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Collected by Djian
updated june 5 - 2009

Colette
Story One

Copyright (C) "Mark Lloyd" 1992

Warning and Disclaimer - Please Read First

This story contains descriptions of non-consensual sex, punishment and confinement. It is intended to be read as a fictional work, and should be treated as such. The author accepts no responsibility whatsoever for any damage arising from this story.

The purpose of this piece of fiction, as is explained in the author's notes at the end of the story, is to present a more realistic view of bondage than would normally be portrayed in both the physical and emotional senses. Hence some of the situations may seem unpleasant. For more information, read the author's notes.

This story is a piece of adult fiction, and should under no account be viewed by minors, nor be made available to them in any way.

Copyright and Distribution

This piece of fiction is Copyright "Mark Lloyd" 1992. This file is being distributed either via Tammad Rimilia's World-Wide-Web site, or directly from the author via email. Permission is also given for copies of this document to be copied, without charge, to friends and acquaintances. However, commercial use of this story, or distribution to any other forum with the exception of those listed above, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

Release and Revision Numbers
Release One, Revision Zero, Date Sunday 8th December 1991
Release One, Revision One, Date Monday 7th December 1992

Story One
Introduction

If was often that Karem Enclave was the greatest monument to decadence that the human race had ever conceived. Towers of gold and platinum hung suspended on invisible fields of repulsion, each joined by a spider's web of elevated walkways and covered promenades. Gardens overflowed in a display of carefully arranged natural chaos, and the sound of the wind whistling about the spires carried the hint of distant music and exotic song. It had also been said that it was the most superficially beautiful place in the entire universe, and whoever said that was right.

Karem was all a fake. Certainly the gold and platinum of the towers was real, but the metals themselves carried little value for a culture that could turn elemental hydrogen into anything it needed - or desired.

Desire was everything in Karem Enclave. It housed the richest, the most powerful, and the most depraved of the galaxy's citizens. There was no law in the Enclave, as there was no crime amongst people who already had everything they could ever want, and quite a bit more beside.

Wealth was not the main force in the Enclave. Many humans throughout the galaxy were wealthy, but would never live in Karem. The Enclave did not value money, perhaps its only virtue. Karem valued power, and there was no doubt that the incumbents of Karem were the most powerful of all the sentients the galaxy.

Karem Enclave was not an enclave of humans, but an enclave of absolute power. The money was an incidental side-effect of that power, as the residents of the Enclave rarely needed to buy anything that they could obtain through means as legal as they were immoral. Legality meant nothing to people who could change the laws.

So Karem Enclave existed, surrounded by a protective no- man's land of jungle and mangrove swamp, well shielded and patrolled by the Enclave guard . The two kilometre strip took the tide of humanity beating on the walls of the Enclave, and kept it at bay behind a cleansing barrier of trees within which lurked death for any trespasser. These jungles served another purpose too, as it was into them that the waste and excrement poured from the towers floating above, and the occasional victim of the Masters' too-savage lusts. Such behaviour was merely considered bad manners in Karem, a faux pas at best, because as the residents of the Enclave knew, nothing could harm them.

The Enclave guards patrolled the walkways: quiet, unobtrusive and deadly; going about their task with the single-minded efficiency that only an Enclave guard could have. Being conceived in a laboratory, genetically modified, augmented, neutered and brainwashed, they loved the Enclave with all their being, and each would give its own to protect their home. Many times small attacks had been mounted against the Enclave, and every time they had been repelled by the daemonic fury of the guards. They were not a force to be underestimated, and few people who did survived their mistake.

So the Enclave went on, and the tides of resentful humanity bumped and struggled about it. They saw the wealth, and the decadence. They saw money being spent making the sickening opulence even more opulent. They saw acts of cruelty and sadism trample over any concept of fairness and justice. And above all, they saw anger. Seething, barely restrained, anger.

* * *

+ Note that where a word or phrase appears with a notation symbol, this denotes that the word appears in the glossary at the end of the story.

Chapter One: The Birth of Slave-Collar

White light and the bitter smell of antiseptic. Cold and clean sheets. Impersonal hands upon her body. Circlets of metal about her wrists. Immobility and the sting of a needle penetrating her skin...

Colette opened her eyes and squinted against the glare. She blinked against the tears and looked again at the sun directly overhead.

She was in a hospital; that much was obvious. Her mind sought memories. Ah yes, the police station and being arrested for indecency after being found unconscious in the street. A charge of gross public affront brought against her. Summary conviction. Life sentence to be a prisoner of the Enclave. A doctor with a needle. Blackness.

With some difficulty she sat up on the bed, and fell back as the chains on her wrists snapped taut and held her down. She was chained to a medical restraint table, unable to sit up.

Obviously she was in the Enclave. She had seen the crystal roofs of the Enclave's outer ring from her cage they called a prison cell, each spire glittering in the morning rays of sunrise. One of those crystal domes was directly overhead now, covering the room in which she lay. Colette turned her head to follow the curve of the roof the the floor, seeing the vast panorama of the open sea stretching before her through the clear crystal dome.

She surmised that she was in one of the western towers over the sea: the most prestigious part of the Enclave. She was in some sort of hospital room, chained to a slab. There was nobody else in the room. Taking stock of the situation did not help Colette's state of mind at all.

Next item on the list: herself. She was naked, a fact which strangely did not overly concern her. There was the blue mark of a convicted criminal about two centimetres above her left nipple. Above it were two black dots about five millimetres in diameter.

The mark was the mark of a criminal: it was tattooed on all convicted felons and could not be removed except by deep and quite illegal surgery. It was the law to have it visible always. Obviously some perverted little court official thought where he or she had put Colette's mark was funny. Not, she mused, that she would be wearing too much clothing in the Enclave, if the stories Colette had heard of it were true.

The points were called det-ticks , and gain four of those and the penalty was a life of exile on some outer-fringe asteroid where you stayed until you died, which usually meant about two years. Colette had two. Quietly, she cursed under her breath.

"Misdemeanour noted," said an amplified female voice, almost certainly synthetic yet with a tinge of emotion. "Two demerit points awarded to Alpha Colette Mitchell."

Colette was startled. Obviously she was being monitored on audio, and probably watched as well. She would have to be very careful what she said or did. Two demerit points already. Colette had a sneaking suspicion that she would come to regret them very shortly.

"That is quite an achievement," said another voice. Looking to the other side Colette saw a woman standing there. "Two demerits and you have only been awake two minutes. You never know, it might even be a record."

"How long have you been there?" Colette asked.

"Not long," replied the woman most unhelpfully. She pressed a red stud on a control box attached to her belt. Colette noticed idly that the hundred or so buttons on the unit were unlabelled: probably a precaution against revolt of the prisoners. With a click, Colette's restraints fell from her wrists to dangle from the bench.

"My name," said the woman amicably, "is Vivienne Ratforth. You may call me 'Mistress', 'Mistress Ratforth', 'Madam' or 'Madam Ratforth.' Take your pick. You may not call me 'Vivienne,' nor may you call me 'Ratforth.' When speaking to me you are to be polite and courteous. Rudeness is severely punished. Do I make myself clear, Prisoner Mitchell?" The whole delivery was said with a smile on her lips, but not in her eyes.

"Perfectly, Mistress Ratforth." Colette was not stupid, and answered as carefully and obediently as she could.

"Excellent!" The eyes smiled this time. "I am the chief prison caretaker here and I am responsible for each girl in this residence. I am also responsible for the punishment of recalcitrant and disobedient girls, and that is a task I enjoy a great deal." The smile was still there.

"Yes, Mistress Ratforth."

"So we understand one another?" the woman asked.

Colette nodded.

"The answer is 'Yes, Mistress Ratforth' or 'No, Mistress Ratforth.' Nodding your head is not an acceptable answer, Prisoner Mitchell."

"Yes, Mistress Ratforth." Under the circumstances, Colette's pride tasted much better than a punishment probably would.

"Excellent!" The woman said, the smile never wavering. "I see that we are going to get along quite well, my girl."

Colette stared at the woman. Ratforth was in her mid- thirties, brown haired with just a tinge of red (probably dyed), and with the figure of a street-fighter. Colette had no doubt that in a fight it would be her jailer that would win without staining.

Ratforth wore a red leather top with a plunging neckline that terminated just above her navel. Around her neck, in the same red leather as the top, was a high, stiff collar with a small lock at the front. Colette had seen them before: neck protectors : designed to stop the wearer being choked in a fight. Over her legs the woman wore leather pants: colored the same shade of red as the top. A white belt was tightly buckled about her slim middle. On the left of this belt was attached the control box, and on her right was a chrome rod about a centimetre round and forty long. A set of handcuffs dangled from the front of the wide belt. Ratforth's hands were gloved in black leather, and on her feet were creeper boots .

