Excerpt
from “The Naked Appeal”
Chelsea looked into the anxious, hopeful faces of the
five other women about her as they huddled shivering slightly in the wings of
Kingsmead’s small Riverside Theatre waiting to be called back out on stage.
Beside herself, there was Tammy, Rona, Jill, Karen and Blanch. They were cold because they were dressed only
in bikinis with high heeled shoes and rosettes like wrist-corsages with their
first names on. It was not the ideal
dress for the un-heated backstage of a provincial theatre in England. But actors put up with such discomforts for
the sake of their craft.
Well, if she was perfectly honest,
they weren’t real actors, Chelsea admitted to herself. They were more part-time models and
theatrical hopefuls with acting aspirations and more looks than talent. But they had made it this far...
‘They did say they were casting six
parts, didn’t they?’ Tammy asked
anxiously.
‘Yeah, six,’ Rona assured her.
‘I’m trying to think where I’ve seen
him before,’ Jill said. ‘Anyone know what films he’s made?’
‘Wasn’t it that factory workers human
rights documentary?’ Karen said
doubtfully.
‘I thought it was something set in
medieval China,’ Blanche suggested.
They were auditioning for a film set
during a 1970’s beauty pageant with the working title: The Flesh Game. Hence the
swimsuits and the dated hairstyles some of them had adopted to look the
part. They had spent a couple of hours
as members of an ever diminishing group of bikini-clad women, strutting about
on stage, twirling and pouting. They
wouldn’t be the leads in the film, but they were promised speaking roles if
they were successful. Between them they
had all attended hundreds of such auditions, Chelsea thought, most of which had
led nowhere. But this one felt different
somehow…
‘Can you come back on stage, please,’
Griffiths, the audition manager, called out.
They paraded back out onto the small
stage and stood in the spotlights, peering out into the gloomy auditorium and a
lean man in his early forties man seated in the third row of the stalls. He wore a dark suit, gloves and wraparound
dark glasses and had slicked back hair and a saturnine beard. He was Ben Christensen: the director of The Flesh Game, and at that moment he
was the most important person in their universe.
Seated beside Christensen was the
second of his assistants, also dark suited and wearing glasses, but much
bulkier in build with a full beard.
Chelsea had heard him called “Lang”.
He had been taking notes as they had assessed the girls, pairing the initial
fifty plus hopefuls who had attended down to the final half dozen, and had
relayed Christensen’s stage directions.
So far, Christensen had said nothing directly to them. But there was an inner intensity about him,
as if this really mattered. Chelsea felt
her heart lift. Perhaps this would be
her big break…
As the women watched them conversing
in low tones, Griffiths carried a small table out onto the stage and set it
down in front of them. He was built on
the same lines as Lang, and also wore dark glasses with a full moustache and
sideboards. There was a bottle of
mineral water and a row of six paper cups set out on the table. Griffiths opened the bottle and poured equal
measures out into the cups.
‘This is the scene when your
characters forget the rivalry that’s almost destroyed them and come together,’
Lang said. ‘In the film those will be
glasses filled with vodka. We want to
see you clink them together, then raise them in a toast and say: “‘Fuck the lot of them!
Here’s to us!’”. You drink them
down in one gulp, smash them on the floor and then hug and kiss each other and
cry with joy, because you know you’re free from the flesh game at last. Right… Action…’
As they had been directed, they each
took up a cup and pretended to clink them together. They spoke their lines with feeling, downed
the water in one and then threw the cups to the floor. Deliriously they hugged and kissed each
other. As Chelsea embraced the soft,
warm bodies, she felt several pairs of nipples standing up in barely concealed
excitement. This was it…
‘Thank you… that’s all we need to
see…’ Lang called out.
Still linked arm in arm, the women
turned anxiously to face the auditorium.
For the first time, Christensen rose
and spoke directly to them. ‘I’m pleased
to say that you are all exactly what I’ve been looking for,’ he said with a
kind of intense passion that sent a shiver through Chelsea’s spine. ‘You will be in my next production. In fact, I can promise all of you featured
roles…’
While the other girls whooped in
excitement, Chelsea felt dizzy with delight…
Actually, she was just feeling dizzy…
she was suddenly sweating despite the chill… her legs were turning to rubber…
Chelsea sank to the floor shaking her
head to try to clear it. How could she
get ill now? Then, through rapidly
misting eyes, she saw the other girls were also staggering about and dropping
to their knees. What was wrong with
them?
Everything was getting dark… the
curtain was coming down… and somebody was laughing…
* * *
Chelsea woke with the feel of warm
bare flesh all around her. After a few
moments she realized that her head was pillowed on a bare female breast. It was not an unpleasant sensation but to her
sluggish mind, it seemed wrong somehow.
Was she still in the theatre?
As awareness gradually returned, she
found that for some reason her arms were twisted awkwardly behind her back and
there was something plugging her mouth.
There were stirrings about her as the jumble of flesh in which she nestled
began to move. She heard mumbles and
moans and muffled voices filling with panic.
Chelsea willed her gummy eyes open and
looked blearily about her.
She was inside a low barred cage about
a metre high and large enough to take three single mattresses laid out side by
side. On these were sprawled, squirming
and wriggling, the rest of the girls from the audition.
They were all stark naked, their
mouths were plugged by rubber ball gags and they had belts buckled about their
waists to which were hooked the cuffs locked about their wrists that confine
their hands to the small of their backs.
