The paddles swished down on bare soft bottom flesh, making sharp smacks as they struck. The girls yelped behind their gags, their taut, suspended bodies jerking in reflex, sending ripples down the line, grinding the dildos deeper into them. Vanessa saw Kashika’s dark glossy breasts shivering and jiggling sharply, while Amber’s heavier globes heaved in slower, more fluid motion. Their thighs tensed and knees turned inwards, trying to clench the rods on which they were impaled.
Feeling her own pussy weeping in sympathy, Vanessa kept the camera to her eye as she walked round the racks of tormented girls. From behind she saw how the trainers worked their way up and down the row of their charges, keeping up a steady stream of blows, changing the angle from which they struck, lifting bottom flesh and making it jump and shiver. The paddles did not cut the girls’ flesh, but left broad stripes and blushes blossoming over twelve bouncing, clenching backsides.
It was a tie between Kashika and Olivia as to who orgasmed first. With drool running down their cheeks, both girls shrieked and jerked wildly, straining their arms spasmodically as they rode their dildos over the last barrier to relief.
As soon as they went limp their trainers concentrated their attention on the girls either side of them. Three minutes later, all twelve girls hung limp in their bonds, heads lolling on heaving chests, breasts glistening with sweat, vaginal juices dripping freely down the rods to the floor.
The trainers conferred in quiet voices for a minute, then they went to the racks and began lowering the dildos, pulling them out of sticky holes with sucking pops. The girls’ gags were pulled out, the water can spout thrust between stretched lips and then the gags were reinserted. Vanessa sighed in relief. She did not know how much more she could have taken, trembling as she was with self-loathing and unquenched lust.
Then she saw the trainers sliding the now pussyoiled dildos into the girls’ rear passages. No, they couldn’t expect the poor creatures to come again so soon.
She went up to Miss Kyle. ‘Please … don’t do this to them!’
‘Why not? They’re willing. See for yourself!’ She grasped Vanessa by her hair and pulled her forwards and on to her knees in front of Kashika’s spread and impaled body. ‘Tell me she’s not hot for more,’ she hissed, thrusting Vanessa’s face into the girl’s pubes.
The warm, rich, honeyed scent of the girl filled her nostrils. Her vulva was a dark cleft with contrasting coral-pink depths to her labia, which were wet and engorged by blood. There were beads of sweat in her smooth, deep navel. Her pubic curls were a darker honey-blonde …
Miss Kyle jerked Vanessa’s head back out of Kashika’s love-mouth and pushed her aside. ‘Now don’t you dare interfere again!’
Confused, Vanessa watched as bottom after bottom bulged with rubber prongs, and girl after girl gasped and groaned and then lifted her head. Were they truly ready to accept more punishment?
The trainers moved round to the front of their racks and began swiping their paddles across the girls’ defenceless breasts and stomachs. They writhed and moaned, sore bottoms clenching as they squirmed and twisted on their anal mounts. Vanessa’s mind filled with slaps and cracks of rubber on flesh, of breasts rebounding from paddle strokes, of straining nipples, tremulous navels, shafted rears and swollen labia. But above all was the animal scent of their desire misting the air. And helplessly caught up in the charged atmosphere she took picture after picture.
Then it was over. Once more the chain hung limp and drained. The floor beneath them splattered with a second shower of their juices.
Miss Kyle came over to Vanessa. She looked radiantly happy, her nipples standing up through the filmy material of her body stocking.
‘This is going to be an exceptionally responsive chain,’ she announced proudly. ‘They’ll make wonderful slaves. You should feel privileged to be covering their training.’
‘No!’ Vanessa gasped, shaking her head to clear the drug-like aroma of slavery from her mind. ‘This is just disgusting. I’ve got to get out of here!’
An unexpected expression of sympathy crossed Miss Kyle’s face. ‘Of course. This is a lot to take in. Leave them to us for now. But you’ll come back because you can’t help it. You want to ask them why they need this. You want to see everything we do to them, however guilty it makes you feel. You can’t help yourself. You have to know if it could be you hanging up there with a burning bum and dripping cunt, sobbing with pain but knowing this was what you were born to be …’
Vanessa heard no more as she slammed the yard gate behind her.