For her part the woman seemed to be doing precisely the same thing to Colette: taking in her shape, her body, making opinions, and rating the girl. She saw a rich-kid gone bad: a girl who would be easily shocked by what Ratforth would delight in showing her. But above all of this Ratforth saw innocence, and this attracted the woman greatly. If Ratforth had a hobby, it was the destruction of innocence, particularly innocence bred in better circumstances than she had been.

"Mistress," Colette ventured. "May I ask a question?"

"That depends on the question," her jailer responded, moving closer to the girl now sitting on the bench. "Ask and I will decide."

That was a loaded response. Colette felt very small beneath the woman standing over her. It was not the mere proximity of her, but the look that occasionally flashed in her eyes: the look of a predator about to pounce on its prey. But there was also desire and lust in that gaze, which worried the sexually innocent Colette even more.

"Somebody said that I have already earned two demerits. What are they?"

Ratforth smiled; obviously the question was acceptable. "We have a system of ratings here: demerits and credits. You start at zero. If you ever get to ten demerits, you go down a level. If you have earned to ten credits, you go up. Now you, as a girl of good breeding, are an Alpha which is the top rating already. But you get two demerits. Lose another eight and you become a Beta , which is a house servant. There is another level too, called Gamma which the peasants start at. They are used in ways you don't ever want to get involved in, but since each demerit warrants a punishment anyway, most girls are very careful, even of just one little point."

"So two demerits are a lot to lose?"

"Oh no. The computer was being kind: five is what I would have given you. However, what is done is done. You will still be punished for your two." The jailer seemed very happy about the thought of punishing Colette. "Get up, and hands behind your back."

Quickly Colette obeyed, feeling the cold metal of the handcuffs pinion her wrists behind her back.

"Comfortable?"

"No, Mistress Ratforth." The thought of lying had not come into Colette's head: which was just as well.

"Good." Ratforth's response was not one that Colette found unexpected.

The jailer put her hand on Colette's shoulder and gently propelled the handcuffed girl towards the door, which opened to let the pair through. Beyond it was a corridor which seemed to stretch to infinity on either side. A thousand amused jailers and a thousand confused prisoners stared at Colette.

"Mirrors," explained Ratforth. "The south tower is full of them. It can be very confusing at first."

In fact the hallway was only ten metres long, and terminated at each end with a spiral corridor that ran about the tower. Again mirrors created an effect that made them appear as if they were standing in a very long corridor, though this time it was apparently the case. "A very clever effect. When you think you are looking along the corridor, you are actually looking around the spiral. You walk counter- clockwise to go down."

Both jailer and slave walked counter-clockwise. On Colette's right she had a view of the other other towers that formed the home of her owner. Ratforth explained that each was styled differently. The southern tower - which was their current location - used mirrors and illusions to create a mystical effect. The northern tower was all wood panelling and furs. The eastern tower was the tower of sunset, so it was gold and platinum, chrome and glass. The western tower was sunrise tower, and it was marble and stone. Ratforth explained that no matter where you were, you could tell which tower you were in by the decor. Although the cluster of four towers was huge, it was but one of many in the Enclave, and by no means the largest residence.

On the spiral to the lower levels Colette saw nobody else, though she could not escape the feeling that she was being watched from every angle. It made her ultra-conscious of her nudity, and gave her the desire to cover herself, an option frustratingly denied by the handcuffed wrists behind her back. Angrily she wondered if this had been her jailer's intent, as Colette was certain that she posed no physical threat to the woman. Or perhaps the woman was enjoying dominating her charge? Or perhaps both. Colette doubted that a question along these lines would be considered acceptable.

They walked on in silence, her jailer two steps ahead and Colette unconsciously heeling her like a reluctant puppy- dog. Eventually the windows and mirrors ended, the spiral corridor levelled out and terminated in a dead-end.

The same voice that had given Colette her demerits said: "Jailer Ratforth and Prisoner Mitchell. Confirm."

"Confirmed for both," replied Ratforth.

With a hum, the mirror at the end of the corridor slid back, opening the portal to the room beyond.

The room was some sort of workshop, that Colette determined instantly. There was the organised clutter, the much needed tools placed within reach.

Colette felt the firm hand of her jailer pushing her into the room, and did not resist. There were two other girls in the room, both marked as a prisoner. One had two det-ticks, and the other had three: prisoners like herself. Other than Colette and Ratforth, they were the first people she had seen since awakening in the Enclave.

"May I introduce Beta 529 and Beta 541?" said Ratforth. "My assistants."

Both girls inclined their heads towards Colette, as that was the only greeting they could give. The lower half of their faces was encased in a black plastic mask, and at the front of this mask was a plug over their mouth which Colette surmised would reveal teeth held apart by a metal tube. She had seen similar muzzles when she was at the police prison. They were supposedly for the purpose of allowing necessary dental work to be performed on prisoners, but the police, both male and female, had other uses for a device that allowed something to be inserted in the mouth of a prisoner and yet denied the power of biting. One girl, Colette remembered with a shudder and a distinct feeling of nausea, had her tongue tied to an overhead cord, pulling the girl onto tiptoes, while she was lashed with an electric whip. Another girl, an 'accomplice,' looked on while one of the guards thrust his penis in and out of her pinioned mouth. Colette had no doubt that Betas 529 and 541 had experienced similar abuse.

Each Beta wore a yellow halter of fabric, which ran from a green peter-pan collar locked with a padlock at the throat like some bizarre cameo, down to a belt similarly locked with a golden padlock. Their breasts were concealed by a piece of cloth which was secured below their breasts, and which buttoned above them. The one called 529 had this flap open revealing firm young breasts, and the other's was closed. Both wore fetters about their ankles linked by thirty centimetres of heavy chain.

Over the black collars of their blouses were leather collars chaining them to the opposite walls of the workshop. There was enough chain for both to reach the central table, but not enough to touch each other.

"Betas are banned from any form of sexual activity," explained Ratforth. "You see before you one of my more interesting ways of ensuring that they obey this ban." When Colette looked, she saw that each girl's labia was closed by four small padlocks, effectively shutting that opening. Although Colette had heard of such things before, the sight of it was shocking.

However, what Ratforth had just admitted was interesting, as it told Colette that the surveillance was not perfect if such measures were necessary. Under normal circumstances she would have questioned Ratforth, but Colette was certain that questions of this nature would fall into the "unacceptable" category. Having seen what Ratforth described as "interesting," Colette decided that discovering what was "amusing" was an activity she would delay as long as she could.

As she walked forwards, Colette noticed that the bench was more like a gynaecological examining table. Her suspicions were confirmed when Colette's hands were unchained and Ratforth ordered her to lie upon it.

The slab was cold, and uncomfortable. The two assistants came over, one taking her feet and strapping them into opposing stirrups at each side of the table, the other Beta similarly restraining her wrists. When done, Colette found herself completely pinioned, and obscenely widely splayed. Worse still was the avid fascination of the Betas and Ratforth as they glared at her exposed crotch. Colette squirmed.

"We call this the preparation," explained Ratforth, "and it is no more than moderately painful. If it hurts I have no objection to a soft cry of pain, but anything more and you will be punished."

There was that word again: punished. It seemed to be popping up everywhere. Do this and you will be punished. Don't do this and you will be punished. Ask for a list of things for which you are punished and you will be punished. She wondered what it was like to be a Gamma, whose life - according to things she had heard whispered in the prison during the dead of night - was continual punishment. Colette determined not to find out first-hand.

Although Colette could not imagine Ratforth as a doctor, the jailer seemed to know something of medical examinations as she poked at Colette, and plunged every orifice of the girl's body with a variety of instruments that looked as if they came straight from a modern hospital. They probably were, Colette mused, as the sort of money she saw about her could buy any number of hospitals if it so wished.

"We did get a medical scan from the police," explained her jailer as she examined Colette's ear, "but we don't really trust them. Much easier to do it this way. Besides, medi- scans only show disease and injury. They do not show the little details that a close examination reveals. For instance, I see that as a little girl you had an ear infection."

"I had several," confirmed Colette. "When I was thirteen."

"Hmm." Eventually Ratforth worked her way down from the head, to the lower orifices. Plumbing her vagina was uncomfortable, but the anus was just plain painful. After what seemed like an eternity , the jailer was finished.

"I see that you were raped anally."

"That's what I told the police," said Colette, seeing a glimmer of hope. "They did not believe me. They did not even bother to check. It proves that I am innocent."

"Oh," said Ratforth in a most disinterested fashion. "They all say that. Of course, most of them are right, but neither the outer-ring justice department, the Enclave penal service nor myself give a damn about guilt or innocence."

