Chapter 15
Carl Jacobs lay naked in the semi-darkness, his hands tightly cuffed behind him.
It had been another cruel evening in Officer Collins' private bedroom. His
buttocks burned with fresh welts, his nipples were red and sensitive with
pinching, and the handcuffs themselves bit painfully into the flesh of his
wrists. His mouth was still full of the nauseating taste of his own semen; at
first he had been only too happy to lick the stuff off her boots if that was the
price of sexual release, but now he was beginning to find it so revolting that
he almost wished she would go back to her old habit of not letting him cum at
all. His anus was sore and stretched after being invaded by the barrel of her
tranquiliser gun (unloaded, he fervently hoped), and his cheeks were still damp
with tears of shame and agony. Yes, tonight she had really taken him around the
block. He remembered her handcuffing him, throwing him to the floor with that
casual brutality that had become almost terrifying lately. He remembered her
rough hand clawing at his hair, her strap stinging him again and again, her
drink-slurred voice commanding him with breathy impatience to crawl over to her
as she fumbled with her zipper. ("No, don't crawl!" she'd belched out a moment
later. "Wriggle on your belly, you fucking worm!") It was the best night of
Carl's life.
It had taken him a long time to get to this point. It had begun months ago, not
long after his arrival in this wretched little labour camp, when he had
registered Collins as a particularly fat, unpleasant woman, ugly and rather
brutish even by conscription officer standards. She tended to be morose and
withdrawn most of the time, speaking little even to the other officers, and her
one source of pleasure in life seemed to be the beer that appeared in the mess
hall every evening. At first Commandant Caylin had been very strict about
keeping the nightly drinking within tight limits, as she'd been strict about
most things, but discipline had slowly loosened as week after week passed
without any serious disturbances or signs of disorder among the conscripts.
Collins had begun hitting the bottle quite a bit harder than any of the other
officers, and it really did wonders for her mood - every evening, Carl had
watched with cynical amusement as the alcohol transformed her from a sullen,
brooding wreck of a woman into a jovial, talkative creature who tried endlessly
to flirt with the conscripts despite her undeniable ugliness and ever-present
odour of stale sweat. She ended up dragging a lad to her bedroom more often than
not, choosing victims seemingly at random, and it was always diverting to
observe their expressions of revulsion, resentment or weary resignation as she
herded them eagerly toward the stairs that led up to the officers' quarters. But
Carl's interest in her had doubled literally overnight when he had heard it
whispered that she occasionally fell into a drunken slumber toward the end of
her bouts of passion, leaving the unfortunate male to make his own way down to
the communal dormitory. Being allowed to walk down on one's own was routine, but
having access to a comatose officer and her handcuffs, keys and tranquiliser
pistol was another matter entirely.
From that day forward Carl cultivated Officer Collins relentlessly. He flirted
with her at every opportunity, agreed loudly with everything she said in the
mess hall, and fawned over her in his eagerness to massage her tired shoulders,
or to refill her plate at dinner, or best of all to run and get her another
beer. Her unattractiveness worked both for and against him; on the positive side
she was flattered and overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of male attention, but
on the negative she was shrewd enough to suspect that it might not be entirely
sincere. However, it wasn't long before what Carl saw as her natural feminine
susceptibility to flattery got the better of her, and she began to choose him as
her bed-partner almost every night. At first she was almost nervous about it, as
though she wasn't quite sure how to handle a male who didn't appear revolted at
the prospect of getting intimate with her. But gradually she seemed to take his
affections more and more for granted, and became increasingly relaxed and
increasingly abusive. He remembered all too clearly the first time she'd really
whipped his arse hard with her strap, and the first time she'd given him that
mean, calculating smile of hers and told him to kneel down and wank off on her
boots. Delightful woman, Carl thought sourly. But tonight she had finally grown
careless enough to fall asleep before sending him downstairs.
He had been thinking about this moment for weeks, playing it over in his mind
like a movie with a very happy ending, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do.
For a moment he gathered himself, breathing deeply in the dark, and then with
one smooth motion he twisted up on to his knees and from there to his feet. At
least all those long days of backbreaking physical labour had given him a body
that was lithe and fit beyond anything he would have thought possible before
being conscripted. The first order of business was to get out of his handcuffs,
and it was fortunate that Officer Collins' keys were within easy reach, still
clipped to the belt she had thrown on the bed along with most of the rest of her
clothing. Carl sat down on the edge of the bed, fumbled behind him for the keys,
and felt carefully for the one that would fit his cuffs, which was quite
distinctive in shape. A few seconds later his hands were free.
Elated, he allowed himself a moment to rub his painfully pinched wrists and take
stock of the situation. She had used him a long time before falling asleep,
which meant they would be locking the dormitories and doing their nightly count
within half an hour or so. Officer Collins' quarters were the first place they
would come looking for him; everyone knew that Conscript Jacobs was her
favourite slave toy these days. He had to get moving as fast as possible unless
he wanted to deal with two or three armed and trained officers.
