From the distaste with which she had spoken her newspaper’s name, Zara sounded doubtful whether Vanessa was fit to write for a school newspaper.
‘However, your main concern will be reporting for our other magazine, with a more select circulation …’
Zara called up a new front page. Under the title Girlflesh News was a picture of a naked girl in a green collar. She was kneeling in much the same posture as Vanessa, except that her arms were bound behind her back and a chain was clipped to her collar that looped away out of shot. The sub-heading read: ‘Lorna 7 of Jade Chain breaks One Hour record!’ She was smiling shyly.
‘Girlflesh is a newer title, of course, but it’s very popular,’ Zara continued. ‘In fact the scope of the articles is not so different. New restraint devices and methods of training, personal interest stories about the girls, the amount they contribute to our charitable functions, projected expansion of the slave business, feedback from customers, personal advice, etc. So, do you think you’re up to writing for it, girl?’
‘Even the name of the thing makes me sick, Mistress Editor.’
‘The Director said you were honest, though not quite how bluntly. Still, you should appreciate why the title is what it is. We trade in girlflesh, not euphemisms. It gives the girls a chance to read about themselves and things most relevant to their lives.’
Vanessa blinked. ‘They read it, Mistress Editor?’
‘Of course. Sportsmen read sports magazines, engineers read technical journals, so why shouldn’t slave-girls read about slavery? And now we’ll have one on the staff as well. Your byline might be: “Vanessa: The Slave Reporter”. I’m sure you appreciate the pun.’
Vanessa clenched her teeth. ‘Very amusing, Mistress Editor.’
‘But it’s what you are. On the Director’s orders, I’m treating you as I would any new slave. She assumes you would suspect we were trying to influence you if we made your time here too easy, and that you’d rather be treated honestly. Well, you certainly won’t get an easy ride in this office. I expect professional work from you, whatever you think of the subject matter. Do you understand?
‘Yes, Mistress Editor,’ Vanessa said grimly.
Zara extended her leg and lifted Vanessa’s chin with the tip of her shoe. ‘It won’t be all bad, girl. You might actually enjoy yourself if you let go of your prejudices a little.’
‘I don’t think of wanting people to be free as a prejudice, Mistress Editor.’
Zara grinned. ‘It might surprise you to know I’m a great believer in freedom myself. Even the freedom not to be free. Now, I’d better show you where you’ll be working. It’s just next door. Follow me like a good pet …’
On her hands and knees, Vanessa shuffled out after Zara into the main office. Her chains seemed to be jingling loud as sleigh bells with each padding step. She fixed her attention on Zara’s shoes as she felt a dozen pairs of eyes watching her. At least the outer windows of the office were mirror glass, muting the daylight and giving her some assurance that she was not exposed to the gaze of half the city.
In the middle of the office, Zara halted and announced loudly: ‘We have a new temporary member of our staff: a somewhat reluctant trainee slave called Vanessa …’ Zara grasped Vanessa by the hair and dragged her to her feet so that they could all see her clearly. ‘You should all have read the memo about her exploits yesterday and the new security measures in place …’
Curious and angry mutters mingled as they circled the room. Vanessa cringed in sudden shame and fear.
‘The Director’s made a deal with her. Vanessa’s going to find out the truth about our girlflesh business before deciding whether to report us. She’ll be here for the next month. Treat her like any other slave-girl: firm but fair. Right, that’s all.’
There was an empty work-station in one corner. Zara pointed and Vanessa scrambled into the chair, trying to huddle away out of sight of the other staff.
At Zara’s direction, Vanessa turned on the computer and entered her access code. ‘That won’t allow you to post our secrets over the internet or send e-mails, in case you’re tempted to try,’ Zara warned her wryly. ‘We use standard editing software. You should have no problem with it. I suggest you take until lunchtime looking through back copies of Datumline and Girlflesh to get a feel of our house style. Then I’ve got an idea for your first article.’
‘Yes, Mistress Editor.’