That night, curled up in bed, her hands cuffed, her bottom filled by her anal lock, Vanessa dreamt of Cherry Chain dancing on their impaling poles. One particular brown-skinned girl with blonde hair was the focus of her thoughts. She was trying to free her but she was chained up herself.
She woke the next morning to find her fingers sticky with her own juices.
Eight
MISS KYLE WAS right when she said Vanessa would come back, and not simply because Zara expected her to cover Cherry Chain’s training for Girlflesh News. Hateful though it was to admit, she had become helplessly enthralled by the girls’ responses. It was like nothing she had ever known before.
As the days passed, the outside world began to seem merely a mundane and rather drab background to the images and sensations of life at Shillers. She tried to rationalise the feeling by putting it down to her own state of enforced nudity and bondage at work, which was heightening and distorting her appreciation of events. This might have been at least partially true, but deep down she knew it could not account for the intensity of her response. It was almost like a drug.
Apart from short outings for essential shopping, she left her flat only to go to work. There were no friends she could imagine going out with in her current situation. How could she possibly behave naturally? Her life was no longer natural; it was a lie, both outwardly and inwardly. But she could see no escape.
Shiller herself contacted her briefly and, on her instructions and dutifully mouthing her words, she phoned Enwright to reassure him she was all right. At the same time she gave details of a Shiller technical subsidiary whose activities she thought were unduly secretive and might warrant further investigation. In fact, as Shiller explained, the firm in question was working on classified defence contracts and had no connection whatsoever with the girlflesh business. The Globe could waste its time investigating the firm while Vanessa would be seen to be conscientiously doing her job.
The weekend came up but she worked through it. The girls’ training did not cease and she could not bear the thought of being monitored in her flat for two whole days. She was less closely observed at Shillers. Nobody objected to her presence, and for the most part it was oddly restful. The building was half empty and she had the office virtually to herself. Most of the time she spent down in B3, but she also found herself daringly wandering along the deserted hallways just peering into offices. What must she look like naked and chained in such a mundane setting? She supposed it was a perverse sort of freedom.
In one long utility corridor, she came across a group of slave-girl cleaners.
There were four of them, their blue collars showing they belonged to Cyan Chain. They were being driven by a man in Shiller maintenance overalls working an industrial-sized floor cleaner that had been modified to incorporate slaves as part of its mechanism.
Instead of a single vacuum hose it had four, one running to each of the girls, who shuffled forwards ahead of the purring machine on their hands and knees. They wore thick fingerless mittens on their hands and foam shin pads. They were kept in line by jointed rods snap-linked to large rings protruding from their anuses. The hoses passed under their bodies, supported by hooks from their anal rings, ran freely through the clefts of their pudenda and then between their dangling breasts. Here they were supported by short rubber cords clipped to their nipples, which were pulled tightly inwards by the tension, turning their breasts into fleshy cushioned mounts for the hoses.
The girls held in their mouths the bulbous ends of the short tubular rods on which the actual brush heads were fixed. As they progressed forwards they moved their heads from side to side, as though they were grazing. Between them they swept the entire width of the corridor in one go.
Vanessa pressed herself up against the wall and lowered her head meekly as the extraordinary living machine passed. As she looked at the line of upturned bottoms receding from her, she saw the tell-tale glisten of female lubrication around the hoses where they pressed up into their vulvas, spreading their flesh-lips. The rubbing of the ribbed hose and the vibration of the machine transmitted through it was obviously exciting them. But was that compensation enough for such indignity?
She was just leaving the office after lunch when she had an altogether different encounter. The lobby doors opened and a pair of security guards entered. One she recognised as the main gate guard who always grinned at her as she passed on the way in.
‘Hallo, Miss Buckingham … or can I call you Vanessa?’ he said, smirking broadly. ‘I thought, as you were up here on your own, you might want some company, didn’t I, Phil?’
Phil was also grinning, looking Vanessa up and down with unashamed pleasure. ‘You did, Geoff.’
