Chapter 12
"I should have told the bitch to fuck off," said Clive, again. It didn't really
make him feel any better. He could swear aloud as much as he wanted, just like
he could roar down the motorway with his old AC/DC album blasting from the
stereo and make obscene gestures at every bloke who even seemed to be thinking
of passing him, but today it just wasn't helping. It was awfully hard to conjure
a mood of defiant masculinity when you were in the middle of a long, unwelcome
trip that you were making just because your girlfriend had told you to. He
remembered Claire's smug, purring voice on the telephone - "Thank you, Clive,
you're such a dear." It made him sick.
He just couldn't believe the arrogance of the bitch. First there had been that
terse little e-mail last November, simply telling him she couldn't see him or
talk to him any more. No explanation, and certainly no apology. Ever since that
unpleasant surprise he'd been alternately cursing her guts, trying to get back
in touch with her, and simply fuming, all to no avail. His e-mail reply had gone
ignored, or at least unanswered. Same with his increasingly frantic series of
voice messages, and whenever she was in and happened to pick up the telephone
she simply hung up the moment she heard his voice. When he'd come round her
apartment building she'd actually threatened to call the police. He'd backed
off, angrier than ever, but still hadn't been able to get the thought of her
laughing eyes and slender, pale body out of his head. He'd dated a couple of
other women since then, taking advantage of his undeniably good looks and the
slight but noticeable shortage of young men brought on by conscription, but in
comparison to his memories of Claire they'd seemed dull and rather unappealing.
Then, just a couple of days ago - nearly two months after that damned e-mail -
Claire had called. Not with a tearful apology, not with a stammered plea to let
her crawl back into his life, not even with an admission that she'd made a
mistake, but with instructions. He was supposed to get in the car and drive
north to spend the weekend at Amanda's parents' cottage in the Lake District,
where he and Claire had enjoyed a long private tryst once before. Amanda's
parents lived there themselves for a good chunk of each summer, both being
schoolteachers, but the rest of the year they were apparently pretty generous
about letting friends and family use the place. But this time Clive was to
arrive Friday night and to spend the weekend doing as he was told and
experiencing a little "physical discipline". He could imagine what that meant.
No, he didn't need to bring anything except what he was wearing. No, especially
not condoms (she'd laughed at that). And then Claire had said that she'd be
along later, but that Amanda was going to be there the whole weekend, and he was
going to start obeying her the minute he walked in the door.
That was the part that really set Clive's teeth on edge. Claire's little games
could be humiliating and frustrating as hell, but they were also pretty damn
sexy - Claire was just so beautiful, and even when she was being cruel there was
always a playful, affectionate undertone. But Amanda was another matter. Clive
had met her a couple of times last November, with Claire, and had taken an
instant dislike to her blunt, headstrong attitude. He wondered gloomily if all
conscription officers developed that infuriating habit of talking to people,
especially men, as if they expected instant agreement and compliance. And it
wasn't like she was pretty, either. From the neck up she was all right, or at
least she would be if she'd just put on some makeup and let her short brown hair
grow out a little, but her figure was a disaster. Her stubby little breasts were
simply pathetic, and although she wasn't exactly fat she had a solid, heavy
build that compared very unfavourably with Claire soft feminine curves. Combined
with her height, which exceeded his own by at least an inch or so, it made her
look big, bulky and awkward. But her tits were the real problem, her tits and
her attitude. And she was going to be telling him what to do all weekend, and
probably giving him a dose of that "physical discipline" if he didn't play
along.
"I should have told the bitch to fuck off," Clive repeated.
But he hadn't, of course. Even if he had to let Claire dress him up in frilly
female clothes and handcuff him to her bed once in awhile, even if he had to put
up with that ugly cunt Amanda ordering him around and beating him black and blue
all weekend, he would do almost anything Claire asked if it meant she would let
him see her and touch her again. It was humiliating to put it like that, even in
the privacy of his own thoughts, but he was only too aware that it was perfectly
true. All the way from Birmingham he'd been imagining the clean scent of her
hair, the warmth and softness of her firm breasts. Yes, he could put up with
Amanda for the sake of those breasts, although the thought of surrendering
himself to the tender mercies of a real live conscription officer did make him a
little nervous. He'd heard some pretty disturbing rumours about the things they
did to the men in those camps, and the fun they had doing them.
