The Girlflesh Institute (Nexus) (17 page)

In one long utility corridor, she came across a group of slave-girl cleaners.

There were four of them, their blue collars showing they belonged to Cyan Chain. They were being driven by a man in Shiller maintenance overalls working an industrial-sized floor cleaner that had been modified to incorporate slaves as part of its mechanism.

Instead of a single vacuum hose it had four, one running to each of the girls, who shuffled forwards ahead of the purring machine on their hands and knees. They wore thick fingerless mittens on their hands and foam shin pads. They were kept in line by jointed rods snap-linked to large rings protruding from their anuses. The hoses passed under their bodies, supported by hooks from their anal rings, ran
freely
through the clefts of their pudenda and then between their dangling breasts. Here they were supported by short rubber cords clipped to their nipples, which were pulled tightly inwards by the tension, turning their breasts into fleshy cushioned mounts for the hoses.

The girls held in their mouths the bulbous ends of the short tubular rods on which the actual brush heads were fixed. As they progressed forwards they moved their heads from side to side, as though they were grazing. Between them they swept the entire width of the corridor in one go.

Vanessa pressed herself up against the wall and lowered her head meekly as the extraordinary living machine passed. As she looked at the line of upturned bottoms receding from her, she saw the tell-tale glisten of female lubrication around the hoses where they pressed up into their vulvas, spreading their flesh-lips. The rubbing of the ribbed hose and the vibration of the machine transmitted through it was obviously exciting them. But was that compensation enough for such indignity?

She was just leaving the office after lunch when she had an altogether different encounter. The lobby doors opened and a pair of security guards entered. One she recognised as the main gate guard who always grinned at her as she passed on the way in.

‘Hallo, Miss Buckingham … or can I call you Vanessa?’ he said, smirking broadly. ‘I thought, as you were up here on your own, you might want some company, didn’t I, Phil?’

Phil was also grinning, looking Vanessa up and down with unashamed pleasure. ‘You did, Geoff.’

‘I told you I’d be seeing more of you the first day we met,’ Geoff said.

As they came towards her, Vanessa knew with sick certainty what they were going to do. She also knew that inside Shillers she had no reason to expect anything else. It was only a pointless conditioned reflex that made her turn and run back into the office. They followed laughing, as though it was great sport.

She dodged round the desks, her chains jingling, but they got on either side of her and she was cornered. It was almost a relief to feel the grip of their strong hands and let them take complete control of her.

They twisted her arms behind her back and clipped her wrist cuffs to her belt. How easy it was for them when she came ready-fitted with restraints, she thought dizzily. She made one last instinctive protest to satisfy what was left of her sense of honour. ‘No … please don’t –’

Geoff’s big hand closed over Vanessa’s mouth, silencing her.

‘I’ll take some oral, all right with you?’

Phil slid stiff exploratory fingers into Vanessa’s vagina. ‘That’ll do me fine …’ he withdrew his hand, his fingers now glistening. ‘Look, the slut’s already wet for it!’

They pushed her face down over a desk, so that her feebly kicking legs hung over one side and her head the other. Geoff held her down with one hand clasped about the back of her neck, while he unzipped his flies. His erect cock sprang out, foreskin already rolling back from its purple plum head. She could smell his musk. Phil kneed her thighs apart. Another zip came down. His thumbs sank into the soft flesh of her buttocks and pulled them open. Geoff prised her jaws apart and thrust his shaft into her mouth. Phil rammed into her vagina even as Geoff’s cock plumbed the depths of her throat, almost choking her.

And because it was so much easier and seductively natural, she let her instinct take over.

In and out they pumped, grinding Vanessa to and fro across the desk, she cock-spitted between them, moaning and spluttering and squirming. When they came she swallowed greedily, trying to suck them dry with both her mouths even as pleasure boiled through her loins.

Recovering, they pulled out of her and tucked away their now drained and sticky cocks. Vanessa felt sudden emptiness. Unclipping her hands, they gave her bottom a friendly slap and left her sprawled across the desktop, sweaty, panting and soiled.

