A Girl Called 51

by Roger Clarke

  The girl’s breasts were as tanned as the rest of her, causing the man to comment. ‘I’m assured the tan is genuine,’ he smiled. ‘81 does like to be topless when she’s abroad. And I suspect it’s an all over tan.’

  The comment produced some murmurs of approval from the onlookers. The girl shook her head as he reached for the waistband of her jeans to pull it away from her trim stomach.

  ‘Hmmm,’ the Director continued, as if they were in some macabre pantomime. ‘I can’t quite see. What shall I do?’

  He crouched down and started to cut upwards from her left ankle, working up the front of the jeans until he reached the waistband, where he stopped, moving to repeat the exercise on the right leg. When he finished her tanned legs were visible through the ragged slits. The room hushed, waiting for the girl’s body to be fully exposed. The man held the waistband of her jeans as he completed the cuts on both sides, finally letting it fall.

  The girl looked good in her white panties, athletic and slim as she was.

  ‘We still can’t see, can we?’ the man mocked, before gripping her dainty white underwear and tugging viciously, ripping them off completely and making her squeal into the rubber gag.

  Her tan was not an all over one, the little white area of flesh now exposed indicating that her bikini was even more brief than her underwear.

  He passed the scissors back to the waiting woman and took the microphone again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘This is 82. She’ll be whipped later, but in the meantime please enjoy her discomfort and your meals.’

  Erica tried again to make visual contact with the girl, whose hate-filled eyes glared back at the room, her chest rising and falling as her anger made her breath struggle against the constriction of the gag. The girl’s eyes moved along the line of kneeling slaves at the front of the stage, catching Erica’s as she passed.

  ‘Just do as they say,’ Erica tried to silently mouth to her, but the girl’s eyes moved on, then quickly glanced back, narrowing slightly as she tried to pick up the message. For a moment Erica thought she had got through, but as she watched the fire returned and the glance was lost. The girl did not look her way again, and the appearance of one of the male guests on the stage made Erica lower her face and stare at the floor once again. She hated herself for her lack of defiance. But it was useless. Defiance meant pain. There was nothing to gain from it, nothing at all. There was no law, no fairness, no reason. Only obedience and submission. Fighting meant losing, and losing meant punishment.

  Nothing changed for perhaps half an hour. The girl stared with venom back at the room as the diners continued with their meals and their wine. A quartet played from the left of the stage, but were generally ignored as people chatted and laughed as if in any normal restaurant – except this one did not have waitresses, it had slaves.

  ‘51!’

  Erica’s heart jumped as she heard her number called. The voice was female; she recognised it as Grace, one of the house Mistresses. She stood immediately and turned in the direction of it. The woman, in her mid-thirties, her dark-brown hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, held a silver tray with a bottle of port on it.

  ‘Take this to table twenty-seven,’ Grace told her. ‘Remain there until dismissed, and then return to your position.’

  Erica did not reply; she had not been told to. She simply took the tray and did as instructed, and it was only when she drew close that she saw who sat at table twenty-seven, and why she had been chosen to serve them. Watching her approach with obvious sadistic relish on his face, sat her stepfather, Laurence Pettinger MP. Erica felt the anger rising inside her again, fuelling her with enough energy and hatred to take the bottle and smash it over his loathsome head. But she knew that was exactly the kind of futile reaction he wanted and what the consequences would be, so she would not fall for such provocation. She was aware of her mother to his left, but the other couple present she had never seen before.

  The man looked distinguished and gentle, but she would not let that fool her. This was no place for gentle men or gentlemen. His companion looked out of place, fairly heavy-set with short bobbed hair and a tawdry flower-print dress.

  Erica put the tray on the table and stood back, trying hard to contain her rage.

  ‘What do you think of her?’ Laurence Pettinger was asking the other man.

  ‘Very attractive,’ the man said as he looked her up and down.

  ‘Do you want her?’ her stepfather asked.

  Erica steeled herself.

