Nusquam

by Chris Bellows

  “Taste the woman, 128. Be polite,” Kelly commands. “It’s pump house etiquette.”

  The sjambok hand threatens. 128 knows obedience, trained in oral servitude, so much time spent under the cunnilingus chair of Miss Florence Gale. She extends her tongue and licks.

  “No girl. Take it in... the left lip first. Press your mouth to my mons and swish with your tongue.”

  With the words, the sjambok threateningly grazes her back. Then comes a loud thwack as a nearby supervisor applies an encouraging stroke to the buttocks of a passing castrate. The cruelty shocks. 128 engulfs. No further commands required.

  “Yes, you like my taste. And when it’s your turn to serve here, you’ll have lots of it. My girls and boys like to drink from me. And they’re always so thirsty...”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “I’m not sure I can do that, Miss Kelly.”

  “You mean, 128 is not sure.” Kelly corrects, offering a tug on the cunny harness to remind.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Rather fickle of you, 128. Reservation about the milking parlor... and now concerns over the pump house. The Director will be very interested in learning this.”

  Kelly decides 128 needs to be reminded of her place... her status. Exiting the pump house she takes long quick strides. Her charge must shuffle rapidly, feet moving with vigor. Still the clamps of the cunny harness tighten, bringing yelps of pain.

  “Let’s see if the Director is busy. I am due to return to New York and it’s nearing time for your review and evaluation.”

  To the administration building, the center of Nusquam’s power indistinguishable in the plainness of the cinder block. Kelly strolls into the reception area. There feminized castrate Robert greets, the soft high pitched voice evidencing his physical alteration.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Kelly.”

  “Good afternoon Robert. Is the Director available?”

  Robert wordlessly presses the intercom, announcing Kelly’s presence and desire to meet.

  “128 is here with her.”

  “Send them in,” the raspy voice succinctly granting an audience.

  A firm tug on the leash, once again Robert impressed with the woman’s stern resolve, brings a yelp and instant compliant footwork as Kelly heads to the inner office door. Upon entrance 128 becomes transfixed, despite the many months of quirky Nusquam antics. The capacious office is more dungeon than place of business.

  First her eyes rivet upon the dangling nakedness of 156. Tall, muscular, erection pointing to the ceiling, the extreme level of authority frightens. He is suspended by cables secured to muscles and flesh, the slow agony unimaginable. Limbs remaining perfectly still, there comes a low moan, relieving 128 of the notion that a dead body has been strung up like cattle for slaughter.

  She forces her eyes shift about. She recognizes many devices, implements hanging on the walls, her own bedroom turned dungeon offering many of the same. Then, as a husky voice offers words of welcome, her eyes move to the desk. The form behind is human... but of what gender?

  “Good afternoon, Director. I’ve been showing 128 some of the facilities she has not before seen.”

  “Thoughtful of you, Kelly. I’ve been reading the reports and evaluations on her. Though there is indication she has a penchant for a good crisp bare bottom caning, she’s not built to pull in harness. Nurse Traite suggests she will lactate well, assuming the milk ducts were not damaged when she had her nipples porcupined.”

  128 feels shame... they know so much... everything about her sordid life of masochistic debauchery. She is inclined to protest... it was not her desire to endure such nipple torture. Yet her humility demands obedient silence.

  Her mind returns to the gender... the voice offering no clue. Perhaps female, but the timbre suggests male. The form wears a jump suit, color plain, not effeminately frilly, the fabric light and breezy for the tropical heat. Arms bare from the elbows down, there are tattoos... masculine... the emblem of the United States Marine Corp. on a well developed forearm. Unstylish black eyeglass frames, lenses thick, veil any hint of femininity.

  What does the hanging naked male suggest as to the Director’s own propensity? A gay male... a gang banger in the parlance of those desiring to conquer male flesh. Or a bull dyke lesbian, contemptuous of virility, reveling in controlling helpless tumescence?

  “128 prefers not to serve in the milking parlor,” Kelly proclaims. “Too tranquil.”

