Debt Slave I	Back to M	Back to main page

Collected by Djian
updated oct. 25 2007

(MMM/f+, Humil, nc, bnd, spank, feet, oral)

Debt Slave PART 1
BY Ted Edwards

Copyright resides with author
Downloaded from www.bdsmbooks.comPreface

Like all fantasies, this story is set in a universe that is slightly offset from our own. Not very much offset, mark you, given that the sticky-fingered brethren of the accounting and financial industries (calling them professions gives them a respectability they no longer deserve) now seem to be the final arbiters on every decision, whatever its impact. Profit and loss are the yardsticks by which almost everything is judged, to the exclusion of almost every other consideration, including common humanity.
All I've done is take those facts and stretch them a bit, producing a world in which the banks and big business rule supreme. Add a political system that has a severe case or 'Law and Order-itis' and you have the perfect background to this tale. Don't worry: none of things that go to make up the conditions in which this story becomes possible actually exist.

Yet.

Chapter 1


John Griffin was angry. That wasn't immediately obvious, because his smoothly handsome, thirty-five year old face with features that had been called 'chiselled' showed no overt signs of it. But people who knew him would have spotted the signs and beaten a hasty retreat. The set of the jaw, the spots of colour on the high cheek-bones and, most of all, the fiercely burning gleam in his grey-green eyes would have told anyone in the know that he was fused, primed and cocked, his hair trigger needing just a twitch to set off the explosion.
The source of his anger lay in the newspaper that he held, its pages folding and tearing as his powerful hands gripped. His eyes, which had been distant, refocused on the headline: 'What's the Smell at Griffin Holdings?' and the trigger slipped. The newspaper was balled, shredded and hurled at the far wall of his office. It never reached it, a testament to the size of the room more than the force he'd put into it. For a moment he sat, head bowed, his hands, still clenched, resting on the huge desk, its only adornment a telephone. Then he raised his fists up above his neatly groomed black hair and brought then down on to the surface with an impact that shook the handset loose.
"God damn that fucking woman!" he bellowed. He gazed down at his fists, as if seeing them for the first time, perhaps surprised by his own vehemence and loss of control. Slowly, as befitted a man who was noted for his control in high-pressure situations when millions depended on decisions that had to be cool and rational, he forced calm on himself. The hands uncoiled slowly, the marks of his fingernails deep in the palms. The tension eased from his shoulders and neck as he expelled a breath, puling air back in through his nose. He looked up again, back very erect, eyes going to the ball of paper on the floor.
"Just where the hell did she get that from?" he demanded the air, his voice controlled now. His brain was working, too, after the initial shock and instinctive reaction. That story was dynamite, not least because it was, in all the substance that mattered, true: it painted Griffin Holdings, and its owner in a very bad light indeed. Worse than that, it promised more revelations in future episodes. "Jesus," he said, a shaft of panic hitting him. If she knew more, then she knew a hell of a lot too damned much! She'd already told far too damned much; had probably knocked the hell out of his share prices already. The Stock Exchange didn't mind companies playing dirty as long as it didn't become public. When it did, it was a case of every hypocrite for himself.
He pushed the chair back and stood, uncoiling his six foot two frame with unconscious grace. He was lean and fit, thanks to exhaustive work-outs and as many hours as he could spare in squash courts. Clasping his hands behind his back to conceal the tremor that had suddenly come to them, he walked to the large picture window that looked out over unspoiled countryside. His thoughts raced, calculating and scheming. Damage control, rebuttal, counter-attack, revenge.
He blinked. Revenge? Where had that come from? He rolled the thought round his mind like a truffle on his tongue. Revenge: yes, that tasted sweet. Or, and he jerked himself back to reality, it would if the rest worked. The trouble with everything he'd thought of was that the facts and veiled accusations in the article were true. Countering truth was damned difficult, but it could be done: politicians did it all the time. But how had she got to those facts? They were buried and hidden behind a labyrinthine system of blind alleys, cut-offs, secondary holding companies, offshore accounts and every device that he could think of. How the hell had she got to it?
Calm now, he returned to his chair and started thinking. Hard.

Jill Bentley was fully aware of the effect that her looks and figure had on men and played them for all they were worth to get her own way. In her case, that meant using men - and sometimes women - to get the information she needed before dropping them like hot bricks. At twenty-four and in the full bloom of her beauty, she had it all: the brain to sniff out leads, the looks and instincts to gather the information and the writing style to produce cool, calculated and biting articles. She was good enough to do what she did as a free-lance; most of her work was for local papers and minor periodicals, though some of it had reached the nationals.
She hummed happily as she strode, her high heels clicking; she knew that she had good legs and liked to show them, which was why her skirt was shorter than it might strictly have been. Acting the bimbo had proved both enjoyable and productive; men whose eyes rarely strayed higher than her ample bosom never saw the intelligence behind those big brown eyes; nor did they suspect that beneath those long, luxuriant light brown tresses lay a brain as keen as ever graced an investigative journalist. The latest story she was beginning to break would push her into the big time; the nationals and television would be clamouring for her services once she'd blown the lid off that bastard Griffin. That good-looking bastard Griffin, she had to admit: but scum's scum, not matter how handsome.
Up ahead of her, hanging about in a side alley, she saw a group of youths. A couple of years ago she'd have crossed the road to avoid them, but things had changed; now the Order Party was in power. Let them try something if they dared, especially since there was a policeman not too far away. She exaggerated the swing of her hips, deliberately provocative, seeing their eyes on her. They hadn't seen the policeman because the wall they were behind hid him from them; she could see them muttering to each other, nudging. She smiled, adjusting her grip on the small bag she carried, pushing her breasts out slightly to give them some encouragement. It worked; as she drew level with them, she made eye contact with the policeman who was walking towards her. She needn't have bothered: he'd already seen her.
"That's a lovely pair of legs," said a youth's voice. "Do they go all the way up to them tits, missus?"
Jill stopped dead, the whirled. "Officer!" she shrieked, lashing out with her bag. "Help!"
The youths gaped, shock on their faces as the dolly-bird with the legs and boobs suddenly turned on them. The policeman gaped, too, but his training took over almost instantly; he broke into a run, just as one of the youths poked his head round the corner.
"Shit! Filth!" he shouted. The others, with expertise borne of practise, took to their heels. Their leader, or so she supposed, made a mistake. "You dirty cow!" he spat at her, in the process of turning to run. That second cost him his chance, because she stuck a foot out and tripped him. He sprawled, swearing, just as the policeman clattered up.
"What's the problem, miss?" he caught sight of the youth, who was trying to get to his feet. In a quick movement he had him by the back of the neck, hauling him to his feet. The boy didn't struggle, as he would certainly have done not too long ago; nor did he fill the air with obscenities, as he most certainly would; he simply gave in, shoulders slumped.
"I know this one," said the policeman, ignoring his prisoner to let his eyes take his fill of her. "Hangs around with a few of his mates. What did they do?"
"They made lewd and insulting comments," said Jill. She did her best to look upset. "I was terribly shocked."
"We didn't do nothing," whined the youth.
"Shut your mouth and save your breath for the station," said the officer. "Do you want to charge him, Miss?"
She fluttered her eyes at the tall officer, seeing that the youth, who couldn't have been more than fifteen, she saw now, was close to crying. "Oh, I don't want to be too hard," she said. "But I don't think that sort of comment is right."
"You're absolutely right, Miss. Under Section Three of the Juvenile Offences Act you have the right to bring charges of public indecency. That," he shook the unfortunate youth, "can mean that he goes to a Physical Correction Centre for up to six months. On the other hand, a simple complaint can be dealt with immediately."
She already knew that, but preferred to act the innocent.
"That's six for him," said the officer. "And six more if he doesn't tell us who his pals are." The youth paled and squirmed in his grasp, uttering a whimper.
She felt a thrill of satisfaction; this was possibly better than imagining what that bastard Griffin would be feeling, because it was so much more immediate. For a moment she toyed with the idea of asking to be present when the punishment was carried out; she knew that the law allowed for that, just as she'd known all along what she was letting the boys in for when she began flaunting. But a look in the officer's eye stopped her doing that; she gave her name and address, thanked the man and walked off.
The policeman followed her with his eyes. He knew she'd done it deliberately; he was surprised that she hadn't asked to be present when the lad got his strokes. Quite a few of them had done that. And he couldn't blame the kids; he'd have been tempted to make a remark himself, the way she presented herself. He looked at his now-weeping captive, almost sympathising. "Come, on lad," he said, not unkindly. "Let's get down to the station. You're going to have to learn to keep your mouth shut, you know."

Back in her flat, Jill tossed her belt-bag on to the sofa and crossed to the computer console. No e-mails but - she checked her bank statement - a nice little credit for the article on Griffin Holdings. She wondered if he'd been on to the editor yet, frothing at the mouth. She shrugged: it didn't matter; even if the local rag dropped the story - they hadn't been too keen on in the first place, Griffin being an important man hereabouts - the nationals were sure to pick it up. With the sort of dirt that she'd hinted at in that article and the sort of exposed public figure that Griffin was, it was a certainty. And she had it all, or most of it; Carol had held some of the stuff back for her own security, to make sure that she got paid, but that was only understandable. Should she call her? Her hand hovered over the phone, but she decided against it; there was no real need and Carol was in a very vulnerable position, being as close to Griffin as she was. If he found out that the information was coming from someone as close as her, then she'd be fired and probably black-listed.
Not that Jill worried too much about that, except in the professional sense: it did one's reputation no good at all if one's informants suffered. So play the game long, she told herself: there was plenty of time. Time, for the moment, to relax and let the mind drift around the next instalment of the story. She crossed to her drinks cabinet, poured a weak whisky and soda, sat in her favourite chair and turned on the TV. It was the tail-end of the news:
"...controversial Clause Six of the Financial Services Debt Act was finally passed today, despite opposition from civil rights groups. The clause will allow companies to apply to the courts for direct access to the labour of debtors, instead of the current system of having debtors work in designated centres, with creditor companies being paid on application. Critics of the scheme say that this will lead to a system of indentured debt slavery, but Government spokesmen point out that there are 'strong and adequate' provisions for the physical and moral protection of what they prefer to call: 'debt labour inductees'. A spokesman pointed out that credit debt had fallen three-fold since the Act itself was passed eighteen months ago; the current clause is a simply extension which will allow for easier and smoother administration and reduce costs. Finally, a..."
"Bloody good thing!" said Jill. "Damned scroungers get away with blue murder." She sipped her drink, thinking of the thousands of people who'd driven themselves into debt by reckless use of loans and credit cards. The Debt Recovery scheme simply set them to work to pay off what they owed; it was slavery, in a way, but they'd brought it on themselves, she thought. Served them damned well right. She pressed the remote button to find a music channel and settled back to enjoy her evening in companionable solitude.

Griffin switched off the TV and gazed at the blank screen long after the picture had faded, a sudden gleam in his eyes. He glanced at his watch then reached for the telephone.

Chapter 2


Humming to herself, Jill typed the last few words of her latest expose then sat back to read it through. As she did, a slow smile crossed her lips: this, she told herself, was going to send John Almighty Griffin berserk. She frowned, wondering why there'd been no reaction to the first article. It'd been almost two weeks now and there had been absolute silence. She shrugged: perhaps they were playing it cool. Griffin certainly was: she'd seen him on television last night: he looked as urbane, powerful, handsome and arrogant as usual; not a trace of the real man that lay under the veneer. She wondered for an instant just what it would be like to see him angry; then she smiled: when he read the next one, perhaps she would.
The mouse clicked over her e-mail connection; the usual window appeared and the speaker sounded the familiar buzzes and whine. When the password requester appeared, she typed in the familiar combination. There was a brief delay and then the requester vanished; but instead of the screen she expected, this one was quite unfamiliar.
"Account terminated," she read. "See section 15 of your agreement."
She stared at the screen in disbelief. Section 15? What the hell was Section 15? She shook her head: it must be some sort of stupid error. The quickest way to sort that out would be to go to through the internet to her mail server and give them a rocket.
Five minutes later she was seething with frustration and anger. She just couldn't get in! Everything was blocked off by that same message! What the hell was going on? She reached for the telephone and lifted it, the whirring buzz somehow reassured her, cooling her irritation slightly. Yet even as she put her finger on the keypad, the earpiece clicked and the dial tone died, to be replaced with a flat silence. She jiggled the receiver rest: nothing; it was as if the thing had been cut off! A shiver ran through her; this was eerie! She controlled herself, wondering what to do. Get to a working phone first: lay into the telephone company to get this one fixed in a hurry. How did they expect her to earn a living with a busted phone, for God's sake? While she was at it, she could get some cash from the dispenser: she was running short.
At the front door were two letters. She picked them up and put them in her bag, folding them to fit. Then she hooked the bag to her belt and began walking; it wasn't too far. The walk revived her flagging spirits; she even thought of one or two nice little changes to the latest text; subtle little twists of the knife to make him squirm. By the time she arrived at the cash dispenser, she was humming again. Her card disappeared into the slot; the machine hummed. Then a message appeared on the screen:

'Card retained due to insufficient funds. WARNING: under the terms of the Debt Recovery and Rehabilitation Act, the account holder must contact a bank official within three days of this notice.'

"What the hell?" she muttered. The screen blanked then came back to life with a new message:

'You have not complied with this directive and are, therefore, in violation of Clause 2 of the Act. Report to your principal creditor or a police station immediately. Note that bank officials are not authorised to discuss this matter.'

A cold, hard fist closed round Jill's heart as she stared at the screen in complete disbelief. Her knees wobbled; her stomach churned. This couldn't be happening! The screen blinked and went blank; someone nudged her.
"Are you finished?" demanded an old woman's voice.
Numbly, Jill moved to one side. What was happening to her? The e-mail, the phone and now this; what in God's name was going on? Her world, which only twenty minutes ago had seemed so warm and full of promise had suddenly become a bleak and very lonely place. She clutched at her shattered senses, trying desperately to rationalise it all. She couldn't; all she could see were those words on the screen, bright in her memory: 'report to your principal creditor or a police station immediately'. Principal creditor? She didn't have a 'principal creditor', unless you counted the building society that held the mortgage on her flat.
A thought struck her: hadn't one of those envelopes she'd picked up had the logo of the building society on it? Fingers nerveless and fumbling, she opened her bag and took the two envelopes out. Yes, there it was. Trembling and clumsy, she ripped it open: there were several sheets of paper inside, all covered in that minute typeface that financial organisations use. On the first, though, was bold type; it read: 'NOTICE OF TRANSFER'. She scanned the lines that followed, a task made more difficult by the trembling of her hands. It amounted to the fact that her building society had sold her mortgage, quoting several incomprehensible clauses, sub-clauses and addenda as justification. She now owed one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, less what she'd paid off, to some company called 'Adonis Investments'. Anger flared through the shock: how could they do that without telling her? But they had told her: it was here, in her hand; she looked closer: dated... six days ago! That was impossible!
Her anger growing, she looked at the second envelope. It bore no logo and was a good deal slimmer than the first. The postmark, she saw, was five days ago. She tore it open, unfolded the single sheet and almost dropped it as she went rigid with new shock, a gasp of horror escaping her:

'NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE' she read, seeing only fragments of the text that followed: '...termination of mortgage'... 'unsuitable client'... 'independent valuation of eighty-five thousand pounds'... 'seizure of assets'... 'deficit of sixty-three thousand pounds and forty-seven pence, payable immediately'.
Her mind reeling under the onslaught, she read through the thing, all the way to the signature: 'P J Phillips, Chief Accountant', then down to the company name: 'Adonis Investments', further down to: 'a company in the Griffin Group'.
The word blazed at her 'Griffin'! All her pent-up feelings escaped in two shrieked words. "You bastard!" she howled, face to the sky. Passers-by stopped to look at her for a moment, before passing on, embarrassed. She glanced round, face reddening, her anger growing by the second. So he hadn't been sitting on his hands, doing nothing! He'd been arranging this, the filthy swine! How dare he! Her fury mounted with each passing second: she'd crucify the bastard! Slowly, she calmed, though he anger simmered: how could it all have been done so fast? Even allowing for the artfully delayed letters, the devilish scheme could have been only four or five days in its execution. After all, it was barely ten or eleven days since the publication of the first article!
Her thoughts raced in tempo with the tattoo of her heels on the pavement. What to do? Home first. Change into something that would make her look like a lost waif: all vulnerable, but available if one tried. Then to the police station and weep a bit, stamp the foot a bit, being careful to lean forward and flash some cleavage: if that didn't get her some sympathy and action, nothing would.
There was a white card pinned to the front door. 'Asset Seizure,' she read. 'Debt Recover and Rehabilitation Act, Section 16, Clause 13: this property is subject to a Restraint of Assets Order. Entry prohibited to all but a principal creditor or his nominee.'
Once more she stared; was there no end to this nonsense? Just how far was the man prepared to go? Well, if he was trying to frighten her, he was going to be disappointed; how did he think that he was going to get away with anything as transparent as this? Tearing off the card, she tore it into shreds and put her key in the lock: it wouldn't go in. She tried again, then peered: the lock was new. For the first time since those first few moments at the cash dispenser, a chill took her. Then the anger came back in an all-consuming flood. She was going to tear his head off for this!

