It goes against my better judgment to talk to her, much less have her in this house. The decision is not mine, however. This is the work of Maelstrom. And as long as he is writing the checks that make my life possible here at Singing Wind, who am I to argue?

It is a very good life.

She is, young, perhaps late twenties, early thirties, blonde with perfect legs; feet on one end and ass on the other. The fact that her ass can only be considered a 9 ½ is only because I have never seen a true 10. Meeting her at the door to my study, I offer my arm to escort her in, the perfect gentleman. I purposely situate her body out of my line of sight. I want only to concentrate on her face. It is not a beautiful face. No, not beautiful, Beautiful is too bland an adjective. She is interesting, intelligent, and smooth. These adjectives work. . She is magnificent, utterly magnificent. Perhaps you think I exaggerate, but this is not the case. I have made a life study of women and fancy myself a connoisseur of feminine flesh and character. To put it in the vernacular of my trade, this is a five million dollar cunt. And this was the strangest recruitment interview I have ever conducted.

“…and he told me I could count on you to fully acclimate me to the facility.” She told me in a flat tone, delivered with even a flatter look on her face. She was sizing me up and at the same time, trying to maintain her dignity. Dignity is a strange thing to women. This one views me as powerful and I am. But she also thinks I’m the lowest form of life on the planet. Be nice to the lowlife, the pervert. How genteel. I may be, too, all that and more. I trade in flesh. I am the first link in the White Slave chain store. Now I find myself interviewing a genuine, card carrying member of the fourth estate, the press, the New York Times. She is sitting across my from me, in my study, wearing a short skit and no panties hoping to entice me. To be honest, I had no idea whether to laugh or laugh uncontrollably.

“My facility,” I intoned just as flatly. “This entire facility, as you put it, is mine. Its conception, construction, and implementation are the produce of my thoughts, dreams and desires. It exists because one man dared to dream a dream and is willing to pay the price of seeing his ideas bear fruit. And yes, you can count on me to fully acclimate you to Singing Winds.” I let these words, the latter delivered with sarcastic mirth and trail off to the proverbial pregnant pause, as I’d heard my aunt say, if not a million times, then close. Her flat look was still plastered to her face but it didn’t go all the way to her eyes, though. Her eyes were flinty. I would not swear to it, but it seemed her breathing had hiccupped, just a small catch. She glanced at her notebook as if she needed to refresh her memory, and I think that is true, in so far as the thread of her memory is unraveling.

“Exactly, where am I?” She asked.

“You are in The House of Singing Wind.” I replied, hinting in my voice that this was an illogical question.

“I mean, exactly where is the House of Singing Wind? Generally speaking, I don’t want to know the GPS coordinates or anything, just where I am.” Her confidence was returning, though not to full force.

“Generally speaking, on Earth. Great pains have been taken to assure my privacy, my client’s privacy and the privacy of my novitiates. You are an investigative reporter. Investigate. The precautions we have taken with you are the same that any client, the hired help, or the newly chosen experience. Blindfold, hood and blacked out windows on my jet. No contact with the crew. Timing the flight won’t help, either. The flight lasts between nine and eleven and three quarter hours.

“Singing Winds has been in operation for fourteen years. I do the recruiting, the scheduling, the transportation, and have personally directed the curriculum.” Curriculum, what a concept! I think the word “program” would be a more likely term, so I correct my self. “I like to think of it as the program.” At this, I see her visibly swallow hard. Her confidence is waning.

“The program,” she repeated, “exactly what does that involve?” I cannot stop the small smile that is tugging at the corner of my mouth. She is trying to be the reporter, always analytical. I wondered how long that was going to last. Perhaps forever, perhaps not past tomorrow.

“It’s a training program, pure and simple.” At this, I stood and clasped my hands behind my back and knew I was about to lecture. And she was completely in my view again. “We train concubines, servants, slaves, fuck toys, whores, sluts, or whatever you want to call uncompensated human beings that are owned, controlled, used, abused and held in servitude. We train them to understand the importance of serving another, completely, in any manner prescribed by the client. What the client desires, we provide. The actual crux of the matter is that each novice is here of their own volition.” I chuckled, “An all volunteer force, if you will, striving to be the best they can. They have the desire to serve, to be of service and to be compliant. We foster that desire, we mold that desire, and we hone it to a fine edge. That is the Program. What is it you desire? You’ve got your full story now, you can write your article and enlighten the world about Singing Wind. You have seen all you will see and told all you will be told.” I turned and started toward the door.

“No, wait!” She implored to me. “I want to have the full picture I want to know what it’s like to be in the House of Singing Wind, the experience, talk to the others. I want my story to be fact based on my own experience not perceptions. I’ve flown here, to God knows where and you’re ready to send me off? Maelstrom promised me a story and I’m here to get it and I mean to get it.” There was fire in her eyes now and the small smile was again licking at the corners of my mouth. She was close to saying what she needed to say, but not quite there. “I want to see what the novices go through, I want that.”

“No!” I almost barked, “That is not going to happen. Maelstrom does not own this place and I’m not his servant. I’m under no obligation to show you anything. I’ve told you what you wanted to know about this place. Go back to New York and make up what you’d like about Singing Wind. It exists, you’ve seen it.”

In almost a girlish tone she said what I’d known she’d say, eventually, I was taken completely by surprise by how quickly and timidly it came.

“I want to be trained.”

And that was that and I knew an article would never be written.

I walk over and stand before her. I know what my eyes look like boring into her and I am looking quite through her. I can taste the fear stirring in her soul. I can feel the intensity building in the muscles of my face. I can smell her very well now, her perfume, her perspiration, her cunt. I can feel my voice box tighten, ready to take on the raspy quality that comes with “The Voice”. I watch as her hands tighten their grips on the arms of her chair, her knuckles going white. I stop 3 paces from her chair.

“Kneel.” My voice is deep, the word perfectly annunciated.

She does not move, so I repeat: “Kneel.” My voice is even, almost slow. It is not a whisper, it is very conversational with enough conviction to let her know I am in no mood for games. Still, she does not move. As slowly as I can, I close the distance between us and as my right foot comes to rest next to my left, my right hand flashes from my side, a flick, fast as a fighter’s jab, I slap her. The sound reverberates in the stillness of my office. I think to myself that I will never forget this look in her eye. She is stunned, but she does not become hysterical. This time when I say “Kneel.” in the same, even tone of the last two commands, she slides smoothly to the floor into a kneeling position.

“Pleasure me.” Same slow, quiet, melodious tone. Again, she looks at me with an uncomprehending look. “Suck me, blow me, slurp the schlong, smooch the root, give Mr. Johnson a kiss, eat me, do the deep throat, puff the penis, bob the knob, you give me long time sucky-sucky, give me head. Do what your told, when you’re told. Are there any questions?” I slap her smartly again. “No? Well, that’s just fine.”

And deftly, her hands go to my fly to release my cock from confinement, her lips part and she envelopes the shaft into her warm, moist mouth. Her eyes close and, I’m sure her motivation is to get this over as quickly as possible. I make suggestions as to speed, tongue usage, teeth positioning, and she quickly learns to gently and devotedly bring me to climax. Dutifully, she swallows every drop of cum I pump into her mouth.

My orgasm does not stop her ministrations until I gently pushed her mouth from me, the sensation is too intense to deal with for long. I could swear that I see disappointment furrow her brow as I pull my manhood from her lips. Then, she looks up at me. I say nothing for a long moment. “When you are done with something, put it away,” I say. And dutifully, she does. I walk back to my desk and discreetly push a small button. Almost immediately, the door opens and an Asian woman with a dour look on her face walks in. “This is Soledad. You will call her Mistress Sollie. She is going to play show and tell with you. Show you what you need to see and tell you what you need to know. Sollie, this bitches name is Slut. Take very good care of her or we just might need a session with the barbed wire flogger.” Oh, the look on Slut’s face upon hearing this reminded me of the credit card commercial. Priceless. As fast as cat, Sollie places an iron collar on Slut’s neck and slips a leash in place and leads her away. Slut, too shocked and stunned to protest, crawls away on her hands and knees like a dutiful puppy.

Chapter 2 – Li

The morning is hot and muggy and there is little doubt there will be rain in the jungle before noon. From the tree line, we watch as people from the surrounding villes began to congregate in a clearing, a cul-de-sac, one road both in and out. There is little to do but wait and see what is going on. The Laotian-Thailand border is notorious as a portal for arms and supplies from China via Laos, across Thailand into Cambodia and on into Vietnam. What is most curious about this gathering is the predominance of men and children, mostly young women. To my eye, I am certain these are families. Tran Ngo, the team’s translator, sidles up to me to apprise me of the situation, for my ears only.

“These farmers, very poor. Come to sell children. Not come to meet to meet Cong. No guns, no rice.”

I was stunned. “Why?” I asked.
”No money, no food. Girl childs no be married, no money, no buffalo to give to husband’s family, boys too young to work to rice paddies. Farmers has many children, many mouth to feed. If no can work, no can feed. Better sell than kill or starve.” He said this with a matter of fact dignity. This was the oriental way: He would make no judgments. His flat look told me that I was in no position to judge, either.

When his report is finished, Tran evaporates as silent as a ghost just as a mid fifties vintage Cadillac pulls into the clearing. My fist shoots up in a tight fist next to my ear. My index finger goes strait up, waggles back and forth once and then I make the peace sign. None of the men in the team need any explanation for the signal: Freeze, take cues from me, safeties on. Also, the men know exactly who is driving the Caddy. It is Dirty Mary, the mamasan of a bar by the same name in downtown Bangkok.

“Looks like Mamasan’s on a mission to buy some new hookers.” Miller says. “Fresh meat and I’m three months from mid tour R&R.” He said this almost disgustedly. Virgins go for a premium bar fine and are very sought after on their first night working the second floor at Dirty Mary’s..

I flash “on me” and say out loud, “The smoking lamp is lit.” I pull a Lucky from my pocket and made a big production of lighting it, not caring if the clicking noise of my Zippo carries into the clearing and I begin walking toward the gathering crowd. The sight of five men carrying weapons sends a ripple of tension through the group, but they quickly realize that we are not Thai Federal Police and they relax. Dirty Mary recognizes Miller right away. I suppose spending the paychecks saved for five months in a week at a whorehouse can really popularize a person and she breaks out into a ever widening grin.

“You number one, GI, Millersan!” she cries out. That just about did it for me. I had the urge to butt stroke her upside her toothless head. I hate the way the gooks are always slipping into Japanese sounding Pigeon English; always calling us “Number One”. I am pretty sure that number is signified by the middle finger, but I ignore her.

I motion for Tran to get his ass over to me and point to a farmer standing next to a young girl. “Ask him how old she is,” I order. Tran did and the farmer went into a diatribe that lasted a lot longer than just stating a number.

“‘He say, she fifteen and very strong. Can pick grass out of rice patty long time, pick rice too. She good cook and make many baby, all boy.” The look on my face upset the farmer and filled him with fear. This seems to be Dirty Mary’s cur to begin to examine the girl. It reminded me of grizzled old ranchers examining breed stock before an auction at stockyards back, back in the world in Oklahoma. She fells the girl’s breasts through her rough blouse and pulls back her woven hat to pick at her hair and part her lips to look at her teeth, teeth that were perfect in spite of never having been seen by a dentist in their lifetime. Then, she began to dicker with the farmer. I looked a Tran and he said “She say she give 500 baht.” Twenty-five American dollars.

“Tell him I give one thousand,” and so the price war began. Back and forth the bidding goes until the figure reaches ten thousand baht. Finally, Dirty Mary gives me a disgusted look and spits at my feet. “You no come to my bar, no more, Lieutenantsan!”

“Not a problem,” I said, and spit right back at her feet. I paid the farmer who without another look at his daughter, turns and walks away, towards the woods and Laos. Mary makes an awful sound in my direction and Tran starts to translate. I hold up my hand him. “I know what she said, Tran.”

I walk away, also back toward the woods, to the Landing Zone where we’ll be picked up. Tran just looks at me and then says “You boo koo dinky dau!” “Yep, Tran, one crazy motherfucker, I just spent ten thousand nickels, five hundred bucks on a human being!”

I awake with a start and come instantly alert as I always do when I have this dream. You can take the boy out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the boy. A soft hand caresses my cheek and I look into two limpid brown pools of light that are Li’s eyes. I think she knows what I am dreaming about but she never says a word, and snuggles closer to me, placing her tiny hand on my chest. I am awake and will be for the rest of the night. I patiently wait for her breathing return to a rhythmical steady beat before I leave the bed. I have a lot to think about, the least of which is how Li came to be in my life. The dream that was not always a dream sometimes disturbs me.

I leave my private wing of Singing Winds heading towards the staff cells; I want to talk to Sollie before I leave. Without knocking, I walk right in to her room. Even if there were a lock on her door, I knew it would be unlocked. I reach into my pocket for the Zippo that has been in my pocket for the last thirty years, minus the four months three years ago when it took a little vacation to Bradford, Pee Ay, back in the good ole’ You Ess of Ay for some of that good old lifetime warranty service. Made it the U.S. of A may not mean shit in Detroit, but Pennsylvania is a whole different ball game.

I could have turned on the lights, but when talking to Sollie, especially, I find candlelight soothing. I open the lid of the lighter slowly and quietly and light a taper on her bed table and this does not wake her. On the other side of her bed, leaning against the wall I make out a shape. Picking up the candle, I move to the other side of the bed and can’t help but smile. No wonder Sollie doesn’t wake up seems she was busy far into the night.

Leaning against the wall is a rough cross with a limp body tied to it. The eyes are closed and I can see the eyes rapidly moving in REM dream-sleep. Ahh, the dreams of Slut; these are dreams that could interest me. Softly I touch her lips and an involuntary shiver courses down her body but she does not wake. She is beautiful, her breasts are full and pendulous, with a light sheen of perspiration that glistens in the candlelight. I can see that she is wearing a chastity devise. I don’t need to guess that her cunt and ass are filled and well filled at that. The slickness on her thighs also says that I don’t have to guess that it might be KY jelly. I return to the far side of the bed, lean down and give Sollie’s cheeks several light taps. Her eyes pop open and move side to side rapidly, unfocused. Finally, her eyes settle on my face and she recognizes me. She quietly slips out of bed and onto her knees. I sit on her bed feeling the warmth of her body still in the sheets. She knee walks forward and settles between my thighs, Idly I begin to stroke her black hair as she looks into my eyes with a shy smile that lights her entire face.

“Rough night?” I ask. Her smile broadens and just as suddenly she is serious. “Are you sure this one should be here?” She asks softly, nodding toward Slut. “There’s a lot of spirit in her. I’m not sure if she’s taking training because she wants it or because it gets her what she wants.” I knew exactly what she meant. “Sollie,” I said, “Don’t question her motives, and just train her to the best of your, and her, abilities.” I think she wanted to talk more about this but she knew the discussion was over. It is now time to listen to me.

“I’m leaving this morning; I’m going to see Maelstrom about this one and run some other errands. Don’t try too hard to break this one. And be extremely careful, I don’t know yet if this is someone’s property. Not that I really care, but if she belongs to Malestrom then it’s going to cost him the same she would fetch at auction to training her. Just in case, leave something out because Maelstrom thinks he can finish a slave’s training regimen.” We smiled at each other at this. “If that’s the case, I think this one might be at Singing Wind for a very long time,” I added and Sollie nodds in agreement.

I crane my head back as if to look at the ceiling and begin to rotate my head, eyes closed, feeling the gravel in my neck and spine grate bone to bone as I try to relax. I feel Sollie’s hand go into the fly in my silk pajamas and slip inside. I looked down at her and lightly grab her wrist to stop her. “Li’s already taken care of that,” I said. Rolling over on my side, I stretch out on Sollie’s bed. I am awake and know I won’t fall back asleep, but I am exhausted, the way I always feel after the dream. Sollie crouches at the end of the bed and begins to massage my feet. I close my eyes and give into the sensation she is sending up my sciatic nerve that culminates in a tingling sensation just behind my right ear. I roll onto my back and I feel her take my toes between her warm, moist lips, sucking my toes, pulling them between her lips as if they were tiny cocks. She runs her tongue between my toes and then licks up their lengths. She takes all five on each foot into her mouth at once and runs her tongue around each one. She then began to lick the entire foot with deliberate, long, tongue strokes. I raise my head and look down at her, her features softened by the glow of the candle, her face serene in her devotion to the worship of my feet. I lay back, closed my eyes and completely lose myself in her ministrations. She works on, sensually and methodically, into the night.

I wake, again, to light streaming through the high window of Sollie’s cell. I am in her bed, covered up, feeling snuggly warm. Slut is not tied to the cross any longer and I am quite alone in Sollie’s room. I throw back the covers and get to my feet, stretching broadly. I feel totally refreshed and alert, not totally unlike the mornings I awoke in the jungle a million years ago: Totally ready for any contingency. Briskly, I leave the room and head back to my quarters. Have to get a move on. Today, I’m to be a traveling man.

Chapter 3 – Changelings

Gently, Sollie tucks her master into her bed as the graying sky of morning was brightening her cell enough to see with out a light. Slut, tied to her cross is still sleeping the sleep of the dead. Sollie can see a ropy line of spittle falling from the corner of Slut’s mouth dribbling onto her left breast and this makes her smile. Picking a pair of soiled panties from the hamper next to her dresser, she retrieves a roll of duct tape from the bottom drawer. Moving silently to the sleeping form tied to the cross, she tears off half a foot and sticks it to the lower edge of the cross piece. She reaches out and pinches Slut’s nostrils causing her mouth to open and stuffs the balled up the panties deeply into Slut’s mouth and quickly secures her mouth with the tape.

Slut’s eyes flash open almost immediately wondering why this Filipino bitch would not leave her alone. The gag in her mouth did not allow for any noise to escape her. Solly moved close to her ear and spoke softly,

“Look in my bed.”

Slut did as she was told surprised to see the man she had met only the day before, the one who had sent her into hell with this bitch from hell who has seemingly worked her over the entire night. Just as quickly, she realizes that Mistress Sollie has not been working on her all night; she has been asleep standing tied to the cross. Her eyes go back to Mistress Solly. What surprised most is that that is exactly how she is thinking about this Asian woman: Mistress Sollie.

“Make one sound that wakes him up and your whole day will be irreversibly fucked up in the first 30 seconds you are awake.”

Slut thinks to herself that the day is already pretty much fucked up waking up tied to a cross, with a pair of panties taped in your mouth, wearing a chastity belt with a dildo up your ass and cunt wearing only what must be really nice bruises on her ass and tits being ordered around by what her brother (who’d done a tour in the Marines) would call a LBRPFM’s, which is short for Little Brown Rice Powered Fucking Machines. No, she thinks, days do not come any more fucked than this. “Understand?” Solly barks softly.

Slut nodded dumbly.

Taking a leash from a hook on the wall, Solly clipps it deftly to the collar around Slut’s neck and unties first her ankles and then her wrists. As she is lowered to the floor her shoulder joints make a loud popping sound. They are numb and leaden. Sollie gives Slut a hard look. “You know what position you are to be in when you are on the leash,” she hissed.

Slut dropped to all fours and is promptly and unceremoniously led out of the cell and into the morning light. Sollie keeps her moving at a rapid pace and Slut finds she can not keep up and quickly adjusts by coming up off her knees and onto the balls of her feet moving in a crab like fashion. Awkward as this was, she finds that she can now keep up with her Mistress. Abruptly, Sollie stops. Intent on keeping her balance, Slut does not realize this until the leash became taut and spills her on her face.

“Pay attention!” Sollie snaps. She grabs Slut’s collar and jerks her to her knees. Roughly, she rips the duct tape that covering her mouth and Slut can not stifle a cry and involuntarily a hand goes to her mouth to rub her lips. Her breath is coming in ragged gulps as she tries to catch her breath and spit the panties from her mouth. Slut has been in constant torment since leaving the study yesterday and Mistress Sollie has given her little respite since coming into her charge. The sleep she’d had on the cross had been poor, at best and fatigue was now her constant companion.

“We are now going into breakfast. I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday, but don’t bolt your food. Eat what you are given and don’t you dare ask for more. As a matter of principle, don’t talk at all. That is unless being tutored in manner is what you want from me, then, well, just piss me off.” Sollie gives Slut a sardonic and wryly sadistic smile at this while looking down at the wretched form of Slut, kneeling in the sandy grass with puffy eyes and raw knees, generally looking pitiful.

Slut thinks she wants to do more than just piss Mistress Solly off. She wants to grab a handful of hair and jerk her to the ground and give her a taste of her own medicine, but something tells her this was not even a remotely good idea. These thoughts, against her will, telegraph to her face. Sollie smiles, reached out and twists her left nipple cruelly saying, “You better think again. That good idea you are thinking right now may not be such a good idea in reality.” And Slut blushes bright red and tears began to course down her face. How in the name of fuck can she know what she is thinking?

Sollie turns and with hard tug on the leash, Slut begins to follow at a slower pace. They enter a building through a large doorway and she is led to a low bench before a long table and is given the order to stand. To her amazement, as she looks around the room, she is surprised to find the room filled with at least ten long tables and each has at least a dozen women standing just as she is. On the table before each place is a bowl of what can be best described as mush. A small bell rings and the women, in mass, sit in their respective places. Sollie has to give a small jab into Slut’s back to get her to follow suit. When she sits, the dildo from chastity device in her ass is noticeably uncomfortable and she is shocked to realize that her bodily needs are becoming pressing: She has to pee very badly. She sees that all the women have lowered their faces into the bowls and are eating. Sollie grabbed a handful of Slut’s hair and shoves her face into the bowl and she began to lap at the contents so as not to drown. Sollie says in a low voice “I’ll see you tomorrow, behave.” And she is gone. Slut does not see Mistress Solly for the next eighteen hours.

* * *

Slut is amazed that the contents of the bowl tastes delicious and she begins to eat greedily. She raises her eyes enough to see the girl across from her looking at her, her face and nose sticky and covered with the creamy mush.

“It’s breadfruit,” the girl whispers. No sooner than this is said, a hand pushes the girl’s face back into the bowl roughly.

“You want to eat or you at high tea this morning? Shoot the shit on your own time!”

Looking up, Slut sees a very large woman standing behind the girl holding her face in the bowl and then grabs a handful of hair and lifts her face from it bringing her to an upright position. The girl, her face now covered completely with her breakfast, opens her soft brown eyes and smiles softly at Slut.

“Thank you mistress for correcting this wayward bitch,” she says in an even voice. The woman only grunts and gives the girl’s head a shove. The girl only smils again and resumed eating.

She points a riding crop at Slut and barks, “Get your face back in that bowl if you know what’s good for you,” and then walks on.

Trying to take in as much of the scene as possible, Slut does not finish her meal before the small bell rings and once again, in unison, the women all rise. She can only look back at her unfinished meal and frown. The women deftly step back over the benches and reached their hands out to either side to clasp the hands of the women to either side. Slut did like wise. The women on her side of the table executed a left face, while those opposite performed a right face maneuver and the women file out two abreast for where Slut knows not.

* * *

Waking up in Sollie’s bed, I leisurely stretch out before leaving her cell and walk toward the beach rather than my quarters. Once on the beach, I contort my body with exercise to stretch out my leg and back muscles before I start out at an easy gait. Quickly tiring in the loose, dry sand, I ease down past the tide line on to the hard, wet packed sand and pick up the pace. I watch for my markers and in just over 13 minutes I punch out two and half miles thinking about nothing other than the blue in blue of the South China Sea off to my left. The hot, humid morning has me drenched in sweat and as I slow to a cooling walk, I can smell Sollie on me and that, perhaps, is also tinted with the smell of Slut.

Back at my quarters, I shower and change into a freshly pressed white Panama suit. Li has laid my clothes neatly out on the valet before the triple tailor’s mirrors and I can not help but admire the figure I cut. I am not a vain man, in the least, but I am amazed at how a tailored suit makes a man look. I think of Charles Laughton or Sidney Toler, the actor who played Charlie Chan and how good they always looked in a Panama suit, I never thought I would look so good. Knowing that Li has never seen a Charlie Chan movie or has any clue as to whom Charles Laughton might be, I am struck by her sense of style.

Just out the door my quarters, I found a jeep waiting on the cobblestone drive. In the driver’s seat is a young blonde woman and sitting in the rear seat is a dark, mysterious Hindu goddess. She is dressed in a cream silk blouse and dark A line skirt. The driver is naked save for a collar with a silver tag engraved ‘Cocksucker’. Not a word is spoken as I get into the front seat as the driver puts the jeep in gear and smoothly speeds out of the drive to the road leading toward the airfield. The trip takes less than 5 minutes even though the car never reaches a speed above 15 miles per hour. As the field comes into view, I can see the Gulfstream sitting on the tarmac as a lone figure completes a walk-around inspection as the tail strobe light flashes in the gathering sunlight of morning. I know instinctively that the inspector is Tommy Milkman, a bright, handsome lad, who you might mistake for preppy if it weren’t for his deep southern drawl, a true Son of Georgia. Tommy had learned to fly in the Air Force, flying lumbering cargo planes. He had longed to slip the surly bounds of Earth in the cockpit of an F-16, but had only qualified to fly the Military’s version of the Douglas DC-9, great training if your dream was to fly forever and ever for an airline, but that really sucked if you had the need for speed and Tommy had the need for speed very bad.

In the cockpit was J.D. McAlester. Mac had been my roommate at the Boat School, the Naval Academy, and captain of the crew team. He had been an Aerospace major, while I am a mere English major. He had dreamed of the sky since his childhood. From the time he was ten, every thought, every action was designed to get him into the cockpits of jets. And it had worked. F-4 Phantoms in Vietnam, almost becoming an ace and later he flew F-14A Tomcats. However, the Tomcat had bitten. In a training exercise, the immense weight of the aircraft over powered by a pair of Pratt and Whitney TF 30’s had managed to flat spin. By the time recovery of the aircraft had quit being an academic probability and had became a firm impossibility, the decision to eject had already been made by the Naval Flight Officer, a man who J.D. will only speak of by his call sign, Zippo. Coming out of the cockpit with the force and speed of a rocket strapped to their asses, the men were accelerated by ten gravities of thrust. Zippo’s body was never recovered while J.D.’s Martin-Baker ejection seat worked as advertised to float him into the Mediterranean Sea safely. He was cleared by the Board of Inquiry but, never the less, the injuries he suffered that day prevented him from ever sitting in the driver’s seat of a jet aircraft again, that is, until I bought him this Gulfstream, with a severe warning that eternity would be a nightmare of epic proportions if he killed me in the goddamn thing. Truth was, he was my best friend: If we died together, we’d toast the devil with his own scotch and spit in his eye.

Pulling along side the aircraft, Cocksucker brought the jeep to a smooth stop. I gave the driver’s left nipple a pinch and a tug and said with a smile, “Thank you, Cocksucker.”

“The pleasure is mine, Milord.” She says with a sweet smile, enjoying the manipulation of her nipple a little too much.

As the other passenger unloads my traveling case along with two suitcases of her own and lugs them toward the plane, I go strait over to Tommy waiting by the cargo hatch and exchange pleasantries as we wait for the girl to bring the luggage. Setting the three cases on the ground near the plane, she gracefully drops to her knees to bend forward to kiss Tommy’s shoes. I stifled a laugh as this is one of those things that is an embarrassment to Tommy and he can only look at me sheepishly.

“Get aboard,” I tell her and lightly touch her forehead as she rises to her feet.

“Where to Boss?” He is clearly relieved that the girl is leaving to board the aircraft.

“Hong Kong, Miss Singh has a date at an auction this evening at the Hilton and then we’re all going to get a massive steak and really drunk at Ned Kelly’s Last Stand on the Kowloon side. J.D.’s buying.”

“Does he know that?”

“Not yet,” I smiled, “you can break that part to him.”

And with that, I board the plane to take my seat.

Chapter 4 – An interlude between worlds

Tommy came through the cabin door after securing the fuselage compartments, folded the stairway and started to close the hatch behind him. Miss Singh came up behind him and lightly touched his arm. He turns and almost immediately the blush he had had outside on the tarmac was back. She can see it and his eyes, eyes that said he was a man unaccustomed to being in close proximity of such a beautiful woman, one that responds in a way that no woman in Tommy’s world ever responds. I watch as his Adams apple bobs in a very long swallow. She looks directly into his light blue eyes with her soft doe eyes.

“I will secure the door,” she says softly, so softly that in the distance between us, two seats, I can only make out the word door. Tommy slowly nods and turns and goes into the cockpit and gently closes the privacy curtain behind him. I imagine that he has sat down in the co-pilot’s chair rather quickly. Seeing him with a hard on would keep J.D. in stitches for months. Tommy does not care for the world on the other side of the island and I respect that. While he respects what it is I have built here and why I do it, it is something that he keeps a respectful distance from.

Miss Singh has been known for the last two years as Knob Bobber. Before that, she was known as Amahdee and twelve hours from now she will be known, as Linda, The Pretty One, for the rest of her life. She now stands at the door for a long time looking out taking in the scene and breathing in the warm, tropical air deeply. She makes no sound. The auxiliary power unit comes on line and the sound level rises noticeably and the cabin lights momentarily flicker. The unit begins to spool up as high pressure air makes it way to the compressor sections of the plane’s engines. At this, Miss Singh tugs on the tether to close the door and locks the handle in place. When she turns, she is crying. The sobs deep inside her chest are being restrained, but not very well. The tears, large and free flowing course down her cheeks streaking her makeup. Without looking at me, she takes her seat and buckles herself in. The jet turns at idle speed for about two minutes, taxies to the end of the runway, turns and accelerates in one fluid maneuver. Three minutes after engines start, we are in the air and “feet wet”, over the water. Miss Singh’s sobbing does not abate and her tears seem ceaseless.

I reached over and touch her arm. Her eyes meet mine. Her tears freshen.

“I cannot go, I am not ready,” she says.

“Yes,” I say simply. And with tears streaming unashamedly down her face, she laughs. A deep laugh, a normal, funny laugh, as if hearing a joke.

“Yes, I’m not ready or yes, I’m not?”

“Pick one,” I smile, “because what I think is of no import. It’s what you think that counts. Remember your first days here? Think about then, how badly you wanted this day to come.”

“First days? How about the better part of the first year! I wanted to be taught to be something other than me. How could I know that what I needed was to be taught to be treated like property? How would I know that I would love that? No, I don’t think I’m ready. I know I am not ready.” She said the last with conviction.

“You’re ready. Open the window shade and take a look.”

I touch the key to the intercom and bark “J.D., turn around. Give the island a flyby then do it again at 90 degrees.” I meant for it to sound like a request but it sounded more like an order.

He did just as I’d asked. We cruise the island about a mile off at just over a thousand feet up. I watch as Miss Singh cranes her neck to see the island come into view, watch it pass, and crane her neck again to see it pass behind us. After a long slow turn, the island comes into view again and she does the same again. Some time after it has passed from her view, forever, she closes the shade and turns to me. The tears are back and I soften.

“You can live your old life until we land.”

With that, she stands and slowly slides down the zipper of the skirt and lets it fall. She carefully unbuttons her blouse, removes it, and carefully folds her clothes so not to wrinkle them. She then unhooks her bra and slips from it and stands naked before me. She is not wearing any panties. From my jacket pocket, I take out a collar with a small silver tag that reads “Knob Bobber”. She kneels before me so that I can place it back on her neck and I am greeted with the sweetest smile I have ever seen.

* * *

Slut and the others silently leave the dining hall two abreast into the morning sunshine. The sound of an airplane draws her eyes skyward and she watches the small jet aircraft pass from left to right. She wanted to stop and watch it but when she slowed down the woman behind her ran into her and dropped her mentally back into reality. She knows it is the same plane that she had boarded in Honolulu, what, two, three days ago? She is dawdling and can tell the girl behind her is growing impatient with her as she is squeezing her hand sharply.

She fells like a schoolgirl again, walking in line with other girls, holding hands front to back, going to the lavatory in the library building at her elementary school, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. As she looks as far up the line as she can, she sees that they all wear the same uniform. A lack of uniform actually, but uniform all the same. Each woman wears a polished black collar adorned with a silver tag and four inch black stiletto pumps. She is the only one different in the fact she is the only one wearing a chastity belt. This fact brings a new thought. Is this because she is new or is this because the belt signifies dunce?

She takes in her surroundings and is surprised at the campus like atmosphere. The courtyard is a quadrangle, surrounded by 6 buildings that she can see with an unknown number behind her and she dares not to turn to count buildings. Further, she cannot see anyone who appears to be in charge. They are crossing the quad two abreast, marching in step the only noise is the clicking of their heels reverberating off the surrounding buildings in unison. This made her remember Sister Rose, who, while strict, had made school somewhat fun. Sr. Rose had taught the girls to hum the theme song from the Adams’ Family Show” in their heads to help them stay in perfect step with a proud march. And just as suddenly she realized that tune was playing in her head and she was walking in perfect harmonious step with what she guessed to be fifty women.

The last two girls at the rear in each column suddenly dropped the hands of the girls in front and sprinted to the front of the formation to open and hold the doors of the building directly in front of them. The column of two marched directly into the building with out missing a beat, proud and strong. Just as the last of the women passed the portal, the door guards quickly closed the doors and the formation broke up in to a cacophony of sound as the formation dissolved and every one in the group relaxed.

Slut stands there in disbelief as the women begin to chat, sit on the floor and take off their stilettos and massage their feet and calves. The girl next to her, who is still wearing the breadfruit mush on her face, points at Slut’s chastity belt and says “Want some help getting that thing off?”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed.” She says dumbfounded.

The girl just smiles. “Yes, you are. It’s bath time and for the next six hours nobody will tell you what to do….” She trails off and reaches for the silver tag on Slut’s collar and reads the inscription. “…Slut,” she finishes. “This is our time and my name is Allpussy.” She sticks out her hand and with a growing smile shakes Slut’s hand.

She then spins Slut around and begins to work on the buckles of the chastity belt.

“So, you got orientation from Sollie? Oh, I know that because she has her initials

tooled into this thing. I hate this fucking thing.”

As the strap that runs between her legs falls forward, it relieves the pressure on the dildos that impale her. Allpussy reaches around from behind and plucks the dildo from her pussy and holds it up before her face. It is made from polished ebony wood and despite of the fact she has probably worn it for over eight hours, it glistens with moisture from her cunt. Allpussy leans close to her ear to speak to her in a low tone of voice.

“If one of these comes out of any of your holes in Mistress Sollie’s presence, you’d best take it in that pretty little mouth of yours and lick clean as Buddha’s cock. She loves to see them worshipped.” Allpussy then brushes the wooden cock across Slut’s lips. Slut gets the idea and opens her lips and takes the object into her mouth and begins to lovingly clean it. Before she could get fully into the act, Allpussy spins her around again and pulls her close so that they are cunt to cunt. The chastity belt drops to the floor, and reaches around and pulls the second dildo from Slut’s ass. Holding it next their faces, Slut turns to look at it. Allpussy says, “This one too!” Before Slut can do anything, Allpussy tosses the dildo from her ass over her shoulder and wraps her arms around Slut’s neck in an intimate embrace. “Give me a kiss,” she smiles, “I just saved you from a future ass whipping, though you might get one anyway for already knowing what to do. She’s pretty anal retentive that way.” With that, she pulls Slut into a deep, deep kiss.

Abruptly, Allpussy breaks the kiss and takes Sluts hand pull her into a short tiled hallway ending at a wall that seemingly goes nowhere. Just before the end, however, she sees two openings on each side that open into a larger cavernous room with whirlpool baths dotting the tiled deck and beyond those, an Olympic sized swimming pool. On the other side of the pool there are row upon row of massage tables, some already being used as slave girl works on slave girl while in the whirlpools, slave bathes slave. Two slave girls approach them each takes Slut and Allpussy in different directions. Slut reads the tag that tells her new companions name is Fuckface and she is leading her toward one of the baths. Gently, she assists her into the warm, bubbling water, places her head in the cushioned notch at the end and drapes her hair behind her.

Not a word is spoken as Fuckface picks up a brush and starts to brush out Slut’s hair, gently, lovingly. Slut raises her eyes and tilts her head to look at the girl, upside down. The face is serene, as if this girl were lost in a fantasy, perhaps brushing the hair of some long forgotten doll. Slut breaks the silence.

“What’s your name?”

“Fuckface,” the girl says touching her tag.

“No, I mean your real name.”

The girl lets out a small sigh and then the hint of a smile sneaks onto the corners of her lips. “Slut,” she says, “that is my real name. Whatever you called your self before, whatever I called myself before, well, those people don’t exist anymore. I mean, did you really like the person you were before? If that person is still in you and still has a name, I don’t want to know it. If you were happy before you got this name, then, why are you here?”

She wanted to say to get a story, but, she didn’t. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say. Certainly, she was surprised. Malestrom had told her everyone here in training was here of their own free will. Hell, she’d had been forced to ask, no beg, for the privilege to entering this compound. However, compound didn’t sound right. After all, there were no fences, no guard towers and she hadn’t even seen a lock on a single door.

She needed to think on this, just like she would need to think about the similarities she was beginning to feel with her younger days at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, remembering the nuns, the order, the discipline and the symmetry.

What surprised her most, however, was the peace of acceptance she was beginning to feel. At first, she had thought perhaps that too much was happening too quickly and then she thought that that wasn’t it, either. It was getting a story. Originally, she thought she could and she would endure anything for a story. And then the truth finally comes to her: The story is getting her. She looks back at Fuckface. “Thank you.” She says simply and closes her eyes. In Manhattan, a spa day of this magnitude would run close to a thousand bucks. She decides to just enjoy it and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.

As I herd her words, I nodded in agreement. My lesbian lover had talked over and over about modifying me, starting with my hair.

“I want you to be bald.” She had said on so many occasions, “I love the thought of you walking down the street with me, with no hair on your head, people staring at you because you look so different, wondering why a woman would have no hair.”

“Please.” She said again.

I lifted the scissors and cut through my pony tail and handed it to her. Tears were in her eyes.

“Thank you so much! Please let me go all the way.”

Now I had given in to losing the length of my hair I was not that bothered about the rest.

“You can do it.”

She kissed me and jumped up, went and fetched a razor and plugged it in the wall.

“Get on your knees!” She said excitedly.

I knelt down, my eyes stinging with tears that she was too excited to notice, but as I bowed my head and watched the floor knowing I would see my hair falling away, I felt a swelling in my clitoris. I reached down to rub it.

“No!” She said sharply, “You know you’re not supposed to play with it – remember what the doctor said!”

I took my hand away despite the way it was swelling and the wetness was running out. She was right – last time I had rubbed my clit it had swollen up for three days and throbbed unbearably. The doctor blamed it on over use of pumps and vibrators and I had been told this had led to the death of some of my clitoral tissue – it could not fill up the way it used to, it caused me pain now. The only way I could get aroused and cum clitorally was for my clit to get swollen and wait until I was close and have my lover brutally flick it several times, or to use a heavy duty vibrator which damaged even more tissue and left me feeling numb. I had been asked how I felt about possibly having the clitoris removed but the thought had filled me with horror, it seemed so barbaric to have my clit cut out! The doctor had told me that many women chose to have surgery to later their genitals for cosmetic or medical reasons and in those circumstances it was not thought of as mutilation. My lover had openly masturbated over the idea when I came home, she was black and from a country where many of her relatives had been circumcised, although she had left before she was old enough, and to this day often commented that she wised she had been ‘cleansed’ like her sisters and cousins. Sometimes she applied anaesthetic cream first to my clit and then to her own so we both went numb, then she would say,’ the circumciser has been to call…we have no clitorises, just a lovely clean scar, nice and neat…”

And I thought of this as I knelt down and my lover shaved my head. She buzzed me slowly; shearing it off slowly, then she took a bar of soap, wet it and rubbed it on my head. She took two new razors and took the safety off the first one.

“I’ll shave one side of your head with this and the other with the other razor – to make you soooo smooth!”

I felt the scrape, scrape, scrape, she pressed hard, thoroughly, when she had finished, she took a steaming hot towel and swiped it over my shining dome of a scalp, it stung and she laughed.

“Now you are truly shaven!” She exclaimed.

She rand her hands over my slippery scalp.

“Pretty pretty girl!” She exclaimed.

Then she looked in the mirror at the black stubble that grew on her own head.

“I shall shave bare also.”

I watched as she took a clean razor, wet it under the tap and simply scraped away all trace of hair from her head. She did not bother with soap, just shaved it right off there and then. Her head glowed when she finished and she put her arm around me and we looked in the mirror together.

“You look beautiful.” She told me, “And I want you to wear no hat when we go for your doctor’s visit tomorrow.”

I was dreading the doctors visit because the last time my useless clit had been examined it had caused me pain, it had been lifted free of its hood, griped by small forceps, squeezed, tugged, eve twisted, I had endured a skin sample being scraped off its tip with a wooden spatula and had it suctioned and tweaked, all to see how I responded and how much blood flowed to it. I had gone through all this naked with my legs pinned wide part and it was done by a doctor, an assisting nurse and a third assisting medical student who was very keen to hear how ‘abuse’ of the organ had caused tissue death. This examination was to see if I had the option of regular use of a numbing cream to prevent pain during arousal. I was also to have my clit injected and then scanned to see how many blood vessels still worked. I saw no point in any of this, my clit did not work properly any more and it was all so painful and humiliating.

My lover took a box of body paints and a brush from the cupboard. She began to mix some henna dye.

“I would like us to paint our scalps…I will give you ancient tribal markings on your bare head, and paint mine also. Then I will play with that clit of yours until it can be milked of an orgasm.”

I was surprised she wanted to after telling me not to touch it, but she took the thin brush and began to paint a swirling pattern onto my newly shaven head. It was henna and I knew they dye would last a while and not wash off, but when I looked in the mirror and saw the pattern pained on my shaven head, I had to admit it was beautiful. Then she painted her own head. While it dried she parted my legs and lapped at my cunt. She sucked my clit so hard the sucking noise filled the bathroom, pleasure filled the organ but then pain throbbed as she let go.

“We shall have fun tomorrow at the doctors.” She told me, looking up from my reddened hairless cuntlips, “I am having an examination also. I have paid for the doctor to treat us both together in the same room – we can watch each other!”

“What are you going for?” I asked her.

She smiled broadly.

“A routine procedure.” She told me.

Then her hand descended between my legs and she flicked my clit hard, battering it twice more with brutal force and the organ wobbled and I came with a loud cry.

We went to the doctors surgery at six thirty in the evening, we were the last two appointments and when the receptionist called out names she called them together. We walked down the corridor, my lover leading the way, into a white doctors room with two examination couches, the leg rests were in position and two nurses were attending, with a trolley covered by a towel and both were wearing masks and gloves.

I noticed the doctor and the nurses were black like my lover, she smiled and greeted us, then the doctor spoke pleasantly to my lover in their native language that I did not understand. As they laughed together, the doctor looked at me and I laughed also.

“You will both remove all clothing. I need you naked and on table” She said in broken English, “I have to examine the pubic region and open up for close look.”

My lover exchanged a look with me and smiled.

“We will be facing each other!” She exclaimed, “We can watch what happens to our pussies!”

She eagerly stripped off her clothes, hopped up on the couch and slung her legs into the leg rests. One of the masked nurses promptly spread her wider and swiped her bald cunt with a bottle of disinfectant. She groaned but managed to smile. The nurse held up the catheter and said something to her in her own language, she nodded and braced herself, as the tube slid in her pee hole she screwed up her eyes and her toes at the same time but took another breath and composed herself.

The doctor handed me two pills and a cup of water.

“Swallow please. It will relax you.” I obeyed, still fascinated by my lover’s medical ordeal that she seemed to be enjoying – and so was I, although my clit was swelling uncomfortably, I was getting very wet and juicy. I stripped off and lay back on my own table, my legs were fixed wide apart, my ankles strapped and tight straps placed around my thighs. I noticed the same was being done to my lover but I was feeling chilled and relaxed and just wanted to enjoy it. Then the doctor leaned over e and smiled.

“Nice and relax, yes?”

I nodded. The doctor opened my slit and moved her finger up and down, making my clit move.

“AAA aaaaHH!!”

“You are very prominent.” She remarked, “Big clitoris. No surprise it give you such trouble.”

Se tipped a bottle of clear liquid between my legs it stung and I groaned again, but the area was wiped with a towel promptly. The doctor spoke again.

“I have to open the labia majoria.”

I nodded feeling ashamed that I was suffering juice running out in front of my lover and the medical staff.

The tallest nurse patted my bald head.

“You share the occasion with your lady by tribal marking and shaving of the head! I have never seen a white woman have shave for the occasion!”

The doctor put on her mask and glanced to my lover as she picked up my catheter.

“You buy her wig tomorrow? Western lady need wig on head?”

I cringed a little but managed to smile as the doctor and nurses and my lover, who replied in foreign tongue, laughed together.

“Hold still.” The doctor ordered and slid the tube in my urethra.

“OOOOWch!!”

I relaxed as the pain subsided. Now me and my lover were restrained and catheterised, I looked over at her and my lover smiled as she watched her pee travel down the tube. Then she rested, relaxing as she looked up at the ceiling.

The doctor pinched my nipples. I smiled and gave a sigh. She dipped a finger in my vagina, it came out covered in fluid and she held it up to show the two nurses.

“She likes!” She exclaimed, “Bald white lady like!”

“She always like!” My black lover replied.

The doctor said something in foreign language and gestured between my open legs and the nurses chuckled.

“She will like afterwards – I hope!” Said my lover.

A nurse leaned over me and braced my thighs.

The doctor held up a hypodermic needle.

I looked at my lover and she did not smile, just nodded.

“For the best, my lover.” She stated coldly, “For the best!”

I tensed.

“Noooo!”I screamed, “Leave my cunt alone!! NO! No, no no…”

The nurse clamped my mouth open and stuffed in a double metal bar, it pressed down and gripped and immobilised my tongue. She fastened the strap at the back of my head.

“MMMMmmmmmmmmffff…aaaaaa…ammmmmmaaaafff..” I was gagged, helpless.

“Be calm.” The doctor said, and plunged the needle into my clitoris. I sunk deep, scratching and burning all the way. As she pulled the needle out I felt as if my clit was being dragged with it.

I thrashed my head from side to side; tears ran from my eyes as I clenched my fists. I felt my bowel spasm in fear and a small, hot lump of shit slithered out. The nurse retrieved it with a paper towel, and then wiped my anus clean with a swab soaked in surgical spirit.

“All over now.” The doctor said, no pain, all gone.” And she took my clit in her thumb and forefinger and pinched. I felt as if she were touching rubber. Then she picked up a thin, sharp par of scissors and spoke in her own language to the second nurse who came over, eyes fixed on my cunt. Se made a snipping motion with the scissors and the nurse nodded her head. My lover watched smiling.

“We want this.” She said dreamily, her own medication calming her, but she was happy she had always wanted this for herself!

“AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh……oooooooowwwww!” I yelled, unable to speak.

“Shh it all over soon.” The doctor said.

She lifted my left labia and, as the nurse skilfully gripped the lip high, she slid the blade under and began to cut. The second nurse colleted the flesh in a silver dish. Then she clamped my other cunt lip, it was held and stretched, and the doctor snipped through it with ease.

She shot a jet of water on my bloodied cunt; I stared in horror at my cunt with the outer lips missing.

“She nearly clean.” The doctor said.

Then she jerked my inner lips upwards, pressed the blades down and cut brutally, as if cutting tough cloth, as the two bloodied inner lips were dropped into the bowl I could only stare with tears streaming down my face as I witnessed the removal of my woman hood. My clitoris was sticking up, enlarged with shock, seeming vulnerable – my clit, mine, being taken.

“uuurrrraaaaaaaa…AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

My voice echoed around the room but my protests were ignored.

She clamped the clit at its base, the nurse held it up, and with a brutal swipe of the scissors, she cut through my organ. It dropped into the bowl and blood pumped out. I was sprayed with a jet of water and given a second injection. The gag was removed from my mouth but I lay herein silence, tears running uncontrollably from my eyes as the nurse took a very long piece of surgical thread and began the slow procedure of sewing me up. While she worked I looked over at my lover.

She smiled at the doctor; the nurse held her hand as she was injected and although a tear ran from her eye, she did not change her mind. She looked down keenly. The doctor took another pair of scissors and, spreading her outer lips, snipped off the inner labia and kept cutting, working her way up, forcing the blades closed twice to lop off the pink nub of flesh that plopped into the kidney bowl.

“Ohh…” She moaned, although it was from relief the procedure was over. She was stitched quickly, a thin line of sutures. Afterwards she watched as the other nurse continued to sew me. I was stitched from one side of the labia to the other, and then the flesh was closed up. I had been given a total excision.

As the dressing was put on, the doctor patted my bald head.

“I give you through circumcision, bald western lady, You like?”

More tears ran from my eyes.

“I like.” My lover replied.

I turned my face away, sobbing again.

We were taken to a private room after our cunts were dressed and our beds placed side by side.

“I am sorry I did not tell you.” My lover said, “You have often said circumcision excites you, so I gave you a trial shave and paid for a full ritual circumcision by a good medical doctor. You are clean now and so am I.”

The doctor came into our room an hour later.

I was lying there, holding my lovers hand across the gap between our beds. We had  talked and I was beginning to accept this had not been an assault but a treatment that was better done like this than any other way later on due to my clitoral problems.

“How you feel now, bald western lady?” The doctor asked me.

I blinked tear stained eyes and exchanged a glance with my lover. My cunt, despite its ordeal, tingled in my holes as I turned weakly and looked at her, my face still tear stained and my eyes red and I replied, speaking the painfully honest truth:

“Clean” I replied, “I am nice and clean now, thank you.”

“How are we today?”

She was wearing her white coat.

“I got pain in my cunny again.”

“Let me see.”

She spread me wide.

“Are you still getting painful constant arousal?

“Yes, all the time, I hate it!”

“You have a swollen clitoris. It is terribly swollen, it indicates you have an illness that I must treat. You need orgasm and then some desensitisation treatment to stop your inconvenient feelings of constant arousal.”

She wheeled a trolley next to the bed and I gave a groan of alarm as I saw the array of instruments – this was new to me, there were medical clamps and scalpels and a suture kit, cutting equipment and things I did not even recognise. Then to my alarm her nurse came into the room. She looked between my legs at my naked groin and then smiled at me as she put on a surgical mask.

My doctor patted my arm as she lifted a hypodermic needle.

“You are going to have an operation, my love. A real one, a drastic one.  I sent the results of you examination to a colleague of mine and they were able to confirm that your clitoris is over sensitive, that it will continue to swell and ultimately become irrevocably infected without intervention.”

“What kind of intervention?”

By now I was scared, the nurse was strapping my ankles securely into stirrups and taping my wrists to my sides. My lover was now my Doctor and taking charge of the situation, this was not a game and her expression was grave.

“The pain you have been getting in your clitoris is indicative of the most serous form of clitoriditis I have ever seen. I gave you an enema this morning was part of your prep, it was not play. I did not want to tell you the bad news until it was time to take you to theatre.”

I wanted to panic but the injection made me drowsy. I was not so drowsy that I was unaware, and I could still move, but ll the fear was gone. I understood I had to have an operation on my cunny and my lover was going to perform it.

The nurse was helping her with her gown and gloves. I watched as they both donned surgical garb. My legs were relaxing in the stirrups and I gave a tiny whimper as the nurse slid in a catheter, but as the amber liquid flowed from my bladder a sense of peace came over me – I was in their hands now and I had to have surgery on the most sensitive part of my body. My lover had remarked the first time she had licked me that my clit had seemed ‘rather large and red’ but now I understood why she had insisted on all the private examinations when the clinic was shut, why she had made notes on all the clitoral pain I had experienced. She had guessed I had a condition. She knew I needed an operation and she was the best person to do it. My ankles were released from the stirrups and my legs were placed closed, although there was a gap now the tube protruded from my labia. I was covered with a small sheet and then wheeled down the corridor. The clinic was empty but all the lights were on and as I watched my lover wheeling me she looked down.

“It will be alright.”She promised me, “You have to be a brave girl.”

To my shame my fetish was taking over and I felt wetness sliding out of me, even making my catheter rub in a pleasant way.

This all changed when we entered the operating theatre. I was placed on the tale under the bright lights, an IV was put in my arm and my legs were opened, the table positioned and once again I was in stirrups, this time with my knees bent high and wide apart and the heat from the light beating down on that painful red organ that was swollen up despite everything. My lover looked at me sadly.

“You condition has been linked to abnormal brain patterns as well as hormones, for that reason I have to attach some monitor wires to your scalp for the duration of your treatment so these can be studied later for abnormalities. For this reason, I have to shave your head clean.I am so sorry.”

“No!” I shouted, but the nurse who had stood behind me simply lifted my ponytail and sliced through it. I started to cry as she switched on a small white hand held shaver and switched it on. She placed the blades at the front of my head and shaved a strip, leaving the centre of my head with a bald stripe. Then she did it again, and again, shaving me bit by bit, as each tress fell away, she lifted it free and dropped it into a bag marked ‘medical waste’. The nurse continued to shave me despite my sobs. She paused to use a cool hand to briefly brush the tears from my face.

She looked at the doctor as she held up my ponytail.

“Is this for disposal?”

“No, keep it, she might want it after the op.” my lover replied, “So she can remember her hair.”

They were talking over me as if I was barely there. Then my lover looked down at me.”Please, nooooo…”I begged weakly but she just spoke softly to me.

“I have had to make the decision for you to submit you to clitoral surgery and neurological monitoring. Your condition means you must have this operation and lose your hair as part of the treatment. You will have the best care, my love.”

The nurse seemed fascinated as she picked up the pack of ready to use wax strips.

“ShallI do the scalp wax now doctor?”

“Yes, at once.” My lover replied.

The nurse began to keenly press the strips down and then pull them off, a press and rip sensation that hurt but as my head was waxed it was the loss of my hair that made me cry mostly. My lover watched, still looking at me with compassion. When the nurse had thrown away the last of the wax along with the last trace of my hair she took a cool cloth and wiped over my head.The cloth glided over and she paused again to wipe off my tears. Then she took the top off strong smelling glue. My Doctor had taken a marker pen and was dotting positions on my hairless head.

“Be careful with that, nurse – it bonds in seconds.”

My lover lifted up a dish containing small silver discs. There were about a dozen of them.

She spoke t me slowly and clearly in case I was drowsy from the tranquilizer injection.

“These discs will stay bonded to your bare head for a month after your operation, they will fall off after that, they are to transmit your brainwaves to a remote unit. Your head has been waxed so you have no regrowth for at least two months, my love.”

I was past crying now.My hair was gone and that was it. I knew I was facing genital surgery of a serious nature and I lay there, looking up while the doctor and the nurse prepared the instruments and talked over me.

The nurse looked down between my legs.

“It’s a shame, your girlfriends got a lovely pussy.”

“Yes but see how engorged the clitoris is?”

My lips were splayed open sharply.

The nurse peered down.”Looks like its going to burst! It should not be that purplish colour around the hood, either. She must have found orgasm very painful.”

“She did.”

My lover parted my buttocks and invited the nurse to share the inspection.

“The rectum is shockingly tight, too. She’s bled after passing motions several times. I gave her a rectal as part of our bedroom play and I knew she had a lot of problems in the area – its all linked and it all needs surgery. We she wakes up, after the pain is gone, she will feel like a new woman.”

“How will she cope with her new look down there? And what about her hair? It might never recover enough for the roots to grow back.”

My lover leaned down and smiled at me kindly.

“I shall still love you the same.”She told me, “Hair or no hair!”

I blinked, tried to speak but my Doctor was gluing cold metal sensors to my smooth head and they felt chilly and the glue stung, then tightened as metal set against my newly exposed flesh. The nurse took up a hypodermic. She hovered between my legs, her other hand holding my labia open.

“Do we need to restrain her any further, Doctor?”

“No.”my doctor replied, “She is well tied by the restraints.”

The she leaned over me.

“I am going to give you an orgasm, my love, I know the nurse is present and you are in pain but please try not to feel ashamed, it is important we record your brainwaves during pre-operative orgasm.”

My doctor and lover stood between my spread legs. She glanced at the nurse.

“Keep watching the monitor and make sure brainwaves are recorded. This won’t take long, that poor clitoris of hers is about to burst!”

Doctor lowered her mask then dipped her head between my legs. She hovered above my shaven pubis for a moment, taking a last look before surgery.

“I’m going to lick that juicy cunny of yours.” She told me.

Then she kissed my pubic mound, before spreading me wide and taking a long, tender lick. The sensation of her tongue on my swollen rosebud seemed to grate and I gave a moan of pain. But pleasure throbbed also and she sucked on the reddening organ, licking sucking, pressing down as her tongue worked hard.

“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh ahhhh aaa  mmmmmmmm..mmm aaah!”

I was twitching and groaning, my voice echoing around the operating theatre. The nurse was studying the spikes on the monitor, which she began to print off.

My lover watched as my cunny twitched for the last time, then she wiped me clean, something that made me whine as the cloth scraped my clitoris, the organ was still huge and refusing to calm down. She took a brush and began to paint my groin with iodine, every stroke tickled despite the pain and as she glanced at me I managed a smile.

“That’s it, good girl.” She said.

Then she opened me wide and the brush soaked in bright iodine found its way into every crack and crevice – I groaned as she pained first my clitoral hood and then under it, before the brush went lower still and stung my inner flesh. She gave the brush a good soak in the iodine and painted around my rectum, then stuck the brush inside and twirled it for good measure.

Then she looked at me.

“Are you still aware, my daring? Nod your head for Yes.”

I nodded.

She lifted a pair of what looked like dainty silver tongs.

“Nurse, I want you to watch this.” She said aloud, “This is known as clitoral stretching and desensitisation. Its important  pre surgery , just to ensure the blood does not become too engorged.”

She held up the tongs and showed me.

“Take a deep breath.”

The tongs went between my legs, she positioned them slowly and carefully, then snapped them shut brutally. They locked with a click and my clitoris was trapped. She began to tug and pull on the tongs, from my position on the tale I could see my clit being stretched and crushed like a long piece of meat.  The nurse watched in fascination.

“How painful is it?” My doctor asked me.

My mouth as open but at first I could not find breath. Then she clamped the tongs shut even tighter.

“Aaaaaa eeeeeeeee aaaaah oooooooow!”

My voice was a high pitched scream.

“There there.” MY lover said casually and offered the tongs to the nurse.

“May I?”

“Yes, tug hard and then rotate left then right and pull again.”

“Thank you!”

The nurse obeyed her.

“Aaaaarrrghhh ooo oh oh noooo aaaaah!”

I fought to take a breath.

“Almost over.” My lover said to me, “Be brave, you are doing so well my dear.”

“It’s rather like tenderising a piece of meat.” My Doctor added, taking the tongs from the nurse, “The clitoris actually extends four inches into the body. It’s best that we draw as much of it out as we can. Check the print out to record her pain stats.”

The nurse went back over to the machine and watched.

“Once more.” Doctor said, then pulled on the tongs. I felt a sharp tug deep in my groin as if everything inside had been jerked outwards. I breathed in sharp and was grateful for the oxygen over my face. I stared upwards at the lights for a moment, pain stunning me. Then she pulled again.

“ieeeeeeeeee…ooooooowwwwwww…oooooo-oooo n-n-naaaa–noo -no- no-! “

I  gasped for air and looking down saw my clitoris as a glowing red bulb locked in tongs, swollen even larger than I had ever suffered it and the length of it resembling a small penis about three inches long.

She twisted the tongs again, twistng left and right. Tears ran down my face.

“MMMMmmmmmm….mmmm….aaaaaaa!”

As she caught the look in my eyes my lover stopped.

“Have you crossed into a brief sensation of pleasure?”

I nodded.

“Nurse.”

The nurse left the machine and came over. Her eyes widened as she saw how much of my clitoris hand been pulled upwards.

“Hold the tongs.” She ordered her, “My poor darling has some arousal remaining. I want to make her come again.”

Then she lowered her voice.

“It IS her last one.”

While the nurse held the tongs, my lover paced a thumb and forefinger either side of my blood red clit. Se began to rub frantically, until her glovedhand became a blur.

I came at once.

“OOOhhhh….aaaaaaaah aahhh AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGHHHHHH MMMMMMMMM OOOOooo ohhh ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Then I relaxed, pleasure fading as the sensation of my clit being pulled came back, although by now the tip was numb.

I felt something run down my face, I realised I was sweating but my lack of hair meant it just ran onto me. My Doctor wiped my face and head.

“I have to give you a large injection in the pubis.”She informed me, “I am so sorry if it is painful Count to ten and your pubis will be numb.”

I nodded dumbly, bracing for the needle but as it dug in and the nurse slid the needle deep into the bone beneath my clit, I gave a weak yell, then as the pain throbbed and she pulled the needle out, my lover, still masked, cupped my face and looked into my eyes.

“Count with me – two, three four, five six…”

“Seven, eight.” I said weakly, then I felt the pain melt. I was aware of a prodding sensation but felt little else.

“Can she feel that?” The nurse asked.

My doctor shook her head.

“Shes numb and hazy, good work, Nurse, that needle hit the spot. Numb the rectal area, please.”

I was aware of a gloved hand that seemed to rummage between my buttocks, the I realised the nurse was applying thick white cream both internally and externally which she covered with a dressing and the taped to me. The way I was spread with all holes on show meant the dressing just sat there with ease, while I felt my ass turn to ice.

An oxygen mask was placed over my face.

“It is time, my darling. Be brave.”

As I looked into the eyes of my lover I got the oddest wish that I could spread my legs even wider. I glanced down towards my groin and looked back at her and smiled.

She seemed to understand, patting my bare pubis.

“I know, I know.”She assured me, “It will soon be over.”

Then she covered her mouth again and turned to the nurse who showed her the results of my first brain wave recording. She nodded to her and ordered her to clamp me wide open. If felt nothing but more tugging as I was clamped. The nurse stood beside her, watching with intense interest. I noticed The tongs were back but now I did not care as I was numb. She grasped the end of my stretched clit and held it up.

“Fascinating.” The nurse said. My lover was carefully examining my clamped, stretched clitoris. She looked up at me.

“Your clitoris IS diseased.” She told me, “I am sure that after surgery there will be no more problems but you do know what this means, don’t you?”

I smiled in an understanding way as I recalled all the times she had mock examined me and threatened to ‘cut it off’. This was it, it was real and strangely I felt very aroused by the idea.

“Are you going to remove my clit?” I said slowly and weakly.

She nodded.”And the hood, and the inner labia. I’m so very sorry.”

I managed to smile.

“Operate on me Mistress.” I said, words were slurring.

The nurse glanced at the Doctor and I saw a trace of arousal in her eyes as she realised her Doctor and boss was my mistress and about to cut off my clit and not only this but I wanted it. My Doctor lifted a scalpel.

She looked intently at me.

“I’m going to slit the hood and remove it, then cut off the inner labia and remove the clitoris last of all.” She advised me.But all I could see was the eyes of my beautiful woman doctor.

“I love you.” I said dozily, “Take my clit, cut my cunny…”

“She’s under enough for us to proceed.” My doctor said.

She lowered the scalpel and began to cut.

Moments later she drew back a blood stained knife and demanded the nurse suction the area. She wiped me again and applied another clamp, then as the nurse held out a silver kidney dish, she dropped apiece of bloody flesh into it.

“That was your hood.” She told me.

She took a fine needle and began to sew, it was a slow procedure but the nurse watched with her eyes wide.

“We are we performing clitoridectomy?”

“After labia removal.”

She took a tiny pair of forceps and gripped my left labia. Then she took up miniature heated cutters, as she did so they bleeped and she nodded.

“That means they are at the right temperature.”

She held my inner fold tightly with one hand and clipped with the other.The room was filled with the smell of burning and and a sound with each clip as if chicken skin was being cut.

As she repeated it the other side I saw the nurse eagerly position the bowl to receive the flesh. As the Doctor dropped it in she paused to look at it, seeming fascinated by an amputated labia and clit hood.

“Keep the hood and the labia minora in the bowl and get another for the clitoris.”She told the nurse, “They have to be sent to the lab as separate tissue samples because the clitoris is an organ.”

The nurse nodded, placing the bloody bowl to one side and eagerly selecting another, larger gleaming bowl which she hovered between my legs with, watching my lover work with eagerly gleaming eyes. My lover looked into my eyes.

“I’m taking your clitoris right out.” She told me”There may be a few nerve endings left behind and as soon as you are healed i will be down there between all you have left to give you the remains of pleasure, but your clitoris MUST be removed and it is happening now. I will put on the clamp first.”

The nurse stood behind me and ran her latex covered hands over my bald head.

“Stay calm.” She was reassuring me, “It wont take long. Once your clit is gone you will have no more pain or disease. You’ll be nice and clean and you will look lovely. I rather think the bald look suits you.”

My doctor looked up from my groin and smiled.

“I think my nurse finds you attractive with your hairless look. I certainly do. Remember I said I’d always wanted to shave your head?”

I smiled and nodded.

As my lover drew her hands away from my groin I saw they were heavily blood stained.

“Is…the..clamp on?” I said weakly.

She nodded.

“The clamp is on firmly.”

Then she gripped the handle of the tongs so hard I saw muscles flex in her arms. She drew the tongs upwards and pulled even harder. I saw my clit as a thick, red, swollen piece of meat gleaming by the surgical light and stained with iodine. She slid the heated blades down low, I felt pressure as she dug into the pubic bone.

“Here we are.” She announced, then closed the blades.

It happened fast, she released the blade as burning filled the room and the wide eyed nurse stared at the clitoris that was dropped into the kidney bowl. My lover picked up another suture kit and began to sew quickly, she moved my catheter as she worked and I guessed she was tidying me up.

“I want to keep the outer labia intact.”She explained to me as she worked, “Purely for my preference, so I get a lovely surprise when I part the lips and see a lovely thin scar ad a pee hole and a vagina.”

I smiled through my mask.

As she finished stitching she changed her gloves and ordered the nurse to cover my pubis. The nurse carefully dressed me covering the whole of my cunny but leaving a gap for the catheter to poke through. Once it was all taped up  she took the ass dressing off and wiped off the excess cream.

“Are you still awake?”

My lover was leaning over me.

I nodded.

“I’m going to give you a rectal muscle stretch.”

I smiled lazily, now longing for sleep.

I was aware of a vague prodding, then my bowel filled with liquid.

“It’s important to flood the rectum with lubricant.” She said to the nurse.

“Hold her buttocks WIDE apart for me, please!”

As I lay there I laughed in my drugged state as I heard a squelch and a pop, then another squelch as her hand worked in and out of me, I could feel my body sliding up and down despite the restraints.

“Now I can get one hand in, I’m going to slowly insert the other.”

She talked to the nurse like a teacher as she elongated her other hand. The nurse nodded and watched, she was clearly thrilled to be a witness to such radical surgery and I had no complaints. She held my buttocks wide, bracing them open. My Doctor pushed in her other hand. I felt a vague slopping inside, a popping and slurping that made me giggle through my mask. As she took both hands out  trapped wind popped out loudly like a series of sharp snaps. And I laughed even harder, as I realised I was bald, catheterised, circumcised and now farting loudly while my lover and a nurse tore me a new ass.

“That was a loud one.” The nurse remarked.

I laughed again. I could feel my face reddening all the way up to my bald head.

“Good thing I cleaned you out this morning.” My lover said playfully, “It’s just a big, big fart, calm down, my dear. Almost done.”

She slid her hands back into my ass.

“Now I’m going to do the interesting part.”

The nurse was still holding me open.

“Stretch her hole with your fingers?”

“Slide both hands in, grip both sides of the anal opening and pull -”

My lover grunted with the effort, she was literally pulling my ass apart. The nurses eyes widened as her hands pulled until my hole yawned like a gaping black pit.

“She’s tearing.”

“Scissors.”

The nurse handed her the scissors.

“I’m snipping both sides at the top and the bottom of the rectal opening much like a vaginal episiotomy.”

She handed the bloody scissors back to the nurse. Then she smiled at me.

“When you are healed my hands will slide in and out of you, my love.”

“Have I still got an ass?” I asked lazily.

“A very loose one.”

She took a wide tube. It was clear plastic and looked more like a pipe than any kind of catheter. It slid in with a slurp and a pop and then she took up a needle and thread.

“I’ll now sew the new rectal opening to the width of the pipe to ensure a wide hole.”As she was tying off the last stitch I felt a rumble and another fart exploded from me.

“Thats quite enough!” My Doctor said and  showed me a long, thick rubber tube. She inserted it high into my rectum, way past the support that held open my ass.

“No more farts for a while!”She teased me, then she kissed my brow.

“All over now.”

I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep.

When I woke up I was high on pain relief but my Doctor lover showed me a mirror and when I saw my bald head, still with the sensors glued to it, I swore I felt a tingle somewhere in the region of where my clit used to be. She told me she had left a small cluster of nerves behind so that with much stimulation I would still have orgasm sensations – with her help, of course. Then she took the dressing off. It was a neat scar, I marvelled at the way the thin line was so tightly stitched.  wo weeks later the results came back from pathology and revealed my clitoris and other tissues were actually healthy. I said to my lover i had become bald, circumcised and had my ass wrecked for nothing, but the she smiled and asked me if I liked the result. I had t admit I could hardly complain because I had masturbated ver it so many times in bed with her.

“I love it.” I told her.

She planted a kiss on my pubis, spread my labia and licked my scar.  The pillow felt cool against my bald head and I sighed as her hands slid in and out of my ass. And as I was still recovering in her clinic, the nurse watched everything,her own hand toying with something I didn’t have any more – a clitoris. My lover asked if she could play with it n fro of me and I said yes, then my toes curled as the Doctors expert finger hit a small bundle of nerves where my clit used to be and the nurse stopped masturbating to take the brain wave reading from the machine beside my bed.

I came to think of her as my masturbation nurse and welcomed her assistance when my lover played with me.

Six weeks later I went home with my lover and found my modified body made our love life better than ever. And my hair did not row back. That was something that excited both of us, and even the nurse, who made regular visits once a week to enhance my ‘check ups’.

And that is the story of how my lesbian doctor lover changed my life forever.

I remain her bald patient and lover and have a beautiful scar between my legs that I think of as a work of art.

She arrived with her two daughters.  She was taking them for a weekend excursion into the country.  She had some idea of what to expect, but her two daughters did not.

They were all dressed as directed by master.  He wanted them to be very plain, but feminine.  Looped earrings since they all had pierced ears was the only jewelry they were allowed.  They all looked like school girls.  A plain white button down blouse and a decorative skirt.  They were told to be womanly and wear suitable underwear.  They were to wear running shoes but no socks.  Basically comfortable apparel.

Master was delighted when they arrived.  He questioned them if they knew the rules:

He was master, they were to always do as he directed.  They were not to speak unless master gave them permission.  Mater owned them, they did not own anything.  Everything they have belongs to master.  They were not to look at master unless he gave them permission.  They were not to talk to each other unless master gave them permission.  They were to help master if he requested it, even if they disliked what it was master wanted them to do.

They all agreed with master, though he saw some resentment in the face of the youngest daughter.

Master told them all to enter his house and to sit at his kitchen table.  They were all to read out load a contract that they were all to sign.  First mother then each daughter.  Mother was to also sign each daughter’s contract giving master possession and agreeing to his terms.

Mother started reading the contract placed in front of her first.

I give myself and everything I own, including my body and possessions to master.

I will do as directed by master at all times.

I will let master punish me for his and my benefit.

This was short, mother signed, and then each of her daughters read and signed their contracts.  Mother then signed each of her daughter’s papers.

“Now that was not so bad” Master calmly stated.  Let’s go for a walk so I can show you my property.

Master lived in the country, it seamed so secluded.  There was nothing out side except for two barns, and a wooded field.  “Let’s go this way” as master lead them down the path through the wooded area.  “You girls will get some exercise through here, later we will have some races to se who can get down this path the fastest.  Maybe your mom and I will place bets on who will win.”   Both girls crossed their arms in front of them, and continued to follow master through the woods and down a clearing on his property.

On return to the house master told the two girls to relax and sit down on his patio.  He told them to go inside the house and put on their swim suits, they could swim and have some fun in his pool, he had some matters to discuss with their mother.

“Sue, come with me. I have some things I want you to do in the barn”.  This was the first time master called her by name.  She did not say anything and followed master to the barn.

“Sue you have nice daughters, they will make some nice toys”.  Sue responded, “Thank you master”.

The barn was filled with various devices of master.  Some looking normal, like table and chairs, some look odd, Sue could not figure out what they were.

”Sit here in this chair”, master ordered.  Sue sat down where directed.  “From now on you will not look at me.  When you look at your daughters you will only look at their chests, and hope some day they have nice big tits.  Is that clear”.  Sue responded “yes mater”.

With that master rolled a small table in front of Sue.  The table fit tight up to her chest and pressed into her.  “Lift up your tits so I can get my table under them” Master ordered.

With that Sue lifted her breasts as master pushed the table tight to her body.  The small table then locked in place.  “I want to see my tits laying on my table, open up your blouse”.  With that order Sue started unbuttoning her blouse.  She had a hard time with the table pressing into her.  “Here, let me help you” master exclaimed, as he loosened the table.  “Take your blouse off and let me see your bra”.  Sue pulled her blouse up over the table, struggled to get it off because of her position, but managed to and dropped it to the floor.  “Stick them out, model them for me”.  Sue did as told.   “You are such a good mother, you must have breast fed your daughters well.  “Take your bra off.”  Sue did as directed, again struggling but was able to remove the garment.  “Such nice tits, can I squeeze them?” master asked.  Sue responded with a quiet yes.  With that master caressed each white lobe, gently handling and inspecting each.

“Let’s see how hard we can get these nipples”.  With that master lightly squeezed then tugged on each.  He then grabbed each and pulled Sue’s mammaries out as far as he could.  Sue sighed in pain as master started to play with her roughly.  “Such nice toys, I hope your daughters are as nice as yours”.

Master went to a cabinet in the room and came back with what looked like a harness.  “Here Sue I have a new bra for you, I will let you out of the chair and I will help you put this on.”  “You have one instruction, at no time are you to touch or cover your tits when we put this on, or when it is on you unless I give you permission.”

Master released Sue from the chair and told her to follow him to a small rack.

The rack was a small bar that had a chin rest on it, and two hand positions.  When Sue was placed in the rack she had to bend forward, which was its intention to allow her boobs to hang down.  Master then placed the new bra on her.  Each tit went through a loop; a strap went over each shoulder and fastened in the back.  Pretty much like a conventional bra except without cups.

Master then pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the hanging tits.  “Let me adjust this for you”, with that master started to tighten straps of the new bra squeezing each white boob, giving them a nice red color.  When master was done it looked like Sue had two balloons popping out in front of her.  The straps were adjusted to force her two boobs together.  ‘They look so nice, do you think you daughters will like them.”  Sue did not answer; she was not sure what to do.  What is going to happen next?

Sue asked, “Master, I need to go to the bathroom.”  Master replied, “we cannot let your daughters see you this way, can we, go put on your blouse”.  With that Sue went and retrieved her garment from the floor, and put it on.  Her boobs suck out in front of her, holding her blouse out grotesquely.

“Now when we go to the house I want you to smile, I want those tits sticking straight out.  When you get into the bathroom you will strip, except you will keep my nice bra on.  You will stand in front of the toilet and pull your pussy lips wide open so we can see that naughty pee hole of yours.  You will stand there, pussy open, tits out until I get there in a few minutes, understand?”  Sue responded “Yes master”.

“O.K. go to the house, and walk slowly so your daughters get a good look at you”.

Sue slowly left the barn and walked to the house.  She forced a smile on her face, and did not look at her daughters.  When her daughters saw her they greeted her with a “Hi mom”.  Master smiled and looked at the two girls and reminded them of the rules, “Now, now girls, you remember the rules, no talking unless I give you permission”.

When they got to the pool, master told Sue to stop.  He then whispered to her, “Which of your daughters has the firmest tits, I want to shove my fingers into them until they hurt”

Sue lost the smile from her face, a tear rolled down her face, she stated “Jane”.

‘Jane come here”, master called out to the two girls.  Jane crawled out of the pool and walked over to master and her mother.  “Your mother told me you have something I want”, “Sue go to the bathroom and do as told.”  Jane you come with me”.

Sue continued on into the house, ‘Jane I want you to come with me. To the barn”

Sue entered the bathroom and closed the door.  She undressed and spread her pussy lips as told.  She stood there; hoping master would not be to long.

“Jane I want you to stand by this rack”, it was the common X-frame she had seen in movies.  I want you to fasten the strap around each ankle.”  Jane gasped, what was master going to do.  Her mother had her breasts sticking straight out under her blouse, what was I in for.  “Now fasten the belt around your waist”, Jane did as ordered.

“Your mother tells me you have firm tits, show them to me”.  A frown came on Jane’s face.  She belt forward slightly to unfasten the back then slipped her bathing suit top off.  She held her arms in front of her trying to cover up.  “Put you hands over your head and show me those things.  I want to see if your mother is right, or she will be punished for lying to me”.  Jane did as told; master enjoying what he saw, two lovely firm breasts.  ‘May I touch them? master asked.  Jane responded with a quiet “no”.   ‘But Jane you know I own them, they are mine to do as I want, isn’t that true?”  Jane began to cry and grumbled out a yes.  “O.K.  Then I want you to tell me, these are my tits, and not yours, and that I can do what ever I want with them, Ok?”  With that Jane continued to cry and stated, “My breasts are yours to touch”.

Master corrected her, “breasts are for feeding babies, tits are masters toys, you do not have a baby so these are tits, and they are mine to do with what ever I want, now say it right”.  Jane was really crying now but she spoke out, “my tits are yours to do what ever you want with”.  Master corrected her again stating they were not her tits but his.

“O.K. you can put your hands down and put your bathing suit back on.  When your mother comes back you will stand up straight and smile.  You will take off your bathing suit completely, including the bottom.”  Jane’s mouth dropped to the floor when she heard that.  “Yes including your bottom, remember I own you and your body.  You will then stand up straight, hands behind your head, stick out your tits, and tell her that I own them, and can do what ever I want with them, do you understand?”  “Yes”, Jane responded.  Now don’t forget to smile, we want mother to know you’re happy”.  Jane said nothing, and put her top back on.  “Let’s go get your mother”

Master went to the bathroom and had Jane wait outside.  Sue was inside, standing there, slouched down somewhat, holding her pussy lips open.  “Master I need to go real bad”, Sue softly spoke.  “Boy you guys sure do not know how to follow directions, I did not give you permission to talk” master came back with.  Master put the top of the toilet down then sat down on it.  “Come here and show me that thing”.  Sue walked and stood in front of him holding her lips open.  “I can not see your pee hole, pull those lips farther apart and show me that thing”.  Sue did the best she could spreading her virginal lips.  Master then stroked her gently flicking her twat, and gently pinching it to Sue’s disgrace.

Ok, you can go, but keep those legs apart; I want to make sure you were not lying to me”.  She was not lying, she could not wait, she did not care who was watching she had to go so bad.

“Get dressed you slut, lets go play with Jane’s tits” master spoke out.

As they left the bathroom they approached Jane who was standing there, pouting, tears coming down her cheeks.  Sue wondered what had master done.  Master spoke out, “Jane where is that smile”.  Jane looked up and forced a small smile on her face.  Master continued, “Jane don’t you have something to show and tell your mother, lets get going.”

As master and Sue watched, Jane removed the top of her bathing suit then slowly the bottom.  She stated to cry again, holding her legs together as to try to hide her pussy.  She put her hands behind her head then started to proclaim, “these tits are masters to do with what ever he wants”  Tears were now coming down like a faucet, a few tears were even coming out of Sue’s eyes.  “Isn’t that nice Sue, she wants me to play with her tits, you want to come and watch, sure you do.  Lets go to the barn, and let’s take Janet too, I am sure we can find something there for her to do.  Now don’t say anything, get dressed and we will get Janet and go to the barn and have some fun”.

Jane got dressed again, as they left the house master called out to Janet to follow them, they were going to the barn to play some games.

When they entered the barn master told Sue and Jane to go to the attic, he was going to show Janet where to wait.  Janet was taken to a small room that looked more like a living room.  It had a television, and couch along with a table and some chairs.  “You can wait here until we are ready for you.  The remote for the TV is on the table, sit down on the couch relax I will get you when we are ready.”

“OK both of you strip, I want to see those tits staring me in the face”.  Sue took off her blouse skirt and panties that master let her wear.  Master’s bra had Sue’s breasts turning red.  Jane removed her bathing suit and was shocked to see her mother’s tits.  What was master going to do to hers?  “Sue it looks like you better take that thing off before you pop a tit, don’t you think so Jane?”  Sue was delighted to remove the tight harness from around her boobs.

“Now Jane bring my tits over here”.  “Jane I want you to lay down on your back on this table so I can examine my tits”.  Jane laid down on the table as directed.  “Now put your hands over your head and keep them there”.  After that master gently grabbed the young girl’s right breast.  He squeezed and kneaded the soft firm meat.  First one then the other.  Master started out softly then a little rougher.  He played with her nipples to get them hard. “You have better nipples then your mother, Sue make yours hard I want to compare them”.  Master continued to play with Jane as Sue started toying with her own nipples.  “Come over here let me see them Sue”.  Master compared the nipples of the two women.  “You definitely have better nipples then your mother, they are much longer and fatter, I really like them.  I wonder how Janet’s are; we will have to look later.”

“Jane are your tits sore from me playing with them”.  Jane responded, ‘yes”.  “Oh I am sorry I did not mean to play so rough, here let’s do something else.  Get up and come over here”.  Jane was happy to get off the table, at least master did not play with her other privates.  She felt so vulnerable lying on that table.

“Stand here by this rack”, your mother is going to help me place you here, we do not want those tits to run away do we.”  Jane did not know what to think.  She stood there and could only do as she was told.  She was beat; the strain of this ordeal had run her down.  Straps were fastened around her knees and ankles.  Another strap was the placed around her waste.

A bar in back kept her leaning forward slightly; this allowed her boobs to hang down slightly.  A strap was then placed under her chin pulling her head back.  Her arms were extended behind her pulling her shoulders back.  Here was this girl tied with her tits sticking out.  “My tits look beautiful”, master stated,  “Sue do get me a chair”.  Master placed it in front of Jane.  Jane with her head pulled back could not see down, she could only feel what was happening to her.  “Jane let me know if I hurt you, but don’t lie, let me know if it hurts a lot”.  With that master pushed a finger into each tit.  Shoving it in as hard as he could.  It did not take Jane long before she said, “You’re hurting me, please stop.”  Master ignored her cries and continued to force his fingers into her mammeries.  Pushing in a finger and moving it around.  Forcing her tits in and up, to the side and down.  Jane continued to cry “You’re hurting me please stop, I will do what ever you want.”  Master still continued to ignore her and roughly play with her tits.  Master finely stopped; Jane had tears streaming down her face.  “Remember you two I own you and can do what ever I want with you, and you will do what ever I say.”

Master released the crying girl from the rack.  She fell to the floor folding her arms in front of her trying to comfort her own battered mammeries.  “Stand up, do you want me to do it again”, master barked, “I did not tell you you could touch my tits, now put your hands down and let me see them”.  Jane could not handle it any more she broke down in tears and stood there, tits in pain, naked.

Ata eighteen years old, she had been modelling for a little over three months. Maybe that was a bit rich really, as she had actually only had one previous job, and that had lasted only a day.

Whether they actually used her photos she didn’t know, as it was for a foreign magazine.

But still, Robyn could call herself a model, and no-one was ever going to say different.

Standing five six, she had perfected what she believed to be the model stance. Head held high, shoulders pulled back to emphasise her breasts, over which she only ever wore a half cup bra. She wanted people to know that they were real, the movement in the upper half of the bra noticeable with every step.

When sitting, she always held her knees together, hiding what the short dresses covered, but intimating that there was more to be seen.

She had sent four pictures with her application. One was in her ball gown, one in jeans and shirt, one in a suit, and one taken on her holiday, wearing a very small bikini. The bikini didn’t really hide much, but it was the only swimsuit picture she had. Two formal, one casual, and one swimsuit picture were the requirements. And as it was now mid winter, she didn’t really feel she could go out in a swimsuit and get someone to take her picture. The bikini one would have to do. She hoped

To her surprise, she had been invited for an audition.

Robyn was so excited, and spent three days shopping for clothes. She had no idea what to wear, or even what the shoot would be for. But it didn’t matter. It was work, and that had been conspicuous by it’s absence recently.

She would have to travel over a hundred miles, but they had sent her return tickets for the journey, so the distance wasn’t a problem. She knew she could sleep on the train if she needed, as it would be an overnight journey. There was no chance of her missing her stop, as the train would terminate there.

She spent hours deciding on her makeup and hair. Normally, her hair hung straight, with a light curl where it reached her shoulders. But she wanted something different. Lack of money meant she could not afford the hair dressers, so it would have to be done at home.

After two hours of trying one effect, then changing her mind, she had returned to her natural look. Nothing else had felt right for her.

Blue eye shadow and waterproof mascara, a light pink lipstick, and Robyn was satisfied that she looked as good as she could.

The dress she would be travelling in would tightly around her slim waist, making her legs appear longer than they actually were. Though not low cut, the top did little to hide the swell of her breasts, but it was never meant to do.

Robyn knew that you never got a second chance to make a good first impression, and she wanted this job more than anything in the world. Her appearance had to be perfect. Anything less, and the job may go to someone else.

She still hadn’t told anyone about the audition. Her parents were against her doing modelling, telling her that only a few get the good jobs, and that there were a lot of people out in the world who would simply exploit girls for their own ends.

If she got the job, then she would tell them. Until then, Robyn decided it would be best not to say anything. After all, they would be pleased with the money if she got it.

She slept a little on the train, but spent most of it awake, wondering if she had done all she could with her looks to give herself a chance. There was nothing else she could do now, other than touch up her makeup.

She had no overnight bag, no change of clothing. She had committed herself, and the looks she got from some of the male passengers, made sure she knew she had got their attention.

If she could get a similar reaction at the audition, she would stand a good chance.

She was met at the station by a woman in her late forties, who introduced herself as Mrs Watson.

“I will be responsible for you until you go home, dear”

The accent was unplaceable. Robyn thought of it as English with a touch of foreign, but could not say exactly where from.

She wore a long dark coat, and heels. What lay under the coat was hidden from view, but the woman walked erect, as if she herself was a model. There was always a trace of a smile on the woman’s lips, but Robyn could not see it transfer to the woman’s eyes.

Models, she knew, had to smile even when they were tired, in a bad mood, or even if their pet dog had died on the way to the shoot. Personal feeling had to be masked, and perhaps the woman was masking the fact that she didn’t really want to be out in the cold at four-fifteen in the morning, meeting yet one more girl who really shouldn’t have bothered.

Robyn shivered as they walked to where Mrs Watson had parked the car. Right then, she wished she had worn the heavy coat she had considered, but instead had gone for the flimsy coat that didn’t hide much, but nor did it supply warmth.

“You will soon warm up” the woman said, seeing Robyn shiver. “The heater in the car is good, and we will be there in less than an hour.”

An hour?  Robyn looked at the woman as if to ask where the audition was being held, but by then they had reached the car, and she was busy unlocking the doors.

Inside the car Mrs Watson soon had it started, and had turned the heater up full.  Pulling out of the car park Robyn saw the first sprinklings of snow, and knew she should have brought the heavier coat.

Mrs Watson was concentrating on the road, as the snow started to get a little heavier. The heater was as good as she had been told, and Robyn soon felt herself warming up.

“There is a flask on tea in the glove compartment for you” the driver said. “We guessed you would be a little chilled by the night air”.

Robyn smiled a thank you to the woman, and opened the glove box. True the her word, there was a small stainless steel flask, and a cup. Waiting until the car had turned a corner, Robyn poured herself a cup of tea, and cupped her hands around it for the extra warmth. The tea was a little sweet, but delicious. Robyn though, at first, it may have been herbal, from the taste, but it had milk in, so it couldn’t have been. Still. It was very nice, and she had soon drained her cup, placing it, and the flask, back in the compartment she had got it from.

“Try to get some sleep” Mrs Watson said, her voice sounding a little distant now.

Robyn didn’t realise she was so tired, but her eyes were already feeling heavy. She felt bad about falling asleep, leaving Mrs Watson to drive in the snow without company, but she simply couldn’t hold her eyes open any longer.

As she slumped in the seat, Mrs Watson looked over at her, and smiled. She would do perfectly.

Robyn awoke and stretched her arms. As she opened her eyes, she was surprised to find she was no longer in the car, but in a warm bed. Mrs Watson had obviously arrived back safe and sound, and had helped her to bed. But she couldn’t remember anything after drinking that tea in the car. She would make a point of thanking the woman later.

Moments later and the door to the room opened, and a younger woman walked in, carrying Robyn’s clothes. It wasn’t until then that she realised someone had undressed her..

Pulling the sheets up around her body, Robyn sat up, watching the woman as she walked over to the bed.

“Your dress got a little dirty, Robyn, so we had it cleaned for you. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“No, thank you” replied Robyn. Her voice sounded a little strange, but she had only just woken up. ”I had just woken before you came in”.

“I hope you slept well”.

Without waiting for an answer, the woman placed Robyn’s clothes on a chair by the bed, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Once alone. Robyn climbed out of bed and reached for her clothes. She felt a little dizzy, but put that down to having slept so long. Her watch said three in the afternoon, so she had slept for almost eleven hours. Much more than she normally slept for.

Maybe it was her imagination, but her movements seemed slower than normal, as she pulled the lace thing up her legs. She stopped to look at herself in the mirror, wondering if she would be able to pull off the audition, and get the job.

It took her several minutes to get dressed. For some reason, fastening buttons seemed harder than normal for her. She wondered if she were coming down with the flu or something. That would be the last straw. After the effort she had put in, the last thing she needed now was the flu.

Just as she finished dressing Mrs Watson entered, carrying a tray with cereal and a steaming mug of tea.

“Hello, dear. Breakfast first, then we will bring you down for your audition. We are currently looking at another girl, then one more before your turn. Janice will come and get you when we are ready for you”

Robyn was taken aback. It had not occurred to her that there would e other girls trying for the same job. She knew she would not be the only applicant, but she didn’t expect them all to be there on the same day.

It did make sense to see everyone on one day, but it simply hadn’t occurred to her.

Before Robyn could ask any questions, Mrs Watson had placed the tray on a small table. And had left the room.

The cereal was nothing to right home about, but the tea was the same as she had tasted the night before. Robyn didn’t know what tea it was, but she knew she would have to find out before she returned home. Whatever it was, it was beautiful. She still couldn’t put a name to the taste, but it was certainly better than the Tesco tea bags her mother always bought. She would buy whatever this tea was, and let her mother keep the Tesco ojne for herself and Robyn’s father.

Still feeling a little dizzy, Robyn sat on the edge of the bed and sipped her tea. She was no longer cold, but still she felt herself shiver.

“Damn it. I don’t want flu. Not now”

had the room started to get warmer? Robyn was sure that it had, and looked at the windows to see if she could open them. But, probably for security reason, the window locks needed a key to open them, and Robyn didn’t have one.

Once again she sat on the bed. She needed this dizzy feeling to go, before her audition. This could stop her being successful. Why hadn’t she seen the advert in summer, instead of having to travel a hundred miles in winter.

She heard the door open and Janice, the girl who had brought her clothes back earlier came in.

“We are ready for you now, Robyn. Please, follow me”

Robyn rose to her feet and walked slowly across the room. Once again the dizziness washed over her, and she felt herself sliding to the floor, unable to hold herself up any longer.

She felt, rather than saw, Janice come to her aid, and lift her up in her arms. And carry her back to the bed.

Moments later Robyn heard voices in the room, but her eyes refused to open. She recognised the voices of Janice, and Mrs Watson, but the words were slurred, and she could not make out what they were saying.

Robyn knew she had blown her chance of the job. Whatever was wrong with her, would not disappear in the short time she had before her audition. She tried to lift her arms, to climb out of bed, but the felt heavy, and resisted her attempts to move them.

“What is wrong with me?” she questioned herself. But no answer came her way.

She could still hear Janice and Mrs Watson, but could still not hear what was being said. It was as if they were talking whilst Robyn slept. Their voices taking a dream like quality. Not a whisper, but too slurred to understand what they were saying.

Even as she tried to get out of bed another time, Robyn could feel the darkness starting to wash over her. Her whole body felt too weak to move. Her eyes refused to open, and she felt someone touching her forehead, as if checking a sick person’s temperature.

Then all went black.

Robyn felt strange and disoriented when she awoke. She knew she was standing up, but that couldn’t be possible. She had been on the bed, she knew that. But now, now only was she not on the bed, but she was standing, and from what she could see, no longer in the bedroom at all.

She tried to turn her head, but it refused to move. Her arms, they wouldn’t answer to her call when she tried to lift them up.

She couldn’t feel anything holding her arms, or even herself, but nothing was moving when she tried, except her eyes. They could move from side to side, and up and down, but not her head.

Her mouth fell full, and yet, she cold tell it was wide open. She tried to push whatever was filling her mouth out, with her tongue, but it could find nothing blocking her mouth. There was something strange about the roof and bottom of her mouth, it felt hard, very hard. Almost metallic. But it wouldn’t move when she tried to move it.

Mrs Watson suddenly appeared in her line if vision. Robyn tried to ask what was going on, what was happening, but nothing came from her. She knew she was trying to talk, but there was no reaction at all to it.

Mrs Watson stopped and smiled.

“You’re  awake then dear” the smile still filled her lips, but never reached her eyes. “ You will be wondering what is going on I guess, dear, well, let me tell you and put you out of your misery. The tea you drank in the car, and earlier was special tea, imported from South America. It contains a drug that immobilises people, without them realising it is happening. Just as it did with you dear. We need you to have that, so we could start work on the rest of you.” She paused and lifted a spray can into Robyn’s view.

“This can contains a resin that also comes from South America. We spray your body with enough coats of it, and when it hardens, it stops you from moving. The first three coats were administered just after you arrived, and fell asleep. That was perhaps why you felt dizzy when you awoke. Your natural sense of balance had been disrupted. The first three coats don’t harden at once, they take time. When you drank the second cup of tea, that gave us the time to add the last dozen coats. Then, by standing you here in front of the fire, as we have done, the resin starts to harden. We no longer need you to drink the tea dear, as we no longer need to worry about you moving, you simply cant. Nor will you ever again.

“You wanted to be a model, dear, and that is exactly what you are going to be for as long as you live, that is. Once we have finished, you will be sold as a manikin, to a well known high street shop, maybe even where you come from, so, for a while, you can see people you know. We do try to do that for our models.

“No-one is actually sure how long you will live. I do know that it can take up to forty two days to die from starvation, but perhaps you will go crazy before that time. Who knows. We never follow up on our models. Once we sell them on, that’s it. We never keep track of them.

Your voice, by th way, wont work, as the inside of your mouth, and your vocal cords, are also sprayed with resin, so that they will no longer function. The casing will hold any water your body excretes, without leaving a trace. And as you were given an enema earlier, and have not eaten since, you don’t have to worry about starting to smell.

“You see, dear, you wildest dreams have come true. You wanted to become a model, and we are pleased to say, you passed the audition.”

Robyn couldn’t believe her ears. How could they hope to get away with this? Surely, when her voice returned she only had to explain what had happened, and the police would arrest Mrs Watson. And there, Robyn realised, she had another problem. She had drunk the tea almost as soon as she got in the car, and fallen asleep shortly after and actually had no idea where she now was. Or how far it was from where she had been picked up.

Mrs Watson had said about an hour, but that may or may not have been the truth, and in which direction? There had been no-one else on the station when Robyn had arrived, so no-one would have seen her and Mrs Watson together.

Robyn felt as if she were crying, but no tears fell. As far as she could tell, she was dead from the eyes down. Nothing would respond to her mental demands. She tried frantically to get her arms to move, or her legs, but they remained statuesque, unmoving.

Surely, if they did as Mrs Watson had said, and sold her to someone close to where Robyn lived, one of her friends would recognise her, and call someone. But even as she had that thought, Robyn knew that was never going to happen. No-one looked at the manikins in shop windows, only what the manikin wore

The latest dress, the new line of lingerie, next summer’s beach wear. But not the manikin.

No-one would recognise her. No-one would alert the authorities that there was a living person inside that dress shop doll.

Robyn knew everything was useless to her. There would be no escape. No rescue. For as long as he remained alive, she would be trapped inside the hard skin that she now wore.

How long did Mrs Watson sat? up to forty two days. That was seven weeks. Seven weeks trapped inside the model, nothing to eat or drink. Nothing to stimulate her mind, other than the fact that each day was one closer to the last.

The silent scream that filled her head was unheard by Mrs Watson as she put the finishing touches to the last coat of resin.

One more model, another hundred pounds in the bank, and the new advert had already generated a few responses.

Robyn felt herself being lifted up, and carried across the room. She tried to follow what was happening with her eyes, but she was moving too fast for them to focus on anything. Only when they came to a halt, was she able to focus again, and then, she didn’t want to do.

She had been placed in a room ready for delivery. But she was not alone. Her eyes had already caught at least another six models. She knew, instinctively, that these were the other girls Janice had mentioned had also come for auditions.

The ;light was turned out as Janice left the room, leaving Robyn and the other girls to their thoughts, and the knowledge that they had succeeded in becoming models.

A man walked through the door of the building. It was a filthy establishment. He looked to the stage and saw a young woman – sixteen or seventeen by the looks – being raped. She was fighting it, but it was obvious that the men would have their way regardless of how she felt.

The man approached the bar. He ordered a whisky and got it, in a glass so filthy he was almost afraid to drink it.

“What the hell,” he thought. “If this doesn’t kill me, the damn cirrhosis will.”

Looking at the stage, he waved to the bartender.

“I thought there were three sisters working here,” he said in heavily accented Thai.

“They are up next,” the bartender said. “In about five minutes from the look of it.”

The girl was choking. One of her rapists had shoved his dick too far down her throat and was having difficulty getting it back out. As the audience watched, she turned blue, went into convulsions, and died. To the man’s amazement, at least half of the audience was clapping politely. This definitely was a strange culture.

After the stage was cleaned up, three young women came out. According to the MC, they were sisters. They were Elizabeth (20 years old), Melinda (18 years old), and Amy (18 years old). Other than the man, they were the only white people in the Asian-filled building.

The oldest one waved at someone off-stage and a man came out leading a horse. After tying reins to a ring in the floor, the man left. Elizabeth immediately sunk to her knees and started sucking the horse’s dick. While she was doing that, Melinda opened a can of lard someone had handed her and started coating her right hand and forearm. Once the arm was completely covered, the 18-year-old started forcing her arm up her sister’s ass. The fact that it did not require too much effort (and the fact that Elizabeth never slowed down as she continued giving the horse a blowjob) indicated that this was not the first time the 20-year-old had had that done to her.

The youngest sister, Amy, started working her fist into Elizabeth’s pussy. none of the girls looked overly enthusiastic, but they were not fighting it either.

“They do this every night,” the man asked the bartender.

“Yes. Every night. They switch places though. Tonight it is the eldest fucking the horse. Last night it was the middle one.”

“Do you rent them out to customers?”

“Of course. How many of them and how long?”

“All three from whenever they are done on stage until tomorrow morning.”

“That will be $300 dollars American.”

“And if I kill them?”

“Then you kill them. It is the New Year tonight. There will be enough noise that no one will hear you. Normally, I would raise the price, but those three are so loose, that they cannot please a man anymore. I need to replace them anyway. Are you sure you want them?”

The man had already fished out $500 dollars.

“I want them. Can you end their show early?”

The bartender looked at the money in front of him.

“Certainly. Have a nice night, mister.”

“I will try. It looks like it will be a good one.”

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. The man opened it and the three young ladies walked in. He was using a room loaned to him by the bartender. The fact that it had a TV and VCR was great. Looking at the three girls, he motioned for them to remove their clothes. They did so. The man was stunned. They were as beautiful as their mother had been.

“Hello girls,” he said. “My name is Ed. Have a seat. We are going to watch a few short films and then have some fun.”

“Are you going to kill us, now,” Elizabeth asked.

Ed looked at the girl. She was beautiful, but the look in her eyes was all but dead. Considering the things that could happen in this room tonight, Ed realized that killing her was not the worst of them.

“Do you want me to kill you?”

“Not really,” Melinda replied, “but normally, when a show is cancelled early, the girl goes to meet a ‘guest’ and never returns.”

“Well,” Ed replied, “to answer your question, no. I have no plans to kill you. I was telling you the truth earlier. We are going to watch a few movies. Then, in about 90 minutes, we are going to have some fun. Well, ‘fun’ may not be the right word, but you will see.”

“Are they movies we really want to see,” Melinda asked.

“What do you mean?”

“They make movies here,” Amy said. “Movies where they kill girls. It happens when the girls have been here for a while and the men are not paying to rent them anymore. That is why Elizabeth asked if you were going to kill us. It will happen to us soon.”

Ed shuddered. They obviously knew about snuff films. They were expecting to be killed in the making of them. He was not so sure that showing the films was such a good idea, after all.

