Introduction
Slaves. Dream, desire, obsession, fantasy; willing females bent to others’ will, to
serve and service, perform, entertain, obey, suffer. Beaten, subdued, and trained into
knowledge and excellence in its application, the perfection of pleasure. Almost every
man’s – and some women’s – ideal.
Or is it?
Chapter 1
“It’s all very well having places that train slaves to be meek and willing,” he said,
emphasising his words with a stiff finger prodded on to the polished surface of the desk,
“but that’s not what a lot of men – or women, I imagine – want.”
She put her feet on two of the struts that formed the base of her seat and pushed
herself back. The mechanism made a slight groaning creak, a sound that brought a minute
frown to her brow even as she put her hands together, steepled her fingers and tapped her
upper lip with the apex as she studied him. As always, he reminded her of an
untidy-looking bear, his dark hair unkempt, and a hank falling over his forehead. It
somehow matched the creased suit and loose tie, its knot pulled down, the shirt collar
unbuttoned. But despite appearances, Jeff Turnbull was both an astute and influential man;
when he said something like that, it was wise for someone like Audrey Waugh, a mere Prison
Governor against his Regional Director of Correctional Institutions, to listen. Carefully.
Her hands dropped.
“What is the alternative?” she asked mildly.
He smiled and leaned back. “Rape.” His voice was flat, assured.
Now the chair rocked forward, following her instinctive lean. This time she barely
noticed the creak. “Rape? But…” she stopped, the implications and complications beginning
to make themselves felt in her brain. There were a lot of them.
He took full advantage of her sudden silence. “Look,” he said, leaning forward,
that finger coming up to prod the desk again, though his voice remained mild. “At the
moment you supply likely material to John Griffin’s place. He and his associates do all
the training and then use the resulting slaves for our entertainment.”
He glanced at her as if expecting a response, but she was simply watching him, one
elegant eyebrow raised, hazel-brown eyes level.
“Now there’s nothing wrong with that,” he went on. “In fact I’ve sampled the place
and been very impressed.”
“As have I,” she interjected.
“So you have. Sorry. But didn’t you find them a bit … docile?”
She smiled, eyes misting slightly. “No. In fact, I found the place to be absolutely
perfect. I like my girls willing and eager.”
“Not even slightly reluctant?”
A tiny frown appeared on the high forehead, instantly erased. “I have six hundred
and eighty-two women in this prison, Jeff. They give me all the trouble I need, thanks.
When I relax I like them co-operative.” She paused, a faint smile forming. “Mind you,
there are times…”
He knew, of course, that she was one hundred per cent lesbian, but was sufficiently
liberal not to regard her preference as a waste of her striking good looks. He’d heard a
rumour that she’d made an exception for the Home Secretary, but that was probably a case
of sour grapes about a damned good-looking thirty-four year old woman being appointed head
of the biggest female prison in the country. That last remark was too good to pass up,
tough.
“Frustrating, isn’t it?” he asked, making a sweeping gesture with his hand to
encompass the establishment beyond the room. “All this… material and you are too
professional to make use of it.”
She went very still, her eyes holding his for long seconds, as if judging him. She
liked the man more than she did the vast majority of his sex; trusted him, too. He clearly
trusted her, in view of what he’d said, but then this wasn’t the first occasion that the
pair of them had had this sort of conversation. The scheme that John Griffin and his
friends had started, that of using debt indentures as sex slaves, was well known to them
both. They had sampled the delights of Heartbreak Oy and had benefited financially, all
with the active approval of higher authority, thanks to the persuasive powers of KP Morgan
– though she had no personal knowledge of the man. But what Turnbull seemed to be
suggesting was something beyond that; something that had no approval, tacit or otherwise.
On the other hand, Turnbull was the Regional Director of Prisons; he was a very important
man in his own right, as well as having the ear of the very top people. He was also no
idiot; he wouldn’t suggest anything irresponsibly stupid. “Go on,” she said cautiously.
He’d approached this interview cautiously, knowing the quality of the woman; she’d
gone along with the Griffon’s – with a hell of a lot of help from KP Morgan, but he was
sure - scheme readily enough, but he wasn’t at all confident about her reaction to what he
had in mind. The fact that she hadn’t turned him down flat straight off was encouraging,
but he still chose his words carefully. “I’ve spoken to M… Griffin,” he adjusted, the slip
in no way an accident. She’d be sharp enough to spot it, he knew; it was his way of
telling her that there were others involved, people that she didn’t know, powerful people.
It was coded reassurance. “He tells me that there are far more women available than they
can use.”
