Chapter 9

 

Erica wanted to sleep. She was dreaming of home, so long ago, when life was innocent and simple, when there was light and freedom and happiness. Why did they have to disturb her?

Time? What did time matter to her? There were no clocks here, no newspapers, television, radio or calendars. Erica had no way of assessing how long she had been a prisoner at The Complex, but she estimated about six months, based purely on the changing seasons which even the power that ran this place could not hide. Some slaves tried to count days, but as soon as the warders found any such count they put them in solitary confinement for a few days until they could be confident the count would be lost.

‘51, time to get up. This is your final warning!’

The first time she had heard that order she ignored it and went back to sleep. The voice sounded so mechanical, so impersonal, that she believed it was automated. That was the one and only time she made that mistake.

Then, as she drifted back to her slumber, the door to her room opened quickly to admit one of the often leather-hooded guards and Emily. They took her quickly, dragging her from the bed and securing her arms to a ceiling hook in the centre of the room so tightly she had to stretch on tiptoe to keep some semblance of balance. There they whipped her, mercilessly and unheeding of her screams and her regrets.

Afterwards, as she hung loosely from the ropes with no strength left to support herself, she heard them leave. In the absolute silence that followed, punctuated only by her breathing and remnants of her sobs, she felt the trickle of sweat run down her back, stinging her welts as it meandered.

So Erica never ignored the wake-up calls again. She rose quickly, unashamed of her nakedness since she had no choice about it; the ever-watchful cameras had become part of the norm. Why worry about what she could not change? At least, that’s what she wanted them to think.

Erica behaved herself, always. When she had first arrived at The Complex they broke her spirit completely. She was beaten and fucked, made to do any sexual act the Masters and Mistresses desired of her. Sometimes she recognised a politician, a media star or a sportsman. Occasionally the beast who wracked her body with pain was a squeaky clean pillar of society. She even numbered some of the nation’s senior clergy among those who had abused her. In this place there were no laws other than those dictated by the people who ran it, whoever they were. The guests, away from the constraints of public life, took their pleasure from the girls, who were so depersonalised they were not even allowed names.

They were permitted leisure time, though, and but for their lack of freedom their surroundings were luxurious, the accommodation, facilities and catering of the standards of the very best hotels. They were denied nothing except any kind of freedom. Erica pondered how, during their leisure breaks, she had become firm friends with 21, a blonde about five years older than herself, and how once, in the grounds outside the main house, where they hoped the prying microphones could not hear, she introduced herself properly.

‘Erica Pettinger,’ she whispered.

21 looked at her blankly, then after a few seconds a tear welled in the corner of her eye, her mouth twitching as she started to cry.

‘What’s wrong?’ Erica asked.

‘I can’t remember my real name,’ the woman told her.

At the time Erica thought that hard to believe, but the longer she remained at The Complex the more she realised that the total lack of identity could easily brainwash her, and all self-respect, all self-esteem and even all sense of self could easily dissolve. So she resolved to remind herself of who she was every morning and every night, ready for the day she knew she would escape.

Erica Pettinger, daughter of… Laurence Pettinger, MP. Yes, that was it. Her traitorous, bastard stepfather. She well remembered that day when her parents had arrived at The Complex and she thought she was rescued, only to discover that they were the ones to cruelly tattoo her number into her flesh with a needle. 21 had advised her to forget the incident, but Erica wanted to remember. The memory continually fuelled the hatred she retained for her parents – her stepfather in particular. He would have been the main instigator of her misery, she was sure of that. The Complex had taken away her soul, so she knew she did not matter. She had nothing to live for and no prison could be worse than this, so when she did escape she was going to seek her revenge.

But that was for another day. Until she escaped she would obey. They did what they wanted to her anyway, so fighting them merely caused her more pain.

The camera watched her shower, then watched her dry herself and brush her long dark hair and apply her makeup. She waited for the bathroom door to be opened and walked back into her bedroom where, as usual, her clothes had been laid out on the bed by some unknown attendant. It was the same each day; get up, go to the bathroom, listen to the door lock, use the toilet, shower, wait for the door to unlock, after which her bed had been made and her clothes provided. Never once had she been permitted to see who did the work.

Today’s outfit was all black. Black was by far the most popular choice. Erica looked under the dress to where a wispy suspender belt and a new pack of nylons lay. She shook the dress, not exactly surprised to find no other underwear. She sighed, thinking how immature people could be when they had absolute power.

She put the belt around her waist and fastened the two hooks and eyes, then opened the pack of stockings, smoothing them up her legs, checking the seams were straight before fastening the suspenders. She watched her reflection in the full-length mirrors as she stepped into the dress and smoothed it to her breasts before fastening the halter behind her neck, letting her hair fall back in place. Then, as usual, she sat on the end of her bed and waited for whatever might happen when the watchers clicked open the door.