“Um,” he said, “I do not know if you recognize me, but I am……”

“Uncle Ed,” Amy said. “Dad’s boss from back in America.”

“That’s right,” he replied, surprised. “I didn’t think you would remember.”

“Never mind that,” Elizabeth said. “You wanted to show us some movies. What are they? Your reluctance to answer Melinda’s question tells me that they are not movies we would want to see, but you already knew that. Why are you here, Ed?”

Ed looked at Elizabeth. The dead look in her eyes was gone. There was a kind of fury smoldering there, now. She was very intelligent. She was able to see that he had a hidden agenda. She was also – perhaps most dangerously – very, very pissed.

He sighed and set the movies down. Walking to the door, he locked both deadbolts and put the bar on the door.

“That is a useless gesture,” Amy said with a harsh chuckle. “If they want in here, they will just come through the wall. The walls are paper-thin.”

“Whatever,” Ed said. “You are right, Elizabeth. They are not movies you want to see. They are movies of people being killed. I need you to see them so I can give you a better understanding of the situation.”

“I don’t know,” he continued, “if you will…..”

“Just shut up and start the movies.”

Ed shook his head in sorrow and started the first movie. If he expected shock or grief to move the girls when they saw their mother kill their eldest sister, he was disappointed. After the movie ended, he removed the tape and look at the girls.

“I am sor…..”

“Put in the next one,” Amy said, cutting him off.

The second was even worse than the first. Ed had hated this one most of all. The sick things the girl’s mother had been forced to do to her…. It made him ill just watching it. After a few moments, he ran to the bathroom and threw up noisily. The girls ignored him.

Seeing the look the girls gave him as the second movie ended, he just ejected the tape and put in the third movie. The girls watched in silence. If they were confused at the lack of sound in this one, they did not show it. When it was over, Ed pulled the tape and put all three movies back in his briefcase. Looking at his watch, he realized they still had 25 minutes before the excitement began.

“I am sorry you had to find out this way,” Ed said, “but your sisters and mother have been dead for eight years now.”

“We knew,” Amy said. “The men who brought us here were joking about it.”

“What,” Ed asked, astonishment clear in his tone. “You knew?”

“For eight years, now,” Melinda replied.

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, her voice full of menace, “you should tell us how you came by those movies and how you found us.”

Ed was no fool. The girls were naked and there were no apparent weapons handy. This girl, however, could possibly kill him if she felt the urge. Looking at her, he sighed and nodded.

“I will tell you everything I can,” he said. “There is, however, a problem.”

Looking around, he found a pen and paper. Cautiously scanning the room for cameras, he found none. Elizabeth, understanding his concern grabbed the pen and paper.

“There are no cameras in here,” she wrote. “They have a studio somewhere in the city for the films, but there are too many thieves in this area.”

“In 20 minutes,” Ed wrote after a quick look at his watch, “there will be a loud commotion in the bar. There will be shooting and yelling. We will go out that window by the bathroom.”

The two younger sisters, trusting their older sister to tell them what they needed to know, realized it was too quiet in the room and started making love to each other. The noise would satisfy anyone listening in from outside the door. Melinda motioned to her sister and they moved closer to Ed and Elizabeth so Melinda could give him a blowjob. His grunts of pleasure only added to the noise.

Elizabeth smiled as she looked at her younger sisters. They were quick.

“It was too quiet in here,” Elizabeth wrote as Ed gave her an incredulous look.

“I see,” Ed wrote as he realized that the girls were right.

“Anyway,” Elizabeth scrawled, “we are on the second floor. We cannot get out that window.”

“We will,” Ed replied with a smile. “A friend of mine will be waiting with a cart right below the window. He works with a laundry service and the cart will be full of sheets. We will jump onto the pile of sheets and get away from here. You and your sister will hide under the pile.”

“And where are we going?”

“America.”

“How?”

“We will go from here to the airport and then we will fly to Los Angeles. I have a private jet standing by.”

Further discussion was interrupted as a riot became audible below. There were heavy footfalls outside the door as the guards ran to the bar to investigate. Ed quickly pulled up his pants and moved to the window.

With a sigh of relief, he saw his friend waiting below the window. Scanning the street and windows, he saw no one who would be able to report the incident. Waving to the girls, he jumped out the window and landed in the cart. He looked up to the window and, seeing the three girls there, waved again.

Ignoring their current state of undress, the girls followed Ed’s example and were soon buried under a pile of dirty sheets as they were carried to the airport.

—–

“Wow,” Amy said as she exited the shower. “I didn’t know that you could have a shower on an airplane.”

Amy was the last of the three sisters to enjoy the shower. When Ed said he had a private jet, he was not kidding. When they had arrived at the airport, they were rushed into the plane so quickly, it was doubtful anyone noticed that the white ‘dresses’ they wore were actually sheets.

Within five minutes of boarding the plane, they were airborne. Now, three hours later, they were on their way to Tokyo, where they would catch a flight on ANA (All Nippon Airways). The flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles would take a little under 10 hours.

“It is a new development,” Ed said with a smile. “Emirate Airlines introduced showers in their big A380s in 2008. In a smaller plane like this, it was relatively easy to get an engineering firm to build a shower into it. What was difficult was getting the necessary waivers to allow it.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said, “it has been years since we have been this clean. So, ‘Uncle Ed’, what now?”

Ed knew this was coming, but he still has not sure how to say it.

“Um, what do you remember of your last few days in America?”

“Well,” Melinda said, “our father had just died. Mom went to his funeral. While she was gone, Michelle was in charge. Then some guys from dad’s office came and picked us up to take us to your place. We were on our way to a mall, I think, when a white van hit the car we were in and we were……I don’t know. I blacked out and woke up on an airplane.”

“Same here,” Elizabeth agreed as Amy just nodded.

“Ok,” Ed said with a heavy sigh. “You know that it was your mother who killed Michelle and Elaine, right?”

“That was what was shown on the tapes,” Elizabeth said angrily.

“And you saw her killed on the last tape by a masked person.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied.

“She was doing it to save your lives. She thought I was going to adopt you.”

“Huh,” Amy asked, confused. “She killed Chelly and Lany to save us? I don’t get it.”

“The people who abducted you, your mother, and your sisters told your mother that your father had been stealing from the company. He had stolen quite a bit and now the company wanted the money back.”

“But dad is dead.”

“Right,” Ed said. “That is why they gave your mother a couple of options. They were going to kill her and sell the tape on the black market to raise the money. Killing a 30-something woman, however, would not sell for a lot. Having the 30-something woman kill her own daughter on tape……now that would sell.”

“That is fucking sick,” Elizabeth said disgustedly.

“I happen to agree,” Ed continued. “The options they gave your mother were to kill Elaine and Michelle and allow it to be filmed, or, refuse to cooperate and let the abductors kill all of you on film. Seeing that Michelle and Elaine were going to die either way, your mother chose the way that would save you three.”

“Damn,” muttered Elizabeth, her anger fading a bit.

Ed was almost surprised when he saw the tears begin. The girls had hardened themselves to the point where they could take practically anything, but their mother’s decision still hit them hard. Wanting to give the girls a few minutes to digest what he had said, he left to speak with the flight attendant.

“So,” Elizabeth said when Ed returned, “we were supposed to be adopted by you. What happened?”

“Well,” Ed said, “this is where the story gets bad. Before we go further, though, a few questions.”

“Ok,” Elizabeth said, her patience growing thin. “What are they?”

“What was your mother like?”

“Huh? Mom? Uh, she was like most moms. We had a maid that helped out, but mom did most of the cleaning and cooking. I know she was always there for school events.”

“Did she work outside of the home?”

“Hmmm. No. I kind of remember her having a fight with dad about it once. She wanted to go back to work, but he said her place was in the home raising us kids.”

“That sounds like the Amanda I knew.”

“So, spill it, Ed. What don’t we know?”

“Okay. Your mother and sisters were killed because of an affair your father had with another woman. He stole nothing from the company.”

“What,” Melinda asked. “An affair?”

“Yes. Your father wanted a son. He wanted a son more than anything. His wife, however only gave him daughters. After five daughters, she said ‘no more’. Five kids were enough for her.”

“That, however,” continued Ed, “did not stop your father’s desire for a son. While he was at work, he met a woman he found attractive. She was receptive of his advances and they soon were meeting after hours to have sex. To his delight, he got her pregnant and they discovered that it was going to be a boy.”

“But mom…..”

“That is right. Your mother. If your father wanted to have a legitimate son, he would have to marry the woman before the boy was born. He was thinking about divorcing your mother when he died.”

“The woman,” he continued, “convinced that your mother was to blame for his heart condition, arranged everything. She arranged to have your mother kidnapped and killed. She arranged the deaths of your sisters. Lastly, she arranged for you to spend the last eight years in that bar.”

“How did you find out about all this, Uncle Ed,” Amy asked. “How did you find us?”

“That,” he replied sadly, “was easy. I knew where you were for the last eight years. Not the precise bar, but I knew you were being forced to do those things somewhere in that city. I knew, you see, because the woman is my own daughter, Alanna, and I helped her.”

That was it. Elizabeth snapped and lunged for Ed. As fast as she was, however, she was seated while her younger sisters were still standing. The younger girls quickly grabbed their out-of-control big sister and pinned her down.

“Let him talk, Liz,” Amy said. “Let him talk.”

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, OLD MAN,” screamed Elizabeth.

“Shut up, Liz,” Melinda said as she slapped her big sister’s face. “I am sure he has a reason for his actions. And he did get us out of that hellhole.”

“You better have a reason, Ed,” Melinda continued. “If you don’t, I will kill you myself; even if you did rescue us.”

Elizabeth, no longer hysterical, glared at Ed. She nodded at Melinda and Amy, letting them know it was safe to let her go. The younger girls released her and she sat up. Still glaring, she waited for him to go on.

“If you really want to kill me, Elizabeth, I will allow it. I have cirrhosis and it is starting to affect my kidneys. This can result in acute renal failure. Death, in other words. I know it will happen sooner or later. Right now, I am still able to care for myself and move around on my own. As the disease progresses, I may lose that. I would rather die than be an invalid.”

“But,” he continued, “I have more information for you that you will want. When we are done with our business together, then I will let you do what you want. And, for your information, I did have reason for my actions.”

“When your father was a boy, he was like a son to me. I knew your mother as a chid because her father was a partner in my law firm. Your mother did not know my daughter, but your father played with her a lot. When your father died, it was like my own boy had died.”

“If you knew our mother,” Melinda asked, “how could you help your daughter kill her like that?”

“I knew about the affair. Your father and my daughter often met at my place for their…….”

“We get it,” Amy said.

“Anyway,” Ed continued, “they both told me of how your mother was killing your father. She was refusing to go back to work. She was refusing to cook or clean around the house. She had a maid in 7 days a week and it was the maid that cared for you and everything.”

“They painted her out to be a user. And when your father had his first heart attack, it was described as a result of stress caused by your mother. By the time he had his fourth heart attack, the one that killed him, I was convinced your mother was as bad as they were saying.”

“So,” Melinda asked, “what made you change your mind?”

“About a year ago, I made a discovery. I met your maid at a local grocery store and I struck a conversation about your family. The poor woman was most informative. She told me several things, some of which you just confirmed. One of these things was that your mother was not staying at home by her own wishes.”

“When I discovered that your mother was not the person described by your father and my daughter, I did some more digging. Everything they had told me about your mother was a lie. I decided to confront my Alanna.”

“For several years, now, she has been living in Italy. She would come back occasionally to get money. I am the sole administrator on your father’s estate. I manage all finances and give out money, as needed, for the care of his child.”

“Well,” Ed continued, “Alanna and I had a fight shortly after your mother’s death. I had a guilty conscience and was very upset over the entire affair. Alanna decided she did not want to be near me anymore and moved to Italy.”

“She would never tell me where she lived. She would just show up from time to time and demand money. Despite how I feel about her, I love my grandson, your half-brother.”

“I, against my better judgment, gave her viewing priveledges on the estate bank accounts. I was hoping to rebuild out relationship. I hoped that she would see how hard I worked to provide for her son.”

“I had taken your father’s $2 million policy and invested it. In almost five years, it was close to $150 million. There are no checks and balances on it. I can pull any amount out and call it a management fee.”

“When I decided to confront Alanna, I needed to find her. I hired a detective to track her down and report back to me. The guy was great. It took only two weeks. I went to Italy and was about to go up to her house when I saw her come out. She had a man with her. They got in their car and left.”

“I could not believe my eyes. I waited for them to come back and, seven hours later, they did. I was much closer at that time and before they went into the house, I called out to them.”

Closing his eyes, the memories of that afternoon came crashing back.

—–

One year ago…

Ed stood outside the villa in Ancona. He could not believe his eyes. Alanna was walking to the door with a man Ed knew very well. He suddenly realized he had to say something.

“Hello, John,” Ed said as he approached the couple.

“DAD,” Alanna exclaimed, “what are you doing here?”

“Apparently,” Ed said, “I am looking at a man that has been dead for the last seven years. Care to explain how this is possible?”

Alanna and John looked at each other for a moment. They knew that this had to be handled delicately. With Ed as the only administrator for John’s estates, he was indispensable.

“Come on in, Ed,” John said. “I think we could all do with a drink.”

“I agree,” Ed said. “I know I could use one.”

They entered the villa and immediately were ambushed by a 6-year-old boy who was being chased by his nanny.

“Lucia,” Alanna said to the nanny, “could you take Johnny to his room and keep him occupied? John and I have business with this man and we would like it quiet.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid responded as she took hold of the boy and retreated into the back of the villa.

“What can I get you to drink, dad?”

“Don’t worry about that, Alanna,” Ed said. “I think I just changed my mind about that drink. Tell me, John. How is this possible?”

“Well, Ed,” John said as he took a sip of his bourbon, “you know how they say everyone has a doppelganger out there? I found mine eight years ago. As luck would have it, he had similar health issues.”

“Let me see if I understand this,” Ed interrupted. “The body of the man in your casket in Midlawn Cemetery is that of the doppelganger?”

“Yes.”

“What about that business with Amanda and your daughters?”

“Ed,” John said plaintively, “you know I have always wanted a son. More than anything else in this world, I wanted a son. I loved Amanda, but she would not give me a son.”

“Not for lack of trying, John. She gave you five daughters.”

“Daughters, Ed. Daughters. I wanted a son. After Amy was born, she went ahead and had her tubes tied to prevent any more pregnancies. I couldn’t have that, Ed. I wanted a son. Alanna gave me one.”

“And so, with Alanna pregnant with your son, you just threw away your wife and daughters?”

“Well, divorce was out of the question. I had no real grounds for divorce and she would have taken half of everything. Then I remembered the life insurance policy. I arranged my ‘death’ and used the body of the doppelganger as my replacement.”

“But because the policy would go to Amanda, you had more work to do, right?”

“Right, dad,” Alanna said. “I convinced him that I knew how to get Amanda out of the picture.”

“It was brilliant,” John said. “I really didn’t love Amanda or her slut daughters at that point. The bitch denied me a son. That was the last straw. So when Alanna proposed her plan, I agreed.”

“You killed your daughters.”

“No,” John objected. “Technically, Amanda did. And as for the three younger ones, they are probably still alive. They would still be kind of young.”

“I think I am going to be sick,” Ed said as he got to his feet. “I should go to the police with this.”

“That would not be wise, dad. If you did that, you, me, and John would all go to jail. Who would care for Johnny?”

Ed was unable to think of a clean way out. Shaking with frustration, he began to cry.

“Easy, Ed,” John said comfortingly. “I know this is a shock. Just take it slow.”

“Yeah, dad,” Alanna agreed. “Go back to New York and take care of things there. I will call you in a few days.”

“But your daughters, John. What about them? Don’t you care where they are?”

“I know you feel bad, Ed,” John replied calmly. “Just remember. I wanted a son. I already told you that I didn’t love the little bitches. Why the hell would I care how they ended up?”

“Go back to New York, Ed. Keep managing my estate like you have been and no one needs to know that I am still alive.”

—–

“Uncle Ed,” Amy prodded. “You called out to them?”

“Oh,” Ed said, snapping back to the present, “right. I called out to them and they turned to see me. You may have already guessed, but it was your father with Alanna.”

Melinda and Elizabeth nodded, showing they had guessed. Amy was still having a little difficulty getting over her shock.

“Daddy? But he died.”

“Apparently not, Amy,” Melinda said.

“Hmmm,” Amy said, thoughtfully, “so he arranged for mom to kill Chelly and Lany. Then he let Alanna kill mom and send us to……”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, seeing that Amy could not continue. “So, Ed. You found out our father was still alive and they had duped you. Then what?”

“Well, they convinced me to not go to the police. I went back to New York and managed the estates. A month later, I was able to track down the men who transported you three to Thailand eight years ago. It was not easy to locate them. Unfortunately, they did not know which place bought you after he delivered you to the broker.”

“I spent another month searching the seedier bars in Bangkok and finally found you. Once I found you, I contacted some friends and arranged the escape. You know the rest. Here we are.”

“So,” Melinda asked, “what next?”

“Well,” Ed replied, “I am concerned about you three. You have all been through some serious trauma, both mental and physical. I know from the bartender back there, that you had been used by that horse. I would like you to see a surgeon and see if we can get some of that physical damage corrected.”

“Huh?”

“Well, the bartender mentioned that you were going to be replaced because you were not tight enough to satisfy the customers. That says, to me, that your bodies are damaged. I have the money to give you as much care as you would like. I know this is probably embarrassing, but you deserve better.”

Amy shook her head.

“It is not embarrassing, Uncle Ed,” Amy said. “I don’t know what it would take to embarrass me, but it is more than that. O do not know about Liz and Mel, but I will accept your offer. I know that I could use some ‘tightening’ down there.”

Melinda and Elizabeth were not as at ease about it, but they were nodding. Neither of them had any illusions. They were, for lack of better words, ‘damaged goods’. Surgery would help with that. Knowing that the money came from an estate that, technically, belonged to their father, made it even better.

“After that is done and you have recovered,” Ed continued, “I have a request to ask of you.”

“What is it,” Amy asked. “After getting us back home and taking care of us, I think I am willing to do practically anything for you.”

Ed spent a minute looking out the airplane window. Heaving a deep sigh, he looked back at the girls.

“I would like you three to kill Alanna.”

—–

“Okay,” Amy said with a smile.

“What,” Elizabeth asked, aghast. “Amy, wait a minute. Do you know what you are agreeing to? He just asked us to kill someone.”

“Yes,” Amy agreed, the smile still on her face, “he did. He asked us to kill the person who got mommy to kill Chelly and Lany; the person who, in fact, killed mommy and arranged to have us spend the last few years getting raped and fucking a horse in some filty bar.”

Amy’s smile was now gone. In its place was a look that scared her sisters. Amy’s calm acceptance of even the worst indignities forced on them had convinced the older two that Amy was almost retarded. Now, they saw that it was a defense mechanism. She had sort of slept through the horrors of the last few years, accepting it because there was no other choice.

Now, their youngest sister was awake. In her posture and expression, they saw none of the slow-witted acceptance to which they were accustomed. Elizabeth wondered if this was a good thing.

“Amy,” Elizabeth said, “I think…..”

“No, Liz,” Amy cut off. “We are done with that. The woman who stole our family is out there. Ed, our dear Uncle Ed, has rescued us and given us the means to reclaim our lives. In return he is asking us to avenge our dead mother and sisters. I, for one, think we should do it.”

“I did not,” Amy continued, “hear anything that leads me to believe that he is forcing us to do this, so, if you and Mel do not want to do it, have your surgery and move on with your lives. Me? I am going to do this. The one problem I have is that I have no real skills with which to pull it off.”

“I think I can help with that,” Ed said. “I have lots of friends. One was a navy seal and another was with the rangers. If you are willing to put in the time, they can train you to do this.”

Amy was all smiles. There was now a cheerfulness radiating from her that gave her sisters mixed feelings.

“I’m in,” Amy said. “About how long do you think it will take to train me?”

“Train us, you mean,” Melinda added with a sigh. “I cannot let you do this on your own, Amy. I’m in, too.”

“Fuck,” Elizabeth said with a sigh of her own. “Looks like the three stooges are reuniting. Count me in, too, Uncle Ed.”

“Excellent. Now remember, girls. Until you actually go to kill her, you can back out and I will not be disappointed in you at all. I have had a guilty conscience for these last eight years. I do not want you to go through that.”

“Not just her,” Amy said.

“Huh,” Ed asked.

“We are not just going to kill Alanna,” Amy clarified. “When we go to do it, I will kill daddy as well. He must pay as well. He is not blameless. He will die with her. Only their son will be spared. He, alone, is innocent.”

Elizabeth and Melinda were now scared. This was a side of Amy no one had ever seen. In the past, they had always been able to control her. Melinda was pretty sure, now, that Amy had let herself be controlled. They agreed with her thinking, but neither of them had ever seen her this determined.

“Yeah,” Melinda said. “Dad has to die as well. He is just as guilty as your daughter.”

“Okay,” Ed said hesitantly. “Who will care for John Jr?”

“Well,” Amy said, “if I have a clear understanding of the situation, he is almost 8 years old. You never did tell us how long it would take to train us, but I can wait. If we wait until he is in high school, say 15 years old, he will be more self-sufficient. As such, his caring half-sisters would likely be able to take care of him.”

Elizabeth was beginning to worry about her sister’s plan. Seven years? Amy wanted to wait 7 years to get her revenge?

“Wait a minute, Amy,” Elizabeth said. “You are talking about waiting 7 years. Just what kind of training are you planning on getting?”

“Mercenary training, Liz. I also want you two to learn martial arts. Think about it. If we went now, what fun could we have? You know nothing about torturing someone. You could accidentally kill them before we were satisfied.”

“When we go to kill them,” Amy continued, “I want to make them feel the pain mom, Chelly, and Lany felt. I want them to experience what we did. If I can manage it, I want daddy to be raped by a horse, just like you, me, and Mel.”

“Wow,” Melinda said, in awe of her little sister. “Amy. What happened to you?”

“What do you mean, Mel?”

“All the time we were in that bar, you just did as you were told. You never did anything without instructions. What happened?”

“We’re free, Mel. That is what happened. While we were there, I did what I had to to get by. You and Liz fought and got beaten. Do you remember that mother and her daughter that came to the bar seven years ago?”

“You mean the flight attendant and her daughter?”

“Yes. The daughter was told to fuck one of the patrons and she refused. Remember? The mother tried to intervene when they started beating the girl. What happened to the mother?”

“I remember,” Liz said. “They strung her up by her ankles and used a 2-man saw to cut her in half.”

“Right,” Amy said with a sad smile. “I learned that night that it was not worth fighting. You and Mel got beaten by the other girls if you showed initiative. You got beaten by the men if you did not service them. My way kept me from receiving any beatings. I tried to tell you before.”

“I remember,” Mel said, realizing that Amy was right.

“I still had to do all the sex things you two did, but I was not in too much physical pain over it.”

“I see,” Melinda replied. “And now that we are free, you don’t need to be all meek and mild. Is that it?”

“Partly,” Amy replied. “Another part, the biggest part, is the fact that I want revenge on the people that put us there. Until that is done, I cannot move on with my life. The problem is that, right now, I am in no condition to exact my revenge.”

Ed, listening to the girls’ conversation, had to agree with Amy’s logic. They were not ready to do anything about John and Alanna. He was not sure that Elizabeth and Melinda could wait the amount of time Amy wanted, but that was another question.

“Ok, girls,” he said. “We are almost to Tokyo. We will have a three-hour layover there. I am going to make some calls. One will be to a surgeon I know in Beverly Hills that can give you three the surgery you want. The others will be to those friends of mine that I mentioned. When we get you healed up, we will decide what to do.”

With that, the conversation ended. The girls sat in silence for the rest of the trip, each contemplating their own future.

—–

Four days later……

Elizabeth and Melinda were alone in the hotel room. They had been in the hotel room for two days and Amy had been about to go stir crazy. Ed agreed to go with her so they went to get some food rather than call down for room service…..again. This was the first time the older sisters had been able to talk privately since Ed rescued them.

“Melinda,” Elizabeth said to her sister, “what do you think about Amy, now?”

Melinda had to think about that. Their younger sister had certainly changed since their escape. There was a hard edge to her that neither sister had ever seen. Melinda thought she was hiding something.

“I don’t know,” Melinda replied. “I get the feeling that she is hiding something. Seeing how she has changed, I wonder how long she has been hiding it.”

“I know. I keep thinking back to that conversation on the plane. Didn’t you notice something odd when we were talking? When she was talking about killing Alanna and Dad?”

“Um, not really. I was pretty much in shock. I mean, I had never seen her act that way.”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth said patiently, “but I am talking about when she was talking about the training. She said she wanted us – you and me – to get martial arts training. She said we knew nothing about torturing people. Again, she was referring to you and me. What do you think about that?”

“Huh? Are you sure? She could have been talking about all three of us.”

“No. Her exact words were ‘I also want you two to learn martial arts….you know nothing about torturing someone….you could accidentally kill them before we were satisfied.’ Does that sound like she was including herself?”

“Hmmm. Now that you mention it, I think I do remember that. And you are right. It does not sound like she was including herself.”

“Which leads me to believe,” Elizabeth continued, “that you are right. She is hiding something. The question that concerns me now is this: do we really want to open Pandora’s Box and find out what it is she is hiding?”

“Maybe we should talk to Ed. See if he knows anything. She has stuck to his side like glue since we got on that plane in Bangkok. The only time she is away from him is when either of them are going to the bathroom or taking a shower.”

“No. I think we should ask her straight out when they get back. It may be nothing. We might be imagining the whole thing. You know how paranoid we got back there.”

“You’re right,” Melinda replied. “It might be nothing. Okay. We will ask her when they get back.”

“When we get back,” Amy asked as she and Ed entered the room. “You were talking about a ‘her’ so that leads me to believe you meant me. What do you want to ask me?”

Melinda blushed as she realized that she and Elizabeth no longer had a choice. Over the last 4 days, they had seen a side of Amy they had never encountered. She was sharp; frightfully sharp. She would know if they tried to lie to her. Melinda did not understand it, but Amy seemed to have a built-in lie detector.

“Well, Amy,” Melinda said, realizing that now was as good as any time to broach the subject, “we were wondering about something you said on the plane. You said that we needed to learn martial arts and we knew nothing about torturing someone. You weren’t including yourself, were you?”

“No,” Amy said with a sigh. “I wasn’t.”

“You know martial arts,” Elizabeth asked incredulously. “Where did you learn that?”

“Not just martial arts,” Amy replied. “I have been trained to fight bare-handed, with knives, with swords, and with handguns. You may not remember, but for the first four years we were in Thailand, I never saw you. I was too young for them to put on stage so they trained me in other ways.”

“Why,” Ed asked, intrigued.

“To protect the girls. There was fierce rivalry among the seedier bars there. One bar would often steal girls from another bar. With two few guards to fight off the more serious attempts, they wanted me – and a few other girls trained like me – to wait for an opening and then strike. Once we killed those who took us, we were to return the other girls to the bar.”

“They believed you would do that?”

“They did,” Amy said. “And to be honest, I would have. The girls at our bar were, if not treated well, treated better than any of the other bars in the area. Had the girls been found on the street with no one to look after them, they would have been fair game to anyone strong enough to hold them still. Deaths and physical damage were less frequent at our bar.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, though. The owners didn’t do it for love of the girls. The girls were just merchandise. The point was to take care of the merchandise. It is expensive to replace the girls. New girls have to be broken and retrained. That takes time and a girl being broken and retrained brings no money into the bar while costing the bar in meals and room.”

“No,” Amy continued. “They wanted us alive and well so we could draw money. That girl that died the night you rescued us? She shouldn’t have. There was no one to replace her. The bartender will get punished for that…..not to mention the men who killed her.”

“They would punish the bartender and the patrons? How?”

“The bartender would be killed and the patrons that killed the girl would be castrated. If someone really offended the owner, an example was made.”

“What kind of example?”

“One guy received a sex-change operation against his will. He was then sent to another of the owner’s bars and broken. Last I heard, he was servicing customers like the rest of the girls.”

“Wait a minute,” Elizabeth said. “I never heard anything about that. How do you know all this?”

“Like I said,” Amy replied. “I was trained to protect the girls. I was one of the few to carry out tortures and executions on those that abused the other girls. I was there when the guy got his sex-change operation.”

“It’s SRS,” Melinda said.

“What?”

“It is not called a sex-change operation, anymore,” Melinda answered with a smile. “The political correctness brigade now call it SRS, which stands for sex reassignment surgery.”

“Who gives a fuck,” Elizabeth demanded, exasperated. “You were killing people over there, Amy?”

“Yes.”

“How could you?”

“They told me that if I didn’t, they would kill you two. The choice was easy. And these men were scum. In the plane, I mentioned the mother who was cut in half because she tried to stop the customers from beating her daughter. The men who did that were the first men I killed.”

“It was a year after the incident. Apparently the men realized that they crossed the line and fled before the owner caught them. Well, eventually, they were caught. I had been training on the use of throwing knives and my trainer had me use these men as targets. By that time, I was good. When I was finished, there were 12 to 15 knives in each of the four men.”

Elizabeth was shocked. It was like hearing someone talk about someone else. There was no remorse. That, Elizabeth thought, was the worst part. There was no remorse at all for the killings Amy had performed.

“How many,” Elizabeth asked.

“Ehh?”

“How many men have you killed?”

“Ahhh. I have killed 247 men.”

“And women,” Ed asked. “I know that women there can be brutal as well.”

“True,” Amy said, “but we didn’t kill the women. They were sent to a different bar and one of that bar’s girls was brought to our bar. They couldn’t put someone who had killed one of our girls in with the rest of the girls. The offender wouldn’t last one night.”

“So, why do you want your sisters to get training?”

“I know that, alone, I could get in there and do the job, but I want to share this with them. To do that, they need to be able to protect themselves in case things don’t go as planned. I can wait while they get the training. I will go through it as well to add to the training I have already had.”

The older sisters could say no more. They knew they would need time to process all that their sister had said.

“Anyway,” Amy added, “that is for later. First on my agenda is to get my body fixed up. I know I am probably being narcissistic, but I want my pussy repaired, if possible. Then after recovering from that, I will look at whatever training your friends can offer.”

Ed looked at the older girls and smiled at the nods they gave him. He understood. Elizabeth was the oldest, but she was still only 20 years old. Their bodies had been seriously abused and if there was any way to correct any of that, he wanted to help them get it corrected.

—–

Four years later…..

Phillip Amsted looked around at all the casings and began to pick them up. The girls had used a lot of ammunition, but they were making some real progress. They still had a long way before they caught up with their younger sister, but, then again, so did everyone else Phillip knew.

Amy was something beyond his understanding. She was only 21 but handled knives, guns, and practically any weapon better than anyone he knew. She had even taught him a few things, though he hated to admit it.

She could, for example, hit a man-sized target at almost 200 meters without a scope. With a scope, her maximum range was close to 2000 meters. She had impeccable timing as well. She had shown him a trick he was dying to show Ed. Ed was one of the best sharpshooters Phillip had ever known, even if the old guy rarely went shooting these days.

“Alright, girls,” he said to Melinda and Elizabeth, “help me pick up this brass and then we will get back to the barracks.”

The girls cheerfully agreed. They had done well today and they knew it. It was, however, a hot and sticky day and a shower back at the barracks was just what they wanted.

The barracks were just that: barracks. A decommissioned military base in South America had been purchased by Ed and his friends for just this kind of training. They (the friends and the girls) could do whatever they wanted without fear of ‘authorities’. They had had some difficulty when they first arrived but after Amy was set loose on the squatters, there had been no more trouble.

Amy was not with the older girls. They were not happy, but they knew that Amy had more than extra previous training going for her. She had talent.

It did not matter what these men showed Amy. Within minutes, she was able to do it. After a couple of weeks, she was able to perform at the same level of expertise shown by their trainers. After a couple of months, the trainers were struggling to keep up with her.

Frankly, if Amy hadn’t been so sweet about the whole thing, the older girls would have been jealous. They still were, a bit, but Amy never rubbed it in their faces. She never bragged or even talked about her training. If the trainers didn’t talk where Melinda and Elizabeth could hear them, the older girls would never know anything about their sister’s training.

Amy never shirked her duties. From the minute they got there, she was helping out in any way she could. She never waited for anyone to ask her for something. She was always offering assistance.

As far as the older girls could tell, Amy’s behavior had two major side effects. First, Amy was the first person to be trusted with complicated, dangerous tasks. The men respected her. Second, her extra activities had a major benefit of making her supremely physically fit.

Amy, though she still had her petite form, was stronger than most of the men in the area. She could now run 30 miles without stopping. Melinda and Elizabeth pooped out after 10.

The older girls knew that they were never going to be as good as Amy was with these kinds of activities. Their satisfaction, however, came from the fact that, despite their inability to keep up with Amy, they were surpassing their trainers in many areas.

The one area, they still had difficulty with was marksmanship. Guns were still a problem. They were good, but they wanted to be better. That was why they pushed Phillip to bring them out to the range every day.

“Damn, girls,” Phillip said, startling Melinda from her thoughts as they finished picking up the casings and started back to the barracks, “I don’t know how much more I can teach you. You have come a long way in only 3 months.”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth said, “but we still aren’t as good as Amy.”

Phillip lost his smile and came to a halt.

“Listen,” he said as he turned to the girl. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but it will be very difficult, if not impossible to become as good as her with a gun. I have never, and I mean NEVER, seen anyone as good as she is.”

“It is good to want to be like her,” he continued as they resumed their jog back to the barracks, “but do not beat yourself up because you aren’t. You two are still better than 90% of the people on this base. When I said there wasn’t much more I could teach you, it was because you are as good as I am.”

“But it is not just guns with Amy. It is everything. She is like a one-woman army.”

“I know what you mean,” Phillip said with a chuckle. “To be honest, some of the trainers are afraid of her. They think that if they piss her off, she could kill them.”

“I don’t think she could do somethi…..”

“She could,” Phillip said, cutting Elizabeth off mid-sentence. “She never shows it, but there is a darkness in her. There is a purpose driving her and I pity anyone who gets in her way.”

Melinda and Elizabeth just looked at each other. They knew the motivation behind Amy’s actions. They couldn’t, however, tell anyone. Ed had been very specific on that point. There was no point in putting anyone else at risk.

As they crested the hill and looked down into the area surrounding the barracks, Phillip realized he might get his wish. Ed was here. Amy should be able to show him her trick.

“C’mon, girls,” he said with a smile. “It looks like your ‘Uncle’ is here. Let’s double-time it.”

Picking up the pace, they ran the last mile to the camp.

—–

“So,” Ed said to Mike Mitchell, the lead trainer and facilitator of this camp, “you think the girls are ready?”

“Ready,” Mike asked. “I do not know about that. You four have been as tight-lipped as anyone I have ever met when it comes to why they needed the training. what I do know is that there is nothing more we can teach them.”

“The older ones, Elizabeth and Melinda, could stand toe-to-toe with any special forces soldier in America. They have superior ability with guns and knives. They are proficient in three….no four schools of martial arts and as far as strategic planning is concerned, they are better tacticians than anyone else I know. Well, with one exception.”

“And what about Amy,” Ed asked.

“She is the exception. For the last year, she has been training us, not the other way around.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not, Ed,” Mike said. “That girl is kind of scary.”

“You are not the first to feel that, Mike.”

“Are you sure you cannot tell me what is going on? I am genuinely worried about Amy. She has something driving her and whatever it is, if there is someone in her way, they will suffer dearly.”

“I am sorry, Mike. That is their secret. I cannot say more.”

“No problem, Ed,” Mike replied with a smile. “I am just their trainer. You pay well and don’t place any restrictions on how we do our job.”

“I thought you were here,” Phillip huffed and puffed as he entered the room.

“Hi, Phil,” Ed replied with a smile. “You look all out. What’s wrong?”

“I just ran a mile with a 50-pound pack on my back. That’s what’s wrong. And let me tell you something. If either of you tell those girls I was this bad off, I will kill you.”

“Trying to show off for the girls, Phil,” Mike asked with a grin on his face. “That’s just sad. Remember. You are twenty years older than they are.”

“Fuck. I know that, but they weren’t even sweating hard.”

“See what I mean, Ed,” Mike asked, turning back to his employer. “They may not be ready, but they have had everything we can give them.”

“Oh, by the way,” Phillip interrupted, “is Amy back yet, Mike? I have something I want her to show you.”

“Yeah. She, Brent, Tony, and Rick all got back three hours ago. I think she was going to take a shower and a nap.”

“Great. I will be right back.”

Phillip ran to the barracks and gasped – just as he always did – when he saw Amy in the barracks. The girl never wore clothes indoors. Outside, she was never without gear that would help her hide in her surroundings. He shouldn’t have been surprised. The girl had no modesty.

She was beautiful. She had beautiful 32-C breasts and hair down to her ass. She may be only 5′2″, but she had a figure most women would kill for. Her physical activities, though rigorous, had not distorted her form, making her look like a female bodybuilder.

“Amy,” Phillip whispered into the sleeping girl’s ear. “It is time to ge…..”

Further discussion was lost as Phillip staggered back from a vicious blow that dislocated his nose.

“Oh, Phillip,” exclaimed Amy as she jumped up from bed and rushed to help him. “I am sorry. Oh, it looks like I broke your nose. Just a sec….”

Without giving him a chance to object, she placed her hands on either side of his nose and with a quick jerk, set it right. Phillip blanked out for a second as the pain overwhelmed him. While he was taking a second to recover, Amy got dressed. She knew he would never disturb her rest if she wasn’t needed for something.

“What can I do for you,” she asked, seeing that he was coming around again.

“Ugh. Yeah. Your ‘Uncle’ Ed is here. I was wondering if you could show him and Mike that trick you showed me the other day.”

“Trick?”

“Yeah. The coin trick.”

“Well, it is not really a trick, Phillip, but I could show them if you like.”

“Excellent. Then get…..oh. You are dressed. Then come with me.”

“Um. Ok.”

The two headed back and, after a minute, arrived at HQ.

“I see you woke her up,” Mike said. “Dislocated your nose, did she? And here I thought you had learned after the last time.”

“Shut up. Just come outside with us. You gotta see this.”

The three men and Amy went outside. Phillip gave Amy his gun and turned to Mike.

“Mike, you got a quarter?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Let me see it,” Phillip demanded, holding out his hand.

“Ok,” Mike said agreeably as he handed the quarter over.

“Call it, Ed. Heads or tails.”

“Um….heads.”

Without pausing, Phillip flipped the coin high into the air, watching as it flipped.

BANG!!

“WHAT THE FUCK,” exclaimed Mike as he jumped from the noise.

“Just this,” Phillip replied as he picked up the coin. “Take a look.”

“There is a hole in it,” Ed replied, stating the obvious.

“No kidding. But look. You can tell by the indent around the hole that the bullet struck the ‘heads’ side.”

“Dumb luck,” Mike said. “Yes, it is impressive that she can shoot a hole through a spinning coin, but hitting the called side? That has to be luck.”

“Try it again, then,” Phillip goaded.

“Okay,” Mike replied as he pulled another quarter from his pocket. “Tails this time.”

He flipped the coin high into the air and, realizing what was to come, quickly covered his ears.

BANG!!

“Damn,” Mike said as he picked up the coin. “Tails this time. Could still be luck, but why don’t you think so?”

“Yesterday, Amy and I went through a roll of quarters repeating this trick. 40 quarters. She hit the right side every time.”

“What does that mean,” Ed asked.

“Ed,” Mike said, “it means that her timing is perfect. Her eyes are right on as well. If she can see the flipping coin and time it so the bullet hits the right side as it is turning over and over, well, I have never seen anything like it.”

“Phil,” Mike said, “I think we are done here, for now. I have had reports from all the other guys and Melinda and Elizabeth are as good as we can make them. You agree with that?”

“I do.”

“Good. Then go tell the girls to pack up their gear. They will be leaving with Ed the day after tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, Mike,” Phillip answered as he left.

“That goes for you, two, little lady,” Mike said as he turned to Amy.

He paused for a moment as he looked at her. She was looking to the east, not saying anything. She was motionless, but both Mike and Ed could feel the tension pouring from inside her.

“Hey, Amy,” Ed said gently, getting her attention, “go pack your things. We will be leaving soon.”

“You bet, Uncle Ed,” she said as she jumped up and gave him a big hug.

She suddenly looked down and, noticing the gun still in her hand, gave the gun to Mike.

“Can you give that back to Phillip? Thanks. Oh. And please tell him I am sorry about his nose.”

She then turned and ran for the barracks. After watching her disappear, the two men went back inside to have a beer.

—–

Los Angeles, CA – two weeks later…..

Ed paced the room. Since getting back from the training camp, the apartment had been a scene of constant tension. Ed had suspected it before, but now he knew that Amy was calling the shots. There were moments when she was a sweet girl, just like when she hugged him at the camp, but they were few and far between. They also rarely lasted more than a few minutes.

The two older girls seemed content to let their little sister lead. It was no wonder, really. She was the smartest and strongest of the three. They all wanted revenge on their father and Alanna for the murder of their mother and older sisters, but only Amy seemed to have any ideas on how to accomplish it.

This was not the reason Ed was pacing. The reason for his pacing was that Amy had disappeared. Since arriving in Los Angeles almost two weeks before, the three girls had been content to allow Ed to take them anywhere they needed to go. They had all been together since arriving in the city.

This, however, must have been irritating Amy. When Ed, Elizabeth, and Melinda awoke this morning, they found a note from Amy on the table. She had been having difficulty thinking with everyone all around her, so she went for a walk to clear her head. There had been no mention of when she would be back.

It was now 14 hours later, 9:00pm. Ed was worried sick that something had happened. The girls still had no cell phones so there was no way to get in touch with her until she came back. Ed was torn between worrying about her well-being and the well-being of anyone who pissed her off. She had shown that she had a temper. The scary thing was that she was never out of control. Even when supremely pissed off, she was always in full control of her actions.

“Ed,” Melinda said, “you’re pacing again. Come and sit down. Worrying about her is not going to get her to come back any sooner. She’ll come back when she has found the solution to her problem.”

“Problem? What problem?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither of us do,” Elizabeth added. “Amy just does this. When something is bothering her, rather than talk about it, she goes……what do the Australians call it, Mel?”

“Walkabout”

“Yeah. She goes walkabout.”

“And how long is she usually gone?”

“It varies,” Melinda said. “Sometimes it is hours, sometimes it is days. In the camp, she had Mike all worried once because she was gone for three weeks.”

“Three weeks? Jesus! What did she eat?”

“Whatever she could. Berries, nuts, bugs, whatever animal she could kill and cook. Hell, she shocked the camp when she came back because she was carrying this jaguar. It was a full-grown male that weighed around 220 pounds.”

“I remember that,” Elizabeth said with a chuckle. “It scared the hell out of Mike when he was taking the ropes off it and it snapped at him.”

“Yeah, and Amy just grabs Jim’s gun and puts three bullets in the animal’s head.”

“Why didn’t she kill it before,” Ed asked.

“I didn’t know how long it would take me to get back to camp,” Amy said as she entered the room. “I didn’t want the meat getting gamy. I had carried that damn oversized cat for six days. It was a great workout. The only annoying part was that I would have to set it down and brain it every six hours or so to keep it unconscious.”

“Amy,” Ed asked as he sunk into a chair, relief washing over him, “where have you been?”

“I needed to clear my head so I took a walk.”

“THAT WAS ALMOST 15 HOURS AGO,” Ed shouted, his anger rising.

“I am sorry, Uncle Ed,” Amy said contritely. “I just had this thought that had been bugging me for a few days and whenever I thought I had it, it would get lost.  I just needed time to figure this out.”

“And did you?”

“Yep. It was a question I have been meaning to ask you.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Do you still have the tapes your daughter made twelve years ago?”

“Yes,” Ed said with a frown. “I am sorry, but I have not destroyed them, yet.”

“Actually, that is a good thing. I need to see the one with your daughter killing mom.”

“What,” asked Melinda. “Why?”

“I understand if you two do not want to see it again,” Amy said to Melinda and Elizabeth, “but I need to ask Ed about something in it. It will only take a few minutes, so if you want to wait in the other room, go ahead.”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know what it is you are curious about, but I can deal with it.”

“Me too,” Melinda said.

Ed, looking at the girls, sighed. He hated letting them see their mother’s pain. The poor woman had been stripped of all dignity and had been brutally tortured before death claimed her. As far as Ed could see, there was nothing worth watching that. One look at Amy’s face, however, was enough to tell him that she would not let this go.

Sighing again, he got up and went to his room and got the tape from the safe. Returning to the living room, he put the tape in the player and turned on the TV. At least, he thought, there is no sound on this one. The movie had only played for a few minutes, however, when Amy asked him to pause it.

“I thought I remembered this,” Amy said triumphantly. “Uncle Ed, how many women are on the screen?”

“Three,” Ed said thoughtfully as he looked at the screen. “Somehow, I had forgotten this.”

“Who is the woman helping your daughter?”

Ed was shook. Amy had seen the video only once……four years ago in that bar in Bangkok. She had never forgotten the details. Looking at the figure of the second torturer, he knew who it was from the size of the woman.

“Her name is Rita Caldwell. She was my daughter’s best friend. They kind of drifted apart after this occurred. I do know that Alanna sends Rita $10,000 a month as a kind of thanks for the help Rita gave back then.”

“Where does this Rita live?”

“I do not know.”

“Can you find her?”

“I can. You want her killed?”

“Um……no. Not yet, anyway. I just want to know where she is. She has information I want.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“The identity of everyone who was there that day,” Amy answered. “When they take mom to the kitchen, Rita and your daughter are in the picture, but the picture moves. This means the camera is held by someone. I want to know who held it. They are as guilty as Rita and Alanna.”

“How many people are you planning on killing?”

“So far? Only three; Rita, Alanna, and daddy. If I can find the cameraperson, I may hire him or her to run the technical side of filming our fun.”

“And this fun…..what do you have planned?”

“Before I tell you, Uncle Ed, I have another question. Do you want to be there?”

“”I do not know, Amy,” Ed said. “I really do not know.”

“Ok,” Amy said. “I was planning on you watching little Johnny while we do the dirty work. I was pretty sure you would not want to be there. As for the rest, it is quite simple.”

“We will take Rita first. We will not kill her for a while. We will keep her so Alanna can watch her friend die. You mentioned that daddy and Alanna always go to an island in the Caribbean around the end of November each year, right?”

“Yes. The last week of November.”

“And how big is this island?”

“It is a decent size. About half of one square mile.”

“Ok. That is about two months from now. I want Rita found. We will take her in the second week of June and then go to the island. You will stay here. After we take Rita, I will call you and you will remove your daughter’s ‘viewing privileges’ from the bank account. If she is checking it on a regular basis, it will not be long before she calls you to get an explanation.”

“You will go down there to talk to them about some investments you have planned. While you are there, you will try to get Alanna to allow you to spend an afternoon with your grandson. You two will go out on their boat. You did say they had a boat, right?”

“Yes. They have a yacht and a little fishing boat. The fishing boat is moored at the island year-round in the boathouse.”

“You can drive it,” Amy asked.

“I can.”

“Can you sail the yacht?”

“Yes. I did a lot of sailing when I was younger.”

“Even better. Then tell Alanna you want to go fishing with Johnny. She may be hesitant, but do whatever you can to convince her. Once you and Johnny are away, Mel, Liz, and I will strike. We will enter the house and use tranquilizer darts to put Alanna and daddy out. We will move them to a new location and I will call you, using Alanna’s phone.”

“You will,” Amy continued, “return to the island, saying that an emergency had come up and daddy and Alanna had to return to Italy. A helicopter from the mainland had picked them up and they took a plane home. They asked you to sail the yacht home as it would give you more time with Johnny.”

“Will I see John or Alanna again?”

“That,” Amy replied, “is up to you. If you want to watch her die, we can work something out with Johnny.”

“Uh, no,” Ed said. “I do not know if I could handle watching her die in front of me.”

“If you would like, we can film it for you.”

“You weren’t planning on filming it?”

“No,” Amy answered. “This is a one-time thing. For revenge. I will not need to watch it later.”

“Ok. I can find a film crew for you,” Ed said.

“Were you the one who found the film crew for Alanna?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that they are all dead?”

“WHAT?!?”

Amy smiled. It was good to know that she was right. Ed may have been involved in the beginning, but when he turned his back on the whole affair, he didn’t look back.

“Everyone associated with the event died over eleven years ago. There was a big investigation. Apparently, this guy named Chris Sorenson was arrested for drug trafficking. while he was in jail waiting for the trial, the police obtained a warrant and searched his home. They found a huge stash of cocaine, some child porn, and a couple of realistic-looking snuff films.”

“They found some notes about a job he had done 9 months earlier – editting a snuff project where a mother and her two daughters were killed on film – and an address book with the contact numbers of some of the people listed in the notes. Before they could ask Chris about it, though, he was found dead in his cell. The coroner’s report listed poison as the cause of death.”

“Running a check on the names in Chris’ address book, they found that several had been in the area at the time of the job and also had lengthy police records. They question all but two of the people. The two they could not question were dead. They had been killed within 36 hours of Chris Sorenson’s death. As a side note, one of the people killed was a famous chef that had been accused of cannibalism (never proven) and as a result lost her job in a restaurant in France.”

“The people they questioned knew of a job involving a mother and two daughters, but had no details. After polygraphs and lengthy questioning, the police assumed that either the job never took place or the people involved with it were dead.”

“I am only guessing, but your daughter probably knew about Sorenson’s drug habits. She might have had an informant on the police force and arranged Chris’ death after the arrest. She knew that after a drug arrest, a search warrant was likely and killed the other two people that were there that day. She probably spared Rita due to their friendship.”

Ed was stunned. He knew nothing about any of this. He would not, however, put it beyond Alanna to be that ruthless.

“It is possible,” he acquiesced. “How did you find out about all this?”

“I found a corrupt cop that had been involved with the investigation and fucked his brains out in return for information. He snuck the report out of storage for me and let me read it. That is part of why I am so late.”

“And the other part?”

“Well, on the way back to the hotel, I was attacked by some guys. I guess they thought that because I am so small, I would be an easy rape victim. They were wrong.”

“What happened?”

“They will live, but they may be in the hospital for a while. There were three guys. Two of them may need prosthetic legs. None of them will be able to father children. I made sure I burst their testicles before I called 911.”

“Anyway,” Amy said with a smile, “how long will it take you to track down Rita? I really want to talk to her.”

“Are you going to kill her too?”

“Yes. But depending on how helpful she is, I may be quick about it. My main targets are daddy and Alanna. They will be begging me to kill them before I am done. Rita, if she is helpful, will die quickly.”

“I will have her address by morning.”

“Excellent. After my fun tonight, I do not think it would be wise to stay very long. Those guys I mangled will be able to describe me and I do not want to have to deal with the police.”

“Agreed,” Ed said as he turned to make the first of many phone calls.

—–

Reno, NV – Six Weeks Later

Rita Caldwell was unhappy. The monthly check from Alanna was a week late. Having become dependent on the monthly income over the last 12 years, Rita was having to call her creditors and let them know that their money would be there, but it would be a few days late. She had been a good customer over the last several years so she doubted that there would be a problem. The only problem she had was the embarrassment.

She pondered this as she walked from the post office on her way home. She lived in a nice apartment, but she did not trust her neighbors. Because of this, she never had mail delivered to her apartment. While it was a small inconvenience to walk the two miles to the post office 6 days a week, she could use the exercise. She often stopped by during her morning jog. For the last week, however, the foul weather had prevented her from taking her morning run. Instead, she would use the treadmill in the community gym and walk to the post office in the afternoon.

It was a cold night and the snow was beginning to fall as she approached her front door. She went into her freezing apartment and immediately turned up the thermostat. It would soon be warm. She decided to take a warm shower. By the time she was done, the heat would be up.

She walked through her dark apartment stripping off her clothes as she went. Walking through the bedroom, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Sighing contentedly, she stepped under the spray of the warm water. She quickly scrubbed herself clean and spent the next 5 minutes soaking under the heavy spray, letting the warm water relax her muscles. Turning off the water, she stepped out of the shower and cursed. She had forgotten to put the towels away last night and, as a result, there were no towels in the bathroom.

Walking into the bedroom, she turned on the light and froze. There was someone sitting in a chair in the corner of the bedroom. Rita would have screamed but the gun the person held in her gloved hand, along with a clear indication that the she wanted Rita to be quiet, convinced Rita that screaming would be unwise. Instead, she stood there numbly as the woman rose from the chair, picked up a towel from the pile beside the chair, and tossed it to Rita.

“Wrap yourself in that,” the woman said, “and sit on the bed, Rita.”

“D-d-do I know you,” Rita asked with a stutter as the woman sat back down.

“Not yet,” the woman said, motioning at the towel with the gun. “Let me introduce myself. I am Amy.”

Rita picked up the towel, wrapped it around herself and sat down.

“How did you get in here?”

“I have many talents, Rita. Some, you may find interesting. Others, you would never want to see. One of my favorite talents is the ability to know when someone is lying to me. You will not lie to me. Right, Rita?”

“Huh?”

“I picked your lock and let myself in four hours ago. I have been sitting here waiting for you. I was expecting you to notice me when you got home, but I guess your shower took precedence. You have a lovely body, by the way. Now, answer my question. Are you going to lie to me?”

Rita was confused. This woman caught her completely off balance. She seemed pleasant; despite the gun.

“No,” Rita said. “I will not lie to you.”

“Excellent,” Amy said delightedly. “Now, I want you to tell me my name.”

“Huh?”

“You must like that word. Anyway, I feel that knowing the person you are talking to helps to calm you down. I must admit that you look quite perturbed. Well, to be honest, if I found an armed woman in my home, I would probably be perturbed, as well. But, I want you relaxed. I have some questions that need answers and I would like you to cooperate willingly. Now, to begin, tell me my name.”

“Amy,” Rita said. “You said your name is Amy.”

“Very good. Most people, when surprised, find it very hard to concentrate. I like that you were able to remember my name. But you still seem tense. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Rita knew what she would like. That gun was making her very nervous. It hinted at a world of bad things that could happen to her.

“Could you put the gun down?”

“I think I have a better solution,” Amy said with a smile.

Flipping the gun around so it was pointed at herself, Amy held the gun out to Rita.

“Why don’t you hold the gun? I know that were I in your position, I would be more relaxed if I held the weapon.”

Rita numbly took the gun. As the young woman sat down again, Rita kept looking from the woman in the chair to the gun in her own hand. Amazed at the stupidity of the young woman, Rita raised the gun and, pointing it at the young woman, pulled the trigger.

CLICK

“Oh,” Amy said. “I forgot to mention. That gun is not loaded. If you wanted to attack me with it, you would be better off using it as a club or throwing the damn thing at me.”

“Then why give it to me?”

“To give you the illusion of control. Like I said earlier, I am a woman of many talents. I do not need a gun to get you to cooperate.”

“And what if I told you that I have a gun?”

“For someone who was fixated on the damn thing, you really didn’t look at it, did you? That is your gun.”

Looking at the gun, Rita hissed in disgust as she realized the woman was not lying. It really was her gun. In an act of frustrated desperation, she threw the gun at the woman’s head as hard as she could.

“Predictable,” Amy said as she caught the gun and set it on the table. “Rita, this is entertaining as hell, but we are not getting anywhere. Sit your ass down and let’s talk.”

“Talk about what,” Rita asked grudgingly as she sat on the bed.

“Two people. John McInish and his wife, Alanna.”

“Alanna and John? Why do you want to talk about them?”

“Because my name is Amy McInish.”

It took a second for the name to sink in, but when it did, Rita knew she was in trouble. This girl was supposed to be whoring herself in Bangkok. That, or she should have been dead.

As her mind whirled and tried to process this information, Rita saw the young woman rise and walk toward her. Scrambling to back away, Rita slid off the bed. Falling backwards, she hit her head on the nightstand and knocked herself unconscious.

“Fuck,” Amy said. “Well, I was going to need to get her out of here anyway. Might as well be now.”

Amy dressed Rita in dark clothing and put her in the chair. Rita showed no signs of waking soon. Amy picked up the phone, carefully removed the bug, and dialed the number to a pay phone down the street.

“Hello? Yeah. Change of plans. Have the van out front of the building in three minutes. Yeah. We will go now. Ok. See you in a few.”

Amy replaced the bug in the phone and hung up. Taking a minute to search Rita’s purse, Amy found the unconscious woman’s address book. Flipping through it, she found entries for Rita’s mother, sister, and nieces. Smiling, Amy put the address book in her pocket and, picking Rita up out of the chair, left the apartment.

—–

“Wakey wakey,” a vaguely familiar voice said as cold water splashed Rita in the face, shocking her to full alertness.

The first thing Rita noticed was the chair. She was bound to it and found movement nearly impossible. The bindings were tight, but not terribly uncomfortable. Looking closer, she saw that whoever had bound her had taken precautions geared at preventing the bindings from cutting off circulation.

The second thing she noticed was that she was stark naked. The room was cool but not cold. Whoever had taken her was making an effort to keep her relatively comfortable, if immobile. In fact, the only uncomfortable part of this, so far, were the floodlights shining in her face. She could tell there were other people in the room, but the bright lights made it impossible to identify them.

“I’m sorry,” the familiar voice said as the floodlights went out. “Were those making it hard for you to see? Don’t worry. With them out, your eyesight will return to normal in a minute and then we will make the introductions.”

Rita’s eyes adjusted to the light and she finally recognized the speaker as Amy, the woman who had broke into her apartment.

“How did I get here? Why am I naked? Why am I bound to this chair?”

“Whoa, Rita,” Amy said with a chuckle. “One at a time. I brought you here. Your attempt to flee from me resulted in you knocking yourself out when you fell and hit your head on the nightstand. We were not finished with our discussion about Alanna and my father so I decided to advance the timetable. I was going to bring you here anyway, but you did me the favor of being unconscious while I transported you. No fighting that way.”

“You are naked because you soiled yourself during transport and I am currently washing your clothes. Do you have a habit of pissing yourself in your sleep?”

“No, but then again, I do not have a habit of being abducted.:

“Fair enough,” Amy said with another chuckle, one echoed by the other two occupants of the room. “Keep your head about you and this may go well for you. As well as possible, that is. To answer the last question, you were bound to that chair because the floor here is concrete and we did not want you lying on a cold hard floor.”

“Now that you are awake, I can remove the bindings. Before I do, however, I want you to promise that you will not attack me or do anything else equally stupid once you are released. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes,” Rita said with a nod.

Amy just stood there, tapping her foot. After a moment, Rita understood.

“Oh! I promise I will not attack you or do anything else.”

“Excellent,” Amy said as she moved to free Rita.

It took only moments, but during the process, Rita was sorely tempted to break her promise. Amy was in a position where Rita could have easily gotten the upper hand. As Amy finished and backed away, Rita cursed herself for not risking it.

“I am glad you kept your promise. Regardless of how it seemed, I was never vulnerable. Had you attempted something, I would have had to hurt you……badly. Neither of us wants that.”

“But…..you kidnapped me.”

“I did,” Amy admitted. “But I really would rather have your cooperation. The best way to do that, I think, is to let you know that I will not hurt you more than is absolutely necessary.”

“My cooperation?”

“Yes. In your apartment, I told you my name. What is it?”

“Amy.”

“And my last name?”

“Oh, god. You said your last name is McInish.”

“Correct. Now I told you I wanted to talk about Alanna and John McInish, right? Can you guess why I would come to you about this?”

Rita could guess. She was not really wanting to say it on the off chance that Amy did not know about Rita’s part in her mother’s death.

“Um, no. I have no idea.”

Amy shook her head and walked toward the older woman. In a move that Rita could not follow, Amy backhanded the woman hard enough to knock her out of the chair and halfway across the room.

“Geez, Amy,” one of the other women said. “Don’t break her jaw.”

“It’s not broken. Bruised maybe, but not broken.”

“Fuck,” Rita muttered. “What was that for?”

“While we were in your apartment, you said you would not lie to me. You just lied. Lying is one of the only things that really pisses me off. You know why I came to you. Hey, Mel, turn on that TV.”

The woman named Mel turned on a TV that Rita had not noticed. To Rita’s horror, she recognized the scene from the snuff film she had helped make 12 years earlier. She took her time getting back to the chair, trying to think of a way out of this.

“That,” Amy said, “is you – Rita Caldwell – and Alanna – then called Alanna McAllister – killing my mother. I have researched this video and I have the others made the same day, where you two made my mother kill my two older sisters.”

“Alanna did it. I only helped a little. I swear.”

“I know. That is why I am offering you this chance. I want your help in getting close to Alanna. I can do it on my own, but with you, it would be a little easier.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“Oh, yes,” Amy said with a smile. “I am going to kill you. The choice before you is not one where your actions will determine if you live or die. In this situation, your actions will determine how you die.”

“What are my options?”

“If you help me, I end it quick for you with a bullet in your brain. If you do not help me, I do to you what you did to my mother. I even have some new tricks to add to your performance. In other words, I can make it quick and relatively painless, or I can make you beg for death.”

“I will help you,” Rita quickly said, remembering the pain Amanda went through 12 years before.

“Smart woman,” Amy said. “Now, remember what I said about lying. If you hesitate or change your mind later, that will do what?”

“Really piss you off?”

“Right. That lie you told earlier was a small lie compared to lying in this. Punishment for lying this time would be extreme.”

“Lisa McDonald,” Amy said, reading from a small book she took from her pocket. “Danielle McDonald. Tabitha McDonald. Erika Winchell. Emily Horton.”

“What,” Rita asked, shocked that Amy had the names of her mother, her two sisters, and her two nieces. How do you know those names?”

“While you were passed out in the apartment, I stole your address book. After a little investigation, I discovered your family members. Should you try to back out of helping me, you will die the way my mother died, but not before you watch me destroy your family the same way. And they will know that you are the reason for their suffering.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Amy,” the woman named Mel said. “What is this?”

Neither Melinda, nor Elizabeth, knew how far Amy was willing to go with this. They hoped she wasn’t serious, but the changes in Amy left them wondering. This could get real bad, real quick.

“I would,” Amy said with a face that scared everyone in the room. “And I will if you give me reason to. If you cooperate, however, your body will be found with only a bullet hole in your head. No other signs of torture will be present, because that is the trade-off. You help me, and I will make it easier than you deserve.”

“What do I need to do?”

“When I brought you here,” Amy said, “we eluded the watchers Alanna has covering you. When we get you back, they will be wondering where you went. I am going to have Ed drop you off at home.”

“Watchers? Ed?”

“You know what happened to Chris Sorenson 11 years ago?”

“He was arrested on a drug charge and died in the county jail.”

“True, but there were suspicions raised about that. Two of his friends were also found dead within 36 hours of Sorenson’s death. You know what happened when you made that film. I know Sorenson helped you make it. I am guessing there were other people in the kitchen who did not make an appearance on film. My guess is those are the individuals found murdered. Abigail Mincer and Mary Healey were their names.”

Rita flinched as she recognized the names.

“Thank you for confirming it for me. It seems that Alanna did not trust anyone associated with those films. Chris died because Alanna had contacts in the police force. Because Chris kept a journal about his film projects – a journal that named Abigail and Mary – those women had to go, as well.”

“Then why didn’t she kill me?”

“Because you were friends? Because you were on tape with her? Maybe because she knew that you might be useful again in the future. You certainly would never speak about all this as you would be implicated as well. Whatever the reason, it is only enough to keep you alive. She still has you watched most of the time.”

“What does Ed have to do with all of this?”

“You know Ed,” Amy asked.

“Yes. He is Alanna’s father.”

“I think it is time to introduce the others,” Amy said, seemingly changing topics. “The one leaning against the door is my oldest remaining sister, Elizabeth…..”

“Hi,” Elizabeth said.

“……and the one helping with the TV is my other sister Melinda.”

“Hello,” Melinda said with a wave.

“Four years ago, Ed rescued us from some shithole in Bangkok. He felt bad about what his daughter did to us, but he recently found out something that made him actually do something about it. He found out that our father did not die 12 years ago, as he had suspected.”

“He found out about the doppelganger,” Rita said, knowingly.

“Only after he went to Italy and saw Alanna and my father living together. Anyway, after discovering that he helped kill three innocent people, he wanted to kill himself. Instead, he tracked us down in Bangkok and helped us escape.”

“So, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you have not received your monthly check, right?”

“How do you know?”

“We had Ed move the funds to a different account. Right now, Alanna is probably furious that her money is not there. You have not received your check because she cannot write checks. What you will do, is go back to your apartment with Ed. You will pack your things. I want it to look like you and Ed are going to take the money and run.”

“She’ll kill me.”

“No. She will not risk losing valuable banking information by killing the only two people who have it. She will not trust a lackey to get the information from Ed. They will capture Ed and take him to her. If you are with him, they will take you too.”

“I have reliable information telling me that Alanna and John are on their island in the Caribbean right about now. When you get down there, Ed will put off telling Alanna anything. He will make a deal to tell her everything after he and Johnny go fishing. They will take a small fishing boat.”

“Alanna will keep you close, believing there is something between the two of you, and try to get the information from you. You are my distraction. While she is busy with you, and the guards are busy with Ed, we will make our way onto the island, take out the guards, and enter the house.”

“Once we have Alanna and John under our control, we will finish with you, as painlessly as possible. If I have any reason to believe you have betrayed us, we will leave. We will then plot to recapture you, and make you watch your family members die in agony. Are we clear?”

“If I do this, you promise it will be only me who pays for what I did?”

“I promise,” Amy said. “Trust me. I do not like resorting to this bullying, but I have to see this through and anyone who stands in my way will regret it. I only hope that, in your next life, you are not so easily led by bad people. Now, let’s go.”

A moment later a woman entered with Rita’s clothes. They were warm and clean. Rita gratefully put them on. Following Amy, they left the room.

—–

An Island in the Caribbean (Near the British Virgin Islands) – 4 days later

Rita sat at a table looking out the window at the Atlantic. It was absolutely gorgeous. Looking to the west, she could see Dog Island. It was about three miles away. To the south, about 8 miles away, was the island of Anguilla and Long Bay Village. she and Ed had passed through there on their way to Alanna’s island home.

Amy had been dead on. Ed and Rita had been picked up almost as soon as they returned to Rita’s apartment. The men who drove them to the airport and flew with them to Anguilla island said nothing to their charges. Ed and Rita had only each other to converse with.

Ed also sat at the table, thinking about the situation. He knew the girls had been on Anguilla island before he and Rita had arrived. The girls had left for the airport immediately after Ed and Rita left for the apartment. By Ed’s estimation, they had arrived almost a day earlier. He knew they planned to rent a boat from someone in West End Village under the pretense of fishing off of Dog Island to the northwest.

Upon arriving at the island an hour before, Ed and Rita were shown to the patio, given drinks, and were told that Alanna would be with them shortly. Now that they were here, neither Ed, nor Rita were inclined to talk about anything. They simply sat looking out at the water.

“It’s beautiful,” Alanna said as she came out onto the patio, “isn’t it, dad?”

“It is,” Ed agreed, not looking at his daughter.

“Alanna,” Rita asked as she motioned to the island off to the west, “what is that island over there?”

“It is called Dog Island. There are no settlements, but it has frequent visitors as the fishing is very good over there.”

“I think I would like to try that,” Ed said with a smile.

“I think you would like it, too. John and Johnny certainly do.”

Alanna set a pitcher of orange juice on the table and sat down. She poured herself a drink and sat in silence for a minute.

“So,” John said as he came out onto the patio, “here we all are. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Sure is, honey,” Alanna said with a smile.

“Anyway,” John said, “shall we get down to business?”

“Sure,” Rita said, “what business?”

“You don’t know,” Alanna asked, looking from her friend to her father and back. “I thought you two were seeing each other.”

“Only casually, Alanna,” Ed said.

“Then, I am sorry, Rita. I thought you knew. You did not receive your check and had not called me yet so I thought you were in on it, as well.”

“In on what?”

“The money is gone,” Alanna said. “Dad moved it. That is why you have not received your $10,000.”

“So, Ed,” John said, “where is it?”

“Safe.”

“Why did you move it, dad?”

“Well, I have not got much longer and I wanted to see my grandson. This seemed to be the best way to get an invitation. God knows that you have come up with one excuse or other every other time I have asked. Is Johnny here with you?”

“What do you mean when you say you haven’t got much longer?”

“I am dying. Cirrhosis. The doctor says 3-6 months. I was really hoping to spend some time with Johnny.”

“Don’t worry, Ed,” John said. “Johnny is here. He spent the night on Anguilla with a friend. They should be back in about an hour.”

“So,” Alanna said, “will you tell us where the money is?”

“This afternoon. I would like to go out with Johnny over to that island – Dog Island you called it? – and do some fishing.”

“He would like that. He loves fishing there.”

“Good,” Ed said. “Then when we get back, you can cook the fish we catch and after Johnny goes to bed, I will give you both the new banking information.”

John and Alanna looked at each other for a moment. Neither of them saw the harm in letting the dying man see his grandson. John was sure that, after verifying the information, he could kill his father-in-law. He would be doing the old fuck a favor, actually. Cirrhosis was a nasty way to die.

“Sure thing, Ed,” John said. “I am sure Johnny would like that.”

The four ate breakfast and, an hour later, Johnny came home. Johnny recognized his grandfather from some pictures Johnny had seen. The strange woman was an unknown; probably a friend of his grandfather’s.

“Good morning, Johnny,” Alanna said. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, mom. It looks like I missed something.”

“Heh. Yeah. Your grandfather came down for a visit. He was hoping you would want to go fishing over at Dog Island.”

“Really? Great! I can use my new pole, right?”

“Sure,” John said with a smile. “It is yours, after all.”

“Did you want to come along, Rita,” Ed asked, trusting Amy’s intuition.

“Oh, dad,” Alanna said, proving Amy right, “I haven’t seen Rita for so long. Let her stay here so we ladies can catch up.”

“Yeah, Ed,” Rita said with a smile. “I am not crazy about fishing, anyway. You know that.”

“How about you, John?”

“Sorry, Ed. I have a ton of work to do. Maybe next time.”

“Working on your vacation? Sucks to be you.”

“Well, you know the saying, Ed. ‘No rest for the wicked.’ It’s the story of my life.”

The adults finished eating and Ed and Johnny left to go fishing. John, Alanna, and Rita watched as the two got in the motorboat and took off to the west.

“Ed loves fishing,” Rita said. “He is going to enjoy the hell out of this.”

“Rita,” Alanna said, “what the hell is going on? Are you fucking my father?”

“What? No. As Ed said, it is only casual.”

“And do you know anything about the money?”

“Only what he just told us.”

“Ok. Go sit in the living room. I am going to get us some coffee and will join you in a moment.”

“Not on the patio?”

“No. It is going to get hot out there real soon. I would rather not roast.”

Rita sat on the leather couch in the living room. It was a nicely decorated room. There was a suit of oriental armor standing in one corner of the room. There was a 52″ LCD TV. There was even a huge aquarium filled with exotic fish.

Sitting down on the couch, Rita wondered what was happening outside. Like Ed, she knew the girls were likely already in the area. On the drive back to the apartment five nights ago, Ed told her about the girls. All three of them were dangerous, but Amy was the leader. She repeatedly offered a chance for her sisters to leave, understanding that this was a risky proposition. Rita could tell that Amy frightened Ed. That girl was something terrifying when angered.

Alanna and John came into the living room with three cups of coffee. Sitting down, Alanna handed a cup to Rita as John took his and sat in a recliner. Rita was nervous about drinking the coffee, but she could not let Alanna know how scared she was. Smiling, Rita took a sip. It was good.

“This island is beautiful,” Rita said. “How big is it?”

“It is about half of a square mile,” Alanna said. “Not too big and not too small. This house was already here when we bought the island 7 years ago, but we practically had to tear it down and rebuild it. Right, John?”

“Yeah. And then the very next year, we came back to find all of the windows broken and the door off of it’s hinges.”

“What did you do?”

“We hired a private security service,” Alanna said. “They have an office in a building we put up on the other end of the island. They make sweeps every twenty minutes. There are four men on at all times. That way, if anything comes up, they can deal with it.”

“Is four enough?”

“Oh, yes,” John answered. “It is normally very quiet out here. That is why we bought it as a summer home. It gives us three months each year of peace and quiet. But mostly, they are unnecessary. They are more of a deterrent for young kids who want a place to party.”

“Anyway, Rita,” Alanna said, “how have you been doing? When did you start meeting my fath……”

John turned to his wife as she suddenly went silent. She was clutching her chest. Sticking from her left breast was a dart. Seeing it had to come from the direction of the kitchen, he turned in that direction just in time to see a young woman holding a dart gun. Before he could respond, he was hit in the groin with one of the darts. His bathrobe did little to protect his manhood as he was hit. To his astonishment, the substance in the dart was quick-acting and he had no time to save himself as he fell to the floor.

“That was quick,” Rita said to Amy.

“Actually, I meant to be here 30 minutes ago, but the rotation of the guards slowed me up. I had to be careful so I wouldn’t alert the others.”

“Are they dead?”

“No. They were hit with a cocktail that will keep them under for about eight hours. From the notes in the guard building, they operate on 12-hour shifts. The next crew is not due for 10 hours. This lot will be up and trying to figure out what happened before their replacements arrive.”

“Did they see you?”

“Really,” Amy said, surprised, “do you think I would really let them be able to identify me? No.”

“Where are the others?”

“Securing a boat. We will be leaving in twenty minutes. I would like you to help me tie these two up. The serum I gave them will keep them limp and unable to move for an hour, but I want to make sure they are completely secured before the others get here.”

“Ok.”

As Rita moved to tie Alanna, Rita saw her former friend’s eyes move.

“Wait a minute,” Rita said. “Are they awake?”

“Yes. The serum incapacitates them without knocking them out. They can hear and see everything. They just cannot do anything about it.”

Rita nodded and continued to secure Alanna. If looks could have killed, Rita would have been dead. The hatred showing in Alanna’s eyes was intense. Rita wanted to apologize, but knew that Amy had forbidden talking about this to the two hostages. A minute later, Rita stood. Alanna, even if she could have moved, would not be able to do anything to help herself.

Looking over, she saw that Amy had finished with John. As she watched, Amy used one hand to pick her father off of the floor and drop him in the recliner. The strength was astonishing. Looking in John’s eyes, Rita saw he could not believe it, either. Amy walked over and picked Alanna up the same way and dropped her on the couch.

“It’s time, Rita. You have been helpful and I will keep my promise. Are you ready?”

Rita took a deep breath. This was it. Amy was going to kill her. Looking at Alanna and John, she knew her death was going to be easy. Letting her breath out slowly, she nodded once.

There was no time to wonder about it. In a flash, Amy pulled a gun from behind her back and put three bullets into Rita’s head. Alanna watched in wide-eyed terror as her former friend fell to the floor, her eyes already glazed over in death.

Amy walked into the kitchen, stripping off the thin rubber gloves she was wearing, she put on the latex gloves she brought with her. These gloves were more suited to the task of dismembering Rita. Amy got a meat cleaver and went back to the living room. Ignoring the dead woman’s clothes, Amy went to work.

First, she removed Rita’s arms and then the legs. She dropped these limbs in the laps of her two captives, letting them deal with the thoughts that arose from what they saw. At one point, Alanna closed her eyes. Amy, seeing this, put down the cleaver and walked over to her father’s wife.

“No,” Amy said vehemently as she delivered a stunning back hand to Alanna’s face, smearing blood on the older woman’s cheek. “You will watch this!”

Alanna, stunned by the blow opened her eyes and did not try to avoid the scene again. Ten minutes later, Rita was destroyed. Her chest had been carved open by the cleaver. Her heart was pulled free and placed on the table in front of the couch. The dead woman’s lungs sat on the mantle over the fireplace.

Listening carefully, Amy heard her sisters coming. She quickly got up and administered a shot that put the two captives to sleep within seconds. After placing hoods over their heads, she went to greet her sisters in the kitchen.

“Are you re….”

Melinda’s question was cut off as she saw her younger sister’s clothes.

“What the fuck, Amy? Is this a fucking abattoir?”

“It was for Rita. I did keep my promise, though. She was already dead before I started chopping her up.”

“But why did you chop her up,” Elizabeth asked.

“It was fun. After chopping off a limb, I would put the severed limb in dad’s lap or in Alanna’s lap. They were terrified. It was great. You may not want to go in there though. It is a mess.”

“Is it anything worse than what we saw on those tapes?”

“Hmmm. You have a point. It is not worse. You got the boat ready?”

“Yes. It is fueled and ready to go.”

“And you brought the bag I asked for?”

“Got it right here.”

“Good,” Amy said. “I am going to go take a shower. Don’t worry about those two in there. They will be asleep for about 24 hours.”

Amy went into the living room and stopped.

“Hey. Can one of you bring my bag up to the bathroom? And bring a trash bag, please?”

“Sure.”

Amy was very careful. When showering, she kept her socks on so there would be no real footprings on the bathroom floor. She used a cloth to turn on the water and made sure she touched nothing that would give up prints.

Getting out of the shower, she dried off and used her wet towel to pick up her bloody clothes. Putting them in the trash bag Elizabeth held, Amy walked into the hallway and onto the carpet before stripping her wet socks off and stepping into the sandals her sister brought. Amy wanted to leave no skin or anything that could be used for DNA identification.

Elizabeth was sure that the precautions were unnecessary, but would not argue with Amy. Amy was running this show and if she wanted to be careful, she would be careful. Nothing Elizabeth or Melinda said would change that.

Clean and dry, the soiled clothes safely stashed in a trash bag, they headed down to the living room. Amy used another towel to move Rita’s limbs from the two sleeping captives. She then cut the clothes from the captives and put the clothes in another trash bag.

“It would have been easier to move them if they could walk, Amy,” Melinda said.

“It is easy, now,” Amy said as she picked her father up and slung him over her shoulder.

Amy did the same with Alanna and headed to the kitchen.

“Coming, ladies,” Amy asked.

“Uh, yes,” Elizabeth said in awe.

The two older sisters followed Amy. They knew their father weighed more than 200 pounds and Alanna must have weighed more than 130 pounds. Amy, though, showed no problem carrying them to the dock near the patio. Once aboard the yacht, Amy took the sleeping couple down to the bedroom and tied them together. If the couple woke before reaching their destination, they would find themselves unable to move.

All three girls were trained on sailing a yacht and could have done so blindfolded…..as long as someone told them when they were about to hit something. Elizabeth started the motor and piloted the yacht out to the open sea.

Amy, using her father’s cell phone, sent a text message to the disposable cell phone Ed had, sending the message that an emergency had arisen and John and Alanna were returning to Italy. Once the message was sent, Amy tossed the cell phone over the side into the deep water. The phone would sink and stop working. It was highly unlikely anyone would find it.

—–

Dog Island

Ed was really enjoying his time with Johnny. They had been fishing for about three hours before the cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out and looking at it, he saw the message.

“Hey, Johnny.”

“Yeah, Grandpa?”

“I got some bad news. It seems an emergency has come up and your mom and dad had to go back to Italy.”

“Again?”

“Huh?”

“This happened two years ago, too.”

Ed could not believe his luck. The kid was not going to question the story.

“I’m sorry,” Ed said. “Anyway, your dad wants me to take you back to the airport and fly home from here. They have already left on the yacht.”

“That figures,” Johnny said. “Are you going to stay with me at home? It will take them four or five days to get home sailing the yacht if I know them. I really do not want another babysitter. And I can show you the fishing near Ancona.”

“I think they would be okay with that. And I have the time. Sure, why not?”

“Great!”

“In the meantime, though, I think we should head on over to Anguilla and the airport.”

“What about my clothes?”

“Your parents thought about that. They packet your suitcases and left them on the dock. We will pick them up on our way to Anguilla.”

“Oh. Ok.”

Ed and Johnny put away their fishing gear and started walking back to the boat.

—–

John was the first to wake. He felt horrible. He was starving. There was pain in his wrists and, to his surprise, he found himself handcuffed to a chair. Moving to get a better look around, he found that his ankles were cuffed to the legs of the chair. Looking down, he saw the chair was bolted to the floor. After struggling vainly for a minute, he realized he was going nowhere.

A groan caught his attention and, looking to the left, he saw Alanna in the same situation. Suddenly, everything came back. Some woman had killed Rita. Right in front of John and Alanna. Then Rita was dismembered and butchered. Whoever had them did not mean good things to happen to John and Alanna.

John was a thinker. An idea man. Seeing as Rita was Alanna’s friend, maybe they were just after her. Maybe John could buy his way out of this. They would not know that Ed had moved the money. John would promise outrageous money for his release and when they took him out of here, he would try to escape. It was too bad for Alanna, but John was beginning to get bored with her, anyway. She had fulfilled her purpose. She had given him a son. John did not need her anymore.

Another groan and some movement told John that Alanna was waking up. Looking over at the woman, he saw her looking at him in shock.

“John,” Alanna said, “where are we?”

John, to his chagrin, had no idea. Looking around, he saw they were in a concrete room with a large mirror. Looking up, he saw two sturdy-looking hooks in the ceiling. To the right of the mirror, there was a steel door.

“I have no idea,” John replied.

“This seems vaguely familiar, but I just cannot seem to place it.”

“That is because there is not much in here to trigger your memory,” Amy said as she entered the room. “The last time you were here, that mirror was a regular window.”

“I am sorry,” Rita said as she looked at Amy. “Do I know you?”

“Wow,” Amy said with a smile. “I cannot believe my lack of manners. But I will beg your pardon for not identifying myself yet. Before I do, I should let you know why you are here. I will be right back.”

Amy left and returned a minute later, wheeling in a cart upon which sat a TV/VCR combo set. After plugging in the TV, she inserted a tape and turned on the TV. She left the room and returned a moment later with a chair and a TV remote. Placing her chair between the two captives’ chairs, she started the movie.

A noise distracted Amy and she looked out into the hallway. After a moment, she stood up and headed for the door.

“I am sorry, folks, but I have some business to attend to. I have seen this before and it will take about 90 minutes. I will be back at that time. Enjoy.”

Leaving the room, Amy entered the booth. Looking at the seated couple, she enjoyed seeing the horror appear on their faces.

“Ninety minutes,” Melinda asked.

“Yeah,” Amy replied. I put all three films on that one tape. They will be able to watch all three. Hell, they enjoyed making them. I just thought they should be able to see them one last time.”

“How are we going to do this,” Elizabeth asked.

“That depends on how much you two want to participate. I am capable of doing this on my own, but you two were hurt more by their actions. I feel you two should have the option of venting your anger and grief on these people.”

Elizabeth and Melinda went into a corner of the booth to discuss their options as Amy watched the couple in the cell. Neither John nor Alanna could not look away for more than a few moments. From the look on their faces, Amy could tell they knew they were in the room shown on the video. Amy thought it was fitting. She looked up as Melinda and Elizabeth came back.

“Amy,” Elizabeth began, “we appreciate everything you have done to bring this about. Without you, we would not be here faced with this question.”

“Fuck the question,” Amy said with a smile. “What is the answer?”

“I can’t kill them, Amy,” Melinda said sadly. “I want them dead, but I cannot do it.”

“And you,” Amy asked, looking at her oldest sister.

“I cannot do it either. I thought I could. I wanted to. But now that we are here? I just can’t.”

“I thought as much,” Amy said with an understanding smile. “I could see it back at the camp. When shooting clay pigeons, you two were very good. But when the targets were man-shaped, you hesitated every time. So you cannot kill them. That is fine. I can do that. But let me ask you this. Can you hurt them? Can you cause them severe pain?”

The older sisters looked at each other. They had expected Amy to be pissed, but she just kept surprising them.

“Yeah,” Elizabeth said. “I can hurt them. What do I need to do?”

“Hold on a sec,” Amy said. “Mel? What about you?”

“I….I…I can hurt them,” Melinda said hesitantly, surprised at the upwelling of anticipation she felt.

“Excellent. I am going ask each of you to pummel one of those two in there. I want you to beat them within an inch of their lives. Don’t kill them. That is my fun. Do either of you have a preference concerning who you will take?”

“I don’t,” Elizabeth said.

“I don’t, either,” Melinda said.

“Ok. I am going to flip a coin. Heads, Mel gets dad. Tails, Liz gets him. Agreed?”

The older sisters nodded and Amy flipped the coin. She let it fall to the floor and all three saw it had come up tails.

“So, I take dad,” Elizabeth said with a slight smile. “What do I do?”

“I will get to that in a little bit. The movie has about 60 minutes left. I need to go get some things but I will be back before the movie is over. Please do not go into the room until I get back. I still like the surprise element here.”

“Ok,” the older women said.

Amy took off at a run. She knew there was a kitchen in the place. That would come in handy when disposing of the corpses. From the looks of the place no one had been here since Amanda, Elaine, and Michelle were killed. That was fortuitous. Running into the kitchen, she found the tools the murderers used 12 years ago. She grabbed the lot and headed back to the booth. Passing an open doorway, she looked in and inspiration struck.

“Here are your tools,” Amy said as she wheeled the cart into the booth. “There is a baseball bat, some hammers, even a flail, if you can believe it. I saw a couple other things I need. I will be back in a minute.”

Amy ran to the open room and looked around. The objects that had caught her attention were two large concrete blocks. They were cube-shaped and 24 inches to a side. Picking one up, she calculated the weight as close to 100 pounds. The nicest part were the iron rings in the top of each cube. Amy could see someone attaching a chain to the ring and dragging the block around the room.

Amy thought that was too simplistic, but if they cuffed his ankles to the rings and used the hook in the ceiling to hoist John into the air, they could spread his legs as far as possible and John would not be able to do anything to protect his balls. This was going to be fun. Grabbing a ring with each hand, Amy picked up the two blocks and carried them back to the booth.

—–

John was truly worried. This looked bad. He now understood that he was in the room where these movies were filmed. He had seen these movies many times over the last 12 years and enjoyed them greatly. After recognizing what he was seeing, he realized that someone had liked his ex-wife enough to seek revenge for her death.

Luckily, John thought, he did not appear in the films. True, the people killing Amanda were covered in a black outfits that prevented the viewer from identifying them, but someone had discovered that it was Alanna and Rita. Rita had met her grisly end, but that still left Alanna.

It was possible that they did not even know who he was. He could try to play it off as a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He would offer a large amount of money to be released. It really was too bad about Alanna, but, as he had earlier decided, he would have left her soon, anyway.

“John,” Alanna said, trying to get his attention.

The movie had just ended. John knew Alanna now knew where they were. She was terrified. The information all pointed to a bad end for her. She and Rita had killed Amanda here 12 years ago and now, Rita was dead.

Alanna was not too distressed about Rita’s death, though the dismemberment had bothered her a bit. Rita had become a liability anyway. Their 15-year friendship had lost its importance and Alanna had been working on plans to kill Rita.

“John,” Alanna repeated. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” John whispered in a tone that was barely audible. “We will have to see if we can reason with them. They probably think you killed Amanda. We just have to convince them it was not you. You and Rita may have those two in the black suits, but there really is no way to prove it.”

“You…..you are right,” Alanna said with a sigh.

“Now shut up. They are probably monitoring the sound in this room.”

With a bang that caused the two restrained people to jump, the door opened and the woman came back into the room. She unplugged the TV and wheeled it out. Coming back, she took her chair from between John and Alanna placed it about six feet in front of them.

“So,” Amy said as she sat down, “did you enjoy the feature? I assume I do not have to explain why you are here.”

“Just a moment,” Alanna objected. “Who were those people? Why would you show us a film like that?”

“Really, Alanna,” Amy asked incredulously. “You are going to pretend that wasn’t you and Rita in those black outfits?”

“I don’t know who you are,” Alanna answered, “but I do not have to pretend. That was not me. I have never been here before.”

Amy nodded but said nothing as she stood and walked to Alanna. Amy delivered a vicious backhand that would have had Alanna sprawled on the floor had her retraints kept her in the chair. Amy walked back to the chair and sat down again.

“I should have warned the two of you,” Amy said. “I can always tell when someone is lying to me. It is the only sure-fire way to piss me off. If you lie to me, I will hurt you. And Alanna? That was not as bad as it can get. Do we understand each other?”

Alanna and John nodded, though John still had his doubts.

“I understand that you have an issue with this woman,” John said, “but I really have nothing to do with this. Is there any way we can make a deal? I have a lot of money. I can give you whatever you want.”

Alanna was outraged. John was abandoning her? She was about to say something when she saw Amy stand up and walk to John.

“See Alanna,” Amy asked. “This man is not worth what you thought. He cares nothing for you.”

“And you,” she said to John, “obviously were not paying attention when I told Alanna that lying was futile.”

Amy reached down and, grabbing the metal cuff on John’s wrist, unlocked it. She repeated the action on the other three cuffs and then stepped back.

“You have one chance, old man. I am between you and the door. If you can get past me, you are free. My friends will not stop you.”

In the booth, Elizabeth and Melinda almost felt sorry for their father. Although he was twice the size of Amy, and in excellent physical condition, he had no chance of getting past her.

John, though, had different thoughts.

“You would shoot me. Or throw a knife at me. How do I know I have a chance?”

To answer, Amy stripped down to her black spandex shorts and black sports bra. It was obvious that she had no weapons.

“As you can see, I have no weapons, other than my hands and feet. Now, if you have the balls to try, come at me.”

John needed no further goading, He bolted from his seat and charged straight in.

Amy sighed. This was going to be no fun. She executed a backspin kick that connected with his shoulder, sending him to the floor. As he attempted to rise, she grapped him with her left hand and threw him across the room like he was a rag doll. With a sickening pop, he slammed into the wall and dislocated his shoulder.

“Damn,” Amy said. “I should leave it like that, but this will be more fun.”

She bent down, grabbed the wrist of the arm that was dislocated, and – placing her foot on John’s chest – yanked on the arm, popping it back into place. John screamed in agony and passed out.

“Fucking wimp,” Amy said disgustedly as she carried John back to the chair and reattached the cuffs.

Delivering another backhand to John’s head, Amy smiled as she saw the eyelids flutter as John regained consciousness.

“I told you,” Amy said, seeing John was fully awake again, “that I know when someone is lying to me. I know who you are, John McInish. And I know that you have no money. Ed moved that money. And it was never yours in the first place. It was your life insurance policy, but you are not dead.”

“How do you know about Ed,” John asked.

“I know a lot of things, John. I know, for example, that – although you do not appear in those movies you saw – you are the reason for them. Your wife, the victim in the third movie, refused to give you more children and you arranged all that, including faking your death, to avoid a messy divorce.”

“So, where is the money,” Alanna asked.

“It is where it belongs,” Amy said as Elizabeth and Melinda entered the room. “It is with me, Elizabeth, and Melinda.”

“Hi, daddy,” Melinda said. “Miss us?”

Alanna fainted.

—–

“Well,” Amy said with a smile, “that was predictable. Mel, could you go get one of those needles we brought? I want to make sure she will not pass out again.”

“Sure, Amy.

“Well, daddy. You did not answer Mel’s question.”

“Amy,” John asked. “Is it really you?”

“Uh….yes, daddy. It’s me. And Mel and Liz. You just saw what happened to Mom, Lany, and Chelly so this will be it for the family reunion.”

“Then why did you hurt me?”

Amy knew he was going to try for the innocent angle, but she would not be fooled. Ed had found them in under three months. Alanna knew who had sold the girls in Thailand. They had had years to locate the girls if that was what they wanted.

“Why,” Amy asked. “I told you when I slapped Alanna that I can tell when you are lying. I also mentioned that liars piss me off and get punished.”

“But you dislocated my arm,” he complained.

“And I put it back,” Amy replied. “Think of it as an object lesson.”

Melinda came back and jabbed the needle into Alanna’s neck. She pressed the plunger, sending the solution into Alanna’s bloodstream.

“How many more do we have,” Amy asked.

“About a dozen,” Melinda answered.

“Good. I do not anticipate needing more than two or three more, but it is good to have extra.”

“What is that,” John asked.

Amy went and retrieved another of the needles and held it so John could see it.

“Same thing you saw mom inject into Michelle and Elaine. Adrenaline and endorphins. They will keep her alert as we work on her.”

“Work on her? You mean like in those movies?”

“Yep,” Amy said as she shoved the needle into John’s neck. “And this one is yours.”

“You’re going to kill us?”

“Hell yes,” Amy said, fury making her eyes a dark green.

“What if I tell you I was uninvolved?”

“I would look into your eyes as you told me and, should I believe you are lying, I will pummel you. Trust me, daddy. I know the truth of this. I heard it from Ed and Rita. I know you were involved. I also know why.”

“You wanted a son,” Amy continued. “Mom refused, after having 5 daughters, to have more children. You found out Alanna was pregnant with your son and arranged to have mom removed from the situation. Alanna found out she could find buyers for me, Mel, and Liz, but no one wanted Lany or Chelly.”

“You had a thought, based on your chance encounter with your doppelganger. You faked your death, had Alanna arrange the deaths of mom, Chelly, and Lany. Lastly, you let that bitch sell us off to slavery. When Ed found out you were alive – and found out you had lied about how mom was lazy and didn’t want to work – he found us in a shitty bar where we were being raped by customers and fucking animals. He helped us get free and we pieced the past together.”

“I swore that I would have my revenge, but that will wait. It is time for your other daughters to have some fun.”

Amy freed his hands and cuffed them together.

“Do not try anything,” Amy warned as she freed his ankles.

John did not listen. As soon as his legs were free, he bolted up and made for the door. Amy quickly caught him by the throat with her left hand and lifted him off the ground. John, stunned by her strength hung there choking. Regaining his senses, he started kicking her.

“Fucker,” Amy snarled as she shook him like a rag doll. “I told you not to try anything.”

She threw him against the wall again, taking care that he would hit back first, knocking the wind from him without breaking anything. It worked like a charm and he was soon gasping deep breaths as he lay on the floor. Amy quickly cuffed his ankles and lifting him up again, hung his cuffed wrists on one of the hooks.

John’s feet barely touched the floor. Regardless of how he tried, he could not get off the hook. Giving up, he put as much pressure on his feet as he could, alleviating the stress on his bound wrists.

Amy studied her handiwork and then, as Alanna was regaining consciousness, did the same to the older woman. Soon, Alanna and John both hung from the hooks in the ceiling. Amy retrieved a pair of heavy duty scissors from the booth and cut the clothes from the pair.

“Ok, daddy,” Amy said, “I have other things to take care of, but don’t worry. Liz and Mel will keep you company.”

Amy left the room as Melinda and Elizabeth entered.

“Melinda, Elizabeth,” John said, “help me. Your sister is crazy. I do not know what has gotten into her.”

“Oh, dad,” Elizabeth said, “she is just mad because you arranged to have mom, Elaine, and Michelle murdered. Oh, and you arranged for the three of us to be sold to white slavers in Bangkok. We spent eight years being used as sex toys by filthy drunks. That is what has gotten into her.”

“She thinks I was involved with that?”

“Please, daddy,” Melinda said, “we may not be as proficient as Amy in detecting lies, but we know you were involved. Don’t waste time lying about this.”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth agreed. “Don’t lie to Amy. That really pisses her off. We saw her throw you against the wall. She could do a lot worse to you.”

“How did she do that? I weigh 240 pounds.”

“That is easy. She can easily lift over 300 pounds with each hand. She has been working out.”

“What is going to happen to us,” Alanna asked, joining the conversation.

“Well, you saw what you did to our mother. Amy is going to make the two of you feel that kind of pain. If she still feels that is not enough, she will probably go after Johnny.”

“Johnny,” Alanna asked in alarm. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“On the contrary,” Elizabeth answered. “He was the cause of it. Dad, here, wanted a son. Mom had had enough with five children and had her tubes tied. Then you came along and got pregnant with the son he wanted. If Johnny had been born a girl, it is possible that none of this would have happened.”

“But, Amy may be merciful. If she can satisfy her need for revenge with you two, then Johnny may be spared.”

“Where is Johnny?”

“He and Ed are in Ancona at your house. They left the island and flew home.”

“Where do they think we are?”

“Johnny believes you are on your yacht sailing home. It will be days before anyone notices you are missing.”

“Does Ed know about this,” John asked.

“Yes. After finding out you were alive, he located us in Bangkok and rescued us. Your betrayal hurt him more than you will ever know. He rescued us and brought us home. He gave us the $200 million he was managing for Johnny.”

“THAT’S JOHNNY’S MONEY,” Alanna screamed.

“Well, to be exact,” Melinda said calmly, “some of it is Johnny’s, if he lives. If Amy decides to spare him, we will arrange for $50 million to be set aside for him. As one of four children, he will get one quarter of the money.”

“Amy is in charge,” John asked.

“Yes,” Melinda said. “And you really shouldn’t piss her off. Because she was too young to be a sex toy when we got to Bangkok, she was trained as an assassin instead. She was used to kill those that hurt the other girls.”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth agreed. “She has killed over 100 men already and was responsible for the plan that took out your security goons on the island. She could, if motivated, introduce you to pain you have never imagined.”

“What are you two supposed to do, then?”

Elizabeth and Melinda looked at each other. This conversation had gone on long enough.

“This,” they said in unison as they launched into attack routines they learned at the camp.

“About fucking time,” Amy muttered as she watched from the booth.

Elizabeth launched into a flying backspin kick that connected with her father’s stomach. It was designed to knock the wind out of him without causing too much damage too quickly. All three girls were agreed that he deserved to feel as much pain as he could before he died. Elizabeth knew she could not kill him – she was pretty sure that she would be unable to kill anyone – but that would not stop her from making him wish she would kill him.

Predictably, John brought his knees up to protect his abdomen. Quickly dropping, Elizabeth lashed out with a kick to his now-exposed genitals. She connected solidly and John howled in pain, tears running down his cheeks. Moving around behind her father, Elizabeth let loose with a flurry of blows to his back, striking his kidneys and upper back. He swung like a pendulum as he hung from the hook.

Melinda, in the meantime, was doing a respectable job on Alanna. The older woman was now alert again and remembered the way she tortured Amanda years before. If these girls followed the same pattern, this was going to be a long afternoon. Melinda was faster than her older sister and her kicks were stronger. Within moments, Alanna’s hips were seriously bruised. Melinda launched a kick to the groin that landed with enough force that it lifted Alanna almost enough for the woman to come off the hook.

Alanna was howling like her husband. This was bad, she decided. The girls knew everything. How they found out was a mystery, but the resolution Alanna saw in the younger women’s eyes convinced her that neither she, nor John would survive this afternoon. The only question was the pain involved. As with most people, death did not scare her. The pain associated with death……well, that was another matter.

The pummeling went on and on. Forty-five minutes passed while Elizabeth and Melinda worked over the hanging couple. The girls’ training had paid off, though. Although John and Alanna were seriously bruised and were in serious pain, no bones were broken.

“Ok,” Amy said as she and two familiar-looking men came back into the room. “That’s enough for now. Take them down and get them cleaned up.”

The two men, Trevor and Sven – men who were part of John’s security team – took John and Alanna down from the hooks and took them to the bathroom. A hose was shoved into John’s and Alanna’s assholes and the water was turned on. John and Alanna groaned from the feeling of cold water flooding their intestines.

The cramping caused by the cold water elicited more screams from the two. After a minute, the hoses were pulled out. Trevor held John up while Sven punched his former employer in the stomach, causing John to expel water and shit. The same thing was done to Alanna and then the hoses were shoved back in and the process began again.

After four cycles, the water John and Alanna expelled was crystal clear. Now that the insides were clean, Sven and Trevor hosed the couple down and set to with scrub brushes and soap and began cleaning the outsides. John, weary and weak from his ordeal, was extremely confused.

“Trevor,” John said, “what is happening? Why have you betrayed me? Why are you helping those girls?”

Trevor looked up at Amy, who nodded.

“I’m sorry, John,” Trevor replied. “You have been a good boss and I would never have betrayed you. When Sven and I woke up, we were here. The little girl – Amy – made a bet with us. We would fight her. She would go up against the two of us at the same time. If we won, we were free. If we lost, we would have a choice.”

“We lost, John,” Sven said. “I still do not know how it is possible, but that little girl mopped the floor with us. Her punches feel like a mule’s kick. Anyway, the choice she gave us was this: if we helped her with you two, she would kill us quickly. If we did not, she would kill us painfully, taking her time.”

“You have to understand, John,” Trevor continued. “You two are already doomed. I do not know what you did to these girls, but they are carrying a serious grudge. They mean to hurt you terribly. Nothing we can do will help you. Taking that into consideration, the choice was relatively easy.”

John understood. He had been contemplating selling Alanna out just to save himself. He really could not fault the choice his men made.

“Amy,” Alanna said, “are you going to kill Johnny?”

“To be honest, bitch,” Amy said, “I haven’t really decided. There are two arguments running through my head right now. The first one says he is the real reason for everything. Let’s face it. If you hadn’t gotten pregnant with a boy, my father might not have arranged to kill his wife and marry you. That alone warrants the boy’s death.”

“Adding to that argument is the psychological aspect of all this. The pain you feel knowing that your actions 12 years ago are the reasons for your son’s death – his excruciating death – is…..well, that pain is exquisite.”

