Chapter 8
It was a lovely day, perhaps the best an English November could offer. The
bright morning sun had melted away the early frost, and it was now warm enough
that Connie Tipper and her sister Elsie felt quite comfortable as they sat
outdoors with tall glasses of Connie's husband's home-brewed beer. Physically
comfortable, anyway; Connie was actually feeling a little flustered. It was
wonderful that Elsie had come over from Nottingham to visit for a week of
well-earned rest after her first full month of active duty as a conscription
officer, but the experience had subtly changed her from the cheerful, motherly
woman she had been all her life, made her a little harder around the edges. And
Connie's conscripted son Richard might be anywhere, now that the initial
training period had just ended and the boys were on their way to their first
work assignments. Elsie had said they'd be contacted sometime during the day,
but it was late afternoon and the call hadn't come yet.
The silence had become awkward, each woman lost in her own thoughts. There was
only one thing Connie really wanted to discuss, of course, but she wasn't quite
sure how to bring it up. They'd been carefully skirting the edges of the topic
ever since Elsie's arrival earlier that day. Finally she sighed and looked
straight at her sister.
"So what was it like?" Connie asked. "Really, I mean."
"Hard work," answered Elsie with a grin. "We didn't have it much easier than the
conscripts, when you really think about it. We had to chase them around and yell
at them all day, and then spend most of our evenings planning and preparing. You
feel almost like a prisoner yourself when you have to wear an ugly uniform and
get up at the crack of dawn every day to ride herd on a bunch of obstinate young
men."
"They must have hated every minute of it. Didn't you feel sorry for them?"
Elsie shrugged her massive shoulders. She'd always been a big woman, but
conscription officer training had turned her soft, voluptuous bulk into firm
muscle. "Sometimes, sure. The men took it so differently. Some clicked into the
system right away and didn't seem to have much trouble adjusting, but then again
there were others - the ones that were a bit shy, or nervous, or just not in
very good shape - who couldn't stand what we were doing to them and seemed to
spend half their time in tears. I think we all felt a bit sorry for those ones,
but that didn't stop us from doing our job and punishing them when they deserved
it.
"And sometimes," she went on, "we even had fun making them suffer. Don't look so
shocked! Maybe it's a case of power corrupting, but it happened to everyone. As
trainee officers we were all telling each other that we were going to be very
firm and strict, but only because the conscripts needed to be whipped into shape
if they were going to survive two years of slavery; it was almost a case of
tough love, really. We weren't going to hurt them any more than was absolutely
necessary, and we definitely weren't going to be at all... at all sadistic about
it. But when you're surrounded by naked men who jump at your every command and
literally live in fear of you, things get very tempting. It's so easy to hit a
man just to hear him whimper, or yell in his face to see him cringe and maybe do
a little grovelling. And after a week or so without any sex-"
Connie's eyes were wide. "You mean you didn't even let them... That is, they
didn't get any relief, any..."
"Right." Elsie glanced through the glass doors behind her, but Connie's husband
Ronald was still nowhere in sight - probably reading, or more likely snoozing,
in his study upstairs. "No masturbation, no nothing. After a week or so of that
they all got so desperate, it just took a look or a caress from any one of us to
get them instantly aroused. Even if it didn't show up in their faces, the things
between their legs couldn't lie. And remember we're talking about young, fit
guys who normally wouldn't look twice at a fat old lady like me. Just picture
it, Connie, and tell me honestly you wouldn't be tempted to take advantage of
the situation. Dozens of young men, completely in your power. Naked, trembling,
totally helpless, desiring you, and eager to please."
"All right, all right! Maybe just a little. It's... well, it's fun to imagine,
anyway. But I don't like to think of all that happening to Richard. I'm so
worried about him."
"I know, it's hard. I'll be honest with you - Richard probably did his share of
screaming and crying, just like all the other conscripts, and he probably spent
a lot of time fantasising about running away or taking horrible revenge on his
officers or something. It's designed to be the most unpleasant experience that
these men have ever gone through in their lives. But you have to believe them
when they say it will do the lads good in the long run. You could see it even
after they'd spent a month with us, actually. They were fitter, more capable,
and definitely a lot more respectful. They were turning from spoiled boys into
men - real, decent men - right in front of our eyes."