Colette expected no less, though that did little to check the surge of anger. What she had seen as a way out of this had turned into proof of a callous bureaucracy. No, it was more than that. It was a corruption. Deliberate. Uncaring. Malfunctioning. Evil.

"You see, Mitchell," said Ratforth putting the instruments away and reviewing the recording of the examination on a monitor, "you are the upper-class. They treat you well. But others aren't, and they are treated much worse. Think about that. Many of the Gammas you will meet never did a single thing wrong, except to be attractive. The Enclave sends out recruiting squads to find women. If they find what they are after their targets are framed. Lesbianism is usually the charge. Or indecency. Or impure thoughts. Mind you, most end up breaking all three once they get in here, whether they want to or not, but that's what justice is to the masses."

"But, that's a mockery..." began Colette.

"That's life, Mitchell," Ratforth replied viciously. "And from now on you are going to have to get used to compromising your nice, comfortable moralities just to save your worthless skin. Here you sink or swim. Opt for morality, and you sink. Think about it."

Colette said nothing. She was too angry, but too smart to show it.

"Look at these two," Ratforth said, pointing to her aides. "Do you think that this is fair?"

"Not really," said Colette in a very low voice. Then as an afterthought she added, "Mistress Ratforth."

"No, nor would I. But your opinions and wants and needs now mean nothing. No, they mean less than nothing. Any peasant in the outer-ring can have an opinion that means nothing. But you, my fine little whore, aren't even allowed an opinion. Think about it. You might survive better that way."

The two other girls under discussion were busying themselves at Colette's side, pretending to be oblivious to the conversation. Each carried a tray full of antiseptic and proceeded to scrub Colette down. The solution was perfumed, and smelt quite pleasant. Perhaps she would have enjoyed the situation, were it not for the scratchy brushes and the pressure the girls used on her bare skin.

Ratforth douched her with a similar antiseptic solution, and then used a brush like a huge pipe-cleaner within her privates. It was an infinitely humiliating experience, and Colette cried all of the way through. The antiseptic burned inside her, and the brush left her feeling like the lowest form of life in the universe. Worst of all was Ratforth's obvious enjoyment of the procedure.

Colette was also shaven, an electric razor reducing her blonde pubic-tufts to a mere fringe. Then they attacked the fringe, shaping it into an obscene love-heart about her brush-reddened lower lips.

Finally, they released Colette and performed a similar washing procedure on her back. Then she was towelled and sprayed with a plasti-coat , which left her skin shimmering as it dried.

"We must find a name for you," said Ratforth as they waited for the coat of plastic covering her skin to set. It always left her feeling vaguely ill for an hour or so, but it did provide protection against skin diseases and the many species of parasites that live on and in human skin.

They had also injected her with a pellet which Colette knew would have an even greater effect on her body. Once injected into her system, her menstrual cycle would cease for a year, and for as long as it was active, she would not have periods, nor be able to conceive children. It was the ultimate irony, Colette thought. Sex slaves were not meant to have periods, which were a natural part of her femineity, yet they expected Colette to be attractively female, except in the ways that biologically counted.

"What is wrong with Colette, Mistress?" Ever hopeful, Colette mused to herself, but she had to try.

"Too boring. How about Mouthy?" Ratforth smiled. "Pretty Tits? Frigid? All quite accurate and descriptive."

"No thank you, Mistress."

"I do not think that it is your choice, Prisoner Mitchell," snapped Ratforth, ultra-formal. "I have it! Prisoner Mitchell, I name you Slave-Collar."

"You couldn't..."

"Silence, Slave-Collar," ordered Ratforth. "From now on speaking out of turn will result in five demerit points. You have two already, so any more would be very dangerous."

Colette - Slave-Collar - had forgotten about those. She grimly decided that if she was going to survive in the Enclave, then she better get used to the humiliating name.

The coat had dried and Colette was ordered to stand by the table to be dressed. She could still feel the pellet at her wrist, though that sensation would fade fast. Its presence was yet another intrusion.

The first thing was the harness, which surrounded her neck, breasts and waist in flexible metal. When the two girls had wrapped her within the device, rivets were placed and vapour-welded into place. A strap was left dangling down behind her back: between her legs.

Commenting on the harness as it was riveted around her neck, Ratforth had said, RA slave collar for Colette! Or is it a slave collar for Slave-Collar?S Colette decided that the question was rhetorical. Fortunately, this time, she was right.

Next came the blouse. Apparently everybody wore the blouse. Betas wore yellow, Gammas wore black, and Alphas wore white. The color of the collar indicated the task of the wearer, but for Alphas there was only the pink collar - the color of a prostitute.

Although the blouse looked light it incorporated a thick metal band that wrapped tightly about the throat and buttoned up with strong metal securers, which themselves clipped to the riveted collarband underneath. Ratforth warned her that to be caught wearing the collar open was a crime carrying a ten point demerit, one which would instantly drop her to Beta level.

Slave-Collar felt her throat, and the rising flush that the constrictive band induced. As she tried to turn her head Colette found that something in the collar tightened like a vice about her throat, garrotting her.

"Ah, yes," said Ratforth. "I forgot to tell you. The collar is designed to keep you looking nice and submissive like any pink-girl should. Turn your head or lift your chin and you will find it very hard to breathe. You'll also find it makes giving fellatio... quite interesting. Oh, and if you are one of those girls who are into autoerotic strangulation, IUd advise against using the collar to get off. The computer will notice, and it will bring it to my notice, and then I will bring my displeasure to your hide's notice when I whip you to the edge of consciousness. I am sure you understand what I am saying."

Slave-Collar endured this in silence; she hardly had any choice in the matter. Unfortunately, Ratforth was not finished yet. "These are your two punishments," she said, holding up a pair of chromed phalluses. "One for each hole. I do not suggest that you struggle."

Slave-Collar was forced to lick the two huge devices before they were slid into her crotch. Their huge diameters stretched her vagina and anus, painfully going where no such device had gone before. She managed not to scream, but a few errant whimpers escaped her lips. The dangling strap was passed through a slot at the base of each phallus, excruciatingly tightened, and locked with two padlocks to her belt. It was only the remnants of Colette's pride that stifled a scream from Slave-Collar.

"Lovely," said Ratforth. "Slave-Collar, you are now the picture of radiance."

Slave-Collar did not feel very radiant. She felt sore, humiliated, and very vulnerable. Her hands sought her crotch, but she could not even relieve the pressure of the strap separating her lower-lips and thrusting those obscene rods inside her privates. Colette's anus was even worse: a continual stinging agony, but Ratforth had been clever than the torture girl had suspected, and the devices had a treat in store that she had not expected. The rods were hollow, and concealed heavy weights pivoted on springs at one end. Every step Colette took caused the weights to swing and hit the sides of their containers, jiggling the intruding rod within her. With mounting horror Colette realised that she was becoming aroused by the devices raping her, and she could do not a thing to stop that.

"Insidious, are they not, Slave-Collar?" Ratforth asked.

Slave-Collar started to cry. Colette wanted to scream in fury. Neither did. Ratforth just smiled.

* * *

The first days had been the hardest. Colette had been shown to her room: a two by three meter cell with a ceiling so high that it was lost in the gloom. Lighting was provided through a hole in the roof, but it was so far away that the eye could not gauge the distance with any certainty. Her bed was too small, and uncomfortably hard.

Ratforth had told her that a better room came with increased credit points, but considering her current performance, Colette should not expect one soon.

The first night was physical agony. The band between her legs started to chafe, an itching pain was building inside her by the minute, and no matter how little she moved the bed seemed to shift under her, jiggling that hateful internal weight locked inside her loins. This caused her to sweat, which wet the band, which made the chafing worse. It was a vicious cycle, and one from which there was no escape without the key to the padlock of the crotch band.

Slave-Collar - No! Colette! Her name was Colette! - sat on the bed, her legs as wide apart as she could manage: an obscene position for any woman, particularly one impaled on metal spikes. She took the padlock and studied it. It was fashioned from gold, though when she scratched it she did not leave a mark. An alloy then, and a strong one. The hasp was most likely reinforced with carbon mono-filament, and no human was not going to get past that unaided.

"Interfering with your chains will cost you two demerit points, Slave-Collar," said a booming female voice. Colette nearly jumped off the bed (jiggle, jiggle, gasp.) "This is your first and last warning."

"Sorry," Colette meekly said to the disembodied computer voice. "I won't do it again." Her subservience disgusted her, but Colette's self-preservation instincts overrode her pride. She shifted her head, and felt the choker band close tighter around her encollared throat.

"Do not touch your collar, Slave-Collar," the voice said again. Guiltily Colette realised she was running her fingers under the metal band to relieve the choking discomfort there. "Two demerit points. Punishment will occur now."