“On the other hand, if we were to judge him based solely on what he has done, he is innocent. That would mean that I would have no reason to kill him. Regardless of how it happened, he is our sole remaining relative. Will I kill my brother? I do not know yet.”

Sven and Trevor finished cleaning Alanna and John. They carried the couple back to the room and cuffed them back into the chairs.

“Thank you, boys,” Amy said to the two guards. “Now, if you will go stand in the corner, I will fulfill my part of the bargain and end it quickly for you.”

Trevor, in a moment of desperation, launched himself at Amy. She calmly pulled a knife from her belt and sidestepped out of his reach. As he stumbled past, Amy slashed down, cutting the hamstring of Trevor’s right leg. As Trevor fell to the floor, clutching his injured leg, Amy pointed a gun at Sven.

“And you,” Amy asked Sven. “What will you do?”

Sven walked to the corner and turned to face away from Amy. Amy nodded and fired 3 rounds into the back of Sven’s head. The guard slumped to the floor, dead before his body hit the floor. Turning back to Trevor, Amy smiled cruelly. This was going to be fun.

She walked toward Trevor and he started sliding back away from her. Amy set the gun and knife on the floor. Moving quickly, she grabbed Trevor and hauled him to his feet. She stepped back and looked at him.

“Really, Trevor,” she said, “what were you thinking? Didn’t we go through this six hours ago?”

“I don’t want to die,” Trevor whined.

“Oh, stop being a big baby. You tried to kill me and my sisters on that island. Even before we said or did anything, you and Sven were shooting at us. Most guards would issue a verbal warning. You did not. Anyone who tries to kill me or my sisters will die. That includes you.”

“But,” Amy continued, “I tried to give you a quick painless death. We made a deal and then you do this? I am sorry, Trevor. You broke the deal and now you will feel my wrath.”

No one saw the punch. Amy was in front of Trevor and then, suddenly, she was behind him. The people in the room, however, heard it. With a sickening crunch, Trevor’s shoulder was pulped. Trevor’s left arm hung limply from a shoulder that was a mass of crushed bone.

With a howl of pain, Trevor spun and launched a punch with his right arm. Amy ducked under it and grabbed his wrist. Standing up quickly, she drove her shoulder through his right elbow, snapping it. She then let loose with another blow, pulping his right shoulder. Now, both of his arms hung limply.

“Happy now, Trevor,” Amy asked. “I am prepared to end this quickly if you apologize.”

“Fadfasdmaskj werwoiusa,” he muttered incoherently.

“You know,” Amy asked. “That did not sound like an apology.”

She spun close to Trevor and lashed out with her left foot, driving it through Trevor’s left knee. Trevor fell to the floor. His left leg – with its broken knee – and his right leg – with its cut hamstring – could no longer support him. Amy viciously kicked Trevor in the ribs on the right side of his body. Another sickening crunch was heard, followed by Trevor’s howl of agony.

“I”M SORRY,” Trevor howled, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Amy nodded once and retrieved the gun.

“Thank you, Trevor,” Amy said as she fired three rounds into the broken guard’s head.

Trevor’s body shuddered once, twice, and then fell still.

“I need a drink,” Amy said to Alanna and John. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

—–

“Having fun,” Elizabeth asked as Amy came into the booth.

“Fucking Trevor,” Amy replied as she grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the cooler. “I thought he was smarter than that.”

“Well,” Melinda said, “it does show how serious you are.”

“Yeah,” Amy said. “Anyway, did you two want to do more or should I take over now?”

“I think I am satisfied,” Elizabeth said. “I think you can take over now. I will be satisfied watching them go through whatever you have in mind.”

“I agree,” Melinda said. “It’s all yours, now, Amy.”

“Thanks,” Amy said as she picked up two more syringes. “I will be back in a sec.”

Amy walked back into the room and gave John and Alanna another injection of the stimulant.

“I don’t want either of you passing out on me,” Amy said to the couple. “That would be no fun.”

Amy walked back into the booth and looked over her tools. Looking at the wooden cart, she scowled in frustration.

“Mel,” Amy said. “Did you see those steel gloves I had this morning?”

“The ones that had the fingertips cut off?”

“Yes. I do not see them here.”

“We might have dropped them as we were coming down here. I will go look for them.”

“Thanks, Mel.”

Amy looked over the tools and smiled. A hand-held torch, several scalpels, a few hammers, an electric iron, a baseball bat, and many other items were arranged on a tool cart. One of the key items was a box full of thin needles. There must have been 200+ needles in that box.

“They were on the floor outside the kitchen,” Melinda said as she came back into the room, holding the gloves.

“Thanks, Mel,” Amy said with a smile. “I am going to need them. Could you two help me move stuff into the room? I need this wooden table and the cart. I can handle the cart if you two move the table.”

“Sure, Amy,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

“Thanks. Just put the table in front of Alanna.”

Melinda and Elizabeth were happy this part was finally starting. It meant the end was nearing. They were happy to be a part of their father’s demise, but this was more extreme than they had hoped. They would have been happy with him getting a few bullets in the brain like Sven and Trevor. Amy, however, needed him to feel pain.

—–

Alanna watched as Elizabeth and Melinda brought in the table. They placed it in front of her and left without saying a word. As Alanna watched, Amy wheeled the cart into the room. With a terrible sinking feeling, Alanna recognized the cart.

“Fuck,” Alanna muttered.

“What,” John asked.

“You cannot see it,” Alanna said as she watched Amy plug in the iron, “but if they haven’t changed it too much, the tools on that cart would make an Inquisition torturer jealous.”

“Fuck,” John said.

“That’s what I said,” Alanna replied.

Amy came over holding the gloves, a hammer, and some nails. She forced the gloved over Alanna’s hands and cinched them tight. They would not come off until Amy wanted them to. She then nailed the gloves to the table. Alanna, in a panic, found that she could not move her hands or fingers.

“You were amateurish,” Amy said to Alanna. “Using a hammer to destroy toes in order to cause pain? Heh.”

Amy took 30 needles out of the box and inserted three into each finger below the nail. Alanna shrieked in pain. Amy smiled at the sounds and pulled out a pair of foam earplugs.

“Sorry, daddy,” Amy said with a smirk as she put in her earplugs. “You will just have to deal with the noise.”

Alanna sobbed in agony. This was more pain than she had ever felt.

“See, Alanna,” Amy asked with a smile. “If you merely cut off the fingers, the pain fades and you minimize the pain you can inflict.”

“But,” Amy continued as she pulled the three needles from the forefinger on the left hand, “by leaving the fingers intact, the nerve endings are still there.”

“And with the nerves intact,” she continued as she reinserted the needles under the fingernail, “you can keep stimulating them for hours.”

Amy walked over to the cart as Alanna continued to sob in agony. Retrieving the handheld torch, she walked back to Alanna. Looking under the table, Amy grinned. Crawling under the table, she spread Alanna’s legs and looked at the older woman’s fur-covered pussy. Triggering the torch, she ignited Alanna’s pubic hair. It went up quickly, but the woman’s shrieks reached an even higher pitch.

Amy chuckled as she looked at the now-smooth pussy. Backing out from under the table, she looked over at her father’s crotch. He was hairy too. Then again, he had hair all over his chest and back as well. This was really going to be fun.

“I will be right back,” Amy said as she left the room.

Amy walked into the booth and began rummaging through the boxes in the corner. Her sisters looked on in horror. They knew her sister was determined to cause pain, but the level of sadism they were seeing proved that Amy was not the sister they thought they knew.

“Have either of you seen that bottle of vodka Sven had?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “It is over here.”

Elizabeth went to Sven’s jacket, which was lying in the other corner. Reaching into the inner pocket, she pulled out the bottle. Amy took the bottle, saying thanks, and went back into the room.

Amy walked up to her father and carefully poured the vodka on his chest, crotch, and legs. Stepping back, she used the torch to ignite the fumes. She giggled as blue flames crawled over her father’s body, singing the hair off. Amy repeated the process on John’s back. Soon the only hair John and Alanna had was on their heads.

“Well,” Amy said, “that was fun. But Alanna, you are still too hairy.”

Amy went over and ignited the hair on Alanna’s head. The stench of burning hair filled the room. As Alanna screamed, Amy went over and ignited her father’s hair. The flames did not last long and soon, both Alanna and John were bald.

“Much better, don’t you think?”

“Amy, please,” John said. “Please let us go. You do not want to kill us. I know you were hurt and I am really sorry. Please, just let us go. I do not care about the money. You three can have it.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, DADDY,” screamed Amy. “You don’t seem to get it. We can have the money anyway. As for me wanting to kill you, you have never been more wrong in your life. I have dreamed of nothing but killing you since I found out you were still alive. When I found out you orchestrated this whole fucking situation, I knew I had to kill you. But killing you was not enough. I want you to feel as much pain as Lany felt. As Chelly and mom felt. I want you to feel the pain, Liz, Mel, and I felt. You will be begging me to kill you before I let you die.”

“But…..”

Amy did not let him finish. She backhanded him hard and dislocated his jaw. Seeing what she had done, she grabbed the jaw and shoved it back into place.

“You still do not get it. There are only two things I want to hear from you, you fucker. I want to hear your screams and I want to hear you begging for death. Let me give you an example of what I can do.”

Amy set down the torch and went to the cart. Finding a sharp scalpel, she returned to her father. She made a shallow cut on his abdomen and peeled back the top layers of flesh exposing the nerves below. Grabbing a few of the nerves, she used the scalpel to lightly scrape the blade along them. If it had not been for the stimulants, John would have passed out from the pain. As it was, all he could do was open his mouth in a silent howl of agony.

“Now, shut the fuck up until I am ready to deal with you. I am still working on your fucking pig of a wife, you shit. Just shut the fuck up.”

John was almost mindless from the pain. He had enough consciousness to realize his daughter was no longer sane when it came to him and Alanna. All he could do was sit there and hope it would be over soon. Anything else would only invite more pain. He remembered one of her sisters mentioning that she had been trained as an assassin. He believed it now. The older sister had been right about another thing. Pissing Amy off was a big mistake.

Amy picked up the torch and returned to Alanna.

“Sorry if you thought I forgot about you,” Amy said to Alanna. “I didn’t.”

Amy lit the torch and held the flame to the needles heating the metal. When the metal was glowing from the heat, she moved on to the next needle. Alanna continued her screaming as her fingers cooked from the inside. Her screams kept getting louder and louder until there was sudden silence. Amy looked up at Alanna and, seeing the older woman’s mouth still open and hearing the air come out through it, Amy began to laugh.

“Hahahaha,” Amy cackled. “You broke your voice. I must say, though, that I am a bit relieved. I do not need to hear your screams to know the pain you are in.”

Amy finished heating the last of the needles and went back to the cart. Selecting a pair of pliers, she went back to Alanna. Leaving the needles in place, Amy used the pliers to grip the thumbnail on Alanna’s left hand. With a yank, Amy ripped the nail free. Tears rolled down Alanna’s face as she shook in agony.

Amy repeated the action on the next finger….and the next. Soon all 10 nails were pulled free. Amy tested the heat of the needles and, finding them sufficiently cooled, pulled the 30 needles from the fingers. She freed Alanna’s hands and moved the table out of the way. Then she started on Alanna’s toes.

—–

Elizabeth was seriously disturbed. Amy was going beyond anything the older sister had imagined. She had seen her mother use a hammer to destroy her older sister’s toes and had felt that was horrible. But, as bad as that was, this was so much worse.

“Elizabeth,” Melinda said, “Amy has lost it, hasn’t she?”

“I am afraid so, Melinda. We can only hope that, when this is over, she will go back to being the sweet sister we know.”

“I am scared, Elizabeth.”

“Me too, Melinda. Me too.”

—–

Alanna was no longer howling. She was whimpering and sobbing. She could not wait for this nightmare to be over. It was ridiculous. She hurt so bad, she had lost her voice. And that little demon was not finished yet.

“Alanna,” Amy said. “Alanna…..Alanna…..yes. Look at me, you bitch. Are you allergic to bees?”

“No,” Alanna croaked, her voice not quite recovered.

“Good. I will be right back.”

—–

Alanna walked into the booth. Looking through her bag of goodies, she pulled out a sturdy – but thin – glove that was covered in grit.

“What is that,” Melinda asked.

“Another glove I made. It is covered with medium grit from sandpaper. I coated the glove with superglue and then covered the glove with the grit.”

Amy reached in and pulled out a plastic bottle that was tightly sealed.

“And that,” Elizabeth asked.

“Bee venom. I will put some on the glove and then fist Alanna’s ass with it. It is not lethal, but the venom will hurt like hell.”

Amy left the booth and went back into the room.

“Melinda…..”

“Call me ‘Mel’, Elizabeth.”

“Only if you call me ‘Liz’, Melinda.”

“Deal, Liz.”

“Deal, Mel. Oh, and Mel?”

“Yeah, Liz?”

“Remind me to never piss off our younger sister. She really scares the fuck out of me.”

—–

Amy walked up to John and undid his cuffs.

“Don’t try anything, daddy.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, Amy.”

Amy cuffed his hands together and hung him on the hook again. She then got some lubricant and coated his asshole with it. With a quick motion, she shoved her fist into him.

“FUCK,” screamed John. “What the hell?”

“Can it, daddy. You actually should be thanking me. I am loosening you up a little.”

“Loosening me up,” John asked incredulously as Amy walked back to the cart. “Loosening me up for what?”

“This,” Amy said, waving a baseball bat as she approached her father.

“God, Amy,” John whimpered. “No.”

“Yes,” Amy said with a smile as she fit the fat end of the bat into her father’s asshole.        ”Please stop, Amy. That bat is killing me.”

“Oh, hush, daddy. I am going to kill you; not some stupid piece of wood.”

Amy left the bat in her father and went over to Alanna. She undid Alanna’s cuffs and handcuffed the older woman’s wrists together before hanging her on a hook beside her husband. Amy waves at the mirror and Melinda turned the hooks so the two captives were facing each other.

Amy put on the glove and poured a little of the venom on the index finger. She walked behind Alanna and – without lubrication – shoved two fingers up the older woman’s ass. At first, Alanna was confused. Then the pain hit.

The first pain – caused by the abrasive grit on the glove – was bad, but not too bad. Then the venom came into contact with the torn tissue. That pain was maddening. Alanna started kicking her legs and shaking from side to side, in hopes of alleviating her pain. Amy laughed in evil delight.

“What, happened,” John asked. “What did you do to her?”

“This,” Amy said as she used her gloved hand to pull on her father’s cock.

The glove tore the skin on John’s cock and the venom did its work. In only a moment, John was howling in torment. Amy put a little more venom on the glove and went back to Alanna. This time, she shoved her whole hand inside the older woman’s ass. As she pushed the hand deeper, Amy flexed her fingers, tearing the delicate tissue. Alanna sobbed heavily. Her voice was beginning to recover and her please were barely audible.

“….please kill me……please kill me……please kill me……..”

“Not yet, bitch,” Amy said. “We have more fun yet to come.”

Deciding to let Alanna sit in torment, Amy went back to her father. She pulled the bat from his ass and, after applying more venom to the glove, shoved her hand up inside. Knowing male anatomy from her studies as an assassin (it always helps to know how to hurt someone), she located his prostate and ripped at it with her gloved fingers. At first, it caused a massive erection and orgasm that caused his dick to spew semen halfway to the door.

“Wow, daddy,” Amy said. “Did that feel good?”

John was incapable of answering as the venom was taking effect, causing excruciating pain to erupt in his bowels. Smiling, Amy left him to his torment and went to fist Alanna’s cunt. Using the rest of the venom, Amy scratched the woman’s clitoris before roughly shoving her fist inside the woman’s cunt.

Amy decided to get down to business. This had been fun, by time was ticking by. It was time to get on with killing these two. She went back to the cart and selected a butcher knife and a 18-inch chain with hooks on each end.

Amy walked back to Alanna. The woman was almost out of it. The pain was taking a toll on her consciousness. Amy couldn’t have the woman passing out. That would not be fair to Lany, Chelly, or mom. She got two more syringes and injected the stimulant into Alanna’s and John’s necks. He did not look like he was going to pass out, but this next step might test that.

While she waited for the stimulant to take effect, Amy set the chain on the floor and went back to the cart. She selected two more thin chains with hooks. One was 40 inches long and the other was 50 inches long. Her chains in hand, she walked back to the hanging couple. Alanna was still not quite alert, but she was better than she was a minute ago. Sweat poured down her face as she moaned in pain.

John was fully alert. He was also terrified. He did not know what his daughter meant to do with those chains, but it would not be good for him. That was for sure.

Amy grabbed her butcher knife in one hand and her father’s cock and balls in the other. With a look to his face and a quick smile, she quickly sliced his genitals off. Moving quickly as John howled in pain, Amy retrieved the iron and cauterized the wound. Attaching one hook to one side of the severed genitals, Amy looped the 40-inch chain around Alanna’s waist and attached the second hook to the other side of the genitals. Alanna now had a dick.

Seeing that Alanna – with a horrified look on her race – was fully alert now, Amy sliced the older woman’s left breast off and cauterized the wound. As Alanna shrieked in pain (Amy found it amazing how her voice came back), Amy cauterized the wound and attached one end of the 18-inch chain to the severed tit. Amy then repeated the process with the right breast and hung the pair around her father’s neck.

“We are almost done with you, Alanna,” Amy said. “Any last words?”

Alanna merely shook her head as the pain coursed through her body. Seeing her tits on her husband’s chest was kind of surreal. Looking down, she realized that having her husband’s penis hanging from her body was equally surreal. Suddenly, the meaning behind Amy’s words penetrated her pain-fogged mind and she realized the end was near.

“Thank you for finishing this, Amy,” Alanna said. “If it is any consolation, I am sorry.”

“It is no consolation, but I can understand that you are sorry. Here we go, Alanna.”

Amy knelt and moved the penis to the side. Without any concern given to the pain Alanna felt, Amy cut the woman’s pussy free and, using the 50-inch chain, hung it from her father’s hips. The severed pussy covered the hole where his cock had been.

“Look, Alanna,” Amy said quickly. “Look at your husband. Doesn’t he look like a butch dyke?”

Alanna looked at her husband, seeing her tits on his chest and her pussy covering his crotch. She started to sob again. The blood loss from her latest wound was making her lightheaded. Seeing this, Amy stepped behind her and, using the knife, cut Alanna’s head off.

Amy lifted Alanna off the hook and laid the headless body on the floor. She set the head on the woman’s chest so the vacant eyes stared at her husband. Amy decided she needed a shower before she continued. As John just stared at his dead wife, Amy left the room.

—–

“Amy,” Elizabeth said as Amy walked past the booth, “where are you going?”

“I feel like taking a shower,” Amy replied. “I have that bitch’s blood all over me and it is disgusting. Also, I felt that daddy should have some quality alone-time with his wife.”

“Are you going to be much longer,” Melinda asked.

“No. I would say thirty minutes from the time I go back in there and we will be done. Thank you for putting up with my selfish behavior. I hate to say it, but I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you two.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hate them, Mel,” Amy answered. “I really, really, hate them. I would do so much more to them, but…..but you help me remember that I could lose myself in this. It is not healthy.”

“I have to admit, Amy,” Elizabeth said, “that I thought you had lost it a bit.”

“No,” Amy objected as she began to tremble. “Even when I am raving in there, it is mostly for show. I wanted them terrified. I got it. Now let me go shower. I think I am going to throw up as well. Give me twenty minutes and come check up on me.”

Amy continued to the shower room. She made it, barely, before she threw up. She had killed many people before, but those people meant nothing to her. She was too emotionally involved here. Had this been a job instead of a personal affair, she would have passed on it. It was never a good idea to mix business and personal affairs.

“Well,” Elizabeth said as she heard her sister throwing up in the bathroom, “that makes me feel better. At least now, I know this is getting to her.”

“Tell me about it,” Melinda said. “She is good at acting, though. I bought it all.”

“Me too, Mel. Me too. I tell you, that girl is super scary.”

“Remind me to never piss her off, Liz.”

“Hey! That’s my line.”

—–

Fifteen minutes later, Amy had regained her composure. She dried herself off and went back to the booth. Grabbing another Diet Pepsi from the cooler, she sat down and looked at her father.

John had been staring at his dead wife. He was next. He knew it and he almost welcomed it. The catch, though, was his sadistic daughter. She would not make this easy. He knew it and was terrified.

John had tried shaking his hips in an attempt to dislodge his dead wife’s vagina. It was futile. He would, it seemed, wear his wife’s tits and pussy until Amy removed them. He found that profoundly disturbing. Thinking back, though, he realized Amy was right. Being sorry now was worthless. If you only felt sorry because you were faced with the consequences of your actions, your repentance meant less than nothing.

A bang drew his attention to the door. Amy was back. She looked as if she had showered.

“In case you are wondering,” Amy said, “I could not stand that pig’s filth on my body so I needed a shower. I hope that gave you enough ‘quality time’ because now, I do not think you will have much attention to spare for that slut.”

“What are you going to do to me? What can you do to me? You already sodomized me. You castrated me. You have caused me more pain than I can imagine. Let me go, Amy. Please, let me go.”

Amy walked up to her father and let loose with a punch that shattered his right hip. He shrieked in pain and – had it not been for the stimulants – would have passed out. Stepping back, Amy waited for his cries of pain to subside. Eventually, they were reduced to whimpers.

“I told you earlier,” Amy said, “that I only wanted to hear two things from you: your cries of pain and your pleas for death. As for letting you go, forget it. You will die here. As for what I am going to do to you, well you will now find out for yourself.”

Amy went to the cart and got a chainsaw and the handheld torch. She went back to her father and, using the chainsaw, cut the left leg from his body. She used the torch to cauterize the wound. Then she used the torch to stop the bleeding from the severed leg. Blood on the leg would make it slippery and unwieldy.

She walked over to the pile of destroyed clothing and wiped her hand on a shirt. Taking the shirt with her, she wiped the blood off the severed leg. Tossing the shirt in the corner, she picked up the leg.

“You know,” Amy asked calmly. “I once heard this line in a movie where a guy threatens to rip someone’s arms off and beat them to death with them. Well, daddy, your arms are busy so this will have to do.”

Taking a few practice swings to see how the leg would react, she realized the knee was going to be a problem. If she hit her father with the front of the leg, the knee would just bend, blunting the force behind the swing. Turning the leg over, she swung it at her father, aiming to hit him with the back of the thigh. It worked perfectly.

“OOOOFFfffff,” John grunted as his severed leg connected with his abdomen, knocking the wind from him.

Amy smiled in delight. This had possibilities. Something was missing, though.

“Oh, yeah,” Amy said. “The bat.”

To her father’s dismay, she dropped the leg and retrieved the bat. Thinking she was going to beat him with the bat, he started to sob.

“No, Amy. Don’t hit me with the bat. I don’t think I could take that.”

“Oh, shut up, you big baby. I am not going to hit you with this…….at least, not yet.”

Amy stepped behind her father and shoved the fat part of the back up his ass again. John howled. It had been almost 40 minutes since she had fisted him and his asshole had tightened up again. This intrusion had no lubricant and he could feel the tissues in his rectum tearing as the wooden bat was inserted.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck,” he groaned in pain, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Does that hurt, daddy,” Amy asked with a smile. “Don’t worry. We are almost done.”

She picked up the leg and went back to work on his torso. She held back from using her full strength. She did not want to break him. As it was, he was physically bruised over most of his body when she was done. She had hit his shattered right hip a few times, causing howls of almost inhuman pain.

After about ten minutes, she pulled the bat from his ass and shoved the leg in foot-first. In the booth, Elizabeth and Melinda were shocked as they laughed at the sight of their father’s leg dangling from his asshole.

Amy picked up the pile of wasted clothing and piled it under her father’s hanging body. With one leg missing and the other hip destroyed, he would not be able to kick the pile away. Using the torch, she lit the pile of clothes and stepped back watching it burn.

The flames licked at his skin and John howled in agony and terror. Unbeknownst to anyone save Alanna and Amanda, this was his worst nightmare; being burned alive.

“Amy, no……please Amy, anything but this. Noooo……please Amy, stop this. Please!!!!”

Amy was torn. She wanted him to feel this pain, but the discomfort she felt after killing Alanna was returning.

“AMY,” John howled, “AMY…..AMY….PLEASE STOP THIS……I CAN’T TAKE IT. I’M BURNING. PLEEEEEEEEEEASE, AMY! KILL ME……..KILL ME…….KILL MEEEEEEE!”

Amy smiled as she hefted the bat.

“All you had to do was ask, daddy,” Amy said pleasantly.

She walked up to him and with all her strength, she swung the bat at his chest. There was a terrifyingly loud crunch as the bad destroyed her father’s ribs and pulverized his heart. He swung wildly, the chain coming off of the hook, and fell to the floor.

Amy dropped the bat and walked to her father. Looking at his face, she saw his eyes cloud over as death approached.

“Thank you, Amy,” John said weakly. “I just……just couldn’t handle the…..the fire.”

Closing his eyes for the last time, he coughed violently, blood spewing from his mouth. A moment later, he was dead.

—–

Amy did not even run to the bathroom. She fell to her knees and threw up violently. All the hate and anger she felt was leaving her. The evil bastards responsible for the deaths of her sisters and mother were dead. Amy had barely enough time to wonder if she was becoming an evil bastard, herself, when Elizabeth and Melinda were suddenly there, helping Amy to her feet.

“C’mon, little sister,” Melinda said. “It’s over. Let’s get out of here.”

“No,” Amy said resolutely, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “It is not over yet. We have one more chore here.”

Amy left the room and, a few minutes later, returned with a 55-gallon drum of gasoline.

“Earlier today,” Amy said, “I arranged for fifty of these things to be brought here. They are scattered throughout the rooms on this floor. There are explosives wired to one of the barrels in each room. When the timer hits zero, the bomb will blow, igniting the gasoline. When the flames finally go out, there will be nothing recognizable of these two.”

“Wow,” Elizabeth said. “Why? This facility is four stories underground. It is unlikely that anyone will find this place.”

“Alanna found it 12 years ago,” Melinda commented. “Other people have to know about it as well.”

“Alanna made the mistake of recording the murders 12 years ago. There was evidence left behind. I am not going to make that mistake. When the authorities investigate, they will find nothing here but ash. I have four more barrels outside the door. Help me move them in, please.”

The older sisters did as they were asked. As they were walking up the last flight of stairs, heading to the door that would lead them outside, they heard a muffled boom.

“There go the bombs,” Amy said. “In about an hour, smoke will start to escape from this door.”

“Only because you turned on the fans directing it here.”

“True, but I made sure that I left no fingerprints.”

“But why,” Elizabeth asked. “Why direct the smoke out here?”

“The toxicity of the fumes down there will make it dangerous for anyone who goes down there. It is almost winter. Homeless people will be looking for a warm place to stay. I do not want them dying down there because of us. This will get the attention of the authorities and they will clean it up or put up warning signs. Anyway, let’s go meet Ed.”

“Are you going to kill Johnny,” Melinda asked.

“No. He is innocent. I know what I said to Alanna, but he is really innocent in all of this.”

“Where will he stay,” Melinda asked. “His parents are dead.”

“Do you really have to ask,” Amy asked incredulously. “He will stay with Ed. The medical treatment was a success. He will still live for a while, yet.”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth said. “Enough talk. Let’s go catch our flight.”

There can be few places as deceptive as Nether Slype.  The churches are well attended and the all children say their prayers.  Such presumably innocent pleasures as the fete, the sack race, and the village pantomime are milestones in its calendar.  There are also summer and winter sports gatherings, though all these events, I later learned, are curiously unique to the village.  There are two pubs, a school, two shops — one with a post office — a tea rooms where the old ladies gossip, and a Saturday market where you can buy anything from a home-made cake to an antique grandfather clock.  The village garage takes forever to fix your car, the mobile bank comes once a week, and the small library boasts the 1974 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.  The few Saturday-night drunks are harmless; there is no vandalism and no rowdiness, which is as well, because Jack, the village bobby, couldn’t handle more than the mildest altercation.

Nether Slype nestles among wooded hills, and the woods encroach into it.  It is a place of nooks and crannies, green shades, cool shadows, high hedges, privacy, and footways.  There are bridleways where big-bottomed, bouncing-bosomed girls ride their ponies and other things besides — very vigorously.  The long, curling, hedge-rowed lanes are overarched with heavy branches of wimpling leaves.  The river murmurs under the mediaeval bridge, flowing fresh and clean, down from the higher hills on the Welsh borderland.  You’ll see an occasional fly-angler there, standing midstream in his waders, his fly whipping back and forth across the sparkling water; but their numbers are few and they’re all local, for no one comes to Nether Slype to fish; in fact, hardly anyone comes to Nether Slype at all.

Nearly all the villagers marry within the community — and they firmly believe in marriage.  I am aware of the commonly held urban belief that rural folk are interbred, but there is little risk of that in Nether Slype, with its population of twelve hundred, and Long Wallop, two miles up the valley, with a further six hundred, not to mention Threshers Bottom, over the hill, with another five hundred.  Therefore, as I’ve learned, few in this hidden, tucked-away place look beyond the three villages for a mate, which might account for a number of their local quirks.

I found Nether Slype by accident, as you must, for no one goes there by design or drives through it by accident, because the narrow twisting lane that winds six miles from the A road is unsignposted and goes nowhere else, except Long Wallop and Threshers Bottom.  But many years ago, I took a wrong turning.  I drove for miles with no clue where I was going.  Several times, I nearly turned back, but when I had almost given up hope of arriving anywhere other than a dead end in a farmyard, I came to a rise, and looked down through a gap in the birch trees.

It was autumn, and there below me, thrusting up from a tousled leafscape of greens, ambers, and reds, I saw a mediaeval church tower, and on the further hillside, four conical-roofed turrets peered over the trees towards me, as though a watchful castle hid in the forest there.  So I drove for another mile, the trees thinned slightly, and cottages appeared to left and right, peeping slyly from behind high hedges of yew, beech, and blackthorn.

I saw an elderly couple walking arthritically up the lane towards me.  Winding down my window, I leant out and called, “Excuse me.  I’m  lost.  I was wondering—”

With a sprightliness I wouldn’t have thought possible, the old couple recoiled and scuttled behind the nearest hedge.  Their reaction wouldn’t surprise me now, of course — they don’t like talking to strangers in the three villages — but on that day, it perplexed me.

I drove on; the cottages drew closer and became more regular, yet all seemed to hide behind something — hedges, large shrubs, or weeping trees.  Then, suddenly, the vista opened before me and I drove out onto a large village green, with a few shady, monumental oaks and a lilied pond at its centre where ducks quacked and geese honked deafeningly.  Close by stood ancient stocks and whipping post that looked remarkably well maintained.  Dotted all around were ancient cottages, timbered or red-tiled; tumbledown irregular cottages with shutters, nooks, and many corners, cellars, rambling attics, and tall chimneys with weathercocks on them.  I saw a couple of shops with bowed and bulls-eyed windows, and what looked like a moot hall.  Behind it rose the mediaeval church tower, solid and timeless.

Outside a timbered pub, curiously named The Seven Stripes, a group of locals sat on a bench drinking beer.  I drove up, but I was only half way out of the car before they leapt to their feet in alarm and scuttled inside.   I followed them in.  I needed directions and I was also thirsty.  As I walked into the bar, the conversation stopped like the fall of an executioner’s axe.  I looked around to see twelve pairs of dilated eyes swimming at me.  Ahead of me, the landlord, a large florid man with red hair, was wiping the bar.

“What can we do for you, stranger?” he asked in a surly voice that told me he would rather do nothing at all.

“I’m lost,” I said simply.

He gave me a half smile.  “Strangers always are.  Where are you trying to get to?”

I told him.

“Well,” he said.  “You know the road you took to get here?”

“Yes.”

“Take it and drive back out again.”

I stared at him hard.  What he’d said to me sounded like a roundabout way of hoisting two fingers and saying “Fuck off”.  But he read my reaction, unbent a fraction, and shook his head with a wintry smile.

“I’m not being funny, stranger.  There’s only one road out of Nether Slype that goes anywhere much.  That’s the one you came in on.  So wherever you’re going, that’s the one you need to take.”

“Then why did you ask where I was going?”

He shrugged.  “On the off chance you were looking for somewhere close by.”  He smirked.  “But I didn’t think it likely.”

I supposed it sounded fair enough.  I ordered a beer and looked around.  Country pubs are frequently hung with horse brasses and bits of tack, all ersatz, but the décor of The Seven Stripes looked genuine, and appeared to reflect its history as a coaching inn, being an assortment of straps, whips, chains, and what looked like bits and harnesses.  There were also some leg irons and manacles, a scolds’ bridle, and a thumbscrew.  I assumed that convicts had once been transported through the village and kept manacled at The Seven Stripes overnight.

I have never drunk beer in such a tactile silence.  While I consumed my pint — which was outstanding —  the twelve pairs of suspicious eyes never left me, not a word was uttered, not a floorboard creaked, not a glass was lifted other than mine.  I left the pub reflecting that, in remote villages, such a reception must be regarded as part of the local charm, and I soon put it from my mind, for as I drove round the village green, past all the quaint, old-world cottages, and back along the leafy lane, I fell in love with the place — it’s picturesque antiquity, and most of all its remoteness, hidden in its folds of woodland, a precious perfumed relict of an England I had thought lost for ever, and I swore that one day that I would return to live there.

*****

I am a writer by trade.  I have no pretensions so I don’t call it a vocation.  I published my first novel when I was thirty.  It was a middling success, but enough of one to encourage me to pursue my craft.  My reputation gradually grew, and finally I was able to give up the day job and seriously consider moving to the soft, secluded delights of Nether Slype.  I now had adequate means, so I thought it would be easy, but I discovered in the event that it was anything but.

My first problem was finding the local estate agent’s telephone number.  None was listed on the Internet, or in any telephone directory.  I tried to order a local paper from my newsagent but drew a blank there.  None seemed to exist and the nearest town’s local paper made no mention of the village.  None of the main estate-agent chains had a branch there or had even heard of the place.

So I went back there one late summer’s day.  The trees were more deeply in leaf than before and I found myself driving down the lane of yew hedges and set-back cottages before I even realised I had entered the village again.  It being a Saturday, more people were about, but as soon as I started to drive round the green, they all vanished like smoke into doorways, or down side alleys.  It was as though word had gone round that marauding Vikings had arrived to rape and pillage.  I drove round the green until I saw a window with some photographs of properties in it.  As I entered, a grey man sitting at a large, dusty partnership desk looked up at me and goggled, as though I’d sprouted a second head.

“Can I help you?” he enquired in a surly voice, giving the unmistakeable impression that he wasn’t prepared to help me at all.

I told him that I was looking for a cottage in or around the village.

“There aren’t any available,” he said flatly.

“So what are the properties in the window?”

“Not for you.  You’re not from the village, are you!” he asked in a tone of voice that sounded like a deadly accusation.

“Er, no.  But—”

“Nor from Long Wallop or Threshers Bottom either, I’ll be bound!”

“Well, no.  But—”

“Didn’t think so.  I’d have recognised you.   No family here either I presume?”

“None at all.  But why should any of this be relevant?”  I asked sharply, stung by his rude, negative attitude.

“Because all the land and properties round the valley are owned by Lord Shackles.  They’re leased to villagers and no one but villagers.”

My disappointment was crushing.  “Is there no way at all of acquiring one?”  I asked.

“You could petition his lordship.”  The man sniggered unpleasantly.  “But it won’t get you anywhere.”

“Why not?”

He sniggered again.  “Try, and you’ll find out.”

After much remonstrating, I obtained his lordship’s address at Nether Towers, the turreted pile I had seen peeping through the trees on my fondly remembered previous visit.  Back home, I drafted several letters to him, but the estate agent’s comments gave me pause.  If I enquired and he refused, as the estate agent’s manner had suggested probable, then I would have shot my one and only bolt, and that would be that.  So I spoke to Celia, my literary agent, who offered to make some discreet enquiries on my behalf that might hopefully give me some idea of how to proceed.

This too proved fruitless at the outset.  Try Googling Nether Slype, Threshers Bottom, or Long Wallop, and the engine returns “not found”, and this result holds true for any Internet search.  The three villages were like Brigadoon, appearing only when you drove into them from the winding lane through the woods, and then vanishing from the face of the earth when you left.

At last, Celia found a single obscure newspaper reference to a Colonel Gremdyck Flaythm from Nether Slype, who had mysteriously disappeared from the front in the Great War.  No body had ever been found, and no trace of him had emerged since.  He, like the village, had mysteriously vanished.  There were many who vanished like that in the trenches, had deserted or been blown to pieces, and the intelligence at first glance, appeared to be of no use to me.

But then my writer’s imagination took hold and I started to invent a subsequent biography for the colonel, and a possible means of worming my way into Lord Shackles’ good graces.

I thought it best not to imply that Colonel Flaythm had deserted for any reason; Lord Shackles might not like that.  So I decided that he had received a glancing blow to the head from a piece of shrapnel and wandered off, bewildered, into no-man’s land.  He had been captured, but as he was suffering from profound amnesia, his captors could not identify him and advise their British counterparts of who he was.  However, his ardent British blood remained pure (I felt Lord Shackles would like that).  He subsequently escaped from incarceration, still not knowing who he was, and, after many subsequent adventures through Eastern Europe, Siberia, and Tibet, he had finally surfaced in the remote outback of Australia, where he lived out the remainder of his life under the assumed name of Bruce Brown.

Late in life his memory had returned, but being married, and a pillar of his community, he had continued his subterfuge, confiding the truth to his son, my fictional grandfather, only on his deathbed.  Since then, his family had wandered the dissolving Empire, being pushed from colony to colony as it broke up.  Along the way the name had reverted to Flaythm and I, the alleged last of the line, had returned only recently to England in search of my long lost relations and my roots.

Before acquainting Lord Shackles with my new history, I reinvented myself completely, changing my name to Flaythm by deed pole and setting all my affairs in order under that name.  I have always cherished my anonymity — I write under a pen name — and having no family, there was absolutely no emotional or other difficulty in this.  Indeed, I enjoyed the sense of adventure it gave me.  So this done, I wrote a tearful and harrowing account of my Flaythm family’s history since that fateful day in 1915, couched in suitably servile language, and posted it to Lord Shackles.  I then sat back, prepared for a long wait, and the possibility, even now, of a blunt refusal.

So I was overjoyed when, only a few days later, I received a reply, not from his lordship but his wife, Lady Griselda Shackles, telling me how my tale had moved her to tears, and inviting me to attend an interview at Nether Towers.  This invitation I immediately accepted in the most excruciatingly obsequious terms, and a few days later, I was driving up from the village of Nether Slype to the turreted pile on the hillside.

1. Interview

Nether Towers is a castellated, eighteenth-century country mansion of buttresses and Gothic windows, topped with crenulated battlements, pointed turrets, tall twisted chimneys, and dragons, straight out of William Beckford or Ann Radcliffe.  It stands in a charming wooded glade of lush grass and rampant wild flowers ringed with the screen of dense trees that obscures everything in Nether Slype, though the view back along the approach provides a wonderful view across the valley.  It arrested me when I got out of the car — a panorama of wooded, tousled hills, winding lanes, and red-tiled cottage roofs, and beyond, the higher, blue hills of the Welsh borderland.  As I stood there, I prayed as I had never prayed, that my ruse might work, so I could live in this enchanted place.

I rang the bell and the great double-doors were thrown open by a grave butler in a tailcoat, with a bald crown and two wings of iron-grey hair neatly combed back over both ears.  He confirmed that I was expected, and he directed me to wait in the gloomy wainscoted hallway, whose walls were dense with generations of Shackles in oils.  They scowled down at me from aloof heights while I patiently waited for the butler’s return, for he had gone to inform Lady Shackles of my arrival.

As I waited, a piercing scream and a peal of diabolical laughter from the bowels of the mansion shattered the peace.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll flog her fucking arse off!”

I jumped up startled, casting about for the source of this violent outburst.  As I did so, the butler returned and told me that Lady Shackles was ready to receive me.  He made no mention of the outburst, which he must have heard, but merely coughed, and said that her ladyship was waiting in her office.  I asked him to lead the way, but we hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps before a second peal of diabolical laughter rent the air.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll flog her fucking cunt off!”

The butler’s gravity deepened, and he deferentially cleared his throat.  “His lordship, I’m afraid, sir.  You’d might as well know.  He’s, er . . . how can I delicately put it?”

“Suffering some unfortunate mental health problem?”

“Not quite, sir.  To use the exact medical terminology, he’s barking mad, sir.  We’ve been obliged to confine him to the dungeons.”

I do not know whether I was surprised or amused.  “You have dungeons here?”

The butler looked aghast.  “Of course we have dungeons.”

After a few further steps, he tapped his knuckles on an oak-panelled door and opened it.  Beyond, sitting at a large desk was an aloof and horsey looking woman of about forty, typical of her breed, with a large nose, a weak chin, and two prominent teeth that overhung her protruding lower lip.  Her profuse chestnut hair was scraped back into a bun.

The deferential butler cleared his throat once more.  “Mr Owen Flaythm, ma’am.”

She smiled and rose to greet me, and I saw that she was dressed for riding in hacking jacket, jodhpurs, and knee boots.  Her large and apparently firm bust surged through the opening in the jacket like Niagara Falls in the wet season, and she vigorously slapped her thigh with a riding crop as she strode purposefully across the wide room towards me.  As she approached, she extended her free hand, which, I noticed, dripped jewels.

“Mr Flaythm,” she lisped through the gap in her front teeth.  “I’m Griselda Shackles.  Welcome to Nether Towers.”

I almost took the hand and shook it, but somewhere from the depths of my subconscious, a cautionary voice shouted, No!  Therefore, stooping slightly, I took the tips of the gem-encrusted fingers in my own and lightly kissed them.  “A profound honour and a pleasure to meet your ladyship.”

As I straightened, I saw that she was beaming; her riding crop slapped her thigh even more enthusiastically than before.

“I knew it, I knew it,” she gushed, ogling me from head to toe.  “Every inch a Flaythm.  The manners.  The poise.  The easy and natural subservience to the social superior.”  She lurched towards me and seized my arm.  Her grip was like a vice.  “Come!  Come to the window and let me take a good look at you!”

She marched me by the arm into a deep window recess, where I was obliged to pose for inspection while she clucked all round me.  “No question.  No question at all.  You have the Flaythm nose, the Flaythm brow, the deep Flaythm upper lip — you could grow a magnificent moustache.  No doubt of it.  Magnificent!”

I heard the deferential butler cough.  A spasm of annoyance crossed Lady Shackles’ face, and she turned and sniffed.

“What is it, Thwacks?” she demanded coldly.

“I regret to inform you, ma’am, that his lordship seems to be becoming . . . er . . . how shall I put it?  Agitated again.”

Lady Shackles’ slapped her thigh with the riding crop so hard that I flinched.  “Oh very well,” she sighed with clear annoyance.  “Send a girl down!”

It seemed an odd response.  Surely, the poor man needed a physician or nurse, not a girl.  But the impeccable Thwacks merely bowed.  “Immediately, ma’am.”

When the butler had gone about his strange business, Lady Shackles directed me to a deep sofa.  She flung her riding crop onto the desk and surprised me by stripping off her jacket.  As she flexed her muscular shoulder back to slip it off, I couldn’t help noticing that her bust was truly monumental, and jutted with surprising firmness.

“Might as well make ourselves comfortable, Mr Flaythm,” she announced briskly, throwing herself vigorously into the armchair facing me, and smoothing her blouse over her thrusting curves, as if for my appreciation.  “Of course, some said you had to be an imposter,” she confided.  “And I confess I entertained doubts myself.  But now I have met you no doubt remains.  None at all.  You are every inch a Flaythm.  Every inch.  And so you shall remain.”

“I only hope the others concur, your ladyship.”

She swatted the notion waspishly away.  “Peasants, Mr Flaythm!  They don’t count.  I and I alone am mistress here.  My opinion alone matters.  They do as they’re told.”

“Of course, your ladyship.”

“Of course!  Precisely!  You understand.  You’re a Flaythm,” she lisped softly, and I noticed that her eyes were wandering all over me again.  “Now, you said you wished to trace your relations.  I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed there.  Your great grandfather, the colonel, had but one sibling, a brother.  He in turn had only the one child, and that child died without issue.  So I’m afraid you’re the last of the Flaythms.”

I affected deep sadness at the news, but I was secretly relieved.  Living relatives might have been a complication, one I was prepared to deal with, but life would be much simpler without them.

“So you’ll have to find yourself a wife,” said Lady Shackles enthusiastically, throwing one booted leg over her chair arm and showing me the leather crotch of her riding jodhpurs.  “Get busy and produce lots of children.  In the meantime, I shall ensure that you are fully and immediately accepted into the three villages, as is your due.  Otherwise it might take years.”

I was genuinely elated.  “So you’ll allow me to live here, after all, your ladyship?”

“But of course.  The Flaythms have served the Shackles for centuries.  You are one of us, and, as a Flaythm, you will enjoy considerable prestige here . . . so long as you do as you’re told.”

“Of course, Lady Shackles,” I assured her, terrified of putting a foot wrong.  My ruse had succeeded more surely and swiftly than I could have hoped.  “And I’ll happily serve you any capacity you deem appropriate.”

She smirked, slowly regarding me under heavy eyelids.  “Indeed you shall.  Now,” she added, briskly again.  “I assume you have adequate financial means?”

“Yes your ladyship.  As I told you, my grandfather prospered in South Africa and produced a fortune in diamonds.  My father foolishly lost much if it, but enough remains for me to enjoy a substantial private income.”

“Yet, despite that, you still wish to return to Nether Slype?”

I feigned emotion.  “Of course, your ladyship.  It’s . . . it’s  . . . my home.”

Unexpectedly, she leapt out of her chair towards me, perched herself on the arm of my sofa, and placed her hand on my shoulder.  Her encrusted fingers gripped it with remarkable strength.  “Oh Mr Flaythm,” she said as her eyes bore into mine with fierce rapture.  “You are a prodigal returned, and you are more than welcome.  I look forward to our developing a close and fruitful association.  Indeed, a close and fruitful friendship, for I have no doubt that we shall becomes friends . . . very firm friends.”

“You fill me with rapture, your ladyship,” I croaked, biting back my crocodile tears in the way I thought a Flaythm ought, and reflecting that I’d well and truly fallen on my feet.

“Good man!  That’s the spirit!  That’s the Flaythm style!”

She strode back to her chair, flung her leg back over the arm, and her eyes continued to wander all over me.  We talked about where I might live.  To give my pose credence, I had converted all my assets into liquid form, and deposited most in a South African bank.  When I told her ladyship that I could install myself in the village at a few days notice it was the literal truth.  She appeared overjoyed and decided to give me a large, rambling cottage on the village outskirts, as befitted my apparently high status.

“It’s only six bedrooms, but that’ll do for the time being.”

“Time being?”

“Until you find a wife, of course.  That won’t be a problem for you; we have a huge surplus of available women here.  And you’re a Flaythm, so you can take your pick of them.  But I counsel you to choose wisely and not weaken your Flaythm blood.  And then,” she added enthusiastically, “when you’ve found a suitable woman, get down to it with a will and impregnate her, time and time again!  You owe it to your ancestors to perpetuate the Flaythm line.”

I blushed.  “Of course, Lady Shackles.  I’ll follow your generous  advice — naturally.”

While we spoke, I studied the room.  It was the sort of panelled affair you expect to find in such an old country mansion, lined with ancient, dusty books of no possible interest or value, and even duller pictures of horsey looking men and women with large noses, weak chins, and protruding teeth, whom I assumed to be Griselda Shackles’ own ancestors.  One arrested me though: a brutal looking, florid-faced man in the tricorn hat and naval uniform of Napoleonic times.  He was standing proudly in front of what appeared to be a mountain of steak tartare.  Beneath the picture, in a glass exhibition case, lay a heavy cat of nine tails, though it looked more like a cat of fifteen or twenty tails, all knotted at intervals and embellished with vicious hooks, spikes, and other spiteful ironmongery.

Lady Shackles noticed my interest, and she positively glowed.  “Ah!  I see you’ve noticed my great ancestor, Admiral Lord Horatio Shackles!”

“My grandfather spoke of him many times, your ladyship,” I lied fluently, reasoning that he would have done so, had he existed, and hoping that she wasn’t going to test me with awkward questions.

“Of course he would.  We’re so very proud of the admiral.”  Her face flushed with ancestral joy.  “Just think.  The only Royal Navy officer ever to flog his entire crew to death in a single session,” she added with deep relish.  “And he did it with his own hand, you know.  Ripped out their backs in bloody gobbets.  Every last one of them.”

I tried not to blench.  “So I understand, your ladyship.  An outstanding feat of, er . . . seamanship, to be sure.”

“And so efficient!  Amazing!  Truly amazing!  He started work after a late breakfast of oysters and Champagne, you know, and he finished the work well before elevenses.”

“Stupendous,” I simpered.  What else could I say?

“And as you must already know, his second in command, Captain Rickett Flaythm, stepped forward and gallantly offered to hold his coat for him while he administered the punishment.”

“Indeed, your ladyship,” I choked.  “It’s a matter of immense family pride to us.”

“Yes, a superb testimony to the captain’s breeding and the Shackles Patent Flogger’s efficacy.”  She walked across the glass case like a woman in a dream, her face alight with enthusiasm.  I noticed how her well-developed horsewoman’s buttocks heaved and strained like two bound slaves against the tight captivity of her jodhpurs.  “And here it is.”  She gazed down at the grotesque object in the exhibition case.  “The very flogger the admiral used to achieve his stupendous feat.  It’s an inspiration, Mr Flaythm.”

“I’m overawed to be in its presence,” I lied, trying to look away from the hideous thing.

She gazed up at the portrait of the monstrous admiral, her hands clasped in schoolgirl rapture.  “And there he is, standing proudly before the product of his achievement.  Just think — eight hundred men ripped to pieces in less than three hours . . . .  It makes the blood surge.”

I suddenly realised what the steak tartare really was, and my gorge rose.

“Of course, had the spineless Admiralty been wise enough to adopt the Shackles Patent Flogger, there would have been no mutinies at Spithead and the Nore.  The men would have learned the true meaning of the words, discipline, and punishment.”

“Without a doubt, your ladyship,” I dutifully crowed, despite myself.  “A criminal folly.”

“Criminal.  Lamentable.  Softness, Mr Flaythm.  Softness.  That’s the country’s ill.  We seem to have forgotten all about discipline.”

“To our great cost,” I resolutely toadied.  “A national disgrace.”

“Except in Nether Slype, of course,” she said, vigorously marching back to the desk and retrieving her riding crop.  “No silly softness here.  No insolence.  No disobedience.”  As she said this, she slashed her thigh three times, so hard that I winced.  “The three villages are the last stronghold of the firm hand, the disciplinarian, as I’m sure your grandfather told you.”

“Indeed, your ladyship, and thank heaven for it,” I chorused without fully understanding the implications of her tirade — though perhaps I should have twigged by then.  “No weak, watery, namby-pamby shilly-shallying here, thank God.”

“Oh, Mr Flaythm!”  She tossed her riding crop over her shoulder, positively skipped across the room to me, all girlish and gushing.  “This is a true meeting of minds.  A wonderful day for both of us.  Just think!  The Shackles and the Flaythms united again after all this time — mistress and servant.  And friends too.  True friends, I hope.”

“Your deep condescension overwhelms me with joy.”

She took my hands in hers wrung them with unnerving intensity, almost breaking my fingers.  I noticed that her breathing had shortened.  “Oh Mr Flaythm.  Not half so much joy as your return promises to give me.”

I finger of apprehension touched me.  “I don’t think I quite understand your ladyship,” I stammered.

“Don’t you?  Come, come, Mr Flaythm, you’re a man of the world.”  She paused.  “And yet you probably have little idea what it’s like for me here?  This life . . . this cold friendless existence . . . alone and blue-blooded among peasants . . . and other inferiors . . . with a mad, slavering, sexually impotent husband, chained in the dungeons.  No one I can trust . . . no one I can turn to . . . confide in . . . open my heart to.  No one with whom I can . . . can . . . can . . . .”

“Can what, Lady Shackles?”

“Can I be brutally frank with you?  I feel I can talk intimately to you as I could to no other without soiling myself.  Please?”

I swallowed.  “You do me too much honour, your ladyship.”

“Very well.”  She paused, smoothing her blouse and pointing her magnificent bust directly at my nose.  “I must be blunt.  Have you any idea how cold and empty my bed is, Mr Flaythm?”

“Your ladyship?”

“I don’t mean physically cold, of course.  I have countless hot water bottles.  And if I chose, I could summon any well-hung man in the three villages to service me to satisfaction whenever I wished.  But, of course, I cannot.”

I swallowed again.  “Cannot?  But surely—”

“The considerations of class, Mr Flaythm!  How could I allow a dirty peasant to crawl up my nightie, no matter how well equipped he was for the job of sexually gratifying me?”

I hadn’t anticipated this turn in the conversation.  Perhaps I should have.  I cleared my throat.  “Perish the thought, your ladyship.”

“Indeed!”  She paused and looked at me steadily.  “You understand.  Of course you do.”  A slow smile crept furtively across her face.  Her hand slipped surreptitiously to my knee and started working slowly up my thigh, while her eyes smouldered provocatively into mine.  “Yes.  I’m sure you understand — perfectly.”

I suddenly realised what she had meant when she said, not half so much joy as your return promises to give me.  I blushed — I’m sure I did.  Fighting her off would probably ruin my prospects of moving to the village.  On the other hand, I reasoned that giving her what she obviously wanted wouldn’t trouble me at all.  She was a provocatively built woman, despite the teeth, though I felt I’d rather not do it in the presence of the steak tartare and the patent flogger.

In the event, I was rescued by a sudden knocking at the office door.  With a spasm of alarm, Lady Shackles leapt up as though electrocuted, and fled back across the room towards her large desk.

“Enter!” she snapped, when she’d gained some composure.

The door opened and Thwacks the immaculate butler entered and bowed.

“What is it, Thwacks?” Lady Shackles demanded coldly, looking dramatically away from him.

The balls of Thwacks’ fingers and thumbs twitched together, as though he were rubbing fat into delicate pastry.  He cleared his throat, drew himself up to his full height, and addressed the ceiling.  “I regret to inform you, ma’am, that his lordship seems to be becoming . . . er . . . how can I delicately put it?  Agitated again.”

“Again?  But we sent him a girl not one hour ago!”

Thwacks coughed deferentially.  “His lordship seems to have . . .  er . . . finished with that one, ma’am.”

“Already?”

“So it would appear.”

“Very well.  Send down another.  But that’s the last for today — there’s a limit to my indulgence.”

Thwacks bowed.  “Very good, ma’am.”

He started to withdraw backwards at a dignified stoop, but Lady Shackles stopped him.  “Before you do that, you can show Mr Flaythm out.”  She turned to me and extended her hand, smiling warmly, while her eyes again wandered all over me.  “I’d better let you go while I still can, dear Mr Flaythm,” she simpered through her front teeth.  “I’m sure we can pursue any outstanding matters at a more opportune time and place.”

Her meaning was plain, and it certainly suited me to delay payment for her generosity until after I was securely ensconced in my cottage.  I rose, bowed over the jewel-encrusted fingers, and kissed them again.

I turned to leave while Thwacks stood aside for me.  As a walked through the door I distinctly heard Lady Shackles lisp, “Until we meet again . . . Owen” in such a smoky voice that Thwacks’ eyebrows abruptly rose and his eyes popped, though his po-face remained set in stone.

Thwacks and I retraced our steps to the gloomy, wainscoted hall, where generations of Shackles sneered down at me from the shadowy walls as though they, at least, knew me for an impostor.

Suddenly, a shriek of diabolical laughter from the deep bowels of the building rent the air.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll flog her fucking tits off!”

“We’d best hurry if you don’t mind, sir,” urged Thwacks.  “His lordship seems particularly agitated today.  It’s almost—” He looked at me guardedly. “—almost as if he knows you’re here, sir.”  He paused and glanced up nervously at all the ancestors.  “Strange.”

Indeed it was.  I had no idea what he meant and might have asked him, but another thought was uppermost in my mind.

“The girls?”  I asked, as he held one of the great front doors ajar for me and positively thrust me through the opening.  “What do they do down there?”

“Do, sir?”  The balls of Thwacks’ fingers and thumbs rubbed together again, I thought a trifle nervously.

“Yes!  Do!”

“I suppose that you might say that they provide his lordship with the necessary remedial treatment for his condition, sir.”

Enlightenment dawned, or so I thought at the time.  “Ah!  I see.  They’re trained therapists.”

Thwacks cleared his throat yet again, and his face remained impassive.  “I suppose you might say that too, sir,” he murmured, and the door closed.

1. Dark Designs

As I drove back towards London, I reflected that there were advantages and disadvantages to my remarkable progress.  I would soon be installed in a substantial cottage in the village of my dreams, and it was clear that I would be welcomed and given a status I had never expected, and didn’t particularly want — but never mind about that.   I also would also enjoy the close and avid support of Lady Griselda Shackles, provided I played my cards right.

That was a two-edged sword.  There would be obvious advantages to a close relationship with her.  She clearly wanted me to shag her, a small price to pay for the cottage and the lifestyle I was promised to enjoy, and I wondered what other sweeteners and emoluments she might offer if I shagged her to her complete satisfaction.  I entertained no doubt that I would satisfy her, in bed at least.  I am not a braggart by nature but the women I’ve bedded over the years have never expressed disappointment.  Besides, despite her nose and her front teeth, Lady Shackles’ body would be more than acceptable when the light was out.  Once I got to grips, I would have no problem giving her what she wanted — or so I thought.

On the other hand, there would be consequences, perhaps terminal ones, if I ever tried to withdraw from whatever arrangement she decided suited her, or if I disappointed her in other ways.  What if I made other women friends and she became jealous?  What if I fell in love with another woman?  What if Griselda Shackles fell in love with me and demanded more than a good stiff weekly poke?  She had made it perfectly clear that she was totally in charge of everything and everyone in the three villages.  I had no doubt that she could handle her authority, and would be every bit as ruthless as Admiral Shackles if crossed.  Yes, there was no doubt of that at all, and she would be holding all the cards.  And I was less than enthusiastic about her evident love of whips, crops, and patent floggers.  I don’t mind a bit of spanking, provided I’m the one administering it, but I did not intend to be Griselda Shackles’ whip slave.

So did I still want to move to Nether Slype and live in her cottage on her terms, as a sort of glorified sex serf?  I most certainly did.  Or, to say the least, I was prepared to give it my best shot.  I loved the place and had set my heart on living there years before.  I also knew that I was an intelligent and resourceful man; I had no doubt that given time I would be able to forge a more equable and even-handed arrangement with Lady Shackles than she probably had in mind.  Moreover, I assumed that I was far better able than the other villagers to protect myself if she became difficult or spiteful, and that I appreciated better than the other villagers, the differences between her perceptions, and stark reality.  She might think that she was lady of the manor, and the rest of us peasants without rights.  In reality, of course, we did have rights, civil right, tenant’s rights, even human right — which can cover just about anything you want them too, provided you can hire a good lawyer.

And I certainly had the means to do that.  If she ever threatened me, she would have to deal with counter-threats in turn.  At least, I thought so at the time.

*****

They didn’t put the bunting up round the village on the afternoon I arrived, together with the van Lady Shackles had sent to my London address to transport my possessions.  On the other hand, bunting was the only thing missing, apart from the brass band.  A group of local dignitaries greeted me at my front door and immediately whisked me up to Nether Towers for an arrival party in the grounds — where there was a band, a marquee, and bunting by the mile, threaded between the encircling trees.  Despite her ladyship’s deeply held convictions about social class, the entire village appeared to have been invited, and I was introduced to so many people that I became giddy.  Lady Shackles herself took little notice of me beyond formally shaking my hand and making a speech of welcome to a respectfully silent and bareheaded audience.

It wasn’t until about half past six, when the crowd was melting away down the hill towards their homes, that we finally spoke confidentially.  I had looked for her, fearing that it would be impolite to leave without thanking her for her welcome, and I had become lost in a tangle of yew hedges — some sort of maze — when she crept up behind me.

“BOOH!”

I leapt out of my skin, crashed back to earth, and turned to find her standing there, still wearing her riding habit, and vigorously slapping her thighs with her crop as she laughed at her schoolgirl joke.

“If I wasn’t a fit man, you could have given me a heart attack,” I complained, forgetting my manners for a moment.

She became suddenly seriously.  She stepped up to me and slid her hand inside my jacket, where she stroked my flank.  “I hope you are fit, Owen,” she lisped in my ear.  “You’ll be no good to me if you’re not.”

“Fit enough,” I laughed, a little bashfully for a man of my experience, for her meaning was plain.

“And you’ll stay to dinner?”

She couched it as a question, but I knew she meant it as a command.  Oh well, I thought.  Looks like I’m on shagging duty tonight already.  Just so long as she leaves her riding crop downstairs!

Upper-crust dinners can be tedious affairs, especially when there are only two of you, sitting at opposite ends of a table so long that the food can be served piping hot at one end and au froid when it finally reaches the other — though in this case there were two substantial compensations.

She had left me to amuse myself for a while in the library, which was crammed with more leather-backed books and more chinless portraiture, while she went upstairs to change out of her hacking jacket and jodhpurs into “something more suitable for the occasion”.  It certainly was — a figure-hugging, low-cut dress of dark yet iridescent silk, held up by nothing but the incredible firmness of her magnificent breasts, and revealing a yard of cleavage so deep that I longed to plunge into headfirst into it.  We walked to the dining room arm-in-arm, in the time-honoured fashion, but when she turned to take her seat, her buttocks undulated so provocatively under their tight restraint that I struggled to keep my hands off them, reflecting that if Lord Shackles hadn’t been able to produce a rock-hard erection over his wife’s body, he couldn’t produce one over anything.

I no longer noticed the prominent teeth, the weak chin, and the horsey nose as I sat there at the opposite end of the long table undressing her in my mind, taking out those mouth-watering breasts sucking her plump nipples, running my hands over her firm round bottom, parting her legs, and getting stuck in with a will.  She would have no cause to complain of my efforts, not tonight at least, not the way I was feeling.

The conversation over dinner was desultory, as it must be when two serving men are perched on your elbow like carrion crows, outraged ancestors are glaring down at you from the shadowy wainscot, and you feel you are being observed by inscrutable-looking suits of armour, standing like linesmen around the walls.  As I chewed my way manfully through several courses, the silence was punctuated only by the occasional pleasantry, and invitations to take more wine.  I wondered why Thwacks wasn’t hovering at the table, for it is a butler’s duty to pour the drinks.  I assumed he was outside, keeping a sharp ear peeled for the cries of the impotent madman downstairs in the dungeons.

So it transpired.  We had just finished our sherry trifle and were waiting in rigid silence for the coffee to be brought in when there was a discreet knock at the doors and he appeared, sombre as an eminence grise, and walked with sedate steps to Lady Shackles’ end of the table.  He coughed into his cupped hand and waited.

“Well?” she snapped, her face suddenly turned to stone.

Thwacks drew himself solemnly to his full height.  “I regret to inform you, ma’am, that his lordship seems to be becoming . . . er . . . how can I delicately put it at the dinner table?  Agitated again.”

Her eyes flickered, and she slapped her hand onto the tabletop so hard that all the silverware leapt several inches into the air and all the suits of armour hummed like ceremonial gongs.  “No more!  Understood?  No more!  Close all the intervening doors and let him get on with it!  Understood?”

Thwacks’ face was unreadable.  “Very good, ma’am,” he said at length.  “It’s your decision.”

“And keep your impertinent observations to yourself!” she blazed, looking away from him.

Thwacks swelled with forbearance, bowed admonished, and stalked out of the room without a further word.  As soon as the door had closed behind him, Lady Shackles leapt to her feet and flung he napkin onto the dining table.

“We’ll take the coffee in my drawing room!” she barked at no one in particular, and then she also swept from the room, snapping her fingers in my direction for me to follow her.  And so I did, like a poodle.

She had cooled somewhat when we reached her drawing room, after a forced march through labyrinthine passages of many widths, up and down steps, round corners and bends, through arches and doorways.  This suggested to me that the building was much older than I had previously thought, probably mediaeval.  It was certainly cold.  The perpetual draught cut like a razor.  Our footsteps rang on bare stone more often than not, some of the walls were undressed stone, and where they were panelled, the woodwork looked dark and ancient, relieved only by narrow lancet windows, arrow slits, several threadbare tapestries, more armour, and many more generations of outraged ancestors glared at me through the gathering gloom, for the evening had advanced.

So the drawing room, when we finally arrived, pleasantly surprised me: a light, warm, airy room where the panelling sparkled and smelled of beeswax, the sweet-sharp smell of fresh fuchsias spiked the air.  There was a comfortable chintz suite and other elegant pieces of furniture.  The pictures surprised me even more.  Gone were the apoplectic ancestors; instead, the walls were hung with attractive landscapes in watercolour and oils, interspersed with some more modern and abstract pieces; and a large abstract sculpture shaped like a fully erect penis, which surprised me less.

“You furnished this room yourself, didn’t you?” I asked to melt the already softening silence, for I was sure no one else had done it.

“Yes.  Look.  Sorry about the outburst,” she said in a surprisingly small voice, her brow furrowed.  “I didn’t want unpleasantness on your first day here, but I assume you know all about Flavius.”

“Your husband, Lady Shackles?”

“Husband in name.  He’s mad, Mr Flaythm.  Barking mad.  And worse — incapable of producing any sort of erection.”

“So I’d already gathered.”

“Totally incapable of pleasuring a woman, let alone a hot-blooded sexually-demanding one.”  She flung herself down on the sofa pulled me down beside her, and threw her arms possessively round my neck.  “And I’m very highly sexed, you see.  I have needs.  Burning, desperate needs, that can only be quenched by a well-equipped, vigorous, and attentive man from the right sort of social background.  That’s why I get so agitated, you see.”

“Yes, well, I’d already—”

“And I couldn’t help observing, Mr Flaythm, when we first met, the more than satisfactory bulge in your trousers.”

“Well.  As I was saying, I’d already—”

“Let us be frank with each other, as only true friends can.  When I spoke before of friendship, of a meeting of minds, I confess that I was dissembling in part.  I was also thinking of something . . . more physical . . . more urgent, more . . . necessary.”

“My dear Lady Shackles.  That too I’d already—”

Her embrace had tightened; her breathing had become ragged.  She thrust her magnificent bust into my face and started stroking the back of my head with fluttering hands.  “For God’s sake call me Griselda when we’re alone!”

“Of course . . . Griselda.  I’d be—”

Suddenly, her lips were working vigorously on mine; her tongue was in my throat.  She hoisted her dress and straddled me, her powerful horsewoman’s legs tightly gripping my thighs as her crotch started rubbing vigorously into my groin.  The desperate power of her kiss felt as though it was wrenching my tongue out by its roots.  I struggle for air but this only excited her more, her legs tightened, she jerked more feverishly, and her strong arms crushed the breath from me.

“My God, you’re well endowed, Owen!” she gasped.  “A true Flaythm!  How you stimulate me!”

Her crotch now flexed with accelerating vigour for several minutes before she finally groaned, slowed, flopped on top of me, exhausted.  Her grip relaxed and she lay on me panting.

At that moment, a knock at the door interrupted us.  She gasped and leapt up from me like a startled hare, and fled across the room, desperately smoothing her dress.

“Enter!”

This time it was the coffee.

“Leave it!  I’ll pour,” she said to the serving man, more softly than before.  She even managed to sketch a smile as he silently bowed and left backwards, but not before I’d heard a distant maniacal scream echoing through the winding corridors beyond.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll shag her raw.  I’ll stretch her fucking cunt to kingdom come and thrash her arse off with a—”

The closing door mercifully cut off the rest of the sentence.  But it also left a question dangling.

“I thought you said your husband was impotent?” I asked as neutrally as possible.

“So he is.”

“Er . . . he doesn’t sound particularly impotent to me.”

“I told you.  He’s stark staring mad.”

That could account for it, I supposed, but it posed another question that had nagged me since my first visit, and more so because of Thwacks’ evasive comments.

“So what precisely does he do with the girls you send down there?”

“Let’s not talk about him,” she panted, flinging herself back on top of me, her hands exploring my body while her lips worked feverishly all over my mouth, my face, my throat.  “Our time together is too precious to waste on him.  Let’s talk about us.”

“Yes, but—”

“Anyway, I’ll be rid of him within the year,” she added, as though it were a trifle.  “So there’s nothing to talk about really, is there?”

“Rid of him?”

“Yes.  Rid of him!  I’d do it today if I could — now I’ve met you.  But I mustn’t be precipitate.  Appearances are everything.  It must look natural . . . and plausible.  But an opportunity will present itself.  Then, when I’ve disposed of him, I shall be fully available.  Frantic to be pleasured . . . and pleasured . . . and pleasured . . . and pleasured.”

She was positively gnawing my face now, like a ravenous dog trying to tease the last fragment of meat from a stubborn bone.  My manhood, which had been aroused to the point of ejaculation by her twitching crotch, was now deflating rapidly as I digested her alarming ambitions for her poor mad husband.

“But Griselda—”

“Yes, Owen darling,” she lisped as she broke off trying to insert her tongue all the way into my left ear.

“When you talk about disposing of your husband, what exactly—”

“Oh, don’t go on about him, darling,” she pouted, and then tried the other ear.  “So far as we’re concerned, he’s ancient history, isn’t he?”

“Exactly my point.  How precisely—”

“Then, once we’re rid of him, I’ll pull out your gleaming manhood.  I’ll suck it, I’ll eat it, I’ll worship it, I’ll take every glorious inch of it into my every empty, aching hole.  I’ll toss myself up and down on it for hours and hours and hours like a mad woman until the sheets catch fire, won’t I?”

“Fine, but—”

“We’ll get one of those books, and learn how to do it in all sorts of unusual and interesting ways.  We’ll find new ways that no one’s ever tried before.”

“Wonderful, but—”

“Like doing it for hours and hours and hours and hours in a bath full of really thick, sticky custard”

“Yes but—”

“Or warm treacle.”

“What?”

“Treacle, darling.”  She popped a chaste kiss onto the very tip of my nose.  “At least you were listening.”  She dismounted me, glanced at her watch, and, with a look of regret.  “My, my, look at the time.”  She crossed the room and touched the bell pull.  “You’ll have to go for now, for appearance’s sake, or else the low-lifes will start gossiping about us.”

“Go?”

“But of course.”

“So we’re not popping upstairs to . . . er . . . ?”

She giggled like a horse whinnying.  “Not yet, silly!  Not until Flavius is out of the way.  Why do you think I’m so eager to get rid of him?”

I was relieved to a point.  I had passed my peak, largely because of her alarming intentions concerning her husband, and it wouldn’t have done to disappoint her first time.  But I was also worried about what I was getting into.  “Look, Griselda.  About Flavius.  I’m not —”

“Oh, please don’t go on about him, darling.”  She faced me squarely, and her expression was softer now, and more fully mature.  “Look.  We can’t get down to the serious shagging until I’ve dealt with him, if only because if it became known, it would make him far more difficult to dispose of — people might say I had personal motives, mightn’t they?  You must see that.”

“But if we we’re discreet—”

“We couldn’t be — not here, not in Nether Slype where everyone knows everyone else’s comings and goings — especially yours and mine,” she said soberly.  “And a scandal circulating among the peasants would be unspeakably demeaning.  Therefore, much as I lust over you, Owen my darling, we must be content to be friends until I’m permanently rid of Flavius.  Then we can immediately progress to something more athletic and mutually satisfying.  Agreed?”

I admired her control.  In fact, Griselda Shackles’ stature had grown in my estimation, in many ways.  Even her ruthlessness was to be admired.  Nevertheless, but her plans for her husband were clearly serious and they terrified me

“Look, about this disposal business, I—”

The opening door interrupted me.  Thwacks sombrely entered the room, coughed and bowed.

“You took your time!” observed Griselda harshly.

“My apologies, ma’am.  I—”

“Silence!  Mr Flaythm will be leaving in a moment.  Wait outside and then show him out!”

Thwacks bowed.  “Ma’am”.  He withdrew backwards to wait outside.

Griselda’s eyes followed him and she made no effort to hide her dislike of the man.  The door closed; she plucked my arm to draw me close, and her voice was low.  “One word of advice, Owen.  Don’t ever trust that one.”

“Thwacks?”

“Yes.  He’s the main reason I must be prudent and so very careful when I dispose of Flavius.”

“Yes.  About that.  I—”

“Not now!  Listen!  I won’t pester you.  I’ll leave you alone . . . until the deed is done.  So as not to arouse any suspicions.  Understood?”

Of course, but—”

“Hush!  He’s probably listening at the door.”

I dropped my voice to a murmur.  “If he’s such a threat, why do you employ him?”

“Reasons.  But not for long.  Once I’m rid of Flavius I’ll dispose of Thwacks too . . . with very great pleasure.”

I bitterly regretted my words rash words.  “Look, Griselda.  About this disposal business—”

“No time!  No time!  He’ll get suspicious.  Go now!”

*****

I returned to my cottage and spent a sleepless night, despite the sweet, fresh country air wafting in through the open window, and the tawny owls calling each other in the nearby trees.  Keeping Griselda Shackles sexually satisfied would be no hardship, not with that magnificent body, though I was a little daunted by her blithe assumption that we could do it for hours and hours and hours and hours on end, as she had put it.  But her intentions concerning her husband were something I had not anticipated.  I had never met the man, probably never would — unless I got a move on — and cared nothing for him.  But he was still a fellow human being, if a foul-mouthed and barking mad one.

There was no doubt that she intended to murder him.  I reasoned that she was in a strong position to hush the matter — I assumed that the physician who examined him, and the coroner, would both we tenants of hers — but if she were caught and tried, I would be an accessory.  My ambition had been to live in Nether Slype, not to view the world through prison bars for a number of years.  So what should I do?  Flee the village?  Paradise no sooner gained than lost?

I reasoned that doing so wouldn’t help me much.  If she still went ahead and murdered her husband, and my foreknowledge became know, the outcome would be the same.  Should I turn her in?  For what?  I had no proof of anything.  I might find myself accused in turn of being a failed gigolo with a grudge, or a would-be blackmailer — for I had no doubt that Griselda would fight tooth and claw and use any means to refute my allegation.  Then I would lose paradise and my reputation.

Then another, even more horrible, thought struck me.  Would I be the next, after Flavius and Thwacks, for I had little doubt that she intended to murder her butler too?  Had there been others?   Would I become a minor statistic in a long line of murdered lovers?  Was she mad and Flavius sane?  Were they both mad?  Was I too going mad?

As the weeks passed without any developments, these anxieties over Griselda’s intentions abated somewhat, though never entirely.  She had insisted that we appear to be no more than friends until she had disposed of Flavius.  And so it was.  I often saw her trotting round the village — booted and jacketed, hand imperiously on hip.  As she passed the men’s hands would twitch to their forelocks, and the women would sketch a curtsey.  She ignored them all, but when she saw me her face would light up and she would wave.  On a couple of occasions when I walked up the valley to Long Wallop, along the lane loops between the fields that carpet the valley floor in that direction, a big black old Daimler swept past.  I noticed it because there are so few cars in the three villages, and I saw that Thwacks was driving it, and in the back sat Griselda, waving and smiling at me.

The small number of cars is a peculiarity of the three villages, seeing that they are so remote.  I keep my Jaguar, of course, though I scarcely use it, and I suppose that is the reason.  People rarely travel outside their own village, and then only to one of the other two.  There are exceptions, of course: the doctor, the vet, and other professionals.  The local farmers have their Land Rovers.  You see more vans, tractors and lorries than private cars.  For the need to be always dashing here and dashing there is alien to the way of life in Nether Slype, just as it was to our ancestors, who lived with their family, friends, work, and wants within close proximity.

This is not to say that the three villages are without transport amenities.  There are several local taxis, as well as a minibus that circulates the three villages on market day.  Given the lifestyle, using these on occasion works out much cheaper than running your own car.  Not that money is the issue; the villages are prosperous and the standard of living is high.  People work in and around the villages, on the farms and in the woods which they coppice for timber as they have for centuries.  A number of large workshops make handcrafted, top-end hardwood furniture, much of which goes overseas, and others turn out fence panels and the like.  They send top-quality free-range eggs, beef, lamb, game, and poultry to butchers and restaurants countrywide.

No one goes without, no one is neglected, and no one is poor.  The three villages are exemplars of the social, extended-family mode of life that modern society — for all its welfare state, social services, and rights culture — has lost.

*****

Time passed without any developments, and I found it increasingly hard to believe that Griselda Shackles was plotting to murder her husband and her butler too.  There again, it was difficult to believe that she kept her husband chained in a dungeon, and I knew that to be a fact.  However, I suppressed my logical faculty in that respect, hoping, as people do in such situations, that I was somehow mistaken, and all would turn out for the best.

On one occasion, when it was raining, she offered me a lift, but if I’d hoped or feared that she would assault me as she had on the sofa in her drawing room, I would have been wrong.  I suppose the presence of Thwacks in the front seat had a damping effect, but Griselda made no attempt even to extend a discreet finger and stroke my hand with it, and she could have done that easily enough.

Instead, she asked me how I was getting on, if I was making friends, and all the usual things you ask a newcomer.  Warm, cool, interested, friendly.  No more.  There were no sexual innuendos and no allusions to Flavius, no winks, no secret moues, and, more importantly, there was no atmosphere of repression, or unvoiced, shared secrets.  It was as though all her snogging, gnawing, groping and crotch rubbing had been my imagination.

She was either a consummate actress or her interest in me was cooling.  I started to wonder if it had all been a game, but never seriously.  Yet, in that hidden place in my consciousness where ultimate truth dwells, I knew that it hadn’t.  She had said it would be like this, that we would appear to be only friends for a while, and so it was.  I knew deep down that what she said she would do, she did.

And that included Flavius.

1. Quaint village customs

My ‘cottage’ was a glorious rambling seventeenth-century timbered house, standing behind tall yew hedges, far back from the lane at the end of a snaking drive at the village’s edge.  The ridiculously modest rent included a plump little maid, Ginny, who came daily, and a gardener who came twice a week, and it was made clear that a man of my means would be able to hire other domestic help as required, without difficulty.

Once installed, I threw myself into village life with zest, eager to recover years lost in grey suburban modernity.  I joined committees and local societies, and Griselda’s interest ensured that I was welcomed into all of them with alacrity.  I started attending church again, where my exalted position entitled me to use the pew directly behind Griselda’s.  She, of course, occupied the front pew in splendid isolation, her husband being too mad to attend.  I did not attend from any deep religious zeal, but because it was part of my deep rediscovered culture.  I sang hymns I had forgotten since childhood, and the feeling was good.  For some indefinable reason I felt a better person for it, and I assumed that those who sang alongside me were good people too.

They are, as the run of humanity goes, but appearance is deceptive.  In some respects, the world is the same everywhere, no matter how different it might look and feel in a particular place.  During my first few weeks in Nether Slype, I thought I had rediscovered lost innocence, because despite the strange goings on at Nether Towers, the surface seemed so innocent.  However, with time you come to know a place better, as an angler knows his stretch of river.  He knows what lies beneath the placid, smiling face of the water — where the deeps are, where the hungry pike lurk, the subtle currents you can never see but feel tugging at your feet, and precisely where to cast your lure to catch the juiciest fish.

I’ve learned that Nether Slype is like that, benign, idyllic, serene — and deadly.  Deadly, that is, unless you learn to enjoy its darker undercurrents and secret pleasures.  But if you do, then the three villages soar beyond the confines of the humdrum world, and you enter paradise.

I should have twigged some of the dark undercurrent earlier, but I hadn’t.  I had been preoccupied and besides, I had no reason to expect that the three villages were as unusual as I now know them to be.  But it wasn’t long before strange customs started to manifest themselves.

Perhaps there is inbreeding after all.  It is certainly true to say that nearly all the women in the three villages are busty, though not all so much as Griselda.  They also have finely developed and prominent bottoms.  I don’t know what the reason for this is, perhaps the vigorous outdoor life that most adopt, the country diet, or perhaps it’s simply in the genes, but whatever the reason; you’ll hardly ever see a flat-chested or scraggy-arsed woman there.

I noticed this during my first few days — how could any red-blooded man not notice it?  It being late summer, and warm, there were wobbling buttocks and bouncing tits everywhere, and the nipples that poked through the thin summer blouses and bras were fat and perky.  It is difficult for a single man not to gaze at such things, and they drew my gaze as a magnet draws iron filings.

I was leaving the post office one morning, a few weeks after my arrival and stepped aside for a woman whose breasts were truly magnificent, even by Nether Slype standards.  Her blouse was low-cut, her cleavage deep and freckled, and the nipples poking through were the size of my thumbs.  I ogled her, discreetly, I thought.

I felt a tap on my arm and turned to see Ted Foxter, the gamekeeper at Nether Towers.  Griselda had introduced me to him on my arrival and I had already joined him for a few pints at The Seven Stripes.

“You don’t want to go ogling that, Mr Flaythm,” he said with a sage shake of the head.

“Was I?” I said, disingenuously.  I thought I had been discreet and besides, in the outside world, blatant ogling was nothing unusual.

Nevertheless, Ted regarded me coolly.  “You were, Mr Flaythm, and you know it.  No question.  She’s a married woman — see.  Look too interested and you’ll upset the husband.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I meant nothing — and I didn’t notice she was wearing a ring.”

“Feel your way carefully, Mr Flaythm,” he said in a friendly, philosophical way, and I didn’t mind for I knew his words were kindly meant to a newcomer who didn’t know the ropes yet.  “There are two classes of women in Nether Slype — excepting her ladyship, of course — those that are married or spoken for, and those that aren’t.  You stay well away from the first class, and you can pretty well do what you like with the second — and God knows there’s plenty to choose from.  You’ll come to know who’s who in time.  In the meanwhile, you’d be wise to check your ground before you make a move.”

“And what are the rules if I find an available woman I fancy?”

He threw back his head and laughed.  “Get stuck in, man.”

“Provided she’s agreeable, of course.”

“If she isn’t, then you show her the error of her ways, Mr Flaythm — until she is.”

I didn’t understand him, though I pretended to, replying to his sly wink with one of my own.  I had lived long in the outside world, the world of women’s rights that eschews any sort of sexism or assumption of predatory male domination — or, at least, it pretends to.  I had yet to learn that these notions were alien to the three villages, so for the next few days I consciously avoided looking hungrily at any woman.  It was difficult with ripe temptation is everywhere, and although the women seemed very friendly, I became aware that there might be other local rules of conduct, so I remained wary.

The caution also made me aware of why Griselda was so insistent that Flavius should be ‘disposed of’ before we started shagging.  Clearly, small irregularities were noticed, and if I started frequenting Nether Towers too often, or was too frequently seen in her company, there would be talk as she had said there would be.   Everyone knew everyone else’s comings and goings in a place like this and it was clear to me that certain proprieties had to be seen to be observed — even if a man had to die for it.  I pushed the thought from my mind.  I didn’t want to think about Flavius, or any of the repercussions that might flow from his murder.

The relationship between the sexes started to become apparent a few days later.  There are many shaded footpaths in Nether Slype, and one runs along the bottom of my long rear garden, a path so green and overhung that you would never guess that it lay within yards of a village street unless you knew it.  It provides a short cut to the village centre and I already used it frequently, as it was a quicker route in the fine weather.

I was walking home from the library when I heard an abrupt bark of command beyond a hedge.

“Liz!  Out here!  This instant!”

I smiled, reflecting that few men in the outside world would dare shout at their wives in such a peremptory fashion. I was intrigued to see the outcome, for I naturally assumed that the wife would march out and give her husband a mouthful in return.   I noticed that there was a small chink in the hedge, and my curiosity prompted me to peek through it.  I looked carefully both ways, to make sure that I was not observed, and then applied my face to the chink.

There I saw a long orchard garden, very much like my own.  A thickset middle-aged man was standing there, not far from me, looking furious, his arms tightly folded.  I saw his wife, a blonde, broad hipped woman, come running out of the house towards us looking nervous.  She was wearing a tee shirt and shorts, she had big thighs, and although I couldn’t see it, I knew that her generous bottom would be wobbling delightfully.  She drew up to her husband and he pointed furiously at the grass near his feet.

“You did that, didn’t you!”

To my surprise, instead of folding her arms in turn and saying “so what!” she hung her head and flushed like a schoolchild pulled out before the class.  “Yes husband.  I’m truly sorry, husband,” she said breathlessly.  “Please don’t punish me.”

“What precisely have you done?”

“I’m sorry husband.  I didn’t see them.  Please.”

“What have you done?”

She swallowed and stared intently at her feet.  “I mowed over the cowslips, husband,” she whispered so softly that I could scarcely hear her.  “I know I’ve disobeyed.  Please don’t be severe with me.”  There was a long silence while she remained looking at her feet, and her arms hanging limply at her side.

“So you knew what you’d done,” the husband said at last.

“Yes, husband,” she whispered so softly that I only just caught her words.  “I know I should have confessed, but I was frightened.”

The husband’s face was stone.  He unfolded his arms and started to unbuckle his heavy leather trouser belt.  “Face the tree!” he snapped.

The wife’s shoulders sagged.  Without another word, she turned and stood as directed.  Her back was towards me now and I noticed that she was indeed a plump-bottomed lass.  Meanwhile the heavy belt was off and the husband wrapped it twice round his hand leaving about two feet of it hanging free.

“There’ll be six for mowing down the cowslips and another six for not telling me.”

“I understand, husband.”

“Knickers down!”

The big bottom heaved and strained as she pulled down her tight shorts and then her knickers.  Both fell to her ankles, and I saw her two enormous globes, white above her sunburnt thighs.  My prick stiffened.

“Lean against the tree!”

She shuffled forward a few steps and leaned forward, bracing herself against the trunk.  The muscles in buttocks twitched in anticipation of what was to come.

“Count!”

The husband brought his arm back and the flying belt delivered a resounding blow across his wife’s bare buttocks, and they quivered delightfully at the impact.

“One, husband.”

The arm came back again, followed by a loud cracking retort and the plump bottom wobbled again.

“Two, husband.”

He whipped her with his belt as I’ve seen people whipping a dog with its lead, and I’ve never liked seeing the dumb creature so ill-used.  Yet I felt no such qualm at watching this man ruthlessly spank his wife’s bare bottom.  It was gloriously erotic, and I found that I had unconsciously unzipped my flies and started wanking myself as I watched.  The thrashing continued, and it was only after eight sound strokes that the wife’s count started to labour.  Her thighs were working now and her previously white cheeks displayed a broadening red stripe across them.  But her husband continued remorselessly.

“Ah!  Eight, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaah!  Nine, husband.”

I saw her head go back, and she was gasping and jerking at every stroke.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Ten, husband.  I’m so sorry husband.”

He continued relentlessly.  Her thighs were twitching ceaselessly now and she was heaving her big bottom up and down with a steady mechanical rhythm as people do when they’re in pain.  I wanked faster.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Ooooh!   Eleven, husband.  Please be merciful.”

I knew she was crying, I knew by the sob in her voice.  Her thighs wriggled and her plump darkening bottom cheeks rotated ever faster.  She was in severe pain now.  My wanking accelerated.

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Twelve, husband.  No more, I beg you.”

Her whole body jerked, I could hear her crying, but the husband seemed unconcerned.  He slid his belt back through his trouser loops and buckled it.

“I’m finished now,” he said calmly.

The wife collapsed weeping at the foot of the tree, her hands scrabbling and clawing at her soundly-thrashed and deeply reddened buttocks.  I shot my load into the hedge.

But the husband merely turned away and continued surveying his garden.

The experience had aroused and excited me, but it also perplexed me.  I was new to Nether Slype so I initially assumed the husband’s behaviour to be an exception rather than a hallowed rule.  My main interest was in my own response to it.   I had never hit a woman.  I had been tempted to but had always considered it unmanly to use violence against a woman, besides which, it was taboo in the circles I moved in, and any man who beat a woman would have been despised for it.  Yet my prick had stiffened and I had orgasmed.  For me, seeing the wife standing obediently with her knickers round her ankles while her husband soundly whipped her bare bottom had been an erotic sexual experience.  I had indulged in a little mild spanking in bed with consenting women, but that was just slap and tickle, a bit of fun, usually after we’d got a good few drinks on board, but nothing heavy, severe, or serious.

Then I remembered Griselda’s words about discipline and the firm hand, her ever-twitching  riding crop, and her enthusiasm for the patent flogger.  I also recalled Ted Foxter’s words about showing a reluctant woman the error of her ways until she was agreeable.  Enormous possibilities exploded in my mind.  Bloody Hell, I thought.  Is the whole bloody village at it?

I swallowed as I wondered what role Griselda might have in mind for me, before and after we shagged for hours and hours and hours and hours in the thick custard.  Aroused as I was by the performance in the garden, I reflected that I wouldn’t mind giving her magnificent bottom a good spanking.  On the other hand, I was damned if the boot was going to be on the other foot.  But would I have any choice, and what might happen to me if I refused?  Was that where Flavius had stepped out of line?  Might I quickly follow him if I failed to obey?

I shook the thought from my head and said, Ridiculous!  I was aware that my own frustrations were feeding my imagination.  I persuaded myself that a couple of months ago, I would not have responded as I had to the thrashing in the garden.  I was frustrated, no doubt of that, which was probably why I had started to ogle women more blatantly than I ought.

I had never been short of sexual partners, though in recent years none had meant much to me beyond the physical relief.  But since coming to Nether Slype, I hadn’t got my end in once.  I had been told that I would experience no difficulty in this respect.  I had been told that unattached women were openly available, but I’d seen no evidence of it, and I didn’t know how one went about propositioning them in Nether Slype.    Did you simple brush up to one and say, “Hello darling, fancy a shag?” and put her straight over your knee if she said, “Sod off!”  Somehow, I didn’t think so.  And, to be blunt, so crude an approach has never appealed to me.  I am a bit of a romantic at heart, and even a blatant one-night stand has to be more romantic than wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.

As for the spanking, I soon realised that this was indeed the way things were done in Nether Slype.   Only a couple of days later I was in the village shop buying my groceries.

“I can’t see any wholemeal bread,” I said to Meg, the girl who usually serves behind the counter.

I expected her just to say, “it’s here”, “it’s there”, or “we’ve run out”.  But instead, her face fell.  “Of course, Mr Flaythm,” she said in a hushed voice.  “You always buy wholemeal, don’t you!”

“I much prefer it to white,” I said casually.

The girl looked chastened, though I thought I could detect an evil gleam in her eye.  “Then I’ll fetch Mrs Bryce right away, sir.”

“No!  Really!  It doesn’t matter,” I remonstrated.

“I’m afraid I’ve been told I must, sir,” said Meg, though her lips quivered impishly as she made for the back of the shop.

I hovered, feeling embarrassed at the fuss.  I heard Meg’s voice through the open doorway, “Another regular for wholemeal, Mr Bryce” and there was a note of deep, malicious relish as she added, “and Mr Flaythm of all people.  Most put out, he is.”

“No, no!” I called, though no one heard me.

“Right!  That’ll be double,” said a stern male voice beyond the door that I assumed to be Mr Bryce’s.  “Out you go, woman!”

From out the back came Mrs Bryce, a pleasant looking woman with a square face framed by dark-brown curly hair.  She walked up to me looking very contrite and stood before me like a supplicant, wringing her hands, and her eyes never left the floor.

“I’m very sorry about the wholemeal, Mr Flaythm,” she said quickly and breathlessly, as if by rote.  “I forgot it was Friday, Sir, and I didn’t order enough.  Please forgive me.”

“Forgive?”  I laughed.  “Don’t be silly.  It doesn’t matter.  I’ll come back for some tomorrow.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience I’ve put you to, Sir.”

“Forget it, Mrs Bryce.”

“Thank you for being so forgiving, Sir,” she said with a small curtsey, but her eyes remained firmly fixed to the floor.  She turned and walked slowly away towards the back of the shop.  Her hands disappeared round her front and she appeared to be adjusting her clothing; I heard the unmistakable sound of a fly zip.  Her hands reappeared and she hooked her thumbs inside her loosened waistband.  As she walked through the door to the back of the shop, she started to push it down, and I saw her bottom crack and ample buttocks start to emerge.

“Leave the door open!” came the man’s stern voice again.  “I want Mr Flaythm to hear this.   Over the chair back with you!  And get those knickers right down.  Grip the chair!”

Mr Bryce didn’t tell his wife to count the strokes as the man in the garden had, but the sound of leather thrashing a woman’s soft bottom was the same.  I had clearly been mistaken to assume that the corporal disciplining of wives was an occasional and closet aberration in Nether Slype.  I now understood without any shadow of doubt what Griselda and Ted had meant when they spoke of discipline and making women see the error of their ways.

Meg sidled up to me, nodded and winked.  “She’s getting double because it’s you, Mr Flaythm.  Twelve.  I thought you’d like to know.”

“How many others have there been?” I asked, wondering just how many strokes in total Mrs Bryce would receive for forgetting to order extra bread, and what the punishment would be for a genuinely serious offence.

“You’re the seventh to voice disappointment,” said Meg.  “She got six for each of the others.”  She smirked.  “You don’t mind when it’s the boss’s wife, do you, Sir!  And she’s a real cow to me sometimes.”

Out back, Mrs Bryce was grunting like a bull at each stroke.  It was hardly surprising, seeing that she had by now received around forty during the course of the day and her bottom already must be sore, bruised, and swollen from her earlier ordeals.  Finally, the punishment ended, the door closed, and there was silence from the back.  Despite my finer values, I felt my cock stiffening again and I drew my jacket round me to hide the embarrassing bulge from Meg.

“Can I do anything else for you, Mr Flaythm?” she asked slyly.  She was clearly enjoying Mrs Bryce’s ongoing punishment and that might have accounted for the relish in of voice.  But perhaps she had also glanced down and noticed the telltale sign of my enjoyment too.  I wondered whether she was inviting me to enjoy some sexual hanky-panky with her.  I glanced at hr sideways.  She looked the type who enjoyed a good shag.  But she was a good-looking girl and it seemed inconceivable too me that she wasn’t already being regularly seen to.

I remembered Ted Foxter’s warning about staying clear of women who were spoken for, and I thought it highly likely that Meg was.  My problem was that I simply couldn’t be sure, one way or the other, and I wouldn’t be until I got to know these people much better.  So I merely smiled and, “That’s fine for now, Meg.  Thanks all the same.”

But my frustrations deepened.  When I left the shop, I was still stiff and all the stiffer because I knew that if I was wrong about Meg, I might just have passed up an invitation to a very acceptable shag.

My prick was stiff most of the time during those early days in the three villages, what with all the bouncing breasts and bottoms everywhere, and now the extra thrill of what promised to be participation in regular spankings, as an observer or auditor at least.   And I confess it did thrill me; it thrilled me very much, especially the spanking in the shop, which had been applied for my benefit.  A woman had bent over a chair and had her bare bottom spanked, especially severely, for my satisfaction.  The one disappointment was that I wished I were applying a strap to a nice plump bottom myself.  A demon had been awakened in me, yet despite the fact that it was going on all around me, there seemed no immediate prospect of administering a good spanking myself.  I think I still assumed at that time, that a woman’s bare bottom was only available for this sort of enjoyable attention from her husband.

For these reasons, I made no move to either discipline or ravish my maid, despite her short skirt, extremely wobbly bottom, and the come-hither looks she gave me.  There was stimulation and frustration everywhere, but no release, or so I thought.  Yet I was soon to learn that I still hadn’t plumbed the full pleasurable depths of Nether Slype.

1. Initiation

A few evenings later, I stopped by The Seven Stripes as I often do, for a pint or two and a chat with my neighbours.  I had been in the village for about two months, and I liked to think that they were starting to accept me genuinely, and not just because Griselda Shackles had told them to.  Nearly everyone I passed in the course of the day stopped and chatted to me.  I was everywhere welcome, and I found them likable and neighbourly people, despite their seemingly habitual use of the strap.

That evening, when I walked into the pub, the four regulars round the bar all nodded.  I asked Dick Shag the landlord I’d met on my first visit, for my usual pint of the local ale, for they have their own small brewery in Nether Slype.

“A pint of Nelly’s Knockers, please Dick.”

Dick’s face fell.  “Dreadfully sorry, Mr Flaythm.  Nelly’s Knockers are off, sir.”

“Oh, well, what have you got?”

“Freda’s Fanny?  Rachels’s Rump?  Easy Edna?”

“Whichever you recommend,” I said

As Dick started to pour my beer, Ted Foxter sidled up to me and winked.

“Don’t let it go at that, Owen.  You’re entitled to satisfaction when the beer’s off.”

“Satisfaction?”

“Aye, it’s the custom,” chorused the other three regulars at the bar.

“You must demand it,” said Ted impishly, with another wink.

“Don’t egg him on,” cautioned Dick the landlord, pushing my beer across to me.  “He’s still very new here.”

“Nah, he’s one of us,” said Ted emphatically.  “He’s a Flaythm.  And he’s already a regular, so he’s entitled to his satisfaction when the beer’s off.”

The chorus of agreement came again and Dick looked at me hesitantly for a few moments, but in the end, he sighed and shrugged to the inevitable.  Reaching down under the bar he leaned towards me and enquired gently, “Would you like satisfaction, Mr Flaythm, Sir?”

I glanced down to see what he had retrieved from under the bar.  There, in is large fist, peeping discreetly over the rear edge of the counter was the curved handle of a slander bamboo cane.  I blinked and almost demurred, but a chorus of encouragement from the others immediately overwhelmed me.

“Go on, Owen!”

“Show us what you’re made of, Owen!”

“Show us how the Flaythms lay it on, Owen?”

I hesitated, as you so often do when they thing you have dreamed of is offered too readily, or for too low a price.  You ask yourself where the catch is, for you are sure there must be one, and there was.  For I had never done this before, and had no idea of how to go about it.

Much as the idea appealed, I would have preferred to try my hand first in private, but I realised that I was facing a test I couldn’t decline.  Come through it and they would fully accept me as one of the chaps; fail and I would be a laughing stock.  Yet if I refused, I would lose face.  I imagined that here in Nether Slype, backing off from applying corporal discipline might be regarded as tantamount to confessing I was homosexual — and I didn’t want that sort of reputation at any price.   I knew I would have to go through with it, and pray that I made a reasonable job of it.

So I stuck out my chin, I reached across the bar, and Dick pushed the cane into my hand.  It was long, thin, and very whippy, clearly fashioned for the purpose.  I made a few cuts and the cane whistled pleasantly, but what was the point of a cane and no bottom?  I turned enquiringly to Dick.

“Whose?  Which?  Er . . . .”

Dick put his head round the door behind the bar.  “Girls!  Out you come!  Mr Flaythm requires satisfaction.  Move yourselves!”

Immediately I heard the rattle of footsteps on the wooden floor behind and out trooped the three bar and kitchen maids.  They came round the bar, lined up in front of me looking coy.  One of them giggled, nervously, as I later realised.  But at the time, I suspected that they thought me incapable of doing what was required, so I made a few more fearsome looking cuts through thin air

“What do you say to the customer?” said Dick sternly.

“Sorry about Nelly’s Knockers, Mr Flaythm. Would you like satisfaction of our bare and willing bottoms, Sir?” chorused the three maids, parrot fashion.  They had obviously done this many times.  The youngest, Nell, giggled again.

I licked my lips, sure that I was about to make an idiot of myself.  I dimly remembered hearing or reading somewhere that the cane is the aristocrat of corporal-punishment instruments, devastatingly effectively when expertly wielded, but much less so in the hands of an amateur.  I would be mercilessly exposed as a tyro.  “Well, I—”

“Don’t mice words with wenches, lad!” piped up Old Horace, the retired shoe mender, shambling across to me.  “It’s the cane and the strap that talks to a woman.”  He turned to Nell, the youngest barmaid, who had nervously giggled.  “You mind your manners, girl, or I’ll tell your father to give you two dozen of the riding crop next time I see him!”

The girl whitened and hung her head contritely.  “Yes grandfather.  Sorry, Mr Flaythm.”

“That’s better,” said Old Horace.  “Though too little too late, as you’re about to find out, girl.”  He turned to me, all solicitude, and patted me gently on the back.  “Don’t be nervous, lad.  I’ve been whipping women for over fifty years, and I know what I’m about.  I’ll see you through it.”

I must have coloured at being so transparently a novice.

“Right now,” continued Horace, patting my back again, reassuringly.  “The rule here is that every customer who misses a pint of his favourite gives each girl one stroke.  That’s one for each pint.  Now, you’re a three pint man—”

“Two,” insisted Ted from behind the bar.

“Three!” chorused of regulars.

“Come on lads,” pleaded Ted.  “I’ve a dozen or more regulars due later.  I want these girls to be able to stand up and wash glasses come closing time.”

“Then you should have laid on the fucking beer!” snarled Ted.

“Aye,” chorused the others in jolly unison, thumping their beer mugs on the bar top.  “Three!  Three!  Three!  Three!  Three!  Three!  Three—

“Oh very well,” sighed Ted, flinging down his cloth and folding his arms like a long-suffering fishwife.  “Three it is.”

