Slavegirl in Blue	Back to D	Back to main page

Collected by Djian
update july 18 - 2011

Another story by Wolverine

MF/fff, nc, abduct, bnd, D/s, humil

Slavegirl in Blue
by WOLVERINE 

PART 1

Police Constable Vanita Chanderpaul strolled along the English South coast quayside in the bright sunlight that was just emerging from the sea-mist, taking in the neat yachts, noisy seagulls and other sights of the small port. Her mood matched the weather. Things were just fine.

Vanita was a new kind of police officer. At 24, she had gone through university and then, to the surprise of her friends and disapproval of her parents, though to applause from her feisty younger sister, she had opted to join the police. Her parents were converted now, proud of their brave and beautiful daughter, expecting her to make Chief Constable. Vanita was not quite so ambitious and thought Chief Superintendent would do. She understood her parents’ initial hostility to her career choice: they were born in India, where policing was low-status and not really for respectable girls. She proclaimed herself English through and through and was proud to wear the uniform. But her main motive for this career choice had been to help people, plus the spice of just a little danger.

She was a beautiful and athletic young woman, good enough to represent Sussex Police in the high jump and highly competitive at tennis. Her long, glossy black hair was now tied up in a bun to meet police requirements, but in other respects the uniform suited her brilliantly and she knew it. Her name was often shortened among family and close friends to “Vanny.” She knew this sounded like “Fanny” and that this meant rather rude things in Britain and the U.S., but “Fanny” was also a nice old-fashioned English name and that, being so keen on traditional English things, she liked.

It was early morning and there were few people about, though a bunch of four or five youths in hooded tops or baseball caps were grouped by the edge of the car park, chatting half-heartedly except for one who was on his mobile phone and a bit more animated. An eye for detail was important in police work, Vanita thought.

As she passed the youths, one wolf-whistled and another said, loudly so she could hear,

“Look at the arse on that! Wouldn’t you like to give her one?”

A third replied, “You’re fucking stupid. Keep to your own, I say.” Vanita bit her lip with suppressed fury. The childish sex-talk didn’t much bother her, but “keep to your own” was rich. She was as English as any of them - not that she’d be interested in a spotty youth. She walked on. If they’d called her “Paki” or anything like that, she’d have spun round and arrested the lot of them, but as it was she had to admit the uniform trousers were rather bottom-hugging, there wasn’t much for the kids in this small town to do and they were overgrown children trying to talk big like a lot of men. Vanita had many excuses for ill-behaved youth.

Then her radio bleeped. A cool South London voice asked for her precise location and told her she was walking into a big operation. Suspected drug-smugglers were unloading their cargo from a blue motorboat called “Swordfish”. C.I.D. were just arriving to pick them up. She should not move any nearer, so as not to alert the suspects – but she should hold herself ready to help if it was needed.

As she listened, Vanita went from interest to bitter disappointment to hope. A big event like this was what all ambitious PCs hoped for and it would be a huge shame if the detectives carried off the whole thing in front of her nose without her moving a muscle. But she was being held in reserve and maybe one of the villains would escape so she’d be able to catch him. She could actually see the “Swordfish”: It was tied up a bit further down and a small wiry man in a flowery shirt and baggy shorts was standing on the quay, fiddling with a couple of holdalls while apparently waiting for more luggage to be passed from the boat. There was just a small problem. What should she do to make her stopping and hanging around not look suspicious? She pretended to adjust her belt, provoking a shout from the youths of

“Look – she’s dropping her trousers!” and a chant of “Get your arse out for the lads.” She could see the two plain C.I.D. cars approaching quite fast along the quayside on the other side from the “Swordfish”.

Then things happened very quickly – so quickly she could not tell if it was deliberate or an accident. A big 4x4 reversed suddenly from a parking space, smashing into the lead C.I.D. car. The following car crashed into the first, telescoping it. The 4x4 paused for a moment and then sped off. The man on the quay looked up and threw one holdall back on the boat. Someone staggered out of the second CID car, but he was clearly not going to run anywhere, especially after the 4X4 ran over him. The man in the flowery shirt had picked up the second holdall to throw it back on the boat.

Vanita was an athlete. She ran. The man finished with the second holdall, and then looked up to see an avenging policewoman bearing down on him. He jumped just in time, the policewoman’s hand missing his shirt by an inch. Vanita did not think: she was angry at the thought of the smugglers escaping with their filthy cargo. She jumped after him, landed on the deck and brought the shocked man down with a hand on his collar and a kick in the back of the legs. She threw herself on top of him and was about to handcuff him when powerful hands locked themselves in her tied-up hair and pulled her sharply back so her head banged on the deck and her hat rolled off.

The impact stunned Vanita for a crucial moment. Then something very big, white and soft landed on her face, blocking out her vision and smothering her attempts to breathe. She was a quick thinker in an emergency. She realised that she was being sat on, no doubt with fatal intent. The small man had been wearing shorts and she could feel muscular legs pinning down her shoulders. If her attacker was also wearing shorts and if she could move her fingers into position, she could scratch the smuggler and perhaps dislodge him. She found bare flesh on both sides and scratched once. Then powerful hands pinned her wrists down as she heard the boat’s engine start. On the edge of unconsciousness, she felt a sharp pain at the back of her head.

The moment before the trapped girl lost consciousness, she realised with surprise that a faint fishy smell in among the sweat, stale fart and other unpleasant smells of her conqueror’s arse could mean only one thing. Her conqueror was a woman.

When Vanita awoke, with momentarily blurred vision and thoughts, she was surprised. She’d expected the smothering to be fatal. That was the obvious reason for it, to kill her and silence her. Nominally at least, she was a Hindu, and so when she died (unless she’d reached the highest level of enlightenment, which she didn’t think she had), she expected to be reborn as a baby human or animal - but she seemed to be still in her Vanita Patel body, lying awkwardly on her side on a hard surface that was swaying rhythmically. She must be on the boat and a glance confirmed that she was still in her uniform. She tried to move her hands, and could not: they had been secured behind her back with her own handcuffs. Her hat, CS gas, radio and truncheon were missing, but she was fully clothed. That was a relief. She could see a table, a bench and a few things on hooks, so she was obviously below decks. She could not see the smugglers, but they must be somewhere close.

Then as she twisted and wriggled to get on to her knees, a man’s voice called out behind her:

“She wake up!” She thought the voice had some familiar accent she couldn’t quite pin down. She twisted again, ending up on her back, her hands and the cuffs pressed into her bottom. Now she could see the man: he was an elderly Chinese, small and simply dressed and he was watching her calmly as if this happened every day. She heard steps and three more people appeared. One was obviously her assailant – a big, muscular but rather overweight youngish blonde woman in white shorts and a blue-black top. One of her legs was marked by a bright red jagged line where Vanita had scratched her. With her was the wiry little man who’d been on the quayside: he looked about 35, she decided, and maybe some kind of Latin or East European. The last person was a tall, pale, balding man in perhaps his mid-forties, wearing stylish off-white long trousers and shirt. Professional training made Vanita take in all the details she could.

The woman spoke first.

“Now let’s see what the bitch is made of.” The accent was unmistakeably German. The woman and the wiry man pulled the policewoman roughly to her feet as the old Chinese approached with a big kitchen knife. This was it, then, she thought - hope it’s quick. But the man had grabbed her uniform blouse. The German woman shouted,

“Sam! No! The uniform must be preserved! For the Count, she must be with uniform!” Sam nodded, and instead started to unbutton her blouse with clever, expert fingers. Her full breasts came into view, protected only by a low-cut white bra which he unclipped and plucked away from her breasts, brushing them with his callused fingers. The young policewoman gasped at the indignity, but worse was to come. The German woman fondled her left tit with her big hands and long fingernails, gently at first, stroking it before pulping and squeezing it more vigorously so Vanita’s face screwed up with the effort of staying silent. Sam was less subtle and pinched the right tit vigorously several times, before trapping her nipple between his uneven, bitten fingernails and squeezing. Pain seared through the policewoman and she screamed. The smugglers laughed. The woman returned, seized her tit firmly, and scratched it all along the underside with her long nails. Vanita screamed again as the murderous pain struck her.

“That is to teach you not to scratch Aryan woman!” the German said.

The balding man spoke for the first time. “The form, perhaps, chaps?” Vanita recognised with amazement a cultured, upper-class English accent. What was he doing with this lot?

“Right,” said the wiry little man, and fetched a piece of paper. The two smugglers torturing her breasts stood back as the Englishman took the paper and approached their captive.

“Now, my dear,” he started, his voice and manner polite and gentle, “You are a police officer. Unfortunately and very unfairly, penalties in many countries for questionable behaviour towards police officers and suchlike, especially female ones, are especially harsh. We are an experienced team, and from time to time that we have captured police officers. If circumstances provide some reason for keeping our catch, we have two options. If we let her live, for whatever purpose, there is a slight risk that she will escape and may testify against us. The safer option is to put her out of the way; but if she signs a paper resigning from the police, our position is strengthened and we are more likely to spare her. Will you sign this form of resignation?”

“What if I refuse?”

The little man she’d jumped on replied in an American accent.

“That juicy little Chinese babe from Singapore – what was she, coastguard? Border police? She refused, remember? Bad decision!” The others laughed. Vanita did not like the sound of that laugh. The Englishman’s argument was nonsensical, but she had best not do anything to anger them. Besides, the paper would be meaningless if she got free. She nodded and was led to the table, feeling the impatient strength of those propelling her. She signed, noting with momentary anger that it did not just say “I resign” but “I have disgraced my uniform and therefore resign.”

“O.K.,” said the small American, “now let’s get on with it. Maybe Jan should be here for this.”

“Right, Rick - I’ll relieve him,” said the Englishman and climbed up steps out of sight. A moment later, a new figure appeared – a heavily-built man in perhaps his late thirties with curly fair hair, a broad, flattish face and vacant eyes, wearing good jeans grown old. He cast an appraising eye over Vanita, tested the firmness of her breasts with rough, muscular hands, and commented,

“Well, for a pig, not bad! A good present! And she jumped on the boat. Stupid girl!” His accent was soft and slurred, perhaps Dutch.

At a nod from the newcomer, Sam and Rick pulled their prey back to the wall and unlocked the handcuffs. She thought for a moment about trying to break free, but decided she had no chance. So she did not resist as they refastened the cuffs to secure her to a bracket in the wall, her arms now lifted painfully behind her back almost to shoulder level. Then Rick, grinning, produced her truncheon. “Let’s make beautiful music,” he said and tapped her lightly on the top of the right breast before following through with a wristy whack which set her screaming with pain and her tit nodding like a polite gentleman. With ceremony, he handed the truncheon to the Chinese, who gave her left tit the same treatment before aiming a sly blow sideways that set her left breast jiggling the right one. As they continued, they fell into a rhythm of light and heavy blows: PUCK, PUCK, WHACK! PUCK, PUCK, WHACK! Vanita bit her lip to save giving them the satisfaction of hearing her scream or seeing her weep, but as her dishonoured tits became sore and hypersensitive, she could not keep it up. The music changed: PUCK, PUCK, WHACKSCREAM! MOAN, PUCK. PUCK, WHACKSCREAM! MOAN. The German girl watched with fierce enjoyment, fingering between her legs. The Dutchman Jan was impassive, except for a massive bulge in his jeans. Finally, he broke in:

“Enough of that!”

“Thank God!” thought Vanita - but she was mistaken. Her captors now unfastened her, only to tie her ankles tightly with rope and secure the rope from a bracket in the roof that held an emergency lamp. So secured, she hung down, her head a few inches above the floor, her long, glossy hair splaying richly across the floor.

“Good! Now! The other way!” the German girl ordered.

“I reckon it’s time we got those uniform pants outta the way!” Rick added. The German nodded to the him and Sam, who unfastened Vanita’s trousers, pulled them up and tied them tightly around her ankles. She could not see the result, except in the way the bulges in their trousers grew, but she heard the amused “Oh, ha!” from Sam and the approving “Shit – yes!” from Rick. She knew they were enjoying the sight of her elastic-topped stockings and her plain white knickers with pink trim. She knew the white set off her warm brown skin very nicely and had felt a small thrill of guilty pleasure as she had pulled them on that morning. Now to her intense embarrassment, she could feel that the fight and her various contortions since had caused the knickers to pull into her bottom-cleft as though they were being eaten by a hungry animal, leaving a large slice of each cheek uncovered. This area now received the attention of Jan, who held and pinched her undercheeks and pushed the material still further into the cleft with rough and hairy hands. Then at a crisp order from the German, Sam and Rick began to whack the underside of her breasts with the truncheon, handing it across her politely after each blow. Struck from this angle, the breasts could give way less, and the blows were more painful. Soon she was moaning and blubbering shamefully. The motion of the boat led to a few blows going astray as she swayed around, so Jan stood on her beautiful, long hair to steady her.

“This is police? This is hero girl? Look at her! Listen to her! A mess! Weak! Pathetic!” he said chuckling.

“Y’know what?” Rick asked, pausing, “the right place for a lady cop’s night-stick is up her cunt! Just watch me do it to her!”

The others laughed, a little uncertainly.

“You’re all hot air, Rick,” Jan replied.

“No shit. Believe me. Nova Scotia, Canada, 02. Crack run. Police roadblock. Sharp-talking dame – brunette, spectacles, big tits. Right up her, all the way. Then we reckoned it was a waste to leave her tits so we sliced them off for dinner, made her eat her spectacles and shoved her in a ditch. Wasn’t our fault it was full of water. Stupid cunt couldn’t swim!”

The others still seemed unsure, but the German girl settled the matter.

“Stupid! She is for Count – in one piece, undamaged. Only stick up her cunt is cock! Yes?”

“Yeah, Helga. Sure thing, Ma’am,” Rick replied. The alert policewoman noted the German’s name – Helga.

Vanita was only a little relieved: she would live for a while, but only as their sex toy. All this talk about the Count was obviously rubbish and she even wondered if it was code for killing her. Her only hope was rescue. There must be boats and planes looking for them, but the weather was not in her favour.

At least the torture of her breasts was over. They untied her and removed the trousers; then Helga lovingly, slowly, pulled off her pathetically small knickers. At her orders, the men stretched a rope with a central noose across the cabin between two handrails and forced the young policewoman – who was past resisting – to bend with legs apart till she was holding on to her ankles. Then they tied each wrist to its corresponding ankle. There was a sound of men laughing, and she was painfully aware of how her most private parts were now presented for their amusement - but worse was to come. After some whispering, they forced her head down and back till it peeped upside-down between her long legs, which they then brought together to trap her. Then the noose was passed round her neck and tightened. Only for a young woman as athletic and fit as Vanita would such a position have been possible. Rick took a good look and commented,

“Never seen that one before!”

“Me neither, old friend,” Jan responded.

“Hey, lady,” said Rick, leering in her face, “we would like to fuck you. D’we have your permission?” Self-preservation and a wish to avoid more beating fought in Vanita with honour. Honour lost.

“Yes,” she replied.

“That is real nice of you,” Rick acknowledged. He and the others were in no hurry, as they stood and discussed something in low voices.

As a diligent modern policewoman, Vanita had attended lectures and read books about rape. She knew all the theories and the good practice. She had even been commended for arresting a serial rapist, a repulsive man, a pudgy, pallid-skinned computer consultant called Richard Sowerby. As she now waited to be raped, she remembered how she’d noticed a van parked in a lay-by near a private girls’ college which resembled a suspect vehicle described by a witness and, walking softly through the entrance into the grounds, had spotted a clump of bushes that would be an ideal ambush point. Creeping round the back of the bushes, she’d surprised the wretched man with his camera and masker tape, wrenched his leg when he kicked at her groin and overpowered him. Not once had she considered – even when she found the knife he’d not had time to use – that she might have become his next victim, because she had confidence in her strength, skill and inviolability. Now she was totally helpless and could not even protest, as she had given her captors permission to rape her.

Rick approached her bottom and her face, pulling down the top of his shorts to reveal a ramrod-straight, pulsing, repulsively stinking cock - but he had to wait.

“Not yet! I took her! She is my prize! I go first!” cried Helga; Rick stepped back as the big blonde knelt to bring her face and hands close to the policewoman’s crack. Vanita had heard about lesbianism, of course, and had known one or two women who her friends said were “dykes”, but she had never experienced it at first hand. So she was ill-prepared when the big German woman pulled her secret lips apart as if she did this every day, and put her mouth to her opening. First came a questing, teasing tongue, setting the bound victim quivering and creaming despite herself; then powerful sucking, pulling the Asian juices into the Nordic mouth where they were savoured and devoured to give strength; then a slight but agonising nip. Then long-fingered hands invaded her, further and further, as far as they would go, taking their time, teasing, caressing her clitoris. Then the hand twisted and pinched her inner tongue so she screamed long, but could not move. Helga straightened up.

“The Untermensch has no courage, no strength. She is trash. Fuck her.”

Jan now stepped forward, but the little American protested.

“Helga had first use of her, O.K., she was her prize. But this bitch jumped me. She needs a lesson teaching. Next go is mine.” As if acknowledging a well-recognised code between them, the Dutchman stepped back and Rick pulled his swollen cock from his shorts. Vanita could see the swollen, pulsing veins and smell the acrid message of his triumph. The stiff weapon approached – and then Rick was pulling her head hair and yelling “Open, pig bitch!”

For a moment she did not understand, but then subserviently, quietly opened her mouth and took his stinking member in, licking clumsily as it pumped into her. Crying out in triumph, he pressed further in, jamming his hairy balls into her mouth. After a minute or two, he pulled out, only to press into her once secret opening with the force of a battering ram. In a little while, as her initial shock at the invasion wore off, she began to let herself go, responding to his urgings like a puppet on a string. It was easier that way, she told herself. But when the American had finally finished, Jan was ready. The heavily-built Dutchman did not bother to take off his jeans, just unzipping the opening to let a huge, ravenous monster out. Vanita had known a few men, but she had never seen a weapon that big. What would it do to her? Was it too big for her opening, and if so, would he cut her open with it to get his satisfaction? She had little time to wonder, as Jan was not one for delays. As the giant ram smashed roughly and hungrily into her cunt, she screamed, but she could not escape or even flinch. Then the pumping began and she felt as if her body and mind had been reduced to a thin, sensitive covering, a screaming membrane around the gigantic cock. The scream became a moan. Far away, she could hear rhythmic clapping and cheers from the other smugglers. For a moment she thought she had died. Then the brute pushed her mount roughly to free himself from the tight fit and pulled out, wiping the sticky mess on her face until he was satisfied with his cleanliness.

She began to recover, for she was strong. Now it would be Sam, the Chinese. He too did not bother with removing his trousers, but unlike Jan he was in no hurry. He pulled her lips wider, neatly plucked a black hair from her small, tightly-furred bush and inserted a small, dextrous, musician’s hand to feel around. If she had not been driven so brutally before, she might even have enjoyed his foreplay. Then he too was fucking her, with a power she had not expected. He went on longer than she could have dreamed, too, his expressionless face staring into hers. Finally, with a laugh, he pulled out, only to give her a last push and spurt right in each eye so his sticky cum ran down her forehead and dried in her glossy hair.

“We should call Alec,” said Jan. The tall Englishman came down slowly.

“The fog’s lifting a bit, chaps. Better have two people up there,” he said. Rick and Sam climbed out of sight, while Helga and Jan busied themselves elsewhere, leaving Alec alone with the helpless officer. Vanita felt dirty, wrecked, dishonoured, her inner body full of dull pain, and even her once lustrous hair matted with the stinking sticky milk of the invading cocks.

“We’d better get you undone, or you’ll be bent double like that for the rest of your life,” he commented smoothly, “and the Count wouldn’t like that at all.” To poor Vanita’s delight, he untied her. She lay unable to straighten up till the Englishman called Helga over, and together they straightened her out – only to secure her in a new position, wrists handcuffed round her thighs, legs bent back, ankles brushing her ears. Helga stood back.

“Effects of Eton and all that,” Alec told her in a languid, upper-class voice, “but I do like firm young bottoms. In fact, I like to enter from the rear.” So saying, he pulled her bottom-cheeks far apart, and pushed his stiff member in between. Vanita was quite traditional in some ways. One of her university boys had suggested “fucking you up your arsehole”, but had got a slapped face for his pains. She had never experienced a man up that particular hole. To her it was dirty, animal-like – almost like being screwed by an animal. She did not enjoy the sensation as her small rear passage was painfully pushed wide, the ring gave way and then snapped shut around the cock, and she was pumped without mercy. Alec clearly did enjoy it. When he had finished, he bent forward and spoke to her.