Disbelief mingled with anger and a growing panic. "It CAN'T be!" she protested. "Check with my bank, for goodness' sake! They'll tell you that everything was all right up to an hour or so ago!"
The sergeant behind the desk was unmoved. "I'm sorry, Miss. The details I have here are that you have been in receipt of several notices of debt recovery over a period of six weeks. If you hadn't walked in here you would have been arrested later today: a warrant was issued this morning."
"Are you MAD?" she screamed. "This is a fabrication, I'm telling you!
It's because I wrote an article exposing John Griffin as a polluter, a thief a racketeer and a fraudster! This is his way of getting back at me!"
The sergeant looked patient. "Miss, er, Bentley. To be as you say would require the co-operation of a number of people, including the bank manager and the Chief Superintendent of this station. Yes, because this is the first case of its kind that we've dealt with, he handled it himself. Now," he said, with heavy emphasis, "if you want to tell me that all those people are corrupt, too...?"
"No!" she cried, desperately, close to tears. "It's some horrible mistake, then! But Griffin's behind it, I tell you!" Inspiration struck. "Get the CID to check my flat! All the evidence is there, in my filing cabinet. You'll see. Look, take me there and I'll show you!"
"I'm sorry, Miss, but you don't seem to realise the severity of your position. As of this moment you're under arrest for unsustainable debt and for failing to respond to official orders; at a magistrate's hearing held in your absence yesterday, you were sentenced to a period of debt recovery labour, the period of which will be determined by your own efforts in repayment. If you have a plea to enter in appeal, you should have made that plea at the hearing. If you wish to do that now, I must warn you that there are penalties for frivolous waste of police time."
Jill's mind reeled. "Y...you can't be serious!" she gasped. "This is a nightmare, isn't it? I knew nothing of all this until less than an hour ago, I tell you!" She paused, gathering her thoughts. "Look, check that filing cabinet; it's all there, you'll see!" With an effort, she held back the tears that threatened to spill.
The sergeant made laborious notes. "I hope you're not wasting my time," he said. He looked at her. "It can be quite serious, you know."
"What the hell do you think this is?" she shouted. "One minute I'm a free person, the next I'm under arrest on some trumped-up charge! This is insane!"
"Yes, Miss," he said evenly. "Look, why don't you go with this WPC and have a nice cup of tea while I arrange transport for you?"
"She wanted to scream the place down. "Transport? Why? Where?"
"To you principal creditor, of course, Miss." He checked the papers. "A Mr John Griffin."
Jill screamed.

Chapter 3


"The young lady is downstairs," sir, said the uniformed policeman. "I'm afraid we had to put the cuffs on her; she became quite hysterical."
Inwardly, Griffin exulted; outward, he kept a grave face. "It must be the shock of getting caught," he said.
The officer coughed. "I take it that you have suitable accommodation for female indenturees, sir? Sorry, but I am obliged to ask."
"Don't apologise, constable. Yes, indeed I have; the facilities were inspected and approved by your Chief Superintendent and the Area Medical Officer. I have the relevant certificate and other documents here, if you wish to examine them?"
"No sir, I'm sure that everything will be quite in order."
"She's hysterical, you say?"
"She's calmed down now, sir; but she'll bear watching."
"Ah! In that case, I wonder if you could leave the cuffs on her? I'm alone here at the moment and I don't want her making a break for it and causing you more trouble. I'll send someone down with them in the morning."
"That will be perfectly al right, sit. I'd get a supply of them if I was you." He winked. "Off the record, cuffing the difficult ones will save you calling us. We'll turn a blind eye on them and the odd stripe, if you see what I mean." He handed Griffin a small key.
"Thank you for the advice. Can I offer you a glass of something? It is quite late, after all."
The man hesitated, torn between duty and the thought of a snifter. Duty lost.

Jill sat in the back of the car, her hands cuffed together and to the chain that was welded to the floor. She felt numb with shock and exhausted by the overwhelming terror of what was happening to her. She'd tried to run, back at the station, when she'd seen that there was no hope: she'd got to the front door, too, but someone had caught her. That had led to a whole new set of charges being brought, listed by the same sergeant, this time in a far less sympathetic manner. All in all, events had dragged out until it was well past seven in the evening by the time she'd been brought here: to the very place where the man she'd vilified in print was waiting for her. Fear joined the mixture of emotions that crowded her overloaded brain.

The policeman closed the door behind him, leaving the girl standing in front of Griffin's desk. From the moment she'd entered, her eyes had never left his face; they burned with a fury he'd never seen in a woman before. She looked a little shop-soiled, he told himself, but that was only to be expected after what she'd been through today. That didn't stop her looking stunningly beautiful, though, from her long brown hair, now somewhat disarranged, past the well-filled, if crumpled blouse and swelling hips encased in a grey skirt that stopped just above her knees, all the way down shapely legs to scuffed black low-heeled shoes.
The moment the door closed, she lifted her hands, tugging at the cuffs. Her eyes blazed even brighter. "What do you think you're going to accomplish by this charade, you bastard?" she yelled. "Do you think you're going to get away with this?"
He leaned back in his chair and put his hand under his chin, one finger stroking his cheek, eyes on her, slightly mocking.
His silence infuriated her even more; her voice rose in intensity and pitch. "How DARE you do this to me, you swine? I'm going to see you in prison for like for this! You hear me? For life! Don't just sit there looking smug, you criminal! When the police find those files in my flat, they'll be up here so fast that your feet won't touch!"
His hand left his chin. He leaned forward to open a drawer, fished inside then pulled out a bundle of files that he tossed on the desk. "You mean these?" he asked.
Her eyes went to them, her mouth dropped and her face suddenly went grey; her body froze as the implications hit her. "How...?" she croaked.
He smiled. "You saw the notice on your door, didn't you? Who has access to your flat? One guess." He saw it in her eyes. "That's right, my vitriolic little free-lance investigative reporter: me."
Her eyes moved from the files to his face, mute appeal clear. What she saw dashed any hopes she might have had. Her mouth worked. "You... you can't do this," she croaked. She shook her head. "This... this isn't possible."
He laughed. "It's not only possible, my dear; it's happening." His face hardened. "You caused me trouble, a very great deal of trouble and money. You stirred up a hornet's nest for me with that article of yours, and it all had to be sorted out. You owe me for that."
Jill saw the chasm that had opened under her and into which she was about to plummet. She saw it in his eyes, the set of his chin and in the way he held his body. This was more than money, a lot more; she began to be very afraid. "Y...you'll never get away with this," she stammered. "People will wonder where I've gone; they'll want to know why the articles haven't resumed. You can't do this."
He laughed again. "You're a debt slave, woman! People don't ask what happens to you when that happens! They're only too happy to forget you ever existed. Until you've paid your debt, of course and then you can come back into the world." The smile became positively evil. "In your case, you owe me over sixty thousand pounds. That's legal; the court said so. No one's going to tell them it was all cooked, least of all you; you're going to be too busy paying it off. At a rate of pay and interest that will keep you indentured to me as long as I want it. And that's just part of it."
She licked dry lips. "W... what are you going to do to me?"
He ignored the question, but pointed to the files. "Who gave you them?" he asked.
Her eyes flickered to them, then back to his. She saw the answer there and seemed to shrink a little. "I... I don't know," she said. "They arrived in the post one day."
"Liar."
"It's true," she said desperately. "Look, we don't have to do things like this! Can't we...." She broke off.
"Can't we what? Climb into bed and forget it?"
She winced. "Y...yes."
He laughed for the third time, a sound as unpleasant as any she'd heard. He pulled a file from the drawer and opened it. "Jill Audrey Vivienne Bentley," he read aloud. He lifted his eyes to hers. "A lot of names," his eyes travelled down her body, making her flesh crawl. "But quite a lot of woman, I suppose. Born, blah, school, blah, university, blah, blah. Ah! Sexual preferences: hetero, casual, no firm male friends, not highly sexed but uses sex as a weapon, blah, blah." His eyes went to hers again. She had to meet them. "'Uses sex as a weapon'," he quoted. "And you were offering to climb into bed with me? I don't think so."
She was trembling now. "W...what do you want from me?"
"Who gave you those?" he repeated, pointing at the files.
"I told you!"
"Last chance! Who was it?"
"I don't know!"
He moved so fast that she thought she'd blinked. He came from his side of the desk to hers in an instant, then bent to scoop her up in a fireman's lift, controlling her legs with his arms and ignoring her hands beating against his back. As he carried her through dimply lit, empty corridors, he spoke, his voice echoing. "I had an idea when I was rigging your financial demise," he said. "So I had this little place built."
They passed through a door into what looked and smelled like a storeroom. There was a click and a buzz and suddenly light flooded from somewhere; he walked into it, then through another door, finally dropping her ion the floor and holding her up by the chain of the handcuffs, easily keeping her hands stretch over her head. She felt something cold touch her wrist and then his hands left her. Her hands didn't come down though; looking up, she saw that he'd put the chain over a hook on the end of a chain that ran up to a track in the ceiling.
"What are you doing? Stop this!" she screamed.
He settled in an armchair, looking at her with approval. "You look very nice like that," he said.
"Get me off this thing! How dare you!"
"With the greatest of ease," he said. "Feel free to scream: there's only me to hear you. Who told you?"
"Get lost, you bastard! Get me off this thing NOW!"
"You really want that?" he asked.
She missed the edge in his voice. "Yes, damn you!"
He rose. "If you insist. He crossed to her, took her by the shoulder and pushed. The chain ran back on the track until she was pressed against the wall.
"Take me down!" she demanded.
"All in good time," he replied. He stooped to her feet, fumbling at something on the floor. There was a click and he began straightening. As he did, she felt something touch the inside of her leg, moving up.
"What are you doing? Get off me, you swine! How dare you! I...." She screamed at something pressed up into her crotch; not his hands, but something like a rod or ruler. It forced her up on to her toes, another click signalling that it had been locked in place. It was sharp, bisecting the lips of her vagina through her panties. Serrated, a wedge. She screamed again as the thing bit into her. "Get me off! Stop this! What do you think you're doing to me?"
He bent again; she felt his hands pulling off her shoes, screaming as he lifted each foot. She pulled on the handcuffs to relieve the pressure on her crotch and the tensed calf muscles. He was doing something to her big toes, helped by the fact that she wore no stockings. She heard him grunt and them he was standing again. She looked up at him. "Stop this, now! Please, don't! This is torture!"
"It is, isn't it?" he said. He moved closer to her, his hands going to her skirt, which was rucked up by the thing that he had lifted between her legs. She looked down and saw him take the material and move it back, out of the way. Now she could see what it was that pressed into her intimate flesh so cruelly: a wedge-shaped bar, narrow side up, with what looked like a serrated metal strip at the top. That's what was pressing into her, though she'd lifted herself off it. The thing protruded from the wall between her legs and extended three or four inches beyond, the outside end fitting into something like a vertical gate post, its head about four inches on each side.
"Do you want to get off?" he asked.
"Yes, damn you! What do you think you're doing, you bastard? Hurry, my arms are getting tired!"
"Oh, we can't have that, can we? Here." He reached up and unlocked first one handcuff, then the other, holding her up with one hand. When both cuffs had been freed, he let go.
Her body dropped on to the wicked edge of the wedged bar. She screamed as the metal bit into that most tender of all flesh. She pressed down with her toes to relieve the sudden agony, her hands swinging instinctively to the inviting-look post for support. The moment she applied pressure, her whole body jolted with an electrical charge from the wires wrapped round her toes; she screamed again, her senses unable to cope with the assault. The charge kept on jolting her, forcing her quivering flesh to judder against the bar, grinding her vagina into the metal. Then, through the agony, she realised that the electricity that was racking her came when she pressed against the post. She released it, an action that stopped the current, but which once again ground her into the bar. Still screaming shrilly, she lifted herself on her toes, the only part that could touch the ground. Relief!
He'd walked back to the chair and was watching her. Her face was strained and twisted as she stared at him imploringly. "Take me off this thing, please!"
"You can get off yourself," he said. "There's nothing holding you there."
There wasn't. But all she could touch the ground with was her toes, supported by calf muscles that were already beginning to burn. She couldn't move forward because the post was in the way, protruding just those vital few inches above the wedge bar; back because she was pressed against the wall, and there wasn't room between the post and her body for her to get a hand in to support herself that way. The only way that she was going to be able to get off the bar was going to be by pressing down on that post.
He watched her face as she realised her position. Relax the calf muscles or push on the post: a simple choice, but one that was beginning to make her sweat. She was stuck where she was as neatly as if she'd been nailed there, and she had nothing to look forward to but just how she was going to hurt herself next. He smiled. Unless she could defy the current long enough to vault off, of course; he looked down at the rotary control in his hand and turned it a little: up from 300 to 350 volts AC: the electrician who'd installed that transformer little knew the use it was to be put to.
"Please," she said, her voice sounding as if she meant it. "Please take me off."
"Certainly," he said. "As soon as you tell me who gave you the files." He stood. "Don't go away, will you?" He smiled. "I'm just going to get myself a drink." He heard her scream through the door.
He spent fifteen minutes watching on the monitor. She tried to lever herself off once and almost made it, screaming and writhing as the current jolted her, but it beat her; she sagged back, screaming anew as metal bit into bruised flesh. When her calf muscles gave out next time, she sagged, her hands fluttering over the cap of the post, but not touching it. She didn't scream this time; simply groaned and whined as her most intimate parts were compressed between her pelvic bone and the metal. When she couldn't take that any more, she went up on her toes; then it was back to the bar, this time with the whimpering whines more intense. Clearly she didn't want another experience with electricity: it threw her about so much that she bounced up and down on the wedge.
As he entered, her head came up. She was crying freely. "Please... please, stop it," she said, weakly. "I can't take any more. Please..."
He settled into the armchair and sipped his drink. "I have a request to make," he said.
Her eyes came to his, pleading. "I can't tell you," she groaned.
"Oh, it's not that. You'll tell me that later, anyway. Would you like to take of that blouse for me? I'd rather like to look at your tits."
Her eyes widened. "No!" she shouted. Then her body arched, her head flying back, mouth gaping as he pressed the button on the remote. Her body jerked; scream after piercing scream filled the room: it was the only sound she could make. He turned it off; she slumped, almost grabbing the post, screamed again as she jerked away and the bar ground into her. She groaned as she lifted herself up on her toes. For a moment her eyes met his before her head dropped and, to his delight, her hands went to the buttons of her blouse.
She didn't do it all at one go: her calf muscles gave way, so she spent a session with her weight on the bar, screaming now, until she could lift again. Then she began unbuttoning faster, pulling off the blouse to reveal a well-filled, white, frilled brassiere. Once again, she looked at him, her expression piteous.
He raised his eyebrows and sipped his drink.
She groaned; her hands went behind her. The brassiere came away just as her calf muscles gave out, and this time she couldn't take any more of the punishment in her vagina. She managed a strangled: "Please!" and then her hands went down to the post and her body began its grotesque dance of agony. He turned the voltage down a little, but it helped her only a little. Her breasts were lush and full, bouncing around with her contortions, heaving with her screams, which were becoming noticeably weaker.
Griffin hit the override on the remote and the flow stopped; she slumped, hands still on the post as he rose and crossed to her. Bending slightly, he unlocked the bar and slid it down a little. He pushed her upright until she rested against the wall, head lolling, hands hanging by her side. She was panting and groaning, those wonderful breasts heaving. The nipples, he saw, faced almost vertical; he longed to fondle them, but held back; there'd be plenty of time for that. Besides, he wanted her to do the asking: correction, begging. She would, eventually. Her eyes were closed, her mouth hanging partly open.
"Do you want to do that all over again?" he asked.
The eyes flew open, the face contorting. "No!" she screamed.
"Who was it?"
"You bastard! No, I won't tell you!"
"Fair enough," he said, bending. "I'll make it the full half hour this time, I think."
"No!" she screamed again. "Don't, please! I can't do that again. Oh, you swine!" Her hands came up to strike at him, but she was too weak.
"Make your mind up," he said. "One thing or the other."
Her head dropped. "Oh, God!" She sobbed. "Please, no more! I can't!"
"Suit yourself." He bent to lift the bar again, hearing an agonised moan issue from her. On the verge of lifting the thing, he paused, thinking. He wasn't a trained torturer; in fact, this was his first foray into the practice. Thrilled as he was by the wonderful feelings that her screams and pleas gave him, he didn't want to spoil things. He remembered reading, somewhere, that torture was as much in the mind as the body. He bent further to unwrap the wires from her toes, made sure that they were well separated then stood.
He eyes were closed, tears streaming from under the lids, her mouth contorted in a grimace of anticipatory anguish. He stood for a moment, enjoying the spectacle and then let his gaze travel down over that gorgeous, tear-stained bosom. A new thrill ran through him: he had done this; revenge was sweet, but the feeling of power and anticipation was as nectar on his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was spoil it all with impatience; to paraphrase the old Italian saying, he told himself: 'Revenge is a meal best eaten at length'.
"No," he said. "I've changed my mind."
Her eyes flew open, widening in sudden hope. At the same time, she seemed to realise that she was half naked. Her arms flew up to cover her breasts. He smiled. "I think we'll call a halt," he said, seeing the spark of hope in her eyes. "And let you get some sleep."
"Let me go! I won't tell anyone what you've done!" she babbled, his apparent change of heart giving her strength.
He shook his head. "Oh, no: I couldn't do that. You're a convicted debt indenturee remember? If I let you go, they arrest me."
"They'll arrest you anyway!" she shrieked. "When I tell them what you've done!"
He took her arms and lifted her bodily, draping her over his shoulder as he had before. She kicked and beat at him with her fists, but it was weak and ineffectual. A few steps took him to another door, which he opened. The small room had been converted into a cell containing a portable toilet, a fold-down wooden bed and a camp basin with a pitcher of water standing beside it. He lowered her to her feet and stood to block the door with his bulk, watching as she looked around.
It didn't take long; her eyes came back to his, once again blazing fury. Strange how she seemed to have forgotten the events of a few moments ago, he thought. "You can't keep me in here!" she snapped.
He yawned elaborately. "I can, you know."
"There's no mattress!"
"I know."
"I'm hungry!"
"I can imagine. You're probably hurting a bit, too. Think about that, because you're going back on that little contraption in the morning. And we'll have the whole day ahead of us to play. Sleep well." He moved back, pulling the door closed behind him. As he locked it, he heard her banging on the other side, screaming.
He moved back to the centre of the improvised torture chamber, exulting. What a feeling! Wonderful! The idea that had half-formed while he'd been watching her through the monitor took stronger form: this improvised lash-up was all very well. In fact, given the amount of time he'd had, it was bloody marvellous. But now he'd had his first taste, he wanted more; a lot more; plans began to form.
In the small room, Jill stood looking around the sparse cell and contemplated the ruins of her life. It had all happened so quickly! And then that vile torture! That though brought her back to the pain: she glanced at the door: no peep-hole, so he wasn't spying on her. Or was he? She looked up and around the walls: no tell-tale holes, so no cameras. And no mirror, so no two-way glass. Gingerly, she put her hands down between her legs, feeling her vagina through the material of her panties; even that gentle touch made her wince and draw in breath. The swine! What a vile thing to do to a woman!
She glanced round again then pushed her thumb into the waistband of her skirt and eased it down. He panties followed; she craned to look, but all she could see past the trimmed down of pubic hair was that her labia were red and bruised-looking. The real hurt was deeper: it throbbed; her whole body ached from those awful electric shocks, but the worst was in her vagina. She turned to the basin, picking up the pitcher: at least he'd filled that. In the act of pouring some into the bowl, she stopped: she was hungry and thirsty; he'd indicated that he wasn't coming back before morning. Was this water all she was going to have between now and then? She stopped pouring and lifted the jug to her lips, drinking deeply, wanting to pour the liquid over her head, but realising that there would probably be no more.
Carefully putting the pitcher down, she straddled her legs. Bending her knees and thrusting her hips forward, she scooped water from the bowl and took it to her vagina, where she tried to keep as much of the cool liquid in contact with the tortured flesh as she could. The relief was small and oh, so temporary, but she managed to do it several times before she could scoop no more from the bowl. The rest she rubbed on her face and under her arms. That over and feeling marginally better, she glanced at the cylindrical shape of the toilet. She knew about those: as a child, when her parents were still alive, they'd spent holidays in a caravan in the Welsh hills, miles from organised sites: her predominant memory was the smell of the toilet. She hesitated, but it had to be done.
There was a moment of panic before she found the toilet roll. She cleaned herself, hesitated about washing and decided not to. And she'd been right about the smell: even with the lid down, that mixture of chemicals and excrement soon began to fill her small space. It was only now, with those mundane tasks dome that the full realisation of where she was hit her. Her head whirled; she sat on the edge of the bed with a bump, remembering to move forward at the last moment. She looked at the blank, uncompromising door and walls and contemplated her equally blank and uncompromising future. Tears began, the tears of bewilderment and shock. Then she remembered what he's said about starting again tomorrow and wailed; rolling on to her side, she curled up into the foetal position on the hard board and wept.