After a few minutes the familiar clunk of the lock broke the silence and the heavy door swung silently open.

‘You may go to the restaurant for breakfast, 51,’ a woman’s voice said over the speakers.

Erica stood and walked into the corridor. A workman stood aside to let her pass. She did not smile to him or speak to him. He was part of The Complex as far as Erica was concerned and if he had any human decency he would tell the police about the place and blow it wide apart. But he did not; he ignored what was going on, probably because he was well paid to ignore it. Maybe they let him use the girls from time to time. Whatever, he did not deserve any pleasantries from her.

21 appeared from her door as Erica approached and smiled when their eyes met. She wore a short dress with a flared skirt in deep-blue satin and teetered on high heels. They were not permitted to talk to one another in the corridors, but they had become adept at communicating with their eyes.

The two walked on until they came to the double doors that opened on a sensor as they neared. The large room was about half full, mainly with guests, though two other tables accommodated slaves like her. She had baulked at being called a slave at first, but the terrible reality was that she was one.

They had only walked a few paces into the room when a voice called from behind them. ‘You two, stop there.’ The voice was male and cultured, and a rugged face appeared in front of them. He was tall and athletic and Erica could not help thinking she had seen him somewhere before.

‘Name?’ he asked her.

‘51, Master.’

‘And you?’

‘21, Master.’

‘Take off the dress, 51,’ he told Erica, stepping back a few paces to watch.

Erica did not hesitate, despite a slight buzz of interest in her predicament from some of those eating their meals. Around her a few of her fellow inmates served food and coffee, most glad that the focus of the guests’ attentions was not on them. The halter sagged as Erica unclipped it, falling away from her breasts and stopping at the natural curve of her hips. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and eased it off, draping it across the back of a vacant chair.

She stood, hands by her sides, as the unknown man looked her up and down. He twirled a finger round in front of him to signal for her to turn, which she did, slowly, feeling as if she were at some kind of market. When she had her back to him he moved closer, pulling her cheeks slightly to feel her firmness.

‘When was the last time you were whipped, slave?’ he wanted to know.

‘Two days ago, Master,’ she told him, remembering the occasion when her room had been visited in the middle of the night by a masked man and woman.

‘For what reason?’

‘I don’t know, Master,’ she told him honestly. ‘Because they wanted to, I suppose.’

‘Have you ever whipped anyone?’ he asked 21.

‘Yes, Master,’ Erica’s friend said.

‘Ever whipped 51?’

‘No, Master.’

‘Has 51 ever whipped you?’

‘No, Master.’

‘It would amuse me to have one of you whip the other, but how shall I decide?’

Both girls assumed the question was rhetorical, or not for them to answer at least. Both were used to this, since quite a few of the guests derived perverse pleasure from watching the girls inflict pain on one another. They administered and received their beatings from each other without malice or feelings of vengeance. No mercy was expected nor given, since the penalties for showing any leniency were severe for both girls.

‘I know,’ the man said at last, ‘get on the stage, and you,’ he pointed at 21, ‘strip as well.’

Without question Erica led the way, 21 followed, watched now by most of the diners. Frequently a guest would have an idea and put on a show for the others, and this was to be such a show. The two young women stood beside each other facing the assembled diners, watching the swarthy man. 21 looked nervous as she took her dress off and dropped it to the stage. Under it she wore a tiny white thong and a lacy white bra, through which Erica could see her nipples.

The man stood in front of the stage, watching. ‘You, 51,’ he directed, ‘undress her fully. Do it slowly and give all my associates a show.’

Erica quickly moved behind her friend, reaching to unhook her bra.

‘And at least look as if you mean it, 51!’ The man’s sarcastic tone shook her into action. She slipped both hands around 21 to cup the tiny bra to her breasts, and pressed her own naked breasts against 21’s back, gyrating slowly in time with the soft music that filled the large room. Gradually she insinuated her left hand under the bra, cupping 21’s generous breast and feeling the nipple rise under her palm. She dipped her head to kiss the woman’s neck as 21 tilted her head to one side and closed her eyes. She too would go with the flow to avoid a beating.

Slowly, so as to provide a good show for the audience, Erica cupped the other breast too, allowing the bra to fall down 21’s arms and drop to the floor, forgotten, her hands replacing the bra in providing cover for her naked breasts. She trapped both nipples between her fingers, bringing an involuntary gasp from the blonde.

