Part I
My footsteps, loud in the hard-soled jump boots, echo the barren halls of Camp
Treve. In metered stride, I make final rounds, ensuring that all is ready. Every
camera and microphone well concealed. Each room immaculately clean, not the
slightest trace of dirt or blood. I check each device in turn, most of them
activated by the large remote I carry.
Some would term Camp Treve a depressing buildingĄ all stone and flat black
steel. I find it beautiful. The Camp stands unadorned, function expressed with
the barest simplicity. Yet beneath its Spartan exterior, Camp Treve offers every
amenity one could ask for the task it addresses.
I buzz open the door to my private quarters, and pass through. The door whisks
shut after me. Beyond, my outer chamber is bathed in the lights of the Camp's
electronic heartĄ video monitors, amplifiers, control panels, recording decks.
I cycle one monitor through all of the cameras, assuring their function and
position.
It feels good to return to this place I call home. To knock the mothballs from
her, fire up the big diesel generator and bring her back to life. Faintly, the
pain-laden screams of last year's class echo the halls, at least in my mind. The
new class will arrive in the morning, along with supplies for the next ninety
days or so. Before retiring I activate the heater embedded in the roof, which,
by morning, will clear the snow and ice for the Huey's landing. I settle in for
the first night of year three, and Camp Treve is silent around me.
I watch the monitor intently, for the Class of 98 is starting to stir. The first
day is most crucial, I have determinedĄ there is much to be learned, by myself
and my charges. Their nine naked bodies have lain still since arriving this
morning, splayed about the main holding area. After the helicopter landed, they
and the foodstores were loaded into the lift and brought down from the cold. One
by one, I removed their orange transport jumpers, admiring their firm, sensual
bodies. Using a grease pencil, I numbered them, 1 through 9. Carried each from
the main chamber to the holding area. Then, I waited for the drug to wear off.
As I watch each wake in turn, confused, I smile. My sponsors have done a
wonderful job selecting my charges. Each is a rare beauty. This may be the
finest class to date.
The large-breasted redhead, number 3, is the first to shake off the drug. She
stands and looks about. Takes in her nudity, the others around her. Walks about
the cell. I like the way she struts. Like a beast, sex made flesh. She stands by
the barred entry, staring out at more bare stone walls. Slowly, several others
join her. They speak to each other, and the microphones covey every word to me.
'Where are we.' 'How the fuck should I know, bitch?' 'I'm Lara.' 'Where are my
fucking clothes?' 'What's your name?' 'Fuck you.'
It comes to me as a steady stream of banter, and I find it difficult to tie
words to the speaker. It is not important. This class will eventually shake out,
set to the business of determining a hierarchy. I wait, but not for long.
They moved back towards the center of the cell, and several slide into a seated
position along the walls. An argument breaks out among four of the women,
standing, and they scuffle. The redhead and one of the brunettes quickly come
out victorious. I carefully note the internal power structure that emerges
within the class over the next hour or so. Finally, one remarks on the numbers.
'You have something on your hip.' The redhead, to whom the comment was directed,
looks down at herself, examining, the '3' carefully stenciled on her pearly
skin. 'Hey, I have one too,' exclaims number 5. One by one, they wet their
fingers with spit and wipe the numbers off. I grin broadly. That has never
failed. It is time.
I put on the headset, positioning the microphone before my lips. Shunt the room
audio into the little headset speakers. Turn on the broadcast system in the
holding area.
'Stand to the rear of the cell.' They start as my booming, authoritative voice
fills the room. Most begin to move as directed, used to the obeyance of orders,
but the three that have emerged as leaders stay where they are.
'Where the fuck are we?,' one shouts. I repeat my order, but these three
continue to disobey. The rest have moved to the rear wall, but they too must
pay.
I flip a switch and spin up a large dial. I smile with amusement as all nine
women begin to scream, and hop from foot to foot. I have powered up a contact
grid on the floor, sending a strong shock into their feet. I watch, beaming, as
they try to climb the wall, each other, anything to escape the biting pain.
Their shrieks fill my ears. One falls to the floor, and lets out an unearthly
wail as two others climb atop her, pinning her against the conducive strips.
Finally, the last straggler hops her way to the back wall. I shut off power to
the floor, and they sag against cool stone wall. Lesson one learned.
'Number 1. Move to the door.' A moment passes, and no one moves. I send a brief
jolt to the floor, and repeat myself. Quickly, timidly, a dishwater blonde steps
away from the wall and walks to the bars. At the push of a button, the door
slides silently open. 'Number 1. There is a blue line on the floor. Follow it to
its end.' She steps to comply, and the door clangs shut behind her.