Appealing as he found the idea of being clothed, Officer Collins' uniform was
completely the wrong shape for him, and smelly besides. But he buckled her belt
around his naked waist (the very last hole was more or less tight enough),
re-attached the keys to it, and retrieved her tranquiliser gun from the floor,
where she'd dropped it after finally pulling it out of his anus. He shuddered to
find that the gun was loaded after all, though the safety was on; he flipped it
off, aimed the weapon at Officer Collins' flabby right thigh, and pumped a dart
into her at point blank range. It wouldn't hurt to make sure she stayed asleep.
She jerked convulsively and gave a little groan as the mild neurotoxin flooded
into her bloodstream, then lay as still as a sow in a butcher's shop. The image
made Carl smile.
If she hadn't been so thoroughly repulsive he might have been tempted to follow
this up by raping her, but there wasn't really time anyway. He started for the
door, remembered the handcuffs at the last second and went back for them, and
finally stepped out into the empty corridor. He could still hear conversation
and laughter from the mess hall, and the panicked moans of a man on the brink of
bursting into abject sobs. They were having fun down there, apparently. Carl
headed in the opposite direction, toward the back stairs, moving briskly but as
quietly as he could. A man's bare footsteps were nothing unusual up here, but
they would expect him to be going back down to the mess hall, and from there to
the dormitory, to be locked up for the night like a good little slave. Carl's
lip curled in derision as he reached the door that blocked his way to the
stairwell, and found the key to ease it silently open.
He could hear two women talking somewhere below. The commandant, it sounded
like, and her right-hand woman Officer Ingram - that big, busty bitch who seemed
incapable of talking below a muted bellow. They seemed to be having a fairly
mundane discussion, something about the appropriate punishment for a conscript
who had been caught nibbling vegetables into phallic shapes in a peculiar and
futile effort to shock the officers. He could hear Ingram loud and clear,
suggesting that the man simply be made to spend a few hours with one of his
cucumber dildoes firmly embedded in his anus. Carl waited, sweaty hand clenched
around the grip of his gun, until the door banged below as Commandant Caylin
headed off to her private cabin. And Officer Ingram's heavy footsteps sounded on
the stairs, coming up toward him. He dropped to one knee, gun trained on the
landing, and fired twice the moment she appeared. The woman crumpled and fell,
unconscious before her surprise could register on her face, and tumbled halfway
down the stairs she had just climbed. There was blood trickling from her head,
but Carl found it easy enough to ignore, remembering all the evenings when her
strident, sneering voice had condemned him to a disciplinary paddling for
applying "insufficient effort" to his day's work. No time to hide her comatose
body, though, and he simply hurried down the stairs, past the ground floor and
down toward the basement where they kept the washing machines, among other
things. As he had hoped, there was no one down here at this time of night, and
he had no difficulty at all getting his hands on a freshly laundered worksuit,
ready with the others to be taken up and distributed to the conscripts the next
morning.
Now Carl was finally ready to leave the building. This time, he wasn't going to
stick around to try to take over the camp and liberate his fellow conscripts,
associating himself with idiots like the ones who had got him caught last time.
He was going to slip away in the night, quickly and quietly, and not be found,
and to hell with the rest of them. There was still no commotion from upstairs,
which meant that neither of his victims had been discovered. Collins wouldn't be
found until the officers came looking for him - and he still had a few minutes,
he was fairly sure - but the Ingram bitch could be discovered at any moment. He
lost no time in dashing outside, and making hurriedly for the supply shed. There
were observation towers at all four corners of the fence that enclosed the whole
place, and spotlights playing across the ground Carl had to cross, but on the
other hand the night was dark and moonless and the lights not hard to avoid if
one took a few seconds to work out their pattern. He ran to the shed, opened it
as silently as he could, and found himself some boots. He spotted some gloves on
a shelf and snatched a pair, then went looking for the most critical item on his
mental shopping list. It took him what felt like a very long time of fumbling in
the semi-darkness, but finally he had them. He wasn't sure why they even had
wire cutters among their supplies, but the things would do wonders with the
barbed wire at the top of the outer fence. He had noticed them weeks ago, when
it had been his turn to go into the shed for the saws and spades and axes and
things the conscripts used every day in their "environmental restoration" work.
Carl stepped out of the shed and closed the door behind him. He took a deep
breath, crossed himself (something he hadn't done since early childhood), and
made for the fence at a dead run. Despite the awkwardness of having to hold the
wire cutters in one gloved hand, he swarmed up it with surprising ease, pausing
only when he found himself staring at the menacing coils of barbed wire at the
top. Working clumsily in his precarious position, he got a better grip on the
wire cutters and began to attack the one real obstacle that remained between
Carl Jacobs and freedom, glorious freedom. If only no one happened to glance
toward this particular stretch of fence... His excitement mounted as the wire
fell away, piece by piece. No more bitches chasing him around with straps, no
more Officer Collins wanking and laughing at the tears in his eyes as he licked
up his own semen. No more sleeping practically shoulder-to-shoulder with other
naked men, or being chained to those damn rails and beaten into screaming,
howling subjugation with that vicious paddle that had coaxed stammered pleas
from so many young male throats. No more conscription. The gap in the wire was
almost big enough. And then, splendidly, another coil came off all at once, and
Carl pulled himself over the fence and slithered down onto the rocky ground on
the other side. He grinned in triumph as he sprinted for the shelter of the
nearby woods. Alarm klaxons went off from somewhere behind him as he disappeared
into the trees, but he knew it was too late. Either they'd found Ingram, or
someone had spotted the damaged fence, and it didn't matter a damn bit either
way. He was free and clear. Free at last!
