is foolish and quite futile. This once, you are encouraged to struggle
and fight back as much as you like, simply to reinforce this lesson. You won't
be punished - we'll hurt you more, in fact, if you refuse to resist. I'm sure
any inhibitions you might have about striking a woman will fade into the
background once we've hit you a few times."
"Please, ma'am, this isn't necessary! I had my share of punishments at Camp
Thatcher, believe me."
"Lady Briddington decides what is necessary, not you, and she has specifically
ordered this. It will happen. Which of us would you like to start?"
God, what a question. He looked from Ms. Bonner's calm, earnest face to Ms.
Reynolds' faint, pitiless smile. "I don't care," he muttered. "Just get it over
with, ma'am."
Ms. Reynolds shrugged and backhanded him across the face. Even Officer Desalle,
back at Camp Thatcher, had never hit him quite that hard. He shook his head,
trying to clear it, just as a second blow caught him on the ear and he gasped in
pain. A moment later she gave him a powerful shove, and the air was snatched
from his lungs as his back slammed against the wall.
"Are you afraid of me, Richard? Afraid to fight back? Come on, hit me!"
"Please, ma'am, I -" She shoved again; this time his head cracked painfully
against the concrete. He couldn't believe her raw strength. But her next blow
was a teasing little smack that made him snarl with rage. His older cousin had
sometimes hit him that way when they were playfighting, years and years ago.
Well, if they wanted it so badly... He swung his right fist in a wide arc right
at Ms. Reynolds' smug little smile, but she got her arm up and knocked it aside.
Out of nowhere her hand came up under his chin, not an open-palmed slap this
time but a good solid punch, and the last of his inhibitions vanished. He
bellowed in fury and threw himself at the woman, hurling punches at her face,
her breasts, anywhere there might be a vulnerable opening. Perhaps his sudden
onslaught took her by surprise, because she fell back a step or two and he had
the grim satisfaction of seeing her head snap abruptly back when one of his
blows got through her guard and caught her just under the left eye. She was
breathing hard, really working to deflect his attacks, her brow shiny with sweat
- and suddenly she moved, pivoting to one side and driving her foot under his
ribs with deadly accuracy. He grunted and staggered, the rhythm of his attack
completely broken, and a second kick took his legs right out from under him.
Richard fell heavily, enraged and humiliated. Ms. Reynolds smiled down at him
and stomped on one of his outstretched hands, almost as an afterthought. For the
first time Richard howled in agony.
"My turn," said Ms. Bonner coldly. "Come on, get up."
He pushed himself slowly to his knees. "Don't be such a baby," she chided.
"We're just starting. Didn't the conscription officers at Camp Thatcher manage
to toughen you up at all?" She stepped forward, perhaps to drag him to his feet,
and that gave him the opportunity he'd been waiting for. He lunged at her -
nothing fancy, just a straightforward tackle that caught her around the waist
and bore her down beneath his greater weight. He was going to make her regret
her arrogant insistence that he fight her, as though he were as harmless as a
child. He stayed on top of her, pinned her torso beneath his legs as best he
could, and got a handful of her thick dark hair. She was struggling like mad,
trying desperately to throw him off, but his bulk was his one advantage and he
used it to good effect. He hit her in the mouth, drawing blood, and there was
nothing she could do but snarl in pain and frustration. Ms. Reynolds was
standing by, not interfering; so much the better. Richard raised his fist again,
fully intent on breaking Ms. Bonner's pert little nose - and screamed in agony
as her hand found his naked testicles and twisted sharply. He felt the pain deep
in his belly, pain so overwhelming that he hardly felt his head bang against the
floor as she finally managed to throw him off. Now it was his turn to be
helpless beneath her, pinned face down as she twisted his right arm into a
painful hammerlock and ground her knee into the small of his back.
"How's this, Richard?" she spat. "Had enough?"
"Yes, ma'am!" he wailed.
"Like hell you have. I think that took care of the futility of resistance part
of the exercise. Time for the pain." She released him and hauled him up by one
arm, but no sooner was he on his knees than both women swarmed all over him.
Hard fists and open hands crashed against his face, immaculately polished shoes
drove into his belly, his ribs, and occasionally his crotch. At one point Ms.
Bonner grabbed his arms and pulled them behind him so Ms. Reynolds would have an
unobstructed target to hit and kick as she laughed at his helplessness and
taunted him mercilessly. He was bruised and bleeding when they finally helped
him to his feet and led him back to the Care and Feeding Room to clean up and
eat and drink a little.
"Some good news," Ms. Bonner announced as Ms. Reynolds applied smelly ointment
to the worst of his abrasions. She sounded as calmly formal as ever, as if the
beating had never taken place. "You are permitted one female visitor each month,
and a young woman - one Claire Nesbitt, I believe - has already telephoned and
asked to see you. If you choose to accept her, we'll call back and arrange a
time approximately two weeks from now."
"I'd rather see my mother, ma'am."
"She hasn't been in touch. You can say no to Ms. Nesbitt, of course, but if your
mother doesn't call - if she finds the idea of seeing you chained and naked too
painful, for instance - you won't get another chance to receive either of them
until next month. Your decision, of course, but you need to make it at once."
He thought about it, but not for long. "I'd like to see Claire, then, ma'am.
Will we be allowed to meet in private?"
"Of course not. I'll be there to make sure nothing untoward is said or done."
Richard sighed, and bowed his head.
* * *
"I understand my son is at your estate," said Connie Tipper into the telephone.
Ronald was seated beside her, holding her hand; Elsie was touching her shoulder.
She was going to be calm, dignified, and restrained.
"That is correct." Lady Briddington's voice was pure ice. "I haven't seen him
yet. My retainers have him locked away downstairs. I think I'm going to enjoy
having him, though."
"May I ask what you intend to do with him?" She sounded forlorn, even to
herself, and Ronald squeezed her hand tightly.
"That's between me and him, Mrs. Tipper. Rest assured that he'll receive the
hard work and firm discipline the conscription system is intended to provide. My
plans for him have been approved by the Ministry of Social Order, and my
facilities for his detention and training have been inspected and found
adequate."
"I should very much like to see him, your ladyship."
"Of course you would, Mrs. Tipper. Unfortunately his visit for this month is
already scheduled. His girlfriend - a Ms. Nesbitt, I believe? - telephoned
earlier today, and your son agreed to see her. He may decide to reserve his
December visit for you, but of course it would be quite improper for me to
insist that he do so."
"But I'm his mother! Sure family members have priority?"
"No, they do not. It's entirely up to the individual conscript."
"Then tell him I called," she asked, a little frantically. "Or let me speak to
him. I know he'll change his mind."
"He's not permitted to do that, Mrs. Tipper. And I'm afraid I'm not required to
tell him you requested a visit. If you telephone again in December he may agree
to see you, if he hasn't already scheduled a visit with someone else."
"Can I write to him? Or speak to him on the phone? He is my son, and I - I want
to be sure he's all right. Can't something be arranged?"
"Unfortunately not. He has other things to occupy his time. May I offer you a
word of advice, Mrs. Tipper?"
"What is it?" she replied tersely.
"I only wanted to point out to you that the recent decline in British social
values is almost entirely due to the barbaric behaviour of a generation of
over-indulged young men, such as your son. You ought to be grateful that he will
have the opportunity to submit to a rigorous level of discipline that you never
had the strength of character to apply. Perhaps you ought to keep out of the way
and let me smack some sense into the lad, as it were, although I assure you that
my repertoire extends well beyond simple smacking. Do ring back in December,
Mrs. Tipper."
There was a sharp, final click. Connie burst into tears.
* * *
Lady Briddington put down the telephone and smiled to herself. The naked
desperation in the wretched woman's voice had been rather diverting. Well, if
she was going to raise unruly little brats that needed a firm hand to put them
through their paces... Lady Briddington was completely familiar with Conscript
Tipper's disgraceful disciplinary record from Camp Thatcher, and was convinced
that she had found a case genuinely deserving of her attentions. A stay at her
estate would be among the least pleasant experiences the system could offer; it
seemed only proper that her guests be more than usually in need of sharp
correction, as well as suitable for her amusement. Speaking of which, it was
time to take her new charge in hand.
"Ms. Bonner?" she said into her intercom unit.
"Yes, ma'am?" The reply was almost immediate.
"Is my new toy ready to play with?"
"Yes, ma'am. We've been waiting."
"Excellent. Lock the control belt on him and then take him into the playroom,
please. Did he give you any trouble earlier?"
"None at all, ma'am. I believe the lesson was adequately learned."
"Very good. With luck the next one will go equally well." She switched intercom
channels, ready to talk to the playroom, and turned her attention to the
high-resolution monitor that was linked to the video cameras she'd had installed
down there. With the lights off, they were in IR mode, but she could see
everything with perfect clarity. The table, the restraint chair, the cages, the
chains hanging from the ceiling, the vast array of tools and toys that took up
an entire wall. Most of them would probably remain unused, but there was nothing
like establishing the proper atmosphere.
Lady Briddington licked her lips and grinned as the lights came on and Ms.
Bonner and Ms. Reynolds - her henchwomen, as she liked to think of them - led
young Richard into the room. Judging by the bruises on his face and body, they'd
carried out their orders with considerable enthusiasm, and the captive looked
subdued and a little worried. And uncomfortable, now that the control belt was
in place. It was made to fit him precisely, based on measurements collected by
the doctors at Camp Thatcher, and it clasped his waist in a grip that would feel
just a little too tight. Below the waistband it enclosed his genitals in a sort
of cage of thin steel rings and bars, presently far too small to allow any sort
of erection. She would have liked the look of his penis hanging free, but one
simply couldn't have it both ways. From behind - she switched to another camera
- cold steel came up between his buttocks and met the waist-belt at an
unobtrusive hinge. She could just see the outline of the distensible ring that,
when opened, would allow access to his anus. The thing was truly a work of art.
The henchwomen closed the door firmly behind Richard, and Lady Briddington
switched on the audio in time to hear the lock click. Her slave advanced slowly
into the middle of the room, looking around in seeming disbelief and undisguised
consternation. She let him look around for a minute before speaking.
"Good evening, dear. Do you know who I am?" He literally jumped; her voice would
be quite loud down there, and it was being projected from all four corners of
the room. The poor boy would feel surrounded.
"Lady Briddington, ma'am?" he suggested nervously.
"Correct, Richard. I'm the one you've been brought here to serve, the one who
owns you for the next five months. You are here to amuse me, to learn proper
humility and obedience, and to acquire a few practical skills, in that order. At
the moment you are a vulgar, untrained animal, unfit to enter my presence, but
that will change as Ms. Bonner and Ms. Reynolds help me mould you according to
my wishes."
"I'll do anything you -" he began almost eagerly, but she cut him off with a
touch of one of the buttons on the bracelet she had put around her wrist that
afternoon. He yelped in pain and doubled over as the control belt tightened
around his balls, and she smiled at the monitor. He was going to get very, very
familiar with that sensation over the next few weeks. But this time, she
released the button almost at once.
"Please don't speak out of turn, dear. There are some things I want you to do
for me. First, get down on your knees." He obeyed promptly, and she was pleased
to notice that he kept his posture rigid, his chin up, his arms at his sides.
Perhaps he'd learned a thing or two at Camp Thatcher after all. "I shall have to
teach you do that gracefully," she said aloud. "And spread your legs a bit more.
Good. Now lean forward and kiss the floor."
He whimpered when she tapped her button again. "Keep your head down! You stay in
that position until I tell you to move. When you hear my voice at the beginning
of future sessions you will immediately assume that posture, kneeling with your
lips pressed to the floor. Further instructions will follow as I choose. Right
now I just want to have a look at you, so hold still."
She took her time, swivelling the cameras and switching among them to view his
naked body from every angle. He was sweating a little, between his fear and the
deliberate warmth of the playroom; she rather liked to see male perspiration.
After a month of training at Camp Thatcher his muscles were hard and nicely
sculpted, although not particularly bulky. She would have to let his hair grow
back, of course. His head was down to a rough stubble, and his body seemed to be
completely shaved apart from the dark bush at his groin. On the whole, though, a
fine specimen. She might have preferred a larger man aesthetically, but his
light build and slightly below average height would make him easier for the
henchwomen to handle.
"Kneel up now. Hands on the back of your neck. Smile for the camera, Richard."
Hmm. Cute little nipples, and a flat stomach with just a hint of muscular
definition.
"I suppose you'll do," she sniffed. "The next order of business is to acqaint
you with your control belt. Do you know what it's for?"
"To hurt me, ma'am, when I don't obey," he said softly.
"To hurt you whenever I want," she corrected. "Like this."
"Ow! Please, I - Oww!"
"But it's not just pressure, dear. It can do prickling sensations" - he squirmed
and whimpered as tiny sharp points, embedded within parts of the genital cage,
stung his flesh - "and considerable heat. And when all else fails, there's
always a simple electric shock."
"Ahh!" he collapsed forward, forehead to the floor and hands cupped over his
groin.
"So you see, you must always obey my commands. The belt will stay on at all
times, except when Ms. Bonner or Ms. Reynolds removes it for cleaning or - other
purposes. No matter where I am, I can use it to torture you. Or to reward you."
She held down two more buttons, one to expand the cage a little and another to
start the bars rippling over his penis and scrotum. He sighed in pleasure, like
a rutting animal, as his penis swelled and stiffened.
"That's enough, dear," she said after a moment. "Make your nasty thing calm
down, or I'll do it for you."
"I can't help it, ma'am!"
"A pity. Well, if you can't control yourself, I suppose I shall have to control
you." She gave him another shock, then returned the cage to its normal,
restrictive size as he softened.
"Point made, I trust. No, stay down. Do you see the metal bowl in the corner
there? To your left, dear. I want you to crawl over there. Now take the steel
collar, the one chained to the wall, and lock it around your neck. Tighter. You
deserve this, Richard - to be put on a leash like an animal. Do you need to
urinate?"
"What, ma'am?"
"Never make me repeat myself," she answered with a tap of the pressure button.
"I asked you a question."
"I can hold it, ma'am," he muttered sulkily.
"In other words, yes. You'll find that the cage won't interfere, and it even
keeps your nasty thing conveniently pointed downward. Go ahead and squat over
the bowl."
"Ma'am, I'd rather - ow! Ah!"
"Squat over the bowl, dear. Empty that bladder. Good. You're not crying, are
you?" She couldn't help but laugh at him, and his tears redoubled. He was so
vulnerable, so easily humiliated. Delightful. And all hers.
"Now I want you to sniff it. Get your nose right down in the bowl. That's slave
piss you're smelling, dear. Do you really want to please me?"
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled dutifully.
"Like you mean it, Richard."
"Yes, ma'am! Anything you wish, ma'am!"
"All right, then. Put out your tongue and lap a little up. Go ahead, it won't
kill you. Some Indian gurus recommend this for therapeutic purposes, you know."
"Ma'am, I can't! I just can't make myself!"
"How unfortunate for you. You have five seconds, dear."
"I can't! Make Ms. Bonner come and push my head down, but don't make me do it
myself!"
"This is about obedience, Richard. Of course you need to comply on your own. Two
seconds."
"No!" He turned his face directly toward one of the cameras, with an expression
on his tear-streaked face that was either courageous, defiant or just ridiculous
- she couldn't decide quite which. "I won't do it. I'll never do it. I don't
care how much you hurt me. Fucking bitch!"
She smiled. She'd expected having to go a little further - telling him to drink
the whole contents of the bowl, maybe - before reaching this stage. With
predatory glee she stabbed the shock button with her finger, over and over as he
writhed and screamed on the floor. One outstretched hand hit the bowl, and sent
pungent slave piss pouring across the bare concrete. A moment later she stopped.
"Get up on your knees, Richard. Anything you'd like to say?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he blubbered. "I'll do whatever you want now."
"Sorry for what, exactly?"
"For calling you a bitch, ma'am."
"Should I continue to punish you?"
"If you want, ma'am."
"But do you feel you deserve it?"
She could almost see the wheels spinning in his head over that one. Pathetic
little bastard. "Yes, ma'am," he said nervously.
"Very well." But she only gave him two or three more, just sufficient to make
her point. Pain had its uses - amusement, for one - but enough was enough.
"You've disappointed me, dear. I see that your training will have to be even
more intense than anticipated, but that can wait for tomorrow. Right now I want
you to take the longer set of chains down from the wall and lock them around
your ankles. Good. The other ones go on your wrists. Behind you, you idiot. How
do you feel now, Richard?"
"Like a slave, ma'am," he replied wearily. She was pleasantly surprised.
"I'm glad to hear it, because that's exactly what you are. I'm going to let you
sleep now. I want you to lie down, right in the little mess you made, and close
your eyes. Think about how good you're going to be for Ms. Reynolds when she
comes to collect you for exercises tomorrow morning. Good night, dear."
"Good night, ma'am."
Lady Briddington switched off the intercom, and the lights downstairs, as soon
as he was settled into position. A very satisfactory beginning to their
relationship, if she did say so herself. With one last glance at her naked
captive - lying there with his eyes closed, he looked innocent, almost virginal
- she pushed her wheelchair away from the desk.
"Sara!" she called. "I'm done with the boy for now. Come help me to the
bathroom, and then you can serve supper. I'm starving."

Chapter 9

Carl Jacobs felt sweaty, filthy and exhausted as he trudged back to barracks
with the other conscripts after a long day of what the government called
environmental restoration in the rugged hills of northern Wales. It was awfully
hard work, mostly hauling away dead old trees and sawing them into lengths for
distribution as firewood, and the heavy shackles on his ankles didn't make
things any easier. Aside from the weight, they were forever catching on things.
The weather out here was cold and miserable, the officers drove the conscripts
relentlessly from dawn till nearly dusk, and discipline was every bit as harsh
as it had been at Camp Thatcher. Low temperatures had forced the officers to
allow the men to wear ugly orange uniforms rather than keeping them naked, but
even that was a mixed blessing; they were made to strip as soon as they returned
to barracks, and taking off his uniform in front of the stern female officers
always made Carl feel twice as exposed as if he'd just been nude all along. And
what the hell, he thought sourly, was the point of tidying up the forests out
here in this godforsaken little corner of the UK, where nobody in his right mind
would ever want to come anyway? And in the wintertime! This whole project was
just another excuse for the bitches to work them half to death and beat them
black and blue with those leather straps he had come to loathe more than
anything in the world.
Ever since the day of his conscription, when they'd taken away his clothes and
put chains on his wrists and ankles for the first time, Carl had been gradually
building up an immense resentment toward the whole system and everything
associated with it. Camp Thatcher had been quite bad enough, with its early
morning calisthenics, terrible food, cramped little punishment cages, and
leering officers armed with the inevitable leather straps. Camp Bathori, the
punishment centre where he'd been sent after his disastrous attempt to organise
some sort of resistance among the conscripts, had been ten times worse. Even
now, nearly three weeks later, the memories made him clench his teeth and fight
down the urge to vomit. Squirming and thrashing helplessly as they lowered his
tightly bound body upside down into ice-cold water for the sixth or seventh
time; moaning in agony as the heavy set and halitotic Officer Yasmen gave him
that infuriating little grin and drove her knee into his naked crotch; being
dragged from his cage in the small hours of the morning to carry sandbags back
and forth across the yard until he literally collapsed from exhaustion; mud
wrestling another conscript in the middle of a ring of cheering officers to
determine which of them would be allowed to eat that day. Punishment indeed. And
after Camp Bathori they'd sent him straight here, to do a gruelling job that his
slight frame simply wasn't built for. Officer Yasmen, who'd been assigned as his
overseer - so few conscripts ended up at Camp Bathori that each one was
guaranteed plenty of personal attention - had smilingly told him to think of
this as the second phase of his punishment. "I'm sure you'll hate every minute
of it," she had sneered as he was being loaded into the transport car, "but it's
better than you deserve, you scrawny piece of shit." Charming lady.
"Halt!" yelled Officer Ingram, quite unnecessarily, as they reached the barbed
wire fence surrounding the "Conscript Residency Area", which Carl thought of as
a kind of miniature concentration camp. Officer Ingram liked to yell. The line
of two hundred or so chained men waited dutifully as the gates were opened, then
filed inside at another shouted command. They had to stand at attention while
the officers removed the heavy chains from around their ankles, then strip off
their uniforms and drop them in the laundry cart. Their work boots and gloves
went in a small storage shed. They would be kept naked, in the name of
discomfort, humiliation and vulnerability, until it was time to go out again
tomorrow morning.
"Commandant's inspection!" Ingram bellowed. "Line up!" Encouraged by a few
casual blows of the strap, they quickly formed a neat line and came to attention
again. Commandant Caylin was a solid woman with close-cropped grey hair who
always looked as though she genuinely thought she was doing her male charges
some sort of favour when she ordered draconian punishments for them. It wasn't
really much of an inspection. The Commandant moved briskly along the line of
naked conscripts, occasionally pausing to hit a man whose posture she considered
deficient. She was a believer in swift, firm discipline, as she never tired of
reminding them. At the end of the line she turned to Ingram.
"Anyone coming with me this evening?"
"Yes, ma'am!" She glanced down at the notebook she always carried. "Parker for
insubordination, and Stewart, Jacobs and Kennedy for insufficient effort." Carl
sighed as his name was read out. This was his sixteenth night of restoring the
natural splendour of the Welsh forests, and his eleventh trip to the punishment
area with the Caylin bitch. How on earth did they expect him to show sufficient
effort when he was half the size of most of the other men in the work crew?
But it didn't matter, of course. He meekly lined up with the other victims of
the evening, and allowed the Commandant and an equally pitiless Officer Reaghan
to herd him toward the dreaded Iron Rails. There were three long bars, all
parallel; one was at ankle level and the other two waist-high, a few feet apart.
By now Carl knew the routine, and he submitted with the best grace he could
manage as the Commandant grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and roughly bent
him over the nearer of the two waist-high rails, cuffing his wrists to the other
and his ankles to the one at the bottom. She slapped his upraised bottom with a
heavy, calloused hand.
"Conscript Jacobs," she said, almost cheerily. Punishments always put her in a
good mood. "Been seeing a lot of you, haven't I? I think I'll save you for last
tonight." Carl shivered in the cold air and kept his eyes on the ground as he
heard Caylin and Reaghan finish securing the other conscripts. There was a
moment of silence before the harsh crack of the Commandant's wooden paddle on
bare male flesh, followed by the inevitable gasp of pain. Another few blows and
the gasps would become moans, then screams and sobs. Carl remembered it all too
well from previous nights, and now he shuddered and gritted his teeth as he
heard one man after another break down and beg the Commandant to stop, please
just stop hurting him. It usually seemed to happen around the fourteenth or
fifteenth blow, but he had never heard Caylin give less than the full twenty-one
no matter how much crying and pleading she had to listen to.
Finally it was his turn. He felt the instrument of correction lightly touch his
buttocks as she measured her aim, the only warning she ever gave, and then that
first agonising crack a moment later. Bloody hell, it hurt! Commandant Caylin
had a very strong arm, and his arse was still tender and a bit bruised from
yesterday. He felt the tears well up right away, and bit down on his lip to keep
from crying out. It didn't help that the Iron Rails were in full view of the
mess hall, where the officers and men would be eating together and watching
through the windows. He held out as long as he could, just like he always did,
but when the eighth blow whistled down across his poor tortured buttocks he gave
his first little humiliating yelp of pain. At the eleventh, he really started to
scream; by the sixteenth, he was babbling incoherently for mercy. He couldn't
help it. And the firm, even rhythm of the paddle never slowed, never changed,
never stopped until the twenty-first blow had left its mark on his flesh.
"That's it, boys," said Caylin's deep voice. "Work hard and do as you're told,
or you can expect more of the same. I trust you've all learned your lesson?"
"Yes, ma'am," Carl mumbled, along with the others. If you didn't, she'd hit you
more.
"Good." She started unfastening the men. Reaghan, I'll take Jacobs round to the
nurse - he's bleeding a bit - and you get the others back to the barracks. No
supper for them tonight, of course, and no recreation time. Straight to bed
unless an officer wants one of them."
That was how things worked here. If you were a good slave, you got to eat dinner
with the officers and relax for half an hour afterwards. The games room had
darts, billiards, cards, and a small library of morally appropriate literature,
and usually a few of the officers would stick around to socialise. You still had
to address them respectfully, of course, and they never quite let you forget
that at the end of the half-hour they would be going upstairs to cozy little
bedrooms with all the amenities while you were herded into a locked dormitory
with steel bunk beds and no sheets or pillows. But it was still a chance to talk
to them almost naturally, and even do a little flirting with some of the less
uptight ones. At bedtime each officer could take one conscript upstairs with
her, if she wanted, which was the only sexual activity the men were ever allowed
unless they earned masturbation privileges through good behaviour. Competition
for the attention of the officers was intense, although being taken upstairs was
never exactly guaranteed to be pleasant. The younger and prettier officers loved
to tease men to distraction with their bodies and then leave them frustrated,
and the older ones - as Carl had found out one night through experience - often
liked to slap and pinch and spank. Officer Mellott was the one the conscripts
all really tried to get to notice them. She might be plump, buck-toothed and
greying, but she was always gentle and usually let her man cum before sending
him back down to be locked in for the night. It was funny how all their
priorities had changed now that the women were the ones in charge.
When Carl finally got back to the mess hall after a brief visit with a very
peremptory nurse, he found that one of the officers did want him. Officer
Raymond, an athletic-looking black woman who had a reputation as one of the
arch-teasers. Even as she led him up to her bedroom she was already stroking his
freshly ointmented buttocks and giggling over the welts and bruises. Carl,
aroused by her touch without wanting to be, sensed he was in for a long and less
than enjoyable evening. He took a deep breath as she pushed him into her room
and handcuffed him to the bed, and thought darkly of escape and vengeance. The
bitches could hurt him, they could starve him and beat him and work him to
exhaustion and beyond, and they could even rape him, but breaking Carl Allen
Jacobs was another matter entirely. He would play along, but he wouldn't give
in.
He would play along. Officer Raymond slipped out of her grey officer's shirt and
leaned so close he could feel the heat from her firm brown body, and her breath
against his face. Her perfume was light and floral, her smile predatory.
"Looks like you're all ready to get started," she giggled, rubbing her palm
roughly across the head of his desperately stiff cock. "Come on, you pathetic
little runt. Tell me how much you want to fuck me."
* * *
Claire Nesbitt couldn't help but smile as she watched Clive squirm in his
handcuffs. He was still sprawled naked on her bed, damp with sweat and
dishevelled, a condom plastered to his half-erect penis. And looking petulant
beneath that lovely mane of dark curls. He obviously hadn't liked being left
tethered while she went off to shower and get dressed after what had been a
truly epic session of lovemaking, but at least he hadn't actually whined about
it much. Maybe he was learning.
"Come on, Claire, let me up," he said finally.
"Just let me take a picture first. I'll put it in the album, right beside the
one with you in the miniskirt and stockings."
"Shit, Claire, I thought you were in a hurry."
She glanced at the clock. "Oh, all right. But you do look good - like a defeated
Greek warrior after being ravaged by Amazons, or something." She went to the bed
and unlocked his cuffs; he grabbed for her, of course, but she skipped back and
slapped exasperatedly at the hand he extended toward her bosom.
"Stop it! I can't turn up at Lady Briddington's place looking all rumpled."
"You don't have to turn up there at all, you know," said Clive, sitting up.
"Jealous, darling? Don't like me seeing Richard?"
"I guess not. But I don't want you getting mixed up with that woman, either. She
sounds like a first-class bitch."
"I know. But luckily, I'm going to visit Richard, not her." She grinned.
"Besides, you're just afraid she'll give me ideas. Amanda already offered to let
me borrow her discipline strap next time, along with the cuffs."
"Amanda's back on duty next week."
"Then I'll just have to get my own strap, won't I? You can order them on the
net, you know. Made to official specifications, or even one that was actually
used if you're willing to pay a hundred quid for it. Tried and tested on dozens
of male arses just like yours, Clive."
"I need a shower. Weren't you about to go?"
"Yeah. Be good." She kissed him lightly on the lips, gave his bollocks a
friendly squeeze, and headed out to the car. It was a long drive to Lady
Briddington's estate, which might be just as well. She still had no idea what
she was going to say to Richard, or how she was going to explain to him what was
going on with Clive. It would have to be done delicately. Clive was sweet, and
every time they got into bed together he seemed willing to go just a little
farther for her, but he wasn't much more than a pleasant diversion. Richard was
a different matter, and she was determined not to lose his devotion. The main
thing was that he had to be made to keep her in mind, whether that meant looking
eagerly forward to a passionate reunion in 2007 or writhing in the grip of
jealous thoughts about what she might or might not be doing with Clive Johnson.
She really couldn't wait, though, to get him back when it was all over. She
imagined the Richard of the future: fit, polite, respectful, cured of petty
vices, and above all eager to please. In other words, the perfect husband. Come
to think of it, Clive wasn't doing badly in the eager-to-please department
either, these days. Was there any chance she could somehow manage to hold on to
both of them? They'd make a pretty pair, handcuffed side by side in her bed just
like Clive had been today. Two defeated Greek warriors for her Amazonian
enjoyment. She'd make them kiss each other, spank each other...
Claire had got well beyond kissing and spanking by the time she approached her
destination, but as she drew up to the wrought iron gates and identified herself
to Lady Briddington's staff through some kind of intercom device she made a
conscious effort to focus on the matter at hand. The gate opened automatically
and she drove inside, a bit awed at the size and opulence of the grounds
surrounding what was obviously a very old manor house. The place made her feel
small, awkward and quite ordinary, despite her carefully chosen clothes and
meticulous preening. Another servant came out from the house to park her car,
and at the door a very professional looking older woman was waiting to show her
in.
"Ms. Nesbitt, I presume?"
"Yes," said Claire, a bit nervously. "How do you do?" The other woman wasn't
especially glamorous, but her direct stare and heavy build gave her a vaguely
intimidating presence.
"I am Ms. Bonner, one of Richard's handlers. Your visit with him will take place
under my supervision. If you would please come this way?"
Claire followed her toward a wide spiral staircase, past antique furniture and a
suit of armour. It was like something out of a fairy-tale. "You mean I won't be
allowed to see him alone?" she asked.
"Unfortunately not. However, I'm to inform you that Lady Briddington has
promised that Richard will not be punished for anything either of you might say,
so please speak freely. But remember that you're not allowed to touch him, or
give him anything."
"That's fine."
"He's in here. You have half an hour - enjoy your visit, Ms. Nesbitt."
She couldn't help but stop in her tracks - Ms. Bonner almost bumped into her -
when she saw him sitting there in that plain little room. He was completely
nude, as she'd expected, but she was surprised to see that he was actually
shackled to his chair. His wrists were locked to its heavy wooden arms, his
ankles to its legs. And there was something around his waist, a kind of metal
belt that also enclosed his cock and balls. There were a few bruises on his face
and naked body, but he actually seemed to be in excellent physical condition,
more toned and muscular than she had ever seen him. He looked strange, though,
with such short hair.
"Richard!" she exclaimed, finally coming forward to take the chair opposite his.
"Claire. I - I'm so glad to see you. But Jesus, this feels strange. I wish I
could kiss you."
"Me too, Richard. Among other things. You're looking awfully good, you know."
"Please, Claire. You don't know what they do to me here."
"No, you really are. I've never seen you looking fitter. I can't wait to get my
hands on you."
"Well, you're going to have to," he said bitterly. Twenty two more months. And a
bit."
"Oh, I have things to do in the meantime. And so do you, I suppose. Does Lady
Briddington make you work very hard?"
"It's not work, really. It's training. And torture." He glanced apprehensively
at Ms. Bonner, who was standing unobtrusively in a corner, but the woman
actually gave an encouraging nod. "Every day they wake me up before dawn for
exercises, just like at Camp Thatcher," he went on in a voice that made Claire's
heart go out to him. "Then I get slop for breakfast, a cold shower, and training
most of the rest of the day. Obedience lessons, or I learn how to serve tea and
polish silver, or practice pulling her little pony cart. Afterwards I get
dinner, if I've done well, and then I go downstairs for a session." He gave the
final word a special emphasis, as though he had named some terrible disease.
Claire was thoroughly puzzled.
"A session of what?"
"Torture, basically. They lock me in a Spanish Inquisition kind of room, and
Lady Briddington gives me orders on the intercom. I have to pose for her, play
with sex toys, chain and torture myself - whatever she's in the mood for. If I
don't obey, she hurts me with the control belt."
"The what?"
"The thing I'm wearing now. She has some way of operating it remotely. It can
give me electric shocks, or squeeze my bollocks harder than the officers at Camp
Thatcher ever did. It hurts so much, Claire! And sometimes she uses it to sort
of massage me, so I get all turned on, but it's just teasing. I never get to -
to finish, you know. And the sessions all end the same way." He was squirming,
pulling at his restraints, practically in tears. Claire wanted so badly to go
over there and take him in her arms and cover him with comforting kisses, but of
course that would never be permitted. What could she do but listen, and
sympathise? Discipline and sadistic little games were one thing, but what he was
describing sounded a little too cruel for comfort.
"How do they end, Richard?" she asked gently.
"They - I - Claire, I shouldn't be telling you this. I'll survive."
"Richard, I want to know what she's doing to you. Please."
"Ms. Bonner always gives me a lot of water to drink beforehand," he said in a
barely audible voice. "At the end of the session I have to pee in a special
bowl. And then she - Lady Briddington, that is - she tells me to drink out of
it. At first I just had to lap a little, but after I did that twice it suddenly
wasn't enough any more. She always tells me to pick up the whole bowl and drink
every drop, and I can never bring myself to do it. So she makes me scream a
little." He gave a very awkward shrug. "I suppose there are worse things, but it
hurts terribly, and it happens over and over, every single night... This evening
she'll do it to me again..." And with that he did start to cry, just sobbing and
sobbing like a baby. Claire was appalled. If this place was a fairy-tale palace,
it belonged in one of the old Germanic versions, where the witch always got to
devour a few children before finally meeting a gruesome end. She actually got to
her feet before she caught Ms. Bonner's warning glance and sat down again,
trembling in pity and anger.
"I'll help you, Richard. I don't know how, but I'll find a way. I promise - I
love you."
"No you don't. Amanda told me about you and Clive Johnson. Every night while I'm
down there screaming you're fucking him, aren't you?"
That was basically true, though she hated to admit it even to herself. Her
fantasies of captured Greek warriors suddenly seemed silly and unimportant.
"I'll stop if you want me to. I really will."
"I don't believe you. This is just another fucking game, isn't it? Did Lady
Briddington tell you what to say?"
"No, she didn't. Please, Richard, just listen. I love you. I had no idea what
she was doing to you. I thought it would just be housework, sex, and the odd
spanking. This is barbaric, and I'm not going to stand for it. I'll stop seeing
Clive, and I'll find a way to help you. The first thing I'll do is talk to the
press, the liberal press I mean, and then - oh, hell, I'll think of something.
And I'll be back next month, unless you'd rather see your mother."
"If she wants to come," said Richard. "But warn her that she's going to have to
see me naked and chained up. Claire, do you really mean it? About loving me?"
"Yes. I want to marry you the second you're discharged, or whatever it's
called."
He was delighted, of course. From the sound of things he hadn't had a single
kind word since falling into Lady Briddington's clutches. They talked about it
for the rest of their half-hour, about houses they would buy, children they
would have, and long evenings of lovemaking by the fireside. By the end of the
visit Claire herself was crying a little, her make-up hopelessly smudged; she
thought she'd started when Richard had promised to always put her wishes ahead
of his own, and apologised for the way he'd taken her for granted before being
conscripted. Even as he was suffering so horribly, he was learning the humility
she had hoped for in the ideal future Richard of her daydreams. It made it all
very confusing. Ms. Bonner watched the whole conversation impassively, and
finally interrupted with a polite cough.
"Your thirtieth minute is up, Ms. Nesbitt. Thank you for visiting. If you would
come with me, please?"
"Yes, all right. Goodbye, Richard. I love you."
"I love you too, Claire."
"This way, please. I'm sorry, but you really do have to go now."
"All right! But listen, can I see her Ladyship before I leave?"
"That's really quite impossible."
"Please, Ms. Bonner. You saw him in there, the way he's suffering. I didn't
think conscription was supposed to be torture. He's the man I love, and I really
am concerned about the way he's being treated, to say the least. Can't I please,
please have a chance to tell her Ladyship how I feel?"
"You must understand my position, Ms. Nesbitt. Between the two of us, I feel a
good deal of sympathy for Richard as well. But Lady Briddington's behaviour
toward him has been perfectly legal, if not necessarily humane, and I am
contractually obliged to carry out her orders. I never hurt him more than is
strictly necessary, if that helps, and neither does my colleague Ms. Reynolds."
"But her orders are horrible! If I could talk to her, just for a few minutes,
maybe I could make her see that. Won't you at least let me try?"
"Her Ladyship is not easily persuaded. You would likely make things worse for
Richard, not better. It really would be best for you to leave now, Ms. Nesbitt.
And as a word of friendly advice, I would think very carefully before -"
"No, Ms. Bonner, it's all right," said a cool voice from the other end of the
hall. They both started, and turned, and Claire was amazed to see a blond woman,
surely not older than forty, in a massive wheelchair with a lot of knobs and
buttons. Every inch of her looked positively regal. Her hair hung like a pale
curtain around creamy shoulders that her long black gown left bare, and Claire
didn't think she had ever seen a more dignified, finely sculpted face in her
life. Cool, intelligent green eyes glistened beneath a very high, pale forehead.
Even seated in her wheelchair, she somehow looked tall, as if through sheer
elegance and grace of bearing, and Claire had no doubt that she was face-to-face
with the Lady Briddington herself.
"It's all right," she repeated. "Ms. Bonner, give Richard his dinner and have
him in the Playroom in an hour's time. Claire, you may follow me to my study."
The wheelchair whirred as she spun it around and started back the way she had
come, without another word. Claire hurried after her, smarting at being treated
so dismissively but determined not to lose the opportunity that had suddenly
presented itself. The study was breathtaking, full of old books and magnificent
portraits, but Claire was more interested in the display on the monitor over the
ornate writing-desk. It showed a room that, as Richard had said, could have been
furnished by the Spanish Inquisition.
"Is that your ladyship's Playroom?" asked Claire, trying to keep the bitterness
out of her voice.
"Why, yes. You sound as though you don't approve. I thought I did a rather good
job of creating the proper atmosphere, myself."
"Oh, it's a superb torture chamber. I just wish it didn't see quite so much
use." Lady Briddington gave her a quizzical look, and she continued hastily. "I
know Richard needs to be disciplined sometimes, and I know it can be fun to make
men suffer once in a while. He's your slave; you can do anything you want with
him. But with all due respect, I wish you wouldn't be quite so brutal about it.
There are ways to enjoy a man that don't involve pain and abuse, aren't there?"
She was trying to keep her outrage well in check, but even so she was afraid she
might have gone too far. But the other woman only gave her a kindly smile and
motioned her toward a comfortable armchair.
"My dear Claire, you're still very young," she said patiently. "You really have
no idea how stubborn and contradictory men can be. If Richard is going to be a
proper slave, he needs to have every shred of absurd masculine egotism beaten
and spanked and shocked and starved out of him. Young men need to be broken in,
just like horses. I'll admit I do get a certain amount of enjoyment out of the
process, but it's also good for him. You mustn't let his outbursts worry you."
"Outbursts! He broke down and cried like a baby right there in front of me. He's
living in a world of agony."
"It's not as bad as it looks. You had a little shock when he started to pour out
his raw emotions in the visiting room - I was eavesdropping, of course - and
it's upset you. It's a difficult time for him, but he won't be damaged, and
after he becomes more compliant I may be able to ease up a little."
"And what will happen then? When you've broken him in, as you say, what will you
do with him?"
Lady Briddington shrugged. "Use him. I host very exclusive soirees occasionally,
and perhaps I'll trot him out for the delectation of the ladies. And when the
weather starts to warm up he can pull me around the grounds in my cart, while
Ms. Bonner runs alongside with a riding crop to urge him along. I've always
wanted to make a man do that. And of course I'll still have him taken to the
Playroom from time to time."
"More degradation and torture, in other words. Aren't you - your ladyship, I
can't believe I'm going to say this, but aren't you going to take him to your
bed? Or have him attend you privately? An obedient man can be delightful, and
I'm sure he'll obey better if you reward his efforts once in a while. He'll
learn his place, and serve you, but he won't be trembling and terrified all the
time. It hurts me to see him like this."
"I really have no interest in his nasty little thing, apart from its uses in
punishing and controlling him. I don't like having men close to me. That is why
I prefer to give him instructions over the intercom, rather than in person."
Claire took a deep breath, and decided to rush on before she had time for second
thoughts. "But your ladyship, it's so much better in person," she exclaimed.
"Think of having him there, tied down and helpless, and you able to do anything
you wanted to him. Hurt him, caress him, kiss him, just feel that strong male
body under your hands - anything at all. And there's nothing quite like hearing
a man pleading with tears in his eyes for you to make love to him." Her
experience with Clive was coming in very handy.
But Lady Briddington was actually blushing. "I - I think that's very rude of
you," she stammered, sounding discomfited for the first time. "To imply that I
would enjoy hearing a male creature talk of - of rutting with me, of taking his
nasty thing and poking it into my private parts. Utterly disgusting."
Claire forced herself to stop staring at the other woman's fidgeting hands. What
was wrong with her? "But you wouldn't have to let him do any of that," she said
gently. "And if you didn't like hearing it, you could gag him. If he desires you
- and he will, when he sees how beautiful you are - he'll be more in your power
than ever. If you try it, and decide you don't like it, what's the harm?"
"Oh, you think I'm beautiful?" Her voice had become a hard sneer. She reached
down, awkwardly, and began to draw the long skirt of her dress upward. Claire
watched in shocked fascination, her mouth gaping and her eyes wide. She couldn't
help herself. Lady Briddington's legs were a scarred, lumpy mess, hideous and
misshapen. They looked as though they'd been run over repeatedly by a tank. No
wonder the poor woman couldn't walk. "As you can imagine," Lady Briddington went
on, "my experience of men is decidedly limited. Even if I had Richard brought up
to my bedroom, I wouldn't know where to begin with him."
"I could show you. Please, your ladyship, I know you'll find it better than just
making him scream in pain."
"You impertinent - you have no idea what you're asking of me."
"Try it just once, and I promise I'll never bother you about it again. If you
decide afterwards you'd rather just keep torturing him, I won't argue. I'll even
help you, if you want."
"All right. We'll go down to the Playroom together, and you can give me your
little demonstration. But however I decide to continue his training, I expect
you to cooperate fully - come here to help from time to time, and help convince
his wretched mother that what I'm doing is best for him. It will be good to have
you involved; after all, when he's released you'll be taking charge of him. And
he'll be more than willing to be taken charge of, by that time, if everything
goes according to plan."
It took them a few minutes to settle on the details, but they were ready by the
time Ms. Bonner shoved a very apprehensive looking Richard into the Playroom and
locked the door behind him. Claire couldn't help but feel sorry for him,
although she hoped that today's session would mark a dramatic change for the
better in his training. She watched him pace and fidget on the monitor until
Lady Briddington finally spoke into the intercom.
"Richard." He immediately dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to the
floor. "Today I have special plans you, dear. First I want to make sure you're
good and excited." She pressed a button on the arm of her wheelchair, and
Richard began to squirm in place. Claire knew the cold steel of his control belt
would be massaging his genitals, stimulating and arousing him. She couldn't
begin to imagine what that would feel like to a man.
"Now get up, dear. I see my efforts were not unappreciated, hmm? Now you're
going to go over to the Toy Wall, and take down the clamps we used last time.
Put them on your nipples, a half-twist tighter than before." He hesitated, then
suddenly winced; she must have shocked him. "Do it, Richard. You should know
better by now." He swallowed hard and gasped as his nipples felt the cruel
pressure. Claire had never felt such a peculiar combination of sympathy and
animal lust in her life. Her eyes and her panties were both getting moist.
"Now take down the big black leather hood. Yes, that one. No, don't put it on
yet, you idiot. Walk over to the bench, dear. Lock the straps around your ankles
first. That's it, face toward the bench. You're going to be bending over it. You
look a bit worried, Richard."
"Please, ma'am, what are you going to do to me?"
"Whatever I want, of course. You'll find out in a little while. Now bend over
the bench, and look down. See the wrist straps?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You're going to put the hood on, and then lock yourself into them blind. Close
your eyes first and make sure you can find them. Good boy. Now the hood. The
collar part locks around your neck first - I know it's tight, don't think those
pathetic little gasps are going to get you any sympathy. Now button up the
eyepiece. You can leave the gag out - I'm going to want to hear you moan and
squeal. The last thing you're going to do, dear, is put in the earplugs and then
bend over and restrain your wrists. Make sure you pull the straps as tight as
you can." He fumbled around a lot, but after a moment he was secured in place.
Waiting, blind and deaf. The tension showed in every line of his body. The bench
really was a clever thing, built to leave his genitals and nipples readily
accessible from below.
"Do we go down now?" asked Lady Briddington. "Remember, we're doing this your
way."
"No, let him wait and wonder a few minutes. You could have the belt stroke him a
bit, too. Keep him on edge."
When they did go down Richard seemed completely oblivious to their presence -
those earplugs really worked, apparently. Lady Briddington eyed him
suspiciously, the way she might have watched a circus tiger whose cage she
didn't quite trust. Claire couldn't believe it: the high and mighty Lady
Briddington was absolutely terrified to have a man in the room with her, even
one who was naked and completely at her mercy.
"What now?" she whispered.
"I think we can talk normally," Claire replied. "He didn't move at all when the
door opened. It's time to let him know you're here - touch him, or even kiss him
if you're ready for that. Or you could hit him with the cane. You said you
wanted to use it a little."
"Maybe that would be best." The woman did seem to have a penchant for inflicting
pain. She wheeled over to the Toy Wall, selected a whippy wooden thing, and
positioned herself beside Richard. "I've never done this myself before," she
confided nervously.
"Neither have I. I don't think it's hard, though. Just hit his arse with it."
Lady Briddington did, with a vengeance. Richard shrieked in pain and surprise.
For all the painful hours he'd spent in here, he'd never been hurt except by his
own hands and the control belt.
"Who's there?" he yelled in a high, panicky voice. "It hurts - stop it - ow!"
Red line after burning red line appeared across his buttocks, and the tops of
his thighs. Lady Briddington's aim seemed a little erratic, but she had a strong
arm and kept a steady rhythm. After perhaps a dozen blows she lowered the rod,
and the room was deathly quiet except for Richard's whimpering.
"Go on, touch him." When she hesitated, Claire gently took her hand and guided
it to Richard's welted and wealed flesh, stroking it along the marks of the
cane.
"He's so warm," Lady Briddington murmured. She pulled away from Claire and began
to explore Richard's body on her own, stroking and kneading - hesistantly at
first, then with more confidence as she discovered that Richard really couldn't
do anything but squirm and wriggle in response to her touch. He was getting
aroused again, too. His cock had gone down during the caning, shrinking inside
its metal cage, but as Richard felt the cool hands caressing and probing at him
it soon swelled almost alarmingly.
"Ms. Bonner?" he quavered. "What are you doing, ma'am?" Lady Briddington
suddenly grinned, and unzipped one ear flap. This was better than Claire had
hoped.
"It's not Ms. Bonner, dear," her ladyship whispered in a cold, menacing voice.
Richard actually yelped, and jerked helplessly at his restraints.
"Lady Briddington? Oh, please, what's happening? What are you going to do?"
She jerked downward on one of his nipple clamps. "Shut up, dear." She refastened
the ear flap and then, to Claire's astonishment, leaned close and gave Richard a
clumsy kiss on the lips.
"Oh, he liked that," Claire murmured in an undertone. "Try it again, and sort of
lick his lips with your tongue."
"He won't open up," said Lady Briddington after a moment.
"Smack him. He'll get the idea."
"Mm... that's nice." A moment later she guided Richard's lips to her neck, and
sighed as he licked and nuzzled. "Has he had practice at this?"
"Oh, yes. With me, and then with a couple of the officers at Camp Thatcher."
"What else has he practiced?"
"He'd probably do a good job on your breasts, or between your legs." The
nervous, almost panicked look came back into Lady Briddington's eyes, and Claire
hastily added, "But there's no need to rush things. Just take it slowly."
"Is it time for his belt to come off?"
"If you like." She zoomed her wheelchair rather eagerly around to Richard's
hips, unlocked the control belt with the touch of a button, and with Claire's
help lifted it away. Without the least bit of encouragement she grasped
Richard's erect penis.
"So that's what a man's nasty thing feels like," she whispered. "It's so big. So
hard."
"Try rubbing it a little. He'll get very excited. Just be careful not to let him
actually spurt. I'll warn you if it looks like he's getting close."
Richard moaned and pumped against Lady Briddington's hand as she began to fondle
him. "Ah. Please, ma'am," he gasped. "Please let me cum. I'll do anything you
say afterwards."
Claire suddenly had a monstrous, shocking idea. It wouldn't be easy for Richard,
but if anything would convince Lady Briddington that this was the way to train
him... "Tell him," she suggested aloud, "that he can cum if he drinks a bowl of
his own piss."
Lady Briddington broke into a broad, sudden grin, an expression Claire could
never have pictured on that alabaster face. She moved back to Richard's head,
unzipped the ear flap again, and whispered to him. He shook his head violently.
"Please, ma'am! You know I can't. I just can't do it."
"Would you rather be teased another hour, dear?" she hissed, a little louder.
"And then left for the night? You won't get another chance soon, I promise."
Poor Richard. Even with his face covered by the hood, Claire could see him
struggling with himself. But just as with Amanda at Camp Thatcher, his pent-up
lust would only let him answer one way, and he finally nodded. He was probably
crying under there.
"I'll do it, ma'am," he mumbled.
"Good boy," she murmured, and went off for the bowl. She was flushed with
excitement as she positioned it under Richard's tumescent cock. It took few
minutes for it to settle down enough to let the urine out, but when it came it
was in a fine, clear stream. Both women wrinkled their noses at the smell, but
Lady Briddington took the bowl around to Richard's head and held it to his lips
as he tilted his head back. "Drink up," she ordered softly. Claire could see him
struggling with himself, squirming and gasping, but finally he opened wide and
began to swallow as she poured the steaming urine into his mouth. Claire was
elated, as much by Lady Briddington's triumphant smile as by Richard's
compliance. She furtively rubbed against the back of a nearby chair as she
watched Lady Briddington pat Richard's head approvingly and then go around
behind to give him his real reward. It didn't take long; a minute or two of even
her ladyship's inexpert caresses, and Richard was moaning and shuddering as his
semen splashed on the concrete floor. Claire moved carefully out of Richard's
line of sight as Lady Briddington lifted his head and unfastened the band of
leather that cut off his vision.
"Hello, Richard," she said softly. "You really are my property now, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. God, ma'am, you're beautiful."
"I know. Good night, Richard. Don't think anything's changed - they'll work you
hard tomorrow." She put the blindfold back and wheeled out of the room,
motioning to Claire to follow.
"That was - rather exciting," she said as they headed back toward the elevator.
"I dislike admitting this, but I may have been wrong about the possibilities of
personal contact with my slave. Can you come back soon?"
"If you like. I'm always free weekends."
"Why don't we say two weeks from today, then, for the continuance of our
captive's training. And mine, I suppose. I shall be expecting you - I look
forward to seeing you again, Claire. And thank you."
Apparently that was all. But as she headed back out to her car she heard Lady
Briddington calling instructions. "Sara! I want a bath before dinner tonight. I
fear I require one. And the boy was absolutely delightful. I shall also want one
of your special massages."