‘And address everybody here respectfully as Sir or Madam if they speak to you. Remember, in this building you’re a slave.’
‘I’m not likely to forget, Mistress Editor,’ Vanessa said.
Zara smiled and left.
Vanessa tried to hide behind her screen and the small rack of tidy shelving that backed her desk. Maybe she could bring in a few plants to build a bigger barrier? Ten minutes went by and nobody came over or spoke to her. Apparently they were ignoring her … like you’d ignore any naked chained woman in the corner of an office.
She tried to focus on the magazine files.
Datumline was no problem. Bright and go-getting, yet ultimately reassuring and reliable, which was the normal goal of corporate identity projection. After half an hour’s study she knew she could write articles for that in her sleep. Girlflesh News was something else.
It wasn’t just the pictures of naked chained slave-girls being put through their paces, or the freaky bondage equipment it featured. She’d seen worse before. It was the underlying assumption that it was all perfectly natural and normal that was so disturbing.
There were features about ‘assignments’ that various ‘chains’ had been sent on, with names and places reduced to anonymous initials, illustrated by carefully cropped photos. Even more bizarre were the quotes from ‘customer’ feedback.
‘Your girls were thoroughly enjoyed by one and all, and showed excellent endurance …’
‘A wonderfully novel sex show …’
‘… responded very well to punishment …’
Vanessa wanted to turn away in disgust, yet there was a horrible fascination about it all. And somewhere underneath, she knew, must be the truth.
Zara came back for her at lunchtime.
‘Did you bring anything to eat with you?’ she asked.
Vanessa realised she had completely forgotten about food. ‘No, Mistress Editor. Isn’t there a canteen or snack machines? Oh, my purse is in my bag … down in the locker room.’
‘There’s a restaurant and vending machines, but don’t worry about money. I’ve already brought you something. I thought we’d eat in my office while I tell you about your first article.’
Obediently, Vanessa followed Zara back to her office.
There was a packed lunch opened on Zara’s desk. On the floor was a large dog-food bowl, filled with diced cheese, apple, bread and a scattering of nuts.
‘Now I want to see you eat neatly like a good doggy and not make a mess on the carpet,’ Zara said, pulling Vanessa’s arms behind her and clipping her cuff rings to the snap-hook on the back of her belt. She produced a rubber band and used it to tie back Vanessa’s thick mane of hair, then pushed her down on to her knees.
Miserably, Vanessa shuffled forwards until her face was over the bowl. She had to spread her knees wide and stick out her rear to stay balanced. If anybody came in they’d have a view right up her bum-cleft, she thought. Dipping her head, her nipples brushing the carpet, she began to nibble carefully at the food. Zara sat down at her desk and watched her in silence, while eating from her own lunchbox.
‘Good girl,’ Zara said, after a few minutes. ‘You see, it isn’t that hard. Now, about your first article. This afternoon there’s an induction ceremony for a new chain of girls who are going to start their basic training. That’ll also take a month, so it ties in rather neatly with your time with us. They’ll be graduating just when you’ll be deciding whether to turn us all in. I hope all their hard work won’t be for nothing.’
Vanessa gulped down a mouthful, looked up and said: ‘Graduat
ing? You make it sound like finishing college, Mistress Editor.’
‘Well, they are awarded a diploma at a proper ceremony. Why not? Passing basic training is an important part of a slave-girl’s life. It sets her up for the future.’
Vanessa shook her head in disbelief. It was all madness. She concentrated on clearing her food bowl.
‘Anyway,’ Zara continued, ‘I suggest you follow the new chain through their training. You can interview them individually and find out for yourself why they chose to become Shiller slaves.’
Vanessa nearly choked. ‘You’re saying they really had a choice, Mistress Editor? They knew what they were getting into?’
‘Of course. We selected them most carefully. What do you think we are: monsters?’
Vanessa lowered her head to her bowl again and said nothing.
‘Maybe you’ll accept the truth after you’ve followed the new chain through training. It’ll be very exciting.’