* * *
"I'm still nervous about coming so far north," said Ed for the twentieth or
thirtieth time. "You realise how close we are to the Macedonian Demilitarised
Zone?"
Demetria put a hand on his thigh, damn distracting when he was trying to drive
on a twisty, bumpy little road that probably dated back to the time of Alexander
the Great. "I know, darling," she said soothingly. "Everyone says its safe these
days. There hasn't been any shooting on this side of the border for weeks."
"Oh, not for weeks! Wonderful."
"Please, Ed. You know how much this means to me. I haven't seen Thea and Helena
for almost a year."
Ed mumbled something noncommittal, and tried to keep his eyes on the road. Thea
and Helena. Childhood friends of Demetria's, apparently, although he couldn't
recall hearing her mention them before yesterday. They were both nurses, and had
been selflessly volunteering their time with one of the numerous humanitarian
organisations operating within the borders of the ravaged battleground that was
all that remained of the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. Now that there
was a lull in the fighting, they had the opportunity to seize a few days' badly
needed respite and temporarily escape from the horrors they witnessed on an
almost daily basis. They had arranged to rent a small guest house just outside
the charmingly named town of Panorama, and were apparently eager for Demetria
and her exotic English boyfriend to make the long drive up from Athens and spend
a day or two drinking ouzo and basking in the lingering grandeur of ancient
Byzantium.
It did sound nice, persistent worries about another Albanian offensive aside.
But the whole thing had come up so suddenly and unexpectedly that Ed couldn't
help wondering if Demetria might just possibly be up to something. He was a
great believer in healthy skepticism, and it occurred to him that it was odd
that Demetria had never before mentioned her two dear friends who were risking
life and limb for the good of the embattled Macedonian people. Her behaviour
lately had been awfully strange, with a lot of hushed telephone conversations
that she abruptly ended when he walked into the room. Yes, something was
definitely afoot. Were Thea and Helena trying to smuggle something out of
Macedonia, perhaps? But what the hell. The idea of a brief holiday in the north
was an attractive one, and obviously it really was important to Demetria; she'd
been treating him like a prince ever since he'd agreed a few days ago to make
the trip, for one thing. He wasn't sure which he appreciated more, the regular
oral sex or the wonderful seafood dinners she'd taken to preparing every night.
His misgivings returned, though, as they finally parked and stepped out of the
car. The guest house was actually rather isolated, tucked away in a little
wooded ravine, and it was a lot bigger and more dilapidated than he'd been
imagining. There was a light on upstairs, and when Demetria knocked softly on
the front door a rich female voice drifted down, telling them to come right up
and make themselves comfortable.
"Was that one of your friends?" asked Ed in an undertone.
"Yes, of course. That was Thea. Who else would it be?"
He shrugged. "I just wasn't expecting that Slavic accent. Where's she from?"
"She grew up three doors down from me, silly. She probably picked up the accent
in Macedonia. Some people do that - you should've heard her when she came back
from Peru."
More uneasy than ever, but stuck without any reasonable excuse (even in his own
mind) for backing out, Ed followed Demetria into the house and up a creaking
staircase. "In here," Thea called again, and he caught the rich scent of cigar
smoke as he stepped into what looked like a shabbily furnished sitting room.
There was a mouldering boar's head hung on one wall - he could hardly believe
his eyes - and opposite the door was a low couch where a very tall woman sat
smoking. She was thin almost to the point of emaciation, and the short brown
hair that framed her pinched, hard face was shot with grey. Her posture, slumped
back on the couch with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee and her cigar
clenched between yellowed teeth at one corner of her mouth, made her look a bit
arrogant and decidedly unfeminine. She was clearly not a childhood friend of
Demetria's.
Carl stopped dead in his tracks, only a couple of steps into the room. "Who the
hell are you?" he demanded, too startled to be polite.
The woman puffed smoke in his direction. "Call me Tanja. My friend and I, we
here to collect you."
"What the-"
He felt Demetria's hand on his shoulder. "Please, Carl. Just relax and do what
they tell you, and you won't get hurt." At almost the same moment powerful hands
gripped his arms just above the elbows, from behind, and a booted foot struck
the back of one knee with terrific force. Suddenly he was lying on his belly
with the wind knocked out of him, too shocked to struggle as Tanja rose
unhurriedly to her feet and came forward. Someone else's knee was pressed into
the small of his back, pinning him to the floor, and the fingers that dug
painfully into his upper arms held him with the implacable strength of iron
manacles. Tanja knelt down beside him and ruffled his hair.