"I still think you're lucky you don't have any children - any male children,
that is. I just wish I could go to Richard, wherever he is, and comfort him a
little. I suppose it sounds silly..."
Elsie put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "No, not at all. Listen, I may not
have boys of my own, but I know a lovely lad - my friend Helena's boy, you must
remember Helena - who's due to be conscripted next April. I feel almost the same
way about him as you must about Richard. When I go home to Nottingham and see
him again, I suppose I won't be able to help picturing him naked and in tears,
with some musclebound officer putting him through living hell, and I won't like
it. The worst part is that he's going to be at Camp Marian, where I work, and
I'll be duty bound to be just as tough with him as I am with everyone else, even
though I've known him since he was in diapers. But we can't go making
exceptions." She sighed. "I suppose I'll have to sit down with Keith and give
him a few hints about getting ready for conscription. We're not really supposed
to, of course, but I'll be careful not to give away too many details. I just
can't let him go in totally unprepared."
"What could you say to him, though?" Connie wondered aloud. "What could you
possibly tell a man that would help him get through a month of sheer torture?"
"I'd tell him to get himself into good physical condition, for one thing. And
maybe to practice going without all the little luxuries - sweets, hot showers,
and of course masturbation. I'd make sure he understood that the women aren't
cruel man-haters, but just yell at the conscripts and hit them because it's part
of their job. And I'd tell him to invite all his friends over for a big, loud,
decadent party just before his conscription date, because he won't have many
chances to indulge himself once he's in custody. It seems awfully hard, doesn't
it? But after a few years I suppose we'll all think of it as routine. Just a
stage in a young man's life, like passing a driving test or something."
"Or going off to university. I mean, it really is a kind of education, isn't it?
The whole idea -" The glass doors that led into the kitchen suddenly rattled
open, and Ronald Tipper stepped out on to the patio.
"What is it, dear?" asked Connie sharply. "You look like you've seen a bloody
ghost!"
"The Birmingham Conscription Office was just on the phone," Ronald said heavily.
"About Richard."
"And? What have they done with him?"
"Dear, I... I'm not sure I understood quite right, but they say he's been rented
out as a sort of personal servant -"
"It sounds better than hauling rubbish or something," interrupted Connie
nervously.
"- to Lady Briddington," Ronald finished. Connie was on her feet before she
realised she'd moved; her half-empty beer glass fell unnoticed to the hard stone
of the patio.
"No! There must have been some mistake. I'll call them right now and - Let go of
me, damn it! They can't give my Richie to that - that unspeakable bitch. I just
won't let it happen."
"Connie, if you'd just -"
She tried again to shake Elsie's hand off her arm, unsuccessfully. "No I won't
just! Not when we're talking about my son."
"Connie, SHUT UP!" She closed her mouth in complete shock. That was probably the
same voice Elsie had used on the conscripts she'd been in charge of all last
month, and it was definitely effective.
"Have I got your attention? Good. Now listen, Connie. If half of what the papers
say about Lady Briddington is true, 'unspeakable bitch' doesn't even begin to
cover it. She wanted to go to war with Estonia over that stupid business with
the disappearing balloonists, for God's sake. Everyone knows she's been working
behind the scenes to try to get the Civil Society Party to take the toughest
possible line on law and order - and everything else, for that matter - and
rumour among the officers has it that most of the really unpleasant aspects of
conscription were her idea. She's supposedly the one who insisted on keeping the
men naked all the time, for instance. That woman would probably like nothing
better than for her new slave's mother to start making a huge fuss and demanding
to have him reassigned. She'll just laugh at you, and probably punish Richard
every time you complain."
"But I've got to do something for him! She's going to really hurt him, Elsie, I
know she is. It wasn't so bad when I knew the women looking after Richard were
just regular ladies doing their jobs, like you said. But now we're talking about
a vicious aristocrat who's built an entire political career on demanding
jingoistic foreign policies and totalitarian female government at home. She
makes Maggie Thatcher - remember her? - look sweet and cuddly. I can't just sit
here knowing that she's got Richard and can do whatever she wants to him."