He took a deep breath when he finally pulled up outside the summer home. It was
very much the isolated little place he remembered from last November - he'd been
driving on bare dirt for the past couple of miles, and houses seemed to be few
and far between out here. There was a light on inside, and another car already
parked in front, presumably Amanda's. He stepped out of his own vehicle and
pushed the door closed, the sound shockingly loud in the rural silence. It was
early evening, barely dark, and the first few stars were just beginning to show
overhead. Much as he would have liked to enjoy the fresh air for a few minutes
before starting the evening's ordeal, he thought grudgingly of Claire's
instructions and headed for the door of the little house immediately. He knocked
lightly and stood waiting with his arms folded across his chest against the
winter chill.
Amanda made him wait a minute or two before she pulled the door open. He had
half expected her to greet him in uniform, but she turned out to be dressed very
casually - ugly clothes, of course, old jeans and a sweater that looked a size
too big for her. He could hear the TV going in the background.
"Hi Clive," she said crisply. "Took you long enough to get here. Come on in."
"Hi, Amanda," he replied a bit warily. He had no idea how he was supposed to
behave, aside from following instructions. He stepped inside and pulled the door
closed behind him. "Watching the telly?"
"None of your business. Claire tells me you're a pretty decent cook, is that
right?"
"Yeah, I guess so," he answered, inwardly fuming.
"Good. To start with you can take your clothes off, then, and go make us dinner.
Feel free to use whatever's in the fridge."
He looked at her blankly, wondering if he'd heard right.
"Did you say-"
"Yes."
"But -"
"Right now, Clive."
"Look, I really -" She slapped him. Really hard, and right across the mouth.
Shit, she had an arm. He was too shocked to do anything but stare and put his
hand to his rapidly swelling lip.
"Ow! That really hurt!"
"Good. It was supposed to. Don't make this hard on yourself, Clive. Just do what
I say, without hesitating or asking any stupid questions, and we'll get along
fine. I can start by smacking you around a little if that's what you really
want, but I'd really rather have my dinner. Is that okay with you, or do you
think you need a good thrashing just to establish who's in charge here?"
"Okay, I'll go make dinner. Shit!"
She grabbed his chin between her thumb and finger, hard enough to hurt. "Don't
you dare talk to me that way. I'm just about out of patience with you, Clive.
Are you going to shut up and start doing as you're told?"
"Okay, okay!" What else could he say? She was just so damn sure of herself.
"Good." She released him and stepped back. "Go ahead and strip, then. I want
your clothes piled neatly on that chair." He started to turn around, to salvage
just a little privacy, but she grabbed his shoulder and shook her head. Couldn't
the bitch at least keep her hands to herself? He started to unbutton his shirt,
blushing under her frank, appraising gaze. He kept himself in pretty good shape,
and he usually liked it when women noticed, but even so he felt very
uncomfortable with the way she was openly admiring his body as he shed his
clothing. When he was standing in his underwear he hesitated, and she simply
reached out and pulled them down to his knees.
"Cute little dick you've got there, Clive." She waited for him to pile up his
clothes as instructed, then gave him a hard slap on the arse. "Okay, run along
and put some sort of meal together. I'm starving. And I want real food, not that
low-fat vegetarian kind of crap that Claire's into. I think there are a couple
of steaks in there - they'll do fine. And get me a beer while I'm waiting, come
to think of it. You can have a glass of water if you want."
He stalked off with clenched fists, got her a beer from the fridge, and made a
conscious effort to wipe the expression of angry resentment off his face before
bringing it to her. She took it without thanking him, her attention never really
leaving her stupid soap opera.
"Right, get to work. Oh, and Clive?"
"What?"
"I think I might as well have you follow the same ground rules we use for the
conscripts. You speak only when spoken to, and always call me ma'am. No eating,
drinking or going to the toilet without permission, and definitely no wanking.
Do you need the bathroom now, by the way? I won't give you another chance till
after we've eaten."
