Chapter One.
Victoria Thompson walked quickly from
the tram to her office in the building occupied by the Clearance and
Reconstruction Authority, glancing over her shoulder for any sign of followers
and conscious of how many of the men she passed glanced at her collar and
placard then looked to their wrist bands.
She knew that they were reading the output from the electronic device
around her neck.
She was wearing a
short black dress, close fitted and long sleeved but with a deeply swooping
neckline that exposed most of her bouncing breasts, the naked brown aureoles
shyly peeping, then disappearing as she walked. The skirt clung tightly to her hips, then expanded in flounces about the tops of her thighs, not
quite preventing a flash of white flesh with the black stripe of garter tab at
the tops of her sheer black stockings that also appeared and disappeared as she
walked. She had been conscious of the
resentful eyes of the respectable women on the tram; in their flat heels, modestly
long skirts and demure headscarves, assessing her flimsy attire, her exposed
legs and bare bosom. She was torn
between a hopeless attempt to be demure and brazen defiance. With all unattached girls so modestly covered
up, except for some daring eye makeup visible behind fashionable lace veils and
the married women seldom seen unaccompanied at all, she was the only
man-exciting thing on show.
She might not have minded attracting lustful
glances from the men here on the street except that, marked as a Common Woman,
she would have no choice but to submit to any man who pursued it further. Probably none of the men would bother to do
more than to note down her name and address at this time of the day, since she
was obviously on her way to work and not immediately available. They would think they might see some other CW
later on, whom they fancied a bit more. Window shoppers was how she had heard others of her status
refer to them. Of course for that
reason, the more likely time for her to be Taken-up in the street or on the
tram would be on her way home. But by
the time she returned from work to her flat, she could expect to find that at
least one or two of those who had taken note of her in passing this morning, would have posted a Take-up notice on her home
screen.
She wobbled on
four-inch heels up the marble steps of the Yourgov
office building, registered her entry time with the internal security system
and submitted her security collar to the scanner of the elderly uniformed
ex-soldier who was the security man as well as the Social Service Delegated
Supervisor for the building. Victoria
knew that there were plenty of applicants for that post, but the SS nearly
always chose such middle-aged, married men, stolid and not too bright. This one had always seemed a jolly sort of
man before she became subject to his supervision.
“Five minutes late,
Miss! And you are already subject to Summary Justice, I see!” he said sternly
as he scanned and downloaded the contents of her collar into the building’s
computer. She sighed dismally,
she was five minutes late because of an encounter with a stupid old man in the
street outside, who had to have her temporary unavailability explained to
him. Of course she should probably have
bowed to necessity, affected to accept his Take-up and then let security eject
him, but being almost right outside the building had affected her
judgement. She could offer no excuse
that would have availed her. Even to
have argued with a man probably entailed a penalty and being late of course
certainly did.
“You will have to
report to have that discharged before you leave, Miss,” he said. Victoria flinched instinctively and glanced
unhappily at the terminal. This would be
the first time that a punishment session had been assigned to her
workplace. The central supervising computer
would assess the penalty for lateness and add it to her accumulated total since
her last session. She walked upstairs
and through the open plan office to her desk, clip-clopping in her high heels,
conscious that any incautious movement could reveal even more intimate
details. Fortunately she was not alone
in her conspicuous garb; there were several other CWs
in the building though she was the only one in her particular office. She settled to her chair, wriggling as her
bare bottom felt the cool seat cushion, keeping her knees together to conceal
the dark flash of pubic bush between them.
She stood her placard, on her desk, the single flashing word ‘Vacancies’
on the screen, advertising to colleagues and visitors alike her availability
for that evening. Take-ups were not
allowed by colleagues in the workplace but outside of working hours, like any
of the other males she had passed in the street, even the old fool outside if
he had the sense to wait, any of the men in her office might book her to be
Taken-up.
Victoria threw
herself desperately into her work, dealing with builders and architects
applying for alterations in the allocation of Work Corps units. By doing this she hoped to banish from her
mind such speculations as to which of her colleagues would be first to post his
Take-up notice this week and whether there were any visitors to the office whom
her line manager would favour. The
threat of her coming punishment was pushed entirely to the back of her mind.
