CHAPTER 1

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?

“51, time to get up. This is your final warning!”

The first time she’d heard that sound she’d ignored it and gone back to sleep. The voice sounded so mechanical, so impersonal, that she’d believed it was automated. That was the one and only time she’d made that mistake. Then, as she drifted back to her slumber, the door to her room had opened quickly to admit one of the strange leather-hooded guards and Emily, the housemistress. They’d taken 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 tiptoes 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 her, 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 wounds as it traveled. Gradually it reached her buttocks and dripped to the floor. Then she noticed the drops on the floor, bright red on the tiles. 51 was bleeding.

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

Erica behaved, always. When she’d first arrived at The Complex they’d broken 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 brutal beast who would wrack her body with pain had been someone who 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 revenge on the girls, who were so depersonalised they weren’t even allowed names.

They were permitted leisure time. 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. As she went into her bathroom to use the toilet and shower, she recalled how, during their leisure breaks, Erica had become firm friends with 21, a blonde woman about five years older than herself. Once, in the grounds outside the main house, where they hoped the prying microphones could not hear, Erica had introduced herself properly.

“Erica Pettinger,” she’d offered.

21 looked at her blankly. After a few minutes a tear welled in the corner of her eye, the woman’s mouth twitching until she started to cry.

“What? What’s wrong?” Erica had asked.

“I can’t remember my name,” the other woman had told her.

At the time Erica had thought that strange, 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 disappear. 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 bastard father. She well remembered that day when her parents had arrived at The Complex and she thought she was rescued, only to find out that her parents were guests and had attended a ceremony during which they’d branded her number into her skin with hot irons and through the searing agony that followed she remembered how the supposedly respectable audience had cheered her father on as he’d undressed and penetrated her. 21 had advised her to forget the incident, but Erica wanted to remember. The memory continually fuelled the hatred she retained for her parents. The Complex had taken away her soul, so she knew she didn’t matter. She had nothing to live for and no prison could be worse than this. So when she did escape, she was going to kill them, both of them, in the most agonising way she could find.

But that was for another day. Until she escaped, she’d obey. They did what they wanted to her anyway, so all fighting it did was cause her agony.

The camera watched her shower, then watched her dry herself and brush her long dark naturally wavy 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 bathroom. Listen to door lock … use toilet … shower … wash hair… 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. At least this one was moderately elegant. 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 men could be when they had absolute power. She put the belt around her waist and fastened the two hooks and eyes behind her, then opened the pack of stockings, smoothing them up her legs, checking the seams were straight before fastening the suspenders and tugging them taut. She watched her reflection in the full-length mirrors as she stepped into the dress and pulled it round 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 no more than three minutes the familiar clunk of the lock broke the silence and the heavy wooden 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 through the door. A workman stood aside to let her pass. She didn’t 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’d tell the police about this place and blow it wide apart. But he didn’t, 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 didn’t deserve any pleasantries from Erica.

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

“Going for breakfast?” said Erica’s; 21’s nodded agreement. The two women walked on until they came to the double doors that opened on a sensor as they neared. The large room, set out with numerous wooden dining tables that Erica and the other girls were often required to serve at, was about half full, mainly with guests, though two other tables had slaves like herself. She’d baulked at being called a slave at first, but the reality was that she was a slave, as owned as any slave in history and gaining little comfort from the fact she was probably treated better in many ways than most slaves had been.

Soft, gentle background music played under the quiet conversations from the diners.

They’d walked five paces or so into the room when a voice called from behind them.

“You, dark hair. Stop.”

The voice was male, cultured, yet quite young. Erica stopped.

“You too, blondie,” the voice continued.

It was by no means the first time this had happened. One of the most basic rules of The Complex was that any slave was required to obey any guest without question, at any time of day or night.

A rugged, swarthy face appeared in front of them. The man was tall and athletic and she couldn’t help thinking she’d seen him somewhere before.

“Name?” he asked her.

“51, Master.”

“You?” he asked the blonde.

“21, Master.”

“Take off the dress, 51,” he told her, stepping back a few paces so he could watch.

Erica didn’t hesitate, despite a slight buzz of interest in her predicament from some of the guests. Around her a few of her fellow inmates served breakfasts 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 curves of her hips. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and eased it off, draping it across the back of the vacant chair nearby. She stood, hands by her sides, as the unknown man looked her up and down. He twirled his 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 who had flogged her for no reason other than that they apparently wanted to.

“For what reason?”

“I don’t know, Master,” she told him honestly. “Because they wanted to, I think.”

“Have you ever whipped anyone, blondie?” 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 some sort of 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. “Go onto the stage. You, strip. Wait for me there.”