“What do I do now?” I whispered in Horace’s ear.

“What do you think?  Get Nell over a table, yank her knickers down, and give her plump rosy cheeks three of the best.”

“Right.”  I tentatively extended my hand to take Nell gently by the arm, but Horace knocked it aside.

“Nay, lad!  You do it like this.”  With one fluid motion, Horace stepped in front of me, took Nell by the scruff of the neck, summarily marched her across to the nearest table, and pushed her over it.  “Now the knickers, lad.”

“Right.”  I put the cane under one arm and lifted Nell’s full skirt to reveal a bulging pair of navy blue knickers.  I noticed the visible part of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs were already criss-crossed with half-a-dozen or more red welts.  I tentatively took hold of her knicker elastic and started to ease the knickers down.

“Sorry, lad,” said Horace at my ear, gently removing my hand.  “Let me show you once and for all.  When you pull down a woman’s knickers, whether you’re going to feel her up, shag her, or thrash her, you don’t mess around — you do it this way.”  He seized the elastic and whipped it down so fast that Nell’s knickers fairly flew down her bare legs to her ankles, and her bottom, free of its restraint, bulged before me.  I felt my prick start to swell mightily.

“Right, Horace,” I said, taking up the cane again and flexing it self-consciously.  I was aware that five pairs of critical eyes were on me, not counting the other two maids’.  This was make or break for me.

I stepped back, and gave Nell’s bare buttocks a few ranging taps, silently counting the red welts to fifteen and wondering how many more they would receive before closing time.

“Excuse me, lad,” said Horace, interrupting again.  “I take it you haven’t done this before.”

I licked my lips.  “Er — not with a light cane,” I lied sheepishly.

“Then let me show you.  It’s not like a strap, which only requires leverage and power.  With the cane it’s speed and accuracy that counts.  For a start, you’re too tense.  So relax!  Second, you step right back and use the full length of the cane and your arm.  Remember, the tip is travelling fastest under the greatest leverage.  If you apply a cane half way down its length, or bent-armed, you’ll only tap her, no matter how much energy you put into it, and what’s the point of that?  Third.  You don’t aim at her bottom, but at a point six or so inches in front of her pussy.  In other words, you thrash right through the bottom with the extremity of the cane and the arm.  Understood?”

“Yes, Horace,” I said hoarsely.  “Thank you, Horace.”

Horace thrust his hands in his pockets and looked wise.  “Of course, using the full length holds true whether you’re using a strap, belt, riding crop, tawse, whip, or whatever: use the extremity and you can’t go far wrong.  It’s like hammering nails.  When you’re hammering, you use the full length of the hammer shaft.  The same goes for thrashing a woman.  Now, relax, and cut right through, as fast as you can.  Start with the cane held right back behind your neck, and bring it right round in an arc, at an angle of about forty-five degrees, through to that point in front of her pussy.  That way, she’ll know what you’re about.”

“Right, Horace.”

“Here, lad, let me show you.”

Horace retrieved one of his hands from his pockets and took the cane from my hand.  He stepped right back from Nell, tapping her bulging bottom several times with the extremity, his arm fully extended.  Her legs wriggled in anticipation, and I fancied I heard her whimper.

“That’s the range, lad,” continued Horace conversationally.  “Now watch!”  The brought the cane right back behind his neck, froze for a second, then with a brief high whistle, it whipped round.  With a piercing scream, Nell’s bottom leapt off the edge of the table.  There was a murmur of approval from around the bar and I knew that I was in the presence of a master.  “Take note of that, lad?” said Horace with pride.  “Unless she screams and her bottom leaps, you haven’t done your job properly.”

The cane went back behind Horace’s neck again, froze for a second, and then whistled again.  Nell screamed again and her bottom leapt even higher.  I saw that there were two more vicious red welts on it.

“Now, lad,” said Horace with an expert’s gravity, directing my attention, as though it were necessary, to Nell’s writhing bottom.  “Notice my two welts.  Absolutely parallel and about an inch apart.   The art is to lay them on close.  Better still, on top of each other.  Ideally, you want to see one broad stripe developing, not a criss-cross.  Lay on a dozen heavy strokes on top of each other, and you’ll be peeling her off the ceiling before you’re done, and that’s what you’re aiming to do.  Now, I’m going to lay the third one between the other two, extra hard, like so—”

“Please don’t grandfather,” whimpered Nell.

“Quiet, girl!”

The cane whistled, even more shrilly, Nell screamed her heart out, and her bottom leapt so high in the air that she almost dove head-first off the opposite side of the table.  I saw that she was quivering and crying, but that didn’t stop the regulars from giving Horace a round of applause.  He handed me the cane.  “Now, lad, lay three more on top of mine.”

“Oi-oi!” shouted Dick from behind the bar.  “She’s had her three.”

Horace turned on him.  “She’s my granddaughter and I’ll thrash her whenever I like — without your leave.  Now it’s Owen’s turn.”

There was another murmur of approval.  Dick raised his hands in surrender, and then carried on wiping the bar.

I stepped back from Nell.  The girl was sobbing, and that gave me a moment’s pause, but I couldn’t appear callow in front of my audience.  Besides, she had parted her legs slightly and her pink slit was winking at me between a fringe of downy brown hair.  My stiffening prick took over from whatever remained of my conscience: I knew I was going to enjoy hearing her squeal again, and I wanted to watch her wriggling bottom and juicy little slit perform desperate acrobatic feats all over the table.

I brought the cane behind my neck, froze for a second and delivered a stinging swipe right through the red, twitching buttocks, missing Horace’s stripe and catching Nell right across her slit.  She howled, jerked, and her legs writhed like fury.

The crowd round the bar applauded warmly.

“Not bad for starters,” said Horace.  “Across her crack’s as good a place as any.  Teaches her that it’s a man’s property.”

There was a murmur of agreement, then, as I drew the cane behind my neck, I saw a new red wheal across the crease between Nell’s bottom and thighs and right across her slit.  The slit itself was splayed wide open, its lips quivering.  My work! I thought proudly as the last remnants of my conscience deserted me.

The cane whistled more shrilly, Nell screamed and leapt energetically this time.  Her legs wriggled even more and I noted with satisfaction that a second new stripe had appeared just above my first.  The cane came back a third time.  Aiming firmly through the gaping slit I consciously relaxed and then let fly with all my might.

Her scream was piercing.  Her whole body jerked off the table, jack-knifed, and she fell onto the floor, thrashing and clutching her crotch.

“Good shot!” chorused the regulars, and they rushed across to her, pulling her hands away and examining her.

“Three in a row,” shouted one and they turned to give me an extended round of applause.

“Well done, lad,” said Horace, gently patting me on the arm.  “You’ll be on free beer all evening for that.”

The two older girls remained.  Despite Nell’s suffering, they looked remarkably uncontrite.

I chose Ruth, the kitchen maid next.  She was the slimmest and eldest of the three.  She must have been well over thirty and she wore her breasts lower than the other two did.  I’d removed her bra in my imagination several times when I’d drunk at the Stripes, fancying them pendulous, with large dark areolas.  I was pretty certain they’d be dark, for her hair was black, and her eyes and complexion also dark.  In former centuries, they would probably have presumed her a witch, but even Nether Slype isn’t that conservative.  It was a pity, I thought, that I could only thrash her bottom and not her breasts.  For at that time I foolishly assumed that tit whipping was taboo in Nether Slype.

I boldly took Ruth by the scruff of the neck and she came forward without resisting.  I marched her to the table and roughly pushed her across it…  My drinking companions applauded.  Next for her knickers.   I threw up her skirt over her back.  She was wearing black stockings, black suspenders, with black lacy knickers over them.  I almost shot my load straight through my trousers, and all over her.

Eagerly I took the elastic waistband of her black full-cut knickers in my hand and ripped them down.  They fell no further than her knees but I was pleased with the result.  Her bottom was slightly slimmer than Nell’s was, and I noticed that, as well as a welter of vivid red stripes from earlier that night, it was also criss-crossed with small scars, some white, ancient, and faded, others newer and still pink.  She’d certainly been comprehensively whipped in her thirty-something years.  Although her thighs were also slimmer than Nell’s and didn’t quite meet at the top, I couldn’t see her crack because of the forest of thick black hair that sprouted like a huge brush from her crotch and fringed her slit like a heavy beard.

“Fucking Hell, Ruth,” called one of the drinkers.  “When are you going to see a barber?  Nothing can get through that jungle.”

The men laughed.

“Ha.  Ha.  Ha,” quipped Ruth, face down across the table.  “Just because you can’t manage to push your limp prick into a woman’s cunt, Ned Ferris.   It doesn’t mean a man couldn’t.”

“It’s certainly the loosest in Nether Slype,” suggested another, and all the men laughed again.

“Nah!  That was my wee hole you were fucking, Ted Foxter.”

The men roared now.

“Thought I was being shagged by a dead maggot,” Ruth continued.  “Then I looked up and saw Ted Foxter hanging on the other end of it.”

The men fell about laughing.  One even spilled his beer.

“Come on, Owen, lay it on the mouthy bitch!” called Ted, who was less amused than the others were.

Following Horace’s instructions, I aimed for a point six inches in front of Ruth’s luxuriant pussy and laid on my first stroke with a resounding crack.  Nothing happened.

“Come on, Mr Flaythm, sir!” said Ruth, archly coy.  “Start!  I haven’t got all fucking night to lie around here airing my cunt.”

The men roared.  I brought the cane back and, with a shrill whistle, laid another welt just above the first.

“Bloody hell!  Some filthy sod’s trying to tickle my arsehole now.”

By this time, I was laughing myself, so much so that I made a complete mess of the last stroke and merely glanced it off her.

Ruth got up, curtseyed to her audience, and marched triumphantly off towards the kitchen to a great round of applause.

Rosie, the third girl, was by far the most buxom of the three.  She walked up to the table without prompting, dropped her skirt to show all the men she was wearing no knickers at all.  She sat on the edge of the table, leant back, and spread her legs invitingly wide, showing us all her orange pussy and pink open slit.  She flexed her muscles and her cunt winked open and shut for us several times, to a great round of applause.  My prick was so stiff now that I had to turn round quickly, and ease it past the elastic waistband of my underpants.  Meanwhile, Rosie pulled up a chair, knelt on the seat and bent over the table for me, sticking her big plump bottom invitingly in the air.

There were calls of “Lay it on, Owen” and “You couldn’t miss that one if you tried.”

Rosie wriggled her bottom inviting again.  It was pink, with small freckles all over it.  And like the others, it was criss-crossed, with welts, old and new.  It wobbled delightfully, like a strawberry blancmange sprinkled with brown sugar crystals, and in many ways it was as sweet.  I laid on three heavy strokes, but I’d lost my concentration in all the merriment, and although Rosie squealed and her bottom leapt at each of them, I knew that she was performing for the benefit of her audience.

When she’d been caned, she too marched triumphantly back to the kitchen, to a round of good-natured applause.  I received pats on the back for my efforts, and I decided I ought to buy a round of drinks for the entire gathering.  I could easily afford to, though I didn’t make it a habit, considering it rather cheap to try to buy people’s goodwill.  However, tonight I had an excuse.

“Nelly’s Knockers is back on now,” said Dick as he started to pull the first pint.

“I thought you were out of it,” I said.

“No, I forgot to put a fresh barrel on earlier.  It hadn’t quite settled when you came in.”

Now that my desire was cooling, my conscience kicked back in.  The girls had been caned, not for their own negligence but Dick’s.  I didn’t feel bad about Ruth and Rosie, who could handle it and had made an entertainment of it.  But Nell was only about eighteen and it hadn’t been so much fun for her.  I felt suddenly and privately ashamed.

One round followed another and as the evening wore on, I became quite drunk.  My drinking companions slowly left, one after the other and, shortly before closing time, I was sitting alone in a corner, feeling content with the world, and wondering if I could be bothered to get up and take the short walk home.

Something moved at the edge of my consciousness and I looked up to see Ruth the black-haired, dark-eyed kitchen maid glancing at me speculatively.  Our eyes met and she walked across.  She was an attractive woman with a wide, well-shaped mouth, a pert chin and those glorious dark eyes shed dark light on me like pools of liquid night.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, leaning over me so that her long, pendulous breasts swayed mouth-wateringly before my semi-focussed eyes.

“I’ve had too much,” I confessed, wondering whether I had the nerve to reach out and fondle them, and I suppose my voice was slurred.

“Come on,” she said.  “I’m done for the day.  I’ll help you home if you like.”

I almost refused, but then I wondered why I should.  I looked up again, bathed in those glorious dark eyes, and a voice in the back of my reeling brain told me that I might be onto a shag here.  God knows I needed one.

“Yes, I think I might need help,” I confessed.  “But I warn you I’m very drunk.”

She smiled warmly.  “I’m used to it, and I’ve seen worse, besides, the walk home will help sober you.  Come on!”

I hope it sobers me up, I thought.  I won’t be able to shag you unless I do sober up a bit.  And I desperately wanted to get inside a woman’s knickers, and I really fancied running my fingers through Ruth’s glorious pussy before I tried her cunt for size.

She leant down to haul me up, her bodice filled again, and I knew that I desperately wanted to get inside her bra too, and pull out those tantalising breasts.  They brushed against me as she put her arm under mine, and with surprising strength, she pulled me upright.  I staggered, and burped.

“Not going to be sick, are you?”

“God, I hope not.”

“Are you?  Tell me!”

“Don’t think so,” I slurred, staggering again, and the room revolved.  I knew that I probably wouldn’t get home at all without her, and I also knew that I probably wouldn’t be capable of shagging her, even if I did.

“If you feel it welling up, tell me immediately.  I’ll help you.”

“Feel what welling up?  A hard on?” I slurred, sagging against her.

She smiled.  “Not much chance of that tonight.  I meant, if you feel you’re going to be sick.”

“God, I hope not.”

“Just do it!  Tell me!  All right?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And no lip,” she smiled, “or you’ll find your own way home.  Come on!”

She took my weight and helped me to walk unsteadily out of The Seven Stripes.  Outside the air felt cool.  I felt cold sweat on my forehead and scalp, and that was all I remember.  Therefore, I didn’t see the large black Daimler that was parked outside on the green.

1. Ruth

When I woke next morning, warm sunshine was flooding through my bedroom window, my head was still slightly muzzy and I reckoned it would feel more so when I tried to get up.  Apart from my shoes, I was lying fully dressed on my bed, though my collar and trousers were loosened.  I assumed that I had somehow managed to make my way up the stairs and done the necessary.  I suddenly realised that my bladder was bursting.  I flopped out of bed, staggered, and headed for the door, missed it, bounced off the doorframe and somehow found my way along the passage to the bathroom without falling over or wetting myself.  I used the loo and, relieved, I stumbled back the bed, threw myself on it again, and waited for the window to stop orbiting the room.

It was then that I heard movement downstairs.  Immediately sobered, I staggered back to my feet, shambled to the end of the passage, and peered round the corner down the stairs.

Ruth, the dark-haired barmaid, was coming up them.

“Ruth?” I squeaked.

She was carrying a mug of black coffee and she was wearing my dressing gown.  She glanced up, smiled, and accurately read the expression on my face.

“Hope you don’t mind me wearing this, Mr Flaythm, but you needed looking after last night — you were in a terrible state — and I needed to wash my dress.  I don’t want to go back to work smelling stale.  So I put it in your washing machine.  I hope that’s OK.”

“Of course, Ruth.  Help yourself.  And thanks for helping me last night.  Was I really so bad?”

She smiled and put her free hand under my arm to guide me back to the bedroom.  “You were terrible.”

I lowered myself gingerly and sat on the edge of the bed.  “When are you due back at The Seven Stripes?” I asked when everything had finally stopped revolving.

“Couple of hours.”

“What time is it now?”

“Ten.  No hurry.  Come on!  Lie back and drink this.  Then I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“Thanks Ruth.  I owe you.”

As I lay back and propped myself against the headboard, she climbed onto the bed beside me and held both the coffee and me steady while I drank.

I felt her body move against mine, and my prick started stiffening again.

“Last night,” I said.  “We didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I mean we—”

She put her arm round my shoulder and popped a kiss on my brow.  “Mr Flaythm.  Last night you were in no condition to do anything.  I managed to get you up here and you just sparked out.”

“I just wondered,” I said, taking another mouthful of the hot coffee.

“Why?  What if we had?  Would it have mattered?”

“Yes,” I giggled — it must have been the after-effects of all the booze.  “Because I’d have had no memories to treasure of the experience.”

“No need to be sarcastic!” she said harshly.

“I’m not being.”

“Yes you are.  I’ve seen the way you look at my tits, thinking, bloody hell, look at those horrible saggy old jugs.

“I don’t think that at all,” I protested

She looked unconvinced.  “Oh really?  What then?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing,” I said, hiding my face in my coffee mug and taking another mouthful, my head clearing rapidly.

“Why?  We’re on your bed together; I’m wearing your dressing gown — and not a lot underneath.”

“Really?”  I said, poking my finger in the neck of the dressing gown and trying to open it.

She slapped my hand away, but only payfully.

“If you want to get inside my undies, Mr Flaythm, you’ll have to tell me what you really think about my tits.”

“Will I get inside them then?”

She gave me that dark, speculative look again, and her hand slid slowly and tantalisingly down my stomach, then stopped just short of my prick.  I groaned.

“Let’s say that if I believe what you say, I’ll give you a fuck if you want one.”

“Yes please.”

“And if I like what I hear, and I also believe it, I’ll give you a really slow, tight, extra-quality fuck.  What do you say about that?”

I choked on my coffee.  “Yes please.”

Her hand moved slowly in circles around my groin.  She leaned close and whispered in my ear, her lips brushing it as she whispered in my ear.  “And whatever you might think about my tits and my hairy pussy, you’ll find that I’ve got a very . . . very hot, juicy, and satisfying cunt.  And regardless of what they said about it in the pub last night, I can make it as tight as you want.  That’s a promise.  So what do you say?”

My prick stiffened in jerks now and her fingers trailed lightly across it.

“Yes please.”

“Then tell me the truth, and my cunt’s yours.”

I put my coffee down on the bedside table with a clatter and almost spilled it.

“Well, if you insist on the truth—”

“Go on!  You’re onto a decent fuck, regardless.”

“To be perfectly truthful. I’ve always fancied you have really long breast with big dark aureoles and long nipples.”

She hoisted an eyebrow.  “That turns you off, does it?”

I blinked.  “Hell no!  It turns me on like anything.”

“More than my cunt?”

“I don’t know.  The way you describe it, that sounds pretty fantastic too.”

“Hmmm!  We’d better find out then, hadn’t we?”

She turned towards me, opened the neck of her dressing gown, showing me her generous cleavage and the tops of her black bra cups.  “Like to be turned on some more, mister big prick?” she breathed invitingly as she nuzzled up close to me, a single finger stroking my erection through my trousers.  “Would you like a feel around a bit first?”

“Yes please.”

She undid the dressing-gown cord, it fell open and I felt inside.  She was warm and her skin was wonderfully smooth, like velvet.  I ran my hands over her bottom and between her legs, over her fully cut knickers.

“Come on!” she giggled in my ear.  “You didn’t have any trouble getting them off last night.”

“I thought we were going to show me your tits,” I reminded her.

“Perhaps you’d like to feel round my bra cups first, to be sure you really want me to get them out for you,” she suggested

I moved my hand up to the lacy cups.  He breasts were very soft, and as I ran my fingers over them, I cupped their weight in my palms, and I felt that her nipples were long and very hard.”

“Yes.  Please get them out for me,” I croaked.

She pushed herself off the mattress, straddled me, and slipped off the dressing gown.  Her breasts swung bulky and low against her thin lacy bra cups, and I could see the tantalising shadow of large dark disks round her protruding nipples.  She leant forward to unclip the bra, the breasts swung forward towards me and I saw the full, glorious length of her cleavage.   Kneeling upright again, she held the loosened cups in her hands to ensure that she didn’t yield up her treasure prematurely, and then, ever so slowly, she started to lift.  The white undersides of their mouth-watering cargo slid from the slowly rising cups, half an inch at a time, then, just as it seemed it would slide for ever, I saw the first hint of her large, chocolate brown aureoles.  The bra lifted even more slowly now, tantalisingly so. Suddenly the breasts were falling free; they slapped her stomach, seemed to bounce, and then swayed forwards toward me, ripe and heavy.

Ruth threw the bra across the room with panache.  “I imagine we won’t need that for a bit.”  She crossed her arms behind her back and thrust her breasts towards me.  “Satisfactory?”

I took them in my hands, gently stroking the undersides, and gazed admiringly at the large brown buttons and the long pink nipples dangling tastily before my face.  Ruth leaned forwards more and they brushed the hard teats against my lips, and I put out my tongue to taste them as she swung them slowly back and forth.  She knew how to tease, but I didn’t mind.  She put one hand behind my head, took a breast in the other, stroked it to make sure the nipple was fully up, then slid it slowly and deeply into my mouth.

“How do you like the taste?” she enquired, and her voice was smoky.

“Mmmm.  Wonderful.  Does the other one taste the same?”

“Greedy man!”  She giggled. “You’d better suck it and see.”  She swung the other nipple so that it dangled just in front of my lips.  Reaching down, she put her hand behind my head and lifted my mouth to that one too.

“How’s that?” she asked, lifting it out.  “Tasty as the other one?”

She lifted it out, dangled it, and then slowly lowered it into my gaping mouth again.  “Take your time.  I don’t want you leaving the table hungry.”

Lifting herself to a kneeling position astride me, she slowly unzipped my flies and pulled out my rigid prick.  I gasped as she stroked it with her fingers, and more when she started to stroke it with the crotch of her knickers, luxuriant padded with her abundant pussy hair.  Back and forth, back and forth, she stroked while her long dark nipples swung in and out of my mouth.

“I think you deserve the slow, tight fuck after all.  Would you like that?”

“Yes please,” I gasped.

“Would you like it now?” she enquired huskily.

“Yes please, Ruth.  Now.  Please.”

She got up and I raised my bottom while she slid my trousers and pants off, then deftly unbuttoned my shirt and slid that off too.  Stepping out of her knickers she climbed back on me and straddled me again, wonderfully naked.  Taking my swollen prick in her hand, she started stroking my knob it with her pussy hair, and I could feel the warmth and wetness within.  I smiled.

“Like that?” she asked.

“Oh yes.  Ted Foxter doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I know, and I’ll show you why.”

With a quick stroke of her finger, she parted her hair and ever so slowly slid herself down over me, hot and moist.

“How’s that?”

“Wonderful,” I croaked, hardly able to contain myself now.

She slowly worked her cunt up and down a few times, then, gradually, the sensation started to change.  I felt my prick being squeezed by degrees, as if in a hot, powerful, lubricated fist. As Ruth heaved her body, the tight fist slid up and down the length of my shaft, pulling and pushing it, crushing it in its powerful grip.

“How’s that?” she enquired.

My mouth was dry with ecstasy.  “Unbelievable,” I barely managed to groan.

“Ted Foxter’s never had it like this,” she grinned.  “I only tighten my cunt and give the slow fuck to men I really like.”

“It’s not a cunt, Ruth — it’s paradise,” I moaned.

Indeed it was.  I hadn’t thought my erection could grow more, but it did, painful so against its unyielding constraint;  The more it grew, the tighter she gripped it, until I felt it was being crushed in the awesome depths of a deep, hot, perfumed sea.  Yet if Ruth’s cunt was an instrument of torture, it was a torture I didn’t want ever to end.  Just as I thought my prick would burst, she loosened her hold and I ejaculated long and deep into her.   I shot and shot.  I thought I would shoot for ever.  Then I lay back, feeling blessedly at peace.

“Thank you,” I said.

She leant over me and kissed me with surprising tenderness.  I wrapped her in my arms and kissed her in turn, thanking her from the bottom of my heart for the most wonderful orgasm of my life.

“I can think of only two other men in the village who’ve ever thanked me for a fuck,” she said conversationally, a little later, downstairs in the kitchen where we had shared a late breakfast.

“What?”  I couldn’t believe they were all so ill mannered.  “What do the others say?”

“Nothing.  Your typical Nether Slyper unzips his flied, pulls his pathetic little cock out — shoves it in — jerk, jerk, jerk — squirt — then zips his flies up and walks away again.  Mind you, they don’t get what you just got.  They get it loose.  I make the miserable fuckers work for their bit of fun.  But not you.”  She stroked the back of my hand.

“Because you like me?”

“Yes,” she said, her dark eyes looking frankly into mine.

“Why?”

“Because you laughed at my comments about the limp pricks at the bar, but not theirs about me.”

“How do you know?” I asked dropping my gaze to my hands, because I recalled that she had been bent over the table at the time, waiting for me to cane her.  “You were looking the other way,” I added awkwardly.

She smirked.  “I’ve developed a fine directional ear for a dirty laugh.”

“You were certainly a lot wittier than they were.”

Her eyes widened momentarily.  She leant across the table and kissed me again.  “Carry on like that and I’ll start falling in love with you.”

“Why?  Because I’ve paid you well deserved compliments?”

She grimaced.  “Men in Nether Slype don’t pay compliments.  They just grunt and take.”  She clasped my hand.  “Don’t ever change.  Don’t ever lose that.”  She slipped on the dress she’d washed and ironed and picked up her bag.  “I’d best go.  You can guess what my punishment will be if I’m late.  And Dangling Dick can make even me squeal.”

“And what about Nell?”  I asked, remembering the debauchery of the previous evening.

Ruth shrugged.  “Sore, but she’ll learn.  She’ll have to.”

“Learn what?”

“What Rosie and I know.  Make ‘em laugh and you get off lightly.  Act the poor frightened little wench and you inflame them, and you get it ten times worse.”

“Inflame me, you mean,” I said remembering how I had thrashed Nell with a will, and, now that Ruth had quenched my lust like no woman ever had before, I was ashamed, visibly so.

“I wasn’t your fault,” she said with a curt shake of the head.  “It was that revolting grandfather of hers.  It was the third time that evening he’d given that ghastly demonstration of his prowess.  His own granddaughter too, for pity’s sake, displaying her like a whore, and she’s only eighteen.  Plying the cane is his one skill you see, and, of course, typical of a man, he has to show off his little bit of tawdry prowess to his boozy friends, time and again.  He was a lousy shoe mender, you know.”

“Perhaps, but I did my bit too.”

“You couldn’t have done otherwise, Mr Flaythm.”

“Owen.”

She smiled and gave me the frank glance again.  “You couldn’t have done otherwise, Owen — the way they were egging you on.”

“But I wanted to, Ruth.  I wanted to.  And now I’ve done it I . . . .”

She squeezed my hand again.  “Not to worry.  You’re a nice man deep down.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you are.  You know the old saying: a stiff prick has no conscience?”

“But it ought to, oughtn’t it!”

“Perhaps.  But we all have to conform, Owen, to a certain extent at least.  You’d have been a laughing stock if you’d backed down last night.  Anyway, must go.  And if you want the slow job again, just give me the nod.  I’d rather shag you than any of the others.  Anyway, must dash.”

That was wisdom of a sort too, I thought.  Now I was in Nether Slype, I supposed I had to do what they did.  At least, I had to do it to a degree, but it was a poor excuse.  Moreover, I knew that I would not only do it again, but also enjoy it again, again, and again.  Nevertheless, I vowed that in future, I would spare Nell and any others like her, and I would never be excessive, no matter what.

1. Griselda

“Owen!”

I was walking along the bridle path back from the church when I heard the soft clip-clop of hooves on the sweet-rancid-smelling leaf mould, for it was deep autumn now, and there had been rain.  I turned to see Griselda trotting towards me, in hacking jacket, boots, and jodhpurs, her magnificent bosoms jerking up and down like two pile drivers.

“Hello,” I called.  I hadn’t seen her for weeks, and then only to nod and wave to in passing, and I stepped to one side assuming that she would ride past me.  Instead, she reined up, jumped down and smiled at me dazzlingly while she walked round to the horse’s head and pulled down the bridle to lead it.  At least, her teeth dazzled in the golden autumn light.

“Hello, Griselda,” I said again.  “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I know,” she pouted.  “I’m beginning to wonder if you care for me at all.”

“Why?”

“I never see you.”

“Well, I never see you.  You told me you’d leave me alone until . . . until . . . .”  I thought of Flavius and changed my tack.  “You’re in charge, Griselda.”

“Yes, but you could have made an effort.”

I was bemused.  “What sort of effort?”

She kicked glumly at a stone.  “So many times I’ve looked from my bedroom at night, hoping to see you standing below, flushed and rigid with bottle-up lust, looking hopefully up at my window.  But you never are.”

“But you said we must appear to be just friends,” I reasoned.

“Well . . . perhaps.  But I still hoped you might show some interest.”

“But what about all the gossip you were so frightened of.”

“Not frightened!” she furiously kicked up a cloud of dead leaves.  “It would simply have been demeaning.”

“And you said it would make disposing of Flavius more difficult,” I reminded her, realising that standing erect under Griselda’s window might be a way of prolonging the inconvenient man’s life.

But she beamed at me.  “Oh, my poor darling!  Was that the only reason?”

“Well.  Erm . . . .”

She threw the bridle over the horse’s neck and lunged at me with both hands, her lips working feverishly over my face, her strong arms crushing me as she forced me back against a tree.  Her hand snaked down between us to my crotch and she caressed my prick through my trousers, and it inevitably stiffened in response.  “Oh my darling!  You mean you’ve been restraining yourself in the hope that we can be together sooner?”

“Well—”

She groaned and gnawed at my throat.  “Be brave just a little while longer, my stallion.  Just a little while.  Promise?”  And she applied her ravenous lips once more.

“I promise,” I gasped as I struggled for air, promising myself that from now on I would make regular visits by night to Nether Towers and loiter under her window, in the hope of warding off Flavius’s murder.  “I’ll try, Griselda.  But it’s so hard.  I . . . I don’t know if I can keep away for much longer.”

“Ooooh!”  She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me again, as though she believed all this play-acting was real and not a bizarre pantomime.  “Let me take your arm at least.  No one can see us, and after all, we are sort of engaged, aren’t we!”

I jerked as though struck by lightning.  “Engaged?”

“Well, yes.”

Dear God!  “But how can we be?  What about Flavius?”

She stamped her foot.  “Don’t keep on dragging him up, darling!  Let’s forget about him while we’re together.”

She slipped her arm through mine and we walked together like two old and close friends.  Bizarre!

“Perhaps we can see each other more often,” she suggested thoughtfully after we’d walked fifty yards or so in silence.  “Perhaps you were right when you said we could meet discreetly.  But we’d have to be very discreet indeed.”  She glanced up at the red and brown leaves arching overhead, and hugged my arm tightly.  “It’s a pity winter’s coming on.  I was silly.  We could have met in the woods while the weather was still warm.  We could have ripped each other’s clothes off and made naked, savage love in the bracken for hours and hours and hours and hours on end.  Perhaps we still could.”

“In the winter?”

She tugged at my arm.  “Don’t be a bore, darling.  It might be a bit chilly to start with.  But we’ll soon warm up if we’re shagging really hard,” she added brightly.  “Won’t we?”

“I still think it might be a bit—”

She stamped her foot and her eyes flashed.  “I said, won’t we!”

“Yes, Griselda.”

“Darling!”

“I meant darling.”

“Of course you did.”  She pecked my ear and hugged my arm tighter.  “And I doubt anyone will notice us.  Part of my estate is off limits, and I’m out with Phallus in the woods most days and—”

“Who or what is Phallus?” I laughed.  Her nonsense was unfathomable.

She blinked. “My dear horsey, of course.”  She slipped her arm out of mine and turned to the large chestnut stallion who was walking obediently behind us.  She stroked his nose and planted three kisses on the end of it.  I’ll swear the horse looked uneasy.  “I have lots of other horsies, of course, but Phallus is my favourite — though you mustn’t believe the revolting stories they tell in that low, disgusting public house.”

“The Seven Stripes?”

She sniffed.  “I don’t care to know what the ghastly place is called.  Anyway, there’s no truth in them.”

“Of course not,” I assured her, though in truth I wouldn’t have put anything past her.

“I use Bronco for that.”

My eyes must have popped, and Phallus rolled his as if to say, I told you so.  “You mean you . . .  you . . . with a horse?”

“Bronco’s my rocking horse, silly.”  She giggled, slipping her arm back through mine and clinging on as though it were a parachute.  “He’s my surrogate you.   He’s on four powerful springs and there’s a large knobbly dildo bolted upright to his saddle.  So when I’m feeling frussed — as I am most of the time — I go up to my bedroom, strip naked, leap on Bronco, and work him up to a really vigorous canter.  For hours and hours and hours sometimes.  It’s satisfaction of a sort.  The only satisfaction I’ve been able to get with Flavius still around.  But when we’re together, I promise I won’t use him any more — Bronco, that is.  I’ll jump on you instead . . . for hours and hours and hours and hours.”

“In thick custard?”

“Mmmmm!”

We walked on together in a strangely companionable silence.  She hugged my arm and stroked it, just like a normal woman would.  The last of the leaves were falling and the trees clawed at a grey sky with gaunt, black fingers.  The year was almost dead, and that reminded me again of Flavius.

“Look, Griselda, I—”

“Oooh!” She pouted at me so sorrowfully that her two front teeth disappeared behind her lower lip.  “Can’t you at least remember to call me darling when we’re like this?  After all, we’re alone, and we are in love.”

The machinations of a woman’s mind can often be bewildering, but how could she possibly think that we were in love?

“Look, Gris . . . darling, we hardly know each other and—”

“But we went through all that, didn’t we?  If we can’t be in love with each other, then who else can we be in love with?  Not with any of the peasants, surely?”  She sniffed.  “Unless, of course, you think you’re in love with that trollop from the public house.”

“Ruth?”

Her lips twitched.  “Ruth is it?  I don’t bother with names where low-lifes are concerned.  I saw you one evening staggering out of the public house with her, blind drunk, and heading in the direction of your house.  No need to ask whether you ended up in bed with her.  And Thwacks has seen you on other occasions—”

I was angry now.  “You’re having me watched?”

“Just keeping an eye on you, my dear, for your protection, and because I love you.  You know that”

“All I know is that Ruth isn’t a trollop!”  I said harshly, for I didn’t like hearing her called that.

“In other words, you are in love with her!”  Griselda sniffed again, like a wronged wife.  Her eyes latched balefully onto mine and a tear meandered slowly down one cheek.

I sighed.  I couldn’t afford to upset her.  “Look, I’m not in love with her, but all the same—”

“But!  Oh, of course.  But!”  Griselda’s riding crop twitched alarmingly.  “I suppose you call her, darling often enough!”

“I don’t, actually.”

“Don’t lie, Owen,” she said bitterly, with a very unladylike sniff.  “Of course you do!  I bet you say all sorts of things you never say to me . . . when you’re in bed with her!”

“Maybe because I never am in bed with you,” I countered disingenuously.  “I did offer to take you upstairs at the outset, you know.”

“That’s unfair.  You know why I couldn’t.”

“Because you’re a married woman.”

“Heavens, Owen!  Must you keep throwing that excuse for a man in my face?”

“I’m not.  But he’s your husband.”

“But he’s not a husband.  That’s the point.  He’s ten limp inches of useless gristle — that’s not a husband.”

“Even so.”

“Look let’s not have a tiff over him, darling.”  She rubbed my arm vigorously.  “Although I don’t mind us tiffing, because it proves we’re in love.  But not over him.  He’s not worth it, and anyway,” — her eyes narrowed — “he won’t be around much longer.  Then we’ll get rid of the trollop too.  Understood?”

“Dear God!  You’re not planning to murder her too?”

“Murder?” she blanked.  “Whoever said anything about murder?”

“Well, how else are you going to get rid of Flavius, as you put it?  And Thwacks?”

She blinked at me, utterly bewildered.  “Don’t be silly, darling!  You can’t go round murdering people!  Even dregs and peasants — more’s the pity.  No,” she smiled darkly.  “There’s more than one way of skinning a cat, my dear.  We’ll do to him what we always do to those who threaten our way of life, but in Flavius’ case I must find an excuse.”

So I’d been wrong.  My relief was overwhelming, but a mystery remained.  ” So what do you do to people who threaten your way of life?”

“Our way of life.”

“Oh very well!  Our way of life, then.  What do you do with them?”"

“Oh, darling,” she sighed, hugging my arm and laying her head on my shoulder like a wearied and exasperated wife.  “Can’t we talk about something else?”

I couldn’t budge her.  Try as I might, I couldn’t persuade her to tell me what happened to the people who threatened the Nether Slype way of life.  I was relieved, of course.  At least she wasn’t planning to murder anyone, so the threat of prison withdrew, or so I thought.  For it never occurred to me that what did happen to them might be as bad, or even worse, than murder.

We turned off the bridle path and into my lane.  When we emerged from the seclusion of the trees, she dropped my arm for discretion’s sake and walked beside me, leading the horse.  “Tell you what,” she suggested brightly.  “Why don’t you show me your house?”

“But what if you’re seen coming and going?  The neighbours?”

“It’ll only take five minutes.  Besides, your girl will be there.”

“Well . . . yes.  But I warn you, it’s a mess.”

Griselda blanked again, as though she’d just heard me fart in church.  “A mess?  What on earth do you mean, a mess?”

“It just is,” I grinned, and if I’d had my wits about me, I’d have known better.

Griselda marched round my drawing room in disbelief.  “A mess?  This place is a pigsty!”

I looked around.  It didn’t seem so bad to me, but I’m not the tidiest of men.  My workroom usually is a mess, but I hadn’t yet got round to organising a proper one, so at present I was working in the drawing room.

“This is what comes of consorting with trollops,” snapped Griselda, her riding crop twitching ominously.

“It’s got nothing to do with anyone or anything.”  I shrugged.  “I imagine I’ll get round to sorting out a proper workroom come winter.”

“You do it?  You?  A Flaythm?  Do menial work like sorting out rooms?  For heaven’s sake, darling, it’s the girl’s job, not yours.”

“Ginny?  She’s a great help.  She does my washing and ironing and cooks my dinner.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what!”  Griselda cast me a withering and exasperated glare, and making cuts through the air with the riding crop. “You’re clearly not working her hard enough!  Where is she?”

“I the kitchen I think, but—”

“Right!”

“No!  Wait!  Hang on, Griselda!  No!”

I fled after her, remonstrating all the way, as she stamped out of the room, down the passage, and flung the kitchen door open.  Ginny was sitting at the table reading a magazine while she waited for the washing machine to finish.  She glanced up.  Her eyes widened in sudden terror, she leapt to her feet startled, and backed away towards the dresser as Griselda bore down on her, riding crop swishing.

Ginny swallowed and dropped a hurried curtsey.  “Good morning, Lady Shackles.”

“Never mind about that, girl!”  Griselda glared at her, flexing the riding crop before her fearful eyes. “You’ve been slacking.”

Ginny’s lips trembled.  “No, my lady, I—”

“You dare answer me back, girl?”

“No, my lady, I—”

“Insolence!”

Griselda lunged at Ginny like a fury, seized her by the hair a positively flung her across the broad oak kitchen table, just as Old Horace had done in The Seven Stripes.  With a flick of the crop, Ginny’s skirt flew up over her head.  Griselda put her riding in her mouth and ripped down her knickers revealing two plump pink buttocks that wobbled like Rowntree strawberry jellies.

“Please, my lady—”

“Silence!”

“Griselda!” I shouted

“Quiet, Owen!  This girl needs disciplining.”

Griselda took the crop in her hand again and enthusiastically launched into a long sequence of vicious cuts, while Ginny thrashed about on the table, screaming.  I shut my eyes.  Why was I so impotent?  The screaming became shriller and shriller.  Ginny’s fiercely thrashing legs drummed against the table as Griselda delivered stroke after stroke after stroke with gusto and military precision, much as I imagine, Admiral Shackles had.  When at last she stopped, I could hear only sobs.  Griselda walked slowly and triumphantly round the table surveying her handiwork, slapping her own thighs with the crop.  “That’s just a taste, girl, of what you’ll get if I come again and find this place looking like a pigsty.   Understood?”

I opened my coward’s eyes.  Ginny lay on the table writhing and gasping like a fish that had just been pulled from a river, her hands twitching as they clutched at her cruelly lacerated bottom.

“Speak up, girl!  Or I’ll give you another twelve!”

“Y-yes . . . my lady,” sobbed Ginny painfully.

“And stop that irritating noise!”

Ginny sniffed.  “Yes, my lady.”

Griselda then turned to me and eyed me sternly.  “And I’m disappointed in you too, Owen.  You’re obviously not using your whip on the girl.  A fine lapse for a descendant of the man who held Admiral Shackles’ coat.”

“Perhaps I should have held yours,” I said bitterly.

Griselda’s eyes blazed.  “Don’t be flippant!”

“Aren’t you being?  At least Rickett Flaythm was my ancestor.  You talk about the admiral as though he were yours, but actually he was your husband’s?”

“My husbands?” she screamed furiously.  “My wretched — my . . . .”

She stared at me blankly for a few seconds, then, to my surprise, she dissolved into laughter.  She was still laughing when we returned to the drawing room.  She lifted a pile of books unceremoniously out of the sofa, dropped them on the floor with a thump, and then plunged her ample bottom into the vacated space, still shaking.

“I’m the Shackles, Owen dear,” she said when she’d recovered herself.  “My father died when I was twenty-five leaving me as his sole heir, and I immediately realised that I needed a husband — well, I wanted one . . . rather badly in fact . . . for reasons we’ve already discussed.  None of the local men were acceptable on grounds of class, so I put a small ad in one of the more exclusive hunting magazine: wanted for marriage, one blue-blooded eighteen inch penis—”

“Eighteen inches?” I snorted.  “There’s no such thing.”

“So they tell me.  But I worked on the premise that men exaggerate such things.  Anyway, Flavius arrived.  He wasn’t very bright but I didn’t want him for his brains.  So I sent him along to Dr Specter in the village for an examination.  Specter was amazed; he’d never seen anything so long — ten inches flaccid.  Of course, I should have locked Flavius in a room with a cheap tart — like yours from the public house — and made sure he could do the required job.  But I didn’t.  More fool me!  Ten inches flaccid it was, and ten inches flaccid it remained.  What with that and his complete lack of brains, conversation, or any desirable attribute at all — he can’t even ride a horse, for heaven’s sake! — I lost patience with him within a month.  I tried sending him back to his family but they didn’t want him either and they sent him straight back with a curt note telling me he was no longer their concern.  I didn’t blame them either, but all the same, what was I to do with him?  So I decided there was nothing else for it.  I chained him in the dungeon and there he’s remained ever since.”

“So he was already mad when you married him?”

“No darling.  Well, possibly he was.  I don’t know — I didn’t notice.  He was so dull and gormless that you really couldn’t tell one way or the other.  You see, he’s not chained in the dungeon because he’s mad.  He’s mad because he’s spent fourteen years chained in the dungeon.  At least, Thwacks reckons he’s gone mad because of it.  I can’t say I’ve noticed any change myself, but I really can’t be bothered to go down and check, so I take Thwacks’ word for it.”

“But his shouting,” I reasoned.  “He sounds like a slavering sex fiend.”

“Typical man, darling.  All talk and no action, so let’s not waste more time talking about him.  He’s history, or soon will be.”

“So, if you’re not going to murder him, exactly what are you going to do with him?”

She rolled her eyes.  “For pity’s sake, darling, do try to vary your conversation, or I might suspect you’re Flavius’s brother and pop you in the adjacent dungeon.  And I wouldn’t want to do that, at least, not before you’ve given me a good few really hard shaggings.”

While I digested this threat, she picked up the top book from the pile she’d dropped on the floor beside her and read the cover.  “Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook?  What on earth do you want that for?”

“I’m a writer,” I said negligently, and immediately bit my tongue.

She looked at me querulously.  “A writer?  But you said you had a private income?”

“So I do,” I lied.  “I wouldn’t be able to afford to write if I didn’t.  It’s a hobby — well, more than that, a pleasurable occupation.”

A shadow of concern crossed her face.  She got up and started pacing round the room, glancing in a desultory way at the other piles of books and the manuscripts lying everywhere in disordered piles.  “I do hope you’re not writing about Nether Slype,” she said at last, and there was a note of regretful menace in her voice.  “We don’t take kindly to people trying to parade our little ways to the spineless puritan world beyond.”

“I wouldn’t call it puritan,” I scoffed.

“No, but it likes to think it is.  And it’s incredibly nosey.  It likes telling other people what they can and can’t do.  It endlessly questions their morals but not its own.”  She turned towards me and her eyes were creased with worry.  “So watch yourself, darling.  You wouldn’t want to be sent away would you!  And I for one wouldn’t want to see you go.  Truly I wouldn’t.”

On the face of it, she was threatening me with eviction from my house, and as all the properties in the villages were hers, I would be forced to leave.  Yet there was a note in her voice as she spoke the words sent away that sent a small shiver down my spine.  And her obvious regret reinforced it.

“How sent away, Griselda?” I asked.

She turned away and ran her fingers along the bookshelf.  “Never mind,” she murmured.  “I’m sure it won’t be necessary.  You’re an intelligent man, and your life here could be pleasant, especially as my husband.  But being a Nether Slyper requires discretion.  Others have been indiscreet and they’ve been forced to leave.”

“But isn’t that even more dangerous.  Once they’re gone they can blow the whistle with impunity.”

She wrinkled her mouth.  The two prominent teeth vanished then appeared again.  “Not . . . necessarily.”

There it was again, the threat.  And as if that weren’t enough she added quietly, “Don’t ever force me to do something that we’d both regret, my darling.  Duty must come before love.  I wish it didn’t, but it does.”

Dear God.  She really did think she loved me.  Perhaps she did, in her screwy way. However, the other matter was uppermost in my mind.  I wondered whether to pursue it, but caution told me that I had nothing to gain by making her suspicious.  I realised that Nether Slype like all nefarious and illicit pleasures, came at a price, and I was increasingly nervous about what that price might be.  So Flavius and Thwacks were not going to be murdered but sent away, permanently, no doubt.

At least it made sense of a sort.  If people were sent away for transgressions, then her need to find an excuse for ‘disposing’ of Flavius made sense.  But how ere they set away and where?  Where could they go where there was no threat of their blowing the whistle?  Some place of incarceration no doubt, but what could it be?

She was eying me narrowly.  “I don’t want to make threats, darling, really I don’t,” she said soberly.  “You must believe that.  But you must also understand that paradise comes at a price.”

I realised that there was no pointing in trying to question her further.  Instead, I needed to convince her that I was no threat.  Indeed, I had absolutely no intention of becoming one.  Keeping Nether Slype secret and secure was as important to me as it obviously was to her.

“Look,” I assured her.  “I’ve absolutely no intention of writing about Nether Slype.  As you can see from my books, I’m a mediaeval historian, or rather, I write novels about mediaeval times — thrillers and whodunits mostly.  So there’s nothing for you and the village to worry about.  I’ve been working in here, you see, and my workroom’s always a mess when I’m right in the middle of a project.  I’m going to organise an office upstairs, but the present project overtook me.  That’s why I told Ginny not to clean in here.  I didn’t want anything disturbed,” I added pointedly.  “She didn’t deserve the thrashing you gave her, Griselda.”

“Oh, don’t make a fuss about nothing, darling.”  She brushed my objection away with an airy flick of her hand.  “It’s what the peasants are there for.  If you want a peasant girl to work properly, you must keep her whipped, on principle.  I always do.”

“So I notice, but I don’t possess a whip, and I’m not—”

“Owen darling!”  Griselda blinked, her eyes lit up, she skipped across the room to me, suddenly girlish, threw her arms round my neck and planting a big wet kiss on my lips.  “We’re having our second  tiff.”  She kissed me again.  “Isn’t it exciting!  So we really must be I love, mustn’t we!  Tell you what.  I’ll make it up to you.  As soon as I get home, I’ll send someone down with one.  How about that?”

“With what?”

“A whip, of course,” she said gleefully.  “I’ll tie a big red ribbon round it and a card: With all my love, Griselda.  Then you’ll think of me when you’re thrashing the girl with it,” she added, eagerly.  “Or better still, I’ll send you an assortment.  That’ll be romantic, won’t it?”  She kissed me on the nose, just like she’d kissed Phallus, and I felt as bemused as the horse had looked, like a dog being given a chocolate drop.  “Anyway, must dash.   Phallus has been tethered out there for a while and people will talk if he’s there much longer.  See me to the door, darling!”

I dutifully walked her out into the hall, but as I put my hand to the door to open it, she seized me and gnawed at my face again for a moment.  “It won’t always be like this darling.   Soon we’ll be together, naked in our bed, strenuously shagging as only desperate lovers can — for hours and hours and hours and hours on end.”

She kissed me again, softly and passionately, and gave me a last caress.  Then she was off down the drive.  I watched her climb on her horse.  She waved.  “Toodle pip!”  And she was off.   Her kisses and caresses were becoming more tender, and I realised that the dotty and dangerous woman wasn’t playing a game at all; she really was falling in love with me, or thought she was, which was just as alarming.  Worse, she seemed convinced that I was in love with her.

Poor Flavius.

1. Celia

Next day, just after breakfast, I was at work on my new novel when the doorbell rang.  Ginny was out shopping, so I opened it myself to an attractive dark-haired girl of about twenty holding a large brown-paper parcel.  She was wearing the grey dress and apron of a maid from Nether Towers.

“With her ladyship’s compliments, sir,” he said breathlessly, and bobbed.

I took the parcel.  Through the paper, I could feel that it contained several long, flexible objects.  “Er . . . thank you.”

I made to close the door but the maid slipped deftly past me into the hall.  I looked at her perplexed and she bobbed again.  “I’m Heather, sir,” she said, still breathlessly.  “Her ladyship said you were to use me as you wished. Rigorously and repeatedly, sir.”

“Rigorously?  Repeatedly?  How?”

“Any way to like, sir.  Any time of the day . . . or night.”  She gave me the coyest of blushes.  “If you see what I mean, sir?”

How could I not see?  But I’d been with Ruth overnight and I was full of my new book.  I simply wasn’t in the mood for sex games.  And it seemed odd that Griselda should profess love for me and then send such a girl.  Perhaps she was testing me.

“Look,” I said as coldly as I could.  “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and wait for Ginny to return?  She’ll tell you what needs doing.”

“Don’t you want to inspect my credentials first, sir?” said the girl, smoothing her dress and apron provocatively over her ample bust, her coy smile now edged with wantonness.  She began to unbutton the bodice of her dress.  “I think you’ll find them more than satisfactory, sir.”

I’ve never been susceptible to the brazen approach, and never less than at that moment.  “Not now,” I said, even more coldly.  “I’m busy.  Go and see what Ginny wants you to do.”

Her eyes flared at the put down.  I thought for a moment that she was going to slap my face.  But the struggle was only brief.  Her eyes fell to the floor and she bobbed again.  “Very good, sir.”

Back in my workroom I opened the parcel.  The only surprise was the variety of whips Griselda had sent me, ranging from straps and tawses with ornately sculpted handles, several plaited jobs of varying lengths and weights, and a particularly vicious one with three knotted tails — a sort of cadet version of the Shackles Patent Flogger.  I took them into my drawing room come workroom.  As I dropped them on the coffee table, something fluttered out.  I bent to pick it up and found that it was a card written with black ink in a schooled masculine-looking hand.

Enjoy, my darling,  and think of me.  With desperate love, Griselda.

With desperate love!  She could produce a nice turn of phrase.  I couldn’t help smiling at her screwy earnestness, and an evil thought entered my mind, that perhaps I’d baptize her gift on her own bare bottom.  She certainly needed a good spanking — with a bottom like hers clad in those tight jodhpurs, she was positively begging for one — and I assumed no one was giving her one.

Some while later, Ginny returned and came in with my tea.  She usually put it on my desk and left quietly, being sensible enough not to disturb me at my work, for which I was grateful.  She was an excellent girl for me: quiet, unobtrusive, and intelligent. But today she hovered at my elbow, waiting.  I had ignored her since Griselda’s tirade.  She had not deserved the punishment, which was anyway excessive, but I was embarrassed, feeling that I had lost control of a situation.  I, as the man of the house, should have been in control.

“Sorry about yesterday, Ginny,” I said softly, looking especially hard at my computer screen.

“That’s all right, sir.”

“No it’s not all right.  I should have been firmer with Lady Shackles.  I should have stood up to her.  I should have stopped her.  I’m sorry.”

There was a brief silence, then, “So will you still be wanting me any longer, sir?”

I looked up at her in surprise.  “What do you mean?”

She swallowed.  “Well, sir, I’m obviously not giving satisfaction, and her ladyship has sent a replacement, and—”

“Not a replacement, Ginny,” I assured her.  “I’m more than happy with you—”

“It’s just that the new one’s trained, sir.  Properly trained to work, trained to pleasure, trained to the whip—”

“Trained to it?”

Ginny seemed surprised.  “Why yes, sir.  She’s one of them as has been to Mrs Birch’s Academy for Naughty Wicked Girls in Long Wallop, and she passed out top of her class — or so she says.  Loves it, she does, sir.   And she’s already told me what a tight, juicy cunt she’s got, sir, and all the tricks she’s been taught to play with it.”

“She fancies herself.  That’s for sure,” I murmured.

“That’s as maybe, sir.  But as you’ve never seen fit to sample my cunt—”

I turned and looked at her in alarm.  “But you’ve got a boyfriend, Ginny,” I exclaimed.

“Perhaps, sir, but I’m not properly spoken for as yet.  And as my employer, you’re entitled to take your pleasure of me if you wish.  A girl expects to be tried out at least once, sir.  But you’ve never shown interest, so I’ve been thinking maybe you’re dissatisfied with me and—”

“I’m perfectly satisfied, Ginny,” I assured her.  “More than satisfied and very pleased with you.  Look, I can’t offend Lady Shackles by sending the other girl back right away.  So let’s make use of her.  Set her to work.  Get her scrubbing and cleaning.  She can sort out all those unused upstairs rooms.  Then you can send her down and clean out the cellar — thoroughly.  You’re in charge, Ginny.  If she gives you any lip — any lip at all — come to me and we’ll find out how trained to the whip she really is — both of us.”

I noticed an evil glint in Ginny’s eye.  For the first time ever, she bobbed.  “Yes, sir.”  To my surprise, she leaned over me and kissed me chastely on the cheek.  “Thank you, sir.  I’ll make the bitch work all right.”

I gave her a hug for that — nothing sexual, you understand; no groping; just a hug.  She was a nice girl and I liked her.  “Your job’s perfectly safe with me, Ginny.”

*****

I was in a good mood when I entered The Seven Stripes for a lunchtime pint, where I spent half an hour in amiable conversation with a couple of my neighbours.  But as I was leaving, a hand touched my arm and I turned to see Ruth.  She cocked her head meaningfully towards a discreet corner so I followed her into it.

“There was someone asking for you last night, Owen,” she said in an undertone, once she was sure no one could overhear us.

“Asking for me?  Asking whom?”

“Me thankfully.  It was a stranger.  A woman.  She marched in, looked around and made a beeline for me.  She was trying to find out your address.”

“What did she look like?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, for an awful premonition had struck me.

“Quite tall, thin as a rake, long blonde hair . . . oh, and she was smoking a cigarette with a gold filter end.”

I swallowed.  I knew who the woman was, Celia my literary agent.  I’d given her detailed instructions for contacting me, and they hadn’t included walking into The Seven Stripes, bold as brass, and asking for my address.

“Did you give it to her the address?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . .” Ruth looked around the bar to make sure that no one was prying, and then she pulled me further into the corner and lowered her voice.  “She asked first for a Peter Jenkins.”

That had been my name before I changed it to Owen Flaythm.  I swallowed.  “Go on.”

“Then she asked for a Rupert Butler.  I said I’d never heard of either of them.  So then, as if it was just a final, spur-of-the-moment thought, she asked if I’d heard of the name Flaythm.  She said she thought someone of that name had just moved in.”

“And you said?”

“I told her I’d heard of none of them.”

But Celia had dug up Colonel Flaythm for me, and she knew I’d moved here. She’d have put two and two together and strongly suspected that Ruth was lying.  Knowing Celia, that would set her devious mind working overtime.  Damn!  “Who else heard this?”

“No one.”

“You’re sure!”

“Yes.  She walked straight out again, got in her car, and I watched her drive round the green and back down the lane out of the village.”

Perhaps, but Celia wouldn’t take no as a permanent answer if her curiosity was aroused.  I knew I should have sacked her before I came to Nether Slype.  I should have sacked her before I announced my intention of living there.  I should have hired less of a go-getter to take her place, someone who could be trusted to protect my anonymity.  Fool!

Ruth was eyeing me with sharp now.  She clutched my arm and drew me towards her.  “What’s going on, Owen?”

“Going on?”

“Who’s Rupert Butler?”

“Oh, that’s easy.  I was a historical novelist — am a historical novelist.  Rupert Butler is the name I write under.”

Her eyes popped with surprise and she smiled.  “Oh!  They’ve got one of yours in the library.  I’ve read it.  It’s ever so good.”

“I know they have,” I grimaced.  It was the worst thing I’d ever written.  Nevertheless, I thanked Ruth for her compliment.  “I don’t advertise the fact,” I said, “but Lady Shackles knows about it.  She knows I’ll be discreet.”

“You’d better be.  And who’s Peter Jenkins?”

“Ah!  He’s . . . he’s . . . .  O bloody hell!”

She was looking at me earnestly now, and her eyes were bigger, darker, and more beautiful than they’d ever been.  She also looked scared — for my sake.  “Look, Owen, you can trust me,” she said softly, and I knew it to be the simple truth.  “I am your friend, you know.”

I gently squeezed her hand.  “Perhaps the only true friend I have here — and the only one I want to have.”

Half an hour later, we sat out on the green, on a remote but open seat where we could talk without risk of being overheard.  We must have looked a strange pair, sitting in the cold slanting rain, me in my thorn proof jacket and Ruth in her raincoat and hat.

“So, who is he?” Ruth asked again.  “Or perhaps I should say, who are you?”

I licked my lips.  “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I’ve slept with you quite a few times.  You’ve muttered one or two strange things in your sleep. Most men do that, of course, but there have been other times, when we’ve talked, and I’ve formed the impression you’re being very careful with your words, and thinking before you speak.  I think you’re a man with a secret, my dear.  A man with a history.”

“Who have you told of this?” I asked, perhaps a little shortly.

“No one!” she countered fiercely.  “I’m your friend, Owen . . . or should I say Peter?”

I blew a long breath.  Well, I thought.  I’m not surprised she’s worked it out.  If a man has two names, why not three?  “Best stick to Owen for all our sakes,” I confessed.

I told her my story then, about discovering Nether Slype and loving the place, the apparent impossibility of living here.  The subterfuge.  It was good to tell someone, though I worried that I might be compromising Ruth and that was last thing I wanted to do.

“So you’re not spying on us?”

“No!  Good heavens no.  I’ve told you the absolute truth, all of it.  I just came because I loved the place — a precious surviving piece of the old England I write about, and I had no idea at all of your local peculiarities before I moved in.”

She savoured that for a moment. “Of course, to us, they’re not peculiar.  It’s the outside that’s strange.”

She wasn’t far wrong either.  “In some ways I suppose it’s better out there in the big bad world,” I said.  “Women have more legal protection and higher status, though I’m sure that’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  It’s a world of illusion, pretence, image, gloss, and little substance.  It can be a grubby, murky place — at least I think so — and in many ways, its far worse than anything you’ll find here.  I came here because I was searching for something cleaner.  And I still think I found it, despite your little foibles.”

She digested that.  “And the woman who came questioning?   Who’s she?”

“Celia, my literary agent.  She knew I was coming here, of course.  She had to.  But I told her to leave me alone, the nosey bitch.”

“So why hasn’t she?”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Could she be trouble?”

“Oh yes,” I sighed deeply.  “Most certainly.”

*****

And so it came to pass.

A few days later, an hour after sunset, there was another knock on my door.   The new girl, who appeared to assume she was a live-in, came into the workroom and bobbed.  “A lady to see you, sir.”

I thought it might be Ruth, or even Griselda, but my face fell when the workroom door opened again, and Celia was standing in the threshold.  She marched in with a triumphant smirk on her face that I knew spelt trouble.  Without thinking, I took her through to my workroom come sitting room and shut the door, forgetting what was still lying on the coffee table.

“You’re a hard man to find, Peter,” she said provocatively, helping herself to my sofa.  It sounded strange being called Peter after months as Owen.

“What do you want?” I asked bluntly, and pointlessly, for I’d already thought through all the likely reasons.

“That’s not a nice way to greet me, darling.”

“How did you find me?”

“I asked some drab in the pub.  I assumed you’d know all the local pub sluts.”

“Watch your tongue!”

Celia giggled.  “So you are shagging her!  Thought she looked your type.  Her knickers were positively round her ankles, and as for that bra she was wearing. . . .”

I fought to control my temper.  “Never mind that.  She told you nothing.  Did she!”

“No.  But I reckoned she’d come running to tell you I was looking.  She obviously did — which proves you’re shagging her.  So I came back tonight and played the poor lost little female.  I found some ghastly old man out in the street somewhere and wiped my fanny round him.  He looked as though he’d never seen a woman like me—”

“I imagine he hadn’t,” I snorted.

“Meow, darling!   I almost had to go down on my knees and suck his cock to get the address.  Almost, thank God.”

“So now you’re here, what do you want?”

By way of reply, she looked curiously at the paper parcel in the coffee table before her and I regretted more than ever not keeping my workroom tidy.  She’d always been a nosey cow, so she lifted the edge and looked inside.  Her fiercely pencilled eyebrows rose.

“Kinky!”

“Nothing of the sort,” I lied, fighting the obviously guilty temptation to snatch the parcel and move it out of her reach.  “They’re research items for my latest novel.”

“Hmmm.  Sounds a sight more interesting than your last.”  She picked up the card and smirked.  “Who’s Griselda?  You whip slut?  Sounds more like a dominatrix to me — high boots and riding crop.”  Celia, for all her irritating ways, had a habit of hitting the nail on the head.

I snatch the card out of her hand.  “This was attached to something else entirely,” I lied.  “You know how untidy I am.”

“Hmmm.  So she’s not the drab from the pub then?”

I gritted my teeth.  “No!  And my personal life is none of your damned business.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong there,” she said triumphantly.  “And as for your kinky BDSM gear, it bears out my other discoveries.”

“Discoveries?”

“Whispers, darling and a few juicy little piccies.  Things that would have the women’s-rights commandos besieging this place with gelding knives.”

“Since when did you care about women’s rights?”

“Don’t be silly, darling.  I don’t give a toss about them.  But I’ll become a fully-paid-up sister if it’s to my advantage.”

That was typical of the bitch.  I knew she was telling the truth.  “And?”

She got up and walked round the room with that infuriatingly smug look on her face that I’d seen before when she knew she held all the cards.  So often, when she’s been acting in my interest, negotiating for me, it had been an infallible sign that we’d just won a nice, fat, remunerative point or were about to.  And Celia knew all about remuneration.  Cash and cheques were her sole interest in life.  Her avarice had done wonders for my bank balance, and hers of course.  Even so, I’d never liked it, or her.  And she wasn’t acting in my interest now, but her own, — and something cold trickled in the pit of my stomach.

“Nice place you have here.  Must be worth a bit.”

“What have you come for, Celia?  I didn’t invite you.”

“I was concerned for you, darling, and—”

“Cut the shoddy crap!  The only thing about me that’s ever concerned you is the commission I pay you and how you can extend it.”

“The commission I deduct, darling.”

“Don’t chop words!  Why are you here?”

She smiled smugly at me again, and the ice trickled once more.  Without asking permission, she produced her silver cigarette case, took out a cigarette, knocked it on the lid, and lit it.  “Got an ashtray, darling?”

I went into the kitchen and found a saucer.  When I returned, she was lying full length on the sofa, her expensively stockinged legs were crossed at the ankles, the cigarette hung of the corner of her mouth, and she was idly reading my latest manuscript — of pretending to.

“That’ll be ready in about three months,” I said, pulling it out of her hand.  “If you’re interested.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, knocking out ash into the saucer.  “Perhaps not.  I’m onto something far bigger than a measly commission.  I might cut you in, but only for a small share.”

“What?  Why?”

“Because you’re compromised, so you can’t bargain.  But as you might prove useful, so I’m throwing you a bone.”

She smiled a smile that says, I’ve got you by the nuts, and if you don’t jump when I say so, I’ll pop them into the mincer.

I knew I had to tough it out as best I could.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.  “How compromised?”

“The same way every other man in Nether Slype is compromised, darling.  They, of course, were born here.  But you . . . oh, well, you came looking for it.”  She stretched out and nudged the parcel of whips with her foot.  “You can’t very well claim ignorance.  Now can you?”  She let the point sink in, and then continued.  “I wondered why you were so keen on this piss-hole of a place.  I heard your tale about driving through here and falling in love with it . . . blah  — blah — blah.  But I was curious.  After all, there are so many quiet, dull little villages in England.  Why jump through such fantastic hoops to move to this one?”

“It happened to be the truth,” I said patiently.

“Yes, yes of course, darling.  And I foolishly believed for a very short while that the architecture, the oldie-worldie charm, and the woods had captivated you.”

“They had,” I protested.

“Quite.  But that wasn’t all, was it!”  She exhaled smoke extravagantly, as she so often did before delivering the deathblow.  “I never realised you were a bottom freak.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said too hurriedly, and the shrewd glance that slanted at me through the thin blue smoke told me that she knew I was lying.

She took a photograph out of her handbag, put it on the coffee table, and slid it across to me.  I looked at it and cringed.  The vicar was there with his colleagues from the adjacent villages.  They were sitting side-by-side in one of the vicarage gardens having tea.  Their wives were there too.  One was carrying a tray, painfully suspended from nipple clamps.  The second was bent over the table holding a cane between her clenched buttocks — clearly waiting for punishment.   The third was on her knees servicing the three vicars’ cocks, sucking the middle one and wanking the other two.  The three women were all naked.  Their bottoms were clearly visible, and all three bore multiple strap welts.

I cleared my throat and tried to affect an unimpressed shrug.  “Three kinky clergymen in a domestic setting.  What of it?”

“Yes, I thought you’d say something like that.  There are others, too, though this is the best so far.  I’ve been skulking up on the hill over the village with my telephoto lens.  Vicars and bottoms — hardly word news, though it’s still grist to the Sunday rags’ mill.”

“You despise the Sunday rags.”

“I used to, darling, but they’ve become prospective milsch cows, so I’ve become enthusiastic about their crusading moral zeal.  I mean, they will be absolutely appalled by this, won’t they!  And their dull-brained readers will be so horrified they’ll have to rush out and buy the story in instalments.  I think I feel an undisclosed six-figure payment coming on.”

“For one dodgy photo?  The Internet’s dripping with them.”

“Yes, but there’s more than that, to dig for,” she said with maddening certainty.   “When I came here, I thought only to enlist your help with my story, however—”

“Your story?” I sneered.  “Since when could you write a story?”

“But when I saw your kinky bondage whips I knew—”

“I haven’t used them, for God’s sake,” I insisted, and it was the literal truth.

She shrugged.  “Perhaps, perhaps not.  I don’t care one way of the other.  But I have other photos — not as good, nor as clear as the three kinky vicars, but enough to show that this place is a hotbed of sexual perversion.  And I really think that the outside world, with its high moral values, should know about it.”

Dear God, what a mess!  I thought of what it would do the people here.  I considered that not every man in the village was a vicious wife beater.  What would become of them, the poor sods?  They’d go through life hearing: so you lived in Nether Slype did you?  Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.  I thought of the lives ruined.  And what of the women?  How would they cope out there in the big bad world?  They’d be assumed easy meat by the sort of men who’d knock their teeth out, or worse, which the men in Nether Slype definitely didn’t do.  What sort of interests would home in on them, prowl round, and snap them up?  How many would end up on street corners, on drugs — which were nowhere to be found here?  How many might end up in brothels?  How many would turn to drink, which was not abused here.  How many would be able to deal with debt, which was endemic outside?  How many would be able to deal with the deep dishonesty of so many enterprises and advertisements?  They would believe what they were told and they would suffer for it.  For all its faults, Nether Slype was an honest and uncomplicated place, free of cynicism.  No.  They could never deal with the ‘freedoms’ and stresses of Celia’s bright, clean, tacky world.

Nether Slype had its flaws — no doubt of that — its illicit delights, and its injustices, but so did the outside world.  That was why the Sunday rags went hunting for dirt — to persuade their readers that the world they thrived in was not as grubby dishonest, cynical, nasty, dirty, pernicious, and downright dangerous, as I knew it to be.

“Don’t do it Celia,” I asked.

“Why ever not, darling?”

“Just don’t do it.”

“Well, I’m sure I’d be most happy to oblige you, but money’s money and one never quite has enough of it.”

“No matter how much damage you do?  How many lives you wreck?”

“Not my life; not my problem.”

And that attitude irritated me beyond endurance.  It was so typical of the times, one of the things I had run away from when I came to Nether Slype.  I have never been averse to money, cleanly and honestly made.  I’ve made a good deal of it myself, but only because people wanted to buy my books, none of which were written for the purpose of making an obscene or dishonest fortune.  In Nether Slype, those who prospered were those who worked, cleanly and honestly, and they did work too.  Despite their quirks, they were honest and industrious in the old-fashioned way.  There was no dirty money here — the sort of money Celia was after — the way money could made outside, where even as dead child had a market value — called compensation.  That struck me as the true obscenity, and whatever went on in Nether Slype was venial by comparison.

“It’s all right, darling,” said Celia, looking at me with big mocking eyes, knowing that I was helpless.  “Play ball and I’ll protect your blessed good name.”

“How?  Why?”

“Well, I might believe that you didn’t know everything that’s going on here when you arrived.”

“I didn’t.”

“Quite.  So tell me, what’s the really juicy stuff — gay orgies in the church at midnight?”

“Nothing like that?”

“What about kids?  I bet there’s plenty of child abuse.”

“For pity’s sake!  None at all.  Nothing like that.  It’s all straight, and kids are brought up a damned site cleaner here than most are outside.”

She pouted.  “A pity.  There’d certainly be money in that.  Child abuse is a real headline grabber.  Never mind, you can always drop some hints.  A few pregnant hints are much more marketable than one miserable fact.  All you have to do is drop the question:  If that’s what the parents get up to, what about the kids?  Nudge-nudge.  Wink-wink.  See what I mean?”

“What do you mean — all I’ll have to do?”

She furiously stubbed out her cigarette in the saucer and lit another.  “Didn’t I say?  That’s where you come in useful.  You write the piece.  You do the sleuthing.  You dig out all the lovely lucrative dirt — let’s say twenty-thousand words, broken down into handy two-thousand-word chunks for the Sunday rags.  After all, the morons who read them have no attention span.  I’ll market it.  I’ll make sure your name — whichever you’re masquerading under at present — is kept out of it.  Then we’ll split the haul — seventy-thirty.”

“And who gets the seventy?” I asked, my mind racing for a means of stalling her.

“Me, of course.  You’re hardly in a position to negotiate.”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“You’re not listening, darling.  I said—”

I rounded on her.  “Fifty-fifty or go to hell!  Think of it Celia.  You can go running to the papers with your feeble half-cock yarn, but if Rupert Butler then steps forward with the whole story, claiming to have been working on an under-cover expose which you tried to pre-empt, breaking your confidentiality contract, and offering the real juicy dirt, I’ll be the hero and you’ll crawl away looking pretty bloody fifth rate.  So it’s fifty-fifty, and no argument.”

She screwed out her second cigarette with fury and lit a third.  I was gratified to see that my bluff had rattled her.  Her hand shook slightly with stress of seeing all that easy money slipping through her viciously manicured fingers.  “No need to make threats, darling,” she simpered.

“Who’s making threats?  I’m just telling you where you stand, just as you were pathetically trying to tell me a while ago.  You’re a clerk, Celia.  You’re the sort of drudge creative people like me get to do their boring menial chores.  That’s what I pay you for.  You’re the vermin that crawls around talent licking up the dirty crumbs off the floor.  I’ll pay you fifty-percent to do all the newspaper legwork, fill in the forms, attend the tedious meetings, the bloody lot, and you’ll keep my name out of it.  But the copyright remains mine, as per our standing contract.  Break that contract in any shape or form and I’ll sue.  Then you and your tawdry fucking partners will be the pariahs of the book trade for the rest of your miserable lives.  Don’t forget, Celia, a compromised high-profile author can make enormous money, but a crooked agent is dead meat.  So you’ll do as your bloody well told!”

She looked really scared now, and I enjoyed that.  It had been a strong bluff before I realised it wasn’t a bluff at all.  She was my agent.  What she had threatened to do would constitute a breach of agent confidentiality.  Even if I couldn’t press it, she knew as well as I did that once the story was out, no self-respecting author would touch her.  Now it was time to close for today and think what to do next.

“So I’ll write your piece.  You’ll return for it in fourteen days, and you’ll return discreetly, like tonight.  Until then, sod off!”

She blinked.

“Are you deaf or brain damaged, you gutter slag?  I told you to fuck off!”

She fucked off all right, tail between her legs, and it gave me deep satisfaction to see her crawl away like that.  One thing was sure; when this was over, I’d drop the evil cow and use another agent for my future novels.  I’d also put the word around that she’d tried to strong-arm me.  That would properly finish her.

But deeper down, I was less elated.  The story was out.  Nothing could stop Celia whispering.  And whispers beget rumours, rumours beget scandals, and scandals can beget deep trouble.

“Shit!  Shit!  Shit!” I yelled at the top of my voice once I’d heard the front door slam.  I picked up a couple of books and hurled them across the room, and then kicked furniture in my anger and frustration.  “Shit!”

I heard my workroom door open again and turned to see the new girl, Heather, leaning in the doorway.  She was completely naked, her firm young breast thrust at me almost accusingly, and her eyes smouldered.

“You called for your piece of wanton pleasure shit, sir?”

She walked brazenly towards me, lithe and loose hipped, her triangle of pussy swaying and the fat nipples on her pert breasts nodding as though they were on elastic.  She was mesmerising, but I was angry and not in the mood for sex.

“Fuck off!”

She still approached, smiling.  “Heather would love you to fuck her, sir.”

“I said, fuck OFF!”

“Heather would love you to toss her off, sir.”

I rarely get uncontrollably angry, but this girl was tipping me over the edge.  “Don’t you understand English, girl?” I yelled at her.

She stood right before me, challenging me, her eyes dancing with delight.  Her hand slid to my fly and I stood, stunned as she slowly unzipped it.  Her finger slipped inside and she started to expertly stroke my cock.  All the while, her eyes smouldered into mine and the tip of her tongue slicked between her wet lips.

“Heather only understands the whip, master.”

Despite my stiffening cock, something in me snapped.  Slapping her twitching hand away, I seized her by the hair and flung her to the ground, where she lay squirming, and a slow, unfathomable smile suffused her face.

“That’s it, master,” she murmured with ill-suppressed excitement…  “Use your whip!  Enjoy yourself!”

In blind fury, I reached for Griselda’s parcel and grabbed the first whip that came to hand.  I’d show the bitch what a real whipping felt like — not the feeble crap they obviously dished out at Mrs Birch’s Academy for Naughty Wicked Girls but the real thing.  I seized the big whip with the three knotted tails, but I didn’t care.  Standing astride Heather’s naked body I started lashing her with all my strength.  She writhed and thrashed under a dozen merciless strokes — three tails each, but every time she twisted, she glanced up at me and her face was alight with pleasure.

“That’s it, master!  Pleasure yourself!”

Still I slashed at her, her shoulders, her back, her buttocks, her thighs; all quivered under my merciless tirade, slender red wheels and cuts criss-crossing them.  She juddered; I still plied the whip with all my strength.  Still she smiled, turning herself onto her back and offering me her breasts and stomach.  Her legs were open, her back arched; she was thrusting her pussy towards me for punishment, still smiling.

“Don’t forget to whip my cunt, master.”

On an on I lashed in a frenzy I’d never experienced before.  I didn’t care how much I hurt her, I needed to hurt her.  I lashed everything she offered me while she writhed, smiling still, her face flushed with some indescribable ecstasy that drove me ever onwards.

She rolled back onto her stomach, rose to her hands and knees, and started to crawl, but not towards the door.  I felt her hands sliding softly and slowly up my legs.  Still she smiled up at me, her mouth open, panting in her wild pleasure.  I lashed all the harder now; the leather tails slapped sliced into her soft flesh with pistol-shot retorts.

Still the hands slid slowly upwards, up my thighs, towards my cock.  She rose to her knees, seemingly oblivious of the new vertical stripes the whip was cutting into her back and bottom.  Her hands reached my open flies; her fingers slid inside, and with well-practised deftness, found my rigid cock and pulled it out.

“You’re so angry, master,” she breathed.

And then she was sucking, powerfully, frantically.  I felt her throat moving round my knob, her tongue wriggling like a snake all round my rigid shaft, her firm lips circling it moving succulently back and forth.

“Shit!”

I was blazingly angry now.  I flung down my whip, pulled her off by my cock the hair, grasped her wrists, and hauled her to her feet.  Then I slammed her across the desk, pinning her down by the shoulders.  Still she didn’t stop teasing me.  Her hand reached down stroking my swollen cock, her legs wrapped themselves round me, she slid her whipped crotch towards me and her cunt enveloped my manhood like molten lava.  Her vaginal muscles tightened round it, and she flexed her cunt this way and that, toying with my swollen cock.

“Enjoy yourself, master,” she purred.  Her legs wrapped round me more tightly, pushing her tight, juicy hole right over me, down to my balls.

I was thrusting now, uncontrollably, thrusting deep inside her despite my anger, jerking her body rhythmically across the desk with each gigantic heave.  Thrust, thrust, thrust, thrust.

Then my anger was gone, I was shooting my load right up her, long and thick.  The release was heavenly.  I flopped across her, and as my gasping breath eased, I relaxed, and my conscience kicked back in…

“God, I’m, sorry,” I groaned, knowing that it was weak and inadequate.  “Why did you provoke me, you stupid girl?  I was so bloody angry.”

She smiled up at me and her voice was gentle, controlled, and warm.  She kissed me on the nose and then softly on the lips.

“Not to worry, master.  That’s what Heather’s here for.  Lady Shackles thought you might need a release, so she sent me to you.”

1. Confession

But relief and respite of the type Heather gave me is brief.  I awoke next morning to find her curled round me.  Her perfume was heavy and it started to arouse me, but as I ran my hands over her body, I felt the raised welts, and remembered.  Not only did my shame return, but also the reason for my fearful tirade.  Celia.  Now that the anger had gone, and only the fear of what she might do remained, none of Heather’s wiles and arts could distract me from it.  So I gruffly sent her downstairs to make my breakfast while I wondered what I could do.

I could simply turn and run with my tail between my legs — return to the world of monotonous grey, relentless health warnings, free credit checks, shoddy ethics, and increasingly perverse human rights.  Alternatively, I could fall in with Celia’s shabby little scheme — but I wasn’t prepared to give her that satisfaction.  I don’t think it was courage that decided me to remain and tough it out, nor stubbornness — though I’m a stubborn sod when I’m crossed.    Neither could I entirely persuade myself that I meant to do it for the sake of the villages.  If I’m honest, I did it for myself.  I liked living in Nether Slype, and I was damned if some dirty little moneygrubber was going to spoil it for me.

Therefore, I fled to the one person whom I could trust and who already knew the truth.

“So early in the morning?” quipped Ruth with a grin as she opened her cottage door.

“I’m not after that, Ruth.”

Her smile vanished.  Her perceptive eyes read the trouble in my face.  “Celia?”

“Celia.”

“You’d better come in.”

While she made me coffee, I told her all about my confrontation with Celia.

“Sounds as though you managed to get rid of her, though,” she said as she placed my steaming mug before me on the scrubbed kitchen table.

“But not for long, Ruth.  I made a lot of threats, and they have some substance to them.  As my agent, she’s contractually bound not to compromise my interests.  I could make a lot of trouble for her if she did.  I could sue her for very substantial damages, and she’d never work again in the book trade.  But she’d a devious and resourceful bitch, and she has friends of the same type.  Next thing you know, some grubby reporter will be skulking around after dark taking pictures through windows.  Celia will find an indirect way of making her point and her dirty money, and I won’t be able to stop her.”

“And you say she’s coming back in a fortnight?”

“So she says.  I’ve promised her a story.  I’m pretty sure she’ll be back for it, though I’ll fancy she’s come a day or two late, to rattle me, then try to start horse trading again.”

“But I thought you’d reached an agreement.”

I laughed.  “Celia’s agreements are like European Union referenda.  She keeps revisiting and revising them until she get’s the result she wants.  Once that happens the subject is closed for ever.  Still,” I added more soberly.  “On this occasion I can’t criticise because the sole purpose of my bargain was to stall her.  I’ve no intention of keeping to it either.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stop her, by fair means or foul.”

“How?”

“That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“Owen, we’re not all stupid,” said Ruth a little later, as we walked along the rain-sodden bridle path towards The Seven Stripes.  All the leaves were gone now, it would be Christmas soon, and I wondered what Nether Slype would be like in the snow come January and February.  “The villages cannot stay as they are forever.  Some are already saying that we must moderate, before there’s a terrible commotion and drastic change is forced on us.”

I snorted.  She didn’t know the half of it.  “Along with prosecutions, mass counselling, mental health workers crawling over you like lice, single-issue storm troopers manning every street corner, and God knows what else?  If Celia can’t be stopped, you’ll have all that and plenty more besides coming down on you from a great height before the year’s out.  Then the moneymen will take over and turn the three villages into a theme park.  A rural counterpart of the London Dungeon where we’ll all be portrayed in wax effigy, wielding thumbscrews, branding irons, and whips.  Even before that happens, we’ll be on the front pages of every newspaper in the land for months.  There will be books, television documentaries, even a shoddy drama or two, assuming Hollywood doesn’t buy up the right first.

“The villages will be overrun with sightseers and sex tourists.  Every third-rate politician and has-been celebrity will have to be photographed in front of The Seven Stripes looking suitably aghast.  All the children will be taken into care, and the adults who escape prison will find themselves performing seals in a tawdry zoo.  We’ll all be caricatured on mugs, tee shirts, mouse mats, ball pens and Christ knows what other trash.  You’ve no idea what a dirty, squalid, money-grubbing thing the public outrage is out there beyond the three villages.   And if you dig down through all the ordure, you’ll find Celia at the bottom of it.”

Ruth’s eyes were bright with horror.  She was an intelligent woman and she clearly had some idea of what the world was like outside the three villages, but even she hadn’t grasped the full grotesque hypocrisy of modern moral Puritanism.   “Surely it won’t be quite as bad as that!”

“Worse, Ruth.  Much, much worse.”

“So,” she said after a pause.  “You’ll have to steel yourself, my dear.”

I swallowed; I wasn’t quite sure what she was suggesting, but it sounded bloody ominous.  She took my arm and stroked it gently while she spoke.

“I’ll give you all the help and support I can, though I don’t know how much use it will be.  But you have no option.  You’ll have to go to Griselda Shackles.  You’ll have to tell her everything.”

I was sweating now.  “And what will she do?”

“To you?  That depends if the rumours are right.  They say she’s in love with you.”

I snorted.  “I think she likes to play a game of being in love with me,” and yet I knew that that wasn’t true.  Somewhere within her fanciful and bizarre mind, I was sure Griselda really did think she loved me.  But she’d also told me that she would put duty first.

“I hope it’s more than that.”  Ruth squeezed my arm more tightly.  “Throw yourself on her mercy.  Tell her you’re on her side.”

“And Celia?”

“I’m sure Lady Shackles can handle her. There have been other occurrences, you see.  Not many, but I can remember a handful of disappearances.”

I too remembered.  I remembered Griselda using the term sent away.  Flavius was going to be sent away, and I distinctly recalled her saying, you wouldn’t want to be sent away would you!  And I wouldn’t want to see you go.  But sent away where?  I had asked her but, as usual, she had adroitly sidestepped the question, and that sent a trickle of fear down my spine.

“Were they all sent away, Ruth?” I asked.  “The other disappearances?  Were they sent away?”

She sighed.  “That’s the term I’ve heard used.  Whispered.  No one talks of it openly.”

“Is there fear here?  Are people here afraid of being sent away?”

She put her head on one side and cogitated awhile.  “I wouldn’t say afraid.  We’re aware that we have to behave ourselves.  But so does everyone  — outside too, I imagine.”

Oh yes.  Heaven help anyone outside who spoke or wrote a word that might be construed, however incorrectly as sexist, or racist.  They could be persecuted, their careers ruined, for the slightest breach.  But they weren’t sent away, though many might have preferred to be.

Ruth was right.  I knew that despite the retribution that might lie in store for me, I would have to go and confess everything to Griselda.  She had already made the threat.  The question was: would she carry it out?  It would be bad enough to leave this place, strange as it was, and return to the grey puritanical world, but I feared that being sent away meant something much worse.

“Do they ever come back, Ruth?”  I asked.  “The ones who’ve been sent away?”

Her large dark eyes found mine, and they melted.  “No.  Never.”

She hugged kissed me when she left me to go into The Seven Stripes.  She had asked me if I wanted to her come with me, to hold my hand, but that would compromise us both, so I refused point blank.  I wanted to keep her out of it if I could.  Her eyes melted over me again, as though I were a soldier going of to war, and we might be parting for the last time.  I had seen newsreels of such partings, and now I knew what they felt like — the soldier going to the front; the woman waving and smiling bravely while tears flooded down her face.  I turned and started to retrace my steps home with heavy heart, meaning to collect my thoughts and my words before making my way up to the hall.

*****

“Owen!”

I turned, and to my surprise, I saw Griselda on Phallus, following me down the bridle path.  Her smile was sunny and she slowed to a walk when she drew level.  Clearly, she hadn’t seen me with Ruth.

“Sorry, but I couldn’t shout out darling, in case someone heard,” she said in a stage whisper, leaning down towards me from the high saddle.  “But I shall soon, shan’t I?”

She hugged herself eagerly and giggled at the thought while I tried to raise a smile, and miserably failed.  Then her brows creased a moment and she jumped down.

“Anything the matter, darling?” she enquired, looking right and left before taking my arm.  “You look so glum.”

I stirred dead leaves with my toe.  “Well . . . .”

Her look of concern deepened.  “Don’t tell me you didn’t like my present!”

“I liked it very much,” I mumbled, trying to persuade myself that it was the thought that counted, and I had to admit to myself that I’d enjoyed whipping Heather, and shagging her afterwards, though Ruth was still more to my taste.  But my eyes were sliding over Griselda now, over her large heaving bust that was pushing open the neck of her hacking jacket, her finely developed horsewoman’s bottom, even the two teeth slightly overhanging her pouting lower lip.  I fancied her much more than I ever had before. I didn’t just want to whip her fine muscular bottom and make it wriggle.  I didn’t just want to shag her, take charge of her, and master her.  There was more to it than that.  For, eccentric as she undoubtedly was, I realised that compared with all the Celias of the world, and even the Heathers, she was a treasure.  I realised that however screwy she was, she was real, and genuine in her affections, she believed what she said, no matter how strangely she expressed it.

“And you won’t fall in love with the girl, will you!” she warned me archly.  “Because I’ll be very cross if you do.  She’s meant for your relaxation, nothing more.”

“What?  Heather?  No!  I’ve always preferred the more mature woman myself.”

“Really?”  She put her hand on her heart and gasped.  “You haven’t gone off me then?  I’d die if you went off me.  Really I would.”

“No, Griselda.  I haven’t gone off you,” I said, wondering why a woman so desperate to win my affection should send me another as a casual gift.  And how would her affection weather the tale I had to tell her.  Would love conquer all, or would she, like so many of the old school she was a relict of, put duty before all, as she had already indicated she would?  Now that I had reached my Rubicon, and I stood on the brink of perhaps losing everything, my freedom, perhaps even my life, my desire to get inside Griselda’s knickers overwhelmed me.

It occurred to me that one way out of my problem would be to master her, dominate her utterly, and dictate terms, as perhaps only I, her chosen lover, could.  Yet I knew there was no certainty of succeeding.  Hidden beneath that gushing, goofy surface was steel.  This was the woman who’d incarcerated her husband, for God’s sake.  This was the woman who had thrashed Ginny, the woman who sent people away.  I was still unclear as to precisely what that meant, but reason told me that it wasn’t pleasant.

“What then, darling?” she was asking, her eyes bright and watery with concern.  “Look.  I’m sorry I whipped your girl, but I was so cross.  Please forgive me.”  She glanced right and left again, and popped a wet kiss onto the tip of my nose.  “Please?”

It tickled and I almost laughed, despite myself.  After all, how could I criticise her for whipping Ginny?  Hadn’t I whipped Heather in the same fashion, because I too was angry?  That was where Nether Slype was different.  The people there weren’t monsters, or deviants.  They were just allowed to follow inclinations that so many outside shared, but were obliged to deny.

“Something’s the matter,” Griselda was saying, hugging me close.  “It doesn’t matter.  You can tell me.  I do love you, you know.  Really I do.”

How could she?  How could she truly love me?  And yet . . . .  “Can I come up to the hall later, and we’ll talk?” I asked hesitantly.

“Of course you can, darling.”  Something of her old coquettishness glimmered through the anxiety; she brushed my lapel with her hands.  “But you must promise to behave yourself and not take advantage of me.  Remember, we’re not married yet.”

Nor ever will be, I thought, unless you really do love me, and can forgive my grievous fault.  For the first time I prayed that she did love me.

*****

“Look, Griselda,” I said later, when we were ensconced on the sofa in her office, before a roaring fire.  This was the room where I had first met her, first masqueraded before her as Owen Flaythm, and a small voice told me — I don’t know why — that she had decided that we would talk here, rather than in her drawing room, for a reason.

I looked down at my hands and they trembled.  “I’m afraid I have a terrible confession to make, and a warning to give you.”

“Make your confession first, darling,” she said, sliding close and threading her hand through my arm.  “That way, I can forgive you first, and then you can warn me about whatever it is you want to warn me about.”  She smiled eagerly.  “So why don’t you make your confession?  After all, I already know what it is . . . Owen.  Or should I say, Peter?”

My mouth fell open and I stared at her like a loon.

“I knew you were an imposter from the outset,” she said still sitting close, with her hand threaded confidingly through my arm.  “The council didn’t.  They were just unsure, so they insisted that they keep an eye on you for a while.  That wasn’t my doing, but entirely theirs.  But I knew for sure that you weren’t Owen Flaythm, though I never said so, and I always trusted you.”

I looked at her and blinked.  Had she built a charade of love to counter my charade?  But why?

“How did you know?” I asked, dry mouthed.

“Oh, easy.  For a start, you looked nothing like any of your alleged Flaythm ancestors — we have whole corridors of portraits here — though you might have taken after your mother, of course.

“But you also answered the description of a man who enquired of Gripes, my land agent, if he might buy a cottage.  Gripes is a miserable cuss who knows how to keep the inquisitive away, but this man was uniquely insistent and asked for Lord Shackles’ address.  You might not remember, but when Gripes asked you if you had any family here, you replied with an emphatic No.”

I didn’t know where to put my face.  I couldn’t recall the estate agent asking the question, but I had no doubt that he had done so.

Griselda squeezed my hand.  “Then, low and behold, a few weeks later, up popped Owen Flaythm, either the man who’d made the earlier enquiry, or his double.”

I smiled sheepishly.  I had thought I was so clever, fooling her.

“Then, of course,” she added gently, “there was your mistake over Captain Rickett Flaythm.”  She giggled and popped a kiss on my burning neck.  “That was my little trick, I’m afraid.  You see, the admirable captain never held Admiral Shackles’ coat, but was in irons for opposing the admiral’s use of the patent flogger.  As captain of the ship, he was within his rights too.  At the subsequent court martial, he was exonerated, and the admiral was cashiered in disgrace.  It took fifty years for the bad feeling between the Shackles and the Flaythms to heal.  A Flaythm, who’d heard his family history from his grandfather, would have known that.”

“Not necessarily,” I countered weakly.

She merely snorted at the idea and jumped up.  She was a magnificently athletic woman, I noticed.

“Do you want to know what a Flaythm looks like?” she asked.

I was in a maze.  “What?”

She swept her arm round, indicating the rows of chinless ancestors all round the walls.

My mouth fell open.  “But they’re yours.”

“So they are, but they’d have been yours too.  You see, after the Rickett Flaythm incident the families fell out, so badly that they couldn’t meet without cutting each other dead.  And so it persisted until my great-great-great-grandfather Beowulf Shackles married Ernestina Flaythm in 1851.  So, you see, my darling, that it is I who has the Flaythm chin, the Flaythm nose, the Flaythm deep upper lip.”

“And could grow a magnificent moustache,” I murmured absently up at Admiral Shackles and his monstrous pile of steak tartare, hanging above me on the wainscot.  “What about him?  Do you really admire him so much?”

“Ah!”  She flung herself down next to me again and started stroking my inner thigh.  “You see, being a descendant of both Admiral Shackles and Captain Flaythm, I can take a disinterested stance.  I am not partisan, but I have to confess that I greatly respect the captain’s courage.  I admire courage above all things, Owen.”

“And the Admiralty’s spinelessness?”

She laughed.  “Your face was a picture when I extolled the virtues of the patent flogger.  I almost gave myself away. “

“But you’re not averse to whips, Griselda,” I countered carefully.

“Perhaps not, but I’ve never flogged anyone to death, nor would I.  But consider: If every captain had been as ruthless as Admiral Shackles had, there would have been no navy left within a very short while.  No one to work the ships, at least. “

“So why do you keep the picture by your desk, and that awful flogger?”

“To remind me of the price of excess.  Drastic measures are sometimes necessary and one should not baulk employing them when they are.  That’s a lesson so many outside have forgotten: pragmatism before all.”

I looked at her anew.  Even her horsiness and goofiness was part of the old England I had sought to recapture.  And with it came the old pragmatism.  They hanged and flogged in old England, but within the bounds of pragmatism.

“As if reading my thoughts, she added.  “We do what we must, my darling, but only what we must.”

“Including thrashing wives and whipping girls like Ginny and Heather?” I asked, for her justifications did not seem to entirely stack up.

“Nothing is without its price.  There are greater evils outside than here.  We have had no murder for two hundred years, no suicide for three hundred, no muggings or burglaries.  We have no loneliness or despair, no alcoholics or drug addicts, very few broken families, no homeless children, no unemployment, and our old people are well looked after within their families and the greater community family.  We have our quirks, our faults, and many outside would consider us dangerously odd.  We practise the old disciplines, perhaps to excess.  Life here is far from perfect, but it has great blessings too.  And if we gave up the quirks, and the occasional injustices, I fear we would lose the blessings with them.  That is my fear and my justification.”

We sat together in companionable silence for a couple of minutes.  She had stopped groping my thigh now, and we were holding hands.  I felt closer to her for that.

“Did I make any other mistakes?” I asked at last.

She shrugged.  “Not a mistake exactly, but once I knew you were Rupert Butler, I checked up on him and found that his real name was Peter Jenkins, published by Littlegood through his agents Merridew and Trollope.  He’s been resident in the UK all his life, and he’s very reclusive, but his few shadowy public-domain photographs bear a startling resemblance to you, my darling.”

Indeed, telling her I was Rupert Butler had been a mistake, but the big question remained.  “Then why did you allow me to come?  Why didn’t you just send me away?”

“Oh, that’s easy.”  She smiled directly into my startled eyes and blushed.  “Because I fell in love with you at first sight, silly.  Chemistry.  At least, that’s what they call it.  I knew you didn’t love me, of course — how could you?  But I hoped you might grow to.  And I believed your reasons for wanting to live here were deep and genuine.  At least the man who’d visited Gripes seemed desperate to live here.

“I knew you might be dangerous, but I was prepared to take the risk.  I behaved foolishly when we first met.  I’m a terribly frustrated woman, you see, and you drove me right over the edge — I couldn’t contain myself.  Were I a beautiful woman, you’d have lapped it up.  I’m not, so I kept my distance for a while, hoping to start again, more sensibly.  But every time I met you, I lost control again.  I kept reverting to an oversexed teenage girl.  You press my button, Owen, like no one else ever has.”

“Peter.  My name’s Peter.”

She emphatically shook her head.  “No!  It’s Owen.  You are Owen Flaythm now, and will be for so long as you behave yourself and remain.”  She hugged me more closely.  “That’s not my threat, my dear.  I don’t make the rules here, though I have influence.  The council makes them.  A few years ago, I had hoped that a new generation of councillors might realise that we had to moderate our lifestyle here, that we couldn’t go on as we do forever without consequences.  But the reverse has happened.  They’ve dug their heads into the sand as small minds do when threatened with inevitability.  They’ve even reversed some of the moderating decisions their fathers made.  So I need allies, Owen.  I need allies if we’re going to salvage anything here.”

She looked deeply into my eyes, and I saw she was pleading.  “But that’s not the only reason I want you to stay.  I’m desperately in love with you.  I know you’re not in love with me but—”

“I’m becoming very fond of you, Griselda

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know, but . . . .”

I had meant to play up to her, make preposterous overture to her on the mistaken assumption that she was essentially silly and believed her own nonsense.  But I now realised that would be a mistake.  Griselda was no one’s fool, and moreover, I realised that I liked her, despite her violent streak and her love of whips.  And the better I knew her the more I liked her.  I would miss Ruth if I went away, but for some strange unfathomable reason, I would miss Griselda more.  But I knew I would have to be honest with her and not overplay my hand, the hand that was now stealing its way round her shoulder and drawing her closer.

“You’re a one-off, Griselda,” I said.  “I’ve known a lot of women and I’ve bedded a fair number — and some very attractive ones at that.  But I’ve never met one quite like you.  Added to which, you have a magnificent bust.”

She kissed my ear and giggled.  “That was honest at least. Would you like to feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“My magnificent bust.  I know you’ve always liked it.  You ogled it when we first met.  But you can only put your hand inside my blouse.  You’ll have to give me greater assurances before you get inside my bra?”

“What about your knickers?”

“Greater assurances still.  I’m prepared to give you everything I have, my darling — but not for nothing.  You won’t get a one night stand out of me.”

“You’re a sensible and intelligent woman too,” I said unbuttoning her blouse and sliding my hand across her bra cup until I found her nipple and rolled it between finger and thumb.

“So,” she said, purring as her nipple hardened, and stroking my inner thigh so that I hardened too.  “What’s this warning you have to give me?”

I told Griselda all about Celia.  Every detail.  At the outset, I tried to play down Ruth’s part in it, but it soon became clear that Griselda believed Ruth had handled the situation well.  We agreed to meet again several days hence, the three of us, and formulate a plan.  It was clear that we would have to ambush and apprehend Celia.  It was also clear that we would have to find out whom else she might have apprised of her fraud, and where she might have concealed evidence.

“Once we know,” said Griselda crisply, “we have agencies who can deal with it.”

“The same agencies that take people away?”

She looked away.  “Their close cousins, at least.”

“And where do they go, Griselda?  The people who are sent away?”

She shrugged, and immediately, I felt a distance grow between us.  “Far away,” she said at last. “Where no one will ever find them.  I don’t know on an instance-by-instance basis — I’d rather not.  Even Flavius has his price, you know.  You’ve no idea how much some Arabs will pay for an English milord — even a limp-pricked wonder like Flavius.  I’ve wanted to be rid of him for years.  All I need is an excuse to be rid of him, and this Celia might provide the expedient I’ve been looking for.  I wouldn’t want to give them the real reason why he so disgusts me.”

“Which is?”

She pulled a face.  “It’s too disgusting for words.”

“Go on.  I assume it has something to do with the girls you send down there.”

“Yes but it’s not what you think.  He doesn’t whip them.  That’s just talk.    Flavius likes urine and scat, dear.  He likes to use the girls as his toilet, and when he’s suitably anointed them, and smeared it all over them, he likes them to fellate him.  It’s the only thing that gives him an erection, you see.  On our first night be told me his requirements.  I refused.  So he whipped me, tied me spread-eagled on the bed, and used me as his lavatory.  That gave him an erection, which he promptly stuck down my throat — all twelve inches of it — and almost asphyxiated me.  He went to the dungeon next morning, and he’s stayed there ever since.”

My stomach churned.  “And is that what he does to the girls?”

“Not quite.  He’s chained.  He can’t overpower them or ram his thing down their throats as he did to me.  We have a few girls who aren’t too fussy what he smears on them, and they’re happy to suck him off provided they’re well paid — and I do pay them well.  But Flavius is an animal.  I’m desperate to be shot of him.”

I could see her point of view.

She warned me that extracting the information from Celia might prove unpleasant — and I knew that unpleasant by Nether Slype standards would be very unpleasant indeed — but she claimed there was no choice in the matter and I couldn’t demur.  I knew what she meant.  I knew that the methods used to extract information would be extreme if Celia didn’t cooperate.  But I had few qualms about that.  Celia was prepared to destroy any number for her dirty money, besides, I’ve always believed that whatever comeuppance blackmailers, extortionists and their like receive, is their just deserts.  Even so, Celia’s punishment, when it came, was draconian by any standard.