He blushed, and swallowed his pride. "Yes, ma'am."
"All right, go ahead, but hurry up. And leave the door open, of course."
She gave him another of those stinging swats on the rump as he went off to
answer the call of nature. The weekend was getting off to a lovely start, wasn't
it? He just hoped Claire arrived soon - she hadn't said exactly when she'd be
coming. With his luck it probably wouldn't be till Sunday.
"I should have told the bitch to fuck off," Clive muttered as his piss splashed
into the toilet bowl. But he said it very quietly, and glanced nervously toward
the living room to make sure Amanda hadn't heard him.
* * *
Dinner was the usual unappetising stew and stale bread, but Carl Jacobs was
thankful to be eating at all. No matter how hard he tried, he found it nearly
impossible to work at the rate the overseeing officers expected - after all, the
standards were designed to be demanding for men considerably bigger and stronger
than he was - and as often as not his workdays still ended with a disciplinary
citation for "insufficient effort". That meant a date with the pitiless
Commandant Caylin and her mean, heavy wooden paddle, and being sent hungry to
bed afterwards. But tonight he was indoors with the officers and the other naked
conscripts, eating and making respectful conversation instead of shivering
outside while he waited for his beating to begin. Actually, they had an
additional guest tonight; some sort of civil servant from Denmark had spent the
day at the camp in order to gather information on the environmental restoration
work they were doing, apparently with a view to determining the feasibility of
borrowing a few English conscripts to take on similar jobs in her own country.
From earlier conversations with the officers, Carl gathered that the government
was keen to offer conscripts to governments and corporations abroad as well as
at home, which sounded bloody degrading. When since the Roman Empire had British
slaves been sent overseas to work for foreign masters? On the other hand, if he
had to be doing hard, sweaty labour out of doors in January, there were a lot of
places that sounded more attractive than snowy northern Wales.
The Danish envoy, or whatever she was called, was a tall woman with short blond
hair whose pale face had been suffused with a delicate blush ever since the
conscripts had been marched into the camp for the night and ordered to strip.
The whole situation seemed to be making her a bit flustered, actually, and she
was concentrating on her food (considerably better than what was served to the
conscripts, of course) with the determination of a woman trying desperately to
ignore the fact that she was sharing the table with dozens of naked, servile
young men and their strict female jailers and taskmistresses.
"You might want to look out there," suggested Officer Ingram nonchalantly,
gesturing toward a window. "The commandant's about to start this evening's
discipline session. She'll be in afterwards to show you around the living
quarters, like she promised earlier."
Carl glanced outside himself. There were only two victims tonight, and the
commandant and her assisting officer were just shackling them to the rails in
preparation for what would inevitably be a long, painful and humbling
punishment. The rails had been carefully positioned, of course, in order to
provide miscreants with the humiliation of being clearly visible from the mess
hall as they writhed and thrashed under the paddle. One of the men struggled a
little as Commandant Caylin forced his wrists into the cuffs, but without
causing more than the briefest delay. That hulking she-gorilla of a woman was
simply terrifying. Carl was just glad it wasn't him being manhandled into
position out there.
"She is going to spank them, yes?" the envoy asked nervously in her high,
accented voice. "It seems a harsh penalty merely for not keeping up with the
proper working rate."
"Oh, it's not so bad," the stocky and casually sadistic Officer Collins replied
jovially. She was well into her third beer, and in an excellent mood. "It's good
for a lad to get the paddle once in a while anyway - reminds him who owns that
bruised little arse of his. Although I suppose the boys might tell you
differently."
"Oh no, ma'am," Carl broke in. He had his reasons for cultivating Officer
Collins. "It may not be pleasant while it's happening, but it really does
motivate us to work harder and behave properly. The whole system would fall
apart without proper discipline, ma'am."
She laughed and reached over to pinch his cheek, hard enough to hurt. "And you
should know, shouldn't you, Jacobs?" She turned back to the envoy. "This lazy
little bastard is one of our hard cases. No matter how hard we thrash him, he
just won't - oh, look, she's starting!"