After a minute she got off the desk. There was a stain on the carpet where her juices and Phil’s sperm had dribbled out of her slit. She scuffed it over with her toe. Clutching one hand over her pubes to contain any more drips, she stumbled out of the office and along the corridor to the toilets. She had discovered earlier that one stall contained a bidet. Now she understood why and used it gratefully.

She wiped herself clean, went to the sink and washed out her mouth, splashed her face off, towelled dry, and then examined herself in the mirror. It was hard to admit, but she didn’t look freshly ravaged. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her nipples still semi-hard. Her vagina was a little sore, but no more than she might expect from vigorous sex. Did that make her strong or weak?

She had just been treated like a slave-girl, and had ultimately responded like one. She’d had forced sex with two strange men and had responded with an orgasm. Not a big one but still an orgasm. That part of it had felt good. Why? Perhaps being here had unnaturally stimulated her needs, which had to be satisfied by the same brutal means. She should feel
outraged
but didn’t. Why should she seek out grief? In the outside world she knew that was how she would react if something like this had just happened, but in here normal rules did not apply. Phil and Geoff evidently felt no guilt. They had enjoyed themselves and casually assumed she had too. In a way she had. What did that say about her? Was she really a slut?

Vanessa explored the rest of level B3, something she knew that as a reporter she should have done earlier. A lot of the girls were out on assignments over the weekend, so it was quiet there too.

Arriving early and staying late, she discovered that the ceiling lighting dimmed to a dull blue glow in the evenings, mimicking nightfall. Wall lamps came on, as did colourful strings of lights garlanded about the larger trees and shrubs. The air conditioning also shifted to a cooler cycle. At such times she could almost believe she was walking the narrow streets of some tiny village.

The six small chalets where the trainers lived she avoided, but otherwise she wandered at will. Paradoxically, in this underground haven of bondage, nobody stopped her and there were few locked doors.

Opposite the stables, which still gave her the shivers, was a plain building with fewer windows than the others. It turned out to be a storehouse of every type of bondage equipment imaginable – rows of hooks hung heavy with handcuffs, wheeled torture racks and suspension frames, and some devices whose functions she could not even puzzle out.

The huge array was mind-numbing. Overwhelmed, she sat down on a chair in the shadows to rest, only to find it was fitted with an array of hinged metal cuffs that could be closed about neck, waist, wrists and ankles. There was no proper seat but side legs
where
thighs could be held wide open, leaving the groin totally exposed and vulnerable. She got up quickly.

Backing the inner row of the Mall shops, so that it ran down one side of the High Street, was a long windowless block with heavy double doors at each end. Beyond them were lobbies with inner sets of doors marked with large red signs saying: QUIET PLEASE – GIRLS RESTING.

Inside were several warm, dimly lit chambers with rows of heavy hooks dangling from the ceilings. From these were suspended chains of sleeping slave-girls.

They were secured with their backs to wooden boards a little larger than coffin lids, their hands to their sides and feet slightly apart. Paired hooks bolted to the backs of the boards about one-third the way down from the top forced the girls to hang forwards at slight angles. They were fastened to the boards by broad rubber straps about their ankles, knees, upper thighs, waists, upper arms, wrists, and necks. Velcro pads were positioned on the back of the boards by the slots through which the straps emerged to fasten them in place. Wooden wedge blocks under their feet prevented them from slipping down the boards.

The girls’ heads were enclosed in black rubber hoods, pierced only by a triangle for their nostrils and a soft plug for their mouths. Rings protruding from the crown of each hood were hooked to short rubber cords connected to the tops of the boards, ensuring the girls’ heads did not droop forwards.

Marker memo pads hung on hooks by each chain. On them were written notes such as: ‘Violet Chain. Assigned to Chudleigh Hall, Berks. Sat/Sun. Suspended 10.30. Take down 16.30. Depart 17.00.’

Vanessa walked between the aisles of suspended flesh, fascinated by the slight rise and fall of the sleeping girls’ nipples. Despite the air of restful calm that permeated the chambers, she could not help thinking of sides of meat hanging in a butcher’s shop.

After checking with Mr Jarvis that it was permitted, she explored the rest of the block beyond the locker room where she changed. She moved as a slave-girl was forced to do, through low gates and along low, mesh-lined tunnel corridors. These opened on to bathrooms, a large mess hall and dormitories stacked in galleries. None of the spaces were at all private, nor were any high enough to stand upright within.