1. Celia’s ordeal

I threw myself into my work, but the calendar was always in the corner of my eye.  The days dragged but, even so, the fortnight gradually ran its inevitable course.

But Celia didn’t come to my door when the time had finally expired.  The days dripped past, like a slow irritating tap: fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and I began to wonder if she would come at all.  I hoped that she had maybe decided to shelve her money-spinner, but I wasn’t sanguine about that.  More likely she’d found some other way and even now she was out there in the dark, with a new accomplice, probably some shabby reporter, photographing, making notes.  We had men staked out in the woods all round the village, more men at both ends of my lane, and others round the back in the footpath and the bridle path, but the type of creature Celia would use would have a nose for that sort of surveillance.  I wondered whether we shouldn’t simply have placed men in the house to apprehend her when she arrived, assuming she did come.  It was seventeen days now.

I tried to concentrate on my work.  As we’d agreed, I left lights on in my working room only, and the curtains were slightly parted so anyone spying on the house would see me working alone.  Somehow I didn’t imagine Celia would stand out in the lane, looking in.  She would be more subtle; she would take me by surprise.

There was a harsh rapping at the front door.  I jumped up.  I had expected her to creep round the back.  When I opened it, it was to one of Griselda’s senior foresters.

“We’ve got her, Mr Flaythm, sir.  She’s on her way to the hall now.  You’re to follow.”

I took a deep breath.  It was a relief in a way, but I knew it would also be a trial.  I stuck my chin out.

“Right.  Let’s go.”

They had taken her downstairs, not to the dungeons, I was told, but to the cellars where they had a room equipped for interrogation.  We descended stone steps, and walked purposefully along a narrow, stone-walled and stone-flagged passage with heavy studded doors on either side of us.  It was like a scene from a Spanish Inquisition film I had seen years before.

The interrogation room did nothing to dispel the memory of the film.  I noticed immediately that there were some manacles attached to a wall, and several suspension chains on pulleys hung from the ceiling, though at present the ends of these were gathered neatly in wall rings.  In the centre of the room stood a large table, heavily built like a carpenter’s bench, with restraint straps fixed to the four corners.  It was December now, and a fire roared in the huge fireplace.  I noticed that several irons were thrust into the flames.  For effect surely.

As I entered, I saw Celia sitting in a chair with a heavy guard on either side of her.  Thwacks was busying himself with a decanter of sherry and some glasses.  Griselda stood by the fire, clad in boots, jodhpurs and hacking jacket, her back to Celia.  As I watched, she stooped and withdrew one of the irons.  Its tip glowed red.  She spat on it and it hissed for a brief second.

“You’ll answer our questions one way or the other,” she was saying calmly, as if in a dream.  “Be sensible and make it easy on yourself.  Once we start extracting answers, we won’t stop until we’re completely satisfied with them, and then we’ll carry on a while longer . . . just to be absolutely sure.  You won’t like that, Celia.  Really you won’t.”

Celia snorted.  “What’s this — the village pantomime?  You bumpkins really don’t think you can frighten me, do you!”

Griselda replaced the iron and walked slowly back to Celia’s chair, when she stooped over her, her hands firmly placed on its arms.  “Stupid woman!  What can I do to make you understand the gravity of your predicament?”

Celia laughed now.  She had clearly not been abused in any way — not yet.  She was in a tweed skirt and thorn proof jacket, all elegantly tailored by the look of them.  Nothing was scuffed, torn, or muddied, except for her boots.  Her makeup was unsmeared, not a hair of her head was out of place.  Perhaps they should have knocked her about a bit when they were bringing her here, I thought.  That would have stripped away some of her cockiness.

“Get over yourself you horse-faced bitch,” she laughed directly into Griselda’s face.  “I already have you for assault and false imprisonment.  I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got.  I’ll have this crumbling dump, your poxy village, the lot and turn it into a theme park, and I’ll hire all your dumb yokels to perform for the crowds.  I’ll make millions.”

“Yes, fine,” replied Griselda wearily, standing and walking away.  “In the meantime we want the names of anyone you’ve divulged your discoveries to.  The locations of any relevant documents and photographs—”

“Go toss yourself on your dildo, horsey!”

“Complete with access passwords—”

Celia sighed.  “Oh, fuck off, you plummy cunt!”

Griselda stepped forwards, stooped, and placed her hands once more on the arms of Celia’s chair.  She leaned right forward into her prisoner, so that their faces almost touched.

“You’ve had your say, lady.  Now I’ll have mine.  We’re not interested in your career and your fortune, but only with protecting our way of life, which you have threatened for your own pecuniary ends.  Owen cautioned you not to proceed—”

“Owen!” scoffed Celia, but Griselda took no notice.

“Owen cautioned you not to proceed, but your greed was unstoppable.  You have been arrested in the act of commissioning a crime against us that we deem unforgivable.  Whatever you might think of us, we have done you no harm.”

“No,” sneered Celia — she had guts for sure.  “But what about the beaten women, the—”

“Save your sermonising for the gutter press!” scathed Griselda.  “Your pious morals run no deeper than your greasy pocket or the bubble celebrity you hoped to achieve.  You’d sell any man, woman, or child if the price was right, and we both know it, so for God’s sake don’t bore us with your infantile preaching.    You would have destroyed us for gain, paltry gain, and you leave us with no choice but to destroy you instead.   We have laws that have stood for centuries. You will be tried, but before you are, your confession will be required.  If you’re wise, you’ll write your confession now, and sign it.  If you’re a fool, you’ll try our patience and we’ll extract the confession the hard way.  I’ll give you one opportunity to answer.  Which is it to be?”

“Stupid, pony cunt!” sneered Celia.  “Go shag your fucking horse!” Then she hawked and spat in Griselda’s face.  Griselda recoiled backwards as if she’d been struck across the face.  She hovered above her prisoner for a moment, wiping away the spittle with a small lace handkerchief. Then she turned to the men and her face was stone.

“Strip her!”

I stood impotently and watched as the men do it.  They did it the easy way.  One pinioned her while the other took a large pair of what looked like sheep-shears and cut up the front of her skirt and through her belt, and then up the front of the jacket.  The skirt fell away and the jacket hung open from her shoulders.  He then ripped off her tights and knickers in two seconds, so ruthlessly that her legs left the ground.  Taking the neck of her sweater, he ripped that down over her shoulders with such force that it tore down the sternum.  Feeling inside for her bra and wrenched it out so that it snapped in the middle.  The other man pushed her forwards and pulled away the tattered remains of her jacket, sweater and bra.  Despite her frantic struggles, she was naked in less than fifteen seconds.  She tried to cover her pussy and tits with her hands, but these were pulled away and forced behind her back.

All the while, she screamed obscenities.  As a writer, I’ve always loathed the descent into verbal obscenity, not from prudishness, but because of its sheer stultifying monotony.

“You fucking cunts!” she screamed.  “You fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking cunts!  Let me go you cunts!  You fucking cunts!”  And so on and so on, though it was amusing to see how easily the veneer of urbane sophistication was stripped from Celia, along with her clothes.

“Strap her on the table!” snapped Griselda, as soon as Celia was naked.

One man seized her thrashing ankles, the other held her arms pinioned, and they swung her up onto the table.  She fought like a fury but they were far too strong for her.  One held her ankles hard down on the bench top while the other restrained her wrists with two straps that were already fastened to the wood near the corners.  Then they took an ankle each and strapped those to the bench corners too, leaving her spread-eagled.

“You can go!” said Griselda imperiously, looking away.  The men nodded towards her and obediently left, leaving Celia naked and writhing impotently on the bench top.

I noticed that her blonde pubic hair was cut in a Brazilian.  I remember being mildly surprised.  I’d assumed that she shaved it, though I hadn’t thought of it much — I’d never fancied the bitch.  Nevertheless, I couldn’t resist wandering across to the table and stroking it, not for any sexual pleasure, for I felt none, but because of the power it gave me over her helplessness.  She tried to spit at me too, but her mouth was dry.  I saw from here eyes that she was terrified now.

“How the hell are you going to get away with this you demented fucking throwbacks!” she was screaming, squirming, trying and failing again to spit in my face.  “God, I’ll sue you for this you fucking cunts.  I’ll fucking sue for fucking millions I will, you fucking cunts.”

Meanwhile, I heard a deferential cough at my elbow.

“Sherry, sir — er, before we start.”

I turned to see Thwacks at my elbow, proffering a silver tray on which stood two glasses.

I took mine and he offered the other to Griselda, who threw it back with one gulp and then stared hard at it, as though it were the useless end of a broken lifeline.  Then she looked up into my face and here own was ashen.

From outside my fiend of vision, Thwacks coughed again, not deferentially this time but insistently.  Griselda shivered and seemed momentarily paralysed.  She seemed to have shrunk, and I realised her true position here.  She was not in charge, but merely a figurehead, acting as the council expected her too, according to the laws the council had passed.  She had been acting on those laws when she took steps to apprehend and arrest Celia.  And whatever she did now, she would do under those same orders.

I gently took the empty glass from her hand and replaced it with my own full one.

“Here,” I said gently.  “Drink this too.”

She looked at the glass, and then at me once more, and I saw that she realised I understood.  It seemed to bring her back to life.

“Thanks, Owen.”

She knocked back the drink and blew.  “Carry on, Thwacks!” she barked, much as I imagined Admiral Lord Shackles would have done.  But instead of looking on, she turned abruptly away…

Thwacks laid down the tray and took a long wooden box from one of the shelves.  Carrying it across to the bench, he laid it on between Celia’s struggling feet.  He opened it and retrieved a long needle, like a knitting needle, highly burnished with a slender, tapering point.  I imagined that it was not only viciously sharp, but also incredible strong.  He walked to the head of the bench and held the thing before Celia’s horrified eyes.

“No!” she screamed.  “No!”

Her breasts were quite small, but well-shaped and firm, standing up like two conical hillocks crowned with brown autumnal trees.  With his free hand, Thwacks seized the left one by the nipple and pulled it vertically so it stretched, as you stretch a balloon before inflating it.

“Get off my tits you randy fucking cunt!” yelled Celia.

Thwacks ignored her.  With the precision and detachment of a man decanting port, he inserted the long needle into Celia’s left breast, through the aureole, just behind the nipple.  She screamed.

“AAAAAAARGH!”

While she screamed and writhed pointlessly against her restraint, I watched the punctured breast with fascination.  The skin on the nearer side of her aureole started to pucker and erupt to a blunt point.  Then, with a piercing scream from Celia, it burst and the needle emerged from it.  Celia left breast was pierced right through, now.  Still she thrashed and screamed.

“AAAAAAARGH!  AAAAAAARGH!  AAAAAAARGH!  Pull it out you sadistic fucking cunt!  AAAAAAARGH!  AAAAAAARGH!”

Thwacks ignored her utterly.  With slow deliberation, he walked round the head of the table, seized Celia’s right breast by the nipple and stretched it vertically too.  Slowly and precisely he inserted the needle through the right aureole, also just behind the nipple.  Celia was shrieking like a mad thing now, her whole body thrashing against her restraints.

Foolishly, I thought that was the end of the softening up and Griselda would now start the interrogation.  I watched her as she stood like a statue, her back to the table, her arms folded tight, as if she was cast in bronze and unable to move.  Surely, she would step forward now and start bawling questions.  But Celia’s torment was only starting.

Thwacks went back to the box.  He took out two pierced rings with wing nuts.  One he attached to the sharp end of the needle, above the tapering point, so that Celia’s punctured and quivering breasts couldn’t slip off the sharp end.  The other, I noticed, was slotted.  He snapped it onto the very centre of the needle, equidistant between the two swelling nipples and turned the wing nut, locking it tight.  Walking slowly to the wall, he freed one the suspension chains from its tether and attached the end of it to the ring at the needle’s centre.  Reaching out, he grasped a pulley rope and pulled.

Celia’s back spasmed and arched as the pulley stretched her punctured breasts skywards.

“AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH!”

Tethered to the corers of the bench, her spread-eagled hands and feet scrabbled desperately to gain a purchase on the smooth wooden surface.   She wasn’t screaming now; her head was thrown back, her mouth was open like a landed fish’s, her lips reaching, as if for air, and she was breathing in low moaning gasps.

Thwacks now returned to his box and withdrew another, much smaller box of black plastic with some leads and plugs attached.  He inserted a small plug into the needle’s blunt, bulbous end, and the other he plugged into the wall socket.  He snapped a switch on the black box.

I expected to see a violent, jerking reaction as electric current surged through Celia’s breasts, but there was no immediate change.  Seconds ticked by.  Celia twitched and whimpered, her back arched, her hands and feet pitifully scrabbling to relieve her mutilated breasts of their cruel tension.  Then, as I watched, the panting became more bovine, Celia’s hands and feet scrabbled ever more frantically at the wooden surface, as if for life itself, and I saw that the needle’s bright slender surface was growing dull.  Bloody hell, I thought.  It’s heating up.  Celia’s stomach muscles flexed now with a grisly gyrating rhythm, her whole abdomen rolling like an expert belly dancer, only belly dancers don’t pant and scream so.

“AAAAAAGH — AAAAAAGH — AAAAAAGH — AAAAAAGH!”

For with the heat she had found her voice again.  Much as I loathed the bitch, I had to grit my teeth to endure that terrible screaming.

Still her heels drummed on  the bench top as she strained to spread her thighs wide as she could, as if giving birth, trying desperately to bend her knees and get some purchase on the table with her feet — anything to take some weight from her stretched and burning breasts.  It seemed she couldn’t spread her legs wide enough.  She jerked her wide-open vulva into the air like a shameless, desperate whore, only whores don’t scream like that, even when they’re getting a thrashing.  But if I expected to see her breasts sizzling on the red-hot poker, I was to be disappointed for a moment.

“Switch it off!  Let her down!” snapped Griselda, jerking round, as if from a trance.

Without a single facial muscle twitching, Thwacks bowed deeply.  He walked slowly to the black box and snapped the switch, and grasping the suspension chain, he lowered Celia to the bench top, where she lay gasping and groaning.

Griselda looked down at her dispassionately, but I could see that her face was grey.

“Let her recover her breath and her wits,” she said.  “In the meantime, we’ll have another drink.  God knows I need one.”

We didn’t speak as we drank our sherry; in fact, we avoided each other’s eyes now.  I’ve since learned since that in this situation you do.  There can be no small talk in a torture chamber while the necessary work is being done, not unless you’re completely hardened to it.  Griselda wasn’t.  I could see that from her stony expression, and I noticed that her hand shook.  It was a necessary duty for her and the sherry was a comfort for her, not a ghoulish embellishment.  She had the stomach for Celia’s torture — just about, but she derived no relish from it.  I suppose, if I’m honest, I enjoyed seeing Celia squirm, at the outset at least.  How I loathed the evil bitch!  And for that reason too I couldn’t meet Griselda’s eye.  This was different from the sort of spanking and whipping that was common currency in nether Slype; this was brutal, mediaeval.  Yet from small acorns do great oak trees grow.  If you spank your wife for mowing over the cowslips, what do you do to serious and dangerous offenders?  I remembered thinking that as I watched the man in the garden, relentlessly strapping his wife’s bare and quivering bottom.  Now I was finding out.

Griselda finished her sherry and walked across to the bench like a woman in a dream.  She stood there for a moment gazing down at her victim with pity.

“Look,” she said in as reasonable a voice as she could muster, though it wobbled all the same.  “Agree to tell us what we want to know and the pain will stop.  Understand?  This can stop now if you see sense.  Refuse, and it will get worse.  Believe me, it can get a lot worse, and you will tell us in the end.  You must see that resistance is useless.  Well?”

Celia’s eyes rotated glassily, her mouth worked but no sound came.  I had no idea what was going on in her reeling mind.

“Take your time,” said Griselda.  “I don’t want to hurt you more than I must.  Just give me some sign that you will cooperate.”

Celia’s mouth worked as though trying to summon spittle, but she had none to spit.  So she clenched her teeth for a mighty effort.

“FUCKING, FUCKING, FUCKING CUNT!”

She was mad.  The torture had driven her mad.   I knew she was stubborn but this was lunacy.  Griselda turned to me, and I could see from the pain in her eyes that she wanted the torture to stop but couldn’t stop it until Celia talked.

I too stepped up to the bench and stood beside her.  “For God’s sake, Celia,” I muttered, despite myself.  “Do yourself a favour.  Talk.  Resistance is useless.”

“HORSEFUCKING CUNTS!”

I sighed; Griselda sighed and seemed to crumble.  Whatever was done to Celia now, she’d well and truly brought it on herself.

Griselda turned away, and poured her own sherry now, her back to the bench, and downed it with a noisy slurp.

“Carry on, Thwacks!” she said woodenly.

Yet if Griselda loathed what she had to do, Thwacks didn’t.  He remained every inch the butler, and his face was impassive, but I glanced at his eyes.  They glinted with relish and the tip of his tongue slicked across his dry-as-dust lips, moistening them.

“Ma’am,” he bowed.

He returned to his box and withdrew another shorter and more slender needle. Griselda and I were standing at the foot of the table and we clearly saw him reach down into Celia’s crotch, push his finger into the vulva and stroke up her clitoris.  Griselda flinched and turned away.  Celia groaned, though whether from pleasure, pain, or ghastly anticipation, I’m not sure, but she shrieked like a banshee as he took her clitoris between his fingernails and inserted the needle behind it.

“If we sell her to the Arabs, ma’am,” he observed casually.  “It will at least save them the trouble of circumcising her.”

Griselda visibly shuddered.  “For pity’s sake just do it!” she snapped.  “Get it over with!”

Thwacks remained inscrutable but his eyes glinted again.  “Ma’am.”

I knew that the bastard was loving every minute of it.  Was this why Griselda hated him so?  I watched the deliberate slowness with which he plugged the lead attached to the shorter needle into the small box, the way he lingered before seizing the pulley, stretching Celia’s breasts towards the ceiling again, and clicking the switch.

This time, we didn’t have long to wait before the terrible screaming tore the air.  As Celia writhed, her arched body twisting in mid air, the needles canted this way and that, like rowboat tossed in a storm, her elastic smouldering breasts twisted and stretched as though she was desperately trying to rip them off their slender burning shaft, and lower down her crotch gyrated and pulled at the shorter needle in the same way — anything to be rid of the agony.   Small coils of smoke started to rise, and with them the savoury smell of roasting meat.  Never before had that smell of cooking so sickened me.

While she thrashed and screamed, the needles started to glow red.  Thwacks turned to us and inquired discreetly.  “More sherry, ma’am, sir?”

Griselda flinched away from him, gritting her teeth.  “For pity’s sake!”

I too declined, but unlike Griselda’s, my eyes were riveted to the obscene contorting thing on the bench.  Celia twisted impossibly in air like a pitchforked serpent as she danced her obscene limbo dance on the bench top. She’d had screamed herself hoarse.  Now she was bellowing like a stag, but no stag ever bellowed like Celia did.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

“How long does this go on for?” I asked Thwacks, unable to tear my tear my eyes away from the horror.

“Until the good lady decides to be reasonable, sir,” he answered impeccably, and without emotion, as a butler ought, and he dusted a mote of dust from his black tailcoat sleeve.  “But if I may say so, sir, I don’t think she’ll inconvenience you for very much longer.”

Celia evacuated her bladder now.  Such were her contortions that the golden rain showered and fell all over the bench and the floor.  Griselda fled to a far corner of the room and I followed, but Thwacks, the fastidious butler, pulled a distressed face, set down the sherry bottle, donned pair of yellow rubber gloves, and started to mop it up with a large sponge.  The screaming became unbearable, the stench became unbearable, and every time Celia drew breath, I could hear her breasts sizzling horrible.  I felt sick.  Griselda covered her ears and sagged against the wall for support.  I put out my hand to support her but she irritably knocked it away.

“Not now, Owen!”

Meanwhile, Thwacks drew close and coughed.   We could only just hear his voice above the inhuman screaming and the hiss of burning flesh.  “Excuse my interrupting, ma’am, sir, but I think the lady is trying to tell us that she’s ready to cooperate now.”

Griselda shut her eyes with immense relief and drew her hand across her eyes.  “Yes, yes, for pity’s sake.  Switch the wretched thing off and let her down.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

The men came back in and took Celia off the table.  She hung between them like a doll, her face expressionless, as if the woman had already fled elsewhere, and only the charred throbbing flesh remained.  Her nipples and aureoles were scarred, black, and swollen right out of shape, and her crotch still quivered uncontrollably and she struggled to keep her thighs as wide as possible, for she could not bear the pain of closing her legs.

“You understand, madam,” said Thwacks a little later, after they had lashed Celia to a St Andrew’s cross, “that your ordeal so far has been contrived simply to make certain parts of your body receptive to persuasion.  For example . . . . “

He reached down between her legs.  I saw his fingers go up into her crotch as she whimpered and struggled.  Suddenly, the fingers gave a tremendous jerk.  Celia leapt against her bonds and screamed her lungs out.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

I felt Griselda flinch at my side, but she said nothing.  Thwacks turned to us.  “I think the lady has regained her voice and is receptive to persuasion, ma’am, sir.”

Griselda put down her riding crop and when she addressed Celia, I could see that her face was drained of colour.  “Now!  Let’s get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.”  She swallowed and her lips trembled.  “You know by now what we are prepared to do.  If you refuse to satisfactorily answer out questions, I shall order the men to put you back on the bench again.  So in your own best interests, cooperate.  Please cooperate.  Understood.”

Celia groaned, her hanging mouth gaped, her eyes were dead and glazed, her chest laboured, and her breasts, recently so ripe and shapely, hung limp like dead, blackened meat about her lower ribs.  She was scarcely recognisable as the cocky woman who had strutted into my house with demands two-and-a-half weeks previously.

“Now,” said Griselda briskly.  “We need the names of any other person you have told about your discoveries here.

“Peter.”  The word was only just recognisable.

“You mean Owen.”

“Yes, yes. Whatever.”  She whimpered.  “Please stop the pain.”

Griselda licked her lips.  “All in good time.  Who else?”

“No one.  Please.”

“I said, who else!”

“No one, I swear.  Please.  I swear.  Pleeeease!”

Thwacks stepped forward again.  When she saw him approaching her, Celia started to struggle against the bonds.  Griselda turned away and her face was ghastly.  Celia screamed even before Thwacks touched her, but when her reached down into her crotch, took her swollen clitoris between his finger and thumb, and squeezed, she howled like a woman possessed.

“AAAAAAAA—AAAAAAAA—AAAAAAA—AAAAARGH!”

He stepped away again.

“Who else?” asked Griselda, still looking away.

“No one.  Please, please , don’t let him hurt me again,” sobbed Celia, so pitifully that I almost felt sorry for her.  “Please.  I’ll tell you anything.  Please . . .  please . . . please . . .”

“And where have you stored the photographs?”

“In my car, on my laptop.  Nowhere else.  Please believe me.  Please.  Please!  Pleeeease!”

She howled and leapt again as Thwacks’ fingers went to work once more on her swollen clitoris.

“PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!”

Thwacks’ fingers went to work again.

“Where else?”

“Nowhere.  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!”

“Where on your Internet backup?”

“Nowhere.  OH PLEEEEASE!”

“On which flash drive?”

“None.  PLEEEEASE!”

Thwacks was still pinching and manipulating her clitoris, clearly enjoying it, though like all true sadists, he looked ever regretful, thought I noticed how he lingered at his work.  Celia thrashed, pleaded, and screamed incessantly.

“AAAAARGH. No. Pleeeease.  I’ve told you everything!  PLEEEEASE.”

“Perhaps,” said Griselda patiently.  “Let’s just go through it again to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything.

Celia’s face hung grey and haggard.  She shuddered and her hips began to eave in a grisly rotating dance as Thwacks’ fingers delved back into her crotch.

“PLEEEASE.  No!  PLEEEASE!”  she whimpered.  “Not more.  No more.  I can’t stand any more.  PLEEEASE! “

The merciless fingers jerked and pinched.  Celia leapt and bellowed her lungs out.

“PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  I’ve told you everything!  Mercy!   MERCY!  Pleeeease, I beg you!”  And her voice trailed away to a sob.

Griselda turned enquiringly to me.  Her face was as grey as Celia’s.  I too must have looked shaky.  I felt sick, and my legs trembled.  Griselda and I stared at each other like cold ashes.

“Well, Owen?”

“She’d tell us if she knew,” I whispered hoarsely.

“I agree.”

“I know she’s telling the truth,” I said, not because I felt for Celia, but because I believed it to be so.  “She cares for no one; she’d hold out for no one.  And she’d have kept her little scam to herself for as long as possible, hoping to maximise the proceeds.  It’s the way the bitch works.”

“Well,” Griselda demanded of the grey haggard wretch on the cross, for that’s all she was now.  “Have you told us everything?”

Thwacks’ eager fingers delved again.

“Yes, yes, YES.  Oh, for God’s sake!  Pleeeease stop the terrible pain!  MERCY!  PLEEEASE!”

Griselda considered for a moment and then nodded at no one in particular.  She turned to Thwacks.  “It’s finished!”

But Thwacks’ fingers still hovered close to Celia’s crotch.  I saw the spasm of disappointment flicker across his rigid countenance.  The fingers twitched and moved minutely back towards Celia.  Griselda snatched up her riding crop, stamped across, and cut him viciously across the wrist.  He yelped and sprang back, nursing his injured wrist and glaring fury like a cornered beast.

“Are you deaf?” Griselda screamed at him, and her face was terrible to behold.  “I told you it was over.  Clean her up!  Give her something for the pain!  Call the council for tomorrow morning!  Move yourself!”

Thwacks fought to control himself.  His visible anger flickered, and then slowly faded behind his inscrutable countenance.  He bowed stiffly.  “Very good ma’am.”

*****

The woodsman drove me back home in the Land Rover.  He’d been one of those who had stripped Celia, and strapped her to the bench and the St Andrew’s cross.  We said nothing on the way to the village.  Such procedures breed reticence.  I studied him.  He looked an ordinary and decent enough type.  I had always supposed I was too.  Imperative breeds brutality.

1. Trial and retribution

He picked me up again and drove me back to Nether Towers next morning. I had noticed how quiet Ginny was at breakfast.  She usually prattled, sometimes irritatingly so, but that morning she was as quiet as a mouse.  I noticed how heads turned and stares followed us as we drove round the green and took the hill road to the Towers.   It seemed that everyone knew something terrible was happening, though not what and why, but terrible all the same.  Even inside the Land Rover, I could feel the atmosphere.

The tribunal was held in the mansion’s great hall.  It was a harsh affair and I wondered why they bothered with it.  But people seem to feel better when the ceremony of law is observed, no matter how bizarrely.  In the event, horror descended into farce, and I’ve sometimes wondered since if the farce was, in its way, worse than the horror.

The council of ten sat across the bench.  According to the rule, if their decision was hung, Griselda would decide the outcome, but that wouldn’t happen today as Ned Grackley had died the previous month and not yet been replaced, so there were only nine of them.

The chairman read the charge.  The prisoner wasn’t asked to plead because guilt was assumed.  Like all English trials back in the seventeenth century and earlier, it was merely a demonstration of guilt, not an enquiry into it.  Celia was asked to affirm her confession of the night before.  She was still naked and would remain naked now until she left Nether Slype.  This was symbolic and deeply traditional, though to me unnecessary.  But to the Nether Slypers, she was no longer a person, and as such, she possessed nothing, not even a stitch of clothing. She would take nothing away with her, least of all dignity, so not even the smallest pair of knickers was required protect the modesty she could no longer possess.

But Celia cared no longer for modesty or dignity, even if she had been allowed any.  She dangled before the council, her face grey and haggard like an old woman’s, a man holding her up on either side, her private parts exposed for inspection.  Everyone could see the punctures near the swollen, blistered, blue-black tips of her abused breasts, and you didn’t have to look hard to see the scorch marks in her pubic hair, or where her mutilated and distended clitoris poked out like a bloody chancre between the misshapen lips of her pudenda.  And, of course, she couldn’t close her legs.  The way her guards held her, shoulders back, they splayed apart and her whole crotch was displayed to casual view, as if she was offering her tortured sex to the council for their pleasure.

But these clear marks of excruciating torture earned her no pity.

“The prisoner will stand forward!”

Her two guards jerked her forwards, her mutilated breasts swung against each other and she gasped.

“The prisoner will affirm that her confession was freely and frankly given.”

Celia seemed not to hear what she was told; she was in a daze or another world entirely.  She hung between her guards like damp washing, open mouthed, dead eyed, and uncomprehending.

Thwacks stepped up to her.  “The word is yes, madam.”

Her eyes rotated towards him her mouth lolled.  “Wha?”  She couldn’t even articulate the word.

“You say yes to the judges, madam.”

“Wha?  No . . . I . . . thy . . . .”

Thwacks turned to the bench and coughed apologetically.  The nine councillors gazed intently at their table top while he gently took hold of the tips Celia’s mutilated breasts and started rubbing her nipples with his thumbs.  She gasped and gurgled, her body twitching, but in a half-hearted sort of way, her head lolling back as she struggled pointlessly against the men holding her, who also looked away.

“The word we’re looking for is yes, madam.”

“Wha?  No  . . .  I—”

Thwacks viciously twisted the blue-back swellings.  Celia’s legs thrashed in the air and she screamed a jagged, blood-chilling scream.

“AAAAAAAARGH!  YES!  YES!  YES!”

“The record will state that the prisoner confessed of her own free will,” said the chairman, white faced, but otherwise unmoved as he stared hard at his fingernails.  “And without undue duress.”  He swallowed and turned obsequiously to Griselda.  “I believe, your ladyship, that you have evidence to give?”

Griselda took a deep breath and rose. “Only insofar as it links the woman to the man.  Her guilt is plain.”

The chairman simpered.  “As your ladyship says.” He turned to the court and bellowed.  “Bring the man forward.”

I noted that the council never used the prisoners’ names, I supposed this was because the prisoners, no longer being recognised as people, had none.  This was the most refined indignity.

Meanwhile, the man who had been Flavius was dragged forward also naked.  I had never seen him before and he appeared much older than I expected, though that might have been the result of madness and years in a dungeon.  He was short and grey haired, with a distended paunch and a flaccid penis that hung down to his knees.  His lower lip drooped like a simpleton’s.

“Has the man confessed?”

Thwacks stepped forward again, lifted Flavius’s penis revealing a distended but very full testicle sack.  Taking hold of the testicles in his hand, he jerked and squeezed.  Flavius jolted, his eyes popped, and he shrieked like a woman.

“It sounded to like yes to me, sir,” commented Thwacks with impeccable gravity.

“I heard it quite distinctly,” agreed the chairman, staring hard at the tabletop in front of him. “The record will state that the prisoner confessed of his own free will, without undue duress.”  He then turned obsequiously to Griselda.  “In your own time, your ladyship.”

Griselda rehearsed the story she, Ruth, and I had concocted, though I’m being overmodest putting it like that.  Primarily, it was my tale.

She said that Celia was a freelance reporter — the confession she’d signed with an unrecognisable squiggle said as much — hoping to sell a story about Nether Slype to the Sunday press.  We’d recovered pictures from her laptop, left in her car a mile back up the lane from the village.  These we showed to the council as ‘proof’ of the allegation.

Somehow — we weren’t sure how, perhaps through his family — she had discovered, or suspected, that Griselda’s husband was being kept under restraint at the Towers.  Her proposed coup was not only to publish her scurrilous account, but to produce Flavius as living proof.  The two had conferred and agreed to this, their confessions confirmed it.

“But, excuse me, you ladyship,” queried the chairman deferentially.  “How did they do this?  My understanding is that your husband has been incarcerated in the dungeons for years, on account of his — er — dangerous propensities.”

“She knew the times when Thwacks and I would be out and about the estates,” lied Griselda with remarkable steadiness.  “And when there are few servants left in and around the Towers.  It was not difficult for her to gain access, hide in one of the unused rooms, and make her way down to the dungeons when the coast was clear.”

“You must improve your security, your ladyship,” simpered the chairman, wagging an indulgent finger at her.

Griselda bridled at his insolence, and then fought to calm herself.  “It’s already in hand,” she said neutrally.  “Meanwhile, we have learned how the woman knew so much about us and our movements.”

“How, your ladyship?”

I stepped forward now and slapped down on the bench a component I had removed from an old laptop of my own the night before.

“Phone bug,” I said.

They all looked at it amazed.  Clearly, none of them had seen one before, which was as well.

“I had suspected as much,” I said blandly.  “My family used to mine diamonds in South Africa.  At one time, there were attempts to intercept our randomly timed and routed shipments.  We called the police, they checked security, and found bugs attached to several of our own phones.  They looked remarkably like this.”

It was the merest moonshine, but it convinced the council, as it was intended to.  The logic was simple: if a bug was there, it was there for a reason and a purpose.  This was obviously the purpose alleged because no other was known.  Therefore the allegation was proved.

Ruth gave the fiction further substance with a slightly revised version of Celia’s arrival at the pub.

“She started asking me questions about her ladyship’s husband, and Mr Flaythm.”

“And what did you do?” asked the chairman.

“Gave non-committal answers and immediately informed Mr Flaythm.”

“And I immediately informed her ladyship,” I said.  “We expected the woman to return, so we deployed men to trap her.  We had a couple of near misses.  She was seen lurking near here watching the Towers one Sunday morning when her ladyship and most of her staff were at church in the village.  I thought I saw her on another occasion, lurking near my house when I arrived home.  But on those occasions both I and the man who spotted her prowling round the Towers hung back.  Neither of us was in a position to make a clean capture, and a bungled attempt might have scared her off and caused her to make some precipitate disclosure to the press.”

“You both behaved very wisely,” said the chairman, and the rest of the council rumbled agreement.

“However, yesterday we managed to make a clean capture.”

“We are in your debt,” said the chairman.  “Indeed, we’re obliged to everyone involved.”

“Hear!  Hear!” cheered the other councillors.

The case for the prosecution was complete — there was no defence.  The councillors huddled for only a few perfunctory seconds before reaching their verdict.

“We find the case against both prisoners proved beyond question,” said the chairman.  “Their confessions are proof alone, and these have been corroborated by the three witnesses, and this nasty little gadget.”  He pointed gingerly at my laptop component.   “We assume that when the female prisoner was loitering round your house, Mr Flaythm, that she intended to place another device in your own phone.”

I’d never thought of that, but I wasn’t going to admit it.  “That was my suspicion too, Mr Chairman.  I’ve checked my phone and it’s clean, as are all the phones here at the Towers, which have also been checked.”

“Much obliged for your thoroughness, Mr Flaythm.  The sentence of the court is the both prisoners be banished, having each first received one-hundred lashes at the public whipping post.”

“Mr Chairman!”  Griselda jumped up.  “I plead we dispense with the public lashing, given the identity of the male prisoner.”

The council huddled again.

“Agreed.  We have no wish to embarrass your ladyship.  The sentence is banishment.  Your ladyship has our leave to make the appropriate arrangements.”

“And my marriage, Mr Chairman?”

“Dissolved as an inevitable consequence, your ladyship.  Your quondam husband no longer exists as far as this community is concerned.  It shall be cried throughout the three villages.”

Griselda bowed.  “I’m obliged to the council.”

“I hope that never happens again,” said Griselda, as we walked through the December woods above the Towers, for we both needed fresh air.  “I know it’s theatrical but it’s the way they like it.”

“Not good enough, Griselda,” I countered.  “We must make sure that it doesn’t.”

“But how do we do that?”

“We just do it.  The trial was a farce.”

“Complaining?”

“No.  I can’t exactly do that, but—”

“It’s the way it’s always been done here, darling.  And you cannot always save just part of the thing you cherish.  You must take it whole or leave it whole.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, you say you came here because you loved the place — part of an old England you thought dead.  But can we save that without also perpetuating what we’ve just attended?  That was the Old-England way too.  Remember?  They tortured people, their executions were horrible; hunger, want, injustice, brutality, and horrible prejudices were all rife in this never-never England you wanted to rediscover and live in.  My father and my grandfather knew that if you want to preserve part, you must preserve all.  We have a choice they said.  Perpetuate it all for as long as we can, or lose all.  An environment is not an a-la-carte menu, my father would say.  You can’t choose to keep the bits you want and jettison the bits you don’t.”

“So we must either keep the torture and the trials, or we loose everything?”

“I think we have to, don’t you?” she asked soberly.  “Loose it, I mean?”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “It’s too high a price to pay.  But we’ll do it on our terms.  Perhaps we can save something, and this place will still be special.”

“We?”

“Well,” I said more gruffly than I meant.  “You can marry me now — if you still want to.”

She slipped her arm back through mine.  “You still want to marry me, after what I did?”

“What we did.  And what we’ll never do again.”

1. Aftermath

But we didn’t marry straight away.  After the interrogation and the trial, an embarrassed coolness developed between Griselda and me.  She invited me up Nether Towers for Christmas and I went, but there was none of the old canoodling in corners.  I found that I missed it.  I missed it a lot.  I missed it more in February when Ruth let me know that she had a new boyfriend and was close to being spoken for.

“There’s no future for you and me,” she said.  “You’re Griselda’s, whether you like it or not.  It’s best we act accordingly.”

Her lot had risen in the village since the arrest and trial.  She was something of a heroine among the women, and Mrs Brittles had offered her a partnership at the village tearooms.  She snapped it up.  Who wouldn’t have done so in her place?  As a result, men regarded her as a more attractive and respectable proposition than a pub kitchen maid any man in the village could spank for the price of a beer.

We remained friends, we still are friends, but she no longer came to my bed with those delicious long breasts.  I missed her warmth, and I missed Griselda’s too.  In fact, in a way I missed Griselda’s more.  Despite my early suspicions of her plans for Flavius, she had been funny.  She had brought sunshine and amusement into my life from the outset, and I knew she had a lot of warmth and love to offer too.  But still the distance remained, and the gulf seemed somehow unbridgeable.

I followed the police investigation of Celia’s disappearance.  They never came anywhere near Nether Slype.  Her compulsive secrecy frustrated them.  She had left no clue to what she was doing or where she was going, other than the files on her laptop, and we had incinerated that.  We had incinerated that.  In the end, they assumed that she had fallen foul of one of her many estranged lovers.  I pitied their taste in women.  Griselda and I never discussed the case.  For a while, we discussed nothing at all.

Then, out of the blue, I received another invitation from her.  There had been another death on the council of ten, and I had been elected to it.  More surprisingly, Ruth had too, the first even woman member, apart from Griselda herself.  We had to attend monthly meetings up at Nether Towers, but on this occasion, Griselda invited us all for dinner instead, with wives and partners invited.  Ruth’s new boyfriend was with her, and Griselda and I found ourselves paired.  We played our parts sociably enough yet the awkwardness remained between us.

But at one point in the evening Griselda sidled up to me and whispered in my ear.  “Owen, will you stay for a while when they’ve gone?”

“Why especially?”

“We need to talk.  Don’t we!”

“I want to,” I said, wishing that the courage to make the first move had been mine.  “I miss you, Griselda.”

She briefly squeezed my arm.  “Later.”  And she drifted off.

Later we sat by her large open fire kin her comfortable drawing room, watching flames consume a log the size of a small tree trunk.  Neither of us had spoken for several minutes.  We’d just sat together and watched the flames.

“I’ve retired Thwacks,” she said suddenly.

Then it struck me that I hadn’t seen him all evening.

“Why especially?”

“I couldn’t stand being in the same room with him.  Every time he said, sherry, ma’am, I remembered that awful interrogation and wanted to run outside screaming.  The man is such a sadist.  He didn’t do what he did to that woman because he had to, as you and I did, but because he loved doing it.  One of the maids told me that she heard screams from the cellars later, and saw him coming up from them in the early hours.  He’d been down there again to enjoy himself, hours after I’d told him that it was finished.  Sadist!”

“But aren’t we all?”

She sighed.  “Yes.  We all like inflicting and receiving a little pain now and then, Owen, but there are degrees.  The woman had told us all she knew.  It was over.  I had told him it so.”

“So what was your objection, his sadism or his disobedience?”

“Both.  The sadism for obvious reason, but the disobedience too.  Obedience at such times is essential.  Excessive measures must always be disciplined and subject to rules and reasons.”

“It must.  And that’s what’s come between us, isn’t it?  The awful responsibility we share.  The fact that we obeyed the rules despite our horror of them.”

She bowed her head.  “Yes, it has, and I wish it hadn’t.”

“Me too.”

She stared into the fire.  “Look, I know we’re strange here, but we have our limits — usually.  Wives can divorce their husbands, you know, and appeal to the council for protection.  A real brute can be restrained.  It’s basically consensual.”

“Not always,” I said.

“You mean your girl, Ginny.”  She bit her lip.  “Yes, I’m sorry about that.  I thought she was letting you down and I so wanted to make everything right for you and me that I lost my temper.  It wasn’t my place to whip her, but yours.”

“It wasn’t mine either, or to whip Heather.  At least, most outside the three villages would say so.”

“Perhaps they would, but they weren’t born here.  We are isolated, Owen, and we have stood still  while the world outside changed.  They would say they progressed, but I would demur.  I’ve been to London many times, and I haven’t seen much social progress.  But mostly I think it’s because a certain lifestyle is in our blood, our genes.  We have to do it, give it or receive it.  It’s the way we’re made.  It’s our culture.”

I laughed grimly and she looked at me nervously.  “I think I might have Flaythm blood, after all.  I did rather hold you jacket while Celia was being interrogated.  Not physically perhaps, but you know what I mean.”

“And you have to admit, Owen, that you derived far more satisfaction from it than I did.”

“At the start perhaps.  But not for long.”

But I knew that she was right to a point.  I had wanted to see Celia taken down because I had loathed the bitch, and what she had threatened to do to us all.  Griselda had acted solely from duty.

“Shall I put on some music?” She asked suddenly.

“Music?”

“I want to get that noise out of my head.  It still haunts me.  Now Thwacks has gone it will be easier.  He had to go.  He had a way of half-smiling.  Every time he did so, I heard that woman scream again.  I’ve heard many girls scream when they’re getting the strap or whatever, but never like that — nothing at all like that.”  She hugged herself and looked ashen.

I reached across and squeezed her hand.  “At least we can talk about it now, Griselda.”

She walked across to her hi-fi, a surprisingly up-to-date one I thought, for I had half expected her to crank a handle and put on a crackly seventy-eight.  She selected a CD, inserted it into the slot, and a few seconds later I heard the opening bars of Vaughan Williams’ fifth symphony, which I have loved since I was an adolescent.  It seemed almost obscene to hear such serene beauty after what had gone on downstairs, and yet, as the sound washed over me the screaming subsided to the back of my mind.

“I’ve loved this since I was a teenager,” I said.

“Mmmm!  Me too.  I often hear it in my head when I look down the approach road and see the distant Welsh hills.  It’s what I fight for, you see.  But look” — she took a deep juddering breath — “that was only the third time Thwacks had used the needles since my father died.  The other two were men — both from the three villages.  One had tried to corrupt a child and the other had done something similar to what woman Celia wanted to do.  Thwacks put the needles in different places, of course, but the result was the same.  Not pleasant.”

I don’t know why — it must have been delayed shock — but I laughed.

Griselda’s eyes turned on me, large, and somehow vulnerable.  “What’s so funny about it?”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever heard you use an understatement.”

“I know,” she said at last. “I was bloody ghastly, wasn’t it?   Hideous.  Almost unbearable.  But it’s the way it’s always been here.”

“Then we’ll have to change it,” I suggested softly, as I had after the trial.

“And put our way of life at risk?”

“If we don’t do it on our terms, Griselda, someone else will, and we’ll surely lose it all one day.”

“But we shall anyway, if we start to change.  Remember what my father said.  He was right, you know.”

“But the loss will be slower, smoother and, in the end, not missed so much.  You can’t keep history in chains, Griselda, much as you might wish to.  And hopefully we’ll be able to retain something, if we all want to.  Nether Slype will still be special.”

There was a long silence, then she walked slowly across and sat on the arm of my chair, very close, like she had to a few seconds on the day I met her, but this time she lingered and her hand found mine.

“Will you help me?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Owen, even if you don’t want to marry me — especially after this.   I feel perhaps you don’t, but duty had to come first you see, even though I knew it would break my heart if you left.”

“Would it?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing to worry about then,” I said huskily.  I drew her off the chair arm, and onto my lap, and hugged her properly for the first time ever.  Then I kissed her for the first time too.  Till then, she had always kissed me. Then we sat in silence together, listening to the heavenly music.

We didn’t jump straight into bed together, though I’d eagerly have taken her upstairs there and then.  For now that the awkwardness between us was dissolved and we could talk about necessary things, I was desperate to make up for lost time.  But Griselda had to do things properly. The bans were read three times and during that period there was no hanky panky, though she resumed pushing me up against trees, walls, doors and just about anything vertical she could conveniently prop me against while she devoured my face.  But that was as far as it went.

One good work I did was to find Ginny another position with an elderly widowed lady, who thought the world of her and provided her with her own little cottage next door, so that she and her boyfriend would have somewhere to live when they married, which Ginny told me, they were planning to do.

Griselda and I married in early April, just as the trees were staring to leaf, and I was amazed to think that I had been in the village for less than a year.  But during that time, my world had changed utterly.  For worse, and also for better.  When the day arrived, the church was packed and the churchyard was full of people who couldn’t get inside for the crush.  I waited by the altar with Ted Foxter, praying that Griselda wouldn’t change her mind at the last minute.  When she did arrive, wearing a white dress — not a wedding dress but a simple thing of sheer white — her hand continually twitched as though she were slapping her thigh with a riding crop, even though she’d left it at home for once.  She marched up to the front, grabbed hold of me, looked round to make sure everyone was there, and barked.  “Right!  Let’s get on with it!”

I think horsewomen develop large nipples from all that jogging up and down.  Their nipples must be perpetually rubbed.  When I went into our bedroom that night, Griselda was sitting up in bed wearing a cotton nightdress with a low neck.  Her cleavage was deep and delightfully freckled.  Her nipples, I noticed were long and poked through her thin nightdress like twin naval guns under covers.  My mouth watered. I’d get to grips with all that in a minute.  In the meantime, I had an important point to make, so I marched up to the bed and tore the covers down.

“We’re going to start as we mean to go on, Griselda,” I said sternly.

“Whatever you say, husband.”

“Nightdress off!”

“Yes husband.”

She lifted the nightdress, her magnificent tits splayed out into full view and I salivated.  Lying back, she opened her legs.  Her pussy was carpeted with luxuriant chestnut curls and her pink crack was open, waiting for me.  I’d get round to that in a minute too.

“You do understand that you’re no longer in charge here, don’t you Griselda?”

“Of course.  You’re my husband and master now.”

“Just so.”

So I unbuckled my trouser belt and pulled it out of the loops, wrapping it round my hand twice, as I’d seen the man in the garden do.  Griselda’s eyes were like plates.

“Are you going to spank me before you’ve shagged me, husband?” she asked eagerly.  “Or afterwards?”

“I’m going to do it now.  You’re going to be severely strapped for what you did to Ginny.   Very severely strapped indeed.  You’ve had it coming”

“Yes, husband, I know I have.  That was very naughty and I deserve it.  You’re right to punish me severely.”

“On your stomach!”

“Yes husband.”

She rolled over on her stomach and her magnificently developed horsewoman’s bottom can into view.  I almost burst my fly zip.

“This is exciting isn’t it!” she said eagerly.  “I haven’t been spanked since my father gave me thirty of the riding crop on my twenty-first birthday.  I’ll feel like a real woman now”

“Silence!  Grip the headboard rails!  Count!”

I raised my arm and the flying belt delivered a resounding blow across Griselda’s big bare buttocks.  They quivered elastically and ecstatically.

“One, husband.  Isn’t this exciting!”

“Quiet!”  I lifted my arm again.  There was a loud and the plump bottom quivered again.

“Two, husband.”

I whipped her with a will now, laying it on as hard as I could.  She had given it and now she would have to take it back.  One thing I was very sure of; she would know who her husband was and which of us was in charge.  She could forget all about sending me to the dungeons as she had sent Flavius, and I felt no qualms.  She had defended the custom and now she would live by it, and if she ever stepped out of line, I would thrash her until she stepped back into line again.

The thrashing continued and it was only after ten sound strokes that she started to labour.  Her strong horsewoman’s thighs were working now and her beautifully sculpted white cheeks displayed a broadening red stripe across them.  I continued remorselessly.

“Ah!  Ten, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaah!  Eleven, husband.”

I saw her head go back, and she was gasping and jerking at every stroke.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Twelve, husband.  I’m so sorry husband.”

I continued remorselessly.  Her thighs were twitching ceaselessly now and she was heaving her bottom up and down with a steady mechanical rhythm as people do when they’re in pain.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Ooooh!   Thirteen, husband.  I’m so, so sorry.  Please be merciful.”

She was crying into her pillow, I heard the sob in her voice.  Her thighs wriggled and her plump darkening bottom cheeks twitched ever faster.  She was in severe pain now.  The point was sinking in.

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Fourteen, husband.  No more, I beg you.”

Her whole body twitched, I could hear her crying, but I couldn’t let that soften me, any more than Ginny’s screams had softened Griselda.

“I’ll decide when you’ve been strapped severely enough, Griselda.  And you haven’t been strapped nearly enough get.”

“Of course, husband.  Please forgive my impertinence.  Please strap me to your heart’s content.”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Fifteen, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Sixteen, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Aaaaaaah!   Seventeen, husband.  Mercy!”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Aaaaaaah   Eighteen, husband.  Mercy!  I beg you!”

I’d made my point, and I’d enjoyed it.  “I’m finished now,” I said calmly.  “Back under the covers!  On your back!  Legs open!  Crack open!”

“Yes husband.”

I undressed while she wiped her eyes and composed herself.

“I’m sorry, Griselda,” I said, “but you’ve given enough of it, so now you’ll have to take it back.”

“Yes, husband.  You’re right to correct my faults.”

“Of course I am.  I’m your husband.”

“Yes, husband.”

I undressed, climbed on the bed, and onto Griselda.  I rubbed my cock gently but pleasurably on her pussy hair.

“And now, my dear,” I whispered in her ear.  “At long last, I’m going to take my rightful possession of your cunt.”

“Yes husband,” she said, wrapping her legs right round me.  “It’s waiting to pleasure you.  But please be gentle with it.”

“Gentle?”  I laughed.  “It’s been bouncing up and down on Bronco for God knows how many years.  It surely doesn’t need gentleness!”

She swallowed.  “Bronco’s in the corner, husband, next to the wardrobe.”

I squirmed over and looked where she directed.  There, standing in the corner of the room was a very small, old, and tatty child’s rocking horse.”

“Where’s the big, knobbly dildo?”

I felt her blush.  “There never was one.  I just loved talking about sexy things with you, hoping that talking about them would make them real.  No girl in the three villages wants to admit she’s a virgin.”

“You’re a virgin?” I asked incredulously.

She bit her lip.  “I’m sorry I lied to you, darling.  Shall I fetch your strap for my further punishment?”

“Don’t be silly,” I whispered and kissed her as I slid my prick into her hot, tight, and responsive cunt.  “Oh!  That’s better.  That’s much better.”

She hugged me tightly and gasped with pleasure.  “Enjoy it to your heart’s content, my lord and master.”

Zara had no idea what she was getting into. She had agreed to go out with Bret
only because her agent had asked her.

Zara was your typical straving actress desperate to get ahead in Hollywood, and
desperately in need of that elusive first break. She had to literally wrestle
with Bret, just to get him to stop kissing her. Another casting couch affair,
Zara muttered to herself.

At least Bret was a different producer than most: he called her a cab and gave
her fare to get home.

But that was six hours ago. The cabbie never had any intention of driving Zara
home; he was another lackey on the payroll of the producer Bret. And he had been
instructed to drive into a dark alley and incapacitate poor Zara. Having worked
these jobs for Bret before, the “cabbie” was more than a match for the pretty
young thing.

When Zara regained consciousness, she immediately felt a tremendous throbbing in
her head where the cabbie had landed the handle of a gun. She meekly opened her
eyes to find that she was in the center of some meticulously adorned prison
cell. It was basically four gray walls with a wide range of assortment torture
devices. Zara recognized only a handful, and of the others she would have
prefered to have been ignorant.

“Well, I see, my proud little plaything has opened her eyes again,” Bret said as
he opened the steel door; the only way in and the only way out as far as Zara
could tell.

Bret was still wearing the suit and tie combo he had on earlier and he simply
stood there admiring the captured beauty.

Zara was still fully clothed and her hands were shackled to chains that led up
into the ceiling. Her legs were slightly spread as her ankles were chained to
eyebolts on the concrete floor. Bret smiled and licked his lips as he
concentrated on her exotic good looks.

At about 5′9″, Zara was above average height, and with her 5-inch heels right
now, she stood easily at 6 feet tall. Her legs needed little help, but they were
sculpted even more by the black high heels that came up to her ankles and then
through a series of tight black straps, wrapped around her lower leg up to her
knees. Bret wondered if Zara had a natural fetish for bondage. If she did, he
planned on surpassing any soft bondage dream she might have had.

Above her knees, her simple black dress hovered, although it suffered a few
scratches in the transition from the cab to the cell. There was a slit that
creeped almost to mid-thigh, and this trace of flesh drew another inaudible
sound of approval from Bret.

It was obvious to Bret, she was not wearing a bra, but even so her breasts were
large enough to make an impression on the fabric. And with the chains pulling on
her upper body, Zara’s breasts were given additional, seductive lift. Either she
was excited or scared because her nipples were evidently hard pressed into her
dress.

Her neck was thin and looked almost frail. The color of her face was sketched in
warm tones, giving Zara that exotic, permanently tanned appearance. Her eyes
usually intoxicated most men. Despite her crying now, Bret could still see that
her blue irises almost looked too big for her eyelids. Her long brown hair was
covering most of her precious face at the moment, and she refused to look
directly into Bret’s eyes.

“If you had only cooperated with me back in my office, it wouldn’t have come to
this, Zara. But I tell you what. I’ll give you a second chance. Sleep with
me—of your own free will—tonight and I will let you out of here, and, what’s
more, I’ll even help you get that 3-picture deal with Orionia Productions. Come
on, Zara. Small price to pay for fame.”

“I’ll never sleep with you, Bret. I want to make it on talent and hard work. I
don’t need to sleep with anybody to make it on my own,” Zara concluded her
defiant statement with the same kind of dramatic flourish she gave in her high
school drama class.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,Zara dear. Because if you don’t sleep with me
here and now, you won’t, how is it everyone puts it: You won’t ever work in this
town again. I’ll see to that…in the most painful of ways. Your choice.”

“No, never!”

“Well, Okay, but remember, when you’re begging to fuck me that you yourself
said,’No, never.’ I just want you to remember that when you’re pissing on
yourself in pain.”

And he began his demonstration by slapping her hard across the face. Bret wasted
no time, he took out a pocket knife and thrashed at her little black dress. In
minutes, Zara was hanging only in high heels and black silk panties.

“Ah, french-cut panties. I like your taste, Zara. And I like those shoes too. I
think we’ll let you wear them for a while. But the panties got to go.”

Bret slid the knife blade under the panties over her hips and snipped them off,
revealing a neatly trimmed mound of brown hair. Bret, frowning with some
dissatisfaction, approached her pubic hair and began the slow process of
removing the hairs one by one with his index finger and thumb. This painful
ordeal seemed to go on for hours, and by the time he had thinned out her mound,
she was sweating and cursing.

He came back from a work bench carved out of the wall with a razor and shaving
cream. He applied the white substance and carefully shaved the remaining hair
completely off.

Strangely, Zara felt her nudity increase with this latest invasion of her
privacy.

Bret stepped back from his work with a nod of approval.

“Now, you know what looks best on freshly shaven pussy?”

Zara was too humiliated to formulate an answer. She just kept her head bowed.

“Don’t know, huh? Why, a freshly pierced pussy! Now, scream if you like, because
baby, I’m no professional and I know when I do this, it usually hurts the girls
something awful.”

“No, no, please, don’t do that! No, please don’t hurt me there, Bret.

Bret!!”

Her pleading didn’t stop his advances. She heard the click of metal and looked
down to see him rub his fingers along his cunt lips.

“Doesn’t really matter where I put the first ones, because after I’m finished
with you, Zara, you’re going to be pierced at least a dozen times, so it will
all kind of blend in.”

He took the first needle and poked her tender skin. Zara screamed an inhuman
scream at the top of her lungs, but no one would hear her in the bowels of this
entrenched basement. She heard the first ring click together and she couldsense
the added weight resting on her pussy lip.

“No, no, please, God, this can’t be happening to me. Please I pro—–”

Her sentiments were cut off by another unearthly scream as Bret pierced into her
other pussy lip to supply her with a matching steel ring. He tugged on them both
simultaneously to test the new applications.

“Looks fine, but I really have a thing for threesomes. We need one more ring,
and guess where it’s going,Zara.”

And just like that, he pierced the sensitive flesh her clit, sending her head
back in terrible pain. He brought out a heavier ring and snapped it within and
without her throbbing clit.

Zara was just about to pass out when Bret slapped her across the face to bring
her back to life.

“Give up yet? Will you sleep with me of your own free will now?”

Barely able to force the air through her lips, Zara said in a shaking, quivering
voice,”No, Bret. Never. You can go to hell.”

“Well, I guess we just weren’t meant to be, Zara. Too bad. I wish I didn’t have
to do this.”

Bret returned from the work bench with a set of brands. Each one had temperature
controls, and he was in the process of warming them up for use.

“Zara, let me introduce you to my branding set. It’s an alphabet of brands,
really, 26 in all, with a few extras for punctuation and special marks. We’re
going to experiment with what I like to call permanent body art.”

“Nooooo, nooooo, please, stop this. You’re insane, Bret. Stop now and I wont
tell anybody!”

“You see, first, we’re going to establish a brand of ownership, and we’ll spell
that out on the small of your back.”

He took the letters for the first word and organized them on the floor.

B-R-E-T-’-S.

He slowly raised the brand of the letter “B” and pressed it firmly against her
skin. He held on to her body to keep it from separating away from the brand.

“The key really is holding the brand down long enough so when the skin scars,
you can still clearly make out the words.”

Twenty minutes later, he had applied the phrase, “BRET’S SLAVE” to her back,
despite Zara’s frequent trips into unconsciousness. After he had started the “S”
of slave, Zara was begging to suck his cock, swallow his cum, suck on his toes,
anything he wanted, if he would just stop the torture.

After finishing the second word, he agreed, and Zara greedily sucked on his
aching cock and greedily consumed all of his plentiful cum. And when she was
finished sucking him off, and licking the cum off the floor that missed her
face, Bret reshackled her ankles and wrists and stretched her out to the ceiling
again.

“Oh, Zara, that was good, but I know with the proper motivation you can do
better next time.”

Part Two

For two solid days and nights, Bret alternated between punishing Zara and
allowing her to suck him. Neither had had sleep in over 48 hours, and while Zara
was reaching a point of hysteria and complete psychological exhaustion, Bret was
more excited and seemingly indefatiguable.

She begged repeatedly to be freed, and when she realized that she would never be
allowed to leave, she softened her desperate demands by begging for rest.

“Why Zara, I bet you’ve lost 10 pounds of water weight since you got here. You
look splendid, even if you don’t approve of you new accessories. Speaking of
accessories, I’ve got some new territory to cover before I introduce you to some
friends of mine.”

Bret began eyeing her luscious tits, taking his fingers and squeezing her
hardening nipples. He left her for his work bench and returned with more
hardware. Zara’s eyes refocused, fighting off the urge to sleep in order to see
what agony he had in store for her.

“If you look carefully at these rings, Zara, you’ll see an inscription on the
outside of each band. Go ahead, read it. Read it aloud, honey.”

Zara mindlessly complied with his latest instruction.

“‘Property of Bret,’” she whispered with her hoarse voice.

“Exactly, and don’t you forget it.”

Without further ado, he produced another menacing needle and penetrated her
erect nipple. Zara threw her head back and screamed with all the volume her
worn-out vocal chords had. She heard the now-familiar “click” and he grabbed her
hair and forced her to bend down to observe this latest adornment. This ring
felt lighter than the ones in her pussy and clit, but the band itself was wider
and punched through most of her nipple flesh. She cried new tears at the sight.

Her wishful career as an actress was a distant memory and now, Bret was making
certain she could never get work in any legitimate entertainment field ever
again. All because she stuck to her principles and refused to sleep with him.

He affixed a matching nipple ring to her other tit and sucked on them hard to
elicit a few more fresh screams from Zara.

“While we’ve got the needles out, let’s put another ring through your clit. This
one, just a little further back.”

Zara started to plead for mercy, but she gave up as he plunged another sharp
needle into her increasingly sore clit. Bret slid another small ring just next
to the first one, side by side. There wasn’t much space left, Bret thought to
himself, but if he felt like it later, he could probably fit another couple of
rings on her throbbing clit. To his chagrin, Zara passed out again. He slapped
her face rudely to renew her senses.

“Hey, hey, wake up kiddo, I’m going to take these wrist shackles down.”

Bret had her stand on her tiptoes and then he released her to the floor. The
eyebolt-chains kept her attached to the concrete floor, so Zara knew she
couldn’t make a run for the steel door. “I have something special for you,Zara.
A gift from me to you.”

He withdrew a heavy black collar and snapped it around her neck. He took out two
small padlocks and clicked them to secure the collar around her fragile neck. It
fit tight around her neck, and within minutes the black leather was chafing her
tanned skin.

“Now, this gift is very special for two reasons. First, when I attach the chain
leash to this collar it signifies that I love you enough to want to walk you
around and show you off in front of friends and colleagues. Second, this collar
has a special feature that symbolizes in a very real way that I love you enough
to keep you near me at all times. Let me explain.”

Bret walked to his work bench and picked up what looked to Zara like some simple
television remote control. He pressed one simple button and the leather began to
constrict Zara’s neck, instantly blocking her ability to breathe. She wrapped
her hands around the collar vainly trying to squeeze her fingers between her
neck and the suffocating device. Bret pressed the button a second time and the
collar released its vice grip just as suddenly.

“Whenever you misbehave, I have only to cut off your oxygen supply and I think
you will get the message. Oh, and the other feature that I am really proud of?
It has a built in radius control device. If you stray from me in, oh, let’s say
in an escape attempt, the collar identifies that you have gone outside of your
allowed radius and it releases a non-lethal nerve gas that serves to
incapacitate you immediately. The gas causes a few small side effects like
severe abdominal cramps, miosis of the optic nerve, vomitting, and dizziness,
but they are relatively temporary.”

Zara only stared back in disbelief and disdain.

“Oh, and there is a fail-safe sensor in the collar, so that if for some reason
you were to remove the collar in my presence. You see, I am the center of your
world, therefore I am the center of your radius and the collar’s computer
recognizes me; it won’t release the gas within five feet of me I’m happy to say.
So, you see, you really are stuck with me, and wherever I choose to take you,
Zara.”

Having explained her dubious situation, Bret felt no harm was done by releasing
her ankles from their shackles. Once this was accomplished, he attached a
six-foot chain leash to her collar, and instructed Zara to prop herself up on
her hands and knees. He unlocked the steel door entry and led her along the dark
tunnel leading away from her cell. She “walked” in the humiliating fashion down
the narrow concrete path with Bret tugging on her neck if she slowed her pace.

“I’ve got a few dozen close friends coming over tonight, Zara,” he explained
while walking, “However, some of my friends are still nervous about the idea of
being seen with you. No, no, let me put it another way: Some of my more
prominent friends are nervous about being seen by you, and apparently, your
wearing a blindfold is just not assurance enough for them. Politicians and
actors can be so paranoid sometimes. Anyway, I promised to prepare you in a
special way just for them. After all, each person here tonight is paying big
bucks to fuck you, so how could I resist?”

Zara was utterly confused, and with the lack of sleep, she was finding it hard
to concentrate on his words, not to mention his meaning.

“Ah, here we are. Welcome to my humble clinic.”

Zara was led into a brightly lit room, much like a doctor’s office, decorated in
white on white. She was allowed to stand, and then commanded to lie back on the
table. She wanted to resist, her mind knew something wasn’t right here, but her
brain and body were so pliable now and easily commanded. Bret strapped her
wrists to the sides of the white table then strapped her ankles to either side.
He wrapped another tight band around her waist and cinched it. Bret followed
this by securing her collar and neck in place at the head of the table. She
could move only slightly at her joints, but otherwise she was vulnerable and
motionless.

“I know how you love these needles, but this operation is a little more
delicate, Zara. I need you to close your eyes and remain perfectly still. That’s
a good slave, close your eyes tightly for me.”

Zara was getting nervous again, and thought to herself, what body parts could he
mean. What could be more delicate than my pussy and nipples? Suddenly, she felt
the sensation of the needle. The new pain was coming from her left eyelid: Bret
was sewing her upper and lower eyelids together.

With her right eye she strained to see the source of this excruciating pain, but
she could only make out Bret’s hand moving up and down. Zara panicked and began
moving every muscle in her face and body. She was frantic and Bret couldn’t
subdue her with his own two hands. Finally, he stepped back several feet and
pressed the red button on his remote control. Within seconds, the nerve gas
knocked Zara out and all her muscles collapsed as if on cue. She would be
unconscious for this rare treatment.

It was the first time Bret had felt any ounze of compassion for his victim, and
as he completed his work routinely, the unusual thought of compassion scared
him.

She started to feel the sensation of something warm and and moist on her face.
Her dreams and nightmares were coming to a close and her return to consciousness
was imminent.

Zara felt like she was awake now, but as she tried desperately to open her eyes,
she could not. It suddenly came back to her, and the tightness along her eyelids
confirmed the fact: her lids had been sewn shut! She started to panic at this
realization, and wanted to fidget. But her restraints were not limited to the
thin flesh covering her eyes.

As the sleeping state wore off, Zara became physically aware of her situation.
Her head was tilted back further than she thought it would bend, almost to the
middle of her back, and her hair had been french-braided and tied to her ankle
restraints. Zara was resting uncomfortably on her knees, still wearing her
original high heels, with her neck straining to reach her ankles. And the warm
liquid sensation across her face? Oh, my God, she realized from the
smell….someone is pissing on me!

Actually, several people were taking their turns pissing on poor Zara. Her head
was leaned back and this allowed the male and female party guests to aim their
urine right down her cooperating throat. Some were missing the goal, but most
were striking the tongue and spraying Zara with the most bitter taste she had
ever known.

Once she gained consciousness again, she fought the party goers and spit the
incoming piss out; but Bret handled the insubordinance with appropriate measures
by squeezing the collar around her neck. Zara quickly remembered the
asphyxiating form of punishment and she suffered through additional pissing.

By the time this unseen ordeal was over, Zara had received the piss from 25
party-ers, and some of them had gone through the line twice. If she hadn’t been
so thirsty, and if Bret hadn’t starved her over the last 56 hours, then she
might have thrown up the contents in her stomach. But Zara was just that
thirsty, and just that hungry, that she didn’t seem to care anymore.

Eventually, Zara adjusted to the stitching in her eyelids, and the pain in her
joints as her body was stretched unnaturally. She overheard Bret’s voice and
keyed into his announcements. “Now that everyone has been relieved, feel free to
take your turn at fucking this lovely young slave. Cunt, mouth, ass—I expect
them all to be violated. Many times over in fact. Have at it, friends, and
whenever you feel like quitting, there will someone next to you who is willing
to take over.”

And so it happened just as Bret pronounced. Zara felt her pussy invaded by
strange cocks, some tentative, but most rough and violent. She felt her mouth
being covered by the lips of men and women alike. She could taste the alcohol
and appetizers on their breath. Zara felt the hands tug at her nipple rings, tug
until they almost ripped out of her body. And worse, she felt bodies rubbing
against her back where the fresh scars of her branding screamed in pain.

The fucking went on for hours. Men diving their cocks in her pussy, her ass, and
literally ripping her apart. She sceamed, but the screams of a slave only
excerbated their efforts. The anal thrusts came harder and even the women with
strap-on dildoes demonstrated no mercy. She had been penetrated multiple times
by 25 guests, and she had lost count of the total number of fucking violations.
75? Maybe 100 times? She couldn’t remember; it was all one big atrocious blur of
pain and penetration.

Strangely, she had expected to have men cum down her mouth. Her boyfriends
always preferred to splash cum on her face, so she was preparing herself
mentally for this insult. But none of the men released their cum on her
face.Zara felt a kind of relief, but she had no inkling of what Bret had planned
inadvance. The men were instructed to spew their loads into one of the champagne
glasses and when all of them were collected….

Bret brought the glass to his slave, who thought her fucking torment was
over.She was dead wrong. He got the attention of all invited then held the full
glass over Zara’s unsuspecting face. He quickly propped her jaw open wide and
tipped the glass to release the gooey white substance straight down her throat.
Zara was getting sick at her stomach, but she knew better than to resist. Maybe
there was still the slim chance that Bret would free her. She gulped the sperm
down and let nothing escape her mouth.

The guests were all mightily impressed, and several of them inquired about
“renting” her out from Bret. Zara kneeled at her master’s side and wondered if
and when she was to be sold off to someone else.

“Now, now, friends, before you ask, I have to tell you, my slave Zara doesn’t
come cheap. If you need to use her for a night or a weekend, we’re talking about
$10,000 easy. And if you plan on incorporating any serious means of punishment
or torture, well, we’re talking about maybe—-”

Suddenly, Bret’s voice was cut off without courtesy or warning. A heavily
accented Japanese man from the back silenced the room: “One million dollars! I
offer one million dollars to you sir, to buy your slave for my personal use—no
holds barred—for one week. One week, one million, no questions asked.”

The attention of the room focused on this man in shades, sitting on the long
leather sofa. All eyes then seemed to turn back to Zara and her master. Bret
stayed silent for a moment, then reminded himself of the money involved. He
looked down at the helpless Zara, watching her eyes—still sewn
together—manage to release a number of frightened tears. Zara cried because
her intuition told her that this foreign buyer would be worse than anything Bret
could dream up.

Part 3

Behind closed doors, Bret and the Japanese buyer, Mr. Yakuta, worked out the

details for the week-long exchange while Zara was returned to her original cell

to contemplate the painful events behind her and those ahead of her.

The party had long since concluded, and Zara had been violated several more

times by cocks and dildos. She had been forced to insert a 7-inch rubber dildo

in her cunt and walk around with it inside her for at least one whole hour. One

of the women, whose voice Zara thought she recognized from a recent blockbuster

movie, had ordered the insertion. It sounded like the woman was extremely drunk

or perhaps extremely high. Even in her forced blindness, Zara could feel the

beautiful curves of this woman’s body as the partyer rubbed up against Zara

while the dildo was in place. The others kept refering to this woman as “Cindy”,

but even with this aid, Zara couldn’t be sure if it was a known celebrity.

Cindy became very liberal with a whip once she got bored of the dildo insertion.

Zara was forced to stand and she felt the D-ring on her collar being attached to

a chain overhead. Once secured, the chain tightened and Zara’s body was lifted

slowly off the carpet by her thin neck.

The strain was incredible and it was obvious to everyone that Bret’s Slave was

having difficulty breathing. No one expressed any words of compassion over this,

of course. This was Zara’s first life experience with the whip and no amount of

mental preparation could have braced her body for the alarming sensation of

leather slashing across her skin.

Blow after blow, the whip rained on her back and front mercilessly. Cindy was

the main perpetrator, and she yelled in a state of excitement every time Zara

pleaded for relief. Cindy was quite beautiful herself, and in fact she was a

famous celebrity. The men around her were getting sexually aroused and decided

spontaneously that they had to have her. Cindy was too high to object, and she

was so caught up in her excitement that she was more than willing to take on a

gangbang of 15 or more cocks.

But even as Cindy was the new focus of sexual attention, Zara was not allowed to

rest. A trio of avowed lesbian models approached Zara’s sweating body, stretched

so seductively by the chains, and began to kiss and lick on the slave. At first,

this treatment was almost pleasant, but like everything else that was happening

to her, the treatment of Zara turned violent and painful.

The models brought out a matchbox and Zara could hear the stark sound of

individual strikes on the rough box. As a model would light a tall kitchen

match, she would bring it close to Zara and let the slave feel the approaching

heat. One of the models, named Jenny, liked to bring her matches right up to

Zara’s nipple rings and heat the ring up, conducting heat through the whole ring

which naturally transferred immense heat to the inside and outside of Zara’s

sensitive nipples.

Another model, whose name was something in German (and hard for Zara to recall),

preferred Zara’s asshole. The German model would bring her lit matches to Zara’s

asscheeks, watch Zara squirm at the sensation of heat, and then quickly snuff

the flame out by jamming the stick in Zara’s ass. The flame was small and

quickly extinguished each time, but each time, it burned Zara’s helpless flesh.

As Zara reviewed the events of the evening from her quiet and cold cell, she was

almost glad that her eyes remained sewn together. She did not want to view the

damage that had most certainly been done to her.

The steel cell door shook her from her thoughts and she heard the footsteps of

two men enter.

“Mr. Yakuta here has the honor of renting you first, Zara,” Bret said without my

emotion, “Now I had anticipated several one-night encounters for you first, my

dear, to gradually work you in. But as it happens, I am not about to turn down a

one million dollar contract for one week’s time.”

As if she would find it interesting to know the terms of their agreement, Zara

was read the documents that the two men had hastily drawn up. Among the clauses

that Bret emphasized, a torture section that did not include anything, but

rather frighteningly, only excluded three specific items: no dismemberment; no

disembowelment; and, under heavy financial penalty, no torture leading to death.

Zara realized instantly the gravity of her situation with Mr. Yakuta. Her new

master (for the contract week) said nothing as he approached his new slave. Bret

still carried on with the chatter; he felt he owed some explanation to the

pretty young thing that had refused his gestures on the casting couch.

“Zara, your week with Mr. Yakuta starts immediately, and he’s elected to keep

your stitches on your eyes indefinitely for the flight. He also prefers a

slightly different kind of leash, so I’m going to have to deactivate and remove

my collar for the time being.”

Mr. Yakuta unwound a chain from his inside suit pocket. Zara could hear the

links moving close to her pussy. She felt her two clit rings being adjusted and

then heard the click of metal snaps attaching to her rings. Mr. Yakuta then

placed a heavy padlock through her rings and the connected leash ring. When he

released the padlock from his grip, she instantly felt gravity at work on her

tender clit. The lock weighed perhaps 16 to 32 ounzes and the painful pulling of

her clit was registered all over her face.

Bret unlaced and removed Zara’s high heels at Mr. Yakuta’s request. Zara’s hair

was unbraided and allowed to fall loosely to the small of her back. Zara was

completely divested of anything on her body, save for the rings and chains. Mr.

Yakuta tugged on her clit leash, signalling that it was time to go. She began to

stand to walk, but suddenly she felt a tremendous fist slam into her stomach and

drop her to the floor.

“You will not stand or walk, unless commanded! Is that understood?”

Yakuta yelled.

“Yes, I under—”

Another blow, this time to her side.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” Zara managed to barely speak, “Yes, sir, I understand, sir.”

Zara assumed the doggie position and walked on her hands and knees out of the

cell. With her eyes sewn shut, it was difficult to keep up with her new master,

as he led her through the basement and the house where the party had transpired.

Zara was led outside and into the waiting limousine.

Once inside the plush backseat compartment, her clit chain was secured to an

eyebolt fashioned on the floor of the expensive car. Zara was instructed to

kneel with her hands behind her, her back arched, and her tits sticking out.

Just as Yakuta’s limo was pulling away, he leaned down to his new acquisition

and whispered into her ear.

“Say goodbye to your boyfriend Bret, slave. You are never coming back here.”

(the end??)

My name is Anita and always has been. Some of the other girls had their names changed, but they liked mine so I’ve kept it. Looking back 9 months ‘Anita’ was a very different person. I was living an existence. I lived in the same town I’d grown up in; I never knew my father and my mother had died when I was 19, leaving everything to me. We had not been wealthy but I did have a small flat to my name and could support myself by working as a secretary.  I had a few friends but an unexciting life. I never met anyone new and didn’t go out much. I’d had a couple of bad experiences with men in my late teenage years and since my mother had died I’d not dated anyone. I was actually uncomfortable around men, as if they were another species that I couldn’t relate to. I’m not beautiful so it was easy for me to escape attention and get on with my work. It was when I was 24, 9 months back that I got home one day and had a nervous breakdown.

I felt like my life was meaningless, here I was, apparently in the prime of my life coming home and going to bed at 9 O’clock with a mug of hot chocolate. I dressed in the same clothes I’d worn for years, a brown suit and flat shoes for work. No make-up. I felt like there was no way anyone would find me attractive. I would dream of meeting a man who would treat me like a sex goddess, who would be consumed by passion and fuck me wherever he could. I imagined that I was glamorous and irresistible and then I would open my eyes again and realise that I wasn’t.

That evening I had vowed that I couldn’t go on like that. That I had to change something; that I had to see someone and ask for help. I didn’t want to waste my life. I also felt though that I was a hopeless cause and that it would take a miracle to undo what I’d turned into. My friends seemed quite happy to be single and didn’t seem interested in men at all, so I didn’t think that they’d be much help. I was unsure about how to start anything and it was blind fate that had brought me to the personal ads in the evening paper.

‘You.  Yes, YOU can become a sex goddess. Treat yourself to a personality makeover and start living now!’ – Dr Vivienne Black, sex therapist, confidence coach and expert in seduction; welcomes ‘lost causes!’ First consultation half price!

It was like the paper was speaking to me, I was actually shaking as I copied the number into my diary. I had gone to bed feeling weepy but at last I had some hope.

‘How about after work then? ‘, the lady on the phone was lovely, very gentle and easy to talk to. My heart was pounding as I made my first appointment for that day with Dr Black herself. She had been warm and accommodating and had said that if I came to her clinic I could start my first session at 6.30.

I’d finished all my work on time, said goodbye to my boss and nervously plotted a route to where her clinic was. It was actually a bit out of the way and on the front of an industrial estate with nothing to draw attention to itself, but it looked clean and tidy. I’d had to check if it was the right address but then saw a small plaque on the front door which confirmed everything.

I parked up and knocked on the door. After only a few seconds I was greeted by the smiling face of Dr Black, or Vivienne as she had introduced herself. She had enthusiastically taken my hand and had a real presence about her. She looked stunning, not that she was extraordinarily beautiful but that she was beautifully dressed. She wore a well tailored black trouser suit with expensive looking high-heeled boots. A flowing mass of straight black hair was combed to perfection, lifted into a ponytail and held there with a large burgundy flower, swaying down to the small of her back. I had been quite captivated by her even then and remember thinking that if I could be anything like as attractive then I would be more than happy.

First off, she’d taken my coat and led me through to the consulting room. It looked much more like a very expensive executive office though, plush leather chairs, proper artwork marble flooring and stunning rugs. She stood in front of me, holding the back of one of the chairs.

‘Come here and sit down.’ She had smiled.

No sooner had I sat than she was handing me a metal cup with a warm drink inside.

‘This tea will help you to relax a little as we talk’, she had said.

‘Let me tell you a little about what I do and then you can tell me what you want to get out of this. My background is in psychology and neurosciences and my technique will involve helping to change the way you think about certain aspects of yourself, things that need to change so that you can move forward. Today I need you to tell me about yourself and what you want to achieve. Now while you’re doing this I need to monitor some of your body’s responses, just your heart and skin with some sticky pads, just like when you go to hospital, it’s all perfectly routine’

She had then sat in her own chair and listened as I told her about my life. She’d soothed me when I started crying and told her how unattractive I felt and how I wanted to be a confident woman who men would find attractive.

She’d all the while been asking me questions, what clothes would make me feel confident, beautiful, and sexy and what would make me feel dowdy; to which I had given a weak laugh and said my whole wardrobe. Then she asked me a lot of other questions that she said were to help ‘map out my personality’ a little. She asked me to imagine that I was someone else and to tell her how it felt. She had started off with a film star but had gone on to ask much more embarrassing things; she wanted me to imagine that I was the office flirt, then the office slut, then I was a lap dancer with men ogling me while I writhed in front of them for their pleasure! I was surprised to hear myself say that I would be excited to have that attention, very excited. Dr. Black had such a kindly way about her that I felt I could be completely honest with her. I had blushed heavily but felt aroused nonetheless at the thought.

‘That’s excellent, Anita”, she had said after a while, ‘I want you to relax for a moment while I go next door’

I had relaxed back in the chair feeling free of worries. Dr Black had closed the door in to the next room but I could hear her talking, obviously just taking a quick phone call. After a few moments she had returned.

‘Everything’s going really well. Now what I need you to do is come next door. Before you do I want you to stay beautifully relaxed, just listening to my voice still and then just gently stand yourself up. Excellent. Now slowly come through here’

I was in a lovely trance, I had felt warm and secure as I walked next door.

‘Lie down on the bed over there and relax’

I did so.

‘Now Anita, this next stage is so I can find out a little more about you. I’m going to use a scanner to look at what happens to your brain as we talk, OK?’

I had nodded.

‘Close your eyes and relax into to moulded pillow’

I let my head drop into the soft casing. There were holes for the ears so I could still hear perfectly.

‘Well done, now I’m going to put a little strap around your head so it stays still in the scanner, OK?’

‘Fine’, I replied.

I felt a firm rubber strap over my forehead holding my head comfortably but firmly in place.

‘Now close your eyes. We’re going backwards now, nothing to be alarmed about’, she said as the bed gently slid backwards a little.

‘That’s good, now just relax and get comfy Anita’

She had started to ask me to imagine the same things again. This time she was sat at the bedside, close to me. I could hear her adjusting a few controls and using a computer mouse from time to time.

She asked me about work, people I trusted, my boss, what would happen if he asked me to bring him coffee, to stay behind and work late, to come into his office and strip. I answered honestly and was surprisingly not shocked by her questions, such was her manner. I felt utterly comfortable confiding in her my most personal secrets. Obviously the barriers had gone up at the last request, I would not strip for my boss but I told her this matter-of-factly without any rebuke for her asking me such intimate things.

I can’t remember how long I had stayed on that bed being probed to the depths of my core by Dr. Black. She had asked me in detail about my sexual fantasies; which were along the lines of being found irresistible by some tall dark stranger at a grand summer ball to the point where he could resist me no more and had to take me, which he did over the desk in the study. She had plumbed my feelings on oral and anal sex at this time too. I felt quite excited about taking him in my mouth, but was scared of anal penetration.

She then had asked a number of bizarre things about how I would react if a series of increasingly unpleasant or unreasonable things were asked of me. That’s all I could remember afterwards anyway.

The next thing I remember was hearing,

‘Open your eyes, Anita’

I looked up to see the reassuring smile of Dr. Vivienne Black. She was offering me her had so I could get up from the bed. We had walked together back into the office next door and she had poured me some juice.

‘I can really help you with your problems, Anita. What I think will work best for you will be a regular set of sessions where we set goals and try some new behaviour for you. I have to say that this will be no less than ten sessions and requires up-front commitment and payment. Listen to what I have to say before you say anything though.’

I was unnerved but excited as I listened.

‘The first thing we need to do is to get you feeling great about yourself and build up some confidence. I propose we do this by firstly getting you a complete makeover. New hair, make-up, clothes, shoes, the works! Again this will require some outlay on your part’

‘That is no problem,’ I had said, I was now for the first time feeling that things might start to turn around with the help of this lady, ‘I have enough money set aside for all of this. I can’t think of anything more worthwhile to spend it on.’

‘That’s fantastic, Anita. We need to do this soon and at the same time I will work on your behaviours so you not only look but feel like a confident, beautiful, sexy woman. Are you free this weekend?’

PART 2

And so it was that on Monday morning I had stepped into the office a new woman. People in the office noticed immediately. Everything that could possibly be different was.

The weekend had been packed full of activity. It had started, early, with a morning session at Vivienne’s office. I’d pulled out my cheque book at the start and signed away a small fortune, but I didn’t care. It was only money. I’d rather be happy.

We had then started the session proper.

It was amazing that two full hours had passed, by the clock, but she had made me so relaxed, so quickly, that the time had gone in a flash. I had awoken feeling refreshed and excited.

She had told me that to start with we were going to work on how I held myself and that was the task to work at while we were out and about. I had listened intently as she told me the first of her ’secrets’ to confident behaviour. She only wanted me to do three things today, easy things she said but, ‘Oh so important’; Firstly, and most importantly, to smile a lot; at people, entering a room, when I feel uncomfortable; in fact most of the time. She had asked me to smile for her and had adjusted it so it looked right. Then she made me practice it and said she would remind me by saying, ’smile’ throughout the day.

The other two things were posture and how to walk well. She said that as I was going to be stunning and probably a constant wearer of high heels, our first job was to get me a pair to learn in right away. I had felt nervous but again excited by this. I’d only ever worn high heels once, at a birthday party when I was 17. I’d found them difficult and had not persevered with them; they had looked more trouble than they were worth. I did like the look of other women in them though, if they could walk in them. I usually wore very practical but desperately unglamorous flat shoes.

It wasn’t long before I had stepped out in a pair of new, black leather, high, stiletto heeled boots. Without anything else I had immediately started to feel glamorous. Vivienne had taken my arm and talked me through the ‘correct’ way to walk in them. She had taken me up and down a quiet side street while she improved my posture and got me balancing properly on the high heels. She was such an amazing teacher and had such a fantastic way of putting things. I had walked the rest of the day with my head high, like I had spent years in high heels. I felt so good that she had rarely to remind me to smile.

We did the rounds that afternoon. I had to go back to the car halfway through because we’d bought so much; two stunningly cut fitted suits that I’d never have picked myself; trousers and tops for evening wear; two pairs of attention-grabbing gorgeous heels for work that I would never have dreamed of wearing; a pair of fluffy high heeled mules to practice in around the house ( I’d found that so funny, Vivienne was pleased I was enjoying myself ) ;earrings; underwear; two bags; a coat; the list went on! I didn’t care how much of my savings were being used up. I’d smiled at everyone that day and gone home a happy woman. I’d immediately thrown my old things in a pile to make room for my new clothes. Vivienne had left me in town, elegantly kissing me goodbye. She had arranged to pick me up the following morning and take me for ‘a day of sumptuous pampering’. I’d sat in the bath that night with a glass of chilled white wine in my hand and a beaming grin on my face.

The following day I’d got up early and dressed in my new clothes at a leisurely pace; new trousers, pink-brown top, coat and boots.  I was chauffeured by Vivienne to a beautician’s. Her name was Trisha and she was stunning. Tall; slim; black skin, the colour

of milky coffee; lush, full, glossy lips; lustrous, frizzy, blond streaked hair, knotted up in a way so elaborate only a professional would be able to do. I had felt over-awed by her beauty. She clearly knew Vivienne well as they both shared a hug and kiss before Vivienne introduced me. Trisha had smiled and looked at my face, then stepped back to regard me.

‘You’ve got some natural beauty for me to work with all right; and really quite a magnificent figure’, she had smiled mischievously and exchanged looks with Vivienne, ‘come inside and we’ll get started.’

We were the only ones in the shop but it was small and looked incredibly exclusive. I had bet it must cost a fortune to get anything at all done there. There were no prices up anywhere.

‘I’m glad I paid up front’, I had joked to myself.

Then I wondered if I had.

‘Come this way Anita’, Trisha had said.

She was dressed in a smart beige beautician’s uniform; practical for getting hair and oil spills on but well fitting and very fashionably designed. She wore simple but perfect make-up and a pair of smart but comfortable looking beige sandals. She carried herself with the same confident elegance that Vivienne had but had more swing to her slightly wider hips.  I had followed her down a light, wood-floored corridor to a small changing room with a half door at modesty height. She had brought me a white silk robe and slippers, which she passed in, and told me to change. She said to take everything off as she was going to make my whole body beautiful. She said that Vivienne was leaving us but had said to have a great day and to let her take good care of me.

‘So, Anita, have you had beauty treatments before?’ she asked as I belted the silk robe around my naked body and dropped my panties onto the floor.

‘No. Never’, I replied.

There then followed an amazed set of questions along the lines of, ‘What, you’ve never had your nails done?!’ through to, ‘Not even a facial?!’

All of it was said with a pleasant jocularity that made me warm to her straight away.

‘Well. You’re in for a hell of a day girl!’

Over the next four and a half hours I was transformed into a woman.

She had started with a full body massage to get me relaxed. She asked me questions the whole way through. She had a way, like Vivienne, that made her very approachable and trustworthy. I had felt able to be totally honest and confide in her. We had chatted for a while until the massage just got too good and I zoned out.

I came to lying on my back with Trisha, back towards me, handling some things on a table next to me.

‘Now, I’m afraid, I’m going to have to torture you’

I looked up as she turned around.

‘Wax time!’ she smiled.

I must have looked a picture!

She was a real expert though. Waxed me everywhere. Took away hair I didn’t know I had. Face, legs, bikini line, everywhere was fair game. It really didn’t hurt much either. She trimmed my pubic hair from a spidery bush to an elegant, feminine strip.

After that she treated my skin with scented oils and creams, which she worked in while I gently melted.

Then she pedicured me and manicured my hands.

‘Ok, now the difficult subject of nail colour’, she had said, ‘I’m going to put some false nails on your hands so we will have to paint them’

I trusted her. I never wore nail varnish, partly because it seemed like too much trouble, but mainly because most examples I’d seen looked pretty tacky or tarty. I particularly hated women with really long nails, they reminded me of whores. Long pink or red nails, horrible! I remember we both had a good laugh about that.

She showed me a wooden display book with lots of sample colours painted onto little stones. I had looked at them for a while unable to make up my mind. Then I realised what I thought might work.

‘Don’t tell me’, she had said looking into my eyes before I could open my mouth, ‘I’ll bet you really would like a French manicure, yes?’

‘Yes’, I exclaimed, genuinely amazed, ‘that’s incredible, how did you knew that?’

She had smiled

‘I know what works.’ she had purred, ‘I know what works for you too, Anita’

Apparently she did.

She finished my nails, making sure they were just long enough so I could still type easily. Then she gave me the facial.

‘I’ve got a hair colour for you too sweetie. Now see how you like this’

‘It’s beautiful’, I had said, ‘It’s so perfectly beautiful. Do you think it would look OK on me?’

‘Only one way to find out’

She dyed my bush of thick light brown hair a deep red, orange. It was gorgeous but it did scream for attention. I was slightly worried at first but then I fell in love with it. She had cut my thick bush into something that was just so ‘me’ but I would never have found it; lively, a little chaotic, beautifully shaped, longer at the back than the front but fashionably so. She talked me through how to do it myself, it was very little trouble. It framed my face perfectly, which she then taught me how to make-up. As I finished off with a thick velvety lipstick I couldn’t have believed I would ever look this good.

‘Ok now go back to the dressing room and change’

When I emerged she kissed me and told me I looked absolutely beautiful. I had blushed and thanked her. She told me that she would have ordered me a cab but thought that maybe I should take a walk a bit further up the road, into town, to get a cab there. To show myself off a bit she had said with a wink. I had teetered out on cloud nine.

Monday morning, the minute I walked into the office, heads turned. I loved it. I loved the attention and found that all kinds of people were treating me differently. The doorman had almost ‘double-taked’, he eyed me down from immaculate hair and face, through my nipped-in fitted suit, all the way down my black nylon covered legs to my high black leather stiletto-pumps. I had smiled to myself and carried on my proper walk. I know he checked out my ass for a good time without having looked.

I stood in the lift with a guy who worked upstairs. He’d never noticed me before but I could see him checking me out in the door reflection. I smiled at him, then the door opened for my floor and I left.

I work in a multi-story office block. Our company, a legal firm, is on the tenth floor and takes up half of that. I’m the personal secretary for one of the partners and handle the work for one other junior lawyer usually. That’s enough to keep me pretty busy and I am a good secretary. There’s a central area with the lawyers’ doors coming off where I work with 3 other secretaries. All the offices had frosted-glass doors and windows opening onto our area. It was a very professional set up as all the clients were seen there. I had often felt that I was the thing that let it down the most and was glad my desk was to one side.

The girls I share a room with couldn’t believe it! They showered me with complements and started asking where I got my things from and where I got my hair done. I was cagey about it as I didn’t want to let on that I was seeing a therapist and after naming a few shops turned the conversation round to something else. When we went out to get lunch I felt like there was more of a buzz about the group of us and everyone had seemed more excited.

My boss had come in late and had immediately gone in to talk to one of the other partners. When he came out he came over to me to ask me into his office, this is what we did every day and I would go through his diary with him. He immediately paid me a complement as he saw me at the desk, sincerely saying I looked lovely today. Then he told me to come in. He held the door for me as always and I sidled past him and stood at my usual spot. He sat down and we started going through meetings and cases as normal. He was definitely different with me though. I saw him eyeing up my legs several times.

He was not attractive physically but was very confident, decisive and could be quite commanding. He was always very specific with what he wanted me to do and I liked that. He was also the most powerful man in the company, the other partners generally deferred to his judgement. I had once woken up very flustered after a dream where he had taken me into his office, bent me over his desk and fucked me until he came. Then he had sent me away unsatisfied and frustrated to finish my typing. I recalled that dream while I was standing there and blushed, Vivienne had me smiling at him though!

That night I had another session. I recounted every detail to Vivienne. The final detail was the one that had made the day for me. As I had stepped into the lift to go downstairs I had realised that the same guy from upstairs was in it. I’d smiled at him and stepped in. He had wasted no time telling me that I looked beautiful and would I like to meet up for a drink some time? I have never been asked out by a stranger before (!) but strangely handled it very well. He introduced himself as David, I gave him my name and number and said to call me. Then I walked out before him feeling a bit like a temptress as I walked, knowing I would have his full attention on me.

‘That’s fantastic, Anita’, Vivienne said, ‘I’m so happy for you. And you know this is just the beginning too. We’ll cover what you’ll need to handle a date soon as well!’

‘Ok, let’s start the session’

I remember envisaging some scenarios but the details were very blurry. I can remember one starting with approaching a man I found attractive but I couldn’t remember what happened next. I remember feeling very, very sexy though; and still felt sexy when I came to at the end.

‘I have to say that things are going extremely well, Anita. You’re almost a model subject and I can practically guarantee a good outcome with you’

I smiled happily

‘Next session will be in three days, on Thursday. Homework is to find a fitness activity you can do as I think we should get a few pounds off you. You aren’t fat honey, don’t worry, this is about getting you to your absolute best; so absolutely no junk food or chocolate until we’re happy about this. Secondly I want you to masturbate every night now for a while. We need to develop and explore your sexuality now you’re getting to be in a position to need it.’

I blushed from head to toe, ‘Yes, Vivienne.’

‘I have a little present here that I think you will learn to like a lot. Use it when you get home and then every night’

I felt a little naughty as I took an expensive looking, little black bag from her. Something was wrapped up inside it.

‘Now off you go’

PART 3

The next day a strange thing happened.

I had got up early for work, had an unhurried breakfast, went through my beauty routine and got dressed. I had washed and stowed away my shiny new vibrator all the time thinking, ‘what have I been doing all these years!’

Then I’d got the bus to work.

I’d got into work again and just put my bag down when I saw a letter in my in-tray. I had opened it and it said that my application for annual leave had been approved. I was puzzled; I had not made an application. I looked at the dates and it was for three and a half weeks leave from next Wednesday. There must obviously have been some mistake I had thought. Never mind, I would sort it out.

The rest of the day passed without incident. I say that because the way I was treated and looked at now, was the norm. I felt like a proper woman now, a lady, people were more polite and deferential to me and I felt attractive and desirable. It made me feel great but was no longer a notable event or rarity; rather it was me, full time!

I had dropped by the gym opposite on the way back from my lunch break with Melanie, one of the girls I worked with. Very aware of my instructions from Vivienne I had a small, healthy salad for my lunch with plenty of water, a careful eye remaining on my figure.

Melanie was brassy and generally told it how it was. She was not especially bright but she had ‘lived’ and brimmed with the confidence of someone who had been through it all. She made me laugh in the office, usually with jokes about sex, usually crude ones at that. She was in her late thirties, a single mum who supported her three teenagers. She didn’t have that much money and she tended to dress sexily but cheaply for the office; short black skirt; cheap plastic heels and three pairs of worn oval matching gold earrings that increased in size towards the front pair. She also wore too much makeup. The other girls could sometimes be a little snobby about her behind her back, saying she looked so common (I did tend to agree about the earrings), but I liked her. I knew where I stood with her and she had been so encouraging to me since I had started to undergo my ‘change’. She was, as it happened, trying to give up smoking and was going to try to exercise her way through the craving. So she was keen to stop by the gym with me.

We looked at their programme. I immediately was drawn to one item, every Wednesday and Friday,

‘Pole Dancing, beginner to intermediate level’

My hand went over my mouth as Melanie immediately blurted out that that’s what we should do and started to storm inside. I wondered if I should take the plunge. It must have been about thirty seconds before I slowly followed her inside, nervous but buzzing; and we enrolled. My mind flashed back to pleasuring myself the night before, daringly imagining myself an object of desire, a fabulous feathered showgirl, dancing on the stage in a fabulous West End show. To do something like this for real, though, was totally different.

I’m sure I was blushing when I signed my name on the register. We could start right away, the following day that was, as there were a couple of vacant poles in the class.

Melanie asked the receptionist about it. She said that the class was actually taught by a professional but was attended by regular gym users. Melanie had joked that she was glad it wasn’t an apprenticeship with a job to follow!

‘That’s what everyone says’, the receptionist had laughed politely.

It was usually very popular, we were lucky there was a single vacancy. She went herself in fact, and it was a lot more difficult than it looked. She said that she’d only been going for a month but was already much, much stronger and fitter. It was all strictly behind closed doors and for women only; there was no chance of any men or outsiders watching. That had made me feel relieved. She said that the instructor was ludicrously good at it. She, herself, was very proud of the fact that she could just about hold herself upside down and steady on the pole now and still maintain some posture. It sounded very challenging and just what we needed to get fit. She said all we needed to bring was something comfortable but not too baggy to wear because the pole could rub on bare skin; and a pair of high heels. I slightly balked at the idea when she mentioned that as it brought a slutty look to my mind, an image I certainly wanted to avoid. She was very matter-of-fact and said that it was intrinsic to the whole art and a necessary part of ‘the dancer’s form’. She advised us that she actually wore boots so she didn’t have to worry about losing a shoe when she was hanging from the pole. It sounded like good advice. I was glad we had talked to her. We thanked her and said we’d see her there tomorrow.

As we walked back to the office Melanie had said, ‘I can’t believe you are making me do this. I didn’t know you were such a little tart!’

I had laughed a little defensively at her joke. I was not accustomed to being called anything like that and it had, after all, been her suggestion.

After work I nipped out and bought a cheap pair of boots that I wouldn’t mind getting sweaty in. I chose some with laces for a good fit and because they looked similar to the type a dancer would wear, albeit with higher heels. I felt pretty sexy in them right away and did a couple of twirls in the shop to make sure I would be able to move well in them. I picked up some gym clothes as well, some short leggings, a tight top and a sports bra. I’d then gone home for an early night, tired but excited. I was a good girl and did my homework.

The following day Melanie and I had been like giggling schoolgirls. We didn’t tell the other two what we were planning. They were a little more conservative. I actually felt ashamed at the thought of them knowing, so it stayed our little secret. We were thick as thieves that day. My boss even picked up on it and made a point of returning two letters to me with spelling mistakes on. It was as if to reprimand me and tell me to concentrate on my work; that he thought I should be above such girlish immaturity. I had apologised and, riding the wave of girlishness, flattered my eyelashes at him. He had snorted out a smile and left.

That night we slipped off after work to the gym. It was like stealing off for a cigarette at the end of the school playground.

Truly I’d been embarrassed as I walked out of the changing room with Melanie, dressed for the first time as a keep-fit pole dancer. We stood around uncomfortably for a few minutes until our instructor, Lisa, arrived. She briefly welcomed us to the class, in something of a hurry, and got us to introduce ourselves to the other eight women there. She then wasted no time getting us to our poles and starting us with testing yoga-like stretching exercises. That lasted for about half an hour, she stressed flexibility and strength above everything else and made sure we were all sweating, stretched and warm. Then we started with some moves, gently walking round the pole to start with.

After a while I was sucked along with it and quite suddenly realised that I was strutting and swinging myself round the pole like I was a proper erotic dancer; moving for the pleasure of an audience. I blushed fully at this realisation but saw that I was not alone in my actions. All the other girls were doing exactly the same and were thankfully oblivious to me. Several, in fact, were really going for it; exaggerating the wiggle from their hips as they sauntered sexily round their long brass poles. I couldn’t believe it and blushed again as I thought it looked a bit trashy but maybe quite fun to do. I made an attempt to copy them. I liked to do things well, it was all behind closed doors and I did, after all, want to do the whole thing properly.

‘Good movement, Anita’, I heard from my Instructress. I hadn’t spotted her looking at me and almost died with embarrassment as the others all looked up at me.

Later, as we moved on, Lisa told us not to do the more advanced moves and instead gave us some simpler exercises to practice while the rest of the class continued difficult lessons that they had already been working on.