Vanessa could think of other descriptions, but did not bother to voice them aloud. Zara knew by now how she felt. And if she really was allowed free access to the new girls, it would enable her to gather more evidence about how Shillers managed to recruit them and whatever deceptions they used.
‘I’m sure it will, Mistress Editor.’
When they had both finished eating, Zara wiped Vanessa’s mouth for her with a tissue, then asked: ‘Do you need the loo?’
Vanessa realised she hadn’t gone since she left her flat. Suddenly her bladder felt very full. ‘Yes, Mistress Editor.
‘Me too. I’ll show you where it is …’
Leaving Vanessa’s wrists cuffed behind her back, Zara produced a red-leather leash and clipped it to her collar so quickly and naturally that they were walking out of the door before Vanessa realised what was happening.
She was being led on a lead like a dog!
She lowered her eyes to Zara’s twinkling heels once more. It was perverted and degrading and, what was worse, her nipples were standing up.
With Vanessa in tow Zara bustled into the toilets, which were clean and spacious, and selected a generously sized empty booth. She bolted the door behind them, lifted the lid of the bowl and sat Vanessa down, her hands still cuffed behind her.
‘You go first.’
Vanessa blushed and clenched her thighs together.
Zara clicked her tongue. ‘You should know better than to hide yourself by now. Slave-girls have no privacy. I want to see you make a pretty fountain for me.’
She reached down and pulled Vanessa’s knees wide, then slipped a finger into her exposed furrow, teasing the hood of her clitoris. The sudden stimulation caught Vanessa by surprise and she lost control. Her pee hissed into the toilet bowl, to the accompaniment of Zara’s light laughter.
‘See, it’s not so hard to please. All you’ve got to do is let go …’
When she was empty, Zara carefully wiped Vanessa clean with moisturising toilet tissue that was soft and cool. She dug deep into Vanessa’s cleft with each stroke, trailing her stiff fingers slowly through her hot, intimate depths.
Vanessa groaned, willing herself not to feel anything, but nevertheless aroused by Zara’s touch. Then Zara kissed her hard and masterfully, grasping a handful of her hair and tilting her head back. To her shame Vanessa melted helplessly under its intensity, opening her mouth and letting Zara’s tongue play with hers.
When their lips finally parted, Vanessa knew she had lost whatever slight control she had over her situation. She was Zara’s plaything now.
Zara pulled Vanessa off the toilet, turned her round and pushed her down on to her knees facing the loo. She lifted the toilet seat, passed the end of Vanessa’s leash under it, drew it to one side, then dropped the seat again. The seat rests trapped the leash between them while still allowing it to slide freely over the rim of the bowl.
Lifting her skirt, Zara sat on the toilet, slipping her left hand through the loop of the leash as she did so. She wore no knickers. She opened her legs to Vanessa, exposing a full-lipped pubic mound framed by close-cropped dark curls. She slid her fingers into her vulva and spread her lips, revealing glistening pink depths and the dark tunnel mouth of her vagina. Two small thick gold rings pierced the soft folds of her inner labia, while a third framed the hood of her swelling clitoris.
Zara tugged on the leash running under the toilet seat, pulling Vanessa’s face into her open groin. Helpless, Vanessa kissed and licked the hot, spicy-scented folds of slippery flesh, tonguing out the secret passage they guarded. Zara grasped a handful of Vanessa’s hair, pressing her face harder into her hungry maw.
A spasm shook Zara, making her jerk her hips and sigh with delight while Vanessa’s face was drenched in a spray of sweet exudation. Shamelessly, Vanessa tried to lick up every drop.
Suddenly hot pee spurted from Zara’s tiny urethral mouth and over Vanessa’s face, washing the orgasmic juices away and trickling into the toilet bowl. Held by her leash she could not pull back, and had to endure the golden shower.
‘I said I wanted to go as well,’ Zara reminded her with delighted laughter. ‘Now you know how we treat girlflesh. I think you’re going to make a perfect slave-reporter.’