"Yes you can. You've got to. The best thing you can do for him is to just stay
calm and put a cheerful face on things. Remember that she only has him for a
five-month rotation, she can't do anything to hurt him permanently, and she's
required to allow monthly visits. He'll probably feel like he's died and gone to
hell, but he'll survive. Or maybe she'll even be nice to him - turn him into a
happy slave she can show off to the press."
"She hates the press."
"Sometimes you're exasperating, Connie. Just sit down, have another beer, and
when you're calmer you can telephone the high and mighty Lady Briddington to
schedule your first visit with your son. If Richard can get through it, so can
you."
"The Office did leave a phone number for her Ladyship," said Ronald helpfully.
"They said you could call at your convenience to talk about a visit - he's only
allowed to see women, of course, so I can't go. I'm personally not sure it's
going to be all that bad. You said it yourself, Connie - Lady Briddington hates
the press, and of course they hate her right back. They love making her sound
like some kind of sadistic would-be tyrant, but you've got to expect that when
she won't give interviews, won't go on the telly, and has all sorts of radical
ideas that make her an easy target. Media censorship, for one. It's no wonder
they don't like her. She's so reclusive that nobody has the least idea what
she's like in person, except I suppose for her cronies in the CSP."
"I'll phone her this evening," said Connie through clenched teeth. "When I'm
calmer."
"And you'll be perfectly civil," said Elsie warningly. "No threatening, no
demanding, and above all no pleading."
"Perfectly civil," Connie hissed.
* * *
Richard was in pain. When Ms. Bonner had chained him to the wall and told him to
keep quiet until she returned, he'd assumed she would be back for him in a few
minutes. It was hard to tell time down here - underground, in the dark, in what
seemed like an honest-to-God dungeon - but Richard was sure that had been hours
ago. Now his whole body ached; his wrists and arms, stretched above his head,
were taking more than their fair share of his weight, and he had to strain to
keep the balls of his feet on the floor. The air was cold against his naked
skin, the concrete wall rough against his back. How long had it been? He
remembered riding for hours in the car, then being led a considerable distance
along a footpath and then indoors. Ms. Bonner had been patient with him as he'd
stumbled along in his blindfold and the shackles that confined his wrists and
ankles, her commands firm but so detached and professional that they almost
sounded polite. The blindfold and restraints had come off once they were
downstairs, in what Ms. Bonner had smilingly called the Care and Feeding Room.
He'd been allowed to shower and shave, use the toilet, enjoy a badly needed
drink of cold water, and wolf down a bowl of pasta that had been considerably
better than anything he'd been given at Camp Thatcher. Then Ms. Bonner had led
him into this bare stone cell, or whatever it was, and told him in that same
cool, civilised voice to stand against the wall so she could chain him.
Being alone felt strange. At Camp Thatcher he had almost always been one of a
crowd of naked conscripts, under the very conspicuous supervision of the
officers. Now he was the only slave within miles, as far as he knew, and there
was no one in the room to watch over him. He had noticed a surveillance camera
hanging from the ceiling before Ms. Bonner had switched the light off and pulled
the door closed; infra-red or something, no doubt, so whoever was watching would
be able to see him even in the dark. Would it be Ms. Bonner, monitoring
Conscript Tipper on a video screen as he squirmed in his chains? Or perhaps even
Lady Briddington herself? He wished he knew more about the woman who was to be
his owner until April. He had a vague idea that she was politically linked to
the Civil Society Party, and once in a while her name had come up on the
internet news sites he used to scan for football results - usually in connection
with some unpleasant-sounding proposed government policy, as he recalled. On the
other hand, he didn't think he'd ever seen a picture of her. Those reports
always described her as "the reclusive Lady Briddington". He almost looked
forward to meeting her, actually, if only to satisfy his curiosity. What kind of
woman would even want a personal slave, in this day and age? And would have an
actual dungeon, complete with chains and heavy steel doors, to keep him locked
up in? The thought brought him back to his present predicament, and he sighed
heavily and rattled his chains. He wished something would happen. He'd had his
share of problems at Camp Thatcher, but hours of dull inactivity hadn't been
among them.