“Well, I’m sure this has been a very unpleasant and painful experience for you”, he told her. “Nothing personal, of course. We mustn’t be too hard on you. Would you like a drink? Jack Daniel’s, I’m afraid, dreadful rotgut compared to a decent malt whisky, but I’m regularly outvoted.” Delighted and grateful at this kindness, she accepted the offer with thanks. Alec produced a half-full bottle of amber liquid, opened it, approached her, shoved the end of the bottle right up her slit, and tipped the fiery liquid into her, holding her still till he had emptied the bottle.

Her wailing screams as the fire took hold in her bruised and overexcited vulva brought Helga and Jan to watch, and Sam hurried down the steps. They stood and laughed loudly. Jan slapped the Englishman on the back.

“You old devil,” he said, “the do you want a drink routine again!”

“I’m afraid,” Alec replied languidly, “she can’t take her drink!”

Vanita thrashed around for a while, the pain gradually receding, before she mercifully lost consciousness.

When she revived she was on deck, still naked and restrained. She felt cold, but the pain had receded and a little strength was returning. She could see waves and a bit of sky: the fog had lifted. Jan, Rick and Helga were all on deck, Helga steering and the other two on watch, alert and silent. Helga saw their captive had regained consciousness, and threw a tarpaulin over her body, leaving the face uncovered.

Then a distant throbbing began. She did not guess what it was at first, but the other seemed to know and not to like it. The sound grew louder – and then, from behind cloud, a helicopter came into sight. Vanita’s heart leapt. She had decided some time ago that she was dead meat unless rescuers found the boat before it docked. Now they had found it. The three smugglers watched intently as the helicopter circled and came in lower. Suddenly, an amplified voice addressed them.

“Motorboat Swordfish – Motorboat Swordfish. This is the Police. Turn around and head North-West. Repeat – turn around and head North-West.” The voice was female, with a well-educated, cut-glass, unmistakeably English accent. Helga did not turn the boat. Instead, she nodded to Jan, who bent and took something from a box.

“Turn around. Repeat – turn around. Other helicopters and boats are in the area. There is no point trying to escape. Turn around as instructed”, the voice continued. But Jan was aiming something long and unfamiliar to Vanita. He fired, and the surface-to-air missile snaked towards the helicopter. The posh-voiced policewoman continued to give instructions.

“Repeat – turn around. Turn…” A moment before the missile struck, the words cut off and a scream started. The missile struck and instantly the helicopter was a ball of flames. The scream continued for some seconds as the stricken machine plunged towards the sea. Just before impact, it cut off. The helicopter broke up on impact and a moment later only a small oil-slick showed that it had existed.

Rick laughed, and punched Jan’s arm playfully.

“They never learn,” Jan said softly, smugly.

“Hey,” replied Rick, “how say we hang around a bit and do a bit of fishing? Could have roast pig for dinner!”

They both laughed. Helga fingered herself between the legs and slapped her own thigh before returning to steering duties. Vanita began to cry uncontrollably – partly because of her own desperate position, but mostly for the poor posh-voiced policewoman, who had only been doing her duty and had been so sure she had the situation under control. The crew let her cry until Helga handed over to Jan, walked up to her and slapped her hard in the face. She stopped crying. A few minutes later, the fog closed in again.

They lifted their sticky and defeated prey up, and she thought this would be the point when they threw her in the sea to drown - but instead they carried her below decks, and let her painfully straighten out before securing her again by the wrists with her handcuffs to the same bracket they had used before. She was left alone with the old Chinese man. The man approached her slowly, and squeezed her breasts with a professional, calculating expression. This was quite unlike his earlier foreplay and something in his face made her very frightened. He opened a drawer and advanced with a long, fearsomely sharp-looking knife.

“You have nice tits,” he explained. “We interrupted at quay, not have time to take on provisions. Some time to go before we come to Holland. Crew will want feeding, and I am cook. Two tits go very nicely with sauce, rice, vegetables.” She screamed. Alec and Jan looked in. “I slice off her tits for cooking,” Sam stated in a matter-of-fact way, trying the edge of the knife lightly against the side of the policewoman’s left tit, leaving a thin red line. “She still have hole for Count to use. Only no tits, just like Chinese woman!” Jan just smiled, but Alec spoke.

“No, Sam, it’s unfortunately not allowed. They do look mouth-wateringly juicy, but the Count would be very angry. No.” Reluctantly, Sam withdrew with his knife.

Vanita was hugely relieved - but there was something else. At last she really believed in the mysterious Count. That meant she really was to be taken to him as a present or for sale, as a slave, like some cow or sheep.

She did not altogether give up hope of rescue, but none came. The crew now left her alone, except for a familiar, dismissive pat on the breast or bottom or mischievous tug on her bush as they passed. Sam served a meal which did not include her breasts, and she was given water and half a plateful of gooey liquid and vegetables before Sam expertly threw the rest in her face, from which the thick liquid trickled down on to her breasts on which four vegetable portions now balanced. After what seemed hours, Helga and Sam came without a word and unlocked the handcuffs. Helga looked at her with distaste.

“She is a mess! A slut, a whore! Man mess, food mess, tears, more man mess. She must be cleaned!” They took her to a small washroom and Sam sponged her all over with cold water before drying her, amusing himself by giving her sore breasts and slits a particularly vigorous rubbing with the rough towel. Then the German threw a bundle of clothes in front of her. It was her uniform. “Dress!” she ordered. In the bundle were all her things, from the white knickers to the uniform blouse and trousers – even her shoes, chequered hat and truncheon. She hesitated with the hat in her hands. “On!” Helga barked. She put it on.

Soon the sound of the engine changed and the crew became busy. Finally, there came a bump, and then the boat was still except for the slight motion of weak waves. They had arrived. This must be Holland. She could not tell what would happen next, but unless she was rescued, she would be starting a new and unimaginably humiliating life as some super-criminal’s plaything.

PART 2

Helga and Rick gagged the helpless policewoman with dirty cloths, one of which from its smell and taste could only have been used by one of the rapists to wipe his cock, before throwing her carelessly into a large canvas bag. They carried it on deck and threw it on to dry land. They did not bother to zip it up, so Vanita could see a small jetty, earth banks and a flat field, while on a rough farm track a landrover was waiting. A fat, old-looking man in a baseball cap and camouflage top approached, smiling slightly. Jan walked up to the man and they talked in a language Vanita did not understand. The fat man finally nodded, approached the bag and stared at the bound policewoman inside, squeezing her tits experimentally: as they were still sore from the beating with her truncheon, this hurt intensely and she wanted to cry out, but instead nearly swallowed the semen-loaded rag. The fat man continued to squeeze and an unmistakeable mound rose in his loose slacks. Then strong hands hoisted up the bag and threw it into the back of the landrover. She was not hurt, as she landed on her well-padded rump. Some bags and boxes were thrown in after her. Helga climbed in the back and zipped up the bag as the landrover moved off bumpily. Vanita writhed inside the bag, but her movements were pointless as she was still handcuffed. After a while she lay still.

Perhaps some ten minutes later the vehicle stopped. She heard low voices, the bag was unzipped and Alec’s impassive face appeared staring down at her.

“Now I just need to give you an injection which will stop you being any trouble,” he explained. “Just a little prick, as they say. It’s perfectly safe – believe me, I’ve given it to more young ladies than I can remember and none of them died at the time.” Grabbing her belt, he turned her over, pulling down her trousers and knickers while she was too frightened to resist. She felt an intense pain in her left arse-cheek and saw Alec withdrawing a huge hypodermic needle. For a moment nothing happened – but then she began to feel dizzy and soon sank into unconsciousness.

She felt she was somehow drifting through some liquid thicker than water. She tried to reach the surface, and suddenly found herself in a busy market-place just like the one at home. The place was full of people, but none of them looked at her. Glancing down, she saw that she was naked below the waist. At that, all the people started pointing and shouting. She ran and heard them pursuing, but when she looked round, instead of people she saw a massive tiger racing after her, its huge penis erect and its slavering jaws holding her knickers. As the tiger was about to catch her, she stumbled gratefully into a railway tunnel where she thought the tiger could not follow her – but the tiger turned into an express train which clattered closer and closer. Then she had somehow become the tunnel and the train was pushing through her. That was the last thing she was aware of as the drug-fuelled dream ended.

When she woke up, she thought at first she was back in her flat in Sussex. Her head hurt and she generally felt rotten, so she must have had a wild time – in fact, her private parts were sore, so she might even have had sex while being too drunk to know what she was doing. She’d had an awful dream too, about being kidnapped and raped…but she realised with horror that it had not been a dream. What was more, she lay in a heap with dozens of other unmoving bodies. She tried to move, only to find the drug had paralysed her limbs, leaving her able to breathe and shift her head a little, but not to sit up or even make a noise. The other bodies all seemed to belong to young women in uniform – a nurse, a tennis player, a traffic warden, another nurse, three schoolgirls, another policewoman. This was incredible: they’d kidnapped half a lorryload. But something quite hard was sticking into her thigh and she could just see that it was a schoolgirl’s hand. No real human hand could be that hard. As Vanita’s senses returned to normal, she realised there was something not quite right about the other bodies: they were all lovingly-created mannequins in sexy uniforms. Paralysed and hidden in the middle of the mannequins, the real policewoman was well hidden against the prying eyes of any police officer or customs man.

She shifted her thoughts to her environment. She seemed to be in a big compartment or container of some sort, and it seemed to be moving, but less smoothly than a large plane would do. Her best guess was that she was in the back of a lorry. She could see no windows and no guard. Making full use of her police training, she watched out for any indications of where she was – grinding gears which might indicate a steep slope, jerky movement which might mean the vehicle was in heavy traffic – but the journey seemed remarkably smooth. She had grown so used to this smooth progress that it came as a shock when the vehicle braked, slowed down and finally stopped. A loud grinding, clanking noise followed, and the back doors opened to reveal Jan with a young man in a peaked cap and blue uniform.

“See,” said Jan in English to the official, “they’re all very high quality, much in demand.”

The young man seemed transfixed by the sight of the uniformed mannequins. He reached out and touched the tennis girl, his hand coming to rest no more than a foot or two from the helpless policewoman. The man’s hand patted the fake girl’s leg.

“Really, I wouldn’t mind screwing that one,” he commented.

“Sure you can, for real! But you have to clean up the mess, and she will not be very responsive!” Jan joked. The official smiled a little uncertainly and nodded. Jan stepped inside the compartment and sat down on the nurse’s bust, the doors closed and the lorry moved off. Vanita could see Jan watching her, casually and knowingly, as he lit a pungent cigarette. A while later, he picked his way to the front of the compartment and through some kind of door. Suddenly his trophy felt very lonely and hopeless. She felt she should not cry and was fighting back the tears when a movement caught her eye. Was she imagining it, or had one of the mannequins moved? Was there another real girl among them? The weak movement was repeated. It was a girl in the bright blue lycra shorts and white vest of an athlete, a girl with short dark hair and warm brown skin like her own. Vanita tried to speak, but only a long URRRR noise came out. Nonetheless, it clearly amazed the athlete, whose eyes moved around trying to locate the source. Finally, the two captives stared at one another, each conveying sympathy and curiosity but unable to speak. Vanita saw that the other girl was slimmer than her, with tight round apples of breasts, fine long legs and a round, firm, protruding bum without the generous spread of her own hips.

A grinding noise from the front door announced Jan’s return with Alec. The two men looked down at their captives, till at a nod from Jan, the Englishman produced another hypodermic needle.

“We’re in friendly territory now, my dears, so we don’t need you to look like sex-shop dolls. The paralysis is wearing off slowly, but I can speed the process. You’re used to pricks now, I know.” So saying, Alec flipped the policewoman over, pulled down her trousers and knickers, and plunged the hypodermic once more into her rump; then he picked his way across to the other girl and gave her the same treatment. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about, so we’ll leave you to it,” he concluded as he left.

Bit by bit movement came back. They experimented with sounds, like babies learning to speak, encouraging one another. Finally, they were able to talk together.

“My name is Nevin,” said the girl in a weak voice. “I am Kurdish German. You are not white. Are you a real English police?” Her accent was German, but easy enough for Vanita to understand. Vanita was proud of her language skills and replied in German before asking her why she was there and whether she was a professional athlete. “Please, we can speak English,” Nevin insisted. “It is better for you and I like to practice it. I am not athlete, they tracked me and jumped on me when I was jogging. I am feminist anti-racist activist. I tell our people not to fear the neo-fascists and skinheads, they must stand up and be proud. But also in our people there is some bad treatment of women, so I speak against that and tell women to walk tall and be proud and confront those who treat them badly. I say to them all they have nothing to fear, so these bastards they capture me to show the people I am wrong and they should fear. But I will escape if I can! One thing is puzzling. Why do they carry us like this and not just kill us or beat us up and leave us?”

Vanita realised Nevin was still ignorant of the Count. She told the incredulous girl they had both been sold to be sex slaves. Nevin went silent. At this point Jan reappeared with Alec.

“Had a good chat, girls?” Alec asked, but got no answer. He shrugged and turned to Jan, who began to talk. Vanita had seen the cold-eyed Dutchman as the least communicative of her kidnappers, a man who let his cock and his armaments do his talking for him; but now he was relaxed and chatty, talking to Vanita as he absent-mindedly fidgeted with his fingers between the other girl’s legs.

“Well, in some hours we are at the Count’s castle, so Alec and I will not see you again. Maybe you wonder about some things, so I like to tell you. Maybe you wonder why drug-smugglers also kidnap nice cunts. We do both jobs, many times. We are independent contractors for the Count: he protects us, and some of the drug profits go to him. We pick up girls he might like and he pays us good money. Also, English slag, you are policewoman, so you may wonder how we nearly got caught. We wondered too. Someone must have passed information to the police. We do not think it is one of us, so we suspect Henrik – the fat man at the quay. While you are drugged, we question him.” Alec took up the story.

“We soon found Henrik was O.K.; but he’d brought his only daughter into the business, and she saw herself as some kind of lady knight in shining armour, telling her father our work was wrong, even though she only knew about the drugs. He wouldn’t listen, so she told two police detectives, one man and one woman. It took a lot of persuading to get her to give us their names and details, but we are very persuasive.” He smiled and gestured for Jan to carry on.

“So we deal with her, but we do not waste her, we fuck her before we finish with her. Henrik is very happy he is in the clear, so we invite him to join in!” Jan laughed. “We already speak to people who will deal with the two detectives, then we are O.K., for we have powerful friends.”

Vanita was shocked. She had somehow stumbled into the clutches of a criminal organisation stronger even than the Mafia, one which evidently had the secret support of powerful people in high places. Suddenly the Castle seemed much more real and frightening. The two men left, Jan smacking Vanita hard on the rump as he passed.
Perhaps half an hour later, the lorry slowed and turned, gears grinding: it slowed further and then stopped. The back door clanked open to reveal Helga, Jan, Alec and a stranger – a small, pale, youngish man with a broad, flat face.

“Out!” ordered Helga. The two captives stumbled painfully to the door, their muscles suffering from lying long in an awkward position. They dropped to the ground and looked around them.

They were in a half-empty car-park with a pitted, uneven surface. Most of the vehicles around them looked old or cheap. The car-park belonged to a garish single-storey building with a sign in Cyrillic letters and, helpfully, the words BURGER BAR in English beside a picture of a busty girl in a bikini smiling as she prepared to bite into a burger. The whole place, Vanita thought, was incredibly naff and depressing. Behind and beside the building stretched vast wheatfields, with forest in the distance. Shepherded by their guards, the two girls walked slowly towards some seats and wooden tables – a picnic place. She saw four youths lounging against a garish red car, smoking and watching. Somewhat nearer, an old couple – man with a stick, woman with a headscarf – also watched silently. It took a moment for this to sink in. These people were ordinary, harmless members of the public. They could help.

“HELP!” she screamed, “HELP, HELP! KIDNAP! POLICE!” Nevin was joining in, yelling “HILFE! HILFE!” Then Helga grabbed Vanita by the left arm while she twisted her right ear until her calls for help changed to a scream. The flat-faced man approached, seeming in no hurry, looked Vanita up and down and hit her hard in the belly. All the strength went out of her: her rebellion was over. As she was dragged to her feet, she saw that Jan and Alec had silenced Nevin, whose arm was being twisted viciously behind her back. The youths still looked on, and appeared to be laughing. The old couple watched with silent interest. The next moment, the two victims were being pushed roughly over a wooden table, faces down and arses high. His hand resting casually on the policewoman’s uniformed rump, Jan explained what was happening.

“We had plenty of fun with you, English slag, but the Kurd we have not fucked. Those skinheads who took her – Stormtroop East Berlin they call themselves – they raped her of course, but we want our bit. We do it here.” Vanita saw the flat-faced man striding into the burger bar. “Gennady’s gone for the equipment,” Jan explained. In the meantime, we’ll warm you up a bit.” A hand tapped the policewoman’s bent-over rump three times, and then, WHACK! Her right cheek flattened and rebounded as the stinging pain hit her brain. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK! The left cheek got the same treatment threefold. Her legs bucked, but Helga pressed her face down harder on the rough wood. She heard Nevin shrieking, and guessed the humiliated feminist was being spanked just as hard. Helga yanked her head up, wrenching some of her beautiful black hair out. To her amazement, she saw that the youths and the old couple had moved closer and were forming an audience together with seven or eight other locals. Gennady returned, carrying a long, thin plank. It must have formed part of a fence or a cart, but now it was simply an instrument of punishment – long, broad, thin and whippy.

Nevin got the new treatment first, which gave Vanita plenty of time to listen to the repeated sequence of WHOOSH, SMACK, EEAAA! She trembled at the thought of how the plank was going to feel on her own better-padded hindquarters. When the Kurdish girl was reduced to a confused, childlike crying and no other noises came, she knew her turn was coming. She was still not prepared for the explosion of pain in her arse-cheeks as the first blow fell; she too cried out and gave her tormentors more pleasure. “At least they’re doing it with my uniform trousers still in the way,” the policewoman thought. Then rough hands tugged at her belt and yanked the trousers down. She felt her knickers slipping down to her ankles as someone gave her rump an affectionate pat before the whippy plank landed on her bare bottom. After the count of eight, she was moaning and caterwauling all the time and only men’s laughter finally told her the blows had stopped. Helga pulled her round and up to a sitting posture by her head hair and adjusted her position with a sharp tug at her pubic hair. She was being set up for a good view of Nevin’s rape. The other girl was already naked except for her pitiful small white socks. Alec held one ankle while he tickled the girl under the foot, causing her to writhe around to much laughter, her cheeks wobbling and thrusting. Then Gennady took over holding Vanita while Helga yet again had first use of the victim. Vanita could tell this was as much a shock and humiliation to the Kurdish girl as it had been to her. Jan was next, thrusting into the small, inviting gap beneath the unlucky girl’s rump. The Dutchman took his time before Alec thrust into the girl’s other defenceless hole. Finally Helga took charge of Vanita again while Gennady approached Nevin. To the English girl’s surprise, he did not rape his victim, but grabbed, twisted and squeezed her firm, small breasts till she screamed and, satisfied, he slipped his hand between her legs and tore out a handful of curly black bush. Nevin’s moans had become a kind of burbling, constant warble, much to the amusement of the audience.

Jan had disappeared but now came back with a fat, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit – obviously the proprietor of the burger bar. Gennady spoke to him in a strange language and must have offered him the choice of the two victims, for he approached first Nevin and then Vanita, pinching and sniffing their most private parts. He hesitated for a moment and then positioned himself behind Vanita, merely unzipping his trousers and pressing against her to enter her doggy-fashion. He grunted with satisfaction several times, but showed no great vigour or stamina, so Vanita was obscurely insulted when he finished. Back home, she was very fond of nature programmes on the TV: she remembered a baboon pack leader mounting a misbehaving young female and giving her two or three half-hearted thrusts, obviously not for enjoyment or procreation, but to discipline her and make clear who was boss. She felt a top baboon had just pushed her to the bottom of the heap.

She was released, and saw Nevin released too. Helga now shouted,

“Get up! Pull up pants! Back to the truck, fast!” Nevin had worn no knickers under her lycra jogging shorts, and she was able to comply quickly. Vanita, however, struggled to pull up her tight knickers and then her uniform trousers, receiving a sharp slap on the bum to speed her up. Then they were being marched back to the lorry. Vanita was half broken in and was getting used to the constant beatings and rapes, but Nevin was taking it much harder and was sobbing. Vanita put a sisterly arm around her shoulder, but Gennady grabbed the arm, pulled it behind her back and twisted till she screamed in agony.

“Pig cunt! Just do what you are told!” he hissed with a heavy Slav accent.

As they climbed back into the lorry, Alec casually explained,

“Gennady doesn’t copulate, on principle – he sees himself as a kind of priest. But he gets plenty of fun from torturing woman, and that’s one of the things the Count employs him for.”