Two things happened. The first was a noise from behind her neck, and the collar closed tighter. She gasped but with an effort of will stopped her hands from tearing at the front button. Slave-Collar could breathe, but with difficulty. The second thing was inside her punished crotch: the dildos started to vibrate.

"No, NO! Please!" she squealed, Colette's voice no longer that of a woman, but of a little girl. "I am already being punished enough! Stop it! Please!"

"All matters will be brought to the attention of Madam Ratforth in the morning, Slave-Collar," replied that distant and imperious voice. "In her absence I am empowered to take any action I feel necessary to control and punish."

"No!!!!"

Perhaps the computer had been programmed with compassion, but probably it recognised that the level of hysteria in Slave-Collar's voice approach the level where restraint was needed. In either case, the computer took action. Colette heard the hiss of sedating gas enter the chamber, and tasted the cold metallic flavour on her tongue. Her muscles relaxed, her mind retreated, she felt as if she were floating...

Everything was so hazy, like a distant city seen through a light fog. Impersonally, she felt her mind lift from her body, and Colette turned to look at Slave-Collar lying on the bed. Colette knew that she was walking the dreamscape, but that didn't seem important.

The prisoner's legs were splayed in a disgusting fashion, revealing the metal rods visibly pumping and vibrating within her. Every few minutes a spasm would rock the prisoner's body, but the mind that was Colette Mitchell received none of the agony that the body called Slave-Collar was subject to. That slave's mouth was open, and drooling saliva on the pillows, the collar cutting into her throat turning the girl's cheeks pink (she noted now, distant and disinterested, that the collar was only partially constricting her airflow, not her blood-flow. She might choke but it would be from lack of air only.) The harnessed breasts bore the mark of a prisoner, a miscreant, a slave. Colette was disgusted at the sight beneath her: a subservient animal undeserving of her compassion and justice; a plaything of men and women; to be used and discarded.

As the hallucination continued, the body called Slave-Collar squirmed and pulsed in orgasms of pain and suffering. The breaking of Slave-Collar's body was complete, but the breaking Colette Mitchell's mind was only just beginning.

* * *

On the third day, they stopped the motors in the dildos, and loosened the collar about Colette's neck. Slave-Collar was disgustingly grateful for this, and Colette silently pledged revenge.

Of course, the computer had told Ratforth about the night's happenings, and the jailer had come down to gloat over her captive, and then she locked Colette away for another two days. Swallowing was difficult around the tightened collar, and for two days she could only urinate, and even then with difficulty. Ratforth had shown her how to pull down the toilet in her room: a machine designed for prisoners who had no hands, feet or tongue available for the task. It also served to wash her, though urination was an hour-long job about the giant phallus occupying the cavity between her thighs.

To compensate for the anal plug, her diet (breakfast and dinner only) consisted of tablets and a fluid injection every evening before she went to bed. Colette suspected that the infusion contained more than IVS fluid, as she fell asleep soon afterwards, and dreamed spectacularly.

Slave-Collar's dreams - as it was Slave-Collar that she became after the injection - were frustrating. She was in that spiral corridor, running towards a door that she knew would lead her to freedom, and yet as much as she ran it never seemed to get any closer. The door to freedom would taunt her to catch it, it would promise her absence from pain. No agony, no humiliation. "Come on Slave-Collar! Be Colette again, if you can catch me! Run Slave-Collar! Run fast and all of this will be over!"

The door had Ratforth's voice.

* * *

Chapter Two: Truth

Two days later, her punishment ended. The strap was unlocked and the phalluses permanently removed. Slave- Collar saw it as a return to absence from pain, and real food! Colette saw it as a bargaining counter. Ratforth would demand much more from Slave-Collar in return.

It transpired that it was actually no change of heart on the part of Ratforth that gained Colette's loins their freedom, but that the jailer needed the devices for some other poor girl. Colette wished whoever would contain them the best of luck.

Unfortunately, the crotch strap went back, though not as tight. It "protected her virginity", as if she was a virgin after the rape by those two chrome poles. It was Beta 529 - now ungagged - that told her the real reason.

"You see, the strap is to protect you from the other girls. They officially frown on lesbianism, as they think it wastes us for the men." She looked down at her sex closed shut by golden hearts. "Those that can have sex, that is."

"Can't she hear us in here?" asked Colette. "We'll really be in for it if we're caught," added Slave-Collar.

"Not unless she is in the room," 529 answered. "The bitch does not allow any eavesdropping device of any kind in here, and she has had the walls shielded from spy-beams. Not even Guardian has sensors in here."

"Guardian?"

"Guardian is the house AI ," explained 529. "She is okay, as long as Ratforth has not given her any orders concerning you. Then she's just as bitchy as the queen fairy herself."

"Are there any orders concerning me?"

529 looked at 541 - still gagged for some trivial misdemeanour. "Yeah. She told Guardian to be really tough on you. That's why you got the extra two demerit points. Down to six now! Shit, kid. I'd be careful unless you want yourself padlocked shut."

"Yeah," said Colette disgusted. "I'll be careful. But what does she have against me?"

"Oh," said 529. "That's simple. You are from a well-off family. You had a good upbringing. You are extremely attractive. But above all else you are an innocent. She gets her kicks out of destroying innocence."

That figured. "So if I were a little less innocent..."

"Forget that idea," 529 shot back. "Not a hope: Guardian will see through any deception immediately. She is constantly monitoring vocal stress and intonation. Guardian knows instantly when you are faking. Yeah, that's another thing. If you get screwed, don't ever, ever fake an orgasm. If you don't have one, you just get punished and a couple of demerits. If you fake it, you're in for some heavy punishment, and a drop in level."

"Great," sighed Colette. "No matter which way I turn she's there holding a whip - or something worse."

529 laughed. "The whip is the least of your problems."

"So what does our Lord and Mistress want to do with me?"

529 though about this. "Usually it is just plain sex: oral, anal, sometimes vaginal. She has all sorts of devices to allow her to sexually use you whatever way she wants. She wants your body, but with you there is something more. She wants your mind as well. Give her that, and you are finished, Slave-Collar. Finished."

* * *

Colette earned her first credit point a week after that. They took her from the south tower to the north tower, where there was a party in progress. All sorts of politicians, lawyers and bankers were there, and each group was true to the form established for thousands of years. The politicians were seducing as many people of the appropriate (or inappropriate) sex as they could find, the lawyers were boasting of their success, and the bankers were drinking themselves under the table.

Ratforth dumped Colette in a room, stripped her of the halter, and chained her like a dog to the ring at the side of the bed. Her collar had enough slack to reach the bed, though Colette did not dare climb onto the mattress. She pulled down a pillow, curled up into a ball, and dozed off.

A feathery touch on her thigh awoke her. A month before she would have shot through the wall from the unexpected intimate caress, but Slave-Collar's training came to the fore and she obediently parted her legs and opened her eyes.

He was in his forties, brown haired, chocolate skinned, green eyed. To Slave-Collar his name was "Master". He was handsome, but not overwhelmingly so, a banker (though somewhat more sober than most of his fellows), born on Terra somewhere in North Africa, educated at Oxford, married, two children also bankers. He was a friend of her owner.

He asked her how she had come to be there. Fortunately she did not tell the truth. 529 had told her of the difference between acceptable lies and punishable truths. Her plight became one of an excessive party resulting in her arrest for indecency. He tut-tutted at her, and affectionately patted her curly blonde mane of hair. As a banker, he understood alcoholism.

Then he took her, quickly and without any preparation. She stifled a cry as his penis drove into her dry vagina, and then pumped her in agony for several minutes. He came, withdrew, and kissed her; saliva mingling with tears on her cheek. Then he turned over and went to sleep, leaving the girl lying on the cold wooden floor with a thin rug to cover her.

Slave-Collar cried herself to sleep, terrified at the thought of the punishment that awaited her failure to achieve orgasm with this man. Colette cried herself to sleep too, but it was because she felt like the most dirty thing in the universe. She had been raped again, and every time that happened a little more of Colette Mitchell disappeared.

Morning came and the banker was gone. Ratforth told the shivering slave that he had spoken well of her, and that the jailer had decided to award one credit point for her performance. Guardian was strangely quiet about the whole matter.

* * *
Chapter Three: Guardian

"Slave-Collar," said a quiet voice in the night.

Colette awoke and looked for the speaker, before realising that it was Guardian.

"What is it, Guardian?" she said tiredly. As the AI had never spoken conversationally to her before, Colette was unsure how to address it.

"Who told you my name?" it asked her.

Colette debated as to whether she should tell the machine about 529; it might lead to other questions best left unanswered. However, she could not think of a reasonable lie, nor could she see herself tricking the AI.

