1. Chapter 1: Stop & Search

“Identity card. Papers.” The police officer peered through dark glasses at James Leonard as he stood sheepishly, fumbling inside his jacket.

“I have them, really I have,” he stammered, disconcerted by the officer’s fixed stare. With relief his hand closed on the plastic folder that held the card that carried his social identity number and photograph. He pulled it out and passed it across.

The officer peered at the card and checked the photograph carefully, holding the card up against James’s face. “Locality permit?”

James found the folded paper that showed he was entitled to be in the area. Again the officer examined it and passed it back. “OK, you haven’t forgotten the curfew have you?”

“No, officer. Thank you officer,” James said gratefully putting the papers back into his jacket. “I’ll be home in good time, don’t worry.”

“Your worry, not mine,” the officer laughed. “And I’d get yourself a sponsor if I were you. We’re keeping a close eye on ‘solitaries’ like you.”

James said, “Yes, of course, thank you,” and scuttled off towards his home, not daring to look behind him at the waiting police car. 

He closed the door behind him with relief and sank down on the battered couch that was one of the few pieces of furniture in the grubby, three room, apartment. He looked at his watch. Two minutes to six. There was just enough time. He turned on the video screen in the corner of the room, the one piece of technology there. “Ident Card?” the screen said. He pulled the card from his pocket once more and slipped it into the slot on the front of the video. As he did so, there was the familiar click of the video connecting to his phone line. “Validated” the screen said and faded to show the familiar view of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben just as the giant clock began to strike six.

“This is the six o’clock news from the BBC,” the video screen intoned, “read by Samantha Just.” The scene dissolved again to show the news reader sitting in the studio. James was always careful to catch the news. You never knew, he thought, when some new directive or some new regulation would be introduced. He’d known too many people that had fallen foul of some rule or other and then ended up in one of the camps.

“As part of a series of new measures intended to increase social cohesion, the Government announced today that taxes levied on un-sponsored ident card holders are to increase to 75% from next month.” James felt distraught. As it was, he barely had enough money for food after he’d paid the rent. Loosing another £50 a week would mean he would starve if he couldn’t find a sponsor. “Grants to sponsors will increase at the same time, in order to recognise the important and increasing contribution that sponsors make to the stability of society. The Minister for Home Affairs provided the BBC with this statement…” The stern face of Florence Daniels, Secretary of State, filled the screen. “We are determined to push ahead with the New Order programme. This was what we were elected on and this is what we intend to deliver. It is clear that strong sponsorship results in more stable households. The incidence of curfew offences and other antisocial behaviour from sponsored households is negligible. However, we recognise that it is not always easy to find a sponsor. To address this we will offer sponsorship interviews to all un-sponsored ident card holders as part of ident card holder reviews.” Daniels’ face faded from the screen and the newsreader returned. “A group of seven dissidents was arrested this morning following a raid on unlicensed occupation premises is South London.” The picture cut to a shot of a derelict apartment block. “A government spokeswoman could not comment on whether the arrests were connected with recent speculations concerning plots to abduct government ministers. The government has confirmed that all those arrested were on their dissident watch-list as potential subversives and have been charged with various offences under the prevention of social disruption legislation.”

James Leonard gave a tired shrug. “Social Disruption,” that was what they called anything that didn’t fit in with the New Order agenda. It was almost impossible to do anything now, except to buckle under and accept the system.

It was different for some though. He looked back to the TV screen. “This afternoon, in London’s Park Lane, business leaders gathered for the Entrepreneur of the Year Award.” The screen cut to pictures of a series of business women emerging from limousines outside the Dorchester Hotel and then dissolved into a picture of a smiling blonde woman. “Anne Tennant, ahead of all the other directors of the UK’s major companies has demonstrated the creativity and energy that characterises the new breed of British businesswomen. The New Order Government is pleased to be associated with these awards.”

James let the news run on but he was scarcely watching it. He was thinking about what the new round of sponsorship interviews would mean. They would force him to accept a sponsor or at least they would try to. He valued his independence. He liked living alone. But that wasn't what New Order wanted. Maybe it was just as well. He couldn’t afford to stay here anyway. There was nowhere cheaper to rent in the locality – heaven knew he had tried to find something. And he couldn’t move. He would never get a permit for another locality. He’d watched as one of his friends had filled in a locality change application at the interview centre last week. The interviewer had taken one look at it and then, as the man had left, James had watched it being dropped into a waste bin.    

He turned the television off. He had no stomach for yet another evening of Government propaganda.

In Anne Tenant’s suite at the Dorchester, Florence Daniels raised a glass of champagne as a toast to the winner of the Entrepreneur of the Year.   “Well, many congratulations!” Daniels said, lounging back on the well padded couch.

Anne Tenant smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “The New Order Government has been a great support.”

“We’re pleased you see it that way. Prosperity of new businesses is very important to the wealth of the country.”

Anne Tenant took her own glass and sipped it. “And that is exactly why I invited you here, Minister,” she said.

“Well, how can I help, your company’s endorsement of our policies has been a great help we should find a way to return the favour.”

“How nice of you to see it that way. Before we discuss business though, I thought of something you might like.” She reached down and rang a small hand bell. Moments later a naked man entered. His muscular body was tanned and oiled; his hair, close cropped to his head and straw blonde.

“My!” said Florence Daniels. “So different from the civil servants they find for me.”

“I thought so,” Anne replied, “but a treat occasionally is something we all deserve.”

“I can resist anything except temptation,” Florence laughed. “That’s why this dress has a few secrets!”

Anne smiled, she knew the problem too. She found it a constant battle to keep slim. It was only now that she looked closely that she realised the Minister’s long evening gown had been cleverly cut to conceal a thickening waist that was held in place by well hidden boning. She flicked her fingers. The naked man fell to his knees beside Florence’s feet and started removing her shoes. Following the instructions he had been given earlier by Anne he set to pleasuring the Minister’s feet. “There,” said Anne, “I think you will find him quite skilled and you’re free to make use of him for the rest of the evening. There were a few things I wanted to discuss though, first; things that you might like to discuss with your cabinet colleagues that might help reinforce the strength of small businesses, like mine.”

“Mmm,” said the Minister, partly distracted by the attentions of the slave at her feet. “Tell me how I can help.” 

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

1. Chapter 2 : The Work Ethic

He decided to walk in to work. It wasn’t much of a decision; it was that or go without something to eat at lunch. Besides the men-only buses were getting fewer and further between.

It was a grey morning. He hunched his shoulders up against the cut of the east wind as it sliced around the edge of the buildings. His coat was threadbare, he hadn’t been able to afford a new one for a couple of years and it was the only one he had. There were a few other men, shuffling along as he was, this was one of the main commute-routes from the dormitories on the edge of town, even some of those with sponsors had to make the trip out from the centre, unless they were lucky enough to have a live-in job. Or unlucky enough, James thought.

A black and white police car slowed as he stopped at the road junction. There were always plenty of black and whites around. He’d see four or five of them most mornings. He watched the pedestrian crossing light change to green. He didn’t want to give the police any excuse for stopping him. The last thing he needed was to be late. He crossed the road. The police car turned up the street alongside him and slowed to a walking pace. It kept alongside him for maybe a hundred yards or so before the officer driving wound down her window. James tried to keep looking straight ahead, pretending that the police car wasn’t there.

“You off to work, boy?” James turned to see the woman looking at him through mirrored sun glasses. She was peering out from beneath the shiny peak of her uniform cap. She lounged back in her seat, one arm on the window sill, the other laying loosely on the steering wheel.

“Yes, Ma’am,” James replied not breaking his stride. He knew if she had any real reason to stop him she would have done so by now.

“Got your locality permit, boy?”

She was going to stop him. It would be half an hour or more while she sat him in the back of the black and white and “ran checks”; until she’d finished or decided it was time for a coffee and doughnut somewhere. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said as emphatically as he could, waiting for the next call to stop.

The call didn’t come. The radio in the black and white crackled. He didn’t hear what was said; just the officer replying, “I’m on it.”  - That and the roar of the car’s engine as she sped away.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He had experienced plenty of this casual harassment and now it seemed to be getting worse.

Then he was out of the worst areas; he was in to the business district. The street started to get more crowded as others converged with him on their places of work. The cars weren’t just the black and white’s now, There were more of the two-seater sports cars that the girls favoured for their commute and a few of the comfortable women-only buses. The Venus symbol beside each passenger door made it plain who they were for; even if you didn’t notice the smaller Mars symbol in a red circle with a red diagonal line through it.

The office block was up ahead; white marble frontage, broad steps, great glass doors. Of course that wasn’t the way he went in. He turned down the side of the building into the alley that led to his entrance, a small chipped, wooden, door propped open by an old beer crate.

He passed the peeling election poster from eight years before. “New Order : New Opportunities,” it said. Though of course it hadn’t made it clear for who. The poster carried the New Order symbol, the Venus sign but inverted, the cross at the top. James remembered someone explaining it on the radio. The circle represented the womb, the productive power of women, they’d said; the inverted cross – the outstretched arms of inclusion; the nurturing nature of women. Now it was hard to see it as anything other than triumphal. It hadn’t been long before the corresponding male symbol had appeared on graffiti. A Mars symbol but with the arrow pointing down like a flaccid penis. There was one here alongside the poster, in chipped white paint on the soot stained brick.

James punched his personnel number into the clock-in pad and scanned his ident card as he went inside. The corridor was gloomy, lit by only one naked bulb. At least the room beyond was warm and, by comparison, bright. Four of his colleagues were already there, enjoying a mug of tea before the day began. “Jim,” one of them acknowledged as James came in.

“Norm,” James responded with a nod, hanging his threadbare coat with the others.

“Zak won’t be in,” Norm said. “Picked up by a black and white last night – Pete saw it.”

Pete, the balding, senior one of the team, grunted. “Detained for questioning, the word from upstairs is. They’ll be after any of us without a sponsor. This latest dissident scare’s just an excuse.”

“I had a narrow escape this morning,” James started, “down at the junction of …”

“You got time to chat Leonard; you can come chat with me.” The words were almost snarled. It was Angie, the office supervisor, the one that gave them their work, that kept them scuttling around the building; cleaning up, delivering files, fixing things. She wasn’t too hard on them most of the time; not like the girls on the fifth and sixth floors – you’d be lucky to get by them without a kick. Mind you she didn’t have the figure and looks that they did, either. That was probably why she’d been sent down there to keep an eye on the men. James looked at her scowling at him. She had on a pale, shapeless sweater and a dark brown corduroy skirt that hung around her like a sack. She pushed a strand of greasy black hair back from her face. “That was, like, now,” she said.

James followed Angie out of the room and along the corridor. She carried on up the back stairs to the second floor; out from the peeling paint and chipped plaster of the service areas and into the main part of the office with its bright lighting, potted plants and air conditioning.

He hated coming up to the main areas of the office. There were two types of women here, those that looked at him as if he’d crawled out from under a stone and those that delighted in prick teasing. Either way he had the discomfort of watching toned, tanned and well dressed women wandering by, while knowing that he wasn’t of the least concern to them. New Order had delivered to women the independence, wealth and self confidence that enabled them to look good. The only problem was that there wasn’t a man in the country that benefitted. But, James guessed, that hadn’t been the idea. 

Angie stopped outside one of the offices. “In here,” she said, waving him inside while she stayed in the corridor.

Inside was one of the company’s personnel officers. A real ice maiden, James thought as he looked at her carefully tailored shirt, her blonde hair up at the back in a French plait, blue eyes piercing into him as he entered. She looked down at the dog eared file on her desk. “James Leonard, is it?” she said, not bothering to look up from the file.

“Err, yes.” James couldn’t imagine what the problem was. He’d not missed a day’s work for two years now. As far as he knew no one had complained about him. Even Angie’s regular bitching and nagging had been at a fairly constant level.

“You’re not sponsored are you?” she flipped the pages of the file back and forth, as if she was finding it hard to believe what she was reading.

“No… the company couldn’t and I haven’t been able to … but with the new round of sponsorship interviews I might…”

“Sorry, Leonard, not my problem.” She was holding forward an envelope. “We’ve got to let you go. Government directive, I’m afraid. We have to complete additional returns for employees that aren’t sponsored. We don’t have the resources to do that.” James looked over her shoulder, out through the glass wall of the office to where one girl, her skirt practically up to her hips as she perched on the edge of a desk as she chatted to another sipping from a mug of coffee. No, thought James, no resources to do that. Plenty to drink coffee though. “Not our choice, you understand. Ms. Barrant will show you out.”

She tossed his file into her out tray. James didn’t argue. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He supposed that he had expected it one day; just not yet. She didn’t wait for him to say anything but instead picked up her phone and was soon chatting away. “Laura, wonderful. … Well, when? … Yes of course. Oh hang on.” She looked up at James. “You have to go now,” she said.

“Yes,” responded James, flatly, uncertain what to do next. “Of course, sorry.” He picked up the envelope and left the room as the woman returned to her phone conversation.

Angie was waiting for him outside the office. “That way,” she pointed to the steps that led down to the office lobby. As they walked along the corridor they passed the gym that had been put in for the benefit of the female staff, a few girls were pounding away on exercise bikes. Two others were stretched out on massage tables while oiled and muscular male attendants attended to them – some of the few male workers allowed into this part of the building. Two girls walked by them. Wearing minute, tight shorts and tight fitting vests, clutching towels they were obviously headed to the gym as well.

“Hmm, fit,” one of them said as they passed James.

“Not!” exclaimed the other, bringing forth peels of laughter from the two. He was used to it now, the casual remarks, the outright insults, the constant prick teasing. He did what he always did, took a deep breath and ignored it.

James and Angie reached the stairs. He followed her down. His coat was piled in a heap on the front desk, being regarded with distaste by one of the uniformed attendants that looked after the building’s security. Having got him this far, Angie left without a word to James. “He’s got his envelope,” she said to the attendant. “I’ll leave him with you. I’ve got real work to do; have to re-jig the rosters now we’re one down. Hope none of the other buggers turn out to have sponsorship problems.”

“Sure. Good luck,” the attendant said and then, turning to James. “Employee pass?” She held out her hand. James fumbled in his pocket and found the laminated card. She took it from him and tossed it into a box under the counter of the reception desk. “This yours?” She looked down at the coat. James nodded and picked it up. “Any other company property?” James shook his head. “OK then that’s it.” She pointed to the door.

James, unable to see any alternative, went to leave. He punched in his four digit code. The door lock beeped and a red light blinked. He looked around at the smug grin on the security attendant’s face. “That won’t work anymore,” she said with a smirk. She punched in her own code, the lamp blinked green and the lock gave a clunk. George pushed it open and found himself on the street.         

Now he not only didn’t have a sponsor; he didn’t have a job either.

***   ***   ***   ***

Angie Barrant’s flat wasn’t large but it was comfortable. The building managers had a good crew of men and they made sure the building was kept clean and well maintained. There was a good security service, Angie often shared a joke with the girls on reception as she went to work. It didn’t cost too much and it was convenient for the office.

She switched on the video set. The new chat show, “Girls Talk” was playing. It might amuse, she thought. She stretched a bit stiff after the day at work. She unfastened the belt and waistband of her skirt and let it fall to the floor. “Better!” she thought and sprawled in her armchair wearing just her sweater and stockings.

A man appeared at the door from the kitchen carrying a tray with a large glass.

“Mm, gin,” said Angie. “Much needed. Bring it over, Norm boy and then put away that skirt and come back here,” she ordered.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Norm said, jumping to obey. He scooped up the skirt and hurried away to Angie’s bedroom to tidy it away.

When he returned to the lounge she made it clear what she wanted him to do. Soon he was on his knees in front of the armchair, Angie’s nylon clad legs, stretched out across his back. “There’s a good boy, Norm. See how much better life can be if you have someone to look after your interests? Poor old James couldn’t see that could he? Still that’s his misfortune, I guess.”

Norm didn’t reply, he was just glad that Angie hadn’t taken him upstairs to the second floor even if it was going to cost him a few evenings at least on his knees. And, who knew, maybe Angie would be a reference if he ever got the chance of a sponsor?

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

1. Chapter 3: On The OC

James didn’t go straight back to the flat. The last thing he wanted was his landlady asking why he was there in the middle of the day. He managed to make a coffee last an hour at a stand up booth round the back of the bus station. He’d moved on when a black and white had pulled up, its crew looking for their morning break. He walked for another hour or more, staying off the main streets. Then he queued up with others – no doubt also newly work free as a result of the latest initiative - at the mis-named “Opportunity Centre” to make sure that he was at least registered as looking for work. The girl behind the counter hadn’t made any effort to suggest any likely “opportunities” she couldn’t even tell him when the next round of sponsorship interviews were likely to be scheduled.

“No,” she said, pushing his registration card across the counter, “we’ve heard nothing here. Been a rush on today. Lots of you solitaries having a change of heart are you?”

He shrugged and took the OC – as the Opportunity Card was known to all. It was a joke. “Being on the OC” meant doing nothing in the slang of his mates. Still, he thought as he slipped it into his pocket, at least it gives me a reason for being out on the streets.

He stepped out on to the street. Women were pouring out of the office buildings, heading for lunch. He tried to stay out of the way of the more boisterous groups as they went in search of vodka and sushi – the currently fashionable lunchtime deal. They’d be even worse when the bars turned out he thought.

The sharp stainless steel and neon facades of the vodka bars held no attraction for him, even if he’d been able to go in, which he couldn’t; even if he had the money, which he hadn’t. Every one of the doors on the main street had the same sign, the Mars symbol in a red circle with a red diagonal line through it. One of them even used a graffiti style sign with the arrow pointing down as its logo. ‘The Broken Arrow’ it said over the door. He glanced through the window as he passed. Male waiters, of course, made their way between the tables, dressed in short skirt like garments barely covering their genitals and strappy sandals. They were naked from the waist up. James knew the sort of reaction they’d get from the clientele. But at least they had jobs.

 

There were still a few places where he could get a sandwich or a bowl of soup. Down towards the river. He could try down there. It started to rain. He didn’t even bother to turn up the collar on his coat. He’d be soaked soon enough whatever happened. The first place he tried was shut. Black and yellow tape criss-crossed the door. “Police – Crime Scene – Do Not Enter” it said on the tape. James could imagine what the crime had been. Serving food to solitaries was enough to attract the attention of the black and whites.

Around the corner, one last place was open. It was filled with others like himself. He got a bowl of soup and a crust of bread and found an edge of a table to perch on. A discarded copy of the day’s free newspaper lay on the table. He took it up without much hope of finding anything other than government propaganda.

It was pretty much as he had expected. The news pages had details of the previous night’s ministerial broadcast, scare stuff on plots against the government and the threat posed by dissidents. There was an article by the minister responsible for the Sponsorship Programme highlighting the contribution it made to public order and social cohesion and announcing the launch of their new hot line allowing public spirited individuals to call in details of anyone suspected of being an unregistered solitary.

He managed to spend another hour on his soup. Finally he was attracting enough disapproving looks from behind the counter to encourage him to leave.

James found his way back to his flat. Luckily, his landlady was out. He let himself in and sank down on the couch.

He slipped his ident card into the television set and got the validated message. It seemed to him that it took a little longer than usual. Why was that? Paranoia, he thought. He flipped through the channels, three of them had blanked screens with the “no males” symbol showing. He didn’t waste his time staring at them, the ident card made sure he couldn’t access “unsuitable” material as the government had it. The fourth screen at least was showing a programme he could watch, More news though; more current affairs, more propaganda. Florence Daniels was being interviewed again, this time about some of the latest measures introduced by the Ministry of Home Affairs. “It’s very important,” she was saying, “that sponsored males have the chance to contribute to the household fully. That means being engaged in the domestic tasks of the household as well as contributing by their earnings from the workplace. After all it’s only reasonable that sponsors should benefit from the time and effort they put in.”

“Would you like to comment Minister on reports that the government is to legislate on aspects of sexual behaviour within the household?”

“I’m not sure I want to give these reports any credence by commenting on them, Kirsty, The position of New Order has been consistent on this. We don’t believe in interfering in people’s personal morality. Of course there are some practices that we don’t believe are appropriate in today’s society.”

“You’re talking here about fellatio and male on female penetrative sex?”

“Yes. I think it’s hard to see those activities as consistent with the sort of society we are trying to build. I think we’ve been pretty clear that we feel that sort of thing is symptomatic of a failure to recognise the new position of women in society and that there is really no justification for its continuation. These practices aren’t widespread, though, and we certainly see no need for legislation on these matters at this time.”

Even the mention of sex made James nervous. Of course he masturbated, what man didn’t? What woman for that matter? And, as far as he knew, the government hadn’t outlawed that. Yet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex with a woman though. Before the first New Order election, certainly. As Florence Daniels said, they hadn’t legislated against it, but the social climate sure as hell had made it unlikely! Unless you were in some sort of relationship or sponsorship, in which case you’d be having sex in some other way whether you wanted it or not.  

“Well thank you Minister,” the interviewer was winding things up. She turned back to the screen. “There will be a discussion later tonight on the Government’s measures to counter dissident activity. So be sure to tune in to News Night with Gail Trimble at 22:30.”

James frowned. The ‘dissidents’ just seemed to be an excuse for whatever repressive measures the government wanted to introduce. He decided to get some coffee and got to his feet.  

Just as he did so, he heard a knock on his door. He opened it warily. There were three women there, two uniformed police officers and another in plain clothes. The woman in plain clothes peered at him distastefully. “James Leonard?” she said.

She flashed an identity card at him. He didn’t really get the opportunity to read it.

“Accommodation check,” she said. “Stand by the wall please,” and then after a noticeable pause, “Sir.”

James knew about the checks. Last year, when a number of dissidents had been arrested on conspiracy charges, the Government introduced spot checks on accommodation occupied by un-sponsored, ident card holders. He had heard about them but this was the first time they had called on him. It wouldn’t take them long he thought looking around the room.