Chapter 4


Griffin swirled the cognac in his glass and laughed, switching the sound on the monitor to 'mute' to cut off the sound of weeping. He looked round at the three men in the room with him, all lounging like him, drinks in hands.
"Well? Is she worth it?" he asked.
"By God!" said Atkinson, a florid, balding man in his mid forties. "What a figure! And you," he turned a wondering gaze on Griffin, "never touched her!"
"I wondered about that," said a man who, even sitting, managed to look as if he was at attention. His face was long and lean, his hair black and full, his age difficult to determine, but over forty. "Are you saving that?"
Griffin glanced at Robinson, the third man; small, greying, a light-weight in all but brain power; the man who'd master-minded the financial ruin of the girl on the screen. He was watching her still, leaning forward, rapt. Sensing that they were looking at him, he glanced up. "She's gorgeous!" he breathed. He grinned. "Did you see her looking for the camera?"
Griffin laughed. "She missed it, didn't she?"
"Where is it?" asked Chambers in a professional manner.
"In the door hinge. I did think of putting one in the toilet, but thought better of it."
"I should think so," snorted Atkinson.
Chambers looked at the screen. "Are you going to put her back on that thing tomorrow?" he asked. "Won't it damage her? I don't want her ruined before we start!"
"What do you say to that, Doc?" he asked Atkinson.
The District Medical Supervisor pursed his lips. "They're a lot tougher than they look, are women. Another session like that shouldn't do any permanent harm. What voltage were you putting through her?"
"About 400 the last time, before I turned it down."
"AC?"
"Oh, yes."
Again the lips pursed. "Well, her medical history says she's fit and healthy, so that'll be all right. I wouldn't go over 500, though."
"Christ!" muttered Robinson. "500 volts!"
Griffin bent his eye on him. "You're not feeling sorry for the bitch, are you?"
"No! Hell, no! Just wondering what it felt like, that's all."
Griffin smiled thinly. "Step downstairs and you can find out, old lad."
"No thanks!" Robinson made a crooked smile, his eyes going back to the monitor. He licked his lips. "Do you think she'll ... you know... become a slave. A, er, sex slave?"
"I'm not an expert," said Griffin. "I'm learning, just as all of you are. But I'd say that there's every chance, given time."
"And what happens when she tells you who the mole is?" asked Chambers, his professional instinct as Chief Superintendent of the local police station showing.
"That depends. If it's a man, then Peter," Griffin nodded at the small figure of Robinson. "Could possibly arrange another financial disaster."
Robinson lifted his glass. "No problem at all," he said. "Bank managers can get away with murder nowadays."
Chambers frowned. "You be careful, Peter; you may be a financial wizard, but you're not immune, you know."
"George," said Robinson. "My scheme is fool-proof, I promise you. And if the worst comes to the worst, we simply blame hackers and deny all responsibility. Banks have been doing that for years!"
They laughed, relieving some of the testosterone-charged atmosphere.
"You were saying, John?" prompted the doctor.
Griffin collected his thoughts. "Ah, yes. Well, if it's a man - or an ugly woman," he added, his face twisting. They laughed again. "Financial ruin, courtesy of Peter. I'll fire him - or her - and make sure that he or she doesn't work again. After he - or she - has done a few years as a debt slave."
Chambers winced. "I wish people wouldn't use that phrase," he said.
"Why not?" asked Griffin. "It's what it is, isn't it?"
Chambers frowned, but then his face cleared. "I suppose it is," he said. "But if you don't mind, I'll staying disapproving of the term. It would give a terrible impression if I slipped in my official capacity. What's your third alternative, John? As if I didn't know?"
"You mean if she's something like our lovely Jill down there? What's wrong with the same thing?"
Three faces looked at him then each other then back to him. "Two of them?" asked Atkinson.
"Why not? Given that the background is right and that no one's going to make a fuss."
Chambers eyed him. "You know who it is, don't you?"
Griffin grinned. "You should be a policeman," he said, to grins. "I think I know. More exactly, I hope I know."
"And does she fit all the requirements?" asked the policeman.
"Oh, yes, she fits everything," said Griffin, smiling.
"In that case," said the doctor, grinning. "Where's the problem? Twice the fun!"
"I can see one problem," said Robinson. "Where's the time coming from, John? Are you going to do it all yourself?"
"I can help you there," interjected Chambers. "Or our wonderful, enlightened government can." He grinned at their confusion. "I'm going off on a course," he said. "In corporal punishment techniques. The ninnies in Whitehall have suddenly realised that it takes more than a law and strong arms to make an effective corporal punishment policy."
Griffin looked at him, grinning in turn. "They're going to teach you, so you can teach us! Marvellous! When's this?"
"Three days from Monday."
"Couldn't be better!" enthused Griffin. "Peter will need a couple of weeks to fix our mole, whoever it is. That gives you time to learn, George. You can advise about what sort of instruments we need and begin teaching us. If it's who I think it is, we'll be ready in perfect time!"
"What about her?" asked the doctor, pointing to the screen.
Griffin followed the finger. "First she's going to tell me who it is. Then she's going to be persuaded that her best interest lie in co-operation. I'm not going to lay into her with whips and things until George has taught us, but by that time she probably won't need them."
"You will," grunted the doctor. "I told you: these women are tougher than you think. And don't you go pushing too hard, young John: you damage her and I'll have something to say about it. I like mine half-willing and in one piece; which reminds me: give her something to eat in the morning, even if it's only a bit of bread."
"I'll take it slow and easy, I promise. Will a bowl of porridge do?"
"That'll be fine; plenty of water, though. And let her shower, or she'll start stinking: woman do, as you'll know if you've ever been in a dressing room in a gym." He looked round. "Don't look at me like that! It was purely professional, I assure you!"
Griffin laughed with the rest, thinking that he'd been right in not revealing the plan he'd developed. It was too soon.

Chapter 5


She hadn't slept much at all. The boards of the bed were hard and unyielding and the pain that throbbed through her so insistent that she spent most of the night in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position. He hadn't turned the light out, either, so what little sleep she did get was shallow and unsatisfactory. To fill those long hours of wakefulness were thoughts: thoughts of the horrible speed of events; thoughts of what he's done to her; thoughts - the worst thoughts - of what was to come with the new day. A whole new day, stretching into the dimness of infinity, full of the promise pain. She curled up, knees tucked under her breast, arms crossed, her head pillowed on the inadequate rolled up skirt. It shouldn't be happening, but there was no point in kidding herself: it was going to happen, no matter how hard she tried to deny it. He was taking revenge for what she'd done. She was finding out what he was like when he was angry: he was terrible.
The first sound of the key in the lock had her wide awake, crouching as far up the bed away from it as she could. The door swung open and he stood there, looking at her. Then his nose wrinkled and an expression of distaste crossed his face. That damned toilet! She'd become used to it! She snatched up her skirt to cover her breasts, cursing the fact that she'd left her panties on the floor. She saw him looking at them.
"You've had your fun," she said, trying bravado. "Now let me go before you get yourself in any more trouble!"
He smiled. "You do keep trying, don't you?" He sniffed; her cheeks burned. "Come on, then; time to play games again. Oh, and bring that bucket with you, will you? You filled it so you can empty it. And please don't get any ideas about throwing it at me; if you do, you'll spend a half an hour on the bar before I give you something to eat. Come on."
"Go away!" she screamed. "Leave me alone, you filthy bastard!"
Another smile. "Temper, temper. I'll give you fifteen seconds and then I'll take the food away; there'll be no more until tomorrow morning if I do that."
She realised that she was starving; the thought of food had her salivating. But she couldn't give in that easily. "Give me my clothes," she demanded.
He shook his head. "I like you the way you are. Besides, there's a nice shower waiting for you. You smell as if you need it."
Her cheeks burned again. "Whose fault is that?" she screamed. "You locked me in here, you perverted swine!"
"Your fifteen seconds is long past. In future, you won't get any second chances, but I'll give you one now. Get the bucket and follow me. Now. Or go hungry." He turned his back and walked three paces, leaving the door open.
She couldn't take the chance. Scrambling from the hard wood of the bed, she paused only to scoop up her panties before lifting the lid of the toilet and taking out the bucket. Her nerves had loosened her bowels during the night; the stink was bad, despite the chemicals. Carrying it, crouching to cover as much of herself as she could, she scuttled out into the same room in which she'd suffered last night.
The bar and post were still there, the wires on the floor, ready. Her heart jumped at the sight while something cold grasped her empty belly. It couldn't happen again, could it? He was walking off; she scurried after him, the odorous bucket in one hand, her knickers and skirt clutched across her breasts in the other. He led her out of the room, into a short corridor, where he opened another door and stepped back.
"Empty the bucket and do anything else you feel you must," he said. "I'll give you ten minutes. Don't waste time looking for windows or weapons; there aren't any." He glanced at the garments she was clutching. "I wouldn't bother putting them one," he added casually. "They'll be coming off soon enough in any case. In you go."