  ‘What, now?’ the incredulous man retorted.

  ‘If you want to. I told you, the slaves in this place are permanently available. You just tell them what to do and they do what you tell them.’ He looked up into Erica’s fiery eyes. ‘It’s my friend’s first time here, slave,’ he told her. ‘So I want you to unzip his trousers and fellate him.’

  Erica paused but a moment, ready to react mutinously, but she was not going to be beaten that easily; she knew what her stepfather was trying to do. So she sank to her knees beside the man, waiting while he turned towards her. She noticed his anxious glance at the woman, but it did not stop him facing her and it did not make him stop Erica as she leaned forward a little to slide down his zip. He was only half erect when she reached inside his trousers to fumble his cock into the open.

  Her chains chinked quietly as she leaned further forward to take him into her mouth. She knew her mother and stepfather were watching and she closed her eyes to shut out what was happening, but a sudden swat across her bottom made her jerk and open them again.

  ‘Keep your eyes open, slave,’ her stepfather ordered. From somewhere he had produced a short riding crop, which he lashed across her bottom a second time to make his point. The man was fully erect now, staring down aghast to where over half his cock disappeared inside her lovely mouth.

  ‘Is she good?’ Laurence Pettinger asked his guest.

  ‘Um, oh yes, amazing,’ the man breathed.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ her stepfather continued.

  ‘Um, no, how could I?’ he gasped.

  ‘Remember all that media fuss some time ago when my daughter disappeared?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said matter-of-factly. Then it sank in. ‘You mean…? She’s…?’

  Laurence Pettinger chuckled. ‘Oh yes. Now is that kinky or what?’

  ‘So all the rumours about you are right, Pettinger,’ the man said. ‘You are a contemptible bastard.’ But there was no disdain or disgust in the words or the tone. In fact the man was chuckling along with his lecherous host as his erection grew further in Erica’s throat, and he moved his hand to the back of her head to press her down further onto him until he was penetrating her deeply.

  ‘Is she performing diligently enough for you?’ her stepfather asked.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ the man said, his voice growing huskier.

  ‘And how’s this feel?’ Pettinger asked, emphasising the question with another swat of the crop across her vulnerable bottom.

  ‘Very good,’ the man enthused. ‘Very different.’

  Erica was vaguely aware that the noise around them had diminished as the nearby diners turned to watch her performance. Her stepfather continued to beat her poor buttocks as she sucked and the man kept his firm downward pressure on her head, occasionally allowing her to lift up only a few inches before he pushed her back down, her flushed face rubbing against the material of his trousers. Then an especially hard swat made her squeal around the cock plugging her mouth, extracting a deep hiss of breath from him too.

  ‘Again, do that again,’ he moaned. ‘And you,’ he cruelly twisted his fist in Erica’s hair to stress his demand, ‘don’t you dare swallow until I say you can.’

  Laurence Pettinger was more than happy to oblige, repeatedly striking hard so that Erica’s muted squeals vibrated through the throbbi
ng cock filling her mouth, and after a dozen or so stinging strokes the shuddering man clamped her head between his hands as he pumped his seed deep into her throat.

  After a few moments he pulled her head up, twisting his wrist until she had to look into his face. ‘Let me see,’ he ordered. ‘Open your mouth.’ She meekly obeyed, exhausted by the ordeal, and he saw that his sperm still coated her tongue and teeth. ‘Now swallow,’ he said, smiling smugly at Laurence Pettinger, then back down at her lovely flushed face as her eyes closed and her throat convulsed.

  ‘Let it trickle out now,’ he told her.

  Any contempt she held for him was completely overshadowed by the presence of her stepfather and her determination that some day she would wreak her revenge. She tilted her head forward until she felt the salty excess fluid escape her mouth and run down her chin, slowing for a moment before finding a path down her throat, cooling as it coated the upper slopes of her breasts.

  ‘Now, get back to whatever it is you have to do,’ the man ordered dismissively. ‘But no wiping it off. Understood? You’re a worthless whore and I want everyone to see my mark on you. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ she managed to say.