She didn’t miss the slip. Or the fact that it had been no accident. She’d known
that there had to be people behind Griffin and his Heartbreak Oy scheme, because it drove
a horse and cart through deliberate loop-holes in the law whichever way you looked at it.
The message had been clear enough then, though: a lot of very important people wanted that
scheme to go ahead. Now Turnbull was signalling that there was the same sort of support
for what he had in mind, whatever it was. She shifted in her seat; it creaked again, an
annoying distraction, but one which gave her the punctuation to consider her own feelings
about what she knew already. ‘Rape’, he’d said. Violently, forced sex? A familiar, if
unexpected, tingling warmth made itself felt deep within her. He was right: it was bloody
frustrating having so many available women around without being able to make use of them.
There was Heartbreak Oy, of course, and that was more than satisfactory. But having that
and an alternative… that was attractive. Very attractive, if it was safe. “Yes,” she said
injecting clear interest, though still with reserve.
‘Got her!’ he thought triumphantly, carefully keeping the triumph off his face and
out of his eyes. He shuffled his chair forward and put his forearms on the desk. “What I
have in mind,” he said, “is this….”
Chapter 2
“Evans,” snapped the wardress, standing just outside the open cell door. “You have a
visitor.”
The blonde lying on the bunk lowered the comic book enough to look over its top
edge, a startled expression in her blue eyes. Then they swept to the clock on the bedside
cabinet before coming back to the uniformed woman.
“You must be fucking joking,” she said, sarcasm and insolence dripping from every
word. “It’s seven in the fucking evening and I don’t get fucking visitors.”
The wardress held herself in check with an effort. She knew she’d have trouble with
Evans from the moment the phone call had come in. The blonde girl was well known for her
frequent appearances on report and had even managed a couple of visits to the Governor’s
office. Tracy Evans was, in the opinion of every staff member in the place, a right royal
pain in the arse. It was a pity that she couldn’t just disappear, as quite a number of
prisoners had been doing for the last few months. They’d all been young, good looking and,
like Evans, bloody nuisances. There’d been rumours about where they’d gone, but they were
so fantastic that no one gave them any real credence. Still, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to
see the back of this particular one. “Kindly keep your language under control,” she said,
forcing her voice level. “I’ll give you ten minutes to make yourself presentable.” Without
waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and walked away.
***
“Fuck you!” spat Tracy at the empty door, lifting the comic again. Then she dropped it. A
visitor? Who the hell was going to visit her at seven in the evening? Bloody ridiculous!
The book moved up but then dropped again. Visitor? She wasn’t the smartest woman in the
world, but she was intrigued despite herself. Who? She spent a moment pondering. Be a
break in the bloody monotony, wouldn’t it? Even if they had cocked it up and got the wrong
girl; there was an Evans on E Block, wasn’t there? And then there was the possibility that
there’d be a bit of snout in it; maybe a couple of pills if she was lucky. She didn’t use
either herself, but they were as good as currency in here. A moment’s more thought and she
sat up, swung her legs to the side of the bed and got up, tossing the book to one side.
The mirror was plastic, scratched by a succession of prisoners who’d occupied this
cell; one of them had been called Cindy, because the name was incised across its centre.
The scratches and other blemishes didn’t obscure her features, though, as she picked up
the brush and began dragging it through her long blonde hair. It was a good face, good
enough to earn money with, she thought, especially when she was made up. Maybe she’d try
for modelling jobs when she got out of this stinking place. But then her tits were too big
for that game, or so the so-called agent had told her before he wanted a feel. Television,
maybe: she was only twenty-three, with a good face and figure. Might have to screw a few
of them to get there, but she was ready for that. On her bloody terms, not theirs.
“You ready, Evans?”
She deliberately ignored the voice, putting the final touches of lipstick on before
turning. Thank God this was a liberal nick that allowed make-up. She’d heard there were
places that didn’t. “Might as well,” she sneered. “There’s fuck all else to do.”
The wardress, a dumpy woman called Ainsworth, forty-odd years old, six inches
shorter and three stones heavier than her, flushed. “I won’t tell you again about that
language, Evans.”
Tracy opened her mouth but then thought better of it and closed it again. Losing
privileges was no problem, but the bitch might decide to chop the visit. And somehow Tracy
found herself looking forward to that for some reason. Instead of the outburst that she
might normally have issued, she managed a whinge. “Pity I don’t have anything to wear,
isn’t it? I look like a bag of potatoes with a string round the middle.”