“By the wall, the officer told you,” barked one of the uniformed women. James jumped to respond. “Thank you, Sir,” she said with snarled politeness. “But turn around please.” As he did so he felt the women push the top of her night stick between his buttocks. She stood very close to him and hissed in his ear, “and if you make a move, I’ll shove this so far up your arse you’ll feel it in the back of your throat.” 

James froze. He was keen to give the women no opportunity to cause any more trouble.

The other uniformed policewoman set to searching his apartment. The officer walked over to him. “Lived here long, have you?” she asked.

“Err, about three years,” James responded, “since just before the last elections. My job moved and I had to move here.”

“Happy with that, were you?

James shrugged. “It’s OK,” he said. The searching officer upended a drawer, spilling contents on the floor. James made to object but felt the night stick press against him and stopped.  The searching officer went through to the bedroom.

“You’re not sponsored are you?” the officer went on.

“No, Ma’am,” James responded. He knew where this was going. “My employer wasn’t ready to take on a higher quota and I haven’t been able to find a private sponsor.” Like many other solitaries he had ignored the possible sources for sponsorship when the Government had first introduced the programme and he hadn’t been able to find one since. Actually he hadn't really tried up until now. Losing his job had focused his mind though. Not having a sponsor was getting to be a real problem. Everyone assumed that solitaries had some sort of subversive agenda, opposed to the regime, reluctant to be under the sort of scrutiny that sponsorship implied. Now it sounded like, with the new scheme, he’d have to take whatever sponsor they assigned him to, assuming they could even find him one.

A voice came from the bedroom. “You’d better look at this Ma’am,” she called. The officer went in response. James started to move after her and received a jab in the back from the other policewoman’s stick. “Nobody told you to fucking move,” she snarled. He stood still.

The officer emerged from his bedroom carrying half a dozen, well thumbed, magazines printed on cheap paper. James didn’t recognise them. “Would you like to explain these?” she said holding one forward with a look of distaste on her face. He took a look and he knew he was in trouble.

“I’ve never seen them before,” James said as he looked at the pictures of helplessly bound and gagged women. 

“Even though they were under your bed? Beneath the mattress?” She raised her eyebrows. “You must think we’re stupid.”

James didn’t know what to do.

The officer turned towards him. “James Leonard,” she said, “I’m arresting you on suspicion of possessing seditious literature. You do not have to say anything at this time but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” The officer nodded to the police woman that had been keeping close to James. She pulled a pair of handcuffs from the pouch on her belt, pulled James’s arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists. 

“But they are nothing to do with me. Nothing. I’m telling the truth.”

“Explain it all later, fuckwit,” the policewoman said, squeezing the cuffs tighter. James winced. “Huh! Not so good when it’s you in bondage is it?”

She was manhandling him towards the door as the other policewoman appeared with more papers. “These look like recruiting papers for a dissident group, ma’am,” she said as she handed them to the officer.

“Oh dear,” said the officer, grim faced. “This is even more serious. Let’s get him down to the station. Forensic can go over this place. If there’s any more of this filth they’ll find it.”

James looked in horror at the papers and tried to protest his innocence. A blow to the ribs knocked the wind from him and left him with no will to resist. As he fell back against the wall, the night stick cracked into the back of his legs pitching him on to his knees. A boot kicked into his arm and he yelped as more blows fell on his shoulders. “That’ll do,” the other officer called.

“Stupid scum,” his assailant snarled, kicking him in the ribs. “Get up and don’t try any more of that.”

Gasping with surprise at the sudden and ferocious attack, James struggled to his feet.

They pushed James down the corridor of the apartment towards the stair well, not taking much care to help him make his way around the rubbish strewn in his path. He staggered down the steps and across to the police car parked outside. The policewoman holding him pushed him into the back of the car and slid into the back seat alongside him.

***     ***    ***    ***    ***

Florence Daniels had welcomed the suggestion of a meeting with one of Anne Tenant’s public sector sales executives. Tanya Charles sat down, and leant forward to the Minister’s desk. Behind her stood a smartly dressed young man holding a small leather case.

“I’ll come straight to the point Minister,” she said. “We think that some of the Government’s programmes are being handicapped by lack of appropriate technologies. We have some skills that we think could help to improve the effectiveness of some of them.

“Well,” Florence responded, “Anne Tenant’s innovation is almost as well known as her entrepreneurial skill. I’d be interested to hear what you have to say.”  And, Florence thought to herself, I’d be interested to see how that young man can amuse me, too.

Tanya turned around and beckoned the young man forward. He put the case down on Florence’s desk, opened it, and then stood back.

“Perhaps you’d like to try this Minister. If you pick up the key pad in the case there and tap in #105 Enter….”

Florence picked up the small device. It fitted neatly her hand and was perfectly smooth except for a dozen or so keys on the face of it. She tapped in the number that Tanya had suggested. Almost at once the young man grimaced in pain and fell to his knees, clutching at the side of the desk.

“Now press ‘Cancel’ if you would.”

As Florence touched the key the young man seemed to recover. “What exactly is the idea of this?” she said.

Tanya gestured to the young man. With resignation he dropped his neatly pressed grey trousers and his underpants. Tanya picked up a ruler from the Minister’s desk. “May I?” she asked.

“Of course,” Florence said, intrigued.

With the end of the ruler, Tanya lifted the young man’s shirt tail revealing a solid metal cage clamped around his penis.

“A chastity device? Hardly innovative. We’ve been suggesting that sponsors use them in their schemes for some time.”

“I think you’ll find that this is quite clever Minister. You saw that the device can be radio controlled from that pad to either constrict or expand. It can deliver short electric shocks too. This can be controlled by a remote like the one you have there or linked in turn to a household or workplace wireless network. Then if the individual wearing it should venture outside the network’s range it can be set to deliver an appropriate, shall we say, ‘disincentive’ to encourage them to return to where they should be. Using this you could run the dissident custody programme without the need for secure accommodation.”

“Well, that would be useful. But wouldn’t the public be concerned? About the risks? How effective it might be?”

“Not, I think if the Government gives the lead. If, for example, a minister were to already be using it in their own household for example. That’s why we thought you might like to take advantage of our demonstrator here,” Tanya pointed at the young man who was still standing quietly by, his trousers around his ankles, “for a while at least. Give it a go. See how you like it. You’ll find that with practice the control can summon him from where ever he may be around the place. Two short shocks for come here, three for ‘and bring a large gin as well.’ Try it out with our compliments. You’ll find him most accomplished in the usual areas and of course with all that youthful vigour as well!” Tanya smiled and winked at Florence. The young man blushed and then gripped at his crotch as Florence tapped some more keys on the control. “And we can talk about the sort of quantities you think might be needed to support a government programme when you’ve satisfied yourself that the system works and that public concerns can be allayed.”

“Well,” said Florence, glancing across to the young man’s muscled calves and thighs. “I think that’s an excellent suggestion. I shall have to thank Anne for bringing this to my attention.”       

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

1. Chapter 4 : The Interview

James sat on the simple wooden chair beside the desk, his wrists still cuffed behind him. A uniformed officer stood beside the door, ignoring him. Her tailored and laundered uniform contrasted with the shabby surroundings. Her jet black pencil skirt showed no speck of dust, her short sleeved shirt bright white, pressed and cut to fit exactly, her black tie as thin as her the look in her eyes, her belt as shiny as the gloss on her lips. An identity tag, “Constable 70748, Margery Dennis,” hung from her belt.

James caught himself staring at her. He knew there would be trouble if she noticed. He looked down quickly, staring at the table.  

The woman that had arrested him and another plain clothes officer came into the cell and sat down opposite him.

The second woman slipped a mini-disk into a box at one side of the table and flicked down a switch on. “Interview with suspect James Leonard. DI Collins and DS Haste interviewing. PC Dennis in attendance. Interview started at 21:05.”

“Hello James,” the second woman said. “I’m Inspector Collins. This is Detective Sergeant Haste. Do you know why you were arrested?”

“Yes, Inspector,” James thought that the best approach would be to be as un-confrontational as possible. He knew from what others had said that there wasn’t any point in suggesting they might like to let him get a lawyer; even if he knew one. “There were some magazines and papers found in my flat but I didn’t…”

“One step at a time, please,” Inspector Collins said.

“You know of course that possession of violent, anti-female, pornography is illegal?”

James nodded.

“Answer the question out loud,” Haste ordered.

“Sorry. Yes,” said James.

“And that promoting or espousing the views of proscribed organisations is illegal too.”

“Yes, of course, but I didn’t. I hadn’t seen those things before.”

Sergeant Haste pulled two clear plastic envelopes from her briefcase. She pushed the first across the desk towards James. “All right Leonard, Do you recognise this?”

“Yes, it’s a copy of ‘Babes in Bondage’. It was under my bed. I mean you found it under my bed.”

“How long have you had it?

“I haven’t seen it before?”

“Your sort of thing is it? Ropes and gags? Like to use your handcuffs on the officer over there, would you?” Haste nodded towards the uniformed policewoman by the cell door.

“No,” said James. The officer looked back at him with an expression that said, “I bet.”

“If you haven’t seen this before, how come it was under your bed?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you knew it was under your bed, didn’t you? You said it was there,” the Sergeant went on.

“I only knew about it after your officer brought it out. As far as I know she could have put it there herself.”

Inspector Collins cut in. “I’d really advise against making accusations like that,” she said. “That’s only going to make things more difficult for you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t… I mean I didn’t really mean that…”

The sergeant started in again. “Look, why don’t you admit you’re involved with these people. Tell us where we can find the rest of the group. Why should you let yourself go to the camps for them?”

The mention of the camps sent a chill down James’s spine. What you heard about going on in sponsored houses was bad enough but the rumours about the camps were worse.

The inspector saw his reaction. “Look,” she said, “no one’s trying to say you’ve done anything wrong. We just want to get at the people that are behind all this. I’d have a thought a bright chap like you would see that. Wouldn’t you sergeant?” James looked across at Sergeant Haste. She didn’t look as though she was going to give him any credit. At that moment the Inspector’s pager went. She took out the device, peered at it and said to Haste. “I’m needed upstairs. I’ll let you keep an eye on our friend for a minute or two.” She leant across the recorder. “Interview stopped at 21:35,” she said as she pressed a button on the box. 

James watched her go. No sooner had the door shut behind her than Sergeant Haste grabbed James by the shirt collar. “While the Inspector’s out perhaps I can convince you of the value of cooperating,” she snarled, twisting his collar until he was almost choking. The officer by the door carried on standing there, looking into space as if nothing was happening. Haste lifted one foot pushing it between his thighs until the toe of her boot was pushing up against his crotch. “Tell me about the other members of the group,” she said. “We can get it on the recorder later once you’ve had the chance to think more clearly.” She slid her toe forward.

James squealed. “I don’t know any group,” he begged, “really I don’t. I’ve not been involved in any subversion. I just do my job.” The sergeant began to twist at his collar again. James coughed and spluttered.

Suddenly, the Inspector reappeared in the cell and, with one swift motion, Haste let go James’s collar and stood up from the chair. She smoothed down her skirt and straightened her blouse. “The suspect had a nasty coughing attack, Ma’am,” Haste said. “But he’s all right now.”

Inspector Collins gave Haste a look that said, “don’t take me for an idiot.” She turned to James and switched on the recorder again. “Interview resumed at 21:40,” she said. “All right Leonard. You’re free to go. Stay in your assigned locality in case we need to contact you again. Interview concluded. Take his handcuffs off, Haste.”   

“Yes, Ma’am,” said the sergeant. It was pretty obvious that she didn’t approve and that she didn’t understand why he was being let go, any more than James did.

*****    *****    *****    *****    *****

Detective Sergeant Valerie Haste and Constable Margery Dennis shared an apartment not far from the police station. Haste had been married at the time New Order was elected. Her husband, Barry, was still finding it difficult to come to terms with his new role, especially since his wife had installed Margery in the marital bed.

Margery was back from work first today. Haste’s husband was finishing his household chores. “I’m glad you done all that,” Margery said. “I’ve got one of my special little tasks for you.”

Barry looked glum.

“Floor!” she said. “Face up!”

Barry got himself down on the floor in the middle of the lounge. He had a good idea of what was coming next.

Margery straddled him and sat on his chest. She hitched her skirt up, sliding it back to reveal stocking clad thighs. Barry could remember when such a thing would have been a dream but it wasn’t that way anymore. Margery shuffled forward until his face was clamped between her thighs and her pants were clamped over his mouth. She leant forward taking advantage of his nose and face to get something to rub against. “You don’t have to do too much,” she said. “Just so I’m good and juicy for when Valerie gets home. You know how much she likes it when I’m nicely sexed up for her.”

Barry gasped for breath as Margery used him to work herself up, rubbing her cunt backwards and forwards across his face. He knew that once his wife came back they’d push him off into one of the closets while the two of them got on with their own fun.

*****    *****    ******    *****

Looking around her flat, Angie Barrant was beginning to think that having Norm around was a real benefit. The place had never been so tidy. She wasn’t much of a one for housework and  Norm’s contribution on that area had been a real plus, even if he had needed a bit of encouragement before he’d agreed to do as she told him. She’d never had a houseboy apart from hiring one in from an agency occasionally so she was having to get used to keeping his mind on what she wanted. Angie had watched the way that the other girls around the office bullied the men and had picked up a few tips. It was true what they said, she thought, unless you kept an eye on them they soon got distracted. But what was the point of having someone to do the housework if you had to stand over them all the time?

Angie looked at the chain padlocked to the leg of her bed. It was what she used to put around his ankle on the nights he stayed over. It was risky having an unsponsored male in the house without proper security arrangements, she supposed, but he was pretty well behaved and he knew that he needed to go on being well behaved if he was going to keep his job. Of course, if he was going to be a continuing feature around the house, she’d have to make some better arrangements but in the flat it wasn’t easy. She was thumbing through a catalogue of security furniture but it all looked like it would take up half the bedroom and it was incredibly expensive as well. There was a sort of cage arrangement that would fit under a bed and that could be a possibility, she supposed but unless she was going to get some sort of grant she couldn’t see herself being able to afford it. 

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

Chapter 5 : City Streets

James found himself outside the police, station faster than he would have thought possible. They hadn’t quite thrown him down the front steps but they hadn’t been too polite about showing him out either.

He had no more idea of why they had freed him than of why they had picked on him in the first place. That was one of the problems with being a solitary – you were easy pickings as far as the police, the benefit squads, the tax enforcers were concerned.

Maybe they were planning to follow him, imagining that he’d lead them to some dissident group or other. Well, they’d be disappointed, he thought.

It was dark; nearly 10 o’clock. At least he’d be home before the bars started closing. After his encounter with the police the last thing he wanted was to fall foul of a bunch of women on the rampage after an evening fuelling up on vodka. Even so he went the long way around. There was always the risk he’d attract the attention of one of the bouncers outside the Paradiso. He’d seen them picking on a guy once. Two of them, 210 pounds each of pure muscle packed into sharp suits. Somehow the man had ended up in a heap beside the Paradiso’s garbage skip while the two women had strolled back to the door of the club, still immaculate in their black tux’s, barely a hair out of place.

He clutched the curfew permit that they’d given him at the police station tightly. He still had half an hour before, like all males, he had to be off the streets without special permission but it wouldn’t be the first time that an over-zealous police officer had taken the chance to catch up on her quota by pulling in someone just a bit before the actual curfew time.

He managed to get as far as his street without difficulty. The town was quiet. Then he remembered; there was a big match on tonight. He could imagine the scenes in the Paradiso. Women would be standing in groups around the big TV screen, cheering every time one of the players had his shirt pulled. The stadium would be filled with women baying for one team or the other. And in the Paradiso, there would be more vodka being drunk than usual.

He got back to his flat. The doorway was criss-crossed with black and yellow police tape. “Crime Scene : Do Not Enter” it said. A forensics officer in a white boiler suit was packing up her bag. She looked up as James came into the corridor. “Huh,” she said. “Seems like you've got away with it this time.”

“What?” said James. “I've not done anything. They let me go.”

“Yes,” she said picking up the bag. “And they told me to stop looking. Doesn't mean there wasn't anything to find though, does it?” As she went to leave, James started to pull the tape from his door and the voice of his landlady could be heard calling along the corridor.

“We don't want no police around here, Leonard,” she called. “You're going to have to get yourself a sponsor. If there's going to be trouble, I want you out.”

“There's not going to be any more trouble, Mrs Bryant,” James responded. “It was all some sort of mistake.”

“Police don't make mistakes with the likes of you,” she said. “Any more and you're out.”

James shrugged his shoulders, unable to think of anything to say. He just had to hope that this was some isolated bit of harassment and not the start of the sort of campaign he'd heard of that some solitaries had to face. Maybe he'd find some way to get a sponsor after all. He pulled the last of the tape from his door and made his way inside. The forensic team had been as careful as a herd of buffalo. The place was even more of a tip than it usually was.

Disheartened, James pushed his way through the piles of his clothes, books and papers strewn across the floor of the flat towards his bedroom. The mattress had been pushed off his bed; sheets and blankets dumped in one corner. He couldn't face sorting it out. He just threw his jacket onto the pile of things that had been pulled from his wardrobe, stepped out of his trousers, pulled a blanket around himself and lay down on the mattress.  

Sleep came slowly.

***    ***    ***    ***    ***

Florence Daniels pushed her spectacles up from the bridge of her nose, squeezing it between her thumb and forefinger as she tried to give the briefing the attention it demanded. There was Cabinet tomorrow first thing, then Ministerial questions in the House tomorrow afternoon. And that was without the Parliamentary Committee the day after. She needed to be in command of the facts. 

The Commissioner for Detention and Reorientation Facilities was trying to make things as clear as she could but it was hard to pretend that her report was much more than a string of numbers. 38,000 suspected dissidents detained during the first six months of the year of which 35,500 cases were sufficiently evidenced to enable summary sentencing and a further 2,000 went to trial with a conviction rate of 96%. The figures were up. Florence supposed that was good but how much more was better enough? You never knew in politics. It only needed some bright young spark to turn up claiming that it shouldn’t be 38,000 but 76,000; that summary sentencing rates should be higher; that conviction rates below 99% showed incompetent policing or prosecution or both.

Re-offending rates were very low. But that was because release rates were very low too. She didn’t know whether to be pleased that the Commissioner was managing the camps in such a way that detainees weren’t released before they were ready or disappointed that she wasn’t doing a better job of reorienting them so that they could become useful, sponsored, household members again.

That was the trouble with politics, too many relativities. She looked at the other briefing papers. Sponsorship take up rates seemed to have stalled. The last few months had shown no real increase. But there weren’t that many “solitaries” now; their tendency to fall fowl of the anti-dissident legislation tended to mean that most of them were in the Commissioner’s camps. Presumably that was good? But what had that back bencher said last week? “The continued inability of the Ministry of Home Affairs to reduce the hard core unsponsored threatens our ability to deliver on the New Order manifesto.”

The Prime Minister had rebuffed the suggestion saying that she was confident that the Minister for Home Affairs should enjoy her continued confidence. Florence hadn’t been entirely convinced that it was quite the ringing endorsement she thought she was entitled too. She would have preferred it if the PM hadn’t said “should”.    

She looked at her notes. The tax changes that she had pushed through with the Chancellor should really be having an effect by now. The new sponsorship placement interview programme had been introduced. Social attitudes were firmly against the solitaries – in fact that was probably making her life more difficult. She wasn’t sure what else she could do, short of making not having a sponsor a detainable offence. A consultation programme? That might allow some time for the effects of the tax and the earlier legislation to feed through.

Her Permanent Secretary looked up from her own dossier. “If I might suggest, Minister,” she began.

Florence looked hopefully across at Maggie Forbush with the eager anticipation of a spaniel tempted with a piece of raw liver. “Of course, Maggie,” she said. “You know the views of the Civil Service are always welcomed.”

Maggie Forbush had done well out of the election of the New Order government. She’d been a junior secretary in the department when they’d been voted in. At the time she hadn’t been sure if they could deliver on their manifesto but they’d earned her vote like that of most women. Of course it hadn’t helped that the traditional parties ignored New Order and then tried to ridicule them. You couldn’t really blame the men for having lost interest in party politics. But with women united for New Order and the opposition parties fragmenting their vote if had meant a New Order landslide. When New Order had started they had been careful not to alienate those that hadn’t voted for them. In the end, though, they had become completely focused on their vision of a state run by women, ostensibly for the benefit of all but with determined action against any opposition. The few dissident groups had provoked a strong response but most men had thought the whole thing would blow over. given time Maggie, like all women and even many men, approved of the Government’s actions – after all, society needs stability. Maggie was sure that there some injustices and, she supposed some women probably exploited the situation. It was hard to know, the tabloid press carried some lurid stories but Maggie thought most of it was down to women having to hold down responsible jpobs these days and needing support – after all wasn’t that the way that men had had it for a long time? Still, by and large, the country was a better place and New Order had been re-elected three years ago with an increased majority, in spite of the fact that opposition seemed to have been better organised. 

Maggie turned towards the Minister. In her short time as a senior civil servant she had been quick to learn the ways of the Whitehall Mandarins - “What is  the female form of that?” she thought for a moment – and it was always best to wait until the Minister felt she was in a hole before throwing her a life-line. This seemed to be the right moment to help out.

  

“Well, Minister, the problem is not so much that there are so many unsponsored. It’s more that the sponsorship interview process has not been completed for a significant proportion of those involved and that presents a misleading picture. If we provide a new category in our analysis highlighting the effort of the sponsorship placement teams we can show how much effort is being put in there and show how large, or rather how small, the really obstinate cases of non-sponsored individuals are.”        

Florence always admired the ability of Maggie to come up with solutions to even the most intractable of problems. “So what proportion falls into the category of awaiting interview’?”

“Around 73.6%”

Florence thought the ‘around’ was unnecessary. Even she didn’t believe that the statistics were that accurate. “So, the ‘hard core’ that the Member for Henley was referring to is only a quarter as big as she feared. I think the PM will be quite happy with that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Minister,” Maggie said with a smile. 

Florence relaxed. The thought of an evening’s amusement with the ‘demonstrator’ that Tanya Charles had provided suddenly seemed like something she could enjoy without worrying about the impending arrival of parliamentary daggers in her ministerial back.