  “Ha,” the Director sardonic. “Tits like that and she doesn’t want to let down for us. Well the evaluations would so suggest. Too deep into pain, the humiliation of merely hanging in suspension awaiting the next milking just not enough fuel for that masochistic furnace. She’s young for the pump house... though I’m sure the supervisors would be enthralled.”

  The Director stands and approaches. Even a better view of his /her body does not affirm gender, 128 notes. Hands reach forth, palming the massive mammary glands then diddling the nipples between thumb and forefinger. Wrist and elbow binds clipped tightly behind, 128’s breasts thrust forth invitingly. The touch brings a thrill, held in chastity too long.

  “She was introduced to the pump house Director... there reservations concerning servitude there as well.”

  “Tsk, tsk, girl. Rather choosy for a girl of your ilk. We can have you kenneled... but that obviates any oral or anal use by the members. A shame to deny them the joy of repeatedly penetrating you. The reports indicate your fellatio is more than adequate... and improving.”

  “Thank you Director,” 128 so humble with her response.

  “And having advanced to a number 7 anal plug, you should be quite comfortable tummy down on a sodomy frame. Seems months of indoctrination will go to waste.”

  “I’m on tomorrow morning’s flight to Teterboro, Director...” Kelly reminds.

  “Leave her fate to me. Meanwhile, my hanging plant is drooping... needs attention,” the Director’s gaze diverting to the silently suffering 156.

  Indeed, all eyes look to see the erection is softening, the hours of slow torment countering the body’s tumescent reaction.

  “Take him deep. But don’t bring him to climax,” the Director’s pointing hand a defacto command for 128’s oral skills.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “So how are things at the Department of Justice?” Kelly queries, placing two large mugs of brew on the barroom table.

  “Busy... challenging. How’s retirement?”

  “Not really retired. Just focusing on other... ah... things.”

  “You’re missed, Kelly. Chrissy boy so much enjoyed your touch.”

  Kelly nods. She in turn misses the likes of Chrissy boy, house boy/maid for Linda Rankin... college roommate, lifelong friend, now Deputy U. S. Marshal.

  “I’m sure you’re capable of bathing him, Linda. Any woman of authority brings quirky delight with the likes of Chrissy.”

  “Yes, but it’s difficult... the head space thing. One moment you’re caning him... then entering him with a double dildo... then you have to calm and toss the little cunt lapper into a hot bath and wash like a doting mother. Tough to switch mind sets... the adrenaline thing.”

  Kelly smiles. She once again envisions Linda Rankin, at some six feet in height and 180 pounds of well configured feminine muscle, thrusting away, her little neutered houseboy, naked and on all fours, yelping in protest.... but secretly enjoying the deep anal penetration... happy that the crisp caning is over.

  After leaving Nusquam’s employment, Kelly built her aftercare practice initially offering her service to her old roommate. It expanded rapidly from there.

  “Yes I can imagine. You always get so physically provoked when taking a boy. But I’m retired from that. My last enema... my last prostate milking... if that’s why you asked to meet.”

  “No, Kelly. Chrissy will survive. Found a doctor’s office in the Village that is... well... the staff understands the dynamics of the relationship... attentive to his needs... the emotional roller
coaster of me having him castrated. His adoration of me... his need for direction and guidance... his fear of me... as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

  Kelly nods and sips, thinking of Robert and the long tender nights in Nusquam’s cabin 10. Such untoward devotion to she who snipped...

  “I guess I should disclose this meeting is more business than social. But informal... just between us.”

  “Here too protect, defend and enforce the American justice system,” Kelly recalling the mission statement when Linda first studied for the department. “Guess you’re always on duty.”

  Linda politely smiles, in turn sips her brew then clears her throat suggesting her prospective words are in earnest.

  “You may have read in the papers... Michael Mansfield. A clever but nasty con artist, arrested a little over a year ago. Copped a plea, got a healthy, well deserved sentence... but failed to turn himself into Metropolitan Correctional Center.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Kelly feigning limited knowledge. “Read something about it in the paper.”

