A Girl Called 51

by Roger Clarke

  ‘Good, well done. I get really turned on seeing you trying to be proud like this.’ She stood in front of Erica and touched her breasts. ‘I can make life better for you if you make life good for me, Erica.’

  That completely floored her. Emily had used her name.

  ‘That is your name, isn’t it? Erica?’ Emily asked.

  Erica was within a moment of falling into her trap. ‘My name is 51, Mistress, unless you choose to call me something else.’

  Emily smiled. ‘Well done. I knew you’d learn. This way.’

  She stood aside to let Erica walk inside, along the hallway and left towards the restaurant. Most tables were occupied with people drinking tea or coffee, with plates of sandwiches and cakes, giving Erica the impression that it was late afternoon. All eyes turned her way as she emerged through the swing doors.

  Using as much elegance as she could muster, Erica walked down the aisle towards the stage, stepping up to where the silver-haired man who had presided over her first public whipping stood waiting. He smiled as she approached, moving aside so she could see the frame in the centre of the stage. The middle part was a padded bench, but to the sides and the back were stout tubular metal bars, clearly designed to hold arms and legs still.

  Erica stood in front of the device, aware of the dozens of eyes watching her every move. She stood motionless, staring at the frame, and beside it was positioned a surgical trolley upon which were placed some utensils, which she guessed were tools for tattooing.

  ‘Ready, 51?’ Emily asked her.

  Erica hesitated, but then nodded.

  ‘Then go ahead.’

  Erica looked back at her, noting the silence of the expectant crowd. She stepped forward, sinking to her knees and laying her torso along the padded bench, aligning her arms and legs with the cold metal bars, waiting to be strapped in. Emily attended to her legs, fitting links to her ankle cuffs and wrapping leather straps round her thighs. The silver-haired man fixed her wrists out in front of her before fitting more straps just above her elbows. Finally he pulled the two ends of a strap from each side of the bench, anchoring her waist firmly to the cool surface.

  They wheeled another trolley in front of her, on top of which stood a television. Within moments it displayed her buttocks in sharp detail as, she assumed, the various other monitors around the room did. The tiny black strap of the thong hid almost nothing. Her buttocks, white and soft, awaited the inevitable pain of the tattooist’s needle.

  ‘Be brave, 51,’ Emily told her. ‘Anything to ask?’

  ‘N-no, Mistress,’ she stammered nervously.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ Emily told her, pushing a hard rubber bit-gag between her teeth before strapping it tightly in place behind her head. ‘Bite on that. It’ll help.’

  Erica felt some comfort from being strapped so tightly. There was no chance now, no freedom to move or even speak. The inevitable had arrived and she just wanted it to be over with, so she could heal and get on with whatever life she was allowed to have. She let herself drift, not listening to the announcements being made in the hall. She did not care who had bid for her. Whoever it was did not deserve her attention, or hatred. Hatred would be wasted; she was sure they would find a way of turning it against her, so she decided that simple compliance was the only way to handle this ordeal.

  A motor clicked in and the podium started to turn, relieving her of the sight of her buttocks, yet facing her with the sea of eyes watching and waiting. They were in no hurry for the climax – her pain – was also the end. They wanted to enjoy the spectacle for a while first, and Erica hoped her bland acceptance would take away some of their enjoyment. The podium turned slowly to let the audience watch her bound body and gagged face. The tension in the hall was electric; she could feel its power. Her moment was approaching.

  A small commotion in the hall captured her attention, but she was not in the right position to see. Someone had arrived who had drawn the eyes of the audience. Erica waited to see who or what it was.

  As she rotated further the newcomers came into view, and she could have wept with joy when she saw them! At the entrance doors, accompanied by men in uniforms, stood her parents. She wanted to call out, to accuse, to exact revenge on her torturers, but the gag stopped her. Her parents’ eyes looked across the hall to her, and they broke from the crowd to stride forward to the stage as the rotation of the podium once again hid them from view.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Emily’s voice called from the speakers. ‘The highest bidder, the one who gets to mark our newest slave, is our esteemed member… Laurence Pettinger MP!’

  ‘Mmmm!’ Erica screamed through her gag, shaking her head from side to side. There had to be some terrible misunderstanding. ‘Mmmm!’

  ‘Don’t be so shocked, 51,’ Emily told her. ‘Who do you think arranged for you to be brought here in the first place?’

  The podium stopped with a jerk. From her viewpoint Erica saw the silver-haired man take one of the tools in his hand, making sure she could see the fearsome needle at its end.

  ‘Master Laurence has elected to apply the second number,’ Emily explained to the enrapt audience. ‘The slave’s mother will apply the first.’

  Erica heard the buzz from the machine as her parents took their place behind her. Through her tears and screams she bit hard into the rubber gag, and waited.

  Chapter 9

  Erica wanted to sleep. She was dreaming of home, so long ago, when life was innocent and simple, when there was light and freedom and happiness. Why did they have to disturb her?