‘I told you I’d be seeing more of you the first day we met,’ Geoff said.
As they came towards her, Vanessa knew with sick certainty what they were going to do. She also knew that inside Shillers she had no reason to expect anything else. It was only a pointless conditioned reflex that made her turn and run back into the office. They followed laughing, as though it was great sport.
She dodged round the desks, her chains jingling, but they got on either side of her and she was cornered. It was almost a relief to feel the grip of their strong hands and let them take complete control of her.
They twisted her arms behind her back and clipped her wrist cuffs to her belt. How easy it was for them when she came ready-fitted with restraints, she thought dizzily. She made one last instinctive protest to satisfy what was left of her sense of honour. ‘No … please don’t –’
Geoff’s big hand closed over Vanessa’s mouth, silencing her.
‘I’ll take some oral, all right with you?’
Phil slid stiff exploratory fingers into Vanessa’s vagina. ‘That’ll do me fine …’ he withdrew his hand, his fingers now glistening. ‘Look, the slut’s already wet for it!’
They pushed her face down over a desk, so that her feebly kicking legs hung over one side and her head the other. Geoff held her down with one hand clasped about the back of her neck, while he unzipped his flies. His erect cock sprang out, foreskin already rolling back from its purple plum head. She could smell his musk. Phil kneed her thighs apart. Another zip came down. His thumbs sank into the soft flesh of her buttocks and pulled them open. Geoff prised her jaws apart and thrust his shaft into her mouth. Phil rammed into her vagina even as Geoff’s cock plumbed the depths of her throat, almost choking her.
And because it was so much easier and seductively natural, she let her instinct take over.
In and out they pumped, grinding Vanessa to and fro across the desk, she cock-spitted between them, moaning and spluttering and squirming. When they came she swallowed greedily, trying to suck them dry with both her mouths even as pleasure boiled through her loins.
Recovering, they pulled out of her and tucked away their now drained and sticky cocks. Vanessa felt sudden emptiness. Unclipping her hands, they gave her bottom a friendly slap and left her sprawled across the desktop, sweaty, panting and soiled.
After a minute she got off the desk. There was a stain on the carpet where her juices and Phil’s sperm had dribbled out of her slit. She scuffed it over with her toe. Clutching one hand over her pubes to contain any more drips, she stumbled out of the office and along the corridor to the toilets. She had discovered earlier that one stall contained a bidet. Now she understood why and used it gratefully.
She wiped herself clean, went to the sink and washed out her mouth, splashed her face off, towelled dry, and then examined herself in the mirror. It was hard to admit, but she didn’t look freshly ravaged. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her nipples still semi-hard. Her vagina was a little sore, but no more than she might expect from vigorous sex. Did that make her strong or weak?
She had just been treated like a slave-girl, and had ultimately responded like one. She’d had forced sex with two strange men and had responded with an orgasm. Not a big one but still an orgasm. That part of it had felt good. Why? Perhaps being here had unnaturally stimulated her needs, which had to be satisfied by the same brutal means. She should feel outraged but didn’t. Why should she seek out grief? In the outside world she knew that was how she would react if something like this had just happened, but in here normal rules did not apply. Phil and Geoff evidently felt no guilt. They had enjoyed themselves and casually assumed she had too. In a way she had. What did that say about her? Was she really a slut?
Vanessa explored the rest of level B3, something she knew that as a reporter she should have done earlier. A lot of the girls were out on assignments over the weekend, so it was quiet there too.
Arriving early and staying late, she discovered that the ceiling lighting dimmed to a dull blue glow in the evenings, mimicking nightfall. Wall lamps came on, as did colourful strings of lights garlanded about the larger trees and shrubs. The air conditioning also shifted to a cooler cycle. At such times she could almost believe she was walking the narrow streets of some tiny village.
The six small chalets where the trainers lived she avoided, but otherwise she wandered at will. Paradoxically, in this underground haven of bondage, nobody stopped her and there were few locked doors.