  She rose, turning to go, but had not moved a pace before she heard her stepfather’s voice again.

  ‘Erica,’ he said calmly.

  Now her hatred was complete. He had condemned her to this place to be completely depersonalised, to be a number not a name, a thing not a person, and now he chose to remind her of her given name. She stopped, still facing away from him.

  ‘Erica,’ he repeated. ‘Turn around. Look at me.’

  She turned slowly, her eyes not daring to meet his in case he saw the venom they contained.

  ‘You still remember your name, then? Speak.’

  ‘I am 51, Master,’ she told him, determined he would never win. ‘51.’

  ‘Call me that again,’ he said.

  ‘Master,’ she repeated.

  He was unzipping his trousers. Erica tensed. Surely he wouldn’t! Not that. She could not do it, she just could not. But, as usual, he was just torturing her.

  ‘Go and find me a slave,’ he said. ‘A particularly good one. Choose badly and I will have you flogged.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  Erica’s choice probably did not matter. If her stepfather, or any of the other guests for that matter, wanted her flogged, then she would be flogged, but she decided to do her best to appease him. She moved to the front of the stage again, walking to 43, a tall Jamaican girl whose skin contrasted so beautifully with her own, a fact often taken advantage of by guests who wanted to watch the pair perform lesbian sex for their amusement.

  Since speech was not allowed she tapped the girl on the shoulder and signalled to her to rise. 43 formed a perfect contrast, dressed in the exact complement of Erica’s clothes, with white underwear, stockings and shoes against Erica’s black. She took the girl’s hand and wove her way back through the tables to her stepfather. He looked 43 up and down as they approached, apparently pleased with her choice.

  What followed was an almost exact repeat of her own recent experience with her stepfather’s friend, and soon his sperm was running down 43’s exposed breasts just like the other man’s had on hers.

  ‘Stand,’ her stepfather told the coloured girl. ‘Now kiss my daughter.’

  The girl did not pause or falter and Erica found herself kissing another female, her own stepfather’s semen still all too evident on the other’s face, lips and tongue. She knew even that was meant to humiliate her and she again wondered what she had ever done to make her parents hate her so much.

  ‘You can return now, we have no more use for either of you. Go!’ her stepfather told them as a final dismissal.

  They walked back through the tables, side by side, and 43 managed to whisper, ‘I’d kill him.’

  ‘I intend to,’ Erica whispered back.

  When they arrived back at the stage, two men were walking round the new girl, touching her where they wanted, inciting her to further anger. Erica did not even try to make contact any more; the girl was lost to her own fate. The question was not whether she would break, but simply how long she would last before she did. Erica watched as a bead of sweat ran down her face and dripped to her breast. Eventually the Director returned to the stage and called for silence. He unfastened the ball-gag and tossed it aside before smiling at the new girl.

  ‘Still feeling defiant?’ he asked her.

  ‘Fuck you,’ came her answer.

  ‘Very well, let nobody say you didn’t have a chance. Grace, a crop I think.’

  The housemistress mounted the stage and walked to the cupboard all the slaves knew only too well. It contained dozens of implements whose sole purpose was to cause pain or humiliation… or both. 82 could not yet see what was intended for her. Until the Director flicked a button on the remote control so that the platform on which she stood started to rotate slowly, turning her to face the rear of the stage and exposing her bare back and bottom cheeks to the hushed diners. As she turned she noticed the crop in Grace’s hands.

  ‘W-what are you going to do?’ she stammered.

  ‘I already told you,’ the Director said. ‘You’re going to be whipped. These slaves kneeling by the stage will be the first. They’ve been through it too, every one of them. But do not imagine that will make them more merciful; they all know better than that. Don’t take it to heart either; just because they hurt you doesn’t mean they have anything against you. In time, you’ll understand.’