It was only much later that she suddenly thought that Maggie would be back in a few days with a very well argued case for increasing in the staffing levels of the sponsorship interview service. Still she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. That and how she was going to reduce the 26.4% figure as well. 

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

It had been a pig of a day for Angie. The air con had failed on the seventh floor and that stupid bunch of men hadn’t been able to fix if for three hours, by which time she’d had dozens of complaining phone calls.. She hadn’t been able to get out of the building for a smoke all afternoon and that always made her scratchy.

Norm hadn’t been very enthusiastic when she’d told him that he’d be coming over this evening and he’d been even less keen when she sent him out into the kitchen to deal with the last couple of day’s washing up.

Angie sat back and flicked on her video screen. It was the usual political stuff on the news. Some New Order party hack was wittering on about the latest agenda of reforms. She didn’t take much notice. There were reports of subversive groups active in the North. It sounded like they’d given up in London now and were looking for somewhere that might prove a bit easier. The Chief of Police for the northern district was being reassuring. Angie didn’t trust her but if things were getting better in London, she wasn’t worried anyway.

A resounding crash from the kitchen brought her attention back to the flat. She got to the kitchen to find an embarrassed Norm standing with shattered pottery around his feet. “It slipped, I’m sorry,” he said.

“You bloody well will be,” Angie snapped back looking at the remains of the broken bowl. With one hand she gripped him by the collar of his shirt and pushed him forward, bending him over the sink. She started to fumble for his trouser belt, Norm started to struggle. “Keep fucking still,” Angie snapped, pushing Norm forward so that he was half drowning with his face in the washing up. She wrested the belt from his trousers, pulled the trousers and underpants down and started to lay into Norm’s buttocks with the belt.

After half a down strokes his backside was already red and his gasped cries of pain were spluttering through the soapy water as he bucked down and then up with each stroke. By the time Angie had delivered twelve strokes, Norm was yelping with each one; his arse red raw and bruised.

Angie let go of his collar and Norm slid to the floor amongst the shards of pottery. Angie stood back from the sobbing Norm, her hands on her hips, the belt hanging loosely by her side.. “Well,” she thought I mightn’t be able to afford any of these fancy punishment instruments they show off in the Sunday supplements, but at least I can keep him in order.”

*****   *****   *****   *****  *****

“Barry!!” Barry Haste knew he was in trouble as soon as he heard Margery’s voice. He should have been waiting for her by the door but she was a few minutes later than usual, he’d taken the opportunity for a quiet few minutes with the video screen and he hadn’t heard her car pull up. He scurried out of the living room to where Margery was taking off her uniform overcoat.

“Lazing about again?” Margery asked with raised eyebrows. She looked towards the door of the living room, hearing the sound from the video system. “You’d better not have been watching anything you shouldn’t have been. I’ll check you know.”

Barry knew all right. He had only made the mistake of using the video to watch one of the women’s programmes once when Valerie had left her ident card in the slot. The bruises on his backside form the beating she’d given him had taken weeks to heal.

Margery didn’t bother to wait for an answer but tossed her overcoat and uniform cap at Barry. “I need a drink,” she said, meaning that Barry had better bring her one and quickly, “and make it a large one.” She pushed passed him into the living room.

By the time Barry had hung up her coat, put away her cap and poured the large whiskey that he knew she wanted, Margery was sprawled back on the couch, flicking through channels on the video screen. Barry passed her the whiskey and was about to leave when she stopped him. “Don’t go,” she said, “I’ve got something for you to do. Get these shoes off, I’ve been on my feet all day.”

Barry knelt down by Margery’s feet. He was sure that Margery’s choice of footwear wasn’t entirely regulation police uniform, but she seemed to get away with it. Her shoes were black and laced up, pretty much like the standard issue, but the three inch spike heels that helped compensate for her short height, certainly weren’t. Barry unlaced each of the shoes in turn, easing them from her feet and standing them neatly beside the couch.

The telephone rang and Margery picked it up. She clicked the fingers of her other hand impatiently at Barry waving towards her feet. He knew what she wanted and bent his head to her feet as she began her conversation.

“Hi, it’s Margie.”….. “Oh, hi. Mmm, sure.. Yes.”   Margery gestured impatiently at Barry. He began stroking her feet, knowing that, after a day’s work, a foot massage would be the very least that she would want. His fingers ran across the silky feeling nylon of her black stockings. These didn’t look like regulation issue either to Barry, they were far too sheer but, again, Margery seemed to get away with it and what did it matter to him. He pressed with his thumbs on the underside of her left foot, hoping to relieve some of the tension that he could feel. “Oh, you know not so bad. Mind you a couple of days ago we had a strange one. Val and I had one of those dissident suspects set up for a nice chat. Val was just getting started on him. Should have got something out of him for sure. Then the word comes down to... Hang on.” Margery put her hand over the receiver and turned towards Barry. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you ham fisted dickhead” she snapped, pulling her foot away. “Get your mouth on it, perhaps that will be a bit gentler.”

She didn’t wait for Barry’s response but went back to her phone call. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Where was I? …. Oh yes, it was really odd We’d just got started on softening him up and it looked like we’d get a least a few names out of him but then the word comes down from upstairs to lay off and let him go. Just like that. No explanations. Nothing.”

Barry hated having to take Margery’s feet in his mouth, especially after she’d done a hard day’s work. As he lowered his face towards her foot he smelled the pungent whiff of her sweat but he knew that he had better not hesitate. He started, as she had told him to, by running his tongue across her toes, the slippery, luxurious feeling of the nylon contrasting with the heavy smell of sweat, being careful not to drool on her feet by making sure that he swallowed back his saliva as soon as he felt it forming.

Margery finished her phone call but paid Barry no more attention, letting him continue with his work. Barry took that as a good sign, if she had been unhappy with what he was doing she’d have pushed him over backwards with her foot.

She lifted her other leg up and tapped her foot against Barry’s head indicating that he should give that one some attention. He did as she indicated just as he heard the front door open and Valerie calling, “Hi, Margie, I’m back.”

“In here,” Margie called and Barry saw Valerie’s stocking clad legs as she walked past him.

“Mmm.” Valerie reacted with pleasure at her lovers deep kiss. “That is a good welcome home.” Barry felt Margery’s position change as Valerie leant forward against her and heard her giggling response as she pulled her foot away from Barry’s mouth. Valerie fell forward against her, knocking Barry to one side as she did so. As Barry sat back on his heels and looked up Valerie had her hands on Margery’s shirt, pulling it open without much regard for the buttons. She buried her face in Margery’s cleavage as her lover pulled her closer to her and pushed her thigh up between Margery’s legs bringing a grunt of pleasure from her lips.

Barry looked on at the tangle of flesh; remembering when as his wife Valerie had let him do much as she was doing to Margery now. Margery’s skirt was pushed up around her waist with Valerie’s thigh wedged between her stockings. The two women were giggling and grunting in equal part. At a pause in the proceedings, Valerie toppled over onto the couch beside Margery. The two women looked across at Barry and burst out laughing at his wistful look. “You sorry shit!” Valerie laughed. “You’re thinking that one day you might be allowed to do this. Well don’t get your hopes up. In fact, go and find the dildoes and the other toys. I think Margie and I are having a quiet evening in.”

*****   *****  *****   *****   *****

The Paradiso was packed as it usually was on Friday nights. Janice French was enjoying the evening. It had been a dull week at work. There weren’t many challenges in the Personnel office at the moment. Laying off the solitaries had been the only thing she’d really had to worry about, and that had hardly been much effort. They’d all almost expected it, except that last one, Leonard – he’d seemed almost dazed. Still that was better than the abuse she’d had from a couple of them. She’d had to call security to throw them out in the end. Why had they shouted at her? It wasn’t as though it was her fault that the Government had changed the regulations.

Two of her friends, Nadine and Celia, joined her on the couch. James might have recognised them as the two girls heading for the gym that had laughed at him on his last day in the office. A row of shot glasses displayed the main achievements of the girls so far that evening.

“Did you get that new house boy, Janice?” Nadine asked.

“Are we going to get to see him?” Celia chipped in eagerly.

“He’s nothing special,” Janice responded defensively. She knew she was lucky. Her mother, had married twice before New Order came to power and had enjoyed the wealth that had brought her as a result of the confiscation of her husbands’ assets. Then she had died a year ago and left Janice the lot. Sure anyone could have a house boy but you needed accommodation that was big enough and even with the tax breaks it wasn’t a cheap hobby. Janice knew Celia and Nadine would be hard pushed to have live in house boys of their own on what they were earning.

“Still, it must be better than having the cleaning services in, mustn’t it? I mean laundry and all the rest on hand, any time you want.”

“Especially the all the rest!” Nadine smirked. “Or is he just good in the kitchen?”

“Let’s just say,” Janice leaned forward conspiratorially, “that if you two were coming round I’d be sure to have him wear his Hannibal Lecter mask – I’d hate you to find out what he can do with his tongue!” 

Celia and Nadine laughed uproariously and grabbed another Vodka shot each. Janice joined them.

“Oh all right,” she said. “Come and eat tomorrow night. You can see him then.”

*****   ******   *****   *****   *****

The Prime Minister’s ‘fixer’ and confidante was being characteristically blunt. The Scottish burr on her voice took the edge from her words sometimes but most that spoke to her were in no doubt as to what needed to happen, and happen it usually did. She was still thought to have been very much the power behind transforming New Order from no-hope extremists into an electable political party.  “No, of course not,” she said. “I don’t think we need bother the PM with this. She’s happy to leave party political matters to me. She’s got enough to worry about, running the country.”

Her dinner companion, a woman whose girth was a testament to her adherence to Oscar Wilde’s philosophy of resisting anything except temptation, sat back and inhaled from her cigar, unfastening just one of the buttons of her waistcoat in recognition of the quality of the meal. “Of course, I just thought…”

“Look, this little project needs discretion. There are those in the Party that think she isn’t moving fast enough or far enough.”

“Well, even the last government had it’s ‘hang-em & flog-em’ brigade.”

“Yes, but they only wanted to do that to criminals, not half the population.”

The two women laughed but they both knew that was an accurate picture for some of the New Order party members. Making sure that all party members, and especially members of parliament, stayed ‘on side’ was essential if the extremists were to be kept from taking things too far.

“We both know,” the PM’s fixer went on, “that there are a few leaving themselves open to the suggestion that they might not be fully on-board with the New Order programme. That’s what this is about.”

“I know. There are those whose pleasures are probably best not known by the public at large or even the party faithful.”

“Especially the party faithful.”

“All right,” another puff of the cigar was followed by a draft from the balloon of brandy she was holding. She shifted her weight on the chair. It creaked. “And that’s why we’ve set up the Fetter Lane facility. It’s more or less operational.”

“Staffing?”

“Largely done, although you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find people that won’t be missed by both sides.”

“You know I had to intervene for one of your recruits?”

“You can’t blame me for over enthusiastic policing. They’re under pressure to get results.”

“I don’t like having to get involved!”

“I understand.” Another considered sip of brandy punctuated the discussion.

“Still, you have what you need now?”

“What I need? Yes. And we’re getting the first results. I should be able to provide you with some insights into the predilections of one of the judiciary.”

The fixer stared straight at her dinner guest. “I don’t want insights; I want leverage.”

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

Chapter 6 : Step By Step

It had been a bad day. James had been to the Opportunity Centre. There had been about twenty of them standing around in the big room where they handed out appointments. The two appointment windows that opened through the security screens remained closed.

On the far side James could see half a dozen Opportunity Centre staff doing something. It wasn’t terribly clear what it might be and they didn’t seem to be in any hurry to open the appointment windows.

James took the time to look at the cards on the displays around the room. “Opportunities” was the word but he wasn’t eligible for most of them. “Only privately sponsored applicants considered,” or “No Sponsor? Don’t Even Ask!”  most of them said.

The ones that he could apply for either sounded like they were beyond his physical abilities (most of the manual jobs involved harder work than he had ever had to do – there were a few cards for “Farm Workers” and James knew that would mean hard work in the fields and sleeping in a barn) or needed skills that he didn’t possess. He couldn’t see anything that looked like office or clerical work that didn’t involve him needing a sponsor.

The clatter of a grille being raised announced that someone at least had deigned to open one of the appointment windows. James joined the line and shuffled forward as one after the other of the waiting group made their way to the window.

As he reached the front of the queue the girl on the other side of the window, looked up. She was barely twenty years old looked up but she looked as though she had already inherited the jaded and misanthropic manner of long serving OC staff. “Ident Card,” she said without blinking.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said James, fumbling in his coat pocket for the plastic card. The girl sighed with impatience. He pushed it into the slot in front of him.

The girl’s attention went to her computer screen. James realised he was staring at her, noticing how the white of her bra straps showed through her crisp white blouse and how the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck escaped over her collar. She turned round suddenly. He almost fell over backwards. “Police interview last night, eh?” she said. “Anything we should know about?”

“No, no,” said James. “It was some sort of mistake. They just interviewed me.” James shouldn’t have been surprised. It was routine knowledge that all state departments shared their computer files these days.

“No smoke, I say,” the girl responded. “Still it doesn’t make much difference. You aren’t sponsored. I don’t have anything for an unsponsored applicant.”

“Could I get an interview for a sponsorship?”

“Dunno,” the girl said. “Police investigation won’t help. Neither will you staring at my tits.”

“I didn’t, I wasn’t,” James protested but the girl just laughed.

“Come back tomorrow,” the girl said. “Who knows, you might get lucky.”

James nodded. He wasn’t getting his hopes up. He knew she was only talking about an interview at the very best and he wasn’t expecting much to come of that.

Outside the OC, he turned back towards his flat. It was late and starting to get dark. There was a black and white across the road. There seemed to be a lot them about these days. Or maybe he was just attracting attention in some way. A group of four women, arm in arm, talking animatedly were heading towards him, taking up most of the pavement. He had to step into the road to let them pass. There was a blast from the horn of the black and white as it swerved around him. The girls turned to look as if it had all been his fault.

The walk back was dogged by one instance after another of those things that demonstrated the things that had changed since New Order came to power. There were the “No Males” signs on the subway that meant he had to cross the road, edging his way through the traffic and the same signs on some of the footways forcing him to walk on one side of the road or the other. There were posters promoting the latest campaign by the Ministry of Justice to suppress dissident groups; encouraging the public to denounce (although that wasn’t the word they used) suspected members of subversive groups.

Each of his steps back towards the apartment were like the little steps that had chipped away at his freedoms until, suddenly, he saw he had few, if any, left.  Sponsorship had been the main way that the State had done its work. If you weren’t sponsored you couldn’t do that, then you couldn’t do this, and then, and then… Needing a sponsor to counter sign a passport application had been one of the first things. Then his passport had expired and he couldn’t renew it and now he couldn’t leave the country even if he wanted to. Needing a sponsor for a private bank account had been the next thing, so he’d ended up with an account with the state bank. That had been a hangover from the financial crisis but now New Order used it to make sure that those without sponsors had ‘help’ in managing the little money they had left after their taxes. They didn’t offer credit cards of course and although he’d heard there were such things as overdrafts and loans available he didn’t know anyone that had one.

James’s route took him around the edge of the main shopping district. Even if he had money to spend he’d be hard pushed to spend it here. The shops catered, as shop always do, to those with money. And that didn’t include him. Or anyone like him. This street was all clothes shops; clothes and shoes and they weren’t for him. The red signs took him to the far side of the road as he watched the girls across the street, clustered around the brightly lit windows of D&G and Jimmy Choo. He tripped, stubbing his toe on the raised edge of a paving stone. He suddenly realised that this side of the road wasn’t maintained. He’d never thought about it before. The street lamp over his head flickered and he saw that the next one was out. A pool of gloom shadowed the doorways in this side of the street. Nothing had been done to make things any easier on the men’s side of the street.

He got to the end of the road. There was a short cut that he sometimes took past the food shops. He crossed over but then saw he couldn’t go that way any more. Another sign had appeared; a red circle, at the top, the inverted Venus sign, beneath it the Mars and inverted Venus signs with a plus sign between them in a red circle. Only women or accompanied men, it meant; no way though for someone without a sponsor. He passed the end of the road. In the lights of the stores women were emerging, their men following close behind laden with their choices. At least he didn’t have to follow a sponsor, around, James told himself as he turned down yet another badly lit, ill maintained road, heading for home.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Barry Haste followed his wife out of the store. The bags were weighing him down already and they still had a way to go to where the car was parked. Valerie stood chatting to friends it gave Barry a chance to catch up. As he struggled with the bags he saw a solitary figure walking between the patches of gloom on the far side of the street. There was only one reason why someone would be walking over there. “Lucky bastard,” Barry thought to himself. “fancy being able to stay without a sponsor this long.”

Barry watched the figure shuffle away. It was only as he turned back that he saw his wife was standing, waiting for him with arms folded. “Oh,” she said, “decided to join me, have you?”

He knew where this was leading. “Sorry,” he said, “I….”

“Never mind. We’ll deal with it later.”

Barry edged past Valerie’s friends. The remarks as he passed only confirmed that they thought he was in for what he already feared. Their accompanying laughs, he could tell, were annoying his wife even more. 

“Oh,dear, trouser’s down!”  “I think someone’s going to an unhappy bunny later.” “Off to bed with no tea, or worse!” “Much worse!”

They got back to the car. Fuming, Valerie climbed in to the rear passenger seat leaving Barry to pack the shopping away before climbing in to drive.

“I’m sorry,” he began almost as soon as the car was moving.

“Don’t!” she cut him off. “Just don’t! I will not be humiliated like that. Ever!” She sat back in her seat and relapsed into a silence that filled the car like a thick wad of impending doom as Barry drove home.

By the end of the evening Valerie was enjoying the comforting of her lover, Margery. The two of them slept, curled around each other beneath the warm flowered quilt that covered the double bed. Margery sighed quietly as she slept, her lips still most with the taste of her lover. Valerie slept with arms curled protectively around the younger woman, her own state of relaxation brought on by the combination of Margery’s attentions and the satisfaction of correcting Barry’s mistake.

Barry, however, was enjoying no comfort at all. He was in the bedroom with his wife, it was true, but stretched, face down, across the seat of Valerie’s dressing table stool. He was tied there; his wrists bound to the legs of the stool with the stockings she had taken off as she undressed. He was gagged; his mouth stuffed with not only Valerie’s panties but Margery’s too; a pungent tasting, mouth filling, combination that was held in place by the two women’s bra’s tied across his mouth. His real discomfort however, resulted from the reason why they had gagged him. It was the only way to stifle the sobs resulting from the sound thrashing that Valerie had administered to his backside with her hair brush before pushing it down the front of his underpants, bristle side towards his cock.

It would be a while before he failed to give his wife his full attention again.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Janice was entertaining Celia and Nadine with the promised dinner. The three were starting on the pudding course. Janice’s new Houseboy appeared with a tray of desserts to offer around. Three empty bottles of wine stood on the table.

“I see you left the mask off after all,” Celia said, nodding towards the man as he placed the tray so that Nadine could make her choice. He looked puzzled at Celia’s remark.

Janice said “Shh!” and giggled, remembering her Hannibal Lecter remark of the day before. The man left the tray and went back towards the kitchen, the sound of chinking crockery and glassware announced that he was already starting on the washing up.

“Well, he can certainly cook,” Celia took a spoonful of chocolate mousse a licked it up with enthusiasm.

“And the rest?” Nadine prompted.

“And the rest!” Janice looked smug. The man reappeared to collect the desert dishes. The three girls burst out laughing, much to his confusion.

“Well, I think you’ve got a find. Good to look at. And quite docile too.”

The man looked embarrassed.

“Yes, he’s sweet.  Where did  you get him? He’s not off the unsponsored list is he? Or did you latch on to one of those you were laying off this week?”

Janice pulled a face at Nadine’s suggestion. “No thank you!” she said. The thought of someone like that James Leonard in her house, much less in her bedroom was more than she could imagine. “Anyway how are you all getting along? I thought you’d decided you wanted a bit of personal attention around the house?”

Celia and Nadine grinned. Celia slid alongside Nadine nuzzled her neck and nibbled her ear. “Nadine gets quite enough attention, don’t you dear?” Celia said, sliding her hand along her friend’s thigh.

Nadine slapped it away playfully. “Slut!” she accused in an amused voice. “Well, you can’t have too much of a good thing, I say. And some of the new accounting interns look quite tempting.”

Janice smiled, “That will be a challenge; Deborah will have her talons into them already.”

“Are you suggesting our chief accountant is something of a predator?” Celia giggled. Deborah’s reputation was formidable but even so with twenty new boys coming into the accounting pool there was bound to be some male flesh spare. “There has to be some over for the rest of us. And anyway you should have seen some of them tripping over their tongues when I went down to see Deborah this afternoon.”

“Purely by coincidence of course.” Nadine said with a slightly acid tone in her voice. “Nothing to do with that really short skirt and that tight top you were wearing.”

“I was just giving Deborah the chance to show that she had them properly under control,” Celia replied looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “They did all so try to keep their minds on what they doing, too!”

“It’s no good, I’m going to have to take her home,” Nadine shook her head in mock exasperation. Janice knew Nadine was getting hot, thinking about her lover showing off to the men in Deborah’s accounting pool; the two of them would look seriously hung over in the morning if Janice knew them at all. Celia took her cue eagerly and the two of them thanked Janice effusively and left. Janice didn’t mind. She found their sexual adventuring amusing, even if her own sex life was a little more prosaic.

“Can I clear away, Miss?”

Janice thought for a moment. “Yes, err, yes, Jerry.” She didn’t sound very sure about it. Jerry wasn’t sure if it was the disinterest he was used to from women or the effects of the wine. Whichever it was the table still needed  to be cleared. He got started.

Janice sat back watching him. There was no doubt that he was nicely configured. Tight little arse shown off by those trousers, quite a well muscled torso beneath that tee shirt. Oh, well, what the hell,” thought Janice. “There’s no reason why Celia and Nadine should be the only ones with a hangover tomorrow.”