Chapter 10

He couldn't get away. His lungs were on fire, his vision blurred by the sweat
that matted his hair and poured down into his eyes. Every step was pure agony,
and only the knowledge of what would happen to him should he finally be
overtaken gave him the strength to keep running. But when he glanced over his
shoulder, the harshly gleaming torches of the pursuing officers were if anything
a little closer. Their cold light shone on glossy black boots and bright steel
belt buckles, and on the pitiless handcuffs that would pinion his wrists as they
dragged him away. The hard-looking brunette woman in the lead caught his eye and
twisted her lips into an unpleasant smile, as though she couldn't wait to get
her hands on him and make him regret trying to run.
Edwin Sanderson tried desperately to find some additional reserve of strength,
to run just a little faster, but he was too close to the edge of exhaustion. His
toe caught some unseen obstruction in the darkness, and he stumbled and nearly
fell. Now his pursuers were so close that he could hear their pounding footsteps
and their gleeful voices as they shouted encouragement to one another. He
tripped again and this time fell heavily, crying out in terror as much as from
the sudden pain. He couldn't find the strength to push himself back to his feet,
but he lurched forward on his hands and knees, blind to everything but the
frantic desire to escape. He whimpered as he heard a cruel feminine laugh from
behind him, horribly close, and then felt a heavy boot slam into the small of
his back and drive him to the ground. Rough hands seized his arms and pulled
them behind him for the cuffs. The brunette grabbed him by the hair and bent his
head back till he was staring straight into her stony grey eyes.
"Got you now, you little fuck," she hissed. "We're going to have lots of fun
together, Ed. We know all about your little secret, don't we, ladies?"
"Please, no," he moaned, but another of the officers was already pulling down
his pants. They flipped him over, so he was lying on his cuffed hands, and then
the brunette reached down and jerked his underwear down to his knees. His penis
jutted up from between his quivering thighs, hard and erect and almost gleaming
in the bright glare of the torches. One of the women nudged it with the toe of
her boot, and laughed. "Yes Ed, we know your secret. Soon everyone will know."
* * *
"Ed, Ed, wake up. Please wake up."
He opened his eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. He was lying in darkness,
his penis stiff and his body bathed in sweat. But his hands were free of
confining steel, and the naked woman leaning over him was certainly not a
conscription officer. He reached a hand toward her and she caught it in a tight,
comforting grip.
"Was it the same dream? The one with the soldier women?"
"Conscription officers, not soldiers," he corrected slowly, fumbling for the
Greek words. The nightmare and the shock of sudden waking had left him
disorientated and inarticulate. "But yeah, it was the same dream. They chased me
down, and caught me."
"I don't know why it worries you so much," Demetria said, in a tone of concern
rather than exasperation. "You're safe here. They can't touch you."
"I know they can't. It's just - oh, you know, I can't stop thinking about it.
What might have happened, if I hadn't managed to find a way to sneak out of the
country. Or if the Orthodox Church hadn't decided the conscription system was an
affront to human dignity." That was, of course, among the main reasons the Greek
government - like many eastern European nations, but in contrast to most of
western Europe - had objected in such strong terms when Britain had begun taking
young men into custody. As things stood, he couldn't imagine the Greeks allowing
him to be actually seized and hauled back to face conscription in his own
country; the public outcry would be enormous.
"But it didn't happen," she said gently. "You got away. You can stay here as
long as you need to, until your government admits it made a mistake. It has to
happen eventually."
"I'm not so sure. Have you been reading the papers? Or looking at the internet
coverage? Nearly half the British public say they're satisfied with
conscription, and another twenty percent or so are unsatisfied only because it
isn't harsh enough. New Zealand just became the latest country to send a
fact-finding mission to Britain to look into the feasibility of setting up their
own system. It's the most successful British invention since the concentration
camp."
"The Americans still haven't decided one way or the other. They're the ones who
really matter."
"Oh, they'll come around. They just have to get over their annoyance at not
having thought of it themselves. Have you heard about the voluntary conscription
camp in Florida? Apparently men are paying through the nose to be locked up and
pushed around by brawny women in uniform. And they're working on getting another
one set up, with male officers."
"Why would a man pay for something like that? Even a crazy American?"
"They seem to find it sexy. I guess I can see the attraction. Being naked in
front of the women, having them touch your body and watch you even when you're
sleeping or showering or on the toilet, just knowing you're completely in their
power. Being hurt by them, having to do stupid, pointless things just because
they say so. It's a masochist's paradise, really."
Demetria sighed. "I don't know about the Americans, but they're just playing at
it. I've seen the real conscripts on the internet, the ones in the English
camps, and they don't look like they're having much fun. Oh, I know they get
turned on sometimes when the officers play with them, but that's just to
humiliate them. The stiffer their cocks get the more they blush and squirm."
"Sounds like you've been keeping a close eye on things," Ed grinned.
"It's all your fault," she giggled. "I've acquired a taste for naked
Englishmen." She leaned close and kissed him in that light, flirtatious way of
hers. Ed was beginning to feel much better.
"But if you go looking through the archived footage on the conscription website,
you'll see what I mean," said Ed. "There's this one clip in particular of a guy
being taken into custody - that Asian tennis player, Mavinder somebody, who
seemed to think he could get out of it just because he's such a celebrity. I
suppose they posted the clip to show how impartial they were. Anyway, it's
pretty rough. You see these two policewomen storm into the hotel room where he's
hiding, pepper spray him, handcuff him, and drag him kicking and screaming into
the back of a van, with a couple of other prisoners. It skips ahead to the
police station, and you see them go through a bit of paperwork and then take the
men into a bare little room for their strip search. They take off their cuffs,
and then this absolutely enormous blond woman yells at them to get their clothes
off. Mavinder refuses at first, so she slaps him around until he decides he'd
better do as he's told - it doesn't take long. But when he pulls down his pants
you see his penis is just rock hard, and dripping right there on the floor of
the strip search room. Everyone laughs, even the other conscripts, and Mavinder
bursts into tears. And then the clip ends. But I'm sure the whole process of
being handcuffed and dragged to the station and beaten into submission when he
wouldn't strip turned him on, no matter how much he might have hated it. That's
the kind of thing I'm talking about."
"I'll have to look for the clip sometime," she murmured. "So what about you, Ed?
Does it turn you on? Do you secretly want the big, tough conscription officers
to drag you to the station and make you take off all your clothes?" Her voice
dropped to a whisper. "Is that why you always wake up from that dream with a
huge erection?"
"Yeah, maybe. I - it sounds so silly, but - I just don't know. Does it matter?
They can't come after me here anyway, you said so yourself."
"I want to find out. Here, Ed, close your eyes."
"Demetria, is there any point to this?"
"I just want to understand the way you really feel about all this. Now imagine
you and I are sitting downstairs, maybe relaxing after you get back from
teaching your English lessons-"
"Demetria, I really -"
"Shh. And they burst in. Big women, strong women, maybe three or four of them.
Blond, like the one in the video clip. Really tough bitches. They tell you to
come with them, but you don't want to, of course. You're frightened. So they
grab you, right there at the dinner table, and drag you to your feet. One of
them pats you down while another puts handcuffs on you, tighter than they need
to be. I watch, but I know I can't do anything to help you. They drag you to a
car waiting outside, and bundle you in. They laugh when you try to struggle,
maybe give you a slap or two to make you quiet down. They tell you there's a
plane waiting at the airport, and that you're going to be locked up safe with
the other boys in just a few hours, naked and helpless. But it's a long way to
the airport, and they decide to have a bit of fun with you. One reaches inside
your shirt and pinches your nipples, just to see if she can make you squeal" -
and Demetria actually did pinch him, though not very hard - "and the other one
in the back seat with you sticks her hand down your pants, and finds..." Her
hand closed suddenly around his very hard, very stiff penis. Ed gasped.
"Okay, I'll admit it sounds kind of sexy when you talk about it like that, but
if it was actually happening -"
"Maybe you'd like it even better. Should I call that place in Florida?"
Ed laughed nervously. "I doubt they'd even let me into the country. And besides,
that's just the Disneyland version of conscription."
"The what?"
"A simplified, sanitised adaptation."
"Oh. But I think we have to do something about this, don't you? Dreams are
supposed to be a reflection of our desires, as well as our fears. Will it really
take cuffs around your wrists, and welts on your bottom, to make you happy?"
"I'm happy here, Demetria. I like Athens, in spite of the smog and the traffic."
"You're happy, except that you have sexy nightmares about conscription officers,
and spend half your free time watching men being abused on that stupid website.
Don't try to tell me there isn't something wrong."
"What do you want me to do?" he almost snapped. "Go back and turn myself in? I
couldn't stand it. They'd see - they'd see how I reacted to it, and God knows
what they'd do then. Yes, you're right, I have fantasies about being locked up
and tortured by women. But they're just fantasies. I know the real thing would
be completely different. That's why I knew, from the moment they announced
conscription, that I had to escape it one way or another. I just had to."
"And you did, of course. But you didn't escape me."
"What?"
"Shut up." She grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head; he could have
broken free if he'd really wanted to, of course, but that was the last thing on
his mind right then. She climbed on top of him, and her tone became very
peremptory. "All right, boy. You want to be a captive? You want to be a
plaything? Let's see if you can please me."
If her moans and gasps of pleasure were anything to go by, he could please her
very well indeed. She released his wrists almost at once, but he kept them in
place, imagining she had bound him; it added an extra spice. Afterwards he found
himself falling back asleep very quickly, fears and fantasies of pursuing
conscription officers forgotten. His drowsy mind only barely registered the
sound of Demetria slipping out of bed and padding barefoot over to the desk
where he kept his computer. And his telephone.
* * *
"You did what?" snapped Connie Tipper. She was almost trembling with rage.
"You heard me," Claire replied levelly. "I helped Lady Briddington take off his
belt, so she could play with his penis and then make him pee in the bowl."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this! And then what? Don't tell me she really made
him drink it?"
"Yes, of course she did. That was the whole point, to make him do it. Don't look
at me like that! Would you rather I lied to you?"
"I'd rather you hadn't helped that sadistic maniac torture my son in the first
place. How could you, Claire? How could you?"
"It was the only way I could help him, as I've only told you about ten times
now. If you'd just shut up and -" Claire broke off and took a deep breath,
suddenly ashamed of herself as she saw tears well up in the other woman's eyes.
This wasn't at all the way she'd imagined the conversation would unfold; she had
expected Richard's mother would be rather grateful that she, Claire, was doing
her best to act as a restraining influence on Lady Briddington. Maternal
instincts, she reflected, could be very inconvenient things.
"Listen, I know it sounds awful," she continued in a much more conciliatory
tone, "but you have to believe me when I say it isn't half as bad as what she'd
been doing to him on her own. Richard told me that every night she would tell
him to urinate in the bowl and then drink it, and when he refused she would give
him electric shocks through that awful control belt until he was screaming and
writhing around on the floor. He was just a victim, an object for her to take
out her frustrations. Now she's begun to see that there are other possibilities
- ways she can enjoy him beyond seeing how loud she can make him squeal."
"What's she going to do? Rape him somehow? Make him drink her piss next, maybe?"
"Maybe. But so far it hasn't been anything that extreme. I've been over there
twice since my first visit, and I'm sure Richard's finding it much more
bearable. He still gets his bottom smacked a lot - she does get a thrill out of
inflicting pain on a man, and I don't think that's ever going to really change.
But she also spends a lot of time playing with his body, and making him pose for
her and do humiliating little tasks. Last weekend she had him all dressed up in
some sort of frilly maid's outfit, polishing the silverware. Quite adorable,
really. It makes him feel like a slave, but I wouldn't call it torture. It's the
kind of thing I hope he'll do for me when he's released."
"Oh, really? Claire, I hope you know what you're doing. I've always imagined
Richard marrying a kind, decent woman who would have no desire at all to treat
him like a slave and enjoy his degradation. If you want to be together, I don't
see why you can't just get married and settle down somewhere instead of playing
these - these perverse games."
"Because he needs a firm hand. I suspect most men do, when you get right down to
it. That's one thing Lady Briddington and I agree on - we're going to do our
best to make sure Richard never becomes the kind of husband who spends half his
paycheck in the pub and the other half on some girl he met there. It's built
into the conscription system, really. When a man's released he's supposed to be
humble, self-disciplined, and automatically deferential to the women in his
life. Lady Briddington's going to give Richard a double dose of that kind of
indoctrination, so that he'll need and want me to take charge of his life from
the moment they give him his clothes back and send him home. But I promise I'll
take good care of him and make him happy, even if I have to punish him once in a
while."
"Punish him?. I still don't like the sound of all this."
"You can see Richard anytime you want this month, you know. Why don't you talk
to him about it? And to her ladyship, for that matter. She can be prickly and
arrogant, but she isn't so bad when you get to know her. Maybe you could even
give her some training suggestions."
"I don't know if I can help enslave my own son. It just seems - wrong."
Claire shrugged. "Do you think your husband would be happier if he got into the
habit of doing what you told him?"
"Well, of course, but -"
"But nothing. It's something to think about, isn't it?"
* * *
"No, you can't finish the chapter! One more word and you can spend the night
hogtied. Come on!" Amanda grabbed the man - a conscript Matthews, she believed -
by the arm and shoved him into line with the others, giving him a crack across
the arse for good measure. A bare week into her two-month stint at Cambridge
University's newly established Advanced Centre for Behavioural Studies, she was
already getting fed up with the way the lads here took liberties and seemed to
expect the best of everything. The researchers insisted that the background
conditions be as stress-free as possible, so as not to confound their
experiments; the men were still kept naked when indoors, but were decently fed
and allowed plenty of free time, and were paired up in fully furnished cells
instead of being made to sleep in the comfortless dormitories that were usual
elsewhere. It was luxury, and it went to their heads. Only the often brutal
character of the experiments themselves kept Amanda from feeling that the place
made a mockery of the whole system.
She and the other officer on duty, a svelte woman called Annette who looked more
like a fashion model than a conscription officer, marched the boys straight to
the cell block. There was no need for last minute trips to the bathroom in a
facility where the cells all had toilets, sinks, and even toothbrushes and
electric razors. Annette lined them up for a quick count while Amanda checked
the monitor set into the wall opposite the line of cells.
"Goldsmith and Andrews, you're coming downstairs with me," she announced. "The
rest of you into your cells. Move!" A single button locked all the doors for the
night; the lights would dim automatically twenty minutes later, though remaining
bright enough for the officers to check on the men visually during their routine
patrols. One of the few strict rules here was that they had to lie quietly in
bed for the full eight-hour sleeping period, to keep them rested for the
experiments.
Amanda turned her attention to the two men who were still standing nervously
against the wall. She curtly gestured for them to turn around, then handcuffed
them, pulled black cloth hoods over their heads and chained them together by the
ankles before taking Goldsmith by the arm and leading them off down the hall.
Conscripts sometimes became very difficult to control when they were brought
into the lab area, and it was best not to take any chances.
A short elevator ride brought them to a cheerless underground corridor lined
with steel doors. The labs were all more or less soundproof, but occasionally a
door would swing open and a moan of pain or babbled plea for mercy would echo
down the hallway.
"Where are we going, ma'am?" Andrews asked worriedly.
"Shut up! Don't be such a baby - you know they won't actually damage you."
A bespectacled woman in a long white lab coat came storming out of one of the
labs, her face flushed and exasperated. She nearly bumped into the blinded
Goldsmith, and gave Amanda a murderous glare.
"Watch where you're going with those boys, would you?" she snapped in a crisp
American accent.
"I'm sorry, doctor. You came out of there rather suddenly."
The other woman sighed and ran a hand through her tousled greying hair. She
looked harried, like a kindergarten teacher on a day when the kids just won't be
quiet. "I'm sorry. It's been a long afternoon. The electrodes kept coming loose,
and now I've got vomit on my lab coat. I wouldn't have thought it was possible
for a man to spew that far."
Amanda wasn't quite sure what to make of this. "No problem," she replied. "I'm
supposed to be taking them to Room B-18. Any chance you could help me find it? I
haven't been here long."
"Obviously not. B section is three floors up. You'll find the doors clearly
numbered."
"Doesn't "B" stand for basement?"
"No, it's behaviour, as in modification of. I think B-18 is where Krista does
her phobia induction work."
Amanda grinned. "Thanks. Sounds like you're in for an interesting evening, boys.
Let's go."
There were three women already gathered in B-18, a very imposing auburn-haired
Amazon of an officer and two researchers. One was a frail, white-haired creature
who might easily have been in her nineties, the other a vivacious brunette
hardly older than Amanda herself. The brunette came forward at once.
"Finally! Let's get them strapped into the chairs to start with. We'll give them
a half-hour or so to get settled before we start applying stimuli. Those
restraints will have to come off, of course." She directed Amanda and the other
officer as they guided the unresisting men into heavily constructed chairs and
buckled their arms and legs into place. There were straps for the biceps,
thighs, chest, shoulders and forehead, as well as the wrists and ankles;
obviously they didn't want the men even twitching. Once they were secured the
brunette came forward herself to blindfold them, put headphones over their ears
and sensors on their forearms, and finally force a gag into each man's mouth.
When Andrews wouldn't open up she gave him a peremptory slap, as though quite
used to dealing with that sort of thing.
"We want them helpless and silent, but also relaxed," she explained. "The
headsets will play soothing music, as well as preventing them from hearing our
conversation, and they'll get a light massage from the chair. Once they've
calmed down we can start the stimuli."
"Stimuli?" Amanda echoed.
"Various sounds, most of them quite normal. Running water, people talking, car
engines, animal noises, that sort of thing. The idea is to apply moderate pain
in association with one particular sound, so that the subjects develop a fear of
the sound itself. We've already learned that this is quite feasible, to the
extent that our best subject actually bursts into tears and becomes physically
ill when he hears the blast of a whistle. Unfortunately, he's such a nervous
wreck that he'll be unusable till he's had a few days recuperation. We want to
induce similar auditory phobias in these men, and then see if they'll also
respond to visual cues associated with the sounds. For instance, a few hours of
training over a period of two days should get Goldsmith here to the point where
he displays a very nice terror response to the sound of a barking dog, meaning
measureable physiological cues as well as overt signs like crying, pleading and
trying to break loose. But how will he respond when shown pictures of dogs? Will
his subconscious automatically link the image to the sound, and therefore to the
terror response?"
Amanda was intrigued despite herself. "So how do you produce this "moderate
pain"?"
"Oh, that's Camellia's department." She nodded to the big officer; it seemed
absurd that a six-foot woman with arms like a gorilla's should have such an
effete name. "It actually works better if you vary the exact pain stimulus a
bit."
"Usually I just squeeze their bollocks," said Camellia cheerfully. "Or strap
them across the thighs. I pinch them with pliers when I want to surprise them."
"Camellia should be able to manage, but you're welcome to stay and help if you
have time. It shouldn't be too long before we're ready to get underway."
"Sure, why not?" She was officially off duty for the evening, and this sounded
interesting. "I'm Amanda, by the way."
They shook hands. "Margaret, but everyone calls me Mags. My colleague there is
Izolda, sort of a consultant."
The old woman at the desk waved vaguely. "Much pleasured," she said warmly in a
thick accent that Amanda couldn't quite place.
"Would you like a cup of tea while we're waiting? Or maybe a quick tour around B
section? Camellia can keep an eye on the subjects."
"A tour sounds great. I've only been here a week or so, and I'm curious to know
what kind of research actually goes on around here. Does it all involve
inflicting horrible pain on helpless young men?"
"No, not by any means," Mags replied as they stepped out into the hallway. "You
wouldn't believe how restrictive university ethics committees have become in
recent years. Placing human subjects in any kind of stressful or embarrassing
situation is usually out of the question, whether or not it involves actual
pain. It's ironic that a number of psychological studies that are now regarded
as textbook classics - Zimbardo's prison experiment, for instance, and even
Milgram's work on deference to authority - would never pass muster by today's
standards. Fortunately, these men are slaves, so the standard guidelines are
greatly relaxed. We can hurt them, humiliate them, sexually abuse them, and mess
with their minds all we like, as long as we don't do any permanent damage.
Needless to say, the phobias I induce are more or less cureable.
"So to answer your question more specifically, our experiments run the gamut
from mildly unpleasant to sheer torture. Here in B section most of the
experiments are designed to put the men in an unusual situation and determine
how it affects their behaviour over a period of days or weeks. In there, for
instance" - she nodded to door B-7 - "we have men locked in cells that are
really quite comfortable, but soundproof and totally lightless 24 hours a day.
It seems to be gradually altering their activity cycles."
Amanda was more interested in a window a bit further down the hall, through
which she could see what looked like a comfortably furnished sitting room. There
were three naked men lounging on sofas, each with an officer seated beside him.
All six of them seemed to be calmly conversing.
"What's going on in there? Are they having some sort of break?"
Mags chuckled. "Far from it. That room has developed a very sinister reputation
among the conscripts, believe it or not. Just watch for a few minutes - it's
one-way glass, of course."
Amanda did, puzzled. For two or three minutes, nothing seemed to be happening.
The officers were all talking and laughing quite animatedly, the men nodding
along and apparently contributing much less to the discussion. Then one of them
slouched lower in his seat, and his head sagged forward toward his chest. The
officer beside him immediately slapped him hard across the face, and forced him
back upright. She shook his shoulders and seemed to be speaking to him harshly,
then went back to the conversation as though nothing had happened. Amanda looked
at Mags in utter bemusement.
"They're being kept awake," Mags explained. "It's been almost seventy-two hours
now. They're not allowed to nod off even for a second. If the last couple of
runs are anything to go by, we should be getting hallucinations and panic
attacks very shortly. At that point the men get put in restraints, and we start
using more robust measures to keep them awake. Spraying them with cold water
usually does the trick, or one can put a knotted thread through a nostril or
earlobe and tug on it as needed." Amanda imagined the sudden, tearing pain, and
actually shuddered.
Mags gave a short laugh. "Nasty, isn't it! That was Izolda's idea. She's been a
great help in designing many of these experiments. She's one of the few people
in the country with practical experience in this sort of thing, you know."
"Practical experience! Where on earth could she have picked it up?"
Mags actually glanced up and down the hall before answering in a hushed tone.
"We try not to talk about it too much. She's originally from Budapest, but let's
just say she got her degree at the Humboldt-Universitat zu Berlin in the
mid-nineteen-thirties, and was based there for the first decade or so of what
has been a brilliant career in experimental psychology. She's really a very
nice, grandmotherly sort of person, and she has all kinds of wonderful ideas for
things we can try with the conscripts."
"I can imagine. This must be a fun place to do your research."
"Oh, it's a wonderful opportunity. We have women from all over the world working
here, eager to do things their own countries would never condone. Over in this
room, for instance, we're trying to alter sexual behaviour patterns. We have a
dozen very masculine, heterosexual men locked up together in a luxurious little
suite full of homoerotic pornography, with absolutely no privacy. They're nude,
of course, and they just can't get away from each other's bodies - the toilets
are in full view, and there's only two very big beds for the twelve of them,
with no blankets or anything to hide under. In the beginning they'd take turns
sleeping, or some would go on the floor, but now they all curl up together quite
happily. I don't think it'll be long before it starts to look like a Roman
bathhouse in there."
"At which point I suppose you'll have them dragged back to the cell block, where
there are rules about that sort of thing," laughed Amanda. "Pretty diabolical.
But do you go the other way? Try to get faggots interested in women?"
"Oh, of course. Although that actually seems to be a little more difficult,
oddly enough. We'd like to try bestiality, too, but even here we're not allowed
to do that. It would violate the rights of the animals, you see."
"Life's full of disappointments. Even so, this sounds like it's going to be an
interesting place to work."
"Are you here long, then?"
"Until February. Then I'm supposed to go help train conscription officers. We'll
need more and more as men continue to enter the system, until we release the
first batch and the numbers level off. We have a contingent of Japanese ladies
joining us, too, so that they can go home and start up their own conscription
system."
"I suppose they practice on actual conscripts?"
"Yes, but not right away. They start their training by turning themselves in at
Intake Centres, and for the next week we take their clothes away and treat them
just like conscripts. It's supposed to give them an understanding of what it
will be like for the men. Afterwards they get physical training, and learn
proper techniques for handling the conscripts and taking them through the daily
routine. At first they practice on each other and male volunteers, like we had
to, but after a couple of weeks they'll be ready for real conscripts."
"Did you go through all that? Being treated like a conscript, and everything?"
"Oh, of course. Only I was part of the original recruitment of conscription
officers, so when we went to the local Intake Centre there were female prison
guards and soldiers waiting for us. It seemed almost like a game at first,
getting frisked and checked in and hearing all sorts of dire threats about how
miserable they were going to make our lives. They sounded like drill sergeants
in a bad war movie. Even when I was being strip searched and put in chains, I
didn't really take it seriously. Things were happening so fast, there was hardly
time to be frightened. But then we had a long ride to the training camp, and I
was sitting there on the bus beside another naked woman with the chains digging
into my wrists and ankles, and suddenly my nose started to itch. I wanted to
scratch it, but I couldn't, because my hands were cuffed to a belt around my
waist. I think that was when I realised what I was really getting myself into. I
couldn't get over the thought that there was absolutely nothing I could say or
do that would make them let me take care of that damn itching; it was such a
little thing, and it made me feel so helpless. And after that - well, it was
pretty bad. I guess we had it a bit easier than the men do, because after all it
was other women ordering us around and punishing us, but even so it was pretty
tough. And humiliating. This greasy lesbian prison guard took a shine to me, and
I had to put up with her groping and pinching me every time she had a spare
moment. It's funny, though - now that I'm the one who gets to do the groping and
pinching, among other things, I'm glad I had to go through all that. It gives me
a sense of how all this feels to the men, and of course I can use that against
them."
"I'm still glad I never had to put up with it, thank you very much," Mags
smiled. "It sounds even worse than being an undergraduate at Oxford. But you can
take an indirect revenge on the lads - it's time we were getting started."
Back in the lab, Mags checked the sensors. "Nice slow pulse... even
respiration... not sweating much... they're fine. Amanda, why don't you take
Goldsmith, and Camellia can have Andrews. We're going to play a random sequence
of sounds for the next couple of hours, and every time the target sound comes up
- that's the dog for Goldsmith, and a ringing telephone for Andrews - that red
light on the headset will go on. That's your cue, Amanda, to start hurting
Goldsmith, and keep hurting him until the light switches off in four to six
minutes. Like Camellia said, you can strap him, pinch him, squeeze his genitals
- whatever you like. You might want to keep an eye on her at first, to get the
right level of intensity."
"And keep pain constant while light on," Izolda broke in from the desk. "Very
important. It change, you maybe weaken link with stimulus. Hurt him steady."