She had no way of telling just how much time had passed, but she judged that he'd been true to his word. She managed to empty and rinse the bucket, clean her teeth and take a brief shower, drying herself inadequately on the two small hand towels he'd provided. As an act of defiance, she put on the panties and skirt; when he opened the door, she crossed her arms over her breasts protectively.
He laughed. She looked bedraggled: her hair straggling, still wet and with drops of water all over her. "Don't forget your bucket," he said. "No bucket. No breakfast."
She snatched the thing up and followed him, her feet dragging. Food would be wonderful, even if he served in a dog bowl on the floor; but what then? Her mind quailed at the though. In the main room, the one with that thing against one wall she stopped dead, staring. In the centre of the floor were two bowls, both marked 'Dog': one filled with water, the other with what looked like porridge. It was as if he'd read her mind! She turned a cold glare on him, summoning as much dignity as she could in the circumstances. It was odd, she thought, just how much the little things had come to mean: a scrap of defiance here, a flash of pride there. "You are, of course, joking," she said icily.
He sat in the armchair, grinning. "Of course I am," he said airily. "But I'm the one who can afford to make the jokes, you see. All you can do is ask me permission to laugh and for how long. Eat or not, it's all the same to me."
"It's so damned humiliating, you bastard!"
"Precisely."
She stood there glaring at him, fighting the urge to pick up the porridge and throw it at him. What stopped her was the thought of what he'd do to her afterwards: that and hunger. Reluctantly, she dropped to her knees and stretched a hand to the bowl with the grey stuff in it.
"Ah, ah!" he said warningly.
She threw him a look of pure vitriol, but withdrew her hand. If she didn't do as he said, he might take it away altogether. Dipping her head, she sniffed at the stuff; it was porridge, all right. The saliva started in her mouth as she poked out her tongue and tasted it tentatively; it was bland, unseasoned, but tasted wonderful. She swallowed that morsel then lapped in some more. In a few moments, the bowl was empty. She knelt up, still covering her breasts with her arms. "Can I have some more, please?" she asked, plaintive.
He bellowed with laughter, slapping the arms of the chair. "Who do you think you are, Oliver? No you can't! You earn everything you get here, good and bad; at the moment, you're deep in debt."
She saw what was coming and was desperate to avoid it; during those long wakeful periods of the night she'd thought what she'd do when the moment came and this was it. She crawled towards him, dropping her arms, giving him an unrestricted view of her breasts, which she knew were well above average. His eyes went to them and a smile twitched at his lips. Encouraged, she moved closer, putting her hands on his knees, forcing a smile of invitation to her lips, which she licked as provocatively as she could. "Look," she said huskily. "Can't we settle this ... another way?"
He made his eyes widen. "Are you offering yourself to me?" he asked.
"If you like," she said.
He leaned forward and cupped a breast; she recoiled, hesitated then pushed forward. The skin was silky-smooth, the flesh beneath firm and resilient. His eyes held hers, seeing the effort she was making and the fear that lay behind it. "You made a similar offer last night," he said, letting his fingers squeeze slightly, feeling her push against him.
"That was before you hurt me," she said. "I see that I can do nothing to stop that, so I want to make it easy." She licked her lips. "I'm very good."
He laughed, pushing her away hard, so that she tumbled backwards, squealing. "No you're not! You hardly know what sex is, girl! You've fumbled with a couple of adolescent boys and flaunted yourself to get your own way, but that's the limit, isn't it? You don't even like sex, do you, with men or women? And you've got the brass nerve to tell me that you're good!"
She scrambled back to her knees, covering her breasts again. She started to cry. "Bastard! Coward! I hate you!"
"That's true, at least! Who gave you the information?"
"Go to hell!"
He levered himself up, towering over her. "Possibly, but not yet. That little trip is reserved for you in the very near future."
"No! No more of that, please!"
He ignored her babble and the sobs that came with it. "We're going to play an obedience game," he said. "For every command you get right, you earn five minutes; get it wrong, you lose five minutes. We'll start with," he pursed his lips and added fifteen minutes to the figure he'd been thinking off. "Let's say forty-five minutes, shall we?"
"No! You'll kill me on that thing! You caaaan't!" she wailed.
"Then you'd better be very obedient," he said. "Stand up."
She scrambled to her feet to stand in front of him, trembling. Her head came to a point just above his shoulder.
"Good start: you've just earned five minutes. Drop your hands." They went down. "I see that you've got the hang of this. Those are lovely tits. Are you proud of them?"
"Yes," she said.
"Glad to hear it. Oh, that wasn't part of the test, by the way. You've earned yourself ten minutes. Off with the skirt and knickers, please." He saw her bite her lip. "Hesitation counts as disobedience," he added.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed both garments down to her knees then stepped out of them, a deep red flush adding itself to the emotions that chased over her face.
"There," he said, as if to a child. "That didn't hurt, did it? Fifteen minutes off your time and only a blush to show for it. Does your cunt hurt?"
She squirmed, the flush deepening. "Yes," she said. "Please, I..."
"No talking unless I ask you a question, or you lose five minutes. I won't give you a second chance with that one. You'll be making all the noise you want soon enough." He grinned as she shuddered convulsively. Your cunt hurts, you say? Show me it, would you?"
That one hit her hard. She seemed to freeze, her eyes going up to lock with his. What she saw there convinced her that he meant it and that it was part of the test. She had bare fractions of a second to react: to obey or disobey. It wasn't just five minutes off the time: it was the five minutes extra that decided her. Sobbing with humiliation, she bent her knees and thrust her hips forward.
"No, not like that. Get on your back and spread your legs nice and wide."
A choking, growling sob escaped her. She trembled on the brink of rebellion, but remembered just what that hellish device had felt like last night. Sobbing anew, she forced herself to her knees, then her back. After a visible struggle with herself, she spread her legs.
He squatted at her feet; she hadn't spread them very wide, but was trembling and sobbing with the effort that what she had done had cost her in pride. He looked up to the vagina whose lips were red and swollen, with purple bruises showing. That thing must hurt like the devil, he thought, a smile crossing his lips. Good, though he'd better let Atkinson have a look at her later this morning, just to be on the safe side. "It does look a bit sore," he said. He toyed with the idea of making her spread those puffy lips for him, but decided that enough was enough.
She wailed. "You can't put me on that horrible thing again! It's inhuman!" He straightened. "You can get up again now," he said. He waited until she was up. She made an effort to cross her arms over her breasts, but dropped them. "It's supposed to be inhuman," he said. "And that little outburst has just cost you five minutes. What a pity, after all that effort."
She screamed her despair and continued screaming as he picked her up and carried her to the bar. Still holding her round the waist, he stopped and pulled the bar up, locking it in pace at the same place as last night. He'd been lucky then: he'd hit on the right place first go.
Her screams redoubled as he released her, her hands going to and recoiling from the top of the post. He grinned as he saw her calf muscles tighten as she took her weight on her toes; she hadn't realised that the wires weren't connected. He rectified that in a few seconds as he heard the screams become groans of effort, the leg muscles already beginning to tremble.
As he stood, her eyes went to his, begging. He smiled at her, taunting, but although her mouth opened, she bit back any reply she was going to make. That lesson had been learned, then. He walked back to the chair and picked up the remote control, holding it up so that she could see it. Still smiling, he flicked the switch with his thumb. "There," he said. "I've just turned the electricity on."
Her eyes bulged as she realised that she could have been supporting herself on the post for the last two or three minutes. Her eyes hated him for a long moment, before the look in them became one of preoccupation and despair. What a picture she made! Naked, glorious breasts first still, then moving and bobbing as her legs gave out and she squirmed on the bar, her groans and whines intensifying. She'd learned one thing, though; maybe she'd worked it out during the night. He saw a hand slip, apparently innocently, behind her back; saw her try to lift a bit more with her toes. She was trying to get her fingers between the bar and those oh-so-tender parts.
It didn't work, whatever the reason; perhaps there wasn't room, or maybe she couldn't get her hand into the right position. Whatever it was, she pulled her hand away, at the same time releasing a scream of frustration and pain. "Please," she whimpered. "Please stop it! It's terrible! Please please pleeeeeease!"
"Who gave you the files?"
"No! They came in...in the p...post!"
"You look beautiful like that, you know."
"Oh, God help meee! Please stop it! I'll do anything!"
"Who was it?"
"I c...can't ...I...I don't know, honestly, I don't know!"
"That's five minutes up. Thirty to go."
"Nooooo! You can't! Oh God oh God, no! Please, it's agony! I can't... I can't..."
"Dear, dear. And you haven't so much as touched that post yet. Want some?"
"NO!" she screeched. "Don't! Please, don't!"
"Who was it?"
"Nobody! I mean..." Her body arched as he pushed the button, a terrible howl erupting from her throat as 450 volts hit her. Her body seemed to skitter on the bar, drawing fresh howls. He switched it off; she slumped, panting and groaning as she had yesterday, only to force her legs straight, toes pointing. "Oh, you bastard," she mumbled, the tears coursing. "No... mo more, please. I'll tell you. Just take me off, for God's sake!"
"The name?"
"Take me off!"
"The name?"
"Oh, God, no! Please, please...."
"Suit yourself. I'll just sit here and watch."
"You filthy bastard! Why are you doing this foul thing to me? Oh, God, it hurts!"
He didn't bother to reply; just sat back and watched her agony increasing. He saw a rivulet of sweat appear from her armpit and followed it as it wended its way down her heaving flank. She screamed some more, the sound reminding him to turn down the voltage; he wanted to keep the big doses for emphasis. How long would it be, he wondered, before she had to put her hands on the post?
Another ten minutes or so was the answer to that. She was sweating freely and groaning continuously, biting here lip to hold back the screams. Her hands, which were in constant motion, began fluttering around above the post like a pair of uncertain butterflies. When they dropped, they came down fast, catching him by surprise. She screamed, her body going into the now-familiar contortion and then quite suddenly the scream cut off and she went limp, toppling forwards over the post. There she lay, her body twitching as the current ran through it.
He scrambled up, switching off the current at the remote as her rose, panic surging in him. Had he killed her? Putting his arms round her, he lifted her off the contraption and laid her on the floor before bending to put his ear to her mouth. A gasp of relief escaped him when he felt the puff of breath; at least she was alive! All she'd done was faint; he frowned: that wasn't in the game plan. And she'd been on the point of telling him, too! Then he realised the stupidity of that thought: she'd still tell him, wouldn't she? Let her come round from this little swoon, threaten to put her back up there and she'd sing like a bird. Once she'd done that... for the first time he let his mind wander down the round that he'd deliberately blocked off, feeling his groin react; a slow, satisfied grin spread over his face as he squatted back on his heels.
It took her two or three minutes to come round. He'd resumed his seat and was enjoying the view: he'd positioned her with her feet towards him and had spread her legs wide. The downy, light brown patch of pubic hair was replicated around her vagina and the anus. Should he shave her? Later, perhaps, when she was further down the road he's planned for her. Or perhaps he'd make her do it herself, in front of the group; that certainly had attractions.
She stirred and groaned, her eyelids fluttering. Her head moved slightly, then a little more as she blinked, a hand going up to her face. Once more she blinked, her head coming up, her eyes beginning to focus, they moved to her naked breasts, a frown forming; then she looked past them, travelling up until she caught sight of him. At that point, everything must have hit her in a rush: who he was, where she was, what she'd passed out and the position she was in at the moment. She made an inarticulate screaming sobbing sound, snapped her legs closed and up and curled up, covering herself.
"You!" she cried, her eyes blazing, though they glistened brightly. She moved her legs up further and winced; a groan escaped her as the first tear fell. "How could you do something like that to a helpless woman?"
"You've asked that before," he said. "The answer is still the same: very easily. Now," he made elaborate show of consulting his watch. "By my reckoning, you have sixteen minutes and twenty-five seconds left of your current session on you little friend there..."
"No!" she shrieked, scrabbling away from him, her fingernails biting at the floor. "You can't! You musn't! You'll kill me!"
"Don't be silly: you're not dead, are you?"
Her face was a contorted mask of terror. "No!" She'd backed up as far as she could, with her shoulders against the wall. Even so, her efforts slid her along it until she reached the corner. There she crouched, knees drawn up, fists clenched, her eyes staring at him through the tears. "Please, don't!" she begged. "No more, please!"
"Sixteen minutes and twenty-five seconds," he said, rising to his feet.
She cowered even further. "NO! I can't! It's too horrible! You don't know how awful it is!"
He walked to her, keeping his eyes on hers, which followed him, her head tilting back until it hit the wall.
"Are you going to get up, or do I carry you?"
"No!" She covered her face with her hands. "I...can't...take...any...more," she sobbed.
He waited. Her hands came away, smearing tears. "It...it was Carol... Carol Wilson. Oh, god help me, I'm sorry, Carol!"
The name hit Griffin like a thunderbolt. Carol Wilson? It wouldn't be true to say that her name hadn't crossed his mind: they all had. But she was one of his senior managers, who..... whom he'd propositioned, as he had every other worth-while looking female on his staff. And who had rejected him, explaining that she was 'otherwise inclined'. That had hurt his male pride more than a touch, but she was very good at her job, so he'd let it lie, storing the information for future use. He looked down at the cringing woman.
"Are you lying to me?"
"No! Truly, it was her!" Now that she'd broken, she seemed only too anxious to please. He couldn't really blame her: she must still be in a lot of pain. He looked at her hard. Could she be lying?
"If I find out that you're lying," he said. "You'll think that that thing over there was a luxury holiday. Do you understand me?"
"I'm telling the truth! She came to me with the information; said that she'd been collecting it for months."
"And why did she say she was doing it?"
"Money; she wanted money, that's all."
"And did you two have a nice romp?"
She frowned. "I don't..."
"Did you jump into bed with her, you stupid cow?"
She looked shocked. "No! I'm not like that! Nor is Carol, I'm sure! She has a boy-friend and..."
"She has WHAT?"
"A b..boy friend. Boy friends, I should say. I..."
Fury gripped him, but he held it in check. She'd rejected him and was seeing other men? The bitch! She may not have been the person he'd wanted, but she was probably much better: she was just as good looking, had a figure to match... and she'd turned him down. She'd do very well indeed. If what this bitch at his feet was saying was true.
"If I find you've lied to me," he repeated. "That thing over there will feel like nothing!"
"I'm telling the truth," she sobbed. Her head lifted. "I've told you what you wanted to know. Will you let me go now?"
He laughed. "Let you go, you stupid trollop? I haven't even started on you yet!"
She screamed, once again covering her face with his hands.
"Just one thing," he said. "There'll be a doctor coming to check you over later. Be a good girl, won't you? Don't go babbling a lot of nonsense about being tortured, will you? I'm asking you that as a favour."
The hands came away and she stared ay him with blank astonishment.

Chapter 6


"She passed out, you say? How long was she unconscious?"
"Three or four minutes, at a guess."
"She didn't bang her head or anything like that?" asked Atkinson.
"No, but she got 450 volts through her a bit longer than I intended. She fell over the switch," he explained, seeing the puzzled look. "I switched it off within a few seconds."
"Did you feed her?"
"A bowl of porridge." He grinned. "In a dog's bowl."
Atkinson returned the grin. "I'll bet she loved that." He frowned. "At a guess, I'd say that the fainting was as much hunger as anything: reduced resistance; these modern girls don't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive. Have you...?" He asked the rest of the question with his eyebrows.
"No, I'm saving that for when we're all together. To tell you the truth, Doc, I'm a bit short of ideas; the crotch bar thing is pretty good, but I'm not sure that much more of it won't damage her. It's not much good having a sex slave you can't screw because you've put her cunt out of action."
"I can probably help you out there. In fact, being a Saturday, I can spend a little more time here, if you like?"
"Only too glad to have you. Oh, two things: she's told me who the informant is."
"Has she, now?" Atkinson's eyes gleam. "Good news or bad?"
Griffin grinned again. "Good. In fact, very good: assuming the little bitch isn't lying, of course. I'll get some investigators to check out the name she gave me over the next day or two then let Peter loose. By the time she arrives, the other one should be nicely broken in."
"I'm really looking forward to this, you know. What was the other thing?"
"I told our little scribbler not to mention what I'd done to her. She doesn't know that you're in the plot, as it were, so it could be quite amusing."
"I suspect that it might just be. You've put a little crimp in my plans, mind you."
"How's that?"
"I was going to have a little fumble; the sort that doctors aren't supposed to."
"I thought you could do that all the time: one of the attractions of the medical profession?"
"If only that were true! It does tend to be a little difficult explaining to a patient that you'd like her to take off her bra when she's come in with an ingrown toenail, you know." He smiled. "But it has its moments, especially when you have the chance to use a general anaesthetic." He brightened. "I'll still have some interesting bits to examine, won't I?"

Jill jerked awake the moment the key entered the lock, once again shuffling as far up the bare planks of the bed as she could. It was a futile, gesture, she knew, but it was automatic. The movements sent bolts of pain shooting from her groin; panic gripped her: was it him come back to put her on that fiendish device again? She couldn't take any more of that!
The door swung open; it wasn't him, but a shortish man of about fifty, balding. He carried a briefcase and didn't immediately come in, but stood in the door looking at her. Griffin had given her back her clothes, so she was dressed, with no need to try to cover herself. She stared at the man, puzzled; then came realisation: it must be the doctor! She craned to see behind him, but there was no sign of Griffin; did he really believe that she wasn't going to tell about what had been done to her? He must be mad!
"Miss Bentley?" asked the man.
"Y..yes," she said. "Are you the doctor?"
"Yes, I'm the District Medical Supervisor."
"Thank God!" she cried. "Doctor, you have to help me! That man Griffin is a maniac! He's been torturing me!"
The man's eyebrows rose. "Really? That's a very serious allegation, Miss Bentley." He turned to close and lock the door, and to hide the smile from the girl. He composed himself with practised ease: this wasn't the first time that he'd used deceit on a good-looking female patient, but it was certainly the first in these circumstances. He turned, his face grave. "There, that's ensured privacy. I think I'd better take a look at you while you tell me all about it."
Griffin sat in the comfortable lounge that the company used to entertain VIP guests. He was watching the monitor, laughing as he saw the little scene being acted out. The girl had stripped naked without demur; had allowed Atkinson to poke and feel her, all the time recounting the horrors that had befallen her. Atkinson simply grunted from time to time in the way that all doctors do, putting on a wonderful act while covertly enjoying himself: he'd handled the girl more intimately in the few minutes he'd been down there than Griffin had in all the time he'd had her.
The sound of the door opening had him turning in his chair. It was Chambers and Robinson, responding to his telephone call.
"What's the rush, John? Something happened?" asked Chambers, strolling over. Robinson followed.
"Take a seat and watch this," Griffin said. He explained what was going on as, down in the cell, Atkinson continued his examination. He asked some questions and made some notes, nodding from time to time.
Chambers and Robinson settled down in chairs, their eyes on the screen.
"I'll get some drinks organised in a minute," said Griffin. "Hold on, he's getting to the good part, I think."
"Now, Miss Bentley," said Atkinson. "You say you've been tortured? I have to say that I haven't seen any signs of that."
She hesitated, then lay back and spread her legs. "Look there," she said. "He had me sitting on a terrible bar with teeth for ages. Twice, he's done that. And he put electric shocks through me at the same time. It was horrible, Doctor!"
Atkinson bent to peer at the exposed vagina. "Hmmm, I can see that you have some bruising. I'm going to touch you, I'm afraid; I'll have to look inside. If I hurt you, just shout. He reached down to spread the labia, keeping his body out of the camera line.
"Good man," chuckled Robinson. "Christ, John, did you do that?"
"Ssssh!"
"Sorry!"
"Oh, dear," said the doctor. I can see what you mean. Does it hurt if I press there? Sorry, of course it does. I'm just checking to see how far the damage goes," he continued. "Is that all right?" he asked, massaging the clitoris. "No pain? Nothing at all? Good. Now I'm going to put a finger inside you; I'll be as gentle as I can. Sorry, I was clumsy. Does that hurt? Good. Now I'm going to try two fingers. Oh, you're rather small, aren't you? Never mind." With obvious reluctance he straightened then looked at the hinge of the door and winked as he stripped off the rubber glove. He turned back, resuming his professional demeanour as he did so. "Well, young lady; it appears that you are telling the truth. Rest assured that I will be speaking to a policeman about this very soon."
Her face shone, if not with happiness, then at least relief and hope. "Thank you, Doctor! You don't know how grateful I am to you! This is a terrible place and that Griffin is a fiend!"
Griffin looked at the others, his grin matching theirs. "Now do you see why I called you?" he asked.
"So," said Chambers, "that our dear doctor can come up and tell me what a terrible fiend you are!"
They laughed; they were still chuckling when Atkinson came in. "Ah, you got here! Did you see it?"
"We did," replied Robinson. He looked puzzled. "But what's they point, apart from the amusement?"
Atkinson looked at Griffin. "John?"
Griffin leaned back in his chair. "It's getting on for twelve. What about a good lunch and let our little lady," he jerked a thumb at the screen, which showed Jill sitting on the edge of the bed looking a lot happier than she had earlier, "have a few minutes of hope? Then why we don't we get her up here and put her straight on a couple of things? We might," his lips twitched into a sardonic smile. "Persuade her to, er, entertain us."
The tall policeman looked at him. "Do you mean what I think you mean?" he asked.
"Probably." He looked at the others. "Have you taken you Viagra today?"
Robinson snorted. "Cheeky pup!" He frowned. "But she'll need persuading, won't she? I take it she won't be willing? Not according to what we've just seen, anyway; I thought we were holding back on canes and things until George has a chance to teach us?"
"That would take most of then fun out, wouldn't it? No, Colin says that he knows a trick or two we can use that should do the necessary. Which is the other reason I called you both; I take it that no one's shy about performing in public? Good. Then let's have a drink, shall we?"

Jill sat on the hard bed, her arms wrapped round her legs. She'd be out of here soon! This nightmare was going to come to an end now, surely. Even what she'd suddenly come to think of as a perverted legal system couldn't tolerate what had happened to her. In fact, once she was out of this, she was going to start a campaign to have the entire Financial Recovery Act abolished. After she'd seen that bastard Griffin dragged through the courts with a rope round his ankles: she was going to sue the swine for every penny he owned, then have him thrown into jail. Happily, the flaring pain from her crotch pushed into the background, she began composing the account she was going to write: it would be dynamite.