He blinked at the sudden light when the door finally swung open. Ms. Bonner
stepped in to the room, looking energetic and immaculately groomed as always,
but this time there was another woman on her heels, one Richard didn't know. She
was dressed, like Ms. Bonner, in a no-nonsense sort of dark suit, and seemed
equally formidable; a little less heavily built, maybe, and more feminine, but
also taller and without Ms. Bonner's air of infinite patience. Her red hair was
streaked with grey and drawn back into a severe bun, but with it down around her
lightly freckled face she would probably have looked almost pretty.
"Hello, Richard," said Ms. Bonner in her light Germanic accent. "Terribly sorry
to have kept you waiting so long. This is Ms. Reynolds, my assistant. Although
you belong to Lady Briddington, you will be seeing far more of us than of her,
at least initially. One of us will be monitoring you at all times, in one way or
another, and we will be mainly responsible for your training and supervision. We
will sometimes have to be very harsh with you, but I think I speak for both of
us when I say it is not to be taken personally. We will treat you as humanely as
possible, within the bounds of her Ladyship's instructions."
"And if you make a sincere effort to be cooperative and obedient, your stay here
will be much more comfortable," Ms. Reynolds chimed in. "You'll find us strict
taskmistresses, but not unreasonable ones. Just remember you can't escape, you
can't resist, and you can't persuade us to go against Lady Briddington's wishes,
so you might as well behave yourself and make the best of it."
"In other words," added Ms. Bonner, "we'll be decent to you - as decent as
circumstances allow - if you cooperate with us. Do we have an understanding?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'll try to obey, ma'am."
"Good. Are you ready to start your training?"
"Of course, ma'am." Anything to get down from this blasted wall. Both women
immediately stepped forward and began unfastening his restraints, steadying him
as he found his footing.
"Rub your muscles, walk around a bit, whatever you need to do," Ms. Reynolds
instructed. It felt awfully good to finally have the chance to stretch and
massage his aching limbs. His taskmistresses, as they had called themselves,
watched calmly as he paced, swung his arms, and bounced on the balls of his
feet.
"I think I'm all right now, ma'am," he said after a couple of minutes.
"Excellent," replied Ms. Bonner. "Our first duty as your trainers," she
continued in that same cool tone, "is simply to beat you. You need to learn the
consequences of disobedience, and you need to learn that resistance to our
demands is foolish and quite futile. This once, you are encouraged to struggle
and fight back as much as you like, simply to reinforce this lesson. You won't
be punished - we'll hurt you more, in fact, if you refuse to resist. I'm sure
any inhibitions you might have about striking a woman will fade into the
background once we've hit you a few times."
"Please, ma'am, this isn't necessary! I had my share of punishments at Camp
Thatcher, believe me."
"Lady Briddington decides what is necessary, not you, and she has specifically
ordered this. It will happen. Which of us would you like to start?"
God, what a question. He looked from Ms. Bonner's calm, earnest face to Ms.
Reynolds' faint, pitiless smile. "I don't care," he muttered. "Just get it over
with, ma'am."
Ms. Reynolds shrugged and backhanded him across the face. Even Officer Desalle,
back at Camp Thatcher, had never hit him quite that hard. He shook his head,
trying to clear it, just as a second blow caught him on the ear and he gasped in
pain. A moment later she gave him a powerful shove, and the air was snatched
from his lungs as his back slammed against the wall.
"Are you afraid of me, Richard? Afraid to fight back? Come on, hit me!"
"Please, ma'am, I -" She shoved again; this time his head cracked painfully
against the concrete. He couldn't believe her raw strength. But her next blow
was a teasing little smack that made him snarl with rage. His older cousin had
sometimes hit him that way when they were playfighting, years and years ago.
Well, if they wanted it so badly... He swung his right fist in a wide arc right
at Ms. Reynolds' smug little smile, but she got her arm up and knocked it aside.