The Danish woman visibly winced as Commandant Caylin brought the paddle down
with all the force in her muscular arm, striking across the unfortunate
conscript's buttocks with a loud crack that was perfectly audible through the
glass of the windows. The man's body tensed, and his head jerked up; they could
see he was already fighting to hold back tears as the second blow descended.
"Each and every night you do this?"
"Just about. I think we've had two days, now, when none of the men were cited.
But on the other hand, our record is nine on one night. Gave the commandant
blisters from swinging the paddle."
"Oh, he's screaming! Isn't she going to stop?"
"They all scream, the soft little cowards." She paused. "Except Conscript
Tyford, there," she added on reflection, nodding to a short, burly man whose
entire body seemed to be covered in a pelt of thick black hair. "He's another
regular at the rails, and I've never heard a sound out of him."
"I'm afraid the Danish public might regard this sort of thing as barbaric. I
think we will have to modify the disciplinary regime, if my government decides
to go ahead with hiring your conscripts."
"Oh, I'm sure we'd send along a few officers to keep the lads in line," replied
Collins nonchalantly. "You wouldn't have to worry about it. And besides, most of
the time we smack them with those leather straps you saw today, not with the
paddle. It isn't nearly as severe." She unclipped the strap from her belt and
laid it on the table. "Stings like hell, of course, but it just leaves a little
welt. The paddle bruises and sometimes breaks the skin."
The envoy picked up the strap as though she expected it to bite her. "It's quite
heavy."
"It has to be, or they'd hardly feel it. Say, you want to give it a try? It
might help your report if you had a little first-hand experience."
She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, that's quite all right, I wouldn't want -"
"Nonsense, it's no trouble at all. Jacobs! Since you like being beaten so much,
stand up and bend over. Grab your ankles. They're very vulnerable in that
posture, because it takes a bit of effort to maintain. They're concentrating on
staying upright, feeling the strain in the backs of their legs, and then, bang!
- you smack them, and they're too distracted to get ready, so they really feel
it. Go on, redden up his bottom a bit for him. You'll see what I mean."
"I really don't think - it's not like he's done anything wrong -"
"It's good for him. He said it himself." Out of the corner of his eye Carl could
see Officer Collins pressing the strap into the other woman's reluctant hand,
and guiding her into position. He thought about protesting, but didn't dare -
when Officer Collins wanted you to do something, you did it, or you were very
sorry later. And besides, he had to stay in her good books.
"Go ahead. Just wind up and smack him." It was the merest little tap, but Carl
gasped and jerked theatrically for the benefit of the onlookers. The mess hall
had gone very quiet; he could feel all their eyes on his naked, contorted body.
"Stop it, Jacobs!" barked Officer Ingram, just as Collins advised, "You can hit
him a lot harder than that. Don't be afraid to use your full strength. If you
don't see a good red welt, it wasn't hard enough."
"Ah!" gasped Carl as the strap caught him on the upper thigh, with considerably
more force. Without any encouragement the Danish bitch hit him again, and again.
He gave a little whimper of pain.
"That's more like it!" Collins exclaimed. "You really got him with that last
one. And see, he's not damaged at all, just sore and a bit embarrassed because
you made him squeal. You can give him a few more, if you want. As many as you
like."
"I think that will be sufficient," she replied, but she did sound a bit excited.
"Your methods, they are certainly effective."
"We do our best. Jacobs, straighten up and thank Ms. Torstein."
"Thank you for beating me, ma'am," he said with as much sincerity as he could
muster.
"No, properly. Kneel down and kiss her feet."
"Please, that's hardly necessary."
"Maybe not, but anything that puts the men in their place is worth doing. That's
one reason we keep them naked, so we can just reach out and play with their
bodies any time we like." She gave Carl's balls a squeeze, presumably by way of
illustration, as he came to his feet, and he pushed his hips forward obligingly.
She gave his cock a backhand swat.
"And see!" she laughed. "That's what happens when you keep young men around
female officers and put strict limits on their sexual relief. They get very, um,
eager." She ran her hand over Carl's thighs, his shoulders, his chest. "We can
touch them as much as we like, but of course they can't touch us, or themselves,
unless we give them specific permission. They hate that."