"This other woman," John," said Chambers looking over the broad dining table. "She's an employee, is she?"
"Yes, has been for three of four years. If it's her," he added.
Chambers waved his fork. "Doesn't matter. It's just occurred to me that if you've got a dodgy employee and," he looked round the table, "she's worth having, if you follow me, then why go to the bother of the Financial Recovery Act?"
"Sorry?" said Griffin, looking blank.
"With respect to Peter, it's a bit drawn out and complicated. And fixing two of them in such rapid succession might look a bit odd, eh? Why don't you just lose fifty or sixty thousand pounds from petty cash?"
Griffin snorted. "If you think I keep that much in petty cash, you've got another think coming. I...." He stopped, a gleam entering his eye. "Hold on; I think I see where you're going! Criminal compensation?"
"Dead right; as it stands, the law says that if you have a confession to theft, the process is largely automatic. If it's a 'full and free' confession, the culprit doesn't even have the benefit of a court hearing or lawyer: saves millions in legal aid fees. It just comes to a senior police officer for adjudication. I, of course, am a senior police officer."
Griffin put down his knife and fork and applauded silently, looking at the other two, who nodded and smiled. "I think you've just earned first crack at her, George."
"Two first cracks, please. I want to be the first to lay a cane across her backside and the first to have her."
Once more Griffin looked at the others. "That's agreed," he said. "Coffee and brandy for everyone? A pity we haven't got any staff, but... tell you what, just scrape your plates on to one." He grinned at Atkinson. "You were complaining that we didn't feed her enough, Doc. Well, she can eat what we eat: how's that?"

Chapter 7


She didn't recoil to the far end of the bed when Griffin entered this time; she just looked at him challengingly. He didn't react other than to smile at her, trying as far as his acting ability would allow, to look shame-faced. "Had a nice rest? Come on, I've arranged dome food for you. On a plate," he added.
She glowered at him, but the hunger growled in her belly. She hesitated, wondering if this was some sort of peace offering: if it was, it fell short by about a million miles. She got to her feet, wincing and letting out a little cry as the pain hit her.
His hand went out but she pushed it aside savagely. "Get your hands off me!" she snarled.
He stepped back, amusement in his eyes. "As you wish," he said. She walked past him; she'd dressed again, though the blouse and skirt were now creased and stained. She waked in a slight crouch, her knees close together, giving her a strange gait. It must have been hurting her, but she didn't utter another sound.
"Straight ahead," he said, grinning at her back.
They passed through his improvised torture room. He saw her flinch and turn her head away from the bar; he was proud of that device: he'd made it himself in a couple of days, using ideas from the internet; perhaps he'd publish his plans one day. He directed her round corners and up stairs. She followed the instructions without a word and without turning, though she was clearly having difficulty in holding back cries of pain.
They entered the carpeted area of the upper echelons of his empire. She stopped at the door he directed her to.
"In you go," he said.
She looked back, her eyes burning at him. "I thought it would be too much to expect you to open it for me," she said, acid dripping.
He said nothing, but held back the grin. She pushed open the door, took two steps into the room and stopped dead.

Jill hadn't been quiet sure how to handle Griffin when he came back, but she thought she'd got it just right. She did wonder where he was taking her, though. Or had the doctor read the Riot Act to him and told her to treat her decently? That must be it! And now he was trying to butter her up by treating her as a VIP, if the carpets and fitting in this area of the building were anything to go by. Well, it wasn't going to work! Especially, as she waited for him to open the door for her, if he wasn't going to make the slightest attempt to be a gentleman! She turned her head and put all her sarcasm into her voice: "I thought it would be too much to expect you to open it for me," she snarled.
He said nothing: just looked at her, his face blank. It was vaguely unsettling, but she pushed the door aside, swung the handle, shoved the door and stepped inside.
She was facing the wide window, bright in the early afternoon sun. She stopped, blinked and focussed on the three vague shapes she could she. She heard Griffin come in behind her and close the door as her eyes adjusted. In the chairs sat three men: one tall with dark hair, one wizened and balding, who looked somehow familiar and... her heart skipped a beat. The doctor! Was this her deliverance, so soon? How could he have done it so fast? He... Why were they looking at her like that? Why were they grinning at her as if...?
The key clicked in the lock as she recognised that look and the recognition brought the realisation that hit her like a thunderclap. Something seemed to explode in her brain as her entire body suddenly seemed to be encased in ice, while her knees wobbled. She uttered an inarticulate cry of profound shock and utter horror while the dreams she had built over the last two hours crumbled into dust and blew away, along with any hopes that she'd had.
"That's right," said Griffin's voice close to her ear. "Fooled you!"
She screamed, rounding on him with her hands balled as she heard the laughter break out behind her. Griffin was laughing, too, as he caught her wrists easily, lifting her by them so that she was drawn up off her toes, bring her face, now contorted with shock and horror, close to his.

"You've been a naughty girl, haven't you? I asked you nicely not to tell, and what do you do? The first chance you have, you go blabbing about what a horrible man I am. That's not a nice thing to do, is it?" He let go her wrists so that she dropped, her knees collapsing so that she crumpled, now weeping. She lay on her side, curling up as she had on the bed, her hands over her eyes, sobbing uncontrollably.
Griffin walked past her and looked at his delighted companions, grinning broadly. "I don't think she appreciates our little joke," he said, settling into his chair. "We'll give her a minute or two to sort herself out then have a bit of fun. Or, to be more precise, several bits of fun." The others grinned wolfishly.
They gave her three minutes, but it was her who made the first move. She pushed herself up on one hand and turned a tear-streaked face to them "You beasts," she cried, still sobbing. "Have you no decency?"
Griffin looked at his companions, amused. "Not on me," he said. "And I'm afraid my companions left theirs at home. Oh, you haven't met some of us, have you? The gentleman at my left is a policeman; you did want to see a policeman, didn't you? Unfortunately for you, this particular policeman signed the documents which had you consigned to my care, if that's not a slightly inappropriate expression. On my right is someone you might recognise." He paused. "No? He's your bank manager, of course. He did most of the hard work for us, and very well he did, too. Mind you, all the money that was in your account, plus a bit more, is now in his, so that's part of his reward. You know the other chap, don't you? He's the lucky one who's had a good feel of your charms while we've had to make do with just watching."
Jill's eyes travelled from one to the other of them, disgust and loathing mingled with the terror. "You can't do this," she babbled. "Please, one of you must have some decency left in you! Help me, for God's sake!"
Griffin stood and walked to her. "You've done all that. It didn't work then and it won't work now."
Jill collapsed, sobbing anew.
"You've done enough of that, too," said Griffin, his voice hardening. "I want you up on your feet. Now"
She ignored him, curling herself up into a ball again.
"Ten seconds," he said. "And when you're finished up here, you can go back on that little friend of yours downstairs for half an hour before bed."
"No!" she screamed, jerking up. "Not that! You can't!"
"You'll have to get out of the habit of telling me ..us, I should say, what we can't do. Haven't you realised yet that there's absolutely nothing we can't do to you?"
She stared up at him, the words sinking in. A new terror grew in her eyes.
"Up," he said. "Or it'll be legs over that bar later. Five seconds. Four."
She was up at two, though she swayed slightly and her head hung.
"Better," he said. "Look up. I do not want to repeat every order I give you. Fail to obey me and you'll be riding that horse. Understand?"
Her head came up. Tears ran down her cheeks. "Yes," she whispered.
"Good; we're getting somewhere at last. Now, these three gentlemen and I have worked very hard to get you here, so I think we deserve a reward..."
She gave a choking, gasping sob.
"And the first thing is," he continued, as if there'd been no sound. "You'll call every one of us 'Master' from now on. If you don't, we'll hurt you. Understand?"
Her head swing to him, her eyes blazing; she'd found some courage from somewhere. Her mouth opened and then she remembered what would happen: what had already happened. It wasn't worth it. "Yes," she said. Then, after a long struggle with herself: "Master."
Griffin beamed. It had been a lot easier than he'd expected. Or that device down below was a lot more effective than he'd thought it would be. "Good slave," he said. "Now, since you seem to be co-operating so nicely, why don't you take your clothes off and show these gentlemen what you've got?"
She seemed to freeze. Only her eyes moved and they travelled to meet his. If she thought he'd been joking, that idea was dispelled by the look that she found there. Her lower lip began to dance. "P...p...please..." she began.
"No arguments, no protests, no back-chat, no begging, no pleading. Just obedience. Remember what it feels like, especially when the electricity goes on. It'll be higher next time."
Her whole body gave a convulsive shudder. She sobbed again, a sound that seemed to come straight from her soul. Then her fingers started fumbling at the buttons of her blouse. Atkinson had already seen them close up, but this was somehow different: he leaned forward with the others, flashing Griffin a quick glance of appreciation for the way he was handling the girl; so far, he'd been masterly.
It was like watching a strip-tease in slow motion, though instead of the provocative poses and exaggerated sensuality of the paid performer, every movement seemed to be dragged out this girl; as, indeed, it was. Griffin was patient, waiting for all the buttons to be undone, but he didn't let her hesitate then, as she looked likely to.
"Come on, girl," he said, a slight edge in his voice. "Get that head up and get a move on." He saw her head swinging to him, her mouth beginning to open. "And no arguments. I've warned you once. Let the gentlemen see that lovely body of yours. Of course, the doctor's already seen it, but I'm sure he'd like another look."
The blouse fell from her nerveless fingers. Then she hesitated again, before hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt and pushing that down to her knees, her face beginning to flush under the tears. Her nose was running; she wiped it with the back of her hand as the skirt dropped. There she stalled.
Griffin pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to her. "Here, clean you face. Blow if you must then drop it on the floor. The bra will follow it within ten seconds and the knickers ten seconds after that. I don't have to say why you're going to do that, do I?"
She took the handkerchief and blew. Again she hesitated, the white scrap in her hand as she gazed at her audience with a piteous expression: she saw mercy on no face. She sobbed again, dropped the handkerchief, with her hands going behind her back immediately. The bra was shrugged off; it fell as she pushed down the panties and stepped out of them. She stood with her legs pressed tightly together, one arm crossed over her breasts.
Chambers laughed; Robinson suppressed a giggle; Atkinson smiled. Griffin stepped up behind her. "You are being tiresome, girl," he said, taking her elbows and pulling her arms back so that he breasts, freed, were fully visible.
"Oh, yes!" said Robinson. "They look much bigger in real life!"
Everyone laughed except the girl, who was crying harder; Griffin kept hold of her elbows. "Open your legs," he said. She obeyed. "Wider. That's better. Now, I want you to invite each of these gentlemen to come and have a feel of what ever he wants to have a feel of."
It was too much for her; she'd been teetering on the edge of rebellion for a minute or two despite the threat hanging over her; now she snapped. "Nooooo!" she screamed. "You bastards! I hate you!" She ripped her elbows free of his grasp, but instead of rounding on him as he'd expected, made a run for the window.
She'd have made it but for Chamber's policeman's instincts. As she passed his, he stretched out an almost languid leg and tripped her. She crashed to the ground with a despairing cry; Griffin, recovering from his immobility, leapt on her.
"Thank you, George," he said, straddling her and pinioning her arms. She lay face down, struggling weakly, uttering cries of despair, frustration and growing fear.
Chambers rode to his feet. "Always happy to oblige, old boy," he said. "We couldn't have her drawing attention to herself, could we?"
"Not much chance of that," replied Griffin, struggling with the girl. "Lie still, you bitch, or I'll double the punishment you've got coming!" She wailed a protest, ands he struggles stopped. Griffin looked up to Chambers. "That window is two inches thick and overlooks private grounds. It was still nicely done, though."
The other two had risen and were watching. "What are you going to do with her?" asked Robinson, staring at the girl, his lips moist.
"Colin's idea," said Griffin, indicating the doctor. "George, could you get one of those metal chairs from the other room, please." Chambers nodded and walked out. "Griffin looked down to the girl. "Time to teach you some manners," he said.
"Nooo!"
Griffin smiled. "I put a selection of those rods on the sideboard over there, Colin: they were left by some salesman or other; God knows why. We'll need the rope, too."
Chambers came back with the chair as the doctor was swishing the four-foot length of plastic pipe. When he saw it, his eyebrows rose. "I thought we were waiting?" he said. "That thing looks a bit vicious."
Griffin grinned. "Doc's idea; we're not doing it where you think. She's got a nice little surprise coming."
Under him, the girl had started crying again. "Don't!" she begged, weakly. "Please, stop..."
"Shut up, you cow!" snarled Griffin. "Or I'll really let you have it!" Her babbling turned to sobs. "George, would you slide the back of that chair under her legs for me?"
Chambers looked puzzled for a moment then saw what he wanted. He tipped the chair so that its back was on the carpet and pushed it under the weakly-kicking legs.
"Lift her feet so that they're nicely presented," said Griffin.
Another frown, but then Chambers looked at the thin rod that Atkinson was still swishing then down at the girl's feet and a slow smile spread over his face; he nodded. He grabbed the girl's feet and lifted them, pushing the chair further under as her did so. Her lower legs were now at right angles to the floor, the shins against the chair's seat, her upper body pinned by Griffin's weight.
She knew that something awful was coming, but didn't know what yet. Her whimpers were panicky, her crying harder, now.
"Let's have that cord, please," said Chambers, holding her legs. Robinson hurried to pass it too him; he'd caught on now and his eyes were gleaming with excitement and anticipation. The policeman took it from him and lashed her ankles to the chair legs, one to each side; he used the remainder of the cord to fasten her knees to the tubular frame. The soles of her feet were presented as perfect targets.
She was the last to catch on, but when she did, her cries became inarticulately frantic and her struggles increased. Griffin held her upper body easily enough, but she lifted the light chair as her heels hit his back. He laughed. That's not going to help you, slut!" Still holding her, he lifted and swiftly reversed position so that he was facing her feet. Moving back so that his knees were either side of her head, he pulled her wrists up her back, drawing cries of pain. The quick-thinking Chambers took the legs of the chair and pushed down. She was held immobile with only her feet able to move, and that just a rotation at the ankle.
Griffin looked up to Atkinson. "When you're ready. Doc," he said.
Robinson backed away, out of the line of fire. Atkinson moved in, the rod rising.

Chapter 8


The first stroke lashed into the tender sole of her right foot. She shrieked, her body arching, but held easily by the two powerful men. All eyes went to the weal that had erupted across that frantically jiggling foot as the screams went on. Atkinson, leaning close with professional curiosity, running his finger across it, feeing the raised reddening welt. Even that touch brought redoubled screams.
"Oh, yes!" he said. "I think she felt that, all right! Did you feel that, girlie?"
His answer was an increase in the pitch of her howls. "Stop, for God's sake, stop!" she shrieked.
Atkinson smiled the sort of smile that his patients never saw. "I can't stop now," he said. "I'm enjoying myself too much."
The girl screamed again, high pitched and went on with it as he measured for another on the same foot. He waited until the noise began to ebb then struck again. More howls erupted, reaching a demented shrieking as he struck again, rapidly.
"Stooooop! Help meeeee! Pleeeease, stop! Oh God, stop!"
"Anyone else care for the other foot?" asked the doctor, voice raised over the noise.
Griffin looked at the marks on the foot. "Was that luck, or did you aim there?"
Atkinson looked modest. "Luck, really."
"If that's luck, you can carry on as far as I'm concerned." The other two nodded agreement and Atkinson, beaming, made his way to the other side.
She knew it was coming; the feet twisted and rolled around with even greater vigour as her pleas became more and more desperate.
"I take we are sound-proof up here?" asked Robinson.
"Oh, yes," said Griffin. "Besides, there's no one to hear."
Atkinson waited until he had their full attention the lashed again. Griffin could barely hold the body down and Chambers was clearly having difficulty with the chair as her body bucked in sympathy with the banshee howls that erupted from her. Twice more that plastic rod came whining down; twice more her body erupted into violent motion as she screamed her torment. He bent to examine his handiwork; he hadn't been quite as accurate - or lucky - this time: only one of the strokes crossed the sole, the others were on the heel. "I think she can have another couple," he said.
"No, no! Don't! I'll do anything you want! Don't hit me again! Please, don't!"
Griffin had been in erection for minutes; a glance showed him that Robinson and Atkinson were in the same state. He couldn't tell with Chambers, but he'd have laid bets on it. He looked down at the back of her head. "We can do this one of two ways," he said. "Are you listening?"
"Arrrgh! Oh! Y...yes," she managed. Adding belatedly. "Master."
"Good girl," he said. "Now, you can hold your feet nice and still for one more stroke on each side, or you can take three more. It's up to you. And I don't want arguments or protests, just a decision. Ten seconds. Nine..."
The others grinned at the fiendish cruelty of it. The girl wailed like a soul in torment - which, of course, she was - then gave a huge sob as the count reached 'four'. "I'll.... I'll hold ...still," she stammered, her voice full of dread.
"There's a good girl. Do your duty, doctor."
The word 'duty' brought smiles, but with their animal passions roused to the present level, almost anything would have brought a smile, if that feral baring of the teeth could be called that. The foot twitched and trembled, but she held it still. Until the rod bit into its centre: the hardest stroke that had been struck so far. An inhuman screech erupted from her; the chair was torn from Chamber's grasp and Griffin had to free his grip and throw himself backwards too avoid being hit by it. Freed, the girl rolled, encumbered by the chair, her hands desperately seeking her feet, which she couldn't reach, while the scream became a keening wail of agony.
"Sorry!" said Chambers, on hands and knees.
"I needed the exercise," replied Griffin. He watched the girl for a moment, enjoying the sight of the young body writhing around, uncaring of what she showed in her preoccupation with the pain in her feet and frustration at being unable to reach it. Then he crawled forward and took her shoulders. "Come on," he said. "Just one more. Perhaps."
Her eyes, tear-filled and full of agony, stared up at him, upside down. "Please," she babbled. "No more, please! I can't take any more!"
"Yes you can," he said, grasping the warm flesh.
"Please! I'll do anything!"
"You'll do that anyway," he replied, turning her over, with Chambers joining in at the chair end.
She shrieked and screamed as they positioned her, but her struggles were feeble.
"Hold her arms at her sides, John," said Atkinson. "If she does that again, she could easily dislocate a shoulder." He paused then grinned. "That's painful."
Griffin adjusted the position, receiving a nod from the doctor, who positioned himself.
"Nice and still," said Griffin. He heard her desperate groan and thought he caught the sound of her teeth grinding.
The stroke fell; the hardest of all. Once more the room was filled with the piercing shrieks that were ripped from her throat, but this time the two men held on to her. The sounds went on and one, gradually diminishing. At a signal from Griffin, Chambers unfastened the ropes that held her; when he'd done it, Griffin released her. She immediately curled up into a ball, her hands going to her feet as she moaned and sobbed.
Griffin stood. "Well done, doctor." Atkinson beamed as he received congratulations from the others as well. "What about a drink?" suggested Griffin. "While she sorts herself out? After that..."