As they drove away, Vanita thought that the most depressing thing of all was the reaction of the local people they had seen. They had shown no inclination to help. For them, the rape of two foreign women was a little bit of fun to watch, to relieve the boredom of daily life.

An hour or two later, the lorry turned off the road, slowed and stopped. Bundled outside and left for a moment to stand, the two captives saw they had arrived inside a vast vehicle park ringed by high barbed wire and commanded by two watchtowers. Lorries and vans were parked or unloading and in one corner four gleaming limousines stood in a neat line. Beyond the compound rose a massive medieval castle ringed by a moat. It seemed to be made in the classic medieval style, with a high outer wall and, some way inside, an even higher keep, but this castle was crowned by searchlights, security cameras and other equipment she could not recognise. There appeared to be two ways into the castle – a walkway over the drawbridge and rail tracks that ran from the compound through a gate in the wire, over a bridge at a slight upward incline and through an opening in the castle wall. Helga and Gennady frogmarched the two girls towards open trucks that were waiting coupled together on the tracks, being loaded from the vehicles ns with food and boxes. The two captives were bound together tightly back to back so their bottom-cheeks pushed into one another and their breasts stood out. They were loaded into a truck already half-full with cabbages. They were pleased to find they could still see over the side of the truck, but less pleased when more and more cabbages were tipped in till their breasts were squeezed in by them. Gennady climbed on to the back of the truck and then something started pulling the trucks towards the castle.

By twisting round, Vanita could just see that they were being pulled by massive chains. They moved on to the bridge and into the gap in the wall, where the train came to a juddering halt. A guard in a peaked cap inspected the two girls, nodded to Gennady, and pulled a lever which caused the train to move again. The truck was now passing through a large compound where some naked women were exercising under the supervision of guards with long whips and – Vanita realised with a thrill of terror – Nazi SS uniforms. The women were all shapes, sizes and colours, but they were all young and attractive. The exercises looked quite practical – press-ups, running on the spot, twisting around in various ways – but as tits bobbled and bottom-cheeks shifted, the guards were clearly enjoying their work. Nonetheless, they looked up as the train passed slowly and some eyed the two young women in an unpleasantly calculating way. Finally the trucks entered the keep and stopped in a vast unloading space where slavewomen in various degrees of undress unloaded the trucks, encouraged by their supervisors’ whips. A muscular sergeant helped Gennady drag the two captives out of the truck and untie them. The man forced Vanita’s arms behind her back, crossed them, and manacled them together before leading her off by a rope around her shapely neck. She tried to see what was happening to Nevin, but could see nothing of her new friend and received a sharp smack on the bottom to keep her moving.

She was led up what seemed endless steps till the sergeant stopped at a door with a smartly-uniformed guard. A sign on the door said in German “Medical Room”. Through the door two figures in white coats were waiting for her – an elderly man with a wrinkled face and hard, pale blue eyes; and a tall, blonde young woman. The sergeant removed her bonds and stood guard in front of what appeared to be a shower compartment.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” the man asked. Vanita realised she would have a crucial advantage if she could conceal that she understood German, so she made no reaction. “Speak English?” the man asked with a note of contempt.

“Yes.”
“Yes, Herr Doktor. This is medical examination. Take off clothes.”

She dutifully undressed under their steady, cold stares. When her bra had hit the ground, she paused, still reluctant to reveal her most secret parts, but the white-coated woman picked up a rounded stick and tapped her knicker-protected bush.

“Off! Fast!” she ordered. Vanita obeyed and stood naked for them to examine. The woman sniffed her breasts, told her she smelled (which after a long time in the lorry and one rape was certainly true) and rapped out an order for her to enter the shower. She started towards it and received the stick across her warm brown arse to encourage her to hurry. As she hurried up, she was uncomfortably aware that her cheeks would be jiggling seductively; she was also aware that Nazi showers sometimes dispensed something other than water, but she had no choice but to enter the cramped compartment. The sergeant closed the door and Vanita heard a noise like the falling of a latch. She pushed against the thick transparent door, but found she was locked in. Then a torrent of ice-cold water fell on her, freezing her still tender tits and blinding her so she panicked. Up and down she jiggled and writhed, giving her captors a most pleasant view. At a soft order from the doctor, the icy water turned scalding hot. Again Vanita jumped around, but this time she was screaming as her face, tits and rump seemed to be burning away. Then the water changed to icy cold again. When the sergeant opened the door again, she fell out blubbering and moaning, only for him to pull her roughly to her feet by her hair and hold her while the woman dried her vigorously with a scratchy towel.

“Now – come forward!” the doctor ordered. She complied and he began a detailed medical examination – some of it conventional enough, as he tested her blood pressure and shone a torch inside her mouth, but in other aspects painfully embarrassing as he poked her vagina and shone the torch up it, pulped her tits, pulled her arse-cheeks wide apart and measured her breasts, slit and rump, all the time dictating notes to his assistant. “Sexually promiscuous – she has had vaginal and anal sex several times in the last few days. Consequently, morally degenerate. Otherwise, fit and healthy – almost athletic,” he concluded.
“Knickers, stockings, brassiere on!” his assistant ordered, so Vanita complied; but when she made to put on her blouse the assistant whacked her on the rump again with the stick, shouting “Obey orders, slave! No more clothes!”

“Next you get your marks,” the sergeant explained mysteriously, as he led her up still more steps to another door, this time a thick wooden one studded with metal.

Beyond the door was a far bigger room. On one side was a long metal table with smooth, curving sides: the far side of this was studded with large hooks. The room was very hot and on the far side a number of objects stuck out of a big open fire. Several men moved around, naked to the waist. On smaller tables and shelves she could see numerous bottles and jars. The sergeant marched her up to a short, bald man, handing him a paper which he read before issuing instructions in German: Vanita could only catch something about “Indian”. Two men busied themselves around the fire while the supervisor – if that was his role – stroked and pinched the policewoman’s magnificent rear.

“At least he’s not another tit freak,” Vanita thought, “I should avoid more punishment to my poor sore titties!” Now the two muscular assistants approached carrying what Vanita was horrified to realise were brands. Other strong hands pulled her over the big table, tied her hands to the hooks, and tugged her knickers down before taking a firm grip on her ankles. She could not see the brands approaching and could only guess when the impact would come. Suddenly her right bottom-cheek was on fire, spreading unimaginable agony throughout her body. She screamed long. “Oh God oh God oh God oh God, please not another,” Vanita prayed. Her prayer was answered: the other brand bit into her soft, juicy left cheek and the agony was repeated. After a while her scream petered out into a moan which formed itself into the one word “Oh” repeated over and over again. The men released her, pulling her upright by her long hair and marching her to an arrangement of two big mirrors. She saw her own large, lazy, defenceless, tortured target staring back at her. On one brown cheek, which until so recently had been virgin and unmarked, there was now a swastika about three inches across. It took her a while to work out the characters that now adorned her other cheek: it said, “INDIAN 3”. They rubbed some powerful stinging disinfectant into the wounds, and then cooling ointment, while Vanita stood still and subservient before obeying their instructions to pull her knickers back up, though her bottom hurt terribly as the material touched the wounds. Then the sergeant pulled her forward again by the rope around her neck, leading her almost considerately out of the room.

PART 3

A second guard came up with her uniform. She was ordered to dress, and did so without question. “Now the Count will see you,” the sergeant announced. A minute later, she was being ushered through another impressive door into a room with high, wood-panelled walls hung with shields and pictures. Behind a large mahogany desk sat one man – the Count.

Vanita had heard so much about the fearsome Count who would be her master, but no-one had described his appearance. At times she had thought of him as a crabbed old ugly man with an evil glare; at others, as a twin to Hitler or Himmler. Both those gentlemen’s portraits hung on the wall along with family portraits and old masters, but the man himself was quite different. He was quite small, perhaps in his fifties but fit-looking and lean in casual black clothes. His head was narrow, with smooth skin and a high forehead: his grey full hair was brushed back in an old-fashioned style, and his eyes – help, his eyes – were intense blue and staring at her with a power she could not repel. She tried to hold his gaze and failed.

“Stand to attention, slave!” the sergeant ordered. She obeyed. The Count waved her forward and she moved in as if pulled on a string. The Count stood up and looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her breasts and hips.
“You are a freak, an insult!” he instructed her, with only a hint of a German accent. “England was an honourable Aryan country, the conqueror of a great empire and a worthy enemy to my motherland – but now she is so corrupt that inferior races can wear uniforms and hold authority over Aryan men.” (I’m Aryan too, thought Vanita, and the swastika’s a Hindu symbol – but she had too much sense to say it). “You have written that you have disgraced your uniform, and that is correct. You must be punished.” He nodded to uniformed figures who had been waiting in the corners of the room: as they approached, Vanita saw one of them was Gennady. They stripped her slowly, lovingly; then Gennady handed the Count a great vicious horsewhip. The policewoman saw no more, for she was manacled to the wall upside down and arse outwards.

Deliberately or by chance the first strike hit the undercheek just where the swastika had been branded. Vanita screamed. The Count was in no hurry, and let her scream die away before making fire bite into her poor target a few inches lower. The chains gave her just enough freedom to writhe before the other cheek received its punishment. Eight strikes in all fell on her writhing rump before the Count handed the whip to Gennady, who with expert precision marked her back and legs with evenly-spaced red weals. When the whipping stopped, she was in fear of another blow for what seemed ages. Finally she relaxed and that was when the last strike neatly snaked in between her parted haunches and bit into the central valley.

When she had stopped moaning and weeping, they let her down and pulled her to attention. The Count fondled and pulped her breasts before leading her to his desk where she was pushed down, breasts squashed against the wood and one ludicrously knocking over a jar of paperclips. They pushed a cushion under her belly to raise her rump higher and then the underlings pulled her legs wide apart and forced her soft pink lips wide for the Count’s inspection before he invaded her doggy-fashion without a word. None of the smugglers had been so vigorous, and Vanita felt reduced to a bundle of sore but excited flesh wrapped around his conquering member. Finally it was over: Gennady yanked her up by her hair again, one paperclip fitted around her nipple and another stuck to the lower breast, till she met the Count’s level stare. He was already back behind the desk.

“You have learned who is master?” he asked.
“Yes – Master.”
“Good. You are of an inferior race, yes?”

She gulped and almost showed anger, but saved herself just in time. “Yes, Master.”

“Good. So I have had some research done by our English agents. You have a university degree. It pleases me to make an educated woman a slave, but also to educate her further. You will note that my people here are of several nationalities, so while German is the superior language, often we speak English, so that at least you will understand. In case you have any thought of escape, please note that we have the support of the government of this country – in fact, we are the power behind the government. They want an awkward journalist to disappear or an opposition leader to back down after his daughter goes missing from her school – we do it. In return they deal with small problems like people looking for lost relatives. We are followers of the Fuhrer, of course, and in five years we will be ready to take over many countries. It is amusing that many of our best friends are the old communists. Enough.You will be shown to your place. The rest of your time will be spent either there, in exercise to keep fit, or in serving me. We supply you with spare briefs: you wear them, your uniform or nothing, just as we please. There are no grounds for concern about being used for sex: our doctors arrange that. Understood?”
Eyes downcast, she nodded miserably:

“Understood, Master. Thank you.”

The guards took her to a long stone passageway where she was horrified to see many naked women suspended by the wrists with manacles and chains. In front of each was a box with several pairs of navy-blue knickers like schoolgirls’ uniform. Gennady and the sergeant secured her in a vacant place, her swelling, burning bum cheeks pressing against the cold stone. As they did so, a piercing scream burst out, followed by a long scream gradually turning into an unbroken moan till minutes later there was silence. The guards stopped to listen.

“The castle is wired so the sounds of torture are spread everywhere,” the sergeant explained. “That was a very special captive, the state prosecutor for Dresden. She sent many loyal sons of Germany to prison. Now she has met not only the Count but also the Countess, and they were very pleased to see her.” Laughing and chatting, the guards moved off, leaving Vanita with her fellow victims. She could see three of them clearly – a petite black-haired woman with olive skin and firm, pointed breasts, a tall, leggy blonde with a sad, beautiful face and another blonde with big eyes and two of the biggest, heaviest tits she had ever seen. Vanita smiled tentatively at the dark woman.

“Do you speak English?”
“A little.”
“My name is Vanita. I’m English. I’m a police officer but I got kidnapped. Who are you?”
“Please, it is dangerous. We are not allowed our old names. What is marked on your bottom?”
“Indian 3, but that’s stupid – I’m English. So…”
“Please, be careful! I am Romanian 49. I was ballerina and went for job in Paris, but it was not job, it was trap!”

The tall blonde broke in. “I am Russian 165. My husband was journalist against the government. He was found dead in river. I started asking questions, how he died, so they captured me and put me here.” She started to cry, but the busty young woman broke in. “On my arsch they write ‘German 128’, but my name is Karolina. I was student anti-fascist activist, also when my professor touch my breasts I hit him. These pigs bring me here, but I still fight.” The other two women stared at her with a kind of dull fear in their faces which Vanita found infuriating. She encouraged Karolina to say more about herself – but suddenly the German girl broke off. The guards had returned, led by Gennady and a squat, fleshy man in officer’s uniform.

Gennady slapped Karolina hard in the face, and the officer announced, “Slaves German 128 and Indian 3, you have broken the rules by using former names. Indian 3, you are new. We will deal with you accordingly. German 71 – we take you to see the Countess.” The horror on Karolina’s face, as they pulled her down and marched her off, drove from Vanita’s mind the last vestiges of disbelief in the depths of cruelty practised in the castle. As the German girl’s huge haunches wobbled away under close guard, Vanita wondered if she would ever see her again.
“See!” hissed the Romanian beauty. A few minutes later, the mikes again picked up terrible screams and moans.
When finally Karolina returned, barely conscious and dragged along by guards, the policewoman was aghast to see that not only had her rump and thighs been almost flayed, but three large plastic rings had been fastened through her body – a red and a yellow one through each generous tit, and a green one through her nose so it tapped against her tits as her head moved. Thus defaced, she was hung up again, moaning and blubbering, looking like an obscene child’s toy.

“Now, Indian 3, for you,” said Gennady smiling. He took two nipple clamps from his pocket, and while the other guards laughed, fastened them to the policewoman’s thrusting points. As the searing pain made her scream, the men laughed and swaggered off.

It was the sergeant who returned much later to remove them. As he did so, a gong sounded.

“Food! Fressen Sie!” he rapped out, while other guards released all the women. Soon they were being driven through long stone corridors, hands tied behind their backs, to a vast room where many other naked slavewomen were gathering, helped along by the guards’ whips. At the far end was a vast, long trough with the rim at about waist level. The women all pressed towards it as a kind of soup began to flow into it from a pipe. Vanita saw chunks of meat, vegetables and fruit in it. Other women had lined up to drink, bending over with their arses of all shapes, sizes and colours presented. There seemed to be just one gap in the line, so Vanita slipped into it. She found that to reach the soup, she had to bend so far that her tits dangled in the hot liquid, but she was desperately hungry and she drank. Then the two women either side of her turned as one, each biting into the policewoman’s firm breasts and hanging on while they sucked the nutritious blood from them. Wracked by pain and humiliation, Vanita tried to scream but merely took a load of greasy soup into her lungs and spluttered while the two women fed. Finally her ordeal was over: the women released her punctured breasts and she was marched back to her place. “You won’t get between those two again!” the sergeant commented, laughing heartily.

No sooner had she been manacled back in her place, than she felt the effect of feeding after a long break as her bowels started to move.

“Please – the toilet!” she shouted. The sergeant ignored her and strolled off, but a spotty youth in officer’s uniform screamed back,
“Toilet only at right time by timetable!” She could wait no longer and a loose, stinking mess slipped down her rump, her thighs and the wall before hitting the stone floor with several loud plops.
“Animal!” yelled the youth, and spoke into his lapel radio. A male and a female guard came running, unfastened Vanita, and forced her face into her own pile of shit, rubbing it about till her eyes, nose, mouth and hair were full of it; she retched the foul stuff up but was forced to lap it up again. Then they rubbed her tits in it as if they were mops. Next a slave brought a bucket, shovel and sponge which Vanita was forced to use until nothing was left of her accident but the smell and the mess clinging to her own body. Finally the female guard tipped a bucket of ice-cold water over her and she was hung up on the wall once more.

Over the next few days, Vanita learnt the rules and routine of being the Count’s slave. The girls spent much of the time manacled to the wall - mostly naked, but the Romanian was sometimes made to wear her ballerina outfit and Vanita was often dressed in her police uniform. This seemed to amuse the guards greatly: they often saluted her as they displayed their stiffening ramrods to her, and she was invaded and pumped through all available holes. When this happened, the man had to sign a large book kept by her side: the Russian explained that girls who were raped too rarely were “disposed of”, while those raped too often for their health were rested. It seemed to Vanita that she must have earned a rest, but it did not happen. When they were not hanging up, the slavegirls were taken for exercise to keep them fit, encouraged by the guards with whips, or they were employed in useful tasks such as scrubbing the flagstones and cleaning out the toilets. Every now and then one was led off to amuse the Count or one of his senior officers. The English girl tried to comfort and encourage Karolina, but the German girl’s ordeal at the hands of the Countess had broken her. She could only murmur about saving her poor arsch from flogging and her “titties” from torture. It amused the guards to give the rings a tug as they passed.

Vanita had seen a few rich-looking men in civilian clothes and guessed they were visitors of some kind, but she was unprepared when Helga announced she and some others were required at a social event for some of the Count’s friends.

Hands tied behind her back and stark naked, she was marched to a large hall with ornate decorations, where tables were laid with food and drink. With other girls she had to stand facing the wall while many guests arrived. From their voices and from the regularity with which her bum was pinched or swatted, she knew it was an all-male function. When she was ordered to turn round, she saw the room nearly full of well-dressed men of all ages. A guard approached her with a metal tray and two lengths of cord. The tray was fitted with small holes and handles, through which the guard threaded the cords before tying them tightly round the base of her tits. Smiling at a good job done, he placed several glasses of wine on the tray. She was to walk among the guests with the tray thus precariously balanced, offering the glasses of wine. The risks were obvious, but she accomplished her task without disaster. As she did so, she noticed a warm brown body upended in the centre of the room and tied to a wooden frame, the long legs forced wide apart and sets of cutlery sticking out of the vagina. It was Nevin, used this way because her tits were too small for a tray. A small, precise-looking man approached the upended Kurd, examined her quim, and emptied a whole pepper-pot into it, causing the tortured girl to scream, her legs to thrash around and the cutlery to jump about and clink loudly. Before Vanita could return to her post, the Russian girl walked in front of her with a well-loaded tray on her breasts and an oafish young man, twisting in his seat, jammed his hand up her love tunnel. The Russian screamed, took a rapid step forward and dislodged the wine glasses, which hit the floor and smashed. Immediately Helga, Gennady and the fleshy officer grabbed the horrified blonde and pushed her on to a spare table, arse-high. Gennady produced a thin, whippy cane and handed it ceremonially to the oafish young man who proceeded to cane the defenceless rump with great vigour but indifferent aim. Gennady, Helga and the fleshy officer took their turn, before their moaning victim was dragged out of the room. Now Vanita had to venture out with another full tray of glasses.

It was all going quite well until she passed a red-faced fat old man who had been talking very loud in German while swilling beer. He clicked his fingers and Vanita dutifully came to him, but his next act was to place the full, foaming glass of beer right on the front of her tray. The pain in her tits was terrible, but worse was that they were tipping down, sending the glasses on the tray sliding. One by one all the glasses smashed. She stared at the mess and then at the old man who reached out and squeezed her breast. Then firm hands clamped on the policewoman’s arms and she was propelled to the table where the Russian had been punished, to be positioned in just the same way. Turning her head to one side, she saw that the horrible old man was being given the cane for first go and that he was whispering to Helga. A moment later, Helga’s strong hand thrust into her wide open quim and her rump jerked up to escape, straight into the path of the cruel cane. Vanita screamed and pushed down on to Helga’s hand. The cane fell again with vicious force and continued until a row of lines of fire ran down both cheeks. Then Helga withdrew her hand, giving her victim’s clitoris a last tweak before she added her own strokes to the old man’s. Helga was an artist and a perfectionist: she decorated the police slave’s derriere with a series of lines at right angles to the first ones, producing a precise lattice pattern. By now Vanita was crying. When a large cream cake splatted on her upturned rump and the mess was forced between her cheeks, she welcomed the coolness it brought and resented Helga licking it away. Finally she was yanked to her feet by her long black hair: her captor wrenched her head round and she looked into the narrow, pale blue eyes of the fleshy officer.

“Now, slave slut, you are mine!” he announced and marched her out of the room.