The soft flush returned to Ms. Torstein's ivory cheeks as she watched Carl's
penis stiffen. He was squirming and panting under Officer Collins'
ministrations, he just couldn't help it. She was ugly and smelly, to put it
bluntly, but he hadn't cum since the officers had taken pity on them and
announced they could wank all they liked on Christmas. And now the Torstein
woman was reaching out toward him hesitantly, brushing a cool hand across his
shoulder.
"May I?" she asked, timid but eager.
"Certainly. Jacobs, make it easy for her. Legs apart, hands behind your neck."
God, she was touching him everywhere with those light, almost feathery
fingertips. And unlike Officer Collins, she was a very attractive woman, willowy
and classically beautiful. Her inhibitions seemed to be rapidly disappearing as
she played with his nipples, then went around behind to take a double handful of
his buttocks and squeeze hard. She pressed herself against his back and ran her
hands up his torso, from hips to chest. And then he felt her tongue tickle the
back of his neck, and he gave a shuddering gasp of pure lust. His penis felt
like it was going to explode - and then she was holding it, pumping her cool
hand up and down the shaft while she licked at his cheek and blew in his ear. He
could feel the swell of her bosom pressing into his back. Her hands were so
smooth, she smelled so good, and he was going to - to - she stopped. Just let go
and stepped away. Everyone laughed at his frustrated whimper, but he was
determined not to actually beg. Not tonight.
"Glad you're making yourself at home, Ms. Torstein," said Commandant Caylin's
rough voice from the doorway. She brushed a few flakes of snow out of her
iron-grey hair and herded her two chastised conscripts into the mess hall. "Just
let me dump these miserable cretins in the dormitory and then I'll be back to
finish dinner with you. Unless anyone has a use for them tonight, of course."
She glanced around the table, but there weren't any takers, and she took each of
them roughly by the arm. "Looks like you'll be spending the night alone in your
bunks, boys. Come on."
"The men are basically at our disposal," Ingram explained for the envoy's
benefit. "We can each take one upstairs with us after dinner, if we're in the
mood. Come to think of it, I'm sure there'd be no problem if you wanted to
entertain yourself with Jacobs here, now that you've got him all excited. Just
send him down to the dormitory afterwards."
"I am married, you know."
"So am I. Taking a conscript to your room doesn't really count as adultery -
it's more like using a sex toy. At least, that's the way every married officer
I've ever spoken to sees it."
"No, really, I couldn't. There are limits."
Officer Collins grinned at Carl. "I guess you're in for a frustrating evening,
then. I don't blame her for not being enthusiastic about that skinny little
thing of yours, actually."
He glanced wistfully at Ms. Torstein, but she was already working on her dinner
again. He turned back to Officer Collins. Ugly, smelly, but definitely a woman,
and worth seducing if it could possibly be accomplished. Like a devious spy in
one of those archaic Cold War movies he leaned close to her and put on a
pleading expression. "Ma'am, she's got me all worked up, and you're so
beautiful. Couldn't you please just possibly... I'll be really good for you, I
promise. I'll do anything you like."
She shrugged, then nodded. "Damn right you will. Come on, Jacobs."
* * *
"Dear, we've got to talk," said Connie Tipper.
"Now?" mumbled Ronald sleepily. He had just switched off the light after
finishing his chapter - some dull book about the Crimean war - and seemed to be
already half-asleep.
"Well, sometime. We can't keep putting it off forever."
"About Richard, you mean," said Ronald. He sighed loudly in the darkness of
their bedroom. "I don't see what we can do for him. Just keep visiting when you
get the chance, and tell him we'll be here for him when he's released. I'm sure
he'll be fine in the end."
"Dear," she said in mild exasperation, "I've tried to explain this to you
before. He really does want to be Claire's slave when he's released. I'm not
quite sure I understand why, but he seems very sure, and the more I think about
the idea the more reasonable it seems. I think Lady Briddington's right when she
says that most men would benefit from a little female guidance and discipline.
If we can help her teach our Richie to be obedient and deferential, and help
Claire make sure he stays that way after he's released, I think we'll be doing
him a favour."
Ronald chuckled. "So do think I'd, um, benefit from a little female guidance and
discipline, as you put it? We haven't had any of that in our marriage, and we've
done all right."