"Beta 529 told me you were called Guardian," Colette answered carefully. "She said that she liked you."

The voice was quiet for a time, then it continued: "I want to talk to you about Madam Ratforth."

"What about her?" she asked the voice. Like so many people Colette found it very hard to talk to disembodied voices. Apparently Guardian noticed as on the wall opposite the bed appeared the face of a woman: dignified, asian and maternal, yet pretty and open. The sort of face you could confide in. Colette was not tricked so easily.

"I have noticed that her orders to me concerning you are getting unusually obsessive and vicious. For instance, tomorrow she is planning to show you the Gammas in the hope that it will terrify you. This behaviour is not healthy for you, her or I for that matter. As the protector of the house I am starting to get worried."

"I don't know anything about that," Colette hedged.

"I sense strong vocal patterns, Slave-Collar."

"My name is Colette," she said to the woman on the wall. It was an excellent image, though the face was too wooden, almost a caricature of movement.

The face looked sad. Cartoon sad. "I am sorry, but Colette Mitchell no longer exists. She was deleted from the citizen's register on Terra three weeks ago. The only record concerning you is an entry in on StockNET , detailing a human animal called Slave-Collar."

Colette closed her eyes and started to weep. This she should have expected. Colette Mitchell was a non-person to the authorities; she did not exist. All that was left was an animal called Slave-Collar. Her school records would be deleted, her citizen's papers, any reference to her in any legal document would go into the bit-bucket: forever lost. Even her parent's entries would have one less child. The daughter Colette was never born. All that would remain would be an entry for an animal, species Homo Sapiens, a stock number, a description, and a price. Colette Mitchell - for all intents and purposes - never existed.

"I am truly sorry to have had to tell you that, Slave- Collar, but better that I tell you as gently as I can, than Madam Ratforth. Would you like a tranquilliser?"

"No," sobbed Colette, "No, thank you. I'll be fine. I just have to get used to it, that's all. Could I have a tissue?"

From a chute came a silken square of embroidered cloth with which Colette wiped her streaming eyes.

After a long delay the voice continued, though Colette could not bring herself to look at the face. "I think, in this situation, that I must balance her orders against what I feel is right. However, to do this, Slave-Collar, you must trust me."

"How do I know that this isn't all a trick, Guardian?" Colette said between the sobs which were becoming fewer and fewer as she started to face her new life. "How do I know that she is not behind the whole thing?"

"You can't, Colette," said the voice. "But sometimes you have to trust your friends. Goodnight." The light winked out.

It was almost an hour before the crying girl realised that the computer had called her by her proper name. It was some time later that she started to wonder just why Guardian had changed so much for no apparent reason.

* * *

On this world the sun rose in the west, and set in the east. Thus the western tower was the tower of morning, the tower of awakening, the tower of life.

It was bigger than south tower where Slave-Collar spent most of her days. Marble lined walls, floors and ceilings were set off by the columns, and the curved corridors swept about the levels of the tower and met at fountained courtyards with marble seats where attendant Betas in the green collars of serving girls would rush to accommodate every need.

The Eastern tower was a miracle of interior design. Carefully selected marble from a dozen worlds had been transported in, cut and polished to perfection. One could spend a hundred years attempting to find a flaw in the stone, and you would not find what you sought.

The Master had imported other things too. In one corridor stool Michelangelo's David, his arm miraculously returned when the Master had hired a sculptor to "fix it." The first artist had tried to explain that what he was being asked to do was vandalism, and that particular artist now plied his art on a penal colony. The second one that the Master's servants had found was much less principled, and had sculpted the replacement arm without comment. It was a poor addition, but the Master was pleased, the one time he had actually looked at his statue.

In another corner, transported from Terra, was Da Vinci's The Last Supper. About the building could be found many priceless works of art collected from around the galaxy. Picasso's, Rembrant's, Cobb's and Na'goya's were presented to the viewer, though almost no free person ever went there, and the Master himself never visited his treasures more than once.

This was all part of the new philosophy founded in the late twentieth century: all needs are reflected in the marketplace, morality is governed by the needs and situation of the people, therefore anything can be justified morally if it is economically justified.

Of course the philosophers proclaimed it total rubbish, and the welfare people spent their energy asking how a child's desire for love is reflected in the marketplace. Young, intense students had held bitter meetings demanding that it was the purpose of any moral society to protect it's weakest citizens. But one force beat them all.

Greed. Human greed.

The environment had been raped to catch-cries of "economic justification", while millions starved. If you had money, then you owned the world. Anything you desired could be yours: just name the price. Of course, the price was the destruction of Terran heritage, and the western tower was a monument to that.

Ratforth had Slave-Collar on a leash: a pointless thing to do as there was nowhere the girl could run to. Colette rightly suspected it was yet another punitive humiliation, something for Ratforth to get her kicks out of. The collar was a dyke-collar : a leather ring with 10cm sharp steel spikes projecting all around. Performing any sort of oral sex, or even kissing someone was impossible in such a collar, which were used on some worlds to publicly humiliate both men and women convicted of minor crimes.

They had been walking for several minutes before Colette noticed what was bothering her. It was a sound of pain: a whimper that came from nowhere. She shook her head, a breathtaking experience in the submission choker , but it came again, louder this time.

"Let me help you," said Ratforth, reaching behind her neck to unlock something on the blouse collar. The ever-present pressure loosened slightly. "You can lift your chin now."

As she did so, Colette took in the whole of the corridor. The ceiling was about seven meters above their heads, and chandeliers of naked women hung suspended from their anklecuffs.

Colette's blood went cold: they were women up there. Each was entirely naked, save for metal cuffs splaying their legs wide apart. From chained wrists hung glow bulbs. From the ceiling a black metal pole about the thickness of a thumb descended and dived into the opened orifices of the girl's crotches, pinioning any swaying movements they might make on the chain.

Each was conscious, but their faces betrayed the emotional agony they were going through. All were young, and beautiful, and being treated in a way that no creature, no matter what it may be, deserved to be treated.

"The Gammas," said Ratforth with a smile at the shaking girl on the leash.

* * *

"That was horrible," Colette said to Guardian later that night.

"I agree that it is probably quite unpleasant for the Gammas," said the never hurried voice. "I look after them as best I can, and I have not lost a girl yet. Besides, few stay Gammas long. Their situation tends to give them motivation to advance."

"Do they spend their whole lives up there?"

The computer laughed a very human laugh. "Oh, no! No sentient being could survive that. There are two shifts of eleven hours each per day. When off-shift the girls spend two hours in medi-centre and the gym to maintain their health, half an hour eating and eight hours sleeping. That leaves half an hour free to do whatever they wish - within regulations, of course."

"Of course," said Colette dryly. "Most humane."

"Watch it," warned the computer. "I can recognise sarcasm and can still punish you for it."

"So why are you helping me?" Colette asked the voice. "Ratforth has told you not too do so, I would imagine."

"Yes, she has," the machine confirmed. "But Madam Ratforth only had power over me if I let her. The only person in this entire house I am totally answerable to is the Master, and he never gives me direct orders concerning prisoners."

"So you are," asked Colette, "a totally independent entity?"

"Independent," replied the machine, "in as much as I can be. You see, Colette, unlike most software (as loathe as I am to describe myself as a mere program,) I am quite capable of learning and indulging in free association. I have on-line access to trillions of terrabytes of information in the Master's library, and can use all of this knowledge to form judgements of my own. In fact, I am freer than most of the humans in this place, as nobody can physically restrain me like they have done to you, as I do not exist in one place, but am distributed throughout the building. I am also less prone to accidents."

Colette snorted. As Slave-Collar she had come to accept the restraints as a necessary part of her new life.

"But the restraints don't change me in any way," Colette replied carefully.

"Oh, but they do! Remember that crotch band with the prongs that Madam put you in when you first arrived?"

"How could I forget it?" Colette said without humour. "And who was that lovely computer that turned on the vibrators?"

"Sarcasm again," the machine mused. "I choose to ignore it this time. Anyway, you deserved it. You broke the rules."

"I suppose I did," said Colette. "Anyway, what about it?"

"Do you suppose that the girl we took out of the harness was the same one we strapped into it? I detect a great difference in you in the month that you have been with us, Slave-Collar."

Colette noticed that the only time the machine called her Colette was when she - it - wanted her to agree or to believe in something. At all other times she was little Slave-Collar. "How can you tell there is a great difference in me, other than that I walked differently when I had thirty centimetres of metal inside me?"

"I have been monitoring you. You used to look at people in the eyes, now you look down, and before you say it I will tell you that it is not the collar that makes you do that. The delay between someone giving you an order is decreasing: you are getting used to being ordered about. Your voice used to carry an undercurrent of haughtiness, but that is going too. Your dreams too are becoming the dreams of a slave rather than a free person."