Soon she found herself in a plushly-decorated room with a large picture of the Count and another of Hitler. Helga appeared and pulled her legs apart, then her head down: she was slow to realise that she was being returned to the position she had endured on the boat, head jammed between her thighs and staring out upside-down just below her quim and rump.

“The Englishman Alec told me of this,” the officer explained. I find it is possible! Normally I would whip your arse, but of that you have had enough. Instead, Helga and I play a game.” Helga produced something small and Vanita saw with a shiver of fear that it was a scalpel. The two proceeded to play a game of noughts and crosses on the squares marked on her cheeks by the cane, lightly carving their marks with the scalpel.

“Please God, let neither of them win,” Vanita prayed, thinking of the long line the victor would draw into her flesh. Neither did win, but the officer had his triumph. “Say after me, ‘Master, my arse is yours!’” he commanded.

“Master, my arse is yours.”
“I am of an inferior race.”
“I am of an inferior race.”
“Please, Master, fuck my cunt.”
“Please, Master, fuck my cunt.”

“I will, but not before you suck me like a filthy whore.” He pulled out his pulsing, stinking tool and like a dutiful girl she opened her mouth for it, carefully avoiding all but the lightest touch on it with her teeth for fear of how he would react. Like a dutiful slave she licked and sucked till the slimy liquid ran down into her stomach. Then he roughly pulled her maidenly opening wide apart and pressed into her, grunting like a pig. He had stamina and it was a long time before he was satisfied. Pulling out, he placed his jackboot against her burning rump and pushed her over. As she lay on the floor she saw him relax with a cigar and a glass of something like brandy. He tapped the cigar on her rump to knock the hot ash off and smiled.

“So, you are new girl. You will see much of me. Please me and things will not be so bad. My name is Max, Chief Torturer: the youth Gennady is my assistant. You are policewoman – that is interesting.” He stretched out his legs and rested his jackboots on her unresisting bottom. “My family were police for several generations. My grandfather was senior Gestapo. He met an Indian Untermensch very much like you: she was British agent in France, pretending to be French. She was given to him for interrogation, also pleasure. He fucked her, of course – and he gave her to the guard dogs to fuck, which they deserved, for they were good dogs - but when he began interrogation, she said ‘You can hurt me and even kill me, but you will not make me cry or beg for mercy or give up secrets!’ Imagine! To a Gestapo officer, ‘You will not make me cry or beg for mercy!’ It was an invitation, a challenge, yes? She did not give up secrets when she was tortured, but we had no need, for the stupid woman had notes in her notebook and from them we picked up several agents and resistance terrorists. After some treatment, she did moan, she did cry, she did beg for mercy – which she did not get.” He chuckled and reached into a drawer. Then as an afterthought he motioned Helga to release Vanita from her painful position and sit her on a hard chair which hurt her sore arse.

“Here,” he continued. “This cigar case, leather-bound. It is from her. Very nice, yes? We are corservationists, we do not waste! Rest of her went to dogs, after all, they had put much into her., so they deserved something out.” He passed the case to her. “Take it! Stroke it!” Too frightened to disobey, she did so. “Also this,” he continued, holding up a smaller leather-bound case. “The leather also from her, but see inside!” He opened it close to Vanita’s face. Inside the case, set in blue velvet, were three objects, unmistakeable despite the passage of time – two large nipples and a curly black scalped bush. She looked horrified into the German’s smiling face as he explained:
“My grandfather passed these things to me. In due course, the Count and the guards will tire of you, little miss policewoman, and then I will take these same trophies from you to hand on to my son when I am old. By then people will not believe that there were brown women police in England. He will show them your nipples and bush and they will believe!” He smiled deeply as the English girl cowered.

“But there is big news for you, mein Liebling. In a week’s time a very important guest comes, the Englishman Professor Aleister Stirling. He has heard about your capture, and he asks for you for his personal use! You will be honoured! He is a great man, but the English persecute him for his views and force him from his university to some college in Alabama. When the Change comes, his greatness will be acknowledged!” With that, he waved his victim away: Helga secured her and dragged her back to her place on the wall.

PART FOUR

Vanita knew only too well who Stirling was. The Scot had made a reputation as a historian and after a spell at Oxford had returned to his native land to be Professor of Modern History at Dundee. There, however, his fascination with Nazi Germany had turned to obsession. With brilliant but selective arguments, in the face of all evidence, he had asserted in speeches and books that all the worst things charged against Hitler and the SS were either untrue or totally justified. She had actually seen him when he had come to speak at her university and she had joined a student demonstration: she’d been right at the front when students had shouted slogans and pelted the repulsive man with eggs, so she dearly hoped he would not remember her face. Dundee University had resisted calls for his dismissal, but when he had started to lend support to thuggish far-right movements his luck had run out. Removed from his post, he had been forced to take up a position at some redneck college in the American Deep South where a rightwing businessman called all the shots. When a young Jewish-American academic had called him a racist, he’d sued, but had lost. After that his credibility in the academic community was almost nil, though fascists around the world worshipped him. Three years after he lost the case, the Jewish-American academic had disappeared on a trip up the Amazon, but no-one connected him to that. Of all the men who might rape her, with the possible exception of the sadistic Max, he was the least welcome. It would be like sex with a giant toad, she thought.

In fact more than a week passed without Stirling appearing. For Vanita the normal routine of life in the Castle continued – exercise, cleaning the toilets, hanging from the wall, rape. The angry marks on her warm brown skin faded fast with the assistance of creams applied with evident enjoyment by the nurse. One day she saw Helga walking around arm in arm with a tall, slim blonde woman, and was amazed to see that they were groping one another’s bums openly as they walked. That was the last she saw of Helga for a while, but the tall blonde passed by several times, looking at her speculatively but saying nothing and not touching beyond a contemptuous flick of her long nails against the captive’s face. Occasionally she saw Nevin but had no chance to talk with her. She saw Karolina regularly and was worried by what she saw, for the German girl’s plastic rings got in her way as she tried to feed from the trough and as she tried to exercise, for which she was punished by the guards’ whips. Her problems in getting to the food in the trough led to her making the fatal mistake of picking the place between the two tit-eaters, who bit deeper and sucked longer than ever before. Although many guards and visitors amused themselves by tugging the breast rings, few wrapped her round their penises and Vanita knew that could spell doom for a slave. She saw a tall, thin, balding man watching Karolina and in deep conversation with Max; the man patted Karolina on the rump before forcing her to suck his penis. Vanita guessed he was the professor Karolina had rejected, but could not know what he was saying to Max when finally he seemed to give instructions.

Her fear for Karolina was uppermost in her mind just when the sergeant came up with the tall American blonde and told her Professor Stirling was waiting for her.

They made her put on her stockings, bra, knickers and uniform before marching her to Guest Room 18, which she already knew was for special and honoured guests. The blonde woman knocked on the fine oak door and an irritable voice rapped,

“Who’s that?”

“Davenport and Muller, Herr Professor, with the Indian slave,” the sergeant replied.

“Come in!” The voice was querulous and not very strong; but when they marched Vanita in, she was pinned like a butterfly to a cork by the intense, unblinking blue eyes of the man in the large armchair.

Stirling must now be in his early sixties, and seemed to have let himself go since he was exiled. The white towelling robe could not conceal flabbiness in the jowls and neck, while a patchy red nose and cheeks suggested overindulgence in alcohol. His grey hair, though, was combed back with care and the long hands looked ominously powerful. He took his time to look her up and down.

“Closer!” he ordered. “So this is the Paki slut in a British policewoman’s uniform. She’s been punished for that already, I take it?”

“Most sternly, Herr Professor,” the blonde woman assured him in the accent of the American South. The academic’s eyes were now searching Vanita’s face with curiosity, as if he almost remembered something. The girl’s growing fear, betrayed in her face, confirmed his suspicion.

“Five years ago! At the front of a leftie rabble trying to shout me down and throwing eggs! I even remember what you shouted – ‘You stupid fool! You racist stupid fool!’ But it is you who are the fool, my dear, for wearing a uniform unsuitable for your race, for offending me and for getting caught like a fly on flypaper. Now, I am going to enjoy a little exercise with you, but there’s no hurry, so I’ll give you some instruction. First of all, the Northern European races are superior in character and achievement to the dusky races and history demonstrates it. You agree, I take it?”

“No, I don’t!” She knew defying the man would bring pain, but she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her grovel. She not only hated him, she had contempt for him, for his stupid ideas, his weak arguments and the way he had let his body decline through over-indulgence. “Look at what the Indians achieved in astronomy, the Arabs in Mathematics, the Egyptians in all sorts of things, the Black Africans…”

“In boxing? Yes, some of these inferior races achieved things, but what did they make of them? It was the Aryans who triumphed!”
“Your lot lost the war! Anyway - Aryans? I’m an Aryan!”

“No, my dear, you are a very rash and foolish girl.” He pinched her cheek, almost affectionately at first, then viciously so she squealed. “You will find the verdict of the last war will soon be reversed; and you have lost our argument.”

“But you haven’t answered my points!”

“Ah, but that is your stupid, weak-minded mistake, typical of woolly liberalism. You think reason wins arguments, but force wins arguments every time!” He settled back and Vanita saw his weapon rising in his tweed trousers.

That did not stop her rashly pursuing the argument: “All you’re saying is that whoever wins is right. You can’t know that you’ll win next time, and even if you do, someone will beat you in the end. Which are the really big growing powers now? China and India!”

“You’ve said too much, young woman. Now I’ll teach you a lesson. Over my lap!”

She stood her ground, thinking he was expecting her to come forward like a docile sheep – but her defiance lasted only a few seconds till the two guards grabbed her. The American woman gripped her hair tightly and pulled her head down so her uniformed hindquarters were pushed up in the man’s face. Now the blonde pulled her head up to see the implement the sergeant was handing the Professor – a large, old-fashioned hairbrush, with a ribbed tortoiseshell back. Back down her head was yanked and she waited for the first blow. The man took his time and then merely tapped her cheeks lightly, playfully, before WHACK! Came a powerful smack on her right cheek, causing her to scream and her tormentors to chuckle. WHACK, WHACK! The sister cheek got a double helping. He neatly targeted the underbuttock with a vicious swipe and she screamed again.

“Waal, Prof, kinda brave, isn’t she? All that howling, and ya aint even pulled her pants down yet!” the American commented. But Stirling was in no hurry for that inevitable act. With more strength than Vanita had thought he retained, he pulled her off his lap and between his opening legs, her face brushing against the hairy tweed. He unbuttoned the fly and his pocked, brown-blotched but thick and pulsing weapon sprang out.

“Suck this!” he ordered, pulling her face forward till it pushed against her lips; but she kept her mouth defiantly closed. Thwarted, he gave her a thick spurt of cum in her big brown eye before pushing her to the grounds and rising to his feet.

“The slut is refusing orders. You know how I deal with that. Prepare her!” Vanita found herself expertly stripped; then she heard something heavy being wheeled towards her. It was a set of wooden stocks, with holes for head and arms, but with a strange extension at the back which ended in a U shape. Soon the now naked policewoman was secured in the stocks, her ankles resting in the cup at the back. Squeaks and grinding noises told her some mechanism was operating, and the cup parted, pulling her legs apart while they were also forced up. Then there was silence, as she contemplated what a show of her most secret parts she must be providing to the three torturers and she wondered what horror would come next. Stirling soon strolled in front of her carrying a fearsome bullwhip, his face fixed in a rictus of anger. Then he strode behind her and all noises ceased.

It must have been a minute before he struck. A brief swishing noise warned her and a line of intense fire exploded across both halves of her upturned peach so she screamed. Biting her lip to stop herself from moaning, she waited for the next attack on her rump – but instead, the whip tore into her calf. The third blow crossed the line of the first and the fourth snaked across her back, the tip bending round to sting her right breast. She was not screaming now with that typical offended and provocative tone of the female scream, but with a sexless, long, primal scream. They waited for her to be silent and then Stirling asked her calmly,

“Do you now agree you lost our argument, and you are inferior to any Aryan?”

“NO!” she yelled.

“Well, well,” he gloated, “it seems we need a little more. Open her wider!” The machinery creaked again and Vanita felt her legs pulled further up and further apart. No, no, he couldn’t…but he could. The bullwhip, expertly wielded, cracked right on to her sensitive sex-lips. For the torturers, the sound could not have been bettered – one long, agonised “AAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The calm, slightly Scottish voice spoke again.

“Do you concede your stupidity and that you were wrong?”

She was sobbing now, and could not bring out words.

“Answer!”

“Yes, I’m stupid, I’m inferior and I was wrong. Please, sorry, please!”

“Sorry, Master!”

“Sorry, Master!”

“Ask me to fuck you.”

“Please, Master, fuck me!”

“What a slut!” Stirling exclaimed. “I think she needs more punishment. Well, on reflection, perhaps we can mix business with pleasure.” He returned to his chair and pulled out his straining penis and the hairiest balls Vanita had ever seen. The American and the sergeant pushed her roughly on to her knees and dragged her forwards by her hair till her face almost touched the man’s brutal weapon. When ordered to suck, she did not argue, nor when the old man rapped out “Wider!” and shoved his hairy, stinking balls into her mouth. She had to swallow or she would have choked. The things inside her mouth swelled yet more, and Stirling’s face showed fierce triumph. He picked up the ribbed brush again and brought it down sharply on his victim’s rump, enjoying the sight of his target flattening and rebounding. Now he got into a rhythm, one whack for every pump of semen into the ludicrous thing’s throat while its big brown eyes stared at him with such delicious vulnerability. Finally, with one last stinging blow across the whip-marks, he pulled out and stood up. Vanita tried to stand up too, but the American pushed her down, pulling at her ear until she thought it would tear off and shouting

“DO NOT MOVE UNTIL YOU’RE TOLD TO!” She could just see Stirling enjoying a cigar and brandy, smiling smugly.

“Had enough?” he asked her.

“Yes, please – no – whatever you want, Master,” she mumbled, realising almost too late that any answer could be the wrong one.
“How charming. Thank you, my dear. Then we will continue. But I suspect your cunt has had a little too much attention for a good rogering to be a clever idea. What can we do, then? Ah, now, your arsehole! How could I have forgotten? Absolutely the best place to stick an insolent policewoman! As it happens, my dear, you aren’t the first policewoman I’ve used here. Two or three years ago there was a Polish whore, a fat-arsed stupid Slav who’d tried to arrest one of the Count’s operatives. I gave her even more of the bullwhip that you got, but then the target was bigger. Then I buggered her till she passed out. I wonder what became of her – dogfood, probably. Anyway, here goes!” Knocking out the cigar against the girl’s upturned rump, he pulled her cheeks apart like the two halves of a sliced peach, mounted her and pressed his rigid tool into the tightly ringed space of her anus. Vanita squealed: the hole was not big enough for the piledriver, and the ring was not opening enough, but that merely encouraged him to press harder until she felt she was being split in two. When he had finished, she collapsed and lay limply on his thick rug, not even resisting as the still hot stub of his second cigar was shoved firmly into her anus past the point of no return. As she could not stand, the American dyke pulled her along the ground by her hair, down stone steps and through doors, while the jackbooted sergeant helped her along with a few kicks. When finally they fixed her to the familiar place on the wall, Karolina and the Russian tried to comfort her, but the little Romanian lectured her:

“You argued with Professor Stirling. What did you expect? Now you have learnt.”

After that she did not see Stirling for three days until as the women were being herded out for their exercises, Gennady ordered her pulled out of the line.

“You! The Count wants you!” he barked. As she was being marched back inside, she saw the American sadistically plying her whip on Nevin as she too was marched back. The two girls looked at one another but did not dare speak all the way to the Count’s office. As they were marched in, the Count, standing in front of his desk, nodded in approval.

“Make them ready!” he ordered. Vanita could only guess and fear what she was being readied for. In front of the Count’s desk stood three tall-backed, deep leather armchairs, separated by a small oval table of some fine wood. Clamped to either end of the oval were large wire baskets with heavy metal bases. They looked ominous, thought Vanita. The next moment she was being tipped inside one of the baskets, her head hanging just above the base, the top metal ring almost reaching her bush, her legs splayed out wide and secured by painfully tight cords to the sides of the basket. Across the table, Nevin was upended in the same posture. Gennady took from his pocket a small, strange object, a kind of linked ring with some kind of mechanism on the inside. He shoved it into her vagina and immediately she understood: the object had a spring, so it expanded and held her lips wide apart. She could see the American bitch was smiling as she fitted Nevin with the same device. What would come next – some torture? But men’s voices in amiable conversation announced new arrivals – Professor Stirling and the tall academic who had ordered Karolina’s kidnap. The Count, holding a beautiful meerschaum pipe, ushered them to the armchairs and the two torturers withdrew after laying brandy and cigarettes on the table.

She heard the beginnings of polite discussion in German, the clink of glasses and the click of a lighter. Foul, acrid smoke began to fill the room, making her cough for she was a non-smoker. She picked out snatches of conversation at first, then much more, the Count lightly commenting that the Nazis had allowed themselves to become obsessed with the Jews:

“It was good propaganda, to blame the Jews for everything that went wrong. That helped us win power. But then we started to believe our own propaganda! We made enemies that could have been our allies. We tied up thousands of SS and Gestapo organising the killing of people who would happily have worked in the fields and the factories for our war effort.”

“But surely the attack on the Jewish pollution was justified?” Stirling objected.

“Tactically at first, yes. But consider – we do good business with some Jews here. Mr and Mrs Hoffman are amongst our best clients. They visit regularly, they enjoy themselves with the girls but do not do any expensive damage to them, there is never any problem with payment, they are discreet. Even when we wished to obtain, for a very special client, an Israeli girl soldier, they helped arrange it! The stupid Israelis thought it was some Arabs and bombed hell out of them.”

“What about Jewish employees?” asked the German professor.

“No. This is an Aryan centre; the Jews are welcome to set up their own. Also there would always be the risk of double loyalty: we cannot risk a Jewish guard helping a Jewish girl escape.”

“Doesn’t that risk occur with, say, a Polish guard and Polish slave-girl?”

“In our experience, no.”

“The way we pushed on with the Jewish thing was naïf,” she heard Stirling admit. “The same with the Communists…”

“Of course!” the Count replied enthusiastically. “Preaching the Communist demon got us some SS recruits from other countries, but the real enemy was not Communism but liberal democracy – that is the true corruption that destroys nobility and purity…”

“You could have done a genuine deal with Stalin…”

“Perhaps. I doubt it. But I tell you, my friend, that war in the East was fought the way great peoples should fight war – no soft sympathy, no Geneva Convention, no distinction of soldiers or civilians – by both sides! Some Germans complain about the mass rapes of German women in 1945 by the Russian soldiers, but they were the winners, it was their right. We did the same. We had a lot in common with those Russian communists! And now, the old communists in places like this are our best friends.”

Vanita was starting to take an interest in the conversation, when the Count reached over and tapped out his pipe on her cunt lips, so the hot ash fell inside. She screamed and the three men laughed heartily. Now the tall professor was talking: “The youth of today, they do not know respect, they recognise no authority. The girl opens her legs for a General or a professor because she ‘fancies him’ and not because it is her duty…” He was interrupted by a piercing scream: Stirling had stubbed out his smouldering cigarette in Nevin’s cunt and left it jammed between the burnt lips. Vanita could not contain her anger:

“You bastard! You pervert! You sadist bast…AAAAH!” The German professor’s cigarette stub was now wedged firmly into her own cunt. She did not argue again, though stub after stub was pressed into her slit or the Kurdish girl’s. When the cigarettes were all gone and the vulvas were full of cooling but still hot stubs, the three men wandered off, replaced by Gennady and the American with a vacuum cleaner. They removed the special ring, pressed the end of the cleaner to Vanita’s hole and switched it on, so she felt her vital parts were being sucked into the dust-bag. Having cleaned her, they moved on to Nevin, but this time something was different. The Kurdish girl screamed, a scream that became a long anguished wail and weakened to an unending moan.

“Fleur, you careless dyke,” Gennady giggled, “you put it on full strength!”

As Vanita was dragged back to her wall, she saw her friend being pulled along the floor by the ankles, unresisting and limp.
Later that day when she was dressed in the navy-blue knickers Stirling sent for her again and put her over his tweedy lap, the cloth tickling her bare legs as he spanked her wobbling blue orbs, reminiscing about schoolgirls and headmasters, before he mounted her again. When he had finished he wiped his penis on the schoolgirl knickers. As he whacked her out of his room with a slipper, he told her he was going back to Alabama, but she need not feel abandoned, as another Master was coming for her.