"Dear, we're talking about Richie."
"But you're assuming that he needs to be enslaved or something just because he
happens to be male. You'll understand why I'm a bit sceptical of that whole line
of reasoning."
It was Connie's turn to sigh and turn her eyes to the shadowed ceiling. "Well,
so am I, a little. But one can't deny that destructive male impulses have caused
a lot of trouble in the world, and that men develop all sorts of bad habits that
they'd really be happier without. But it's more than that - Richie seems to
actually want to be taken in hand and told what to do by a domineering woman. I
know you're an engineer, but I think we really ought to just accept it, instead
of trying to analyse it to death. Maybe all men feel that way at some
subconscious level, or something."
"Well, the idea does sound a bit sexy," Ronald grinned. "It'd be kind of nice to
lie back and have a woman - meaning you of course, love! - take charge of things
in the bedroom for a change. But I wouldn't want it to be a full time thing.
After all, you might take away my motorcycle!"
"I certainly would," she laughed. You're going to break your neck on that thing
one of these days. And you'd find yourself exercising more, drinking less, and
doing a lot more housework. Naked, with regular spankings to encourage you."
"That Lady Briddington's been giving you some ideas."
"Indeed she has. And so has Claire. She actually suggested I try it with you,
you know. Just for a week or two, so we could understand what this enslavement
business is really all about. And have a little fun doing it, I might add."
"You're not serious!"
"Well, don't you think it would help you empathise with Richie? And you'd find
yourself lying back and letting me take charge a lot, don't worry. You'd like
that part."
"Well, yes, I suppose I would." He rubbed against her and squeezed her breast
through the soft material of her very proper nightgown. "Suddenly I'm not so
sleepy, love."
She pushed his hand away roughly and switched on the bedside lamp. "Neither am
I. Out of bed, and get that robe off."
"What?" he exclaimed in complete incredulity.
She prodded him in the ribs, a bit shocked at herself but rather excited. "You
heard me. Move, boy."
He obeyed slowly, and looked a bit self-conscious as he slipped out of the robe
to stand naked in the soft lamplight. But he couldn't quite suppress the smile
that was tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his stiffening cock was an
even clearer sign that her instructions were not entirely unwelcome. She sat up
and stretched luxuriantly; she rather liked the feeling of having her body
concealed while his was exposed to her scrutiny.
"Give me the belt. And turn around." She took his wrists and pulled them behind
his back, and tied them together rather inexpertly with the belt from his robe.
It was too soft and yielding to be really suitable for this sort of thing, but
when she had pulled the last knot tight she was sure he wouldn't be able to slip
free without a good deal of wriggling. She pushed him to his knees, spun him
around - he allowed her firm hands to guide him - and delicately lifted her
nightgown with one hand. With the other she grabbed what was left of his hair
and pulled his head to her crotch. In twenty-eight years of marriage they had
never, ever, done anything of the kind.
"Love, are you sure you want -"
"Shut up," she hissed, jerking his hair roughly. "Of course I'm sure. Put that
tongue to work, and I don't mean talking."
His warm mouth felt even better than she'd imagined. She gave a little sigh of
pleasure and lay back on the bed as he began to kiss and lick her soft recesses,
but her grip on his hair never slackened. "I think we'll be doing this more
often from now on," she mumbled in between her gasps and moans. "Maybe I'll keep
you naked all weekend sometime... tie you up and spank you... invite Elsie over
to show you what being smacked around by a real conscription officer feels
like... have her handcuff you to the bed so I could fuck you... put clothespins
on your nipples... on your bollocks... and make you lick me... lick me... LICK
ME! Unhh!" She wasn't sure she'd ever made such an unladylike sound in her adult
life. She pulled her husband's head up and looked at his face, smeared with her
juices, as she caught her breath. He glanced down at his raging erection.
"Darling, I don't suppose you could do something about this?"
"Beg."
"Connie!"
"All right, then, you can sleep on the floor. With your hands tied."
"Connie, please let me fuck you," he mumbled, blushing. "Or just touch me. Or
put it in your mouth. Or something. Please!"