Jill didn't hear any of that; she was consumed in the waves of agony that came from her feet. Her throat felt raw with her screams and she didn't want to think about the hitherto-unimaginable torment she'd just been through. Was still going through; her feet felt as if the skin had been ripped off them. They were fiends, with Griffin the Devil incarnate! Consumed by her misery, she didn't have a thought to spare about what came next. She didn't know it, but that was a phenomenon shared by every other slave in her position.

The chair moved back to the other room, they sat in their chairs, sipping their drinks and watched the naked, groaning woman as she tried to comfort her feet, groaning and moaning continuously. It was amusing enough for a minute or two, but Griffin knew that they were all eager for something a little more stimulating.
"You can stop lying around feeling sorry for yourself," he said. "Get up and let's have a look at you."
The girl's moaning stopped and a contorted, haggard face turned to him. "No more," She whimpered. "I..."
"I thought," he said. "That I told you to pack in that whining. You've just earned yourself ten minutes on your favourite horse."
"No!" she screamed, her face twisting. She scrambled to her knees and went to stand, but the moment the sole of her foot touched the floor she screamed again.
"Just to your knees," he said. "That'll do nicely."
She went to her knees, erect, legs close together, arms crossed over her breasts. She was beginning to tremble again; the tears had never ceased.
"Put your hands behind your neck," he ordered. "And spread those legs." There was hesitation while her eyes pleaded with his. Then, slowly, the arms and hands moved as emotions chased across her features. "That's very good," he said. "Pull the elbows back. Pull, slut; I want to see those tits in all their glory."
Her body shook with a hug sob, but she obeyed. Someone whistled, another grunted approval.
"Now the knees," he said. "Spread them." Nothing happened. "Unless you want me to fetch that chair again?" Another huge sob and the knees shuffled apart, stopped, then moved again. "Excellent. Now sit back on your heels, there's a good little slave."
She jerked at the word 'slave'. There was a long, agonised pause as she battled with herself, a struggle clearly reflected on her face and in her eyes. But pain won; with a racking, choking half-groan, half-sob, she settled back, thighs splayed wide, her face red with shame and humiliation.
The four men, as one, leaned forward to inspect the show. She trembled, twitched; looked more than once to be on the point of rebellion, but held the pose as four pairs of eyes examined her most intimate parts.
"Now that," said Robinson, "is worth the entrance fee!" A comment that brought smiles to all but one face. The owner of the latter dropped her head and eyes, almost overcome by the humiliation of it.
"Head up!" commanded Griffin. It rose, reluctantly and he gloried in his power. But he knew that the most severe test was still to come. "How are the feet?" he asked. Her face contorted and new tears flowed. "I ask," he continued, "only remind you that we did that very easily. We can do it again, if we want to, just as easily."
Horror entered her eyes. "P...please... please, no!" Her teeth clenched. "M...master."
He smiled. "You're going to learn to say that word much more willingly than that, my girl. But never mind that just now; the reason that I reminded you about that is that you're going to have to do something to avoid it happening again. I wonder if you can guess what?"
She knew what, or at least part of it. Absolute revulsion flared into her eyes, but the reminder and the threat it carried held her in position. Her eyes closed and her jaw worked, revealing the inner battle that was going on inside her. "Y...yes," she whispered. "Master," her head dropping.
"Last warning about that head. Open your eyes." He smiled again at the tormented features before him. "I take it that that 'yes' was acceptance, was it?"

Part of her shrieked at her to spit into that leering, tormenting face; another, more insistent, part told her that what he promised, he would do: they could go on torturing her until she did what they wanted. She wanted desperately to fight them, but she was looking into and endless, black tunnel, red-edged with pain. She forced the word past the certainty of what was coming. "Yes," she whispered.
"I couldn't quite hear that," came the prodded voice of her tormentor.
God! She'd forgotten! "Yes, Master," she managed.

Griffin chuckled, an evil sound. "Thank you," he said. "Put out your hand."
She did so, hesitantly, suspicious about what might happen. Al he did was put four slivers of broken tooth-pick into the outstretched palm. Ashe stared at them, mystified.
"You'll see that they're all different lengths," he said. "We each picked one earlier. All you have to do is pick one out, go to the relevant person and offer yourself. You will say: 'Please, Master, use this slave as you wish.' You will then adopt the position you were in a moment or so ago. All understood?"

Jill stared at the four pieces of wood in her hand. They blazed red, exactly as did her brain. She'd known that it had to be something like this, but now the revolting thought was sickening reality. How could they? How could she? How could she not? Bile rose at the back of her throat, bitter and acrid. She swallowed. "Yes, Master," she heard herself say.
"Splendid! Then choose," said the voice that she'd come to hate.
Her other hand pulled away from the back of her neck, while a detached part of her brain thought it odd that she no longer considering the humiliation of the past, only the humiliation yet to come. Nerveless fingers, unheeding of what they did, picked out a sliver. She heard an exclamation.

"Oh, goodie!" said Robinson. "That's me!"
"Would you like us to withdraw?" asked Griffin, ignoring the trembling girl, whose features had become sack with revulsion.
Robinson pondered a second and then his jaw firmed. "No, we agreed," he said. "You can stay and watch. Come here, girlie!"

Jill heard it all as through a mist, but those last words grabbed her like a thousand icy fingers. For a moment jumbled thoughts whirled and then she knew what she had - had, with no remission, no succour, no release, no last-minute reprieve - to do. There was nowhere to go, except where she was ordered, to do what she was ordered. Trembling, she shuffled to the chair, up to and between the trousered thighs. Her hands went to the back of her neck, as she knew they must. She knew that she must say something, but her brain froze; her feet, screaming still, reminded her. "Please, Master," she said, horribly aware of what she was doing. "Use this slave as you wish."
"Oh, yes," she heard. A moment later, rough hands grasped her breasts.

Robinson, mouth gaping, mauled her breasts. Then he looked up and blushed. "Sorry," he said. "I've been wanting to do that for ages." He looked at the woman. "She doesn't look very happy, does she?"
"She should," said Griffin. "She should look ecstatic at the thought of serving her masters."

Jill heard that with horror mounting on horror. Violent hands had mauled her breasts and she'd forced herself to accept that. Now she heard that she must look happy about it! She began to feel the true problem of slavery, though she didn't recognise it as that: while every instinct rebelled, she must force herself to do the perverted will of another. That, or feel new pain, with the last still fresh on her flesh. The memory was all too vivid; she looked up and tried her very best to look inviting. The man above her, old - in her eyes - wrinkled, leering, squeezed her breasts and thumbed her nipples. To her utter horror, they sprang erect, unbidden.

"Well," said Robinson. "Something's glad to feel me!" Suddenly his jocular manner vanished, though he continued to maul the ample flesh. "Get my trousers open," he ordered.

She knew it was coming; she knew what was coming next; she'd known from the moment she'd had to choose one of those slivers of wood. Her body revolted, her mind made her fingers go to the belt and unfasten it; made them go to the zip and pull it down. She saw his hips arch and caught her breath. Not that! But it had to be done: he hands went up and pulled down the trousers, the underpants coming with them. She saw scrawny thighs and, above all, the erect penis that sprang free of its confinement; it wasn't large, but it was there.

Suddenly shy, Robinson glanced from side to side, expecting jeers and comments; none of those came. All he saw was intent faces: a touch of envy. It emboldened him. "Lick," he commanded. "The balls too."

She closed her eyes, the walls of her world collapsing on her: her future lay in that erect pillar of flesh and the sac beneath. Despair touched her soul: was this to be her life from now on? The answer, of course, was 'yes', but she didn't know that. Once again, pain battled pride and once again pain won. She moved close, hands going to his thighs, her mouth opening, her tongue coming out.

Robinson fell back into his deep chair, his breath coming out in a gasp. "Ooooh! That's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Use your hand, girl! Cradle the balls!"

She did it because she knew she must. She lapped at the penis while she fondled the fleshy pouch of his scrotum. Her uneducated tongue move up to the hard, shiny ball of his glans then down to the wrinkled flesh of the scrotum. She knew, with a horrible certainty that there would be a new order soon. As if to avoid it, one hand moved from cradling his testicles to grasp the shaft: it was hot, the blood pulsing to make it alive to her touch. She heard him gasp; encouraged, she took a firmer hold and moved her hand, knowing, in her limited experience, that that was what they liked. But she knew, with a certainty that reached all the way to what remained of conscious thought that her ordeal wasn't over.

Robinson had lost all inhibition. "All right," he gasped. "Start sucking!"

There it was. She'd known that it would come, sooner or later; she known it from the moment that they'd tied her down over that chair. She'd know it even while she'd screamed for a mercy that wasn't going to come. She pulled back, her mind and eyes blanking, opened her mouth and took in the rigid flesh.
She felt his hands at either side of her head; they closed on the hair that cascaded over her ears, tightened, then tugged impatiently.
"Suck, girl!" she heard.
Bile rose again, but she forced it back, driven by the pain that blazed from her feet and groin. The thing filled her mouth, pushing against the soft palate. She wrapped her lips round it and began sucking, moving her head back and forth, at the same time working at it with the hand that was wrapped round it.
"Work that tongue!"
Dear God! Fighting nausea, she obeyed, her tongue rolling round the thing. It was the most disgusting thing she'd ever done in her life, but she knew that the worst was still to come, though the irony of that escaped her entirely. With the dual attentions of her mouth and hand, he didn't last long; she felt him stiffen, his back beginning to arch. She fought to pull back, but his hands in her hair held her in place. The thing in her mouth pulsed then fired a jet of sperm that seemed to fill every available space in her mouth. She blocked her throat, pulling back desperately, but there was no escape: it shot again and then again. Still he held her, pulling her face close, so that her nose ground into the coarse hair while his member diminished in her mouth.
"Swallow it, you cow!" he said, his voice strained and hoarse.
She couldn't; she could feel it on her tongue; taste the rank foulness of it; feel the slime around her teeth and in her cheeks. She tore herself away from him as his grip weakened, spitting out the foul stuff as she did. Almost immediately another hand gripped her hair: this one more powerful: tearing at the roots.
"The man said swallow, bitch!" said the all-to familiar voice of Griffin. "Swallow means swallow, not spit! Clean it up then suck that cock until there's nothing left! That's five minutes more time on the horse! How much more do you want, you stupid cunt?"
Her mind screamed; frantic, she lapped at the specks on the man's trousers, swallowing without conscious thought. She scooped at some that had landed on her breast. Lapping it off her fingers; her mouth plunged on to the diminishing penis, sucking away the last; she didn't even taste it.

Griffin released her hair and watched her frantic movements before resuming his seat. "How is she, Peter?" he asked.
Robinson's head lolled. "Learning fast," he gasped. "Bloody marvellous! Thanks for the help."
"A pleasure. Just kick her off when you're ready."

She felt the foot pushing her back. Tears blinding her, she moved away from him, replacing her hands behind her head and spreading her knees. It was obscene, she knew, but that was what they'd demand. She could taste the sperm in her mouth, salty; not a bad taste, but the fact that she'd been forced to perform that act gave it a special bitterness. Eyes closed, she swayed on her knees, overcome with self-disgust.
"You did that very well," said the hated voice. "Have you still got those tooth-picks?"
Her eyes flew open. She had them in her free hand; they'd bitten deep into her palm as she'd done what they'd made her do. The taste in her mouth became worse: she knew what was he was going to say.
"Choose another one," he said.
Her eyes closed again. She'd been right.

She sucked them all, swallowing every drop that they shot into her mouth. By the time she'd finished, her jaw ached and the taste of sperm seemed to permeate every corner of her. Griffin had been the last; he had taken forever, as she might have expected, and he'd shot far more sperm than the others; she'd had to lick some from the carpet when it had spilled from her mouth. As she knelt to that task she felt hands at her hips.
"Stay there," said the voice of Robinson. "It's my turn again."
She felt the stiff member touch the bruised lips of her vagina and screamed, twisting away, buy other hands held her in place.
"No!" she screamed. "It hurts! Don't!"
She might have been talking to the air. It parted her lips, found the entrance and thrust, agonising. Bruised flesh parted to give it a horribly dry entrance and then she was filled again. She screamed and begged as it withdrew then thrust again, feeling like a roll of sandpaper.
"Noisy cow, isn't she?" she heard the policeman say. Then she saw his hairy thighs in front of her as he knelt, his penis at her lips. "Come on, slut! You've had it once; this time make a better job of it!"
Then she was filled at both ends. Above all of it, she heard Griffin's voice: "You know, it's a pity we didn't put her on her back. That way, we could have got one up her arse, too."
It was then that she knew that she was utterly, irrecoverably lost.

Chapter 9


He carried her downstairs when they'd finished with her; she felt used and dirty: worse, she felt disgraced, because she'd had an unwanted orgasm as he - it had to be him - had taken her, his male brutality driving her over an edge she never knew was there. He carried her because she couldn't walk; her feet were puffed and swollen, unable to bear her weight. He carried her easily, her weight nothing in his arms as she lolled, half conscious, driven to that point by rape after rape; so many over the hours that she'd lost count.
She was dumped, almost literally, in the shower.
"Clean yourself up," he said, his voice not unkind. "Inside as well: we don't want any surprises." Then he left her.
The hot water did something to revive her, but not much: she had been tortured again, then forced to perform fellatio on all of them then raped several times. The only part of her un-penetrated was her anus and she knew that that was just a matter of time. She washed almost automatically, her brain seemingly far away from her body, as if that disconnection could somehow remove her from the things that were happening to her. Her feet screamed agony, while the pain in her crotch, renewed by the rapes, flared.
He gave her fifteen minutes and a large towel, which surprised her: it was the first act of kindness he'd shown, though he stood and watched her as she used it. That done, he carried her to the cell, where another surprise waited: the bed had a mattress on it: on that was a blanket and a pillow. She was dumped on them unceremoniously.
"You see how kind I've been to you?" he said.
She had no wit to answer.
"Are you listening to me?" he demanded.
She jerked from her distant reverie. "Yes, Master, she replied. She'd forgotten that title once, up there: they'd made sure that she wouldn't forget again.
"You've got a mattress, a blanket and a pillow," he said. "And you've got these." He opened his hand to show her three pills. "Pain killers," he explained. He paused, looking down at her. "They all come with a price," he said.
Her soul shrivelled. She forced herself to speak. "Yes, Master," she whispered.
He smiled a smile of pure evil. "The price," he said, "is co-operation. I haven't forgotten that you're due fifteen minutes on your little friend out there," his head jerked; her heart skipped a beat. "But I'll hold that back. From now, the moment you hear a key in the lock, you'll present yourself. Understand?"
She understood only too well. "Yes, Master."
"Good. When I come in here tomorrow morning, I want the best suck-off you've ever given. Which means that you're going to have to improve by about two thousand per cent on your performance today. In other words, I want to be sucked off better than I've ever been sucked off in my life. Understand?"
"Yes, Master." She'd have said anything, as long as she was left alone.
"Good. Oh, and I want you to ask to do it as if you meant it. Otherwise, I'll start remembering that fifteen - or was it twenty? - minutes on the horse. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Master," she said. What else was there?
"Splendid," he said; and left, locking the door behind him.

