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…”
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