Amanda grinned. Strapped into his chair, Goldsmith looked so vulnerable, so
perfectly naked. His body was lean and tanned, and tight with muscle. She could
hardly wait to dig her fingernails into those heavy testicles, that thick stubby
cock with its tuft of stiff black hair. It was too bad about the gag; when she
punished a man, she liked to hear him squeal. But when the red light finally
came on, and she grabbed his soft, warm scrotum in her hand and twisted it
mercilessly, she discovered that desperate squirming and muffled whimpers were
also very satisfactory. And she couldn't help but feel a thrill of sheer, savage
delight when tears began to leak from under his blindfold. It was going to be a
long, unpleasant evening for conscript Goldsmith, and he knew it. She just hoped
the dog whose recorded bark warned him of impending pain happened to be a bitch.
* * *
Lady Briddington lay awake in her canopied bed, her mind awhirl with strange,
disturbing thoughts. Her crippled legs prevented the usual tossing and turning
of the restless, but she had subtler ways of expressing her disquiet: plucking
and pulling at her satin nightdress, and twisting the bedclothes into hideous
tangles. She would have to call Sara to straighten them if this went on much
longer.
It was the boy, of course. She simply couldn't take her mind off him. When he
had arrived she had thought he would be a pleasant diversion, and perhaps (she
now admitted to herself) an outlet for certain frustrations. She had not
expected that he would come to lurk constantly at the back of her thoughts, or
that he would rekindle feelings so long repressed that they now seemed unwelcome
and almost alien. Earlier that evening she had had Ms. Bonner and Ms. Reynolds
bring him up to her sitting room, where she and Sara had been preparing for an
exquisite little game, hiding twenty or so sealed envelopes in the unlikeliest
places they could think of. Richard had been divested of his control belt and
made to kneel and rub his nasty thing until it was hard, a ritual that seemed to
humiliate and frustrate him as much as it fascinated her. And then he had to
crawl around looking for the envelopes, with Ms. Bonner and Ms. Reynolds
hurrying him along by smacking his thighs and buttocks with riding crops from
downstairs. Oh, how frantic he had been as he whimpered under the blows, and
squirmed desperately to avoid them! And the henchwomen were appropriately
merciless, never letting up for a moment. When he had found an envelope he had
had to carry it back to her in his teeth, and wait while she opened it and read
the message inside. Some of them had called for him to be spanked, others for
teasing and rubbing his nasty thing, or for those cruel little clamps that he
seemed to hate more than anything else to be fastened on his nipples. Lady
Briddington had carried out all the punishments herself, with great enthusiasm.
At first he'd been brave, but as the pain and humiliation accumulated he'd
sobbed and whined about the unfairness of it all until she'd threatened to have
Ms. Bonner gag him. But there had been one envelope, very cleverly hidden inside
a copy of the collected works of the Bronte sisters, with instructions for Sara
to put his nasty thing inside her mouth and suck on it till he spurted.
It had taken him a long time to find it, but in the end he had succeeded,
although only after going through almost all of the punishment envelopes. In her
mind's eye she could still see him lying pinned on the floor between Ms.
Reynolds and Ms. Bonner, literally trembling with anticipation as Sara knelt
down beside him and slowly lowered her lips to his throbbing shaft. She
carefully swept her long chestnut hair out of the way so that Lady Briddington
could see her mouth pumping up and down on his nasty thing, her fingertips
tickling his scrotum, and finally the white milky stuff oozing from between her
lips as Richard moaned and bucked in place. And Lady Briddington had felt -
peculiar, warm and flushed with a kind of tingling deep in her belly, the way
she felt when Sara gave her those special massages that strayed onto her breasts
and bottom. The way she felt now, lying in bed remembering. It was sexual
arousal, of course - that was what it was called - but knowing the term didn't
mean she had any idea how to deal with it. It was like seeing the name of a
disease in a medical book. Asking Sara about it was out of the question; there
were some things one simply did not discuss with servants.
What had she used to do, when she was so much younger? Her breathing became a
little faster as she hitched up her nightdress and rested her hand at the
junction of her mangled thighs, feeling heat and moisture and the luxuriant
softness of her bush. Curiously, she pressed down a little, and suddenly gasped
and twitched so hard she sent bolts of pain shooting through her legs. She
started a tentative rubbing, exploring herself, and was shocked at the sounds
she found herself making. It was Richard's hand down there, or perhaps his
lips... Yes! Ms. Bonner was behind him, caning him, and she could feel every
moan and whimper of pain in the spasmodic movements of his mouth. He was trying
desperately to please her, knowing that the caning wouldn't stop until she was
satisfied. She was moaning, biting at the sheets - and suddenly Richard was
gone. She was lying in another bed she remembered, a hospital bed, and a big,
sweaty man was on top of her. She was struggling desperately, but he was too
heavy and too strong, and he only laughed at her frantic attempts to push him
away. She couldn't fight him, she couldn't even scream, not with a meaty gloved
hand clamped over her mouth, and he was suddenly crushing her, crushing her
ruined legs, and fumbling between them, and his nasty thing was pounding at her
like a battering ram, and she was bleeding, and she couldn't scream, and he was
laughing and grunting like a rutting baboon under that hood, and she wanted so
badly to get away. He was a monster, a brute, like the filthy drunkards who had
found her moaning under the rubble and run off with her necklace and handbag
instead of trying to help her. Hours more had passed before rescue had finally
arrived, and days after that before they'd been able to get her out of India and
into a decent English hospital. The earthquake had left everything impossibly
snarled up. Were there any men anywhere who weren't brutes, now that her father
was dead? She wanted to be dead. It hurt, it hurt, and she couldn't scream...
And Lady Briddington did scream, over and over until Sara came running to her
bedroom. It was horribly embarrassing, especially since Sara couldn't possibly
have missed the tell-tale wet spot on her nightdress as she straightened the
covers and tucked her mistress in with solicitous care. But the girl didn't say
a word, bless her, and climbed right into the bed and cradled Lady Briddington
in her arms until she finally fell asleep.

Chapter 11

"Richard, look at me."
Reluctantly he raised his eyes to his mistress. Even in her wheelchair, she
towered over him as he knelt naked on the floor. Decked out in her best jewelry
and one of her long black evening gowns, she seemed more elegantly beautiful
than ever, and more regal. Everything about her radiated wealth, power and
sophistication, and Richard was painfully aware that no onlooker could possibly
have mistaken the two of them for anything other than a commanding mistress and
her trembling slave. And he was trembling almost literally, his cheeks hot with
the shame of what lay in store for him.
"I don't understand why you're so nervous about this, dear," she said with a
hint of annoyance in her voice. "You won't be doing anything you haven't done
before."
"But please, ma'am, it will seem so different with all your guests there,"
Richard said earnestly. "I'll be naked in a whole room full of strange women,
and you've already said you'll let them touch me and play with me if they want
to. And punish me, in front of everyone, if they aren't completely pleased with
me. It's different with you - you own me, ma'am, and I'm used to serving you.
But these will be strangers, and they'll be able to see if I cry, or if I get
aroused or - or anything at all. What are they going to think of me?"
She laughed - not one of her sinister chuckles, but a gusty laugh of genuine
amusement. The festive season, or something, had done wonders for her mood
lately. "Really, Richard, you never cease to amaze me. What are they supposed to
think of you, you stupid boy? They'll think you're a helpless little slave,
being hurt and embarrassed for their pleasure, and they'll love every minute of
it. Every one of them has told me she's looking forward to meeting you."
"Please, ma'am-"
"Oh, hush. It won't be so bad if you behave yourself. If you don't, of course,
you may find it to be a rather long and, shall we say, less than enjoyable
evening. I'd hate to have to really thrash you in front of the ladies, Richard.
It would be an embarrassment for me, an indication that your training had been
insufficiently rigorous, and if it becomes necessary you may rest assured that
you won't be sitting down properly for a week. Understood?"
He sighed, bowing to the inevitable. He wanted so badly to scurry back down to
his little cell in the basement and hide from the dozen or so "ladies of the
better sort" who would be descending on the mansion for Lady Briddington's
Christmas party, but it seemed hopeless. "Understood, ma'am," he said quietly.
"Excellent. They will begin arriving very shortly - we must see that you are
properly prepared. Ms. Bonner!" The woman appeared almost instantly, an ominous
bundle of gleaming metal things in her hands. Richard wondered what further
preparation was necessary; he had spent a good part of the afternoon being
bathed and groomed by Ms. Reynolds and Sara, and listening impatiently as they
dithered over what sort of cologne to put on him (he hadn't caught the brand
name, but the stuff smelled flowery, effete, and about as masculine as a
bridesmaid's dress) and how much of his body hair to remove (they'd left his
pubis and underarms alone, but his chest, limbs and bottom were now smooth).
"Begin with the control belt," Lady Briddington directed. "I look forward to
demonstrating all of its functions for the guests. And of course the nipple
clamps." Richard winced as they gripped him, although Ms. Bonner didn't tighten
them as much as usual. He supposed that meant they wouldn't be coming off for
quite some time.
"And try the bells. I want to use them unless they look completely ridiculous -
after all, it's Christmas time. They'll jingle delightfully if we make him dance
for us." Ms. Bonner actually gave him a brief, sympathetic smile as she hooked
the little bells with their long red ribbons onto the clamps. Fortunately they
weren't very heavy, but when Richard was made to take a few experimental steps
they tinkled with every footfall. Lady Briddington giggled and actually clapped
her hands.
"Perfect!" she exclaimed. "It's too bad his hair still isn't long enough for
more ribbons. And now the collar."
Richard sighed and bowed his head as Ms. Bonner padlocked the chain around his
neck. It was a mark of ownership, pure and simple. A metal tag with Lady
Briddington's coat of arms, a silver leopard on a black field, dangled from the
front.
"Turn around, Richard. You really do look marvellous, you know. Don't you think
so, Ms. Bonner?"
"Truly delightful. I'm sure your guests will find him very charming."
"And sexy, if I may say so," said Sara, sticking her head in the door. "But we'd
better send him down - Mrs. Asquith's limousine just came through the gates."
"All right then, Richard, your hour is at hand. Greet each woman at the door,
wish her a Happy Christmas, take her coat, and escort her into the sitting room,
just as you've been practicing. You will answer any questions politely, and of
course submit if one of my guests wishes to touch you. And be sure you tell each
of them that if she finds your behaviour in any way offensive or displeasing I
will be only to happy to have you disciplined to her satisfaction. Are you
ready?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Off you go, and kneel in front of the suit of armour in the hall
downstairs."
He had only been in place for a moment when the doorbell rang, and he jumped to
his feet and pulled it open. Mrs. Asquith turned out to be a hugely fat mountain
of a woman, considerably bigger even than Officer Desalle back at Camp Thatcher,
and her luxuriant fur coat and thick mane of black hair gave her an almost
barbaric appearance.
"Good evening, ma'am, and Happy Christmas," he stammered as she swept into the
hall. "May I take your coat, ma'am?"
The woman shrugged out of it and handed it to him as though accustomed to such
conveniences. She reached out and casually ruffled his hair, as one might pet a
friendly dog. "So you're Gloria's new plaything. Oh, I like those little bells!
I can't wait to get better acquainted - she was always good about sharing her
toys, you know, even as a girl." Her tone was light, but her dark eyes glinted
ominously. Richard had a feeling it was going to be a long evening, even as he
showed Mrs. Asquith into the sitting room and told her nervously that she could
have him beaten if he displeased her.
* * *
Although not unaccustomed to kneeling, Richard was beginning to feel a dull ache
in his legs. The women seemed to have forgotten him for the moment, having
retired to Lady Briddington's spacious parlour for refined conversation and
after-dinner drinks and chocolates. He knelt beside Ms. Felton-Withers'
conscripted slave, a shaven-headed and smoothly muscled young black man who
answered to Aladdin ("He's really called Dudley," his mistress had explained
gaily, "but I thought that sounded silly"), both of them ready to spring into
action if one of the women wanted her glass refilled, or her feet massaged, or a
hard male body to play with. Before dinner the two slaves had been very much the
centre of attention, as they'd been fondled and spanked and made to assume a
whole series of ridiculous and humiliating poses. Lady Briddington had
demonstrated all the functions of Richard's control belt until he'd been moaning
and writhing on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, those damned bells
tinkling with every spasm, and both men had been made to kneel down and kiss
each woman's feet in turn. But some of the novelty had worn off by the time they
went into dinner, and from then on Lady Briddington and her guests had been
treating them more like common servants.
Richard was still not quite sure what to make of the guests. They were eleven
well educated and accomplished women, all white and all very much in agreement
with Lady Briddington's politics. The vast majority seemed to be members of the
Civil Society Party's inner circle, although only one - the corpulent Mrs.
Asquith - actually stood in elections. Several had noble titles, and nearly all
of them gave the impression of being fabulously wealthy; the only real
exceptions were Dr. Lancaster, head of that creepy-sounding research team at
Cambridge that experimented on conscripts, and Mrs. Chesterton, the offical head
of the Conscription Office, both of whom seemed to have been invited as a sort
of reward for their professional efforts. All evening they had been discussing
everything from international politics to great composers to linguistics to the
annoying habits of mutual acquaintances with a familiarity and sparkling fluency
that Richard found almost breathtaking. It had quickly become clear, among other
things, that Mrs. Lewis was a widely admired painter and Ms. Felton-Withers the
owner of one of the largest private butterfly collections in the country. But
for all their brilliance and cultivation, they also struck Richard as being
vain, petty, and hopelessly beholden to a set of social conventions that was as
restrictive as it was elaborate. He wasn't sure whether he ought to be feeling
admiration or contempt.
The conversation had turned, perhaps inevitably, to the conscription system and
its boundless promise for reforming and improving British society. Lady
Briddington was in fine form, holding forth at length on what was clearly among
her greatest passions in life.
"...but as I have been saying all along," she declaimed, "the real challenge is
to ensure that the lessons a man learns during his period of conscription are
not forgotten afterwards. We have got to make conscription the centrepiece of a
whole new system of social standards - deference and even obedience for men, and
an unprecedented assertiveness for women. It really will not do to have young
men return to their reckless, selfish and often destructive behaviour at the
moment of their release. It is imperative that what I have come to think of as
the feminine virtues, such as patience, tact and practical common sense, come to
play a larger part in our national life, both public and private."
"Especially private, I should hope," laughed the blond and wispy Ms. Keating.
"But it's almost inevitable, isn't it? After two years of slavery a young man
ought to know his place. Just look at them." She nodded to where Richard and
Aladdin were quietly kneeling, and Richard dropped his gaze at once.
"Yes, but they're as helpless as little pet lapdogs, and they know it," said Ms.
Felton-Withers. "My Aladdin hardly ever disobeys, because he knows that there
will be immediate and unpleasant consequences. I generally bend him over the
nearest piece of furniture and spank him black and blue, and then send him to
bed without any supper. He's such a darling, the way he squirms and whimpers and
gives me pleading looks with those big dark eyes of his. You're a good boy,
aren't you, Aladdin?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said in his deep, resonant voice.
"But as soon as he's a free man," she continued, "wearing clothes and not
subject to corporal punishment, I'm sure it's all going to change. We've talked
about it, actually, and he tells me that what he's going to do the day he's
released is buy himself a good supply of whiskey and spend the next week or so
making up for the deprivations of conscription. Deplorable, but I'm sure it's a
common attitude among our conscripts. What do you think, doctor? Are there any
young men who don't think that way?"
Dr. Lancaster was easily the least glamorous person present, and had been saying
little. She blinked owlishly behind her thick glasses and leaned forward. "I
think it's really a question of circumstances," she began hesitantly. "The
general trend in our experiments at the Centre has been to show that the
immediate environment is crucially important in dictating behaviour, just as you
said. And especially the social environment. If you tell a young man to perform
some task he finds absolutely nauseating - I won't revolt you with the details
-"
"Oh, do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Asquith. "What do you make them do?"
Dr. Lancaster blushed. "Insert large objects into their anuses, sometimes. Or
swallow a concoction they know will make them violently sick, with cramps and
vomiting - that's a favourite, actually, because we can make them re-ingest the
vomit as a sort of follow-up."
"I instruct Richard to drink his own urine on occasion," Lady Briddington
remarked.
"Yes, that sort of thing. Well, if it's something really awful and degrading -
drinking urine would be a typical example - we've been finding that no more than
ten to fifteen percent of our subjects will carry out the task when firmly but
politely told to do so, even though they know perfectly well that they're likely
to be punished for disobedience. When you have an officer actually standing over
the man with her strap, yelling at him to drink up or else, the percentage of
compliance climbs dramatically, as you might expect. But it still rarely exceeds
forty percent or so. But if you introduce another man, one who has been
pre-trained and will drink urine without hesitation, the subject is much more
likely to be compliant when he sees the other man obeying. And if there are
several pre-trained subjects in the room, compliance becomes almost perfect,
especially with an aggressive officer giving the instructions. A young man
thrust into that situation will readily pick up a bowl of urine and drink it -
something he would never, ever, contemplate doing ordinarily - rather than go
against the trend of the group. You see?"
They were all staring at her blankly. She blushed again and twisted her hands
nervously. "What I mean," she explained hastily, "is that if you want women and
men to adopt new social roles, the easiest way is with a combination of
authority - especially for the men - and positive example. By all means tell
them how you would like them to behave, but also show them how to behave. I
would recommend putting conscripts in the public eye as much as possible, and
making sure they are seen deferring to the officers, and to other women as often
as can be arranged. Show off obedient, polite conscripts in a whole variety of
situations, including some in which they look almost like normal people -
clothed, happy, not obviously abused - except for the fact of their complete
obedience to their female overseers. If this can be done consistently, I think
you'll find that the idea of female authority and male deference will begin to
seem more and more natural to the general public. Men will see conscripts taking
orders, women will see officers giving them, and gradually both sexes will find
themselves imitating the behaviour they're observing, reinforced with positive
messages about the value of female leadership. Just as it's easier to convince a
man to drink urine when he can see others doing the same, it will be easier to
convince them to defer to the women in their lives if they are constantly
bombarded with images of conscripts deferring to authoritative, confident
officers. And when the conscripts themselves are released, they'll find
themselves being released into a society in which they're expected to look up to
women and listen to them, just as they've become accustomed to doing anyway."
Lady Briddington pursed her lips. "I'm not sure I like the 'clothed and happy'
part," she said pensively. "But I suppose it could be arranged on a temporary
basis, if absolutely necessary. All this fits in very well, of course, with our
plans to assign conscripts to a wider variety of tasks. So far we've been
keeping them largely on government projects, with some obvious exceptions." She
lifted her chin toward the two kneeling slaves. "But things have been running
smoothly so far - better than anyone had dared hope, really - and I think we
ought to seriously consider renting large numbers of conscripts out to the
private sector when the next rotation comes around. Corporations in this country
and abroad could pay a fairly small fee for the individual slaves, and rather
more for the services of the officers that would be required to supervise them.
I can imagine their being useful in a whole variety of roles. We could hire them
out as unskilled workers to private factories, as well as the special
government-controlled ones, and some of them could end up waiting tables or
ringing up groceries at the supermarket."
"And working as secretaries and receptionists," Mrs. Chesterton put in. "That's
been working out very well in the Conscription Office, although some of the
female staff can hardly keep their hands off the lads."
"Which only points to the need for brothels," laughed Mrs. Asquith.
"And there ought to be a conscript mud wrestling league, don't you think?"
"They could be painted and chained to the walls in art galleries!"
"Upside down!"
"I think every pub ought to have at least one human dartboard."
"With all this talk of drinking bodily fluids, they could be put in stalls and
used as public toilets."
"Or made to stand around with their arms outstretched in case anyone needed a
coat rack."
"Or forced to pull carts, like little ponies."
"Oh, they're already doing that one," said Ms. Keating nonchalantly, as the
peals of laughter tapered off. "They have them up in Edinburgh - not naked, now
that the weather's colder, but you can still get yourself a ride in a
conscript-pulled rickshaw for a few quid. And you can strap the lad, too, to
make him go faster."
"I have a little cart here that Richard pulls," added Lady Briddington. "He's
built up quite considerable stamina - he can take me round and round the gardens
at a very decent pace. When I want him to really work I bring Sara along for the
ride, in a slightly larger cart."
Mrs. Asquith raised her eyebrows. "I don't suppose a demonstration could be
arranged?"
"Why, I'd be delighted. Ms. Bonner!"
The woman appeared almost instantly. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Take Richard outdoors, will you, and hitch him to my pull cart. You needn't let
him dress - he won't be outside long, and I believe it's a rather mild evening.
The small cart will do, I think - no, hold on a minute, so long as we've got two
carts..." She turned to Ms. Felton-Withers. "Would you mind, dear?"
"Why, I think it's a splendid idea. Surely we must race them?"
"Oh, yes!" chirped another of the ladies, the little brunette whose name Richard
had forgotten. "With the losing man to be thrashed by the winner. Let's all go
out."
Richard exchanged a glance with the other conscript. They were going to race
against each other, naked on a winter's night? And the winner was going to be
made to beat the loser? But there was no time for anything but that one quick
glance of shared apprehension, as Ms. Bonner took each of them by an arm, hauled
them to their feet, and began steering them outside. The ladies were already
sweeping toward the front hall like a flock of vain, brightly plumaged
songbirds, giggling and all chattering at once. Richard felt as though he were
helpless in the power of a mob of demented, overgrown schoolgirls. But
ridiculous as they might seem, he was completely at their mercy, and he shivered
with more than the cold as he stood outside the garden shed watching Ms.
Bonner's capable hands lock a complicated leather harness onto Aladdin's body
and chain his wrists to the rails that extended from one of the pull carts.
There were boots for the black man's feet, and a helmet with attached bit,
blinkers and reins for his head. He looked desperately nervous and uncomfortable
by the time Ms. Bonner warned him to stay put and went over to see to her other
captive. Although Richard had been made to don the harness and helmet for any
number of previous rides in the garden, it still took an effort to hold still as
Ms. Bonner buckled the heavy and unforgiving leather contraption into place
around his naked torso. For once he was thankful for the control belt, which
gave him a bit of protection from the thick strap that came up between his legs;
the beltless and undeniably well-endowed Aladdin seemed to be finding that
particularly unpleasant. He was also glad to be rid of the nipple clamps and
chain collar, which had to be removed before the harness could be properly
attached.
Ms. Bonner disappeared for a moment into the shed, only to emerge with a
formidable looking riding crop. She drove Richard and Aladdin with their empty
carts along the path to Lady Briddington's favourite trail for fast riding, a
straight thoroughfare with a row of cherry trees on either side. It wasn't
paved, but the dirt was level and smooth-packed and the surface kept clear of
the light snow that dusted the rest of the garden. Lady Briddington and her
guests were waiting with undisguised impatience, and there was a chorus of
excited murmuring as the slaves made their appearance.
"Here they are!" announced her ladyship grandly. "I suggest that the race be
from this tree here to the statue of Bacchus at the far end of the lane. The
winning slave will receive a handful of sweets, as an appropriately equine
reward, and will administer two dozen lashes to the losing slave. I have the
perfect implement indoors, rather like a naval cat-o'-nine-tails, with leather
thongs that sting horribly."
"I was hoping we would see a whipping," Mrs. Chesterton exclaimed. She seemed to
have shed any lingering inhibitions about asserting herself in such refined
company. "But surely Richard must have some handicap, to compensate for his
greater experience."
"Perhaps a little extra weight?" Mrs. Asquith suggested archly, slapping her
belly in a surprisingly coarse gesture. She reached out and squeezed the firm
muscles of his shoulder. "Not that it could be expected to slow him down too
much."
"It's not as if my Aladdin is a weakling either," Ms. Felton-Withers protested.
"But I suppose it's only proper that Lady Briddington and I stand aside and
leave the driving to others." She turned to Mrs. Asquith. "If you will take
Richard, who is to have Aladdin?"
They all wanted to, of course, but in the end Ms. Felton-Withers was invited to
decide and unhesitatingly chose the diminutive brown-haired woman who had been
so enthusiastic about the race in the first place - "because I know you'll give
him plenty of encouragement, Annie dear." It was also quickly decided that the
owner of the winning slave would have the privilege of borrowing the other man
for a week in January.
"And the winning driver?" asked Mrs. Asquith with another of her mischievous
smiles.
"Why, a lock of hair from each slave, as a memento," laughed Ms. Keating.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" asked Ms. Felton-Withers dryly. She ran a
hand over her slave's smooth scalp where it showed between the leather bands
that made up the helmet, but Ms. Keating only grinned wider.
"Not from their heads, silly."
"Then it's settled," laughed Lady Briddington. "Locks of hair for the winning
driver, borrowing privileges for the winning owner, and candy for the winning
slave. And lashes for the losing one, of course." She gave the men a cold smile.
"How do you feel about that, Aladdin? Would you like to make my Richard squeal a
little?"
"More than I'd like the other way round," he mumbled.
"Stupid boy. That's not what I asked. Do you want to hurt Richard?"
"No, ma'am!"
"How humane of you. And what about you, Richard? Would you like to leave some
nice, painful stripes on your colleague's bottom?"
"No, ma'am," he answered, in a more subdued voice.
"Hmm. Well, I should warn both of you that the winner will have a decision to
make - either he can administer two dozen lashes to the loser, as we ladies have
agreed, or each of you can take three dozen from Ms. Bonner. Perhaps you might
think about that as you run. Mount up, ladies, and wait for my signal - no, Ms.
Keating's, for the sake of neutrality. Please encourage the lads as much as you
wish. You'll find long leather straps in the carts that should be quite adequate
to the purpose."
The lane was easily wide enough for the two men and their carts to stand
abreast. Richard stole a sidelong glance at Aladdin's muscular body, and felt
more nervous than ever. The fellow might not be used to pulling pony-carts, but
he was certainly in excellent shape. Bloody hell. He knew the whip Lady
Briddington had mentioned, and he knew how badly it would sting the flesh of his
back and bottom, especially in the hands of another strong young man. He felt a
surge of determination even as he felt Mrs. Asquith settle her considerable bulk
into the cart and give a sharp backward tug on the reins, hurting his mouth and
neck a little, as though to leave no doubt about who was in control. The other
women hurried away to the statue that was to mark the finish line, and the
moment they were settled Ms. Keating ceremoniously took off her scarf and waved
it vigorously. Mrs. Asquith's strap, necessarily longer than the ones at Camp
Thatcher and therefore somewhat more severe, snapped down on his left shoulder,
and he surged forward.
Mrs. Asquith felt heavier, if anything, than Lady Briddington and Sara put
together. The straps of the harness cut painfully into his flesh, and Mrs.
Asquith kept up a steady rain of stinging blows on his upper back and shoulders
no matter how hard he pulled. Despite the cold, sweat began to trickle down his
sides and into his eyes almost immediately as he strained and struggled and
panted. The track was soft with the damp of half-melted snow, and the wheels of
the awkward cart were digging in a little; for all his desperate exertions, an
encumbered man could have outpaced him at a leisurely trot. Even Aladdin was
pulling inexorably ahead, though so far only by a couple of metres. The other
man's inexperience was showing in the way he wasted energy by shifting his torso
around in a futile effort to gain leverage, but his cart and driver were both
considerably lighter than Richard's and the reduced weight seemed to be making
all the difference. Richard felt Mrs. Asquith lay on again with her strap,
making the cart jerk painfully against his shoulders as she threw her bulk
behind the blow.
"Hurry up, you lazy little bastard!" she shouted gaily. "I thought you knew how
to do this!"
"Please, ma'am," he panted, "I'm doing my-"
"No excuses! Shut up and pull!"
It didn't matter how much he tried to spur himself on with thoughts of what the
whip would feel like on his naked body, or even how furiously Mrs. Asquith
cracked her strap and screamed abuse at him. He was pulling with every ounce of
force he could muster, and still the gap between Aladdin's cart and his was only
getting wider. The other man was obviously tiring, but so was he, and they were
getting close to the finish line. He could now see the expressions on the faces
of the waiting ladies; Dr. Lancaster looked pensive and uncomfortable, as though
she disapproved of the whole business, but most of the others seemed excited and
even a bit giddy. Several of them were clapping and shouting encouragement to
the straining men, and Ms. Felton-Withers was actually jumping up and down and
waving her hat. Lady Briddington was far too dignified for that sort of
exuberant spectacle, but Richard could feel her eyes boring into him. As he
slipped further behind his rival, pace by hard-fought pace, her smooth white
face became increasingly tense and exasperated. Could a diversion in the garden
really be that important to her? But he had learned to read his mistress quite
well over the past few weeks - she had virtually become the centre of his world
- and her growing consternation was unmistakable. To his surprise, it stung him
far more than the lash, and with a hoarse shout he threw himself against the
cruel harness with more strength than he had imagined remained to him.
Like a man in one of those classic nightmares of running desperately and
advancing only at a snail's pace, Richard dragged the weight of the cart and the
bellowing Mrs. Asquith forward. He came abreast of the other cart, saw the hard
set of the woman called Annie's face and the lithe motion of her arm as she
lashed out vengefully with the strap, and finally drew up beside the sweaty and
straining Aladdin. Both of them were puffing and blowing, both staggering in
their tracks, but now Richard was creeping ahead. Aladdin glanced at him
venomously and groaned with redoubled effort, but now momentum was on Richard's
side and Lady Briddington's suddenly beaming face gave him all the inspiration
he needed to maintain his pace. As he passed the statue of Bacchus he was a good
two metres ahead. Mrs. Asquith reined in sharply and he came to a halt as
quickly as he could, falling to his knees with his wrists still shackled to the
cart rails. Ms. Bonner came quickly forward to release him.
"Well done, Richard," said Lady Briddington almost warmly. "You have performed
splendidly. Shall we go in, ladies?" They started for the house at once, Ms.
Felton-Withers berating her boy all the way in a bantering, good natured tone.
She seemed to be taking the whole thing far less seriously than Lady
Briddington.
"I suppose the whipping ought to take place in my upstairs sitting room," Lady
Briddington mused. "I have a special bench set up there for when quick, sharp
correction becomes necessary. The facilities in my Playroom are better, but I
would hesitate to inflict the gloomy atmosphere on visitors. The place is a
veritable torture chamber."
"Oh, do show us!" someone cooed, predictably.
"If you insist," she sighed with mock regret. "That way we can go in the
servants' entrance - it will save the lads' tracking mud into my front hall."
There was much giggling and whispering as they entered the Playroom, but Lady
Briddington was quick to call the gathering to order. The prospect of corporal
punishment never failed to excite her.
"I see no reason to delay the punishment," she said grandly. "Richard, will you
go ahead and thrash him, or shall I have Ms. Bonner do both of you? No, don't
look at Aladdin! This is your decision."
Richard wished he could consult, for form's sake, but supposed it wasn't really
necessary. If it was to be two dozen from Richard or three from the formidable
Ms. Bonner, Aladdin's preference would be obvious. He didn't like the idea of
beating another man (a woman, come to think of it, might have been another
matter, after all he'd been through) but the thought that he would actually be
doing his victim a kind of backhanded favour gave him comfort.
"I'll do it, ma'am," he said in a low voice.
"I rather thought you would. All right, then, take him over to the bench."
Richard nodded to the bench and motioned Aladdin toward it, but Lady Briddington
shook her head impatiently. "Not like that! You are to administer correction to
him - he is in your charge. Take hold of his arm and lead him over." Richard
sighed, gripped Aladdin just above the elbow, and guided him unresisting to the
foot of the bench. At Lady Briddington's curt nod he pushed the other man
forward and began to buckle the restraining straps around his wrists and ankles.
They would need to be a little uncomfortable to be secure, but there was no need
to pull them painfully tight. It felt strange, fastening another man to the
bench instead of being strapped onto it himself, and when the task was complete
he could hardly take his eyes off his captive's upturned buttocks and tense
thighs and dangling manhood. He knew from experience that a man felt vulnerable
when bent naked over that bench, but he had never quite realised that one looked
very vulnerable as well. Helpless, and ready for chastisement.
"The pubic hair first," Lady Briddington directed. "Mrs. Asquith is entitled to
a lock from each of you. Get down the small scissors from the wall, and do your
own first - I'll let you out of the belt for a moment."
"Oh, couldn't we leave it off?" someone protested as Richard fetched the
scissors. "He'll look nicer if he's properly naked."
"Why, certainly." She touched a button and the belt unlocked; Richard took it
off carefully and handed it to his mistress. At her command, he snipped off a
tuft of hair from above his penis just as Ms. Bonner reappeared with a little
pink ribbon to tie it into a bundle and present it to the beaming Mrs. Asquith.
"Now get some from Aladdin," said Lady Briddington. "From above his nasty thing,
just as with yours." He hesitated, trying to figure out an angle that would
allow him to touch the other conscript's genitals as little as possible. Aladdin
was waiting tensely, his buttocks clenched.
"Oh, just grab it and lift it aside," snapped Mrs. Asquith. "I want my lock."
Richard reluctantly did as he was told, and carefully snipped off a generous
clump of Aladdin's coarse black hair for the other half of her prize.
"And now the whipping!" Lady Briddington proclaimed. "Take down the dread
instrument from the wall - you know the one. Take a practice swing or two." The
whip felt surprisingly light; the tails, rather more than nine of them in fact,
hissed menacingly as they swept through the air. "Good. You're a natural, my
dear. Remember, two dozen lashes, and you'll be punished if you lose count. Try
to distribute them more or less evenly among his buttocks, his thighs and his
upper back. This whip is not particularly severe, and I expect you to strike
each and every blow with nearly your full strength. I want to see tears and hear
screaming. You may begin at once."
Richard moved into position beside the foot of the bench and measured his
distance, feeling awkward and a bit horrified at what he was about to do. But he
had no doubt that he'd be severely chastised himself if he didn't do a proper
job on the poor man, so he gritted his teeth and brought the whip down hard
across Aladdin's buttocks. There were excited murmurs from the ladies, but
Aladdin only gasped and jerked in his bonds. He glanced over his shoulder, and
Richard was surprised to see rage and defiance in the other man's face. It was a
proud, almost taunting expression, as though Aladdin were daring Richard to just
try breaking him. And it made Richard furious. Didn't the idiot realise they
were in this together? Almost without thinking he struck three times in quick
succession, quite hard, and felt grim satisfaction when Aladdin gave a little
whine of pain. All of a sudden it was surprisingly pleasant to be holding the
whip for a change, even if the victim did happen to be male. He was glad Lady
Briddington had told him explicitly to strike hard. He brought the whip down
again and again, and smiled and winked at the ladies when Aladdin began to plead
for mercy. He was shocked at himself, but the other man's tears, the futile
writhing of his powerful body, were almost... delicious. And when he gasped
"Richard, please! Please stop hurting me!" Richard felt a thrill of sadistic
delight at hearing his name spoken in that abject tone. He was almost sorry when
he sent the tails snapping across his victim's thighs for the twenty-fourth
stroke, a particularly vicious one. He immediately lowered the whip, though.
"Well, Richard, I am impressed," said Lady Briddington. "Did you enjoy that, my
dear? Remember that you're not allowed to lie to me."
"I suppose I did, ma'am," he said reluctantly. "In a way."
"Your nasty thing is quite stiff. I think you enjoyed it very much indeed.
Perhaps you'll get another chance when I borrow the unfortunate boy for a week -
we shall have to agree on a date, Barbara. But for now, Richard, get over here
and kiss the floor, to remind you of your station in life, and then put the whip
back. Time to start being a properly humble slave again." He obeyed, a bit
reluctantly, accepting the humiliation but hating every instant of it.
"Could Aladdin be untied now?" Ms. Felton-Withers asked with a touch of concern.
She hadn't seemed to enjoy the beating much, unlike the other ladies; even Dr.
Lancaster had been flushed and excited.
"Why, of course," Lady Briddington replied magnanimously. "That's your job,
Richard. Tell me, Aladdin, are there any hard feelings?"
"Richard's the one with the erection," laughed the irrepressible Ms. Keating.
"A poor choice of words. Any feelings of resentment, shall we say, toward your
fellow slave?"
"No, ma'am," he said half-heartedly, as he rose to his full height.
"Delighted to hear it. Then I think the two of you had better hug and kiss, by
way of reconciliation and for our amusement. Go ahead, put your arms around each
other. And stop holding your hips apart like that! It's not like you'll catch
anything just by rubbing against another man's groin." Richard grimaced as he
reluctantly embraced Aladdin's sweaty, welted body, and felt his still
half-erect penis poking against the other man's limp member. And of course the
ladies insisted that their male toys kiss right on their lips, and indulge in a
little mutual tongue-sucking. To his horror, Richard found that his erection
wasn't disappearing; in his state of near-perpetual sexual deprivation, even
male flesh was enough to arouse him. Aladdin seemed to be getting a bit excited,
too. One part of him was revolted, but another was sorry when they were finally
told to step apart.
"Brotherly love," announced Lady Briddington, "is so perfectly sweet and
becoming."
* * *
Richard had hoped he would be allowed to relax in a tub of warm water after the
party, as he sometimes was when he had done well at a difficult task. He was
sure that Lady Briddington was pleased with him, and she had insisted on feeding
him his handful of sweets with her own delicate fingers. But instead Ms.
Reynolds rushed him through the task of clearing the dinner dishes and
straightening up the sitting room, and then took him upstairs for a hasty
shower. Sara bustled into the bathroom moments later to rub him down with a
towel and help him make himself presentable, always an indication that he would
be required to serve his mistress. It was now a little past midnight, and being
sent to her so late in the evening was unusual in the extreme. Lady Briddington
was a woman who kept civilised hours. Did he dare hope that she wanted to give
him some further reward for his evening's work? Richard waited and wondered
apprehensively as Sara brushed his hopelessly unruly hair, ran a razor over his
face, and dabbed on a little cologne. She stepped back and looked him over
critically, as was her habit, then turned to Ms. Reynolds.
"He's ready."
"Where's his belt?"
"She said to leave it off. You can take him as he is."
"Right. Come on, Richard." Ms. Reynolds was nearly always a little rougher with
him than Ms. Bonner, and she hauled him to his feet and jerked his arms behind
him to march him out of the bathroom, down the hall and up a second flight of
stairs, the ones that led to Lady Briddington's private apartments. Waiting on
the landing were Claire and his mother. Richard swallowed hard and blinked,
wondering for one stupefied moment if they were figments of his imagination. But
then he felt their hands on his arms, and heard Claire's voice thanking Ms.
Reynolds and telling her they would "take charge of him now". They were real,
all right.
"Claire? Mother?" he asked nervously. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking you to your mistress," his mother said sharply. "You know you're not
allowed to talk, Richard." He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that
tone from her - not since his mid-teens, certainly. Her grip on him was every
bit as firm as Claire's, and his nakedness didn't seem to bother her in the
least. She seemed a completely different woman from the soft, doting mother he
had left behind when he had walked into the Intake Centre, and the change was
disconcerting, almost frightening.
But perhaps not surprising, now that he thought back to her visit nearly two
weeks ago. She had seemed ill at ease and glanced constantly at her wristwatch,
as though afraid she wouldn't have time to get through what she wanted to say to
him, but had nevertheless spent most of their allotted half hour in completely
inconsequential chatter - the weather, the latest news from her gossip circle,
that sort of thing. But finally she had looked him in the eye and broached the
subject that was really on her mind, and he remembered that last bit of the
conversation almost word for word.
"Richie, I've been hearing some strange things from Claire," she had said
slowly. "She says - oh, I don't know how to put this, but she says that after
your time with Lady Briddington and the rest of your conscription you'll have
been somehow moulded into a perpetual slave, or something. She says that you're
already learning that you can only really be happy with a woman providing
discipline and telling you what to do, and she tells me that after you're
released you're going to be more like a slave to her than like a husband, in
spite of being legally married. And she tells me that you want this as much as
she does. It all sounds so unnatural to me, but she suggested I go ahead and ask
you, and I suppose I must. Is this really what you want, Richie love?"
He had been at a loss for words. He remembered blushing, looking at the floor,
mumbling something completely incoherent. It wasn't something he could have
comfortably discussed with anyone, let alone his own mother.
"Please, Richie, you need to give me a proper answer," she had continued
patiently. "It's frightfully important. If you say no, I'll do my best to talk
Claire out of it, but I think you might have to let her go altogether. She
really does seem to have her heart set on enslaving you, or whatever you want to
call it. But if you agree, I'm going to everything I can to help her. I don't
know if I like the idea of you giving up your freedom to her, maybe forever, but
if it's what you want I can at least see that it's done properly. I'll tell her
things about you, anything I think might be useful, and I'm afraid that includes
some things you'd probably rather were kept private. I'll suggest ways for her
to train you and make you obey, after you're released, and I'll make sure my
house has whatever equipment she needs to keep you in line for when the two of
you come to visit. If she wants to leave you with me and go travelling on her
own, or something - or even with another man - I'll keep you under discipline
and enforce whatever rules she has imposed on you. I won't pretend I'll find any
of this easy, but if it's what you want, I'll do my best."
"You said you didn't know if you liked the idea," he had replied hesitantly,
stalling for time. "What do you really think, mother? If I agree, will I be
making a terrible mistake?"
"I think - Richie, it doesn't matter what I think. This is the most important
decision of your life, and you need to make it on your own."
"All right, then. I know it sounds insane, but I do want to be Claire's slave. I
trust her judgment more than my own, on most things. And when she helps Lady
Briddington train me it feels natural to obey and submit to her, even when I
hate what she's doing to me at the moment. I want to be hers, and if you can
help her - well, that's wonderful, mother."
"You're sure, Richard?"
"Yes."
"All right, then. I'll have to call Claire this evening."
And that had been all. But even after that almost surreal conversation, he had
not imagined for a moment that his mother would ever be physically present
during his training. But now she was holding his arm with one hand and knocking
on the door of Lady Briddington's bedroom with the other.
"Come," called his mistress' voice from within, and he found himself being
bustled through the doorway. The room glowed with soft candlelight, and Lady
Briddington was an ominous shadow in her wheelchair.
"I'm glad you won our little contest in the garden, Richard. I so badly wanted
to be the only one to beat you today. Come over here and lie across my lap."
Released by the other women, he obeyed at once. "Lying across her lap" really
meant bending over one arm of her wheelchair, so that his rump made an easy
target for her hand, or more often one of her hairbrushes. But tonight she
seemed to want the intimacy of a bare-handed spanking. Her palm caressed the
soft flesh of his buttocks, and even crept around to fondle his cock and balls
where they pressed uncomfortably against the side of the chair. She had become
quite practiced at this, and his cock sprang to life almost immediately.
Satisfied, she raised her hand and struck.
The pain wasn't at all bad compared to being hit with a leather strap, or one of
her canes, or the whip he'd used on Aladdin earlier that day. Even the
hairbrushes were worse. But there was something peculiarly humiliating about
being draped over her lap and smacked on the bottom like a little child, and
about the way the closeness of her body aroused him even as she made him suffer.
The element of humiliation seemed to literally add an extra sting to the blows,
and it was not long before he began to tremble and whimper in pain, and then to
cry. But with his first real sob Lady Briddington stopped the spanking at once
and rested her hand lightly on his bottom.
"Poor, dear, boy. I'm very hard with you, aren't I?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And today especially. I made you serve all those strange women, and pull Mrs.
Asquith in that cart you hate so much. I'm sure your muscles will be sore for
days, dear. And part of you might have enjoyed beating that other unfortunate
slave, and even kissing him, but I know part of you certainly did not. You've
suffered a great deal since you woke up this morning, pet. And do you know how
I'm going to reward you for all that?"
"Please, ma'am, please don't hurt me," he replied almost automatically. "If I've
displeased you -"
"No, you haven't displeased at all. You did very well, every single minute of
it. My guests were all most impressed. But because I'm cruel, your reward for
all that suffering will be to be used by me, thoroughly and intimately, with no
concern whatsoever for your own enjoyment. Tonight, Richard, I am truly going to
make you my slave." She lifted something from the carrying pouch attached to the
chair, and a moment later he felt a leather collar being buckled around his
neck. A collar with an attached metal chain. Lady Briddington beckoned to his
mother, who stepped forward at once, and handed the chain to her.
"Lock the boy to one of my bedposts, please, until he is wanted." She did it at
once, and to Richard's surprise pushed him gently but very firmly to his knees,
without being told. He watched in apprehensive silence as Claire and his mother
lifted Lady Briddington between them from her wheelchair and laid her on the
bed. With their help she began to undress, not bothering to conceal herself from
his hungry gaze. He had never seen her less than fully clothed, and he watched
in fascination as the pale, perfectly formed globes of her small breasts emerged
from beneath her long gown. She was more beautiful than he had dared to hope.
And then he saw her legs. From the upper thighs down her body was a mutilated
mess of shattered bone and twisted flesh, hardly even human. The grotesqueness
of it made a mockery of her classically sculpted face and torso, and of the
delicate bush of damp golden hair between her thighs. No wonder she always wore
those long, opaque skirts.
"Ma'am, I had no idea," he gasped. "I'm so sorry..."
"You will be if you speak out of turn again," she replied, but halfheartedly,
and there was a little catch in her voice. "The leash, please, Connie." She took
it in her right hand, and used it to draw Richard to the bed.
"Kneel, to begin with, and kiss my breasts." She sounded almost nervous, but he
was only too happy to bury his face in that ivory flesh. He licked slowly around
her nipples, remembering what Officer Desalle had enjoyed back at Camp Thatcher,
and she gave a very unladylike moan of pleasure, almost a snarl. She jerked on
the leash, forcing him down between her thighs.
"Careful," Claire warned in a near whisper. "You can't put any weight on her
legs at all." That seemed to go without saying. He leaned forward carefully and
kissed right at the top of her pubic hair, then began licking his way along her
moist slit as she sighed and writhed under his touch. But she pulled him away
when he tried to slide his tongue inside her.
"No!" she almost screamed. "I'm not ready yet. I want to finish off with your
nasty thing - with your penis, that is, Richard. With your cock. Claire, will
you please prepare him?"
Claire grasped him roughly and slid a condom over his stiff shaft. "Be good for
her, and go slowly," she hissed in his ear. "If you spoil this for her I swear
I'll skin you alive at the first opportunity. She's never done it before, except
once when she was raped. Get on top of her, and keep your legs outside hers."
Guided by Claire's hands and the pull of the leash, Richard mounted his
mistress. She looked more nervous than ever, but also volcanically aroused, and
strangely possessive. She actually reached down to seize his "nasty thing" - he
wondered if she had finally dropped the childish term for good - and steer it
inside her. He paused at the threshold, took a deep breath, and pushed slowly
forward, carefully so as not to hurt or alarm her. But from her feral cry of
pleasure and the way her fingernails dug into his shoulders, he sensed he had
little to worry about. He began to fuck her, gently at first but with a
gradually increasing tempo, and with every stroke she pumped her hips eagerly
upward to meet him. Claire and his mother, watching from beside the bed, both
looked quite pleased with the proceedings. And Lady Briddington reached out with
her free hand to clutch spasmodically at Claire's wrist as she screamed out the
first glorious orgasm of her adult life, and as Richard felt the condom fill
with his seed. He withdrew and collapsed on the bed beside her.
"I am going to restrain your hands for the night, Richard," she panted after a
moment, reaching for the handcuffs on her nightstand. "You will sleep here, and
I don't want any untoward touching and groping, either of my body or your own."
Claire slipped the condom off his penis and gave him a quick wipe. "Good night,
Richard. I think you did splendidly."
"Good night. I love you. And Claire, I..."
"Yes?"
He thought back to the Playroom, to the sight of Aladdin's body thrashing and
writhing under the whip. "I won't mind if you want to see Clive again," he
stammered. "And any other bloke you like. I'm yours, but it doesn't mean you're
mine."
She seemed pleasantly taken aback. "Thank you, Richard. You're such a dear. Good
night, now."
They extinguished the candles on their way out, and darkness descended as Lady
Briddington put her arm around him and began to toy absently with his body.
Apparently not all touching and groping was considered inappropriate in this
bed. But before the last candle went out, he saw the look of pure, naked
jealousy Lady Briddington directed at Claire's retreating back.