Out of nowhere her hand came up under his chin, not an open-palmed slap this
time but a good solid punch, and the last of his inhibitions vanished. He
bellowed in fury and threw himself at the woman, hurling punches at her face,
her breasts, anywhere there might be a vulnerable opening. Perhaps his sudden
onslaught took her by surprise, because she fell back a step or two and he had
the grim satisfaction of seeing her head snap abruptly back when one of his
blows got through her guard and caught her just under the left eye. She was
breathing hard, really working to deflect his attacks, her brow shiny with sweat
- and suddenly she moved, pivoting to one side and driving her foot under his
ribs with deadly accuracy. He grunted and staggered, the rhythm of his attack
completely broken, and a second kick took his legs right out from under him.
Richard fell heavily, enraged and humiliated. Ms. Reynolds smiled down at him
and stomped on one of his outstretched hands, almost as an afterthought. For the
first time Richard howled in agony.
"My turn," said Ms. Bonner coldly. "Come on, get up."
He pushed himself slowly to his knees. "Don't be such a baby," she chided.
"We're just starting. Didn't the conscription officers at Camp Thatcher manage
to toughen you up at all?" She stepped forward, perhaps to drag him to his feet,
and that gave him the opportunity he'd been waiting for. He lunged at her -
nothing fancy, just a straightforward tackle that caught her around the waist
and bore her down beneath his greater weight. He was going to make her regret
her arrogant insistence that he fight her, as though he were as harmless as a
child. He stayed on top of her, pinned her torso beneath his legs as best he
could, and got a handful of her thick dark hair. She was struggling like mad,
trying desperately to throw him off, but his bulk was his one advantage and he
used it to good effect. He hit her in the mouth, drawing blood, and there was
nothing she could do but snarl in pain and frustration. Ms. Reynolds was
standing by, not interfering; so much the better. Richard raised his fist again,
fully intent on breaking Ms. Bonner's pert little nose - and screamed in agony
as her hand found his naked testicles and twisted sharply. He felt the pain deep
in his belly, pain so overwhelming that he hardly felt his head bang against the
floor as she finally managed to throw him off. Now it was his turn to be
helpless beneath her, pinned face down as she twisted his right arm into a
painful hammerlock and ground her knee into the small of his back.
"How's this, Richard?" she spat. "Had enough?"
"Yes, ma'am!" he wailed.
"Like hell you have. I think that took care of the futility of resistance part
of the exercise. Time for the pain." She released him and hauled him up by one
arm, but no sooner was he on his knees than both women swarmed all over him.
Hard fists and open hands crashed against his face, immaculately polished shoes
drove into his belly, his ribs, and occasionally his crotch. At one point Ms.
Bonner grabbed his arms and pulled them behind him so Ms. Reynolds would have an
unobstructed target to hit and kick as she laughed at his helplessness and
taunted him mercilessly. He was bruised and bleeding when they finally helped
him to his feet and led him back to the Care and Feeding Room to clean up and
eat and drink a little.
"Some good news," Ms. Bonner announced as Ms. Reynolds applied smelly ointment
to the worst of his abrasions. She sounded as calmly formal as ever, as if the
beating had never taken place. "You are permitted one female visitor each month,
and a young woman - one Claire Nesbitt, I believe - has already telephoned and
asked to see you. If you choose to accept her, we'll call back and arrange a
time approximately two weeks from now."
"I'd rather see my mother, ma'am."
"She hasn't been in touch. You can say no to Ms. Nesbitt, of course, but if your
mother doesn't call - if she finds the idea of seeing you chained and naked too
painful, for instance - you won't get another chance to receive either of them
until next month. Your decision, of course, but you need to make it at once."
He thought about it, but not for long. "I'd like to see Claire, then, ma'am.
Will we be allowed to meet in private?"
"Of course not. I'll be there to make sure nothing untoward is said or done."
Richard sighed, and bowed his head.
* * *
"I understand my son is at your estate," said Connie Tipper into the telephone.