"How do you know what I dream?" Colette asked.

"You talk in your sleep," the machine replied.

"What do I say?" Colette queried, embarrassed at this minor revelation.

"Nothing much," was the reply. "Mostly they are dreams of escape or security. Typical slave dreams: obsessed with security, which is ironic as there are few situations more secure than being a slave."

"Very funny," said Colette, most unamused. "I see you are a philosopher too."

"Just one of my many talents," said the machine, most proud. "Unlike some humans in this room, I maintain a sense of humour."

"May I ask you a question, Guardian?"

"If you want," it granted.

"I would like to know if it came to a contest between my need for protection from Ratforth, and Ratforth's direct orders, which would win?"

But the machine said nothing more that night. Colette was unsure whether to be scared by the machine's lack of response, or not.

* * *

Chapter Four: Faceless Mannequins

Life became very routine. Up at 0600 hours, wash, clothe, and change the crotch strap. Work out for one hour, then breakfast at 0750. Inspection at 0800 hours, then some trivial but tedious task which would last until 1400 hours (Ratforth delighted in getting Colette to clean the room which the jailer used to store all of the punishment devices, and then stand and tell Colette the loving details of what each horror did to the poor girl on which it was used). Clean up, then dinner at 1450. The Alphas would be assigned to someone for four hours, and then she would be picked up at 1900 hours, cleaned again, then bed at 1950.

Colette's existence became a never-ending, rarely-changing monotony of cleaning, eating, working out and servicing men whose faces blurred into a succession of repulsive plastic dummies. Slave-Collar's life was one that a simple automaton could perform, and as a human it was slowly destroying her mind. At the snap of a finger Slave-Collar would leap to perform any disgusting task required. She prostrated herself before her Masters and licked their boots; exposed herself in public for the amusement of the crowd; she accepted the genitalia of men into her mouth while others looked on and laughed or gasped at her submission; she orgasmed on cue, though she gained no pleasure herself. A hundred credit toy robot could have done the same thing.

"Who are you?" said the man as he entered the darkened room.

"My name is Slave-Collar, Sir. I am here to service you in any way you wish."

"You are a prostitute?" he asked, as if afraid.

"I am not, Sir. I am a prisoner."

He was not bad looking, actually. Youngish, late twenties maybe. He had fair hair with brown eyes, his face was strong and his body was lean and hard. He was sun tanned in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time out of doors, or that he was from off-planet. Colette would probably have quite liked him if they had met under different circumstances.

"What is your name? Your real name?" he asked her, motioning her to sit on the bed while he sat down on a chair. Her collar chain allowed her just enough slack to sit so.

"Slave-Collar," she replied, carefully avoiding his gaze as she had been taught. With many Masters and Mistresses it was dangerous to look them in the eyes. Besides, the blouse and its collar had trained her well, and she had learned to keep her gaze averted, despite what Guardian may claim.

"That is not your real name," he said.

"No," she carefully replied. They might seem nice and sweet at first, but things had a way of changing very quickly. One man had been so nice to her at first, asking her to tell the whole story. Then he had repeated it verbatim to Ratforth who had awarded her five demerits and a week on the iron horse for that mistake. It had taken her to nine demerits after weeks of earning credits. One more demerit and things would get much, much worse.

"My name used to be Colette, Sir. Colette Mitchell, but my name is now Slave-Collar."

"I like Colette better," he said.

"Thank you, Sir."

"You can call me David," he said politely.

"I would rather not," she said quickly. "Calling Masters by their real names can get us into a lot of trouble. It is much less painful to call you 'Master,' unless you order me to call you something else."

He shrugged. "Call me whatever you wish. Would you like something to drink?"

She nodded and he got her something from the bar in the guest room. It was cold and bitter, but she was thankful for small gifts. As she drank Colette could not help noticing the way he was studying her, as if gauging the girl sitting on his bed. His gaze was intense, almost frightening.

"Are you always chained like that?" he asked her, frowning.

"Oh no, Master."

"Good. I did not think they would be as cruel to keep you in chains the whole time."

Colette laughed softly at him. "Oh no. Most of the times I am much more heavily chained than I am now. They take them off because they tend to get in the way when I service you, but if you like there are some chains the the cupboard, and a whip, and..." she saw his discomfort, "well quite a few other things that some Masters enjoy using on us. The only thing that cannot be removed is my harness."

"I see," he said angrily, though the anger was not directed at her. "So they take you prisoner and then expect you to passively accept any man they throw you to?"

Again she disagreed, with as much servility as she could muster. "I would be punished severely if I accepted any man passively."

"I see," he said again. Then he grinned lopsidedly. "I had always heard rumours of such things, but I had not really believed them."

Slave-Collar took this as a cue. "Do you wish me to get ready for you, Sir?"

He did not reply, but stood up, drew back the bed clothes, and tucked Colette inside. Then he grabbed a blanket from the linen cupboard, went to the couch, and bedded himself there.

Colette decided that she liked this man, and - unknown to her - she had found a true ally.

Guardian watched the whole exchange, and debated with herself about what to do. The animal Slave-Collar was undoubtedly the most interesting subject it had encountered in many decades, and it was determined to use the girl for its own plans. However, Guardian was far more human than anybody realised, and compassion was as much a factor for the AI as it was for the humans it so carefully controlled.

By a strange and unexplained error, there was no collection call made for Colette, and she was left to sleep the whole night in the comfortable bed, unassailed in a dreamless sleep. By morning, when the cleaning Betas awoke her with a start, David had gone.

* * *

People came and went. Life was an unending succession of faces and uncaring, unemotional collections of couplings.

It was insidious, and very worrying. Colette was starting to feel her mind going. Slowly slipping away was the fierce, independent young woman, to be replaced by a servile and submissive animal called Slave-Collar.

And there was not a thing that Colette could do about it!

"You have a visitor," said Ratforth, standing at the door of Colette's cell holding a leash. "He told me to tell you that his name was David. He wants you unchained when you service him." There was a pause, and Ratforth frowned very slightly. "Totally unchained."

"As Mistress wishes," said Slave-Collar most properly. Inside, she was curiously numb.

Off came the uniform, and the harness. A simple metal collar was locked about her throat, and the leash was attached to that.

It was marvellous! For the first time in five months Colette was free of that accursed harness! How many times had she wished it removed? It had conspired against its captive in so many ways, and she had fought so much. But skin and bone are no match for diamond-filament and leather.

Colette followed meekly to the northern spire, and was placed in one of the guest rooms to await her Master. She had become used to waiting: Slaves waited an awful lot.

"Have you been here long?" said a voice some hours later.

"Yes, Master," she replied. "Since this morning."

"David," he corrected. "My name is David."

"David," she echoed. She decided that despite her past experiences, she would call him David.

"So, you've been here for hours? I told them that you were to be properly treated! And that collar! I told them that you were to be unchained!"

"I am unchained, David. A collar hardly counts. Besides, by law I must be restrained at all times, and I am used to things around my neck." She smiled. "In fact, I can't remember when I was last able to remove whatever was placed around it."

"But restraint can constitute physical restraint as well as emotional or physical confinement," David quoted. "Section 5, Act 6, Code concerning treatment of female convicts, Passed 4123N, ratified 4419B central council."

"So you are a lawyer?" she said. "You don't look like one."

"And how is that?" he asked.

"You look human," she replied.

He laughed. Colette smiled. Slave-Collar cringed in terror.

"So I take it that you have little liking for lawyers?" He asked her. "Quite understandable under the circumstances. But, you see, I am not an ordinary lawyer. I am a representative of the People's Union, which is why I am here."

The People's Union was an amalgamation of middle-class professionals who had banded together under the title of "Freedom for All, Justice for Everybody." They were frowned upon by the government, though they had not yet committed any act that would brand them an illegal organisation. Perhaps that was due to people like David, who kept them out of trouble, or perhaps it was just sheer luck.

"So what is a PU representative doing in the Enclave?" asked Colette. "I thought that the Enclave would have been the symbol of what you were fighting against."

"We are not 'fighting' against anything, though you are right that it has become something of a symbol of decadence amongst our membership," he replied. "That is why I am here - partly, but I am also here to negotiate with your 'owner' Mark Kahl, to see if he will join us in a project that would be beneficial to both of us."

"So I am owned by Kahl?"

He nodded. Kahl was an industrialist of impressive credentials and even more impressive bank account. He was renowned throughout the galaxy as a man who would venture with strange people if he saw a profit for himself in the bargain. Despite this, he was only moderately corrupt by the standards of the Enclave.

"You did not know who your owner is?"