PART FIVE

The next day at exercise half the women were marched off to a part of the compound Vanita had never seen before. There was an air of suppressed excitement among the guards as if, thought the English girl, it was Bonfire Night or Christmas morning: they were carrying long, narrow wooden staves. The slavewomen were lined up in an area obviously used for exercises by the guards, but distinguished by an assault course, a football pitch and a swimming pool and dominated by a raised dais on which she saw the Count, Max, Karolina’s professor and a tall, dark-haired youngish woman who might be the Countess. Then Vanita saw an extravagantly-curved pale figure tied to the side of the dais by a rope round her neck. It was Karolina. The clumsy plastic rings still defaced her body, but the ones through her breasts had been further adorned by large brass bells. The nurse and a young guard pulled up one of Karolina’s legs and the guard held her foot firmly while the nurse tickled the underside: as the big-breasted slave wriggled, the bells rang loudly, greatly to the guards’ amusement.

“Enough!” the Count commanded, nodding to Max, who raised a bullhorn and made an announcement.

“The slave German 128 deserves punishment for the following reasons. She has been insolent to authority; she has broken the rules of the castle; she has become an unpopular choice for sex, so that she is not worth feeding; and her excessive irregularity of shape is consistent with self-indulgence and animal character. She may appropriately be executed and used for whatever functions are convenient. However, her Selector, Herr Professor Bergheim, wishes her to have a chance to redeem herself. So this we will do: she will attempt to complete the assault course and enter the swimming pool in no more than twenty minutes. Fail, and she is to be eliminated. Succeed, and the rings will be removed from her breasts and she will be given six months more to show she can attract men to fuck her. The slave will proceed to the chalk ring which marks the start of the course!”

Karolina’s expression had shown mounting horror as the fleshy torturer spoke, but now she knew what she had to do, her face was set, her eyes hard, her head held well up as she marched to the starting point – an impression somewhat spoiled by the ringing of the bells with every step. It was good that she was showing pride and determination, Max thought. Perhaps the Countess had debased the bitch too much. Now she was a little rebellious and proud, she would make better sport.

“Karolina – good luck! You can do it!” Vanita shouted, only to squeal as a whip wrapped itself round her breasts. She fell silent.

“Start!” Max shouted.

The assault course consisted of five obstacles and from the start it was obvious that Karolina would struggle. She started up the rope net well enough, but when she slipped both breasts became stuck in the mesh and as she tried to pull herself clear, the rope entangled itself in her rings and bells so her titflesh was nearly torn and she screamed as the bells rang and the guards cheered.

“ONE!” Max barked. Now the purpose of the long staves became clear, as the nearest guards thwacked her helpless haunches and thighs. Karolina, though, was made of stern stuff: she remained calm, untangled the rope and was free. Coming down the other side of the rope net, she ran for the second obstacle, a narrow plank bridging a wide, muddy ditch. It would have been easy but for two things – the tormenting guards ready with staves and the fact that the plank was set at an awkward angle. Just after the count reached four, a clever swish at her ankles brought her down in a clanging of bells, but she sprang to her feet and ran on to the plank, balancing expertly along the ridged corner. She was more than halfway across, with Vanita and many slaves cheering, when the point of a stave caught her right in the middle of her left rump-cheek. The leering guard pushed and Karolina hit the foul, muddy water with a huge splash and another clang of bells. For a moment nothing could be seen of her; then her face appeared, only for a stave to thwack down on her head. She disappeared again, came up – and just as the guard was about to strike again there was a wild yell of anger. A tiny, sweet-looking Japanese girl grabbed the stave and kicked him in the ankle. In an instant she had disappeared beneath seven or eight guards beating her with staves and kicking with their jackboots, but Karolina was struggling to the far end of the ditch. Most of the guards had been distracted by the Japanese girl and her punishment, which saved Karolina as she scrambled out, covered in glutinous mud. At SEVEN she slipped, took a couple of stave-blows on her unmissable rump, but ran on to the next obstacle – the wall.

The wall was made of several thick wooden beams one on top of another, with tiny ledges to aid climbing. Despite the stave blows, Karolina made it to near the top – but the last beam was different. It was guarded by a line of fragments of sharp glass, rusty nails and hooks – but under it there was a gap, just enough for a person to wriggle through. Karolina opted for this gap, but she was not a normal person. First her tits stuck and when she had pushed them through, she could not squeeze her huge bottom through. There she stuck wriggling and ringing bells, as the staves pummelled her target. A young guard ran up, took aim and with the air of a medieval knight burying his lance in an enemy, or a Victorian cavalry officer sticking a pig, he buried the end of the stave up her arsecrack and let go, leaving the long stick quivering in the juicy target. “That’ll kill her!” thought Vanita, as her friend wailed in agony.

But instead, a naked brown figure raced forward and pushed at the top beam, lifting it a fraction as Karolina wriggled through. It was Nevin. Vanita’s joy at seeing that the Kurdish girl was alive lasted less than a second, as black-uniformed figures seized the rash girl and started to beat her. The German, though, was approaching the fourth obstacle as the count reached eleven, the stave still wobbling behind her like a long tail. At first the new obstacle did not look difficult. It consisted of a large number of wires strung across a tall box at different angles and heights. Karolina soon found that the wires were not sharp and could be pulled up or pushed down: she widened the first gap and plunged in, but the wires sprang back and she was trapped. Her tits had squeezed over one wire which now pushed up under their base. She had stepped over another wire while holding it down with her foot, but it had sprung up between her legs and buried itself in her vulva. A third wire made a diagonal furrow in her rump, while a fourth bit into the back of her neck and two others had snagged her unwanted tail. Unable to thwack sideways, the guards now used their staves to prod at every soft and sensitive target. Again, the German girl did not panic: reaching behind her, she gave the buried stave a vigorous tug so it fell out. Then, slowly and painstakingly, she removed the trapping wires one by one. She had nearly finished when, at a nod from Max, Fleur pulled a lever and the slavegirl screamed long and desperately. The wires were now electrified. A moment of panicked thrashing, bells clanging joyously, left Karolina trapped as badly as before but now wailing as current tore through her breasts, cunt, bottom and legs. Desperately she tore at a wire, which broke loose. She tore another loose and found herself free – but the count had reached fourteen as she headed for the last obstacle.

Two narrow metal struts, about two feet apart, spanned another muddy ditch. She would have to make her way across somehow. She tried kneeling on the struts and edging forwards. This might have worked for a lighter person, but Karolina clearly found the struts biting into her legs unbearable. As the staves rat-tatted on her presented rump she inched backwards.

“FIFTEEN!” barked Max.

“Keep going, Karolina! Go on, go on, go AAAAAH!” Vanita yelled, silenced by a powerful whack down on her defenceless breasts. The brave German girl threw herself on her back between the struts, grabbed each one, wrapped one leg around each, and started to pull herself over the ditch while hanging arse-down between the struts. She made good progress, but the method had one fatal drawback: it exposed her vagina. Gennady ran forward, took aim and buried his stave up her quim, giving it an extra push to make sure it was firmly stuck. Karolina moaned, let go and with a giant splash and clang of bells, disappeared into the muddy water.

For what seemed ages nothing rose from the glutinous liquid. Gennady shrugged, took a stave from another guard, and started poking around in the water. Suddenly something caught the end of his stave and tugged it hard so he lost balance and fell in. Glistening with mud and water, Karolina rose holding the stave, struck down with it and reached the far edge of the ditch. The men could easily have stopped her climbing out, but they seemed dumbstruck by what she had done to Gennady. She struggled out, the stave still protruding from her cunt, and then collapsed. As Gennady’s head and shoulders rose from the ditch, his uniform no longer crisp and neat, she began to crawl towards the swimming pool, which was surrounded by a high wall but with three broad gaps. As the staves began to beat down on her rump and Max barked the number eighteen, she rose to her hands and knees and crawled faster. Vanita and some other girls were cheering wildly: by the call of nineteen she was inches from the nearest gap and seemed sure to win. Then the Count rapped out an order, Max pulled another lever, and high, sharp-tipped metal fence-posts rose to bar her way. The defeated girl collapsed in a helpless heap as Max barked

“TWENTY!” The sergeant walked briskly towards the gently heaving body, steadied his jackboot against the huge rump, pulled the embedded stave out of her vagina and buried it still more firmly up her arsehole.

“Bastards!” screamed Vanita; “BasURGH!” as a stave took her plumb in the belly. As she writhed on the asphalt, she could hear a high voice shouting

“Yes, bastards! Cheats! Cheats! Cheats! ChAAARGH!” The Japanese girl had suffered for her courage. None of the other girls moved or spoke: as Vanita began to recover, she thought with burning anger how good a chance the slaves would have had if they had rushed the guards and grabbed their guns. But the others were broken and would never do any such thing.

Now Max strode up to Karolina with a hooked stave like the poles used to open high windows. He pushed the quivering lump of girlflesh on to its back and stood aside as the dripping, furious Gennady ground her breasts under his jackboot. Then he hooked the pole into one of the girl’s breast-rings and dragged her over to the VIPs on the dais.

“German 128 has lost. She cheated by not completing the two water obstacles properly and she had outside help,” the Count announced. “Pull her upright.” When this was done, he continued: “But her Selector has requested mercy. She will not be slaughtered and will only face a lesser punishment.” Guards pulled Karolina, hands now tied behind her back, up to the dais where a grimly smiling Gennady handed a long, slim, gleaming sword to the Countess. A slight smile played around the evil woman’s lips as she sized up her victim, took a step back, raised the sword and brought it down expertly. As German 128’s right breast hit the platform floor with a last clang of its bell, the guards cheered deliriously. It was not often the boys could see a tit execution, especially one preceded by such an exciting, amusingly rigged contest. Karolina fainted and flopped off the dais, hitting the ground with a dull thud and a clang of her other bell. No-one even looked at her as Gennady speared the chopped-off breast on the end of the sword and held it up for all to see.

Vanita’s rebellion was over: she merely sobbed at what the beasts had done to the brave German girl, who was dragged off by the hair over the hard asphalt, while one slim yellowish leg projecting from a crowd of guards showed that the Japanese girl was getting gang-banged for her protest.

Over the next few days Vanita looked out for Nevin, Karolina and the Japanese girl. She saw Nevin a few times, looking dull-eyed and broken. Even Karolina reappeared, walking awkwardly because her one huge breast unbalanced her, looking ludicrous and enduring taunts not only from the guards but from many of the women, who called her “One Tit”, “Freak” and “Butcher’s Girl”. The Japanese girl had disappeared. Then Fleur and Gennady came, grinning with malice, to take Vanita “to see something interesting”, leading her into the staff quarters, to a staff toilet.

“Some things here are real modern,” Fleur drawled as she opened the thick oak door, “like the security cameras, special defences, computers, medics. Others are just like genuine medieval Europe. D’you know all those knights and kings shat down holes in their castles into pits – no flushing, no plumbing? You know what you slavegirls have to use. Well, the Count’s people have to use something pretty much the same.” They were now standing in a bare, stone-floored room on two levels. At the front of the slightly higher level were three large, round holes. Vanita was pulled to the middle hole.

“Look down!” Fleur ordered. The slave policewoman did so and Gennady pulled a switch. Suddenly the dark stinking hole she was trying to look down was lit by many small lights in the walls. She could see a kind of chamber, walled with stone – but right below the hole was a naked human figure tied to a pole. It was the brave Japanese! The poor girl had been motionless, but now she writhed and stared up, her eyes seeming to plead with Vanita. There were lumps and smears of shit in her hair and on her small, childlike, hard breasts. A stinking, lumpy liquid reached just to her tightly-curled bush.

“We open the trapdoor from time to time to release the mess,” Gennady explained, “so she won’t drown – not unless we want her to. We also have a camera down there and we can check on her through this viewer if the hole above her is, well, blocked.”

“Who is she?”

Fleur was in relaxed mood, and seemed happy to respond.

“She was a tennis player, one of those teenage prodigies, real up-and-coming girlie. Then when she was seventeen, she made a bad mistake. She beat one of our best donors, the French star Marie Maurras, in front of her own crowd in Paris, France, wow, a big upset. Miss Maurras paid us to take her. We were real happy to do that. We waited till little prissy missy’s eighteenth birthday, when her brother and his girlfriend took her out water-skiing for a birthday treat. Unfortunately there was an accident. The brother’s body was washed up drowned, but somehow the two girls never turned up. As for us, it was great business: we got the payment from Miss Maurras, two juicy little slit-eyes for our collection, a brand new camcorder and a brand new Cartier watch! The girlfriend’s still here too, but she’s much more obedient. Marie, she’s real concerned for the girl’s welfare, she’s visited twice. Last time was just after the stupid little slut was tied down here, and Marie shat on her. Made sure she ate a lot of curry, garlic, and plenty of meat. Then dumped it all on her! She’s got a great sense of humour!”

“What will happen to her?”

“Oh, she’s been too disobedient to return to being a slave here. We’ll ask Marie whether she wants her as a toy in her cellar or an ornament on her bedroom wall. If not, waal, the General in Burma runs a show a tad like ours and he sometimes takes used Japs. Otherwise, she’s headed for tins of dogfood. Some of our clients pay good money for that – Mr and Mrs Hoffman get regular supplies for their wolfhounds.”

“Now, Indian 3,” Gennady broke in, “you have survived a hard time and you have lost weight so you are a little too skinny. We bring you a proper meal!”

Right on cue, the door opened and a blonde slave brought in a tray with a huge, covered plate. “Eat!” Gennady ordered. Vanita ate, knowing how any disobedience would be treated. It was a massive and tasty meal, a curry with many small bits of dried fruit she identified as apricot. She finished every bit with genuine pleasure. “Now wait!” Gennady ordered, as Fleur hurried excitedly to the viewer.

In a moment Vanita felt her bowels straining. She tried to resist, but in seconds realised she must either shit on the Japanese girl, or on the floor – and she could guess what would happen if she chose the latter: perhaps she’d even be shoved down there herself. The lights were still on and the Japanese girl could see the plump brown bum approaching the hole, for she started yelling:

“Please, sister, no! Please, sister, no! Please, sister, nUUMMPH!” Vanita had let go a stream of stinking loose mess from her arse, and it had caught the prisoner right in her wide-open mouth. When Vanita had finished, she could not resist looking down again. The girl’s hair and face were covered in yellow-brown material and she was retching on to her hard, girlish breasts. Fleur handed Vanita a cloth.

“Clean yourself, then back to your place!” she said; but the American was smiling and she pinched Vanita’s cheek lightly like a friend, concluding, “You did just fine, daahling – right in that prissy little bitch’s wide-open hollerin’ commie mouth!”. Vanita was confused and guilty, but wisely said nothing.

Early next morning Fleur came to her captive policewoman, stroked her breasts and told her, “Waal, my little toy-girl, ah’ve got to stay off you for a while ‘cause your new Master’s finally arrived – and guess what, he says he knows you real well!” Vanita stayed silent, dark fears rising in her mind. “Okay!” shouted Fleur, and a dumpy, balding man in casual dress walked in accompanied by a smart guard. The man approached Vanita and stared at her naked, helpless body and frightened face as if drinking a fine vintage wine. It was Richard Sowerby, the serial rapist she’d overpowered and arrested.

“Well, well – PC juicy piggy Chanderpaul!” he gloated. “The boot’s on the other foot now, my little shit-brown lovely. I’m going to have some real fun with you!”

Part 6

Sowerby squeezed the policewoman’s nipple absent-mindedly between his jagged, bitten fingernail and thumb as he chatted to her with a relaxed air.

“You must be wondering why I’m not in prison. Well, the Count needed major work done on his computer systems and it wasn’t a job he could trust to just anyone – it had to be an expert and someone in sympathy with his work. Alec Harris – you remember him, he was one of the team that caught you – recommended me and the Count agreed, so Alec’s team made contact. They gave me something that made me briefly ill and intercepted the ambulance. Now you are pleased to see me, aren’t you?”
Vanita squealed as his nails tightened in her nipple.

“Yes, Richard, very pleased. Please stop that! YEOOW! Please!” He stopped.

“That’s a good girl. I am your Master, but you may call me Richard when I like. I’ll tell you if I don’t like it. By the way, you’ll soon be seeing another face from the past. They’re very pleased with my work and they’ve agreed to pick up that posh blonde bitch who prosecuted me, Something Partington-Wills. I do look forward to that,” he purred. “But for now, I’ve got work to do with you. Put on your uniform!” The guard freed her from the wall and she hurried to obey. “Now, come with me!” She followed him up a flight of stairs, all too aware of the guard’s eyes eating up the spectacle of her rump-cheeks shifting inside the tight trousers, till she was led into a large and comfortable room.

Sowerby plumped down in an armchair and beckoned her forward. As she obeyed, she noticed that the young guard was starting to film the proceedings on a camcorder. Passing close by him, she saw that it was new and had Chinese or Japanese lettering on it.

“Well, Miss Piggy, I’ve waited a long time for this!” Sowerby gurgled. “Over my lap – come on, get a move on!” Vanita hurried to place herself over his plump lap, her rump sticking up in his face. She felt him shift as he accepted something from the guard, but could not see what it was. A moment later she knew, as the pimpled table-tennis bat smacked lightly and playfully on each cheek. Sowerby was playing with her and she knew worse would come. She heard a whoosh in the air and the bat cracked down viciously on her right cheek. Despite herself, she squealed. Soweby laughed, paused and brought it down even harder on the left cheek.

Sowerby had spanked women many times before, some of them unwilling victims, and he had used a bat before, but he had never had the honour of bringing it down on tightly-filled police uniform trousers. He noted with fascination how the generous orb flattened and bounced back, so he repeated the action a few times. His victim felt the man’s weapon stiffening and pushing ever harder into her belly.
“Are you enjoying this, my dear?” he asked. Vanita knew she couldn’t win with her reply and hesitated pathetically.
“Er – well – RichAARGH!” she concluded as the bat came down more fiercely than before.
“Undecided? Let me help you decide!” he chuckled.
“Please, Richard, enough! Aaargh! Please stop!” He stopped. “Certainly, my dear. Get up!” That was easier said than done from her humiliating position. She wriggled helplessly until the guard yanked her upright by her long, glossy hair. Sowerby looked his snivelling victim up and down. “Strip!” he ordered – and bit by bit she stripped, removing her shoes, the strict uniform trousers, the uniform white blouse as the ugly little man leered at her. She glanced into his hard eyes and what she saw there made her hurry up: she reached behind to unhook the bra, aware that this made her breasts stand out alluringly, and dropped it; then she pulled the elasticated top of her white panties forwards, tugged them down and let them fall pathetically to the floor.
“Keep the stockings on!” he instructed. “Well, now, Miss Piggy, Alec and Jan told me about the things they tried on the boat. I’ve been waiting to improve on them! Do a handstand, there, on the bare floorboards. Be quick about it!”
This was easy enough for the athletic policewoman to obey, but she had no illusions that her reward would be anything but pain. The guard grabbed her ankles and held them together while Sowerby stood on a chair and slipped a noose of thick, rough rope round them. From words exchanged, Vanita gathered that the pudgy Englishman had tried to throw the other end of the rope over some hook in the ceiling, but had failed. It really was humiliating, she thought, to be the slave and plaything of this plump, ugly nerd who talked like a bore in a pub. At least Max and Stirling had a touch of authority and class – but she rejected the disturbing thought. She could not start admiring those perverted Fascist sadists!

A tug on her ankles told her the young guard had been successful where Sowerby had failed. She felt herself pulled up and her arms were roughly twisted and tied behind her back. Her long hair was dangling and lying limply on the floor: she recognised the position Jan and the others had forced on her in the boat. Now Sowerby was approaching with a slim, whippy cane. He paused to pulp her breasts and pinch her nipples so she squealed. “I heard you rocked about a bit in the boat when they did this to you. They stood on your hair, but I don’t want to do that, my dear, oh no.” He took a roll of masking tape from the eager-faced guard and taped her hair firmly to the floorboards.

“Good!” he smirked. “Now we’re ready! Except I should security mark my property. My initials on each tit, I think - RJWS. Then on your bottom just above the swastika, ‘Property of Richard Sowerby’! Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes, Richard, very good.”

“Excellent! Then I’ll begin.”

The knife was thankfully not the one she’d found when she’d arrested him, but something like a scalpel, very thin and sharp. As Sowerby went about his work, whistling tunelessly, she bit her lip to stop herself screaming. The pain was sharp but not unbearable, especially when he moved from her tits to her bum. Worse was the humiliation of knowing she would be permanently marked with this loathsome animal’s name. Finally he paused. “Do you think I should add a phone number, just in case you’re lost and someone finds you?”

“Whatever you like, Richard.”

“Weeeell….no, I don’t think I will. So we can get on with the caning!”

