Authors: Denise Hall
While he removed his pants, I heard the soft crinkle of plastic unwrapping and Black put something into her mouth.
I covered my ears when the door opened again. Burying my face down in my pillow, I cried, knowing it was only a matter of time for me.
I had barely finished the thought when my sheet was lifted and cool air caressed my skin. I grit my teeth, a keening cry seeping into my pillow as the palm of a large hand smoothed from my shoulders down the planes of my back to my hips.
Master Boyden's voice whispered near my ear, "Sit up, Red."
There was nothing I could do but obey. I was simply too sore for anything else, and I rose onto my knees, shoulders hunched as he sat on the edge of my bed just behind me.
There were creaking bedsprings all around me. Somewhere 67
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behind me, I heard plaintive sniffling and watery gasps as someone began to cry. Another was moaning and gasping expressively.
"This lotion should help soothe some of the ache away,"
Master Boyden said softly beside me. He uncapped a bottle I hadn't noticed him carrying, squeezing a good amount into his palm. "Put your head on the pillow."
Without a word, I lowered my head back onto my pillow and raised my bottom well into the air. He rubbed the cream into me with slow, squeezing hands, his touch making it hurt even more and I was grateful for that. The pain made his unwonted kindness easier to bear.
Under such gentle ministrations, my hind quarters became slick with lotion. I closed my eyes and, as the ache diminished beneath his soothing caresses, in a moment of weakness, I think I moaned. The sound was drowned over by a soft wail from Black as she was entered. She panted noisily, but rather than protest, she wrapped her legs around the hips of the shadowy male above her and pulled him deeper inside her. I could have borne her rape better than I could her traitorous enjoyment. Whoever had been crying before was now panting softly. And further down the row of beds, in the black I saw the figure of one of the Blondes, straddling the hips of her nighttime visitor, her slender body undulating as she rode him.
Master Boyden's hand moved between my thighs. His fingers parted my sex, sliding over my clit, and I bolted onto my knees at once. I grabbed his wrist with both hands, pushing to dislodge his hand from between my legs.
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He caught a fistful of my hair, pulling back sharply to stop me, and I froze as he said, "How bad do you want this to be?"
I shook in the darkness, surrounded by the sounds of sex, confronted by the certainty of another night of rape, more alone than I have ever felt in all my life. I let go of his hand.
"Spread your knees," he said, and I obeyed, cringing as I felt him kneel on the mattress behind me. His hands found my hips and his hot breath caressed my ear. "Cross your wrists between your breasts."
As I hugged my shoulders, he wrapped his arm like a steel gird around my chest, pinning both of mine tight against me.
"Relax," he told me as my hands became fists of hopeless despair. "Part your knees. Wider. Now, back up. That's right, back up onto my thighs." He brushed stray strands of my hair out of my face, his voice a whispered caress at the nape of my neck. "Good girl. You're going to be a sweet little piece ...
if we ever break you of all this rebelliousness."
When he touched down between my thighs again, his well-lubricated fingers slipped easily inside me. He stroked, his hips grinding into my wounded buttocks, slowly raising and lowering me in a mocking parody of love-making, never entering me though I felt him stiffening within the confines of his pants, his erection a solid lump beneath me. His thumb explored, flicking my clit as his fingers thrust, then again when I could not swallow my cry fast enough. Pleasure unraveled inside me, seeping up through my belly, trickling down into my loins. The violation of it made me groan, and I began to cry when he merely repeated the steady assault.
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"Let yourself go," he chided. "I will make you come whether you want to or not. You're learning something you all discover here sooner or later: it's five times as fine after a good whipping. Feel the heat of the pain burning through you; the little shocks of hurt as your body tightens with pleasure." He filled me with his fingers, palming my belly as I began to shudder. "Tip back your head, Red. Look up so he can see your face. Let him see you wail your pleasure."
I stiffened against the master, squeezing my hands into useless fists within the confines of his embrace, my hips convulsing and riding his fingers wildly, my entire body writhing in the throes of a pleasure so unwanted that it felt as though it were destroying me. Wave after shaky wave racked me until my body went limp, and like a wet and useless rag, I lay sobbing against his chest. His arms cradled me, his hand soothing and petting my clit, still thrumming and vibrating to his touch despite my tears.
Master Boyden let me go, and I crumpled useless to the mattress. He covered me with the sheet, then left my bedside. It was Black who became the sheath for his desire.
He rode her vigorously, filling the barracks with the wet, slapping sound of their bodies coming violently together. She may have been the one bucking upon the cock he rammed and pounded inside her, but it was frightening that he continued to look at me as, teeth bared, he found his release.
Black more gasped in relief when he finally slid from her body and rose to dress.
"See you tomorrow," he said, and I was left to sleep for the remainder of the night alone.
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"Why do you do that?" the Detective asked suddenly.
I started, a fist of panic suddenly clenching in my belly.
What was I doing wrong now?
"You always stare at the floor. Why don't you ever look at
my face, meet my eyes?"
I was at a loss. How could a master, even a weak one from
the Outside like the Detective, not know something so basic?
I stammered over my reply, "B-because a slave never looks
upon a master."
Still in the conference room at the police station, Jim and
the nice, blonde detective who were talking quietly behind
me, fell abruptly silent. As if on cue, both men came back to
sit on the table. They all three looked at me. Their sudden
interest was frightening, but I suddenly realized what I had
said wrong. I felt the familiar burn of tears in my eyes.