Chapter 12

"I should have told the bitch to fuck off," said Clive, again. It didn't really
make him feel any better. He could swear aloud as much as he wanted, just like
he could roar down the motorway with his old AC/DC album blasting from the
stereo and make obscene gestures at every bloke who even seemed to be thinking
of passing him, but today it just wasn't helping. It was awfully hard to conjure
a mood of defiant masculinity when you were in the middle of a long, unwelcome
trip that you were making just because your girlfriend had told you to. He
remembered Claire's smug, purring voice on the telephone - "Thank you, Clive,
you're such a dear." It made him sick.
He just couldn't believe the arrogance of the bitch. First there had been that
terse little e-mail last November, simply telling him she couldn't see him or
talk to him any more. No explanation, and certainly no apology. Ever since that
unpleasant surprise he'd been alternately cursing her guts, trying to get back
in touch with her, and simply fuming, all to no avail. His e-mail reply had gone
ignored, or at least unanswered. Same with his increasingly frantic series of
voice messages, and whenever she was in and happened to pick up the telephone
she simply hung up the moment she heard his voice. When he'd come round her
apartment building she'd actually threatened to call the police. He'd backed
off, angrier than ever, but still hadn't been able to get the thought of her
laughing eyes and slender, pale body out of his head. He'd dated a couple of
other women since then, taking advantage of his undeniably good looks and the
slight but noticeable shortage of young men brought on by conscription, but in
comparison to his memories of Claire they'd seemed dull and rather unappealing.
Then, just a couple of days ago - nearly two months after that damned e-mail -
Claire had called. Not with a tearful apology, not with a stammered plea to let
her crawl back into his life, not even with an admission that she'd made a
mistake, but with instructions. He was supposed to get in the car and drive
north to spend the weekend at Amanda's parents' cottage in the Lake District,
where he and Claire had enjoyed a long private tryst once before. Amanda's
parents lived there themselves for a good chunk of each summer, both being
schoolteachers, but the rest of the year they were apparently pretty generous
about letting friends and family use the place. But this time Clive was to
arrive Friday night and to spend the weekend doing as he was told and
experiencing a little "physical discipline". He could imagine what that meant.
No, he didn't need to bring anything except what he was wearing. No, especially
not condoms (she'd laughed at that). And then Claire had said that she'd be
along later, but that Amanda was going to be there the whole weekend, and he was
going to start obeying her the minute he walked in the door.
That was the part that really set Clive's teeth on edge. Claire's little games
could be humiliating and frustrating as hell, but they were also pretty damn
sexy - Claire was just so beautiful, and even when she was being cruel there was
always a playful, affectionate undertone. But Amanda was another matter. Clive
had met her a couple of times last November, with Claire, and had taken an
instant dislike to her blunt, headstrong attitude. He wondered gloomily if all
conscription officers developed that infuriating habit of talking to people,
especially men, as if they expected instant agreement and compliance. And it
wasn't like she was pretty, either. From the neck up she was all right, or at
least she would be if she'd just put on some makeup and let her short brown hair
grow out a little, but her figure was a disaster. Her stubby little breasts were
simply pathetic, and although she wasn't exactly fat she had a solid, heavy
build that compared very unfavourably with Claire soft feminine curves. Combined
with her height, which exceeded his own by at least an inch or so, it made her
look big, bulky and awkward. But her tits were the real problem, her tits and
her attitude. And she was going to be telling him what to do all weekend, and
probably giving him a dose of that "physical discipline" if he didn't play
along.
"I should have told the bitch to fuck off," Clive repeated.
But he hadn't, of course. Even if he had to let Claire dress him up in frilly
female clothes and handcuff him to her bed once in awhile, even if he had to put
up with that ugly cunt Amanda ordering him around and beating him black and blue
all weekend, he would do almost anything Claire asked if it meant she would let
him see her and touch her again. It was humiliating to put it like that, even in
the privacy of his own thoughts, but he was only too aware that it was perfectly
true. All the way from Birmingham he'd been imagining the clean scent of her
hair, the warmth and softness of her firm breasts. Yes, he could put up with
Amanda for the sake of those breasts, although the thought of surrendering
himself to the tender mercies of a real live conscription officer did make him a
little nervous. He'd heard some pretty disturbing rumours about the things they
did to the men in those camps, and the fun they had doing them.
He took a deep breath when he finally pulled up outside the summer home. It was
very much the isolated little place he remembered from last November - he'd been
driving on bare dirt for the past couple of miles, and houses seemed to be few
and far between out here. There was a light on inside, and another car already
parked in front, presumably Amanda's. He stepped out of his own vehicle and
pushed the door closed, the sound shockingly loud in the rural silence. It was
early evening, barely dark, and the first few stars were just beginning to show
overhead. Much as he would have liked to enjoy the fresh air for a few minutes
before starting the evening's ordeal, he thought grudgingly of Claire's
instructions and headed for the door of the little house immediately. He knocked
lightly and stood waiting with his arms folded across his chest against the
winter chill.
Amanda made him wait a minute or two before she pulled the door open. He had
half expected her to greet him in uniform, but she turned out to be dressed very
casually - ugly clothes, of course, old jeans and a sweater that looked a size
too big for her. He could hear the TV going in the background.
"Hi Clive," she said crisply. "Took you long enough to get here. Come on in."
"Hi, Amanda," he replied a bit warily. He had no idea how he was supposed to
behave, aside from following instructions. He stepped inside and pulled the door
closed behind him. "Watching the telly?"
"None of your business. Claire tells me you're a pretty decent cook, is that
right?"
"Yeah, I guess so," he answered, inwardly fuming.
"Good. To start with you can take your clothes off, then, and go make us dinner.
Feel free to use whatever's in the fridge."
He looked at her blankly, wondering if he'd heard right.
"Did you say-"
"Yes."
"But -"
"Right now, Clive."
"Look, I really -" She slapped him. Really hard, and right across the mouth.
Shit, she had an arm. He was too shocked to do anything but stare and put his
hand to his rapidly swelling lip.
"Ow! That really hurt!"
"Good. It was supposed to. Don't make this hard on yourself, Clive. Just do what
I say, without hesitating or asking any stupid questions, and we'll get along
fine. I can start by smacking you around a little if that's what you really
want, but I'd really rather have my dinner. Is that okay with you, or do you
think you need a good thrashing just to establish who's in charge here?"
"Okay, I'll go make dinner. Shit!"
She grabbed his chin between her thumb and finger, hard enough to hurt. "Don't
you dare talk to me that way. I'm just about out of patience with you, Clive.
Are you going to shut up and start doing as you're told?"
"Okay, okay!" What else could he say? She was just so damn sure of herself.
"Good." She released him and stepped back. "Go ahead and strip, then. I want
your clothes piled neatly on that chair." He started to turn around, to salvage
just a little privacy, but she grabbed his shoulder and shook her head. Couldn't
the bitch at least keep her hands to herself? He started to unbutton his shirt,
blushing under her frank, appraising gaze. He kept himself in pretty good shape,
and he usually liked it when women noticed, but even so he felt very
uncomfortable with the way she was openly admiring his body as he shed his
clothing. When he was standing in his underwear he hesitated, and she simply
reached out and pulled them down to his knees.
"Cute little dick you've got there, Clive." She waited for him to pile up his
clothes as instructed, then gave him a hard slap on the arse. "Okay, run along
and put some sort of meal together. I'm starving. And I want real food, not that
low-fat vegetarian kind of crap that Claire's into. I think there are a couple
of steaks in there - they'll do fine. And get me a beer while I'm waiting, come
to think of it. You can have a glass of water if you want."
He stalked off with clenched fists, got her a beer from the fridge, and made a
conscious effort to wipe the expression of angry resentment off his face before
bringing it to her. She took it without thanking him, her attention never really
leaving her stupid soap opera.
"Right, get to work. Oh, and Clive?"
"What?"
"I think I might as well have you follow the same ground rules we use for the
conscripts. You speak only when spoken to, and always call me ma'am. No eating,
drinking or going to the toilet without permission, and definitely no wanking.
Do you need the bathroom now, by the way? I won't give you another chance till
after we've eaten."
He blushed, and swallowed his pride. "Yes, ma'am."
"All right, go ahead, but hurry up. And leave the door open, of course."
She gave him another of those stinging swats on the rump as he went off to
answer the call of nature. The weekend was getting off to a lovely start, wasn't
it? He just hoped Claire arrived soon - she hadn't said exactly when she'd be
coming. With his luck it probably wouldn't be till Sunday.
"I should have told the bitch to fuck off," Clive muttered as his piss splashed
into the toilet bowl. But he said it very quietly, and glanced nervously toward
the living room to make sure Amanda hadn't heard him.
* * *
Dinner was the usual unappetising stew and stale bread, but Carl Jacobs was
thankful to be eating at all. No matter how hard he tried, he found it nearly
impossible to work at the rate the overseeing officers expected - after all, the
standards were designed to be demanding for men considerably bigger and stronger
than he was - and as often as not his workdays still ended with a disciplinary
citation for "insufficient effort". That meant a date with the pitiless
Commandant Caylin and her mean, heavy wooden paddle, and being sent hungry to
bed afterwards. But tonight he was indoors with the officers and the other naked
conscripts, eating and making respectful conversation instead of shivering
outside while he waited for his beating to begin. Actually, they had an
additional guest tonight; some sort of civil servant from Denmark had spent the
day at the camp in order to gather information on the environmental restoration
work they were doing, apparently with a view to determining the feasibility of
borrowing a few English conscripts to take on similar jobs in her own country.
From earlier conversations with the officers, Carl gathered that the government
was keen to offer conscripts to governments and corporations abroad as well as
at home, which sounded bloody degrading. When since the Roman Empire had British
slaves been sent overseas to work for foreign masters? On the other hand, if he
had to be doing hard, sweaty labour out of doors in January, there were a lot of
places that sounded more attractive than snowy northern Wales.
The Danish envoy, or whatever she was called, was a tall woman with short blond
hair whose pale face had been suffused with a delicate blush ever since the
conscripts had been marched into the camp for the night and ordered to strip.
The whole situation seemed to be making her a bit flustered, actually, and she
was concentrating on her food (considerably better than what was served to the
conscripts, of course) with the determination of a woman trying desperately to
ignore the fact that she was sharing the table with dozens of naked, servile
young men and their strict female jailers and taskmistresses.
"You might want to look out there," suggested Officer Ingram nonchalantly,
gesturing toward a window. "The commandant's about to start this evening's
discipline session. She'll be in afterwards to show you around the living
quarters, like she promised earlier."
Carl glanced outside himself. There were only two victims tonight, and the
commandant and her assisting officer were just shackling them to the rails in
preparation for what would inevitably be a long, painful and humbling
punishment. The rails had been carefully positioned, of course, in order to
provide miscreants with the humiliation of being clearly visible from the mess
hall as they writhed and thrashed under the paddle. One of the men struggled a
little as Commandant Caylin forced his wrists into the cuffs, but without
causing more than the briefest delay. That hulking she-gorilla of a woman was
simply terrifying. Carl was just glad it wasn't him being manhandled into
position out there.
"She is going to spank them, yes?" the envoy asked nervously in her high,
accented voice. "It seems a harsh penalty merely for not keeping up with the
proper working rate."
"Oh, it's not so bad," the stocky and casually sadistic Officer Collins replied
jovially. She was well into her third beer, and in an excellent mood. "It's good
for a lad to get the paddle once in a while anyway - reminds him who owns that
bruised little arse of his. Although I suppose the boys might tell you
differently."
"Oh no, ma'am," Carl broke in. He had his reasons for cultivating Officer
Collins. "It may not be pleasant while it's happening, but it really does
motivate us to work harder and behave properly. The whole system would fall
apart without proper discipline, ma'am."
She laughed and reached over to pinch his cheek, hard enough to hurt. "And you
should know, shouldn't you, Jacobs?" She turned back to the envoy. "This lazy
little bastard is one of our hard cases. No matter how hard we thrash him, he
just won't - oh, look, she's starting!"
The Danish woman visibly winced as Commandant Caylin brought the paddle down
with all the force in her muscular arm, striking across the unfortunate
conscript's buttocks with a loud crack that was perfectly audible through the
glass of the windows. The man's body tensed, and his head jerked up; they could
see he was already fighting to hold back tears as the second blow descended.
"Each and every night you do this?"
"Just about. I think we've had two days, now, when none of the men were cited.
But on the other hand, our record is nine on one night. Gave the commandant
blisters from swinging the paddle."
"Oh, he's screaming! Isn't she going to stop?"
"They all scream, the soft little cowards." She paused. "Except Conscript
Tyford, there," she added on reflection, nodding to a short, burly man whose
entire body seemed to be covered in a pelt of thick black hair. "He's another
regular at the rails, and I've never heard a sound out of him."
"I'm afraid the Danish public might regard this sort of thing as barbaric. I
think we will have to modify the disciplinary regime, if my government decides
to go ahead with hiring your conscripts."
"Oh, I'm sure we'd send along a few officers to keep the lads in line," replied
Collins nonchalantly. "You wouldn't have to worry about it. And besides, most of
the time we smack them with those leather straps you saw today, not with the
paddle. It isn't nearly as severe." She unclipped the strap from her belt and
laid it on the table. "Stings like hell, of course, but it just leaves a little
welt. The paddle bruises and sometimes breaks the skin."
The envoy picked up the strap as though she expected it to bite her. "It's quite
heavy."
"It has to be, or they'd hardly feel it. Say, you want to give it a try? It
might help your report if you had a little first-hand experience."
She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, that's quite all right, I wouldn't want -"
"Nonsense, it's no trouble at all. Jacobs! Since you like being beaten so much,
stand up and bend over. Grab your ankles. They're very vulnerable in that
posture, because it takes a bit of effort to maintain. They're concentrating on
staying upright, feeling the strain in the backs of their legs, and then, bang!
- you smack them, and they're too distracted to get ready, so they really feel
it. Go on, redden up his bottom a bit for him. You'll see what I mean."
"I really don't think - it's not like he's done anything wrong -"
"It's good for him. He said it himself." Out of the corner of his eye Carl could
see Officer Collins pressing the strap into the other woman's reluctant hand,
and guiding her into position. He thought about protesting, but didn't dare -
when Officer Collins wanted you to do something, you did it, or you were very
sorry later. And besides, he had to stay in her good books.
"Go ahead. Just wind up and smack him." It was the merest little tap, but Carl
gasped and jerked theatrically for the benefit of the onlookers. The mess hall
had gone very quiet; he could feel all their eyes on his naked, contorted body.
"Stop it, Jacobs!" barked Officer Ingram, just as Collins advised, "You can hit
him a lot harder than that. Don't be afraid to use your full strength. If you
don't see a good red welt, it wasn't hard enough."
"Ah!" gasped Carl as the strap caught him on the upper thigh, with considerably
more force. Without any encouragement the Danish bitch hit him again, and again.
He gave a little whimper of pain.
"That's more like it!" Collins exclaimed. "You really got him with that last
one. And see, he's not damaged at all, just sore and a bit embarrassed because
you made him squeal. You can give him a few more, if you want. As many as you
like."
"I think that will be sufficient," she replied, but she did sound a bit excited.
"Your methods, they are certainly effective."
"We do our best. Jacobs, straighten up and thank Ms. Torstein."
"Thank you for beating me, ma'am," he said with as much sincerity as he could
muster.
"No, properly. Kneel down and kiss her feet."
"Please, that's hardly necessary."
"Maybe not, but anything that puts the men in their place is worth doing. That's
one reason we keep them naked, so we can just reach out and play with their
bodies any time we like." She gave Carl's balls a squeeze, presumably by way of
illustration, as he came to his feet, and he pushed his hips forward obligingly.
She gave his cock a backhand swat.
"And see!" she laughed. "That's what happens when you keep young men around
female officers and put strict limits on their sexual relief. They get very, um,
eager." She ran her hand over Carl's thighs, his shoulders, his chest. "We can
touch them as much as we like, but of course they can't touch us, or themselves,
unless we give them specific permission. They hate that."
The soft flush returned to Ms. Torstein's ivory cheeks as she watched Carl's
penis stiffen. He was squirming and panting under Officer Collins'
ministrations, he just couldn't help it. She was ugly and smelly, to put it
bluntly, but he hadn't cum since the officers had taken pity on them and
announced they could wank all they liked on Christmas. And now the Torstein
woman was reaching out toward him hesitantly, brushing a cool hand across his
shoulder.
"May I?" she asked, timid but eager.
"Certainly. Jacobs, make it easy for her. Legs apart, hands behind your neck."
God, she was touching him everywhere with those light, almost feathery
fingertips. And unlike Officer Collins, she was a very attractive woman, willowy
and classically beautiful. Her inhibitions seemed to be rapidly disappearing as
she played with his nipples, then went around behind to take a double handful of
his buttocks and squeeze hard. She pressed herself against his back and ran her
hands up his torso, from hips to chest. And then he felt her tongue tickle the
back of his neck, and he gave a shuddering gasp of pure lust. His penis felt
like it was going to explode - and then she was holding it, pumping her cool
hand up and down the shaft while she licked at his cheek and blew in his ear. He
could feel the swell of her bosom pressing into his back. Her hands were so
smooth, she smelled so good, and he was going to - to - she stopped. Just let go
and stepped away. Everyone laughed at his frustrated whimper, but he was
determined not to actually beg. Not tonight.
"Glad you're making yourself at home, Ms. Torstein," said Commandant Caylin's
rough voice from the doorway. She brushed a few flakes of snow out of her
iron-grey hair and herded her two chastised conscripts into the mess hall. "Just
let me dump these miserable cretins in the dormitory and then I'll be back to
finish dinner with you. Unless anyone has a use for them tonight, of course."
She glanced around the table, but there weren't any takers, and she took each of
them roughly by the arm. "Looks like you'll be spending the night alone in your
bunks, boys. Come on."
"The men are basically at our disposal," Ingram explained for the envoy's
benefit. "We can each take one upstairs with us after dinner, if we're in the
mood. Come to think of it, I'm sure there'd be no problem if you wanted to
entertain yourself with Jacobs here, now that you've got him all excited. Just
send him down to the dormitory afterwards."
"I am married, you know."
"So am I. Taking a conscript to your room doesn't really count as adultery -
it's more like using a sex toy. At least, that's the way every married officer
I've ever spoken to sees it."
"No, really, I couldn't. There are limits."
Officer Collins grinned at Carl. "I guess you're in for a frustrating evening,
then. I don't blame her for not being enthusiastic about that skinny little
thing of yours, actually."
He glanced wistfully at Ms. Torstein, but she was already working on her dinner
again. He turned back to Officer Collins. Ugly, smelly, but definitely a woman,
and worth seducing if it could possibly be accomplished. Like a devious spy in
one of those archaic Cold War movies he leaned close to her and put on a
pleading expression. "Ma'am, she's got me all worked up, and you're so
beautiful. Couldn't you please just possibly... I'll be really good for you, I
promise. I'll do anything you like."
She shrugged, then nodded. "Damn right you will. Come on, Jacobs."
* * *
"Dear, we've got to talk," said Connie Tipper.
"Now?" mumbled Ronald sleepily. He had just switched off the light after
finishing his chapter - some dull book about the Crimean war - and seemed to be
already half-asleep.
"Well, sometime. We can't keep putting it off forever."
"About Richard, you mean," said Ronald. He sighed loudly in the darkness of
their bedroom. "I don't see what we can do for him. Just keep visiting when you
get the chance, and tell him we'll be here for him when he's released. I'm sure
he'll be fine in the end."
"Dear," she said in mild exasperation, "I've tried to explain this to you
before. He really does want to be Claire's slave when he's released. I'm not
quite sure I understand why, but he seems very sure, and the more I think about
the idea the more reasonable it seems. I think Lady Briddington's right when she
says that most men would benefit from a little female guidance and discipline.
If we can help her teach our Richie to be obedient and deferential, and help
Claire make sure he stays that way after he's released, I think we'll be doing
him a favour."
Ronald chuckled. "So do think I'd, um, benefit from a little female guidance and
discipline, as you put it? We haven't had any of that in our marriage, and we've
done all right."
"Dear, we're talking about Richie."
"But you're assuming that he needs to be enslaved or something just because he
happens to be male. You'll understand why I'm a bit sceptical of that whole line
of reasoning."
It was Connie's turn to sigh and turn her eyes to the shadowed ceiling. "Well,
so am I, a little. But one can't deny that destructive male impulses have caused
a lot of trouble in the world, and that men develop all sorts of bad habits that
they'd really be happier without. But it's more than that - Richie seems to
actually want to be taken in hand and told what to do by a domineering woman. I
know you're an engineer, but I think we really ought to just accept it, instead
of trying to analyse it to death. Maybe all men feel that way at some
subconscious level, or something."
"Well, the idea does sound a bit sexy," Ronald grinned. "It'd be kind of nice to
lie back and have a woman - meaning you of course, love! - take charge of things
in the bedroom for a change. But I wouldn't want it to be a full time thing.
After all, you might take away my motorcycle!"
"I certainly would," she laughed. You're going to break your neck on that thing
one of these days. And you'd find yourself exercising more, drinking less, and
doing a lot more housework. Naked, with regular spankings to encourage you."
"That Lady Briddington's been giving you some ideas."
"Indeed she has. And so has Claire. She actually suggested I try it with you,
you know. Just for a week or two, so we could understand what this enslavement
business is really all about. And have a little fun doing it, I might add."
"You're not serious!"
"Well, don't you think it would help you empathise with Richie? And you'd find
yourself lying back and letting me take charge a lot, don't worry. You'd like
that part."
"Well, yes, I suppose I would." He rubbed against her and squeezed her breast
through the soft material of her very proper nightgown. "Suddenly I'm not so
sleepy, love."
She pushed his hand away roughly and switched on the bedside lamp. "Neither am
I. Out of bed, and get that robe off."
"What?" he exclaimed in complete incredulity.
She prodded him in the ribs, a bit shocked at herself but rather excited. "You
heard me. Move, boy."
He obeyed slowly, and looked a bit self-conscious as he slipped out of the robe
to stand naked in the soft lamplight. But he couldn't quite suppress the smile
that was tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his stiffening cock was an
even clearer sign that her instructions were not entirely unwelcome. She sat up
and stretched luxuriantly; she rather liked the feeling of having her body
concealed while his was exposed to her scrutiny.
"Give me the belt. And turn around." She took his wrists and pulled them behind
his back, and tied them together rather inexpertly with the belt from his robe.
It was too soft and yielding to be really suitable for this sort of thing, but
when she had pulled the last knot tight she was sure he wouldn't be able to slip
free without a good deal of wriggling. She pushed him to his knees, spun him
around - he allowed her firm hands to guide him - and delicately lifted her
nightgown with one hand. With the other she grabbed what was left of his hair
and pulled his head to her crotch. In twenty-eight years of marriage they had
never, ever, done anything of the kind.
"Love, are you sure you want -"
"Shut up," she hissed, jerking his hair roughly. "Of course I'm sure. Put that
tongue to work, and I don't mean talking."
His warm mouth felt even better than she'd imagined. She gave a little sigh of
pleasure and lay back on the bed as he began to kiss and lick her soft recesses,
but her grip on his hair never slackened. "I think we'll be doing this more
often from now on," she mumbled in between her gasps and moans. "Maybe I'll keep
you naked all weekend sometime... tie you up and spank you... invite Elsie over
to show you what being smacked around by a real conscription officer feels
like... have her handcuff you to the bed so I could fuck you... put clothespins
on your nipples... on your bollocks... and make you lick me... lick me... LICK
ME! Unhh!" She wasn't sure she'd ever made such an unladylike sound in her adult
life. She pulled her husband's head up and looked at his face, smeared with her
juices, as she caught her breath. He glanced down at his raging erection.
"Darling, I don't suppose you could do something about this?"
"Beg."
"Connie!"
"All right, then, you can sleep on the floor. With your hands tied."
"Connie, please let me fuck you," he mumbled, blushing. "Or just touch me. Or
put it in your mouth. Or something. Please!"
She smiled at him fondly and had him stand so she could untie him and invite him
back into bed. "I do love you, dear," she purred as she wrapped her arms around
him. "But I think I like taking control of you, too. You will let me do it once
in a while, won't you?"
"I'll insist on it. And if you do want to invite Elsie over for a weekend..."
"Yes?" she asked excitedly.
"You're bloody crazy," he finished with an affectionate laugh. "But I might just
agree to it if I can spend a few days fox hunting with the lads this summer."
"Dear, you know I don't like - oh, all right. But Elsie and I are going to make
sure you earn your atavistic little holiday. Now shut up and get inside me."
* * *
Amanda couldn't help but laugh at the way Clive had been fawning over Claire
ever since she'd arrived just in time for dinner, although she supposed it was
perfectly understandable. He'd spent the whole day running errands and doing
unpleasant household chores under Amanda's watchful eye and unforgiving strap,
and last night she'd made him masturbate to the brink over and over until he was
almost in tears from sheer frustration and humiliation. She'd finally had him
bed down on the bare floor, while she slept in the cozy luxury of her parents'
four-poster, and in the morning he'd had to shower in the coldest water the
plumbing could produce and then attend her throughout a long, luxuriant warm
bath. When she'd told him to clean the toilet he'd rebelled, and found himself
flipped over her knee and soundly spanked with a hairbrush until he wept and
howled in pain - something she'd always wanted to do, but had never been able to
try on an actual conscript. No doubt he was hoping Claire would be a bit gentler
with him, and he definitely found her more attractive even as a taskmistress.
His almost pathetic eagerness to please her was amusing, but it also made Amanda
just a little jealous. Sometimes she wished she had Claire's soft, voluptuous
figure, or her cascades of shimmering red curls, or her easy smile. Even when
Clive had been helping Amanda bathe, her nakedness hadn't really seemed to
excite him.
"...have to smack him if he didn't," Claire was saying.
"Hmm? What? Sorry, I was thinking."
"Oh, I was just wondering whether our little pet has been behaving himself,"
Claire grinned, ruffling Clive's hair affectionately. "I don't expect perfection
from a bloke like him, but I hope he's been making some minimal attempt to
comport himself properly."
"Well, I did have to thrash him a time or two," Amanda laughed.
"Insubordination, you know. Get up, Clive, and show her your bottom. But as for
real infractions, let's see... he left the toilet seat up twice, and I warned
him after the first time, too. And when I sent him into the village for
groceries he greedily bought himself a candy bar."
"How did you know!" Clive burst out.
Claire cuffed the back of his head. "Shh. She knows the girl who works at the
store, silly. Clive, I'm disappointed in you." There was an undertone of
amusement in her voice. "I think this calls for very severe correction. I would
say a good strapping is in order, wouldn't you, Amanda?"
"Unquestionably. He's not just asking for it, but practically begging."
Claire laughed. "All right, then, Clive. You can either have, say, thirty from
me, or twenty from Amanda. She's a lot stronger."
"I know she is, ma'am," he muttered. "I'll take thirty from you. She's had
enough fun smacking me this weekend." It was a bit surprising that he didn't
argue; he was learning, perhaps.
"Oh, she'll get to have more, don't worry. Just not right this minute. Get up
and bend over the arm of the couch, Clive darling. Amanda, will you hold him in
place?"
"With pleasure." She put her hands on his shoulders and bore down as Claire
raised the strap. At that very instant they were interrupted by the ringing of
the telephone.
"Hell," Amanda muttered. "Hold on - I'll try to make it quick." She stalked off
to the kitchen and snatched up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, Officer Harris?"
"Yes. Speaking." Amanda frowned. As far as she knew, only friends and family had
this particular number.
"Oh, good. Sorry to bother you. This is Major Stevens."
There was a brief, awkward, pause. "From Camp Thatcher," the woman prompted.
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I know. Just surprised, ma'am. What can I do for you?"
"I think we can drop the formalities, Amanda. A rather peculiar situation has
come up, and I thought it would be appropriate to ask for your assistance. Have
you been following the Edwin Sanderson affair at all?"
Hmm. This sounded like trouble. "I know he's still missing," she said
cautiously. "And I know the press have started taking interest in him again.
Something about him turning up in Greece?"
"Yes, that's right. I have no idea how it got out, but the Ministry of Social
Order got a telephone call from a young Greek lady claiming to be his
girlfriend, or something."
"And she reported him? Not very sweet and loving of her. Can we go over and pick
him up, then?"
"No, the Greeks wouldn't stand for it, and they apparently have no intention of
extraditing him. But this woman says she can find people to kidnap him and
smuggle him out of the country. She wants ten thousand pounds in return for her,
ah, services."
Amanda laughed. "Poor Ed. He never did have much luck with women. So she's
willing to sell him into slavery, is she? I feel almost sorry for him, getting
stabbed in the back like that."
"There's more to it than that. I actually spoke to the girl myself - Sanderson
was supposed to be in my intake area, remember - and I got the impression that
she thinks he actually wants to be conscripted but can't quite work up the
courage to face it. Finds the idea erotic, or something. I wish her English were
a little better."
"Erotic! I'm sure he'll change his mind in a hurry once the ladies get their
hands on him. That sounds like Ed Sanderson, though. I knew him in school, a
little, and he always had some pretty strange ideas rattling around in that
delicate head of his."
"Yes, well, I was hoping your acquaintance with him could prove advantageous. If
we can contact him through this woman perhaps you can persuade him to turn
himself in, especially if he really finds the notion appealing in some way.
Would you be willing to give it a try? I'm not ordering you to do it, but I
think it might be helpful, if you're game."
"Well yes, of course. But I'm not sure it will do much good. I never knew him
all that well."
"I still think it's our best option," said Major Stevens decisively. "After all,
we can't just let him get him keep thumbing his nose at us, and I'd hate to have
to convince the Ministry to pay ten thousand pounds for a kidnapping that might
or might not prove successful. The press would have almost as much fun with that
as they do with their accusations of favortism."
"All right, I'll do my best."
"Thank you. I'll have the woman's name - Demetria something - and telephone
number e-mailed to you. Is there anything we can do for you in return? A few
extra days of vacation time, maybe?"
Amanda grinned to herself. It couldn't hurt to ask. "Actually, ma'am, there is
something. I've been assigned to one of the training camps for newly recruited
conscription officers -"
"And you'd like the assignment reconsidered? I suppose that's understandable.
I'll be involved with that as well, and I'm not terribly looking forward to
running a prison camp full of naked women. Unlike with the lads, I'm sure I'll
feel sorry for them. But it should get better once they're past the entry
phase."
"No, ma'am, it's not that at all. I glanced at the list of incoming recruits,
and I happened to notice a Mrs. Irene Bradshaw, from Birmingham. I was wondering
if you could have her assigned to my training unit."
"I don't see why that should be a problem," said Major Stevens in a tone of mild
bafflement. "Any particular reason?"
"Revenge, within professional limits of course. She was my history teacher back
in sixth form. I hated history."
Major Stevens laughed. "All right, then, she's all yours. Redden up her bottom
all you like - it'll be good for her, in the long run. Just try to leave her in
one piece."
"Thank you very much, ma'am. And I'll telephone this Greek girl as soon I
receive the contact information."
She smiled again as she hung up the telephone. She remembered Mrs. Bradshaw all
too well - a big, bouncy blond woman whose enthusiasm for the minutiae of the
Napoleonic Wars had seemed infuriating rather than infectious. She'd eventually
make a wonderful conscription officer, with her air of confident authority, but
Amanda was glad she'd have a chance to squeeze a few tears out of those wide
blue eyes of hers first. It was like an oppressed student's fantasy come true.
She could hear the crack of the strap in the other room, and a sort of spasmodic
moaning from Clive; apparently they'd started without her. She sauntered in and
smiled at their naked captive, who was crying and biting his lip to keep from
really screaming as Claire worked him over.
"Anything important?" Claire asked casually.
"Oh, the Ministry wants me to see if I can help them finally sink their claws
into our friend Ed. I'll tell you about it later - don't let me interrupt." And
she sat back to watch the unfortunate Clive Johnson get what he had coming.