She smiled at him fondly and had him stand so she could untie him and invite him
back into bed. "I do love you, dear," she purred as she wrapped her arms around
him. "But I think I like taking control of you, too. You will let me do it once
in a while, won't you?"
"I'll insist on it. And if you do want to invite Elsie over for a weekend..."
"Yes?" she asked excitedly.
"You're bloody crazy," he finished with an affectionate laugh. "But I might just
agree to it if I can spend a few days fox hunting with the lads this summer."
"Dear, you know I don't like - oh, all right. But Elsie and I are going to make
sure you earn your atavistic little holiday. Now shut up and get inside me."
* * *
Amanda couldn't help but laugh at the way Clive had been fawning over Claire
ever since she'd arrived just in time for dinner, although she supposed it was
perfectly understandable. He'd spent the whole day running errands and doing
unpleasant household chores under Amanda's watchful eye and unforgiving strap,
and last night she'd made him masturbate to the brink over and over until he was
almost in tears from sheer frustration and humiliation. She'd finally had him
bed down on the bare floor, while she slept in the cozy luxury of her parents'
four-poster, and in the morning he'd had to shower in the coldest water the
plumbing could produce and then attend her throughout a long, luxuriant warm
bath. When she'd told him to clean the toilet he'd rebelled, and found himself
flipped over her knee and soundly spanked with a hairbrush until he wept and
howled in pain - something she'd always wanted to do, but had never been able to
try on an actual conscript. No doubt he was hoping Claire would be a bit gentler
with him, and he definitely found her more attractive even as a taskmistress.
His almost pathetic eagerness to please her was amusing, but it also made Amanda
just a little jealous. Sometimes she wished she had Claire's soft, voluptuous
figure, or her cascades of shimmering red curls, or her easy smile. Even when
Clive had been helping Amanda bathe, her nakedness hadn't really seemed to
excite him.
"...have to smack him if he didn't," Claire was saying.
"Hmm? What? Sorry, I was thinking."
"Oh, I was just wondering whether our little pet has been behaving himself,"
Claire grinned, ruffling Clive's hair affectionately. "I don't expect perfection
from a bloke like him, but I hope he's been making some minimal attempt to
comport himself properly."
"Well, I did have to thrash him a time or two," Amanda laughed.
"Insubordination, you know. Get up, Clive, and show her your bottom. But as for
real infractions, let's see... he left the toilet seat up twice, and I warned
him after the first time, too. And when I sent him into the village for
groceries he greedily bought himself a candy bar."
"How did you know!" Clive burst out.
Claire cuffed the back of his head. "Shh. She knows the girl who works at the
store, silly. Clive, I'm disappointed in you." There was an undertone of
amusement in her voice. "I think this calls for very severe correction. I would
say a good strapping is in order, wouldn't you, Amanda?"
"Unquestionably. He's not just asking for it, but practically begging."
Claire laughed. "All right, then, Clive. You can either have, say, thirty from
me, or twenty from Amanda. She's a lot stronger."
"I know she is, ma'am," he muttered. "I'll take thirty from you. She's had
enough fun smacking me this weekend." It was a bit surprising that he didn't
argue; he was learning, perhaps.
"Oh, she'll get to have more, don't worry. Just not right this minute. Get up
and bend over the arm of the couch, Clive darling. Amanda, will you hold him in
place?"
"With pleasure." She put her hands on his shoulders and bore down as Claire
raised the strap. At that very instant they were interrupted by the ringing of
the telephone.
"Hell," Amanda muttered. "Hold on - I'll try to make it quick." She stalked off
to the kitchen and snatched up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, Officer Harris?"
"Yes. Speaking." Amanda frowned. As far as she knew, only friends and family had
this particular number.
"Oh, good. Sorry to bother you. This is Major Stevens."
There was a brief, awkward, pause. "From Camp Thatcher," the woman prompted.
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I know. Just surprised, ma'am. What can I do for you?"
"I think we can drop the formalities, Amanda. A rather peculiar situation has
come up, and I thought it would be appropriate to ask for your assistance. Have
you been following the Edwin Sanderson affair at all?"