The Detective set aside the pencil he'd been rolling
between his hands and leaned closer to me. "What?"
I blinked rapidly. My lower lip trembled as I hastened to
amend myself. He wasn't a strong master, but he hadn't
deserved my disrespect. "Because a slave never looks upon a
master, sir."
Clasping my hands behind my back, I bow down to press
my forehead to his shoe in apology.
"No." The Detective shook his head as if to clear it from a
blow. "I meant—get up. Please don't do that, Callie. Now,
what master? Who says he's your master?"
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I felt as confused as he looked. "My Master, Daymon
Tane."
Running his hand over his balding head, the Detective
sighed. His glance fell to the file folder on the table at his
elbow. He picked it up and showed me the picture, which I
looked at obligingly, but without a great deal of interest. It
was from the Before Time and would not help me get back to
my Master, so it didn't really matter to me.
"Is this you?" he asked.
The photo was smudged and dark from the fax, but the
features were irrefutably mine. "Yes, sir."
"What's happened to you?" the Detective demanded. "Your
family looked for you for years. They think you're dead. Did
you ever try to get to a phone? Did you ever try to contact
anyone? Callie, where have you been?"
* * * *
For us, Personals topped the list. They got the best of everything: better food, the prettiest hair pieces, the softest towels in a rainbow of colors. Their uniforms were so white and soft, seductively transparent, but with the most revealing bodices and the highest heeled shoes. Their skirts were the 73
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shortest allowed; bib-like, the gossamer cloth barely covered their buttocks. And when they turned or walked, it didn't even do that much.
They never did chores, never washed their own laundry or food dishes after meals. A guard was assigned to clean their bathroom and the Personals' common areas. Only Personals were allowed to wear makeup. They played in the garden daily and were the only females allowed in the aviary.
We all envied them, but no one wanted to be one.
Personals were the masters' permanent companions, life partners at least as much as a slave could partner to her master. Perhaps favored pet was closer to the truth, and it was for that reason that they received the absolute best of all things. But it also meant they got the harshest treatment. It was rare that a female of lesser importance ever saw a Personal, and for the longest time, I thought them a mountain myth. But on the few occasions when one was spied, the marks upon their bodies were enough to pale and leave shaken even the sturdiest Lesser among us.
In the Pit, Elite status was what we all aspired to. They were the icons we grew desperate to model ourselves after.
Their short yellow uniforms, two-inch high heels, sparkling jeweled hair combs, earrings, bracelets and anklets, were the badges of accomplishment that we couldn't wait to achieve.
Elites got dessert for dinner every night. They got to use bathrooms with hot running water. They were the finished product, and there were very few of them in Judgment at any one time, since most were sold within a month of obtaining this favored and long looked-to status.
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Midpoints came next and were the most plentiful of Lessers, recognized by their soft pink uniforms and shoes.
Oh, at long last shoes! The heels were only an inch high, but it was a wonderful thing to be able to put our barefoot days behind us. And it was always amusing to spot a new Midpoint as she tottered unsteadily through the halls, learning to walk gracefully on those spike-point heels.
They got dessert on the last supper of each week. They got hair ribbons and barrettes, bobby pins, twist ties, scrunchies and bows. What vain and silly creatures, women, that things like this should make a difference. But the allure of just being allowed to put our hair up was very, very powerful.
Primaries were on the bottom rung of the rank ladder.
Their uniforms were a dull blue-gray. There was no jewelry, no pretty hair fripperies, and no desserts at meals. They got fed last in the dining hall and had to sit at the worst tables, those right below the masters' dais and under their watchful eyes. They were punished more frequently than any other rank, because most Primaries had yet to be completely cleansed of all reluctance or defiance, and some still clung to stubborn traces of individuality and worth.
But even lower than Primaries, New-Comers were the dregs of Judgment society. We weren't even worthy of clothes. For that first month, we lived solely within our barracks, not permitted to leave except every morning before breakfast when we were escorted to the bathroom and sprayed down with the hose. Even our daily exercise was taken at the foot of our beds: jumping jacks, push-ups and 75
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sit-ups, and slow stretches that bent our bodies into common punishment positions. By the end of our second week, there wasn't a one of us who couldn't touch her toes with perfectly straightened knees.
We were fed healthy but tasteless foods: plain oatmeal, half an apple and milk for breakfast; a thick, gritty and gray shake-like substance for lunch, which smelled bad and which I never could drink without first holding my nose; and for dinner, dressingless salad, raw vegetables, and a bland piece of chicken or fish, which was usually ground up into a crumbled, unappetizing lump. At the foot of our beds, we'd sit with dinner trays balance on our laps, the barracks tomblike with silence as we ate this unpalatable fare.
I, in my initial defiance, attempted to stage a hunger strike. Only one person was brave enough to join—me—and it lasted three whole meals, from dinner to dinner over the course of one twenty-four hour period. The only reason it didn't last longer than that was because my incredibly slow sense of self-preservation at last kicked in.
We had just been handed our dinner trays and I was settling on my bed for another round of 'My Will Against Theirs,' when the barrack door swung open and in came two masters and two guards. The guards carried between them what looked to be a black, leather-padded saw horse with harness straps affixed to its legs. Master Hutch directed where they should set it down, and began a rudimentary check of the straps.
Master Martin carried the cane. Whistling a cheerful tune, he bounced lightly down the barrack steps and met up with 76
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Master Boyden halfway across the floor, near the front of the twin rows of beds.
"Thank you for coming," Master Boyden said politely.