She overslept. The key in the lock went unheard, as did the sound of the door opening. Her first intimation that there was a new day was a resounding slap on her bottom. She came awake with a rush, crying out as pain hit her. That was followed by a rapid in-drawing of breath and another cry, this time of panic as realisation flooded her. She jerked erect and almost tumbled to the floor, every movement bringing a wave of pain from her groin and feet. She knelt, her eyes going to him; only then did she realise that he was naked. Her eyes travelled up as if they were being pulled: he penis was flaccid; beyond it and his flat belly she met his eyes: they were flinty and unforgiving.
"Hands," he said.
Another indrawn breath as she remembered that, too. She laced her fingers at the nape of her neck and pulled back with her elbows, thrusting her breasts forward as she spread her knees wide, desperate to please him.
"Mouth," he commanded. "Leave your hands where they are."
She crawled the few inches to him and took in the limp flesh, deliberately pushing her breasts against his legs. She was in a state of absolute terror, or none of the things she'd done so willingly would have happened without a lot of hesitation. The terror was there because she knew enough about him now to realise that he wouldn't overlook what he'd regard as disobedience.
The flesh in her mouth firmed and stiffened as she strove to please him. She felt him move away slightly as he leaned back against the door frame; she followed him, staying attached.
"You must have been practising while you slept," he said, his voice neutral. "And you did sleep, didn't you? Don't answer; just keep sucking."
She closed her mouth on him again, performing with even more vigour. He was in full erection now, filling her mouth.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, rhetorically. "Another ten minutes on the bar?" She jerked, almost losing him; a hand pulled her back by the hair. "But our doctor doesn't like what that does to your cunt," he continued. He sniggered. "I imagine that you're not too keen on it, either. But you owe me twenty minutes, so you'll have to do it, some time. We'll keep it as a surprise, shall we?"
She closed her eyes and shuddered violently, sucking even harder, thrusting her head forward so that she felt the head against her throat and the rasp of pubic hair on her nose. He grunted satisfaction then went on talking: "I think you're going to have to lose that mattress for a day or two, or until you learn to wake up on time. Ah! That's really very good, you tart! Any moment now you're going to get your first meal of the day!"
It was the moment she'd dreaded; until yesterday she'd performed fellatio only once before and had never even considered swallowing sperm. The fact that she had absolutely no choice about it didn't make it any less disgusting. The thing in her mouth twitched; she flinched, the urge to pull away almost overpowering; terror held her in place.
"Don't swallow," he said, his voice strained.
Then it pulsed, flooding her mouth. Again she fought the impulse to recoil and spit out the foul slime, but once again the dreadful certainty of pain held her. Revolted, she felt the stuff mingle with her saliva as she continued using her tongue, still applying pressure with hollowed cheeks, as she'd learned, under threat, during those interminable hours yesterday. He softened a little and pulled back, leaving her lips with a 'plop'.
"Look up," he ordered. She obeyed, lips pursed; the vile stuff on her tongue. It was, perhaps, the worst moment of all. "Let me see," he said, a faint smile on his lips. She opened her mouth; the smile broadened. "That's quite a lot," he said conversationally. "I didn't expect that much, not after yesterday. But the doctor is feeding us vitamins so that we can go on longer." His teeth gleamed. "As you'll find out in a little while. Is that nice?" He laughed at her expression. "Get used to it, fuck-toy: you're going to be getting a lot of it! Swill it round your mouth: get the full taste of it."
She wanted to be sick, but made herself do it, while her brain echoed with the words 'fuck-toy'. A tear trickled as her mouth and tongue worked.
"All right," he said, pushing himself off the door frame. "You can swallow now."
She did it almost grateful, feeling it slide down her throat; how many more times would she do that today?
"Can you walk? Have a try."
She couldn't: the pain was too much, so he picked her up again, draping her over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. She lay passive as he made his way back upstairs. When she saw the carpet, she began to tremble.
They were all naked and somewhat self-conscious about it. They avoided looking at each other and seemed grateful when Griffin brought her in and put her down: it gave them something to look at.
"You know the position," he said.
She did, though it wasn't any easier to do: she spread herself for their inspection and amusement, her cheeks flaming. More than one penis stirred into life.
Griffin took his seat. "You've been very good," he said. "Considering that you've had very little in the way of punishment."
'Very little?' her brain screamed, while pain flared from feet and groin. Tears flowed as her mouth opened, but the look in his eyes shut it.
"You aren't going to have much more for the next three or four days," he continued. He saw the sudden light in her eyes. "Unless you do something silly, of course. As I explained, the doctor here," he inclined his head, "has advised against using the horse because he doesn't want your cunt damaged. So just keep on doing as you're told and everything will be fine. Until, what shall we say? Next Saturday?"
The other men nodded. She began to shake, her brain numbed by this casual discussion about her torture. Her eyes went from one to another of them, but she saw no mercy, just growing lust.
"By then," he continued, "Our resident policeman will have learned how to use a cane. I'm told that it's quite an art. He, in turn, is going to teach us. Guess who we're going to be practising on?"
Her face crumpled with the last shreds of any hope she might have had. Her whole body sagged, heaving with the choking sobs that came from her. "P...please," she managed. "I...I...I've d...done e...every foul thing you've demanded. Y...you d...don't have t..to h...hu...hurt me any more! Please!"
"Of course we don't have to hurt you any more. But I want to hurt you because you've caused me trouble. And these gentlemen want to hurt you because you scream so nicely."
While he spoke, her hands came down from behind her neck and she buried her face in them, sobbing uncontrollably. P...p...please don't hurt me any more! I'll do anything! Anything!"
"Don't be tiresome, girl! You're going to be hurt because we enjoy hurting you! We'll be looking for excuses of course; so just how much you'll be hurt depends to a great extent on you. Things like forgetting to call any of us 'Master' and failing to adopt the proper posture will be punished, naturally; so you just earned yourself at least six strokes."
Her hands flew back to their position, revealing a tear-stained face, the eyes wide with horror. "I'm sorry, Master!"
"You will be," he said, smugly. Suddenly, he leaned forward and slapped her hard, sending her sprawling with a cry of pain and shock. "Who gave you the files?" he snapped.
"Carol," she screamed, crawling away from him. "Carol Wilson! I told you!"
"And you've just confirmed it. Good. Get up again. Up, you tart!"
She struggled back to her knees, hands going behind her neck. The mark of his hand was clear on her cheek, tears flowing over it.
"I had her suck me off downstairs," he said to the other men. "So I'll have a rest for a moment. Anyone want her?"
"I'd like her to put on a little show," said Chambers.
"That's a good idea," agreed Atkinson.
Robinson nodded. "What did you have in mind?"
Chambers looked at the weeping woman, holding her dread-filled eyes with his. "Masturbate," he said.

Chapter 10


She couldn't believe what she'd just heard; she stared at him, mouth dropping in horrified astonishment. He couldn't mean it! Then reality crashed in on her: of course he meant it! But how could she possibly do that with them watching? How could they expect her to do something so utterly degrading and humiliating? Because, her mind screamed, it WAS so degrading and humiliating!
"You're getting terribly close to six more strokes for keeping us waiting," said Griffin.
She uttered a huge groan, hesitated for a second then went to hands and knees before rolling on to her back, feet towards them.
"Not like that," said the doctor. "Keep your feet under you. We'll get a better view that way."
She groaned again, a noise of pure degradation. She dragged herself up to her knees again then fell backwards, supporting herself with her hands as she lowered. With her feet tucked under her, her knees splayed wider and wider, giving them an uninterrupted view of her most secret places. Sobbing and moaning with the shame of it, she lowered herself the final couple of inches, yelping as weight fell on the tender soles of her feet.
The four men gazed at the sight she presented: she was spread as blatantly wide as a woman could be. Even the bruised flesh of her sex was open to them; they could se her clitoris peering from its hood. The muscles of her thighs jerked and trembled with tension as she forced herself to hold the pose, her groans and sobs music to their ears. Slowly, trembling, a hand appeared, the fingers twitching and flexing. The stopped, hovering over their ultimate target as she fought another battle with herself. There was another terrible groan and then the other hand came into view as the fingers of the first inched towards that clitoris. They touched, hesitated then began to rub as yet another of those heart-rending groans came from her.
From the corner of his eye Griffin saw that Robinson was stroking his penis and beyond him, Chambers was doing the same. He felt a momentary embarrassment, which he shrugged off: they were going to have to get used to being naked in each others' company, and when you had a display like this going on, it was only natural to want to do that. He felt his own organ rising as he watched her reluctant fingers working on herself as she whimpered her disgust.
A couple of minutes later those whimpers had changed in nature: she was breathing hard and there was moisture glistening on the flesh of her vagina. Now the sounds were of arousal, the fingers working more freely. Then the breathing quickened, the movements became more urgent as her climax approached. The breath hissed through her teeth; she grunted, her hips lifting and rolling; she whined, that sound translating into a mewling growl from deep in her throat as her back arched and twisted when the orgasm swept over her. They watched her writhe, shuddering with the intensity of it. Then it was over; she lay, panting, hands limp.
There was a long silence, broken by Atkinson: "My word," he said. "She's a comer, look!" He pointed to a trickle of milky fluid that had escaped the folds of her vagina. The comment gave Griffin an idea.
"Get two fingers inside yourself!" he commanded.
There was a strangled cry of protest from the woman, another huge groan and then she reached further down and did as he ordered.
"In and out!" he said.
The fingers moved.
"That's good," he said. "You can get up now. No, keep those fingers in there!"
It wasn't easy for her, with one hand so engaged, but she managed it. Her face was bright red, her eyes lowered, the tears copious. She knelt up, one hand going to her neck, the other still working at her groin.
"Look up" he said. Two pools of despair looked back at him. "Did you enjoy that?"
She bit her lip, her eyes going down again before she forced them back up. "Yes, Master," she whispered.
"Liar!" he said, grinning. "You can take your fingers out now." With a gasp of relief, she pulled them out and lifted the hand towards the back of her neck. It never got there: his grin widened. "And suck them," he said.
She froze, her disbelief showing in her eyes. She looked at the glistening fingers, then back to him. Her head shook from side to side, just a fraction. "Y...y...y...you c...c...c...can't...," she stammered. "P...p...p...please, not that! Please!"
"Why not?" he replied. "You've sucked ours down like the thirsty little slut you are. What's wrong with yours?"
Her gaze was full of horror. She gagged, her stomach heaving.
"You dare!" he snapped. "And I'll forget about the doctor's orders! You'll be on that thing for an hour!"
"Oh, God! You foul bastards!" she cried.
"That's worth another six," he said. "In five seconds there'll be even more."
Her face twisting in revulsion, she brought the fingers to her lips, opened her mouth and, with a supreme effort, put them in, her lips closing over them. Her nostrils flared; she retched, but held it down. Then her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, as she knew she must.
"Very good," he said. "You can stop now. I think that these gentlemen need some attention, don't you? Just crawl to one of them and ask nicely."
She chose Robinson only because she knew that she'd have to do the others afterwards, anyway. On hands and knees, she crawled between his hairy thighs then knelt erect, her hands going behind her head. "C...can I please you, Master?" she asked.
Robinson leaned forward, his hands going to her breasts. She recoiled, but then pushed forward, biting her lip. "I want a tit-roll," he said thickly, mauling the flesh.
She blinked, interrupting the flow of tears for a moment. "I...I... don't know what that is, Master," she managed
He pushed her back and stood. "Then I'll show you," he said, his erect penis bobbing inches from her eyes. "Follow me."
Chambers looked at Griffin and winked. "I don't know what it is either," he said.
Robinson glanced at him. "You're not doing it," he said, smiling. "You're not equipped!" Stiffly, he knelt then rolled on to his back, his penis poking up. "I'm glad I'm not the shy sort," he commented. "Right, little one: you see that cock sticking up? Roll your tits over it, then push them together and give me a nice tit-wank. When you've done that, you can enjoy yourself by sucking it off. You like that, don't you?"
Her shoulders heaved with the sobs she couldn't hold back. "Y...yes, Master," she whispered.
"Six for lying, please John," Robinson said, leering up at her.
She wailed her despair.
"Done!" said Griffin. "I think I'm going to have to get a pencil and paper."
"Come on, you trollop," demanded Robinson. "Get on with it!"
Sobbing and weeping, she bent to the task.

She worked on them for over an hour; as soon as she satisfied one, another moved in to take his place. All of them wanted her mouth: the muscles of her jaw felt as if they were on fire and the taste of sperm seemed to have become part of her. But at last they were satisfied, at least temporarily. As they lolled in their chairs, sipping drinks, she was left to kneel in what was becoming a familiar pose. It was then that the hunger pangs that had been making their presence felt with growing insistence became unbearable. She looked at Griffin, her lower lip trembling violently. At last hunger overcame fear.
"M...may I speak, Master?" she asked, her voice low, shaky.
Griffin looked up. "What's this: a talking slut? Well, you little spunk-bag, speak up!"
"M...master, please," she begged. "I...I'm so hungry."
He laughed, looking at the others. "Hear that, lads? All that spunk she's guzzled and she's still hungry!" They all joined his laughter. "Look in the corner, under the table," he said, pointing.
She looked: there were two bowls, each marked 'Dog'; she'd been made to eat and drink from them once before.
"Fetch!" he said. Their laughter increased in volume.
She crawled to the bowls, picked them up and shuffled back to them, their mirth ringing in her ears. One contained water, which slopped over the edge as she shuffled: the other contained a grey, clotted mass.
"Bring them here," he said. As she obeyed. He leaned forward to look at the grey stuff. "Ah! Good and nourishing, that! Here, have a little spice!" In front of her horrified eyes, he spat into it.
"Have a nice meal," he said. "Hands and knees, with your nose in it like a good slut."
Her brain reeled: how much more humiliation were they going to put her through? She put the bowls down and looked at the grey mess, his spittle clearly visible on it. Stomach churning, she lowered her head to it, lapping at the cold, gluey stuff, keeping as far from the spittle as she could. But she was so hungry that she had to eat it, shuddering as she did. She lapped and licked every scrap of the unappetising muck then moved to the water.
"We all spat in that," said Griffin. "I was going to piss in it, but the doctor stopped me. Drink up; we've got more games we want to play."
She was still hungry as she knelt before them again. Once more, he seemed to read her mind. "You can have some more later," he said. "And some juice; we can't have you passing out because of hunger, can we? There's far too much fun to be had out of you."

She closed her eyes, wishing that she could block her ears, too. To be constantly taunted and baited was almost as bad as the things they were making her do. But none of it was worse than the pain; that drove everything: pain made the unthinkable all too easy. They were muttering together, apparently quite used to their nakedness. She wasn't, particularly the vile way they made her show herself to them. The tears, which had begun to ebb, began again; what were they going to make her do next?
They pulled apart and Griffin turned to her, that taunting, self-satisfied smile on his face. "We want some time to recover," he said. "We're tired."
THEY were tired? She felt her face twitch; she saw the smile broaden on his. The swine! He put his hand behind him and delved in the recess of the chair. When it reappeared, he had something in it, something he kept hidden from her. Dread clutched her stomach; what now? Please, God, not pain!
"Look at me," he said. He paused, lips pursed. "I've had to tell you that several times, haven't I?"
Her stomach lurched as she tore her eyes from his hands to his face. He'd found another excuse!
"If," he said, "I have to tell you again, it'll be six strokes. Understand?"
Her mouth was too dry for her to answer immediately, despite the water she'd just drunk. She tried once, then twice. "Yes, Master," she croaked.
"How many are you up to, by the way?"
Her brain screamed. Dear God, he was a foul, cruel man! "E...eighteen, Master."
"Is that all? I could have sworn it was more."
She began to tremble again, a nervous tic appeared at the corner of her mouth. "No, Master. It's eighteen, truly."
His teeth showed. "No it's not, slut! It's twenty-four! Because I don't like being corrected by pieces of shit like you!"
She uttered a long, mournful wail of pure despair: he'd lured her into position then snapped the trap shut. They'd drive her mad!

Griffin felt the surge of power; he'd never felt anything like this, even when completing the most important deals. He was as new at this game as she was and they were both learning. He tried something else. "I'll tell you what," he said, softening his voice. "I was a little bit unfair there, wasn't I?" He saw her eyes widen then narrow suspiciously: she was definitely learning. "I'll take those six strokes back if you agree to co-operate in a little experiment.

Bewilderment took her, immediately replaced by a cynicism born of hours of bitter experience. Co-operate? They could - and would - make her do anything they wanted. Why did he want co-operation? But it was six strokes off, and though she'd never felt a cane in her life, any alleviation was worth it. But a doubt remained: what did he want her to do? Then she recognised the ploy for what it was: he was tormenting her again! She didn't have any choices, just the appearance of them; it was all part of his perverted game! A game she had to play, come what may, because she was completely in their power. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it except try to avoid as much pain as she could. "Yes, Master," she whispered.
"Yes, Master what?" he demanded.
She licked her lips. "I'll try to co-operate, Master."
"Try?"
She wanted to scream in frustration: she was being driven like a sheep with him yapping at her heels! "I'll co-operate, Master," she managed.

Chapter 11


"Ah!" he said, satisfied. He tossed two objects to the carpet in front of her. Her eyes followed them until she remembered and jerked them up to his face again. He'd seen it, as had the others: they all wore those grins that had become familiar: anticipation, amusement, lust, with a touch of self-consciousness. Something told her that the latter would disappear as they became used to torturing and abusing her.
"You can look now," he said.
Her eyes moved down to the floor between her spread knees. She knew that she wasn't going to like what she saw there; that was axiomatic, but the things that lay on the carpet had her drawing in her breath and giving a sudden groan. He thrown down a white cylinder, ribbed, but smooth and rounded at one end: she'd never owned or used one, but she knew a dildo when she saw it. But the reason she'd groaned was the other thing that lay there: there could be only one reason for that. She groaned again, lifting pleading eyes.
"Please, Master, not that!"
His eyebrows rose. "Not what? Do you know what I've got in mind, slut?"
There was no threat in his voice, only amusement, but she'd already learned not to take chances. "N..no, Master," she said hurriedly.
"But you seem to have had some sort of idea, or you wouldn't have gone all Emily Bronte on us. What were you thinking of?"
"N...nothing, Master."
"Come on, don't play games!" She sobbed at the cruelty of that. He grinned some more. "You may be a cum-gobbling cunt, but you're not stupid!" Her breasts shook, her shoulders heaved; only with an effort did she keep her hands where they were. He knew why. "What's wrong, cock-sucker? Can't take the odd insult? What did I just call you?"
Her face creased. "P...please, Master!"
"What did I just call you?"
"A....a cock-sucker, Master!"
"Before that!"
"Aaaaah! A...a cum-guzzling c...cunt, Master..." She wailed as she uttered the degrading words: it was the final straw of her humiliation.
"Tell us what you are. Shout it!"
She wailed again. "I'm a c...cum-guzzling cunt, Master!"
"Quite right! Now, go and clean yourself up: you're a mess. And when you come back, all tarted up and not leaking tears and snot all over the place, we'll resume our conversation. Would you care to escort her, John?"
The lanky policeman rose. "Be a pleasure," he said. "It may take a little time, though."
They laughed. "Help yourself," said Robinson. "I'll take her next time!"