  Time? What did time matter to her? There were no clocks here, no newspapers, television, radio or calendars. Erica had no way of assessing how long she had been a prisoner at The Complex, but she estimated about six months, based purely on the changing seasons which even the power that ran this place could not hide. Some slaves tried to count days, but as soon as the warders found any such count they put them in solitary confinement for a few days until they could be confident the count would be lost.

  ‘51, time to get up. This is your final warning!’

  The first time she had heard that order she ignored it and went back to sleep. The voice sounded so mechanical, so impersonal, that she believed it was automated. That was the one and only time she made that mistake.

  Then, as she drifted back to her slumber, the door to her room opened quickly to admit one of the often leather-hooded guards and Emily. They took her quickly, dragging her from the bed and securing her arms to a ceiling hook in the centre of the room so tightly she had to stretch on tiptoe to keep some semblance of balance. There they whipped her, mercilessly and unheeding of her screams and her regrets.

  Afterwards, as she hung loosely from the ropes with no strength left to support herself, she heard them leave. In the absolute silence that followed, punctuated only by her breathing and remnants of her sobs, she felt the trickle of sweat run down her back, stinging her welts as it meandered.

  So Erica never ignored the wake-up calls again. She rose quickly, unashamed of her nakedness since she had no choice about it; the ever-watchful cameras had become part of the norm. Why worry about what she could not change? At least, that’s what she wanted them to think.

  Erica behaved herself, always. When she had first arrived at The Complex they broke her spirit completely. She was beaten and fucked, made to do any sexual act the Masters and Mistresses desired of her. Sometimes she recognised a politician, a media star or a sportsman. Occasionally the beast who wracked her body with pain was a squeaky clean pillar of society. She even numbered some of the nation’s senior clergy among those who had abused her. In this place there were no laws other than those dictated by the people who ran it, whoever they were. The guests, away from the constraints of public life, took their pleasure from the girls, who were so depersonalised they were not even allowed names.

 
; They were permitted leisure time, though, and but for their lack of freedom their surroundings were luxurious, the accommodation, facilities and catering of the standards of the very best hotels. They were denied nothing except any kind of freedom. Erica pondered how, during their leisure breaks, she had become firm friends with 21, a blonde about five years older than herself, and how once, in the grounds outside the main house, where they hoped the prying microphones could not hear, she introduced herself properly.

  ‘Erica Pettinger,’ she whispered.

  21 looked at her blankly, then after a few seconds a tear welled in the corner of her eye, her mouth twitching as she started to cry.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Erica asked.

  ‘I can’t remember my real name,’ the woman told her.

  At the time Erica thought that hard to believe, but the longer she remained at The Complex the more she realised that the total lack of identity could easily brainwash her, and all self-respect, all self-esteem and even all sense of self could easily dissolve. So she resolved to remind herself of who she was every morning and every night, ready for the day she knew she would escape.

  Erica Pettinger, daughter of… Laurence Pettinger, MP. Yes, that was it. Her traitorous, bastard stepfather. She well remembered that day when her parents had arrived at The Complex and she thought she was rescued, only to discover that they were the ones to cruelly tattoo her number into her flesh with a needle. 21 had advised her to forget the incident, but Erica wanted to remember. The memory continually fuelled the hatred she retained for her parents – her stepfather in particular. He would have been the main instigator of her misery, she was sure of that. The Complex had taken away her soul, so she knew she did not matter. She had nothing to live for and no prison could be worse than this, so when she did escape she was going to seek her revenge.

  But that was for another day. Until she escaped she would obey. They did what they wanted to her anyway, so fighting them merely caused her more pain.

  The camera watched her shower, then watched her dry herself and brush her long dark hair and apply her makeup. She waited for the bathroom door to be opened and walked back into her bedroom where, as usual, her clothes had been laid out on the bed by some unknown attendant. It was the same each day; get up, go to the bathroom, listen to the door lock, use the toilet, shower, wait for the door to unlock, after which her bed had been made and her clothes provided. Never once had she been permitted to see who did the work.

  Today’s outfit was all black. Black was by far the most popular choice. Erica looked under the dress to where a wispy suspender belt and a new pack of nylons lay. She shook the dress, not exactly surprised to find no other underwear. She sighed, thinking how immature people could be when they had absolute power.

  She put the belt around her waist and fastened the two hooks and eyes, then opened the pack of stockings, smoothing them up her legs, checking the seams were straight before fastening the suspenders. She watched her reflection in the full-length mirrors as she stepped into the dress and smoothed it to her breasts before fastening the halter behind her neck, letting her hair fall back in place. Then, as usual, she sat on the end of her bed and waited for whatever might happen when the watchers clicked open the door.

  After a few minutes the familiar clunk of the lock broke the silence and the heavy door swung silently open.

  ‘You may go to the restaurant for breakfast, 51,’ a woman’s voice said over the speakers.

  Erica stood and walked into the corridor. A workman stood aside to let her pass. She did not smile to him or speak to him. He was part of The Complex as far as Erica was concerned and if he had any human decency he would tell the police about the place and blow it wide apart. But he did not; he ignored what was going on, probably because he was well paid to ignore it. Maybe they let him use the girls from time to time. Whatever, he did not deserve any pleasantries from her.