Gradually she opened her fingers so the diners could see 21’s engorged nipples poking through, turning her so she was leaning back, fully facing the audience. She moulded her breasts, still kissing her neck, bringing a moan of pleasure from her. Then she started to move her hand downward, slowly, teasingly, stopping now and again to make 21’s skin tingle with expectation. Onward and downward once more, so that 21 held her breath and twisted her head round to be kissed.

Erica closed her eyes too. With their eyes shut they could almost believe they were free to do this, instead of performing because they had no choice. Their mouths opened, their tongues met and Erica’s hand completed its journey, pushing under the waistband of the thong, down across the small springy curls of pubic hair to seek out warm wetness between the folds of the blonde’s labia. She hooked her fingers into the oily recess, bringing a soft sob from her friend. The whole room, the whole Complex, did not matter at that moment.

But the euphoria did not last. Erica felt a sudden searing heat across her back and her eyes flew open. The crack of the bullwhip seemed to come a long time after the pain of its sting, though in reality they were one and the same. The man was standing there with a harsh grin on his face. He was already coiling the bullwhip up into his right hand, ready to strike again. In his left hand a second identical whip was already coiled.

‘I said undress her, 51. Now do it!’

‘Y-yes, Master!’ she panicked.

Erica twisted 21 around to face her, quickly pulling the thong down to her feet, crouching as she did so. She hated doing this because the skin of her back felt taut and exposed, difficult for a man who liked to use a whip to resist. As she held the thong for 21 to step out of she sensed the man tense, but not soon enough for her to prepare for the whip’s bite. The force of it knocked her over. The man was on the stage immediately, pushing her onto her back with his black leather shoe, the pain of the whip making her wince. The man beckoned 21 towards him, pushing her down until she was kneeling astride Erica’s face and pushing until Erica’s lips were smothered by her damp sex.

‘Lick her, slave,’ the man ordered, nudging Erica’s arm with the toe of his shoe. Erica obeyed. She had become detached from the orders. In her mind she again turned the hatred she had for this latest in a long line of abusers towards her stepfather, and that made her lick with a vengeance, pushing her tongue up into her friend again and again as her eyes glazed over.

Before too long the man got bored and went back to his original plan. ‘Stand, both of you,’ he ordered, and when they were on their feet he circled them threateningly. ‘How many strokes did I give you, 51?’ he barked.

‘Two, Master,’ she said quietly.

‘Louder!’ he said, lashing across her bottom with the whip again.

‘Three, Master!’ she cried.

‘Confused, are we, 51?’ he taunted.

‘No, Master. It was two and that made it three.’ She could not disguise the defiance in her voice, and the man did not miss it either.

‘Do I sense some rebellion in you, 51?’ he mused.

‘No, Master, I’m sorry.’

‘Ask me for another and I might be lenient,’ he offered.

Erica steeled herself. She had played out this scenario before. ‘Please, Master, hit me again with your whip.’

She had hardly finished speaking when the next strike came, turning her legs to jelly with its ferocity. A loud scream escaped her lips, bringing a murmur of approval from the audience. If that was lenient, she did not want to know severe.

‘How many is that now, 51?’ he asked when 21 had helped her to straighten up.

‘F-four, Master,’ she sobbed.

‘Good. Amazing how you can learn how to count with the right encouragement.’

Erica hated the man. She hated all of them.

‘Now, I suppose you’re wondering why I got you up here.’

Both girls stayed silent, heads bowed.

‘Well?’ His voice was suddenly sharper, his hands tightening on the whips.

‘Yes, Master,’ they said quickly, as one voice.

‘You’re going to whip each other. And what’s more, you’re going to do it until one or other of you concedes. Any attempt to fake it will be punished in ways you don’t even want to imagine. Whoever triumphs over the other will receive some special privileges. Understood?’

Both girls nodded nervously. The man handed them a whip each and moved them so they were facing each other. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

Erica tensed. 21 was her friend, but now she was also her opponent. She knew 21 would be too scared to go easy, and that she would not expect Erica to either. There would be no quarter given or expected, but this would not spoil their friendship. Besides that, the sooner this was over the better. They waited for the odious man to start the contest.

‘Ah, but 51, you’ve had four strokes already and 21 has had none. That’s hardly fair, is it?’ he mocked. ‘So you get the first four strikes, 51. And if you make them count perhaps you can defeat her without taking any more yourself. Worth a try, don’t you think?’

‘Y-yes, Master,’ Erica said. And he was right; it was a chance of a reprieve. Erica’s flesh was already smarting and if she could avoid any more then she would.

‘Turn your back,’ he told the blonde, and 21 gave Erica a nervous look as she obeyed. ‘When you’re ready, 51,’ the man said as he moved away from the arc of the whip.