Ronald was seated beside her, holding her hand; Elsie was touching her shoulder.
She was going to be calm, dignified, and restrained.
"That is correct." Lady Briddington's voice was pure ice. "I haven't seen him
yet. My retainers have him locked away downstairs. I think I'm going to enjoy
having him, though."
"May I ask what you intend to do with him?" She sounded forlorn, even to
herself, and Ronald squeezed her hand tightly.
"That's between me and him, Mrs. Tipper. Rest assured that he'll receive the
hard work and firm discipline the conscription system is intended to provide. My
plans for him have been approved by the Ministry of Social Order, and my
facilities for his detention and training have been inspected and found
adequate."
"I should very much like to see him, your ladyship."
"Of course you would, Mrs. Tipper. Unfortunately his visit for this month is
already scheduled. His girlfriend - a Ms. Nesbitt, I believe? - telephoned
earlier today, and your son agreed to see her. He may decide to reserve his
December visit for you, but of course it would be quite improper for me to
insist that he do so."
"But I'm his mother! Sure family members have priority?"
"No, they do not. It's entirely up to the individual conscript."
"Then tell him I called," she asked, a little frantically. "Or let me speak to
him. I know he'll change his mind."
"He's not permitted to do that, Mrs. Tipper. And I'm afraid I'm not required to
tell him you requested a visit. If you telephone again in December he may agree
to see you, if he hasn't already scheduled a visit with someone else."
"Can I write to him? Or speak to him on the phone? He is my son, and I - I want
to be sure he's all right. Can't something be arranged?"
"Unfortunately not. He has other things to occupy his time. May I offer you a
word of advice, Mrs. Tipper?"
"What is it?" she replied tersely.
"I only wanted to point out to you that the recent decline in British social
values is almost entirely due to the barbaric behaviour of a generation of
over-indulged young men, such as your son. You ought to be grateful that he will
have the opportunity to submit to a rigorous level of discipline that you never
had the strength of character to apply. Perhaps you ought to keep out of the way
and let me smack some sense into the lad, as it were, although I assure you that
my repertoire extends well beyond simple smacking. Do ring back in December,
Mrs. Tipper."
There was a sharp, final click. Connie burst into tears.
* * *
Lady Briddington put down the telephone and smiled to herself. The naked
desperation in the wretched woman's voice had been rather diverting. Well, if
she was going to raise unruly little brats that needed a firm hand to put them
through their paces... Lady Briddington was completely familiar with Conscript
Tipper's disgraceful disciplinary record from Camp Thatcher, and was convinced
that she had found a case genuinely deserving of her attentions. A stay at her
estate would be among the least pleasant experiences the system could offer; it
seemed only proper that her guests be more than usually in need of sharp
correction, as well as suitable for her amusement. Speaking of which, it was
time to take her new charge in hand.
"Ms. Bonner?" she said into her intercom unit.
"Yes, ma'am?" The reply was almost immediate.
"Is my new toy ready to play with?"
"Yes, ma'am. We've been waiting."
"Excellent. Lock the control belt on him and then take him into the playroom,
please. Did he give you any trouble earlier?"
"None at all, ma'am. I believe the lesson was adequately learned."
"Very good. With luck the next one will go equally well." She switched intercom
channels, ready to talk to the playroom, and turned her attention to the
high-resolution monitor that was linked to the video cameras she'd had installed
down there. With the lights off, they were in IR mode, but she could see
everything with perfect clarity. The table, the restraint chair, the cages, the
chains hanging from the ceiling, the vast array of tools and toys that took up
an entire wall. Most of them would probably remain unused, but there was nothing
like establishing the proper atmosphere.
Lady Briddington licked her lips and grinned as the lights came on and Ms.