She turned to Jerry. “Leave that for now,” she said. “I’ve got something else for you to do.”

“Yes, Miss,” Jerry said as Janice turned her back on him, making it clear by the way that she stretched that she wanted her dress unzipped. She wriggled her shoulders sensuously as he slid the tag down from her neck towards where the cleft of her buttocks dived beneath her pants. He gave an inward sigh. He had been hoping he would get to finish the dinner things and then bed down. It looked like Janice had other plans though.

Janice slipped the dress off and rolled over on the couch, smiling up at Jerry. “I’ve had a very tiring evening,” she said, “I do so need a little relaxation before bed time. You know how to help, don’t you?”

“Yes, Miss,” Jerry said, lowering his head to her neck, kissing it and then brushing his lips down over her shoulders, across her chest and down into her cleavage. Janice was an attractive woman. Her blonde hair, blue eyes and sculpted figure would entice any man. Ten years ago, as he’d emerged from adolescence, he’d have been cat-calling a girl like Janice with his friends. But the election of New Order had brought behaviour like that to an end, and that had just been the start. Now Jerry could only wonder if he might aspire to more than his current status. Perhaps she might take him on in a fully sponsored role one day but in any case…. Janice responded to his touch taking his hands and moving them towards her breasts. Her nipples already stiffening, became harder under his fingers and Janice sighed as the caresses took their effect.

With Janice’s encouraging response, Jerry found himself becoming aroused too, although for him it was a less pleasurable experience. As his arousal grew and his tumescence increased and so did the discomfort from the metal cage that enclosed his cock. As Jerry’s tongue slid from one nipples to the other it touched on the chain that she wore around her neck and, there hanging in her cleavage, the key to the lock that kept his cage closed.

“Please, Miss, my cage,” he begged. But Janice, lost in her own passion, ignored him, pausing only to push his head further down so that he would use his tongue between her thighs. The musky scent of her arousal and the sensuous feel of the damp silk of her pants on his tongue did nothing to alleviate Jerry’s discomfort. All he could hope for was to bring her to a rapid and exhausting climax and then to try and divert his own thoughts.

Janice however was in the mood to prolong her pleasure, pushing him back on the couch, pressing her hands on his nipples, straddling his face with her crotch and arching her back to press her sex forward against his face. It was another hour before Janice, sated, sank back in her own bed, carried there by Jerry. “Mmm, thank you, boy,” she said. “Are you going to bed now?”

Jerry, his tongue numb from the use Janice had made of it and his cock sore from its constant pressing on his cage, did little more than nod.

“Mmm, good,” said Janice and stretched back on the bed. Jerry headed back to the kitchen to finish his chores. It was an hour later when he padded back to his space at the end of the corridor beside Janice’s room. As he passed Janice’s door the sound of snoring came from within and Jerry moved quietly so as not to disturb her. The floor to ceiling bars that she’d had installed to separate the end of the corridor from the rest of it created a small cage for Jerry. Inside was his bed mat and cover, a hangar for his clothes, a jug of water and the chemical closet that he had to use when he was in there. He went inside and pulled the door shut behind him, the door locking with a click. He knew that he daren’t leave the door unlocked for Miss Janice to discover. At least he could have some sleep and respite for his swollen cock until the morning, assuming that was he could get the scent of Janice’s sex from his nostrils and the thoughts of Nadine and Celia at sexual play from his brain.   

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

Chapter 7 : Opportunity & Anniversary

The trouble with her job, thought Becky White, was that most of the staff didn’t want to be there and most of the clients didn’t either. Placing sponsorship opportunities had been interesting once upon a time. There had been more sponsors than clients and the sponsors had been keen to get the right placements. There had been bonuses for finding the right clients, they’d been paid well.

Now though? Well, there were more clients than sponsors and the clients were there because they had run out of other options. Becky spent most of her time telling clients at the OC that no, there was nothing today. Occasionally, one of them would try to bribe her. One of them had even tried to offer her some prick-sex! As if she looked like the sort of girl that would want that! Mostly though they knew they had nothing to offer her or anyone else here.

Sometimes though there was something she could do for clients. Like today. A new batch of opportunities had come through. And placing clients meant she had some chance of meeting her targets for the month. Sure, these were government placements and they weren’t the most popular, but if you didn’t have a sponsor then at least this solved that problem. Becky was explaining the possibilities to the new client that was sitting in front of her.

“James Leonard”, it said on his ident card. She hadn’t seen him before. In fact his application said this was his first approach for a sponsor. He must be stubborn to have held out so long. That might count against him with the sponsors but it wouldn’t stop her putting him on a short list if he looked like he’d fit the bill.

“It’s the Government Facilities Service,” she said, “domestic and building services. Sponsored employment and government location placement.”

James was wary. On the face of it, this would seem ideal, solving all his problems at once, job, sponsor, and a flat. He’d heard things though, about Government placements. They’d sounded like they were only one step up from the camps but right now he could see himself ending up in one of those if he was unlucky. Or even if he wasn’t unlucky. It didn’t take much imagination to think that the police wouldn’t be happy until he was in the care of the judicial system.

Becky pushed a printed sheet towards him. He’d have to move up north, but that was hardly a problem and this would carry the new locality permit that he would need.. He’d have preferred a private sponsor but no, Becky had said, there weren’t any private placements on their books right now. Perhaps in a few months? James wasn’t willing to wait. The experience with the police and the repeated harassment of the last few days had been the last straw. He looked again at the printed sheet.  A five year contract seemed like a long time.  “It’s your choice,” said Becky. She scowled at James. “Do you want a sponsor or not? If not, can we bring this to a close? I’ve got quite few interviews to go through this morning and there will be plenty of people interested in this even if you aren’t.”

James gritted his teeth. He was imagining what it was going to be like assigned to domestic duties for some government official or shifting garbage from one of the vast administrative offices that New Order seemed to have spawned on the edge of every city. And then there were the supervisors. Hard bitten, ex-military types mainly. Vicious, petty, sexually voracious. At least those were the rumours. On the other hand, what choice did he have, really?  “Sorry. Yes, I’d like to apply. Can you put my details forward or do I need to fill anything in?”

“Don’t worry we’ve got access to all your details. If you just put your ident card in there and key your PIN. That will let the application go through.”

James sucked his lip and hesitated for one moment before pushing his card into the slot. The system seemed as though it was thinking. James’s fingers hovered over the key pad waiting for it to asking him to enter his PIN. The prompt never came. “REFERRED” the display over the key pad said.

“Oh,” said Becky, looking at her own screen. There was a pause. “Ah. I’m sorry. It seems, ah, these opportunities have closed.”

“All of them?”

“So it, ah, seems. Sorry. I don’t have anything else either.”

James didn’t believe it. It was something about him. He was certain. He thought about asking the woman what the system had told her. It would be a waste of time, though. Defeated he got to his feet and turned to go.

Becky watched him leave with relief. She would never have guessed. Looking at him he appeared so ordinary but “Potential Subversive” the system had said, “Not Eligible for Sponsorship” and “Refer to Security But Do Not Attempt To Detain” She had pressed the button that would alert the security people to watch out for him as he left the building.

James was half expecting to be stopped by the two burly women that sat by the entrance to the building but their system had only told them to make sure that he left the building. He wasn’t stopped. In a few moments he was out on the street again, still with no job and with no sponsor either.

*****   *****   *****   *****

Barry Haste had got back home on time. There would be the usual housework to do, of course, but at least he didn’t have so much to worry about at work these days. It wasn’t too much of a hard day in the office and he didn’t have the responsibilities that he once had. Neither Margery nor Valerie would be back yet. At least that meant he would have a clear run at getting the house tidy and getting thing sorted for the evening meal.

It was a special evening, Valerie had told him; their anniversary. Barry hadn’t known but they’d been lovers for two years even before New Order had been elected although it had been another eighteen months before his wife had taken advantage of the changes in marital law.

Anyway, “special dinner” Valerie had declared and so it would have to be.

Barry got to work clearing up from breakfast. Margery had left early, then he had gone to work leaving Valerie scowling at him across a cup of coffee as she eased herself into the day. He’d wanted to clear it up before he left but Valerie had told him not to. “Sod off,” she had said, “last thing I need now is you clattering around in the kitchen.”

Now there was an envelope addressed to Margery on the hall table; an anniversary card, Barry assumed.

It took Barry about an hour to clear the kitchen, tidy up the dining room and lay the table. Valerie had told him what they wanted prepared last night and he’d had a bottle of sparkling wine chilling in the fridge. He had just about finished when he heard Margery coming in.

It had been a lot of effort to get things ready but he was actually quite pleased with the result the table looked attractive, the food was in the oven and he’d even got some flowers from the garden. The girls would like that.

His satisfied thoughts were soon interrupted. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Margery swore from the hall. Barry wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to find out what was going on but he didn’t have go to find out. She came stalking into the dining room, pulling off her uniform tie and hurling her cap down on one of the seats. “You can clear all this up,” she barked waving to the carefully laid dining table, “she’s had to go on duty. More bloody subversives! The trouble you lot cause!”

She slammed out of the room.

Barry knew there was no point in trying to argue that all men weren’t the same.  So, that was what the envelope for Margery had been, not a card at all. Why couldn’t she have left him a note and saved him all this effort?

He looked across the table with its carefully laid places, polished cutlery and shining glassware. There was nothing else except to clear it away, he supposed.

By the time he had finished, Margery still had not reappeared. When Barry emerged from the dining room the only sign of her were the shoes she had kicked off and her uniform blouse, discarded and laying crumpled on the stairs where she had dropped as she pulled it off going upstairs. He gathered it up. It would have to be laundered before she went back in tomorrow.

Barry followed the trail of clothing. Margery’s skirt had been dropped by the bathroom. Inside the bedroom that the girls now shared, Margery was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, her eyes red from crying, the bottle of sparkling wine clutched close to her. She was wearing only her bra, panties and tights. “All your bloody fault!” she barked at the confused Barry. “If you were earning more, she wouldn’t have to take on these extra shifts. If you were any good at your job she’d be here now.” She downed the last of the wine, peered disappointedly at the empty bottle and half tossed it away from her. It rolled up against Barry’s feet. He bent down to pick it up. “Bloody useless, you are. Bloody useless. Bloody. Bloody. Bloody.”  She grasped herself around her knees pulling herself into a tight ball, still obviously crying.

Barry couldn’t think of anything to say  A moment later the phone rang. Margery almost fell over as she lunged across the floor to reach it. Barry started to move towards the door but Margery gestured from him to stay. “Val!” Margery, exclaimed with delight. “… No, of course, I’m fine. No, it’s not your fault… Mmm, lovely. Yes, I will. Soon. Mmmm. Love you, Val!” She put the phone down and leapt to her feet, obviously pleased by the call, but still more than a little drunk. “There,” she said. “I knew she’d get back as soon as she could, and we’re going to have some fun!”

That should have been enough to worry Barry; too often their fun meant his discomfort. “I’ll sort the table out again then,” he said, being careful to keep any sound of irritation out of his voice.

“Don’t worry we’re going to have supper in bed,” Margery giggled. Val’s got a birthday present for me.”

“All right, I’ll  leave you to it,” Barry said. Valerie and Margery were energetic and vocal lovers. He’d be able to hear the sounds of their passion from most places in the house and he really didn’t want to be reminded of their disinterest in his sexual capabilities.

“Oh no,” said Margery, picking up a pair of tights with a grin. “Val was MOST insistent that you stayed around. In fact, she told me to make very sure you did.”

Barry started to back away but Margery was quickly on him, putting her training in unarmed combat to expert use. In spite of the fact that she was by no means sober, she was still fitter and lither than Barry was and he soon found himself with his face pressed against the carpet and his arms pulled round behind him as Margery tied his wrists. “Oww!” he yelped as she tightened the knots.

“Just as well you didn’t take up a career as a criminal,” Margery giggled, slipping back against the bed. “I don’t even need my handcuffs!” She pulled the belt from the skirt which Barry had brought up and jerked it tight around his ankles. It had been the work of a moment to render Barry quite helpless. “Now sit there, quietly and behave. I’m going to have a shower.”

Barry watched fuming. Margery stripped off her bra and panties, not concerned in the least by the view that she was giving him of her naked body as she scurried around the bedroom. He tried wriggling his wrists and ankles but without success. He was still sitting on the floor, frustrated in his escape attempts, when Margery emerged from the bathroom, with a towel wrapped around her and another wound around her hair. “Mmm, that was good,” she said with a smile as she finished drying herself off, ignoring Barry as she rubbed her body with the soft, fluffy, towels. She tossed them down beside Barry as she climbed into bed, he would have to tidy them up when he got free.

She had just snuggled down beneath the quilt, when Barry heard the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. Valerie was home.

She appeared at the door of the bedroom, smiling at Margery who was in the bed with just her head poking out over the quilt. “Sorry, I’m late, lover,” she said.”But I’ll make it up to you.” She slipped off her jacket and threw it over the back of a chair before climbing up on to the bed and kneeling alongside Margery. “You’ve not got much on under there, have you?” she said.

Margery giggled and shook her head. “Wrong,” she said. “I’ve got nothing on at all!”

“Shocking!” exclaimed Valerie in mock outrage as she pushed back the quilt and, still wearing her blouse and skirt, climbed in alongside Margery.

From where he was on the floor, Barry couldn’t really see what was going on but from the squeals, cries, grunts and sighs, he had a pretty good idea of what the girls were up to. After one crescendo of squeaks and sighs there was a quiet pause before Barry saw Valerie erupt from beneath the quilt, her skirt up around her waist and her blouse unbuttoned.

“Oh, come back,” Margery urged.

“It’s all right. I got us an anniversary present.” Valerie almost tripped over Barry as she crossed the room and dealt him a kick as she passed him.

When she returned, Barry just heard Margery say, “Oh excellent!” and then felt Valerie lifting him up until he was kneeling at the end of the bed. He turned around to see with dismay that Val had strapped on a substantial dildo and the way she was licking her lips made it obvious what she intended to do next.

“Can you find something to quieten him down,” Val called to Margery as she began to press the dildo up between Barry’s buttocks. “He isn’t really going to enjoy this much.”

Margery bounced out of bed and into the bathroom. Barry squealed as Valerie pressed the dildo against his arse bud; opening his mouth just enough to let Margery jam a wet face cloth inside, leaving him coughing and muffling his cries as Valerie pushed the dildo home. Barry squawked with discomfort as Valerie pushed against his buttocks time and time again. Margery sat on the pillows at the other end of the bed laughing as Barry tried to struggle against Valerie’s attentions.

“The best part is this, though,” Val said as she tossed a piece of paper to her lover. “Read it out.”

Margery grabbed at the paper. Barry was still choking on his face cloth gag as Val continued buggering him. “Thank you for your kind offer,” Margery read out. “We will be happy to take Haste, B, as part of our domestic service and cleaning team. Please let us know the details of the accounts where the payments for his services should be made.” 

“He’ll be bringing in almost half as much again as he does from that soft office job,” Valerie said as she pushed the dildo home once more. “So I can cut down on the extra duty shifts and we can spend more time together.” Barry gave a, “Gack!” into his facecloth gag as Valery bucked her hips forward forcefully.

“He really is completely fucked, isn’t he?” Margery giggled.

“What’s even better is that he voted for New Order first time around!”

Margery collapsed with laughter. “You never said! Why on earth did he do that?”

“Fed up with the other lots he said. Thought that some new ideas might shake things up a bit. They couldn’t be worse than what there had been before could they?”

“Not from our point of view, that’s for sure!” 

“Well I’ve had enough of this for tonight,” Val said as she pulled back from Barry’s back side. He gasped with relief as the dildo pulled clear of his sore arse. He heard it drop to the floor as Valerie unstrapped it and it fell to the floor. A moment later there was a stinging blow to his arse as Val snicked Margery’s wet towel at his arse. He felt her release his wrists. “Clear the mess up Barry dear,” Valery said. “And then leave us in peace. We need a cosy night together and you need to get your sleep; you’re going to be working much harder from here on out.”

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

  

Chapter 8 : The Night Visitor

James woke suddenly. It was still dark and he wasn't sure of the time or of why he had woken up. He blinked at the darkness of his room, pulled the blanket over himself and lay down again. A second later he felt a gloved hand press down across his mouth and weight across his chest as though someone was sitting on him. His eyes sprang open, suddenly more awake than he had ever been before. He found himself staring up into a face masked in a balaclava. The full red lips and mascara-ed eyes he could see through the holes in the mask told him his assailant was a woman even before her voice snapped, “keep still and quiet, stupid,” at him. He tried to wriggle free of the woman straddling him. All she did was to reach behind her back and pull a pistol from her belt. Pushing it up under his chin, she snapped, “I said keep fucking still!” James, terrified, did as he was told.“Good,” the woman said. “That's better. Now you're going to do just as I say, right?”

  She pushed the barrel of the pistols against his throat. “OK?”

  “Mmm,” agreed James from behind the woman's glove.

  “Great,” the woman said. “I'm going to take my hand away and you're going to keep quiet.”

  “Mmm,” grunted James again.

  The woman slid her hand away reached into a pocket in her black combat trousers and came out with a roll of tape. “On your face,” she ordered. “And get your hands out from under the blankets. Cross them behind your back.” James wriggled himself around beneath the woman. He was hardly surprised when he felt her wrapping tape around his wrists. “There's nothing here to steal,” he started.

“I told you to fucking keep quiet, you stupid shit!”

The woman slammed the butt of her pistol into James's ribs. He gasped in pain as she straddled his mouth with another strip of the tape and then groaned almost inaudibly as she pulled two further strips across the lower half of his face. He was expecting the woman to pull tape around his ankles next. It didn't happen. Instead, she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from his bed. He fell out of the bed as she stood up. As he sprawled on the floor, she kicked out at him. “Get up you dim fucker,” she snarled, pulling him to his feet.

  As he struggled to his feet he realised that the woman that had rendered him helpless with such ease was a good six inches shorter than himself. Slim and slightly built in a tight fitting black sweater and combat trousers, she moved with a fluid ease that told James he had no chance of breaking free of her grasp. She forced him from the bedroom and pushed him, still barefoot and without trousers, towards the door of his apartment. “Let's take a trip,” she said as she peered out of the front door, checking that there was no one in the corridor outside.

The woman took him, struggling against her grip, along the corridor, down the back stairs and out of the building. The derelict plot at the back of the building was empty as it always was after dark except that backed up by the door was a small van, its back doors open. The woman pushed James inside, followed him in, closed the doors and called, “Time to go!” over her shoulder.

  The van started to bounce across the waste ground towards the road but James wasn't going to get to watch the scenery. The woman reached down beside him, took a hessian sack and pulled it over his head. As he grunted in protest, she wrapped tape around his chest to keep the sack in place and then taped his ankles. She pushed him down flat on the floor of the van.  “Stay down there, we've got a way to go.”

  *****    *****    *****    *****

  Justice Lady Catherine Stearns sat patiently listening to the evidence being presented before the court. As usual the Police seemed to have built a convincing case. Detective Sergeant Haste had been a particularly good witness. She and the others from her station had obviously done a thorough job. Stearns wondered if there would be any end to these subversives. They didn’t seem to be deterred by the sentences and their plots seemed to get more devious by the month.

  Counsel for the Prosecution was starting her summing up. She was obviously confident. The evidence was solid, the witnesses sound. Stearns looked across to the dock where the four defendants sat. From their faces she knew that they had no illusions about avoiding conviction but, thought Catherine, they deserved a fair trial. Counsel for the Defence barely managed to suggest that they might not have been responsible for the plot from the evidence that she had been able to present. She hadn’t been able to cross examine the members of the security services, of course and it was difficult to question the accuracy of the telephone intercept transcripts without access to the ways in which they were obtained. She had done what she could, though, thought Catherine. The men should feel that they’d been treated reasonably although, of course, subversives never did. Counsel for the Defence sat down. Justice Stearns turned to the twelve women of the jury and asked them to consider their verdict. They didn’t bother to retire for long. They were back in court again ten minutes later. The forewoman stood, ready to deliver their view of the charges. Catherine thought they would have taken a little longer but, after all, it was almost happy hour and there were plenty of bars in the Strand where they would be hoping to relax after their judicial efforts.

“Guilty as charged,” the forewoman said.

Catherine Stearns turned to the defendants in the dock. She didn’t really have much discretion at this point in proceedings, the sentence for subversion was mandatory even if the other offences didn’t demand a custodial sentence. “The four of you have been found guilty of acts that threaten the stability of our society and the elected administration. On the charges of conspiracy you are each sentenced to three years; for concealment of identity, eighteen months and on the charge of subversion as part of a proscribed organisation fifteen years corrective detention without the benefit of consideration for parole. Sentences will run consecutively. I will make a recommendation to the prison authorities that in view of the nature of these offences the defendants should be retained in a high security environment without the benefit of visitors or communications with the outside world. I hope,” Justice Stearns said, turning to the public gallery where a few members of the press were sitting, “that these sentences will be seen by any that might consider engaging in such acts, that our society will not tolerate those that wish to disrupt our society.” She turned to the court bailiffs. “Take them down.” she said. The men were lead away without a word of protest, they had expected no better. Haste watched them go. This would count to her targets this month. The Inspector Of Judiciary would be pleased. She looked around. “Court is dismissed.”

  “All rise,” the court’s usher called and Catherine Stearns left the court, heading for her chambers.

She sank down into a large armchair. These cases were always difficult, she thought. Even though the evidence was usually straightforward there was always the risk that the prosecution would slip up and miss something. She tossed her judges wig onto the desk and range for her chamber boy who appeared, scuttling in with her anticipated scotch on a tray and a collection files under his arm. “Tomorrow’s case files, your honour,” he announced putting the drink down with one hand while he juggled the files with the other.”

Catherine sighed. Another group of subversives no doubt. There seemed to be no end to them. “Thank you, Lewis,” she said, waving him away. “I’ll deal with them later.” She downed the scotch. It was a start, she thought but I need more than that to get over the day.