As they stirred, there came the clink and rattle of chains. They each had rubber-lined metal collars
locked about their necks. Large shiny
metal tags like dog tags hung from the front rings of the collars with their
first names stamped on them.
From their collars, slack chain
leashes curved up to the roof of cage, gathering together as they rose, until
they passed through a gap between the bars.
Their handles were hung on a bracket of six hooks on top of the centre
of the cage and set above a slot between the bars leading to the cage’s single
small door.
Chelsea saw fear and panic filling the
eyes of the other women as they blinked and stared at each other in disbelief
and dismay and felt its stomach-clenching grasp take hold of her as well. What
had happened to them? Where were
they? She struggled onto her knees,
swaying unsteadily as her hair brushed the roof of the cage, and peered out
though its bars. The others joined her
in a press of bare flesh.
There was not much to see. The cage sat in a stone-walled room painted
with peeling whitewash and with a worn stone slab floor and a high-set window
comprised of three leaded panels separated by stone mullions with bars across
them. A pile of pillows and duvets were
stacked in a corner. A tall wide black
curtain hung across one side of the room, closing it off from some larger space
beyond.
There were fresh whimpers of
fear. Rona began to push against the
cage door with her shoulder, trying to make it open, while Tammy and Karen
started to twist and tug on the leash chains clipped to their collars.
Then the curtain parted and
Christensen, Griffiths and Lang strode through it.
They still wore their wraparound
sunglasses, but they had removed their jackets and rolled up their
sleeves. Griffiths and Lang’s shirts
were now open at the neck, while Christensen now wore a clerical dog
collar. All three of them carried what
looked like oversized flyswatters, with chunky handles and thin solid rubber
blades instead of an open mesh, crossed by bare electric wires.
At the sight of them the women shrank
away against the further walls of the cage, trying ineffectively to cover
themselves up with their knees and thighs.
Chelsea felt her cheeks burning in embarrassment even as her stomach
churned with fear.
Christensen laughed. ‘It looks like
our sleeping beauties are awake at last,’ he commented to his companions. ‘I’m sure they’re full of questions, but
first they must have a lesson in obedience…’
Christensen unlocked the cage while
Griffiths and Lang hauled on the leash chains dangling from the rack of hooks
above it. A violent jerk on her collar
pulled Chelsea off her knees and she joined the whimpering, squirming, tangle
of bare flesh as the women were dragged by their necks one by one out of the
cage’s small doorway, which was just large enough for them to pass through with
their heads bowed. As they emerged, they
were grabbed by the hair and hauled onto their feet and then pushed face
forward across the top of the cage so that their bare breasts ground against
its bars and then slid between them.
Griffiths and Lang took up the slack in their leashes and refastened
them to the row of hooks along the top of the cage, holding them in position.
When they were all doubled over one
side of the cage, presenting their captors with a row of bare trembling
buttocks, Christensen stroked the blade of his paddle across their posterior
cheeks and suddenly they froze in dread.
‘While you are in our power, you will
do what you’re told without question or hesitation,’ he told them. ‘This is an electric spanking paddle. It can inflict great pain without doing any
permanent physical damage. It is just a
taste of the pain you will feel if you disobey us…’
And, taking up their positions, the
three men mercilessly beat the six women with their electric paddle
blades.
Chelsea screamed and sobbed along with
the rest as the blades smacked against their buttocks, sending ripples through
their flesh, while echoes of the impacts rang back from the hard stone
walls. The rigid side of the cage was
jammed against their hips and stomachs so there was no escaping the full power
of the blows. The smack of the rubber
was bad enough by itself, but it was enhanced tenfold by the sharp crackle and
stab of pain that the electric wires inflicted.
They seemed to have a physical might all of their own, hammering into
their helpless posteriors and making their muscles spasm wildly.
Their bare breasts dangling through
the roof bars of the cage jerked and bobbed about as they flinched and
squirmed, while tears from their streaming eyes dripped onto the mattress. Chelsea sobbed and bit on her gag ball as the
echoes of their screams filled the air and mingled with the relentless crack
and smack of rubber on soft female flesh.
The beating must have lasted a minute,
although it felt far longer. Then the
three men rested their paddles and examined the burning row of buttocks before
them, now tinted a blazing scarlet. The
questing fingers slid between their sore cheeks and investigated the clefts of
their sex mouths. The women snivelled
and moaned at their intimate touch, but they were too numb with shock to resist
it.
‘Are you going to be good girls?’
Christensen asked them.
Dazed and cowed by their beating, they
nodded fearfully.
‘Will you do everything we tell you
without question?’ he asked. As he did
so, he rubbed the edge of his electric paddle blade between their thighs so
that it cut up into the clefts of their pussies.
Whimpering they nodded again. Even though such subservience appalled her,
at that moment Chelsea didn’t have the courage or strength to defy him. And so she nodded meekly along with the rest.
‘Good.
Now I’m going to show you where you’ll be working and explain what you’re
going to do here…’
Griffiths and Lang unhooked their
leashes from the top of the cage and pulled the women upright. They clipped the ends of their leashes to the
backs of the collars of the woman in front of them until they were formed up
into a coffle. Christensen took up the
end of the lead leash, while Griffiths and Lang followed on behind. Stumbling slightly and whimpering as each
step tugged on the sore flesh of their burning bottoms, the six naked women
were led through the heavy black curtain...