The wardress looked at the trim figure encased in hip-hugging jeans and T-shirt
that put a splendid pair of breasts on display and flushed. The clothes shouldn’t have
been that provocative, but the women in here managed to do it somehow, or the ones with
figures that made the trouble worth-while did. If anyone looked like a sack of potatoes
with a string round the middle, it was her, which was clearly how the remark had been
intended. Bitch! “You are very appropriately dressed,” she retorted, hoping that the barb
in the remark would strike home, but it went straight over the blonde’s head. She sighed
mentally. “All right, let’s get a move on, shall we?”
Tracy looked around, a prickle of unease starting. Ainsworth had passed her over to a
screw she didn’t know. They’d walked for ages through a maze of corridors and through so
many locked doors that she’d lost track before being handed to yet another wardress who
had escorted her to the door she’d just been ushered through. She’d been in this prison
for almost three months and never had a visitor, so she’d never seen the visiting area.
But she was sure this wasn’t it.
It was a dimly-lit room whose predominant colour was dark red: deep red wallpaper
with gold figuring, a carpet of an even deeper tone. Draped and pleated curtains were
tasselled back at two alcoves, their red matching the red of the couch that stood at one
end, a low table in front of it. There a sideboard and nothing else. Nothing on the table
or the sideboard. Nothing else in the room but another door beyond the couch.
The one she’d come through was locked, she knew: she’d heard the key turn.
Nonetheless, she tried it anyway. Locked. Crossing the room took her past the sideboard,
whose drawers and doors she tried. Locked. Which left only the other door. As expected,
locked. She banged on it with her fist. “Hey!” she shouted, her voice muffled by the
room’s furnishings. “What’s going on?”
There was no response. She kicked at the wood, succeeding only in hurting her toe
through the soft shoes. Then she moved to the couch and sat, ran her fingers through the
thick pile of its covering and started to wonder, some of her bravado ebbing.
Ainsworth walked down the cell corridor at her regular, accustomed pace, glancing
from side to side as she passed the open doors, a habit formed of twenty-two years’
service. She wasn’t exactly watching what was going on in the cells as she passed, more
looking for the out-of-place things that would warn her that something was wrong. There
was something out-of-place going on in 137, the place she’d just taken Tracy Evans from.
Someone was in there.
She tensed, then relaxed as she registered the grey uniform of another wardress and the
pale blue of the prisoner with her. “What’s going on?” she asked, stopping at the door.
Anderson looked round. “Oh, it’s you, Officer Ainsworth,” she replied. She
indicated the prisoner who was busy collecting personal things. “Just collecting Evans’
gear.”
“Eh?”
She got the sort of look reserved for the dim-witted. “She’s been transferred.”
It was only fifteen minutes since Ainsworth had escorted the pest to… Transferred?
That was odd. But it meant that it was one pain in the arse less; a wish fulfilled. “Oh,”
she said. She hesitated then shrugged. “Glad to see the back of her.”
Anderson smiled. “That’s two of us. Hope there’s a few privileges less where she’s
gone.”
Ainsworth couldn’t help feeling that that hope would be granted too, but she
couldn’t put her finger on why. She resumed her pacing, glancing right then left, looking
for the out-of-place, Evans already forgotten.
A sound on the other side of the door had Tracy getting to her feet quickly and
apprehensively. It opened, revealing a stout-ish man, perhaps in his mid thirties who
looked both unkempt and untidy. His suit looked as if he’d slept in it, the knot of his
tie was pulled down, his collar was unbuttoned and a swathe of dark hair fell across his
forehead. If he’d approached Tracy for a dance in a night-club in Balham she’d have turned
him down flat. Now she simply took a step backwards, away from him and stared, wondering.
One thing was certain: she’d never seen him before in her life.
He moved a step into the room, pushing the door closed with his hand as he did. It
clicked firmly shut. She felt his eyes on her, lingering at her breasts and groin. She
took another step back. He followed, stopping when she did, just a step away, still
examining her. He wasn’t tall, but he was bulky, his shoulders wide, carried forward,
giving him a hunched, threatening look that wasn’t made any less so given the fact that he
was only an inch or so taller than she. She was just about to blurt something when he
spoke.
“Good evening,” he said. His voice entirely belied his appearance: calm, quiet,
cultured.
“What…” she licked her lips. “What’s all this?” she demanded, hearing the quaver in
her voice. “They said I had a visitor.”
“You have. Me.”
“But I don’t know you from fucking Adam,” she snapped, courage returning.
He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on to the couch, his eyes coming back to her
face in a second. “I know you don’t,” he said. “But I’m still visiting you.”
Her eyes travelled to the coat then back to him.
“What for?” she demanded.
He paused in the act of rolling up his sleeve. “To fuck you,” he said, his voice so
matter-of-fact that she didn’t pick it up for a second ort two.
When she did, she went rigid, eyes blazing. “You what? Are you fucking m…”
And then he hit her.
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