She slipped off her robes, Lewis could see to putting them away. As she stood up she caught sight of herself, reflected in the glass of a picture of the Lady Chief Justice that hung on the wall. A streak of white hair showed on her temples, somehow she looked was less imposing without her wig and robes, more, well, ordinary. But, of course, she thought, that was the idea. Her overcoat was hanging on the door. She pulled it on, grateful for its enveloping anonymity as she turned up the collar grabbed her brown fedora hat and headed out into the street.

  Her tread was measured. She knew exactly where she was headed; out of the Law Courts, along Carey Street, across Bell Yard and Chancery Lane, through Rolls Buildings and finally, she allowed herself a laugh, into Fetter Lane.

  The door was unremarkable; wooden, painted in black gloss paint, just one of many like it in the street. A press of the button at the side of the door was followed by the distant sound of a buzz from inside. It was always the same. By the time she got here her mouth was dry, her breathing shallower. The door clicked and she knew it would open when she pressed it. Inside it was warm and darkly opulent; deep red carpet on the stairs, lamps bright enough to show the way but little more. At the top the small room where they always greeted her. Nevin, the slim, dark lad with green eyes sat behind the desk gave a smile of recognition as she put her coat alongside the others on the hooks on the wall.

  She always thought of him as Puck. There was something slightly sinister behind Nevin’s smile, something mischievous, something disordered. “Bad day? I’m sure we can help,” he said and disappeared through a curtain behind his desk. Moments passed. Catherine grew tenser with anticipation and the fear of someone else arriving; someone that she recognised or, worse still, that recognised her. Nevin reappeared holding aloft the two keys that she craved. She took the fifty pound notes from her purse and pushed them toward him with one hand, snatching greedily at the keys with the other. “Tut, tut,” Nevin chided, “so eager.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes. Nevin relented. Catherine sometimes wondered whether he was truly, as reputed, a eunuch. An entire male would never be allowed such liberty. She took the keys.

  “Number four,” said Nevin holding back the curtain for her. More dark red carpet, more muted lamps, each door with a single key hole and a single number. Catherine took the larger key and unlocked door number four. Inside the room was darker still, smelling of incense and there in the corner was what she had come for. The male stood silent against the far wall. As was always the case here his eyes were covered with a leather pad that made sure he knew nothing of those he so ably served. His wrists were shackled behind his back. Nevin knew she preferred things that way. He was naked apart from the leather pouch secured in place covering his genitals with two small brass padlocks.

  Catherine ran her hands across his muscled, oiled chest, savouring the sensation of his firm and warm flesh. She let her finger drift across the muscles of his neck and steered him towards the couch, all the time her pulse rising and her breathing becoming deeper as her own expectations aroused her. It was hard to tell whether he was responding to her touch and he said nothing but Catherine cared little. He followed her lead, lying down on the couch as her hand pressed him gently back.

  As he sank back against the cool brown leather of the couch, Catherine’s tongue ran across her lips, she fumbled with the smaller of the two keys, first of all failing to fit it into one of the two padlocks then succeeding and springing the hasp of the lock free allowing her to pull it clear of one of the studs that held the man’s black leather cod piece in place. The second key slid into the second lock with more certainty. As she pulled the leather aside the man’s cock, it folded out to meet her, already stiff, already swelling. She looked at it, greedy for the taste, greedy for the sensation in her mouth, caring not at all for what any would think of her for indulging in what was coarsely called ‘prick-sex’. His cock and balls were hairless, oiled and scented with cinnamon. As she knelt beside him, a position, no woman would normally consider acceptable these days, she stroked and caressed the man’s member.  It stiffened and grew further. Eventually she could contain herself no more and bent her head towards it hungrily, licking sucking and filling her mouth with the sensation of the man’s rigid flesh.

  He grunted, pushing forward against her, pressing his cock deeper into her mouth and throat. Sometimes she even liked to have the man hold her head here, stopping her from taking it away. Today though. with his wrists shackled, she could enjoy the sensations without the sense of guilt that always came if she allowed herself to be forced in any way. As she worked her mouth she could feel the man coming close to orgasm. Her rational mind told her that his performance was drug enhanced but her irrational feelings didn’t care. She licked sucked and caressed his cock all the more, finally being rewarded with the spasm or orgasm and the squirt of jism into her mouth. As he came she pulled her head back letting his cum smear across her face, streaking his cock with her mascara as she wiped his pulsing member over herself. The man grunted but said nothing, lying back as Catherine sank onto her haunches beside him, pushing her fingers up beneath her skirt driving them into her own sex in the quest for her own orgasm. Her whimpered climax left her sated for a short moment as she sat on the floor but then the sense of satisfaction gave way to a post-orgasmic chill as she felt the cooling of the man’s cum drying on her face, and her own sweat soaking out from her body and into her clothes, perfuming her with the scent of dissoluteness. She closed her eyes for a moment but then the sense of calm was gone and she wanted to be gone too.

  She closed up the man’s cod piece, fastened the padlocks once more and left him. There was a small washroom at the end of the corridor where she took a minute to wash her face, comb her hair and reapply her makeup. She checked her appearance. Once more she was the professional woman, the calm and conventional pillar of society. She left the washroom and followed the corridor around to the where it passed the rear of the reception room. She could hear Nevin talking to another customer on the far side of the curtain. The exchange between them sounded like the words that she and he had exchanged such a short time ago.

Nevin, sensing she was there came back through the curtain. She handed him the keys. “Satisfactory, your ladyship?” he asked.

Catherine never knew whether this form of address was sarcasm, politeness, or recognition. But that was Nevin; a feast of contradictions and confusion. As she left him, she was wondering when next she would feel the need to be back here.

   © Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:    http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

                        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

Chapter 9 : The Hot Tub

Tanya Charles was entertaining two of her most helpful contacts. She had long known that success in selling to the public sector came from cultivating a network of those that could influence or inform as much as those that actually made the decisions. Chief Inspector Adrienne Costa and Maggie Forbush from the Ministry of Internal Affairs had been happy to take advantage of Tanya’s invitation. After all it wasn’t often they got the chance to visit the sort of places that Tanya’s expense account could afford.

  They had met up in Green’s Oyster Bar in St James to kick the evening off but then they had moved on to The Hot Tub. Built in the style of a Roman Bath, The Hot Tub offered a bathing and clubbing experience like no other. In the columned central hall of the club the three women were immersed, each in their own personal spa bath. The brass trimmed, teak clad tubs and marbled walls gave the place an opulent feel. The staff of the club were some of the most attractive boys that could be found in London, oiled, tanned and shaved smooth. Clad in short Greek style costumes that barely covered their private parts, they wound their way between the tubs serving drinks and otherwise bringing the members whatever they required.

  The club had a reputation for a steamy atmosphere, as much for the goings on between the clientele and the staff as for the temperature and humidity inside.

  “I owe you a thank you,” Tanya said to Inspector Costa as the two of them took sips of champagne that was quickly giving up its chill to the warmth of the tub room.

  “For what?”

  “Leonard,” Tanya said. “James Leonard.” Adrienne Costa looked blank for a moment. “The solitary, your people were interviewing him…”

  “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Don’t worry about it. We didn’t really have anything much on him. A couple of my team were a bit pissed to be called off – they’d put some effort in to setting him up – but they’ll get over it. I’m sure they’ll find another way of meeting their arrest quota. Besides,” she lounged back, took another swig from her glass and the opportunity to fondle a passing waiter, “I’m always happy to do you a favour Tanya.”

  Tanya smiled and thanked her. She turned to Maggie Forbush. “How does this compare with the Ministry Club?”

  “Let’s just say it’s rather more comfortable.” Maggie emptied her glass. “And with a better class of distraction.” Almost before she had put it down a bronzed waiter was at her side offering to refill it. The steam wafted up from the tubs and hung in a cloud across the room. Maggie had long since given up the task of trying to keep her spectacles clear, but with all the champagne she had drunk, she wasn’t sure that the view would be very much clearer if she had. The towel that she had wound turban-style around her head lurched to one side. Maggie giggled involuntarily and pushed it back into place.

  “And how is the Minister getting on with her ‘demonstrator’? Has she shared him around the department?”

  “You are joking! She seems to be happy enough but the best we can do is a fumble from one of the Government Facilities Service bunch. There’s no way that a civil service pay packet can let you fund your own sponsorship programme. We have to make do with what we can get.”

  “Poor thing,” Tanya sympathised. “Is it as bad in the police?”

  “It is if you want to stay away from the customers! We don’t even have males around the stations these days – viewed as a security risk. I can understand it but it’s no fun!”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s why I’ve got us some places in the Sweat Box.”

  Maggie and Adrienne both gave Tanya a look that said, “We’re impressed!”

  “All right, I know. I’ve just got some good contacts. I’m, looking forward to this as much as you. Shall we go down now?”

  The other two nodded eagerly, looking forward to the experience. The chance to visit one of the capital’s most exclusive pleasure centres wasn’t one to be delayed. Tanya stood up to climb from her tub. Without anyone uttering a word, three of the Hot Tub attendants appeared with towelling robes to drape around the three naked girls. Tanya led the way towards the stairway the led down between two great marble columns at the far end of the hall. All three women enjoyed the mixed looks of envy and admiration that they received from the others in the hall as they were allowed through onto the staircase down to the Sweat Box. Almost at once their anticipation was rewarded. Two TV personalities, renowned for their raunchy treatment of topics, and repeatedly mentioned in the popular press for their licentious behaviour,  edged by them on the stairs.

  The Sweat Box was well named; hot and dark, it gained its name as much from the sexual tension generated inside it as from the effect of the hot dry air within it. A bar ran the length of the long side wall, clusters of couches and comfortable chairs spread around the rest of the room. There were two rules in the Sweat Box. You left your own man or men at the door (if you brought them) and you never talked about what went on to anyone that was not there. In return you had the opportunity to engage in almost any socially acceptable sexual pursuit and, for a woman in the world of New Order, that meant almost anything.

  Tanya, Maggie and Adrienne took themselves off to one of the clusters of couches. Almost at once three Sweat Box attendants appeared. “Any preferences?” asked Tanya.

  The three young men, perhaps only twenty two or three years old stood quietly by the couches. Each was naked from the waist up apart from the leather harness that criss-crossed their chest. Each waited for their instruction.

  “Well I’m old fashioned,” said Adrienne, “a few years of walking the beat means I’m always glad to have my feet pleasured. Perhaps this young man could oblige me.” She beckoned the first of the attendants to her side. Knowing what was expected of him, he commenced a careful and thorough foot massage combining the skills of his fingers, his lips and his tongue on Adrienne’s feet.

  “I think my one can start a little higher up,” Maggie smiled with anticipation. As her choice knelt beside her she parted her towelling robe and guided his head towards her crotch. As she spread her legs his tongue darted forward in search of her sex.

  Tanya watched as the two women surrendered themselves to the delights of their Sweat Box attendants. She took her own by the hand and guided him until his lips were on her breasts, sucking and kissing and nibbling at her nipples.

The conversation between the three women became intermittent. They even lost interest in the comings (if that was the word) and goings of the Sweat Box’s celebrity clientele. A film actress, a well known multi-millionairess, a member of the upper parliament, each were hosting their own group enjoying the amusements on hand in the Sweat Box.

  Maggie gave a whimpering snort as her attendant burrowed deeper into her sex with his tongue. His rhythmic lapping was serving to drive her closer and closer to orgasm as she stretched herself back pushing her hips forward to press her sex against his face. Adrienne, seeing the amusement that Maggie was deriving, gripped her own attendant by the back of the neck and pulled his head upwards, directing him towards the same activities. Tanya, taking care to make sure that her guests were enjoying things as much as they could, paused in her own amusements. She pulled her attendant closer to her, pulling him away from her nipples and pressing his face into her cleavage. She looked across to where Maggie and Adrienne were both groaning with pleasure.

  Tanya’s attendant gave a muffled gasp from between her tits, half suffocated by being held into her cleavage. Tanya giggled and released the man. “I have to go to the girls’ room,” she whispered to him. “You make yourself busy with my friend Maggie. Get your tongue up between her arse cheeks and help her up a step or two.” The man began to move across towards the other two women. “Good boy,” Tanya said, as she stood up. “If my friends have a really good time, they’ll be little extra in your tip.”

  By the time Tanya got back, Maggie and Adrienne were sprawled in post orgasmic dissipation; the three attendants beside them. With Tanya’s return, the three rolled across to her couch. Looking at her two guests, she waved the men away. They had done all that was needed of them for the evening. Tanya was pleased; she earned a few favours from the other two tonight but there would be time enough to discuss that another day. She poured herself another drink and stretched out on her couch. It had been a productive evening.

  ******   ******   ******   *****

  Norm, Zak and Pete had finished fixing the leak in the ladies shower room down in the gym complex. It had been a long job – or at least they’d managed to make it so – but luckily Angie wasn’t chasing them, so they were taking their time to get their tools together.

  “Things working out all right, you and Angie?” Zak asked Norm. He and Pete half hoped that Norm’s involvement with their boss might in some way provide some protection for the rest of them.

  Norm looked embarrassed. He was remembering the previous evening; much of it spent with his face buried beneath Angie’s ample buttocks while she watched some awful talent show – as far as he could tell – on the video. “”Well, you know how it is,” he said noncommittally.

  Zak and Pete knew just that. You didn’t want to be involved if you could avoid it but if you couldn’t then you just had to hope there was some benefit. And with things getting more difficult for the unsponsored anything that helped keep you in a job, in your flat, and out of the camps was a good thing.

  “Do you hear anymore of Jim? Jim Leonard?” Pete asked, thinking back to the most recent example of someone without a sponsor coming to grief.

  Zak shook his head. “No. There was that business with the police but they let him out. His landlady hasn’t seen him – glad to see the back of him if you ask me, reckons he did a runner before the police could pick him up again. She’s decided he’s some sort of subversive. I think he tried to get some sponsorship but that all fell through. I haven’t even seen him down at the tea bar.”

  “Sounds like he was involved in something doesn’t it? I mean, sure the Police are likely to fit up anyone they want to but why has he gone missing?”

  “Shame though. He was all right.”

  “Not if he was going to cause trouble he wasn’t! We’re well shot of him, I reckon. He was probably..”

 

Pete’s rant was interrupted by the arrival of two of the female staff. Wearing skimpy shorts and tight singlets, sweating, and with towels slung about their shoulders they’d obviously just finished a work out session in the gym. “Haven’t you lot finished?” the taller blonde girl asked. “Or do I need to get Angie to hurry things up.”

  None of the three men were interested in that idea. “We’re just going,” Zak said gathering up his tools. “Just took a bit longer than we thought.”

  “Yeah, sure,” the darker girl started. “Gave you a chance to hang around here on the off-chance of getting one of us to leer at, didn’t it?”

  “No. Look we’re off.” The three headed towards the door. The two girls having lost interest in them were already stripping off for their showers, peeling out of their tops and shucking off their shorts as the men left.   

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

  It had been a hard day. Eight cases; two plea bargains; the Justice Secretary wanting to discuss sentencing guidelines; Justice Lady Catherine Stearns was beginning to feel like it was all too much. Too many decisions, too many facts, too many people wanting to influence the way she did her job; just too much. She pushed her work papers to one side, took a deep breath and rang the bell on her desk. Her chamber boy, Lewis appeared with all the promptness demanded of his role. Sometimes Catherine wished he’d take bit longer.

She put on her calmest voice. “I’d like to review some of the evidence for the Robinson conspiracy case.”

  “Yes, madam,” Lewis responded respectfully. “But that case was concluded wasn’t it?”

  “Indeed, but I, ahh, still need to examine some aspects for a commentary on the sentencing. Bring me, let’s see,” she made a great show of consulting her notes, “Prosecution, Box 25.”

  Lewis blinked, nodded his compliance and went off in search of the box. He returned a few minutes later with the brown, heavy card box, its label stamped with the case reference and file number. “Here you are madam,” Lewis said placing it carefully on her desk.

  Catherine looked across the room to where Lewis had left the box. “Oh, ah, yes, well that’s fine. I have to deal with some other things first. Leave it with me. I’ll lock the office when I finish. You can take it back to registry in the morning.”

  “Files aren’t really supposed to be out overnight, madam,” Lewis was worried in case he was thought to be in any way careless.

  “That’s all right Lewis, I take complete responsibility. Besides it’s a concluded case, I don’t imagine there will be any need to consult it again. You can get off. I’m sure you’ll be expected at your lodgings.”

  Lewis nodded, the court service sponsored lodgings were more comfortable than many but they liked those staying there to be regular in their habits. In truth he was pleased to be getting away on time, Why should he worry if the Justice wanted to review some old files?

  Catherine watched him leave, waited for a few minutes and then got up to walk across the office to the door. She locked it, took the key from the lock and turned her back on the door giving a sigh of relief. She went back to the desk and pulled off the lid of prosecution evidence box 25. Inside lay a pile of papers, variously tied together in bundles. She lifted them out each in turn until she came to one, thicker than the others, that she took with her back to her chair. Slitting the tape that held the bundle together with a pair of scissors, she thumbed through the papers until she found the one she wanted.

“Deposition 35 of the forensic search team at the home premises of J Robinson, 24 Beak Street. Summary of documents found at the property suspected of contravening the Obscene and Seditious Publications (Possession) Act. Items 1 to 5 facsimile copies of Bondage Life, Harmony Publications,1975 – 1983, Items 6, 7 & 8 printed copies of computer files titled, Black Van 1, 2 & 3, Gary Roberts, Fansadox, published 2006?”

  Behind the reference sheet were the seven magazines. Catherine laid them out, one beside the other on the table next to her chair. She picked up the last of the items and began to leaf through it peering at the brightly coloured, carefully inked drawings.

  It wasn’t hard to see how they contravened the Act. Three girls dragged into a van by masked men, taken off to an old barn, tied up and repeatedly raped and abused.  It was the usual sort of thing, Catherine thought, stereotypical characters and hackneyed situations. And, of course, highly illegal. It was no surprise the jury had found them guilty. It didn’t take much imagination to believe that a man in possession of this sort of thing might be only a few steps away from trying to actually carry out this sort of thing.

  Catherine licked her lips. She didn’t find it hard to put herself in the place of the girls; violently seized, bound or handcuffed, gagged and carried off by masked men. The thought of it made her breath shorten and the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. She turned to one of the copies of Bondage Life. “Love Bondage” it claimed to be, but was that any better? The photographs were grainy, the paper poor quality. Catherine guessed that these were probably photocopies of copies. She wondered if any of the original printed versions even existed any more. It was surprising really that these magazines still held their attraction even after more than thirty years, although, given her own feeling, perhaps it wasn’t.

  The rational assessment of the illegal and pornographic (as far as New Order was concerned) material gave way in Catherine’s mind to a more visceral appreciation. Her attention was now fixed on the pictures of the helpless women. Her imagination projected her into their stead and, as it did so, her pulse quickened, her lips moistened and she felt the familiar, longed for, sensation of prickling between her legs that heralded her arousal. The short ”Oh!” as she turned the page to see a girl intricately roped to a chair was heard by no one but her, the short rustle of her skirt as her hand dived furtively beneath it was seen by no one. The quiet whimper of her orgasm as she turned the pages to pictures of other, helpless, women and masked, priapic, predatory men, distracted her only for a few moments before she drew breath, and felt the wave of relaxation flood over her. She fastened up the evidence bundles, marked them for filing and left for the night.          

    © Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:    http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

                         http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

Chapter 10 : Service With A Smile

 

James struggled to sit up, trying to make sense of his situation.

 

Across the room, silhouetted in the light of the doorway the women that had brought him here were talking to a thin, short man. He showed every conventional respect to the women; nodding and barely speaking as they made their points forcibly, gesticulating and using a commanding tone.

 

“You will put this one with the others,” the one that had snatched him said.

 

“But my client, Mistress….

 

“Whose client?”

 

“Yours, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress.”

 

“So, you will do as requested?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

James’s two captors strutted off. The man approached James who was still attempting to free himself from his bonds. “I can’t free you,” the man said. “I have to take you below.” Unable to reply, James could do little more than shrug resignedly. The man cut through the tape around James’ knees and ankles and helped him to his feet. “This way, please,” he said, with a politeness that James found disturbing.

 

The way led down a short spiral staircase to a corridor with three heavy looking wooden doors on either side and another straight ahead of them at the end. The first side door was opened and James was shown inside. The man took a heavy collar that was chained to the wall and fitted it around James’ neck. Only then did he slice through the tape that held James’ wrists.

 

Before James could remove the tape from across his mouth, the man had gone, locking the door behind him. It was only then that James realised that he was not alone. “That was Nevin,” a voice from the other corner of the room said.. “He does what he can for us.” Startled, James turned around. Another man sat curled up against the wall, chained by the neck like himself.

 

James pulled the tape from his mouth. “Us?” he said to the man. “How many of ‘us’ are there and why are we here?” James’ question went unanswered as Nevin returned, unfastened the other man’s chain from the wall and led him wordlessly from the room.

 

It was an hour before anyone returned. This time Nevin brought food; two bowls of a simple rice in a dish with wooden scoop shaped spoons. Moments later the other man was brought back and shackled to the wall once more. James watched with concern as he slid to the floor beside his bowl. Without speaking he folded himself into a ball and turned his naked back on James, curling himself up around his bowl.

 

Nevin  turned to James. “It will be some time before he speaks.” James didn’t get the chance to ask why. “He’s been with the women. Come, you must learn something of it too.” Nevin reached down and unfastened James’ chain from the wall. As James got up with trepidation to follow Nevin the other man rolled over and James caught sight of his cock; swollen, reddened, sore and rigidly erect. For the first time James had some inkling of what was happening.

 

“Prick sex,” thought James. “They’re serving prick-sex.”

 

It had been something of joke in the coffee bars with his work mates. The prick-seizers they were called; almost mythical women that broke all the rules and sought out sex with men in ways that no one dared any more. They wanted penetrative sex with men on the serving end; vaginal sex and anal sex with cocks; fellatio; even hand-on-prick sex. It wasn’t actually illegal but it was disapproved of by New Order party members and most of society, these days. In some cases, or so they said, women actually took a subservient or submissive role; a contradiction of everything that New Order stood for.