  He nodded to Grace, who walked to the left end of the row of kneeling girls and beckoned them all to rise. She handed the crop to the first girl and stood aside for her to mount the stage. She was a striking Japanese girl called 28, and she walked to the new girl and waited for the signal to begin.

  ‘Proceed,’ the Director told her when the room was completely quiet.

  She raised the crop and swiped it hard across 82’s back. The swish was followed instantly by the crack as leather lashed flesh and immediately by the scream from 82. The Japanese girl walked back to her place and handed the crop to the next girl, ready for the whole sequence to be repeated. Eventually it was Erica’s turn. 82 was already sobbing and pleading by that time, but Erica had to ignore it. She aimed for a part of her back that was not already marked by the crisscrossed red welts and struck hard. Any sign of leniency would be punished, something none of the girls wanted to risk.

  Long before the last girl had her turn 82 had passed out. But that did not stop the ritual.

  Chapter 11

  Beth appeared at her own ritual some time later. Despite their previous conflict, Erica took no pleasure from her submission and the accompanying whipping.

  Ray was there to witness it, and in fact insisted on giving the first cut of the crop, which he did with all the force he could muster, making even Erica wince. Beth cried throughout, begging to be set free, but she was wasting her breath appealing to anyone’s better nature. The more desperate the girls got the more the sadistic guests and controllers enjoyed it. After the ritualised whipping from all the girls Beth was taken away to her room and Erica was appointed to visit her.

  It was the first time she had ever been given that task, though she remembered well how it had happened to her. She was to educate Beth, or 83 as Erica would now have to call her, in the ways and the rules of The Complex. If Beth reacted badly or disobeyed she would be beaten, but Erica would be held to blame and would be beaten too. She had no doubt it was Ray who made the choice, since the two females already held a grudge between them.

  Beth had been back in her room for ten minutes or so when Erica was taken there. The dislike showed as soon as she entered, but since Beth had been chained by her collar to the bed there was no way she could physically reach Erica, who waited out of reach, silent, since s
he had not been given permission to speak. Whoever was watching and listening in the control room waited too, perhaps amused by Beth’s reaction to the presence of Erica in her room.

  ‘This is all your fault!’ she spat, tugging uselessly at the chain. ‘Let me out of here, you bastards!’ she shouted at the camera.

  ‘83, sit on the bed, now!’ came the controller’s voice.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Beth called in response.

  The voice was calm and slightly amused. ‘We can wait longer than you, 83. Think about the beating you just received. Think how easily it can be repeated.’

  Beth mellowed instantly. ‘No, please, I…’

  ‘51 is not your enemy. Nor is she your friend. She just is. Revenge will not be tolerated unless we allow it. You have to get used to your slavery, 83. All the slaves do as they’re told. If I tell 51 to cane you, she’ll cane you. If I tell her to kiss you, she’ll kiss you. Isn’t that right, 51? Speak.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’ Erica’s ever-present yearning to rebel would stay under the surface for now.

  ‘Which would you prefer, 83, a kiss or a caning?’ Beth did not respond. ‘Answer, 83, or we’ll punish you anyway.’

  ‘A kiss,’ the woman said hastily.

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘A kiss!’

  There was a pause, and Erica imagined they were discussing whether to allow it.

  ‘51, kiss her,’ the order finally came.

  Erica advanced, aware of the other woman’s seething anger, and as she got within reach Beth slapped her across the face. Erica reeled back, but was not about to be deterred. The punishment for disobeying was far worse than anything Beth could dish out. Her next approach was met with a similar assault, as was the third, the repeated slaps making her a little dizzy.

  ‘Back off and wait, 51,’ the controller finally intervened, and as Beth stood glowering at her, her breasts rising and falling as she fumed, Erica knew only too well what would happen next. She did not flinch when she heard the door click open behind her, but Beth did, suddenly looking fearful as two men entered. They moved quickly and efficiently, fitting metal cuffs to Beth’s wrists before unfastening the collar and positioning her in the middle of the room. Then the winch lowered and one of the men raised her arms and hooked it to her cuffs.