Chapter 13

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

Chapter 14

"...With bended knees I daily worship her,
Yet she consumes her own idolater.
Of such a goddess no times leave record,
That burnt the temple where she was adored."
There was a silence in the room as Richard finished reading, broken only by the
crackling of the fire and the keening of the wind outside. More and more of his
evenings at Lady Briddington's estate had been ending this way, with him and his
mistress sitting quietly together by the hearth. Or rather, with her sitting in
her wheelchair while he knelt naked at her side. At such times she might play
languidly with his body, or have him massage her, or administer a slow and
sensual spanking that seemed almost loving despite the inevitable pain and
humiliation; but more often than not she preferred quiet conversation or a bit
of romantic poetry. Richard didn't care much for literature of any sort, let
alone the weepy and melodramatic stuff his mistress seemed to find so
inexplicably moving, but reading to her was definitely preferable to doing
housework or being creatively tortured by her and Ms. Reynolds.
"Would you like to hear another one, ma'am?" he ventured.
She started and glanced in his direction as though she had forgotten his
presence. Perhaps interrupting her thoughts had been a mistake, but it could be
incredibly difficult to tell whether she was lost in introspection or merely
waiting for him to say something. Even after months of serving her and hanging
on her every word and gesture, he still found her pale, coldly beautiful face
almost impossible to read unless an extreme of anger, contentment or excitement
had made her forget herself. But now her lips curved into a fond smile.
"No, darling, no more just now. But your reading is improving - you are finally
beginning to develop some dim understanding of metre. You didn't like that last
piece, did you?"
"No, ma'am, not really."
She laughed, and reached out to toy with the chain that was locked around his
neck, the one with the leopard emblem that marked him as her property. He wore
it nearly all the time these days, although often - as now - the hated control
belt stayed downstairs in the Playroom. Lady Briddington had come to appreciate
his cock too much to want it locked up out of sight all the time, or so she
said.
"Then again, you don't like any of them," she murmured. "Too frothy and flowery
for you, I suppose." Idly, she pulled back on the collar until it was choking
him, just a little. "But that is really the essence of your servitude, you know.
What you enjoy or do not enjoy is simply irrelevant; you exist only to please.
Does that infuriate you, Richard? Do you hate being a helpless little plaything,
a slave to my whims as much as to my wishes?"
"No, ma'am, I don't," he replied earnestly. Where the hell was all this leading?
"I want to please you, ma'am, I really do."
"Of course you do, my dear. And you please me very much, when you remember to
work at it. But I wonder sometimes if you do it only out of fear, because after
all I do punish you quite harshly when your efforts are less than satisfactory.
Lads like you need a firm, strong hand to keep them on the straight and narrow,
hmm? But do you obey me only because of the punishments, or is there something
else involved - a glimmer of genuine devotion, perhaps? Are you finally learning
that your natural place is at my feet?"
"I learned that a long time ago, ma'am. I know you have to punish me sometimes,
and it makes me afraid of disobeying you, but it isn't just that. When I please
you I have a sense that I've accomplished something worthwhile, done something
positive in the world - I didn't feel that way very often when I was free, I
guess. Mostly I just went around indulging myself."
"Why, I think that's a very good way of putting it," she said, in a tone that
suggested pleasureable surprise. "I think most men will come round to that way
of thinking, given half a chance. Not all of them, but most - a great majority,
perhaps eighty or ninety percent, and the world will be better for it." She
sighed. "I'm not naive, Richard, or even terribly idealistic. Even with women in
charge of things, I don't pretend we'll stop needing to fight wars, or stave off
epidemics, or struggle through economic convulsions every few decades. But I
hope we'll do it all a little more sensibly, and less egotistically, and we'll
have our husbands to pamper and comfort us when things go badly. That will be
your role after you're released, I hope - a humble assistant, a pillar of
support, and of course a wonderful male toy. Kept firmly in hand, but greatly
appreciated. Does that sound good to you, Richard?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am." And it did, that was the odd part. "I'll do my best to make
Claire happy."
"Oh, Claire," Lady Briddington sniffed. "That girl really doesn't deserve you.
She's such a vain, vacuous little thing, not to mention sadly undereducated. To
be honest, I rather doubt she'd be able to manage you properly if you did put
herself in your hands. Why don't you stay with me after you're released? You
look rather nice with my leopard around your neck, you know."
Richard was completely taken aback. "But ma'am, I love Claire," he protested.
"And as for managing me, I'm sure she'll do quite well, especially considering
she has that Clive bloke to practice on in the meantime. I'm going to marry her
after they let me go - that's always been the plan."
"And what about me," said Lady Briddington in a hurt, petulant tone he'd never
heard from her before. "Don't I mean anything to you, after all the trouble I've
taken to train you and teach you to be a proper slave? After all the nights
you've spent in my bedroom? Has Claire ever made you scream in pain and moan in
pleasure and weep tears of gratitude, all in one evening?"
"Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry," said Richard, really meaning it. "I know you've put a
lot of time and effort into training me, and it's because of you and all you've
done to me that I've come to accept that I need to be owned and controlled by a
woman. Of course you mean a great deal to me, ma'am. But Claire - well, I fell
in love with her a long time before I was conscripted, and I don't think that's
ever going to change. I can't help how I feel. But don't let's talk about it,
ma'am. I won't be released for a long time yet."
He glanced up at her to see what effect his words might be having, and to his
amazement he saw tears starting in her eyes. The rest of her face was still
inscrutable as ever, but the harsh, cold and utterly masterful woman who kept
him so perfectly under her heel was unquestionably about to start crying.
Without really thinking about what he was doing, he reached up to put a
sympathetic arm around her shoulders.
"How dare you!" she screamed in sudden, hysterical fury, and slapped him away.
The tears were running freely down her face now, but obviously in anger, not in
sadness. "You stupid, wretched, ungrateful boy! Get down on your belly!" He
scrambled to obey, and listened apprehensively as she whirred over to the
intercom.
"Ms. Bonner!" she almost shouted. "You and Ms. Reynolds are to come up here at
once. Richard requires very severe correction. Very severe indeed!"
"Ma'am, I'll be up in a moment, but Ms. Reynolds is off duty and asleep. I'm
sure I can-"
"Wake her!" shrieked Lady Briddington. "Wake her and tell her to be ready when
we come down with the boy. Damn your impertinence!"
"I'm coming, ma'am."
Richard waited trembling on the floor, his nervous sweat trickling onto the
Persian rug in front of the fireplace. He wasn't sure his mistress had ever been
so angry with him, not even after he'd broken her antique nutcracker while
preparing a snack for her and Mrs. Lewis. All too soon he heard Ms. Bonner's
heavy footsteps enter the room, and felt his wrists seized and cuffed together.
She hauled him very roughly to his feet and drove him out of the room with a
stingingly hard slap to his bottom. She was always like this when he had a harsh
punishment coming.
Ms. Bonner marched him to the elevator, followed closely by Lady Briddington in
her wheelchair, and down from there to the Playroom. Ms. Reynolds was waiting
for them, a bit dishevelled and obviously irritated at being hauled out of bed.
She glared at him murderously as Ms. Bonner shoved him through the door.
"Put him on the punishment bench," snapped Lady Briddington. "He has displeased
me greatly. I want him flogged with the sjambok." The what? Richard shuddered
inwardly.
"But ma'am, I was under the impression that was only in here to enhance the
atmosphere," Ms. Bonner said a bit worriedly. "Marike warned us that it was far
too severe for actual use."
"You do as I say! He deserves to bleed a bit. Strap him down and start the
whipping at once."
"But ma'am -"
"At once, or I shall be forced to dismiss you immediately and permanently."
There was a moment of hesitation, and then Richard felt himself seized by both
arms and propelled toward the punishment bench in the middle of the room. Ms.
Bonner leaned close, so that he could feel her warm breath against his cheek.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, too low for Lady Briddington to hear. Yet again,
Richard was completely thrown off balance; more than once the woman had beaten
him till he lay writhing and screaming at her feet and then dragged him upright
so she could beat him still more, but never once had he heard her express even
the slightest regret or sympathy. But he had no doubt that she was sincere, even
as she helped Ms. Reynolds bend him over the bench and strap him into place with
all of her usual firmness. He turned his head to watch apprehensively as Ms.
Reynolds took down the sjambok and slashed it through the air with a nasty grin.
It was a whip of some kind of white, heavy leather, perhaps four feet long and
so stiff it hardly bent under its weight as Ms. Reynolds brought it over.
"As hard as you can, Ms. Reynolds. Hit him all over, and continue until I give
the order to stop." He expected her to begin with his buttocks, but she
surprised him with a sharp blow across the backs of his calves. He moaned and
clenched his fists, shocked at the fierce, bruising pain. The thing was heavy,
and just flexible enough to make the end whip savagely against his flesh in Ms.
Reynolds' capable hands. She did go to his arse next, and then his thighs, and
then a flurry of blows across his upper back as Lady Briddington urged her on
impatiently. He began to scream and pull helplessly against the leather bands
that held him in place, writhing and bucking as the rhythm of the flogging
seemed to become more and more wild and frenzied with every blow. When next he
caught a glimpse of the descending sjambok he saw that the white leather was
stained red. His vision, already dimmed by tears and the cold sweat that poured
down his forehead, began to blur. He heard Lady Briddington screaming "Harder!
Faster!" in exactly the same tone she sometimes used in the bedroom, felt the
pain burning through his limbs and cutting deep into the core of his body, and
then the darkness became complete.
* * *
Amanda stalked along the line of gasping women, strap at the ready. She had
assigned nine of her twenty-nine remaining recruits to remedial physical
training, while the others tidied up the officers' quarters, and she wanted to
make sure they were being worked with the necessary rigour. The sight of their
straining through a sequence of slow push ups was anything but inspiring;
everywhere she looked she saw dripping sweat and flabby, jiggling flesh. She
paused to flick her strap across a black woman's enormously wide and rounded
posterior.
"Come on, bitch, you can do better than that. Keep up with the count. Are you
trying to slack off, recruit Mputa?"
"No, ma'am!" she moaned. "I'm doing my best, ma'am!"
Amanda hit her again. "Well, do better." She moved on to where the hapless Mrs.
Bradshaw - recruit Bradshaw, Amanda reminded herself - seemed on the point of
collapse. Amanda rested a booted foot on the small of her back, although she
didn't put much weight on it. Not to start with.
"Remind me why you need extra PT, Bradshaw."
"Because I'm fat, ma'am," the woman gasped without hesitation.
"That's right." Amanda leaned on her a little harder. "And because you're weak?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"And soft?" A little more weight; Bradshaw gave a grunt of effort, arms
trembling as she tried to push herself up off the ground.

"Yes, ma'am!" she wailed.
"And slow? And stupid? And lazy? And pathetic?" Amanda moved the other foot up
onto her back, and the woman simply collapsed with a groan of pain. She stood on
her for a moment, grinding brutally with her heels as Bradshaw whimpered and
squirmed, and then reluctantly stepped off. "Back to work, bitch." It was almost
too easy; her pain threshold had improved a little since the first day, when a
bare-handed slap on the bottom had been as likely as not to make her cry, but
she was still willing to wallow in humiliation rather than take the least risk
of corporal punishment. On the other hand, she had surprised Amanda by declining
to drop out of training when given the opportunity after the first hellish 72
hours. She had moved as if to join the group who were already shuffling toward
the storage buildings to retrieve their clothing before being put on a flight
back to England, but then had taken a deep breath and turned back to stand at
attention with the other recruits who had decided to stay. Amanda had rather
admired her at that moment, as she had stood naked and shivering in the chilly
dawn air with a look of stark determination on her pasty, pale face. Admired
her, and enjoyed making her scream with a sudden blow of the strap a couple of
minutes later, when it was time to drive the remaining girls off for their
morning visit to the latrine trenches.
But making Bradshaw scream was like playing one of those ridiculous computer
games that let you use "cheat codes" to make yourself into an unbeatable demigod
- fun for a little while, if you enjoyed that kind of thing, but not in a way
that lasted. Amanda was rapidly discovering that breaking in these women was at
least as much fun as introducing the male conscripts to the delights of slavery,
but she preferred victims who could give her a bit of a challenge. Victims like
the one who awaited her back at the officers' quarters, come to think of it.
Amanda had told her officers to be ridiculously picky and demanding about the
clean-up job: every surface had to be spotless, every piece of clothing and
equipment put away neatly in exactly its proper place, or the offending recruit
got the strap. The night before, they had amused themselves making as much of a
mess as possible, and now the hapless recruits had to deal with the aftermath.
As sergeant, Amanda had her own private room, and she had arranged with
Christine Yarrow - her most trusted subordinate, and something of a soulmate -
to make sure recruits Adaka and Trisk were made responsible for cleaning it.
Adaka was easy to keep in line, unfazed by pain but so easily shamed that she
whimpered and squirmed desperately whenever an officer touched her private parts
and always cried over the lack of privacy when she had to use the latrine
trenches. As with Bradshaw, Amanda was surprised that she hadn't left when given
the chance. But Trisk, unfortunately, was another matter entirely. Neither pain
nor humiliation nor hours of discomfort in the punishment cages seemed to bother
her, she positively enjoyed being groped by the officers, and worst of all she
had become a kind of heroine to the other recruits in Amanda's training unit.
Not only did many of them try to emulate her saucily defiant example, but she
did her best to offer them what encouragement and protection she could -
whispering comfort when they were beaten (Amanda had caught her at it four
times) and throwing herself into the hardest tasks to give the others a little
slack. She even tried to shield Adaka's body with hers when they were at the
trenches, to make it easier for the Japanese woman. A challenge indeed.
The great cleaning operation seemed to be well underway as Amanda breezed into
the officers' quarters. Some poor recruit was protesting and whining as she was
strapped for putting an officer's underwear away in the wrong drawer, and
another was being driven to distraction by the way Officer Kalsah kept finding
excuses to step outside and then tracking fresh mud all over the floor she was
supposed to be cleaning. Amanda paused just long enough to make sure everything
was going well, and to do a little of the pinching, prodding and strapping she
had come to so enjoy, before heading into her own room and pushing the door
firmly closed behind her. Trisk was just making her bed while Adaka polished her
spare boots, all under Christine's smirking direction. Amanda folded her arms
and watched impassively as they finished, rather enjoying the worried glances
Adaka kept sending in her direction. Recruit Trisk, typically, ignored her
entirely.
"You've done well," she finally said grudgingly. "Trisk!"
She came to attention, slowly enough to give just the slightest impression of
insolence. Amanda cupped her chin with a firm hand, and tilted her face up a
little - at least the woman was half a head shorter than her. "You've been doing
a lot of things well lately, Trisk. I think you deserve a little reward. Do you
think recruit Adaka there is pretty?"
"Ma'am?"
"You heard the question. Come on, Trisk, we all know you're a lesbian. Look at
Adaka kneeling there. Do you think she's pretty?"
She shrugged. "Sure."
Amanda let the insolence pass, for the moment. "Good. So do I. And Adaka, you'd
like to help us reward Recruit Trisk for her outstanding effort, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," Adaka whispered worriedly, without taking her eyes off the floor.
She hated being made to talk to the officers, although her charmingly accented
English seemed fairly serviceable.
"Ma'am, I don't really deserve a reward," said Trisk, ever the protector. "Don't
make her do anything."
"Oh, she won't do anything. You will." Amanda unclipped the handcuffs from her
belt, and handed them to Trisk. "Take her over to the bed and cuff her to it,
face up."
"Ma'am, I really -"
"Okay, if you don't want to do it, we will. Why don't you go ahead, Christine."
The tall officer laughed. "My pleasure." She grabbed Adaka by her short black
hair and jerked her brutally to her feet, then shoved her over to the bed. Adaka
didn't offer the slightest resistance, but Christine was very rough with her
anyway, kneeling on her chest to pull her arms over her head and lock them into
place. She ran her hands quickly down Adaka's taut, wiry body before stepping
away, and the Japanese woman pulled helplessly at her cuffs and bit her lower
lip as if trying to hold back tears. After four days of severe training, she was
no longer quite so elegantly beautiful: her hair was tangled and matted, her
body streaked with sweat and grime, her legs and armpits coarse with black
stubble. Trisk watched her with concern.
Amanda pulled a length of nylon rope from under her bed - it came in handy,
around here - and offered it to Trisk. "You want to tie her ankles, or should
we?"
"I'll do it."
"Good girl. I want them widely spread, of course." Trisk obeyed reluctantly,
painstakingly gentle even when Adaka began to squirm and try to press her legs
together. The poor little bitch simply couldn't stand having her genitals on
display. But Trisk forced her ankles apart and tied them to the foot of the bed,
knowing Amanda or Christine would do it a lot more roughly and unpleasantly if
she didn't.
"She's nice, isn't she? Such lovely tears. Now give her a nice little kiss."
"Please, ma'am, she's crying! Do anything you want to me, but don't make me
torture her. Go ahead, strap me, kick me, I don't care. Just leave her alone."
"I don't think so, Trisk," Amanda sneered. "If you don't want her, I think
perhaps I'll sample her charms myself." And she grabbed Adaka's pert little
breasts, squeezing hard enough to hurt, one cupped in each hand. The woman
wailed and began to sob, pulling helplessly at her bonds.
"Please, ma'am," she moaned. "Stop touching... stop grabbing..."
Amanda laughed. "Why don't you join me, Christine?" A moment later the other
officer was massaging Adaka's thighs as roughly as she could, working up toward
her vulva. Her tears redoubled when Christine finally began to pinch and knead
the lips of her vagina.
"This is how it will be from now on, Trisk," said Amanda pleasantly. "When you
don't follow orders, when you show a flash of that attitude of yours, someone
else is going to get punished for it. Maybe I'll pinch Adaka's tits, just like
this, or give poor Bradshaw a smack or two, or lock Rico in one of the cages.
It'll be something the girl really can't stand, don't worry. How many times will
it have to happen, Trisk, before they all start to despise you and your stupid
childish antics?"
Trisk looked stricken. "But, ma'am, that's not fair. If I do something wrong,
then -"
"Are you trying to argue with me, bitch?" Amanda kept her tone fairly mild, but
pinched Adaka's nipples between her fingertips for emphasis. "Things are going
to get very unpleasant for Adaka here if you keep that up." As if on cue, the
Japanese woman moaned and struggled convulsively.
"I'm sorry ma'am," she replied, obviously forcing every word. "Please just stop
torturing her. Please!"
"Oh, if you think this is torture, just wait till you see what we do to her when
you really fuck up. Or, of course, you could just try acting like a good girl
for a change. What's it going to be, Trisk? Are you going to do what we tell you
from now on?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And drop that stupid adolescent attitude?"
She bowed her head and swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am."
"Okay, let's give it a try." She stepped back from the bed, signalling Christine
to do the same. Adaka, suddenly left alone, looked from one of them to the other
with wide, nervous eyes. "Go over there and give her a kiss, like I told you.
She'll hate it, but I promise she'll like it a lot better that what will happen
to her if you don't do as you're told."
Trisk sighed apologetically, knelt by the bed, and brushed her closed lips
quickly across Adaka's.
Amanda gave her a tight smile. "Nice try. Now do it properly. Rape her mouth
with your tongue. Hold her head so she can't get away."
Anger flashed in her eyes, but she bent her head before it could turn into a
proper glare. She might have whispered something to Adaka as she took hold of
her, perhaps an apology, but Amanda decided to let it go. Then Trisk pressed her
mouth to Adaka's, holding her gently but firmly when she tried to squirm away,
ignoring her tears. "Now her breasts," Amanda directed. "Just work your way
down, but slowly."
"Stop it, stop it," moaned Adaka as soon as her mouth was free, but Trisk
resolutely ignored her. Amanda let her get down between Adaka's legs before
grabbing her hair and jerking her head suddenly upright. "How is she down
there?" she hissed. "Nice and wet?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Maybe she's enjoying herself more than she's letting on. Quite the little slut,
isn't she?" Adaka mumbled something unintelligible through her tears, and shook
her head violently.
"It's just her body, ma'am," said Trisk in a tone of sympathetic anger. "She
can't help it."
"Oh, so she's just a filthy little animal, is she? A sow in heat who can't
control herself? Kiss her on the lips again. Make her taste herself. Just pinch
her nose if she won't open up." Now that really made Adaka cry and struggle. And
wonder of wonders, Trisk had started too, tears of sympathy and helpless rage
trickling down her face to mingle with the other woman's.
"All right," said Amanda after a moment. "Point made, I think. You can be quite
obedient when you make the effort, Trisk, and I hope for the sake of your fellow
recruits that you continue to behave. For the moment you can go back in the
other room and help them finishing cleaning up."
"Yes, ma'am," sniffled Trisk in a low, defeated voice, satisfyingly free of
sarcasm. She started for the door.
"No, not like that! Down on your hands and knees. Crawl in there, kneel up in
front of the first officer you see, and ask her to give you something to do. And
remind her, in front of the other girls, that they're going to be punished for
your misbehaviour from now on. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am." She got down and started to crawl, and even nodded gratefully when
Christine opened the door for her. Amanda kicked her lightly between the legs,
just for good measure, and was surprised to see her wince and flinch away.
Amanda laughed.
"It hurts a little more when you're not allowed to be brave, doesn't it? Better
get used to it."
"Well, I'd call that a successful operation," said Christine brightly, when
Trisk was gone. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, toying idly with Adaka's
hair.
"Absolutely. I think she's going to hate us by the end of the week, though, if
she doesn't already."
"She'll get over it. After all, do you still hate the women who trained you?"
"No, I guess not. Not now that it's done with." She turned to Adaka. "Are you
going to hate us? I know that was hard on you."
The poor girl swallowed hard, obviously trying to pull herself together. "I know
it is professional, ma'am," she replied with surprising dignity.
"Yes, professional... I suppose that's a good way of putting it. Christine,
could you let her up and have her finish tidying in here? Just don't make too
much noise. I have to try Her Annoying Greekness again."
Christine eyed her doubtfully. "Maybe we should put on soothing music or
something. Last time they could hear you in the dormitory tents, you were
swearing at her so loudly." That had to be an exaggeration, Amanda thought.
"Not this time," she said wryly. "I talked to Major Stevens, and she says to
just go ahead and pay what she's asking."
"The whole thirty-five thousand?"
"Yeah. The longer we wait, the more expensive it's going to get, I think. She
knows how badly we want him back. But apparently his father is putting up a
large proportion of the money - Major Stevens can be very good at exerting
pressure, or so I've heard."
"Sounds promising. I hope they make him regret all this nonsense, when they
finally get him."
"When I finally get him," Amanda corrected. "They've agreed to put me in charge
of transporting him back to Britain, and he'll go into my training unit when the
next round of conscripts come into the system in April. Sort of a reward from
high command, even though I've really made a bit of a mess of things." She
paused. "And yes, he'll be a very sorry young man when I get my hands on him,
don't worry."
* * *
"Well, he won't die," said Dr. Lancaster flatly.
"But will he be all right," asked Lady Briddington anxiously, dabbing at her
eyes. "Will there be any permanent damage?" Richard was lying face-down on a bed
that had been specially made up for him in one of her guest rooms, heavily
sedated and unconscious. The whole back side of his body, mercilessly displayed
in the room's bright light, was a livid mass of bruises, welts, and more than a
few open lacerations. Lady Briddington couldn't believe what she'd done to him -
it had been nearly two days since his collapse under Ms. Reynolds' savage
beating, and in all that time she hadn't slept or eaten. She'd tried to
apologise to him, over and over, but she wasn't sure he'd understood through all
the things Dr. Lancaster had given him for the pain.
The woman sighed and brushed her unruly brown hair back from her face. "Nothing
serious. Quite possibly some light scarring on his thighs and buttocks, but
nothing a little cosmetic surgery wouldn't take care of. The psychological
aspect worries me a lot more, to be honest; being whipped that badly must be
traumatic to say the least. I wish you'd tell me exactly what happened."
"It's not important," Lady Briddington replied distantly. "Can you arrange the
surgery?"
"Of course I can. But I still wish you'd tell me."
"That's a very private matter between Richard and me," she replied with a flash
of frosty temper. "Understood?"
"I could recommend that he be removed from your custody immediately, you know.
You've exceeded the guidelines by a long way."
"That would be most inadvisable." Lady Briddington fixed her with a level,
penetrating stare, until she finally blushed and dropped her eyes. "Kindly
arrange for the best possible care, and whatever surgery is necessary to restore
his appearance. I trust you can have him fully recovered well before he is due
to be rotated elsewhere?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll pay for everything myself, of course. Oh, and doctor?"
"Yes?"
"I know you're an intelligent woman, but in view of your last comment I fear it
may be necessary to remind you anyway. Anyone you bring in to tend my boy had
better be capable of keeping her mouth shut."
"Yes."
She turned on her heel and walked slowly out of the room. Lady Briddington
rolled her wheelchair up to the bedside and touched Richard's bottom, very
lightly, right on the left buttock where she imagined a leopard-shaped brand
would look particularly appealing. One way or another, she was going to keep
him.

