by Roger Clarke
Finally Emily was as far inside her as it was possible to be, staying still so both of them could feel this deepest of penetrations. She started to move, slowly, then gradually faster, taking hold of Erica’s hair, pulling herself in, pumping forward and back. Erica gasped and squealed.
‘Silence!’ Emily hissed, and without stopping her thrusting she picked up one of the vibrators, pulling Erica’s head back so she could push it in her mouth. ‘I said silence,’ she growled. ‘Suck on that, slave!’
Erica had no idea which of the vibrators she was sucking on and cared even less. She would have sucked anything right then. She would have done anything. She was more excited than at any time she could remember and she was being taken rapidly, urgently, screamingly to orgasm. No choices, no decisions. And right along with her, riding the other end of the dildo, Emily had her third.
Her aim had been to ingratiate herself with Emily but she had to admit – to herself, nobody else – that she enjoyed sex with the woman. And she thought she’d won her over too; at least until both had recovered.
‘One last thing, 51,’ Emily said as she finished dressing. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? Speak.’
‘Er… no, Mistress.’
Emily moved across and roughly twisted her face towards her. ‘You thought you could manipulate me, didn’t you? Thought you could get my trust by playing along?’
‘No, I—’
‘Silence! You’re an object, 51, a slave to be used and cast aside. You’re trash. Get used to it.’ She stood and collected her papers. ‘Camera on.’
‘My name’s Erica,’ she protested softly.
‘What?’
‘Erica. It’s my name.’
Emily walked swiftly across, viciously slapping her across the face. ‘You are 51. You have no name.’
‘Fuck you,’ Erica spat, her cheek already reddening from the harsh blow.
Emily put her papers on the bed and pushed Erica’s head down next to them, pulling the leash down to an eyelet on the side and tying it there. ‘Okay,’ she said sourly. ‘Have it your way.’ She looked towards the camera.
‘Set up our special initiation for 51,’ she called, and then pulled Erica’s face towards her once more. ‘You will learn, 51, no matter how long it takes.’
Emily walked to the door, which clicked and swung open as she approached, then swished closed after she departed.
Chapter 4
By the time they came for her she ached. Her hands, still clamped behind her, needed movement, and the fact her head was pulled hard down to the bed meant she had to stay kneeling. She tried straightening her legs a few times, but the collar nearly strangled her as her body dropped. She even tried getting up on the bed, but the leash was too tight to allow it.
Time went very slowly. She was not fed, although another girl, one she’d not seen before, came in a few times and gave her water from a feeder bottle. Thinking she had little to lose now she tried talking to the girl, but did not get a single word in return.
They arrived noisily, entering the room and moving behind her. Emily was there, giving orders, and there were two men wearing the masks she had already seen. Three girls followed them in, each wearing similar black lacy underwear, stockings and heels, each shackled with the same loose chain arrangement fastening their necks to their wrists to their ankles, just as 36 had worn before.
Erica was frightened, wishing she had not pushed her luck with Emily. ‘Mistress, I’m sorry,’ she started, but from behind her a swish coincided with sudden pain in her buttocks. She had no idea who had hit her, nor with what; all she knew was it hurt.
‘Too late, 51. It’s easy to obey when you’re scared, isn’t it? But you have to learn to obey all the time, without question.’
‘I will, Mistress.’
‘Silence!’
Erica screamed as she was hit again. Male hands unfastened the leash and her cuffs, pulling her roughly to her feet. The same hands quickly unlocked the leather cuffs, replacing them with heavy metal ones, clipping her wrists to her collar by a few short inches of chain. Her ankles were shackled together, so the only steps she would be able to take would be short ones.
Emily led the party through the open door. The two men, who stayed in close attendance behind her, pushed Erica along immediately behind the woman she’d had such pleasure with shortly before. She could feel their eyes on her naked buttocks as she walked. The three silent attendants followed them, the clinks of their chains drowned by the clatter of the heavier ones on Erica’s ankles.
The corridor outside could have been in a plush hotel, the Hessian above the dado rail punctuated by ornately-framed paintings every few feet. The heavy wooden doors at each side carried plaques inscribed with numbers, so she guessed each room was much like hers, home to another prisoner of the regime who had stolen her liberty. Erica resolved to be strong, to hang on to her name, to be the one who liberated the slaves. They would not break her.
At its midpoint the corridor branched off to the right. This passageway looked similar to the one she’d been awkwardly shuffling along, but it was much busier. In the distance she could hear the general murmur of conversation and now and again someone would move quickly from one door, or into another, most activity coming from double doors at the end of the passage. Erica smelled food, tugging at her hunger.
As they neared the double doors a slave girl came out from one to their left, stopping immediately as she saw the entourage, standing with her head bowed until they passed.
The doors swung open automatically in to the restaurant. Inside were perhaps thirty tables, almost all occupied by diners. By far the majority were men, but a few elegantly dressed women were sprinkled around. One table was all female, with three attractive women sipping white wine and chatting. Their entry into the hall produced a noticeable lull in the conversation, most heads turning to watch their progress towards a raised, curved platform at the far end of the hall. Erica heard a male voice say, ‘Here’s the floor show,’ as she passed.