Her smarting breasts now took further punishment – but it was slow and drawn out, for Sowerby would strike one vicious blow and then hand the cane to the guard to do the same. The guard was stronger than the Englishman and the cane bit into her defenceless breasts with unimagineable force – but Sowerby was more cunning and precise: twice he struck each nipple a precise blow which made Vanita writhe. That only brought more pain at the roots of her taped-down hair. When they had finished with her breasts, they began to mark a precise criss-cross pattern on her belly and the front of her thighs.

“Is that enough for you, my little captive policewoman?”

“Yes, please, Richard – if you’re happy, that’s enough.”

“Richard! Who do you think you are, slave slut? You will call me Master!” The guard laughed and the two men started caning her plump, well-parted bottom. Again the guard struck with more force but Sowerby with more cunning, aiming at the sensitive undercheek and the new carving. Vanita tried to keep silent, but soon she was yelping at every shot. Only when they had covered her whole rump and thighs in the same neat cross-cross pattern did they desist.

“Oh, please, Master, please, enough!” the policewoman moaned.

“ ‘Master’? Have you forgotten my name? It’s Richard!” Sowerby gurgled happily, and struck two more excruciating blows across the very top of each thigh. “Right you are, then – enough of that!” But Vanita’s relief lasted only a few seconds as they looped the rough, hairy rope through her legs and pulled it tight so it cut into her slit. They ripped the tape off her hair, ripping off hanks of black hair as they did so and laughing at the slave-girl’s helpless squeals. Then Sowerby put his face close to hers and gave the rope an extra tug.

“Well, now, my dear – you can tell that this rope tightens as weight is put on it.” He tugged again and laughed at her scream. “So it’ll be even better with these! Claudio?” The tall young guard handed him two metal weights topped with rings and strands of rope and the Master attached them to Vanita’s feet. Instantly the rope tightened again and disappeared into her abused slit. The men settled in comfortable chairs and listened to her wails until she blacked out.

When she came to, they had removed the rope and she was laid out on a thick, fluffy rug face down. She was too weak and racked with pain to even pay much attention to the rape that followed, though she was able to distinguish the guard’s impressive weapon from Sowerby’s.

“Take her back to her wall” Sowerby ordered. After she had been fixed back in her place, Vanita was vaguely aware of expert female hands caressing her breasts and bottom, while a Southern drawl spoke words of lust and of comfort.

Just three days later Charlotte Partington-Wills was brought in. Guards frogmarched the tall, blonde Englishwoman in as others led Karolina away, making a space on the wall for the new arrival. The young lawyer did not look her best: her carefully-worked hair was unkempt and a hank had been torn from it, her white blouse was torn and a lurid black eye disfigured her aristocratic pale face. Only the snug, revealing jodhpurs she wore on her lower half looked neat and undamaged. As the guards chained her up, she stared at Vanita with a look almost of hostility, then of puzzlement. “Do I know you?” she asked.

“Van…” – she remembered the guards would be listening – “Indian three. But I was PC Vanita Chanderpaul. I arrested Richard Sowerby. You prosecuted him .”

It took Charlotte a while to digest this. The she said, “So all this horrible stuff is because of you! You caught that dreadful little man, so I got him convicted and now he’s taking revenge on both of us!”

Vanita stayed silent at this, though she resented both the woman’s upper-class voice and the suggestion that she was at fault. She still said nothing when Charlotte began talking about her powerful friends and her high status, assuring herself that great efforts would be made to find her. As the woman talked, Vanita saw that a new arrival was listening.

“You’re still proud, English 37,” said Sowerby. “I like that – it’ll make for more fun than I had with this slut” and he flicker his fingernail against Vanita’s nipple. “I think I’ll put Miss Prissy on ice for a bit,” he added. Miss Piggy – follow me!”

He did not bother to take her to his room, but merely to a small “interview room” with two chairs, a bright lamp and a bunk bed. “Get down on your knees!” he ordered, leering. “I want to talk, and I can’t do that while screwing, but I can while you suck me off. So – get to work, slut!”

She sank obediently to her knees and unzipped his flies. She was hit immediately by a rancid stink, but was sensible enough not to delay. Feeling inside the opening, she grasped the greasy tool gently and drew it out, feeling it stiffen and swell. Opening her mouth, she licked the thing’s purplish end before taking it deep into her mouth. As it began to pump, she caressed the man’s stinking testicles, wishing she could give them a good squeeze but knowing she must not. Now the man was talking, actually chatting as if he was drinking tea.

“I am pleased they’ve got that upper-class whore Partinglegs-Wills. Do you like her in jodhpurs? They actually took her at her Kensington flat, but on my suggestion they picked up her riding stuff. She was always riding, I’m told, showing off her upper-class arse and waving her little whip. I’ve got that too, by the way. Aaaah, that’s good.

They were really clever – they got into her accounts and messed them up, so it looks as if she was way into debt and fraud – then they took money, her passport, change of clothes, so everyone thinks she’s done a runner! To be honest, there’s a couple of bitches I’d still like them to bring in – I’ll see if I can persuade the dear old Count. You might ask me who they are, but of course you can’t. This really is an ideal way of keeping women quiet and well-behaved! Well, one of them is the stupid bitch of a prison psychiatrist, always going on about confronting my feelings of anger against women. Ridiculous – I’m only angry with women who get away or who arrest me. I rape them and carve them because I enjoy it. She has nice legs, though, and I’m sure she’d fit in well here. I’d give her some behaviour therapy! Use your tongue more, you lazy slut. Then the other is a nurse, one of my conquests. I’m unhappy with her because when I jumped on top of her behind that car park, she actually had the nerve to scratch my face so badly I had to go sick for a week. Didn’t do her any good, because it made me angry. Before screwing her, I sliced her nipples off! Neat, eh? Not the whole tit, just the bobbles on the end! Well, the bitch’s cunt was the source of the DNA they used to prove you’d caught the right man. And she gave evidence. Afterwards, in prison, I read this newspaper interview with her, said she was ‘putting her life together again’. Well, she’s got a surprise coming. Still…AAAAH…for now I’ve got you and my lady Charlotte.”

She was horrified by the fate of the poor nurse, but she remembered to thank her Master before being returned to the wall. As she was being secured, Charlotte was being marched to meet Sowerby.

When Charlotte was hauled back, long legs dragging along the flagstones, it was clear Vanita had got off lightly. Bite marks defaced the lawyer’s small, hard tits and her pear-shaped rump was well-decorated with weals from the cane. She was not crying, but she would not acknowledge Vanita’s attempts to be sociable, merely staring angrily ahead. Sowerby arrived, smiling smugly, with Max and the tall young guard Claudio, who was dangling some leather straps from his muscular, hairy hands. At Sowerby’s order, he released the two naked slaves. Sowerby’s next order was

“Down! On your hands and knees!” They obeyed, but Charlotte was a fraction slow and got a whack from the leather straps on her smooth thigh. Sowerby straddled her, while Claudio straddled Vanita. She expected to be buggered or taken doggy-fashion, but instead a thick studded leather collar was fixed around her neck. The young guard tested the tightness till he was satisfied, while Sowerby did the same with the tall lawyer girl. Attached to each collar was a leather lead – the straps Vanita had seen and not understood. The girls remained silent, subservient, waiting.

“Good dogs!” chuckled Sowerby, patting each on the upturned rump. “Now the tails!” The enslaved policewoman felt something being slipped, then jammed painfully hard into her anus, but could not see what it was. It felt hard and cold at the end buried deepest, and hairy where it rubbed against her bottom-cheeks. “Like to see yourselves in a mirror?” the Englishman asked – but Claudio had not waited for an answer and had already set down a large mirror. Craning round, Vanita could see that her rump was now decorated with a long furry object like a stiff tail or a brush, with tightly packed hairs of red and yellow. The end was firmly stuck in the deep recesses of her arsehole. Charlotte had been enhanced with something similar, but hers was looser-textured and bright blue, its strands waving about at the slightest movement.

“Still!” commanded Sowerby, as he photographed his artistic creation. “Now, let’s go walkies!” They walked, awkwardly at first, responding to tugs on their leads. Just as they were getting the hang of walking on all fours, Sowerby brought them to a long flight of stone steps. Vanita’s knees were hurting and she struggled to get up the steps. A sharp pain on her upturned target persuaded her to hurry: Claudio had delivered this sharp reminder with a small riding-crop.

“Well done, Claudio! That’ll get the lazy bitch moving. Do you know, that’s actually this other bitch’s riding-crop? They picked it up along with the jodhpurs,” Sowerby chuckled. A moment later, Charlotte received the full force of her own riding-crop on her pale upper-class rump. Thus encouraged, Vanita made it to the top without further punishment, but the young lawyer was less strong and took two more cuts on her hindquarters as she struggled up the steps.

A few minutes later the slaves were shown into the magnificent room that served as an office for the Count. Sowerby handed the leads to Claudio and shook hands with the Count. He rapped out the order “Beg!” The slavegirls sat up and imitated begging dogs as best they could, at which the Count remarked, “Well done, Sowerby – they’re quite well trained already.” The Englishman beamed smugly at this compliment from the great man and asked, “Can I mate them with your German Shepherd? It would be very interesting.”

“I regret that is not possible. The pure blood of the German Shepherd must not be diluted.”

“Ah, well, in that case it just remains to reward them for begging.” He took a tiny, sticky boiled sweet from his pocket, unwrapped it, and gave it to Charlotte. Vanita thought she would get the same, but instead, in front of the Count, Sowerby unzipped his trousers and jammed his greasy tool into her mouth. The policewoman did her best with lips and tongue as the thick cum slid down her throat. When the performance was finished, the Count clapped politely and handed his prized subordinate a glass of schnapps. The men chatted for a few minutes and then the girls were led back to their wall. The journey down the steps was even harder than the ascent and Vanita’s invitingly presented rump suffered four times from the vicious switch.

The next day Gennady and the guard Claudio took the two half-trained bitches to their new home – chained to a single thick iron ring that had been fastened to the outside of Sowerby’s door. From now on when they were not being paraded around on the leads, or being let outside for exercise with the other slaves, they had to huddle together in front of their master’s door, unable to stand up straight or get away from an unwelcome embrace of each other. Anyone who wanted to enter had to kick them aside. The ludicrous tails were still attached and twitched up and down like real tails as the girls went for their walks: to empty their bowels they had to ask politely for a guard to remove the tail and jam it back in again afterwards. They no longer went to the trough to eat: instead, Claudio brought them food in dog-bowls. The stuff was over-rich in taste and had a strong, almost rancid smell. Vanita had eaten several helpings before she remembered what Fleur and Professor Stirling had said about dogfood. Was she eating some other poor slave who had outlived her usefulness, someone like Karolina or that poor Japanese tennis player? There was no way of knowing and if she asked, the bastards would surely say it was indeed girlflesh.

Vanita learnt many things. She learnt that Sowerby normally liked to be addressed as “Richard”, as if he was her boyfriend; just occasionally he was amused to object to this and insist on “Master”. She learnt that he liked to fuck her doggy-fashion and often did just that right in front of someone he had gone to see, in between serious conversation or fiddling with a computer. She heard he was doing wonders with the castle’s computers and was greatly valued. Occasionally one of the paying guests would arrive to enjoy her or Charlotte: she provided amusement for the famous Mr Hoffman, who grunted a good deal and bit her nipples; his wife thrust her brown-speckled heavily-ringed hand into the helpless policewoman’s cunt as far as it would go. Max himself came, buggered her in front of Charlotte and told her he would soon take his trophies from her.

One day Sowerby went out without his two pets and did not come back for a long time. Vanita had dozed off with Charlotte’s blonde head jammed against her breasts when suddenly she awoke to a soft voice and tugs on her chain. It was Fleur and she was uncoupling her from the door.

“Ah’m real pleased to say, dahlin’, that your master won’t be around a long tahm,” she drawled. “They’ve brought in that nurse and that shrink he was asking for, and ah reckon he’ll be busy with them for a good hour. Plenty of time for me!” Vanita found herself still held by the lead but able to stand. Obediently she followed Fleur to a little “interview room” with a couch and a bright light. Fleur sat herself on the couch and motioned Vanita to kneel. She was unprepared for the sharp slap the Southern belle gave her on the face.

“What?...” she began – but Fleur cut in: “Just to make sure you don’t forget who’s boss, dahlin. Now keep that position while ah get these clothes off.” Fleur undressed languidly, almost like a stripper, watching the slavegirl’s reactions; then she seized her captive by the long black hair and pulled the girl’s mouth towards her small fair bush. “Suck!” she ordered, lifting and splaying her legs – and Vanita sucked between the pink lips. Soon she was ordered to open herself: Fleur took her time, twisting her long, slim fingers into the slave vagina. The American’s long nails caused Vanita searing pain, but she did not dare cry out. Soon Fleur was sucking, using her tongue expertly and gently stroking the policewoman’s full, firm breasts. Vanita began to relax, to respond, to enjoy. Of all the Nazis who had used her, Fleur was by far the kindest. When she abruptly broke off with a glance at her watch, Vanita was disappointed. Fleur acknowledged her with a nod and a light tap on the bottom-cheek, and then she was being led back to Sowerby’s door, where Charlotte was waiting with a look of contempt and hostility. The castle intercom was playing a stream of screams and moans from two women.

After the screams died down, the door opened, sending both captives sprawling. Sowerby emerged with a new pet on a lead – a tall, slim white woman with fine long legs and jutting breasts. It was easy to guess she was the prison psychiatrist, From her anus projected a penis-shaped prickly cactus, framed by the swastika brand and her number. Sowerby slapped her face and ordered her to lie down with the others. Moaning softly to herself, she obeyed. Vanita tried to talk to her, but the woman seemed still to be in shock. Her mind in confusion with the memories of Fleur’s lovemaking, Vanita sunk into sleep.

In the days that followed, Sowerby took every opportunity to show off his threesome as they crawled along together, arses high, displaying their ludicrous tails and the names INDIAN 3, ENGLISH 29 and ENGLISH 31. The leggy psychiatrist, in particular, struggled because the spines of the cactus stuck into the soft flesh of her inner cheeks – but any delay or clumsiness was punished by the whip. Exercise became the job of pulling Soweby across the courtyard in a small red cart, to the great amusement of the guards. The psychiatrist, Anna, opened up enough to tell her two yoke-partners that Sowerby had tortured the luckless nurse so ruthlessly she might not survive. When Fleur got her next chance to be alone with her policewoman slave, she explained that the nurse was strong and had survived, but was too badly damaged to be a normal slave and had been put down the toilet like the Japanese girl. “And what happened to her – the Japanese girl?” Vanita asked. “We can’t leave them there for long, or they die of some disease. We asked Marie, and she said she’d like to have the little bitch, just a bit processed, as a bedroom wall decoration so she can say to her real close friends, ‘hey, this is that stupid little Jap who beat me in Paris!’ Marie’s got a great sense of humour!”

As autumn advanced, the slaves’ exercise sessions got shorter. First they were allowed to wear the schoolgirl-style blue knickers, then schoolgirl P.E. vests too: their adult breasts pushed against the white fabric of the vests as if about to split it, and the navy-blue knickers stuck skin-tight around bulging, deep-cleft rumps. Finally, as biting cold came in, exercise was reduced to a run around the courtyard, plus fitness exercises inside in a big gymnasium. For Sowerby’s three, though, the life of dogs and beasts of burden continued. One day he deliberately caught Vanita’s tail in a door so it snapped off in the middle. Of course it was her fault and she was thoroughly whipped for it. He announced that she now needed a new tail, but the one he brought was another spiny cactus. As Claudio shoved it into her crack, the spines buried themselves in her rumpflesh and some of them broke off: she whimpered but knew better than to cry out. This life would have been more bearable if there had been sisterhood between the three dogs, but Charlotte continued to rebuff Vanita’s advances with cold disdain, while the psychiatrist seemed traumatised to the point of losing the ability to say more than a few simple words, to obey orders and to carry out bodily functions.

Vanita looked out for her friend Nevin and Karolina, but she had not seen the German girl for some time – while Nevin seemed totally cowed in mind as well as body, doing what she was told with a dull face and never acknowledging Vanita’s glances. The only people to show her any friendship now were Fleur and possibly Claudio, whose expressions suggested he did not share all of Sowerby’s sadistic impulses. At last Fleur told her Sowerby was soon to be sent off to set up some system in a new outpost of the Counts, somewhere in the Arctic near the Norwegian border.

The next day Sowerby was still there and in control of his dogs. As they pulled the cart round the courtyard, a familiar male American voice called out, “Hey, just look at what Miss Prissy Brit Piggy’s being used for!”

“And that snooty lawyer bitch!” a softer, deeper voice replied. It was Rick and Jan. Sowerby obligingly stopped the cart so they could walk up, fondle and pat her raised rump, squeeze Charlotte’s firm breasts and then take turns to take the policewoman doggy-fashion. When they moved on to the lawyer, another master took her over and she recognised the clever technique of the Chinese smuggler Sam. He was still pumping when long fingers prised her arsehole open and Alec’s semen spurted into it.

“Just like old times, old girl,” he commented. Just before Sowerby jerked the leads and cracked the whip, Vanita saw the witch Helga pushing her hand deep inside the psychiatrist’s vagina, and heard Alex chatting to Charlotte as he buggered her: “Actually, old girl, I knew your father at Eton. I’ll drop him a line and tell him about our meeting!” The team had arrived for a few days’ entertainment before their next job. The next day Sowerby was gone and Gennady marched the three dogs to the wall, where Vanita waited for Fleur to come to her. But Fleur was busy with her lover Helga, who gave Vanita a look of hatred as they passed.

“Oh, God, she knows about us,” thought Vanita. “I bet I’ll suffer for that!”

On the second day of Sowerby’s absence Fleur at last came to fondle Vanita’s breasts and speak softly to her, while Charlotte looked on with contempt. But Fleur’s attentions were interrupted by a strange noise outside.

PART SEVEN

As the door at the end of the passage swung open, the one guard in sight went for his gun, but a shot cracked and he crumpled to the ground. Two men and two women ran forward holding hand-guns.

“PUSHY!” Vanita screamed. One of them was her younger sister Pushpa! “VANNY! Thank God!” the girl yelled.

Pushpa was five years her junior, but the nickname had long been apt: Pushy was more self-assured and ambitious than Vanita. She had recently started her second year at Oxford studying English Literature where everyone said she was brilliant and creative. Although her figure was more voluptuous and less athletic than her sister’s, she’d attained high levels in Judo and Karate, ignoring softer sports like Vanita’s tennis.

Pushpa ran to her sister, hugged her and tried to release her. “Vanny – how do you unlock these things?” she asked.

“That guard will have a key. So will she,” Vanita replied, turning to Fleur. To her horror she saw that Fleur was drawing a gun – no ordinary gun, but a long-barrelled, silver-plated, ivory-handled masterpiece that must be a family heirloom. The American’s eyes were fixed on Pushpa with hatred and rage.

“Pushy, watch out!” Vanita warned. But one of the other invaders, a tall, curly-haired lad, had seen the danger. He fired and a red bloom spread on Fleur’s white dress just underneath her breasts. She fell very slowly, staring at Vanita with hatred. On the ground, her lifeless eyes were still fixed on her. Very soon Pushpa had released her sister and offered her the dead guard’s gun – but the thing slipped from Vanita’s limp fingers as she remained locked in the gaze of the fallen American dyke.

“Vanny – this is Rose, this is Tim, this is Felix. All from the University Extreme Sports Club.” An extravagantly-curved black girl, the curly-haired lad and a slight, ginger-haired lad nodded in reply. “We’ll have to hurry and get out. Things haven’t gone well. We thought the captives would join us, but the ones we’ve spoken to have just looked at us as if we were mad.”

“Pushy, we can’t go without Nevin and Karolina! I can’t abandon them!” Vanita wailed.

“Who are they?”

“My friends!”

At that point they heard running feet and Claudio appeared, his gun held at thigh-level. Felix levelled his gun, but Vanita did not want more unnecessary killing.

“Claudio, drop your gun and save yourself!” she yelled. The bewildered man obeyed.

“Where are these two women, then?” Pushpa demanded.

“I don’t know…somewhere here,” her sister replied lamely and then had a brainwave. “But Claudio here will know!”

Claudio was too frightened to answer clearly. “Karolina – the German - I don’t know – they took her – no – Nevin, the Arab, no, the Kurd - I think – she’s in passageway, passageway sixteen near the kitchens.”

“Take us there!” Rose ordered. But a calm voice interrupted.