Hmm. This sounded like trouble. "I know he's still missing," she said
cautiously. "And I know the press have started taking interest in him again.
Something about him turning up in Greece?"
"Yes, that's right. I have no idea how it got out, but the Ministry of Social
Order got a telephone call from a young Greek lady claiming to be his
girlfriend, or something."
"And she reported him? Not very sweet and loving of her. Can we go over and pick
him up, then?"
"No, the Greeks wouldn't stand for it, and they apparently have no intention of
extraditing him. But this woman says she can find people to kidnap him and
smuggle him out of the country. She wants ten thousand pounds in return for her,
ah, services."
Amanda laughed. "Poor Ed. He never did have much luck with women. So she's
willing to sell him into slavery, is she? I feel almost sorry for him, getting
stabbed in the back like that."
"There's more to it than that. I actually spoke to the girl myself - Sanderson
was supposed to be in my intake area, remember - and I got the impression that
she thinks he actually wants to be conscripted but can't quite work up the
courage to face it. Finds the idea erotic, or something. I wish her English were
a little better."
"Erotic! I'm sure he'll change his mind in a hurry once the ladies get their
hands on him. That sounds like Ed Sanderson, though. I knew him in school, a
little, and he always had some pretty strange ideas rattling around in that
delicate head of his."
"Yes, well, I was hoping your acquaintance with him could prove advantageous. If
we can contact him through this woman perhaps you can persuade him to turn
himself in, especially if he really finds the notion appealing in some way.
Would you be willing to give it a try? I'm not ordering you to do it, but I
think it might be helpful, if you're game."
"Well yes, of course. But I'm not sure it will do much good. I never knew him
all that well."
"I still think it's our best option," said Major Stevens decisively. "After all,
we can't just let him get him keep thumbing his nose at us, and I'd hate to have
to convince the Ministry to pay ten thousand pounds for a kidnapping that might
or might not prove successful. The press would have almost as much fun with that
as they do with their accusations of favortism."
"All right, I'll do my best."
"Thank you. I'll have the woman's name - Demetria something - and telephone
number e-mailed to you. Is there anything we can do for you in return? A few
extra days of vacation time, maybe?"
Amanda grinned to herself. It couldn't hurt to ask. "Actually, ma'am, there is
something. I've been assigned to one of the training camps for newly recruited
conscription officers -"
"And you'd like the assignment reconsidered? I suppose that's understandable.
I'll be involved with that as well, and I'm not terribly looking forward to
running a prison camp full of naked women. Unlike with the lads, I'm sure I'll
feel sorry for them. But it should get better once they're past the entry
phase."
"No, ma'am, it's not that at all. I glanced at the list of incoming recruits,
and I happened to notice a Mrs. Irene Bradshaw, from Birmingham. I was wondering
if you could have her assigned to my training unit."
"I don't see why that should be a problem," said Major Stevens in a tone of mild
bafflement. "Any particular reason?"
"Revenge, within professional limits of course. She was my history teacher back
in sixth form. I hated history."
Major Stevens laughed. "All right, then, she's all yours. Redden up her bottom
all you like - it'll be good for her, in the long run. Just try to leave her in
one piece."
"Thank you very much, ma'am. And I'll telephone this Greek girl as soon I
receive the contact information."
She smiled again as she hung up the telephone. She remembered Mrs. Bradshaw all
too well - a big, bouncy blond woman whose enthusiasm for the minutiae of the
Napoleonic Wars had seemed infuriating rather than infectious. She'd eventually
make a wonderful conscription officer, with her air of confident authority, but
Amanda was glad she'd have a chance to squeeze a few tears out of those wide
blue eyes of hers first. It was like an oppressed student's fantasy come true.
She could hear the crack of the strap in the other room, and a sort of spasmodic
moaning from Clive; apparently they'd started without her. She sauntered in and
smiled at their naked captive, who was crying and biting his lip to keep from
really screaming as Claire worked him over.
"Anything important?" Claire asked casually.
"Oh, the Ministry wants me to see if I can help them finally sink their claws
into our friend Ed. I'll tell you about it later - don't let me interrupt." And
she sat back to watch the unfortunate Clive Johnson get what he had coming.