The two men beside her took an arm each to march her to the stage, stopping before a circular plinth that had two stout vertical posts set into it. She was quickly unshackled before her arms were roped to the tops of the two posts and her legs drawn apart to be tied by ropes at the bases, such that she formed an X shape. Once she was secured the men left her there alone, under the gaze of probably a hundred or so diners and under the unforgiving glare of coloured spotlights.
As her eyes became accustomed to the lighting she was able to look out over the room. The girls were dressed in the same kind of underwear she had become used to seeing, yet without the chain arrangement, which she assumed would impede their waitress duties. Apparently each table had its own exclusive girl who served the food and wine, attendant to the diners’ every need. Erica noticed that it was quite common for the diners to touch the girls, caressing buttocks, legs and breasts. Occasionally someone would remove an item of clothing, so that the girl had to continue topless or without the thong.
A commotion over to Erica’s right, where a girl dropped and smashed a dish, saw the poor culprit bent across the lap of one of the male diners and spanked to the enthusiastic cheers of the surrounding guests.
Erica could not even begin to guess what this place was. During the next hour or so, as she stood naked and helpless on her podium, she watched the scene before her, the busy waitresses entering and leaving from the swing doors almost directly opposite her; the noisy diners with their clinking glasses and ribald laughter; the ever-present masked men keeping a supervisory eye on everything that happened.
For the first time since she got here she could see fading daylight beyond sliding full-length windows, to the right of the kitchen doors on the far wall. A paved patio gave way to a grassy slope that disappeared into the diminishing light.
Her eyes snapped back to the doors a
t the far end as they opened again for another party of diners. Erica recognised the heavyset man immediately, though she could not remember why at first. She searched her memory for clues and finally it came to her.
His name was James and she did not like him. She had seen him not six weeks beforehand, at her house in Surrey. She had recognised him then, too, from his frequent appearances on the television, interviewing politicians who squirmed under the onslaught of unwanted questions. She remembered that several times during his visit she had caught him looking at her, but when she met his eyes he had not looked away as most men did. He kept on looking deliberately at her body, giving her the uneasy feeling he wanted her. But apart from that he’d been pleasant enough and she’d been pleasant back.
She kept her eyes on him, waiting for a chance to make contact. He could get word to her parents, if only she could get word to him.
Time passed and Erica started to feel tired, the ropes stretching her limbs. She was almost grateful when a tall, silver-haired man took the stage and flicked on a microphone, taking it from its stand and calling for attention.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, as most of you know we have a special item this evening. An initiation.’ He walked across to Erica and looked her in the face. ‘What’s your name, slave?’ He held the microphone out towards her.
The diners watched, all perfectly silent. Someone coughed at the rear of the hall. This was her chance and she had to take it. If she could make James realise who she was, that would start the ball rolling towards her freedom.
‘I am Erica Pettinger, daughter of the MP Laurence Pettinger. I’m being held here against my will. Can somebody get word to my parents?’
The silence remained for a few seconds, to be replaced by mounting laughter.
‘I’m Erica Pettinger!’ she repeated desperately over their noise. ‘Please… can somebody get word to my parents?’
The man took the microphone away and spoke. ‘You see, ladies and gentlemen, we have another fighter. You’ll excuse me if you have to do without your slaves for a few minutes? Slaves, to your positions.’
Erica watched as the girls put down whatever they were carrying and moved towards the platform, kneeling on the carpeted floor just beyond the curved front with an ordered efficiency that told Erica it was not the first time they had done this. When all thirty-two girls were kneeling, heads bowed, the man spoke again.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked her, offering the microphone for her reply.
‘Erica Pettinger.’
He moved to one of the kneeling girls.
‘What’s your name, slave? Speak.’
The girl did not hesitate. ‘27, Master,’ she said quietly.
‘No, I mean your real name.’
‘I have no other name, Master.’
‘Good.’
He repeated the exercise with three other girls, including 36, the girl Erica had first met, then returned to face her.
‘You see, 51? You’re the odd one out here. You insist you have another name. You think you can rebel. You think you can beat us. What you don’t realise is that the Masters and Mistresses here are quite happy for you to be defiant. They will enjoy seeing you broken. Keep us informed of your name, won’t you?’
‘I’m Erica Pettinger,’ she hissed, staring him in the face.
He smiled and picked up a remote control from a holder on the wall. The circular plinth clicked into motorised life, rotating until Erica was facing the rear wall, her back to the diners. The murmur of expectant conversation had started again.
‘27,’ the man called. ‘Fetch the whip.’
Erica watched as the girl stood and moved to a cupboard along the same wall she faced, opening it and taking out a single-tailed whip that rested on a blue velvet cushion, reinforcing the ceremonial feel about what was happening. She quickly returned, bowing her head and offering the whip to the man.