  “Well, I’m assigned to track him down. Working on it for three months now. The rascal managed an amazingly efficient disappearing act. It’s as if he never existed.”

  Though concerned, Kelly represses a smile. Those rendered to Nusquam in a way indeed do not exist. But there is the question... why the informal meeting over a beer?

  “But I still pursue. We never give up on fugitives. There’s always something... some clue overlooked. But this has been difficult. Mansfield did not leave the city utilizing any form of public transportation... you know we have clandestine ways of tracking that. He didn’t own a car... nor did he buy or rent one. No credit card charges since the day after he disappeared. And if he’s living on cash, that’s hard to do for extended periods. A lot of green paper to carry.”

  Kelly nods, hoping to show indifference, but instead having thoughts of admiration for Nusquam’s extraction team... stumping even the U.S. Marshal’s Service.

  “Any way, it’s standard operating procedure to work backwards on cases like this... from the day of disappearance... build a time line... where Mansfield had been...with whom he met... with whom he spoke. We also interview a lot of people. One theory is that an irate victim wasted him... that some fifteen years in Federal maximum was viewed as too lenient. He took a lot of people... damaged a lot of lives.”

  “Makes sense,” Kelly hoping that trail is open... diverting from the real circumstances.

  “Yes, you would think. But the bastard specialized on conniving the old, frail and infirm. Not too many blue haired grannies packing roscoes and dumping bodies in the East River. But that aside, think about it. If someone wasted Michael Mansfield, where is the body... and why go to such lengths to hide it?”

  “Yes I see.”

  “Michael Mansfield had help... powerful help. Well organized, well funded. Who or what organization would come to his aid? He pulled his cons alone. No mob influence ever came to light. And aiding and abetting flight can result in more years than Mansfield got.

  “So here we are...” deputy marshal Linda Rankin pausing to look to the bartender.

  The wizened man in stained vest nods then quickly looks away when Kelly follows the gaze of Linda Rankin. He guiltily diverts his eyes.

  “We traced Michael Mansfield to this bar, Kelly. He had a drink here some four days before he was to report to Metropolitan House. He was with a woman... at this table... she looked like you. The bartender... he’s old but remembers good looking women. And he just nodded in remembering you.”

  “So you think I had something to do with Muskrat’s disappearance?”

  “How is it you’re aware of his nickname?”

  Chapter Fifty

  “I know you’ve memorized the tail number, Linda. Part of your job. But you’ll find that the letters ‘LX’ designate the plane as being registered in Luxembourg. And I’m sure the U.S. Marshals Service is aware of the secrecy laws, tedious regulations, mass of paperwork and the layers of bureaucracy in obtaining information from that clandestine place. You’ll be learning enough about Nusquam without having to dig too deeply. So don’t frustrate yourself.”

  Investigative mind always at work, before boarding at Teterboro, Linda Rankin did in fact note the tail number of the impressive Gulfstream jet. Yes, it is indeed her job.

  “How long is the flight?”

  “Probably six to seven hours. The pilots vary the route... vary the speed. The exact distant is not to be determined by timing our journey. As stated, it’s Nusquam... few know of its location. It’s simply a place to be enjoyed... by the members and guests. And do try to stick to our agreement, Linda. No follow up investigation.”

  Having misspoken, referring to the con artist Michael Mansfield by his rarely used sobriquet, ‘Muskrat’, having been identified by the rat fink bartender, Kelly ended her ruse, admitting to her long time friend of her complicity on the fugitive’s disappearance.

  ‘His homophobia took hold,’ Kelly explained to Linda of the disappearance. ‘The prosecutors used it, offering a light sentence in a safe place... in turn for a confession. The judge overturned the deal. In Mike Mansfield’s mind, he had no choice. It was coming to me or fifteen years of cautiously bending for soap in the shower.’

  Kelly told her friend what she could, suggesting justice was served... and is continuing to be served. A skeptical Linda Rankin insisted on proof. With a phone call to the Director, a long weekend visit to Nusquam has been arranged, ostensibly on Marshal Service business. But Kelly Devers knows there will be enjoyment. Linda Rankin, after all, is one of us, she reminds herself... such notion being emphasized with the Director.