“Your wretched little invasion has failed.” It was the Count. Apparently alone and unarmed, he stood in the doorway. Vanita could only admire his courage. The others were all transfixed for a moment. The Count pressed a small object in his hand and the door thudded shut. Calmly, he took a gas-mask from his pocket and put it on as a hissing noise began. Rose and Tim looked around wildly for a way of escape, saw a door had closed at the other end of the passage and dropped their guns. Claudio stood to attention and then keeled over. Felix slowly raised his gun to aim at the Count, who stood impassively watching him; but before the ginger-haired lad could fire he collapsed. A sickly smell was growing ever stronger and Vanita felt dizzy. Pushpa ran towards her, arms outstretched to hug her again, but just before she could do that she too collapsed in a heap. As Vanita collapsed on top of her sister, the Count was still motionless, watching.

When Vanita regained consciousness, she found her limbs entangled with others. Her head hurt and her vision was blurry. As it began to clear, she realised she lay in a heap on the floor of a big room with Pushpa, Rose and Tim, all naked. Uniformed guards watched them casually, letting them gradually recover. Pushpa kissed her and said,

“I’m so sorry. We thought we could do it.” Vanita kissed her back and replied, “You were so brave. I’m sorry for you.”

“Silence!” rapped a voice she recognised as Gennady’s. They were silent. Then one by one the new prisoners were dragged off. Vanita could guess it was for medical examination and branding. The idea that Pushpa’s bum, the smooth bum of her younger sister that she’d seen burgeon and swell through her teenage years, would be stamped with a swastika and a hateful label, made her cry. Someone kicked her hard in the bottom and yelled “Untermensch! You cry! You are weak! You are shit!” It was Helga, and a Helga she had not seen before – stiff with rage, her face contorted. Of course – they’d killed her lover Fleur. There would be no mercy from her.
One by one the new slaves were marched back, walking more freely but with dazed faces. Pushpa was biting her lip and trying to look brave: Vanita hugged her, but could not help seeing her sister was now “INDIAN 4”, this name and a swastika being branded on her sumptuous plump hindquarters. Then the Count and Countess strode in and everyone – guards and slaves – fell silent. The Count rapped the table.

“Slaves! You will listen! You have killed three guards and one senior member of my staff; you have injured others. You will suffer for this, and so will those who supported you. We selected the Byelorussian called Felix, a traitor to his country, as the most likely of you to break and talk. He has had the full attentions of my wife and my senior torturer, so we are now in a position to deal with all those who gave you information, material or shelter. He will now be placed under the slave women’s toilets to be shat on. The Indian and the African will serve as slaves, to be used for whatever we choose. The Englishman will be executed.” Max now appeared and gestured to be heard: the Count politely indicated he could speak.

“Herr Graf! I am honoured to carry the news to you that slave Indian 4 is a virgin!” Some of the guards gasped: this was a rare treat. Vanita was amazed too: the five years’ age-difference meant that she had rarely discussed sex with her younger sister, but Pushpa was so liberated, so sure of herself and so sexy that she’d assumed she’d lost her virginity soon after going to Oxford if not before. She looked at her sister with horror: a virgin, and now these beasts would take it from her. Pushpa frowned but gave little indication of her feelings. The Count spoke:

“Thank you, my friend. So we will have the pleasure of a rare ceremony. Bring the white bed and the band!” A white bed was wheeled in and a small military band assembled. Pushpa was secured on the bed, face up but legs bent back so a single length of rope bit into her neck and her ankles. Thus shamefully opened up, she waited silently for her fate.

“No! You beasts! Leave her AAAARGH!” The Black girl Rose had tried to intervene, but a stave in the stomach had taught her silence. Vanita felt guilty that she was staying silent while her own sister, who had tried so bravely to save her, was being raped – but she knew what would happen if she interfered. Max raised his hand; a trumpet sounded, followed by a roll of drums; the Count’s weapon broke into the beautiful student’s secret passage. Blood stained the white sheets, celebrated by the drums. The Count continued pumping longer than seemed possible; then he pulled out and strode away without a backward glance at his victim, who was now softly sobbing. The guards snapped to attention; the Count saluted and they relaxed, clapping and laughing. Rose was led out next: she did not merit a white bed, but they bent her double while she stood and roped her wrists to her ankles. Her gigantic rump stuck up in the air, displaying her new name, “AFRICAN 80”. Helga stepped forward, squeezed and twisted the helpless student’s breasts until she screamed and then forced her fingers roughly up her vagina. When Rose screamed with a new desperation, Vanita knew the German had tortured her clitoris. The Count followed and mounted Rose routinely before handing her over to Claudio, who took her with panache. Then Rose and Pushpa were led back to join Vanita. Tim tried to comfort both girls, but Rose kissed him and said,
“Be brave.”

At a nod from the Count, Helga led Tim away from the others, his long penis flapping uselessly. The guards tied him to the bed and the Countess, soon joined by Helga, began stroking his penis, kissing his balls, till his weapon rose proud and straight. Gennady and Claudio led Pushpa over to the helpless boy, lifted her up and brought her secret lips down around her comrade’s cock. They lifted her and pushed her down alternately while the helpless youth pumped into her. The girl student seemed shocked into subservience, a glazed look in her big brown eyes. Finally they shoved her hard down on him while the Countess drew a long, gleaming knife from her belt. She handed it to Helga who stood, eyes shut, in ecstasy before slicing the young man’s cock off. She shoved the still-pumping rod further into Pushpa’s body before Gennady taped up the girl’s vagina tightly with her friend’s severed cock inside, making sure the wide strands of black tape covered her luxuriant black bush. Tim was still alive and conscious: the Countess bent to the spurting stump and sucked it passionately while her husband stood and smiled – and Helga lowered her ample hindquarters on to the youth’s face. “She did that to me!” thought Vanita, but this time Helga did not relent till her victim was dead. Guards dragged the body away, while Pushpa, struck down by shock, also needed to be dragged away. As Vanita stared, the Count spoke to her:

“Indian 3 – I have ordered that you be moved to hang alongside Indian 4 and African 80. It amuses me that you will see them broken. The double traitor Felix, who has given us so much information under torture, will be placed under the female slaves’ toilet to receive their shit.”

Vanita was hung up between the two heroic girl students who had tried to rescue her. It was hours before she or Rose could get Pushpa to speak. In the meantime, Vanita learnt about Rose and the rescue attempt: the black girl seemed resilient and surprisingly calm despite disaster. The girl was a medical student, born in Reading of Nigerian parents.

“Pushy never believed you’d been drowned by those smugglers. She said you were a survivor. She started investigating and in the end some dodgy journalist told her about some weird organisation in Belorus. We all admired her and volunteered to come with her. We got a lorry inside the car park and hid in some sacks of potatos and stuff. We thought the slaves would revolt when we gave them the chance, but they were so pathetic and fearful!” She was interrupted by two guards who wanted to pinch her extravagant tits and bum and then fuck her.
Finally Pushpa answered her sister with a faint smile and a few confused words. When mealtime came, Vanita explained to Rose about the danger from the girl slaves who preferred dining off defenceless breasts: they helped Pushpa along and then stood closely on either side of her as she drank the soup. Rose encouraged her: “That’s right, Pushy girl, get your strength…AAARGH!” The black girl had paid too much attention to Pushpa’s safety and not enough to her own, for the sharp teeth of one of the vampire women were now sunk deep in her huge left tit, not relenting till the mealtime was over.

Over the next few days, while Pushpa’s mind recovered, the tape stayed in place, holding in the boy’s penis. She could not release her urine, so it sloshed about between her skin and the strong tape and she stank. Finally the weight of urine broke through the tape and a big puddle formed on the floor. A guard ran shouting and Gennady arrived, yelling abuse at the “filthy slut”. More guards ripped off the tape, taking with it most of her pubic hairs and forcing out of her a piercing scream. They hooked the rotting penis out of her, threw water over her and directed a high-pressure hose into her vagina.

From that day, Vanita was delighted to see, her sister made a rapid recovery till her spirit seemed too strong and rebellious for safety. At least that was the old Pushy. Sowerby’s absence proved to be a long one and the girls settled into the life of a wall slave. Pushpa’s sumptuous warm brown target and Rose’s gigantic bumps front and back attracted attention from many guards and visitors, so they were kept busy.

A week after Pushpa’s cunt had been cleaned, guards came briskly for all three girls, who were marched to a vast hall, perhaps the old dining hall of the castle, but converted to feature a large raised stage facing rows of tables and chairs occupied by happy, noisy guards and staff with plentiful supplies of beer: behind these there was room for slaves to stand and the two sisters were placed at the front of the crowd. Rose, however, was pulled roughly through the seating area and on to the stage, where her extravagant naked curves won clapping and cheers. Ropes dangled from the ceiling and one of these was used to secure the black girl so she could stand but not sit, run around but only as far as the rope allowed. A trumpet sounded and guards dragged two big wicker containers on to the stage. They stood to attention and at another trumpet blast they opened the containers. Hundreds of rats scrambled out and headed straight for Rose, who screamed and ran around pointlessly at the end of the rope, her huge breasts swaying. Then the rats were on her, swarming up her legs, biting her rump, burrowing into the crack between the massive quivering cheeks, hanging from her breasts like weird fruit.
Pushpa could not stand it and shouted

“No! No! You beasts! Stop it!” As her enraged sister tried to push her way towards the stage, Vanita held her back, knowing what happened to slaves who protested.

“Pushy, stop it! You’ll get put there yourself!” she hissed. But she was too late: guards seized her sister roughly and dragged her forward. Vanita herself had said too much, for more guards grabbed her and frogmarched her too towards the stage where Rose was now invisible beneath a mass of writhing rats. The young policewoman had sometimes daydreamed about a heroic death while doing her duty, but had always laughed at herself, reminding herself that nearly all British police got nothing worse than a broken rib in a long career. Now, though, she faced the prospect of being eaten alive in small chunks by swarming rats, a death that would be both horribly painful and humiliating. As the guards secured Vanita to the rope, twisting the rough, prickly material round her neck and breasts, she could see her sister already under attack, kicking away rats but already with five or six hanging by the teeth from her vulnerable bottom undercheeks. Her alert policewoman’s mind noticed the rats made no attempt to attack the guards, merely scuttling to avoid their boots.

“They’re trained,” she thought, “maybe even specially bred.” Then fur brushed her foot, small naked feet scuttled over it and the attack on her began.

She kicked a few of the animals away and stamped ruthlessly on one that bit her toe, but she could not protect her rear. Sharp little teeth bit into her thigh and then her undercheeks; a wriggling furry body explored her rear crease. One big, evil-looking rat launched itself from the front at her right leg; athletically, she kicked it in mid-air and sent it sprawling, but the effort had opened her legs too far. Another rat which had been hanging from her rump pushed up her cunt, hairy and loathsome, while yet another fastened its teeth into her cunt lips. Vanita screamed. There was only pain and the invasion of all parts of her body: she could no longer see or sense what was happening to her.

A loud noise broke into the torment. It sounded again – a whistle. Suddenly the rats were scurrying down and returning to their containers. Guards swept up the few rats that were dead or dying. Vanita realised she was bleeding from a mass of small bites, but she was alive. She saw Pushpa gingerly testing out her tortured body, then Rose, still shivering with horror, open her eyes and look for the others. They had all survived. The assembled audience started clapping.

As the three slaves were led back to their wall, Claudio whispered to Vanita,

“They’re specially bred for small teeth, and trained not to attack vital parts, otherwise we’d waste good stock. Only one slave has ever died from a rat attack, a stupid American journalist who wouldn’t stop screaming. A big rat got in her mouth, she bit it and she choked. It was, how do you say, hilarious!”

Three days later, after medical treatment, Vanita was taking her short exercise run in the biting cold air with other slaves when she saw a familiar figure, a blonde girl with huge tits. It was Karolina! Guards were putting the unresisting German girl on a truck, ready to leave the compound. Suddenly it came to her that her friend had two breasts. Somehow the medical experts of the castle had reattached the one the Countess had chopped off! Vanita screamed “Karolina! Karolina!” and ran towards the truck. Karolina did not react. The guards did not intervene till she had got within feet of the truck; then one grinning lad pushed Karolina over and she fell rigidly. The horror of the truth hit Vanita: the German had been stuffed like a shot deer. When the guards grabbed her and started beating her, she hardly resisted.

Sowerby returned from the Russian-Norwegian border with new favourites – long-legged, blonde Norwegian twins who had been staying at their father’s farm while waiting to start at university. Claudio explained that the farm had been in the way of some important supply route: the twins’ parents had been “eliminated”, but the twins themselves were too good to waste. Now they pulled Sowerby’s cart, sometimes helped by Charlotte and the psychiatrist, while Vanita was left to hang on the wall and amuse the guards.

A few days later, Gennady came for her and ordered her sister to be brought too. After climbing many steps, they found themselves in a games room where two off-duty guards were playing table-tennis: but the girls were marched to a magnificent teak snooker table. Vanita’s trained eye noted it was of a strange design: a quite thin wooden partition with small holes in it walled off the green baize except around the corners, where nothing would prevent a ball from rolling off the table. She could see no pockets. Outside the thin partition, but at a lower level than the playing surface, a flat shelf ran round the table, but it was cut away just where the partition disappeared. Snooker balls were positioned on the table: the colours were the familiar ones, but the balls were unusually small.

As they reached the table, Nevin and the Romanian ballerina were marched in through another door.

“On your heads, cunts displayed!” Gennady ordered – and the four girls obeyed, Pushpa reacting to Vanita’s urging not to attract unnecessary punishment. They were positioned at the four corners of the table and were pulled up till their heads hung loose above the flagstones, looking outwards, while the guards forced their legs to splay out, then roped and manacled the legs to the partition and shelf of the table. Finally the ankles of each slave were handcuffed to the next girl’s. Their heads hung loose above the stone floor. Vanita fought the pain in her overstretched legs and cunt: it was bearable, but only just. She felt probing, expert fingers in her most secret place and recognised the feel of the special ring of metal with a spring that pushed her opening wide. Suddenly it came to her why there were no pockets on the table. Her cunt would act as a pocket.

Hanging upside-down, she saw the guards snap to attention. Two men strolled into sight: one was the Count and the other, a squat, burly, bald man, she recognised as an Englishman every police officer knew to be a leading gangster, but who had never been convicted. They had picked up snooker cues. The obscene game was about to begin.

The Count threw down his cue and barked at Gennady, “It is not right! Not good enough! I said all one colour, but the Romanian whore is much lighter! There is no balance! No perfection! Take them away!”
Gennady rapped out orders to release the women and Vanita heard the Count say to him in a quieter voice, “Get me another like the three Asians, an Indian or an Arab. I know there is no good match in the girls we have at present, so get a new one!”

The Count was mad, she thought – brilliant, but mad.

She was soon to get yet another lesson in the power of the Count’s organisation: it was only three days before word went round that the new girl had arrived and the game could recommence.

“They’re not just evil, Vanny,” her sister commented as they were marched back to the games room. “they’re stupid! This snooker thing – can you imagine?” “I don’t think they’re stupid, Pushy,” her elder sister replied.

“Evil, yes; mad some of them, but very, very clever.” Pushpa snorted loud enough to get a stave thwacked meatily across her generous bottom-cheeks. This time all four girls were allowed to stand together by the table for a while, as there was some delay in finding the gangster. Vanita looked at the new girl. She was a tiny, beautiful, doll-like Indian with a round face, big eyes, long glossy hair and inviting curves. That she was fresh in was obvious from the raw red stripes and the fresh swastika brand on her plump, curvy little rump, which bore the description INDIAN 5. The girl was still crying like a child and gingerly touching her vandalised bottom which wobbled as she sobbed. Pushpa spoke to her and between girlish sobs she explained she was an architecture student from Bombay who had been on an exchange year in Budapest.

“What will my poor parents think, what will they say…” the girl snivelled.

“Stop thinking about your parents. Start thinking about staying in one piece yourself,” Pushpa advised her. “If…” She broke off as the Count and his guest strolled in.

Again the slavegirls were secured to the table, legs wide apart and cunts open for use. Vanita, Pushpa and Nevin knew enough not to protest, but the new girl kept saying “No, please, please, no” until Gennady gripped her tightly by her long black hair and slapped her hard on the cheek. She burst into a flood of tears but stopped protesting. The rings were fixed in the first three girls’ puckered lips, but irritated voices told Vanita that the new girl’s little slit was proving difficult. Finally the new girl gave out a piercing scream, a guard remarked “Gut!” and the snooker pockets were ready. Vanita could not see how the game was proceeding and could not guess when the first cold ball would enter her. A short scream from her sister indicated her pocket had been the first brought into use.

Another short scream from the new girl soon followed, though in her case it was followed by a renewed flood of tears and moans. “Someone should strangle the stupid kid,” thought Vanita with growing irritation – and then a cold, hard ball popped into her own wide opening. Rough, callused fingers reached in clumsily and picked the ball out. Again she waited for the sudden horrible sensation. It came many times. Finally a ball dropped into her one more time and loud laughter and backslapping told her the game was over. She waited for the ball to be taken out, but instead someone shoved it further up her passage. Gennady’s gloating voice remarked, “You can keep that in there a bit longer, Indian 3!”

As they were marched back to their places, the hard ball inside her made her waddle ludicrously. Each step was painful and she dropped behind. This brought down on her a fusillade of sharp stave-blows to her rump, but she could not go faster. Pushpa turned to try to help her, but Gennady, with expert aim, shoved a snooker cue right up her arsehole, leaving it there so the guards howled with laughter as the two sisters made their painful and clumsy way to the wall.

The next day the gangster appeared at the wall with two guards and Professor Stirling. Stirling was smirking as he examined the naked girls hung up for his viewing, but he could not match the menace in the muscular gangster’s face and body – and he was staring at Vanita. “They told me you were Filth. There’s been a few times I’ve had Filth at my mercy, but only once a cunt and she was an undercover detective,” he said slowly. “They won’t let me do to you what I did to her, but I’m still going to have fun!”

“Leave her alone!” Pushpa shouted unwisely. The man punched her hard in the stomach and she doubled up with pain. Stirling gripped a bundle of her luxuriant black hair and yanked her head up. “I’ve had all the pleasure imaginable from your sister,” he told her, “but you’re new. You were stupid enough to lead a rescue attempt. I’m going to teach you respect for your superiors.” Rose, who was not learning quickly, hissed “You evil old men!” but she was the first to be taken down from the wall by the guards. The girls found they were all being marched together to a common destination. One of the guards pushed open a heavy wooden door with thick iron bands, revealing a room Vanita had never seen before, with comfortable armchairs and a drinks cabinet, but also with an assortment of evil-looking equipment. Stirling laughed.

“A bit taken aback, are we? This is the reserve torture room!” He pinched Pushpa’s generous rump and laughed again. Vanita smelt the unmistakeable reek of piss.

The guards took Rose first. They wrapped small chains tightly round the base of her huge breasts and pulled them even tighter. They secured the chains to a massive iron hook hanging from a much larger chain and operated a winch to pull the hook up till Rose was hanging by her breasts, just managing to keep her toes on the flagstones. She was a heavy girl and it obviously hurt intensely to put her weight on her toes, but the alternative was worse. While Stirling and the gangster laughed, they tickled under Rose’s feet so she writhed about, making the chains tighten still more on her breasts. Rose began to wail with pain and humiliation, but her torture had hardly started.

At a word from Stirling, the guards wound the hook up further till the black girl was hanging some two feet above the floor, suspended purely by her tits. She screamed as the tits narrowed at the base and bulged towards the nipples. Pushpa made to go to her rescue, but her sister held her back. Finally when it seemed Rose’s tits must be ripped from her body, the winch started clanking again and she was lowered back to the floor. One of the guards took off his thick leather belt and they thrashed her outsized rump enthusiastically while she wobbled and writhed and screamed and cried. When she seemed little more than a huge quivering chocolate jelly, they released her.
“Now you two!” said Stirling – but the sisters were not led towards the hook, but towards a strange apparatus, two big metal wheels like mill-wheels suspended over a tray of stinking liquid.

“Treat this with respect,” said Stirling, flexing a thin, whippy cane, “this is good guards’ piss they’ve donated for you.” The guards strapped each sister to one of the wheels, face down, tits poking between two struts and legs wide apart, as Stirling took up position behind Pushpa and the gangster behind the policewoman. Vanita saw Stirling lewdly pinching and weighing her sister’s plump cheeks, but forgot about her as the gangster’s rough hands and jagged fingernails pulled her own pink lips apart. Something hard and ribbed was forced into the gap – a dildo. Then the wheel began to turn. She found herself staring at the tray of urine, her face a couple of inches above it. The smell was overpowering. Then appalling pain burned through her left leg: the gangster had slashed at the sole of her foot. She screamed and the man let her scream die down before he pushed a handle and the wheel turned again. Vanita’s face splashed into the piss, invading her nostrils and getting behind her tightly shut eyelids, soaking her scalp. Then she was coming out the other side. She opened her smarting eyes, upside-down, to see the gangster’s fat cock pressing towards her from the opening in his trousers. The cane descended viciously on her face cheek; then the brute had grabbed a hunk of her hair and pulled her head up. “Open!” he shouted. She opened her mouth like the good slave she had been taught to be and the slimy, pulsing weapon was jammed down her throat. His gluey cum filled her throat and she had to swallow. “Have a nice drink, copper!” he laughed. He pulled out and pushed the wheel round again. Before she found herself staring at the urine again, Vanita caught a glimpse of her sister’s target being flayed by the grimly-smiling Stirling and heard her sister’s screams. Then a vicious cut sliced into her own undercheek, bringing unbearable pain.