  21 appeared from her door as Erica approached and smiled when their eyes met. She wore a short dress with a flared skirt in deep-blue satin and teetered on high heels. They were not permitted to talk to one another in the corridors, but they had become adept at communicating with their eyes.

  The two walked on until they came to the double doors that opened on a sensor as they neared. The large room was about half full, mainly with guests, though two other tables accommodated slaves like her. She had baulked at being called a slave at first, but the terrible reality was that she was one.

  They had only walked a few paces into the room when a voice called from behind them. ‘You two, stop there.’ The voice was male and cultured, and a rugged face appeared in front of them. He was tall and athletic and Erica could not help thinking she had seen him somewhere before.

  ‘Name?’ he asked her.

  ‘51, Master.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘21, Master.’

  ‘Take off the dress, 51,’ he told Erica, stepping back a few paces to watch.

  Erica did not hesitate, despite a slight buzz of interest in her predicament from some of those eating their meals. Around her a few of her fellow inmates served food and coffee, most glad that the focus of the guests’ attentions was not on them. The halter sagged as Erica unclipped it, falling away from her breasts and stopping at the natural curve of her hips. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and eased it off, draping it across the back of a vacant chair.

  She stood, hands by her sides, as the unknown man looked her up and down. He twirled a finger round in front of him to signal for her to turn, which she did, slowly, feeling as if she were at some kind of market. When she had her back to him he moved closer, pulling her cheeks slightly to feel her firmness.

  ‘When was the last time you were whipped, slave?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Two days ago, Master,’ she told him, remembering the occasion when her room had been visited in the middle of the night by a masked man and woman.

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘I don’t know, Master,’ she told him honestly. ‘Because they wanted to, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you ever whipped anyone?’ he asked 21.

  ‘Yes, Master,’ Erica’s friend said.

  ‘Ever whipped 51?’

  ‘No, Master.’

  ‘Has 51 ever whipped you?’

  ‘No, Master.’

  ‘It would amuse me to have one of you whip the other, but how shall I decide?’

  Both girls assumed the question was rhetorical, or not for them to answer at least. Both were used to this, since quite a few of the guests derived perverse pleasure from watching the girls inflict pain on one another. They administered and received their beatings from each other without malice or feelings of vengeance. No mercy was expected nor given, since the penalties for showing any leniency were severe for both girls.

  ‘I know,’ the man said at last, ‘get on the stage, and you,’ he pointed at 21, ‘strip as well.’

  Without question Erica led the way, 21 followed, watched now by most of the diners. Frequently a guest would have an idea and put on a show for the others, and this was to be such a show. The two young women stood beside each other facing the assembled diners, watching the swarthy man. 21 looked nervous as she took her dress off and dropped it to the stage. Under it she wore a tiny white thong and a lacy white bra, through which Erica could see her nipples.

  The man stood in front of the stage, watching. ‘You, 51,’ he directed, ‘undress her fully. Do it slowly and give all my associates a show.’

  Erica quickly moved behind her friend, reaching to unhook her bra.

  ‘And at least look as if you mean it, 51!’ The man’s sarcastic tone shook her into action. She slipped both hands around 21 to cup the tiny bra to her breasts, and pressed her own naked breasts against 21’s back, gyrating slowly in time with the soft music that filled the large room. Gradually
she insinuated her left hand under the bra, cupping 21’s generous breast and feeling the nipple rise under her palm. She dipped her head to kiss the woman’s neck as 21 tilted her head to one side and closed her eyes. She too would go with the flow to avoid a beating.

  Slowly, so as to provide a good show for the audience, Erica cupped the other breast too, allowing the bra to fall down 21’s arms and drop to the floor, forgotten, her hands replacing the bra in providing cover for her naked breasts. She trapped both nipples between her fingers, bringing an involuntary gasp from the blonde.

  Gradually she opened her fingers so the diners could see 21’s engorged nipples poking through, turning her so she was leaning back, fully facing the audience. She moulded her breasts, still kissing her neck, bringing a moan of pleasure from her. Then she started to move her hand downward, slowly, teasingly, stopping now and again to make 21’s skin tingle with expectation. Onward and downward once more, so that 21 held her breath and twisted her head round to be kissed.

  Erica closed her eyes too. With their eyes shut they could almost believe they were free to do this, instead of performing because they had no choice. Their mouths opened, their tongues met and Erica’s hand completed its journey, pushing under the waistband of the thong, down across the small springy curls of pubic hair to seek out warm wetness between the folds of the blonde’s labia. She hooked her fingers into the oily recess, bringing a soft sob from her friend. The whole room, the whole Complex, did not matter at that moment.

  But the euphoria did not last. Erica felt a sudden searing heat across her back and her eyes flew open. The crack of the bullwhip seemed to come a long time after the pain of its sting, though in reality they were one and the same. The man was standing there with a harsh grin on his face. He was already coiling the bullwhip up into his right hand, ready to strike again. In his left hand a second identical whip was already coiled.

  ‘I said undress her, 51. Now do it!’