She made us do press-ups, sit-ups and jumping-jacks (in heels!). By the time she told us to go and get a shower I was exhausted and every bone in my body ached. My arms could hardly move from what they’d been put through. If anything was going to lose me a few pounds; that was it for sure. At home I went straight to bed, initially struggling with the idea of my homework, but soon settling into it. I had a massive orgasm and then turned over to rest. It was half past nine!

I was just dozing off to sleep when the phone rang. I considered not answering it but it so rarely rang that I picked it up. It was the man from the lift! He sounded lively and really pleased that I was in. He said he knew it was a little strange and not what he’d initially intended but asked if I would like to accompany him to a party on a yacht that Saturday night. He’d been invited last minute and thought it would be fantastic if he could take me (yes ME!) as his date. It took my breath away. I thought I’d be speechless but felt like I must have had the confidence of Vivienne when the composed sounding,

‘Yes, I’d be delighted to’, sprang from my lips

He arranged to pick me up at 7 sharp and said that it was black tie and cocktail dress-code. He asked if that was ‘ok’ and I replied that it was ‘absolutely fine’; in spite of having no dress and no idea what it would be like. I thought about phoning Vivienne straight away to scream for help but thought better of it as it was late and I had a session with her the next day anyway. I would just have to wait and sweat on it. I took a few deep breaths and regained some composure. I was so excited, I hadn’t been asked out on a date like that, well, ever!

The next night I had giddily come straight out with it almost before saying hello to Vivienne. She had grinned and said,

‘My! Someone’s excited aren’t they?!’

I must have been wagging my tail like a puppy asking her what I should do. I coyly paused and asked her if there was any chance she could help me find something to wear. She had such good taste and I knew if she was with me I would pick something that I would look and feel incredible in.

‘We’ll see’, she had said teasingly and then pressed me to start the session.

Like the first time, I remember her relaxing me and then getting me to walk next door and lie down in the comfortable scanner. The memory was much less distinct than the first time and after that I remembered nothing. I awoke back in her office. I felt very different from previous sessions. I did not feel fantastic and refreshed. I felt like I had just done the exercise class from the night before, but many times, one after another. My body ached and the only pleasant feeling I had was like an endorphin hit, the kind that followed heavy exercise. I had told myself at the time that it must have been my muscles; only then starting to seize and complain from the class the night before. It didn’t trouble me that the pains were in places that I had not been exercising, like my breasts and my sex, as well as the rest of my body. However, before I could dwell on it Vivienne had said,

‘Because it’s such a special occasion I think I can come into town with you on Saturday morning to help you pick something out’

I was so relieved, ‘Oh, thank you!’ I had said.

‘I have a couple of things to do there myself in fact so it won’t really be too much trouble. Maybe I should let you buy me lunch and it’s a deal’, she smiled.

‘Oh I’d love to’, I had swooned, feeling at the time that it would be my privilege to do that.

‘Wonderful then, see you there, Sweetie.’

PART 4

Saturday came and I met up in town with Vivienne. I was aching from my second class the previous night and my feet were sore from rubbing in my dancing boots. I had whined a little to Vivienne and she had told me ruefully,

‘A lady never complains about her feet, Anita. It is most unbecoming and very common. Your feet will toughen up soon, don’t worry; so stick with it but don’t complain’

I had nodded like a scolded puppy. I was wearing my high-heeled boots and they were aggravating the same spots with every step. I had smiled said, ‘Yes, Vivienne’, and put on a brave face for the rest of the day imagining the size of my blisters and quietly dreaming about a foot bath. She had to sort out some business at an estate agent’s and with her lawyers to start with so I had to follow her for that; thankfully it passed very quickly and without too much walking.

She came through with the goods in the end though, like I knew she would. She steered me towards a spectacular short, black, strapless cocktail dress in a small designer boutique tucked away down a side street. I almost cried when I put it on and saw myself; I looked like a film star. It was the kind of thing I had never worn before. At three hundred pounds I didn’t think twice about not buying it, I owed it to myself to have it. She even said she’d lend me some proper jewellery to make it work. She was like the big sister I had never had, the perfect big sister who made everything all right. She helped me pick out a pair of sexy dress-sandals to go with it and then packed me off home to relax and get myself ready for my big date.

It was later that night that I reached what I now know to be my all time high. I will never feel like that again now and I’ve lost count of the nights I’ve gone to sleep crying at that thought. It pains me to have to recall how I felt then and how I can never feel like that again.

I had spent the afternoon readying myself. I took a lovely, sensual bath with fragrant oils, followed by full skin treatment with soft moisturizing lotions. I got my nails, hair and makeup looking absolutely perfect. Put on suspenders and black stockings. Zipped up my lovely new dress, almost shivering as the cool satin lining closed around my body to sit firmly about my increasingly slender waist. I slid my richly painted, stockinged toes into my strappy stilettos; my heels almost wobbling high over the tiny points; and fastened the skinny straps snugly round my ankles. A week ago and I would have quaked at the idea of having to walk in them, but by that time I was confident and thought that I would be taking very delicate, ladylike steps. Mercifully the straps avoided the key areas that had been rubbing all day, although had they not I would have worn them without complaint and suffered silently, as a lady.

I then sat down at my dresser and took the box that Vivienne had lent me. She had said that the contents were worth ‘a lot’ of money and that I was to take exceptional care of them. I carefully opened the box and looked inside. There was a pearl choker wrapped around a purple velvet ring. I unfastened it and lifted it up, feeling the weight. It was stunningly beautiful, it had three lines of well sized pearls all strung together fastening with a clip at the back. At the front of the choker was a dazzling piece of cut onyx, shiny and black, surrounded by an elaborate pattern of diamonds set in gold. It felt like it was all real, the highest quality, not an imitation, it must have been worth an absolute fortune. I was transfixed. Slowly I clicked open the fastening and drew it up to my neck, feeling excited as the cold inside fell against me, arousing me slightly. I moved my hands around behind me, encircling my throat with the pearls until I could slide the mating fastenings together and they clicked home. It stayed comfortably halfway up my neck, around almost the narrowest part. I took the matching earrings from the box and put them on too. Then I looked at myself.

I felt incredible. Elegant; sexy; beautiful; I felt fantastic, like I could take on the world. I put on some perfume and stood up and admired myself in the long mirror. I felt so glamorous. I posed, like I was in a society magazine. I poured a glass of wine and waited for my date to come. I felt beautiful and in control. I felt like I looked a million dollars. I paced around a little to get used to the shoes and then the doorbell rang. I put down my glass and answered it.

I couldn’t remember him being so handsome and he looked fantastic in black tie. He was stunned with me and absolutely showered me with complements about how amazing I looked. I was glowing as we walked to the taxi together and rode to the yacht.

The night was, well, spectacular. I can’t really describe it in any other way. I had the time of my life. I was paraded around on the arm of a lovely man; I got so much attention and met so many wonderful people. My boss of all people was there. He was very taken with me and told me I looked, ‘absolutely enchanting’. I had smiled, thanked him and returned to my date. We danced and laughed. He walked me up onto the top deck and in the moonlight he kissed me for the first time. I was truly happy and felt very, very special. The whole night had passed in a wonderful blur until he took me home and kissed me goodnight. I was quite willing to invite him in as I didn’t want the night to end but Vivienne had given me very clear instructions on this.

‘There will be plenty of time for that sort of thing’, she had smiled very mischievously during one of the sessions.

I had heeded this, said goodnight to him and gone inside. I knew not to have sex on a first date anyway. I was damn glad to have my homework to do that night as I melted into the bed reliving the evening and climaxing at the thought of him taking me, still in my dress, because he had to have me, I was too beautiful not to.

Before I knew it I was back at work on Monday again. I told Melanie about my weekend and she was so happy for me. She even said she knew the guy I was talking about and that she definitely ‘wouldn’t kick him out of bed!’ I felt embarrassed but it was a complement from her; that I had done well for myself. He actually rang me at my desk to say that he’d really enjoyed the night. He asked me out on another date, something quieter, this Thursday. I didn’t hesitate to say ‘Yes’ at once.

Melanie was struggling with her smoking that afternoon so I tried my best to keep her spirits up. My boss told me again how wonderful I had looked over the weekend and was clearly starting to look at me like he wanted me now. Not explicitly, but his gaze lingered that bit longer. I tried to avoid walking in front of him if I could, but it was difficult when I went into his office because his desk faced the door.

The following day I left work to go to my session with Vivienne. I arrived at her office at 7 and got buzzed in. I was surprised to see a blonde girl sat behind the reception desk. She was a little younger than me, about 21, very pretty and dressed in a smart black skirt and white blouse. She looked up at me with a tired expression on her face.

‘Doctor Black says to wait here’, she said and then continued to stare blankly at the wall.

I felt a little strange as her manner was a little unnatural. There was silence save for the very faint sounds of a conversation next door, it was a little creepy as the reception area had a bleak feel to it and there were no magazines to read. There was just a pile of cards offering the services of Dr. Vivienne Black followed by a long list of conditions that she was adept in treating. I was just reading past ’sexual problems’ when the intercom sounded,

‘Send her in’

The girl just looked up at me, I had heard myself. I didn’t think she was a very good receptionist and would tell Vivienne what I though about her. I was now a confident assertive woman who deserved to be treated with dignity and respect.

Vivienne had just finished on the phone. I strode in, the metal from my heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. The room was dark with the curtains closed. I was happy to see my big sister and was now bursting to tell her about my big date. I’ll never forget how she looked at me. There was no smile there. She looked straight into me with empty, black, shark-like yes and said,

‘Stand there’, she pointed to a spot about a metre in front of the centre of her desk. Her tone was emotionless. I didn’t know what to do so I stood there.

‘Stand up straight, head high, suck in your stomach’, I did so,’ and push out your breasts’

I obeyed. I didn’t know what was happening.

Then she smiled and a hideous look started to take hold on her face,

‘Freeze’, she commanded.

Her smile broadened into a grin. It was not like her usual refined and restrained grin, this was a grin of sadistic abandonment. I was scared and went to tell her that I was frightened BUT I COULD NOT MOVE.

Not a muscle!

My god I couldn’t move!

I immediately started to panic. As my heart raced she started to cackle. She stood up slowly and sauntered over to me.

‘What was happening? Why couldn’t I move?’ I raced. I wondered if I may have had a sudden stroke or if I was dreaming…but it was too real. Before I could think further she said,

‘Shhhhhhhhhhh, little one’

She ran her hand down my face and stood in front of me. She looked evil in her dark makeup and deep red lipstick. Her wide smile was becoming Satanic. She started to run her nails down my face, slowly, just so they started to scratch a little. Like a cat toying with a baby rabbit. I was choked up with fear, staring at her.

‘I expect you are wondering why you can’t move now.’

‘Yes!’ I thought silently

‘I could keep you like this forever you know. I’m sure you’d like that wouldn’t you’

I couldn’t understand what she was saying, I was totally helpless, a fox in a snare.

‘This’, she said taking my bag off my shoulder and throwing it aside, ‘is our chance to get to know each other a bit better. Since I already know all about you, all your deep, dark secrets, I’ll do the talking shall I?’

She took off my jacket and started unbuttoning my blouse.

I choked back a sob but couldn’t lift a finger.

‘Yes, I could keep you still like this for as long as I choose’

My blouse was removed from me and tossed aside.

‘Maybe I could have a little glass display case made and stand you in it over there’, she mused, ‘get a nurse to put in a dear little feeding tube, a catheter and a daily enema and you would become like part of the room, a permanent fixture. My favourite decoration maybe’

I was going insane with fear now. I felt I would pass out, my head was swimming. My body was not listening to me and try as I might I could do nothing about it.

She unbuttoned my skirt and pulled it down. Then she unfastened my bra and threw that behind too. In spite of my paralysis the tears ran down my face.

‘Oh don’t mind me dear I’ve seen it all before’, she mocked as she yanked down my tights and pants airing my sex to the room.

‘Left foot up’,

It moved up and she took my shoe off. I was aghast. She did the same for the right so I was standing upright and quite naked in front of her. She picked up my shoes and set them upright in front of each of my feet.

‘Slut-heels on’, she snapped

I stepped into my shoes again and she smiled.

‘You see now. I am your Goddess. I own you now and I can do with you as I please. Now I may let you speak, but if I don’t like how you do it I can easily silence you again. Permanently.’

‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes……Vivienne’, I said, to my surprise.

A look of venom crossed her before she slapped me with full force across the face and screamed

‘No more “Vivienne”‘, mocking my voice on her name. She was riled.

‘Last chance now so make it good……Now say it bitch!’

‘Yes my Goddess, my powerful Goddess’, I sobbed. I was terrified of her. She had become a monster, an all powerful demon.

‘Good’, she smiled slowly, ‘now we are starting to understand each other. ‘Mistress’; will be adequate to address me from now on though. I think it show that you understand who is in charge’

‘Yes, Mistress’

She then turned and walked back around her desk. She clicked her fingers and said, ‘Up on here on all fours, now’

I immediately moved; I didn’t want to, I wanted to run away as fast as I could.

‘What’s happening to me?’ I wept hysterically

‘Well dear, you’re unable to resist me now as you’re under my spell’, she moved aside to allow me to climb up onto her desk

‘You see you’ve been treated in a very special way.’

I was now on all fours on her desk. She ran her hand through my hair

‘The first day you came in here I decided I could use you so I did it to you then. It’s amazing what you can do with a scanner, a gamma knife and a virgin brain. I make a few little tiny, special cuts to the right parts and, hey presto, I have a devoted, wonderfully controllable little minion.’

‘My….my….brain’, I spluttered my mouth wide open in abject disbelief.

‘They’re absolutely teensy-tiny, really very little to worry about now’; she said gently stroking my head with the mocking, trivialising sincerity of a sadistic nurse helping a small child through a horrific medical procedure.

She opened a drawer in her desk and took something out.

‘The process nearly always works straight away but there is a small chance that with a lot of resistance new pathways can form in the period immediately following treatment. That’s why you wanted it to work for you; and you have been praying for it to work haven’t you’

She smiled at me. I had played right into her hands. New tears sprang to my eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said stroking my head, ‘I’m afraid the damage is done now Anita, there’s no going back now unless I let you go. Your mind is like a piece of clay for your Goddess to play with and I wonder what I will make you into.’

‘Please…..Mistress…,’ I sobbed, ‘I don’t like this! Please let me go!’

I was weeping uncontrollably, crying my heart out.

‘There, there now’, she said, ’there, there.’

PART 5

‘I do so cherish these special moments’, she had said

I heard the sound of stretching, snapping rubber and the squirt of jelly forced from a nozzle.

‘There’s a certain intimacy that comes from the realisation that you are now, for the rest of your life, completely under the control of your new Goddess. Don’t you think? I am going to impress upon you that your mind and body are mine to do with as I please. You will want to be desperately, desperately eager to make sure that I am happy with you. I can make you behave as I wish, without any scope for you to resist. I could order you to take your life and, believe me; you would not hesitate to do it’

She came very close and whispered into my ear,

‘Also, I could kill you with a word. You would die, where you stood, over a time course of my choosing. Very, very painfully. Believe me……..Perhaps the phone will ring one day when I have no further use for you. Very, very clean. No loose ends. Natural causes would be irrefutable as the cause of death’

I could feel my heart slowing down, my vision went black; I couldn’t stay up. She slapped my face, hard. I snapped back round. As I remembered the horror of what she was saying she continued,

‘Things may well end that way one day but I am not ready to end you just yet, little one. I have other plans in mind. I do not want you passing out like that again though. Apart from anything else it’s a very inconsiderate way to reward your Goddess for her time and attention. Let’s try and keep you in the here and now a little more shall we’

She moved around to my side towards my bottom. I felt something cold at my sex then the brutal intrusion of something. It was her fingers.

‘No!’ I sobbed in protest.

‘This should keep you mindful of who’s in charge and who’s fucking who here’, she said working her fingers in over the third knuckles. The penetration was horrible. I had only ever had sex with one man and only then a handful of times. I did not enjoy it; it had been a painful, upsetting experience; not how I imagined it could be with the right man; maybe my perfect, handsome suitor from the yacht. I was jerked immediately from that thought.

The rubber fingers inside me brought a horrible memory from my adolescence flooding back; lying on my back in the dark, tears in my eyes, trying not to sob so he would know how upset I was. I had been trying not to cry out with the pain from his inexperienced, brutal thrusts. I then felt the hand slip in further the feeling was revolting, I wanted to reach down and pull it out but my hands were stuck supporting me and quite useless. I couldn’t stand it and longer.

‘Please, Please, Please Mistress!’ I sobbed miserably, ’I will do anything you want, just please stop’

I was broken. I had given up. She had won. I could take no more. I would do her bidding, whatever it was she wanted from me.

‘I can already make you do anything that I want, you stupid bitch, I have total control over your mind and body so to offer me that is to offer me nothing. Do not insult my intelligence again………..’

She gripped me deep inside to make this point. I felt a deep unsettling pain as she squeezed my womb.

‘You do still have something left that you can offer me though.’

‘What is it?’ I begged to know, surely it could be hers for the taking. If not I would freely give it to her if she would just release me from her grip and let me go home.

‘Lets not make any rash choices now Anita. I want you to fully understand the options on the table before you sign your life away. ‘

Her hand was fully worked into me now.  It was deeply painful. When it moved there were new waves of spasm and pain, she was twisting her hand one way then the other to keep it constant; squashing my cervix between thumb and forefinger as she reamed her long gloved arm around inside me. It was a shocking, reviling sensation. If I had had any control at all I would have leapt up and ran as fast as I could in any direction.

‘I can’t take it any more Mistress, please, I’m begging you, please take your hand out of me’, I wept, begging for the abuse to end.

‘The first choice’, she continued oblivious to my protests,’ and the one I really don’t recommend, is this. I have a very comfortable wheelchair just behind that door. I’m afraid you’re going to have an accident falling down the stairs at your flat. It’ll be clear that you must have broken your neck because you won’t be able to move any of your body at all. Ever again.’

I didn’t think it was possible to be more frightened than I already was at that time but this brought me to a new height of terror. This was my deepest, my most terrible fear, she had cut straight into me with the worst thing I could have imagined at that time. She must have found that out from me during one of the sessions. Oh how I had betrayed myself! My mouth had gone dry and I had struggled to speak.

‘It gets better,’ she silenced me,’ they’ll scan your neck but everything will look absolutely normal; there will be no evidence of any structural problem. Obviously I won’t let you tell anyone what really happened, so they’ll draw their own conclusions. You’ll spend the rest of your life being looked after by people who think you are at best mad or at worst a liar and a fraud. It won’t engender much sympathy I can tell you. In fact I’ve already picked out a care home for you. I’m afraid it has had some bad press recently with some of the inmates being sexually abused and an otherwise appalling record on neglect and the preservation of dignity; but it’s cheap and for this reason, surprisingly popular. I think I can swing a place there though. I want you to remember how this feels every time you are fucked there’

My head was swimming again. My eyes lost focus then the hand inside me tensed, formed into a fist and punched upwards with the force of a powerful boxer’s jab. I screamed in agony. It was the release I needed, I had screamed in terror, absolute terror at what she had said. I had screamed at my total abject helplessness; and I had screamed at how the woman I had so respected, so looked up to and revered, had become the most evil, dreadful tormentor conceivable. I hated her like I’d never hated before but more than that I was terrified of her. I screamed in my absolute terror and in that moment was briefly transported away from the reality for the tiniest respite. Her voice then brought me back to my possible future.

‘How does that strike you Anita? I hear they generally just leave the residents in their rooms all day as it’s very little bother to do that. There used to be televisions but they tended to get stolen so generally the inmates are left alone in their rooms with their thoughts in a peaceful silence; sounds lovely doesn’t it. Of course the newer residents tend to get the poorer rooms. Most of the rooms don’t have windows and they are under pressure to stay competitive and keep costs down so they tend to turn the lights off too. You’ll have plenty of time to think about whether you made the right choice here today. Plenty of time to mull it over, I can tell you.’

As I whimpered, she gently stroked the side of my face with her other hand.

She paused for a while letting the gravity of her words sink in further.

‘Of course there is another alternative………………….It will demand hard work from you though.’

‘Please, I will do it’, I begged, like I was begging for my life.

‘And if at any stage I feel that you are not playing by the rules, there will always be the care home waiting. Do you want to know what the alternative is or have you already decided to go with the first option. I know it’s pretty tempting?’

‘Please, what is it Mistress?’

‘The other option is for you to give me something that I really want. I am going to change you significantly over the next few weeks. You will, of course, obey me completely in it but I want that little something extra from you.’

‘Please Mistress; I will give it to you’

‘I want your devotion to it. I want you to apply yourself to it. In short, I want your very soul’

I gulped. The day had been so unbelievable that thoughts of vampires and the devil filled my mind as she had suggested this. She wanted the heart of my being and that thing that was most precious. For many people it would have been a difficult choice.

‘It is yours Mistress, I am yours fully. I will apply myself to whatever you give me’, I had answered without hesitation. The alternative was just too terrible to contemplate.

‘Excellent.’, she had warmed, ‘It will be unpleasant but don’t worry I will be able to help you along the way. I want you to remember today, remember the feeling of the penetration of your mind, body and soul. Every time you are fucked I want you to feel like you are now, as you are being fucked by me. It is enough for you to know that you are going to be changed according to my specifications over the next few weeks. I want you to remember how this moment feels as you apply yourself to my will.’

She rammed her fist in hard again and wrenched it round. I felt like my very core was being ripped. I yelled out again in pure physical pain.

Then she took her fist out.

‘We will talk about this some more later, that’s enough for now. Clothes back on’, she said

She sat down at her desk and took off the rubber glove.

I got down off the table and, sobbing still, hurriedly scrabbled together my clothes and put them on. My makeup must have been streaming down my face as I stood shabbily dressed in front of her.

She pressed the intercom button.

‘Jenny, could you send in Miss Sanders please’

‘Go into my bathroom and fix your face, my obedient little slave’

I scurried into the private bathroom discretely concealed behind a panel in the wall. I sniffed and sobbed as I washed my face and started to put my makeup back on.

‘I haven’t got all day though girl’

‘Yes, Mistress’, I said, I was doing it as quickly as I could.

When I had disguised the tears and the redness around my eyes and made my hair look acceptable I adjusted my clothes and walked back out. I was surprised to see Trisha stood there smiling with Vivienne.

‘Hello Anita’, she had said, ‘I’m going to look after you tonight to make sure that you are all right for tomorrow. You have a very big day ahead. Come along’

She turned as if to walk and clicked her fingers at her show. My body lunged forward as I moved to heel, standing just behind her to the side, matching her movements.

‘Say goodbye Anita’, Trisha said.

‘Goodbye Mistress’

Vivienne was now sat back at her desk touching up her make-up with a mirror. She didn’t look up.

‘I look forward to seeing the results. Now behave yourself and remember what we have talked about as you recover tomorrow.’

Trisha started to walk out and I followed like a good puppy.

She opened the door for me and I walked back out into the reception.

‘Hi Anita!’

I spun to the sofa and couldn’t believe it. There was Melanie from the office beaming at me.

‘I thought I’d take your advice and come and get some help with the smoking’, she blurted out, and ‘I’ve got my first appointment now!’

‘Oh,’ I had said. God! I wanted to warn her. I wanted to scream at her to flee while she still could.

’That’s fantastic’, I lied, smoothing the pathway into the trap.

‘Dr. Black’s ready for you now dear’, Trisha said extending her arm towards the luxurious office. Melanie excitedly got up and clicked her way into the office giving me a little wave.

‘Hear you’re on holiday Anita, talk to you soon’

She was looking around at Vivienne’s room like a child in a sweet shop.

Trisha closed and sealed the door and then smiled at me. My heart ached for poor Melanie as I felt a wave of hatred and bile rise within me. I was completely impotent. Trisha turned and I followed. We walked outside and found her car.

She took me back to her house. I was so exhausted from my ordeal that I remember very little about it. I had started to feel sleepy. I remember that she did not say much but had made me eat, drink and shower. She had then put me to bed in a guest bedroom. She had calmed me with a soothing touch. She stayed sitting at my bedside for some time, stroking my head while I let out the occasional whimper. Gradually the terrible images faded from my mind.

‘Sleep now’, she hushed,’ save your strength for tomorrow’

I went out like a snuffed candle.

PART 6

Trisha’s two-seater Mercedes slowly crunched up the gravel driveway. I was hungry, thirsty and nervous. She had commanded silence from me from the moment we had left her house some two hours ago. I had quickly lost track of where I was, no doubt at her instructions. She sang along to the radio for most of the way swapping between stations to avoid hearing the same breakfast news stories over and over. She had a large plastic cup of strong smelling coffee in the holder next to her seat. She had not offered me a cup. Similarly, she had made me sit at her breakfast table while she had eaten toast, without allowing me any. She had then made me do the washing up while she put on her makeup.

She had given me a soft pink tracksuit to put on after I had showered. Under this, at her instruction, I had put on a thickly padded, push-up bra. It had made my little breasts look much, much bigger while at the same time pushed them together enough to actually generate some cleavage. After I had put on the tracksuit top and zipped it up, she had adjusted the zip downwards so as much of my breasts as possible were on show. I didn’t feel at all comfortable like that and she’d made a point of calling me ‘Busty’ or ‘Tits’ after that as a kind of unilateral joke. She had been so kind to me the first day I had met her. Now I was a source of amusement for her. She had turned into a school bully, taking delight in mocking and belittling me.

‘Come on hot cakes, lets sort out your nails’, she had said signalling pointedly to a chair opposite her.

I sat myself down and surrendered my hands. I controlled the frown on my brow. She said nothing but proceeded to take all my nail varnish off and scrubbed my finger nails so that they were clean. It was obvious that there were artificial extensions glued on when they were in their naked state.

‘We’ll keep this one clean’, she said pointing to my left forefinger, ’but there’s no reason we can’t let you tart the others up a bit’

At that she took out some bright pink varnish. She positioned my hands on the table and then started to paint my nails with it. I didn’t understand why she was doing this.

‘It’s so much more convincing if you look the part a little today’, she had explained as she finished my left hand and moved over to the right.

My left finger nails were drying with a loud, plastic, bubble-gum pink; lacquered thickly on. Unlike my usual deep, velvety looking, tones it looked awful.

‘Nice colour isn’t it’, she said raising her eyebrows as she started on my penultimate finger.

I didn’t answer. I was trying to sulk although I was wary of making that too obvious. I was still frightened. Not anywhere near as much as I had been the night before but a long way from feeling comfortable. While Vivienne had seemed like evil incarnate, Trisha merely seemed like a malicious bully. She wasn’t freezing me and violating my very being, she was just making me look tasteless; by comparison it was very little. I still hated it though.

‘Put your feet on here’, she said. I obeyed. Then she started to quickly paint my toenails too.

‘There now’, she said as the last nail lay there starting to dry.

‘Lets quickly do your face’, she said grabbing a bright pink make-up bag, ‘Look forward’

It took her only a couple of minutes to cover my face in a multitude of products, such was her expertise. I felt thick foundation and caught the sight of a pink lipstick that matched my nails. I didn’t see anything else of what she was doing as I obediently faced straight ahead.

‘Put these on now’, she said.

From the bag, she took out a pair of large gold rings, about three inches in diameter with a thick twisted ribbon design on. I had never worn big earrings like that before because I hated them; but did as I was told; pushing the little bars through the piercings in my ears and hooking the backs of the rings over the bars so they hung on securely. They reminded me a little of the ones that Melanie would wear, only these were even more eye catching and more tarty.

Trisha was grinning at me. She roughed up my hair and adjusted it to a fashion that she approved of. Then she walked out into the bedroom I had been in and returned with a white faux-leather overnight bag stuffed full and zipped tightly shut. Her other hand was obscured.

‘Here are the things you’ll need for your stay’, she said, ‘Now it’s time to leave, so put your shoes on’

She handed me a pair of white patent leather sandals with high stiletto heels. They were really tasteless. I took them, the straps hanging from my fingers as I looked at them in disapproval. What on earth was I going to be looking like? I know I used to look drab but I had never looked cheap.

She gestured at my feet. I was not being commanded here but I knew I had no choice as I put the shoes on the floor and slipped my feet into them. In my heart I wanted to kick them across the room, screaming at Trisha, running out into the courtyard outside.

The heels must have been five inches high. As I buckled the straps on I wondered if I would be able to stand properly in them, let alone walk. I looked down nervously at my bright pink toes peeping out from the knotty white straps and hoped that this would not be the day that I snapped an ankle.

‘Stop staring at yourself, Hot Buns, we’ve got places to be’

She stood me up and drew a wide white plastic belt around my waist fastening it with the large gold horse-shoe shaped buckle it had. It constricted my waist in the tracksuit making me catch my breath. I wanted to loosen it a little and went to touch it. She froze me with a disapproving stare and I took my hands away again. She’d then grabbed her own bag and made for the door.

‘Come along now, Titsy’

I had teetered out after her clutching the white bag. I caught a look at myself in her mirror. I looked so common; too much bright pink and blue makeup and dressed like a bimbo. The shoes, belt and earrings looked crass, slutty and demeaning. I was about to protest but I heard a click of fingers and was immediately fixed at her heel once more.

‘Sway your hips more when you walk in heels, Anita’, she sounded like a friend now; ‘try to capture how you felt at the pole dancing class last week.’

I filled up with shame. I knew I had no choice so I started the feeblest saunter that I could manage. I felt like such a slut, I was praying that nobody would see me. Before we even got to the car, some few yards down the drive, my feet were rubbing painfully on the plastic straps and the balls of my feet were aching in the cheap sandals. I was glad to get out of sight. I said nothing about my painful feet but didn’t feel in any way refined about my silence.

She had then told me I was to remain silent and only answer direct questions until further notice. There was no way for me to protest to this.

Her car pulled up outside the main door of the building. I didn’t know where I was and was start to fret.

‘No tears till afterwards now’, she said in an almost sympathetic tone, realising my fear.

My eyes remained dry.

She handed me a blank brown paper envelope and shooed me out of the car. I shut the door and she lowered the electric window.

‘Now I’ll be back to pick you up afterwards and take you back. Off you go, you have about ten minutes so you’re fine. Enjoy!’

The window went back up and she waved at me before speeding the car round and driving away. I felt like I was in a dream, it was all so unreal; partly because my stomach was empty but mainly because the place was all so alien.  It was a very modern looking building – all polished stone and angular chrome metalwork. The architecture looked like it was devised by someone who prized appearance far above function. For all the decorative false roof-canopies and unnecessary glass panes, it looked like there was only a relatively small part that people could actually use.

I turned round and looked at the door. It had the word ‘Entrance’ written on it rather non-specifically. Walking unsteadily on the last of the gravel before the stairs up to the reception I wondered where on earth I was and what I was doing here. In spite of the difficult shoes and the outfit I was glad to finally be rid of my tormentors and on my own terms a little more. If only I could forget how I had been made to dress.

I walked in through the door. The receptionist looked at me and, thankfully, did not betray any response as to how I looked. She took only a brief interest in me. I immediately handed her the envelope as a ploy to distract her. She examined the paper inside, looked up, smiled and said,

‘Bottom of the corridor, please take a seat by the statue’

She gave me back the letter and I tottered off down the corridor. I passed a couple of very well dressed men in smart suits. I felt like a cheap whore showing off her breasts and avoided eye contact with either of them. I was forced to strut to make any headway on my white stilettos. I cursed Trisha over and over again as I was sure I was stripping the skin from the backs of my heels. I gradually carted the weighty bag down to the bottom of the corridor and saw the statue. It was of a luxuriantly robed Geisha, a tight black bow wrapping her waist like a fine gift, her pale face looking down in deference but betraying a wry smile. As I admired her I momentarily forgot that I looked like a prostitute. There was another girl sat there. She smiled at me and moved her bag from the only other chair.

‘Hi.’, she said.

I smiled back. I was not to talk unnecessarily.

‘You being done today too?’ she asked.

‘Yes’, I replied without really knowing what she meant. She made a friendly gesture of pretend nervousness.

At that moment the door opened and a tall man in a well cut black pin-stripe came out.

‘Miss Janine Rothwell?’ he looked at us both. The girl put her hand up. He smiled slightly.

‘Please come in’, he gestured inside.

‘And you must be Miss Anita Durrant?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘I’m very sorry but we seem to be running just a little late this morning. I shouldn‘t be too long. Please try and bear with me’

At that he turned around and shut the door. He was tall, broad shouldered and extremely good looking. He had short dark hair and a sharp, well-cut beard. He was the kind of man that I’d have stared at in the street. Ordinarily, even with my recent confidence, I’d have been quaking and nervous talking to such an extraordinarily attractive man. Today, though, I felt like a tramp. I must have turned bright red as he had addressed me. I had turned quickly to look at him, my earrings knocking against my neck, reminding me of how dreadful I looked; a showy tart with her breasts rammed up and out for the men to see.

I sat there for the next ten minutes wriggling my feet and ankles trying to find a comfortable position, dreading that I would have to face him again. I wanted to go and clean myself up. I wanted to go in looking like I had when I had worn my black dress and Vivienne’s jewels.

Janine soon opened the door and walked out, off and up the corridor. The door opened a second time and the man was there again.

‘Anita’, he said gesturing inside.

I made a weak attempt to smile at him, the best I could do under the circumstances. I felt fully humiliated as I picked up my budget-store matching bag and, in as dignified a way as I could muster, walked past him into the room. I felt the warmth in my face as I heard the door close behind me while I clicked to my seat. He must have noticed how I looked as I strutted past him.

I sat down in a chair and he sat behind his desk. He looked at me. I wanted to shrink away. I remembered the letter and my ploy. I gave it to him thinking that at least while he read that he would not be looking at me. After scanning it briefly he laid it on the table and once more set his gaze on me.

‘Well, firstly, congratulations on your new job’, he said, ‘I know the business is getting more and more competitive by the day now’

‘Thank you’, I smiled like an idiot. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

‘I specialise in this kind of work and want you to know that I’ve had a lot of experience in dealing with exactly what you have asked for. Because of its success it’s now becoming very, very popular indeed. I do this full time and have been doing so for five years now’

I nodded; he was putting my mind at ease about his experience. I was still totally lost. I had wondered what the new job meant. I remember feeling a moment of panic wondering if Vivienne and Trisha had lined up me up for something.

‘I just need to go over a few things, Ok?’ he said.

I nodded again

‘You’ve already selected styles from the on-line image suit, so that’s not a problem. I have all your choices right here’, he held up a dossier.

‘And I have an excellent letter from your psychotherapist explaining that you are very much of sound mind, understand everything fully and stand to benefit from this’, he looked up and smiled,’ I don’t doubt this for a minute Miss Durrant but you’d be amazed at the amount of hoops we have to jump through these days. Dr. Black is, I have to say, a superb therapist and we have built up an excellent business relationship now with….oh…..at least two dozen very satisfied ladies. If she is sponsoring your application then I have no doubt that it will be a complete success ’

I smiled politely

‘Now. I can do all the work today with the exception of one item. A two stage procedure is going to be necessary, with the conclusion performed in several weeks; that’s accepting the fast-track plan that you have already selected’

I nodded so he would continue, still completely fazed. He looked up again from the dossier.

‘If you could take off your top and bra now for me please’

‘I’m sorry!!!’

I had wanted to say. Instead, I went bright red, fumbled for a minute and then unfastened the belt and unzipped my top.

He stood up and signalled that I did the same. I rose, bashfully dropping my top onto the chair. The thick padded bra was now very much on display. He waited. I could pause no longer. I put my hands behind me and unfastened the bra. I slipped it over my shoulders and, keeping them together with my arms narrowed and up at my sides, I put the bra down on the chair.

‘Please Anita, there’s no need to be embarrassed’, he was very kindly and was smiling sympathetically at me. He seemed a little surprised by my reaction but was obviously very experienced in having a girl strip in front of him. He projected complete control and infinite time and patience. He was a professional.  I relaxed a little. I was blushing from head to toe.

A man had seen my breasts for about five seconds once – that was it. It had been the man whom I had slept with. I had never liked to expose myself, we’d had sex with the light off because I was too embarrassed to be seen naked. It was bad enough showing myself to him but the padded bra made it look like I had major psychological issues about the size of my breasts – I didn’t, they were small but they were me. I didn’t feel comfortable showing myself to a man; even with my new found confidence. Had I taken my date into my flat after the party I would possibly have let him see me topless I think – but only him; certainly not a complete stranger. While I fantasised about being found beautiful or, at my most daring, a sexy, glamorous dancer on the stage it was always in the context of being dressed. Being stripped by Vivienne had been terrible but it was not so much the nakedness in front of another woman that had troubled me. Rather, it was what she had done to me when I was naked. Being seen naked by a man, on the other hand, was a big issue. The cleavage I had flaunted had been bad enough but to be fully exposed like this before in front of a man was unthinkable. What’s more, I found him incredibly and disturbingly attractive which made it all the more difficult.

‘Just relax and stand up straight with your arms by your side’

I complied, not looking at him.

‘What I will do Anita, is put some tissue expanders in through small scars here’, he made a line with his finger on the underside of my breasts to demonstrate where the scars would be. I felt waves of arousal and nausea at the same time. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my mouth went dry again. He was feeling my breasts…………..He was going to operate on them.

My mouth choked up. I wanted to shout, ’No!’

I tried to whisper it even but could do nothing.

He started to touch the bridge of my nose too, clearly examining that.

‘If you could just take your bottoms and panties off now please, Miss Durrant’

I wanted to curl up and cry but I knew I had been forbidden. I dropped my pants kicking them off my hot eighties porno shoes. I felt fully like a prostitute as I dropped my panties for him. I was a deep, deep shade of red. Were I not under the strict control of Vivienne there is absolutely no way I could have done that.

He turned me away from him and knelt down behind me. He started to feel my calves and tendons.

‘Just go up onto tiptoes for me please’

I did so. I was glad he was so clinical, it helped me get through. He examined my lower legs as I stood on tiptoes. Even there, the tips of my heels probably were not much off the ground.

‘And if you come down again, just separate you legs and bend forward for me’

I did so. I was glad to hide my face behind my body but was very acutely aware that I was showing my sex to him. I was so glad that Trisha had waxed me that weekend and that my legs were newly shaved. I was almost holding my breath with shame.

‘Please just take your bottom cheeks and pull them apart for me’

I turned a pale beetroot colour as I pull my bottom cheeks firmly aside for him.

‘Looks like there’s been a little recent trauma here’, he commented.  I almost died.

‘I’ll be able to take that into account though so don’t worry about it. Please put your things back on and sit down’

I dressed myself again quickly. When I got to the belt I made sure to try and leave it a little looser than Trisha had. I was unable to fasten it any other way. I conceded to have it tight so that I was not scrabbling in front of the man. I sat down and pulled my bag a little closer to the chair.

PART 7

‘Now then. I need you to read and sign this form for me. It states that you fully understand the procedures and potential complications and that you consent to have the procedures performed. Please feel free to ask any questions you like.’

He placed a piece of printed paper on the desk and put his fountain pen at the bottom. I picked up the form and held it in front of my face. The writing seemed to be normal but I was unable to read it. Curse you Vivienne, inside my mind. I wanted to cry again. I looked up at him and felt like while I was unable to cry – my lip, at least should be trembling. It wasn’t. I felt like an illiterate bimbo. I couldn’t even read it.

I signed the form. I had no choice.

‘That’s all fine Anita. You’re fourth on my list so we will probably get to you in about three or four hours; in the meantime, obviously, nothing to eat or drink. If you’d like to go back towards reception and turn left just before, you can go and get checked in at the ward. I’ll see you again after it’s all done, Ok?’

He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it and shook it. I saw the crass, vile pink of my nails, my delicate fingers tiny in his strong hand. I looked away again. I picked up my bag and hurried out.

After as much time as I could realistically put it off, I had checked into the ward and changed into a theatre gown and dressing robe from my bag. Of all the stupid things, Trisha had packed my pink high-heeled slippers too. I saw one of the cleaners smiling at them on the floor as I sat with my feet dangling over the edge of the bed. I felt like a vacuous bimbo. Also, I cursed anxiously when I realised that Trisha must have been in my flat. What else had she interfered with? My mind was racing anyway.

Within no time I was a nervous wreck but I couldn’t say anything to anyone. I’d never had an operation before and was so scared. The girl from the waiting area, Janine, was sat at the bed next to me. She noticed that I was starting to struggle.

‘Are you ok, Sweetie?’ she asked.

I shook my head, looking up at her with puppy-dog eyes. She came around her bed and sat next to me. She put her arm round me and I began to shrink into her as my bottom lip began to tremble.

‘Don’t worry, everything’ll be fine’, she said in an Essex accent; although she seemed more than a little nervous herself. She kept trying to bite her nails and stopping; they were as plastic as my own.

‘I know loads of girls who’ve had this done, they all say it’s all right you know. It’s a bit sore for a few days after, but then it all starts to settle down. My friend Leisha, right, she couldn’t get any modelling work till she got her double D’s but now she has to fight for a holiday! And she gets paid loads too. She can’t keep the blokes away neither. She came here and got the full modelling lot, lips, nose-job and tits. Reckons she’ll be back for a facelift when she gets on a bit too. She does video too, don’t do no hardcore though so she didn’t get no bleaching or anything like that done’

She showed me her breasts and looked down at mine.

‘I can’t wait to get these done. Look at them, tiny aren’t they. You must feel the same right? No more messing around with padded bras for us eh?’

, she laughed.

She was trying to cheer me up. I didn’t reply, I just held on to her. I needed something for comfort. She couldn’t have been much older than seventeen.

‘My agent reckons I’ll be able to get on page three after this’, she said proudly. I tried to keep listening to her to take my mind off my predicament.  It was true she was very pretty and had lovely long blonde hair. I told her as much and agreed that with ‘a nice pair’ she’d make a great pin up. Although I pitied her for her worthless ambition and brainless lack of insight; and although I recognised that she was perhaps a different kind of slave, I had no doubt that I would have gladly swapped lives with her then, in an instant. She wasn’t owned as explicitly as I was. I had an evil Mistress who would have me cut upon for no obvious reason; and I was so scared because of it.

A porter arrived with a trolley. The nurse looking after us came over. She addressed my young comforter first.

‘Miss Rothwell, I’m terribly sorry but there will have to be a delay in your procedure, we’ve had some equipment problems I’m afraid; nothing serious, just inconvenient. Don’t worry though it will all be fine for later’, she turned to me, ‘Miss Durrant if you’d like to hop up onto this trolley, we can do you now instead’

I stared at her in disbelief. I was stunned. I didn’t want to go, not at all. Janine helped me up and onto the trolley, I could barely move myself. I gaped wide eyed at her as the porter pulled up the side bars on the trolley, I felt encased. In the hope that she could somehow stop everything I desperately tried to keep looking at Janine as he started to wheel me down the corridor. I was pale, cold and sweaty as she soon disappeared around a corner. My heart was pounding as I rolled down the featureless, sterile corridor. I was hyperventilating.

Within no time I was in the anaesthetic room with a drip in my hand. I had heart electrodes on my chest and an oxygen sensor reading from my one clean finger. I tried to scream, I tried to move. I tried to mouth the word, ‘Help’. I couldn’t do anything.

I started to panic. I could hear the beeps of my heart rate speed up. The anaesthetist realised that I was climbing up the walls with fear and he wasted no time.

‘Ok. Now think of something nice to dream about, keep it clean though!’ he joked, ‘and we’ll see you when you wake up’

I felt a cold sensation in my arm and then nothing.

I don’t know what time it was when I awoke later. I remember being sore and drowsy. I remember seeing Janine in the bed next to me with dressings over her chest. She was asleep. I looked down. I had bandaging over my nose. Looking down further, my chest was totally covered with a thick supportive dressing. Oh my God, they had done it!

I started to cry. I sobbed for a second and then started to wail loudly. It was ‘after’ now and I would have my tears; and the ones that I was owed. One of the nurses came over and cuddled me, soothing me. I wept in total and complete anguish. As I bawled my eyes out all I could think was ‘What had they done to me? What violation of my will had just occurred? What had been done to my body? What had they done to me?’

My lips and face were puffed and swollen. The tears rolled down over the taut skin and soaked into the bandages.

‘There now, Anita’, she said catching my name off my wristband, ‘What’s the matter, Hmmmm?’

‘I don’t know what they’ve done to me’, I wept. I looked into her eyes, appealing to her for an answer now that I’d been given an opportunity to ask.

‘Shhhhh, now’, she said. She gave me a soft reassuring smile, ‘It’s just the after-effects of the anaesthetic. It can play with your emotions a little you know. Everything went fine you know, there’s nothing at all to worry about’

She held me close but hadn’t told me what they’d done. She slowly stroked the side of my head. I resigned that I would have to wait longer and held her tightly, I needed the contact. I couldn’t say what I needed to say or ask what I needed to know. In spite of being held I felt completely alone. I closed my eyes and cuddled her.

I was awoken again later by the surgeon calling my name.

‘Anita? Ah, yes, there you are. Back in the land of the living again’, he joked. I didn’t want him to see me like this; but realised that he had done it all so it wasn’t new to him.

‘Everything went perfectly you’ll be delighted to know’

He paused and studied the chart at the end of the bed. Now was the time for me to ask him what had been done.

‘Brilliant’, he said putting the chart down, ‘well, I shall see you in my clinic, all the very best and good luck with the new job. Hope I’ve given you a helping hand.’

Next to me, Janine suddenly started to throw up into a cardboard vomit-bowl. The surgeon left me to deal with her. I lay back and closed my eyes. I’d clearly had had some cosmetic surgery I thought but I was unsure of exactly what had been done – or indeed why. I guessed that he had probably enlarged my breasts and maybe given me a nose job as well. I couldn’t think, though, why Vivienne and Trisha had arranged for me to have it done. I hadn’t been unhappy with the way I had looked physically, I had accepted myself. I had sometimes felt that my breasts could maybe have been just a little fuller but I accepted that they suited my smaller frame. I thought large breasts looked crude on a woman of my slighter build and hoped desperately that the enlargement had been a subtle one. My nose had a little bony prominence to it but I had never been too vain to find fault with it. Why anyone would target that for correction was beyond me. As I wondered more on their motivations the residual anaesthetic took me into a peaceful slumber once more.

As I slept, I was moved from the recovery bay to a private room.

It was later that evening that I was just about well enough to get up, out of bed. The nurse insisted that I at least had a cup of tea and a piece of toast first. I said I needed the toilet and she said that she’d help me as long as I was very careful. I had a catheter in place, to be wary of, and a swollen bag of urine to empty before I could get up. I had asked for a bed pan initially but she had said that it was a good idea to try and mobilise, even if just for a short while. There were risks involved in spending too long in bed after surgery.

As I sat up, my belly strained and ached. There were no scars there so I didn’t understand how or why it should be so painful. That didn’t make it any less so.

As I went to stand up, my calves suddenly alit with fire. Was there none of my body that was safe to move? My feet felt fixed pointing downwards; I could hardly bend my feet up at the ankles for the pain in my calves. What had he done to my legs and what possible reason could anyone have for doing it?

‘You’ll need these now honey’, the nurse said and put my slippers on the floor. I started to worry again about what had been done to me and how completely helpless I was. I slipped the toes down into the soft pink mules and tried to stand. My calves were killing me as I finally made contact with the instep, my feet resting precariously on the high heels.

‘They won’t stay that bad for long honey, don’t worry. You just won’t feel like doing much walking for a few days, that’s all’

She wasn’t kidding. I stood up, very glad of the heels. Any lower and I’m sure my Achilles’ tendons would have ruptured. I felt a little dizzy from the painkillers and my whole body ached. She handed me a walking frame that had been next to my bed all along.

‘Don’t be embarrassed to use this honey. Believe me, you don’t want to come off those heels today’

‘Thank you’, I said. I took the frame and used it to steady myself. I slowly made my way to the toilet. I felt ridiculous with the combination of heavy bandages, stiletto heels and a Zimmer frame. The nurse walked at my side to keep a careful eye on me and keep me steady.

Janine had continued to be quite sick for several hours and I considered myself lucky to have not had such a nasty reaction to the anaesthetic. I was trying to think of something else as I sat on the toilet. When I tried to open my bowels I felt a terrible dull ache deep inside. I remember thinking that had I died under the anaesthetic, I would not have minded. After I made it back to bed it was with a sense of nihilism that I took my tablets and rested my head against the pillow.

It seemed like I had just closed my eyes when I felt a nudge, my nurse was next to me again and it was clearly much later.

‘Telephone for you Anita’, she said

I was immediately worried; only two people knew where I was.

‘Hello?’ I said as the nurse walked out.

‘Ah! Anita, hello!’

It was Vivienne. My head was awash as the memories came flooding back. I remembered how powerful I knew she could be at the end of a telephone. I filled up with fear again, was there nowhere that I could be safe? I had my mobile too even if there wasn’t a phone in my room. It dawned on me that I must be constantly accessible; constantly on an invisible leash and a telephone ring away from total control; or worse.

‘I hear things went very well’, came the voice. She sounded bright, almost friendly, as if last night hadn’t happened,

‘I also hear that you’ve been a good girl. I am pleased with you, Anita’

I felt an immense relief! I felt a pathetic happiness. I was glad that I had pleased her! It was more than the relief of my fear of her; or possible punishment; it was a cowardly celebration of my successful ingratiation to her. She had become my keeper, my Mistress, and held such incredible power over me. I had pleased her as a little pet or toy might and felt a small pride in that. I hated myself for it. Where was my dignity? I felt the pain again in my swollen breasts and remembered that I had lost control of my life; become her property.

‘Thank you’, I said, humbled and once more mindful of the delicacy of my situation.

‘Now I want you to relax and be happy. You’ve been through the wars this last couple of days and I need you strong and recovered, understand. So here’s what will happen’

I listened eagerly. I was, for the first time since last night, not anticipating something dreadful from her.

‘As a reward, you may talk freely, within the normal boundaries. The only subject that’s off-limits is your surgery; you may not discuss what has been done. You may talk about how you are though. You will notice that you have some difficulty walking to begin with, this will improve but you must keep trying to do it as this will relax and stretch the muscles again. Stick strictly to heels though, I don’t want you walking anywhere without shoes. Now, you will be staying there for a couple more days to recuperate. I suggest you get plenty of rest, eat well and enjoy yourself with the other girls as much as you can. The food is excellent there, so enjoy it, and I have arranged for you to be massaged tomorrow. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds wonderful Mistress, thank you’, I whispered, almost touched by her apparent mercy. I had not expected that at all.

‘You see girl, if you behave yourself, good things sometimes happen. I will look at you when you return. In the meantime I suggest you continue to please me’

She hung up. I slowly rested my head back, into the pillow. I let out a long slow breath and for the first time in a long time, smiled a little. My body ached mildly but it was with a mild euphoria and a soporific haze from the morphine that I went to sleep; gone was my anxiety.

PART 8

The following day I awoke feeling like I’d been run over. Everywhere was tender. My nurse saw the discomfort I was in and gave me more painkillers.

‘I’m afraid the second day is always the worst’, she said opening the curtains allowing me to see the crisp, clear morning, ‘why don’t you have a look at this menu and tell me if there’s anything here that will help take your mind off it’

In spite of the soreness I remember being ravenously hungry and asked for a full English breakfast with sausages, scrambled egg, toast and fresh coffee.

When it came it was fantastic. Like a five star hotel it was all beautifully presented and prepared from the finest ingredients. My lips were thick and swollen but as I put the first fork of soft, creamy, scrambled egg into my mouth, I realised I hadn’t felt so good in days. I closed my eyes to savour it. The nurse brought me a newspaper and gave me the television remote. She told me that the room had all the film channels you could possibly want and told me to spend the morning relaxing; she would get me up for the afternoon. In the meantime if I needed anything, anything at all, I only had to buzz her.

Within half an hour I was carefree. The painkillers had kicked in and I felt a lovely satiety from the breakfast. Ignoring the effects of the delicious, Guatemalan coffee, I nodded off to the morning news on the television.

Before lunch I was given a warm, soothing bed bath and changed into some soft pyjamas that had been in my bag. Like my outfit from the previous day they were pink, this time more of a bleached cerise. They had the Playboy rabbit on; they were awful. The nurse made no comment on my taste but I felt very embarrassed as she said that she thought I should have lunch with ‘my friends’ in the day room at the end of the corridor. I didn’t really want to see anyone, or have anyone see me, but I agreed reluctantly. She exchanged a smaller bag onto my catheter line and strapped it to my leg. Then she wrapped me up in a thick pink dressing gown and told me that no-one would see it and not to worry. She lined up my slippers and Zimmer frame again and before I could admit that actually I’d rather stay in bed, I was struggling up the corridor.

The day room was actually a conservatory looking out across stunning pastures with mature woodland hills up on the far horizon. A huge weeping willow dripped over a wide, wind-swept lake to the right. It was the perfect autumn view to sooth the eyes and encourage recovery.

The room itself was high-ceilinged and furnished with deep burgundy sofas and tall-backed leather chairs around a stout oak dining table. A television hummed quietly to itself in the corner; the usual morning chat show; this time some shouty young teenager defending her choice to have an abortion. I hated morning television.

There were three other girls sat there already. Thankfully they were beyond caring about my situation. Of the three, one of them had a walking frame too. They were all bandaged around the breasts and, with the exception of Janine, their faces too. I noticed that the girl in the nearest chair had a complicated set of metal bars forming a harsh looking brace around her mouth. I counted that as a small mercy as I tip-toed past her to take a seat.

‘Hi Anita’, said my little friend from the day before. She came over and sat down next to me giving me kiss on the cheek.

‘See, I told you it would all be okay. Look at these’

She tried to thrust her chest out at me but recoiled in pain after pushing herself a little too far.

‘I can’t wait to be able to go shopping for some new tops, something to really show these off in, maybe a push up corset or a boob-tube or something’

She made a few gentle poses, imagining herself in front of the lens.

I considered myself a serious and intelligent woman; I usually couldn’t stand glamour models or bimbos. It outraged my feminist sense of worth as a woman to see other girls turn themselves wantonly into compliant sex objects for men to lust over. Ordinarily I would have not given her the time of day and would have scorned her; but the circumstances had made me warm to Janine. I had so needed a friend and she had been there when I needed her. She had the same grass-roots honesty and transparency as Melanie, and that endeared her to me even more.

‘You’ll look gorgeous sweetie’, I said, trying to play the role of the encouraging big sister, ‘you’ll be beating them off soon, I’m sure’

That was one of Melanie’s expressions; that you’d have to beat the men off with stick because you looked so good.

The other two girls weren’t saying much. The one with the braces looked like she wouldn’t be capable of proper speech for a while. I noticed that she had a fine yellow tube coming out of one nostril. It must have been so she could be fed while her jaw was so extensively wired. I felt so sorry for her; but she didn’t have a Zimmer frame and she didn’t seem to be in as much discomfort as I was. The forth girl had the same array of dressings that I did. She was the one with the walking frame. She was a slim light-brown skinned girl. Even under the bandages I could see that she was extremely pretty. She had lovely long eyelashes. She made no eye contact and studiously ignored the two of us, looking down at her feet. I thought maybe she was ashamed to be here, like me.

‘Jeez, you must have had the whole works done babe’, Janine said looking me up and down.

I blushed and turned away. The attention was now back on my own modifications.

‘I’ve never seen anyone have that calf thing done, that’s pretty hardcore that is. You in videos or a dancer or what?’

I was a little shocked. The black girl had heard what she had said too and stirred a little. I had wished that Janine was a little more subtle.

‘Er, Dancer’, I said. It was the closer of the two I supposed.

‘Thought so’, she said, ‘you have a dancer’s body’

‘Thank you’

I tried to take it as a compliment and was secretly a little bit pleased that she thought I had a dancer’s physique. It was impossible to make it out under the thick dressing gown and surgical dressings then though.

‘I’d love to be able to do what you girls can do’, she mused, ‘I can only just walk a bit in really high heels, but that’s it, I’m unsteady and it’s proper hard too. I know I’ll have to wear ‘em for porn shoots and that. Can’t do no real dancing mind, pole dancing and lap dancing stuff, that’s proper skilful that is.’

It was easier not to bother pointing out that I was not an erotic dancer.

‘Bet that hurts though at the moment. Walking, I mean. My tits are pretty sore but you’re all bruised up everywhere; and with that walking frame too!’

There were some things I wished she’d just shut up about.

‘Yes. It hurts, thank you, Janine’, I had said. I looked out over the meadow and welcomed a moment’s silence.

Before long a waitress came and took orders for lunch. Presumably out of sympathy, the wired girl was escorted away while the table was laid for three. It was a difficult meal. Janine didn’t stop talking, while the other girl couldn’t even look at us. I didn’t say much myself, instead I allowed myself to get lost enjoying a beautifully cooked sirloin with potatoes and sauce Béarnaise. Janine had a plate of chips with mayonnaise which she ate with her fingers. I was relieved when, finally, my nurse came and walked me back to my room.

Later that afternoon I found myself back in the day room. I had been given a wonderful massage in my room. It had lasted over half an hour. The masseuse was a plump Asian girl with long pony-tailed black hair swinging down to her bottom. She had a firm, powerful grip and clearly was very well practised at her art. She had concentrated on my feet, arms, neck and head; so as to avoid my tender areas. She had also worked extensively on my calves to loosen them. It had tortured me as she glided her thumbs along the lengths of my burning tendons, again and again. She had rubbed them over and over to get some heat into them and then gradually applied a stretch to them. I had screwed my face up tight trying not tense them as I knew that that would make them hurt even more. I was so relieved when she finally moved down to my feet and the agony became a relaxing, soft bliss.

I had taken a brief afternoon nap before being walked back to the day room. It was empty save for the black girl from earlier.

I felt a difficult tension in the air and sat on a sofa away from her. I watched her from across the room. She was curled up in her chair looking down. Below her, a pair of black leather, stiletto-heeled mules was discarded and to the side was her walking frame, similar to my own. She had dressings over her nose and breasts and was wrapped in a thick gown as I was. I wondered if I could make out the bulge of a urine bag against her leg. She ignored me. As I watched her some more I realised that she did not look at all happy. Then a possibility jumped into my mind. I sat up, alert, wondering. I had to talk to her; she wasn’t like the others. I had to do this..

I grabbed my frame and slid my shoes back on. I carefully stood up and made my way over to her. I was determined to find out about her. She looked up as I inched across the room towards her. She seemed frightened and at first tried to shy away, that only made me more determined.

‘Hello’, I said in as friendly a voice as I could muster.

She tried to give me a smile, instead looking like she was about to cry.

‘Hello’, I said again, ‘my name’s Anita, what’s yours?’

‘Lisa’, she said quietly, looking down again.

I turned round and sat myself down next to her, exaggerating the show of relief I felt as my calves eased. I wanted her to see that I was in the same state as her; I was a friend. I didn’t know how to broach the next subject. I knew that certain topics were taboo for me and that there were some that I would be completely unable to bring up. I was also very mindful of my need to not do anything that could be interpreted as misbehaviour by my Mistresses. Vivienne had told me to have fun with the other girls, though, so I was clearly allowed to talk to them

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked innocently

She looked into my eyes and I cold see tears forming.

‘I’m……….’ the tears welled up in her eyes and she started to sob.

‘Are you able to answer?’ I asked her, forcing her to look at me. She sniffed and then I saw a spark of recognition in her eyes. She realised what I was getting at.

‘Yes’ she nodded.

‘Are you able to talk?’ I asked her.

‘No’, she said staring at me in disbelief and acknowledgement. She was now fully alert.

‘Just answer questions then?’

‘Yes, Anita, that’s right’

She sniffed and tried to stop her crying; she was trying to smile for me.

‘It’s okay’, I said putting my arm gently round her, ‘it’s okay, Lisa, I’m your friend now okay?’

I felt calm and composed. For the first time it was me who was able to be the strong one. She wiped her eyes and then looked at me. I wanted to ask her all sorts of questions; if she was as controlled as I was; when she had been taken; what had been done to her; but I didn’t dare try. Instead I asked her about herself. Even using ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers it was possible to learn a lot from someone. Lisa could at least reply a little more fully than that. I found out that she lived two hundred miles away, almost on the south coast. She was 25 and had been born in Somalia but came to live in England when she was a baby. Her father, originally French had been a diplomat in Somalia initially but had taken permanent residence in England after an early retirement. Not long after this he had passed away. Her mother was still alive but they had fallen out, I didn’t want to ask why, I was after all, trying to raise her spirits a little. She had two brothers and a sister back in Somalia. She was married but separated and she had no children. She had started working as a lawyer for a large firm in London. She kept a small flat there since leaving her husband.

I kept talking to her for at least another hour about anything that came into my head. I remembered how horrible it had been when my own speech had been restricted. I wanted her to be able to express something of herself to someone. Even if we couldn’t talk about the issues burning in our minds, we shared so much in what was not spoken. We had found each other; someone else who was being put through the same. I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone but I was selfishly glad to not be alone any more.

Our meeting was eventually terminated by my nurse who came to put me back to bed for more rest.

I didn’t leave my room after that, I was too tired. I ate another fantastic meal and fell asleep for the night in front of the television. It was seven o’clock.

PART 9

As we drove back, I tried to piece it together in my mind. There had to be a reason for everything, I had no doubt of that.

I had been awoken to another breakfast in bed. As I had eaten and looked forward to another morning in bed the nurse had told me that she would make sure everything was set for my discharge, that afternoon. I didn’t want to leave my room, it felt protective. I had been cared for there, looked after; and well at that. Nothing bad had happened to me since I had been unwillingly operated on, so I associated the room with peace. It was my sanctuary. I was troubled at the thought of leaving.

That morning I had been given another massage and then another bed bath. During this, my dressings were taken down for the first time so that the nurse could examine the wounds. I couldn’t see my nose at first but she looked happy enough with it and said that although the dressing could stay down, some clients preferred to keep one on for discretion, especially when they were leaving the clinic. I said I wanted to leave it open to the air, the dressing had been annoying and impeded my view. She warned me that it wasn’t pretty and would take days for it all to settle but showed me my face in the mirror. There was heavy bruising and swelling all around my nose and lips, I looked like I’d been a punch-bag. I looked away. I hoped that I would look all right when it settled down. I was neither vain nor especially pretty but my face had been unblemished, before Vivienne had ordered me cut upon. I started to get teary again at the thought of my helplessness and had to shake myself out of it. What was done was done. I tried to think of Janine. I tried to remember that many girls saved long and hard to have this kind of thing done to them. I tried to convince myself that maybe I was actually lucky; that I may end up looking beautiful at the end of all this.

She slowly took the dressings off my chest. I watched anxiously as my breasts were revealed to me for the first time. They were also heavily bruised, blue and deep red shades swirled on the tender skin of my giant battered orbs. They were much bigger. They looked like they had been stuffed full. The skin, designed for my small, understated mounds, was taut and ripe to burst such were the size of the implants sealed inside my skin. My nipples now pointed upwards and outwards. I considered them and gulped to myself. They were now a pair of well above average sized breasts, at least a D cup I thought, probably more, I was no expert. I was scared of them. I remembered how I’d felt when Trisha had made me wear the push up bra, even with my small breasts. I had felt so naked, so displayed and so ashamed. I would not be able to hide these anywhere near as easily; even in a normal bra their shape would show, no matter what I wore over it.

I pulled myself together and again tried to remind myself that many women better than myself had opted for breast enlargements. Maybe it was all for the better. My attempt at self deception didn’t last long. I soon had full teardrops running down my cheeks, I hated that my body had been mutilated against my will. I hated the hideous projections on my chest, they were not my breasts anymore; they were alien. I didn’t know if they belonged to me or if they were really Vivienne’s and I was just wearing them, permanently. I wanted to tear the scars open and rip the hideous things out. My mind moved to wondering about the true reason for it all. I desperately avoided spending any more time dwelling on the terrible purpose that had Lisa and me at this clinic; it would surely just upset me even more. I had told myself I must try and think of something else.

The nurse tried to soothe me and reassure me that it would all settle down; that really he had done an exceptionally good job on me. She said it was very normal to have so much bruising at this stage. I ignored her and tried to think about something totally different. I thought of the office, of Melanie and my boss. I thought of the girls at work. Oh god, would I have to go back to work like this! Oh no! I started to worry all over again. I desperately hoped that the changes would be subtle. I didn’t think I could face the other girls if they knew I’d had time off for cosmetic surgery; or my boss for that matter; or anyone in the whole office. I fretted to myself as the nurse cleaned and re-dressed the wounds under my breasts. She told me everything was healing well. I didn’t care.

Then she examined me down below and pulled some bloody swabs from my vagina. I was shocked! I didn’t know why I had bled from there. It was heavier than a period, a lot heavier, and I wasn’t even due on mine. I so wanted to ask her what had been done to my sex. I was starting to get very upset at the thought of this new violation. I searched for sensations there, trying to gather evidence. I could feel all my vulva as she wiped me. I felt her swabbing my lips and my clitoris, so I didn’t think it I had been cut there, I was relieved. I was sore in the depth of my belly but I couldn’t think why that should be. I felt a sudden sharp, burning pain as she drew the catheter out of me and gave me a quick wipe. As the smarting subsided she put a thick, clean pad under me and pulled some fresh panties onto me. My bed bath was now complete. I was still trying to hold a straight face.

When she left, I turned, put my head sideways on the pillow and sobbed to myself. I would have buried my face into it if my nose hadn’t been so sore. I curled myself up like a foetus and wished that none of this had happened. I reached a finger down between my legs and felt myself. I could feel the pad. I was scared to feel inside. I wished that I could jump back in time. I would take my old life back. I would be drab and dreary again. I would be boring and plain but I would be in control and safe and I would have my own body. The more I thought about it the more I wept.

The thought of harming myself crossed my mind. I surprised myself with this but I was desperate. What if I just ended it all? It wasn’t going to get any better. What if I cut my losses and took my own life? I could swallow some pills and it would all fade away. It was worth carefully considering as I remembered that I had given my life away already. Maybe I should steal it from Vivienne as a final ‘fuck you’. It would have given me great pleasure to annoyingly snatch a stalemate from her won position. I hated her so much now; she had taken everything from me. She had made me have obvious, big tits. She had interfered with me in other ways that I didn’t understand. I was so scared that I’d be made to show my breasts off, to look like the kind of woman I despised. I gently put my hands on them. They were me now, I couldn’t take them off.

Back in the car I sniffed back a sob.

‘Anita, be quiet’, came a voice from the front.

‘Yes, Mistress’, I said, steadying myself.

From my right, in the seat next to me, I felt fingers take hold of my hand. I looked at her. Lisa couldn’t speak to me but her eyes were soft and understanding, trying to comfort me. I gripped her hand and didn’t let go.

I had been surprised as I had sat in the car. The nurse had helped me dress in the same clothes that I had arrived in and had packed my bags for me. She had led me out to a waiting room where she had handed the bag to a waiting, smiling Trisha. She had then left and returned with a package. It looked like a small box measuring several inches along each side. It seemed heavy and was wrapped in light brown paper, knotted with string. Trisha took it and put it carefully in her own bag.

With the simplest of controlling gestures she led me outside and sat me in the back of her jeep, stowing the bags in the boot. She hadn’t spoken to me but left me there for at least half an hour. I had sat and sulked, dressed as a cheap slut again. At least my hair was tidy and my face was clean, albeit colourful in its own way.

I heard crunching on the path and turned to see her returning, this time with Lisa. She was carrying a bag for her too and in the other hand had another brown parcel, the same as the one she had collected before. She opened the door on the other side and put Lisa into the seat next to me. As she shut the door and went back inside we looked at each other in fear and when Trisha was out of sight we rushed into a tearful embrace. I quickly took her arms off me. I didn’t want us to get into trouble but I was so glad to see her. I gave her a careful kiss and gripped her hand.

Trisha got into the driver’s seat and turned to face us. She broke into a grin.

‘Well look at my sluts now. Very nice. Hot little bitches I think’

She eyed us both up and down making approving noises. She snorted, derisively at Lisa next to me with a look contempt. Her face relaxed as she returned her focus to me, finally resting her gaze on my breasts. She looked me in the eye and winked at me. Then she turned back to face the road and laughed to herself. She turned the radio on and then sped the jeep off, down the driveway.

We arrived at my flat in record time, Trisha liked to drive fast, frighteningly so in fact. She got out of the jeep and took the bags out of the boot.

‘Out sluts’, she snapped.

We both got out.

‘Bring your bags and follow me’

I was puzzled as both Lisa and I picked up our bags and tottered after Trisha towards my flat. She let herself in, with a key that she had obviously had cut for herself, and left the door open for us. I stepped in after her with Lisa behind me, staring around inside. My flat seemed, thankfully, much as I had left it.

‘Make me a cup of tea, Anita’, came Trisha’s voice from the living room.

I put my bag down in the hallway and put the kettle on. I walked into the living room to check if anything had been altered. It was all the same except for two large boxes set in front of the television.

‘You now have a room-mate Anita’, Trisha said, ‘Lisa here is going to be living with you for a while’

We exchanged looks, this was not too bad at all.

‘While you are here you may both speak totally freely, if I am pleased with you that is. If not, you already know that I can take your privileges away as easily as I can give them out.’

It was true. She had all the power.

‘You still have some recovering to do from your operations but that doesn’t mean that we can’t put the time to good use otherwise. You, Bitch’, she said looking at Lisa, ’strip. Now!’

She began taking her clothes off.

‘Where’s that tea, Anita?’

‘One minute Mistress’, I said, hurrying out to the kitchen. I wanted to be able to talk with Lisa. I wanted to keep Trisha happy. I returned with her mug to see Lisa completely naked, lying face up on my sofa. Trisha had opened one of the boxes and taken out a large but mysterious, white electrical appliance. It had a number of leads and tubes attached, I didn’t recognise it. As I set down her tea on the table I watched as she connected the various wires and plugged it in. As she turned it on a number of lights flashed and some LED numbers glowed on a small faceplate.

‘You strip now too Anita and then come here next to me’

I quickly followed her orders, I was not overly pleased to once again be naked, but was very glad to get the sore, cutting straps of my shoes off the stripped, angry skin at the back of my ankles. As I took my panties off, the thick pad stayed stuck underneath me. I peeled it off. There was a small patch of reddish, yellow staining there but nothing like what had been there earlier. Conscious once more of the florid bruising on my battered body, I was about to kneel next to Trisha, near the sofa.

‘Hold it there, Anita. Stand up straight. Let me look at you’

I stood up straight, staying on tip-toes because I couldn’t flatten my feet. It hurt to have to hold my whole weight on tiptoes; the first time I had stood without the support of high heels. My weak muscles started to shiver and shake. I tried to hold myself still. I didn’t like her looking at me but I was much more scared of displeasing her. Moreover, I wanted her to let us speak to each other. I almost wished I could put the shoes back on as the discomfort grew.

‘Wow! Nice tits, slut’, she said with appreciation, ‘why not stick them out just a little more for me’

I pushed them out as far as I could. She chuckled to herself.

‘Yes, very nice. Turn around now Anita and bend over, let’s see all the goodies’

I turned and bent to touch the floor.

I felt her forcefully spreading my buttocks. Then she gave a little contented chuckle and told me I could kneel next to her.

‘Pull your legs up an spread them wide, Bitch’, she said, slapping Lisa on the leg. She raised her feet high above her head and spread her legs wide, completely exposing her crotch.

‘Look at how smooth and soft her sweet little ass is now’, she pointed at Lisa’s anus, ‘ yours is the same, Anita darling. You’ve both had some bleaching tattooed all round your sweet little ass-holes while you were asleep. It looks a lot less purple and…well…..bowel-like now don’t you think? A lovely, baby-soft pink. So, innocent, so much more…………..inviting.’

I swallowed.

‘It makes you both look much more sophisticated, believe me’, now she was mocking us.

‘You will both be very special, very…’, she looked into my eyes,’….desirable when I am done with you. That’s what you always wanted isn’t it, slut? You wanted men to lust over you.’

‘No!! Not like this!’, I silently protested. I wanted to be loved for who I was. I wanted to be beautiful, so beautiful that it inspired irresistible attraction; who didn’t want that? Attraction, not lust; not crude sexual desire.  I averted my eyes, I didn’t want her to see the dissonance in my thoughts.

There weren’t many reasons I could think of for making a girl’s ass look pretty. I watched her, numbed, as she took a tool that trailed off from the electrical appliance and held it up for us both to see. It took my mind off my backside. It looked a little like a soldering iron. It was essentially a handle with a thick umbilical connecting it to the box. There was a compact, little button on the handle and a short needle a it’s tip. The needle tip was much, much finer than a soldering iron’s. It looked like it would bend if you blew on it.

Trisha unhurriedly took her cup and sipped her tea.

‘Watch closely Anita. This is an electrolysis machine. It’s for hair removal. The little needle tip here fries the roots of the hair follicles, where they grow from. It’s like plucking the hairs except they don’t come back afterwards. It just stings a little bit when it fires’

With that she carefully put the tip into the root of one of Lisa’s leg hairs and pressed the button. The machine buzzed and I could see a tiny patch of whitened skin under the surface. As she pulled the needle back the hair fell off of it’s own accord and Trisha smiled contentedly.

‘There you are you see. Really not too bad’, she said hanging the probe back on the machine, ‘I can assure you that it’s not rocket science. It’s not difficult to find the right part of the hair, it’s just very boring and very, very time consuming. Normally this machine would be used to remove a few stray hairs on the eyebrows or around the lips. It’s a top of the range machine so you are both very lucky’

With this last remark she smiled at me and took a long drink from her mug.

‘You try it Anita’

She put the probe in my hand and guided me to sit over a quivering Lisa.

‘Relax, both of you’, she said moving my hand so that the needle touched the tip of another hair.

‘Now. Just work it down into the follicle a little…….There, that’s it……Now zap it’

I pressed the button, the machine buzzed again and the hair floated off.

‘Well done’, she said cheerfully, ‘now carry on repeating that, Anita. I want you to be confident with the technique’

With that, she got up and took a seat at my dining table. I took the needle to another hair and once again zapped it. I did it again and again, each time the tiny hair detached and was swept away by the currents from my breath. I looked up to Lisa, I didn’t want to be doing this but I had no choice, I was commanded. She shook her head at me trying to smile but I could see that she was upset. She didn’t want me to feel bad though, God she was so sweet!

Trisha let me carry on for another ten minutes. She had bought a newspaper on the journey back and was casually flicking through the stories.

‘Well done Anita, that’s good. What a quick learner you are! I’m sure that will come in very handy’, she flashed me a demonic grin, ‘Now let’s swap places. You lie down there and you, Bitch, get up here and take this’

I lay down on the sofa and Lisa took up the instrument. As before, Trisha took her through the technique, demonstrating the proper method first. As the machine buzzed I felt the mildest nick above my ankle. That was fine, I had thought. I was more nervous when Lisa took up the tool and I could feel her unsteadiness. She got it wrong the first few times and buzzed the wrong parts. It didn’t hurt any more than before but I gathered that she wasn’t doing it right.

‘You are quite a stupid bitch aren’t you?’, Trisha asked her.

Lisa kept quiet and ignored her.

‘I see. So you like to not speak….Eh bitch?’

‘Please answer her’, I was thinking, I could see where this was going.

‘Yes, Mistress Trisha. I am quite a stupid bitch’, came her reply. I wanted to be relieved but her tone had not been at all respectful.

‘Oh, I know that already, slut. You clearly need to think about your manners I think’

‘No Mistress, I am very sorry’, she now realised that she had made a mistake.

‘And to think, I was going to let you both chat away today as well’

‘Please Mistress, she didn’t mean it’, I had blurted out. I was anticipating punishment and I so didn’t want to have my speech confined again.

‘Don’t you dare tell me the way things are either, slut’, she snapped at me, clearly displeased. This was not going well. I whimpered. I just wanted things to be a little easier if they could be.

‘I can see you both need to learn lessons. You need to learn that those mouths are now our property, that they respond promptly when talked to and that they don’t interfere in things that don’t concern them. I will deal with this in a moment’

Turning back to me she caressed my leg.

‘You won’t ever have to shave these again Anita, think how much better that will be’

She moved her hand upwards.

‘You will remove all the hair on each others legs. Then you will attend to this’, she grasped a pinch of my pubic hair and tugged roughly on it, ‘all of it, so there’s not a hair left. Get round the back as well, I want you both beautifully bare all down here. Then do each others armpits and all down each others arms. Then do any stray hairs on your faces, round your lips or on your necks, backs or belly’

I was looking up at her in absolute horror. She smiled back at me

‘That’s right Anita, you’ll be baby-smooth all over. Not a hair on your body’

She stood up. Her face hardened.

‘Now. Up sluts! Stand there’, she pointed

We both got up and stood side by side facing the window. She went to the other box behind us and I could hear her removing something.

‘Now then. Open wide Anita’

I opened my mouth as I felt her hand behind my head.

‘Wider’

I opened it all the way. I felt something around my head and then, suddenly, something large, thrust into my mouth. I tried to let out a muffled noise but she was pulling it further in. It felt like a thick rubber shaft, filling my mouth. I tried reflexively to spit it out but there were two straps, one on either side. She grabbed one in each hand and pulled hard so the thick rod was pulled much more deeply into me, jabbing at the back of my throat, making me wretch. I was frantic and wide eyed as she buckled the strap behind my head, yanking it and tightly securing it in place. I fought to keep my hands at my sides throughout, I knew that the last thing I should do was anything to aggravate her further. It was all I could do to not reach up and tear the vile intrusion from my throat. My eyes watered as I swallowed on it, the foul rubber slipping over the back of my tongue and throat as I gulped. While I was struggling to hold it together she fitted Lisa with the same device. I could see a thick strap around her head holding it in place. I could see that she was gagging, and hating it too. Trisha stepped back in front of us and smiled.

‘You will wear these for two hours and then two hours a day afterwards. I hope you are pleased with yourselves about this. This will punish those displeasing throats for you. I strongly recommend that you take the time to think very carefully about how you want to speak to your Mistress, and whether she wants to hear it. Two hours can very quickly become four or six, so be careful’

I cursed Lisa to myself and then quickly ticked myself off for it. It was not her who was forcing us to wear these gags. I couldn’t get comfortable in the damn thing, it was so horrible.

It wasn’t long before I was back on the sofa with Lisa zapping me again. In no time Trisha was getting ready to leave.

‘Remember sluts. Two hours a day in the gags. You will not touch your own gag. You can gag each other and be sure to fasten them tight. You can choose when your two hour slot is. With the hair removal, take turns on each other. You have three days. There’s food in the kitchen so you have no need to leave the house. You remember all that you stupid sluts?’

It was not easy to forget. We both nodded in our gags.

‘If I find a single hair on either of you when I come back….well, I think your Mistress has offered you both alternatives should you not wish to devote yourselves fully to her. These will be realised for both of you if I find a hair between you. Three days is not very long for two whole bodies. You will have to work long and hard to do it, so get on with it’

With that she turned on her heels and left. I looked up at Lisa. Her brow was furrowed in deep humility, I could see she was so sorry about the gags. I held her arm and tried to show her that it was all right. She held up the electrolysis tool. She was not at all happy to make herself an instrument of my torment. I pointed to my leg and nodded at her; we had to do this, there were more terrible things than depilation. I was trying not to think about what would happen when she finished my legs.

PART 10

By the end of the morning we took each others gags out. It was wonderful to finally be free from the gagging and to have the constant pressure relieved from my throat. My jaw had started to ache intensely from being held open. Though it felt much better to be able to finally relax it, every time I moved it to speak, I was reminded of how sore it was.

After Trisha had left, we had cuddled for about five minutes and then decided to carry on working. Lisa had picked up speed at the electrolysis and had got about halfway up my calf. I looked at my legs. Since I had last shaved there were short, dark stubs starting to grow back. It was easy to see the targets and where they had been obliterated. I touched myself on the patch that was bare. It was perfectly soft and smooth, permanently.

‘I’m so sorry about the gags, Anita’, Lisa had said,’ please don’t hate me for resisting her. I just can’t take it, not from her’

With that she had dissolved into a stream of tears.

‘There, there, it’s okay’, I said holding her, rocking her gently, ‘let’s take a break and I’ll make us some tea’

She buried her head into my breast.

‘They are turning us into whores aren’t they?’ she said, looking up into my eyes.

I looked away.

‘I don’t know, Lisa, I really don’t know’

‘Come on Anita! We’ve got big tits. We can’t walk without the help of fuck-me heels! They’ve had our assholes bleached for fuck’s sake! What else could it be for?!’

I started to cry too. I didn’t want to be made into a slut. I stood up and scampered out, on tiptoes, to the kitchen. I wanted to forget the whole idea and started hurriedly to make drinks.

‘Please don’t be upset with me, Anita’, she had followed me and was standing in the doorway. She came up behind me and held me.

‘I’m so scared too’, she pressed her head into my back,’ At least we have each other now’

She turned me round and lifted my teary face to look at her. She tried to smile. I tried to smile back. We held each other again, both in tears.

‘I’m so glad you are staying here you know’, I sobbed to her.

‘So am I, you’re all I have now’, she sobbed back.

By the end of the day we were both bare on one leg each and I had taken all the hair off up to above Lisa’s mid-thigh. It had been a monotonous, repetitive exercise but we were both getting much faster and more efficient as the day wore on. We had been able to talk, unrestricted, for the first time. There had hardly been a moment of silence between us since we had taken the gags off. It was as if, by talking, we could take refuge within each other, away from the terrible reality; away from the tyranny of our Mistresses’ plans for us.

It had been truly cathartic for me to tell her my story. I had not been able to speak to a soul about the details of my subversion and subsequent torment. I told her everything, all the terrible details and she listened patiently, as she worked on my leg. By the end, she was in tears for me. She didn’t seem much surprised by any of it. I was sure a lot of it was very familiar to her. She told me how brave I was. She kissed me and told me that other girls wouldn’t have made it this far, that I was made of tough stuff. I didn’t feel like it. She then told me what had happened to her.

She had been married, as it happened, to a wealthy man. He had made his money selling beer; owning several large commercial breweries and a handful of internationally recognised brand names. She had met him several years ago by which time he was already a dashing, young multi-millionaire. They had quickly fallen in love and were married after only six months. She had been so happy with him to start with. Things had, unfortunately, turned very sour when, fairly recently, she had discovered that he had been sleeping with his secretary. After hiring a private detective, she found out that she was only one of many other women in his life and that he was not only a serial adulterer but a regular at a number of different strip clubs and brothels throughout London. She had been devastated. She had confronted him and told him of her plan to divorce him. As a lawyer herself she planned to take him for all he was worth.

It had been around this time that his sister had contacted her. They had never really known each other too well but she had been very keen to help support her, during this difficult time. Her sister had told her how her brother didn’t deserve to have such a wife after the way that he had behaved. She was so apologetic for his behaviour and took it upon herself to make amends in the name of her family. Lisa had, after some initial suspicion, warmed to her and accepted her peace-offer of a course of relaxation sessions. The idea was that it would help to relieve the considerable stress that she was facing. She had been introduced to Dr Vivienne Black who was a good friend of her sister-in-law and things had gone from there. Now, her brain had been treated and she was completely at her sister-in-law’s mercy. Trisha had told her, in no uncertain terms; that she would be terribly punished for presuming that she could attempt to ruin her brother. She had told her that she had always despised her and had felt that her brother had married far too far below himself. She had told Lisa that she was no better than a common street-whore and that she would see to it that Lisa understood that and was reminded of it every day of her life. As well as that, Lisa had simplified her divorce settlement so that she would take none of their joint assets. She had instructed her firm that she just wanted an immediate annulment of her marriage without a difficult courtroom struggle. She had, of course, signed all the relevant paperwork, rendering herself destitute. She had then resigned from her job and transferred her flat and other assets to Trisha. She had moved out to come to the clinic and now my home was where she would live and the small bag from the clinic, the sum of her possessions.

We had stopped stripping each others hairs to hold each other.

‘I know you have been forced to come here Lisa. But I want you to know that you are so welcome here in my house. Please try to see it as your own, as ours, somewhere shared’

I decided that then was a good time to show her round.

‘Come, let me show you round’, I said trying to sound as enthusiastic as I could. It was a pretty pointless exercise as she had already seen all the rooms except the bedroom. I just wanted to try and raise our spirits a little. I wanted her to feel welcome, especially as I now knew she was otherwise homeless.

I showed her where everything was kept in the kitchen; where all the food was stored and the freezer. I showed her to the bedroom. As I opened the door I was a little startled. There was a suitcase there.

‘My things!’ Lisa exclaimed, obviously recognising her luggage. As she picked up the case and laid it on the bed, popping the catches, I noticed a letter resting on the pillows. As I picked it up, I noticed the word ‘Sluts’, written in thick black ink; it was addressed to us.

With a feeling of dread, I took it and opened it.

It said that from now on we would be both sharing the only bed in the house; my single. It then said that as a part of our ‘training’ it had become necessary for us to start to master the sexual arts. Every night, until told otherwise, we would sleep together, during which time Lisa would be required to bring me, with her mouth only, to orgasm. I stared at it, taken aback as Lisa took it from my hand and read it herself.

‘No!’ she said, ‘I can’t do that, Anita’

She looked up at me, and I at her.

‘We must’, I said, ‘We have no choice’

‘God damn it, Anita! There’s always a choice! This has gone too far. I say enough!’

‘Don’t be stupid, Lisa. What can we possibly do? Eh? What can we do?’

I knew that a refusal on her part would count as one for me too.

‘We’re helpless’, I was starting to shout at her, ‘we’re fucked! Can’t you see that? They have complete control over us. Any “choice” we think we have is what they are allowing us to have. What choice do we have? It’s either do what they say or be punished. And then maybe they’ll make us do what they say anyway by commanding us to. No, Lisa, the only choice we have is, we do it now or we get punished and then do it later’

‘I know that, Anita. I’m just saying that there may be another way out of this. It’s not good but it’s the only one with any dignity, I can tell you that much’

With this, she turned away and looked out of the small bedroom window.

I was silent. I had had those thoughts myself.

‘We’ll be gradually forced to do more and more demeaning things until life will truly be worse than death’

She turned around again, solemn and deadly serious.

‘We could choose to take control.’ Her hands were formed into fists ‘We could end this for each other, painlessly. What else do we have to live for now, hmmm? I don’t think you want to be a slut and I sure as hell don’t’

We looked at each other, silent for a minute. I could see the logic behind what she was suggesting but I couldn’t bear to think about the actual execution. I had never thought that I would be seriously considering anything like this. I had always thought that however bad life got, there would be a way to cope with it. Things had clearly changed.

‘Look, if we are going to disobey then that means we have to do it now, or very soon’, I said.

Lisa nodded in agreement.

‘And…….I don’t think I’m ready to do that yet, Lisa’, I looked at her through a blurred teary vision, ‘can we not think about it just a little longer. It’s such a big step and once we do it, there couldn’t be any going back’

‘So you want me to have sex with you then?’ she asked.

‘No! No! I don’t want that at all, Lisa!…..Please try and understand that I find the idea as revolting as you do’, I implored her,’ I think we need to buy ourselves more time to think, that’s all’

She turned away and paced up and down. After a few minutes she said,

‘All right. I’ll do it. I agree that we shouldn’t be rash about this but we should set a time. If things aren’t improving by then, then we must go through with it. I suppose it will give us a chance to prepare anyway. If anything else happens though, we should just do it. I don’t know how, find a railway line or jump in front of a bus or something, anything. I’m not having that bitch do much more of this to me. You understand? There’s only so much I can take and I can’t take much more, Anita’

‘I understand, Lisa, believe me. Come on, let’s get back to the electrolysis or we’ll definitely be made to suffer’

PART 11

That night we brushed our teeth, turned the light out and got into the bed together. There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute and then she rolled to face me and held me.

‘I’ve never been with a girl before’, she said to me.

‘Me neither’, I said.

‘If I was going to be, I would want it to be someone like you Anita. You’re a beautiful person, really you are, you know that?’ she stroked my face.

‘Aww!……….Thank you!’ I had said, genuinely touched.

‘Now, they will know if we fake this, so we have to do it properly’

I nodded.

‘Just try to relax and enjoy it, that’s the best way for both of us’

With that she backed off under the covers.

I couldn’t believe the situation I was in. Here I was, in my own bed, with another woman about to kiss me in my most intimate, sensitive area.

I felt her hair sweeping down my breasts and then my belly until I could feel it brush over my pelvis and thighs. It was soft but electrifying as it brushed, leaving a trail of charged, static pleasure, sensitising my skin. Oh God, I was enjoying it! I felt an overwhelming sense of embarrassment as I realised that another woman was exciting me. I swallowed. I wanted to tell her to stop but my rational self told me that it would be a futile exercise; that we would just have to begin again and repeat it anyway.

‘Yes, best to get it over with’ I thought, as Lisa had said. I felt her body fall between my legs. Oh God! With a resigned reluctance, I opened them, spreading myself timidly before her.

I felt her hands take my hips and hold me. I felt her moving closer, I could feel her breath between my thighs and her warmth on my lips below. God it felt good. I couldn’t believe how good it felt or that I was letting myself feel this way about it. It was supposed to be a perfunctory exercise, a mechanical exchange that would let us tick our box and move on to another day. But I was enjoying the touch, the feel of another woman on me, it was all wrong. I started to cry. I bit my lip; she mustn’t know I was crying. We must get it over with, with as little fuss as possible.

Was I a Lesbian for feeling aroused? Oh God no! I thought to myself, I was normal; a normal woman. I was attracted to men.

I felt something soft and warm, gently running up my lip on the right.

‘Oh!’ I moaned.

The tongue moved down again leaving a trail of swelling warmth behind. Reflexively, I tried to lift my hips slightly, but they were controlled by her hands and held down. I wanted her back on me. I wanted more of the touch. I could feel my clit hardening, like she also wanted to lift herself up, in need, to her lover.

Then, I felt a deep warmth as her whole mouth cupped me. She closed her lips, sweeping together across my engorged folds and then, with a kiss, upwards to surround my throbbing clit. I shook involuntarily with the exquisite touch but was again, held fast. She nuzzled my hood upwards to further bare the tender flesh beneath, ready for her tongue.

‘Oh, my God1′, I moaned as the tears dried on my hot, flushing cheeks and I felt the firm snaking of the tip of her tongue around my tensely swollen bud. I was so totally, so disturbingly aroused, completely at her mercy as she ran slow, tiny pleasure circles around me. I was burning with guilt at my apparent homosexuality as the overwhelming sensations coursed through me. It felt so good and I knew it was a bad idea to stop. I took my mind wandering, to imagine that I had a gorgeous, strong man between my thighs. A man so overtaken with how beautiful he found me, so enamoured with me, that he longed to give me the most extreme pleasures imaginable. He would make me feel such a devastating feminine beauty in the depths of my being; he would make me understand how beautiful I was.

‘Oh!’ I moaned in tension as the lapping on my clitoris drove me into a rampant frenzy, ‘Oh!…..Oh!’

I felt her reach deeply inside me. With the speed of her entry and the ease of its accommodation, I realised that I must have been sopping wet with lust. The image of the soft, mocha skinned beauty between my legs flashed into my mind as I closed my eyes in denial at what I had become. Then she was back on my clit with fast flicks, I couldn’t stand it. I caught my breath as she gripped me and forced me to stay still, receptive to the unbearable pleasure she was giving me. I submitted to it. Then I wanted it. As I felt a tide of orgasm building I started to gasp uncontrollably and moan in complete abandon. Then, without a choice, I came. I almost screamed with the most intense, earth-shattering orgasm I have ever had. My whole body coursed with the rolling waves of climax until I was so sensitive I couldn’t be touched and had to jerk myself away.

‘Oh, my God!’ I breathed, catching my breath.

Lisa ducked out from the bottom of the bed and hurried to the bathroom. I heard her spitting and running the taps. My pleasure soon left me as I was brought back to the reality of the situation. This was not love. It was rape; I had raped her mouth as she had been forced to pleasure me like a sex slave. A colossal guilt swept up inside me as I bent out of the bed to try and see her, to make sure she was okay. I heard her washing her mouth out and then brushing her teeth.

It was about five minutes before she came back and crawled into bed beside me. She avoided my eyes. I was so upset that I burst into tears, saying I was sorry over and over. She held me but didn’t say anything. I could tell that she was more than a little overwhelmed herself. I hated that I had caused her to feel that way. It was as if my pleasure had become her misery, as if I had stolen her good feelings.

I cried myself quietly to sleep that night as she faced away from me. Later that night though, when I turned over in my sleep, I thought I heard her sobbing

The following day we had risen early and had taken a quick breakfast. Lisa apologized to me for the night before, saying that it had been very difficult for her to come to terms with being with another woman, especially being forced to, against her will. She stressed that it had nothing to do with me and that I should not feel bad about it in any way. She said that she hated the total control that she was held under and that with every abuse that was forced upon her, she felt that a little of her soul was being forever wrenched away. I had kissed her and stroked her as she lay in my lap. After a few minutes, she had hugged me, composed herself, and then pulled me over to the sofa to start the electrolysis.

We had decided to get the gags out of the way and wore them straight away. They were just as unpleasant as the day before but we got on with our task together. On a couple of occasions I had to fight to keep my breakfast down. By the end of the morning the gags were off and we were making good progress; there was not a leg hair left on either of us.

We were contemplating the next stage, the humiliating removal of our pubic hair. I had said that I thought it would make me feel child-like, pre-pubertal but also more exposed; that I would have nothing to hide behind. Lisa pointed out that it was practically mandatory in the sex industry to have a shaved sex and that it was an incredibly slutty gesture. She said that she wouldn’t like anyone to see her bare like that, that she would feel terribly ashamed. That didn’t help me with the task at hand and I had wished that she had kept that to herself as it added another dimension to my humiliation.

It was then that the doorbell rang. We looked at each other quizzically and I grabbed up my robe, donned my slippers, and went to answer the door. As I pulled it open, I was confronted by the towering figure of Dr Vivienne Black. She was dressed in a long black coat and a black, wide-brimmed hat. The corners of her deep, dark crimson lips curled upwards into a snarling smile before she opened he mouth.

‘Pick those up, girl, come back inside and get that robe off’

She brushed me aside, striding into the living room. There were two large bags waiting for me on the doorstep. I grabbed them; the right hand one being weighty, the other one light; and hurried back inside. By the time I was in my living room, Vivienne had removed her coat and hat and had sat down. She was wearing a light grey skirt-suit of fine wool. Her hair, as usual, was pulled into a high ponytail. I could see, now that her hat was removed that it was bound tightly with a piece of thin, knotted black leather; gone were the soft, feminine flowers she often wore there. Lisa was kneeling at her feet with her head pressed down to the floor. I hurriedly pulled my dressing gown off and threw myself on the floor, my head down against the carpet.

‘I have two boots. One for each slave girl’, she kept her legs crossed; ‘lick them clean. Now!’

We both swallowed, I took the foot dangling above the ground and immediately started licking at it. She was wearing a pair of knee length, lace-up, black leather boots with high stiletto heels and long toes. The boot before me was not dirty save for a few specks of dried dirt towards the lower edge. I licked at them with as much enthusiasm as I could muster; I wanted them to be spotless for her. The bitter taste of polish and the smell of the leather were not that bad. I would much rather have devoted myself to that task than risk one of her terrible punishments. Vivienne curved the pointed toe of her hanging boot outwards, so that I could lick the other side. To my right I could see Lisa applying herself with the same ardour, bending herself around to the back of the foot, licking at the beige leather underside of the arch of the boot.

Vivienne laughed.

‘That’s it. You little bitches are not good for anything else yet so you’d better make sure you give them a damn good clean now; lest I decide that you are completely worthless and decide to dispose of you both in some unpleasant way’

She lifted the foot that I was licking. I immediately started lapping at the mud on the spike heel. I swept my tongue up its entire length to catch the tiny splashes of dried puddle water that peppered the jet black, matt veneer on the horizontally grained, wooden heel. At the very top of the stiletto, after it curved upwards and backwards to smoothly join the leather; I attended to the back of her heel. I worked my tongue into the line of tiny stitching that formed a tight seem behind, hugging the back of her foot, working loose the little mud that had collected there.

‘Good girls!’ she cooed, ‘from now on, whenever I enter your room; that is how you will greet me. Understand?’

‘Yes Mistress’ we said in unison.

‘Your Mistress likes her boots to be shiny and clean. If I ever pick up any dirt on them, I expect you to beg to be allowed to clean it off. If you ever allow me to walk in dirty boots I will have the soles of your feet beaten, severely. Do you understand that sluts?’

‘Yes, Mistress’ we both repeated.

She bent over to eye her boots and inspect our work. We both pressed our faces into the carpet in submission.

‘I see you have both learned a little more of your true place. Now, both of you, stand up. Let me see you. Attention!’

We both jumped to our feet, the toes of them anyway, and stood before her, eyes straight ahead. She stood, taller than either of us in spite of our tiptoed stance. She regarded me with a feline smile.

‘You’re nose and lips; the swelling has gone down now. That is how they will be. Have you seen them today?’ she asked me

‘No Mistress. I have not looked at myself today’

She reached into her handbag on the table and took out a vanity mirror. She handed it to me.

‘Look at yourself’

I looked into the mirror. My nose was still a yellowy-brown as the bruising was fading but the shape was no longer masked by the inflammation. The bony lump at the top of my nose was no longer there. Instead I had a smooth, cute, slightly upturned, petite and pretty nose. Its only downside was that it looked like every other generic ‘perfect plastic surgical’ nose. My lips were still full and bulbous, I gasped as to my mind they were still too swollen.

‘Yes, Anita, you almost have a lovely face now’, she stroked my cheek softly, ‘yes, very pleasing, both to me, your Mistress, and, you will find, to men too. Pleasing because of its aesthetics, you look sexier now dear’

I jumped a little as she stroked my breasts,

‘But also pleasing because your surgery was designed to be less subtle than is currently possible. I want your face to look like it has been operated on. I want people to see vanity when they look at you; the sad vanity of the wannabe slut; the willingness to please and the willingness to conform to a man’s needs. A girl who will put herself under the knife shows her devotion and commitment to being a real slut’

She laughed

‘And then there are your huge bulbous lips. They just scream ’slut’, don’t they?’

‘Yes Mistress’, I looked down briefly and then corrected myself. I could feel my eyes start to dampen.

‘They’ll look even better, enhanced with an eye catching gloss I think. Lovely tits as well, Anita, by the way. You look like a sycophantic little bimbo don’t you, so eager to be a man’s wet dream?’

She looked me in the eye with a gleeful glint.

‘Yes Mistress’

‘Tell me, Anita, are you looking forward to showing those tits off?’

‘Yes, Mistress’, I said. I wanted to be fully cooperative with her the tears in my eyes doubtless betrayed my true feelings. She snorted.

‘Your tits are still healing. However’, she leaned very close to my ear and cupped my breast ‘when they are ready we will inject the implants with more liquid. We’ll do it gradually, slowly, so the skin has time to grow. Then, when you have lovely big whore’s tits, we’ll have a nice, big, permanent implant fitted. That’s right, your tits have still got quite a way to go, and already they are big enough to turn heads. How do you like that?’

I was starting to break down. I broke my position and turned to look at her.

I dropped to my knees and put my hands together in a praying gesture.

‘Please Mistress! Please don’t do that to me! My tits are big already, lovely and big, I already look like a whore. Please let them stay as they are’

I bent down and kissed her feet again, throwing myself into it in the hope that it might save me.

‘Awwww! Poor slave’, she stroked my head. I felt slightly comforted, maybe she would be merciful. Maybe my Mistress would take pity on me?

‘Stand again’

I returned to attention. She held her finger over her lips in mock contemplation. She quickly nodded her head, having thought about it.

‘But you’d look so right as a big-titted slut, Anita. I’m afraid I must insist, so we’ll say no more on the matter’ she gave me a sickly sweet smile ‘Now, Mistress Trisha tells me that you have a lovely little anus as well now and I can see that you are both longing to wear high heels too. You will thank your Mistress later when you appreciate that you will have a lot more control in high heels now. The unfortunate side effect, as you have already discovered, is that you will be quite unable to stand with your feet flat, ever again! So its slutty stilettos from now on for both of you I’m afraid’

She cast her glance over Lisa, next to me and then told us both to kneel again.

‘Now then my little novices, I have some presents for you both’

PART 12

Only a week ago, a gift from Vivienne would have had me brimming with eager anticipation. Now, it was with trepidation that I watched her reach into one of the bags that I had fetched in for her.

This thought made me realise that it had only been a week ago that I had been revelling in glorious attention at the yacht ball. Her gifts to me had been; choosing that perfect, demure dress; and the priceless pearl jewellery. I remembered how it had been that night; how I had been a lady. I muffled a sob at the thought of how steep my decline had been since then. I had gone from such a peak, to such an unfathomable trough in just seven days.

‘These mark your gradation from clueless little bitches to proper, aspiring slaves. These will help in your training and, later on, they will allow much, much more’

She removed something from the lighter bag. As she moved closer, I could see that she held two leather straps, a single gold buckle on the end of each. I had been thankful that it hadn’t been some other hideous devices to torment us. She came to stand in front of us. I could see that one of the straps was a natural, light tan colour and the other was a studded patent white. She turned the leather straps so the darker, rougher and unpolished side of the leather faced us. On the inside of each there were two prominent gold studs spaced about two inches apart.