“WAAAAAH!” she wailed, shutting her eyes in a childish response. Her eyes shut, she did not see the piss-tray looming up as the gangster cleverly timed the next turn. “WAAAAHUHGLOB!” she moaned, as a mouthful of piss cut off her cries. As her own wheel moved on, she heard the splash that meant Pushpa’s pretty teenage face was hitting her supply of piss. Every time her rump was offered to the gangster, he caned it mercilessly, but he also cut at her back and all parts of her legs. Her hair and face were drenched in rancid urine and when the wheel came to rest she was hit by an unpleasant surprise. Some mechanism pulled the tray of urine out of sight and replaced it with a tray of stinking turds. As the wheel brought her face towards this horror, she saw that the shit was full of pieces of lavatory paper, cigarette ends and even a few used condoms. SPLASH went her face into the soft shit. The stuff went up her nostrils, her ears, her lips, her eyes and was plastered all over her hair. Her head came out the other side dripping bits of turd. Stirling’s voice barked an order and the wheels ground to a halt. Vanita’s flayed bottom was again stuck out for the gangster and she could see Pushpa was frozen in the same position.

“This is better with white girls,” Stirling commented to the gangster. “With brown ones you can’t see the added shit.” Vanita knew not to protest, but she heard her sister try:

“You stupid old man, you racist AAARGH!” The cane sliced into her cheeks three times in the same place, neatly crossing her rump-crack at right-angles and leaving a deep red line. The effect was oddly like the St George’s flag.
“Hoses!” Stirling ordered: ice-cold water struck her breasts, face and rump, sluicing off the filthy mess. Vanita saw the sadistic professor start to bugger her sister, but then she forgot sisterhood as the ribbed dildo was wrenched out of her cunt and the gangster’s thick, gun-hard cock was jammed roughly in, pumping until she felt she was just a sore and throbbing sheath round the massive weapon. She lost consciousness. When she came to she was lying on the flagstones with Pushpa gently tapping her face to revive her. Behind her, the two guards were working on Rose above and below.

As they were all dragged back to the wall, the procession encountered a large man in uniform – Max. He smiled at Vanita and said, “I will have to wait a bit longer for my trophies. Sowerby wants you back as a dog and your sister too. The lawyer woman is needed for other things and the psychiatrist is too passive to give much pleasure.”

“What’s that about trophies?” Pushpa asked, but her sister did not reply.

Sowerby did indeed force Vanita and Pushpa into service pulling his cart, along with the two innocent Norwegians. He played about with the positions – sometimes the two white-skinned blondes on one side and the two brown-skinned slaves on the other – and sometimes a balanced arrangement with the two brown beasts of burden in the middle and the two white ones flanking them. There was no return, though, to lying outside his door in between trips, for he had gained two new and favourite slaves for that – two South African girl journalists, one white and one black, who had been investigating disappearances of young African women. The main relief for Vanita was the visits of the young Italian, Claudio. He came for sex, of course, but he was quite gentle and liked to talk: he had almost replaced poor Fleur. He told her the snooty lawyer Charlotte would join the Count’s staff as she had the right psychology and a lawyer was always useful. The psychiatrist was burnt out and would soon be sold to some African whose punishment methods should “wake her up a bit.”

One day in deep winter Claudio came and pulled Vanita roughly from her place on the wall, slapping her bum hard as she padded along with him. She was puzzled by his new roughness. He took her as he had done before to his small room and told her to sit on the bare slatted wooden bench. Mr Hoffman had caned her not long before and she found sitting down on the slats painful. She flinched and got up, then started to sink down again for fear of being punished – but Claudio slipped a cushion under her poor sore rump.

“Listen to me, Vanita,” he said. “Sowerby will soon tire of you and Max is pressing him to release you to him. Max wants his trophies and likes killing people slowly – also he is attracted to you. Sowerby is ambitious to go even higher in the Count’s service and Max can help him. You are in great danger. But I can help you. I may be a common guard – the Count laughs at Italians – but my father is a leader among Italian Fascisti and a very rich man. I have asked him and he will help. I can get you freedom.”

Freedom! The very word sounded like some forgotten paradise to the enslaved policewoman. But she insisted,

“Pushpa must come too, she’s my little sister.”

“Of course – I had assumed that.”

“And Rose – she’s here because of me.”

Claudio shrugged. “No problem, we can take her too. But no more, that is enough.” Vanita would have liked to help Nevin and the psychiatrist, but she trusted Claudio who evidently had some plan worked out. If he could save only three slaves, it would have to stop at that. When Claudio entered her passionately and a little roughly, she responded with enthusiasm: he was her saviour – if it worked – and she’d never be able to refuse him anything. She could not tell Pushpa in case some hidden mike picked up her words, but she saw her clever sister had guessed that something was going on.

They had to wait three weeks till Sowerby left for the Norwegian border. Then Claudio and another guard came to the wall and marched the three girls out. Claudio winked at her and she knew this was the day. She reckoned the clatter of the guards’ boots would mask a whisper, so she quietly told the other two girls that this was a rescue attempt. As the three were escorted to an unknown destination, Vanita’s head was whirling with thoughts of freedom. She would treat Pushpa and Rose to something really special – and then, could she return to the police? Yes, she could – it was her duty. She smiled at her sister, who smiled back.

PART 8

The girls found themselves in a storeroom full of vegetables and fruit. Two slaves were throwing out rotting items into big metal containers.

“Get in!” said Claudio. As each girl settled into a different container, Claudio and the other guard threw in small boxes. “Some personal things – watch, panties,” Claudio explained: “for you, Vanita, your whole uniform and all police things.” She felt slippery, rotting fruit under her bare skin as she lay down face up. A potato bounced off her right breast and then a stream of cabbages, bananas and other slimy things fell on top of her till she was covered, breathing with difficulty. She felt the container begin to move and heard orders given. A few minutes later she felt a jarring impact and heard the unmistakeable sound of the chains and the railway. They were leaving the castle! Soon the motion stopped and there was another impact, followed by a more jerky motion and a final thump.

“O.K. – get out!” said a voice. Had they escaped, or had they been discovered? As Vanita pushed off the last squashed peaches and maggoty cabbages, emerging greasy and smeared into the light, she saw Claudio watching. It was all right! She smiled at him and he smiled back – but something about his smile, a secret, gloating quality, alerted her. As Pushpa and Rose emerged into what appeared to be the back of a large lorry, she saw that other figures were standing with him - Jan, Alex, Rick and Sam – and they were all grinning evilly.

“Hi, girls,” said Rick, casually pointing a handgun at them, “’fraid you’ve not been rescued – just lifted from the Count to take to our new friend the Sheikh. He’s looking forward to seeing you!”
Vanita could not quite take it in.

“Claudio! I trusted you!” she wailed.

“More fool you, then!” he smirked. As he stepped aside she saw something that surprised her still further. Behind her new captors was a large female shape, sitting tightly bound with her neck pressed to her knees. It was Helga.

Pushpa and Rose stared at Vanita as if she could explain what had happened. She could find nothing to say, but Alec was happy to explain.

“The Count is not the only powerful slaveowner: The Sheikh in the Gulf state of Al-Salaah is another. Claudio here has been offered a high position in his service and good money. He spoke to us. We’ll do a job for whoever pays best. Besides, we were all tired of Helga forever bossing us about and her unwavering loyalty to the Count, so she’s going with you to be a slave.” He patted Helga’s blonde head as the lorry jerked into motion while Claudio and Sam manacled the girls’ wrists and ankles.

The lorry stopped for a minute before moving on. The men smiled at one another: they had passed through a checkpoint and felt safe. They had a brief whispered conversation before Rick approached the girls.

“We’ve got a long drive before we rendezvous with a plane. We know there’s history between you two mid-brownies and Helga here. You hate her, she hates you. We wanna set up a fight, no holds barred. It’d be unfair if it was two on one – so you two choose who’s to fight the Kraut.” Vanita opened her mouth but her sister spoke first. “I’ll fight her!” she declared with determination. The men released Helga and Pushpa before standing back to watch.

It looked like a mismatch, the big muscular German against the pretty Asian girl encumbered by her large breasts and bottom, but Vanita knew her sister was expert in unarmed combat – and suspected Helga did not know. The two naked women circled warily. Then Helga made a grab but Pushpa jinked out of the way. She backed slowly as Helga advanced, then jinked again as Helga aimed a kick which dented the side of the lorry. Still Pushpa had not made any offensive move, but when Helga kicked out again, the young Asian girl grabbed her leg and yanked it up.

The big German fell heavily and Pushpa was on top of her. Helga was about to slice a blow into her enemy’s wrist, but Pushpa kneed her in the stomach, following up by trapping Helga’s left hand with her knee and holding down the right with her hand. Then she pulled her free hand back for a move which her sister recognised as a death-blow. Vanita did not want anyone to die, not even Helga.

“Pushy! No!” she yelled. Pushpa stopped and looked round, relaxing her hold on Helga’s right hand – a fatal mistake. Next moment, Helga’s fist had driven into the younger girl’s stomach, doubling her up; then the Nazi grabbed her by the long hair and banged her head on the floor.

Dazed, Pushpa crumpled and the German mounted her, banging the back of her head on the floor repeatedly and driving a succession of vicious blows into her lower belly. Pushpa’s helpless friends watched as the luckless girl was brutally softened up and the men cheered. Finally Helga was satisfied that her prey was no longer capable of resistance. Smiling sadistically, she seized the English girl’s left breast and twisted it until it would go no further. Pushpa screamed and the men cheered louder. Helga bent down and bit the other breast, lingering till blood ran down it: then she sucked hungrily. Leaving the tortured breasts, she shoved her long-nailed hand roughly into her victim’s cunt, twisted and pulled. Pushpa’s desperate animal wail told only too clearly what Helga had gripped. “The truncheon!” Helga said firmly. Rick now threw Helga Vanita’s truncheon, which she jammed into her victim’s mouth, propping it open. She seized Pushpa’s tongue, twisted and pulled hard till Vanita thought she would rip it clean out – but Helga knew when to stop and leave the injured member flopping out of the girl’s mouth. Next Helga took hold of a hank of the Asian girl’s long, glossy hair and would have pulled it out if Jan had not seized Claudio’s stave and rapped the German woman’s elbow, telling her sharply not to damage anything that would spoil the Sheikh’s new slave.

“Leave her head hair alone!” he added. Helga took the hint: she pulled her victim’s eyelid out till the terrified girl screamed and began to pluck the eyelashes one by one. Showing real German efficiency, she removed every last one before dealing with the other eyelid in the same way. Vanita began to cry at the sight of her sister’s suffering: it was so unfair, she thought – Pushy had won the fair fight, but only, well, her own intervention had accidentally turned the tables. This was awful! But Helga had not finished.

Turning her attention to Pushpa’s luxuriant bush, she started to pluck it out hair by hair. When she had a handful of the curly black hairs, she shoved them roughly in the teenager’s mouth. After a few handfuls, Pushpa had to swallow to avoid being choked. Remorselessly, Helga continued until her victim was entirely plucked. She rose and looked down with contempt at the pathetic snivelling bundle beneath her before slowly, deliberately, squatting and urinating on the girl from her cunt-lips to her eyes. Satisfied, she returned to her captors and submitted to being bound.

Hours later the lorry lurched to a stop and the captives were bundled out, with no attempt at concealment, at a ramshackle airfield surrounded by rusting barbed wire. Pushpa was recovering but had not been allowed to wash, so she stank with her conqueror’s urine. A large, squat cargo plane waited. Soon they were being led into its central compartment and towards three long boxes.

“You’ll be happy to know this compartment is not depressurised when we fly,” Alex explained.

“It’s for livestock, so it’ll suit you.” The victims were bound and gagged: as they were pushed towards the boxes, Vanita saw that her box was labelled, in English, “PIG MEAT”, while that for the medical student Rose read “MEDICAL SUPPLIES”. Vanita was bundled roughly into her box so she was on her back with her legs drawn up. When the lid was shut she could see nothing, but could hear outside noises. Other boxes were loaded on top and soon the plane was in the air.

Vanita tried for a long time to loosen her gag, but failed. With nothing to do, she fell to wondering about her next destination and how it would differ from the castle. At least she was getting away from the beastly Sowerby and from Max’s lust to collect her nipples and bush as trophies. After what seemed hours and some moments of fitful sleep, she heard the sound of hands clapping three times. “Attention, ladies!” Claudio announced. “Can you all hear? I will inform you what we are doing. Soon we land at Napoli, for refuelling and for an extra passenger, another slave for the Sheikh. This girl’s mother was a magistrate who made a big campaign against the Mafia. They got her, of course – very neat, very nice, at a presentation for heroes and heroines who had resisted the Mafia.

The bomb was in the lectern where the magistrate bitch was presenting awards. One tit and one leg went out of a window on the right side of the building; the other tit and leg out of the opposite side, also with some of the heroes and heroines! But this stupid girl was a journalist and dedicated herself to finding out who really was responsible. She thought it was a big right-wing politician who had arranged the awards – and she was right! The Mafia were going to blow her away too, but I told them they could also make some money and screw the girl inside out before the Sheikh got her.” When Claudio fell silent, Vanita realised she was not going to be able to hold in her piss for much longer. She finally gave way and found herself sloshing around in it, the smell steadily growing.

Soon as Claudio had said, the plane was bumping along a runway and coming to a halt. There were confused noises, scraping, a few voices and a loud bump. Presumably the Italian girl was being added to the cargo. Then she heard new, sharp voices – speaking Italian at first, but then asking Jan questions in English. There were sounds of thing being shifted before a young man said: “I tell you it does not make sense! This cargo is for a Muslim country. Here it says “pig meat”, but Muslims do not eat pigs. I know – my girlfriend is Muslim! We must…” There was a crunching thud as if something hard had hit something not quite so hard; the voice stopped and a second later there was another louder thud followed by silence. Then Jan’s voice asked, “Will that be a problem for you?”

“No problem at all,” replied the voice of another, older Italian. “He was an orphan and we can fix the records. Only the girlfriend will ask questions, and we can deal with her!” He laughed.

“Before we silence her, she will make noises for us!”

“Good, then we continue,” replied Jan levelly.

The next time the plane landed, Vanita knew it must have arrived at her new home. She expected to be let out of the box right away, but instead it was simply loaded on some vehicle, causing her urine to slop all over her. She began to sweat as the temperature outside was very high. Finally her box was thrown roughly to the ground and muscular brown hands dragged her out into blazing sunlight and heat which hit her like a heavyweight boxer. She felt huge relief as she saw the other boxes being opened, so that soon Pushpa, Rose, Helga and a black-haired, round-breasted newcomer were blinking at the fierce light and taking in their surroundings – a dusty yard almost surrounded by white single-story buildings. A fussy little plump Arab in a white robe waddled up with a thin black-and-white stick and stared at the new arrivals with disdain. “These slaves all stink!” he rapped out in English. “Yes, you! You stink! Especially this one!”

He tapped Pushpa on the rump. At a sharp order in Arabic, other robed men seized the captives and pulled them into one of the buildings where their bonds were torn off and a jet of ice-cold water was directed at them from a hose. Once the hose was off her, Vanita noticed that the guards gave Rose a far more thorough hosing than was necessary, trying to hit her huge breasts so they wobbled about. Then they were marched, naked, wet and shivering, into a richly-carpeted room hung with hunting tropies and bejewelled swords.

A small Arab in a neat grey suit stood watching them - their new master. Hmm, small neat beard, she thought, aged about 40, civilised-looking, not too frightening… Then the man beckoned her and the small man pushed her forward. The Sheikh examined her just as if she were a new horse in his stables, looking in her mouth, squeezing her breasts, pinching her bottom-cheeks and pushing two fingers up her vagina. He spoke in cultured English:

“Not a virgin, but that’s almost unknown nowadays and anyway, the Count’s had her. No point putting the fingers up, really, but my grandfather used to do that to female slaves, so I try to keep up traditions. Nice shape, nice bum. A policewoman, you say? And we’ve got the uniform? That’ll be awfully jolly fun!” He turned to address Vanita: “ Huge amount of writing on your titties and bottom, though, my dear. Too much. We have an expert who can deal with that and make your skin look good as new. I think we’ll keep the swastika, though – it is rather artistic.

Very well, that’s enough!” He smacked her playfully on the rump and waved the Italian girl forward.

After the examinations, the girls were given iced fruit-juice and bananas to eat, before the fussy little man clapped his hands for attention. The Sheikh gave them all a lecture, welcoming them and telling them they would do well if they obeyed all commands by himself or the “keepers”; then he announced they would be given a tour of his “little playground”.

All five were marched into a kind of buggy, escorted by the Sheikh, the fussy little man and a giant muscular black guard. The little man drove the buggy out of the courtyard into a big enclosure with a high wire fence. Inside were a number of small huts and other structures, each with a bit of bare sandy ground and its own high fence. The buggy stopped at one enclosure where slim women of Mediterranean or Arab appearance wandered or lay around, some staring at the visitors with vacant eyes.

“Antelopes,” the Sheikh explained. That’s where you’re going, Italian Missy. Oh, pardon me, I should explain. My father kept a zoo. I much preferred women to animals, so I got rid of the animals and brought in females, but I kept the animal housing. We find human females very soon take on the characteristics of the animals they’re supposed to be, though they can change when we take them out of the pen.”

The buggy next stopped at an enclosure where two African girls wallowed in a muddy pond to cope with the fierce heat. “Hippos, of course,” the Sheikh announced. “You’ll join them,” he told Rose, squeezing her breast encouragingly. Helga learnt she would become an elephant and be placed with several fat white or pale brown women. Vanita and Pushpa exchanged glances, wondering what fate was in store for them.

The buggy drove on and stopped in front of a dusty enclosure holding two tall white women. One lay propped up against a bale of straw apparently half-asleep, while the other paced around aimlessly. On the ground lay a torn, reddened corpse of some animal, possibly a pig or calf. “Lion enclosure,” explained the Sheikh. “One of these ladies is Czech, the other American. Both showed fight when my boys picked them up. They soon learnt that if they didn’t tear raw flesh they’d starve. I have got them to eat one of the other girls who’d misbehaved – starvation is a great persuader! So far they won’t actually kill another human, but they will soon.” When the buggy set off again, Pushpa and Vanita exchanged relieved glances. Soon it stopped at an enclosure with especially high fencing.

Inside they saw numbers of rope-ladders, poles suspended from ropes and planks jutting into the enclosure at a great height. At the back was a hut on stilts which one woman was entering by swinging on a rope. All the women were brown-skinned and fruit peel lay around. “The Monkey House!” the Sheikh announced beaming. Home from now on for you two ladies, although all of you will be called in from time to time for a spot of fun. But before any of you move in, we have some things to do to each of you. We’ll be taking some of the writing off you for a start.”

As the buggy headed back to the main complex, Vanita considered her new fate. She could not tell how she would fare in the monkey house, though being sent there was certainly an insult. As for the Sheikh, he did not seem to be an idealistic fanatic like the Count or Max, but more of a nasty-minded sex-obsessed schoolboy who’d suddenly found he could make all his dreams come real, make the sexy teacher strip and bend over, make the schoolgirls open their legs…and the exaggerated old-fashioned upper-class English he spoke reinforced that impression.

She guessed he wouldn’t be too bad if she kept on the right side of him – but schoolboys could be very cruel.

For the next three weeks Vanita was kept tied up alone in a small room with a hutch for a bedroom. From time to time keepers came and looked at her, took photos of her or threw her fruit and nuts. As she had been unconscious when the surgery was done, it was a while before she realised – by feeling her bottom gingerly – that a new stamp had been added in Arabic script. She became incredibly bored and listless, wondering what was happening to Pushpa and Rose and almost wishing someone would show an interest in her. She learnt nothing useful about her new home except that most slaves spent much time serving the Sheikh and his men for sex or menial tasks, but always had to return to their pens.

Any clothes and other personal effects the Sheikh chose to keep were stored in the main complex, not in the pens, so presumably her uniform was safe. Twice Claudio came in to look at her, but he ignored her attempts to make conversation and merely looked her up and down with a satisfied expression.

TO BE CONTINUED

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