Monday was a quiet
day for visitors. She only had to take
one during the coffee break. “Ah, Miss Thompson!” Mr Forrest, her line manager, said,
appearing just as she got to her feet and rubbing his hands. “This is Mr Jones, the Yourgov
Auditor, who finds he has a few minutes to spare.” Alongside him a tall cadaverous man with
thinning grey hair and a stoop was already smirking in anticipation. “He has noticed your availability and the
Hospitality suite is vacant.” Forrest
extended his wrist to Victoria’s placard and duly authenticated her Take-up
during her break time as being for Official Business Purposes.
“I’m sure you will
find Miss Thompson a satisfactory performer,” he said fawningly to the
accountant. “She is overdue on her
disciplinary reckoning and will not want to increase it further!” The Auditor took up the full twenty minutes
of her coffee break, taking her along to the building’s Hospitality Suite,
positioning her upon her back on one of the comfortable black leather couches, not
even having the decency to take her from behind in the approved manner. He fucked her slowly and methodically, collar
and tie still in place, addressing her as Miss Thompson throughout and she of
course addressing him as Sir. She became
almost mesmerised by the way his tie dangled and swung regularly to and fro
above her nose in time to his thrusts.
He managed to cum precisely on the twentieth minute and then he ordered
coffee for himself, briskly dismissing her, so she was left to clip-clop
straight back to her desk, his cum still squelching between her legs, reluctant
to risk the inevitable added penalties for delay.
She lunched at her
desk on the excuse of pressure of work this day, rather than risk the
possibility of there being visitors in the canteen, someone whose eye she might
catch. On different days during the previous week she had been Taken-up in the
lunch break by an IT technician, a couple of delivery men and one of Mr
Forrest’s business friends. She wriggled
her unprotected bottom on the chair seat a little, however, for she was
uneasily conscious that the SS computer, which ran surveillance upon her, had a
comprehensive and well-tested program.
For all she knew it might be running an electronic comparison of daily
movements and activity that might expose her evasion and allot corresponding
punishment. The computer’s summary of
her current disciplinary account came up on her screen for her to print out,
only a few minutes before she finished work, a CWP12.
At five o clock, Victoria made her way out with the rest of the departing
staff of the YCRA, lagging behind the rush, clutching the printout, conscious
of the surreptitious glances, curious, pitying, or excited. In the entrance lobby, the doorman was
waiting for her, coat and cap set aside; his uniform shirt already had the
right sleeve rolled up, the bared, muscle corded and hairy arm looking at odds
with the polished Pre-collapse marble surrounds and the gleaming glass and
aluminium doors leading to the street.
In his fist a long bamboo cane tapped restlessly at his trouser
leg. Behind him a shamefully large
number of people were already seated in the waiting area, ready to watch, many
more than were required as official witnesses. The other CWs
from the same building were kneeling in a meek row, her line manager, Mr Forrest,
the auditor, Mr Jones, as he had loudly promised himself before allowing her to
depart, some of her colleagues, male and female; even one of the business
visitors had lingered. They were more or
less the ones Victoria had expected but she dared not show any resentment.
Looking hurriedly
away, her eyes fell immediately upon the government-issue Punishment Frame,
which the SS’s delegated enforcer had already brought out and positioned in the
centre of the lobby in front of the reception desk and from that flew back to
the bamboo cane.
“Make your request, Miss Thompson,” her
manager said. “Remember that any default will have to be reported to the Social
Service Authority.” Choking back her
sobs and trying to stiffen her wobbling legs lest she incur a further charge of
indiscipline, Victoria began to read.
“Please Mr…” She
hesitated while she took-in the name of the security man, which she had
unfortunately forgotten. “Mr Johnstone. I have made myself subject to Summary Justice
by failing in my duties as a Common Woman.