"There, that not so bad?" Her accent was much stronger now that she was making
no effort to disguise it. "Now hold still, you, and let us do our job. Pull him
up so I get his shirt off, Erika."
He was forced abruptly and effortlessly to his knees. This Erika had to be built
like a fucking gorilla. His eyes blurred with tears of fear and helpless anger
as Tanja started unbuttoning his shirt with deft, very assured fingers, not
hurrying at all. She reeked of tobacco.
"What the hell are you doing?" He meant it to sound defiant, but it came out
more like a whimper. "Demetria, what's going on? Why don't you help me?"
"Carl, I hired these people. They're going to take you back to England."
"You fucking bitch!" Tanja slapped him, snapping his head sideways. He caught a
glimpse of Demetria standing with folded arms, her expression very difficult to
read as she observed the proceedings.
"It's all right," she said mildly. "Let him yell all he wants, if you're sure
nobody can hear. Carl, I'm not doing this to be cruel. We both know it's what
you want." Tanja raised her eyebrows at this, but said nothing.
"Demetria, listen to me," Ed said desperately. "It's fun to imagine, I'm not
denying that. But this is real! I'm scared half to death, I'm angry, and I
definitely don't want this. Please tell me it's all a joke."
Demetria gave him a faint smile and shook her head slightly.
"Then tell them to stop! Can't we discuss this?"
Again, that barely perceptible shake of her head. He glanced up at Tanja.
"She must have hired you. You're not doing this for fun. Whatever she's paying
you, my father will double it."
Tanja didn't even pause in the act of unbuttoning his pants. Demetria burst out
laughing.
"Bitch!" he wailed. "What's so funny!"
"Your father's paying me to send you back to England, stupid. Him and the
conscription people. I think you're becoming quite an embarrassment to him."
"Paying you? How much?"
"More than you're worth," Demetria giggled, but almost affectionately. "Just
hurry up and get his clothes off, will you?" she said to Tanja. "Then we'll see
if he really wants you to let him go."
Think about flower arrangements, Ed said to himself in churning mental panic. Or
trigonometry. Or church. Anything boring, anything banal. Anything but Erika's
crushing grip on his upper arms, the pressure of her knee pressing his body into
the floorboards, his fear, his discomfort, Tanja's deft fingers pulling his
pants down to his ankles and off, reaching up again for his underwear. Anything
but the futility of struggling, his utter helplessness, Demetria's expression of
diabolical amusement. Anything but what Amanda was going to do to him. But it
was too late. The moment he was naked, Erika yanked him back up to his knees,
and Ed bowed his head in shame as his humiliating erection suddenly became all
too visible. How could it be so terrifying, and so exciting, all at once?
Tanja laughed at him. "See Ed? Your girlfriend really does you a favour, no?
Nine years in this business," she mused, "and never I see anything quite like
this."
"Oh, you'd know all about it if you handled more of the boys," Erika said
nonchalantly. Her Greek was rather better than her partner's. "I've met a few
that liked having a woman push them around. They're the ones that are fun to get
alone, because the more you hurt them" - she suddenly wrenched Ed's arms up
behind him, so that he moaned in pain - "the more turned on they get. See?" He
could feel her hot breath on the back of his neck as she bore down even harder.
"You like that, boy?"
"Ow - please -"
"Come on, we'd better just get him tied up," said Demetria hurriedly. We're
supposed to meet the English ship around midnight tomorrow."
"Okay, okay," sighed Erika. "There'll be time to play with him on the boat, I
guess." Her grip relaxed a fraction. Tanja pulled a short length of rope from
her pocket and tied his wrists together with practised efficiency, then bent
over to do his ankles.
"You always want to play," she told Erika scoldingly.
"Well, how often do we get our hands on a boy? It's always starving Albanian and
Turkish girls, and half of them are so fucking ugly I don't even understand why
people are willing to pay good money for them. No fun at all. And besides, he's
cute." She pinched Ed's left buttock.
Tanja laughed and said something else, in a language Ed quickly identified as
Serbo-Croatian; you heard quite a bit of that in Greece these days. They kept
chatting, and giggling, as they gagged him and packed him into an enormous
canvas sack. Demetria ruffled his hair affectionately just before they tied it
shut.
"You'll thank me for this someday, Ed, I promise. And don't worry - if anybody
gets to play with you on that boat, it's going to be me, and I'll play nicely.
One last time before we hand you over to your dear friend Amanda, who
incidentally seems to be very upset with you right now."
* * *
"Oh, come on, Mom, let's stay a little longer. I think they're going to beat
that guy! Aren't we supposed to be documenting abuses?"
"You don't need to see a naked man get his ass whipped," replied Andrea's mother
in her twangy Georgia accent. "I've seen them do it on the internet, and it
ain't pretty."