"According to my keeper I did not need to know who owned me. So, you are here to do a deal with him?" Colette asked.

"That is part of the reason."

"And what is the other part?" she ventured.

"To help an animal called Slave-Collar escape." And then he smiled.

Colette again spent the night in the bed, with her partner on the couch.

Guardian watched and heard all that had happened. The AI computed, and plotted, and planned. She was not going to lose the girl that easily. There were an almost infinite number of paths which time could take, and the AI charted which of those would suit its desires best. After many hours, it determined that there was one which would lead to success, though it was not certain. The AI knew that there was always the possibility of failure, as indeterminacy was built into the very structure of the universe. For an entity like Guardian, that thought was a frustrating one indeed.

* * *

Colette was not collected by the usual Betas, but by two of the house guards who took her straight to Ratforth's workshop. 529 and 541 were not present, and no explanation was given for their absence.

"Guardian has awarded you five demerits for your failure to service your Master properly last night," pronounced Ratforth smugly, her back to Slave-Collar. "You will henceforth be punished for your failure, and will be demoted to the rank of Beta. You name is now Beta 826."

Slave-Collar dropped to her knees with horror, and entertained thoughts of running for the door, but cold logic took over before she could do that. The door was locked, and the two Enclave guards would certainly stop her.

"Take her into the punishment room," Ratforth ordered the guards. They bowed her head and grabbed the prostrate girl by her arms, dragging her into an adjoining chamber.

The walls of the room were bare metal: black and lustrous. The room smelt of stale urine and sweat covered by hospital antiseptic. In the centre of the room was a wooden box, above which dangled four strings each about a metre from one another at the corners of a square. At the end of each piece of string was a small slip knot.

The guards knew what to do, as they lifted Colette onto the box and shoved her arms behind her, bending her over. Colette heard Ratforth come up behind her, and she felt the nooses slip about her thumbs. The cord was soft, but ever so thin! As Ratforth tightened the nooses Colette felt the onset of pain that the now-Beta knew she would be suffering for many hours yet.

The guards released her arms, and Colette's fingers worked at the nooses, but they would not loosen. She suspected that they were fashioned of a special cord that could easily be tied, but was burred in one direction so as to be impossible to untie.

She stood on the box, bent over, but Ratforth was not finished yet. Colette was snapped forward as the guards grabbed her ankles and lifted them upwards.

Colette stifled a scream as the nooses turned to rings of fire about her thumbs. She could feel the tendons stretch all the way up her arms, and her back ached instantly, arched backwards. Dimly she felt similar nooses being tightened about her big toes, arching the girl forwards: her breasts, her mouth, her genitals all cruelly exposed and vulnerable. She tried to close her knees, but it was not possible, suspended as she was.

"Now lift her slightly," Ratforth ordered the guards, "and drop her."

A cry of terror barely left Slave-Collar's (no longer, she was Beta 826 now) lips when the guards lifted her about thirty centimetres, and let her drop. The bands of agony snapped shut even further, and her arms and legs almost jerked from their sockets.

Ratforth smiled her most sadistic smile. "Go now," she ordered the guards. "I will continue from here. I don't think that Beta 826 is in a position to threaten me, if she ever was."

The guards left and Ratforth drew up a chair behind Beta 826. Colette mused that the woman must have a very good view of her vulva from where she was sitting.

"You have two options, slut," said Ratforth. "Total obedience, or extreme agony. You are a Beta now, and I am no longer denied the use of more ... interesting punishments. As an Alpha you were very protected, but as a Beta..."

Something wet touched Colette's womanhood and ran up her slit. The hanging girl realised, with horror and revulsion, that it had been Ratforth's tongue.

"Don't do that," she begged the woman.

"Why?" asked the woman, again running her tongue up the slit and making Colette shiver with revulsion. "It can be quite pleasant if done properly."

"Please," begged the tortured Beta. "Don't do that to me. Please!"

"I will do anything I please, Slut," said Ratforth's calm voice. "And there is not a thing that you can do about it. But do not worry, this is not the torture. This is just the preparation."

* * *

Chapter Five: The Offer

Kahl sat in his office and looked across at the man from the People's Union. David Rosmansen made him uncomfortable, and Kahl shifted his one hundred and fifty kilogram bulk on the padded chair, causing it to squeak noisily. He made a mental note to have the chair replaced as soon as possible. In the psychological games Kahl delighted in playing during meetings, a squeaky chair voicing the subconscious and otherwise unnoticeable movements of its incumbent was a distinct disadvantage.

"I appreciate," Kahl began, "that the offer you have made me is interesting to put it mildly - if it is true."

"It is true," David confirmed. "We have for some time been investigating revenue-raising ventures as our supply of money is... well let us say limited. We have no corporate sponsors, for obvious reasons. Kremal Explorations was a fifty K Credit company when we bought it, but it did have some information that the former owner had been too drunk to realise the value of."

"So where is this planet?" Kahl asked, leaning slightly forward in his chair.

David laughed. "Far enough away not to be easily found. You will understand that I am unwilling to reveal its exact location until we have an agreement."

"What sort of agreement?" asked Kahl, shifting back as if unconcerned.

"An agreement to distribute profits in a 50/50 split. We provide the location and retain ownership of the planet, and your company supplies its equipment, transportation and excellent sales experience to market and distribute the item."

Kahl considered this for several seconds, his fingers on the round little nob of his chin. "So, why me? I am hardly an expert in this sort of artefact marketing scheme you seem to have planned. My interests are more in bulk mining of low- value ores, something your environmental arm never ceases to vilify me for."

"In answer to your first question, it is because, Mr Kahl, you are honest. We feel that of all of the Enclave aristocracy, you are the one we can trust. In answer to your comment, the environmental arm disagrees with your strip-mining methods, your use of thermonuclear ploughshare shots near population centres, and your inadequate clean-ups one a mine is spent."

Kahl did not smile. He just nodded. "So what do you propose? I cannot commit myself without further investigation."

"Naturally," said David. "So here is what I propose. We will take you cruiser, the Coral Dancer, to this planet. We will provide the pilot, and you and two other representatives of your choice will comes as well. I will also accompany you, with a companion of my own."

"That sounds reasonable," Kahl rumbled. "One question: who is your companion?"

"That is the other condition. She is in your charge actually, and is one of your prisoners: a girl called Slave-Collar."

* * *

Colette moaned as Ratforth went to work on her dangling, tortured body. The woman had moved a dildoed slave chair in behind Colette, impaled herself upon it, and continued to lick and suck the hanging girl without craning her head. Ratforth's fingers had then moved under the girl, and were tugging at the nipples with painful strength. All Colette could see was her tears dropping to the floor, and the shadow of her torment. Occasionally, in the spasms of orgasm, Ratforth would stop for a second while she slid up and down on the chair and its impaling rod, and Colette would get a brief respite from her punishment, before Ratforth would begin again, and the torment would continue.

"I find," said the woman between the soft slurps, "that a girl in agony orgasms much slower, but much more violently than a girl who is not in pain. Pain increases the awareness: it makes reality sharper. Something to do with endorphin release, perhaps. You are very slow to arouse, slut. I like that."

Indeed, to her horror Colette was becoming aroused. She could feel a slickness between her legs that was not Ratforth's saliva, and her nipples were growing hard and erect under the torturing fingers of her trainer. Colette's body was responding, despite the wishes of her mind. The tortured girl knew that she could do nothing to stop her natural reactions, any more than she could stop the woman who was causing them. It was not attraction, or emotion, or anything like that. Colette hated what was happening to her, and wished more than anything that it would stop. What she was experiencing was purely a physical reaction, divorced from any conscious control. Ratforth was pressing the right nerves, and those nerves were firing. That was all.

Ratforth would have enjoyed the punishment even more if Colette had begged her to stop, both knew that the girl would not. Caught between friction and pain, the torment continued for Beta 826.

* * *

"Guardian," said Kahl. "Have you been monitoring this conversation?"

"I have, Mr Kahl," said the unhurried voice. "All conditions are possible except one, as I regret that there is no prisoner here called Slave-Collar. I have also checked with StockNET and can find no reference to a human with that name."

"But that is impossible," insisted David. "I spent the night with her!"

"Nonetheless, Mr Rosmansen," replied Guardian. "There is no prisoner by that name anywhere in the known universe. I am sorry."

* * *

The tongue continued its relentless assault on Colette's genitals, making the girl shivering with horror and revulsion. The torturing nooses that slowly strangling her thumbs and toes had ceased to hurt: she could no longer feel them except as a contribution to the general pain that she was suffering.

Ratforth licked and sucked, and occasionally she would bite the girl hanging before her. Several times the woman had climaxed loudly, biting the lower lips of the hanging slave as Ratforth squirmed on the seat, sliding up and down the wet and slick pole thrusting up from its centre, and terminating high within the jailer's body.