Six
WHEN ZARA APPEARED at Vanessa’s desk later that afternoon she had Miss Kyle by her side. After what had occurred in the toilets, Vanessa tried not to look her editor in the eye. She could not forgive Zara for using her like that. She’d even denied Vanessa her own release after arousing her, which felt desperately, if perversely, unfair. But, though she hated to admit it, she knew she’d been completely dominated by Zara. Now, to her shame, she could not muster the courage to respond. Yet there was evidently no mutual embarrassment. To Zara she was just a slave, to be used to satisfy her own pleasure.
‘Miss Kyle will go down with you to B3 and show you where the new chain ceremony will take place,’ she said. ‘If it’s not over before five-thirty, you can write it up at home and show me in the morning, understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress Editor,’ Vanessa said meekly.
‘Are you ready?’ Miss Kyle asked, as Zara went back to her office.
There were a couple of cameras, a digital recorder and an e-notepad on Vanessa’s desk. It seemed that stories for the Girlflesh News were normally photographed and written by the same reporter. Vanessa had been checking over the equipment Zara had provided.
‘Yes, Miss Kyle,’ she said, hastily slinging a camera round her neck and gathering up her notepad. The recorder had a belt hook that she found fitted her slave-belt.
On the way down in the lift, Vanessa thought she’d better stop feeling sorry for herself and behave like a proper reporter – starting with some background details. She’d rather ask almost anybody else, but she had no choice.
‘Do you mind, Miss Kyle, telling me how all these new girls are brought here?’ She had visions of vehicles full of slave-girls like the one under which she had sneaked in. ‘I mean they must come from all over the place. Doesn’t anybody miss them?’
‘They bring themselves by train and taxi, of course,’ Miss Kyle said. ‘And nobody misses them because it’s all been arranged months ago.’
‘They … really come here voluntarily?’
Miss Kyle sounded impatient. ‘That’s one of the facts we’ve been trying to make you believe since yesterday morning, girl. But I suppose you’re going to have to find it out for yourself the hard way …’
Level B3 was bustling when they emerged from the lift. Slave-girls were scurrying about in excitement, mingling with oddly (or even minimally) dressed trainers. Vanessa saw the black man who had driven the pony-girl carriage stride by.
‘If you want to learn a few facts, we call this the High Street,’ Miss Kyle said, leading the way along the broad central corridor that ran the length of level B3. They passed the block where Vanessa had changed that morning and the turning to the cell mews. ‘The shopping corridor is called the Mall, of course.’
There were doors and windows on
either side opening on to who knew what strange things. It might only have a floor area the size of a large underground car park, but Vanessa realised there was still so much she did not know about the place.
They reached the very end block on the right and turned through a double gateway. It was the space Vanessa had looked in on through a viewing window the previous day that Shiller had said was a training area for new recruits. Now it was ringed about with a host of what Vanessa had to think of as off-duty slave-girls, their jewels sparkling and coloured ribbons fluttering. She’d never seen so much totally naked flesh of every hue paraded in one space before. There must have been eighty or ninety of them. It could almost be a crowd gathering for a talent show in a naturist camp – except for the coloured collars they all wore. Still, at least they made her feel a little less self-conscious of her own nudity.
Four slave-masters, three men and a woman, were assembled on a small podium. One man wore only boots and a posing pouch, the second training shorts and singlet, the last black-leather trousers and a harness top. The woman was a blonde dressed in thigh-length black boots and a matching black pvc bikini. They all wore belts from which hung an assortment of whips, crops and electric goads. Beside the masters, a small table had been laid out with a stack of red slave-collars and a cane. In front of the podium a dozen small rubber kneeling mats had been set out in a short arc.
Miss Kyle led Vanessa round the fringe of the crowd until they were just to one side of the podium.
‘You should see everything from here,’ she said. ‘I’ll be busy with the new girls from now on. I assume you can find your own way back to the office after it’s over.’
‘Yes, Miss Kyle.’
‘Then you’re on your own. What you make of all this is up to you.’
The Girlflesh Institute (Nexus) Page 9