Chapter 15

Carl Jacobs lay naked in the semi-darkness, his hands tightly cuffed behind him.
It had been another cruel evening in Officer Collins' private bedroom. His
buttocks burned with fresh welts, his nipples were red and sensitive with
pinching, and the handcuffs themselves bit painfully into the flesh of his
wrists. His mouth was still full of the nauseating taste of his own semen; at
first he had been only too happy to lick the stuff off her boots if that was the
price of sexual release, but now he was beginning to find it so revolting that
he almost wished she would go back to her old habit of not letting him cum at
all. His anus was sore and stretched after being invaded by the barrel of her
tranquiliser gun (unloaded, he fervently hoped), and his cheeks were still damp
with tears of shame and agony. Yes, tonight she had really taken him around the
block. He remembered her handcuffing him, throwing him to the floor with that
casual brutality that had become almost terrifying lately. He remembered her
rough hand clawing at his hair, her strap stinging him again and again, her
drink-slurred voice commanding him with breathy impatience to crawl over to her
as she fumbled with her zipper. ("No, don't crawl!" she'd belched out a moment
later. "Wriggle on your belly, you fucking worm!") It was the best night of
Carl's life.
It had taken him a long time to get to this point. It had begun months ago, not
long after his arrival in this wretched little labour camp, when he had
registered Collins as a particularly fat, unpleasant woman, ugly and rather
brutish even by conscription officer standards. She tended to be morose and
withdrawn most of the time, speaking little even to the other officers, and her
one source of pleasure in life seemed to be the beer that appeared in the mess
hall every evening. At first Commandant Caylin had been very strict about
keeping the nightly drinking within tight limits, as she'd been strict about
most things, but discipline had slowly loosened as week after week passed
without any serious disturbances or signs of disorder among the conscripts.
Collins had begun hitting the bottle quite a bit harder than any of the other
officers, and it really did wonders for her mood - every evening, Carl had
watched with cynical amusement as the alcohol transformed her from a sullen,
brooding wreck of a woman into a jovial, talkative creature who tried endlessly
to flirt with the conscripts despite her undeniable ugliness and ever-present
odour of stale sweat. She ended up dragging a lad to her bedroom more often than
not, choosing victims seemingly at random, and it was always diverting to
observe their expressions of revulsion, resentment or weary resignation as she
herded them eagerly toward the stairs that led up to the officers' quarters. But
Carl's interest in her had doubled literally overnight when he had heard it
whispered that she occasionally fell into a drunken slumber toward the end of
her bouts of passion, leaving the unfortunate male to make his own way down to
the communal dormitory. Being allowed to walk down on one's own was routine, but
having access to a comatose officer and her handcuffs, keys and tranquiliser
pistol was another matter entirely.
From that day forward Carl cultivated Officer Collins relentlessly. He flirted
with her at every opportunity, agreed loudly with everything she said in the
mess hall, and fawned over her in his eagerness to massage her tired shoulders,
or to refill her plate at dinner, or best of all to run and get her another
beer. Her unattractiveness worked both for and against him; on the positive side
she was flattered and overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of male attention, but
on the negative she was shrewd enough to suspect that it might not be entirely
sincere. However, it wasn't long before what Carl saw as her natural feminine
susceptibility to flattery got the better of her, and she began to choose him as
her bed-partner almost every night. At first she was almost nervous about it, as
though she wasn't quite sure how to handle a male who didn't appear revolted at
the prospect of getting intimate with her. But gradually she seemed to take his
affections more and more for granted, and became increasingly relaxed and
increasingly abusive. He remembered all too clearly the first time she'd really
whipped his arse hard with her strap, and the first time she'd given him that
mean, calculating smile of hers and told him to kneel down and wank off on her
boots. Delightful woman, Carl thought sourly. But tonight she had finally grown
careless enough to fall asleep before sending him downstairs.
He had been thinking about this moment for weeks, playing it over in his mind
like a movie with a very happy ending, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do.
For a moment he gathered himself, breathing deeply in the dark, and then with
one smooth motion he twisted up on to his knees and from there to his feet. At
least all those long days of backbreaking physical labour had given him a body
that was lithe and fit beyond anything he would have thought possible before
being conscripted. The first order of business was to get out of his handcuffs,
and it was fortunate that Officer Collins' keys were within easy reach, still
clipped to the belt she had thrown on the bed along with most of the rest of her
clothing. Carl sat down on the edge of the bed, fumbled behind him for the keys,
and felt carefully for the one that would fit his cuffs, which was quite
distinctive in shape. A few seconds later his hands were free.
Elated, he allowed himself a moment to rub his painfully pinched wrists and take
stock of the situation. She had used him a long time before falling asleep,
which meant they would be locking the dormitories and doing their nightly count
within half an hour or so. Officer Collins' quarters were the first place they
would come looking for him; everyone knew that Conscript Jacobs was her
favourite slave toy these days. He had to get moving as fast as possible unless
he wanted to deal with two or three armed and trained officers.
Appealing as he found the idea of being clothed, Officer Collins' uniform was
completely the wrong shape for him, and smelly besides. But he buckled her belt
around his naked waist (the very last hole was more or less tight enough),
re-attached the keys to it, and retrieved her tranquiliser gun from the floor,
where she'd dropped it after finally pulling it out of his anus. He shuddered to
find that the gun was loaded after all, though the safety was on; he flipped it
off, aimed the weapon at Officer Collins' flabby right thigh, and pumped a dart
into her at point blank range. It wouldn't hurt to make sure she stayed asleep.
She jerked convulsively and gave a little groan as the mild neurotoxin flooded
into her bloodstream, then lay as still as a sow in a butcher's shop. The image
made Carl smile.
If she hadn't been so thoroughly repulsive he might have been tempted to follow
this up by raping her, but there wasn't really time anyway. He started for the
door, remembered the handcuffs at the last second and went back for them, and
finally stepped out into the empty corridor. He could still hear conversation
and laughter from the mess hall, and the panicked moans of a man on the brink of
bursting into abject sobs. They were having fun down there, apparently. Carl
headed in the opposite direction, toward the back stairs, moving briskly but as
quietly as he could. A man's bare footsteps were nothing unusual up here, but
they would expect him to be going back down to the mess hall, and from there to
the dormitory, to be locked up for the night like a good little slave. Carl's
lip curled in derision as he reached the door that blocked his way to the
stairwell, and found the key to ease it silently open.
He could hear two women talking somewhere below. The commandant, it sounded
like, and her right-hand woman Officer Ingram - that big, busty bitch who seemed
incapable of talking below a muted bellow. They seemed to be having a fairly
mundane discussion, something about the appropriate punishment for a conscript
who had been caught nibbling vegetables into phallic shapes in a peculiar and
futile effort to shock the officers. He could hear Ingram loud and clear,
suggesting that the man simply be made to spend a few hours with one of his
cucumber dildoes firmly embedded in his anus. Carl waited, sweaty hand clenched
around the grip of his gun, until the door banged below as Commandant Caylin
headed off to her private cabin. And Officer Ingram's heavy footsteps sounded on
the stairs, coming up toward him. He dropped to one knee, gun trained on the
landing, and fired twice the moment she appeared. The woman crumpled and fell,
unconscious before her surprise could register on her face, and tumbled halfway
down the stairs she had just climbed. There was blood trickling from her head,
but Carl found it easy enough to ignore, remembering all the evenings when her
strident, sneering voice had condemned him to a disciplinary paddling for
applying "insufficient effort" to his day's work. No time to hide her comatose
body, though, and he simply hurried down the stairs, past the ground floor and
down toward the basement where they kept the washing machines, among other
things. As he had hoped, there was no one down here at this time of night, and
he had no difficulty at all getting his hands on a freshly laundered worksuit,
ready with the others to be taken up and distributed to the conscripts the next
morning.
Now Carl was finally ready to leave the building. This time, he wasn't going to
stick around to try to take over the camp and liberate his fellow conscripts,
associating himself with idiots like the ones who had got him caught last time.
He was going to slip away in the night, quickly and quietly, and not be found,
and to hell with the rest of them. There was still no commotion from upstairs,
which meant that neither of his victims had been discovered. Collins wouldn't be
found until the officers came looking for him - and he still had a few minutes,
he was fairly sure - but the Ingram bitch could be discovered at any moment. He
lost no time in dashing outside, and making hurriedly for the supply shed. There
were observation towers at all four corners of the fence that enclosed the whole
place, and spotlights playing across the ground Carl had to cross, but on the
other hand the night was dark and moonless and the lights not hard to avoid if
one took a few seconds to work out their pattern. He ran to the shed, opened it
as silently as he could, and found himself some boots. He spotted some gloves on
a shelf and snatched a pair, then went looking for the most critical item on his
mental shopping list. It took him what felt like a very long time of fumbling in
the semi-darkness, but finally he had them. He wasn't sure why they even had
wire cutters among their supplies, but the things would do wonders with the
barbed wire at the top of the outer fence. He had noticed them weeks ago, when
it had been his turn to go into the shed for the saws and spades and axes and
things the conscripts used every day in their "environmental restoration" work.
Carl stepped out of the shed and closed the door behind him. He took a deep
breath, crossed himself (something he hadn't done since early childhood), and
made for the fence at a dead run. Despite the awkwardness of having to hold the
wire cutters in one gloved hand, he swarmed up it with surprising ease, pausing
only when he found himself staring at the menacing coils of barbed wire at the
top. Working clumsily in his precarious position, he got a better grip on the
wire cutters and began to attack the one real obstacle that remained between
Carl Jacobs and freedom, glorious freedom. If only no one happened to glance
toward this particular stretch of fence... His excitement mounted as the wire
fell away, piece by piece. No more bitches chasing him around with straps, no
more Officer Collins wanking and laughing at the tears in his eyes as he licked
up his own semen. No more sleeping practically shoulder-to-shoulder with other
naked men, or being chained to those damn rails and beaten into screaming,
howling subjugation with that vicious paddle that had coaxed stammered pleas
from so many young male throats. No more conscription. The gap in the wire was
almost big enough. And then, splendidly, another coil came off all at once, and
Carl pulled himself over the fence and slithered down onto the rocky ground on
the other side. He grinned in triumph as he sprinted for the shelter of the
nearby woods. Alarm klaxons went off from somewhere behind him as he disappeared
into the trees, but he knew it was too late. Either they'd found Ingram, or
someone had spotted the damaged fence, and it didn't matter a damn bit either
way. He was free and clear. Free at last!
* * *
"I'm still nervous about coming so far north," said Ed for the twentieth or
thirtieth time. "You realise how close we are to the Macedonian Demilitarised
Zone?"
Demetria put a hand on his thigh, damn distracting when he was trying to drive
on a twisty, bumpy little road that probably dated back to the time of Alexander
the Great. "I know, darling," she said soothingly. "Everyone says its safe these
days. There hasn't been any shooting on this side of the border for weeks."
"Oh, not for weeks! Wonderful."
"Please, Ed. You know how much this means to me. I haven't seen Thea and Helena
for almost a year."
Ed mumbled something noncommittal, and tried to keep his eyes on the road. Thea
and Helena. Childhood friends of Demetria's, apparently, although he couldn't
recall hearing her mention them before yesterday. They were both nurses, and had
been selflessly volunteering their time with one of the numerous humanitarian
organisations operating within the borders of the ravaged battleground that was
all that remained of the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. Now that there
was a lull in the fighting, they had the opportunity to seize a few days' badly
needed respite and temporarily escape from the horrors they witnessed on an
almost daily basis. They had arranged to rent a small guest house just outside
the charmingly named town of Panorama, and were apparently eager for Demetria
and her exotic English boyfriend to make the long drive up from Athens and spend
a day or two drinking ouzo and basking in the lingering grandeur of ancient
Byzantium.
It did sound nice, persistent worries about another Albanian offensive aside.
But the whole thing had come up so suddenly and unexpectedly that Ed couldn't
help wondering if Demetria might just possibly be up to something. He was a
great believer in healthy skepticism, and it occurred to him that it was odd
that Demetria had never before mentioned her two dear friends who were risking
life and limb for the good of the embattled Macedonian people. Her behaviour
lately had been awfully strange, with a lot of hushed telephone conversations
that she abruptly ended when he walked into the room. Yes, something was
definitely afoot. Were Thea and Helena trying to smuggle something out of
Macedonia, perhaps? But what the hell. The idea of a brief holiday in the north
was an attractive one, and obviously it really was important to Demetria; she'd
been treating him like a prince ever since he'd agreed a few days ago to make
the trip, for one thing. He wasn't sure which he appreciated more, the regular
oral sex or the wonderful seafood dinners she'd taken to preparing every night.
His misgivings returned, though, as they finally parked and stepped out of the
car. The guest house was actually rather isolated, tucked away in a little
wooded ravine, and it was a lot bigger and more dilapidated than he'd been
imagining. There was a light on upstairs, and when Demetria knocked softly on
the front door a rich female voice drifted down, telling them to come right up
and make themselves comfortable.
"Was that one of your friends?" asked Ed in an undertone.
"Yes, of course. That was Thea. Who else would it be?"
He shrugged. "I just wasn't expecting that Slavic accent. Where's she from?"
"She grew up three doors down from me, silly. She probably picked up the accent
in Macedonia. Some people do that - you should've heard her when she came back
from Peru."
More uneasy than ever, but stuck without any reasonable excuse (even in his own
mind) for backing out, Ed followed Demetria into the house and up a creaking
staircase. "In here," Thea called again, and he caught the rich scent of cigar
smoke as he stepped into what looked like a shabbily furnished sitting room.
There was a mouldering boar's head hung on one wall - he could hardly believe
his eyes - and opposite the door was a low couch where a very tall woman sat
smoking. She was thin almost to the point of emaciation, and the short brown
hair that framed her pinched, hard face was shot with grey. Her posture, slumped
back on the couch with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee and her cigar
clenched between yellowed teeth at one corner of her mouth, made her look a bit
arrogant and decidedly unfeminine. She was clearly not a childhood friend of
Demetria's.
Carl stopped dead in his tracks, only a couple of steps into the room. "Who the
hell are you?" he demanded, too startled to be polite.
The woman puffed smoke in his direction. "Call me Tanja. My friend and I, we
here to collect you."
"What the-"
He felt Demetria's hand on his shoulder. "Please, Carl. Just relax and do what
they tell you, and you won't get hurt." At almost the same moment powerful hands
gripped his arms just above the elbows, from behind, and a booted foot struck
the back of one knee with terrific force. Suddenly he was lying on his belly
with the wind knocked out of him, too shocked to struggle as Tanja rose
unhurriedly to her feet and came forward. Someone else's knee was pressed into
the small of his back, pinning him to the floor, and the fingers that dug
painfully into his upper arms held him with the implacable strength of iron
manacles. Tanja knelt down beside him and ruffled his hair.
"There, that not so bad?" Her accent was much stronger now that she was making
no effort to disguise it. "Now hold still, you, and let us do our job. Pull him
up so I get his shirt off, Erika."
He was forced abruptly and effortlessly to his knees. This Erika had to be built
like a fucking gorilla. His eyes blurred with tears of fear and helpless anger
as Tanja started unbuttoning his shirt with deft, very assured fingers, not
hurrying at all. She reeked of tobacco.
"What the hell are you doing?" He meant it to sound defiant, but it came out
more like a whimper. "Demetria, what's going on? Why don't you help me?"
"Carl, I hired these people. They're going to take you back to England."
"You fucking bitch!" Tanja slapped him, snapping his head sideways. He caught a
glimpse of Demetria standing with folded arms, her expression very difficult to
read as she observed the proceedings.
"It's all right," she said mildly. "Let him yell all he wants, if you're sure
nobody can hear. Carl, I'm not doing this to be cruel. We both know it's what
you want." Tanja raised her eyebrows at this, but said nothing.
"Demetria, listen to me," Ed said desperately. "It's fun to imagine, I'm not
denying that. But this is real! I'm scared half to death, I'm angry, and I
definitely don't want this. Please tell me it's all a joke."
Demetria gave him a faint smile and shook her head slightly.
"Then tell them to stop! Can't we discuss this?"
Again, that barely perceptible shake of her head. He glanced up at Tanja.
"She must have hired you. You're not doing this for fun. Whatever she's paying
you, my father will double it."
Tanja didn't even pause in the act of unbuttoning his pants. Demetria burst out
laughing.
"Bitch!" he wailed. "What's so funny!"
"Your father's paying me to send you back to England, stupid. Him and the
conscription people. I think you're becoming quite an embarrassment to him."
"Paying you? How much?"
"More than you're worth," Demetria giggled, but almost affectionately. "Just
hurry up and get his clothes off, will you?" she said to Tanja. "Then we'll see
if he really wants you to let him go."
Think about flower arrangements, Ed said to himself in churning mental panic. Or
trigonometry. Or church. Anything boring, anything banal. Anything but Erika's
crushing grip on his upper arms, the pressure of her knee pressing his body into
the floorboards, his fear, his discomfort, Tanja's deft fingers pulling his
pants down to his ankles and off, reaching up again for his underwear. Anything
but the futility of struggling, his utter helplessness, Demetria's expression of
diabolical amusement. Anything but what Amanda was going to do to him. But it
was too late. The moment he was naked, Erika yanked him back up to his knees,
and Ed bowed his head in shame as his humiliating erection suddenly became all
too visible. How could it be so terrifying, and so exciting, all at once?
Tanja laughed at him. "See Ed? Your girlfriend really does you a favour, no?
Nine years in this business," she mused, "and never I see anything quite like
this."
"Oh, you'd know all about it if you handled more of the boys," Erika said
nonchalantly. Her Greek was rather better than her partner's. "I've met a few
that liked having a woman push them around. They're the ones that are fun to get
alone, because the more you hurt them" - she suddenly wrenched Ed's arms up
behind him, so that he moaned in pain - "the more turned on they get. See?" He
could feel her hot breath on the back of his neck as she bore down even harder.
"You like that, boy?"
"Ow - please -"
"Come on, we'd better just get him tied up," said Demetria hurriedly. We're
supposed to meet the English ship around midnight tomorrow."
"Okay, okay," sighed Erika. "There'll be time to play with him on the boat, I
guess." Her grip relaxed a fraction. Tanja pulled a short length of rope from
her pocket and tied his wrists together with practised efficiency, then bent
over to do his ankles.
"You always want to play," she told Erika scoldingly.
"Well, how often do we get our hands on a boy? It's always starving Albanian and
Turkish girls, and half of them are so fucking ugly I don't even understand why
people are willing to pay good money for them. No fun at all. And besides, he's
cute." She pinched Ed's left buttock.
Tanja laughed and said something else, in a language Ed quickly identified as
Serbo-Croatian; you heard quite a bit of that in Greece these days. They kept
chatting, and giggling, as they gagged him and packed him into an enormous
canvas sack. Demetria ruffled his hair affectionately just before they tied it
shut.
"You'll thank me for this someday, Ed, I promise. And don't worry - if anybody
gets to play with you on that boat, it's going to be me, and I'll play nicely.
One last time before we hand you over to your dear friend Amanda, who
incidentally seems to be very upset with you right now."
* * *
"Oh, come on, Mom, let's stay a little longer. I think they're going to beat
that guy! Aren't we supposed to be documenting abuses?"
"You don't need to see a naked man get his ass whipped," replied Andrea's mother
in her twangy Georgia accent. "I've seen them do it on the internet, and it
ain't pretty."
"But we should be filming!" Andrea protested, leaning over so that her generous
bosom pressed against the rail. In the quarry below the two dozen or so male
conscripts, chained at the ankles and naked except for boots and gloves and
safety goggles, were working themselves into a state of sweaty exhaustion as
they split layers of grey slate away from the rockface. Their overseer was a
tall and statuesque brunette, menacing in her crisp uniform and sunglasses, who
prowled around the quarry with a leather strap and didn't hesitate to lash out
at any man who seemed to be faltering in his work. Andrea loved it when she hit
them, loved the way they winced in pain and then attacked their task with
redoubled effort, not daring to defy the overseer with even the briefest glance
of resentment. They were the sort of young men who looked just right for work
like this - strong, well built and rugged, their bodies lean and muscular - and
yet they were as meek and submissive as helpless little kittens.
And better yet, one of them had got himself into more serious trouble,
apparently by making an obscene gesture of some sort at the spectators on the
viewing platform opposite the one where Andrea and her mother were standing.
Another officer had come forward to take him by the arm, and was leading him
toward a vertical wooden post at one end of the quarry. He said something to her
in a low voice Andrea couldn't quite catch, and she promptly yelled at him to
shut up and cracked her strap across his thighs. The sound of the blow echoed
off the quarry walls, and Andrea drew a sharp little breath as she saw his
handsome angular face contort in sudden pain.
Her mother grabbed her arm, in much the same way that the officer down there was
holding the conscript. "Come on, Andrea!" she insisted.
"Mom, this what we've been hoping to see all day! Where's the camera?"
"I just don't want you having nightmares." But she fished the camcorder out of
its bag and switched it on. Andrea turned back to the show, determined not to
let annoyance at the condescending remark interfere with her mood of rising
excitement. Honestly, she was nineteen years old and mature for her age, and the
sight of a man being made to squeal a little was definitely not going to give
her any nightmares. No matter how much her mother lectured her on the subject,
she could never quite bring herself to see all this slavery stuff as a horrible
abomination, although she had learned to nod along with Mom at the appropriate
places. Maybe the thought was sinful - Mom would certainly say so - but the
sight of all those sweaty male bodies toiling away under the harsh threat of the
strap was undeniably erotic. In a way. Maybe it was wrong to round up all the
young men in the country and force them to be slaves, kind of fascist or
something, but wasn't that just the way they'd always done things on this side
of the Atlantic? And besides, anything this sexy couldn't be all bad. She felt a
bit sorry for the men, but she couldn't share her mother's sense of righteous
anger. And it was a good bet that Mom couldn't share her fascination with the
whole thing, either, or even understand it. She would be mortified if she knew
her daughter owned a pair of panties that had been made by a British slave in a
sweatshop, and she would probably die of apoplexy if she found out that her
dear, sweet, god-fearing virginal girl was in the habit of putting them on every
night and masturbating furiously under the covers as she imagined the rows of
naked boys at work at their sewing machines. Chained, cowering as they heard the
booted footsteps of a stern overseer pass behind them, stitching together
intimate female garments and thinking of the firm breasts and smooth thighs of
the women who would wear them, far away and utterly unattainable...
But there were other matters at hand. The man's wrists had been cuffed to the
pole, up above his head, and the officer was loudly admonishing him in a
wonderful Scottish accent to hold still and take it like a man. She kept turning
from one viewing balcony to the other, apparently playing to the spectators to
some extent. This was one of the more accessible conscript labour sites in
Yorkshire, according to the travel guide they'd brought with them from Atlanta,
and there were nearly always a few curious tourists in attendance.
He actually did take it like a man at first, standing rigidly with his muscles
tensed and his fingers tightly gripping the pole as the officer took her strap
to his back and buttocks with a vengeance. Andrea could hear the sharp report of
every blow, and see the welts rising on his naked body. Her mother seemed intent
on her filming, her narrow mouth set in a grim line of disapproval. Andrea had
expected more tears, maybe some struggling and screaming. The strapping couldn't
be all that bad, if he wasn't... And then, suddenly, he broke. A particularly
vicious stroke caught the inside of one thigh, and he howled in pain and began
to writhe and dance under the strap like a man standing on a nest of angry fire
ants. He squirmed and wept, trying desperately to avoid the stinging blows, and
yet they continued in exactly the same sharp, regular rhythm as before. That
bitch (and Andrea meant the term as an unqualified compliment) really knew what
she was doing. The other men seemed to be working a little harder, she saw with
amusement, as if they were afraid they might be next. She supposed she didn't
blame them. But Jesus, men were so adorable when they'd been bullied into
subservience and were being kept under strict discipline. So deliciously,
charmingly, aware of their own vulnerability.
Eventually it stopped, long after the unfortunate man had given up struggling
and slumped against the whipping post in utter defeat. The officer smiled and
raised a hand in acknowledgement as many of the spectators - not all female by
any means - applauded and called for the beating to continue, but nevertheless
released the man and allowed him to gulp a little water from a canteen. She
herded him over to the shade at the edge of the quarry and had him get down on
his knees, his head at her boots.
"Aren't they going to put him back to work?" Andrea wondered aloud.
"Of course they are," snapped her mother with barely suppressed fury. "They're
going to work these poor boys till they're practically keeling over dead, and
then wake them up tomorrow to do it all over again. They're just letting him
rest a couple of minutes, that's all. And what a hell of a way to rest, kneeling
in the dirt like a goddamn animal."
"At least they're being a bit humane," said Andrea, eager not to feel guilty
about the moisture that was slowly saturating her panties.
"There's nothing humane about slavery." She shoved the camcorder back into its
bag, hard enough that Andrea was afraid she might have damaged it. "Don't you
get to thinking there's anything right or decent about any of this. Our family
have been abolitionists ever since before the word was invented, and I don't
like to think we've stamped out human bondage on our side of the pond just to
see it spring up again over here. We're going to help put a stop to it. When I
show folks back home what's on this videotape-"
"I know, Mom, I know. It's going to be great." And never mind, Andrea's inner
cynic added silently, that folks back home or anywhere else in the world can see
all of that and worse just by logging on to the right little corner of
cyberspace. "There's no force in the world like American public opinion." That
was one of her mother's favourite phrases, tacked on for good measure.
"That's my girl! But there's something else, too." She lowered her voice as they
made their way back toward the car they'd rented, which seemed to Andrea to be
rather small, unstable, and dangerous. "Apparently some of the local folks have
formed what they're calling a direct action group against conscription. Their
Manchester cell is meeting this Saturday, and I'm invited."
"Their Manchester cell?" Andrea echoed. "Mom, that sounds seriously creepy."
"Desperate times, darling, desperate times. We've already talked about the best
way to get a shipment of firepower into this country."
* * *
Richard regarded the elegant little package in front of him with a mixture of
curiosity and trepidation. It was small enough to fit on the palm of his hand,
wrapped in glossy ivory-coloured paper and decorated with a frilly pink ribbon
that someone, probably Sara, had tied off in a very elaborate bow. It looked
perfectly charming and innocent, almost too much so for a mistress' gift to her
slave.
"What is it, ma'am?" he asked warily.
"Go on and open it if you want to find out," answered Lady Briddington a little
tartly. "It won't explode, I'll promise you that much."
He couldn't refuse, of course, although part of him wanted to. Ever since he had
emerged from the drugged stupor that had followed that savage beating in the
Playroom, his mistress had been surprisingly gentle with him, to the extent that
he was beginning to feel more like a pampered housepet than a cowering slave.
She had certainly not said anything further about wanting to keep him after his
period of conscription was over, or wanting to separate him from Claire. But for
all her gentleness there was a new purposefulness about her, a sense of steely
determination, that was as unmistakeable as it was subtle. Richard had long
since given up on trying to read her complex, brilliant and yet sometimes oddly
childish mind, but every scrap of intuition he possessed told him that she was
beginning to formulate some very definite and quite probably unpleasant plans
for her hapless slave. Plans that might very well involve surprising him with an
unexpected gift, the first he had ever received from her.
But he had no choice other than to open it. He carefully untied the ribbon,
mindful of her loathing of any sort of messiness, and unfolded the paper to
reveal a small white cardboard box. Lady Briddington leaned forward eagerly as
he lifted the lid, and smiled as his mouth fell open in surprise.
"Ma'am, I don't understand," he blurted.
"Take them out, my dear. Look at them closely."
Inside the box were a pair of old-fashioned toy soldiers, a redcoat and a
Cossack horseman from the Crimean War period, tiny but painted in exquisite
detail. Richard could hardly believe his eyes; he had once had toys exactly like
these as a child, though they had been in somewhat worse shape after a couple of
years of his rough handling. He remembered sending the two on innumerable
imaginary adventures together, not realising that their historical counterparts
had actually taken the battlefield as enemies rather than allies. And he
remembered the heartbreaking day he had left them on a train from Liverpool,
never to be seen again. His mother had searched all the shops for replacements,
without success, and he had always rather regretted losing them. Now Lady
Briddington had given him perfect duplicates. He set them carefully on the table
beside the open box.
"Your mother thought you might like to have these," she told him. "I shall pass
them to her for safekeeping, until you are due for release. It took quite some
time to locate them, so I hope they meet with your approval. A part of your
childhood, are they not?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am! They're just like Ivan and Sir Bexley. It's wonderful to have
them back again. But I still don't understand why you took the trouble to find
them."
"Think of it as a gesture of apology, my dear?"
"For - for what you did to me three weeks ago, ma'am?"
Her smile became wider, and colder. "More for what I intend to do in the near
future. You realise that you are due to be rotated to another work assignment
very shortly?"
"Of course, ma'am. I'll miss you, I really will."
"Perhaps not so much as you think now. You know how these things are. But before
you leave, Ms. Felton-Withers and I intend to organise a small gathering, a kind
of graduation party, for yourself and that lovely boy Aladdin. I have asked Ms.
Reynolds to supervise your transport to the venue we have arranged, and to see
that you are properly prepared. I think you will find the experience most
educational, if not entirely pleasant."
She clapped her hands. "Ms. Reynolds!"
The woman appeared at once from the adjoining room, and nodded at Richard where
he knelt naked by the low table. "Shall I take him now, ma'am?"
"By all means. Remember, he is to remain chained and hooded for the duration of
the trip. I don't want him to see or hear anything that would give him a clue as
to his location."
"Understood, ma'am. Richard! Get over here." He wanted very badly to ask what
they intended to do with him, but of course any such question would be worse
than useless. Since the beating Ms. Reynolds had seemed more terrifying than
ever, and he rushed to obey her, meekly allowing her to cuff his wrists behind
him and lead him downstairs where the hoods were kept with the other restraints.
But he did glance once over his shoulder as they passed out of the room, to see
Lady Briddington looking on with a smooth, expressionless face and eyes that
seemed to burn into the very core of his being.
* * *
Clive's breathing quickened the moment he heard the telephone ring. He hastily
closed the door, pulled down the blind on the window, and snatched it up. If it
turned out to be some bastard selling magazine subscriptions...
"Hello?" he said in a reasonably calm voice.
"Clive darling," Claire purred in his ear. "Have you been waiting by the phone
all afternoon, you poor thing?"
"Not really," he replied, not wanting to admit it.
"Well, you certainly should have been. I thought you promised to be at my beck
and call when I wanted you, silly boy."
"It's not like I was far away - I mean -"
She gave a trill of laughter. "Oh, I'm only teasing, Clive. I seem to be in a
frivolous mood. I just heard from Amanda this morning. She's been working at
that training camp for new conscription officers, you know, and it sounds like
she's turning into quite the lesbian. I had to listen for half an hour while she
told me about all the delicious young ladies in her unit, and how much fun she
had abusing them during the first week or so. Straps on bare bottoms, tongues
and fingertips probing intimate body parts - it was like something you'd find on
one of those dirty websites that seem to be everywhere these days."
"Amanda? I didn't think she went in for that kind of thing. It sounds like an
interesting conversation, though."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to give you too many details. I don't want to
corrupt your innocent little mind." She giggled again. "But it surprises me too.
I suppose it shouldn't. She never had much luck with the boys, the poor
overgrown bitch. She just doesn't know how to make herself attractive. Kind of
reminds me of Attila the Hun with tits, actually, and not even very good ones."
Clive was as startled as he was amused. She didn't usually talk about Amanda
that way. Then again, she'd been insulting everyone lately; it was as if some
long-deactivated gland in her system had suddenly started pumping out bitch
hormones. Maybe she was just worried about not getting any time with Richard,
although that state of things was just fine with Clive. "Tits and a worse
temper," he said aloud. "Did you really have to let her get me alone that
weekend?"
"But darling, she's so good at keeping you naughty little boys in line, you have
to give her that. Speaking of which, are you ready to play?"
"Ready and willing." He wasn't sure when he'd started to actually enjoy these
phone sessions, but now he looked forward to them almost as much as he looked
forward to seeing her in person.
"Good boy. You know how to start."
He put the phone down, undressed, and knelt carefully on the carpet. "I'm naked
for your pleasure, ma'am," he said breathily. "How can I serve you?"
"Have to get you excited first. Go ahead and start stroking, slow to begin with.
I want you to picture me standing over you in my red lingerie, standing so close
you can smell my cunt."
"Oh, yeah."
"A little faster now. I'm rubbing your face into my crotch, and you can
practically taste me through the red satin. Ah, that feels good."
"Please Claire," moaned Clive into the telephone. "I'm so close."
"Then stop for a minute. Grab the head of your cock. Pinch it really hard."
He obeyed, though perhaps he didn't pinch quite as hard as he could have. He
gasped loudly into the phone, well aware that she liked to hear his reactions to
her orders.
"Okay. I've stopped. What now?"
"Depends. Mmm... this feels nice... I haven't stopped, you know. Anyway, do you
want to cum?"
"Fuck! Did Columbus want to find China?"
Her giggle was mixed with another sigh of pleasure. "Okay, then. I'm going to
let you cum, but first you have to do something you really aren't going to like.
Can you do that?"
"Yeah, anything." If it was something really disgusting, he could always just
pretend - it wasn't like she could see him. He'd known all along, of course,
that there'd be more to this than a simple wanking session.
"That's a word you should be very careful with, Clive darling. Anyway, did you
buy that permanent marker yesterday? Like I asked you?"
"Yeah, of course." He fumbled around in the accumulated junk on top of his
dresser, and quickly found it. "Ready."
"Good. I want you write my name on your cock. Remember it will take a little
while to come off, so do it carefully."
Oh, why not? Cradling the phone on his shoulder, he took his swollen penis in
one hand and the marker in the other. "C - L - A - I - R - E... finished."
"Now put 'slut' on your thigh."
"Left or right?"
"Oh, why don't... mmm... why don't we make it both. And now write 'slave cunt'
on your chest. Just be careful not to get any of the letters backwards. Take
your time, Clive. By the way, how's your cock doing?"
"Still good and stiff. Claire, how much longer?"
"It could be a really long time if you keep pestering. And give your cock
another little stroke or two - no, wait, just trace over my name with your
finger. That's the name of the woman who owns you, Clive."
"Yes!"
"Good. You have your lipstick handy?"
"Yeah," he muttered. He didn't like the lipstick - it reminded him of the
lingering humiliation of having to stand in line and purchase it in the first
place, for one thing.
"And your panties? The naughty yellow ones?"
"Yeah."
"That's my boy. Put the panties on now."
"Claire, when can I-"
"Slap your balls," she said briskly, her voice suddenly harsh. He obeyed
instinctively, and moaned in pain.
"I hate it when you interrupt. Put on the panties."
"All right, they're on," he said sullenly.
"Now apply the lipstick. And use it to draw big circles around your nipples and
belly button."
"Done," he sighed after a moment. If Claire expected all this to humiliate him,
it wasn't really working; with no one around to watch, it was just annoying.
"Wonderful! Take a look in the mirror. Tell me how sexy you look."
"Oh, I look like a whore, Claire," he replied rather mechanically. "I look like
such a little slut. I look" - inspiration struck him - "like a bad girl who
really, really needs to get off."
"In a minute!" she giggled. "You sound like a bad girl who is absolutely greedy
and incorrigible. Now when I tell you, you're going to put down the phone, go
look in your mailbox outside - without putting on any other clothes, of course -
and then come back. If anyone stares at you, wave and blow kisses."
"Claire, come on," he whined. "Allen and Kari are probably home by now. They
might see."
"That's good. They have to get used to the idea of living next door to my slave.
Or aren't you really serious about this?"
"Okay, okay. I'm going." He put down the phone, and walked to the front door. He
wouldn't have to do more than put a foot outside to get to the mailbox. Then
again, he didn't really have to get to the mailbox at all. He waited a minute,
then went back to the phone.
"Claire, that was so fucking embarrassing! Kari was out watering the garden, and
she practically ran inside her house when she saw me. What if they call the
police or something?"
"Oh, calm down. What was in the mailbox?"
"Just a couple of bills."
Her sigh came through loud and clear. "Bad girl, Clive. Go back and really look
this time." Shit. She must have had a friend leave something in there. He went
back to the door, thought of how wonderful Claire could be when she was pleased
with him, and pulled it open just enough to slip out, snatch whatever was in the
mailbox, and dart back inside before anyone had the slightest chance of seeing
him. He stepped out onto the porch, and actually screamed aloud when someone
grabbed him by the wrist.
"Hi Clive!" exclaimed Claire cheerfully, brandishing her mobile phone in her
free hand. Thought I'd drop by for a little visit. Come on out here, don't be
shy." There were a dozen or so men and women about his own age gathered on lawn
chairs in front of the house - friends of Claire's, most of whom he remembered
meeting at least briefly at one time or another. The driveway and the street in
front of the house were full of strange vehicles. She pushed him eagerly forward
into the centre of their half-circle and tapped his shoulder. There were giggles
from the women and uneasy murmurs from the men as he dropped obediently to his
knees, blushing. "Oh, he's darling!" squealed a blonde with a plump, cherubic
face. "I was sure he wasn't actually doing all that naughty writing, but look!"
"Oh, Claire, you're so lucky."
Claire's eyes flashed triumphantly. "I think most of you know Clive here. He's
my slave - we're going to make it official as soon as the new matrimony laws
come into force. We've already talked about the nuptial contract, and it's going
to be as extreme as they're allowed to be. It will say I can do anything I want
to him short of severe maiming. He can never initiate divorce, and I get all his
assets. I can have other husbands too, of course, if they agree to the
arrangement. I think I'll make him wear panties like these all the time."
"What if he just won't do it?" asked one of the men a bit nervously. "I
certainly wouldn't."
"Oh, come on, Charlie," another bloke laughed. "You'd look bloody good in
panties."
"If he won't do it," grinned Claire, "I'll punish him. It's not like he can
fight back, at least not without getting arrested - my part of the contract
doesn't consent to any domestic violence. No, I'll have the poor boy by the
bollocks, just the way I like him." Clive kept his eyes on the ground,
humiliated beyond belief.
"Sounds like a wonderful way to live happily ever after," said another female
voice. Somebody wearing sensible brown shoes. "Some goddess must be smiling on
the women of Britain these days."
"Not just women," Charlie protested. "I mean, it could go either way, right?"
"Well, theoretically. I even know a gay couple who are planning to sign a really
one-sided nuptial. But honestly, Charlie, how many women are going to agree to
be on the receiving end of something like that? It's different for men - after
all, they're going to spend two years learning how to be good slaves, so it'll
seem natural to them, and anyway they're already used to doing stupid,
ridiculous things for the amusement of the women in their lives. Speaking of
which, you're due to be conscripted yourself next time round, aren't you? Come
round to my place sometime and I'll give you a little practice taking orders."
Again, female laughter and sounds of male discomfort; this was getting
positively creepy.
"Very funny," Charlie spluttered. "You know, we never should have let you girls
out of the kitchen."
"Oh, goodness!" Claire exclaimed. "That reminds me. Clive, go inside and whip up
some kind of snack for us, and get everyone drinks of course. And you might want
to hang up the phone, too. Find out what everyone wants - that's a good boy.
We'll spank him with my special paddle if he gets mixed up. Welcome to the New
Britannia!"