Opposite the stables, which still gave her the shivers, was a plain building with fewer windows than the others. It turned out to be a storehouse of every type of bondage equipment imaginable – rows of hooks hung heavy with handcuffs, wheeled torture racks and suspension frames, and some devices whose functions she could not even puzzle out.
The huge array was mind-numbing. Overwhelmed, she sat down on a chair in the shadows to rest, only to find it was fitted with an array of hinged metal cuffs that could be closed about neck, waist, wrists and ankles. There was no proper seat but side legs where thighs could be held wide open, leaving the groin totally exposed and vulnerable. She got up quickly.
Backing the inner row of the Mall shops, so that it ran down one side of the High Street, was a long windowless block with heavy double doors at each end. Beyond them were lobbies with inner sets of doors marked with large red signs saying: QUIET PLEASE – GIRLS RESTING.
Inside were several warm, dimly lit chambers with rows of heavy hooks dangling from the ceilings. From these were suspended chains of sleeping slave-girls.
They were secured with their backs to wooden boards a little larger than coffin lids, their hands to their sides and feet slightly apart. Paired hooks bolted to the backs of the boards about one-third the way down from the top forced the girls to hang forwards at slight angles. They were fastened to the boards by broad rubber straps about their ankles, knees, upper thighs, waists, upper arms, wrists, and necks. Velcro pads were positioned on the back of the boards by the slots through which the straps emerged to fasten them in place. Wooden wedge blocks under their feet prevented them from slipping down the boards.
The girls’ heads were enclosed in black rubber hoods, pierced only by a triangle for their nostrils and a soft plug for their mouths. Rings protruding from the crown of each hood were hooked to short rubber cords connected to the tops of the boards, ensuring the girls’ heads did not droop forwards.
Marker memo pads hung on hooks by each chain. On them were written notes such as: ‘Violet Chain. Assigned to Chudleigh Hall, Berks. Sat/Sun. Suspended 10.30. Take down 16.30. Depart 17.00.’
Vanessa walked between the aisles of suspended flesh, fascinated by the slight rise and fall of the sleeping girls’ nipples. Despite the air o
f restful calm that permeated the chambers, she could not help thinking of sides of meat hanging in a butcher’s shop.
After checking with Mr Jarvis that it was permitted, she explored the rest of the block beyond the locker room where she changed. She moved as a slave-girl was forced to do, through low gates and along low, mesh-lined tunnel corridors. These opened on to bathrooms, a large mess hall and dormitories stacked in galleries. None of the spaces were at all private, nor were any high enough to stand upright within.
Blocks of steps rested against the tunnels, so that anybody coming through the ordinary doors could climb up and walk along their reinforced mesh tops, looking down on the slaves under their feet. Vanessa could appreciate the psychological message such an arrangement reinforced. ‘You are beneath me therefore you are inferior.’
At the end of the block she found something unexpected. A tunnel dipped down in a ramp, then along and up again, evidently going under one of the passageways above. It emerged into a perfectly tranquil walled garden containing a shallow blue swimming pool, grassy banks and low trees, and so artfully lit by sunlamps that for a moment she thought she had somehow wandered above ground. Then she realised this was the block across the High Street from the new chain-training yard.
As she emerged, half a dozen slave-girls were lazing about reading or splashing in the pool. They were perfectly friendly, if a little curious. Without a coloured chain collar she did not quite fit in. They clustered round in an unself-conscious knot of bare flesh. It was disconcerting. They only wore collars while she had slave chains as well. She was less free than they were. But evidently this was less important to them than who she was.
‘Are you visiting? Do you belong to a friend of the Director’s?’
‘Wait, didn’t I see you taking photographs at the new chain ceremony.’
‘Yes,’ Vanessa admitted. ‘I’ve … er, just started working for Girlflesh News … as a sort of trial.’
At that they got excited. Some of them had the latest copy with them and wanted to suggest ideas for articles. That they seemed so utterly happy and at ease with their situation she could not believe. Had they been totally conditioned to accept their lot as slaves? It appeared they could not help the way they were. But perhaps the new girls might not be beyond saving.
The Girlflesh Institute (Nexus) Page 13