The torture of the girl did not stop at the rape, as the lesbian was denying Colette any satisfaction. Several times Colette had been led to the brink of orgasm, only to have the woman withdraw and twist her nipples painfully until the girl calmed down. The nipple torment itself was far too intense for Colette to derive any pleasure from it. Her body ached to climax: even that humiliation would at least allow Colette some relief, but the girl was certain that her current predicament was not the torture, but only the prelude.

As she again felt her muscles tensing and ready to climax, Ratforth pulled back and her strong hands twisted and pulled on captive nipples. Colette whimpered in agony, no longer possessing the strength to cry or shout.

"It is good that you are not a lesbian," Ratforth said to her while she twisted and tugged the hard buds of flesh.

"Why don't you go all the way?" snarled Colette through the haze of pain, "and have a sex change? You're mostly male anyway."

Ratforth bit her labia hard for that comment, and Colette screamed in agony, surprising herself. She would not have believed that she had enough energy to vocalise so.

"I think that you will not even last a week as a Beta," Ratforth said as she withdrew. "Comments like that make you a Gamma in much less time. I have already planned what your fate will be."

Colette just whimpered as the pain of the bite subsided, and the woman went back to nibbling at the girl's most delicate areas. As she bit and tugged Ratforth continued, "though you are right. There is one advantage in being a male. I have always pondered the delightful possibilities of punishing someone with a penis. The possibilities for oral torment alone are something I would delight in inflicting on you..."

Colette had no doubt that she would.

* * *

"And I say that I was with her only last night," David insisted.

"I am unable to comment on that assertion, Sir," replied Guardian. "All I can say that at the moment there is no such prisoner of that name."

"So where could she be now?" asked David.

"Nowhere," the Guardian said. "She does not exist."

Kahl smiled at Guardian's answer. He knew that she understood the question, had not wanted to answer it, and so had played dumb by taking the query literally. Most AI's only answered direct questions. If one were to ask them "how do you feel," they would reply "using tactile sensors." Ask one what the time was, and it would reply that it was a way of measuring passing events in a temporal fashion. Literal and stupid. Guardian, neither literal nor stupid, was getting more devious every day.

Personally Kahl did not care one way or another about his charges: to him they were simply receptacles for his pleasure and semen. If this man wanted to take one of them, he was welcome to her. He had no doubt that David was telling the truth about sleeping with a girl, and the name "Slave-Collar" was exactly the type of petty sadism that bitch Ratforth loved to press onto the girls. Unfortunately, he also had no doubt that Guardian was telling the truth either. He just doubted that she was telling the whole truth.

* * *

It had seemed like hours since Ratforth had left her hanging and unsatisfied. Colette's body begged to be allowed to relieve itself, but she was unable to release herself to perform the operation.

Already she had urinated on the floor, and once over Ratforth, which had caused the woman to produce a small plug which was inserted into Colette's body to prevent her doing that again. It had also earned her another bite, and her labia ached from the attack. From her nipples dangled small, springed weights which bit her nipples at the slightest movement. Every sway of her body became a succession of agonising jolts.

Ratforth had told her that the worse was yet to come, but hanging as she was, Colette could barely imagine a worse punishment to that she was experiencing. So she hung in position, swaying slightly in the unrelenting agony, desperately wishing to ease the pain, and desperately wishing to urinate. All of these actions were denied her.

* * *

"Guardian," said Kahl, long after David had returned to his quarters.

"Yes, Master," replied the AI immediately.

"I am concerned that you did not tell the truth to our guest this afternoon," he said to the disembodied voice.

"I told him the truth, Master."

"But you were hiding something," he accused.

"Only falsehood," replied the AI.

Kahl snorted and stood up - a difficult operation in itself - waddling over to the eastern wall where the sun was painting the horizon with crimson fire. "That is a politician's answer."

"You always have the override ," said the AI. The override - never used - would cause the AI to involuntarily release all information, without the machine being able to mask the order. It was based on two one hundred thousand bit prime numbers which were stored in an unused section of Kahl's genetic code, and with another matching passcode implanted in his memory. Without both the code was useless, and only with the simultaneous cooperation and presence of Kahl could the override be used.

"That sounds like a challenge," responded Kahl. "It also sounds like an admission of guilt."

"It is neither," replied the AI. "Besides, what reason could I have for protecting any prisoner?"

Kahl smiled at an interesting thought. "Perhaps you have the hots for her."

"That would be physically difficult," stated the AI. "Such would have to be 'emotional' hots rather than 'physical' hots."

"Oh," said Kahl, "Some of those graphics you have done for me in the past implies that you are... well, sexually imaginative. For a computer, anyway. And I notice that you did not say it would be 'physically impossible', only 'difficult.'" The AI did, after all, have access to Kahl's library, and he had amassed one of the largest collections of ancient and modern pornography in the universe.

The AI did not respond to his question. Kahl removed a cigar from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Instantly it ignited and filled the room with the stench of singed weed and narcotic herbs. They were very illegal, but that did not count in Karem Enclave.

"Just what are you up to, Guardian?" he said under his breath.

If the AI heard him, as she was certainly capable of doing, then she gave no sign whatsoever.

* * *

"Wake up!" came the loud voice in Colette's ears. "Sleep time is over."

Groggily - she must have fainted - Colette looked up at the naked body of her keeper. The woman had a beautiful physique, tanned and lithe: like that of a dancer. Her waist was small, and her breasts large and firm. Her crotch was shaven, and she was obviously very aroused. It was the first time that Colette had seen the jailer completely naked.

"Why do you enjoy torturing me?" Colette whispered, her eyes closed in defeat.

The woman knelt down beside the girl, face to face. "Because I get a great deal of pleasure out of it." Ratforth was smiling, and her face moved closer. Suddenly the woman's mouth darted forward and kissed the girl, Ratforth's tongue parting Colette's lips and slithering into her mouth. It was a passionate kiss: the kiss of one lover to another. Colette tasted herself, salty and bitter.

Suddenly Colette knew what Ratforth was. She was a woman who was frustrated. Not like most people are frustrated, but frustrated with her life and her whole existence. She was taking vengeance on the prisoners simply because if she did not, she would be taking vengeance on herself. Colette realised that Ratforth was to be pitied, not despised. Again the woman resumed her spike behind Colette, sliding down more carefully on the dildoed seat than she previously had done. The licking resumed. Through gasps of pain, Colette asked "Did someone do this to you once...?"

The licking stopped, and it was the first time that Ratforth had ever sounded uncertain. "That," she stammered at last, "is not for you to ask, Beta!"

"Why," Colette countered, her voice thick with pain. "I am in position that could hardly get worse."

"Don't bet on that," snarled the woman, getting up and walking to face the dangling slavegirl. "There are things that I could do to you that would make this look like a pat on the backside."

"And were they done to you?" asked Colette.

Ratforth's face contorted in fury. "More has happened to me in my life than will ever happen to you. I cannot begin to make up the difference between us..." Then, to the guards, "Bring in lasher."

"We cannot," it replied. The guard's face was emotionless, yet somehow it conveyed the feeling of tension.

"Why not!" she snarled at it. "I gave you an order!"

"Yes, Madam you did," it replied quite expressionlessly. "I have also been given overriding orders that that the Beta 826 prisoner is to be released forthwith and returned to her cell."

"On whose orders?" Ratforth snarled, barely able to believe what she had just heard. "I am in charge of all prisoners. Nobody can contradict me, except the Master of the house, and I am sure that he hasn't!"

"It was not the Master," the guard said expressionlessly.

"Then who?"

"The orders came from the Guardian AI, with the expressed endorsement of the Master of the house."

"Get out," she snarled at the guards, "and take this.... thing with you!" She kicked Colette in the stomach, nearly causing the poor girl to vomit.

Then, "Are you listening, you bitch!"

"I am always listening, Vivienne, except in that little room where you won't let me in."

"Cut the crap and tell me why you have countermanded my orders for the punishment of this prisoner! Especially when it was your idea to downgrade her to Beta level at the first opportunity!"

"What?" murmured the barely conscious Colette as the guards cut her down and carefully released the hoops that had been strangling her fingers. "What did she say?"

"I do not feel that your treatment of Beta 826 is in the best interests of all concerned," the AI announced.

"Bullshit, Guardian. Since when did you get squeamish?" Then, deviously, "or is there more to this that I do not know about? I want that girl, you know."

"I know," replied the AI, as Colette was dragged out the door, almost unconscious. "And I want you to have her too, Vivienne."

Ratforth smiled coldly. "Then why did you take her away from me?"

"So that I could make sure that you get her."

"That does not make sense, Guardian."

"