Chapter 16

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

Chapter 17 (final)

There was a moment's silence from the machine. Then, Claire's voice again, a
little distorted but perfectly clear: "She never had much luck with the boys,
the poor overgrown bitch. She just doesn't know how to make herself attractive.
Kind of reminds me of Attila the Hun with tits, actually, and not even very good
ones."
"There's plenty more," said Lady Briddington levelly, though her finger came
down decisively on the stop button. "If you want to hear it. She's been making
remarks in a similar vein to anyone who will listen."
Amanda shook her head, then lowered it to hide sudden tears. She thought of
herself as a tough woman, especially after the adventures of the past few
months, but this was an unexpected blow in a terribly vulnerable place. It
wouldn't be nearly so bad, she told herself miserably, if not for the fact that
each and every one of the callous, hurtful things Claire had been saying about
her hadn't contained at least a little nugget of truth.
"That's enough," she mumbled unhappily. "But I just don't understand. Why would
Claire talk about me that way? And you still haven't told me why you're spying
on her in the first place."
Lady Briddington smiled in a way that looked almost sympathetic. "Claire has
been... has been trying to interfere, shall we say, in my relationship with
Richard. Her behaviour has been anything but ladylike and considerate, and I
frankly admit that I'm looking for a way to punish her - hence the spying. As
for her attitude toward you, I would attribute it to petulance and frustration
over not being able to pry the boy away from me. The disagreeable side of her
character is coming to the fore."
Amanda scrubbed the back of her hand angrily across her eyes. "But I thought
Claire liked me," she blurted. "I really did. And last time we talked, when I
was telling her about the trainees, and she seemed so interested in what I'd
been doing with them, I even thought..." She couldn't finish.
"You poor girl," Lady Briddington murmured. "Claire's very beautiful, isn't
she?"
There was no need to answer aloud. Amanda blushed, and once again found herself
studying the patterns in the worked stone of the floor. Even now, she could
appreciate the craftsmanship. If this castle was only Lady Briddington's
secondary residence - "crude, but convenient," the woman had sniffed shortly
after Amanda's arrival - she could scarcely imagine what her manor in the
midlands had to be like.
"But the point," her ladyship continued, "is that I believe it will be possible
to put the wretched girl in her place, and your assistance would be most
helpful. Since she has clearly betrayed your friendship, you needn't have any
qualms. If you had an opportunity to treat her in much the same way that you
treat your female trainees, would you take it?"
She answered without hesitation. "Yes. But I can't be away from Camp Thatcher
for long."
"Oh, I can make the necessary arrangements. A substitute can be found to take
charge of your training unit in your absence, and in any case I will only
require your help with Claire for two or three days. Unless, of course, you
would be interested in leaving the conscription service altogether and taking up
a position in my household. I can certainly offer you more in the way of
financial compensation."
Amanda frowned, thoroughly puzzled, and Lady Briddington waved a dismissive
hand. "But we can discuss that later. In the meantime, all I really need you to
do is persuade Claire to join us, here, for Richard's graduation ceremony. Do
tell her that she'll be very welcome, and you might hint that she can expect an
opportunity to get intimate with the boy before he is sent away to his next work
assignment."
"I'm sure she'll agree. She misses Richard terribly, or so she says. But won't
it seem odd that the message should come through me?"
"Not at all. Tell her the truth - that I didn't want to speak to her directly
because we're not on the best of terms, and that when you came to my attention
through the deplorable Sanderson affair I learned that you were a good friend of
hers. How is young Edwin, anyway?"
Amanda smiled thinly. "Miserable. I'm making sure of it. He cringes in terror
every time I walk by."
"Commendable. But you will talk to Claire, won't you?"
"I suppose I could. But what's going to happen when she arrives? Something
unpleasant, I gather."
"Very unpleasant indeed. And you can help, if you like." Again that radiant
smile, but tinged this time with the cruel anticipation of a cat waiting in
front of a mousehole. Amanda was sure that the expression on her own face must
be quite similar.
* * *
Richard had no idea where he was. They were keeping him in a cage, a ten foot
cube of heavy steel in a room without windows or furniture. The interior of the
cage, however, was quite comfortable, in fact almost luxurious compared to his
little cell adjacent to Lady Briddington's playroom. There was a bed with warm
blankets and a soft pillow, a washbasin, and a shelf with a dozen or so books
that Richard was almost certain had been selected by his mother from among his
old favourites. (Browning's "Sonnets From the Portuguese", surely contributed by
Lady Briddington herself, had languished untouched throughout his
incarceration.) The usual metal bucket had been replaced by a genuine porcelain
chamberpot, still vaguely unpleasant to use but actually rather charming. And
Ms. Reynolds was conscientious about changing it regularly, and bringing him
regular meals that compared favourably with the best of his own mother's
cooking. He was still kept naked, and Ms. Reynolds hauled him out of the cage
twice daily for exercise sessions that were as strenuous as any paces he had
ever been put through, but he hadn't had anything like a serious beating since
arriving in this new prison a few days ago. He just wished he had some idea
where he was.
It was all very strange, and actually a little sinister. He had been brought
here hooded and in chains, and herded directly into the cage after a drive that
had seemed to last for hours and hours. Deprived of all reliable sense of time
and direction, he had no idea what part of the country he might be in, or even
whether they might have driven in a long circle and ended up back at some part
of the manor he had never been allowed to explore. But it was clear that he was
being prepared for something unusual, and the knot of apprehension deep in his
belly had only increased since the cage door had crashed shut behind him for the
first time. Lady Briddington had mentioned a graduation ceremony, but Ms.
Reynolds had not been instructing him in any sort of ritual that might be
appropriate for such an occasion. There had only been the twice-daily exercises,
which she directed with a fierce intensity that always left him trembling and
exhausted. There was a lot of aerobic activity, and endless running around and
around an indoor track - he hated that - and it seemed that the only time he
ever felt the strap these days was when he began to tire and slacken his pace.
Was his graduation from Briddington's Finishing School for Boy-Slaves to involve
some peculiar display of endurance? He waited, and wondered, and tried not to
spend too much time pacing in his cage like a helpless dumb beast in a zoo.
Frederick Forsyth and Tom Clancy provided something of an escape, but even they
could only distract him for so long.
He was just beginning to drift off to sleep one night when the door to the bare
room surrounding his cage swung open. The hinges were oiled into perfect
silence, but he heard the key turn in the lock and felt the rush of cold air
from the hall outside. He felt an immediate thrill of apprehension when he saw
it wasn't Ms. Reynolds standing silhouetted in the doorway, but it took him a
moment to recognise Ms. Bonner. She put a warning finger to her lips and strode
quickly into the room, closing the door behind her. Some furtiveness in her
manner alarmed him.
"Ma'am?" he said nervously, raising himself on an elbow. "Did Lady Briddington
send you to help prepare me? What's happening?"
"Hush. I've come on my own, to get you out of here. I feel that I can no longer
continue in Lady Briddington's service. The woman has become a monster."
"Get me out of here?" he echoed slowly. "And take me where? I don't understand."
"Somewhere you'll be safe from her. I think it will have to be overseas - maybe
Sweden or Switzerland."
Was this really the imperturbable, level-headed woman he remembered from the
manor? "But I wouldn't leave her even if I could," he protested. "I'm her slave
- she owns me, and she can do whatever she wants to me. I can't just run away."
"You don't know what she has planned for you," Ms. Bonner said urgently.
"Please, Richard, come with me, and save the questions for later. You see, she
-"
He shook his head violently. "No! If she wanted me to know, she'd have told me."
"When it starts, you're going to be sorry. Do you think it was easy for me to
sneak in here, you ungrateful idiot? And to get my hands on the keys to this
room? Richard, I've seen everything she's done to you, from the very first day,
and this is going to be the worst yet. Even worse than that whipping. I always
felt sorry for you, always thought she was being much too hard with you, but for
months I did my job and helped her torture you. But now she's gone too far."
With her usual icy precision, she thrust another key into the steel lock on the
cage and popped it open. "Come out here right now, and let me take you somewhere
safe. Don't you want your freedom?"
He rose slowly to his feet, heedless of his nakedness, and moved to face Ms.
Bonner squarely through the open door of the cage. Her face looked almost
haggard, drawn with concern and showing her age very clearly. He did feel
gratitude for the risk she was taking, he really did - but he couldn't stop
thinking about the feel of Lady Briddington's hand stroking his hair, the
remembered coldness of her leopard collar around his neck, her voice moaning
beneath him in the throes of desire. It seemed only fitting that his time with
her be brought to some proper conclusion, and he had to admit that he longed to
feel one last time that delicious sense of surrender to her. And afterwards
there would be more slavery, more servitude, more firm female hands to torment
and punish and reward him, until finally he was released to kneel before Claire
of his own free will. He couldn't give all that up for a midnight dash to the
Continent, however unpleasant the thought of Ms. Reynolds' waking him up early
tomorrow for morning exercises might be. He firmly pulled the cage door shut
again, and sighed as he heard the lock click with dismal finality.
"I have to stay," he murmured, as much to himself as to Ms. Bonner. "I'm sorry,
ma'am, but I still belong to her."
Ms. Bonner threw up her hands in exasperation. "All right, Richard. I'm not
going to kidnap you. But it won't be long before you start to wish I had. At
least let me kiss you goodbye." Her dry lips brushed his through the widely
spaced bars of the cage, and then she was gone. A naked and lonely prisoner once
again, Richard went back to bed.
* * *
Claire was literally trembling with excitement, occasionally so violently that
her fellow passengers on the little bus to Melrose eyed her with open concern.
They probably assumed she had some sort of strange disease, which wasn't so far
wrong - lovesickness might not be as medically respectable as, say, malaria, but
now she knew from personal experience that it was just as real. Her whole being
was consumed with desire to see Richard, even if she had to share him with the
dozen or so other guests Amanda had warned to her to expect at this very strange
graduation party Lady Briddington had organised. Then again, Amanda had also
hinted pretty strongly that she could expect a chance to be alone with Richard
at some point, despite the rancour and jealousy that had sprung up between
herself and Richard's mistress. But it would never do to let herself get too
hopeful, not until she learned a little more about exactly what was planned for
tomorrow's ceremony. Amanda had been pretty vague, come to think of it, as if
there might be details she hadn't wanted Claire to hear. Claire shuddered again
and hugged her arms to her breasts, torn between apprehension and delicious
anticipation, and then blushed with embarrassment when the rather fatherly
Scottish gentleman two seats over tried to wrap her in his greatcoat. It took
all her powers of persuasion to convince him that she wasn't sick, and wasn't
cold - well, it was chilly up here, indecently so for late April, but not to the
point where she had to go borrowing clothes from anonymous strangers. If she was
going to be taking care of two male slaves in the not-so-distant future, she had
better be able to take care of herself.
She passed the rest of the trip in nail-biting impatience, excited and tormented
by thoughts of Richard's soft eyes and hard body, and let out an audible sigh of
relief when the train finally pulled into the station. Amanda was on the
platform to meet her, as promised, but Claire felt a twinge of uneasiness as she
hurried toward her friend. Amanda was looking as tough and unfeminine as Claire
had ever seen her, her face impassive and her shoulders bulky with what looked
to be yet another layer of newly acquired muscle. Most disconcerting of all, she
had on a dark suit exactly like the ones Ms. Bonner and Ms. Reynolds wore when
on duty. Not wanting to think about what that might mean, Claire opened her arms
reflexively for a quick hug - it had been weeks since they'd seen each other in
person - but then dropped them again, feeling foolish, when Amanda didn't
respond.
"We'd better get going," Amanda said briskly. "It's a long drive to the castle,
and you're a few minutes late. They'll be expecting us."
"What's the rush?" Claire asked, hurrying to catch up as the other woman started
toward the parking lot without a backward glance. She had a heavy suitcase with
her, the inevitable result of not being sure which outfit would be appropriate
for the ceremony, and it was quite an effort to match Amanda's pace while
dragging the thing behind her. Surely it wouldn't kill Amanda to put a bit of
that excess muscle to good use and give her a hand?
"I thought the ceremony and everything was going to be tomorrow," Claire went on
aloud, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. She was already sweating
like a horse. "Does it really matter if we get in a bit late this afternoon?"
"Let's just say Lady Briddington is eager to have you arrive. You're supposed to
play a crucial part in the ceremony - and once you're squared away in a guest
room, she'll be able to stop worrying that you'll decide at the last minute not
to come after all."
"You make it sound like I'm going to be some sort of prisoner."
They were at the car. Claire was a heaving, perspiring mess, and her arms were
quivering with fatigue, but at least she'd kept up. Amanda turned back to face
her, her expression hard to read. "Look, Claire, you should have known. Lady
Briddington despises you. Of course she isn't inviting you just out of the
goodness of her dry aristocratic heart. She thinks she can't give Richard a
proper send-off without your help, and she has a specific role in mind for you.
But if you just cooperate and do everything you're told, you'll get to make love
to Richard one more time before they take him away. She's promised."
"Nice of you to mention this when we talked the other day," Claire almost
hissed.
Amanda shrugged. "You can still turn around and walk back to the station, if
seeing him isn't that important to you."
"You're turning into a real bitch, Amanda." That was loud enough to draw a
curious glance from a woman passing by, and Claire lowered her voice. "And
you're the one who's going to be giving me my instructions, is that it? I'll bet
you're going to enjoy yourself, you fucking musclebound gorilla dyke."
Amanda only gave her a thin smile. "Damn right. I take it you're staying, then?"
"You know I'm staying."
"All right. You'd better give me your mobile phone right now, then. And your
wallet."
"Why the hell-"
"And no arguing."
Glaring murderously, Claire reached into her pocket and handed them over. "And
you promise I'll get to see Richard," she said through clenched teeth.
"Not just see him. You'll get to fuck his brains out. Throw your suitcase in the
boot, and climb in the back." Claire did as she was told. So this was how it
felt to be taking orders, instead of giving them. She wished Amanda would just
shrivel up and die on the spot.
But of course, she did no such thing. When Claire tried to pull the door closed,
her captor - it was awful to think of Amanda that way, but that was what it
amounted to - got in the way. "Just a second." She reached into a pocket. "Put
these on."
Steel handcuffs. Claire glanced around nervously, but at least there wasn't
anyone else nearby. The other people from the train had already piled into cars
and vanished into the Border mists. But still... "I don't fucking believe this,"
she snapped.
"Just put them on, dear. In front of you is fine, and I've got a blanket to put
on your lap. No one will see."
"And I'll get to sleep with Richard."
"I promise."
Yielding to the inevitable, Claire cuffed herself, and turned her head away so
Amanda wouldn't see her tears as she leaned close to arrange the blanket and
pull Claire's seatbelt across her hips. She couldn't remember a time in her life
when she had felt more frightened and vulnerable, not a single one. Lady
Briddington might be planning to do anything to her! She wanted to face it
bravely, but she just couldn't seem to make herself stop crying, and the tears
flowed faster than ever when she realised Amanda was laughing at her from the
driver's seat. She was feeling cold again, the bumpy rural road was hurting her
arse, and her stomach churned with fear and anger. Even an hour or so later,
when the little car finally pulled up in front of Lady Briddington's castle and
her mood was fast slipping into resignation, it took an effort of will to stop
sniffling and clamber awkwardly out of the back seat. Amanda took her suitcase
with one hand and her elbow with the other, and led her toward the looming bulk
of the high stone walls.
"Where now, the dungeons?" Claire sneered.
"Not tonight," replied Amanda coolly. "There should be a nice guest room ready
for you in the west tower - just over this way."
The guest room was nice enough, as it turned out, if hardly luxurious. There was
a comfortable-looking bed and an adjoining bathroom. Amanda closed the door,
tossed Claire's suitcase on the bed, and flipped it open.
"I'll let you have your toothbrush and things, of course," said Amanda, removing
them from the suitcase. "And I suppose you can hang on to this." The latest
issue of New Matriarch joined the pile. "You won't be needing any of your
clothes, though - in fact, you have to take off what you're wearing now. Lady
Briddington insisted that I strip search you, just in case."
"Come on, Amanda. Why would I be hiding anything? I was expecting to be a guest
here, not a prisoner."
"I don't care what you were expecting. Let's see some skin."
Claire wished she wouldn't put it quite like that. "If someone has to do this,
can't it be Ms. Reynolds? Or Sara?"
"Didn't I tell you there wasn't going to be any arguing? I really wasn't
planning to hit you tonight, but if you keep carrying on like this..." She
stepped just a little closer, and Claire shrank back, intimidated.
"Okay, okay. Just give me a second." She dropped her eyes, avoiding the other
woman's hard, appraising gaze, and slipped off her shoes. Blouse, skirt and
stockings followed quickly, and after a brief pause she clenched her teeth and
took off her underwear as well, although she could feel herself blushing. Amanda
poked and prodded at her a little, mostly around the breasts and vulva, and she
writhed in discomfort.
"Can I get dressed now?" she snapped when the other woman finally stepped away.
"Of course not. Lady Briddington said I could keep you naked if I wanted - after
all, I might want to watch you on the cameras later. Put your clothes in your
suitcase, with the others."
Amanda sighed wearily and raised a threatening hand when she hesitated, and she
scurried to obey, her eyes brimming with tears. Suddenly she almost - almost -
wanted to be back in Birmingham with a pliant and obedient Clive, and to hell
with Richard. She watched in dismay as Amanda snapped her suitcase shut and
lifted it from the bed.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she said cheerily. "Someone will be up in an hour
or two with dinner, but don't expect anything fancy. Just behave yourself - no
yelling, no breaking things, no trying to get away. Remember that you're under
surveillance."
Claire had no intention of dignifying that with a response. She deliberately
turned her back and climbed into bed, ignoring Amanda's indulgent chuckle, and
pulled the covers up to her neck. She hated to hide like this, but not half as
much as she hated the idea of displaying herself for Lady Briddington and God
only knew who else. Amanda pushed the door closed, and Claire winced and bit her
lip when she heard a bolt slide into place on the other side, although she'd
been expecting it. Now she knew exactly how Richard must have felt when the
doors of the Intake Centre crashed shut behind him.
* * *
"Are you quite sure about the necklace, Sara?" Lady Briddington fretted. "I've
never particularly cared for this one - it strikes me as ostentatious, even
gaudy."
"Well, it's that sort of occasion," answered Sara with just a touch of
impatience. They had been at this for nearly an hour. "Grandeur, if I may say
so, is hardly out of place. But it's entirely your decision, of course. Would
you like to try the pearl one again?"
"No, we really must get the festivities underway. The ladies will be expecting
me at the breakfast table. But I can't help but worry. I almost feel that my
plans for the day are overly ambitious. There are so many different things that
could go wrong! Is that little whore Claire already in place?"
" I believe Ms. Harris is escorting her out even as we speak. The weather is
beautiful, the cooks have breakfast ready, and Ronald Tipper is all dressed up
and ready to serve. I think everything is well under control, ma'am."
"Well, I hope so. And the boys?"
Sara giggled. "Confused, nervous, and apprehensive. But ready to go."
"Apprehensive, and they don't even know what we have in store for them! I
suppose they'd be reduced to quivering puddles of jelly if they did. Ms.
Reynolds did remember to feed them?"
"Yes, of course. And they're properly outfitted. They both said it felt strange
to put clothes on, after all this time."
"The collars work?"
"Yes, ma'am," Sara sighed.
"I'm sorry. It's only - well, today is the culmination of a long and complicated
relationship, during which Richard and I have both learned a great deal. It's
important to me."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "The culmination?"
"Officially, dear, officially. And certainly a milestone. Which reminds me, I
mustn't keep you. When are you supposed to meet your little friend Andrea?"
"Not till this evening. But it's a long drive. Everything will be fine here, I'm
sure, and Connie will be a great help if you need anything."
"Very well. Off you go, then, though I'm sorry you have to miss the fun." Sara
Seville leaned close for a sisterly kiss, and then vanished. Lady Briddington
cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and wheeled toward the elevator.
Downstairs the ladies were practically bursting out of their smooth and scented
skins with anticipation. None of them seemed particularly interested in the
elaborate breakfast Richard's father was laying out on the table, resplendent in
the frilly uniform of a maid from the pages of some quaint Victorian novel;
rather, their attention was directed toward the two trembling young men who
knelt quietly in front of the great fireplace. Richard and Aladdin were chained
together at the neck, but otherwise unrestrained, for the moment. Ms. Reynolds
had dressed them in khaki outfits that looked almost military, with sturdy black
boots and leather belts. Each boy (Lady Briddington thought of them that way,
affectionately) had a canteen at his hip and a thin steel collar locked around
his neck, below the loop of chain that held them tethered to one another. Their
apprehension showed in every tense line of their bodies, and in the uncertain
glances they kept glancing at each other and at the cluster of women who eyed
them like a flock of bright, rapacious birds of prey. They looked handsome in
those crisp masculine clothes (especially Aladdin, she had to admit), and their
obvious nervousness was endearing. Lady Briddington felt her excitement rising
as she cleared her throat and called the gathering to order.
"Good morning, my dears," she said expansively. "A good morning to everyone -
old bosom companions, newer friends - do stop hiding in the kitchen, Connie and
Elsie, I naturally wish to include you as well - trusted servants, and of course
the three delightful and thoroughly abject male slaves who will be made to
endure so much for us today. Connie Tipper has graciously offered us the
services of our husband Ronald, who will be attending to our more mundane needs
and occasionally entertaining us as the day progresses. Do curtsy like a good
girl, dear." Ronald blushed furiously and put his hand to his generously
enhanced bosom, but when Elsie prodded him savagely in the ribs he turned
obediently to the ladies and lowered himself in a great rustling of lace and
chiffon, eyes demurely downcast. Made up and in a wig, he really didn't look
half bad, and his wife and sister-in-law had clearly been successful in training
him to carry himself properly in his feminine role and affect the appropriate
mannerisms. The ladies giggled and eyed him speculatively as he regained his
feet and retreated to a corner.
"However," Lady Briddington continued, "the day really belongs to our two
younger victims and playthings, my slave Richard and Ms. Felton-Withers' boy
Aladdin. As we all know only two well, they will both be leaving us for their
next work assignments tomorrow: Aladdin to make exercise videos, I understand,
and Richard to restore the ancient glories of mystic Skara Brae." She made no
effort to hide her scorn for the latter undertaking, which still struck her as
perfectly ridiculous. "But they are still with us today - and tonight - and I
have organised this gathering both as an opportunity to make use of them one
last time and to celebrate what might be regarded as a milestone in their
development as slaves and ultimately as productive, properly conditioned members
of society.
"I propose to begin the day with a final demonstration of their helplessness and
utter inability to resist or outwit us, in a way that should prove both symbolic
and brutally literal." The ladies knew what was planned, of course, but even so
they exchanged bright-eyed glances at this and tittered in anticipation. The
boys, in their ignorance, merely appeared worried, and she turned her chair to
address them directly. "My very dear boys, today my friends are going to hunt
you down on horseback like the magnificent male animals you are. This area is
rugged and heavily wooded, and I propose to give you an hour's start in order to
provide your pursuers with something like a challenge. I advise against going to
ground, no matter how well concealed the spot may appear - many of the ladies
are expert trackers, and with the help of trained bloodhounds you can hardly
fail to be apprehended quickly unless you succeed in putting a great deal of
distance between yourselves and the walls of this castle. When the hunt finally
catches up with you, you will be captured by whatever means seem amusing and
appropriate - overpowered by the dogs, shot with tranquiliser darts, or simply
entangled in a net. You will be stripped and dragged back here, to be tormented
until supper time. I believe nipple clamps, a cramped little cage, and a control
belt set to the mild sensitisation cycle will prove sufficiently unpleasant, as
well as preparing you admirably for the evening's activities. After two or three
hours, in fact, you will be screaming and pleading - but remember, the longer
you remain uncaptured, the less cage time you will have to endure. Incidentally,
I suppose I ought to explain that the collars are only a safety feature,
monitoring your pulse and body temperature. If they detect severe trauma, such
as might occur during a fall or other accident, they will relay your position to
us here and we will take steps to rescue you. Do you have any questions, boys,
about what is expected of you?"
"Surely you're not going yourself, ma'am?" Richard blurted.
She laughed. "Of course not. Physical difficulties aside, Ms. Felton-Withers and
myself both felt that it would be more sporting to remain here and allow our
friends to do the actual hunting. Lacking their own male toys, they ought to
have a fair chance at the two of you. I believe your aunt and mother would also
like to stay here, in order to keep our other slave under proper supervision.
But don't worry - that still leaves plenty of women to chase you, so you needn't
feel neglected."
"What if you don't manage to catch us?" Aladdin said suddenly, and a little
defiantly. Hadn't Ms. Felton-Withers taught him any better than that? "What if
we get away?"
"Get away?" Lady Briddington smiled icily. "What a quaint thought. I assure you
that capture is quite inevitable - the best you can hope for, my boy, is to
delay it by an hour or two. But if the unthinkable happens, and you have not
been brought in by suppertime - six o'clock, I believe we decided - your collar
will immobilise you and relay your location to the huntresses. So you see, you
really are quite helpless."
She could almost hear the furious working of their brains - plotting evasion
strategies, perhaps, or simply trying to come up with another question or two by
way of stalling. She had no desire to rush the proceedings on what was after all
a very momentous day, but after a minute or two it was clear that neither of
them had anything else to say. They both looked miserable. "Ms. Reynolds!" she
called.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"You can take the boys out now, and release them. We will take our breakfast in
the meantime - but remember, my dears, some very capable and determined women
will be coming after you in exactly an hour, so make use of the time as best you
can. Good luck to both of you."
* * *
Richard was thoroughly lost. He was beginning to understand the reasoning behind
the rigorous aerobic exercises that had been such a prevalent feature of his
life recently; he'd been trotting along narrow winding trails for some time now,
surely much more than the allotted hour of grace, but his body was still holding
up remarkably well. On the other hand, neither running in circles on an indoor
track nor an upbringing in the leafy suburbs of Birmingham had taught him
anything about navigating in a rugged wilderness, and he had become confused and
disorientated almost immediately. He didn't think he'd been going in circles,
but he was uncomfortably aware that he had no idea which direction would take
him back to the castle - or, more to the point, away from it.
On the other hand, he had certainly managed to cover a lot of distance. The
terrain seemed fairly rough, with rolling slopes and copses of trees, and he was
sure that even "very capable and determined women" backed up by bloodhounds
would need several hours to chase him down in this stuff. He was determined to
evade them for as long as he possibly could, though he found the idea of fleeing
like a hunted animal more than a little humiliating. It might seem less ignoble
to simply walk back to the castle and dare Lady Briddington to do her worst -
but of course a childish gesture like that would only anger her, and in any case
Richard was not looking forward to being locked in a cage and control belt. He
had experienced the sensitisation cycle before, and could only describe it as
like being helpless in the hands of a woman who couldn't quite decide whether
she was in the mood for torture or lovemaking.
There were trees off to the right, and the sound of flowing water. He angled in
that direction, trying not to think about how much the gentle gurgling of the
hidden stream reminded him of a woman's mocking laughter. Would running up the
stream bed really throw the hounds off the scent? He supposed it was at least
worth a try. With any luck they'd go after Aladdin first anyway - he suspected
Lady Briddington would prefer that her own slave be apprehended later rather
than sooner, as a sort of climax. If there were really "expert trackers" among
the pursuers, they would surely be capable of distinguishing his footprints from
the larger and heavier Aladdin's. That had been a large part of the reason why
he'd insisted on splitting up almost as soon as they were out of sight of the
castle walls, although there was always the uncomfortable possibility that the
women would divide their pack and pursue both their quarries at once. Was that
the distant baying of hounds he heard, or only the wind? With the desperation of
any hunted animal, he drew a deep breath, and picked up his pace just a little.
* * *
"He's hiding in there," said Annie decisively. Flushed with the lingering
morning chill and the excitement of the chase, she could hardly sit still on the
saddle as she surveyed the little wooded hollow ahead. "We've looked all around
it, and his trail goes in and doesn't come out again. He must be hoping we can't
get the horses in there."
"I don't think we can," replied Juliet Asquith, perhaps a little sharply. She
didn't much like horses, or heavy outdoor activity of any sort, and although the
prospect of getting her hands on a helpless Aladdin was very tempting she found
it difficult to share Annie's enthusiasm for the hunt itself.
"Maybe not, but we can go in on foot!" cried Annie. "Where did Lorena and Alice
get to?"
"A little further back, I think. Why don't we just give them a few minutes? If
he's decided to go to ground in there, he'll stay put as long as he can."
"Oh, all right. But I want to hurry up and get him trussed up and sent back,
just so we don't miss all the fun with Richard."
Juliet laughed. "I don't think there's much danger of that, not with Jane in
charge of their party. She'll take it nice and slow - make him sweat a bit
before the coup de grace."
"And quite right, too," Annie murmured, with one of her mischievous little
smiles. "Speaking of which..." She drew herself up in the saddle and gave a
sharp, penetrating whistle that made Juliet wince. "Aladdin!" she yelled. "We
know you're in there! Come straight out, take your clothes off and get down on
your knees for us, and we'll be gentle with you. You won't like what's going to
happen if we have to come in after you!"
"What's all the fuss?" called Lorena from somewhere further back along the
trail. "Have we found the wily little bastard at last?" Her tolerance for
charging around the bleak hills on horseback was if anything even less than
Juliet's own.
"I'm almost positive he's in there," Annie explained as Lorena and Alice came
into view, with a wave toward the low-lying copse of trees. "We'll have to flush
him out. If you three want to get your guns out and go in from one side - it
doesn't really matter which - I'll wait with the handlers and dogs on the other.
I can't wait to see his face."
"Can we threaten him?" asked Alice eagerly, tranquiliser rifle already half
drawn.
"Absolutely. Just try to scare the living daylights out of him."
It sounded good to Juliet. A little clumsily, she dismounted to follow the
others as they moved into position, and watched Annie and the whippers-in
driving the hounds around to the far side of the little dell.
"Last chance, Aladdin!" Annie bellowed. A minute passed without response, and
she waved her arms excitedly over her head.
"I gather that's our signal," said Lorena dryly. "Shall we, ladies?"
It turned out to be fun, though, screaming threats at the tops of their lungs
and charging down the gentle slope toward their quarry's hiding place. Alice saw
him first, trying to conceal himself in the crook of a tree that really wasn't
quite leafy enough yet, and with a whoop of excitement she squeezed off a wild
shot that stuck quivering in a thick branch about two and half trees over. But
that was enough for Aladdin; he yelped in terror, dropped to the ground, and
took off as fast as his legs could carry him. Blind panic? At any rate, Juliet
raised her gun to shoot him in the back, then thought better of it. Annie needed
her fun. She smiled to herself as she heard the sudden baying of hounds,
followed by a wail of utter terror.
"Please! No! Please don't let them -" Aladdin's voice gave way to excited
barking, and Annie's wild laughter.
"Got you now, you little bastard!" she shouted triumphantly. "Thought you could
hide, did you?"
Curious, Juliet trotted - an absurdly strenuous gait, by her standards - around
to the other side of the trees, where Aladdin lay pinned and helpless in a
circle of excited hunting dogs. Excited, but well trained, considering that they
were holding the black man down with mouths and paws and yet had apparently
avoided inflicting even the most trivial scratch.
"Please, ma'am, get them off me! I'll do whatever you want, I promise!"
Annie had the handlers call off the pack, and Juliet watched appreciatively as
Aladdin obeyed her brusque but not entirely unfriendly orders to undress and
allow himself to be firmly bound for the trip back to the castle. Servants
uncollared him and led him away as the women remounted.
"I think we can congratulate ourselves," said Annie smugly. "Not even noon, and
one wild beast already brought to heel. Is his afternoon really going to be as
uncomfortable as Gloria implied in her little speech?"
"Oh, I think so," giggled Alice. "I saw her put Richard in the belt one day when
I was visiting, and you'd be amazed at the noises that were coming out of that
poor young man. But Aladdin shouldn't have ignored her advice if he didn't want
to be caught so quickly. It serves him right if he has to do a little screaming
and crying before dinner."
"So long as we get to watch," said Juliet nonchalantly. "Shall we go see how
Jane is getting along with Richard?"
* * *
They were up to something. Richard was almost sure of it. He might be panting,
sweaty and closer than ever to the edge of exhausted panic, but he could still
think clearly enough to find something distinctly odd in the way he was being
pursued. They had found him much sooner than he would have thought possible; the
sun had been only just past its peak when the sound he'd been dreading, the
distant and excited baying of a bloodthirsty pack, had become too clear and
definite to dismiss as mere imagination. They really were going to hunt him
down, like some helpless mute beast.
He had fled desperately, if not quite blindly. He had kept to rough and
overgrown terrain where he could, hoping it would prove troubling to the horses,
and occasionally tried to double back on his trail. Once, after scrambling up a
steep hillside that was mostly naked rock, he had thought he might be able to
lose them altogether. But through the whole chase the baying of the dogs and the
excited cries of the huntresses had grown inexorably nearer, and even the bare
slope had apparently held them up for only a few minutes before the gap began to
close again. Then they had come into sight, cresting a rise he had passed over
only moments before, and Richard had moaned in terror and gathered himself for
what he was sure would be a final, futile sprint for freedom. He hadn't been
able to bring himself to turn and face them - they'd looked ready to tear him to
pieces. Ms. Keating had been in the lead, her blond hair streaming behind her
and ablaze in the morning sun.
For some reason, however, she had chosen not to catch him. He was sure that was
what had happened - she had been practically on top of him, but had suddenly
abandoned the chase and wheeled her horse away just as two of the others came
charging out from behind a thicket to his left. He had swerved away from them,
panicked all over again, and the pattern had simply repeated itself. At the very
last moment, just as he had been bracing himself for the inevitable prick of a
tranquiliser dart or the entangling embrace of a weighted net, they had reined
in, and Mrs. Keating had returned brandishing a riding crop to drive him off in
a new direction.
And that was it, of course. They were herding him, not hunting him at all. For
some reason he could not begin to guess, the women were forcing him methodically
toward the densely thicketed banks of the largest stream he had seen all day.
When he directed his stumbling, erratic footsteps toward the water, they stayed
behind him, but if he tried to veer off sideways one of them would gallop up to
cut him off. It was all too obvious that he had no chance at all of escape, but
dread of what might happen once he was in their hands spurred him on regardless.
If he could spare himself only another few minutes of torture, or even a few
seconds... But the women were cutting it closer now, rushing up almost abreast
of him before pulling away again. And then, finally, he felt it - the sting of a
riding crop lashing across his shoulders, followed by wild female laughter. He
stumbled and almost went down, but somehow kept running. The crop flicked
relentlessly against his arse, his thighs, his back. It was surprising how much
his clothes helped absorb the sting of the blows, but even so they were a
terrifying reminder of things to come. He had no breath to plead with them, and
he lowered his head and poured all his concentration into the fearsome task of
moving forward without falling. He was no longer sure whether the salty liquid
that filled his eyes was sweat or tears. Were they only toying with him, running
him till he dropped? Clothed or not, the relentless flailing of the crop was
hurting him, and he began to whimper in pain. He almost wished they would just
be done with it and throw their nets around him - and then he found himself
plunging through what proved to be a thin fringe of trees, and stumbling
straight into the shallow water of the stream. They didn't seem to be trying to
follow him. Why on Earth had they driven him here?
Then he heard a low, wordless moan from the far bank. Turning to look, he
blinked his eyes in astonishment. Only the fact that he had been worked to
exhaustion many times over the period of his conscription, without experiencing
hallucinations of any sort, convinced him that what he was seeing was not merely
the result of fatigue working on an overwrought brain.
It was Claire, naked and in chains. In fact, he couldn't help but immediately
notice that she was doubly nude: not only had her clothes been taken away, but
someone had shaved the hair from between her legs, leaving her smooth and
vulnerable. She was spread-eagled in the thick mud at the edge of the water,
wrists and ankles tightly shackled to metal stakes that held her stretched in a
harsh rectangle of discomfort. He could see the strain in her hips and
shoulders, and her face was tense with what Richard knew from experience would
be the kind of dull, aching pain that began as a mere annoyance and gradually
expanded to fill one's whole awareness. Her mouth was filled with a bright red
ball of rubber. He had no idea how she could possibly have come to be here.
Surely Lady Briddington hadn't somehow kidnapped her?
She moaned again, through the gag, and this time he heard an unmistakable note
of desire along with the pain. She lifted her hips toward him, the bare lips of
her vagina flushed and gaping, and beckoned weakly with the fingers of one
pinioned hand. It was a strange, obscene display, but he felt his cock swelling
inside his unaccustomed underwear. There was still no sign of the huntresses. He
plunged across the shallow water and up the bank to where she lay, and fell to
his knees beside her. Up close, he could see that she had a bruise on one cheek,
and welts on her thighs - wonderingly, he reached down to trace them with one
finger. He had never even really dared imagine her like this, bound and naked
and chastised, to all appearances as thoroughly enslaved as he himself. Perhaps
the sight horrified him a little, but it was also the most tremendously erotic
thing he had ever seen. Claire looked remarkably good in chains. Stung by sudden
guilt at the thought, he reached toward her gag, but found that it was drawn
tight and locked behind her head. He couldn't get it off unless he wanted to
take her jaw with it. Almost impatiently, she shook her head and pumped her hips
at him again.
It was only too obvious what she wanted, and he was only too glad to comply. And
in any event he was used to obeying her, wasn't he? He hastily unbuckled his
belt, slipped down his trousers, and climbed on top of her. She made a kind of
purring sound, deep in her throat, and rose up to meet him. There was no
elegance to it, this desperate lovemaking by the little brook; he was an
exhausted fugitive, she a bound captive, and their lust was inevitably mixed
with fear and apprehension of what might follow. But her body was still soft and
warm underneath him, her cunt tight and moist, and in all their lovemaking
during the months leading up to his conscription he had never found her so
passionate or responsive. She rubbed her gagged mouth against his face and
shoulders, as if trying to kiss, and matched the rhythm he set with a fierce
intensity of her own. Only a minute or two after he slid into her, it seemed,
she tensed and gave a muffled howl of passion just as he felt his semen spurting
unimpeded into her secret passages. He took a long, shuddering breath and lifted
himself on his elbows to look into her face. It shone with perspiration, but
another wetness was trickling down her cheeks as she stared mutely up at him.
Then, suddenly, those glistening brown eyes went wide. That was all the warning
he had; strong female hands seized him, and he felt himself being hauled off
Claire and thrown down beside her in the mud.
"Well, boy, you've had your fun," someone hissed in his ear. "Now we're going to
have ours."
They, Lady Briddington's brilliant, insufferable friends, swarmed all over him,
tearing off his clothing and collar and then seizing his arms to force him up to
his knees. They half led and half dragged him further up the bank, to where the
rest of the hunting party stood waiting - horses, hounds, and various handlers
and servants. Two of the burlier ones, a man and a woman, stepped forward with a
sturdy wooden pole as Richard and his captors approached. But he was more
interested in what was happening behind him, where a woman in a dark suit had
emerged from some hiding place and was unhurriedly removing Claire's chains.
"Amanda!" he exclaimed in sudden recognition. "What the hell are you doing here?
And why is Claire tied down like that? I don't underst - ow!" Someone caught him
full across the buttocks with a riding crop, and he was reminded again just how
much a hard blow against bare flesh could sting.
"Do shut up, dear," said Mrs. Asquith gaily. "You've got other things to worry
about anyway." As if to emphasize the point, they threw him down suddenly at the
feet of the two servants, knocking the wind out of him. Stone faced, the
servants knelt to fasten his wrists and ankles in leather cuffs attached to the
pole, then lifted it to their shoulders so that he dangled helplessly between
them. His wrists and ankles hurt already - he hoped they weren't planning to
carry him too far - and his softening penis dangled pathetically, still trailing
semen and Claire's juices.
"But please, ma'am," he whimpered, "how did Claire get here? She isn't a
conscript! What are you going to do to her?"
"Shut up, Richard. Last chance."
"But Lady Briddington can't - mmph!" For a moment his head was cradled against
Ms. Keating's soft though hardly expansive bosom as she slammed a gag exactly
like Claire's into his mouth. She buckled it tight and locked it in place, then
clapped the female servant - the one in the lead - on the shoulder.
"Go ahead and take him back. We'll be along once the girl's ready."
And they were indeed attaching Claire to a similar pole, one carried between two
women. Apparently even a female prisoner was too good to be handled by men in
the new Britain, or at least Lady Briddington's little corner of it - and then
the thought vanished as Richard turned his attention to tensing his muscles
against the painful swinging of his body as they carried him across the rugged
countryside.