"But we should be filming!" Andrea protested, leaning over so that her generous
bosom pressed against the rail. In the quarry below the two dozen or so male
conscripts, chained at the ankles and naked except for boots and gloves and
safety goggles, were working themselves into a state of sweaty exhaustion as
they split layers of grey slate away from the rockface. Their overseer was a
tall and statuesque brunette, menacing in her crisp uniform and sunglasses, who
prowled around the quarry with a leather strap and didn't hesitate to lash out
at any man who seemed to be faltering in his work. Andrea loved it when she hit
them, loved the way they winced in pain and then attacked their task with
redoubled effort, not daring to defy the overseer with even the briefest glance
of resentment. They were the sort of young men who looked just right for work
like this - strong, well built and rugged, their bodies lean and muscular - and
yet they were as meek and submissive as helpless little kittens.
And better yet, one of them had got himself into more serious trouble,
apparently by making an obscene gesture of some sort at the spectators on the
viewing platform opposite the one where Andrea and her mother were standing.
Another officer had come forward to take him by the arm, and was leading him
toward a vertical wooden post at one end of the quarry. He said something to her
in a low voice Andrea couldn't quite catch, and she promptly yelled at him to
shut up and cracked her strap across his thighs. The sound of the blow echoed
off the quarry walls, and Andrea drew a sharp little breath as she saw his
handsome angular face contort in sudden pain.
Her mother grabbed her arm, in much the same way that the officer down there was
holding the conscript. "Come on, Andrea!" she insisted.
"Mom, this what we've been hoping to see all day! Where's the camera?"
"I just don't want you having nightmares." But she fished the camcorder out of
its bag and switched it on. Andrea turned back to the show, determined not to
let annoyance at the condescending remark interfere with her mood of rising
excitement. Honestly, she was nineteen years old and mature for her age, and the
sight of a man being made to squeal a little was definitely not going to give
her any nightmares. No matter how much her mother lectured her on the subject,
she could never quite bring herself to see all this slavery stuff as a horrible
abomination, although she had learned to nod along with Mom at the appropriate
places. Maybe the thought was sinful - Mom would certainly say so - but the
sight of all those sweaty male bodies toiling away under the harsh threat of the
strap was undeniably erotic. In a way. Maybe it was wrong to round up all the
young men in the country and force them to be slaves, kind of fascist or
something, but wasn't that just the way they'd always done things on this side
of the Atlantic? And besides, anything this sexy couldn't be all bad. She felt a
bit sorry for the men, but she couldn't share her mother's sense of righteous
anger. And it was a good bet that Mom couldn't share her fascination with the
whole thing, either, or even understand it. She would be mortified if she knew
her daughter owned a pair of panties that had been made by a British slave in a
sweatshop, and she would probably die of apoplexy if she found out that her
dear, sweet, god-fearing virginal girl was in the habit of putting them on every
night and masturbating furiously under the covers as she imagined the rows of
naked boys at work at their sewing machines. Chained, cowering as they heard the
booted footsteps of a stern overseer pass behind them, stitching together
intimate female garments and thinking of the firm breasts and smooth thighs of
the women who would wear them, far away and utterly unattainable...
But there were other matters at hand. The man's wrists had been cuffed to the
pole, up above his head, and the officer was loudly admonishing him in a
wonderful Scottish accent to hold still and take it like a man. She kept turning
from one viewing balcony to the other, apparently playing to the spectators to
some extent. This was one of the more accessible conscript labour sites in
Yorkshire, according to the travel guide they'd brought with them from Atlanta,
and there were nearly always a few curious tourists in attendance.
He actually did take it like a man at first, standing rigidly with his muscles
tensed and his fingers tightly gripping the pole as the officer took her strap
to his back and buttocks with a vengeance. Andrea could hear the sharp report of
every blow, and see the welts rising on his naked body. Her mother seemed intent
on her filming, her narrow mouth set in a grim line of disapproval. Andrea had
expected more tears, maybe some struggling and screaming. The strapping couldn't
be all that bad, if he wasn't... And then, suddenly, he broke. A particularly
vicious stroke caught the inside of one thigh, and he howled in pain and began
to writhe and dance under the strap like a man standing on a nest of angry fire
ants. He squirmed and wept, trying desperately to avoid the stinging blows, and
yet they continued in exactly the same sharp, regular rhythm as before. That
bitch (and Andrea meant the term as an unqualified compliment) really knew what
she was doing. The other men seemed to be working a little harder, she saw with
amusement, as if they were afraid they might be next. She supposed she didn't
blame them. But Jesus, men were so adorable when they'd been bullied into
subservience and were being kept under strict discipline. So deliciously,
charmingly, aware of their own vulnerability.
Eventually it stopped, long after the unfortunate man had given up struggling
and slumped against the whipping post in utter defeat. The officer smiled and
raised a hand in acknowledgement as many of the spectators - not all female by
any means - applauded and called for the beating to continue, but nevertheless
released the man and allowed him to gulp a little water from a canteen. She
herded him over to the shade at the edge of the quarry and had him get down on
his knees, his head at her boots.
"Aren't they going to put him back to work?" Andrea wondered aloud.
"Of course they are," snapped her mother with barely suppressed fury. "They're
going to work these poor boys till they're practically keeling over dead, and
then wake them up tomorrow to do it all over again. They're just letting him
rest a couple of minutes, that's all. And what a hell of a way to rest, kneeling
in the dirt like a goddamn animal."