 

Most men thought the whole thing was some sort of pornographer’s fantasy. A few believed that some women might possibly be that perverse but that few if any actually translated such deviant thoughts into actions. James found himself beside the end door of the corridor as Nevin passed his chain to a black clad woman. She first of all shackled his wrists behind his back then fastened a mouth filling rubber ball in place gagging him. “Come on,” she said you’re in for a treat.”  Somehow James wasn’t so sure.

 

James found himself led into a barely lit room. In the centre was a thick wooden pillar. His escort fastened his wrists to it and then buckled a heavy strap around his throat and the pillar so that he could hardly move. He became aware that there were, in the shadows, three or four women were sitting staring at him. Slow pulsing music echoed from a speaker hidden away in the ceiling. The smell of incense filled the gloom. None of the women spoke but one, more eager than the others stepped forward and grasped James by his swollen member. She whinnied with pleasure as his cock stiffened further in response to her touch and slid spike nailed fingers around the base of his prick and round under his balls. James stretched up and back against the post, the choking sensation of the strap around his throat competing with the stuffing silencing of the gag in his mouth. The woman slipped to her knees and gestured to one of her companions to join her.

 

With the strap around his throat, James could not drop his gaze to see what was being done, or who was doing it but he could feel the mouths, the hands, the finger nails, on his cock and balls. As the music throbbed, one of the women fastened a length of black velvet across his eyes. One woman, then another, then another, took his cock between her thighs, each in turn taking only a few short strokes in her cunt as though she were savouring a fine wine or a delicious morsel of gourmet food. The torment went on; the women evidently skilled in maintaining a man’s erection to provide the whole group with pleasure indefinitely prolonged, until James felt his organ would be struck rigid permanently.

 

He had no idea how long it went on, mouth, cunt, fingers, hands; one woman after the other, as he stretched against the pillar.

 

But then it stopped. The music faded, the warmth in the room gave way to a chill as a rustle of clothes announced the departure of the women while James stood still blindfolded, strapped and locked to the pillar, his cock throbbing and still unspent.

 

It was the first of many such experiences.

 

******   ******   ******   ******

 

Tanya, Anne Tenant and Florence Daniels lay back on couches in the basement room of the Fetter Lane house. Tanya’s proposition of an evening here had been willingly received by the Minister as had the idea that they should use the attendants without blindfolds. It meant that they in their turn had to cover their faces but, as Tanya said, “ a small inconvenience for being able to see the looks in their eyes.” They sat waiting for the entertainment, sprawled out, their eyes masked, veils draping from the masks to cover the lower half of their faces. They had elected to take one attendant each.

 

While they waited for their attendants to arrive, Anne and Florence chatted. Tanya watched with satisfaction. This was exactly what she needed; getting her boss in front of the minister again could only improve their opportunity for further business.

 

“I would have thought that a member of the government and a New Order party member could arrange almost anything they wanted.”

 

“Oh, this sort of thing is hardly very New Order! I’m afraid this would earn me no points with the party faithful or some of my more puritanical sisters in the cabinet. I’ve never been a fundamentalist though, I’m afraid,” she confided. “I’m too fond of my own pleasure. Even if I can’t condone it for the population at large.”

 

“I’m surprised the Party get so excited about it.”

 

“I know what you mean. But there is always the risk of backsliding, of failing to carry through the agenda because of insufficient coherence in the message. People need a simple appeal to simple values.”

 

“But the camps? Surely you’d find ample opportunity there?”

 

She shook her head. “They are brutal places. I’m sure there are government members who would enjoy what they could offer but I prefer, let’s say, more comfortable surroundings. And ones with fewer CCTV cameras and less New Order zealots.”

 

“Members of the Detention Service aren’t keen on prick-sex then?”

 

Florence laughed. “You could say that. Your device attracted a great deal of interest in the Service. In fact I wondered if you could make some more units available for a pilot?” Florence thought back to the amusement that a group of senior Detention Service staff had got from an hour tormenting Anne’s demonstrator.

 

“That’s not easy Minister. We do have some domestic units but they wouldn’t be suitable for what you need. The professional units – more robust housing, better locks, encrypted data transfer, anti-tamper electronics – are in our R&D operation but we have to hand manufacture them…”

 

“But if the pilot were appropriately funded?”

 

“Well, of course, Minister, we always welcome opportunities for early deployment.”

 

Tanya said nothing. This was exactly what she had hoped to be able to engineer. A project that ended up rolling out the heavy duty professional chastity control units across the detention service would meet her targets for the next year. And, if they were in the driving seat for a pilot, they’d be able to set the agenda for the inevitable and tedious tendering process. The sales expense that she’d invested in the demonstrator was already proving its worth.

 

The arrival of Nevin with three attendants in tow was another investment that she expected to pay off. Yes, it would help to cement the relationship between Anne and the Minister but she was pretty sure that Anne was going to enjoy it too and that should earn Tanya a few points.

 

Three fettered men were brought into the room by Nevin.

 

“The look in their eyes,” thought Anne Tenant, “desolation, emptiness and despair!” It didn’t stop her though, taking James by grasping his cock and drawing him towards her couch while Tanya and the Minister did similarly with theirs.

 

For James it was just another encounter, the mascara fringed brown eyes behind the black velvet of the mask and the faintly visible features of the face behind the veil held no interest for him, though the eyes sparkled with desire and expectation and he thought he saw the woman’s tongue flick across her lips. The woman’s breasts were naked and firm and offered the promise of a comfort he did not expect to receive. Her belly and sex were exposed by the drape of her clothes so that she was ready to take him without encumbrance once she had decided on the time. The woman pointed to the couch, instructing him to lay back. She knelt across him, her backside towards his face, as she slid herself down his body before pushing aside her veil to allow her mouth and tongue access to his cock.

 

It was two hours or more before James was sent back to his cell.

 

Nevin took his chain and led James towards the room. Nevin had seen the same thing many times; the empty look in the eyes; the drool from the mouth around the gag; the bruised and still swollen penis. This time it was as ever before. Nevin wondered how much longer James would be able to stand it before he started to crave the alcohol or the drugs that might give his mind some respite from his day to day life.

 

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:    http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

                        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

 

Chapter 11 : The Dangers of Resurgent Males

Constable Margery Dennis scowled at the mess in the room. The woman sobbing beside her was distraught; her house ransacked; the man she thought was hers, and locked in chastity to her, gone.

It was a common enough occurrence, Margery knew. The woman had thought she could keep a man with only the most rudimentary security. Too often it ended like this. She looked at the cage he had been kept in. It should have been strong enough but it obviously hadn’t been. He had burst out of it somehow, probably bracing his back against the top, pushing against it until the framework had given way and the bars had sprung from their mounts.

That had been the start. Once he had freed himself from the cage, he’d cut his chastity belt from himself; not without wounding himself if the blood on the floor was anything to go by. Then he had gone looking for money or anything else that would help him to get away.

Margery felt the woman should be grateful. If she’d come home before the man had run off she could have been assaulted. It just went to show that they couldn’t trusted. She and Valerie would have to think again about the arrangements they were making for Barry.

The woman had no idea where the man might have gone to; she had never imagined that he would do anything like this, couldn’t guess what might have brought this on as he had always seemed so content with his lot.

Margery had her own ideas. But then she’d found the small leaflet stuffed behind a radiator in the man’s room. The leaflet carried a male symbol reasserting itself; the female symbol inverted from the way it was used by New Order. It called on men to take a stand against New Order. To break free of their chains, to abscond from their sponsors. CID would find it useful. It carried an address, She would be surprised if the man didn’t try to go there. After all there weren’t many places for a man on the run. Some people thought that the whole business of dissident groups was being whipped up by the media but then you saw something like this. She looked down in distaste at the broken and abandoned chastity belt. The woman had done the right thing keeping him in one, Margery felt. It wasn’t the law or anything but most of her colleagues felt the only safe male was one with his dick in a cage. In this case even that hadn’t been good enough. When he was taken back into custody he’d be wearing something a lot more secure for the foreseeable future, but that was down to CID.

All Margery could do was to try to calm the distressed woman until a scene of crime officer could go over the place. The anxiety that the man’s actions had caused made her angry. She remembered Barry’s smug “Have a good day” as she had pulled on her uniform jacket that morning. As she thought about it her eyes narrowed, it was about time that Barry was reminded of just how the world worked. Valerie wouldn’t be back until late. Just one smart arsed remark when Margery got home would be all that he would need to earn a good thrashing.

    

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Nevin appeared in James’s cell with an apologetic air. “It’s a difficult one today,” he said. “Come with me.”

James followed him down the corridor. Nevin didn’t use the shackles, the combination of alcohol and the disorientating effects of the continued sexual abuse had numbed him so that they no longer feared any attempt to escape.

“You need to get dressed for this one,” James looked at him puzzled. Nevin pointed to a pile of clothing on the table Putting it on was quite a novelty for James; he seemed to have spent almost all of his time naked. It wasn’t anything special just a pair of black jeans, a black tee shirt and a pair of black trainers and gloves. Finally Nevin passed him what James thought at first was another hood. It was only as he pulled it on that he realised it was a ski mask.

“Right,” said Nevin. “Through that door is a lady that’s paid for some very special treatment. There’s three of you altogether. You’ll be doing the prick sex, understand?”

James nodded, his member was already stiffening. It was almost becoming an aphrodisiac; coming down here. The drugs were mostly responsible, of course, but the trigger for arousal was no longer the woman; it was standing outside this door in the knowledge that his prick was going to be put to use.

“So, take your lead from them, Remember she’s paying for this. Understand?”

James nodded again as Nevin waved him through the door. This time the room was sparsely furnished. A single chair stood beside an old iron bedstead. A soiled mattress was the bedstead’s only covering. James wondered what on earth was going on.

“Bring her in here,” a man’s voice snarled in the corridor. The door burst open and two men masked and dressed as James was, pushed a woman into the room.

James, wide eyed behind his mask, saw that she had been tied with thick ropes around her body and gagged with a thick cloth pulled across her mouth. The woman was half thrown down on the mattress. One of the men sat down beside her putting his hand down hard across her gagged mouth. “Keep quiet bitch,” he snarled, “and maybe you won’t get hurt too much.” The other tossed a leather bag to the floor beside the bed.

The woman struggled against his grasp and he cuffed her across the face, knocking her back on the bed as she tried to wriggle free from him. The other man stepped behind her gabbing her bound arms and dragging her to a sitting position.. “Let’s see what she’s got. Maybe we can have some fun with her,” he said.

The first man pulled at the woman’s dress, ripping it open. She squealed behind her gag, though something told James that it was not a squeal of panic or fear. He grabbed her tits squeezing and pinching at them as the woman seemed to try to break free and then thrust his hand up between her legs and beneath her skirt. A ripping sound accompanied the parting of her skirt seam, exposing her laddered hose and panties torn to reveal a quim surrounded by carefully trimmed pubic hair.

She still tried to break free from the men. The one holding her arms called to James. “Come on,” he said, “What this cunt needs is a good fucking. You might as well do her, that’ll show her who’s boss.”

“Take your lead from them,” Nevin had said to James, so he guessed he had better do as he had been asked. He said nothing as he unbuckled the belt of his trousers, unzipped his fly and dropped his trousers. The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of his engorged cock and she growled, possibly in protest, behind her gag as he advanced towards her. The first man spread the woman’s legs as he slid on top of her crushing her back against the soiled mattress. If there had been any doubts about the woman’s willingness before, once James found his cock sliding into her soaking cunt, he knew that it was no rape. She was desperate to be fucked, hot and wet, pressing against him and wriggling against the embrace of her ropes as he entered her and thrust backwards and forwards. Whoever she was, she wanted nothing more than to be used and misused by these men, forced to degrade herself and to ‘endure’ what no woman would be willing to admit desiring in public.

The woman’s struggles served to arouse James to the point of orgasm. One of his colleagues seemed to sense that he was close to cumming. “Don’t do it in her,” he laughed. “She’s not worth your cum.” 

James pulled out just at the moment of ejaculation, spurting his jism across her belly and breasts as she tried to lever herself up from the bed. The men, slapped her back down as James stood up.

“You hold the slut, she can suck me off,” the first man said as he jerked at the cloth that filled the woman’s mouth.

“Ahh, huh,” the woman grunted as the gag came free and the man straddled her face. James held her arms roughly as she lunged towards the man’s cock, eagerly swallowing it deep in her mouth. The man fucked her face almost choking her but he too pulled back as he came, covering her face with milky spunk. The woman sighed, lost now, James knew, in whatever pleasure she had been seeking when she had decided to give herself up to her current situation.

“She can’t get enough of it!” The other man said. “Let me have her arse.”

“Sure, help yourself.” The one that had face fucked her, grabbed the woman by her torn dress and wrenched until she her face was pushed down against the mattress. Behind her back her wrists were wrapped tightly in the thick hemp rope. The other man knelt across her back pushing his cock into her bound hands so she could fondle him erect before he pushed her skirt back up over her waist and thrust his dick into her arse.

His was the same routine as the others; thrusts until he was almost ready to cum, withdrawal, and then the woman sprayed with cum. As he finished he wiped himself off on her hair. The woman was cooing now, whimpering as she pressed her thighs together trying to will herself to come.

“Here,” said the first man to James, “help us.” The two of them pulled the woman from the bed and dragged her across the room to the chair. “Do her feet,” he said pointing to a loop of rope curling out from the bag they had brought with them.

Between the three of them, they tied the woman to the chair and pushed the gag back in her mouth. They tied her legs spread apart so that as she tried to buck against the ropes to bring herself off, she had little chance of urging herself to orgasm.

“Goodnight cunt,” the first man said. “I hope you had fun.” He gestured for the other man and James to follow him out of the room.

The woman whimpered as she watched them go.

*****  *****   *****   *****   *****  

Anne Tenant strode purposefully across the Millenium Bridge towards the old Bankside Power Station that now housed the Tate Modern gallery. It was a short walk from her offices and a fine day. It seemed like the ideal opportunity to blow some of the cobwebs from her mind before the meeting.

She’d never really considered herself much of an expert on art but she did know about business and when she’d been invited to join the board of trustees it had seemed like a useful opportunity to make some new contacts, including some useful ones in Government.

She passed by a couple of tourists in hot debate with one of the security staff. From the way she was pointing to the signs and shaking her head it was clear that the tourists hadn’t realised that the “No Males” sign meant what it said. It was a shame but until the trustees had finished their work it wouldn’t be sensible to relax the rule.

She walked in through the vast exhibition space that was the old Turbine Hall. In the middle, Tracey Emin’s new installation, “The Latest People I’ve Slept With” dominated the surroundings with its collection of a dozen twenty foot high, black basalt, replicas of strap-on dildoes, each engraved with the name of the man that she had used the original on. It had caused a lot of debate, some suggesting that it celebrated the male member. Tracey’s view, expressed in a foul mouthed and drunken interview on television, that “of course it does because if we aren’t using these to fuck them, they’d be using their’s to fuck us” hadn’t help anyone to believe that Tracey was mellowing as she got older. Ann just wondered if she could use images of it when they started to advertise her new product.

The offices were at the top of the building with views across the Thames and St Pauls. The conference room had a sign on the door. “Trustees Meeting - Department of Culture Media & Her-itage” it said. Anne winced. She didn’t think that sort of thing helped matters at all, though of course she agreed that they had a long way to go to redress the imbalance of at least three millennia of male viewpoints on western culture.

She took her seat at the conference table, nodding and smiling at some of the other trustees that she had met at the previous meeting.

Anne looked at the agenda. One of the gallery catering house-boys offered her coffee and she took it without really acknowledging him and certainly without noticing the surreptitious lick of his lips as he caught a glimpse of her breasts and cleavage while he leant over her shoulder to serve her cream. It was just as well she hadn’t spotted him. If she had done it would have been his third offence, earning instant dismissal. He caught himself just in time casting his eyes down at the floor before asking Anne if she wanted sugar.

She shook her head. He went on to serve the next woman at the table, taking more care this time with his behaviour.

The agenda looked as though it would have the usual mixture of tedium and interest. Madam Chair, Anne saw, was beginning to gather her papers ready to start the meeting. She waved the waiters away and began.

“Thank you all for coming. We have apologies from two of our usual members. Can I take it that everyone was happy with the minutes of the last meeting?”

There were the usual nods and muttered agreements around the table.

“Well, if everyone is happy I think we can take the actions from last time as we go through the rest of the agenda. They should all be picked up with the various reports that we have to review, I think.”  More nods. “Now Monica, perhaps you can update us on the Gallery Working Group.”

Anne sat back to listen. She didn’t have much to contribute to this part of the discussion. The Gallery Working Group was trying to push through some new policies on exhibits. The government was firmly of the view that it needed to purge the museums and art galleries of works that presented what they termed “an outdated and undesirable view of gender relationships.” Of course there were some that considered the proposals to remove from gallery walls all art that presented females in a subservient role or, indeed, glamorised male attributes as censorship. Anne didn’t think that mattered. It was better that the new generation had positive role models in art. Something had to be done to redress the balance.

Monica was summing up, “So we can begin introducing this policy at once but the problem remains that there too few works in the current collections to fill the gaps left by the material we are removing.  We do need some ideas on how we might go about either encouraging new artists or acquiring material that is more appropriate to our current gender policies.”

Anne winced at the term “gender policies” but felt at last she had a contribution to make. She leant forward. “Madam Chair, if I could just suggest...” A nod from the head of the table indicated she should continue. “This may be seen as a radical view but I wonder if we could consider some new works by male artists.”

There was a sharp intake of breath around the table, furrowed brows turned towards Anne Tenant.

“We shouldn’t overlook that fact that there are men that have expressed the ideals of New Order, albeit in a romanticised manner and from,” Anne looked around the table following the reactions of the other trustees carefully, “let us say, a sexual rather than social or political motivation.”

“Pornographers, you mean,” one of Anne’s co-trustees exclaimed with disgust.

“That’s certainly the conventional view and it’s true that the women in these works are fetishised to a large extent. However, perhaps we should be asking whether their imagination is of value, irrespective of its motivation. Much great art has been created for monetary gain, after all and I think we all recognise that women have been happy to fetishise themselves when it has suited them. While the works I’m thinking of are hardly great art they do have merit and do have the value of representing gender roles as we would want them portrayed.

Monica responded. “It could be interesting,” she said. “An exhibition exploring the way in which the New Order view of society was foreseen, perhaps a combination of art by some of the people you’re talking about with reportage photography exploring the realities of today’s relationships.”

Other trustees chipped in with their own ideas. It was clear that the idea had a measure of support even if there were some doubters. Anne was pleased. She had always felt that artists like Sardax, Nimrod and Namshakh had as much to say about the relationships that were now the social norm as any of the New Order politicos. It looked as if they might get their opportunity for wider recognition at last.

Madam Chair sat listening to the debate, pleased that something seemed to be come from the meeting. She was glad that she’d suggested Tenant join the trustees. This was just the sort of innovative thinking they needed.

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

  

Chapter 12 : Special Weapons & Tactics

Florence Daniels, Minister for Home Affairs, sat waiting for the count down at the start of the programme. She was already sweating under the lights. With luck she’d get in her points this time. She could hear the voice of the producer in her ear piece. “Quiet studio, please. Three… two… one…, Roll credits,  Ready on one. Coming to one. Cue Kirsty…”

“Good evening and welcome,” Florence’s interviewer smiled. “In tonight’s programme we will be looking at some of the latest New Order initiatives and I’m joined by Florence Daniels, Minister for Home Affairs” Florence nodded in acknowledgement. “But first,…”  Florence felt her stomach sink. Why wouldn’t they just let her get on and talk about the important stuff? “I hope, Minister, that you can comment on media speculation about the true nature of some of the recent trials being carried out by your department.”

Look straight at the camera, she thought. Be firm and clear. Let her see you are answering but don’t let her divert you from what you’ve come to talk about. Let her have this one and a follow up question so it looks like you don’t want to duck the issue but then get back to your message. “I think I have made it quite clear,” Florence said, “that these trials are being carried out purely from the perspective of the potential use of these devices in the detention and correction system.”

“So reports that this is a precursor to a directive for the use of these male chastity devices in domestic environments are without foundation?”

“I can assure you, Kirsty, and the viewers, that my department’s interest in this project is penal not penile.” She smiled at the camera. Her interviewer smiled in her turn at the joke and abandoned her questions. “But what I really want to get across the viewers is the way in which our latest proposals on detecting and deterring dissidents will work…..”

******   ******   ******   ******   ******

The Prime Minister’s fixer turned down the sound on her video screen with a satisfied nod. Mrs Johannsen would be pleased; she liked her ministers to be able to think on their feet.

The fixer knew that the newspaper headlines would be more interested in the “penal not penile” joke than anything else.

Moments later the fixer’s phone rang. Mrs Johannsen, Prime Minister and leader of New Order was on the line.

“A good sound bite,” Johannsen said.

“And all her own work. I can’t claim any credit.”

“Indeed. Well she threw that little cow off the scent.”

The PM’s fixer was always disappointed when Johannsen started mixing her metaphors. It was always the same when she got annoyed. The PM didn’t like the BBC. There were still too many men in editorial posts for her taste.

“That piece of work might be useful,” Johannsen went on. “I’ve been thinking we ought to look at some further ways of reducing the opportunity for unsponsored males to commit sex crimes.”

“You don’t think that some might see that as a further erosion of personal liberty? Or that some people might think that Florence Daniels wasn’t being entirely straightforward?”

“You tell me. And then tell me how we make it play differently.” The fixer could hear the determination in Johannsen’s voice. “The way I see it, if an unsponsored male isn’t involved in sex crimes they shouldn’t have a problem with chastity devices; should they?”

The fixer didn’t reply. She knew it was a rhetorical question.