‘These are collars for you both’, she said.

She took one, the tan coloured strap and started to fix it around Lisa’s neck while she remained obediently still. Then, I dared not move a muscle as I felt the cool leather strap of the white collar, first at the back of my neck, then winding round until I felt it’s pressure around my whole throat and it was buckled tightly behind. I didn’t dream of reaching up and touching it so I stretched my neck out to let it sit more comfortably. I could vaguely feel the two studs on either side of my windpipe, although not uncomfortably so. I couldn’t fathom their purpose.

Vivienne stood back in front of us and regarded us with satisfaction. She sat down in her chair and crossed her legs again.

‘You will wear these when you enter the house and all the time you are inside. Keep them by the front door hanging on the coat pegs when you leave and put them on as soon as you enter. They are several things to you now. Not least of which is that they are symbols of your ownership. In donning your collar you will acknowledge to yourselves that you are kept properties, animals, and as such you have obligations to please your owner, your Mistress. They make pretty decorations to you both as well. I’m sure you will find that Mistress Trisha has chosen the colours wisely and with a careful eye on the final looks that she wants you both to have. They both suit you quite nicely already’

She leant forward and stroked my collared throat.

‘They have much, much more important functions though’

At that, she stood up, leaving us kneeling in the same place.

‘You have both been, in your later therapy sessions, conditioned to respond to certain key words’

She strode gently behind us.

‘You may remember feeling different after those sessions. That’s because you were being taught to suffer. You have been conditioned to experience pain, truly horrible pain; and with it, the most unbearable fear. I have trained you to experience absolute terror’

She was right behind us, her head bent almost between us.

‘It is the mother of all understatements when I say that I have programmed you both with very, very unpleasant punishment routines. I have tapped into the deepest, darkest and most painful parts of your brains and installed little switches there, pain amplifiers if you will’

I felt a hand on my head.

‘It is possible, at a command, to put you into this punishment state for a time. My other girls try very, very hard to avoid their punishments, so fearful are they of them. I assure you, as it is with them, so it will be with you two. It will help to keep you………..focused’

She smiled. She turned her attention to Lisa.

‘The collars that you both wear act as safety devices; you must be feeling the studs pressing against your neck for the punishment to occur. It’s to stop the unlikely event of someone inadvertently using the word while you are out, triggering the sequence. Anyone who knows the word can punish you, you see? Eventually that may be quite a number of people. All of whom you will have to be totally obedient to’

I shuddered.

‘Don’t worry about being free from punishment though, you can be commanded to put the collar on first, and if I want you to be punished while you are out somewhere, you can be made to take it with you. Maybe you will wear it outside as part of your outfit, if Mistress Trisha wants you to look like that’

My heart raced with fear as I felt her hands come onto me from behind, caressing the leather fastened to my neck.

‘Why bother with all this if you are both my obedient slaves already?’

She looked at us as if we had asked the question.

‘Now I could have you mindlessly follow any orders I give you; but that is not what I want. It would be far too easy; and where would be the fun in that’

Again she smiled ruefully at us.

‘I don’t want my slaves to be cloned automatons, mindless trained sluts who repeat the same behaviours over and over. I want you both to develop yourselves into the natural slaves that you are both meant to be. I want your individuality forced through into your final states and held there for everyone to see. I don’t want your souls buried beneath a weight of commands and programming, I want them helplessly exposed and forced along; nailed to the front of the engines of your slavery’

She was lecturing now, gently pacing backwards and forwards.

‘To achieve this, it is necessary for you to be free to experiment within your lessons a little. Soon your training will begin. You will be set a number of tasks. Some of them will be very specific, but others, you will have to find your own way with. In all of them, anything less than complete devotion and successful completion will indicate punishment; and it will be unpleasant’

She stroked the side of my head

‘You will learn that the last thing you want to do is fall below standard, believe me. No matter how awful you think my tasks are, the punishment for not complying with them will be far, far worse’

She casually stepped back in front of us and sat herself down in the chair again. She crossed her legs. She was in total control.

‘Now that I have seen how my two sluts are coming along, I am almost ready to go. Just a couple of further things before I leave you to get on with stripping those sweet, little cunts down’

I was totally still and docile. I desperately did not want to try this new punishment.

‘We are going to install a few things about the house; all things to help with your training. You will soon be recovered enough to start working properly; fit enough to start your training in earnest. I hope you will both work hard for me, very hard. I hope you will both apply yourself to your studies. You will learn the arts of sexual pleasure and the different disciplines of pleasing.’

‘I will have you taught how to behave, how to walk, how to talk and how to move. You will study how to dance and how to show off those lovely slutty bodies. You will be forced to drive men wild with desire. You will learn how to be hot, irresistible and available; and you will learn how to satisfy the lust that you have stimulated. Most importantly of all though, you will eventually learn that you must be continually improving and developing yourselves. That’s what makes MY girls so special. You will contribute ideas towards your own training and then be submitted to them. We will have little interviews so we can direct your progress. You will finally become independent, self-directed little whores, devoted to my purpose.’

She sat back and smiled to us with satisfaction.

I could not believe what I was hearing. I was to be trained to be a sex slave,  a prostitute, a whore!…And worse than that, I was not only going to have to work hard to learn my new role but I would be punished, horribly, if I was not good enough!

I was so completely cornered; there were no options available to me. While every instinct that I had wanted to me to scream ‘No!’ at her, I knew it would do me no good and worse, it might earn me discipline. At the same time, it was inconceivable that I could accept the plan that she had just laid out for me. I was intelligent, educated and from a good background. I wasn’t to be a whore! I just couldn’t be! That was for other women; lower class women; women who didn’t have the dignity to get a proper job; women who were just natural sluts. Not for women like me, not for someone who was too sensitive and enlightened!

I wanted to tell her that she had the wrong girl, that somehow she had taken the wrong person. All I could do was look down in misery and try to hold back the tears. I had dared not even open my mouth; such was her domination of me.

‘Before I go, I thought it might amuse you both to see these’

She unpacked the other bag, the heavy bag, which she had brought with her. As she took them out, I immediately recognised the two packages that Trisha had carried from the clinic on behalf of Lisa and me. They were still in the same brown parcel wrap and string. After briefly examining them she handed one to Lisa, the other to me.

‘I have a little hobby connected to my work. I’m something of a collector you know’

She motioned that we should open the packages.

‘I wanted you to see my latest pieces, before they are set in their places in my collection. Do be careful with them now girls’

She was smiling sweetly now. It sent a sharp, metallic chill cutting through my soul. It was like she was some dark, festive bringer of gifts. I hesitated. She motioned to me again, less sweetly, and I reluctantly tore at the paper.

The paper was several layers thick; the packaging on the heavy box had been generously layered. As I scratched away the final sheet in one corner I felt a smooth, cold surface. Scratching away some more I could see that it was glass; glass with some kind of fluid inside.

I was so scared. I looked up at her sardonic grin; her cold, sadistic eyes enjoying watching me, like I was a spider having her limbs plucked for her amusement. She bade me to continue.

I flipped the string around the corner of the box on one side and slid the remainder of the packaging off en masse.

I stared at it. It was a glass box, perfectly filled with an umber liquid. Floating in the middle was a ragged, brown mass. It looked like some sort of triangular lump with a pair of trailing water-swollen appendages. It was hideous.

I looked up questioningly. Her expression turned to one of glee,

‘They were removed vaginally. It just wouldn’t do for either of you to become pregnant and in your line of work, periods are a nuisance’

I dropped to my knees. I could see my ovaries swaying in the wash as I hit the floor, the specimen box held up in front of me. I felt the box lifted away from me as she reclaimed her trophy.

I would never have babies.

I broke down and wept.

PART 13

As I opened the door I caught my breath. There were two women standing there, neither of them were familiar, that didn’t stop them practically walking through me. Unable to protest, I watched as they carried in a stack of boxes. Having piled these in the front room, they went back to their car and came back with even more. As an inert bystander in the activities in my home, I had returned to the sofa and stared at the floor for a minute. I had been scouting for any rogue hairs left on Lisa. Watching the girls out of the corner of my eye I tried to carry on; I could not see any, she was as smooth as a baby below the hairline on her head. She had just finished looking me over. I had stood naked in front of her with my legs spread while she had examined me. I could feel every stir and eddy of the air as a cool brushing on my sensitive bald skin. Nowhere was I more conscious of this than in the area that was accustomed to being sheltered with pubic hair.

I had grabbed my short robe to answer the door and could feel the crisp autumn air rushing in against me.

With a slam of my front door, the two women set down the rest of their boxes.

‘You are to stay out of the way and keep quiet while we work’, said one of the women. I knew that I was bound by that command; I could feel when a message was aimed at Vivienne’s control system within me. It seemed that anyone could be given access to this since she had fitted it. It was like a parasite in my head, I almost wanted to smash it clean open and rip at my brain; such was my frustration. I gritted my teeth and once again accepted that I was a controllable ’slave-girl’.

I looked at the nearest girl. She was in her early thirties, I thought. She was immaculately figured, with short-cropped bleached, blonde hair. She was a tall Amazon, a classical Germanic beauty. Her accomplice was a smaller, but no less beautiful, red-head. She had the same low-maintenance hairstyle as other girl but was wider in the hips. Both were dressed in practical, forgettable, grey overalls.

I had turned back to Lisa as they had started to unpack. The cool air had lifted some microscopic hairs up on her forearm. I was thankful for the luck as I set to them with the electrolysis probe.

It was two days after Vivienne’s visit. As I fried the tiny patches beneath the hair follicles I realised that I was sitting almost in the same place that I had been when Vivienne had crushed me. I had been revolted, in equal parts, at her depravity and how I was so helplessly subject to it. Her vile, psychopathic ‘hobby’ of storing the removed wombs of her victims revealed just how unhinged she really was. That anyone could gain pleasure from that was twisted and warped beyond my comprehension. The fact that it was she who was my Mistress was starting to fill me with nihilism. I would never be able to live a decent life, I was sure that she could not possibly be planning that for me. Maybe the only way that I could live would be to avoid her punishments. It struck me that to try and live between the gaps of her strict regime would be a progressively futile enterprise. Maybe I would just have to go with it. Maybe I should simply no longer care, as my caring just gave her ways to torment me; but then that was the kind of person that I was; I had morals, aspirations and ideals; I couldn’t just erase them.

I had always thought, in fact I had known, that one day, I would get married and have children. She had now torn that from me, quite literally, to become a decoration in some macabre display. On that day, I had started to carefully count my blessings, as I had no idea when the next atrocity would be afflicted on me, nor what it would be. Maybe my hands would be cut off next, so I should just enjoy having them; or maybe she would blind me, for fun; so I should cherish every single vision, even the terrible ones. It seems to me that there is only so much fear that a woman can live in before she starts to change, irreversibly. In the most perverse, deconstructive way, she had almost rendered me enlightened!

After she had left, I had locked myself in the toilet for two hours. I’d tried to take a razor blade to my wrist but I knew that I would be forbidden before I could pick it up. That was the final straw, the death blow, checkmate against Anita. I couldn’t even kill myself. ‘Fuck it’, I had thought. I resigned. I gave up my resistance that day. Having lost everything, my fear had started to give way to an abandonment of concerns. It was almost liberating. I knew I was fucked, fucked up beyond all hope, but maybe I could scavenge some grains of enjoyment from this somewhere. Maybe. I would try.

There was a thump to my left. I returned to my work, studiously ignoring our most recent intruders. The girls were obviously well drilled and experienced. Within an hour they had set up two computers in the front room. They had set up a secure internal network and had fitted cameras in each room of the flat. These were apparently ‘wireless’ and each looked down from one of the ceiling corners so that the whole room was within its range. The blonde girl had done the fitting while the red-head had spent her time at the keyboard, configuring the system, I supposed.

When she had set up all the cameras, the blonde girl started connecting leads to the other computer. There were a number of units, mounted in a rack that needed to be wired to the computer. After she had done this, she went back to the car and returned with a large, padded sausage-looking thing. It was about three feet long and about a foot in diameter. She took a number of sturdy, adjustable metal poles and fitted them to the sausage. As she turned it upside down and stood it on its four legs, it reminded me of a vaulting horse. She screwed an umbilical cable into the horse and connected the other end to the rack of boxes. Another trip to the car and she came back with a clinical, white case which she stowed under the horse. Finally, it was all set up. They arranged it so that one computer was facing into the room while the other had its screen disconnected and was secreted inside a cupboard. After this, they both cleared away all the boxes, collected their tools, and without a word, left.

I zapped the last hair that I could find. I wanted this job done well and Mistress Trisha would be here soon, she had to be satisfied. We had packed the electrolysis machine away and were just letting our curiosity pull us towards the new equipment when, true to her word, Trisha arrived. She let herself in.

She was dressed in a stunningly cut black trouser suit; her hair was pulled tightly up before billowing outwards as fluffy shocks of wavy curls. She was an incredibly attractive woman but it was her deportment that carried her towards near perfection. Lisa and I had discussed our plan for her arrival. As she stepped gracefully towards us, we both threw ourselves to the floor on our bellies and, naked still, we started to vigorously lap at her boots.

‘Good sluts!’ she said, her pleasure was almost palpable.

She let us clean her boots for a minute before getting us to our feet. She had us standing with our legs widely spread and our arms up at ninety degrees. She took a magnifying glass from her bag and gave us a serious look. I was not religious, but I had prayed that we had done our job properly. She started with Lisa. Her magnifying glass had a light on the inside edge of its rim; there was no way that she would miss a single hair. I shut my eyes and prayed again.

The tense minutes dragged out further and further as Lisa’s body was scrutinised to the minutest detail, we were all in absolute silence. I could hear Lisa breathing rapidly next to me, I wanted to reach out, hold her hand and tell her that we were in this together. I stayed motionless as Trisha straightened her back and, in silence, moved over to me. I was shaking as she looked me over. One minute she as under my armpits, the next she had me pulling my buttocks aside.

‘Mmmmmm, look at that lovely soft pink rose, Anita’

I let out a surprised little scream as I felt her fingernail rub against the inside of my anus. Shocked with myself, I immediately pulled myself back to attention. Trisha giggled.

‘Sit down on the sofa, girls’, she finally said. Her voice was relaxed and playful, ‘had we done it?’ I dared to think.

PART 14

The tiny muscles that ran from my inner thighs to my deep pelvis burned and the skin above them screamed as it chaffed and bumped angrily into the padding. Beads of sweat ran in highways down either side of my face, so intense was my concentration. My mind was focused on the thick shaft that I was milking, desperately following every command from my uncompromising silicon task-master. First I was tensing the muscles low down near my opening and withdraw until I could just grip the head of the training prick. The screen would let me know if I was gripping firmly enough; and if I wasn’t, I would have to repeat the manoeuvre again and again until I could do it. A meter on the right hand side of the screen bobbed up and down. At the moment it was hovering at the middle of the scale, in the ‘yellow’ zone, and that was the cause of my intense efforts. I could see a little further down the bar, in the lower ‘red’ zone; there was a black line with the words ‘immediate punishment’ unequivocally awaiting any slip in my performance. The machine had taught me a number of different patterns or ’strokes’ and was now alternating, apparently randomly, between them. I had been standing over the horse, wearing my white heels, fucking the accursed thing for half an hour now and was quite exhausted. The machine was completely disinterested in how I felt though and so I was summoning every ounce of strength to keep the needle up and to keep from failing.

The only respite I was getting was on the ‘head ride’ command, where I lifted off the shaft and caressed its end with my lips. Then I rapidly dipped onto the tip, lapping around the side of its ‘glans’ with my inner lips on the way back up. It gave my pelvic muscles a break. The other strokes demanded a co-ordinated squeeze from various parts of my vagina. It had started very slowly and clearly with me but had rapidly adapted to my learning of the manoeuvres. Had I known that this would happen, I would have tried to be a little more ’stupid’; ‘wasn’t retrospect a great thing’ I reflected as the instruction changed to ‘deep head fuck’ and I once more rammed my inner thighs down onto the horse and tensed my power-depleted deep muscles on the head and shaft, hoping that the pressure transducers there were merciful to me. On this occasion they weren’t.

‘Fucking hell’, I screamed as the number ‘20′ appeared signifying how many repeats I had to perform to address this flaw in my abilities. As I gripped it for all I was worth, knowing that I had enough strength for maybe one more try. The number dropped to nineteen. The bar on the right started to slowly drop.

It was with tears rolling down my face, my teeth gritted and a constant shouting of ‘Fuck you!!, Fuck you!!’, that I managed to work my way through. The needle hovering over the instant death zone proved to be a horribly efficient motivator and to my astonishment I worked off my ‘deep head fuck’ debt. I hoped that I hadn’t ruptured my recently cut vagina, the burning was so powerful.

Finally the machine let me go. I had fucked it for almost an hour and was totally spent, saddle-sore and beaten – by a fucking machine. I never looked at it the same way again and whenever I was scheduled to return to that saddle, I counted down to it with absolute dread.

Trisha had set me going on the trainer before she had left with Lisa. She had said that we would both be ‘rewarded’ for having satisfactorily stripped each other. She was going to oversee Lisa’s right then and I was to await further instructions after I finished my training. I lay on my back, the taste of salt in my mouth, sodden with my own sweat. I was exhausted and my sex ached in ways that I never imagined it could. I wondered how long it would take for me to become strong enough to keep it up for a whole session. I had no idea then that a ’session’ was a fluid rather than a fixed entity.

The screen beeped loudly and as I turned to look at it I was met by an ominous looking set of instructions and diagrams.

‘Shit!’ I thought.

‘Fuck!!’ I thought as I noticed that there was a timer counting down where the performance bar had been.

I quickly summoned my faculties and started to follow the precise instructions.

The phallus disconnected from the top of the horse. I could see the numerous connections on it’s mating below as I un-clicked it. It was heavier than I anticipated, obviously a very complicated and sensitive piece of engineering. The screen showed me where to re-attach it – on the side of the horse. I clicked it on. Without further ado, the screen changed colour and started to lay out the learning objectives and rules for the oral-training mode.

‘NO!’ I wept, my fingers clenched,’ please, I can’t do any more’

I kept my blurry, tear-filled vision on the screen in case I missed something, but I wanted to stare at the camera in the corner and plead. I didn’t even know if anyone would be watching.

After taking in the basic rules, most worryingly of which was the instant punishment ‘teeth contact rule’, I had my lips around the shaft, my teeth well away from the plastic. I could smell my own pussy on it and could taste the drying mix of artificial lubricant and my own juices. I felt like the lowest, most depraved little bitch as I clung onto the shaft; there was a penalty for letting go as well. I sobbed to myself as I followed the programme through to the letter. After a few minutes I was actually glad for the time spent wearing the penis gag as I would not have been able to have deep-throated the huge prick without it. As well as that, I would not have had the stamina in my jaw to have completed the programme with brushing a tooth against the penis. It kept teaching me how to suck cock for half an hour.

When the screen finally relented and let me go I lay in a ball on the floor. I wept with relief and massaged my jaw muscles. My tongue ached from licking, my lips from sucking and my throat felt sore and swollen from the uncompromisingly deep prodding I had been forced to withstand when I had had to swallow its entire seven inch length.

Feeling deeply humiliated and ritually violated I pulled my knees up close to my chest and waited for the screen to beep and make me take the thing in my ass. I was, if nothing else, becoming more of a realist.

I was surprised when it told me to take two paracetamol, two ibuprofen, drink a pint of water from the fridge, thoroughly bathe, wash my hair and then go to my bedroom table. The screen then blacked out. I noticed that the power lights stayed on for the rest of the system though.

As I lay in the hot, scented bath-water sipping the icy drink, I felt better. I rubbed at my thighs and gently stroked my sore pussy lips, trying to work the residual pain away. The cold water felt good in my throat. I was glad when the taste of the probe finally started to subside. I looked at the clock, still before midday. I held my nose and bent my knees so that I was submerged in the soothing water. My eyes tightly shut; I tried to convince myself that I was still in the womb, far away from my reality as a novice prostitute. In the moments before my air ran out I imagined that I was just getting ready for another boring day at the office. I tried to feel the mundane safety that, until so recently, had been my life. As I gasped in the air and opened my eyes, the first thing that I saw was the brown-yellow of the bruising around the nipples of my swollen tits; there was no getting away from it.

In the bedroom, following the instructions that Trisha had slipped onto my dresser, I blow-dried my hair. Using hairspray, I was to shape it as instructed. She had left a series of diagrams and even some photographs of other girls. It was the opposite of how I had done it before, instead of calming my curls I was actively blasting the hair outwards and holding it there with the spray.  It was all blown up and away from my face. The mane at the back was similarly blown upwards and infused with spray to make it look ‘big’. The shaping that she had cut into it the week before now appeared to have another purpose. Curls that had flown down around my face now arched upwards defining the outer border of a sheer volume of loud red that to me, and probably most other people, screamed ‘attention-seeking bimbo’. As I saw how the style was supposed to look, I found myself primping here and correcting there before locking the whole ‘slut-do’ in place with the best part of a can of hairspray.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, the image of this girl flashed into my mind. I saw her with her eyes closed, her lips massaging the base of a huge cock, the tip twitching in her throat as she swallowed again and again sending waves of pleasure coursing over its head and causing it to pump its load deep into her. As I parted my puffy, collagen lips slightly, I could see that I now looked every inch the part; and that was just the hairdo.

Working my way down Trisha’s list, I removed the varnish from my nails and re-applied the new colour that she had provided. I looked at the bottle, the shade was apparently called ‘Playmate Pink’; a glossy silvery pink lacquer could be seen behind the logo of a smiling, buxom cartoon glamour-girl. True to its name it looked like the colour a porn star would wear. The obedient girl that I am, I applied it perfectly to every nail on each hand and foot before replacing the cap and waving my hands to dry them.

Then I made myself up. Exactly as I was told, I applied a generous cake of foundation to cover the remaining bruising on my face. Then I carefully put on a light metallic blue eye shadow, blending it laterally with a silvery white shade. I followed this up with plenty of blush and a lip gloss that partnered the nail varnish. My new bubbly lips looked huge and moist with the light metallic pink gloss. I then took a purple-red lip liner and worked a careful line around the gloss on my lips. It emphasised them even further and created a look that could only be described as ‘dirty’, no self respecting woman would wear make-up like that. It made my lips look like just another inviting pleasure organ.

‘My God!’ I thought as I looked at the whole picture. I was scared at how good a slut I made, at how the looked seemed to work so well with my features. I realised that I looked like a gorgeous, glamour girl. I looked good enough to be a pin-up, a man’s wank-fantasy. I gulped at what I was becoming; there was no way I could be seen like this.

I opened the bundle on the bed and pulled on a pair of soft grey pants and a grey pullover. It was a relief to not be completing the porn star look. Finally, I slipped my newly painted feet back into my white sandals, wound the straps up and around my ankles and buckled them on. Following the final instructions, I grabbed a pair of my old flat shoes to drive with, picked up the street map that Trisha had left and made to leave the flat. I unbuckled my collar and hung it next to Lisa’s on the coat peg on the way out.

PART 15

As I pulled the handbrake on and stopped the engine, I looked at the three ladies standing in front of the car.

Trisha, the stunning natural beauty that she was, looked effortlessly magnificent in a light, beige, long coat with a tan bag and high-heeled boots. Her hair was free and her wild curls erupted in a sprout; bouncing with life as she moved.

Vivienne, who was merely ‘very physically attractive’ at her side, made herself at least Trisha’s equal with her elegance, taste and class. Today, she looked disarmingly feminine. She wore a belted purple overcoat over what looked like short purple trousers. I recognized her deep purple boots from our first shopping trip, I had been dazzled by their £650 price tag as we had walked through the boutique; and Vivienne had the bag to match them. Her hair was combined back and knotted with a purple lily and her make-up was soft making her too unbearably pretty. She looked incredible. To look at her you would never imagine the kind of woman she really was.

The real shock for me though, was Lisa. What a change they had made!

Her hair was cut into an ultra-modern bob with a chaotic, shaped, side-fringe hanging down at one side; it shimmered with random high-lights. She wore a tight, sculpted, but immaculately cut, black suit with a micro-mini skirt. The lapels, a thick band of cream silk, matched a line which ran round her upper thighs, at her hem. Her toned legs emerged in white stockings and, already lengthened by the tiny skirt, ran all the way down to a pair of incredibly ‘designer’, black leather, t-bar shoes that lifted her a full four inches on needle-like stilettos of dark mahogany. Platinum hoop earrings and a tiny bag around her shoulder finished the outfit. I looked at her. Her shoes alone were worth twenty times what I was dressed in. I had expected her to be a ‘slut’ by now.

I got out and shut the door.

‘Now Anita, you’re going to be having a lovely afternoon with us. So give Lisa your car keys. I assume you brought some other shoes to drive in?’ Vivienne said

‘Yes, Mistress, I did’

‘What a good girl you are. Today I think ‘Miss’ or ‘Miss Black’ will be fine, okay sweetie’, she smiled at me.

I didn’t quite know how to react.

‘Thank you, Miss Black’, I said and smiled at her.

‘You’re welcome sweetie. Now show Lisa into your car and then come along’

Trisha snapped her fingers at Lisa, who hurriedly teetered over to my car. Lisa looked terrified, and as soon as her back was to the other two I could see tears forming in her eyes. Vivienne and Trisha became occupied with each other, chatting and looking the other way.

‘What’s the matter honey?’ I asked, as soothingly as I could.

Lisa looked at me. She stepped past me and opened the door. She sat down in the drivers seat and as she set about unbuckling her shoes;

‘They punished me’

She spat the words out in a tight sob, her brow furrowed and trembling as she looked up at me. I could see that it must have been bad, she looked like she was only just managing to hold it together; to not collapse against the steering wheel in tears. ‘When I get home…….I……will be punished again…..’ she looked up at me, half blankly, half in terror, ‘Anita, it’s so horrible! Please beg them not to, please say that you will, please, you have to help me’, she was grasping my hand, pleading, as if I could help her, the tears now ready to drip from her eyes.

‘Of course I will!’ I clasped her hand, ‘Oh Lisa, I’ll be back for you later okay’

She sniffed. I looked up, Trisha was looking at us.

‘I have to go now’, I wished I could have stayed and comforted her but I knew that it would not do to keep BOTH my Mistresses waiting. I walked back over to them, accentuating my hippy wiggle; I wanted them to see my obedience, that I was being a good ’slut’.

‘You see. Now MY little slut is much better behaved, aren’t you Anita’, Vivienne seemed extremely happy.

She pulled out her mobile phone and showed it to Trisha. She smiled.

‘See how well she did this morning’

Trisha looked over to the car as the engine started and scoffed at its wretched driver.

‘Enthusiastic little cock sucker aren’t you?’ Vivienne giggled, turning the phone my way. She beckoned me over to look at the screen. I saw myself naked, sweating and sucking off the dildo in my front room. I gasped to myself as I realised that she would always be able to have her eye on me. Whenever I was in my home she would be able to see me and what’s more, I would never know when she was watching.

‘The machine stats are very encouraging too’, said Vivienne matter-of-factly. Clearly, she also had access to all the information from the computer. Trisha gave her a wry smile.

It was like they were discussing a horse in training, rather than me; like I was an animal; or a project. As well as that, for some reason, Vivienne seemed to be rubbing Trisha’s nose in my ‘good’ performance. It was like there was some sort of friendly rivalry between them over Lisa and me and Vivienne was my advocate. All I could do was stand there nervously, trying to avoid unnecessary eye contact, shifting uncomfortably in my high-heels.

‘Off we go then’, said Vivienne. She beckoned me over to her and then took me by the arm. Trisha walked on the other side of me and took my other arm. It was deeply unsettling as we strolled together like three close girlfriends towards the building.

I must have been as tense as a board as we walked, our heels clattering together in random polyrhythms against the tarmac. Vivienne confided in me, close to my ear

‘We’ve got the whole afternoon for shopping now. You will let your tensions go so you can be relaxed, open and honest’

She stopped and stroked my cheek gently.

‘There now’, she soothed. I relaxed a little and swallowed. I looked into her eyes. Her face was soft and comforting, like it had been when I first me her, but her eyes, I could only look at them for a moment before I was overwhelmed with her power. I felt her primal, basal, cruelty as I felt her gazing deeply into my soul. I felt faint. I tried to speak.

‘Ssshhhh, Anita’, she soothed.

I started to feel different; more relaxed yet more vulnerable at the same time. Vivienne smiled at Trisha and we started walking again. As they led me around to the front of the building, I felt clear headed and completely ‘in the moment’.

We were on one side of a large outdoor market; it brimmed with activity. The large building was obviously some kind of ultra-low budget clothes outlet, one of a number of such stores around the market’s perimeter. True to form, the windows were plastered with large signs with ‘massive discounts’ or ‘75% off’ primitively daubed in thick marker. There was a steady but scanty trickle of customers milling around, apparently the bargains were not as enticing as the adverts would have had us believe.

I was led inside and immediately seated at a table. There was a small tea stall set up to one side. Trisha went over, returned with three steaming polystyrene cups, and soon was huddled next to me, with Vivienne sat across the table smiling at me.

‘Now. We’re going to work on some ideas for your new look, darling. I think that you want to be a cooperative,  good girl with this, don’t you?’

‘Yes I do Miss Black, very much’

‘Good’, she smiled,’ because your friend had other ideas and I think she’s already regretted her decision. You see, she decided to try and keep things from us, she was trying to hold back and not be honest with us, we could just tell’

With that last remark, she exchanged a wicked smile with Trisha.

‘Enough about her though, let’s talk about you sweetie as it’s you we’re shopping for. Now we have to be focused here. Do you remember the Spice Girls?’

I looked at her, dumfounded, completely wrong-footed by her question. I nodded a cautious ‘Yes’.

‘Good. Now they had something for everyone right? Blonde, red-head, black girl, all that crap yeah?’

I nodded again having no idea where this was going.

‘Well we want you to become one of our ‘Spice Girls’ as it were. We’ve done our market research pretty thoroughly and we’ve identified a hole to fill. We know what role we want you to take, think of it as like a vacancy, and it’s a part that you are going to grow into. I choose my girls very carefully, the advert you replied to was designed to attract a certain type of girl’

With that she reached over and stroked me again, this time, it seemed, with some genuine affection

‘We knew you could look the part, the first time you walked into my office. But it was only when I probed you a little that I realised what potential you really had. You’re a very bright girl Anita………….and an incredible prude’

I blushed.

‘I need girls that not only fit the programme looks-wise but who can learn well and have an eye for detail….And you my dear fill the bill perfectly. Now I’ve just ‘disinhibited’ you a little, you will have little choice but to be honest with us, all afternoon. We’re going to make you tell us some of your deep, dark secrets!’

She clasped her hands together, half in mock excitement, but only half.

‘Now I want you to think, and tell us how you think we should have you look. I want your ideas for a nice, trashy look. You’re going to be the ‘filthy red-head’, our cheap-looking, hot, hussy’

She leaned over right into my face

‘The real fucking dirty bitch of the pack. The guys won’t be able to get enough of you’

Oh my God! This was going to be so bad. I swallowed and felt my head swim a little.

‘So tell me how you’re going to accomplish this look for me. I want something special or there will be……consequences’

With that she sat back, took a sip of her tea, smiled and stared at me expectantly. The last word, coming from Vivienne, was something that I very much wanted to avoid.

I knew that whatever Lisa had done, she had tried to lie, or at the very least, she had omitted something important. I knew I had to start talking and I knew I needed to come up with something convincing. I also knew that I would probably have no choice anyway and that Vivienne possibly already knew what I would say or very probably some part of it

‘To hell with it’, I thought, I would have to be honest with them, otherwise they would see straight through me. I blushed and then tried my best. I opened myself up to them.

‘Well, I think Miss Sanders ideas for my hair and make-up are a great start’, I began nervously,’ when I saw myself in the mirror, I felt like a really trashy bimbo. My lips especially, they make me feel like a porn girl’

They were both silent.

‘My white shoes make me feel really trashy too’, I began again,’ I’ve….kind of always though of white stilettos a being really……well……very cheap and nasty. I’ve never worn them before and to me they’re very………..humiliating’

‘Yes’, said Trisha, ‘that’s why I chose those for you. We want some of YOUR ideas now Anita, not ours’

I looked down, embarrassed but I felt that as the thoughts entered my mind, I should be sharing them.

‘Actually white stilettos are about as trashy as it comes for me. I mean they are, aren’t they?’ I asked looking up, ‘They just look so cheap, I mean even really slaggy girls stopped wearing them years ago. When I wore them to the clinic I felt so embarrassed. When I stood in front of that surgeon’

I knew not to hold back but blushed even more,

‘That gorgeous surgeon, I felt like such a tasteless, cheap slut. I was just dying’

‘Good girl!’ said Vivienne encouragingly, ‘keep it up! Carry on…….shoes are very important for a slut’

‘I guess any cheap shoes with high heels really’

They both looked at me. I turned red again.

‘Well, I mean, a pair of thigh boots is pretty trashy isn’t it, you know, like Julia Roberts wore in Pretty Woman. I mean, how about her whole outfit’

I blushed again that I had made such a suggestion. What if they made me wear that outfit?

Vivienne giggled

‘Oh Anita, you’re so funny! Trust you to like that film, I mean “Hey it’s really fun to be a prostitute right?”‘ she said laughing, ‘what a crock of shit that was! You’re right though about the outfit, very whorish….but far too generic. Girls wear that to fancy dress parties. I want something that’s YOU, some outfits or ideas that would particularly affect you, particularly…….humiliate you’

She ran her hand through my hair

‘You are going to learn humility, and learn it well. Every girl has something that does it for them. I have a girl who had a thing about facial piercings; she also was terribly affected by something so simple as wearing a dog collar. See, it’s the little things that matter here. Now she’s my little punk slut by the way, and she works hard to keep improving on her image. I want to know all the little things, all the important details for YOU. The devil’s in them. I want to know what makes you squirm sweetie. All my girls have something. The white stilettos were a good start, so carry on’

I paused for a second. Some images flashed into my mind. I closed my eyes in despair. It was just so perfectly cringe worthy that Vivienne was forcing me to be the lead conspirator in my own betrayal.

‘A really short dress to let people see my legs in my white stilettos, I’ve only had to wear them with trousers so far. I’m very uncomfortable letting people see my legs bare, so a short, tight mini-skirt would really…..work well’

I was looking at the table now; I was making myself very small indeed. Vivienne took my hand and held it.

‘Tell me more about the dress sweetie’

Although I was staring to get a little wet in the eyes, my voice was unquivering

‘Well I was thinking of something pink or purple because that would really offset the white shoes. It should probably lycra; cheap looking and tight on me………The ones that have a high neck but a hole to show some cleavage through, do you know what I mean?’

I couldn’t believe what I was telling them. This was my absolute worst nightmare of an outfit.

‘Yes dear’, said Trisha,’ that would be a great choice while your breasts are still discoloured too. Clever girl! What else?’

I blushed deeply again,

‘Well……a dress with an open side, with straps going across but so that you can see a lot of skin between. There was a black dress I saw once that had these gold fastenings on the side of it, I can’t remember where I saw it but it was really, really tarty; I’d just die if I went out in that. And……….I’m SO embarrassed at the thought of anyone seeing my breasts…….so……any tops or dresses where I show cleavage. I’m so embarrassed about my new breasts. I…….I…hate them so much’

I paused again, this time because of the swelling in my throat.

‘You’re making me very pleased Anita’, said Vivienne,’ we had to send your little friend to sit in the toilet and be punished you know, because she didn’t just let it all come out, but you’re my good girl, such a good girl!’

She returned to staring at me, clutching my hand. I felt like the school bullies were being nice to me because they wanted something from me, or because they were setting me up for something much worse.

‘A tight leather skirt, a really short one’, I said, ‘ a white one would be the worst, but a red one would be bad too and I suppose pink or purple with white stilettos would work well too’

I was getting into the swing of betraying myself and the ideas unfortunately stated to come thick and fast.

‘A matching leather jacket too, and under that maybe a see-through top. Come to think of it, red heels are a good idea too. In fact, the thigh boots should be white or red even, that would make them more ‘me’, more individual, rather than what Julia Roberts wore. And I’ll tell you what else, a pair of ankle boots that are lace-ups but with a high stiletto heel. Oh and wearing dark tights with white shoes, or any tights with patterns on. Maybe we could find some on-line that had special patterns on? Like maybe crude images or something’

I looked up. Vivienne looked gob smacked, she was absolutely delighted. I was thankful that she was happy but she needed to know it all. I knew I had to tell her what I really hated.

‘What I really think would work though, is lots of gold, or better, fake gold’

‘Oh yes!’ said Trisha, ‘ you really are doing well Anita’

I never, ever thought that I would say this, ‘My friend Melanie wears these gold earrings; they’re just what I mean’

Vivienne smiled at me ‘I know the ones, I’m sure we can find some nice big ones like that’

Twisting the blade in my own side , I continued,’ I could even wear more than one pair in each ear and they should be the same style but get smaller as they move away from the front pair, or maybe just a load of different clashing one, both would be kind of different kinds of ‘slutty’, maybe I should have a selection…….maybe even………three………in each ear’

Trisha cleared her throat, a little pointedly

‘Oh I think you can do better than that darling’, Vivienne purred, there was a slight warning to her tone; I shouldn’t have tried to play a game; we both knew that I needed more earrings than that on one ear. I could feel Trisha gently squeezing my earlobe and running her finger up my ear. I thought about the idea of having lots of earrings, I shook and tried to push the image from my mind.

‘Of course Miss Black, I could have my ears pierced many times. Many, many times’

I looked down again in resignation. I may as well just carry on digging the hole I was making for myself.

‘Those handbags that have long gold chains to go over your shoulder? They would “work” too.’

‘Oh, this look’s really starting to come together’, Vivienne said excitedly.

‘Yes, very….co-ordinated’, Trisha sniggered.

I remembered something else, oh my God.

‘I could get a gold necklace with my name on as well. “Anita”, written cursively’

Vivienne looked a little puzzled.

‘Well, as well as looking totally, totally awful and tasteless…….I would feel objectified……….labelled. I don’t know why, but I even hate to wear a name badge at work……..I hate to be labelled…….I despise those necklaces……………And if I was ‘with a stranger’ they would know who I was’

I turned a deep purple at my own afterthought.

‘Oh I LOVE it!!’ Vivienne grinned and clapped her hands together,’ I love that you want to be that kind of girl; that fucks before giving her name, I love the name idea. I tell you what, that can be my special present to you today. I’ll buy you that necklace!’

‘We were thinking of changing your name though’, Trisha interjected

‘Yes, to something a bit more whorish’, said Vivienne,’ you know, like Candy or Traci or something but with a bit more imagination. We haven’t found the right one yet though. Have you any ideas?

I thought for a minute.

‘Well, Miss, I could…….er…….keep my own name. There are plays on it that I could make, you see, like “Anita man to fuck me” or “An…i-ta of cocks”‘

They both laughed together.

Vivienne reached over and kissed my face affectionately.

‘You’re a special one you know? ‘Anita’ it will stay, I suppose it does suit you anyway, especially with those lips, you’re right; they are so made for cocks right now. Any more ideas honey?’

‘Well, one last thing. I saw a girl with a ring pierced through her fingernail; I thought that looked pretty tarty too. Then I suppose there are body piercings’

Vivienne held her finger up to her lip.

‘Not now darling. You’ve come up with plenty without piercings or tattoos or anything like that. We’ve got enough ideas to get you stopping traffic by the end of the day. And if you carry on being this good, then I think we may be able to arrange a little treat for you’

I heard her drain the dregs from her teacup, I had hardly touched mine. I tried my best to smile at her.

‘Right, let’s shop!’

PART 16

‘Let’s have a look then, stand up straight.’

I pulled the hem-line down and stood up as straight as I could. I was wearing a tight, pink and white, tie-dye patterned dress. Its short skirt stretched round my ass but very little more. It ran up to a thick band around my throat which joined two larger bands, one on either side, running up from the sides of my waist, outside and around each of my breasts. It zipped at the back which pulled it tightly around me. The effect of the straps at the sides of my breasts was to pull them together and upwards, creating a huge cleavage. My mauled, battered orbs bulged out from it and the compression was nauseatingly painful, it was still less than a week since my implants had been installed.

‘I preferred the size down you know, she really spilled out of that one’

That one had been ridiculously tight everywhere, I thought that it might tear when we fastened it and that was without me moving in it. My breasts had screamed with dull agony in it.

‘Yes, but she can ‘grow into’ this one. And this one actually fits her round the ass’

They both giggled.

It was like they were little girls playing at dressing their dollies like whores; only I was the doll. I was hating every single second of this shopping trip as I was coldly and precisely worked down the shopping list that I had made for myself. In the process, they were going out of their way to demean and shame me as much as they possibly could. I had to keep counting to ten and telling myself to behave. They were making my whole whore idea come true; it felt like I was having a living nightmare.

‘That’s definitely a keeper, now try this one’

As I unzipped my cheap Lycra number, Trisha handed me another dress, this time a shocking pink-purple colour.

As I held it up, I despaired. Trisha grinned and gestured enthusiastically that I put it on.

This one just slipped over my head and pulled down. There was a wide halter-neck band, which was elasticated at the back, but there was no zip. The dress stretched around me, it had dozens of centimetre wide, fibrous, elastic bands spaced out along each side, up its entire length. The effect was of a dress that had a front half and a back half connected by numerous strips of pink elastic. I was essentially exposed for three inches up each side. As I pulled it down so that the miserly hem rested at the very tops of my legs and my breasts billowed out of the cups, they both giggled again. The loud pink material at the front and back was ruched. It formed a line running up my midline with the fabric folded to create a slight U shape; bowing gently downwards on either side. At the back I could see that this accentuated my ass cheeks, while at the front it served to exaggerate my breasts. The elastic on each side and around my neck ensured that the material was skin tight. With my face and hair the way they were, there was only one possible interpretation of the look.

‘How do you like this one darling?’ Vivienne asked.

I looked at myself in the mirror and did a little twirl on my sandals. I wanted to cry.

‘It makes me look like a prostitute Mistress’, I said sullenly, my head hanging, ‘I really hate this one.’

‘Ooooo, a potential favourite there then’, Vivienne cooed, immediately sensing my true feelings.

She threw it on the same pile as the previous dress and we continued.

We had started, earlier, by walking around the shop, specifically looking for things that met the descriptions that I had given during my debriefing. These had now become our ‘objectives’ but we were open-minded too. I had to tell them if there was anything that made me feel strongly; in fact it was me that had picked out every single dress that we were now trialling, including the pink monstrosity I had just removed. The frustration in being the architect of my own ignominy was enormous.

I had to stop myself stamping my feet in a desperate temper tantrum as we continued with a crass, cheap looking, black velvet number that had gold fastenings on the side. This one had only one shoulder strap and also exposed my sides in the way I found so awful; but whereas the pink dress had had many elastic bands, this dress had no elastic, it zipped at the back and had only six gold bands fastening it on either side. The effect was to create much longer, wider ellipses of flesh running up each side. The tacky gold look of the fastenings; the give-away loose threads betraying its sweat-shop assembly; and the fact that it was so horrible that no woman in her right mind would wear such a thing, all justified its £3 clearance price tag.

‘Now that’s a real party number don’t you think?’

The trailer-trash in the mirror meekly nodded her head; her lower lip hanging sullenly.

‘Touch up your lipstick, slut’, Trisha hissed.

As I went to the counter I had eight dresses, a selection of miniskirts and a number of tops, all of them dire. Trisha had picked out some jackets for me as well, two blue, one in tight stonewashed denim, the other in close fitting, dark blue leather. I also had short, tight, faux leather jackets; one in white, one in pink; with buttons that fastened around the collars. To enable me to break the fashion ‘no-no’ of combining matching leather, we had picked out the two corresponding tight leather miniskirts

The attendant looked up, made some pithy remark about me being their ‘shopper of the year’, and gave me the bill. I met this with a brooding glare. Given that I had bought half the store, it actually really was a bargain; although we must have taken all their least desirable stock off them. In spite of the ‘bargain’ it was obvious, as Trisha and Vivienne strolled out of the shop, that I would be paying for ‘my new wardrobe’.

After storing the numerous bags in Vivienne’s car, we moved on. As we walked through the array of pet stores, food shops and cheap household stalls in the market, I worried about where we would be going next.

‘Now I’m sure it’s somewhere…….Ah, yes’, said Trisha and we all made a bee-line after her. On the edge of the market place, in one of the buildings, there was a ‘jewellery’ store. This was about as low-end as it was possible to get. It struck me immediately that in such an insecure shop most of the ‘gold’ wasn’t even locked in cabinets. There were a few items on the back wall intermingled with large signs boasting ‘24 carat’ or the bluff, ‘real gold’. I had to close my eyes in despair; I knew it was a matter of time before I would be wearing something from here.

Vivienne was right about every girl having her own specific buttons and I cold feel the fingers hovering over mine. As I tottered past a mirror and caught another glimpse of my Barbie-doll face, freshly glossed lips and my glamour-girl hair, my humiliation peaked further.

‘Oh, now this is just perfect for you isn’t it Anita’, Trisha said looking around, beaming. She lifted up a large pair of hideous triangular, gold-looking earrings.

‘Please no’, I whispered to her. I knew it was futile but some increasingly small part of me still tried to object.

She scowled and put her mouth close to my ear

‘I don’t like your attitude young lady. Not one bit. And your Mistress has been so good to you as well’, she snarled. She stood up straight and composed herself. She thought for a second, then the corners of her mouth curled upwards and her eyes narrowed.

‘Just for that, you will go over of your own accord, and get your ears pierced. I’m thinking of a number, and if I don’t see at least that many studs in each ear, then you will really be in for it. I mean that, I’m not fucking around girl, what you’ve had up until now will seem like a fairy story. You can decide how many earrings you will wear from now on but you better get it right’

‘NO!’ my mind screamed, ‘don’t make me do that!’

I shivered and looked up at her. I was small, miserable and too vainly sorry too late. My eyes pleaded with her to relent, but also to not tell my Mistress.

Vivienne had wandered to another part of the store, missing our exchange. She held up a different pair of vile earrings, large and horseshoe shaped.

‘Oh, now aren’t these just darling!’ she said, sickly sweet.

Trisha looked at me.

‘Do it now and then pick all the right earrings. If I’m happy with you, this can stay our little secret. If not, then you’ll be joining that other little cunt in a punishment slot tonight and I’ll double it for both of you. Now do it, or I’ll tell Mistress’

‘Thank you Mistress!’ I had gushed; I can remember an irrational relief, almost an elation from the slight mercy of her not telling Vivienne. I really didn’t want to displease Vivienne while she was so happy, I sensed that it would be especially bad.

I approached the sales woman with a torrent of clashing emotions. She was in her mid-fifties, her sun-wrinkled, smoke-haggard skin was made up with the subtlety of a drag queen or a pantomime dame. I noticed that she had three rings in each of her ears, the front hoop had another thick, heart shaped loop dangling from it; they were perhaps the worst earrings I had ever seen. My new fate hit me and I balked. Could things get any worse today?

I hesitated in front of her, trying to not burst into tears. What to say? Not getting enough piercings was just not an option; but the real torture came from knowing that I could actually ask for too many. Given my particular revulsion to this, I could be making an evil rod for my own back; I didn’t want any more rings in my ears than were absolutely necessary.

After a second’s further thought, the petrified look on Lisa’s face at the front of my mind, I said

‘I’d to get my ears pierced please’

PART 17

‘So these are the only ranges that they make that come in that many different sizes. We stock these two here, see’

A long pink nail from her wrinkly finger pointed at two of the designs on the page. The woman behind the counter, or ‘Brenda’ as she had introduced herself, was very helpful. I looked in the catalogue, there were at least eight ranges to choose from, all of them unspeakably bad. Vivienne stood quietly next to me, nodding at the right times to encourage Brenda but otherwise trying to stay in the background. She was loving every second of my ordeal. I supposed that all of her ‘girls’ probably had their ‘humiliations’ plumbed and probed as deeply and as excruciatingly as mine were being. Whatever a girl’s quirky embarrassments, I had no doubt that Vivienne would hunt them out. Trisha, on the other hand, was less interested and had walked out some time ago, so that we weren’t crowded in the shop.

I had had a master-class in ‘bargain’ gold jewellery, from Brenda. It turned out that the earrings that I so despised that were oval in shape and fastened with a hinged bar, were called ‘Creole’ earrings; and she could rightly boast that she had them in spades.

The shop had been pretty busy, but her daughter had materialised from the back room and was more than capable of handling the background trade. The teenage girl really was a ‘chip off the old block’. As well as sharing her mother’s excellent customer service skills, she shared her endorsement of the company products. I recognised the style that Brenda had just been showing me. Obviously this was the result of two women, alone and bored in an ear piercing shop, her ears swung with obscene gold

Brenda had taken into the back room and pierced me. She had sat me down in a worn but comfortable leather armchair with a head rest and had encouraged me to relax my head back. From the corner of my eye I saw her pick the piercing gun from the wall and set it down somewhere behind me. I had started to sweat. As I felt her finger softly examining my ear, the curtain parted.

‘Erm…….excuse me……..Brenda, Anita…..erm. I’m thinking of getting my ears pierced some more, but I’m a little scared, do you mind if I watch? I promise not to faint and I really think it would help me get over it?

Brenda welcomed in the meek Vivienne and caringly sat her down to one side. She sat down and immediately reverted to her elegant, powerful self as she reclined and crossed her legs, ready for the show. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it

Brenda was an expert at this kind of multiple piercing. She knew to mark my ears before using the gun and she spent a lot of time looking at me from the front, making sure everything was symmetrical and evenly spaced. Then she dotted me with her pen. When she was finished she sat down on her stool to my left. Vivienne was beaming at me. Tears started to form in my eyes. I tried to remember when I had had my ears pierced originally, and if it had hurt; I couldn’t think.

‘Ok honey, now you stay lovely and still now. No sudden movements and we’ll get you done. You’re going to be gorgeous!’

With her fingers holding my ear, I felt something cold clasp around it; then I heard the piston spit out its loud, sudden hiss. I was crying softly with humiliation as the sharp pain hit my brain. As the second wave of sensation hit me, I felt an unpleasant, dull aching from just behind where I normally wore my earring. I felt the gun again, a little further up and then another hiss. I sobbed out loud, my eyes screwed together. Vivienne took control immediately. She held my hand,

‘There, there’, she said, ‘it’ll soon be over darling. I know it’s not very nice, but just think about how you’ll look when it’s finished, hey?’

I continued to cry like a baby.

She nodded at Brenda that she should just keep going; and while I wept and sobbed, she worked her way up my ear. The studs higher up were the worst, they really smarted and made me suck my breath in, in between sobs. I could stand the pain though, it was not that that was upsetting me; it was how I would look from now on.

‘You’re doing really well honey’, Brenda said as she moved her stool over to the other side. My left ear was throbbing intensely. I sat there sniffing.

She then repeated my humiliation so that both sides matched. By the time she put the gun aside and her sympathetic face appeared in front of me with a box of tissues, both my ears were burning.

‘It’s all done now Honey’, she smiled,’ come on, let’s have a look, that’ll cheer you up’

She grabbed my arm to get me to stand so I could look in the mirror. Before I could see myself, Vivienne stood in front of me and smiled.

‘Well done, sweetie’, she said but I could see that she didn’t completely mean that. Was she displeased that I had cried?

She reached up to my ear, I half managed to check my automatic reflex to withdraw and then I felt a series of sharp pains as she ran her finger along my row of new studs. She had a childlike look of fascination about her. She led me to the mirror, next to Brenda, who was waiting expectantly. I looked at myself, turning my head from one side to the next, I had six new studs equally spaced up each ear above my original holes. I looked like a tramp and I started to cry.

‘Oh it’s all a bit much isn’t it’, said Brenda kindly, she left us behind and went out to the front of the shop.

‘Oh it’s wonderfully humiliating isn’t it, slave?’ asked my Mistress

‘Yes Mistress’ I looked down at my toes, peeping out of the front of their white straps.

‘Keep a hold of that feeling, but I want you to stop crying now, we’ve still got things to do’

I nodded and wiped my eyes. The tissue was smudged with a smear of different colours from my eye make-up. I looked in the mirror and saw that my mascara was running. Vivienne quickly wiped away the worst of it and cleaned me up.

After a minute, with her guiding hand at my reins, I went back through and bought several ’sets’ of earrings. I bought a simple set of six pairs of inch diameter gold hoops that all matched; I could wear a single pair of different rings at the front of these.

With that in mind, I had to ask Brenda where the earrings she was wearing were. She showed me them delightedly, but I decided on an even worse pair from the same range that were thick creoles about three inches long. A lop-sided heart shaped disc swung from the bottom of each. They were thick, showy and crass. They were, I thought, the most tasteless things that I had ever seen and now they were mine.

After picking out a range of seven matching creoles of increasing size ( in the style that I found the most ‘interesting’ ), I ‘decided’ that it would be fun to wear the new ‘heart’ earrings in front of my new studs, so I fixed them into my original piercings and turned to face my Mistress. She motioned for me to turn my head. As I did so I could feel them swinging in my ears, I looked back.

‘Perfect’ she smiled, pleased.

Brenda let me take her catalogue with me so that I could ponder on the right selection for my mismatched chaotic array of clashing styles. They must have been able to close the shop early; I parted with almost two hundred pounds for all that I had bought. As we walked out of the shop I burned with renewed humiliation as people were immediately looking at me and at my ears.

Vivienne was still full of energy and it was off to the sex shop next, for shoes.

PART 18

It was later that same day that I sat, secreted away, in the corner of a pub. I looked down at my fingernails and wanted to curl up into a tiny ball, so small that nobody could see.

Trisha had done the nails herself, her head cocked to the side in the mock pose of an artiste.

She had removed my existing extensions and replaced them with much longer, inch-and-a-half square-ends.  She had then re-painted them in the glittery bubblegum pink that I was wearing. She then delighted in adding little designs to them. She painted over them with thick silvery white lines that, afterwards, she drew a thin, central black line down. She then finished them with a clear protective lacquer that would preserve her work for the weeks to come. I sat there, obedient and sulking, offering my hands to her the whole time.

The lines she had drawn on my nails made out squared, heavily stylised but recognisable letters. It took while to identify the symbols but the message could then be made out, if you concentrated for more than a few seconds. I had ‘SLUT’ written in capitals, facing away from me, a letter on each of my four fingers.

She held them still as they dried, protecting her work until it was solidified and safe from any accidental injury. I looked at her. I hated her for the casual way with which she had done this nasty afterthought to me.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, she took a little punch and clipped out a tiny hole from the ring and little fingernails on my left hand. Then she fitted a tiny gold ring into each. She put my hands down onto the table and admired them.

‘They’re just so……………YOU, you know’ she snorted, amused by her own joke.

‘Are these the sort of nails that you had in mind Anita?’ she asked mockingly, her head tilted to the side in parody of a beautician.

She was completely disinterested in my reply; I would be keeping them.

‘Yes, Mistress’ I said

‘Good girl, now be sure to show them off later’ she had warned me.

I sipped my drink, it struck me that this had been the first alcohol that I had tasted for well over a week. The gin and tonic was slipping down very easily; I needed something to help settle my nerves.

‘Ooh, it’s nice to be able to enjoy a drink for a change’ said the girl at my table, finishing hers and returning to the bar to order a second round. She obviously didn’t get out much.

She strutted effortlessly back to the bar. I watched her perfect fishnet-clad legs and her effortless style as she swung one foot in front of the other, stepping like a catwalk pro in her black knee-high spike-heeled boots. The half-dozen aging, alcoholic regulars at the bar were hypnotized by her movement; but I knew that she would have had that effect on a much, much younger and more discerning audience. I took up my own drink and drained it worrying again about my future.

After telling me to set my make-up right, Vivienne had waited. I had felt very uncomfortable as she had stood behind me, making sure that I did everything properly; it was twice as hard to get it right with someone following my every move. When I had myself looking like I was a hot glamour-girl ready for a porn-film shoot, she took something from her bag. As she lowered it around my throat, I saw that she had been true to her word and had bought me my ‘Anita’ necklace. I looked at her reflected eyes, in misery, as she reached around me and fastened it on; the name resting just above my collarbones. I wanted to reach up, tear it off and hurl it across the room screaming and spitting on it as I did so.

‘Well slut, what do you say?’ warned Trisha, I must have looked like I had felt.

‘Thank you very much Mistress, its……perfect’

She smiled broadly acknowledging my submission and recognising the completion of my outfit. She then left me, telling me that she expected great things from me and that she didn’t want or expect to be disappointed.

Trisha had then sat me down and fed me a simple microwave supper and a glass of water. She told me that I would need some food inside me for the night ahead. I had shuddered at this idea, I was terrified at the notion that I would actually have to be seen looking like I was.

While I was eating this, the door had opened and I had looked up. I had recognised the same blonde who had been sat in Vivienne’s reception, the night that she had sprung her trap and reeled me in. Her expensive-looking, beautifully cut, long, unnatural-blonde style was out of kilter with the worn, short black coat and scuffed, black boots that she wore. She shut the door and clicked her way over to my table.

Trisha smiled at her and then at me.

‘Anita, this is Cara; Cara, this is Anita’

We both looked at each other. I remembered her curt treatment of me when I had been at Vivienne’s office but decided that I couldn’t judge her on that alone. I smiled nervously at her. She looked me over and then smiled briefly back before sitting down quietly and looking up, expectantly, at Trisha.

‘Cara is going to teach you a few things, Anita. Go with her and listen to what she tells you’

We had taken a taxi together into town, Cara and I. I was fretting the whole way there.

Before going into the sex shop that afternoon, they had made me change, so that I could try boots on without my trousers getting in the way. In the shop, I had ‘chosen’ three new pairs to insult my feet. Vivienne had said that it was a good start but because I was so affected by slutty shoes, I would be buying myself a lot more over the coming weeks.

It was then that I discovered, to my chagrin, that the strappy white sandals that had become my staple ‘slut shoe’, in fact, had only three and a half inch heels. I’d have bet that they were at least five when Trisha had first made me wear them. It was only when the attendant brought my first choice out that I had stared in disbelief at real five inch heels. The attendant had wasted no time making sure I wore a pair of their heavily used hold-up stockings so that I didn’t soil their boots. I wondered if she treated all her customers that way or if it was because I looked so perfectly filthy in the pink dress with the elastic sides, the dark blue leather jacket, my newly fitted ear studs and the ‘fuck-me’ creoles with hearts that swung against my neck. All the same, I didn’t dare object and I quickly pulled the stockings on, feeling the dried sweat of the countless previous ‘ladies’ who had chosen to shop for their boots there. I took out my shoes, a pair of white lace-up boots that came to just above my ankles. They were shiny, white and stood on thin, towering stilettoes.

I had loosened the laces in the plastic boots and had slipped my foot into the first one. It was tight and narrow as my toes neared the bottom; they were squashed from the start. I had to push hard to slip my foot completely into the boot. When I felt my toes at the end and I could feel the unbelievably high heel under me, I must have blushed with humiliation; these were about as slutty as it could possibly get. I saw them as the most blatant advertisement, the epitome of walking, wanton, female need and a crass pledge and acknowledgement of my availability.

As Vivienne knelt and lovingly tightened the laces, I shuddered to think how I would look walking in them, without a prayer of anything to cover them up or hide them behind. As she wound the laces tightly around their fastenings and up to the top, I realised that they would not be easy to take off either. When I had put the other one on and had stood up, I immediately noticed the extra height and how much more exaggerated the heel was. With the smaller platform on which to stand, I had to concentrate just to balance in them. I could feel that the immediate discomfort that I felt from the crushing in my toes would rapidly get worse and worse. As I stepped and saw the delight on my owner’s face, I felt a crushing wave of submission sweep over me. The steps I was forced to take were short, dainty, feminine and devastatingly sexy. With the ankle boots now completing my outfit, I felt a lump rising in my throat as I teetered with a walk that was unforgivably dirty. I found myself having to place one foot a little in front of the other, with a slight swing, just to keep steady and to keep myself from careering off balance.

‘Now those legs go on for miles’ Vivienne whispered to me ‘you’ll stop traffic in those boots, let me tell you!’

I wanted to scream at her but I ignored her. I turned and saw a man at a magazine stand unashamedly staring at me, lustfully appreciating the show. A burning blush coursed up my face, this was just unbearable, I wanted to sit down, tear the boots off, run home and get all this stuff off me; and then get on a plane to somewhere far, far away. Instead, I was congratulated by my tormentors and then made to sit, while the boots were re-packed and set aside for me.

As I sat in the taxi with Cara, my permanently plucked, baby-smooth legs rose out of the same, squeaky-white ankle boots.

Forcing me to keep my legs clamped together was a tight latex skirt that I had ‘found’ at the sex shop. It was shamelessly short but the material was thick and shiny; the patent black vinyl looked as if it had been poured around my hips and set there. I had ‘chosen’ it because there was a zip at the back running upwards from the centre at the bottom, all the way up to just below the waist-band. It would tempt and goad a man and dare him to bend a girl over something and unzip her. It was totally outrageous and probably the most blatant thing that I had bought all day.

Above that I wore the tight pink leather jacket with a white long sleeved top underneath. The top had large defects over the shoulders and a large oval so my breasts could squeeze their way out and compete for attention.

It was the first time that I had worn a bra on since my breast surgery and although the wiring rubbed uncomfortably against my suture lines, the cups lifted and crushed me together. When I had put the top on and seen the hole and how much cleavage I was advertising, I had tried to pull the jacket seems together, to cover myself. Trisha had slapped my hands away with the back of hers, I had wobbled on my shoes, losing my balance, and then had stood defeated and dejected, dressed as a whore. Trisha had smiled evilly at me.

It had been a relief when Cara had had the taxi drop us right outside the pub. There had been nobody but the driver to see me as I got out and hurried to the private table tucked away in the corner.

Cara was not anything like the cold bitch that I had first thought. She was a victim, the same as I was, albeit a more experienced one. After a few carefully ambiguous questions I had established that she was both willing and able to be very frank and open with me. In an attempt to take my mind off my impending nightmare, I had asked her about herself.

She had been taken by Vivienne three years ago now. She was twenty but her perfect, soft face made her look younger. Vivienne had made her quit medical school and had trained her to work for her. I warmed to her when she joked that she didn’t normally go out looking like that. She had made the joke in a kindly, self-deprecating way that made me feel that she would never judge me, and that she understood , from experience, what was happening to me. She told me what was expected of her and, by inference, what I would have to start to learn.

For her ‘role’, she was the posh, immaculately groomed, ‘clothes-horse’ of Vivienne’s stable. She wore only the very finest designer gear; all the bleeding-edge fashions. She had the most modern, stylish hair and was treated to all the options available at Trisha’s shop, which was by far the most exclusive in the area. She was probably one of the best dressed women in town.

She started to explain that her role was to be the unavailable, out-of-their-league, ‘it’ girl who could, on this occasion, possibly, actually be theirs. It was almost the complete opposite to the ‘slut’ role, which I would be learning, but only superficially so. At the end of the day, she had said, she serviced probably more men than any of the other girls.

She closed her eyes in bliss as she tasted the first mouthful of her fresh gin and tonic. It struck me then that I would probably not be allowed to drink much more from now on. I took a deep glug from my own, I had never needed Dutch Courage this much before.

Cara had been a prodigiously bright young student. She had also been socially aware, a punk; she had always shunned the traditional idea of how a woman should behave and look. She had hated the kind of girl who was a slave to society and especially to fashion. She had never worn traditionally feminine clothes or make-up, rarely skirts and certainly, never, ever, high-heels. She thought that women that did, were the worst victims of society.

She had had a shaven head and had worn a ‘Dead Kennedys’ T-shirt and had been fresh from an animal’s rights march when she had enrolled in a deep relaxation therapy programme to help with her learning.

Vivienne had immediately tormented the young, anarchic, tomboy. Cara’s version of hell was realised when she was made-over, initially with a short blonde wig, to look like a sexy, millionaire’s trophy wife. It was years behind her now and I could see that those years had been long ones but in spite of the time, the affront to her soul was still obvious. She sipped her drink again to try and move on from such painful thoughts. She sat forward and announced that we had come out for a reason and that we should get down to business now. I hoped that I had not upset her by raking up her past.

I then listened to her with horror and fascination as she laid out the fundamental rules that I would have to play by.

We were going to go across to another bar. This one would be packed full and would be the venue for my ‘debut’. I was going to start meeting and greeting men. My legs trembled as she spelt it all out. She would help me with a few chat up lines but said that it would be very simple; I would be direct and I would be with a man outside, in the back alley, before the night was through.

I started to shiver and I could feel myself starting to cry.

‘No, Anita, no’ she took me by the chin ‘no more crying from you, you must do this and you will do this. You have to pull yourself together. I know it’s not nice, I was there too, don’t forget, I know exactly how easy it is, but you HAVE to do this, you hear me?’

‘I……..I don’t think I can, I mean I don’t think I could actually do that’

‘Well you’re going to, and you’ll see. It’s actually easy. You really don’t know how easy it is. That’s the whole point of tonight’s exercise; it’s an introduction for you. Its a chance for you to go out as the new you and see the effect you have’

I sobbed inwardly as she equated the person I looked like with the person I knew I was and the person that I would have to be.

She told me that I would have to meet men’s advances with encouragement. A grab on the ass should be met with a ‘don’t do that unless you mean it’ type remark. I would confide, very early, that I was not wearing underwear and was in terrible need of a really good fuck. Either that or I would tell them of my unswerving desire to give them a blowjob; the choice was mine, tonight.

I reverted to shaking my head and trying to explain that I couldn’t do that. In truth, I knew that I had no choice though. In desperation I suggested that I rang up Vivienne, maybe she could take away my anxiety and make me relax again, like she had done earlier. Cara had said that if I did, and that was my choice to make, she would certainly help to motivate me but that I was in no position to state my terms to my own Mistress. She told me that Mistress had paralysed the last girl on her first night out because she had fucked it up. She had spent the night, frozen, completely unable to move, packed into a tight coffin. Every hour a buzzer had sounded for five minutes and she had been punished. Cara said that she was never the same again and on her second chance she had performed perfectly.

I was stunned. This option had seemed brutal, although when I considered Vivienne, my terrible Mistress, it had seemed less surprising. I swallowed anxiously. Could I go ahead with this, was I actually capable of approaching a man and saying those things?

I decided, then and there, that I would have to be, or I would be doing it in a few nights time, after a punishment that would surely reduce me to madness.

Cara went on. She said that the man’s needs should always be paramount; that they came first, always. For example, if I were to come during sex, then I was not to lose the slightest stroke of my work on his cock. Neither should I use either of my hands to arouse myself unless it was as a show to arouse him. They should otherwise, always be on him, for his pleasure.

She told me that, as well, we should always act like we were having the best sex of our lives, with the best possible lover. We should be very appreciative, always thanking them afterwards, but also we should be admiring, almost awestruck, and let them know how incredibly, irresistibly good they were. Every man should feel like he has just had the fuck of the century. Cara said that this was what made a man come back for more and was critically important for business. She said that because we, as a group, were so well trained and well kept, and because we had such a good business approach, we were well beyond competition from crack-whores and traditional, money-sluts. She laughed and said that she should probably stop lecturing me in whore-philosophy now.

As we neared the bottom of our glasses and my heart was beating faster and faster, she told me that the best thing I could do from now on was to try and enjoy myself in any way that I could. I should find some artistry in what I was doing; enjoy a hard, passionate fuck; get off on the feminine power I could wield or whatever else I could find in my new life.

Like a little girl on her first day before school, I had sat, hanging on her words. She was honest and was trying to help me in the only possible way that she could. My stressed mind returned to the idea of ringing Vivienne for a possible escape. No. She would just hurt me, terribly, over the phone. She would remind me of the consequences of not going through with it. No, she would not give me the help that I so badly needed and I knew better than to bother my ‘Mistress’ with my dilemma, terrible though it was.

‘Now, to make this work, you need to ooze confidence, especially dressed like that, or you’ll send out confusing signals. Mistress trained you to smile already, so we’ll do that tonight and apart from that, you just need to stand up straight and I don’t want to see you lowering your eyes, okay?’

I was silent

‘Anita, I have trainer privileges on you and I have my own orders and my own consequences………I will punish you if you don’t do this properly’

My eyes widened woefully, begging, but at the same time, I knew that it was not in her power to grant me mercy.

I nodded obediently. I would do everything that she had told me. She held my hand.

‘One man; however you want him. That’s it for tonight, Anita. Ok. It’s really not as bad as it could be…………………………………………So, tell me………………what kind of guy turns you on?’

I was momentarily speechless, the whole night was surreal.

‘Er…..well…..tall, handsome, kind, gentle’ I was just making it up now.

‘Come on Anita, now’s the time to be honest about the type of guy that does it for you, I mean you’ll eventually have to do them all, but tonight you are the one with the choice and you won’t often have that luxury, believe me. Have you never fantasised about anything more…….well, horny?’

I blushed deeply.

‘Well, look, I’m not your Mistress and I’m not going to make you do anything beyond what you already have to do; but from one girl to another, go with a guy that makes you feel horny, it’ll go better for you if you do. Now go to the Ladies and lube your pussy up with this, it’ll make it a lot easier for you’

I tucked the tube into my handbag. I looked at her and then at the table. Bless her. She was really trying to help me in the only way available to her. It was just too much for me. I gripped my hands to stop the tears forming.

‘Cara, thank you’ I said as she stood up and pulled me to my feet.

PART 19

A wave of heat hit me as I stepped into the bar. In my head, my teeth were grinding together; in reality I smiled as sweetly and prettily as Vivienne had taught me to. Feeling Cara behind me, I stood tall and held my head high. I faced forward and, on my impossible heels, stepped into the bar.

It was packed to standing room, almost exclusively with men.

My God, they were all turning to check me out!

I could feel my cheeks burning with shame. I was actually glad of the thick foundation on my face; perhaps it would help to hide my obvious degradation as my deep blush radiated my humiliation to the whole room.

I could feel the latex, tightly snagging around the tops of my legs; cold and chilled from our brief walk in the frozen street. Trying to pretend that I was somewhere else, I strutted towards the bar.

The music was loud but I could make out mumblings, directed towards us. Then there was an explicit, incredulous;

‘Fuck me, look at her!!’

The only way I could stop myself from screaming was to concentrate on something simple. I was intent on just one thing, getting to the bar. Cara was with me, I thanked God as I reached backwards and I felt her take my hand. I stood at the bar, facing it and leaning on it. I ignored the guy on the stool next to me. His eyes had almost popped out of his head as he looked down at my legs and boots. Cara leant over the bar next to me.

‘Good choice Anita, show them that ass, those legs and that naughty skirt’

I spun my head in anger at her.

‘I’m not fucking with you, honest. Keep calm…….okay, calm……good. Lust is power ok, the more a guy wants you, the more control you have; plain and simple. Now you just keep smiling Anita, you’re doing so well, so well honey, I’m so proud of you’

She looked so sincere. I could see that she understood exactly what I was going through. I forgave her and struggled to get the smile back onto my face. This was just awful.

‘Now if you want to take control here, you need to check out the room, and quickly, otherwise someone will hit on you…………and we’re not allowed to turn a guy down, Anita’

Oh my God! NOW she had decided to tell me that rule! I was now even less in control than I had thought I was. Could it get any worse?

I turned a little and started to try and catch the room. There must have been twenty pairs of eyes on my ass alone. I wanted to curl up and die.

I had never been the focus of so much male attention before. To find myself that way, dressed the way I was, was just unreal. I remembered my hair and make-up. I remembered what I was wearing, the top, the skirt, the boots and the earrings, even the little name-necklace and my nails. I closed my eyes in the most abject and complete humiliation; this is how the spotlight had caught me. I had to hand it to Vivienne; she had done me over so perfectly.

I kept the pretty, confident smile on my face as I composed myself and quickly scanned my way around the room. I couldn’t believe I was seriously considering who I would try and fuck.

‘Pretend you’re Julia Roberts’ I told myself ‘pretend you’re her and you’ve got all that confidence; so that you can deal with all of this. Pretend you’re a Pro, pretend you’re her in ‘Pretty Woman’, and pretend you’re experienced, savvy and can handle men’

It was like a mantra. I repeated it to myself and as my gaze swept round, my eye lingered for a split second. I couldn’t believe it, it was the guy from the road-works outside my flat. He caught me and I saw him nodding slowly, appreciatively at me. I looked away in shame but then to my astonishment, I looked back at him and smiled.

Had there been a command from Vivienne or Cara, or had I done that myself? I had no idea but I quickly turned back to the bar and tapped Cara. I told her that I’d seen this guy and that he’d whistled at me earlier. She cut straight to it and asked me if I though he was ‘hot’. I looked away in frustration. I felt the hearts rocking in my ears, my breasts pushing up through the huge oval defect in my top and my crushed, bent toes from my high-heels as I confessed to her that, yes, God damn it! I was attracted to him and in the worst possible way.

‘Well that’s perfect for you Anita’ she had said enthusiastically. She grinned, and for the first time, she looked like the teenager she really was. She composed herself again and then whispered,

‘Now, really sexy banter okay? Tell him you’ve got no panties on; how hot you are; how sexy he is and how much you need him. Ask him if he wants to try your zipper or tell him that you want to drink him dry. Say something blunt and direct like that, nothing complex, keep it simple’

She handed me another drink. I don’t know what it was. I took a suck up the straw. Whatever it was, it was strong. I took another deep slurp.

‘Put this in your bag, it’s on’

She opened my bag and put in a mobile phone; then she shut it inside the bag.

‘Your Mistress likes to hear her girls sometimes, to make sure they are behaving properly. Make sure you make plenty of noise and make sure that he does too, otherwise she will teach you to do it properly and you will suffer.

Believe me Anita, its best this way; there really is only one way here. Now, think sexy thoughts and remember that you can have any man in here; you just have to be ballsy. You look gorgeous. Smile. Now!’

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and looked up and……..there he was.

My heart was pounding. It was a miracle but I managed to get back to my smile.

‘Can….I buy you a drink?’ he stuttered.

It hadn’t crossed my mind that he might actually be nervous approaching me. It calmed me down a little. I saw his eyes steal a glance down at my chest and then back at my face, I could see how affected he was by me; that I had made him feel his powerful, basal urges. He had obviously bought into my slut gimmick; fully. Such a cheap trick had made me almost powerful; I was turning him on and almost had him under a spell. As I remembered the humiliating details of my appearance, I was amazed that he wasn’t ridiculing me. It was inconceivable that he was actually enraptured by me. His attention was different to the type that I had received on the night out on the yacht; this was raw, unsophisticated lust and it was intoxicatingly potent.

I couldn’t believe anyone could actually like the way that I looked but this man was clearly dumbstruck; head over heels. I felt Cara nudging me in the ribs.

He was good looking; blonde, stocky and muscular with an angular, unshaven, darkly stubbled jaw, blue eyes and beautiful long eyelashes. He was the kind of rough looking man that I had never dared fantasise about, he was too dirty for a nice girl to be able to want. To look at him, the way I was doing, made me feel disturbingly uneasy.

He was waiting for his answer. And so, in my bag, was Vivienne. I was trapped and the moment of truth was upon me. All my natural impulses were telling me to run away. The Anita that I had always been wanted to blush and shrink away; ideally, to disappear completely.

I remembered the look on Lisa’s face that afternoon. I remembered Cara and her talk of Vivienne’s coffin. I would have to be brave, heroically brave. I took a little step forward to his ear, balancing on my high shoes. I brushed, so lightly, against his face with my nose before I whispered

‘They don’t sell what I want to drink from you’

It was like I was detached from the whole scene, watching it. I couldn’t believe that I had even thought of that, let alone had just said it. I stepped back and looked him deeply in the eyes. I picked up my drink and slowly, seductively, closed my glossy lips about the straw. I could do this. I could nail this.

I decided, there and then, that there was no merit in trying to finesse the situation. Cara knew what she was talking about and had said to keep it simple. I slowly licked at my straw like I had seen a girl in a film do; I pretended that it was his cock. Burying my shame, I leant forward and confessed that I was not only totally naked under my skirt but that I was all hot and bothered. I looked at him, bashfully, like a naughty schoolgirl and admitted that I thought my zip might be stuck. I asked him, sheepishly and brazenly at the same time, if he could maybe have a look at it for me, perhaps outside at the back of the pub.

He was gob-smacked. He stared at me for a moment in complete denial; he only needed to do a cartoon double-take to complete the cliché on his face. Then, what I had said registered fully, and he started to breathe deeply. He licked his lips and smiled. His face lit up as his lips drew back into a cheeky, devilish grin; I could see the idea taking hold.

‘Come with me little lady, lets see if we can’t fix that problem of yours’

He took my hand and I walked after him, struggling to step fast enough to match his speed. I heard some jeering, probably from his mates; and a wolf whistle; but we were soon out of the bar and into the back yard, in the cold night air.

I looked into his eyes. Here I was; a slut, his slut, to do with as he pleased. I was giving myself to him; I was doing my Mistress’s bidding. Not wasting a second and thankfully taking the lead from me, he backed me against the red brick wall and gripped my ass with both hands. I shuddered, my cheeks held firmly as he pulled me in, towards him. I had very little balance on my boots and I was forced to push my breasts up, into him. His hand was soon up, groping at me. I felt so dirty. I tried to keep on smiling while, in reality, I was petrified.

With a little flick behind me, I felt the tension vanish from my bra. His hands reached under my top and I could soon feel his coarse palms working up my belly until they cupped me, pushing my bra upwards and aside. He pulled my top up to my neck, displaying my taut, buoyant breasts so that he could see my thick nipples standing proudly to attention for him. As he gently pinched them and started to feel my aching, implant ridden glands, I panted with pain as it smarted. He obviously took this as confirmation of my arousal as he pulled me over to one side. He moved me up against a bin.

‘Well, let’s have a look at that naughty little zip then’

I teetered as he spun me round and then pushed my shoulders forward so that he bent me over the bin, facing away from him. The gold chain of my handbag trailed down the side of the corrugated metal and, as I saw the white leather of my bag swinging, bouncing against it. I remembered the phone and that this would all be in vain if I didn’t please Vivienne.

‘Oh, yes’ I moaned. I started to get wet in the eyes; this just couldn’t be happening. I felt a pulling at my skirt and then, unceremoniously, the zip was wide open and it was loose; hanging down from my waist. I sobbed quietly to myself as I felt a hand sliding its way down my inner ass cheeks, until it nestled near the bottom. I could feel him reaching further and then I felt his fingertip at my folds.

‘You horny bitch, you’re sopping wet down here!’

I drew my breath in with surprise as he touched me; my lips were incredibly sensitive. I tried to move away. He had his hand firmly on my ass though, so his fingers stayed exactly where they were. He ventured up higher and I gasped as he found my clitoris and gently pushed into it.

‘Ahhhh!’ I squealed as the sensation hit me.

He wasted no time and started to massage little circles around me with his finger. My God, he had done this before! My breathing became short as I panicked. I hadn’t expected it to feel nice and definitely not this nice. His touch was too good; it was starting to excite me. I felt like I could be driven wild by such a touch and that idea terrified me. No, that couldn’t be! I was not a whore; not a slut in a back alley!

I moaned again for Vivienne, but it was also a relief to let the noise out and not to have to bottle it up.

‘Oh my God’ I moaned as I felt his thumb at my opening, sliding around the entrance to my tunnel, caressing and orbiting the very outside of my hole. I could feel myself gaping, inviting him to enter; I blushed with abject shame.

‘My God! You are so fucking horny’ he breathed.

After another minute, as he continued to stimulate me, I felt his hand leave me. I heard him tearing at himself. I moaned again, this time for Vivienne, and in humiliation. I realised, as he hastily prepared himself; that I was little more than his bitch; I was Vivienne’s bitch waiting to be fucked. I spread my legs and lifted my ass to him in obedience to my Mistress. My surrender to her and my resentment of how she was treating me was now almost complete.

‘Fuck me now’ I pleaded. I told myself I wanted it over with. I was ashamed with myself for having enjoyed his touch. Maybe I really was a common slut after all and that I really did need him to fuck me.

I felt his rock hard prick work its way down my ass crack, lightly dusting and bouncing against my smooth, sensitive inner cheeks and rippling tiny electric surges upwards and through me. My God, I hoped that it was too dark for him to notice the cosmetic tattooing around my hole! I have felt like the vainest slut imaginable for having had such a thing done to me. I felt his head nestle between my lips and I felt my own juices as he slid across me. I whimpered softly, wishing that none of this was happening.

My lips felt puffed and swollen, pulsing with the blood of my arousal. I leant further forward onto my elbows and pushed my pussy upwards; proffering it to him, even if it meant that he may see my designer ass-hole. My stilettos put me just above his cock; at the perfect entry height. In spite of my rampant humiliation, I could feel the heat in my own cunt and I told myself that, therefore, I really must have been a slut.

‘Ahhhhhh’ I gasped, genuinely, as I felt him slide into me. My bottom lip quivered with his intrusion as the reality hit me – I was having sex with a man, like a free-gift whore.

He moved deeply into me, but softly. I was weeping. On top of it all, the pleasure of him filling me was too much; I shouldn’t be able to enjoy this on any level.

This was me, big-titted, conveniently sterilised, in white stilettos, with my ears studded and my face made up like a total slut. My nails spelt out what I was and, as I remembered them, my heart skipped a beat hoping that he had not seen them; although as he pushed into me I was sure that he would be past caring. As I felt him rubbing inside me and exquisitely stretching me, I couldn’t stand the raging, conflicting emotions I was being made to feel; I started to come apart.

‘God you are so. Fucking. Horny!’ he breathed against me.

As he stroked against the front of my tunnel, beautiful waves of warm pleasure radiated up through me. It was unbearable. The tears streamed down my face as he sped up and began thrusting into me, grunting. I started to moan back, into his rhythm.

‘Oh, please, keep doing that to me’ I burst out, trying to keep acting the whore but now drawing upon real emotions to pad out the part. I didn’t know if this was an attempt to convince Vivienne, him, or a moment of true sincerity. Worse than that, I didn’t care.

‘Oh my God’

I felt him stiffen and then slow right down, moaning and gasping as he moved gently but suddenly into me. I actually felt him coming as his cock pulsed and he emptied his load into me. I suddenly felt overcome as I realised that my blind ending vagina was now purely a fuck tunnel; somewhere for a man to spill his seed for pleasure. I pinched myself so that I didn’t burst into tears at that thought. I remembered where I was and what my brief was.

‘Oh Yes, Oh Yes’ I moaned, almost as an afterthought. It had to be good for him. I was so glad that the terrible, reluctant sensations stopped there and I could start to think again; no longer disturbed by such extreme, basal, pleasure.

He pulled out of me and helped me up.

I turned to look at him. He was red faced but looked very pleased. I wiped my eyes and smiled nervously at him, I didn’t want him to see that I had been crying. He didn’t seem to notice or care. As he pulled his cock back and tucked his erection inside his trousers I saw his eyes at my necklace.

He looked into my eyes

‘You’re a pretty incredible fuck, Anita. You’re one hell of a babe, you know that’ he said.

I turned a deep purple and told him that he was pretty fucking incredible himself. As I reached down behind myself and tried to close my skirt, I told him he was the best fuck I’d had all year. I was sure that this would massage his ego and help him to think that I was the fuck of the century, even though I had been far from that. I only hoped Vivienne was listening and that my efforts were being noted. I could feel some of his cum seeping out of me; a globular flow gradually working its way onto the inside of my thigh and starting to run down my leg.

He realised my predicament with the elastic skirt and laughed. He went round behind me and pulled the ends of the hem together so that I could stretch the zip closed through the thick rubber latex. I thanked him for his help and then, remembering Cara, I thanked him, in awe, for his incredible, mind-blowing fuck. His smile widened and he said

‘Any time Anita baby, anytime.’

We made our way back inside.

It was like returning to earth from some strange other-world but the noise, heat and smells of the pub brought me right back down, crash-landing with a bang. An eye of one of the few women in the bar caught me. Her expression was one or absolute derision and total disgust. She shook her head at me in contempt, like I was the lowest piece of dirt on the planet. I broke into hysterics and had to run, immediately, to the toilet, lock myself in the cubicle, close my eyes and start to sob furiously.

In no time, Cara had knocked on the door, made me open it and was cuddling me firmly. I wept uncontrollably, in utter confusion.

She stroked my head and whispered soothing, calming nothings at me. I was so disappointed in myself. I was a slut. I hadn’t resisted at all. She told me it didn’t matter. She kissed me and held me tightly.

She told me that she had seen everything, that I had done fine and that Mistress was pleased with me. I just sobbed into her shoulder but I was relieved that I would not need to be further tormented or punished.

After a few minutes I started to calm down a little. I could feel more of his juice starting to seep its way out and I went to wipe myself. Cara stopped me.

‘Mistress wants that to stay on you tonight’ she said. Her face changed a little and she became my instructress once more.

‘Fix your make-up, then go and give him your number. Write it in lipstick and then tell him to call you so you can get his number. After that you can spend the night with him if you want, or go home’

I looked at her aghast. All I could think about was running back to my room, my bed and screaming for Lisa. How dare she even offer that to me! I was not a slut! I stormed my way to the mirror, wiped my eyes and started to put my make-up back on. I saw her reflection walk up behind me. I ignored her, trying not to start crying again. She reached into my bag and took out the phone. I heard a beep as she ended the call.

I looked up again and into her eyes. I hadn’t meant to be angry at her. She smiled softly, came up behind me and squeezed my shoulder.

She told me not to be hard on myself. She said that my life was going to be hard enough without making a rod for my own back. She said that she would be seeing me again soon and with that, she turned around and left me there; a whore fawning to tidy herself up.

PART 20

I lay in bed. Finally I was totally exhausted and utterly depleted, emotionally. Sleepiness was starting to take me and it was the most merciful thing that had happened all day. I heard a key in the door and then heard it creak open.

I heard it slam and I heard sobbing. I heard rapid, marching footsteps going into the living room and then I heard frantic movements, the crying became louder and the sobs more piteous as she broke down. I figured that Lisa was probably feeling how I had been about two hours ago. I couldn’t leave her. I got up. It was cold so I wrapped a blanket around myself before going to the lounge. The light was on and the floor was littered with stockings, underwear and unfastened shoes. In the corner, naked, curled up in a ball, sobbing and broken, was Lisa.

My heart went out to her immediately and I rushed over to hold her. Her eyes were wide with fear as she held her hands up, holding me off; she didn’t want to be touched. Her eyes were red raw, her face was streamed with black streaks from her eye make-up.

‘Lisa, it’s me, Anita, darling’ I had said ‘it’s only me baby. Ssssshhhhhhh. Its okay, Lisa. It’s okay now darling’

She had carried on sobbing. I was lost already and hardly in any position of strength myself. I wrapped the blanket round her and sat down, naked, next to her. I saw her discarded dress in a tiny pile. There couldn’t have been much to it but it looked to be made of a fine purple silk. Her black stilettos lay nearby, the word ‘Manolo’ stared across at me from the leather sole. A diamond choker lay coiled at her feet. I remembered the clothes that I had taken off and hung up when I got home, they were so different.

The loud sobbing next to me started to bore into my fatigued, spent mind. It wasn’t long before a tear started to trickle down my own face and I sat, silently, next to her, my eyes screwed up, curling into my own little ball.

After a minute, she reached across to me and wrapped the blanket round me. We looked at each other and then grasped each other tightly. With the blanket pulled tightly around us, to protect us, we wept together. We wept at what was our lot. I had worked through it all so many times that night as I lay there, unable to sleep, but I had found no resolution; I doubted if I ever would. Vivienne, my Mistress, had smashed me down even further today. She had maniacally bulldozered her way through more of my most intimate boundaries. She had made me become a slut and no matter which way I looked at it, it tore into my very soul.

Eventually, at about three o’clock I had cried myself dry again and was weary and blurred with fatigue. Lisa, however, was still inconsolable. It was all I could do to get her onto the sofa and get her to drink some hot chocolate with the blanket wrapped around her. She stared blankly ahead with the glazed eyes of a woman who belonged in a mental-care home. I was seriously worrying about her sanity. I lifted the cup to her lips and made her drink some. Finally, she took a little sip and, for the first time in probably an hour, made eye contact with me.

I cuddled her some more and eventually managed to get her into bed, holding her and gently stroking the hair on the side of her head. Eventually she breached her silence.

‘I think……I think I’m going to go mad’

As I clutched her, I had worried about my own sanity. I couldn’t think of anything to say to her; I had the same fears and no answers. I had also been stretched to such an extent that I would never spring back; I would never be the same. After a time she opened up a little. She kept breaking down as she remembered all the horrible things from her day. I just listened. I didn’t want her to rake up things that she didn’t want to so I didn’t ask her a thing. I had no useful wisdom to impart to help her with her dire situation and I was, on top of it all, so very tired; but I stayed awake for her, to listen.

She had been taken out early that morning by Trisha. She was going to get a new high fashion, ‘fuck me’ trophy-secretary look. Lisa had instantly balked at the idea and had made no secret of it. Trisha had been delighted and had forced her to follow, at heel, as she led her through the shops, threatening her with a few things. She wanted her dressed very expensively, so that she would be an absolute prize; but she wanted her sexy; very, very sexy.

To make it worse, Trisha had started to touch her. In fact, she couldn’t keep her hands off her. She kept following her into the changing rooms and when the curtain was shut, she would start to caress and work her hands over her. Lisa found this deeply unsettling and when Trisha, looking her lustfully in the eyes, slid her hand down into her panties and made a slow but penetrating stroke up the front of her slit, Lisa had torn herself away, yanking out her Mistresses hand in defiant repulsion. When she told me this, I had gasped. That was why she had earned herself a punishment earlier.

This had been further compounded when, halfway through their shopping trip, they had been joined by Vivienne and had all sat down in the café at Harvey Nicholls. They had given her an interrogation, similar to the one that I had received, except they had obviously been less forceful with her ‘disinhibition’. She had, in spite of her hanging punishment, tried to fob them off with a few whimsical ideas for her ‘look’; but they had caught her out.

When they had eventually flicked the switch in her mind that opened her up fully, and she was forced to tell the truth, the real answers had unmasked and exposed her as the liar that she really was. She had sat there shaking with fear, a trapped animal, as Trisha told her that she had earned herself, in the space of an hour, a second punishment. She wept as she recalled how easily she had been played and how stupid she had been for trying to lie. I gulped and thanked my lucky stars that they had not set that trap up for me.

They had then gone back to the shops and hunted out some of the key items that would really get to her. She hated to show off her legs, so they bought a selection of fashionable, mini-skirt-suits. She hated ‘fuck me’ office heels and patterned or fishnet stockings, so they had bought a very thorough selection. She had fretted as item after item was bagged up for her. She couldn’t believe what was being done to her; it was one of her nightmares coming true. Trisha had purred constantly with lustful approval as she had tried everything on.

Lisa was used to dressing very professionally and conservatively, she had, after all, been a lawyer. She deliberately avoided looking sexy or overly feminine and she admitted, under duress, that she had actually looked down on the secretarial staff that did dress like that. Her firm had been huge and they had had many sexy young girls out to make their mark with daringly provocative but incredibly fashionable outfits. With Trisha’s compelling guidance, she had reluctantly recalled the details of these. She had listed all the essential and defining things that she would need for her new look. Her Mistresses had grinned as she had slowly spilled her guts to them. Then she had been made to find everything and buy it.

She curled up as she remembered how she had been made to look and how satisfied Trisha had been with the end result. I thought that I would have been glad to have been dressed like that, especially given what they had condemned me to wear, I didn’t feel the same way about it as Lisa. I accepted that everyone was different and that we all had our own, different and painful buttons. Vivienne had pressed mine as Trisha had pressed Lisa’s.

As she finished her hot chocolate, she started to relax just a little as she carried on talking. At the end of the morning, she had been taken to Trisha’s beauticians shop and had been left there for her makeover. They had cut and styled her hair, done her nails, shaped her eyebrows and made her up. She had then been sprayed with Trisha’s choice of perfume and set to sit and wait for her Mistress to return. It was then, just before I had met her in the car-park, that she had first been punished.

She broke down again as she recalled it and I deliberately didn’t ask her about it; I just held her. I could see in her eyes that it must have been much worse than I could imagine. A new wave of fear swept over me as I sensed the power, the terrible magnitude of this thing that Vivienne had put in our heads that we might be disciplined. I shuddered as Lisa started to speak again.

For the afternoon she had been sent home and had spent two whole hours on the training machine. I contrast to my own time; all of hers was spent working on the artificial pussy, with her mouth. It had allowed her a few breaks between programs but had otherwise pushed her to her absolute limit. Her tongue had burned as the poor muscle had been worked to exhaustion; like never before.

At a time that must have coincided with Trisha’s disappearance from my shopping trip that afternoon, she had visited Lisa at the house, and had punished her again; this time for her behaviour in the changing room. There must have been something else, some awful detail that was too painful to share because she stopped talking there and reverted back to her blank stare. I shook her, until she looked at me once more.

Again I asked nothing, but she wept hoarsely as she told me what the worst part of it all was. As if things weren’t bad enough, apparently there was going to be a change of plan for her. Trisha had delighted in revealing it to her as she had lain sobbing, begging, and clinging to her Mistress’s shoe; that she was going to have Lisa fixed. She was going to become her very own, perfect, personal assistant. She was to become her fully trained sex-toy; exactingly schooled in the arts of pleasing a lady and she would be made to suffer, exquisitely, for her Mistresses pleasure. Dumbstruck at the horror of her unfolding future, she had then been made to lie down flat on her back while Trisha froze her for the next hour, to think about what she had done and how she would learn to apply herself from now on. After spilling all this out she collapsed into a flood of tears again. She was to become Trisha’s personal slave. She was to be utterly at the mercy of the woman that she was most afraid of; and she would be her lesbian pleasure slave.

Lisa fixed me with an ice cold stare. I could now see that this was what had been wrenching at her sanity.

To prepare her for her new role, her evening had been not dissimilar from my own, in terms of smashing through her most intimate boundaries.

She was dressed in her own new style but instead of being taken to a pub, she was taken to a lesbian pick-up bar. She didn’t tell me any more of the details and I could understand why; I was not going to tell her about my incident in the back alley. It occurred to me that she had been out a lot longer than I had though, so there was plenty more potential for her abuse. I could only feel her pain with her; I could do nothing to ease it.

After that, she spent a few minutes just staring down at the floor. Eventually, she came to her senses and asked if she should pleasure me, as we had to do at bedtime. I looked at her, dishevelled and mentally unravelling. She looked like it would be the final straw. I looked at her tearful face and remembered the cum still inside me. I shuddered knowing that that filth was still there, setting; hardening within me; an evil surprise for anyone who went down on me. I simply couldn’t bring myself to make poor Lisa lick that. There was no way that I would be able to become aroused given the horrors that we had both endured that day. Consumed with pity, I told her that she had been through enough and was sure that she had done more than enough pleasuring for one day. She had looked into my eyes and had dropped he head to my bosom, burying into me. She had kissed me and I cradled her, I would try and protect her. In no time, thoroughly burnt out, we both went to sleep, in each others arms.

PART 21

It was ten in the morning when we awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. It didn’t stop, even after a minute, as I emerged from my sleepy twilight. In the end, Lisa beat me to it and stood there, listening.

‘Yes Mistress’ I heard her say and then she put the phone down.

I noticed that the computer screen was flashing. I started to worry that we had overslept as I clicked the mouse. Up popped a sheet with ‘Training Plans’ written at the top. There followed the day’s date. There were then two columns, one was Lisa’s and one mine. I was immediately glad that the first item was scheduled for eleven o’clock; someone had appreciated that we had had a difficult day.

I was less happy as I saw that I was first up with ninety minutes on the training machine. Subconsciously, my lip hung down and my shoulders slouched as I remembered how unpleasant it had been the day before. I was taken with a feeling of resignation and helplessness. If the screen had said four hours, then that is what I would have had to have done; none of my life was to be under my own control it seemed. As I scanned my way down the list; erotic dance; behaviour development; dress inspection; assignment, I started to fret; would I never be set free?

The residual comfort from the night’s sleep now fully dissipated, I called Lisa over and she looked, equally dismayed, at her own list. It seemed that the erotic dance session would be for both of us, whereas for her first session she simply had to get dressed and do the shopping for the house. I would much rather have done that than face the machine again.

I took the spare hour as a chance to get a shower and finally clean yesterday’s deposits from inside me. Then we had some breakfast. I couldn’t get the impending tasks out of my mind, so I couldn’t relax as we drank our juice and coffee. With the cups drained and sitting in the empty sink, we got ready to start our programmes. At two minutes to eleven, Lisa had just fetched her shoes to go out, and I was ready to take my robe off and submit to the accursed machine but there was a knock at the door. Lisa looked at me in surprise and answered it.

‘Inside, NOW, slut!’

It was Vivienne and she marched her way in; she had a scowl on her face. Immediately frightened, I threw myself onto the floor and started to frantically lick at her boot; but she kicked me away. Lisa’s attempt was also met with a firm rebuke, Vivienne’s heel digging into her forehead and shoeing her painfully away.

‘Kneel there, both of you, heads to the floor’

We both scrabbled to comply. I was shaking. Mistress was not happy.

Vivienne cut straight to the point

‘You have deliberately disobeyed your instructions. I am told that you decided it was not necessary for your late night oral training session?’

My heart sank, Oh no, please not that! We both whimpered

‘You, slut’ she kicked at Lisa ‘must actually get off on punishments; you remember that I said that any more trouble from you and you would go into the slave box, yes?’

At that, Lisa just snapped.

‘NO!’ she wept loudly.

‘No! Please No!’ she screamed, desperately trying to get her mouth near to Vivienne’s boot. Once more she was pushed aside, this time with her toe.

‘No please Mistress’ she collapsed ‘it wasn’t me! Anita said we shouldn’t do it, I thought that we had been let off! Please Mistress, it wasn’t me! I had nothing to do with it! Anita said not to do it!’

My fear rose higher and then redoubled as I looked in terror, in utter disbelief, at Lisa, stretching herself out towards Vivienne, sobbing in sheer, broken desperation.

‘So it was Anita was it?’ asked Vivienne, calming slightly and regaining some of her feline poise.

‘Yes! Yes Mistress!’ she welcomed.

‘Sit up girl’

Lisa struggled to sit up, kneeling back on her heels. She got into her best slave posture. Vivienne walked over to her and started to toy with her hair, running a finger through it and then grabbing a handful.

‘So, slave, should I give your punishment to Anita?’

I watched in horror, like this just wasn’t happening as she rapidly nodded her head, desperately; affirmatively.

‘No’ the word slipped out of my mouth, quietly, pathetically, an expression of my disbelief.

Vivienne stepped over towards me. Her voice was calm and cold.

‘Is this true, slut, was this your idea?’

Oh God, I couldn’t believe I was in this situation. I started to cry out of pure fear. Oh God, I was in trouble.

‘Yes Mistress’ I sobbed, half insane with fear ‘…….but I thought that….’

‘Silence!’ she shouted.

‘I don’t want to hear it’

‘I’m so sorry Mistress. I didn’t want to….’

‘Shut up now you dumb fucking slut, or I’ll double your punishment!’

I clamped my mouth with my hand and sobbed as quietly as I could. I huddled myself into a little ball in panic and misery; there was definitely going to be punishment.

‘You may go’ she said dismissively at Lisa

‘Thank you Mistress’ I heard as she scurried off to the front door and then out.

‘Stay silent slut’ she said. I watched as her expression became severe again and she started to fume.

‘You will NEVER assume to make alterations to your orders; never, ever. You will do EXACTLY as you are told to. You have disappointed me slave, really you have. I was pleased with you, you know, but now you have annoyed me. You will learn that that is not a good thing to do ’

I lay there, frozen with terror as she regained her control. Her eyes narrowed and she calmly told me to lie flat on my back.

I did it, almost in a trance, whimpering with fear. I couldn’t even beg pathetically, she had taken even that option from me.

‘Freeze’ she said and at once, like in her office, I was immobile; rigid like a board and stuck, unable to move, on my back.

When I realised that she had done this, I struggled, frenziedly, to move; to shake myself about; to scream my lungs out – but nothing happened, not a damn thing. Inwardly I was crying my heart out; I knew no peace at all and felt like my mind was about to snap.

Then I heard that she had said something, but I couldn’t hear the words.

It was sudden and it was so brutal. It hurts me now, so terribly, to even think about it and I don’t think that it is possible to adequately convey exactly how severe my pain was.

In a split second, my entire body was rapt with agony.

I felt such intense, such unbearable, lancing pains, that I could never have imagined such a degree of suffering was humanly possible. As it tore through me I understood, in my torture, that my Mistress had inflicted this upon me, as my lesson and I would never forget it.