Elsie Tipper was feeling a little bit out of her depth. It wasn't so much Lady
Briddington's wealth and power that unnerved her, as the sheer depth and
intensity of the woman's masterful cruelty; Elsie was used to seeing men
disciplined and punished, but her ladyship's methodical and overtly sexual
sadism was almost frightening. Even when she was helping Connie train her
half-willing husband Ronald, there was almost a sense of cheerful abandon at
work, no matter how loudly the poor man might plead and whimper as his wife and
sister-in-law punished his clumsiness or thrashed him for pure amusement. With
Lady Briddington, exactly the opposite seemed to be true. No matter how playful
the proceedings might appear, there was an underlying seriousness involved, an
implacable will to dominate and command.
On the other hand, Elsie had never been one to let a little uneasiness get in
the way of a good time. Her main role in the proceedings was to help Connie
manage Roland, a task she carried out with considerable enthusiasm. At the
moment he was setting the dinner table, dressed in his increasingly dishevelled
maid's uniform; all afternoon, the guests had been teasing and smacking him when
they weren't chattering in the sitting room or watching Richard and Aladdin
suffer in their cages. Elsie felt a degree of sympathy for the poor men,
especially her dear nephew Richie, as the pitiless control belts alternately
massaged their genitals like the gentle hand of a lover and shocked and squeezed
them into moans of agony, but she had to admit in the privacy of her thoughts
that the sight of their helpless passion and suffering was also rather exciting.
A couple of hours ago their constant pleas for mercy had become so irritating
that Lady Briddington had ordered them gagged.
Ronald was almost done laying out the dining room table, but that was no excuse
to dawdle over the task. Elsie smacked him casually with her strap, and met his
look of resentment with a hard smile. By now his shaven thighs were quite
tender, particularly that strip of bare skin between his short skirt and the top
of his stocking that made such a tempting target.
"Hurry up, bitch," she chided. "They're hungry."
"Of course, ma'am," he said in his formal serving voice, and hurried to the
cabinet to fetch the rest of the silverware. He had been instructed to prepare
quite an unusual arrangement; their were no chairs or plates, but only a wine
glass and set of cutlery for each of the female guests, laid out around the two
immense covered dishes that occupied the long table. Roland fussed with two or
three of the napkins that were folded carefully inside the glasses, then turned
to Elsie and curtsied.
"I believe everything is ready, ma'am," he said deferentially.
"Took you long enough. All right, go tell Ms. Harris she can bring Claire in,
and then announce to the ladies that dinner is ready. If they have any
complaints, Connie and I are going to beat you to a pulp."
He swallowed hard, curtsied again, and scurried off. He was dreadfully nervous,
not without good reason, but at least he was keeping a grip on himself and not,
as she had half expected, giving in to panic. Appearing in his maid's uniform in
front of the likes of Lady Briddington was bad enough, but this was also the
first time he had been made to serve as a slave outside the privacy of his own
home.
He returned a minute or two later, preceding that strange Harris woman and her
naked prisoner. Elsie had no idea what they'd been doing to Claire all
afternoon, and didn't really want to know; the girl's pale, shaven body was
covered in welts and bruises, and her tear-streaked face was bowed in an
expression of abject misery. The steel cuffs on her wrists, and the leash and
collar Ms. Harris was using to control her, seemed hardly necessary. On the
other hand, Ms. Harris looked like she was enjoying herself immensely. Elsie
understood that she and Claire had some sort of complicated history together,
but Connie had never explained it to her in detail.
"Where do you want the bitch?" Ms. Harris asked cheerfully.
"In the corner there, handcuffed standing to that torch-thing on the wall. She's
just supposed to watch. Better gag her, too, if you've got one."
"Please don't," Claire mumbled. "I'll be quiet, I promise." Ms. Harris sighed,
as if she thought the girl should know better by now, and backhanded her across
the face. Claire gave a low whine of protest, the sort of sound Elsie was used
to hearing from tormented conscripts who were close to the breaking point, but
she meekly submitted to being cuffed in that uncomfortable position and silenced
with a huge rubber gag. Elsie watched with something like pity.
Meanwhile, Ronald was leading a procession of hungry female aristocrats into the
dining hall, along with a surprisingly relaxed looking Connie. Lady Briddington
brought up the rear, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her guests'
expressions of bafflement as they glanced back and forth between the nude and
miserable Claire and the oddly laden table. Finally Ms. Keating broke the
silence.
"Gloria darling, this is going to require some sort of explanation."
"Why, my dear," said Lady Briddington with a mischievous smile, "it really ought
to be quite obvious. Dinner is served. That creature" - she waved dismissively
at Claire - "is here to watch us satisfy our appetites, while receiving nothing
for herself. The platters, please, Ronald."
The lids were so large that there was no elegant way to remove them. Ronald
himself, retired engineer that he was, had threaded fine wires through pulleys
hung from the rafters, and he was now able to draw the lids simultaneously
upward as if by magic. However, the effect went unappreciated, as the guests had
eyes for nothing but the rather unusual dishes that Ronald's ingenious mechanism
had uncovered. On each platter lay a naked slave, smeared with sauces and
surrounded by heaps of delicacies. The only sound in the room came from poor
little Claire, who whimpered into her gag in what might have been desperate
jealousy.
* * *
Richard blinked in the sudden light as the silver lid that had been covering him
for nearly half an hour was lifted swiftly upward. He was extremely
uncomfortable - tightly and intricately bound to rings in the specially
constructed platter, gagged like a festive boar with a small apple, and
tormented to distraction by the delicious smells all around him. His cock and
balls were tender and actually aching a little from the afternoon session with
the control belt, and smeared with some sort of cool sauce that made them itch.
He saw that he was surrounded by Lady Briddington's friends, though some were
closer to Aladdin, who was further down the table. For a minute they only stared
at him in stunned silence - and then, suddenly, they swooped. Mrs. Asquith
reached between his legs for a handful of mixed nuts, and three of the others
began licking and nibbling at the dainties that the cooks had carefully arranged
on his chest and stomach, not bothering with forks or fingers. The sharp-faced
Mrs. Grant leaned over and bit a substantial chunk out of the apple in his
mouth, her lips rubbing teasingly against his. But they left it to Lady
Briddington herself to elevate her wheelchair, lean forward, and lick a little
of the sauce from his rapidly stiffening penis.
Richard was enveloped in their perfume, tickled by warm tongues and prodded and
fondled by soft fingers. Only Mrs. Lewis seemed to be bothering with utensils,
and her primary interest was apparently in gently stabbing the soles of his feet
with her fork.
"Ticklish, isn't he?" she observed, giggling.
"Don't make him squirm too much, things will spill," Mrs. Asquith complained.
"Have you tried the caviar? It's heavenly - there, piled up by his shoulder. You
really must have some." Mrs. Lewis simply leaned over his body, smearing sauces
all over her expensive evening gown, and sucked a little into her mouth.
"Yes, lovely," she purred, almost in his ear. Richard turned his face away, to
avoid having it smothered in her bosom, only to see that his mother was almost
equally entangled with that Aladdin bloke. Most of the women were drifting back
and forth between the two slaves as the mood took them, but he was glad to see
that both his mother and his aunt seemed to be staying at Aladdin's end of the
table.
Gradually, the ladies began to worry less about eating from his body and more
about satisfying other appetites. The flirtatious hands and lips became more
insistent, and several of the others adopted Mrs. Lewis' tactic of poking him
with their cutlery, while others preferred to bite or pinch. It was like what
the control belt had been doing to him all afternoon, intermingled sensations of
mild pain and teasing pleasure, but ranging now over his whole body and combined
with the proximity of a great deal of soft and warm female flesh. Much to the
merriment of the ladies, his cock was hard and pointed arrow-straight at the
gleaming dish cover that still hung suspended above the table. Two or three
pairs of hands were playing with it, tormenting him with cruel fingernails one
minute and driving him half mad with soft caresses the next, and the thin but
tyrannically firm cords that bound him at knee and waist prevented even the
slightest response on his part. Their voices had dissolved into an indistinct
sea of cooing, giggling and purring, all vibrating with lust. He wasn't really
surprised when one of them - he thought it was the wiry Ms. Demmings, but
couldn't be sure - pulled the remains of the apple out of his mouth and replaced
it with her firm little breast. He licked and kissed, eager to please, and for a
brief minute or two everyone stopped the pinching and jabbing and rewarded him
with soft caresses from head to foot.
But moments later their mood seemed to grow harsher and more masterful than
ever. Ms. Demmings - it was her - pulled out and slapped him stingingly across
the face, laughing, and the others hurried to follow her example. Someone bit
him, hard, on the chest. Ms. Keating looked him levelly in the eye and slapped
his balls with her open palm, so that he groaned in agony, and the pain had
scarcely begun to subside when he felt them grabbed and squeezed mercilessly in
a strong hand. Mrs. Lewis giggled and brushed his hair away from his face as he
burst into tears.
"Oh, the poor darling boy," she purred. "We really must whip him."
"Of course we must," said Lady Briddington brightly. "I believe I have just the
thing."
It turned out to be one of her gentler implements of correction, with a dozen or
so short strands of soft leather attached to a single handle. His mistress began
the beating herself, working him over at a leisurely pace that must have had two
or three of the more enthusiastic women seething with impatience. Each
individual blow hardly hurt, not in comparison to a riding crop or a heavy
leather strap like the conscription officers used, but as the flogging went on
the pain built slowly and implacably until his moans and little shrieks of pain
echoed from the rafters. And then it was Mrs. Lewis' turn.
They all whipped him, almost ritualistically. Even Elsie and his mother came
over to lay on a few strokes, and although their expressions were vaguely
apologetic they were no gentler than the others. Aladdin was now being virtually
ignored. While one woman flogged Richard the others would caress him and kiss
him and play with his body; they seemed to particularly like having their mouths
on his at the very moment when he screamed with the pain of an exceptionally
savage blow. Once Lady Briddington licked the tears from his cheeks and
whispered to him to be brave for her.
And he really did try to be as brave as he could, in spite of the agony and his
terrifying vulnerability. He couldn't help his tears, or the occasional cry of
pain, but he was desperate not to plead for mercy and not to allow them the
satisfaction of driving him into screaming hysteria. But as the beating went on
and on, he felt his resolve slowly beginning to slip away. It hurt so much, the
eyes of the women who surrounded him glittered with such cruel excitement, and
at the back of his mind was the lurking fear that his mistress would get carried
away again and really damage him, as she had when she ordered Ms. Reynolds to
beat him with the sjambok. He was frightened and helpless and in pain, and he
desperately wanted his mother to chase away Lady Briddington and her cruel
friends and take him in her arms and hold him while he wept - but his mother was
calmly watching with a faint smile on her face, as if proud of her son's bravery
and not concerned in the least about his suffering. Now Amanda was taking her
turn at Lady Briddington's particular invitation, slashing the whip fast and
hard across his torso and flanks, and under her powerful and merciless blows the
last of his pride and resistance disintegrated. Flushed with excitement, she
gave a triumphant smile as the first real scream burst from his straining
throat, and squeezed his knee in what might have been a gesture of rough
sympathy when he tearfully begged her to stop hurting him. But she didn't stop,
not even for a minute, and the others began to close in like lionesses on some
stumbling, weakened creature of the veldt. Mrs. Lewis went back to stabbing him
with her fork; Mrs. Grant started to beat him around the hands and forearms with
a wooden spoon she must have borrowed from the kitchen. Ms. Felton-Withers,
inspired, snatched up a candle from a nearby shelf and dripped hot wax along his
left thigh. He screamed for all of them, suffered for all of them, pleaded in
vain with all of them. Amanda landed the whip right across his balls, though
with less than her usual force, and it happened to be Lady Briddington's lips
who were pressed against his to receive the inevitable cry of anguish. After
that he lost track of exactly what was happening to him, as individual agonies
blended into a rising tide of pain that seemed to submerge his soul as well as
his body. His screams shook the castle.
Just when he felt that he would die convulsing if this went on for so much as
another moment, the agony stopped increasing. He let out a long, low moan, and
Lady Briddington clapped her hand impatiently over his mouth.
"Shut up, dear, we've hardly started and already you're squealing like an
abandoned piglet. Claire darling, did you want to say something? Do take out her
gag for a minute, Ms. Harris. If she spouts insolence we can always punish her."
Claire! Lady Briddington let him turn his head enough to see her standing bound
in the corner, struggling and sobbing and obviously trying to talk through the
rubber that filled her mouth. Richard had had no idea that she was present in
the room, present to witness his humiliating pleas and cries of anguish. Amanda
went over to her, steadied her head with a hand tangled in sweaty red curls, and
popped the gag out of her mouth.
"Stop!" Claire wailed as soon as she was free to speak. "Stop hurting him! I'll
do anything you want, anything Amanda wants, but just stop torturing him. Oh,
you're a monster after all!"
"And you're a silly girl, to wander unprotected into my lair," murmured Lady
Briddington drily. "But for the sake of argument, do you really mean 'anything'?
That can be one of the most dangerous words in the language, dear."
"Anything," Claire repeated. "Kill me if you want - I don't care any more."
"Kill you? No, I didn't have in mind anything half so merciful. I require
nothing less than your hand in marriage. But give me that, and I promise that
Richard will spend the rest of the evening in erotic bliss - and get a good
night's sleep before they take him away to his next assignment, too."
"My hand in... I don't understand," she almost whined.
"It's really quite simple. Among Ms. Felton-Withers' numerous honours and
appointments is the status of Exalted Priestess in the New Dianic Sisterhood,
though I fear her commitment may be more political than theological." There was
a round of polite giggling, not least from Ms. Felton-Withers herself. "She can
marry us - you and me - tonight, on contractual terms that will ensure your
perpetual servitude. I can find plenty of menial work for you, and if Ms. Harris
chooses to continue in my service I daresay she'll get a great deal of use out
of you as well. Best of all, I won't have to spend my old age enduring bitter
visions of Richard curled up at your feet, because you'll be safely curled up at
mine. I have no erotic interest in you whatsoever, of course, and our marriage
will never be properly consummated, but it will be great fun to make you squeal
from time to time. Fortunately enough, I believe we have all the necessary
paperwork ready."
"Indeed we do," Ms. Felton-Withers confirmed.
Claire looked from one of them to the other, trembling. "But I can't! You're
asking me to sign away my whole life!"
Lady Briddington shrugged. "Understandable. We'll just get on with thrashing
Richard then, shall we? Gag her again, Ms. Harris."
"Wait!" squealed Claire. "What are you going to do to him?"
"Oh, don't worry. He won't be damaged physically, or not to the extent that he
requires medical treatment. You'll be quite surprised, I think, at the degree of
pain and trauma we can inflict before real harm is done."
"You vindictive bitch! Why can't you just - oww!"
"It's all right, Ms. Harris - you can let her say what she likes, for the
moment."
Amanda reluctantly lowered her hand, which had been raised for another slap. The
fog of agony that surrounded Richard was lifting, and he was beginning to
understand the conversation's terrible significance.
"Don't be an idiot, Claire!" he burst out, but Lady Briddington's open hand
instantly bore down harder across his mouth.
"Shut up, dear," she hissed through clenched teeth. He struggled and snapped at
her, and she yelped and jerked back her hand.
"You stupid boy," she said flatly. "Now I'll really have to hurt you. This is no
time for petulant defiance."
"I hate you!" he snarled. "Damn you, why won't you let her go? Claire's right -
you're a monster, and I don't care how much you punish me. It's true."
"Don't care?" she repeated, eyes glinting. "We'll see about that. The night is
young, my dear, very young indeed. I had hoped that you would behave yourself,
but it seems that you are still far from learning your station in life." She
took his nipples between her fingernails as she spoke, and began to pinch and
twist cruelly. He whimpered in renewed pain. "Given that this is my last
opportunity to correct you, I -"
"Please, ma'am, that's enough," said Claire, in a tone that held nothing of her
earlier defiance. "I'll sign whatever you like. Just stop hurting him."
"Claire!" Richard exclaimed in exasperation.
"I'm not going to let this go on," she said wearily. "Not if I can possibly stop
it. Don't you see what her plan is? She hates me, she hates the idea of your
marrying me, and if she can only stop it by turning you into a catatonic wreck
then that's exactly what she'll do. She'll torture you all night, with her
fucking friends, and in the morning you won't be any good to me or anyone else.
Physically fine, maybe, but ruined inside. She'll get away with it too - she'll
just say you suddenly snapped on her, and probably go around telling everyone
how psychologically fascinating it is. Isn't that right, your ladyship? There's
really no need to lie - it's not like anyone would believe me if I told them."
"Based on what Dr. Lancaster tells me," said Lady Briddington dryly, "it would
be nearly impossible to induce actual catatonia. But yes, you're essentially
correct. If I can't keep the wretched boy, I'm determined not to let you have
him either. That could mean either taking control of you, or - or breaking him,
shall we say, beyond repair. Your decision."
"Claire, don't let her do this to you," said Richard desperately. "I'll survive
this, I know I will. It's not like I'm not used to pain. I know it's going to be
awful, but in the morning I'll be alive and well and off to my next work
assignment. Out of her clutches. Don't let her enslave you just to spare me a
little crying and screaming."
"Richard, we're talking about hours. What time do you think it is?"
"Must be nearly midnight."
"It's eight-thirty. Not even. I can see the clock from here. They've only really
been hurting you for forty minutes or so. They can break you, Richard, and I
know it, even if you don't. I'm going to do this for you whether you like it or
not. Just think of me once in a while when you're older, and free, and - and
married to someone else. Ma'am, will you please have Ms. Felton-Withers get the
papers? I'm ready to marry you, if you promise not to hurt Richard any more."
"I promise," said Lady Briddington cheerfully. "Thanks to you, Richard is going
to have a far more pleasant evening than he really deserves." She bent low and
kissed him, gently but firmly, full on the lips. He felt a horrid, visceral
revulsion, but fought down the urge to bite or pull away - he knew somehow that
Claire would rather have him lie back and do his best to enjoy this final gift
of hers. He sighed with genuine pleasure when he felt another set of lips close
over the head of his penis, even as he heard the scratching of a pen and
Claire's muffled sobbing in the background. Lady Briddington and Ms.
Felton-Withers disappeared for a moment, but he hardly noticed as the others
swarmed hungrily over his body, stroking and licking and nibbling. His mother -
who had been oddly unreactive, come to think of it, to all that talk of breaking
him - took his hand and smiled warmly down at him as he writhed and gasped in
mounting delight and frustration.
And then Lady Briddington was back, and Ms. Reynolds and his Aunt Elsie were
helping her undress and lifting her out of the wheelchair, naked and almost
glowing with lust. The others untied him, though in their firm grasp he couldn't
have hoped to escape even if he'd wanted to, and dragged him to the edge of the
table so that his legs and hips were hanging over. And then Elsie and Ms.
Reynolds lifted Lady Briddington onto him, so that she could straddle his loins
with her wasted legs dangling sideways in midair - the only way she could hope
to achieve a sexual position that any other mistress of slaves could have taken
for granted. Despite Claire, despite everything, he groaned and bucked beneath
her as the rocking of her body on his brought them both to a peak of ecstasy
that seemed higher than the clouds of heaven. But he shuddered when she leaned
close, panting and red with the flush of passion, and whispered to him, "You're
a slave, Richard. You are what I have made you. Whatever happens, you will never
quite reclaim your dignity and freedom. You left them somewhere in the cellars
of my manor."
He wanted so desperately to tell her she was wrong, but he couldn't. Claire was
crying again, a distant and unimportant sound from some far off corner of the
room.
* * *
The next day Richard awoke exhausted and a little dazed. His memories of the
previous night were confused, and he could not be sure whether some element of
dream or fantasy had mingled itself with true recollection. But like a traveller
who wakes holding the veil of a fairy princess in some haunted forest, he had
visible signs - welts, bruises, minor burns, the marks of strong white teeth -
to assure him that some of his adventures at least had been real enough.
His aunt Elsie, in her capacity as a conscription officer, was to take him away
for his next work assignment. Richard seemed to vaguely remember that Lady
Briddington had said her goodbyes last night - or had she? - and in any event
she did not seem inclined to rise at the crack of dawn to see her slave off. The
castle was almost silent as Elsie shook Richard awake, led him from the dining
hall where he had slept in his bonds, and waited patiently while he ate a bowl
of tastless nutrient mash and then showered away the stains and smells of last
night's pain and pleasure. She was back in uniform, every inch the stern and
impersonal officer, and her firm instructions might have come from a complete
stranger. Finally she locked steel on his wrists and ankles and led him out to a
grey official car.
"Where are we going?" he mumbled.
"Inverness. Don't you remember? You're to take a ferry out to the Orkneys, to
help with the megalith project. And no more speaking out of turn, conscript
Tipper." She leaned across to fasten his seatbelt.
He nodded, accepting the information. "Last night - Claire and Lady Briddington
-" His aunt slapped him, a dull flat sound in the early morning silence.
"Shut up, conscript. There's no point discussing that with anyone. Claire
voluntarily signed a rather one sided marriage contract, and you'll only be
punished if you try to make a fuss about it. No more talking, or I'll beat you
and gag you." She climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key in the
ignition. Richard twisted round as best he could, feeling very naked and
helpless, and stared at the retreating silhouette of the castle against the
sunrise until it could no longer be seen.
* * *
Things were not going entirely according to plan on the Liberty Falcon. The
winds were unexpectedly high, and half of the "Action Unit" (as they insisted on
calling themselves) were badly seasick from their incessant rocking on the
swells of Scapa Flow. They had all the firearms Andrea's mother had promised
them, including some sort of enormous machine gun mounted on a tripod at the
bow, but almost no ammunition. Nobody seemed to know exactly what had gone
wrong, but duplicity among either the suppliers or the smugglers was more than
suspected. Worst of all, the state of the art radio interceptor with which they
hoped to locate the conscript-laden ferry was working only intermittently.
"Don't you worry, hon," said Andrea's mother yet again, her strident voice
cutting easily through the wind and the roar of the motor. "We'll get the
bitches one way or another. Angus says they're bound to come through this strait
- it's the fastest route by far."
"Angus says a lot of things," muttered Andrea, clutching at her stomach.
Mother lowered her voice. "I know he can be a bit full of himself at times," she
admitted. "But he was in the SAS for years and he really does know what he's
doing. If he says it's still possible to pull this thing off, I believe him."
"But they were supposed to be here an hour ago! Can't we just forget the whole
thing?" Andrea was becoming increasingly nervous about the role she was expected
to play in the day's proceedings, and even the reward her friend S.S. had
promised her - a whole weekend with her very own slave boy, who would do
absolutely anything she wanted - was beginning to seem hardly worth the risk and
effort. If I wasn't my mother's daughter, she thought ironically, I'd never have
had the nerve to get even this far.
"Forget the whole thing!" Mother exclaimed in outraged tones, as if to prove the
point. "We're fighting for freedom here, and when you're fighting for freedom
you don't throw in the towel and quit just 'cause things don't happen quite on
schedule. Buck up there, girl, and get yourself a gun!"
"There's no more ammo," protested Andrea irritably.
"Yeah, I know, but you can at least look like a menace. We're not planning to
shoot anybody anyway, in case you'd forgotten."
With an ill grace she staggered to the stern to do as she was told, and came
back with a scary looking assault rifle that would have terrified her had it
been loaded. She had hardly returned to her seat when there was a cry of
excitement from somewhere toward the bow.
"That's them!" boomed Angus' rough Scottish voice. "Everyone to your stations!"
Andrea had no idea where her station was, but she held up the gun in a way that
she hoped would look vaguely threatening. Maybe if they were far away enough
they wouldn't notice that she was on the verge of throwing up again. Someone
unfurled a genuine and quite anachronistic pirate flag, blood red and decorated
with a skull and cutlass, and the Liberty Falcon swooped to the attack.
Mother gave a yell of excitement and brandished her AK-47 as Angus unleashed a
burst of fire from the aft machine gun across the bows of the clumsy government
ferry. Andrea yelped, dropped her own gun, and clapped her hands over her ears.
The damn thing was deafening! As the two vessels converged Angus started issuing
orders through a megaphone to the startled conscription officers aboard the
ferry - surrender, stand by for boarding, that sort of thing. So far it looked
like nobody was going to have to get hurt, much to Andrea's relief.
Mother, who could never bear to anywhere but in the thick of the action if it
could possibly be avoided, had somehow persuaded Angus to let her take charge of
the boarding party. Of course she insisted that her daughter come along, and
Andrea reluctantly dragged herself to her feet and followed Mother as she
stormed onto the deck of the other ship like an avenging angel with righteous
wrath in her eyes and an AK-47 in her hands.
"Who the hell is in charge here!" she bellowed.
"That would be me," said a plump, dark-haired woman sullenly. "Officer Rebecca
Desalle. Who the hell are you?"
"Freedom fighters. I want your whole crew on deck, and lined up over there."
"Against the starboard rail," someone clarified helpfully.
"Everyone's already up here," muttered Officer Desalle. "Just do as she says,"
she added with a glance over her shoulder at her subordinates.
"You better be telling the truth," Mother rapped out. Andrea hadn't been
anywhere near this scared of her since childhood. "Where are the slaves?"
"The conscripts," said Desalle huffily, "are locked up below decks. There are a
lot more than you can fit on that little motorboat, you stupid Yankee bitch."
"Yankee!" Mother roared. "Damn you, I'm from Georgia. And if they won't fit on
our boat, I reckon we'll just have to take yours."
"You won't get away with this."
"That's my problem. Y'all just keep quiet and don't try anything stupid. I'd
love to put a bullet hole in every last fascist bitch on this damn boat, so
don't give me any excuses."
Meanwhile Angus had organised some kind of search party, and a line of naked men
were emerging onto the deck. Andrea couldn't help staring at their lean, naked
bodies, and at the heavy steel chains that linked them neck to neck. They were
also handcuffed, powerless even to cover their shamefully exposed genitals. They
shivered uncontrollably in the brisk sea air.
Things began to happen very quickly. In no time at all the conscription officers
had been searched and handcuffed, despite their venomous glares, and set adrift
on a life raft. The men had been released and wrapped in warm woollen blankets,
although (in what seemed to be yet another inexplicable error of coordination)
there weren't quite enough to go around. The Action Unit - the name seemed a
little more plausible now - had transferred themselves and their equipment to
the ferry, and were preparing to make a dash for Sweden. And one naked
conscript, a rather handsome fellow with unruly brown hair, had been singled out
from the others. Andrea could sympathise all too well with the guileless
confusion betrayed in his expression, and her heart went out to him.
"This is Tipper," said Mother. "The one you said we were supposed to take back
to Scotland."
"Scotland?" he repeated vaguely. "But why? Please, ma'am, I don't understand
what's happening here."
"You don't have to call me ma'am!" Mother almost snapped. "You're a free man
now. My name is Gillian."
"Gillian," he repeated. "Nice to meet you, Gillian. But please, what's going
on?"
"We're liberating you and the other slaves. They're headed for a friendly
European state, but we've been asked to take you back to meet your grandfather
near Aberdeen. My daughter and I will do it - we're American citizens, and our
government should be able to protect us if we get busted, not that we're
expecting anything like that to happen."
"But my grandfather's very sick," Tipper protested. "He lives in Birmingham.
What would he be doing here?"
"He's not coming in person," Andrea interjected hastily. "We're supposed to set
you ashore, and friends of his are going to meet you. They'll help you get to a
place where he can keep you out of sight of the conscription officers."
"I'm not sure about this. I -"
"Of course you're not," she said soothingly, but in a tone that she hoped
wouldn't invite further argument. "You must be half crazy with all the horrible
things they've been doing to you. Just trust us, and we'll make sure you end up
where you need to go. You're used to trusting people, aren't you, Richard?"
"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, visibly slipping back into slave mode. "I'm very
tired, ma'am."
"Come on over to the Falcon - our boat. We'll find somewhere for you to lie
down." She led him away, ignoring Mother's glare of faint disapproval.
* * *
When Richard woke up they were ashore, and the two women were arguing. The older
one, Gillian, wanted to wait for some sort of rescue party to show up, while the
girl - apparently her daughter - was insisting with surprising vehemence that
they leave right away and trust that he would be successfully found and taken to
safety. His long sleep on the boat had done him a world of good, and he was
feeling alert and almost clear headed for the first time since that horrific
orgy in the dining hall of Lady Briddington's castle. He had obviously been
rescued from the clutches of the conscription service, but to his surprise the
idea of freedom filled him with unease rather than relief. As a conscript he had
at least occupied a definite and legitimate place in the world, but now he was a
fugitive. Had they really said something, on the boat, about taking him to his
grandfather? That seemed wildly implausible; old Randolph Jameson, his mother's
father, was so far gone with Alzheimer's disease that he could hardly remember
Richard's name, let alone find a way to keep him hidden under the very nose of
Her Majesty's Government. He lay with closed eyes, waiting and listening in
hopes that the situation would begin to clarify itself.
"...not leaving him like this, girl!" Gillian bellowed in exasperation. "We've
got to see that the right people find him first, for one thing. You sure they
said to bring him here? This place looks about as inhabited as fucking
Antarctica."
"That's the point, Mother. Nobody to watch or interfere. Look at the GPS if you
don't believe me."
"Well then, we're staying. When are they supposed to show up?"
"I don't know. They just said to leave him here and make sure he had a little
food and water. It might be a while."
"Then we can wait a while."
"Mother! Shouldn't we be thinking about getting out of here? Back to Atlanta,
maybe? They're going to find out all about our little pirate raid sooner or
later."
"Angus said it would probably take a few days."
"Angus said," the girl mimicked viciously. "Shit, you meet a decent-looking guy
who can't take his eyes off your tits and suddenly you're so flattered you're
willing to believe every goddamn word that comes out of his -"
"Don't you dare speak to me like that."
"Okay, I'm sorry," said the young woman with patent insincerity. "It's a moot
point anyway - there they come right now."
"Where? I don't see - uhh."
Richard's eyes flew open and he sat up. The girl was holding a tranquiliser gun
exactly like the ones Richard had seen the conscription officers use, and
Gillian was down with a dart in her side. He sprang to his feet, casting aside
the blanket that still covered his nakedness.
"What's going on here?" he blurted.
She whirled on him savagely and aimed the gun squarely at his chest. There
wasn't a trace of sympathy on her face now. "You're being taken into custody
again," she said coldly in her sharp American accent. "I promised - and besides,
they're going to let me borrow you for a whole weekend in exchange for this,
slave boy. You get down on your belly."
"Please, can we discuss this? Who are you giving me to, the officers? And who
are you, anyway?"
"Down. Now. And shut up."
Reluctantly, he lowered himself to the ground again, and sighed when she pulled
the blanket out of reach. It was late in the day, and the air was cold.
"S.S.!" his captor yelled. "Are you here yet?"
Another woman stepped from the trees further up the beach, stalking briskly
across the sand. "Sorry you had to shoot her," said Sara.
Richard groaned, his confusion now complete. Sara pulled handcuffs from her
purse and snapped them around his wrists.
"We're going for a ride, Richard. Back to your mistress - she's very eager to
reclaim her property, believe me."
"Please, I don't understand." He'd been saying that a lot lately, hadn't he?
"You don't have to. Just do as you're told. You're going to be a slave forever
now, Lady Briddington's slave. Not the system's, and certainly not Claire's."
* * *
"You may bring him in now," called Lady Briddington.
Ms. Reynolds gave Richard a slight push, and he walked forward into her sitting
room. She was perched regally on her wheelchair like Victoria on her throne,
regarding her recaptured slave with cold and imperious eyes. His mother sat at
her right hand, and Amanda at her left, with a subdued and sombre Claire
crouched naked at her feet. Sara stood behind her employer's wheelchair, an
ominous shadow in a long black dress. The upstairs whipping bench, a respectable
looking black leather ottoman with restraint straps that could be tucked
discreetly out of sight, had been dragged into the middle of the room. Richard
came to an awkward halt just behind it and stood wondering exactly what was
expected of him. He was unrestrained, but quite naked and acutely conscious of
being the centre of attention.
"Kneel down, my dear," said Lady Briddington in her gentlest voice, and he
obeyed without really thinking about it. "You didn't think you'd be back here so
soon, did you?"
"I didn't think I'd ever be back, ma'am," he said truthfully. "You've had me
brought here illegally, haven't you?"
"Yes. I never thought I would do that - involve myself directly and willfully in
criminal activity, I mean. I have spent much of my life campaigning for the
imposition of a strict order upon society, and now I find myself beginning to
understand that some human situations force one to disregard the ordinary rules
of society in pursuit of some higher objective. Fortunately, I seem to have
pulled the whole thing off quite successfully."
Richard made a small, shrugging gesture. "May I ask what the higher objective is
in this case, ma'am?"
"My continued ownership of you, of course. You and I have a special bond,
Richard - I can no longer bring myself to regard you as a mere toy rented for a
five month work term. Your place is here, at my feet, and I intend to ensure
that you occupy it permanently. Your mother agrees that this will be for the
best, and has kindly offered her periodic advice and assistance - in fact, I'm
sure that she and I can look forward to many interesting discussions of the
proper management of male slaves, as we both acquire practical experience. We
decided some time ago, for one thing, that this girl" - she gestured toward
Claire - "simply does not have the intelligence or strength of character
required to handle you and keep you in your place. In her arrogance she tried to
take you away from me, and I am going to see that she spends the rest of her
life regretting it."
"But ma'am, I love her!" Claire glanced up at him, her eyes bright with unshed
tears.
"That does not matter, Richard. Have you not yet learned that what you are,
first and foremost, is a slave? You need the lash, the merciless boot on your
neck, more than you need the attention of any particular woman. It is only
proper, in fact, that a slave should have no choice at all in the matter of who
his mistress may be. What is important is that you should be used, and
treasured, and kept under the strictest control, and made to obey; and I can do
that far better than Claire, believe me. But the two of you will occasionally
perform together for my amusement, so perhaps your love for her will find an
outlet after all. She certainly cares for you, which is why I could be so
certain that she would hand herself over to me rather than allow you to be
tortured into a state of psychological trauma."
"But you won't get away with this!" Richard protested. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but
you simply can't. Someone will come looking for Claire and I sooner or later.
What about that other bloke she was seeing - Clive Johnson. He'll come for her."
"He'll come for her, and find that she is legally my spouse, and living under
the most restrictive and onerous conditions that can be legitimately included in
a marriage contract. Most notably, I am permitted to confine and punish her, and
she cannot terminate the arrangement without my consent. I can also marry other
people, of course, so perhaps I will be able to use the prospect of contact with
Claire to acquire young Mr. Johnson as well, if he seems agreeable. As for you,
all anyone knows is that you were among a number of slaves liberated in an
illegal act of piracy. The others arrived safely in Sweden, I am informed, and
although our government is presently negotiating for their extradition many have
already managed to disappear. Unsubstantiated reports of your being singled out
and transported back to Scotland may surface, but they'll be dismissed as mere
rumour. No one will ever find you here, and my influence is sufficient to insure
that no one will look too hard. The meddling American woman has been spared
prosecution, in return for an undertaking to return to her own country and
remain silent about the whole affair."
"You'll never let me go, then," said Richard bleakly.
"I know it's hard, love," his mother said gently. "But it really is for the
best. Just try to accept it, and remember that she loves you. She'll have to be
rough with you sometimes, but only because you need it. And think of how much
satisfaction it will give you to serve her and please her. You'll enjoy having
Claire as a sort of sister slave, too."
"And Clive as a brother slave," said Richard.
"Possibly," replied Lady Briddington coolly. "I shall have to add some man to my
marriage eventually, for appearances. But he'll never mean half as much to me as
you do. You'll be my first and dearest, my treasured pet and the true father of
my children."
He blinked in surprise. "Ma'am, that's an honour," he said slowly. And it really
was. He still wasn't sure if he really wanted to spend his life as Lady
Briddington's slave, but the fact that he had no choice in the matter was
immensely exciting.
"I'm glad you think so, my pet, but it's far in the future. For now, we have a
little ceremony to carry out, to mark the beginning of your new life here. I
want you to lie on the whipping bench, face down."
With Ms. Reynolds in the room, not to mention Amanda, disobedience was
unthinkable, which was actually a blessing. He stretched himself out on the cool
leather.
"Get up, Claire, and fasten him in place." Claire rose trembling to her feet and
moved hesitantly toward him. He saw to his surprise that she was not entirely
naked after all, but wore what appeared to be a feminine version of the control
belt he had grown so familiar with during his early days at the manor. It
covered her shaven vulva in a meshwork of thin wires, just as the male
equivalent had enclosed the penis and scrotum, and it seemed to be holding some
sort of metal insert in her vagina. Claire's face was drawn and miserable as she
pulled the straps tight around his wrists and ankles.
"The others as well, dear. Remember that he must be held perfectly motionless."
"Yes, ma'am," Claire murmured in a breathy, deferential voice that held nothing
of her ordinary confidence. Richard felt the supple leather clamp down around
his knees and waist and elbows, and across his shoulder blades.
"Excellent, darling. Now I want you to give him a good strapping, absolutely as
hard and fast as you can."
"How many strokes, ma'am?" Claire asked dully. Either she'd been expecting the
order, or she was so far gone that the prospect of beating him had no emotional
impact on her at all.
"Simply continue until he is reduced to that pliable, tearful state in which a
slave is at his most sensitive, obedient and vulnerable - rather like Ms. Harris
did to you yesterday morning. You are to quite literally beat him into
submission."
"Yes ma'am," said Claire. She moved out of his field of vision. Perhaps Ms.
Reynolds handed her the instrument of chastisement; at any rate, Richard yelped
and jerked under the first whistling blow a moment later. Claire wasn't very
strong, at least not in comparison to Ms. Bonner or Ms. Reynolds or even Lady
Briddington herself, but even a child could have made that mean, heavy strap
sting. Every dull slap of the pitiless leather against his flesh stripped away a
little more self-possession, a little more will to resist, and the cruel
tightness of his bonds - which prevented even the tiniest movements except in
his hands and feet and head - left him with no choice but to lie still and take
what Claire was giving him. He began to whimper and quietly sob as she warmed
his back and buttocks for him, until finally he couldn't help but lower his head
and weep like a baby as the tension drained out of his straining muscles. Only
when Claire halted the beating a moment later did he realise that she was crying
too. Their sobs, and her laboured panting, were the only sounds in the room.
"Now come this way, and show Richard your bottom," said Lady Briddington almost
tenderly. Claire slowly moved up near his head, close enough that he could have
touched her if he hadn't been strapped down. She was heaving and perspiring from
the exertion of thrashing him. She gave him a long, despairing look and then
turned her back, revealing the outline of a rearing leopard on the otherwise
smooth skin of her left buttock. Lady Briddington had had her branded.
"Tell him," Lady Briddington prompted gently.
"She - she says," Claire sniffled, "that you need one too. To mark you as her
slave. And I have to be the one to do it, to put her mark on you, so that both
of us understand I'm being made to give you up to her forever. I don't want to,
but I don't have any choice. Richard, I'm so sorry!"
He looked her in the eye. "It's all right. Lady Briddington - our mistress -
told the truth. Something's happened to me, Claire, and I'm devoted more to
slavery itself than to any one woman now. I need to serve, to be owned. Make me
hers."
And the last of his doubts disappeared with the sound of sizzling flesh. He
screamed, and screamed, and knew he was home at last.

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