“There’s one other thing. It’s about Stearns.” The fixer listened carefully. It hadn’t been clear when they spoke before whether Johanssen wanted her on board or not. The things that she’d learned from Fetter Lane might or might not have made a difference. “I’m not sure,” the prime minister continued, “that I accept your concerns. I appreciate your advice but I’ve always felt that she doesn’t let her personal life interfere with her work. I am absolutely certain that nothing will come to light that would prevent her appointment to the Supreme Court.”

“Prime Minister?” The fixer wasn’t happy with the decision but the use of the word “absolutely” was clear enough; Catherine Stearns was being fast tracked and that was it.

“Yes, good, I’m glad you agree.” That was all Johannsen needed to say. That was the strength of their relationship, very little said but that which needed to be done happened.

The fixer put down the phone. She knew what was meant. Whether or not she agreed, she was being asked to make sure things turned out that way. It would cause some problems. They’d have to shut down the Fetter Lane operation, of course. It was a shame, it had only really just got going, but there would be far too many loose ends. Tennant wouldn’t be happy either but she would have to find another venue for entertaining.

 

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Lady Justice Catherine Stearns sat with her elbows on her desk, her fingers pressing on her forehead, trying to clear her head. The ache in her head was doing nothing to help her concentrate on the day’s business.

Lewis, her chamber boy, stood quietly to one side, knowing that calm and quiet was needed in the office that morning. It was a hot day. He couldn’t understand why Lady Stearns was dressed as she was. The heavy, high necked, long sleeved, dress must be making her hot and surely that couldn’t be helping how she felt.

He had brought the files for the cases for the following day. Sometimes she asked him about what was going on in the offices, what the gossip was below stairs. Today though she was quiet. “Tea, Madam?” Lewis asked. It seemed a more likely choice than coffee this morning.

She said nothing for a moment but then looked up. “No. Err, no, thank you Lewis. Just some water will be fine. Thank you.” She took the files as Lewis went to fetch it.  

She leafed through the folders. More dissidents. Conspiracy to rape, possession of subversive material, membership of a proscribed organisation, promoting behaviour in conflicting with public morality, obtaining property by deception. It was days like this when she regretted following criminal law. How much easier it would be to be looking at a civil custody case or trying a dispute over some transfer of property under the Reallocation of Marital Assets Act. She felt stiff. Bruised all over, bruised emotionally and physically too. It was, as always, difficult to concentrate and Lewis made it no easier either. His blank, dutiful mechanical obedience made her own feelings the more difficult to come to terms with.   

Lewis returned. He put the tray down with the jug and glass of water. Catherine reached for the glass. As she did so Lewis caught sight of a dark mark on Lady Justice Stearns’ wrist. It looked like a nasty bruise. Lewis wondered how she had got it.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

James was sitting in his cell, staring blankly at walls confused and degraded by the episode with the woman the night before, his cock sore from the constant abuse of the previous weeks.

The first that James knew of the police raid was the crash of a door splintering and the cry “Armed police!” immediately followed by the building shaking thumps of stun grenades detonating somewhere above.

Fearful and uncertain of what might be happening, James and his cell mate cowered back against the wall as if that could in some way offer them protection. Nevin burst into their cell confused, frightened and gasping, “It’s the police! A raid.” He started to fumble with the lock that chained James to the wall but before he could unfasten it the door behind him burst open.

In a cloud of dust and smoke, a gasmask-wearing police officer, in black combat gear, her body protector declaring “SWAT”, stood in the doorway clutching an automatic weapon. “Armed police,” she called and Nevin turned towards her raising his arms. James saw the woman’s eyes widen behind the flat glass of her gas mask. A single shot rang out. Nevin, a startled look on his face, fell silently to his knees and then pitched forward, blood spilling from the hole drilled in the middle of his temple, the back of his skull shattered by the bullets exit path. James almost threw up at the sight. Both he and the other man looked up in helpless terror waiting for the next shot.

A second police officer appeared. “That was lucky,” she said. “I saw him coming for you. Quick reactions!” She pulled off her gas mask and shook out a mane of blonde hair. “Let’s get these two out of here. The team will have finished clearing upstairs by now.”

Two more shots smashed the locks that had imprisoned the two men and the first police officer led the two of them, still shackled, upstairs, out of the building and into a waiting police van.

It drove off.

James was shocked by the sudden and unnecessary killing of Nevin. He had done all he could to ease their confinement. Still he at least felt relieved by their liberation. He wondered what would happen now that they were being freed. Perhaps, after this, there would be some sort of resettlement, maybe even some form of sponsorship to help him to recover. Whatever else it couldn’t be worse than the abuse of the last few weeks.

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

  

Chapter 13 : Camp Lima

The first sight that James got of the place was when they took him out of the van on the inside of the wire fence that ran around the facility. A white curved wall, may forty feet high with doors at regular intervals along its base hardly seemed like a prison or a police station but he didn’t have too long to think about it as the police urged him out of the van.

He found it difficult to climb down from the van; the shackles on his ankles made sure of that. Under the haranguing of his police escorts he made his way as quickly as he could, shuffling across the tarmac covered surface of the yard, towards one of the doors where another policewoman was waiting.

Only later, locked in a cell inside a large hut, did he get the chance to try to work out where he was. Balancing on the foot rail of the metal frame bed that was almost the only furniture in his cell he managed to just pull himself up by the two bars of the semicircular window that lit his cell from high on the back wall.

Through the semi-circular window, as long as his aching arms could hold him there, he could see out at some of the camp. To the right stretched a row of single story huts each with their own semi-circular roof windows that James assumed lit cells like his own. To the left a high fence and barricade of razor wire separated the huts from an open grassed area. Beyond this were rows of seating and white painted pavilions. At the far end, a high, oval, glass fronted building stared down like an enormous, single, eye. Behind its glass, James could make out white shirted camp staff moving backwards and forward. Occasional glints of sunshine reflected on the binoculars of those charged to watch over the camp.

Slowly James realised where the camp was. It had been set up with its huts on one half of the pitch of Lords Cricket Ground. The huts were being watched from the vantage point of the Media Centre. He wondered what the score board said. Certainly New Order seemed to be winning.

James’s eyes were drawn to a movement in the stands. Three figures in black sweaters and grey camouflage combat trousers were edging their way down towards the level of the pitch. They carried semi-automatic weapons; evidently the women were part of the camp’s security guard.

James lowered himself down until he stood on the rail again so that he could rest his arms. He took a few moments to stretch and regain his strength and then pulled himself up once more. Now the guards had gone. Down on the field a group of younger women were involved in some ball game or other. In their black kilts and tight white sweaters there was only one group that they could belong to, New Opportunity, the youth conscription organisation that all girls joined between the ages of eighteen and twenty one. Two of their mentors, girls barely a year or two older, were dressed in the same white sweaters but wearing black track suit trousers. They were watching as the girls passed a ball between themselves, obviously enjoying their exercise.

He craned his neck to see as much as he could, out across the camp and on to the exercise ground beyond. Focused on the activities outside, James didn’t hear the door to his cell slide open. The first he knew of the arrival of the guard was the burning sting of a cane across the back of his thighs. He half jumped, half fell from the bed rail under a rain of blows.

“Get a good look at the New Opportunity girls, did you?” the guard snarled as she cut again and again at the backs of his legs and buttocks.

“No, no. Please stop,” begged James. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“That’s what they all say,” the guard snapped but she stopped the beating, leaving him sprawled on the floor of his cell, staring up at her. In her white, short sleeved, shirt, dark tie and straight khaki skirt, it was obvious that she was one of the camp staff. The red epaulettes on her shoulders made James think that she wasn’t one of the regular guards but he didn’t have the chance to discover who she was. “If you’re going to survive in here, you’d better pay attention when the guards are around. Make sure you’re standing up, hands behind your back, looking at the ground when there’s one of us present. Understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said James, judging that it was better to comply than to earn another beating. He struggled to his feet and took up the position that she had described.

As he did so, he heard another woman’s voice. “Sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t realise you were coming straight down here.”

“Don’t worry, Whittaker,” the first woman said. “I just thought I’d give our friend here his first chance to learn how we do things.”

“With us long, is he?”

“Hard to tell with these politicos.”

“Excuse me,” James said, as politely as he could. “I haven’t done anything, I was rescued from...”

“Save it,” Whittaker said. “No one’s done anything in here if I listened to any of you.”

“There’s going to be some sort of hearing,” the senior guard said. “When they get around to getting the lawyers together. Back end of the week maybe, next week possibly. Who knows? They certainly take their time. Don’t you worry though,” James felt less than reassured by her tone. “We’ll take great care of you until then. Just do as Whittaker here tells you and you’ll be all right.”

The door to his cell clanged shut and the two women walked away talking to one another. It was only once the sound of their voices had disappeared that James felt safe enough to lift his eyes and move.   

  

**** **** **** **** ****

Janice, Celia & Nadine met at the Morpeth Arms pub, just around the corner from Pimlico Underground. Celia and Nadine were already on their second vodka and tonic by the time Janice appeared.

“Are you sure this is going to be fun?” Celia said frowning.

Janice waved at the bar boy pointed at Celia’s drink and then to herself. He seemed to get the idea. “Of course,” she said. “Trust me.”

Both Celia and Nadine gave a sceptical look. Janice’s drink appeared. “Can’t we just stay here and watch his cute little arse?” Nadine said plaintively.

“No,” said Janice firmly. “It’s time for a dose of culture. So drink those down and follow me. Believe me you’ll enjoy it.”

Janice led the way out of the pub and along Millbank towards the Houses of Parliament. It was only a short walk which was just as well given the height of the heels on Nadine’s shoes.

The entrance to the Tate Gallery was imposing, the steps up from the roadway seemed to beckon the girls inside, Janice striding out in front, Nadine and Celia following much less certainly behind. “We’re not at all sure about this culture stuff,” Nadine called as they got to the entrance.

“Trust me,” Janice called pointing to a poster which announced ‘Future Tension : Present Tense – Visions Of The New Order’

“This isn’t some political stunt, is it?”  Celia said. “I know I voted for them, but I’m not really interested in the philosophical basis for female led societies or some such guff.”

“Don’t be such a cynic. Come on.” Janice led the way through the Tate Gallery. Originally intended to celebrate British Art it now focused on British Women’s Art. In spite of the work of the Trustees, the generosity of some donors and the assiduousness of the Government in what they referred to as illegally held assets, there were still more gaps on the walls than the curator would have liked. They’d been reduced to hanging a selection of Beryl Cooks, for heaven’s sake. The new exhibition was a critical and popular success, though.

The three women were standing in front of the picture that had been adopted as the exhibition’s signature image. “Click”, a picture by the artist Sardax had been reproduced so that it was a good twelve feet high, dominating the gallery that contained it. It showed half of a woman’s head and shoulders seen from the front, her right hand held aloft was about to click her fingers. In the background, over her shoulder a naked man stood passively, his eyes downcast, awaiting her command. “It combines a celebration of the assured confidence of today’s woman with a demonstration of the male acceptance of their new role,” the exhibition catalogue said.

“Now that is impressive,” Nadine said, looking up at the picture.

“I take it you’re not talking about his dick,” Celia laughed.

Janice rolled her eyes, sometimes Celia had no sense of place, she thought.

“Oh come on,” Nadine bridled, “be fair. Isn’t that exactly the sort of situation we all love to be in. I know things have got a lot better for women these days but it’s easy to forget how far we’ve come.”

The three of them elbowed their way through the growing crowds and into the next gallery. More Sardax paintings graced the walls. There had been a lot of debate about whether male art could be hung here, in spite of its subject. In the end though, Janice thought looking at the crowds in the gallery, the publicity had been good for the show.

A series of themed paintings entitled Shanghai Bizarre, each so large that they almost filled the height of the gallery wall from floor to ceiling, presented a larger than life size image of the artists vision of a society in which females had the upper hand. Nadine read from the guidebook for the benefit of her friends, “Although Sardax was painting some time before even the tenets of the New Order manifesto had been imagined, his ideas have come to life for many in our world today. His romantic images of the oriental mistresses in his imaginary word, albeit highly fetishised like those of his contemporary Nimrod, demonstrate the power available to those that chose to take it.”

“It’s a good point,” Celia chipped in, “that bit about ‘available to those that chose to take it.’ I think any of us could recreate the lifestyle of any of these pictures if we chose. Especially these days when anyone with put a sponsor is desperate to be taken on.”    

  

“You know this is sort of interesting,” Celia conceded. “I mean of course, they’re his fantasies, but it does say something about how some men, at least, see themselves. And it makes me wonder,” she said as she looked at a large picture in which one man crouched bound as his mistress’s seat while another knelt helplessly secured as a telephone table and ashtray and a third, dressed as a maid, assisted his own mistress by straightening her stockings, “if we aren’t a bit too easy on them sometimes.”

“Easy?” Nadine would hardly have thought Celia timid about going after just what she wanted.

“Yes,” she said. “This has been great. One of the new interns has been trying to interest me in taking him on, perhaps I could find a position for him after all.”

“Why do I think that might involve him being on his knees,” Janice laughed. “Come on, there’s some Namshakh’s through here that I think you’ll like to see too.”

The three girls headed off into the next gallery, giggling as they discussed the prospects for Celia’s new project.

Anne Tenant watched them as they went. From what she had overheard their response had been exactly what she had predicted. She hoped that the other trustees were getting similar feedback. She turned the corner into another gallery hung with Sardax’s work. “The Dark Gallery” the catalogue announced by way of justifying the bringing together of a series of black and white images that brought the viewer close in to a series of encounters between a mistress and her slave.

She was looking closely at a picture showing ... when she heard a soft Scottish voice quietly growl behind her, “So good to see a male viewpoint that shares our agenda.”

Anne didn’t need to turn around. She recognised the voice of the PM’s fixer from occasional phone calls. “Well,” Anne said, “at least he did before ...”

“You doubt his integrity?” it seemed that this was possibly the highest insult that could be given.

“No, only his endurance.”

The fixer grunted. Of course it was hard to imagine how anyone could sustain the level of dedication implied in the pictures but whatever was the case the exhibition was having its desired effect. “I hear this was your idea. At least that’s the view the PM formed.”

So, Anne thought, the word had been passed. And if it hadn’t worked she’d have been in line for a bout of can carrying. “Well, I hope Ms Johannsen is encouraged by the response. I know the curators had a difficult job, treading the line between the banal and the debased, making a contribution to the debate without falling into the trap of espousing decadence.”

“Decadence has its adherents too.”

“But not, I suspect, any that would advocate it in party hearing?”

The PM’s fixer hummphed again. Anne could almost feel the force of her bulk, as if the dark tweed of her suit was sucking light from the room. “Your people have done some work for Home Affairs.”

Anne responded carefully. She wasn’t sure if Florence Daniels was still in favour or not.”A small project. They seemed to find the technology useful. It was a limited trial but it worked as far as it went.”

“You’re being modest, Tenant. If you’re confident you can produce in volume I think you might find Daniels is keen on a broader based trial. I should get in touch with her. You might find it an opportune moment.”

“I certainly shall, thank ...” Anne turned around but the other woman had gone. The only sign of her presence was the way in which the jostling crowds in the next gallery could be seen to be parting as her bulk passed through. Anne took out her mobile to call Tanya Charles.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

“Still not quick enough!” Whittaker snapped as James suddenly realised she was standing outside his cell door.

He jumped up, hands behind his back, eyes down, and heard the door of his cell being unlocked.

“Don’t worry you’re not going far,” Whittaker said as she grabbed his collar and pulled him from the cell.

James found himself dragged out into the space in front of the cells. At the far end of the space a single wooden pillar stretched from floor to ceiling. Whittaker clipped his collar to a ring on the post so that his face was pressed against the wood of the pillar. A moment later, while James was still wondering what was going on, she grabbed his wrists and strapped them to the far side of the pillar.

Whittaker stood with her face close to his. In spite of the requirement to bow the head when a guard came in, James had built up a picture of his gaoler over the past few days. Unlike the officer he had seen on his first day, Whittaker’s uniform did little to enhance her appearance. She was short and dumpy. Her uniform blouse was crumpled and stained with sweat under her arm pits. It didn’t quite fit. Either it had always been too small or she had put on weight since it was issued. The buttons at the front seemed about to give up on the unequal struggle to keep it closed across her bulky breasts. The belt of her skirt did something to define her waist but her khaki skirt was having the same problem as her blouse in containing her thick thighs and spreading buttocks. Now, with her eyes inches from his, James could see her blotchy complexion, the small broken veins on her nose and the greasy sheen of her sallow skin.

“Safest place for a man,” Whittaker said. “Can’t get into any trouble with this,” she reached between his legs and gripped the base of his cock with a gloved hand, squeezing it painfully, while you’re like that.” She turned away from him and called over her shoulder. “All right girls you can come in now.”

James found himself surrounded by a giggling bunch of the New Order girls.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s not one of the dangerous ones in here,” Whittaker began, evidently having been charged with giving some sort of lecture to the girls, “Now as part of your orientation introduction to the role of the detention service we like to give you the opportunity to see the conditions that that the inmates enjoy.”

Enjoy! James thought; that’s hardly the word.

“Is he quite safe there?” a blonde girl with an improbably large chest only just contained by her white sweater asked as she studied the way that James’ collar was locked to the post.

“Oh, yes,” Whittaker responded. “Watch!”

James heard the swoosh shortly before the thump of the punishment paddle slapped against his buttocks. The force of the blow threw him forward against the post and his arms jerked against the thick, stiff leather straps that held his wrists. A second and a third blow followed. James knew what the results of this would be. His backside would already be reddening, his face bruised by its impact with the post, his wrists etched with red lines where the straps would have scored his flesh.

“We have one of these pillars in each cell block,” Whittaker went on. “It means we can deal with any problems swiftly so that problems don’t build up. It’s an important part of our job to take personal responsibility for good order in our huts – our pay packets are linked to the performance numbers! It also gives us,” James felt a finger tip slid lasciviously down his back towards his arse, “somewhere that we can amuse ourselves. It can be a bit boring being a guard you know.”

“Are they all dissidents in here, then?” the blonde asked.

“Don’t be silly,” a dark haired girl, with a sweater that didn’t quite reach the waist band of her skirt, leaving a tanned strip of belly on display, said as James turned his head towards her voice. “They keep the dissidents in high security, don’t you?”

“Very good,” said Whittaker. “No most of the lot in here are either remand prisoners awaiting trial or convicted ones waiting for sentencing. There’s a few low grade inmates and others in transit or waiting for a cell to become free elsewhere in the country. There’s no point in keeping long term inmates in London. This accommodation is expensive. We’re not some sort of hotel!”

“Have they all got cute arses like this one?” the blonde asked, reaching out with her palm to James’s throbbing backside.

  

“Please don’t touch the inmates,” Whittaker admonished. “That can cause all sorts of problems.”

James could feel his prick swelling at the girl’s touch, pressing against the post before slipping out beside it to a chorus of outraged giggles from Whittaker’s audience.

“There, you see what I mean,” she said. “Now follow me and we’ll have a look at the interview suite.”   

  

The group left. James could only wait helpless against the post until Whittaker came to free him an hour or so later.

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/

  

Chapter 14 : Future Project Opportunities

Tanya Charles had made a point of asking to see Maggie Forbush at the earliest opportunity. Their conversation at first hadn’t been too rewarding. “No,” Maggie had said. ”I don’t believe there are any plans to extend the trial of the inhibitors.”

“Oh,” said Tanya, determined not to be deflected and trusting in the information she had. “Well, if things change I just wanted you to know we’re in a position to undertake mass-production now with the consequent savings in costs and improved availability. And we’ve taken on board the technical feedback from your people. I could arrange another demonstrator, if you like.”

Maggie went silent for a moment, obviously considering the offer. “It’s kind of you Tanya,” she responded, “but I really can’t do anything at the present. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

As it was Maggie’s call came less than an hour later.

“Tanya,” she said, “about our last discussion. I might need your help after all.”

Tanya allowed herself a smug smirk at the other end of the phone. 

“The Minister is just back from Cabinet. There’s a commitment to go ahead with the detention service project before the end of the year. And apparently the party is making a manifesto pledge to provide funding for its use domestically, grants for those that need them and so forth. It seems the PM’s got very keen on all this. Thinks it’s a real vote catcher, apparently. Anyway, you’d better let me have a note on the latest costs and availability.”

“Of course, Maggie, I’m happy to help.” Tanya put down the phone with a considerable feeling of satisfaction. It sounded as though she would be able to get this contract without the need for an open tender.

*****   *****   *****   ******   ******

“Hello boys,” Celia welcomed two of the office interns to the small meeting room. “I’m so pleased Deborah felt able to make you available for work in my section.”

The two young men looked at one another nervously. They were already finding their first jobs more of a challenge than they had ever imagined. It was their first venture into the workplace. They’d had a sheltered upbringing. The single-sex private school that they’d attended had meant they’d avoided the worst of the teasing and torments that their contemporaries experience at State schools. Now they were having to adapt quickly to the real world.

“We’re pleased to be here, Mistress,” the taller, pale skinned, acne pocked one of the two said.

“You don’t call me, Mistress; least ways not while we’re at work.” Celia’s predatory grin was enough to drain what little colour there was from the lads face. “It’s Ma’am in the office. What’s your name?”

“Gordon, Ma’am,” the young man stammered.

“And you?” Celia to the other.

 

“Desmond, Ma’am,” his colleague replied.

Celia looked at the two young men. Recalling the ideas that the exhibition at the Tate Gallery had given her, she was sure this project was going to be fun.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

“We’ve got a treat for you, Leonard,” the guard smirked as she opened the door of his cell and unlocked the chain that linked his collar to the wall. “First though you need a little silencer.” She waved the red rubber ball and its strap that was often applied whenever he left his cell.

James stood passively as she fitted the gag. He’d tried resisting just once. He had soon discovered that the guards were well trained in self-defence. He’d ended up on the floor with a knee in his back, bruised and sore and with the gag in place just the same.