I request you to give me a public caning of…” There was only a slight
tremor as she read out the number, for of course she had already registered
that the form was a P12 rather than a P6 or P18, “of twelve strokes,” she
continued, swallowing, “with a cane of not less than 12mm diameter. As representative of public morality, it is
your duty to cane me severely across my bare bottom, in the presence of as many
occupants of the building as wish to represent the necessary public witness.” She started on the succeeding paragraph, but
then checked guiltily. That paragraph
had been asterisked. It was an
expression of her contrition and gratitude for her punishment but the small
print of the corresponding note below made it clear that she was to read and
sign it only after receiving the caning.
Mr Johnstone clicked his tongue. “Careless as ever, Miss! One stroke extra for
failing to read the form properly!”
Victoria swallowed her instinctive protest. She was uncertain whether he could order
extra, but protest might incur a Recalcitrancy
Notice. At the foot of the form were the
indicated spaces for the signatures of six witnesses testifying that she had
been properly caned on the bare bottom and had been given the full number
prescribed.
She bent over the
apparatus. It consisted simply of two
square frames made from shining tubular steel inclined together at the top to
form an A-shape. Midway along the top
bar was a narrow leather saddle, from either side of which protruded a stout metal
tongue and clasp. The small wheels had
been retracted to set the frame down solidly upon its heavy rubber-lined
pads. A frantically heaving victim could
shake, but not overturn it. It was a
little higher than Victoria’s waist, but a step was provided to lift her
sufficiently to bend right over and slide her belly over the curved saddle,
reaching down to clutch the lower crossbar between the stainless steel
uprights. At each side, broad leather
straps dangled from an adjustable slide, but she hoped to avoid the penalty she
would incur if those had to be put to use.
She was supposed to accept the punishment voluntarily. She wriggled her hips over the smooth saddle
so that her bottom cheeks were uppermost, leaving her toes well clear of the
lobby carpet. Her short flounced skirts
tumbled back immediately to beyond her waist, leaving the naked white rounds plumply framed by the curving suspender straps and the
arched span of black lace provided by her garter-belt. The security-man pulled up the thick woven
strap out of one slot in the saddle and, passing it across the small of
Victoria’s back, slotted it into the other with a clunk and click of
metal. The effect was like the old
pre-Collapse car seat belts except that this one drew tauter with every attempt
to escape it.
He stooped, grunting. “Well apart,
Miss!” he admonished. Victoria
reluctantly allowed him to draw her legs wider and felt him fasten her ankles
with the straps from the rear uprights, making sure to tighten the slides and
stretch her legs taut. She knew by the
touch of cool air that she was now revealing every detail of her sex to view,
but she was more relieved to find that the positioning had been so careless
that the seated witnesses could not easily check her expression. Under the scrutiny of so many people whom she
knew and, given that being subject to Summary Justice she was perforce becoming
used to being on the receiving end of a cane, Victoria thought she might have
managed three or even six without any great display, but being given the full
dozen and one extra, was going to be hard to bear with the correct
stoicism. Then lifting her head a
little, she realised that her audience had a perfectly adequate view after all,
in the mirrored panels behind the reception desk, though at least passers-by
peering through the glass doors from the outside, could only identify her as an
CW undergoing punishment by a view of her naked rear elevated above the frame.
“Begin the count, Miss!”
“One…p-please” Victoria squeaked
reluctantly. Almost before she had got
it out the swish of the cane, loud in the expectant lobby, warned her of its
descent just a split second before its impact across her tautening bottom
cheeks. Swishhh-Thwackkk! She forgot all resolution; Mr Johnstone’s jovial manner had not extended to laxity in
this part of his duty. The whippy cane seemed to sink its length in her
suddenly yielding flesh.
“T-Thank you…sir,”
she responded in wobbly tones. She took
a shaky breath, feeling every inch of what was now surely a deep crimson stripe
marking the track of the cane across trembling creamy curves. But she had to go on. “T…Two…p-please” she
offered squeakily.
Swishhh-Thwackkk!
“Ah…ah… thank you…sir!” Her voice cracked and her fingers let go of the
crossbar, writhing loose for a moment but not daring to reach back how ever
much she desired, to interpose between the descending
cane and the scarlet stripes across her bottom.
She knew what would happen if she did.
She desperately sought for breath and got out, “Th-three
p-please…”