"At least they're being a bit humane," said Andrea, eager not to feel guilty
about the moisture that was slowly saturating her panties.
"There's nothing humane about slavery." She shoved the camcorder back into its
bag, hard enough that Andrea was afraid she might have damaged it. "Don't you
get to thinking there's anything right or decent about any of this. Our family
have been abolitionists ever since before the word was invented, and I don't
like to think we've stamped out human bondage on our side of the pond just to
see it spring up again over here. We're going to help put a stop to it. When I
show folks back home what's on this videotape-"
"I know, Mom, I know. It's going to be great." And never mind, Andrea's inner
cynic added silently, that folks back home or anywhere else in the world can see
all of that and worse just by logging on to the right little corner of
cyberspace. "There's no force in the world like American public opinion." That
was one of her mother's favourite phrases, tacked on for good measure.
"That's my girl! But there's something else, too." She lowered her voice as they
made their way back toward the car they'd rented, which seemed to Andrea to be
rather small, unstable, and dangerous. "Apparently some of the local folks have
formed what they're calling a direct action group against conscription. Their
Manchester cell is meeting this Saturday, and I'm invited."
"Their Manchester cell?" Andrea echoed. "Mom, that sounds seriously creepy."
"Desperate times, darling, desperate times. We've already talked about the best
way to get a shipment of firepower into this country."
* * *
Richard regarded the elegant little package in front of him with a mixture of
curiosity and trepidation. It was small enough to fit on the palm of his hand,
wrapped in glossy ivory-coloured paper and decorated with a frilly pink ribbon
that someone, probably Sara, had tied off in a very elaborate bow. It looked
perfectly charming and innocent, almost too much so for a mistress' gift to her
slave.
"What is it, ma'am?" he asked warily.
"Go on and open it if you want to find out," answered Lady Briddington a little
tartly. "It won't explode, I'll promise you that much."
He couldn't refuse, of course, although part of him wanted to. Ever since he had
emerged from the drugged stupor that had followed that savage beating in the
Playroom, his mistress had been surprisingly gentle with him, to the extent that
he was beginning to feel more like a pampered housepet than a cowering slave.
She had certainly not said anything further about wanting to keep him after his
period of conscription was over, or wanting to separate him from Claire. But for
all her gentleness there was a new purposefulness about her, a sense of steely
determination, that was as unmistakeable as it was subtle. Richard had long
since given up on trying to read her complex, brilliant and yet sometimes oddly
childish mind, but every scrap of intuition he possessed told him that she was
beginning to formulate some very definite and quite probably unpleasant plans
for her hapless slave. Plans that might very well involve surprising him with an
unexpected gift, the first he had ever received from her.
But he had no choice other than to open it. He carefully untied the ribbon,
mindful of her loathing of any sort of messiness, and unfolded the paper to
reveal a small white cardboard box. Lady Briddington leaned forward eagerly as
he lifted the lid, and smiled as his mouth fell open in surprise.
"Ma'am, I don't understand," he blurted.
"Take them out, my dear. Look at them closely."
Inside the box were a pair of old-fashioned toy soldiers, a redcoat and a
Cossack horseman from the Crimean War period, tiny but painted in exquisite
detail. Richard could hardly believe his eyes; he had once had toys exactly like
these as a child, though they had been in somewhat worse shape after a couple of
years of his rough handling. He remembered sending the two on innumerable
imaginary adventures together, not realising that their historical counterparts
had actually taken the battlefield as enemies rather than allies. And he
remembered the heartbreaking day he had left them on a train from Liverpool,
never to be seen again. His mother had searched all the shops for replacements,
without success, and he had always rather regretted losing them. Now Lady
Briddington had given him perfect duplicates. He set them carefully on the table
beside the open box.
"Your mother thought you might like to have these," she told him. "I shall pass
them to her for safekeeping, until you are due for release. It took quite some
time to locate them, so I hope they meet with your approval. A part of your
childhood, are they not?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am! They're just like Ivan and Sir Bexley. It's wonderful to have
them back again. But I still don't understand why you took the trouble to find
them."
"Think of it as a gesture of apology, my dear?"
"For - for what you did to me three weeks ago, ma'am?"
Her smile became wider, and colder. "More for what I intend to do in the near
future. You realise that you are due to be rotated to another work assignment
very shortly?"
"Of course, ma'am. I'll miss you, I really will."
"Perhaps not so much as you think now. You know how these things are. But before
you leave, Ms. Felton-Withers and I intend to organise a small gathering, a kind
of graduation party, for yourself and that lovely boy Aladdin. I have asked Ms.
Reynolds to supervise your transport to the venue we have arranged, and to see
that you are properly prepared. I think you will find the experience most
educational, if not entirely pleasant."
She clapped her hands. "Ms. Reynolds!"
The woman appeared at once from the adjoining room, and nodded at Richard where
he knelt naked by the low table. "Shall I take him now, ma'am?"
"By all means. Remember, he is to remain chained and hooded for the duration of
the trip. I don't want him to see or hear anything that would give him a clue as
to his location."