"I'm absolutely amazed," he said to Griffin when Chambers had taken the weeping woman out. "I never thought you'd get her to break as soon as you have."
"I don't think she's properly broken," said Atkinson. "I think there's a lot of shock there. And that serrated bar and electricity downstairs really knocked the stuffing out of her, I think. Give her a couple of weeks without the sort of pressure that John's applying at the moment and you'll probably find she's recovered a lot of fight."
"D'ye think that thing's too tough?" asked Griffin.
"I think it's bloody marvellous, given the effect it's had. But as I said earlier, I think you'll have to be very careful with it: you could do some damage."
"I'll keep it to two sessions every week, maximum: how's that?"
"I don't know. It's not," he smiled again, "the sort of injury I'm used to. Let me monitor it, eh? And I want to be there the next time you use it; it must have been a sight to see!"
"That it was! You should have seen and heard her! Mind you, you're bastinado treatment wasn't exactly gentle. I don't think she'll walk for a week."
"You can make her walk today, if.... Oh, well, there you are, you see!"
They looked round as Chambers pushed the girl into the room. He'd made her walk, or more correctly, hobble. She winced and yelped at each step, forcing herself up on top her toes. She looked better than she had, though: her hair was brushed and her face was washed.
"That didn't take long, John," commented Griffin.
"I thought I'd watch her take a pee," replied Chambers. The girl's face flushed at the memory. "She wasn't happy about it; took a long time to produce, as it were."
"And you've got her walking. Odd, we were just talking about that. Have you finished with her?"
"Oh, yes. Do carry on; I want to see this."
"Come on then, tart. Let's have you back in position. Walk!" She hobbled back to where the dildo and small jar lay and knelt, clearly forcing herself to take the position they demanded. Griffin looked at her steadily. "Now then," he said. "We were talking about what you imagined those things on the floor were going to be used for. Before you diverted us, that is. Tell us what you thought when you saw them."
She blinked back new tears. "I...I thought that...that you...were going to...m...m...Oh, please, Master!"
"Come on, get on with it! Keep us hanging about too long and we might have to find other ways to amuse ourselves. Like strapping you to that chair again. Remember that?"
"No! Not that"! Oh, God! Please!"
"I'm beginning to lose patience, slut. You won't like it if that happens."
"I...I th...thought that...that you...you wanted me...to...to push...that thing in... inside myself," she choked.
"That's not all you thought, is it? Is it, cunt?" he roared the last words.
She recoiled. "No, Master," she cried.
"Then for the last time of asking: what did you think we wanted you to do?"
"Oh, no! I... I thought," she gulped, then steeled herself. "I thought that y...you wanted me to... to p...push the thing up...up my b... b... bottom," she sobbed.
"Did you now?" he cried, exchanging delighted glances with his companions. "With the Vaseline as lubricant, I take it?"
"Y...yes, Master."
"What a filthy, perverted little slut you are! Wherever did you get that dirty notion from? You've got a filthy mind, haven't you?" He paused, watching the effect that his words were having on her: it was most satisfactory. "Well, since you thought of the idea, who are we to stop you? Carry on, slut: get the thing up your arse!"
She lost control; her hands came down to cover her face, she rolled on to her shoulder and curled up again, wailing sobbing and weeping uncontrollably.
"So much for the wash and brush up," said Griffin. He glanced at Robinson. "And for the theory about her being broken. What do we do with her?"
Robinson's eyes gleamed. "I know what I'd like to do," he said. "It's something I've always wanted to, but never had the chance."

They gave Jill five minutes to calm down then made her get into the obscene position again. She knew that she'd broken their rules again and that they had something arranged to punish her: she'd heard them talking. They were going to hurt her again; hurt her until she screamed and begged for mercy. And after they'd done that, they were going to make her... her mind revolted at the thought... do what they wanted in the first place. A heavy, black blanket of despair settled over her as the tears trickled down her strained and twisted face. Through the mist, she saw Robinson crook his finger at her: it was about to start, whatever it was.
Robinson moved as far forward in his chair as he could without actually falling off. The woman had been made to drape herself over his knees, his hardening penis poking into her belly. She felt his palm caress the flesh of her buttocks; heard his breath quicken; felt the penis harden against her. She knew what was going to happen to her now: she was going to be spanked like an errant schoolgirl of yesteryear. Surely, she told herself, that couldn't hurt nearly as much as that devilish contraption, or the wicked lash on the soles of her feet? But she felt that rod of flesh under her and knew what they were going to do after they'd finished spanking her.

Robinson checked that he had full movement in his right arm; that the arm of the chair didn't impede him. His face was flushed; he looked down at the curve of her bottom and ran his hand over it, feeling his penis harden against her; he knew that he'd have to fuck her after this. He lifted his hand and brought it down.
The first few slaps were tentative, but he soon got into the swing and rhythm of it. She yelped and squirmed, a reaction that had Griffin grabbing her hair and pulling until her strained face and gaping mouth came into view. "Don't fake!" he snarled. "Or you'll be sorry! Sorry, Peter."
Robinson nodded and resumed. He was very right-handed, so the blows were falling on the right buttock cheek for the most part. The flesh began to redden under the blows of his palm and she began to move slightly, a tiny whimper coming from her. After a minute, he stopped, panting. "Christ!" he said. "I hope that hurts you as much as it does me!" he said. He ran his hand over the flesh: it was hot to the touch. "Someone else have a go," he said thickly. "I've got to rest my hand."
She was quickly moved to Chambers. Unfortunately for her, he was a left-hander, and a lot more powerful than Robinson. A few blows from him had her yelping in genuine pain: yelps that were becoming screams when he, too, tired. She was bundled over to Griffin, another right-hander, but probably the strongest of them.

If she'd imagined that it was going to be easier to take than the other tortures she's endured, she was only partly right. It simply took longer for the pain to reach a point where yelps and whimpers became genuine screams, and for those screams to be interspersed with pleas. What made it worse was that they kept moving her from one man to the next, making sure that the coincidence of having two left- and right-handers present was exploited to the full. Worse still was that the weaker men's blows were falling on the flesh tenderised by harder and stronger hands. By the time she came round to Griffin for the third time, every blow had her screaming and writhing and begging for mercy.

What stopped it was the fact that their hands became too sore to continue. She was pushed off the last set of knees to the floor, where she sobbed and wept hysterically, trying to comfort herself with her hands. Above her, the men exchanged glances, all of then panting with the effort and rubbing sore palms, All were red-faced with the effort they'd put into it; that, and something else.
"I've got to have her," said Robinson, dropping to his knees and smacking the girl's flaming backside. "Get up, slut! Hands and knees, now!"

She'd known it was coming: she'd realised that it was going to happen within seconds of being draped over the first knees. But she hadn't realised just how much the act of spanking her would rouse them. Before she'd got fully to her knees, she felt her flanks grabbed and a penis ram into her dry vagina, already aching and bruised. She screamed at that and then again when the flesh of his belly smacked into her bottom. As each man took her with no finesse, the last to ravage her moved to her mouth, demanding attention; she was forced to clean off the mixture of juices: theirs and - mercifully, at last - hers. And all the time they raped her, their bellies and sometimes their hands smacked into freshly-tortured flesh.
When it was over, she collapsed, weeping feebly, feeling the juices running from her. They didn't let her rest for long. A toe prodded her and the first man to take her bent to tug at her arm.

"Up, bitch," said Robinson. "You've got to clean yourself out, unless you want quintuplets!" He grinned into her contorted face. "It's my turn to take you to the toilet. I want a piss and I want you to hold it for me."

The others heard the scream coming from that room and exchanged looks and grins.
"I'll be cross if he's made her drink it," said Atkinson. "I don't want a sick slave on my hands."
"You'd better start feeding her the pill, or you could be playing the midwife," responded Chambers. "Hell's teeth, I've haven't come that hard this often since I was twenty!" he added. "What's in those pills you gave us?"
"Never you mind; just let's say that you can't get them on the National Health."
"What, Viagra?"
"Better; one the Government won't let them advertise because everyone'll want it. Don't worry, there's no side effects: except exhaustion."
"I'll go that way any time," said Griffin. "That spanking is a lot more arousing than I thought."
"You wait till you get a cane in your hand," Chambers grunted. "Ah, here's the man of the moment. What was the noise about, dear boy?"
Robinson blushed and grinned sheepishly. "Her hand slipped," he said. "She got it all over her face."
They laughed. The girl's head hung low, her shoulders moving.
"Tut, tut," said Griffin, accepting the lie. "Careless slut." Her head came up for a second then dropped again. "Come on, cunt; we have some unfinished business."
She minced and yelped her way back to her position as if walking on hot coals. She lowered herself gingerly and when her backside came into contact with her heels, she uttered a strangled cry. Her hands went up, her elbows drew back as her knees parted and her head came up. The look on her face was one of blank despair.
"You know what you're going to do now, don't you?"
Her eyes dropped, but she forced them back. "Yes, Master," she whispered.
"And what is that?" he asked.
"I...I'm g...going to push the dildo up my bottom, Master."
"Arse-hole," he said. "It's arse-hole, not bottom. Try again."
"I... I'm going t...to p...push the d...dildo up m...my ar...a... Oh, God help me! My arse-hole, Master."
"Well, we can't refuse that sort of offer," he said, fully aware of the effect his words were having on her and enjoying every second. Try to screw about with him, would she? For a moment he contemplated the thought of having two of them naked in front of him; that opened endless possibilities! He dragged himself back to the present. "We've been very kind to you by giving you a whole jar of Vaseline. If I was you, I'd put that all over the dildo, with a good dollop up inside your arse-hole, or it'll hurt. And you don't have to put it all the way in today; just the head, for about an inch. You can do another inch tomorrow night and so on until you've got it all inside. When you've done that, we might let you turn the motor on."
She reached down and took the dildo and jar in shaking hands. "Please," she whispered, terrible desperation in her voice.
Griffin was unmoved. "I know that this is going to be difficult, so we'll make allowances: you've got five minutes to do it, starting when I say 'now'. We want a good view, so when you're ready you can turn round and push your bottom up high, with your knees nice and wide. An inch of it; that's not a lot, but I'll do the judging. I wouldn't waste time, if I was you. Not with an arse-hole as tight as yours looks. Ready?" She didn't answer. He shrugged. "Now," he said.

Jill looked at the things in her shaking hands, but she wasn't seeing them She was looking into the pitch darkness of the tunnel that stretched before her: a tunnel that she was going into. The long hours of today were in there and beyond them, countless days of Griffin's revenge. The things swam back into view, symbols of what she was becoming because there was nothing else she could do except attempt to endure the unendurable.
"That's a whole minute gone," she heard his voice say. "And not a twitch out of you."
It brought her to the present with a rush, the sickness and dread returning three-fold. She forced her fingers to the lid of the jar, fumbled and dropped it; they giggled. She retrieved it and tried again, her fingers stiff and unwilling: her subconscious mind rebelling at the act she had to perform. She wanted to scream at it to leave her alone; that she knew just how obscene and degrading it was; that she longed with every fibre of her being not to have to do it; but that she HAD to do it before they inflicted more pain on her.
The top of the jar unscrewed as he called 'two minutes'. Oh, God! Three minutes to do possibly the most horrible thing she'd every done! And he had to do it; endure the pain and obscenity of for the enjoyment of four leering men! Four men, she reminded herself, who'd had her screaming and begging a few minutes ago; four men who'd raped her mercilessly; four men who had forced their vile organs into her mouth; four men, one of who had pissed in her face and made her clean it up just moments before. Four men, one of whom she'd come to hate and fear more than any being in the world. Now this.
She dipped the tip of the dildo into the grease and smeared it around. Then she hesitated again, willing herself to take the next step, knowing that that would open her even more than her present position did. But, she told herself, they'd just raped her in that position, hadn't they? They'd seen it. She swivelled on her knees, dropping her upper body so that he cheek was pressed against the floor. Gritting her teeth, she spread her knees wide, her face burning with the shame of it. Then her hands went back, the jar in one and the dildo in the other.
"Three minutes," called Griffin.
She had two minutes left! Dear God, she had to do it in two minutes! There wasn't time! She dipped a finger into the jar, dropped it and brought the digit up to the wrinkled eye of her anus. She wanted to stop, slow down. Above all she wanted to stop, but there wasn't time! He hadn't said what he'd do if she failed, but everything they'd done so far had been terrible. It was a choice of some pain and utter degradation or excruciating pain and then the same degradation: it was, in short, no choice at all. Clenching her jaw, she stiffened her finger and pushed it.
The pain was blinding, bringing a cry from her. But it was an instant pain that subsided after a second, not like the pain they put her through. Once again she pushed, feeling the tight flesh clasped her finger, the pain struck again. God, it was too tight! She'd never do it!
"One minute," said that remorseless voice.
She screamed and pushed hard, oblivious to the obscenity of what she was doing and the watching men. Her finger entered her, carrying with it all the lubrication she was going to manage. She didn't pull it out, instead positioning the dildo beside it, easing that against the anal ring as she withdrew the finger, replacing one with the other.
"Smart girl," someone said.
"Smart-arse," said another. Laughter rang out.
It was too big! She pushed and screamed as the pain came again. It didn't ebb this time, but persisted as she maintained the pressure. It burned, the tight muscle making its protest as she forced the thing into herself.
"Ten seconds," he said.
How much had she done? It felt as if it was all in there, but it couldn't be! She closed her eyes and pushed, forcing a terrible scream from herself. The pain was atrocious, but she'd felt the thing slip in, past the ring of muscle. It was a huge intrusion inside her, one that was surrounded by the waves of pain that radiated around it. She sobbed and gasped as she heard him rise; caught sight of his feet for a moment. Then his hand rested on her bottom, drawing a cry from her.
She felt his fingers on hers; the ones that held it in. Please don't let him push it, her mind screamed as she gasped and groaned. The initial pain had gone, but the aching, throbbing and burning was almost as bad.
"Let go," he said.
"She pulled her hand away. "Please...." she whispered. He pushed it. She exploded into the scream that was waiting as the pain flared again. "Please!" she shrieked.
"What, more?" he asked, playfully.
"No, no, no! No more! Please!"
"Well, well. I thought you liked it. You realise that you've got three inches of it inside you, don't you? What a slut! How many cocks have you had in there?"
Three inches? Oh, god, no wonder it hurt! "None, Master! Please, take it out! Please!"
"But you've only just put it in!"
"Please, Master! It's awful!"
"Oh, I don't know; it looks very pretty from here, waggling about. I think you should keep it in for half an hour to get you used to it."
"No!" she shrieked. "Please, take it out!"
"Oh, dear," he said, bantering. "You really do want it out, don't you?"
"Yes, Master! Please, Master, please!"
"All right, I'll make a bargain with you. Keep it in for five minutes now, ten minutes tomorrow, etcetera. How's that?"
It was the best she was going to do. "Yes, Master."
"Oh, and I want my arse-hole licked. So do the others, I imagine."
"Nooo! Arrgh! That's filthy!"
"All right. It's thirty minutes, then. An hour tomorrow and two hours the day after. Etcetera. Plus an extra twelve strokes for disappointing us."
He'd done it again! She swallowed revulsion for the umpteenth time. "No! I'll do it, Master!"
"Do what?"
She was close to vomiting, but she knew what would happen if she did that, now or later. She simply had to close off all the senses she could. "I'll lick your arse-holes, Masters."
"There's a good girl. We'll start that five minutes now, shall we? It'll give you time to think about the job you've got to do afterwards."
She groaned.
How she did it without vomiting she didn't know, but she crawled to one pair of buttocks after another, parted the cheeks and lowered her mouth to her wrinkled target. She lapped, laved and poked with her tongue as they directed, fondling their penises and testicles, too. She knew what that would lead to once she was finished this most revolting of all things. And she was right: another four rapes, this time with intrusive fingers poking into her anal passage. Sick certainty told her that it wouldn't be long before they used that, too.

Chapter 12


She sat at the wide, polished table, food before her, steaming and appetising. Silver flanked the plate, wine was in the glass to one side and a crisp serviette at the other. The chair's seat had made her squirm and cry out, but they'd given her a cushion. They'd given her clothes, too; not the ones she'd come here in, but new ones, and a surprisingly good fit they were, even if they hadn't bothered with a bra or panties. She was dazed by it, just as she'd been astonished and sceptical when Griffin had explained that she was going to be eating with them.
But here she was, sitting opposite her tormenter-in-chief, he dressed in a dark lounge suit and tie; the others spaced around the large table, all dressed in the same way. The difference between this and the things they'd been making her do just an hour or so before was so stark that she couldn't take it in. She picked up her knife and fork warily, expecting one of them to smash them from her hands and snatch the plate away. No one did.
Griffin beamed at her from the other end of the table. "Do feel free to start, Miss Bentley. And may I say how fetching you looking in that outfit?"
She actually blushed! But the lure of the food was far too great; she put knife and fork to work, salivating.
"Miss Bentley," said the doctor. She looked up, the fork half-way to her mouth. He smiled. "Do tell us all about all the times you've been fucked. It's so nice to have a good, detailed story over dinner, I always say."
The food fell from her fork.

To Be Continued…..

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