Bonner and Ms. Reynolds - her henchwomen, as she liked to think of them - led
young Richard into the room. Judging by the bruises on his face and body, they'd
carried out their orders with considerable enthusiasm, and the captive looked
subdued and a little worried. And uncomfortable, now that the control belt was
in place. It was made to fit him precisely, based on measurements collected by
the doctors at Camp Thatcher, and it clasped his waist in a grip that would feel
just a little too tight. Below the waistband it enclosed his genitals in a sort
of cage of thin steel rings and bars, presently far too small to allow any sort
of erection. She would have liked the look of his penis hanging free, but one
simply couldn't have it both ways. From behind - she switched to another camera
- cold steel came up between his buttocks and met the waist-belt at an
unobtrusive hinge. She could just see the outline of the distensible ring that,
when opened, would allow access to his anus. The thing was truly a work of art.
The henchwomen closed the door firmly behind Richard, and Lady Briddington
switched on the audio in time to hear the lock click. Her slave advanced slowly
into the middle of the room, looking around in seeming disbelief and undisguised
consternation. She let him look around for a minute before speaking.
"Good evening, dear. Do you know who I am?" He literally jumped; her voice would
be quite loud down there, and it was being projected from all four corners of
the room. The poor boy would feel surrounded.
"Lady Briddington, ma'am?" he suggested nervously.
"Correct, Richard. I'm the one you've been brought here to serve, the one who
owns you for the next five months. You are here to amuse me, to learn proper
humility and obedience, and to acquire a few practical skills, in that order. At
the moment you are a vulgar, untrained animal, unfit to enter my presence, but
that will change as Ms. Bonner and Ms. Reynolds help me mould you according to
my wishes."
"I'll do anything you -" he began almost eagerly, but she cut him off with a
touch of one of the buttons on the bracelet she had put around her wrist that
afternoon. He yelped in pain and doubled over as the control belt tightened
around his balls, and she smiled at the monitor. He was going to get very, very
familiar with that sensation over the next few weeks. But this time, she
released the button almost at once.
"Please don't speak out of turn, dear. There are some things I want you to do
for me. First, get down on your knees." He obeyed promptly, and she was pleased
to notice that he kept his posture rigid, his chin up, his arms at his sides.
Perhaps he'd learned a thing or two at Camp Thatcher after all. "I shall have to
teach you do that gracefully," she said aloud. "And spread your legs a bit more.
Good. Now lean forward and kiss the floor."
He whimpered when she tapped her button again. "Keep your head down! You stay in
that position until I tell you to move. When you hear my voice at the beginning
of future sessions you will immediately assume that posture, kneeling with your
lips pressed to the floor. Further instructions will follow as I choose. Right
now I just want to have a look at you, so hold still."
She took her time, swivelling the cameras and switching among them to view his
naked body from every angle. He was sweating a little, between his fear and the
deliberate warmth of the playroom; she rather liked to see male perspiration.
After a month of training at Camp Thatcher his muscles were hard and nicely
sculpted, although not particularly bulky. She would have to let his hair grow
back, of course. His head was down to a rough stubble, and his body seemed to be
completely shaved apart from the dark bush at his groin. On the whole, though, a
fine specimen. She might have preferred a larger man aesthetically, but his
light build and slightly below average height would make him easier for the
henchwomen to handle.
"Kneel up now. Hands on the back of your neck. Smile for the camera, Richard."
Hmm. Cute little nipples, and a flat stomach with just a hint of muscular
definition.
"I suppose you'll do," she sniffed. "The next order of business is to acqaint
you with your control belt. Do you know what it's for?"
"To hurt me, ma'am, when I don't obey," he said softly.
"To hurt you whenever I want," she corrected. "Like this."
"Ow! Please, I - Oww!"
"But it's not just pressure, dear. It can do prickling sensations" - he squirmed
and whimpered as tiny sharp points, embedded within parts of the genital cage,
stung his flesh - "and considerable heat. And when all else fails, there's
always a simple electric shock."
"Ahh!" he collapsed forward, forehead to the floor and hands cupped over his
groin.
"So you see, you must always obey my commands. The belt will stay on at all
times, except when Ms. Bonner or Ms. Reynolds removes it for cleaning or - other
purposes. No matter where I am, I can use it to torture you. Or to reward you."
She held down two more buttons, one to expand the cage a little and another to
start the bars rippling over his penis and scrotum. He sighed in pleasure, like
a rutting animal, as his penis swelled and stiffened.