"Understood, ma'am. Richard! Get over here." He wanted very badly to ask what
they intended to do with him, but of course any such question would be worse
than useless. Since the beating Ms. Reynolds had seemed more terrifying than
ever, and he rushed to obey her, meekly allowing her to cuff his wrists behind
him and lead him downstairs where the hoods were kept with the other restraints.
But he did glance once over his shoulder as they passed out of the room, to see
Lady Briddington looking on with a smooth, expressionless face and eyes that
seemed to burn into the very core of his being.
* * *
Clive's breathing quickened the moment he heard the telephone ring. He hastily
closed the door, pulled down the blind on the window, and snatched it up. If it
turned out to be some bastard selling magazine subscriptions...
"Hello?" he said in a reasonably calm voice.
"Clive darling," Claire purred in his ear. "Have you been waiting by the phone
all afternoon, you poor thing?"
"Not really," he replied, not wanting to admit it.
"Well, you certainly should have been. I thought you promised to be at my beck
and call when I wanted you, silly boy."
"It's not like I was far away - I mean -"
She gave a trill of laughter. "Oh, I'm only teasing, Clive. I seem to be in a
frivolous mood. I just heard from Amanda this morning. She's been working at
that training camp for new conscription officers, you know, and it sounds like
she's turning into quite the lesbian. I had to listen for half an hour while she
told me about all the delicious young ladies in her unit, and how much fun she
had abusing them during the first week or so. Straps on bare bottoms, tongues
and fingertips probing intimate body parts - it was like something you'd find on
one of those dirty websites that seem to be everywhere these days."
"Amanda? I didn't think she went in for that kind of thing. It sounds like an
interesting conversation, though."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to give you too many details. I don't want to
corrupt your innocent little mind." She giggled again. "But it surprises me too.
I suppose it shouldn't. She never had much luck with the boys, the poor
overgrown bitch. She just doesn't know how to make herself attractive. Kind of
reminds me of Attila the Hun with tits, actually, and not even very good ones."
Clive was as startled as he was amused. She didn't usually talk about Amanda
that way. Then again, she'd been insulting everyone lately; it was as if some
long-deactivated gland in her system had suddenly started pumping out bitch
hormones. Maybe she was just worried about not getting any time with Richard,
although that state of things was just fine with Clive. "Tits and a worse
temper," he said aloud. "Did you really have to let her get me alone that
weekend?"
"But darling, she's so good at keeping you naughty little boys in line, you have
to give her that. Speaking of which, are you ready to play?"
"Ready and willing." He wasn't sure when he'd started to actually enjoy these
phone sessions, but now he looked forward to them almost as much as he looked
forward to seeing her in person.
"Good boy. You know how to start."
He put the phone down, undressed, and knelt carefully on the carpet. "I'm naked
for your pleasure, ma'am," he said breathily. "How can I serve you?"
"Have to get you excited first. Go ahead and start stroking, slow to begin with.
I want you to picture me standing over you in my red lingerie, standing so close
you can smell my cunt."
"Oh, yeah."
"A little faster now. I'm rubbing your face into my crotch, and you can
practically taste me through the red satin. Ah, that feels good."
"Please Claire," moaned Clive into the telephone. "I'm so close."
"Then stop for a minute. Grab the head of your cock. Pinch it really hard."
He obeyed, though perhaps he didn't pinch quite as hard as he could have. He
gasped loudly into the phone, well aware that she liked to hear his reactions to
her orders.
"Okay. I've stopped. What now?"
"Depends. Mmm... this feels nice... I haven't stopped, you know. Anyway, do you
want to cum?"
"Fuck! Did Columbus want to find China?"
Her giggle was mixed with another sigh of pleasure. "Okay, then. I'm going to
let you cum, but first you have to do something you really aren't going to like.
Can you do that?"
"Yeah, anything." If it was something really disgusting, he could always just
pretend - it wasn't like she could see him. He'd known all along, of course,
that there'd be more to this than a simple wanking session.
"That's a word you should be very careful with, Clive darling. Anyway, did you
buy that permanent marker yesterday? Like I asked you?"
"Yeah, of course." He fumbled around in the accumulated junk on top of his
dresser, and quickly found it. "Ready."
"Good. I want you write my name on your cock. Remember it will take a little
while to come off, so do it carefully."
Oh, why not? Cradling the phone on his shoulder, he took his swollen penis in
one hand and the marker in the other. "C - L - A - I - R - E... finished."
"Now put 'slut' on your thigh."
"Left or right?"
"Oh, why don't... mmm... why don't we make it both. And now write 'slave cunt'
on your chest. Just be careful not to get any of the letters backwards. Take
your time, Clive. By the way, how's your cock doing?"
"Still good and stiff. Claire, how much longer?"
"It could be a really long time if you keep pestering. And give your cock
another little stroke or two - no, wait, just trace over my name with your
finger. That's the name of the woman who owns you, Clive."
"Yes!"
"Good. You have your lipstick handy?"
"Yeah," he muttered. He didn't like the lipstick - it reminded him of the
lingering humiliation of having to stand in line and purchase it in the first
place, for one thing.