Erica let the coils of the terrible implement fall to the floor, holding the handle in her right hand. She moved into a position where she judged the whip would have the maximum effect, the tail of it lashing around with its inevitable crack and bite. Her hand tensed on the handle as she drew back.

Suddenly she brought her arm up and forward, as hard as she could, so that the tail would strike a vertical line midway between 21’s shoulder blades. The blonde screamed as it struck, arching her back against the blow.

‘Keep still, 21,’ the man ordered. ‘You’ll get your turn, perhaps.’ He turned to face Erica again, a sadistic grin playing on his lips. ‘Harder, 51. Do it harder. Break her.’

Erica was not sure she could do it any harder, but she would give it a try. Drawing back she repeated the manoeuvre exactly, aiming for the deep pink welt that had risen down the length of 21’s spine. The girl screamed again as she struck, falling to her knees and sobbing with the pain.

‘Get up,’ the man called to her, then turned to Erica. ‘Help her up.’

Erica dropped the whip and moved quickly to her friend, putting her right arm round the girl’s shoulder and helping her to stand again. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

‘I-I know, I would be too,’ 21 stammered between sobs.

‘Carry on, 51,’ the man impatiently ordered.

The third blow followed the previous ones, making 21 squeal again, yet she did not sink to her knees this time. She stood, ready. She was determined to have her chance. Erica drew back one last time. She had to make this good. After the three she had already dealt if 21 got her chance for revenge it was going to hurt badly.

Summoning up all the strength she could she snaked the whip sideways, across her friend’s tender back. The red weal arose immediately and moments later, when the worst of 21’s shrieks had subsided and she once again sunk to her knees, Erica saw the livid streak of the strike, some six inches long in the centre of her back.

Yet within a few moments 21 was back on her feet, turning to face Erica. Her face was twisted, gasping from her ordeal, yet held a determination to succeed that frightened Erica.

The man was highly amused. ‘Very impressive, both of you. I never thought you’d endure that, 21. But now it’s all to play for. Last one standing wins. Wait until I tell you to start.’

The man stepped off the stage and pulled up a chair from one of the front tables. ‘OK, you may begin,’ he told them casually.

Erica tensed again, ready to reconvene the struggle, but 21 had already decided to act, lashing her whip out and catching Erica across her tummy, the end flicking round behind and nipping her bottom cheeks. She reacted immediately, catching 21 on her upper arm. It was a mistake, not having the damaging effect she hoped for. Worse still, the tip of her whip somehow became entangled round 21’s bicep, so she could hold on and prevent further blows while she lashed out again and again at Erica, each blow making her yelp and making her weaker. Finally, with a supreme effort, Erica managed to pull her whip free, staggering back slightly right into the path of a high blow that caught her around her face, stinging her cheek and tangling in her sweat-dampened hair.

21 pulled, twisting Erica’s head around with the whip, turning her back to face her. As Erica put her hands up to try and untangle her hair 21 lunged forward to yank the whip from her hand and, transferring her own whip to her left hand, she pulled back to use Erica’s against her.

From then on it was a lost cause. Countless strikes snaked across Erica’s back and bottom and thighs until she was crying and screaming, weakening fast. And she knew she was losing. Even when she managed to get the tangled whip from her hair she no longer had the strength to fend off the assault. On her knees she turned towards 21, tears rolling down her face as she looked up, pleading for it to stop. 21 did stop, tossing the second whip away, out of Erica’s reach and pulling her own whip back, ready to strike again. She was panting, coated in sweat, looking like a gladiator in the Roman arena, ready to kill.

The room had become tense with silence, the assembled audience sensing the end was close. The cruel man rose to his feet, taking a pace towards them.

‘Stand up, 51,’ he said quietly.

Erica sagged to her hands and knees, trying to gain some strength to stand. She got herself into a crouching position, and then slowly started to rise, wincing from the stinging fire permeating her body.

‘What are you waiting for, 21?’ he said. ‘Finish her off.’

Erica knew she had lost. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her back on her friend, gritting her teeth for the final agony.

‘Do it,’ the man growled.

A second later the whip lashed across Erica’s back, the stomach-churning retort cannoning around the room, accompanied immediately by Erica’s weary scream. The audience watched as she seemed to hang there, held up by ever-weakening legs before slowly, slowly sinking to her knees once more.

‘Do it again!’ she heard from some seemingly distant point. The sounds of the room had become hollow and everything in it appeared to be moving away from her, as if she was falling, weightlessly, down some endless tunnel. The pain had blended into a state of mind she neither understood nor cared about. She closed her eyes and waited.

‘Now!’ the man demanded, and Erica felt the cruel lash burn into her back moments before everything flashed red behind her closed eyes and slowly faded to black.

Erica never saw or heard of 21 ever again.