  Before Linda can reassure her friend of limited follow up, her attention is diverted. A stewardess steps from the galley, tray of mimosas in hand. Linda smiles in surprise. The pretty young girl has been stripped naked for the flight. Though reprieved of the Nusquam tattoo, her many steel bands... wrists, biceps, thighs and ankles... her matching steel neck collar... announce her status as servant.

  Slinking behind on the cabin floor, clipped to her right ankle, is long thin chain. A second chain hobbles, strung from left thigh band to right, forcing short delicate steps. As the girl nears, Linda notes the elbow bands are loosely tethered behind the back, restricting much arm motion and serving to remind of her status.

  “She’ll some day serve as a subjugant at Nusquam. But for now she needs to be able function in the real world,” Kelly explains. “You can play with her if you’d like.”

  The tray is carefully lowered, Linda takes an offered mimosa and responds to the invitation by slipping her free hand behind to the girl’s buttocks, playfully pinching a large tuft of smooth soft flesh. The girl smiles, her submission to another’s touch notable.

  “So this is Mansfield’s new world? For a guy it would seem pleasurable. Not much to inspire contrition.”

  “I think you will find that Muskrat Mike is being appropriately handled. Just hope that his homophobia persists. Useful in making sure his many misdeeds are adequately addressed,” Kelly selecting a mimosa and twirling her finger in a gesture for the girl to turn.

  Right ankle secured, legs constricted, the girl carefully pirouettes, exposing the cruel branded letter ‘N’ on her right cheek. Linda, at first aghast, smiles anew, realizing that the keloided flesh, emblazoned with permanent red dye, denotes ownership, the girl never to deny her status.

  “How long did you work at this place?” Linda’s curiosity piqued.

  “Five years. Learned a lot. Picked up some medical skills not normally used in the vanilla world. And the atmosphere is... term it comforting for people of certain tastes.”

  “And no one leaves?”

  “Not the subjugants. Initially welcomed, the protocol is found acceptable by those of a... well self degrading ilk. Once indoctrinated, there’s no going back. It’s a lifetime of servitude. Michael Mansfield is an exception... a bit if a subterfuge in obtaining his initial conc
urrence. And there are others forced into servitude. But none that the world will ever miss.”

  “And this girl?”

  “A runaway, working the streets of New York... and starving. When we learned of her penchant for offering cheap blow jobs, her self deprecation made her a Nusquam candidate.”

  “So she’s orally proficient?”

  “Absolutely... fellatio... cunnilingus... a lively tongue. Perfecting it is part of the Nusquam indoctrination. On these long flights, she keeps the pilots happy... and visiting members of course.”

  Emboldened by references to Nusquam’s indoctrination and the girl’s skills, Linda gives the command to turn again facing her. A free hand moves to the inner thighs. A quick evanescent brush of her fingers brings a moan of joy, suggesting acceptance of an otherwise brazen grope. Then Linda’s fingers move higher, kneading the outer labia.

  “Trimmed and not an iota of stubble. Waxed nicely.”

  “Laser removal. Permanent... her entire body. When relegated to regular servitude at the enclave, her head will be shaved as well. The Nusquam subjugants are made glabrous. You’ll learn that no funds are spared in conditioning them for servitude. The best medical care, grooming... even the food... though lacking taste... is highly nutritious. The subjugants live long healthy lives of torment... physical and emotional. It is best for them. Judy here just wouldn’t feel comfortable without her bindings... chained and hobbled... isn’t that right Judy?”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  Linda notes that the tray quivers, her touch fomenting an apparent lustful reaction.

  “She’s randy. Wet and getting wetter,” the fingers becoming more brazen in slipping within the pink folds of the girl’s sex.

  Linda smiles as the thighs part in welcome, straining the short hobbling chain. Yes randiness, the girl is in need.

  “Strict chastity... though a girl will occasionally be publically masturbated for amusement. There are specially trained guard dogs roaming the compound. Unauthorized touching is dealt with harshly. I had to learn to treat dog bites.”