Every part of me; my arms, legs, stomach, breasts, my genitals and my face; coarsed with searing, white-hot agony; like I had been thrown into a steaming cauldron of boiling fat. My skin was obviously refusing to cook, so the pain didn’t subside as my nerves were eventually eaten away by the fire. It was so perfectly torturous, so excruciatingly violent and exquisitely unendurable. I could never have possibly conceived of such complete suffering. I was sure that I was dying as my soul was ripped out and my body was being gradually but thoroughly destroyed.

Unimaginably, almost worse than the sheer physical pain, was the raw terror that accompanied it. It was as if a switch had been thrown in the darkest recess of my mind and my deepest, most pre-eminent emotions had been activated, fully. I felt the fear fevering up inside me. It rose and multiplied, over and over, until I was petrified; consumed with the dread of my own certain impending doom. I felt like the sheer unabated terror would fracture my mind, splitting it forever into a thousand pieces. I lay there perfectly still, screaming dementedly to myself, wanting only to cease existing, so that my suffering could end. I lost track of time completely but I now know that it was twenty seconds before I was shocked out of it and was perfectly awake. A mere twenty seconds was all it took and it had felt like five minutes. The torture had stopped but I was far from normal, it had stamped me; burning itself indelibly into me and branding my mind. I was now scarred, it formed a reminder of the consequences of my disobedience and of my Mistress’s displeasure. In twenty seconds, she had broken me, utterly.

In hysterics and on the far verge of sanity, I weakly but desperately crawled over to my Mistress and clutched hold of her boot. The only thing that mattered was to not be punished any further. I rejoiced as she didn’t kick me away. I wept and licked at her and I swore that I was sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I pledged my unswerving obedience to her in a desperate attempt to convince her not to return me to the pain.

I looked up fearfully and she smiled down at me. Her happiness filled me with hope and I renewed my pathetic efforts to curry her favour; pressing my face into her black leather boot.

When she finally told me to kneel and said that my punishment was over, I wept tears of joy and devotedly thanked her over and over. She must have taken some pity on me as she walked to me and touched my head. As I heard her mutter something, I felt my mind start to calm and for the first time, I started to regain control of myself. Sniffing repeatedly, I knelt still as she stroked my head.

I felt a beautiful relief sweeping through me with every touch of her fingers. I knelt at her feet and she ran them softly through my hair. The happiness I felt as my Mistress petted me was just overwhelming. When she stopped and sat on the sofa in front of me I could only stare at her in a confused awe, wanting her touch; needing it even but not understanding why. She had such extreme power over me, she could elevate me or plunge me to hell with a word.

She smiled at me again and clicked her fingers. Within a second I was nestling and pressing my face and body against her legs, a forgiven pet, weeping at the beauty of her mercy. I needed her touch so badly. The punishment had been so awful; I needed to feel her forgiveness. That she didn’t kick me away was enough and I revelled in the knowledge, as I lovingly kissed her boots, that she was, once again, satisfied with me.

‘You really are a natural slave you know’ she mused ‘I’ve really never seen such an intense reaction before’

She lifted my face so that I looked up at her. The stern, sadistic expression was gone and her face was almost warm with a gentle smile. I was so confused with how I felt about.

‘Now you be a good girl and work hard at your studies’

I nodded at her, ‘Yes Mistress’

As she stood up, picked up her bag and walked away, I almost wanted to reach after her. Watching her towering black spike heels work their way towards the door I felt the memory of my punishment resurface. As I struggled to keep from crying, I vowed that I would never, ever, disobey her again; even if it meant taking a knife to myself.

Tearfully, I went over to the computer to start my training. I would have to work hard.

PART 22

As I stepped out of the house, I held my fear in check and made a mental review of all the things I had to remember to do; there was no way I could afford to fuck anything up. The day had been terribly busy and actually just plain terrible. Now I was hurrying because I knew I didn’t have much time to do what needed to be done.

After another session licking, sucking and fucking myself to exhaustion on the latex sensor-cock and being thoroughly worked through increasingly complex routines by the computer, I had more sessions; but this time, in other ‘disciplines’. I had not been able to approach them relaxed and with a clear mind as once again, my jaw ached from all the blowjob techniques I had been made to practice. As well as that, the muscles in my vagina throbbed from over-exertion and I was breathless from spending the last twenty minutes being forced to rapidly ‘bunny-fuck’ the cock as I straddled the training horse.

Of the new classes, the first of which, had been taken by Cara.

I was not interested in learning ‘Erotic Dance’ but I had been overjoyed to see her as she had stepped through the door wearing her calm, worldly smile and a tight black track-suit. I had hugged her tightly. After what Lisa had done earlier, she was now the closest thing to a friend that I had and that was so depressing. I felt a little lump swell in my throat as I thought that, but then forced a smile onto my face; I didn’t want to lose her as well.

As we had walked into the living room I saw a logo on the back of her track-suit jacket. Written in pink, in cursive neon lettering was the word ‘Zippers’. I had never heard of that brand before but before I could ask her about it, I heard the door open a second time and, turning, I could see Lisa come in. I looked away immediately but could hear that she was carrying lots of bags. I wasn’t going to go and help her, not after what she had done. She must have dumped the bags straight on the floor because in no time she was in front of me, tearful, and on her knees.

I looked down at her and just couldn’t hold myself from crying as I saw her, weeping at my feet,

‘I’m so sorry Anita, please, you have to believe me, I’m so, so sorry, so very sorry……I just couldn’t take what they were going to do to me….I didn’t mean to hurt you, I love you!…I just couldn’t…not being put in that box…..not that….’

She was hysterically upset, barely able to speak with her frantic sobbing. I couldn’t bear to see her like that. I had been so hurt that she had betrayed me but, now that I had felt that unspeakably evil thing myself, I could understand why she had done it. Maybe I would have done the same had I been threatened with more of it; I couldn’t say. Either way, we both had far too much to deal with, without any difficulties between us. I wasn’t going to punish her any more, even though she had so readily sold me down the river. I could see that she had suffered with her guilt already and was clearly and terribly sorry.

I knelt down next to her and held her. I told her that it was okay. She grabbed me tightly and tried to break a smile through her tears. I kissed her and she struggled to look at me again. I could see that it would take a lot before she could forgive herself for what she had done to me. She knew exactly what she had condemned me to and she knew the magnitude of her act.

‘Ahem’, Cara cleared her throat loudly ‘come on now you two. You have work to do now. You will behave and you will apply yourselves to this; as if I’m not happy, you will both be punished again. I have control and punishment privileges over both of you and I will use them if I don’t think you are working your hardest. You will remember that and you will treat me as a Mistress’

I was a lot happier with Cara than my other two Mistresses. We both knelt in front of her and she had us strip there. She had us both wearing only our shoes; I fetched and tied on my white ankle-boots. She had then stood each of us up and had inspected and then adjusted our posture. She spent a good time teaching us a number of poses and then cycled us through them calling out each one by name – ’Hands on hips’, ’Look at my tits’, ’From behind’….etc…

She then spent an hour showing us some basic dance moves.

She put a disc into my player and made us sway and gyrate our hips to the pulse of the beat. She told us to practice that whenever we had a few spare moments, she wanted the basic rhythm to become like second nature to us. As the lesson moved on, she had each of us trying to lap dance in front of her as she sat on one of my dining chairs, giving us pointers.

She had brought a crop with her which she had taken from her bag after the first few minutes. She still had her kindly way about her but there was no mistaking that she was here to train us and was very much in charge. I felt a lot less nervous in front of her, while she was holding a whip, than I did in front of Vivienne, even if she had nothing. I knew that Cara would have no option but to treat us like this. She would have the threat of her own punishment hanging over her, to be instigated if she didn’t achieve results with us.

She was, however, a superb teacher. She expressed what she wanted us to do very clearly and encouraged us when we did it properly. Halfway through the session, I lowered myself, bending my knees, keeping my back straight, swaying in front of her, with my hands above my head as she had shown me, so I was lifting my breasts. My mouth was parted as she had shown us and my tongue was just visible inside my lips, like I was ready to kiss or lick. She wanted me to have my legs further apart for that move. I didn’t resent her for training me, I knew she had to, but it didn’t lessen the pain from her riding crop as she switched me cruelly on my inner thighs telling me to look like I was lowering myself, needfully, onto a lovely, erect penis.

A tear of pain in my eye, I repeated the move for her, pretending that I was slipping myself over a stiff cock until she smiled, nodded and beckoned Lisa over to try the same. She told Lisa that her Mistress would want to see her feminine needs too, so she would make the same display that I had. She threw herself into it and escaped the lashing that I had received. Soon after however, she was whipped for not smiling and not looking enthusiastic or hot enough as she danced. As this was a more serious transgression, Cara beat her with ten fearsome strokes across her breasts. Lisa stood still with her hands behind her back, holding her breasts forward, yelping miserably with each blow. At the end, the tears ran down her face.

I had tried my hardest to do that well, the whole way through, as it was the first and most important lesson that Cara had stressed to us – in all things we did, we must look like we were joyful, horny, appreciative and desperate for sex. Following her advice, I tried to imagine that I was deliriously hungry for sex as I danced. I pumped and ground my body like a whore and it helped me to avoid her whip. I felt like such a slut though.

After the dancing I was even more fatigued and was glad that my next session was a less physical one. In fact, the ‘Behaviour’ session consisted of just me, alone, doing some research. I sat in front of the computer screen while Lisa sat behind me, noisily lapping at the artificial pussy while the computer gave her instructions.

I followed the programme that was laid out for me. I was to browse through the extremely comprehensive library on the hard drive and the internet and ‘get ideas’ for my role as a ‘slut’. The focus was not to be on sexual technique but rather how a girl behaved and if there were any mannerisms, touches or finesses that I could pick up or develop. After sufficient time, I would be interviewed with a view to planning my behaviours. My mind looked back to the time Vivienne and Trisha had sat me down in the Café; I knew how effective their interviews could be. As I read the instructions, I could feel that I was being subconsciously forced into a state where I would, once again, not be able to hold anything back. As I looked down the list of titles and I felt my hand move the mouse pointer, I despaired and felt a sense of woe in my very soul.

PART 23

Later that day, after being given quarter of an hour to dress, I stood in front of my Mistress once more. Lisa had left the flat, I had no idea why, and I was all alone with Vivienne. I was quaking and was so glad that she was smiling.

When she had arrived we had sat down together at my table and ‘talked’ about my afternoon of research. Out of everything that she had done to me, I could see that she got the most pleasure from systematically teasing my distastes, fears and weaknesses from me so that she could toy with me, before making me do the same, awful things. I would even have rather spent the whole afternoon wracking my body, pleasing the machine, than being made to slowly but deliberately hammer nails into my own future.

To start with, after she had instantly rendered me fully obedient, I had shown her a video of a girl walking. I had found it after having been horrifyingly, and consequently irresistibly, drawn to the title. I hated the way that the loop had been set up inside me. I would scan my way down a list or look at some pictures or films. The ones that I were most afraid of, most scared about being made to do and the most appropriate for a ‘slut’ would be obvious. I would then be compelled to examine them. The walk had been one such instance. The girl from ‘Desperate Cum Sluts’ had me whimpering with shame. Her walk, the things she did and the things she said; and how she said them. I had never seen a woman behave in such a disgraceful way before; so explicitly wantonly, she had not a shred of dignity about her. That accursed film would lead to a wealth of misery and despondent humiliation for me.

The girl on the screen was dressed scarily similar to how I had been; she wore white heels and a pink dress and even large gold earrings. She approached the camera with a walk that would have been described as ‘sultry’ if it was about a tenth as extreme. The way it was, it could only have been described as utterly depraved. It was not the sexy, business-summoning walk of a whore; it was the wanton, debauched walk of a nymphomaniac, overcome and peeking with raw lust. The look on her face was one of obsession and deep, basal need; you could see that she longed for a cock in her, anywhere. I looked away in shame but Vivienne grabbed my face and shoved it back towards the screen. I watched her again; sullen and resigned.

As I watched her slowly writhe forward, offering herself to the viewer, I looked at Vivienne, watching the screen herself with a wide, satisfied grin on her face.

She had me emulating the walk in my own living room. She made me get the face right in my mirror and then practice the walk, watching myself. It wasn’t hard to do, physically at least, although the thought of anyone seeing me putting on such a display was just too much and I had to keep pushing the anxiety from my mind.

That wasn’t the worst of it by far though.

I had clammed up when Vivienne had asked me what else I had found. She had smiled knowingly at me and I had tried to shrink away; like a puppy, knowing she was going to the kennels. She had then looked very pleased and snapped her fingers, pointing to the floor next to her chair. I had quickly got up and knelt right next to her, on the floor. She put her hand in my head, scratching at me with her long nails and took a grasp of my hair, bending my head upwards to face her.

‘I’ll let you show your Mistress from down here’ she grinned down at me.

I was starting to cry as I reached up and moved the film on to a bookmark that I had set earlier.

As the film played I could only see my Mistress’s face. I watched as a wicked smile formed and her lips separated into an evil grin.

‘Oh yes slut, I definitely approve’

I sank my head onto her leg and wept,

‘Yes Mistress’ I said.

The film had shown the same girl, the ‘heroine’, the ‘desperate cum slut’ herself, finally getting her satisfaction. She had sucked her co-star’s huge cock with a gusto that suggested it was essential to her survival, like it contained some sort of antidote. Then, just before his climax, he had pulled out of her mouth and while she had left it wide open for him, he had unloaded spoonfuls of thick white semen onto her face and into her mouth. I found the whole thing quite repulsive but it was the part that followed that I was showing my Mistress.

The girl looked like her most incredible dream had just come true as she relished the cum in her mouth. It was the look on her face, there was no mistaking what she was. Then, slowly and carefully she wiped up some more of the cum on her face and slowly, savouringly, put her finger in her mouth sucking on the precious juice. She closed her eyes in ecstasy as she, one by one, licked he fingers clean, savouring every drop of the delicious cum. The show that she was making was the most humiliating sex act I could have thought of at that time. It had me quivering in my Mistress’s lap. I had tasted a tiny amount of cum before and I had hated it.

‘Go and get a yoghurt from the fridge, slut. We are going to have you practice doing that in front of the mirror, you have three minutes and then you will give me a show’

I rushed out tearfully, another nightmare coming true. I was soon pretending that I was the same sperm-crazed whore. I lustfully and slowly licked my fingers clean, scooping the yoghurt from my face and licking at it like it was the most joyous delicacy. I kept my eyes focused on myself in the mirror and tried as hard as I could not to start crying.

A snap of the fingers from Vivienne followed and she knelt me down below her again. She took the spoon and gleefully flicked a blob onto my cheek. I then gave her the same show, fixing her eyes with my own and trying to look as depraved as possible. I hated what I was being made to do from the absolute depth of my soul, but the alternative was just not an option. I visualised myself as the girl from the film as I slowly lowered another fingertip of white yoghurt onto my wanting tongue. My heart felt like it was breaking as she smiled down at me and after a while, flicked another glob onto me saying,

‘Good slut! I think this will be your little party trick. You will do it after every cum, what do you think?’

‘Yes Mistress’ I submitted and then, sobbing, I tried to squeeze the words out, there was a little more, something from my own twisted mind.

‘Mistress…….I think…….that I should say that………I just love cum so much’

As a further idea formed my sobbing intensified

‘Good girl, that’s it, let it all out’ she stroked my head

‘Maybe I should scoop some cum out of me, if that’s where it is, and do the same sometimes…..Oh please Mistress…don’t make me do that!’

I collapsed into a fit of sobbing. She slapped me hard round the face but was smiling at me

‘You know better than to say that, but since you feel that way, we can have you do that as well’

She smiled down at me and stroked my head as I wept into her lap. She was so cruel to me that there was nothing else that I could do. I no longer had any hope of mercy from her; it just felt better to cry on someone, even if that person was the complete cause of all my misery. She let me cry in her lap for a good long time, I’m sure she must have enjoyed it. It was after that that she sent me off to shower. She told me to wash myself thoroughly and return to her only in what I needed to walk with.

When I returned, after our ‘little sit down’, Vivienne had further enjoyed herself at my expense. I had tensed and squirmed a she had opened a large medical bag onto the table and she had told me to sit down next to her and to thrust my breasts out at her.

I started to tremble as I saw her take out some medical gloves and a bottle of antiseptic. I squeezed my hands tight trying to stay still even though I was almost paralysed with fear. I wondered how much it was possible for one person to take as I saw her take out two huge syringes, each filled with a clear liquid. I looked at her in terror as her face took on its demonic smile once more.

‘Please’ my eyes begged her ‘I can’t take much more’

She reached over and took hold of my left breast. I almost screamed with fear as she touched me lightly. My obvious discomfort made her laugh loudly. She told me to keep still or she would fist me again. She lifted my breast and examined the suture line. Then she did the same to the other one. I just wished that I was dead. I seriously considered her offer of spending the rest of my life paralysed, being institutionally abused.

‘These are healing beautifully Anita. The stitches will already be starting to dissolve and your scars look very neat; tiny in fact, but good and strong; certainly ready to be…..tested, just a little’

As she ran her finger along the scar lines, I shivered at the unsettling touch. It was a mix of hypersensitive, healing, inflamed breast-skin and numb, nerveless scar-tissue. I shook at the occasional shooting bursts of electric, burning pain as she rubbed firmly against the severed nerves along each incision, causing them to fire-off, randomly. She was in no hurry to stop playing with me, I was like a pet to her, a toy and she was starting to really upset me.

‘He is such an excellent surgeon’ she mused, turning to her medical instruments ‘he always gets such good results. And oh my God!…Very fuckable too, didn’t you think’

She put on the sterile latex gloves and started to soak some gauze. I could smell the clinical scent of the antiseptic as she lifted the dripping gauze with some forceps and turned towards me. I was frozen. She grabbed my left breast firmly and started to swab the cold, flowing liquid around my nipple. I broke a cold sweat. Thin lines of pink fluid ran down, over my breasts and down my belly, as she rubbed and worked my nipple and the area around it. I could feel the copious, spilling antiseptic, cold, and seeping down to my thighs. I watched her, trembling, as she took a second gauze and did the same to my other breast.

A memory from the day at the café came back to me. Under Vivienne’s wicked spell of such brutal self-betraying honesty, she had had to stop me when I had gotten onto the subject of having my body pierced. Getting carried away with my own hideous self-‘slut’ concept, I had envisaged, amongst other things, a pair of thick nipple rings. I had been relieved when she had prevented me from telling her about them, but now my fears had not only returned but were boiling over as my nipples stood, erect and chilled as the cleaning solution evaporated off them. I was terrified that another of my nightmares would now be realised.

I snatched a look at her tray as she took further things from her bag. She was screwing long points onto the two syringes that she had. There was a plastic sheath on each, but inside those, I could see two thick needles. I spluttered out a sob at their sight. Why was I being made to suffer so? What had I ever done to deserve this?

Vivienne looked up from her tray. She let out a chilling, callous cackle. She so loved to see me scared, trembling in anticipation, not knowing what was going to happen to me.

‘I love it when we get to spend some quality time together you know?’ she said, lifting one of the syringes so that it stood vertically, tip upwards. She gave the plunger the slightest test and I could see a tiny droplet form within the plastic needle sheath.

‘Now slut. I know that you do so love your new tits but I wonder if they are still just way too small for you’

My lip trembled out a sob as she asked,

‘What do you think slut?’

She looked at me, hard; she would only accept one answer.

‘Yes Mistress’ my voice broke in quivering tones as I tried hard not to cry.

She fixed me with an ice cold stare and said simply,

‘Beg’

I started to cry properly now. Vivienne’s image blurred as I wept,

‘Please Mistress; I’d love to have big tits…….’

I sobbed to myself; it was one of the things that she had done to me that I loathed the most. I hated the large breasts that I was now made to wear and I was mortified when I had been made to wear clothes that revealed and even emphasised them.

I felt her latex clad hand on my face, wiping at my tears.

‘I’m not convinced that you want them slut. One more chance or maybe we’ll think about some punishment for you’

‘Please Mistress’ I begged, I looked her in the eyes and tried to look sincere ‘I want to have big sluttish tits’

She looked at me

‘…..I want to have huge tits and I want to show them off, I want men to come on my huge bimbo tits’

I was desperate to please her. As I saw her mouth break a smile I breathed more easily.

She laughed and then picked up one of the syringes.

‘Please!’ I whispered.

She grabbed my breast and I watched in absolute horror as she pulled the cap off the needle and turned to point it towards me.

‘No!’ I whispered, frozen with fear as she pushed the tip to the skin just below my nipple and then plunged the needle into my held bosom. I wept hysterically but kept still and obedient as she pushed the needle in to its hilt. I watched as she started to press the plunger.

‘Now. Let’s watch you become even more of a whore as they…….grow’

As she slowly depressed the plunger and the huge vial of liquid began to disappear I watched as my breast slowly started to swell. My sobbing took on a frantic high pitch as Vivienne laughed loudly. I thought that I would pass out as she pulled the needle out and gave my tit a squeeze. It was visibly and palpably taut again, like it had been the week before, when the implants had been fresh. I sobbed myself hoarse as she took the second needle and did the same.

As she depressed the second plunger, at her instruction I repeated,

‘Please make my tits bigger Mistress, I so want my whore tits big’

As I wept the phrase out, she pushed the fluid into me and I watched in revulsion as my other breast bulged and grew. When she took the second needle out I broke down crying. She stood up and dragged me by my hair to the bedroom. She thrust me in front of my dressing mirror and held my head so I had to look at myself; at my chest. I saw her smile of satisfaction as my sobbing was renewed afresh at the sight of my newly stretched breasts.

‘We’ll be doing that little and often Anita, till you look……remarkable’

With me still weeping uncontrollably, she sent me away to dress, telling me that I would be subject to her inspection. She told me to make myself look like the kind of big titted slut who would walk the way I had shown her and dream of gobbling down as much cum as she could. As soon as I was in my bedroom I fell to the floor and pounded it with sheer frustration. My life was so horrible! I did this, but just for a few seconds as I dared not displease my Mistress and risk being late or poorly dressed.

I stood in the pink dress with the open sides and the elastic strips. My smooth crotch was bare to the world below the tiny skirt that was snapped about the tops of my upper thighs. I had fretted about my hair and make-up and had made sure that they were exactly as I had been instructed; I looked like the proper porn-shoot bimbo that I was supposed to. My freshly sore tits bulged dramatically against the stretched fabric and pushed up and out of the cups in the dress. They presented an immense cleavage between the zip-edges of my dark blue leather-look jacket.

There was no way that the jacket could close around me. I so wanted to hide myself away in shame, to cover myself in a huge smock. I couldn’t look at my chest or I would immediately start crying. I looked straight ahead.

My look was completed by the white bag on the gold chain and another pair of my new shoes.

Again I had to concentrate as I teetered on high, five-inch stiletto heels; but this time I wore shoes rather than the ankle boots. These were also patent white. Vivienne had told me at the time that the white stilettos that so perfectly humiliated me would become a constant feature of my outfits, like a trademark. My heart had sunk as I had tottered around the sex shop in them, so perfectly degraded. She had made the further point that they suited my virginal inexperience for the time being but, in my case, they would soon form a delicious incongruity with the depraved slut that I was to become. I had stared at her sullenly, like a bitch about to be punished, like a little girl being forced to wear her mother’s choice of new shoes; that she hated. Vivienne had stood there and smiled cooing over my new shoes.

They were slightly pointed white pumps with a thin strap that closed with a delicate gold buckle around my ankle. At the side of my heels there were several little triangles and other shapes cut out, so the pink flesh of my foot was visible and contrasted against the shiny white of the plastic. They unequivocally shouted ‘trailer-trash’ and I had sulked to myself as I had deliberately selected them, today, for my Mistress and reluctantly fastened them on. I so longed to go back to being ‘boring Anita’ again; to dress in dull, flat, brown shoes. I wished that I could go back in time, burn that advert in the paper and spend the rest of my days dressed like a woman twice my age; as a frump.

‘Walk for me slut’ she purred.

PART 24

I immediately swallowed my pride, fixed my gaze on my Mistress and tried to think like the girl in the video had perhaps done. I tried to imagine that I was desperately horny. I knew that I had to ooze confidence and throw myself into it; it really was an ‘all or nothing’ walk. I took a deep breath and then twisting on one foot, I slowly stepped my other leg forward. My bare skin was on full display from the very top of my thigh to the white plastic of my high heels. I was such a whore. I stepped down so that I would put one foot almost in front of the other; the height from my heels exaggerating the swing and forcing a sinuous, filthily debauched, writhing from my hips as I moved.

I tried to keep it smoulderingly sexy and focussed on my Mistress. I kept my mouth slightly gaping and the shame of my busting cleavage pushed out crassly towards her. While I did this, my hands started to move on my body. I felt like the girl in the film now, a depraved ‘cum-slut’, and I knew I had to play the part as well as possible.

She was smiling at me as I glided across the room to her.

‘Good’ she nodded keenly ‘very good slut! Keep that going, and work those hands up to those tits! Show me how much you love them!’

I swallowed quickly, burying the urge to dissolve into tears one more time. I worked my hands up until I held handfuls of my own inflated breasts. By this time I was standing right in front of her. She giggled at my earnest display, I blushed intensely; I could never win with her.

‘Good slut’ she said as she stood up.

She stood just slightly taller than me, in spite of the height of my heels.

‘One more thing before you hit the road’

She walked out, leaving me standing there. I had so feared having to go out again.

I heard her in the bedroom and then she walked into the kitchen. I heard the banging of pans and the tap running and then some quiet movement. I stood, alone, dressed like a prostitute, in my own living room. I tentatively tried to pull the jacket edges closer together, to try and cover myself a little more. It was totally futile; the jacket was too small for that. So I just stood there, nervously working my balance from shoe to shoe.

After several minutes Vivienne came back in. I could hear water boiling on the stove in the kitchen.

‘You are going to be so hot tonight slut’ she purred mischievously.

I dared not even turn round as I heard her walk up behind me. I felt the chain from my bag and then she spun me round to face her. She was looking straight into me, I had to look down. She took the chain again, this time from the front, and led me forwards.

‘Go to the bedroom and sit at your table’

In no time, Vivienne had me watching in the mirror as she carefully, one by one, started to remove the studs from my ears. Each one was sore and I could see, as she placed each one on my dressing table, the specks of dried blood on the pins. I counted all six out of each ear as I sat there motionless, nervously watching her careful movements.

She went back to the kitchen and soon returned with one of my pans and a small bottle; clearly something that she had brought herself. She placed the pan down on the table and then reached into it. I could see her grinning as she pulled out the first, and largest, of my new matching earrings. My heart groaned, silently.

She just hummed a little to herself as she wiped the pin of the earring with some of her antiseptic and then moved towards my ear. I felt a sting from the alcohol and an aching as she pushed the metal through the young piercing; then she clipped the bar onto its fastening. I watched in misery as she returned her hand to the pan and the hideous ornament continued to hang from me.

Within a few seconds, she was hanging the ‘next size down’ earring in the piercing above on the same ear. It was all I could do to sit still and tolerate the humiliation without reacting. I resisted protesting and I tried my hardest to not give in and give her the pleasure of seeing how I really felt. I watched helplessly as she gradually set all the earrings in place. To my horror, I saw the brazen tart, my perfect ‘slut alter-ego’ starting to emerge in the mirror. The nightmare concept-woman that I had always despised but had only fully conceived of and crystallised that day at the café, was now coming into fruition.

When she had finished, to ‘rub my face in it’, she made me make some of my ‘slut faces’ into the mirror. She made me turn my head to the sides as I did them, to show off my new earrings. She had me licking the air in front of me, ‘wishing for some cock’ as she put it, deliberately rocking my head a little to make the obscene amount of gold dangle and sway in my ears. She told me to push my breasts out more. I felt a crushing wave of panic envelope me as she returned from the kitchen with another yoghurt. She made me practice my ‘party trick’ with my earrings and newly inflated breasts. With her eyes fixed on me, every second of it was torture.

I tried my best to put on a good show for her. As she laughed and taunted me, calling me her ‘ultimate whore’ and a ‘desperate cum slut’, all I wanted to do was to crawl under my bed-sheets, hide and grasp one of my teddies. I wanted to wish myself away; to another place or another time.

My fear only continued to rise when she handed me a bottle of lubricant and told me to make sure I was fit to deliver ‘pussy services’. In abject humiliation, as she watched me, I hitched up my skirt and rubbed a generous amount of the warm, oily liquid onto my folds and deep into myself. I tried my best not to be churlish as I did it. God knows I had never been sunk to such depths before!

‘Your assignment will test your sluttish abilities today Anita’ Vivienne finally spoke.

Her tone was neutral and instructive and on this occasion, that worried me. If she was going to merely expose me, as I was, I’m sure she would have been a lot less pleasant with me; she would have taunted me.

‘You are going to do your first ‘double’ today’

I looked at her in the mirror.

‘You are going to get a man off, twice; once with your mouth and once with your cunt’

I saw her smile at the pleading expression that took to my face.

‘It’s an excellent way of testing your technique. A man will come practically immediately when confronted by such a sexy slut as you. Make no mistake slave, you look like you have come straight out of a man’s wank-fantasy’

I blushed.

‘But the second come is more difficult as he has just been spent. It will be a measure of your technique and skills. It will test your ability to please him, to excite him’

I wanted to cry

‘If you fail to get him off twice in, oooooh….say……twenty-five minutes, then there will be a punishment session waiting for you when you get back, a….lengthy one….Its just as simple as that slut’

I felt like I was going to pass out.

‘Now don’t fret’ she laughed, reaching out to me and holding my cheek ‘you can do that, Anita, believe me when I tell you this; but you’ll have to use your sluttish wiles. You’ll have to use all the things you’ve learnt today, your face, your walk, your party trick, your dance moves as you slide up and down him, anything you like’

She was smiling and stroking me, almost fondly, like she wanted me to succeed.

‘I don’t care. Just make sure he gets off twice’

Her smile faded.

‘I’m making it easy as well; he’s already a client of yours’

PART 25

It was a crisp, icy day but very bright. Having been stuck indoors all day, I had to squint as the sun glared into my face. I shuddered as I stood outside, in the open; anyone could see me now. I had to keep my mind on the task, on the job, otherwise it would implode. I corrected my posture, took a deep breath and then started walking. Not the ‘exhibition’ from the video, but my ‘normal’ slut’s gait. I strutted and moved like I was cruising for business. I had to take small steps but I took them quickly as I knew Vivienne would soon be behind me, ready to be my voyeur; as if the phone transmitting from my bag wasn’t bad enough.

I saw a figure starting to round the corner ahead of me. My heart started to pound, I couldn’t believe I was going to be seen, in cold daylight, looking like I was. I reaffirmed my resolution to avoid the pain; I would have to be able to deal with this.

As we neared each other, I could see that he was behaving strangely. He was trying to snatch glances at me without making it obvious. His obvious discomfort actually made me feel a little better, like I was not so severely disadvantaged. He ignored me as we passed each other and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could do this, hopefully.

The second figure around the corner was a woman; then a second woman appeared, walking with her. My hope disappeared. They were about my age and fashionably dressed, in dark coats. They both wore stylish leather boots with heels and had ‘designer’ looking handbags. One was blonde, with a long ponytail, the other had an angular, fashionable ‘bob’ haircut. As one of them noticed me, I saw her hand go to her mouth. She was talking behind it. The other girl then looked for me. When she caught me, she visibly sniggered. I wanted to scream! I wanted to scream at the top of my voice; to scream my lungs out. I was fully exposed, helpless in front of them.

The intertwined ticking of our heels gradually merged as we neared each other. I could see that they were stifling their amusement; trying to hold straight faces. I did the only thing I could, I smiled. The girls stared, with eyes like the heads of nails. Their looks, although evasive, were of contempt; contempt for being a slut. I saw the disbelief in their faces as they noticed, when they were close enough; how extreme my earrings were; the little ring through my fingernail; my swollen, surgical lips and my ‘tits’; begging for attention. It was all I could do to just keep moving and not turn around to run back inside. When they were behind me, I did not turn round, I didn’t want to see them looking back and laughing at me. I filled up with a deep, shameful crimson. My throat felt tight. I reached up and touched it, trying to loosen a tight blouse that wasn’t there. I felt my ‘Anita’ necklace nestling above and between the heads of my collarbones. My God, what did I look like!?

To stop the mentally downward spiral towards collapse, I ran through my checklist again; as a distraction. I brought myself back to the job at hand. I had to remember everything; the walk, the face, the moves Cara had taught me and worst of all, the thing that Vivienne kept calling my ‘party trick’. Glancing behind me, I saw Vivienne emerging from my block of flats; I knew I had to get on with it. I took a deep breath and as I heard the clicking from my Mistress’s spike-heels, gradually getting louder, I set off, around the corner.

The noise from pneumatic drilling immediately hit me. I had been so absorbed in my shame that I had not really noticed it. There were half a dozen men working on the road, all wearing hard-hats and fluorescent yellow over-vests. I couldn’t believe the situation I was in, it was just unreal. I tried to imagine that I was in a trance as I found my target amongst the workforce. With one further thought about the punishment, to drive me, I started to strut. I went through my confidence routine, like the previous night. I tried to feel like I was Julia Roberts again. Fuck it, I tried to imagine that I was the whore from ‘Desperate Cum Sluts’. I tried to tap her well of shamelessness. Amongst the noise, I somehow made out the sound of high heels behind me. I wished it was Cara. I would have felt a little better if it was her who was with me. It would have been harder doing it alone, but it was worst doing it for the amusement of Vivienne.

I flicked my head high. I felt a cold splash from the dangling golden hearts at the sides of my neck; I felt like such a slut. For the first time, I tried to consciously draw power from that. I harnessed the slut’s confident abandon, that uncaring, almost oblivious regard for her shame. I channelled that feeling into my walk. I was completely conscious of my legs and breasts, perfectly displayed, as my man set down his bucket and chanced to look up. I saw him freeze, dead, like he’d seen a ghost. I swallowed and he watched, mesmerized as I started my performance. It was slightly easier to do at that distance but as soon as I saw his jaw drop I knew that I had two choices. I could either submit to the raging shame swelling inside me, or I could ride my way through this, become the slut of his dreams and seduce him.

There was no way I could take the horror of Vivienne’s punishment again. I blew him a kiss as I became ‘her’. I told myself I was playing a role; that it wasn’t really me. As that thought started to ease my pain, the ‘naughty slut’ smile on my face started to feel more relaxed, and as a double-edged sword, more natural. I ignored the little voice at the back of my mind; my dignity.

I started to think ‘I need a fuck, God I need a fuck so badly, and I want it from you!’

It was like a mantra, to brainwash myself. Even the swelling self hatred that was building inside me was not powerful enough to match Vivienne’s punishment. I though it over and over again as my walk became more and more depraved. My pelvis was swinging and grinding as I writhed as lustfully as I could towards him. My focus was on my mark, solely. I didn’t care about the other men, as they stopped their work. At least that’s what I told myself. The blush across my face and neck told a different story though. The drilling and clanking gradually subsided to a total halt. Against the background sound of the traffic, they could now hear the clicking of my stiletto heels on the concrete. I pressed my chest out. I would use my hated tits now; they would become an asset and would help me to get this awful job done.

My man was obviously flushed but had regained some control and was now walking towards me. I heard the first whistle from his mate, and then they all started. It was to a melee of wolf-whistles, calling and howling that I stopped my strutting and took a pose; my right hand on my hip, my foot turned out to the side, my bag hanging down on the left and my head turned and cocked slightly. I kept my lips parted, trying to imagine I was in the middle of my programme on the training machine, anticipating taking the cock into it. I hoped the cake of foundation I had on my face was enough to hide my utter shame.

‘My God, I mean…..Wow!….I mean……Wow!….Anita!……You look…….Amazing!’ he spluttered. His eyes were all over me, he didn’t know where to look. Feeling that it was the only way I could carry on, I drank in his lust and started to feel some power from it. Damn it, I started to feel in control a little, like this guy was ruled by his dick and that at the moment, I was ruling that. This had to work in my favour.

I slowed my walk down. I made a conscious decision to become his temptress, albeit an easily obtainable one. I wanted to drive him wild, he would need to be able to come twice, in twenty five minutes. He was paralysed as I stepped right up to him and reached up to his face.

I moved, tantalizingly, towards him and slowly, painfully slowly, moved to kiss him. At the last moment, as he closed his eyes, I moved to the side, to his cheek and lightly bushed my lip against it, breathing onto him. I felt him moan. I had to cash in now, I had to go in for the kill. I looked him I the eyes.

‘I need you inside me’ I breathed seriously ‘I need you now’

It was a cheesy, porn-film line but it worked. I saw him swallow. One of his mates was shouting, ‘Go on son! Give ‘er one from me!’

This was met with cheering and more whistling. I looked at him and smiled,

‘Go on, give me one’ I thought as I made my slut face for him. I tried to project that thought at him.

‘Come with me’ he said, looking around shiftily.

I took hold of his arm, becoming his girl. A sudden wave of panic hit me, was I really doing this? How was I going through with seducing this guy? Why was I not shrinking away in embarrassment? Where was my dignity?

As I felt his thick, tight muscles, the realisation that I was a woman, giving myself to him consumed me. I felt so female, so female that it almost melted me. Then I remembered that I was, of all females, a pleasure girl for his amusement; a trainee whore; a slut, learning her trade. Instead of screaming, ‘No!’ as loud as I could, I squeezed his arm and looked into his eyes. As he looked longingly back, I licked my lips and said

‘Come on lover, I want to taste you’

I thought I saw his pupils dilate there and then. He quickened the pace and I had to concentrate to walk that fast in my white stilettos. As we made for a side street, we passed Vivienne. She completely blanked me but it was enough to remind me of my true purpose, my true condition. Instantly upset and struggling once more to hold it all together, I gripped hold of the man’s arm and took some comfort from the fact that not everyone wanted to see me suffering. After the treatment that I was getting used to from Vivienne, I started to warm to the idea of some company that would treat me nicely; even if it meant giving my body to them for some easy love.

I wanted to ask him things. As my emotions started to carry me away, I started to get upset again. I didn’t even know his name; the second man that I had ever had sexual relations with and was now about to ‘double’. I felt the pain of Vivienne’s cruelty again. She had stroked my head before I had left the flat. She had given me a couple of further rules. Next to what she had already done to me, they seemed so trifling, but now I was feeling their sting.

She had told me ‘No conversation outside of sex-talk’.

At the time, it had been the last thing on my mind. Now, as we walked, hurriedly and silently to the makeshift venue for our encounter, I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to at least know his name. I wanted to tell him that he was only my second man ever. I wanted to let him know that, so that maybe he would treat me with special care and attention. But that was my former self talking. It was ‘Slut Anita’, and her only, who was allowed or able to talk to him. The closest I could come to expressing myself was,

‘My! Someone’s in a hurry?!’, a desperate attempt to invite a compliment, to hear that he cared for me. As the pause lengthened, I released the tension; it wouldn’t do to have my ‘client’ feeling uncomfortable,

‘And it’s me baby, I want to fuck you dry’

As the ache weighed in my heart, I recognised the truth of how lonely I was. I would be intimate with this man yet we would remain strangers.

As I thought of what I had just said, I wondered how I was thinking of these things, I really was not that kind of woman normally. I almost sobbed aloud when I remembered that the girl in the video had said exactly that!

I had subconsciously absorbed and assimilated it. Her behaviour was becoming mine. What was I turning into?

Whatever it was, regardless of my own despair at it, he was responding to it.

‘Oh you will! Don’t you worry, I’ve got more for you, more of what you got last night. God you were so hot, I’ve……well, I’ve never been with anyone like you before Anita, you’re just so damn……well…….Fucking hot!’

At that he stopped. He turned me towards him. I could see, in his eyes, he was overcome with raw desire, for me. He pulled me close, one hand between my shoulder blades, the other down, on my left cheek. I felt enveloped by him and while his embrace was driven by his rising lust, it was warm and loving too. His touch was firm but sensitive. I responded, like I knew I should, by rubbing my knee up his leg and running my shoe up his calf. When my thigh was horizontal, he hooked his forearm under it, supporting it. My God, I felt his fingers fishing under my skirt. We were still on the street, in broad daylight!

He pulled me in, so I was so close that I could rub myself against his leg. I heard him gasp and moan as his fingers brushed across the perfectly smooth, bare skin atop my labia. I didn’t realise that my bare skin would be so exciting for him. I made a huge moan of pleasure when he started, with a finger inside me, to gently rub around the outer part of my tunnel. It felt good. I’m ashamed to say that after all the punishment and sadistic torture that I had been forced to endure, I allowed myself to enjoy the feeling; to lose myself in the lovely sensation. While we were not able to be intimate mentally, we could be one physically. His touch, for that moment, freed me. It was the most welcome contrast to my Mistress, who wanted to cut parts out of me or burn holes in my mind. I would allow myself to be his and it was all right anyway, because that was what my Mistress wanted.

PART 26

When we had got to his van, I had taken control. I knew the clock was starting and, in the parked Mercedes across the street, sat Vivienne Black. There was no way I was going to risk being punished. I sat him down and was straight onto my knees. Trying to project hungry, lustful thoughts, I fixed his eyes with my lips parted, licking them. At the same time, my hands were at his trousers, unfastening them. He had reached down and stripped his own belt off in seconds, by which time I had his buttons undone and was starting to tug his trousers down to his ankles. The grit and dust on the floor bit into my knees and marred the perfect white of my shoes, but I ignored it. Instead, I gently lifted his pants over his bulging erection and pulled them down. Keeping eye contact, but without lingering, I set to work on him there and then. It wasn’t long before I was locked into the training sequence that had started to burn itself into my mind. To me it was an almost robotic sequence, a choreographed set of moves, all performed with smiling fervour. Vivienne was right; in no time at all he came.

It took all the discipline that I had to not open my mouth and scream in disgust. I felt the pulses of warm salty semen unload into my mouth. I wanted to be sick. Instead I had to grin at him and pull off him.

My soul was shouting ‘No!’ as I was then forced to do that most dehumanising and hideous act. Vivienne’s evil, controlling grin was loud in my mind as I made sure the last droplets of his seed spilt onto my face. That was vital for what had to come next.

I was burning with such deep, deep resentment of her but I kept my composure. He was spent but was still hypnotically fixed on me, fascinated. I licked my lips and I saw his mouth open in disbelief. Girls like me didn’t exist, not for real, not outside of porn films. I saw his eyes widen as I formed my face into the depraved, wanton smile that she had made me practice and take a finger to my face. Delicately and carefully, but hungrily, I scraped up the last drop from his cheek and then, exaggerating the movement; the savouring, I sung the finger into my mouth and closed my eyes. As I tasted the stringy, watery globs I tried to think of it as ‘precious’, in reality it made me want to throw up.

‘Mmmmmmmmmmm!!’ I moaned and then, opening my eyes, I delivered my line; the cheeky confession of my most secret vice.

‘I’m sorry; I just love come so much!’ completed with the most vacuous giggle that I could muster, exactly as Vivienne had wanted it.

I had spent the next few hours curled up against my bedroom skirting-board, sobbing quietly to myself, still dressed as I had been. Vivienne wanted me to ‘stay just as I was so that I could reflect on my performance’. Every time I opened my eyes and saw the blurry view of my long naked legs disappearing into my shoes, it took me straight back to the van. The virgin patent white around the toes of my shoes was now marred and dirtied from kneeling on the dusty floor. I took a cloth and wiped away the black marks. It didn’t make me feel any better. I just sat there and wept, until I could weep no more. Then, finally, I got up, took my clothes off and took a shower.

Hours later, as Lisa joined me in bed; I wanted to talk to her. I had snapped myself out of my earlier self-pity the minute she had strode in through the door and fastened her collar about her throat. So much had happened, to us both, that we needed to treasure our time together and use it to help each other. While I was not hungry to hear about whatever inhumanities she had been forced to endure, I needed to share what I was going through. I knew it was good to talk, even about these things. Nobody ever benefited from bottling things up.

She smiled at me and made a face that I had never seen before. She put her finger up to her lips and gave me such a convincing, raunchy but naughty smile. I didn’t want this. My God, she was training up well though; better than me. I felt a rush of shame as I realised that I had thought such a competitive thought, and then another ache in my heart as I realised that our real time together would be eaten into be the necessity of her new, enforced, lesbian façade. I couldn’t do anything that would make things difficult for her, or for me for that matter. I knew that the kindest thing that I could do would be to lie back, try to enjoy her mouth on me and come quickly, so that we could hold each other and then talk properly. I suspected that if I didn’t come, she would probably be punished. It was made all the worse by the fact that, after I had done so well in the van with my man earlier, Vivienne had told me that I would get a reward from Lisa later. Again, the man’s cum remained inside me, but this time, I knew much better than to try and intervene. It didn’t stop me feeling guilty as I felt her breathe on my hairless, sensitive crotch. I knew that she would have to lick out all of his juice, without complaint.

It was already a much, much different sensation to the first time that she had pleasured me. I was instantly aware of her training and skill as, in spite of my reluctance, she almost instantly had me alight and burning with the most carnal pleasure. How on earth was she doing this? The first time she had done it, she had had to rely on raw, sincere passion and her own natural aptitude; now she had some technique to augment that. She was getting far too good that I was behaving against my own will.

I felt her roam her hand upwards, over my belly and onto my breasts. In spite of the recent surgery and the fresh injections, she actually, for the first time, made them feel nice. Oh I held on to that sensation! Her soft caresses sent ripples of pleasure pulsing up my body. I felt my nipples hardening like rocks, nosing themselves outwards eagerly as her palms swept over, hoping to snag deliciously in the spaces between her passing fingers. I allowed myself the freedom to take pleasure from my breasts then, in spite of how their new form humiliated me. I had wondered if the surgery had damaged the nerves in them or dulled them to sensation somehow but those fears were absolutely set to rest. I even started to push them out, so that they were huge and full, towards her hand, hungry for more and more of the sensation on them. This was not like the frenzied gropings of earlier, I was being pleasured by a woman this time, and oh what a difference that made! I glowed with pleasure as I felt my nipples throbbing, fully engorged and standing absolutely en pointe. As she started to give them more and more attention her touch became electric.

It wasn’t long before I was fully lost in the pleasure, my hands stretched behind me, grabbing the bed-head, and my legs splayed wide, giving her full access to my all. After minutes of moaning intensely, feeling guilty but just too aroused to step back, she made me come, incredibly powerfully, as she flicked her tongue across my clit, stroking inside me at the same time with her fingers.

I tried to tell myself that I had done it for her, to ease her suffering. But I found that difficult to reconcile with the unnecessarily crushing intensity of the orgasm that I had just felt. I breathed deeply, trying to catch up with the demands she had made on my body.

‘It’s not over yet baby’ she breathed and then was back on me. My God, I was back on the brink in an instant.

I had never had multiple orgasms before but this girl, this trainee woman-pleaser had me spilling over the cusp of orgasm within seconds. She rubbed at just the right spot inside me, forcing me to moan in sheer, unabated need. I had already come once, I had fulfilled my brief, but now we were continuing. As she stretched me so beautifully I felt the warmth of her mouth once more, warm and soft, coursing up my swollen folds ready to deliver the final blows to my straining clitoris. It was too much to take. With the smallest, slightest flick of my clit I was, once more, thrashing in the throws of another irresistible climax. It lasted seemingly forever; wave after wave of pleasure rose and passed through and over me as I fell down a multi-coloured well of joyous abandon. Finally she was off me and I could start to return to reality.

I forced myself to get my breath back. I remembered how guilty this sex act made me feel; only now it was twice as bad. I filled up with shame; I had behaved so wantonly, where was my dignity?

‘Lisa, I…’ I stuttered, realising the true depth of what I had just done.

‘Don’t say anything Anita’, she said softly. She had her finger gently, but decisively, over my lips, hushing me. She had a determined look in her eyes. Had this been something she had been told to do or was this because of the punishment she had given me?

I looked into her eyes and I knew that we should just leave it there, it was all far too complicated and ultimately insoluble. I let it all go, opened my arms and she fell into them. I squeezed her with all my strength and in that moment was sure that I would never let her go.

We held each other for the next two hours and started to talk. We no longer felt any shame from sharing our feminine nakedness, not with each other; we had moved beyond that. It was probably that those boundaries had been so completely violated for us that it was futile to try and re-erect them when they were actually unwanted. It felt wonderful, after being so lonely, to finally be able to be intimate, truly intimate with someone; with my friend; my best and only friend.

PART 27

‘I’m Anita, I was told to……’

‘Wait there’ fizzed the speaker abruptly.

I scanned away from the little camera next to the pokey back-door; there was nothing but cars, concrete and weather. A freezing gust caught me, forcing me to grasp my hands around myself and bend my bare legs tightly together. There was never a ‘right’ time to be out dressed like I was but this was certainly not it. I shook, bare-legged in a white leather miniskirt.

‘Come in’, it snapped me back to the door

I recognised her as I hurried inside; she had been the one who had installed the cameras in my flat. She was disinterested as I passed her. She slammed the thick metal door against its mate and then pointed down the stairs, now the only route. I grasped the handrail, worrying about going over on one of my towering stilettos and breaking an ankle. Down was always so much harder than up.

‘You’d better get used to those shoes I think’, there was no affection in her German accent. The stairs were wide and well worn in the rheumy yellow light. She passed me before I was halfway down, not slowing as she reached the bottom and disappeared around the corner. I went as fast as I could, barely finding my balance with each teetering descent. By the time I was standing at the bottom, the corridor was empty. Through the dull hum, I could hear music and the faint sounds of girl’s voices. Carefully, I hurried after her.

‘Hello slut. No that’s ok’

I stopped my hurried journey across the room towards Vivienne’s feet as she held her palm up.

‘Thank you Mistress’

Her smile was wintery.

‘Strip and put these on’ she said, businesslike.

Suspiciously, I lifted some lacy white material from the little bag and stretched it out, I shivered.

‘It’s not summer any more is it slut, I’m sure you want something to help keep you a little warmer’

I dropped my bag. The white leather jacket, matching tight skirt and purple boob-tube lay on the chair as I drew the garter belt around my waist and clipped it shut behind. Little white bows rested above as the loose straps bounced lightly against the tops of my legs. I sat down and unbuckled the ankle straps of my pumps; I had to grip each heel as the shoe popped off. I reached inside the bag again. I could see the designs jumping out of the white nylon, loud stringy flowers and gaudy heart shapes; I could feel my skin crawl.

Inexcusable as it was to keep my Mistress waiting, I tore open the packaging, ruffled the stocking up my thumbs and passed it over my toes. As I drew it up my leg I watched the patterns emerging, growing until my whole leg was tightly bound in the white nylon. A giant heart and piercing arrow dominated the side of my thigh. I screwed up my face internally, feeling the embarrassment that would surely come each time I was seen. I was now firmly into porn star territory I thought; women with taste simply didn’t wear things like that, not even in the bedroom.

I clipped the suspenders onto the stocking and put the other one on. A snap of Vivienne’s fingers and I was seated again, the toes of one foot nestling back into the white point of their shoe. Again, grabbing the long white stiletto for leverage, I forced my heel in. As I rested against the floor to wind the little strap around my ankle, I could feel the thick lines against my foot pad.

She beckoned me up and looped her finger. I stood, held my arms against my body, fanning my hands outwards and made a little twirl for her.

‘Little Slut’ came her caustic laugh.

I hated how I looked, naked except for the cheap slutty lingerie and high heels. Yes, I was a slut, you only had to get a glimpse of me to see that, but it was not out of choice! It was not something that I had planned for myself or decided that I wanted to be!

Of course, nobody looking at me would know that; that’s what made the whole thing so utterly frustrating and so damnably humiliating.

They sat me, naked save for my new stockings and shoes, on the bench. I started crying as the German girl pushed me back against the padded rest and scooped one of my legs up under her forearm. She swept it up and over a vertical support, resting my spike-heeled foot into a stirrup.

‘Please’ I sobbed, the fear starting to grow within me.

She completely ignored me.

I looked desperately at my Mistress, pleading for mercy with my eyes, knowing that it was futile. I dropped my head and wept as my other foot was hung, wide, to the other side. My newly patterned legs were held, splayed open. The thick lacy top of my stockings curtained either side of my smooth, naked sex which gaped open towards the two women.

Vivienne was standing below me, fiddling with a camcorder. The sterile white of the floor and walls emphasized the black of her tight clothes and boots and the dark lines of her make-up. Her full lips wore a deep burgundy velvet. Her hair was pulled tightly up to a spout at the very top of her head, it fountained over and downwards in thick arcs of straight dark silk. The other girl was also in black, a tight sleeveless top and leather trousers, the short crop of her blonde hair gelled into chaotic spikes. I cried out again.

‘Stop being such a fucking baby’

The tall blonde girl stared at me, her inch of patience had just snapped. She slapped me hard around the face. As the snap echoed, I felt the sting-wave hit, jolting me out of my self pity and back to the horror of the moment.

‘I’ll give you something to cry about’ she muttered

My head swam a little as she pulled a trolley over and came around to my side. I thought that I might be sick.

‘Now we make you like the other girls’

Vivienne stepped up, between my legs, squaring the lens at my face. Self conscious, I sniffed and tried to stem the tears. As I looked down and saw the top of the trolley. I couldn’t stop myself. I screamed.

‘Oh No! Mistress, please! Please not that! Please….. No Mistress!!!’

My breathing became irregular. I stopped caring about the camera and appearances and struggled for air. I scrabbled desperately to sit up. I saw the blonde girl’s wiry muscles tense as she grabbed my wrists and had them yanked behind me and controlled. She wrenched me back into the seat. Vivienne was totally absorbed by the view from the camera; it was like I was alone with the blonde girl, as if her voyeurism somehow detached her from the reality.

‘No’ I had whispered to myself, shaking my head.

I felt cold metal digging at my wrist. Then clicking as I felt the circle of the cuff close on me; I was terrified. I had never been restrained before. I had never before felt the helplessness of handcuffs.

‘No don’t, you don’t have to do that…..! Oh Please!’

After a second clicking I felt both of my wrists stretched securely behind me, holding me back against the padding. I screamed again and jerked against the cuffs. The metal bit painfully into my wrists, refusing to yield even a millimetre. I sobbed unrestrainedly, not daring to think about what they would do to me, trying to cloud my brain with my own tears.

My makeup must have been streaming down my face as I blubbered incoherently, the camera in my face, recording my nightmare, capturing my misery for Vivienne’s sick museum.

My face was surely bright red and strained as she snapped on a pair of gloves and picked up a soaking purple gauze. My tears flowed freely as she raised the dripping antiseptic slowly towards me, I just couldn’t believe what they were now doing to me. Even after all the surgery Vivienne had put me through, this had somehow seemed more degrading. It was a toxic mixture of fear from the pain of having my sensitive body needled and the torment of the knowledge that the whole process was for the permanent addition of some new and awful humiliations.

I started to panic as she settled the swab against my nipple and started to work the cold liquid around it.

‘No, not there, surely this can’t happen’ I told myself

My throat was parched, bone dry. She wasted no time. In a second, she had my nipple crushed in a pair of stout forceps. She ripped it up and outwards with a deliberate brutality, she had every intention of hurting me. It was quite the most violent thing anyone had ever done. It took a split second, but when it hit, the pain was impossible. I screamed my lungs out showering her and the camera.

My vision started to blank as she grinned and raised the piercing needle, sure to make sure I appreciated the whole thing. I was sure I’d have passed out when I saw the thick cutting shank of the bevel. But I remember everything, so vividly.

Somehow, strangely, when Vivienne had injected my breasts, it hadn’t hurt so much; it had been more the idea of it that had been so unthinkable. Maybe it was because the needle had only slipped through a thin layer of skin before entering the numb implants inside me, and that had protected me. My vulnerable, throbbing nipple was entirely different. It was a button, rich and bursting with nerve endings, bubbling with tenderness, a vulnerable nexus of feminine sensation. I tore at the cuffs as I felt the sharp prick. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t. I sobbed and choked insanely, tensing my head and neck as she pushed. I screamed and tore my head away. She drove the icy point clean through, lancing right through. My most tender bud exploded.

Part of me was still clinging to the belief that this wasn’t happening. The sight of the thick steel wobbling in my flesh as she unclipped the forceps and my skewered nipple snapped back was totally undeniable though. I hung my head as I saw her go to the other side. I was shrieking dementedly as she did the same to my other nipple. The tears sailed down my cheeks, dripping onto my chest and running down around my punished mounds. She opened a sterile paper packet. I watched, detached, pathologically transfixed as she revealed my new jewellery, my rings.

The thick gold gleamed as she held the inch-and-a-half wide loop between her pale latex covered thumb and forefinger. Instead of a little ball where the ends of the ring screwed together, it was shaped like a tiny heart. I wept in despair when I saw them, Vivienne and Trisha had recreated every possible detail to best humiliate me. I knew I would have to wear them and I didn’t know how I would be able to face another human being if they knew. I filled up with shame.

My skin had crawled as she had slid precise metal grommets, tubes barely wider than the needles themselves, along each of my nipple-needles so that they rested just inside the skin, holding the piercings open. She deftly removed the needles and then took up a strange syringe-shaped tool and slid the thin end of it into the new grommet. As she depressed the plunger, I winced; it griped sharply. She pulled the tool out but it left me stinging inside.

‘No, that really hurts’ I pleaded. Maybe she hadn’t realised. She chuckled.

I so wanted to free my hands so that I could massage myself and try to dull the pain. I implored her silently as she pushed the tool into the other nipple and then, smiling directly at me, squeezed the trigger again. I yelped, hanging my head in resignation, gritting my teeth to take the pain again. I sobbed quietly, trying to ignore it, trying to think of something else as she unscrewed and opened the rings. One by one she fitted me with them, sliding them into the new grommets before squeezing the ends together. She screwed them both closed and tightened them with another little tool. She hung them, heart-closure down and stepped back, pleased with herself.

‘Now then’ Vivienne triumphed ‘don’t you look special now’

She reached forward and stroked my cheek and then kissed the side of my head.

‘So special. I just love them. Imagine how you will feel showing them to your boyfriends’

I wept at the thought. She reached forward and, with the tip of her finger, lightly flicked the ring so it bounced up easily and swung back. I tried to shrink back away from the awful things; I wanted absolutely no part of them.

‘Slut’ she mouthed slowly at me, whispering the word into my face.

Reaching forward again she held the ring. Slowly, she twisted it, just a little, just enough to suggest the sensation. As it tightened against me, I glimpsed how these new, unwelcome intruders could be made to punish me. I looked at her through my tears, aghast, my nipples were not supposed to instruments of pain! I sat fearfully still, not wanting to hurt myself.

Her eyes were almost loving, warm and tender as she threaded her finger through the ring and rubbed gently against the end of my nipple. It felt sore and sharp; all I could feel was the constant ache of the uncompromising steel that now filled me and the fear of Vivienne even slightly twisting.

‘Beautiful’ she said kissing me again, keeping me on a knife edge with her finger,  ‘I love you confused, frightened and utterly controlled’

I was surprised when she withdrew her finger from my nipple ring.

‘You’ll need to behave now; we can’t have any more thrashing about’

She whispered something in my ear. I felt myself stiffen.

PART 28

It was probably the worst night I had ever had. The blonde girl, ‘Suka’ Vivienne had called her, had taken me home and left me in my bedroom with a can of spray, some ointment and an instruction sheet on how to care for my piercings. The only thing that she said to me, the whole way back, was that if they got infected and she had to take them out, she would whip my cunt, hard.

I’d spent the evening curled up and crying, waiting for Lisa to come back, needing her to make me feel like a person again. I hadn’t dared undress in case I saw what they had put in my flesh; what they had put into my body. I was not comfortable, curled up, clasping my hands in front of my stockingged shins and lying on my side. The tight leather mini nipped the top of my legs and the tiny jacket held my breathing. I didn’t even take my shoes off.

Every movement of my head caused my earrings to jingle against each other. Every time I looked at my fingers, I saw Trisha’s wicked ‘SLUT’ looking back at me. And every time I looked down I saw my huge, plump breasts bubbling upwards, reminding me of the huge implants they reluctantly housed.

I wanted to wish it all away. If it had been an option, I would have died right there. I would have taken a suicide pill, cut my wrists or thrown myself from the window. I knew that I had been programmed against all of those things and that I had absolutely no option but to go trough with whatever Vivienne and Trisha had planned. I wanted my friend, she was the only thing in the world that could help. Until Lisa came home though, I was alone. I ran my tongue along the roof of my mouth.

All the way back, I had swallowed and played with my lips and teeth, as if that would help. Every time I felt the metal ball against the roof of my mouth I felt the terrible memory. I was sitting, frozen, stiff in the chair sticking my tongue out as far as it would go waiting for the pain. Needles and scalpels had flashed past my staring eyes.

The stud that ran through my tongue was my greatest humiliation. It conjured up depraved images of tongues, mouths and men’s cocks, images of woman pleasing. That was what it was for. It was a device, installed in my tongue, to feel good on someone else’s genitals. It was a sign of my apparent devotion to oral sex, a commitment to its practice and a badge that made sure everyone knew it.

Worse than that, after the stud was secured, she had injected me under my tongue and then nicked me painlessly with her scalpel. I wasn’t sure what she had done but I worried about it bleeding. My mouth was even more personal than my nipples, it was an even more intimate violation. It was a thick, dull ache in my tongue and a bloody nuisance. I had to think about everything my mouth did and every word I spoke so that I didn’t hurt myself. I hated what they had done so much.

I let the tears flow, hoping that crying would cleanse my mind of the pain and the crushing emotional blackness they had inflicted upon me. My nipples throbbed, rubbed and aggravated by the course lycra of my purple boob tube. I wasn’t going to remove it though.

Gingerly I had slid my finger down, stopping at the thin wall of leather between my legs. I felt the numb stinging inside there too. I snatched the quickest of smiles at the mercy that I didn’t have some vulgar adornment in my clitoris or my vaginal lips. It could have been even worse I told myself.

After they had sited the tongue stud and moved down between my legs I had feared for the worst. After the pain of the nipple piercings I don’t think I could have coped with a piercing down there and I was completely distraught, fearing that my mind would cave in. They had pierced me, but not how I had expected it. At the time I just felt the sting, mild compared to the nipples and tongue. They made me look at what they had done as Suka held a mirror up. There were two little balls, the first one poking out in the centre, directly above my clitoral hood; and the second one a little above the first. There must have been a thin shank of steel inside the skin connecting them both so that they both held each other in place.

She was broke. She had never been in such a dire situation in her life. What were her options? Asking help from her parents was out of the question – any “gift” from them came with heavy chains of expectations attached. The rent was due and she probably could get by with giving her landlord a partial payment …but right now she had nothing. Quitting her job had not been a good idea; she probably should have kept pushing her lawsuit and sue her employer as her friends advised her to, but she just didn’t want to deal with it… ultimately she just wanted to forget about the harassment and move on. Besides, it was her word against her boss, and he probably would have gotten others to back him up. She was not out to take on the world, she just wanted to get by… on her own.  But to accomplish that, she needed to find another job, and fast.

Kim picked the biggest office tower around and went floor to floor filling out applications for a receptionist. Making a game out of it helped…how many applications could she fill out in an hour? She even timed each stop; she was averaging about fifteen minutes per application. The game made it seem less tedious. When she got home, she would compare how she did canvassing this building to the last, and so on.

Then she struck gold. Halfway through the 5^th floor, she filled out an application for a business that she knew nothing about. They interviewed her on the spot and asked when she could start. Tomorrow! She was giddy as she left the office, thinking how things were finally looking up! Now for the immediate crisis of raising fast money before her first paycheck – she had to get her rent paid. She also needed to get something in her stomach, and as she was leaving for the bus, she caught site of a sandwich shop in another office building on the way. As she passed a bulletin-board in the lobby a message caught her eye…

YOUNG WOMEN 18 – 25 NEEDED IN MENSTRUAL DRUG TEST. IMMEDIATE CASH, LIMITED OPENINGS. INQUIRE  IN SUITE 419.

Immediate cash! That’s exactly what she needed. This certainly was worth checking out; the sandwich would have to wait. Perhaps they still had some openings? When she arrived at the door, it simply announced:

“Dr. Evelyn J. Richards, MD”

As Kim walked through the door, it initially seemed like all the other offices she had visited today, except for the slightest scent of medicine or antiseptic floating in the air.  Kim couldn’t tell which it was…perhaps it was a mixture of both. It seemed strange to Kim that a doctor’s office was stuck in the middle of a regular office building, like it had been accidentally placed in the wrong building by mistake. But this was becoming more common, as specialized services were becoming more independent from the hospitals and medical buildings. Then Kim saw the item that grandly pronounced that this office was different than all the others: built into the back wall, was a huge fish tank, stocked with exotic fish and colorful coral that no doubt cost a fortune. Although an aquarium was common and almost mandatory in doctor’s offices, this tank was exceptionally stocked, and it dwarfed most showroom tank displays at even the largest fish stores. Dr. Richards was certainly making some cash.

A receptionist smiled as Kim walked in. The she seemed to be in her early twenties. Although she was beautiful, with her wavy auburn hair, the hint of more mature facial features was beginning to emerge. She was in the transitional period between “beautiful” and “stunning”…a chrysalis of sorts. A little more time would serve to sculpt her face and further define her features, shedding any remnants of girlishness and emerging as a complete woman. A very quiet orchestral melody was playing in the background, and this seemed to enhance her beauty the slightest bit. “How can I help you?” She warmly greeted Kim.

Kim almost started with her standard “Are you accepting applications” routine, but caught herself. “Hi, I’m here about the ad you placed downstairs about the testing.”

The receptionist seemed to be sizing her up before replying. Perhaps they were looking for a particular body type? She undressed Kim with her piercing green eyes, and after an uncomfortable amount of time finally seemed to approve of what she saw. “Wonderful! We have one slot left! I’m Debra. Let me tell you a bit about what we’re doing. Your name is…?”

“Kim, Kim Burns.”

“Nice to meet you Kim. Have a seat. We are testing a new menstrual drug. It is quite safe I assure you, but the FDA requires quite an extensive amount of trials before approval.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and it put Kim at ease, however she felt somewhat inferior in the presence of the beautiful woman. Kim was certainly eye-catching and had no problem attracting men. Her sandy blond hair had recently been cut shorter, partially in response to the harassment from her last job – she had been angry and wanted a change – but it served to define her cute facial features. However, Kim would rarely be called “beautiful”…no, she was forever “cute”.

“We would need to give you a quick physical and get some information on your history, but barring any allergies to certain medications, most women qualify.” Debra approached Kim with the ubiquitous clipboard holding the questionnaire, and Kim was about to ask the most important question before she was preempted by Debra’s answer… “And we can give you a five hundred dollar check today…another five hundred dollars on the completion of the testing period.”

Five hundred dollars wasn’t the full amount she needed, but it would sure help. This was turning out to be a lucky day after all! Kim started to fill out the questionnaire, which got quite invasive with its detailed questions about her sex habits, but since it was other women who would be looking at this, it didn’t seem to matter.  Besides, for one thousand dollars total, the private information was a small amount to pay.

Debra had left, apparently to talk to the doctor. As she left the room, Kim did notice the tight skirt that clung to Debra’s ass. This woman obviously wasn’t afraid to show off her figure. And the way she sized Kim up made her feel that it was more sexual than professional…Kim had been through that before. Was Debra a lesbian? Not that it mattered much, but Kim wasn’t certain she would want to spend a lot of time with her. She just didn’t find women sexually exciting, she was definitely into men. The closest she had came to having sex with another woman was when she was drunk with a girlfriend and they kissed each other in a demonstration of some past boyfriends awful kissing techniques. This had led to a more passionate kiss, but it ended quickly with one of them bursting out laughing.

Debra rapped at Evelyn’s door and let herself in quickly closing the door behind her. “I’ve got a girl who might work!” she whispered to the doctor. Evelyn was in her mid thirties, an attractive brunette with fantastic legs and ass. She prided herself on these qualities as much as her academic and professional accomplishments… and she had accomplished quite a bit in her time. She was a brilliant student at college and medical school, and, once she began practicing, had quickly made a name for herself as a researcher of some caliber. Several larger corporations had been interested in taking her on, but Evelyn was steadfast on having her own private practice and working as a consultant. Evelyn was very private, and working for a large company would not allow her to indulge in her…interests.

Evelyn had met Debra at a lesbian hangout. A young attractive woman oozing of innocence had entered the bar and Evelyn immediately swooped down on her. However, another woman had apparently spotted the same vulnerability and the two of them almost collided in an effort to snatch the prey first. An initial evil glare between the two ultimately gave way to laughter and they all introduced each other. The other Domme was Debra. It was unusual for someone as attractive and young as Debra to be that aggressive, and Evelyn eventually recognized that as an admirable quality. As if they were reading each others minds, they went in for the kill together. The young girl didn’t stand a chance as the two fed her drink after drink and made her feel at ease, despite their aggressive nature. This was an art in itself – to dominate the situation, yet make the prey feel comfortable and non-threatened. Both Evelyn and Debra were excelling at as they tested each other, demonstrating their skills.

The girl confessed she had never been with a woman and was simply curious. The two Dommes “admitted” that they themselves were new to this too, and because Debra’s place was closer, eventually they headed there after the bar closed. Once they arrived at Debra’s, the mood quickly changed. The girl, drunk, had collapsed on the couch and was no longer the main attraction, as she was already in the possession of the other two women. Instead, the two Dommes were more curious about each other and found themselves to be quite alike. Although Evelyn was very successful and more than ten years older, she found that she had as much in common with Debra as anyone she had ever met. Debra was currently looking for work and Evelyn decided that on Monday the first thing she would do was fire her useless secretary and hire Debra.

The women decided to celebrate with a glass of Champagne and a night of mistreating their catch.  They yanked the poor, sleeping girl off of the couch, and took relentless advantage of her. Evelyn hadn’t been as forthcoming about her sadistic tendencies while talking with Debra, but it soon became obvious Debra had quite a sadistic streak too…perhaps even more profound than Evelyn’s! This was exciting to both the women as they went further and further, seeing just how far the other would go, as they abused the girl.  They teased her and tormented her.  They caressed her body, face and hair, crooning at her beauty, only to abruptly pull her by the hair or pinch her by the nipples to make her abide by their wishes.

It wasn’t long before their victim was sobbing uncontrollably.  They ended up taking turns holding the girl to the bed, one sitting on the hapless girl’s waist and holding her arms to her side while the other mercilessly grinded her pussy onto the girl’s face, threatening to smother her if she didn’t lick her pussy with enough gusto.  By the time they let her go, the poor girl couldn’t even speak clearly from the overuse of her tongue. She was so traumatized by the ordeal in the end that it was highly doubtful that she would ever try being with a woman again.

Evelyn and Debra had been together ever since, sharing their conquests and exploits. Their relationship was strangely platonic, except when carting home a victim. When this happened their passions erupted, and after they were finished with their latest prey they ended up in each other’s arms in the most intense, passionate lovemaking either had experienced before they had met. This dynamic seemed to keep any jealousy at bay, and allowed them to become best friends. The fact that Evelyn was Debra’s boss didn’t seem to have an adverse effect as Debra was very thorough and efficient at anything she did. Evelyn’s finances had given her a freedom to pursue directions that suited her interests, and because Debra was on the same wavelength, she had a willing accomplice. This led them to today, a culmination of long research and patient planning that hopefully would result in the most amazing prize either woman could imagine.

Evelyn looked at Debra and smiled. “You like her, huh?” This was exciting. “Perhaps I should meet our little test subject, and let you know if I approve?” Evelyn walked out to the lobby and sized up the woman. She was very pretty, blond and tall. She had decent sized breasts and they were obviously not enhanced. This was important as Evelyn did not want to have to deal with removing implants. There were a few other potential problems that needed to be checked out before the decision was made.

There really was a legitimate menstrual drug test going on, and the two had tested many participants. But there also was another, far more personal and private study that Evelyn had been waiting to embark on. Every potential candidate so far had failed to meet the important qualifications:

No one must know the woman was here.

She must not have contacted anyone on her cell phone while in the building.

Preferably she would have had no other business to attend to in the building.

An added bonus would be if the candidate arrived on foot or on bus. A car could present problems as there were security cameras in the lot. This question was easily answered by the fact that one of the stipulations for the legitimate study was that the subject not drive after taking the drug the first time. Kim had told the women that no, she took the bus over.

Kim also consented to a physical. No red flags of warning went off in her head as this whole situation appeared to be a grand stroke of luck. There was nothing to fear since she was dealing with women, and Dr. Richards’ professional air put her immediately at ease. The doctor was also very attractive, and could have easily been a model had she let her hair down and put on different makeup.

Evelyn spoke in a calm soothing manner. Her voice was deeper than Debra’s, and it had a hint of a smoky quality… she spoke quietly. This had the effect of causing people to listen closer and creating the air of importance. Men and women had fallen for her voice before; it was something you didn’t notice in most people, but you noticed Evelyn’s voice. One word could sum it up: sensual.

As Kim was led back to the exam room, she indulged in chit chat, telling the two that she just happened to pass by this building, spotting the deli. This seemed to generate unusual interest in the two women, and Kim was a bit confused as Dr. Richards probed her more about this. Kim’s mind was set at ease though when the doctor explained that she had invested in the deli, and wanted to know more about the circumstances that led people to eat there.  As Debra left the exam room and closed the door, Dr. Richards continued the light conversation as she instructed Kim to get undressed.

The cell phone was the easiest to verify. Debra simply went through Kim’s jacket while Kim was in the exam room getting undressed and looked at the calls made and calls received. Nothing in the last four hours. Debra’s heart began to pound harder as she began to realize that Kim might end up qualifying to be their first real test subject. There had been others that the two women had tested small amounts of the “special” drugs on, but this was going to be a whole different level of control. Debra pretended to need something from the exam room and caught Evelyn’s eye…a quick nod. Debra couldn’t help sneaking a peek at Kim, naked, being gently probed by Evelyn. Evelyn, on the other hand, made certain nothing seemed inappropriate during the exam; it would be a mistake to jeopardize things when they might be so close.

Now it was the moment of truth. Evelyn had to make the decision whether to give Kim the real test drug, or administer Rohypnol. Rohypnol, like GHB, was considered a “date rape drug”, and was illegal in the United States. It was a fast acting sedative and would cause dizziness or drowsiness. A benefit to giving this to her would be that if things didn’t go as planned, the drug affected the person’s memory, and the whole incident (or at least large chunks) would be forgotten. Kim could be released if something went wrong with little chance of any serious consequences. Also, the adverse effects could be attributed to a reaction to the legitimate test drug. Evelyn called Debra in to record the time, 3:42 PM, as she administered the drug to their new test subject. Debra knew which drug it was, and her excitement was almost impossible to contain.

Both women pretended to be preoccupied with other tasks, but in reality, they were watching every movement Kim made. Finally Kim spoke up: “I’m feeling kinda dizzy”.

Warning: This story contains descriptions of torture. If you are a minor or are easily offended by this type of content, then please do not read.

Zombie Sex Slave: Part 2 – Severing Connections It was time to prepare for the most delicate and dangerous part of the plan. Evelyn would pull her Subaru around to the back of the building, while Debra got the drugged up girl ready to go. Kim was nodding in and out of consciousness, and while this was fine for the time being, it would be much better if she could walk on her own. Debra reassured Kim that she was just having a reaction to the drug and everything would be fine – it was just a harmless and fairly common side effect to the drug, and that’s why they needed to do these tests. Evelyn and Debra were taking every precaution just in case the plan had to be abandoned and Kim somehow regained her memory (though that was an unlikely set of circumstances as Evelyn was quite methodical and had the proper dose calculated). Debra was certain this girl was completely straight. That fact would make this endeavor even more exciting. The poor girl had probably never thought of being with another woman. Kim would soon learn that men were something of the past. Debra had been with very few men and most had been early on in high school. She thoroughly despised them now, and her last encounter with a man was unquestionably the final one. He had raped her, but they parted on her terms… He had come in through the dining room window. Sometimes it paid to take your time and check every window around the house, since much of the time at least one was unlocked. It always pissed him off to have to break a window, and then, after entering the house, find that a window or door was already unlocked. He was more careful now, about everything. Prison wasn’t that bad, it was registering as a sex offender, taking those fucking classes, and then living in a goddamn sex offender house for an undetermined amount of time that sucked. Those fucking case workers, always wanting to know how you felt, what you were thinking…if they only knew! Assholes! The whole experience left him pissed, and he was ready to seek his revenge again. These bitches thought they were in control – that they ran things in this world, and it was his job to show them, one by one, that they weren’t. Fuck, they even had female prison guards…he couldn’t fucking believe it! Well, he would show at least one woman just who was in charge in a minute. He had been noticed this little firecracker while he was scoring some shit from the park. Her house was right across the street from where the deal was going down, and he had to keep an eye out for cops. He watched everyone suspiciously, he was very attentive. She drove up to her house, and quickly glanced over at him and his boys. Fucking prissy-assed white bitch thought she was better than him, he could tell. The wheels started turning almost immediately. The drugs were secondary now; there was another, more important addiction to feed. Now he was standing in her fancy dining room. He would have loved to just sit down and crank up the TV, and have the bitch come out and find him, but it would be even better to wake her up as he stood over her bed, watching the panic well up in her eyes as she realized what was going to happen. Really the only thing he had to watch for was a dog. He hated fucking dogs. That’s how he got caught the last time…he managed to kill the fucker, but she had already called the cops and he was hurt. He should have killed the bitch too. No, this cunt had no dog; he just walked up to her bed and watched. He was hard as a rock. Thanks to the Viagra he took, he no longer had the problem he used to while doing this. Wasn’t science fucking wonderful? No longer would he have to use other objects (although that was fun too), he could instead just keep fucking her in every way imaginable until HE was too sore to continue. He still couldn’t cum, but that could wait till later. She started stirring. It was weird; some of the bitches seemed to know something was wrong even when they were asleep. He kinda thought that was cool. They should do a study on that or something: he could be put in a room while some were asleep and rape the ones that awoke. Maybe they could pay him good money to help out with that research. Damn. He had great ideas sometimes. Going over his thoughts, he realized that the bitch was looking at him. She gasped a bit from the shock but quickly recovered…she wasn’t a screamer. She didn’t ask him what he was doing. That always pissed him off – dumb cunts, what the fuck did they think he was doing there? Admiring their beds? He ripped off her covers and held his knife out for her to see. She was dressed in a T-shirt and panties. Before he could tell her to strip, she began removing her panties. “Hello.” She said. Alarm bells started going off in his head. “Shut the fuck up!” He growled as he slapped her hard in the face. She was acting all wrong. The alarm bells had gone off several times before, the last time was in the house with the dog. He probably should get out now…but damn, she was fine. He had to hit that. Fuck the bells, they had been wrong before. They were ringing with his heartbeat; they pulsed in his brain… clang…clang… He grabbed her, putting his knife at her throat, and pulled down his pants. Her legs were… already spread?  What the fuck? Was this whore into this? It didn’t really matter, but she even seemed to help guide his cock in. She wasn’t wet, so he had to ram himself in…this hurt her, he could tell. It usually did, since he was well endowed, but this bitch’s cries were confusing. Were they cries of pain, or something else? He pounded harder, egged on by her noises. He was ripping her, yet she wasn’t resisting!  Fuck, she was even pulling him to her… Clang…Clang… Soon she was doing the work. She was in control. The crazy fucking bitch was helping him rape her, but with ice in her eyes…how fucking weird was this whore? Although he didn’t like the feeling of her being in control, he couldn’t help himself; she was really fucking him hard. He would have to come back for more of this pussy after tonight! This kept on going for a long time and he was starting to get tired, he wanted to lie down. She could sense this but she wasn’t done yet. She started to flip him over… CLANG!…CLANG!… She was on top of him screwing. The fucking bitch was the horniest he’d ever met. Where was his knife? Oh yeah, it was by his right hand. If he needed it he could always grab it. She seemed to be out of breath for the moment. Then she stopped. She was smiling at him. CLANG!!  CLANG!! The movement was so swift he almost didn’t see it. He thought he saw the shimmer of his knife fly by but he would never be certain. He tried to lift up his head to check, but the tendons had been severed along with his trachea and carotid arteries. Instead, his head bent back and opened up the wound mimicking an obscene second mouth, a bright-red laughing smile. In trying to raise his head, the severed tendons caused the lip of the wound to curl and the arteries pointed towards the ceiling. As he lay staring at the ceiling, he was amazed at how high the blood spurted up…it seemed to almost hit the ceiling at first, but now it was much, much less. At least that damn clanging stopped. He was annoyed at the blood pooling in his eyes from the red rain, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about it…it didn’t matter that much anyways as it was getting dimmer… “I’m going to call the police and take a shower.” He heard the bitch say before the last bit of blood drained from his brain. “I hope it was worth it. It was for me.” The police found her cowering in the shower, crying hysterically. She had to at least keep up the appearance of someone devastated by the attack. This incident had literally severed any possibility of Debra ever being with a man again. The memory of it elicited different emotions at different times; sometimes she felt violated and sickened when she thought of that night, but at other times she felt that rush of power she had felt when she looked into his surprised eyes and watched as he finally understood…Debra took the control from him and almost sliced his head off with it. Ever since that event, it was her goal to forever remain in control of any situation.  What she did not fully realize was that, in this new obsession with control, she had become a predator herself – much more refined. but ultimately no less single minded.  She relished her ability now to assert dominance and control over unsuspecting victims…even if she had to share some of that with Evelyn. But it was as erotic to watch Evelyn play her “games” with the sorry girls as it was for Debra to play with them herself. That’s why their relationship worked…they fed off of each other. Debra stroked Kim’s hair as she waited for Evelyn’s call. It was hard to stop from taking the girl right here, but she had to wait. She continued to assure Kim everything was fine. Finally Evelyn called – she was waiting.  However, it was obvious that Kim wouldn’t make it on her own power. Plan B: Wheelchair. While this could attract more attention, it was now a necessity.  Debra Loaded Kim into the chair and locked the door.  It was Showtime. Debra’s heart was pounding so loud she could hear it in the elevator. Finally she made it all the way down to Evelyn’s car without spotting a single person. Evelyn was clearly disappointed when she saw the wheelchair, but sprung into action to help. Quickly Kim was ushered into the car and Evelyn pulled out. “How did it go?” asked Evelyn. “I think we have ourselves a subject.” Debra smiled back. “Are we really doing this?” She asked. It seemed like a wonderful dream. The anticipation reminded her of Christmas as a little girl. “How are you doing, Honey?” Evelyn asked, laughing as she looked at the semi-conscious form of Kim in her rear view mirror. The fun they could have while accomplishing some major research was a win/win situation, and if the research didn’t pan out, they would still have a slave to keep as their own. Kim was not some temporary sub who mistakenly thought she was willing to suffer under Debra and Evelyn, only to find out she got more than she bargained for. No, Kim was the real deal. No games…at least no games from Kim. As the car continued down the highway heading closer and closer to Kim’s final destination, the other two women were silent, lost in thought but occasionally glancing at each other with gleaming eyes. Neither woman could keep the smile off her face as each mulled over dreams and ideas that could finally be realized. Dark clouds rolled in from the west in a dramatic punctuation to the events that were occurring, as Evelyn’s Outback and its three occupants pulled into her massive estate. As the two women loaded Kim into the wheelchair a light rain began to fall. Kim was not fully aware of the rain hitting her cheeks, and she quietly slipped into unconsciousness. The raindrops ran down and fell off her face like artificial tears as Debra wheeled the newest occupant into Evelyn’s house of horrors.

Warning: This story contains descriptions of torture. If you are a minor or are easily offended by this type of content, then please do not read.

Zombie Sex Slave: Part 3 – Strange New World Even with all the lights ablaze, the room remained dark, heavy, as if the room actually had weight. It seemed that even if one brought in a hundred lights, the darkness could still hide in the corners, biding its time. It was the room of a thousand future sorrows. Evelyn’s laboratory was a massive space that encompassed almost the whole basement of her mansion. The room was a dreamland for any scientist – it was filled with all the amenities a researcher could ask for. Evelyn was able to afford the latest and greatest of everything. Her newest acquisition, however, is what really made the room unique…Kim, naked and secured to an exam table with her legs strapped in gynecologist stirrups. She was slowly beginning to regain consciousness, but was still too out of it to realize the predicament she was in. Her soft moans had still not drawn the attention of Debra in the next room. The two rooms couldn’t have been more different. Barn-like doors separated Evelyn’s laboratory from her greenhouse, bright and teaming with dozens of plants for Evelyn’s research. Jimson Weed, Belladonna or Devil’s Cherry, Brugmansias, and hallucinogens and opiates such as Marijuana, Peyote, Poppies and Coca plants.  In short, any plant that had mind or nervous system affecting characteristics could be found here. The smells of the living plants from the greenhouse mingled with the medicine and chemical smells of the other room, creating a strange evil perfume that hung in the air. Debra was watering the plants by hand (for the watering system had burst the other day), pondering the details of this “experiment”. With Kim now down here they would be forced to repair the system themselves. It was, so far, the only downside to the abduction, which had gone better than they could have hoped. Debra couldn’t wait for Kim to awake.  It had been a while since they had brought a girl home, and she really had some pent-up energy. Just thinking of the fun they could have with her caused Debra to instinctively rub herself against the table. She wanted to finish watering quickly so she could go back to the laboratory and continue playing with the unconscious girl. Then she heard the moans. Kim was starting to become aware that something was seriously wrong, her hands were bound and her legs…were strapped into stirrups. She was naked and her pussy was sore, had she been raped? If she had, maybe it was better that she had been unconscious at the time, but by the looks of things, she was in for a longer ordeal. She tried desperately to recall any memory that could give a clue to how she ended up here, but she could only remember filling out applications…then getting a job. Her mind was so confused and foggy. A silhouette of a woman appeared in the bright doorway. Kim couldn’t make out whom was, but she started to recall her last memories before the blackout. Debra and Dr. Richards.  The woman walked closer. This was Debra, and she was smiling. “Good morning dear!” Debra crooned as she began to caress Kim’s forehead. “You’ve been asleep for a long time, and I could hardly wait for you to wake up…” Debra pinched Kim’s nipple hard and caused her to yelp in pain. “What the fuck are you doing?” Kim angrily spat. “You better let me go NOW!” Debra laughed and pinched harder, forcing another louder protest. “Let you go? I will do no such thing.” Debra’s hands moved softly away from the sensitive nipple and down the length of Kim’s bound form. Kim took in a sharp breath as if Debra’s hands were cold, which they weren’t…Kim was just panicked by the violation of this woman’s hands on her body. “Besides, Evelyn would be so mad if I let you go.” Debra’s hands slipped down to Kim’s forcibly exposed pussy, causing Kim to reflexively try to move away, but her bonds wouldn’t allow that dignity. “Evelyn has some real ground-breaking experiments planned and I think the least you could do is try to help out.  After all, you did sign up to be a test subject.” Debra’s probing fingers located Kim’s clitoris, and she played gently with it between her thumb and forefinger before giving it as hard a pinch as she did Kim’s nipple. Kim screamed in pain and bucked as Debra pinched harder. “Sensitive isn’t it? It’s amazing how much a simple pinch can hurt!” Debra continued to pinch, increasing the pressure until she was pinching Kim’s clit as hard as she could.  Kim’s protestations melted into one long scream, her eyes wide with astonishment, as Debra bent down and lowered her mouth to Kim’s breast, biting hard on her sore nipple to bring Kim to a crescendo of pain.  Kim’s scream raised to another level as she felt pain she had never imagined. “STOP! Please!” Kim finally managed, tears running down her cheeks, once she managed to catch her breath. Debra had squeezed all blood out of Kim’s clitoris, and had bitten into her nipple so hard she almost bit it off. Once she released Kim’s clitoris from her vice-like grip, the blood started to flow back in, causing a fresh new series of painful sensations. Raising her head up to see if her nipple was still there, Kim spotted a trickle of blood running down her breast. Like spectators at a racetrack, both women watched the tiny stream of blood as it ran into the valley between her breasts and diverted itself up in the direction of Kim’s neck.  Debra prevented the finish however, as she swooped down with her tongue and lapped up the drop, giggling. This woman was obviously getting a kick from her torments and Kim decided she better try reasoning with her. “Please, I swear I won’t tell anyone! I have no money…I’m really not worth anything to you.” “Not worth anything???” Debra laughed as she walked around and stood before Kim’s spread legs. She then reached over and grabbed a tube of KY jelly and squirted a large amount on her hand. “Don’t sell yourself short!  Why, you’re worth a lot to me, hon. I know Evelyn thinks you are more than valuable… she considers you precious!” Debra was now coating Kim’s vagina with a liberal amount of jelly. “Please Debra…” Kim’s pleading trailed off as Debra began to insert first two, then three, fingers into Kim, causing her to gasp loudly. “Have you ever been fisted Kim?” Debra asked as she forcibly stretched Kim wider and wider, adding the forth finger, then pushing hard with her hand causing a new wave of screams from Kim.  Kim, of course, had not been fisted, and had not even been overly sexually active, so this brutal intrusion by this sadistic bitch was another type of pain that Kim had never even thought to be ready for.  How much pain could a person cause? Debra’s other hand moved away from Kim’s pelvis and started touching Debra’s own wet pussy. She wouldn’t need any lubricant there, as Debra was providing so much juice that it began to run down her thigh. As Debra stretched Kim and pushed more of her hand in against the resistance, Kim started to descend into her pain, and her screams turned to moans of agony. “Oh my, you are a tight little girl!” Debra mocked as her finger played more gently with her own bud. Kim’s sobbing moans intensified and added to Debra’s intensity as she worked harder with both hands; gentle but rhythmically with one…firm and forceful with the other. As Debra worked herself into a furor someone entered the room startling both women. It was Evelyn. “Ah! Caught you with your hand in the cookie jar!” Evelyn sternly mocked. Debra laughed and began to resume her activities “Sorry Mommy!” If Kim was looking for any help from Evelyn, those hopes were dashed as Evelyn began to strip. “Please…” Kim softly pleaded as she looked at Evelyn for any kind of mercy. Evelyn very precisely folded her clothes when she undressed as they were very expensive; they were nothing to leave lying around on the floor of her lab. Evelyn’s body, while not as full as Kim or Debra’s, was nonetheless fantastic; thinner and more statuesque, it could easily be classified as the archetypical model’s shape. Small but pert breasts, and a full yet slim ass, moving down to very long legs, provided Evelyn a graceful dignity that only complimented her mind. She was a force to be reckoned with. Evelyn walked over and stood by Kim’s head. Kim turned away as Evelyn stood with her pussy right by her, the smell of Evelyn’s arousal unmistakable. “Hi Kim. Maybe it’s time you got to know me better.” Evelyn lowered the head of the exam table until she was able to comfortably straddle Kim’s face. Kim tried desperately to shake her head loose from Evelyn’s grip, but it was impossible. Her muffled cries disappeared deep into Evelyn’s pussy as Evelyn turned to Debra, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks!” The pain in Kim’s pussy was now accompanied by the humiliation of having Evelyn’s wet cunt smashed in her face, and Kim thought for a moment she might pass out as she fought to breathe. Debra’s sensations were heightened as she watched Evelyn’s ass as Evelyn ground her pelvis into the sobbing girl’s face. Evelyn turned her head around and smiled knowingly at Debra as the two women continued their assault, both working themselves into higher and higher states of arousal. Finally Debra reached the point where she could no longer hold off and pushed as hard as she could with her hand deep inside Kim. This caused frantic, muffled cries from beneath Evelyn’s pussy, and in turn caused Evelyn to bear down as hard as she could. Kim was on the verge of passing out from both pain and lack of oxygen, as she heard the moans of passion outside of her own cries of agony. The sick, twisted women began to cum at the same time as the darkness began to engulf Kim, but the orgasm mercifully caused Evelyn to involuntarily bob up and down on Kim’s face, allowing the needed air to rush back in to her burning lungs. Finally Kim was free of the double violation as Debra and Evelyn collapsed into each others arms in a passionate kiss. They weren’t done yet, but Kim’s role had been temporarily fulfilled, and she could only wait until the two were ready to do whatever they had planned next for her. The sounds of the sobs from Kim whipped the two women into a passionate frenzy, as they licked and sucked their way to several orgasms. Through her tears Kim took an ominous inventory of the items in the room…strange medical instruments, beakers filled with chemicals, whips and shackles. It was a bizarre mixture of a laboratory and a dungeon, and from the moans of passion coming from the floor next to her…it was a strange new world indeed.

Warning: This story contains descriptions of torture. If you are a minor or are easily offended by this type of content, then please do not read.

Zombie Sex Slave: Part 4 – The Alice in Wonderland Effect

She cried softly to herself. Kim had been raped, but did it make it worse that she was raped by women? She didn’t know, other than that she was violated and in pain. She still had Evelyn’s wetness all over her face and could still smell her. Kim’s pussy was ripped and sore, perhaps this is what it felt like after having a baby? The two women had eventually taken their activities upstairs and left Kim to wallow in her thoughts.

She was mad at herself for getting into this predicament, but when Kim stepped though her “misdeeds”, she couldn’t pinpoint any glaring mistakes or her ignoring of flashing warning signs. She had simply done what had seemed logical and happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. However, this realization offered no real comfort. She still was bound to a table, raped, and by the sounds of it – in for some kind of experiment at the hands of some twisted lesbians.

The fear of what was to come was heavy. Kim was afraid of doctors, and she had apparently had good reason. She was at the mercy of a sadist, a guinea pig or lab rat to be used in an…

experiment.

The word itself was ominous. Unknown, unstable, untested…undead. Why did she come up with that? It was something she thought she heard Evelyn say while Kim’s head was pressed between Evelyn’s thighs …“my little zombie”. Why was that important? Her mind was racing, maybe she was just freaking out.

It was terrible to be bound, Kim discovered. Time crawled. Annoying itches popped up that couldn’t be scratched, pains that needed rubbing and most of all, wiping off Evelyn’s fucking cum from her face!  But all Kim could do was lay and wait, yelling obscenities that only succeeded in disturbing the otherwise silent walls.

The two women giggled as they listened to the variations of obscenities Kim came up with. The yelling was barely audible, however, as they were upstairs gathering video cameras and tripods to document the experiments. “Grab my digital camera Debra. I want to take some close up photos of the dilation of her pupils. We should also bring down the cattle prod just in case.”  Debra smiled, she had only used the prod once on a girl and delighted at the howls she received in response. But Evelyn had always insisted that it not be used on unwilling girls, but now the rules were a little different.

As the two women entered the lab, Kim’s angry yelling ceased and became quiet pleadings. “That’s better.” Debra said in response to the more gentle tones emanating from the girl. Yet the calmer pleadings were just as ignored as the previous yelling was. Debra began to set up tripods in various places around the room, as Evelyn busied herself at the medical table. Kim observed that Evelyn had a lab coat on, but flashes of the coat opening showed she was naked underneath. For some reason this was especially disturbing to Kim. Evelyn reached for a bottle of powder with a label marked “Hyoscine hydrobromide (Scopolamine)”.

Evelyn had become interested in the so-called zombie drugs after she had watched a silly movie as a teenager by Wes Craven titled “The Serpent and the Rainbow”. This film was loosely based on the book, a flawed study of the zombie rituals and medicines of Haiti, authored by Wade Davis. While much of the work was suspect, one primary truth that rose to the public consciousness was the effects of the drug Scopolamine.

The Mother of all Date Rape Drugs, Scopolamine was a fundamental part of the zombie legend. It rendered the victim absolutely receptive and vulnerable to complete control. From the instant the drug was given, anterograde amnesia occurred. Unlike other date rape drugs, the memories could not be retrieved, even under hypnosis.

A version of the drug called Burundanga was currently being used by criminals in Columbia, given to victims that are then instructed to do the bidding of the provider. One ingenious example was of three young Bogota women who smeared the drug on their breasts, and lured men to lick them. The women then held the men hostage for days as they drained their bank accounts.

Evelyn had studied Scopolamine, but wanted to find a longer lasting substitute as her tests with the drug showed that the effects only lasted twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Plus, the subjects she had experimented on were necessarily willing…she wanted to see the effects on someone who would never consent to her wishes. Several different variations would be tested on Kim, starting with a straight dose of seven milligrams of pure pharmaceutical Scopolamine.

The hallucinations that accompanied such a large dose of the drug also had the effect of making the victim believe whatever they were told. Unlike hallucinations on other drugs like LSD or pot, these visions are absolutely believable to the prey…the victim knows these visions are real. Debra and Kim had played a bit with this on some of the other subjects, but with Kim they were determined to push it as far as they could.

While Evelyn wouldn’t smear the drug on her breasts, a wickedly symbolic way of administering it had been agreed upon by her and Debra. Short of injection, dissolving the powder in liquid was the surest and fastest way of getting the body to absorb the complete dose. And, of course, being the sadists the two women were, no normally acceptable liquid would do.

The two women took turns squatting over a bucket and empting their bladders. While Kim couldn’t see what the women were up to, she could make out from the sounds that they were urinating. First Debra as Kim heard her say “I don’t have much, I just went.” A small but loud stream hit the inside of the bucket and was amplified by the empty metal shape. As Evelyn took her turn it sounded as if a water faucet had been turned on and would never quit. “That’s not fair!” Debra protested. “You have about five times more in there than I do!”

“You need to have more control.” Evelyn shot back. The urine mix was then poured into a glass where a cup full of the warm yellow liquid was measured out. “Don’t dump the rest out Evelyn” Debra spoke as she handed the bottle of powder to her companion. “Let’s make her drink it once she’s under. We’ll tell her it’s Champagne!”

Kim, feeling dread wash over her like a wave, was hoping against hope that she heard this wrong, but she knew in her heart she didn’t. The thought alone made her gag. What kind of nightmare was she in? Could this all be some sick joke? The pain in her pussy told her otherwise. What did Debra mean by “once she’s under”? Were they going to put her under to operate on her? While she desperately wanted the answers to these questions, Kim was afraid to ask. Maybe the ignorance, while not being bliss, was better than the knowledge.

Evelyn did not want Kim to hear a suggestion in any way as to what was going to happen. This could skew the results, and while making the victim believe they were going to become a zombie was part of the process in Haiti, Evelyn wanted the results of the pure drug with no pre-suggestion. She may have blurted something out while she was cumming on Kim’s face, but she was certain Kim couldn’t possibly know.

“I’m ready when you are Debra.” Evelyn spoke as she walked up to Kim stirring the terrible mixture. Debra soon joined her companion standing over Kim. She had a large funnel in her hand, and attempted to force it into Kim’s mouth… but Kim held her teeth clenched tightly shut. A simple hard pinch to Kim’s nose loosened her jaw and allowed Debra enough room to cram the funnel in. Duct tape was then wrapped around the funnel and Kim’s mouth ensuring a tight seal with nowhere for liquid to escape. Kim struggled strenuously, but to no avail. “Let’s record the time Debra.” Evelyn spoke as she steadied Kim’s shaking head. Debra quickly jotted down the time then resumed her tight grip on Kim.

Kim was screaming as much as she could through the funnel now, which ended up sounding comical to the two evil women. “Now Kim, you better settle down and get a grip. If you start choking or gagging you might end up clogging your airway. If you don’t drink this we’ll put something much worse in your mouth, it’s up to you.” Evelyn began to pour the drug laced piss into the funnel. “Down the hatch!” Debra giggled.

The pungent salty liquid began to fill in the back of Kim’s throat, and Debra pinched Kim’s nose so that the only way to breathe was to open her throat and let it down. Kim held off as long as she could but was finally betrayed by her aching lungs. With her nose pinched, Kim wasn’t really able to taste the urine as fully as she normally would, and she was fighting more with the concept than the reality of the taste. Evelyn kept pouring a steady stream of the liquid in until the glass was empty. She shook in the last drops more as a final insult than an effort to ensure that all was consumed. “There! That wasn’t so bad was it?” Evelyn said in a singsong voice as if she was talking to a child.

Kim’s coughs were so forceful that they almost blew the funnel and tape away from her mouth before Debra had a chance to remove them. “What did you give me?” Kim screamed at the women. “None of your business!” Debra shot back. “You signed up to be a test subject and we are testing on you! Besides, it would ruin all the fun!”

It was hard for Kim to keep from vomiting, but she thought things would be made worse if she did. The two women had temporarily moved away from her and were discussing something in hushed tones. After several minutes they returned and Debra jotted down some notes as Evelyn described some of her observations of Kim’s outward condition.

Unpleasant effects were now creeping up on Kim, and Evelyn was carefully observing the discomfort. “Blind as a bat, mad as a hatter, red as a beet, hot as a hare, dry as a bone, the bowel and bladder lose their tone, and the heart runs alone, right Alice?” Evelyn whispered into Kim’s ear and gave it a little lick. This was a mnemonic describing the effects of Scopolamine poisoning and even had a name: “The Alice in Wonderland effect”.

The two Cheshire Cats were smiling down at Kim/Alice, one now with a camera taking pictures of her dilated eyes. Tumbling down the dark rabbit hole, she fell and fell, the cats chasing after her while snapping pictures and laughing. It was hard to breathe; it seemed the air was thick and sticky, like trying to breathe in syrup. Was there any oxygen down here? Panic set in. She would do anything to get back up to the surface…anything.