This one of the guards was quite a bit shorter than he was. As she stood behind him she had to reach up to fasten the straps of the gag. As she pulled he fell back against her, feeling the cool fabric of her shirt and the softness of her breasts against his naked back. “Bloody well stand still, Leonard,” she snapped, tugging his wrists behind him and cuffing them together.

The fleeting touch against the guard was enough to fuel James’s sexual responses. He felt his cock stiffening, in spite of the inadvisability of the reaction.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the guard responded, seeing his erection pushing his cock against his loose coverall trousers as she turned him around to clip her own leash to his collar. “Come along with me.”

She led him along the corridor to the door from the hut and out into the yard. It was early in the evening. Most of the others were locked down, ready for the night. The yard was quiet. There was another hut close to the wire that James hadn’t been in before. The guard led him inside. “Over there,” she said gesturing to a low leather padded frame.

James recognised the punishment horse at once but couldn’t for the life of him think what he had done to earn a beating. His quizzical “Hurnghh?” grunted through his gag brought only irritation from the guard.

“Don’t worry about it, just do as you’re told. Bend over the fucking horse!” She pulled him across to it and jerked his leash to drag his head down over the back of the horse. Reaching under his chin she clipped the ring on his collar to a link on the horse, holding him in place.

James heard a noise from the far side of the hut. The guard stood up and turned around, her backside only inches from his face, the pale khaki of her uniform fabric stretched so tightly as to clearly reveal to James the line of the panties she wore beneath.

“Oh, you’re here,” he heard the guard say.

“Sure,” another woman’s voice responded. As she walked up to where the guard was standing James could see her legs. A short black kilt, white socks and trainers told him that this was one of the New Opportunity girls. “Here’s your money,” she said. “We’ll be an hour or so.”

“Have fun!” the guard said, giving James a playful pat on his backside. “And don’t let him off the horse. He’s docile enough but I don’t want to come back here and find you’ve lost him.”

James responded with a grunt of alarm. The New Opportunity girl responded by crouching down so that her face was level with his. James stared straight into her blue eyes, a disarmingly innocent looking face, freckles on her nose, her blonde hair drawn into bunches. “Don’t worry,” she said, stroking the back of his neck in a way that James found anything but reassuring, “you’re not going to be beaten.”

There was the sound of the hut’s doors opening again and giggling girls. “Bring her over here,” the girl standing by James called. “And don’t make so much row, we’re not supposed to be here.”

“Sorry, Jen!” a voice form behind James replied. “We have the initiate.”

James tried to turn his head to see as best as he could what was going on. Two other girls in the same black kilt and white sweater as Jen had a third girl standing between them. She too wore the New Opportunity uniform but had been blindfolded and was standing with her hands behind her back.

“Very good,” said Jen. “Bring her forward.”

There was a shuffling sound behind James.

“Caroline Wallace, are you prepared to be initiated?”

An uncertain voice responded. James assumed it was the blindfolded girl. “Yes.”

“Very well. On this your nineteenth birthday you have gained the right to become one of us. But to join us you have to demonstrate your commitment to the aims of New Opportunity.” 

The nervous voice responded, “I understand.”

“First position!” Jen exclaimed.

James felt someone grip him by the hair on the back of his head, lifting him as the blindfolded girl was brought in front of him. He could see that her hands had been tied loosely behind her back with a length of cloth or a scarf. Jen lifted the girl’s skirt and pushed her backward so that her naked backside pressed against James’s face. The skirt was dropped back down, draping itself over James’s head as the girl wiggled her arse, pressing his face deeper into the cleft between her buttocks. Barely able to breathe, James tried to struggle against the chain that held him to the horse and the grip on the back of his head that pressed him forward against the girl’s backside. The effect was only to encourage the girl who pressed back against him with more enthusiasm. “Ten, nine, eight...” One of the others began a countdown until on the count of zero, the girl stepped away to a cheer, letting James breathe once again.  

“Second position!” Jen went on.

Now the girl was turned around so that her crotch was placed level with James’s face. The hand gripping the back of his hair guided his face forward until his nose was buried in her vulva, depriving him of air once more as he tried to gasp for breath around the ball of the gag that stuffed his mouth. The girl wriggled in pleasure as James struggle in response to his shortness of breath. “This is fun,” she cried. “Ooooh, that’s so nice. Another tug on his hair repositioned him. As the girl pressed back against his face, her pubic hair rubbed against him and the scent of her moistening cunt filled his nostrils. The girl stayed pressed against him for quite a while but another countdown announced the end of that part of the initiation. “Take his gag off,” Jen ordered and the strap around James’s head was unbuckled and the bal; pulled from his mouth.

James got as far as uttering the words, “Please, don’t...” before the girl was pushed back against him. Behind he felt his trousers being pulled down around his knees. A whack with a crop or a cane and a barked, “Use your tongue, dork!” told him what was expected next.

James worked hard. The occasional encouraging blow to his buttocks drove his efforts and the blindfolded girl pushed back at him with more enthusiasm her labia, becoming wetter by the minute. She stared to whimper, a cry at the back of her throat that seemed to get higher by the moment. The other girls, laughing, went through the count down and, at zero pulled her away. “Ooo, that’s cruel,” the initiate said.

“Well, you wouldn’t want to miss the best bit, would you?” The voice from behind James was accompanied by more raucous laughter, as Jen took hold of dildo and slid it between the girl’s lips and up into her cunt. Pulling it out again she presented it to James.

“Kiss and suck,” she said, pushing it into James’s mouth.

As James sucked on the hard rubber phallus, the two girls that had brought in the initiate came forward and started to strap a leather harness about the girl’s hips. The struggle she gave in response seemed to show that she wasn’t prepared for this part of the ceremony. With the harness in place the girl was brought forward until her belly was once more close to James’s face.  James caught a glimpse of a hand as the dildo in his mouth was clipped to the girl’s harness and then came the choking sensation as the girl pushed it was pushed against him, ramming the dildo against the back of his throat.

“The final position,” intoned Jen.

“Arse, arse, arse,” the others chanted as the initiate was pulled away and James’s mouth was freed. It was evident what was about to happen.

James tried to object. “No, please he begged, I never .... Ooolp” The initiate’s dildo pressed home against his anus, slipping the rubber prick deep inside him. As he struggled the girl responded from the pressure of the dildo’s harness against her crotch.

“He’s an arse virgin too!” exclaimed one of the girls.

“Just as well the guard didn’t know, she’d have stung us for more,” Jen answered.

The initiate was squealing with delight at the sensation of the dildo pressing against her and James’s anguished response to penetration. The other two were chanting, “Arse, arse, arse” over and over again urging her on. James felt the dildo pushing inside him, an extraordinary filling sensation at once humiliating, arousing and disturbing. He felt the girl quiver as she approached her orgasm; his own cock stiff in spite of the unwanted nature of her sexual attentions.

“Enough!” announced Jen, suddenly.

As James felt the dildo slide clear of his arse, leaving him empty, he gave a whimpering grunt. 

 

Jen announced, “By executing the three positions, you have demonstrated your commitment to the values of New Opportunity. Free the initiate!”

The girls giggled as the new girl was released from her blindfold and her bonds. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “It really is one of the detainees! I thought it was one of the house boys.”

“Well,” said Jen, as a fully fledged member of the inner circle of New Opportunity you get your pendant.” She held out a glass and silver pendant to the girl. James had seen some of the New Opportunity girls wearing them; he’d wondered what they were. “Fill it!”

“Fill it?” James thought.

A moment later the girl crouched beside him and gripped his cock tightly. “Come on, jerk,” she goaded, “after all that fun you can fill my pendant.”

She started pulling and squeezing at his cock, anxious to milk him for the sperm that would fill her initiation pendant. Obviously inexperienced at masturbating males, her grip was overly tight, pulling like she was jerking on the teats of a cow, painfully crushing him until he was desperate to come but barley able to get close because of the experiences he had had in the Fetter Lane house. The longer it took, the more urgent the girl’s tugs and twists became but finally James managed to come, spurting a few drops that the girl greedily wiped into the glass phial of her pendant to the chorused cheers of the others.

“We thought you’d never manage it!” Jen laughed, “But you’re one of us now. You’ve earned your pendant.”

Without a word to James, the four girls left, leaving him shackled to the bench, his bruised cock, dripping cum to the floor between his legs. It was some time before Whittaker came to reclaim him. She sighed with disapproval as she unfastened him from the frame. She shook her head. “Look at the state of you,” she said. “Still you’ve earned me a few quid, so why should I worry?”

James followed her on his leash back to his cell. He felt safer there, once she locked the door.         

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Norm crouched down behind the wall. He must be ten miles from town by now. He still wasn’t sure how he had managed to get away, how he’d gathered the strength to break out of the improvised cage that Angie had made him build for himself. Cow! Locking the belt on him had been the last straw. He had known that if he hadn’t broken away then he would never had got away.

He’d found a little money in the flat. It had paid for a meal and an overcoat but now it was gone. He didn’t even have his ident card, though it would have been worse than useless anyway.

He had walked all night and hidden during the day. With no papers he hadn’t dare risk an encounter with police. At least here, out of town, there weren’t the regular patrols. He’d have a better chance; maybe he’d find a way of contacting a dissident group or just some others like him, men that couldn’t take it anymore. It shouldn’t be difficult. If he believed the way the news warned about the constant risk of anti-social activity, the countryside must be swarming with them.

His back was aching, the muscles sore from his escape. He would never have believed that he had the strength to break out of the cage. The wound in his crotch had stopped bleeding at least. It was ironic really; the cloth that he’d wound around himself as a bandage numbed any sense of feeling as effectively as the chastity belt had. He should have been more careful but he’d been determined to cut himself out of the belt.

He pulled the coat around him and tore a hunk of bread from the loaf that he’d stolen just before dawn. It was almost dark again. Soon it would be time to get moving once more. He looked up. The wall he was hiding behind was in corner of a farmyard. It looked deserted. There was a derelict corrugated iron barn behind him. Rotting hay bales were piled in one corner.

Norm heard voices, in the lane, coming towards him. He crouched down, his belly to the ground. He edged his way backward, towards the shelter of the barn. The voices kept coming closer; two women, talking. Norm backed around behind the hay bales, hoping that whoever they were they would pass him by.

“Well, something’s going on. I’m sure someone has been around the back of the farm house, disturbing things, trying to break in maybe.”

“Who’s going to be doing that? There’s never any trouble in the village.”

“Maybe not, but we’re not so far from the town.”

Norm shrank down as the voices came closer, burying himself as best he could under the hay, trying desperately not to move or make a sound. There was a creaking sound as the door of the barn swung open. Squinting out through a gap between the bales, all he could see of the women was their legs. Two pairs of tight jodhpurs, two pairs of muddied rubber riding boots; one of the women thin, the other fatter; both, from their voices, middle-aged.

“You see there’s nothing here.”

“I’m still not happy. Let’s go back to the farmhouse and fetch the dogs up here. If there’s anything amiss they’ll sniff it out.”

“All right, if it will make you happy.”

“It will. The last thing I want is any of those townie dissidents causing trouble with the farm gang. It’s hard enough to get a decent day’s work out of them as it is.”

The sound of the women’s voices died away. Norm was panic stricken. He daren’t stay in the barn any longer nor get any closer to the village. There was some woodland further along the valley, perhaps he could make it to there.

He waited for a few minutes to let the women get clear and broke out of the back of the barn, heading away from the village along a rutted track. He’d only gone a few hundred yards when he heard the bark of the dogs. That alone was enough to encourage him to redouble his efforts, finally breaking through a hedgerow into the woods, gasping for breath and sweating, his skin scratched by thorn bushes.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Barry Haste was almost sick with tiredness. The early morning start for the agency work, the long day of cleaning jobs and the tasks around the home once he got back left hardly any time for sleep. The weeks of coping on four hours sleep a night at best were taking their toll. He found himself falling asleep on his feet as he tried to finish ironing the last of his wife’s clothes.

It took him another hour. As he finished he went in search of Valerie. She was in the lounge, curled up on the couch with her lover. They were both ready for bed; lounging, relaxed in silk dressing gowns, Valerie in the one that he had used to wear, Margery in the one that Barry had given his wife only a year before. The two of them fondling and stroking each other.

“Have you finished, Barry dear?” Valerie asked, pausing in her attentions to Margery.

Barry, numb with fatigue, nodded.

“How was work today?” Val asked. Margery uncurled herself, pulled a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table and lit it.

“OK.” Barry wasn’t keen to start a discussion; all he wanted to do was to get to his bed.

“That’s not what I heard.” Valerie’s response was icy cold. Barry, in turn, looked uncomfortable. “According to what I hear from the Agency, measures were needed to address certain performance issues. Is that so?”

Barry, looked down at the ground and nodded. The inspection at the end of the mornings cleaning had revealed some areas that he had missed. It was almost impossible to get things so that the white gloved finger of the inspector didn’t find some fault but this time there had been a corner of greasy dirt that he had completely overlooked. The punishment had been swift and painful but he had thought that it had all been dealt with at work.

“Show me.” Valerie’s tone now took on an exasperated note.

Barry, turned his back on his wife, unfastened his belt and lowered his trousers and pants revealing the multi-coloured stripes and bruising of the morning’s beatings. The combination of the inspector’s crop, his work-gang manager’s cane and the paddle of the property owner had left his arse covered with a patchwork of painful looking marks. He felt Valery’s finger trace out the line of one of the more painful cuts.

“He has been a bad boy, hasn’t he?” Margery joked.

“It’s no laughing matter,” Val returned. “I introduced him to the agency. If he doesn’t perform how does that make me look? And it’s obvious from this that he hasn’t been performing.” She turned back to her husband. “Turn around!” Barry turned to face his wife. His head hanging in shame. His hands clasped in front of him. “Now, if you don’t buck your ideas up there’s going to be a parting of the ways between you and me. Believe me, you don’t want to try your luck as an unsponsored male but I will cut you off if anything like this happens again. Do you understand? And get your hands away from your cock! That’s half your trouble. No wonder you can’t keep your mind on what you’re doing.”

Barry was wilting under the verbal onslaught. Margery, impatient for the return of her lover’s attentions was trying to distract her by pushing the silk dressing gown from her shoulder and nuzzling her in the crease of flesh between her arm and her breast. Valerie was finding it hard not to respond and eventually gave in.

“All right,” she said to Barry. “Fetch our toy box from the bed room and then get yourself some sleep. You’d better turn in an improved performance tomorrow.” She turned back to Margery.

She seemed not to be interested in any reply. As Barry left the room he heard her say to Margery, “Did you say that they were planning to use inhibitors in the prison service?” 

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

“Looks like you get your day in court,” the guard snapped as she slid back the barred door to James’s cell. “On your feet, 24601,” she said, “You’re coming with me.”

Being let out of the cell was a novelty in itself. Prisoners that had been sentenced had their exercise hour and reorientation classes, prisoners on remand got to spend time with their lawyers, if they had them, but James didn’t seem to fit into any of the usual categories and, as a result, nobody knew what to do with him. That meant he was staying in his cell virtually all of the time but it was safer in there he felt. On the other hand, he thought, I’ll get to see something of the outside world.

He was disappointed. The trip out went no further than the end of the cell block, into a large airy, well lit, room. There were others there already. To the left one woman sat motionless, dressed all in black her head and face veiled beneath a dark cloth. Another woman similarly dressed stood on the left of the room talking busily with a group of other soberly dressed women. Lawyers, James assumed, looking like a gang of crows. The women on the right all turned when another woman, identically dressed appeared through the door at the far end of the room. She took her seat and beckoned James forward. His guard pushed him forward to a chair in the centre of the room.

Behind her almost opaque black veil, Catherine Stearns surveyed the scene in the room. She called the group of counsel to order and reminded all present that this was a hearing under the Preservation of Public Order Act. “For the benefit of the subject of this hearing,” she turned and nodded towards where James was standing flanked by two guards, “you should be aware that the powers of this hearing are to take whatever measures are deemed necessary to prevent social disruption. Counsel appear veiled here. This is to ensure that there is no question of intimidation or reprisal for the actions of the hearing. There is no personal agenda here that requires counsel or court staff to be recognised. Justice is blind and this court is a representative of the state, not of any of our personal feelings.”

The lawyers to James’s right nodded in agreement. The one to his left sat unmoving.

“Now perhaps the Counsel for Society would like to open.” Judge Stearns turned towards the lawyers on James’s right.

One got to her feet; a pillar of black, devoid of features. “The detainee is in protective custody because of the nature of crimes that he was witness to and involved in.”

That’s hardly fair, thought James, I was forced to do what I did. I didn’t have any choice.      

“It is alleged that there a number of senior representatives of the state were involved in criminal practices contradictory to those approved by the Government,” the lawyer went on. “If the detainee were to be returned to society there would be a risk to his well being from either those directly involved in these offences or those who would seek to exploit them for political ends.”

Stearns recognised James, of course. His baffled empty eyes held as little now as when they had stared out at her from behind the ski-mask as he fucked her in the dingy room in Fetter Lane. Fortunately the apparatus of the state would make sure that her own tendencies would never become a matter of public debate.   

“I want to be certain that before the detainee is allowed back into society that we can be confident that he will neither be the cause of disruption nor the recipient of intimidation.” Catherine Stearns was taking great care to spell out her expectations for the hearing. “As you know this is not a trial, merely a hearing of a protective detention order.” She turned to the other lawyer. “What does Counsel for the Individual have to say?”

James looked towards the lawyer on his left, perhaps now he would get some words of support he felt, some expression of the fact that he posed no threat to public order. The lawyer said nothing. Unmoving she gave no sign of having heard a word of what the judge had said. A draft cut across the courtroom as the door opened and a guard came in with more papers for the judge. It caught the edge of the lawyer’s veil and as it flicked at the dark cloth, James saw the reason for his counsel’s silence. The figure to his right was a mannequin. A shop window dummy in lawyer’s garb. Nothing more than a token gesture to the rights of the accused. James was about to make an objection when the two guards at his side, realising that his manner had changed, grabbed hold of him by the arms with a firm grip that said, “No trouble, or else.”

James’s indignation subsided. Of course it was a sham, what else had he expected?

“Very good,” Stearns went on. “I shall make an order for an indeterminate period of protective custody. Periodic review will take place to establish whether the circumstances requiring the order have changed. First review will take place in six months. Subsequent reviews will occur at dates to be determined by the hearing judge and the then current needs for protection.” 

The only question is, thought James, who is being protected?

“This hearting is concluded,” Stearns announced getting to her feet. The other lawyers, with the exception of James’s “counsel” got to their feet. The two guards hustled James towards the door, on his way back to his cell. A light tap of a truncheon on his back was all he needed to let him know that his views were not welcomed at this time and that his best policy was to carry on doing as he was told.

As James was escorted from the room he overheard the judge as she turned to the Governor. “It’s safer if he stays here, obviously,” she said.

“We’re not equipped for long term detention here,” the Governor responded. “But I can see your point. If any suspicion that senior party members were involved in those practices were to get out....”

James suddenly realised the danger of his situation,

“Exactly.” Catherine Stearns felt considerable relief. It had all gone smoothly, but then this sort of hearing usually did. There shouldn’t be any further difficulty over Fetter Lane. Johannsen had made it clear through her Fixer what was required and Catherine had delivered. She wasn’t sure whether any of them knew of her personal involvement but maybe it didn’t matter.  

James watched as she went. One of the guards pulled him by the arm.

“Come on, back to your cell. Looks like you’re going to be here quite a while.”

James had no choice but to go with them. As far as he was concerned all he would be seeing of New Order’s wonderful society for some time was the inside of Camp Lima.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Prime Minister Johannsen looked up as her limousine swept through traffic lights under police escort. The streets were quiet in the early evening. A recent shower had set a glistening sheen on the pavements that shone back the street lights as they began to flicker on. They passed the Tate Gallery heading for Earls Court. Johannsen saw a small crowd of women emerging from the exhibition.  It had been quite a success by all accounts. Culture, Media and Her-itage were doing a good job.

The car drove on along The Embankment. Johannsen’s thoughts turned to the evening ahead. Addressing the party faithful was always a problem. There had to be a balancing act to be managed between the waverers and backsliders on one hand and the overly ambitious on the other, and of course anything she said to the party would be all over the press the following day.

Still at least this time she had some good news to share with them.

The announcement on the introduction of inhibitors would play well with the hardliners, they’d see bringing them in to the detention service as a precursor to more widespread use. Johannsen wouldn’t have to announce the manifesto commitment, there’d be enough speculation to let everyone judge how much of a problem or not public opinion on that would be.

The other bit of good news had come from the trade secretary. Finally there had been some improvement in the manufacturing sector. It was something Johannsen was particularly keen on. The last thing she wanted was for the economy to be dependent on imports, especially when then were labour resources available. The combination of directed labour and the removal of the minimum wage for males had been enough to re-establish the country as a manufacturing centre. The decision of the Koreans to off-shore some of their manufacturing to the UK had been a real success for the combination of foreign policy and encouraging inward investment. That would be something that soft wing of the party could point to as a New Order achievement. The Chinese were talking about it too. The Foreign Secretary had been very excited about that one. They were keen to send their own management over too and they hadn’t been deterred when they’d been told that they’d have to conform to local labour laws on positive sexual discrimination in managerial posts. Of course there were still some moaning minnies that claimed Britain was simply becoming the world’s sweat shop but with entrepreneurs like Anne Tennant, Johannsen was confident that there would be enough industrial innovation as well to rebuild the economy. In the mean time, making trainers for Korea or garments for the Chinese would keep the work force busy.

It was all coming together nicely.

*****   *****   *****   ******   *****   *****   *****  

THE END

Or at least the end for now.

What happens to Johannsen and her government?

What will work be like in the new British sweat shops?

Does Barry find out about the government’s “inhibitor” program?

Can Norm stay out on the run?

How does Celia deal with the interns?

How will Tenant’s business fare?

Will anyone ever find out about Catherine’s secret?

What will those New Opportunity girls get up to?

Can James survive in the New Order world?

Maybe a future tale will explore some or all of these.

What do you think?

© Freddie Clegg 2009

No posting or reproduction without permission

All Characters & Events Fictitious

 

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