Blocks of steps rested against the tunnels, so that anybody coming through the ordinary doors could climb up and walk along their reinforced mesh tops, looking down on the slaves under their feet. Vanessa could appreciate the psychological message such an arrangement reinforced. ‘You are beneath me therefore you are inferior.’

At the end of the block she found something unexpected. A tunnel dipped down in a ramp, then along and up again, evidently going under one of the passageways above. It emerged into a perfectly tranquil walled garden containing a shallow blue swimming pool, grassy banks and low trees, and so artfully lit by sunlamps that for a moment she thought she had somehow wandered above ground. Then she realised this was the block across the High Street from the new chain-training yard.

As she emerged, half a dozen slave-girls were lazing about reading or splashing in the pool. They were perfectly friendly, if a little curious. Without a coloured chain collar she did not quite fit in. They clustered round in an unself-conscious knot of bare
flesh
. It was disconcerting. They only wore collars while she had slave chains as well. She was less free than they were. But evidently this was less important to them than who she was.

‘Are you visiting? Do you belong to a friend of the Director’s?’

‘Wait, didn’t I see you taking photographs at the new chain ceremony.’

‘Yes,’ Vanessa admitted. ‘I’ve … er, just started working for
Girlflesh News
… as a sort of trial.’

At that they got excited. Some of them had the latest copy with them and wanted to suggest ideas for articles. That they seemed so utterly happy and at ease with their situation she could not believe. Had they been totally conditioned to accept their lot as slaves? It appeared they could not help the way they were. But perhaps the new girls might not be beyond saving.

Always Vanessa returned to the training yard and Cherry Chain. She no longer tried to interfere, but kept out of the way, recording each step they took on the way to total subjugation.

Miss Kyle seemed to be the new girls’ permanent trainer, but Vanessa learnt the names of the others as they took their turn in the yard. The black pony-girl driver was Mr Winston. The blond man habitually dressed in shorts and a singlet, whom she had seen that first day driving a chain of girls into the lift, was Mr Tyler. Mr Hirsch preferred calf-length boots and a minimal leather pouch. Miss Scott was the blonde in the black pvc bikini, while Mr McGarry liked to wear leather trousers and a harness top.

Watching them work as they broke the Cherry girls in was at one and the same time revolting, fascinating and deeply arousing …

* * *

‘Fetch!’ Mr Hirsch commanded, throwing a handful of coloured rubber balls about the yard.

The girls chased after the balls on all-fours, snapping them up in their mouths. Rubber mittens confined their hands, while adhesive pads protected their knees and toes. Their wrists and ankles were linked by semi-rigid rubber bars snap-hooked to their cuffs, which meant they could only move in a series of bounding lunges that set their breasts bouncing and swaying. The motion further agitated the up-curving hollow rubber tails that had been plugged into their rear passages, setting them bobbing about in a parody of real dogs’ tails. As they moved, Vanessa could see the fat tail plugs twisting and turning behind the girls’ anal sphincters, which pinched tight about the narrow tail roots.

When the girls retrieved the balls they bounded back to Hirsch, sat back on their haunches with their constrained hands lifted up under their breasts in a begging posture and whimpered in their eagerness to present them. Like the pets in the restaurant, they had been instructed to speak only in canine yaps and whines. Hirsch allowed them to drop the balls neatly into his open hand and then patted their heads as he might real dogs.

Vanessa was not sure what disturbed her most: the degrading activities forced upon the girls or their apparent enthusiastic acquiescence. How could they enjoy such things? They all looked intelligent enough. They could not want this for themselves. But there was Amber, her pale face flushed and large breasts crowned with tumescent nipples heaving with her exertions, looking as though she would wag a real tail with pleasure if she had one. She saw Olivia, her dark glossy skin shiny with sweat, gazing up at Hirsch with soulful eyes. How could any black girl voluntarily
accept
a collar and chains? And as they all bounded off again to retrieve the balls once more, it was Kashika’s smooth brown buttocks that were ahead of the rest.