He put down the microphone and moved to a point behind Erica and to her left. Erica waited, tensing for the inevitable. The man waited too, choosing his moment. Erica could only tense for so long before she needed to take a breath. As she did so he lashed the whip across her back. She screamed, arching against the blow.
The man did not strike again. He picked up the microphone. ‘Your name?’ he asked her.
‘Erica!’ she spat.
He smiled. ‘You are splendid sport,’ he said. ‘We’re taking bets,’ he announced to the diners.’
During the excited hubbub that followed he approached Erica and spoke quietly, the microphone switched off. ‘Do you know what the betting is for?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘It’s for how many you take before you break, 51.’
‘Go to hell,’ she hissed.
The sting of the first lash still hurt her back as she waited for more. Emily went to each table in turn, making notes. When the betting was concluded the silver-haired man called for quiet again.
‘Right, ladies and gents, I think we’re ready.’ He walked across the front of the stage, looking down on the pretty lowered heads. ‘We’ll start this end. Number 2, step forward.’
Erica watched as the girl on the far right stood, taking hold of the offered whip. Her naked breasts bobbed as she stepped up on the podium. With mechanical efficiency she raised the whip and brought it down hard across Erica’s back. While Erica screamed and pulled at the ropes the girl handed the whip back to the man and approached her, saying in a clear voice, ‘What is your name?’ The man held the microphone close by to hear her answer.
‘E-Erica,’ she sobbed. The girl resumed her place below the stage.
‘Next!’ barked the man.
The pattern was the same for each girl. She would take the whip, lash out, hand back the whip and ask the question, while the man held the microphone to capture every question, every answer, every cry and every scream. There was no suggestion of regret, remorse or sympathy from any girl. Each time Erica screamed out and each time she replied to the question with her own name. By the eighth girl she was crying desperately.
‘Erica, Erica, Erica, Erica,’ she babbled incoherently, the ropes taking most of her weight now. Then the next girl stepped forward.
‘Please, no more, please, I’ll say it!’ she cried out, but nobody took any notice. The next girl struck just as savagely as the others had, but when she asked the emotionless question she got a different answer.
‘51,’ sobbed Erica. ‘My name is 51…’
Her mumbled acknowledgement echoed around the room, picked up and amplified by the sound system. A ripple of applause grew. Someone whistled.
‘Again,’ said the man, bringing the microphone close.
‘51… my name is 51.’
‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it? The score is nine, ladies and gentlemen.’ He looked across at the next girl, standing ready to take her turn. ‘Continue,’ he said, handing her the whip.
‘No, please no!’ Erica shrieked, realisation dawning. ‘I said what you wanted. Please stop, I beg you. I’ll do anything.’
‘That’s right, 51, you will do anything. And you’ll start by enduring this punishment. You must realise we punish when we want to, because we have a reason or because we don’t. It’s not yours to question, only to endure. Continue!’
So Erica was whipped by all the girls, sobbing and screaming until she hung loosely from her bonds, sweat coating her body. When her ordeal was over the girls were instructed to return to their duties, but Erica was not released. She had become a showpiece, a symbol of the futility of resisting against impossible odds. As people finished their meals some came up on the podium and looked at her back, or her nakedness. Some touched, invaded her body. A harsh-looking woman in black went behind her and drew her tongue up her spine, moving round so Erica could see the disdain in her face. A man brought a salt cellar to
sprinkle on her wounds, laughing cruelly as her screams started again.
Gradually fewer and fewer people remained. As the diners left their girls went with them, though Erica could not guess where. She had been looking for her stepfather’s friend, James, hoping against hope that he could be her salvation.
He was still in the room, drinking brandies with his three associates. Erica watched over her shoulder as they finally stood, his friends leaving the room as he approached Emily and spoke words Erica could not hear. Then both walked towards the platform.
‘Not so haughty now, are you, 51?’ he smiled. ‘I remember you, in case you wondered. I remember how you looked at me, too. Such an arrogant look. But we’re not so arrogant now, are we? Turn her round.’
Emily pressed the button on the remote until Erica was facing the man. He was already taking off his jacket. As the plinth shuddered to a halt he started to unbutton his shirt.
‘No, please no,’ Erica cried, weakness preventing her from putting any fight into her tone.
‘No talking,’ he said gently. ‘Just accept your fate. If you say a word I will have you whipped again.’ He paused to let the threat sink in; he knew she could take no more.
‘I know you saw me earlier and I know you hoped I’d somehow rescue you. I could see it in your eyes, even from there. But I don’t want to rescue you. I want to use you. I want to pay you back for that arrogant teasing at your parents’ house. It’s more fun that I know you.’
He did not stop until he was naked, Emily’s eyes flicking between his erection and Erica’s face.
‘Take her down, please,’ he ordered Emily.
They untied her feet first. As her arms were freed she sagged, all strength evading her, so that Emily had to support her. James stepped forward to help lower her to the floor, onto her hands and knees. She guessed what was coming, but she had no strength left to resist.
James looked down on her beaten back as he kicked her legs apart and knelt between them. Even through her exhaustion and discomfort she was surprised how easily he slid into her.