"That's enough, dear," she said after a moment. "Make your nasty thing calm
down, or I'll do it for you."
"I can't help it, ma'am!"
"A pity. Well, if you can't control yourself, I suppose I shall have to control
you." She gave him another shock, then returned the cage to its normal,
restrictive size as he softened.
"Point made, I trust. No, stay down. Do you see the metal bowl in the corner
there? To your left, dear. I want you to crawl over there. Now take the steel
collar, the one chained to the wall, and lock it around your neck. Tighter. You
deserve this, Richard - to be put on a leash like an animal. Do you need to
urinate?"
"What, ma'am?"
"Never make me repeat myself," she answered with a tap of the pressure button.
"I asked you a question."
"I can hold it, ma'am," he muttered sulkily.
"In other words, yes. You'll find that the cage won't interfere, and it even
keeps your nasty thing conveniently pointed downward. Go ahead and squat over
the bowl."
"Ma'am, I'd rather - ow! Ah!"
"Squat over the bowl, dear. Empty that bladder. Good. You're not crying, are
you?" She couldn't help but laugh at him, and his tears redoubled. He was so
vulnerable, so easily humiliated. Delightful. And all hers.
"Now I want you to sniff it. Get your nose right down in the bowl. That's slave
piss you're smelling, dear. Do you really want to please me?"
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled dutifully.
"Like you mean it, Richard."
"Yes, ma'am! Anything you wish, ma'am!"
"All right, then. Put out your tongue and lap a little up. Go ahead, it won't
kill you. Some Indian gurus recommend this for therapeutic purposes, you know."
"Ma'am, I can't! I just can't make myself!"
"How unfortunate for you. You have five seconds, dear."
"I can't! Make Ms. Bonner come and push my head down, but don't make me do it
myself!"
"This is about obedience, Richard. Of course you need to comply on your own. Two
seconds."
"No!" He turned his face directly toward one of the cameras, with an expression
on his tear-streaked face that was either courageous, defiant or just ridiculous
- she couldn't decide quite which. "I won't do it. I'll never do it. I don't
care how much you hurt me. Fucking bitch!"
She smiled. She'd expected having to go a little further - telling him to drink
the whole contents of the bowl, maybe - before reaching this stage. With
predatory glee she stabbed the shock button with her finger, over and over as he
writhed and screamed on the floor. One outstretched hand hit the bowl, and sent
pungent slave piss pouring across the bare concrete. A moment later she stopped.
"Get up on your knees, Richard. Anything you'd like to say?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he blubbered. "I'll do whatever you want now."
"Sorry for what, exactly?"
"For calling you a bitch, ma'am."
"Should I continue to punish you?"
"If you want, ma'am."
"But do you feel you deserve it?"
She could almost see the wheels spinning in his head over that one. Pathetic
little bastard. "Yes, ma'am," he said nervously.
"Very well." But she only gave him two or three more, just sufficient to make
her point. Pain had its uses - amusement, for one - but enough was enough.
"You've disappointed me, dear. I see that your training will have to be even
more intense than anticipated, but that can wait for tomorrow. Right now I want
you to take the longer set of chains down from the wall and lock them around
your ankles. Good. The other ones go on your wrists. Behind you, you idiot. How
do you feel now, Richard?"
"Like a slave, ma'am," he replied wearily. She was pleasantly surprised.
"I'm glad to hear it, because that's exactly what you are. I'm going to let you
sleep now. I want you to lie down, right in the little mess you made, and close
your eyes. Think about how good you're going to be for Ms. Reynolds when she
comes to collect you for exercises tomorrow morning. Good night, dear."
"Good night, ma'am."
Lady Briddington switched off the intercom, and the lights downstairs, as soon
as he was settled into position. A very satisfactory beginning to their
relationship, if she did say so herself. With one last glance at her naked
captive - lying there with his eyes closed, he looked innocent, almost virginal
- she pushed her wheelchair away from the desk.
"Sara!" she called. "I'm done with the boy for now. Come help me to the
bathroom, and then you can serve supper. I'm starving."