"And your panties? The naughty yellow ones?"
"Yeah."
"That's my boy. Put the panties on now."
"Claire, when can I-"
"Slap your balls," she said briskly, her voice suddenly harsh. He obeyed
instinctively, and moaned in pain.
"I hate it when you interrupt. Put on the panties."
"All right, they're on," he said sullenly.
"Now apply the lipstick. And use it to draw big circles around your nipples and
belly button."
"Done," he sighed after a moment. If Claire expected all this to humiliate him,
it wasn't really working; with no one around to watch, it was just annoying.
"Wonderful! Take a look in the mirror. Tell me how sexy you look."
"Oh, I look like a whore, Claire," he replied rather mechanically. "I look like
such a little slut. I look" - inspiration struck him - "like a bad girl who
really, really needs to get off."
"In a minute!" she giggled. "You sound like a bad girl who is absolutely greedy
and incorrigible. Now when I tell you, you're going to put down the phone, go
look in your mailbox outside - without putting on any other clothes, of course -
and then come back. If anyone stares at you, wave and blow kisses."
"Claire, come on," he whined. "Allen and Kari are probably home by now. They
might see."
"That's good. They have to get used to the idea of living next door to my slave.
Or aren't you really serious about this?"
"Okay, okay. I'm going." He put down the phone, and walked to the front door. He
wouldn't have to do more than put a foot outside to get to the mailbox. Then
again, he didn't really have to get to the mailbox at all. He waited a minute,
then went back to the phone.
"Claire, that was so fucking embarrassing! Kari was out watering the garden, and
she practically ran inside her house when she saw me. What if they call the
police or something?"
"Oh, calm down. What was in the mailbox?"
"Just a couple of bills."
Her sigh came through loud and clear. "Bad girl, Clive. Go back and really look
this time." Shit. She must have had a friend leave something in there. He went
back to the door, thought of how wonderful Claire could be when she was pleased
with him, and pulled it open just enough to slip out, snatch whatever was in the
mailbox, and dart back inside before anyone had the slightest chance of seeing
him. He stepped out onto the porch, and actually screamed aloud when someone
grabbed him by the wrist.
"Hi Clive!" exclaimed Claire cheerfully, brandishing her mobile phone in her
free hand. Thought I'd drop by for a little visit. Come on out here, don't be
shy." There were a dozen or so men and women about his own age gathered on lawn
chairs in front of the house - friends of Claire's, most of whom he remembered
meeting at least briefly at one time or another. The driveway and the street in
front of the house were full of strange vehicles. She pushed him eagerly forward
into the centre of their half-circle and tapped his shoulder. There were giggles
from the women and uneasy murmurs from the men as he dropped obediently to his
knees, blushing. "Oh, he's darling!" squealed a blonde with a plump, cherubic
face. "I was sure he wasn't actually doing all that naughty writing, but look!"
"Oh, Claire, you're so lucky."
Claire's eyes flashed triumphantly. "I think most of you know Clive here. He's
my slave - we're going to make it official as soon as the new matrimony laws
come into force. We've already talked about the nuptial contract, and it's going
to be as extreme as they're allowed to be. It will say I can do anything I want
to him short of severe maiming. He can never initiate divorce, and I get all his
assets. I can have other husbands too, of course, if they agree to the
arrangement. I think I'll make him wear panties like these all the time."
"What if he just won't do it?" asked one of the men a bit nervously. "I
certainly wouldn't."
"Oh, come on, Charlie," another bloke laughed. "You'd look bloody good in
panties."
"If he won't do it," grinned Claire, "I'll punish him. It's not like he can
fight back, at least not without getting arrested - my part of the contract
doesn't consent to any domestic violence. No, I'll have the poor boy by the
bollocks, just the way I like him." Clive kept his eyes on the ground,
humiliated beyond belief.
"Sounds like a wonderful way to live happily ever after," said another female
voice. Somebody wearing sensible brown shoes. "Some goddess must be smiling on
the women of Britain these days."
"Not just women," Charlie protested. "I mean, it could go either way, right?"
"Well, theoretically. I even know a gay couple who are planning to sign a really
one-sided nuptial. But honestly, Charlie, how many women are going to agree to
be on the receiving end of something like that? It's different for men - after
all, they're going to spend two years learning how to be good slaves, so it'll
seem natural to them, and anyway they're already used to doing stupid,
ridiculous things for the amusement of the women in their lives. Speaking of
which, you're due to be conscripted yourself next time round, aren't you? Come
round to my place sometime and I'll give you a little practice taking orders."
Again, female laughter and sounds of male discomfort; this was getting
positively creepy.
"Very funny," Charlie spluttered. "You know, we never should have let you girls
out of the kitchen."
"Oh, goodness!" Claire exclaimed. "That reminds me. Clive, go inside and whip up
some kind of snack for us, and get everyone drinks of course. And you might want
to hang up the phone, too. Find out what everyone wants - that's a good boy.
We'll spank him with my special paddle if he gets mixed up. Welcome to the New
Britannia!"