I switch from camera to camera, following her progress down the hall into the
main chamber. She stops at the end of the line. I see her glance about, taking
in her surroundings. Gray stone walls, broken here and there by entryways barred
or open. The low ceiling. Lines of several colors on the floor departing the
room in various places. A row of open steel bands lining one wall, protruding
from metal boxes about five feet from the floor.
I switch the microphone to the speakers in the main chamber. 'Turn to your left.
Step to the wall. Place the first collar around your neck and snap it shut.'
With only slight hesitation, she complies. Number 1 is secured to the wall.
I take each of them through this process in turn. Number 3, the redhead, pulls
the collar about her neck but doesn't push it shut. An indicator on my console
remains red, and I snap at her. She complies. Finally, my charges are well
restrained in proper line.
I check the mirror on the way from my quarters. Suitably imposing in black
T-shirt, regulation BDUs and spit-shined boots. I nod and smile at my reflection
before composing a stern face, dropping a hand to the nightstick at my belt, and
heading for the main chamber.
Silently, I let my eye trace every curve of each girl, starting from the bottom
and ending at her eyes. I hold her gaze until she breaks. With the redhead, it
takes two runs of her body and a lecherous grin to make her shift uncomfortably
and glance away. I can read the uncertainty in their eyes.. awakening
disoriented, confined within a new set of walls, stripped of clothes and shocked
into compliance.
'Welcome to Camp Treve.' My voice booms in the stone room as I affect the tone
of a drill sergeant. 'My name is Jacob Treve, but you will always address me as
sir. You have each been transferred into my care after proving incapable of
adjustment to prison life.' This is, of course, quite true. Each of these women,
gathered from prisons across the States, were declared incorrigible by the
frustrated wardens responsible for them. Several shift about, uncomfortable with
my blunt statement. They were selected by my sponsors from a large pool based on
their bad attitudes and my personal criteria, beauty. That is the arrangement.
'As far as the prison system is concerned, you no longer exist. You belong to me
now.' My eyes cut down the line, letting this statement sink in.
'The Camp is an experimental rehabilitation program. You _will_ be
rehabilitated. My methods are quite simple. None of you know how to follow
rules. Here, you _will_ follow the rules, or pay dearly for breaking them. You
will come to hate Camp Treve so strongly that you will do anything to avoid
returning, including integrate with society.' Again, I pause for effect.
'Camp Treve has a single exit. You are free to walk out that exit at any time..
simply request to be released, and I will let you out.' Another pause, but one
with purpose. It hasn't failed in the past, nor does it this time.
'I would like to go please, Sir.' I had expected number 3, but it is one of the
other lead girls. The redhead isn't far behind in the request.
'Would anyone else care to leave the Camp at this time?' The third leader
expresses her desire to go, but the others remain cautious. I finger the remote,
releasing the collars of the three who have asked to depart. They step
hesitantly away from the wall, clearly expecting a trick of some sort. Another
combination on the remote and a broad metal door slides open revealing a small
square area beyond.
'Step into the lift, and I will send you to the surface.'
'May we have clothing?'
Giving the girl a withering glance, I say 'You will address me always as sir.'
She repeats her question properly, and I reply in the negative. 'You will have
to fend for yourselves. Get into the lift.' Still suspicious, the three lithe
women move cautiously into the elevator. I close the door, and use other keys to
start it towards the surface.
To my remaining charges, I say 'Let's watch, shall we?' A faux stone panel
slides open to reveal a large monitor in the wall, it's color image depicting
the women in the lift as it ascends. It is a short ride. A portal in the Camp's
roof slides open, and raw, brilliant light from the outside streams in,
illuminating the three in stark detail. They immediately huddle about themselves
in the bitter cold. As the elevator reaches the roof, the vast expanse of snow-
and ice-covered terrain surrounding the Camp is revealed on the monitor. I know
that the women on the roof are treated to a much more overwhelming view..
barren, blinding whiteness stretching away from this lone building as far as the
eye can see.
The mesh sides and open roof of the lift provide the women no protection from
the sub-zero temperature and biting wind. Of course, their nudity does little to
improve the situation. In the main chamber, we can hear their screams and pleas
faintly over the rumble of the wind across the microphone. It is less than a
minute before they are huddled together in a corner of the lift.
'You can't just leave them there!'
I turn to look at the speaker, number 8. 'Actually, I can. After all, they
requested to leave the Camp. But I won't, for much longer. This is a valuable
lesson.. be sure you remember it.' Her eyes, reflecting her horror, are
inexorably draw back to the monitor, and the shivering ball of women it depicts.
After several minutes, I start the lift back down into the bowels of Camp Treve.
It takes some encouragement to get the three women to move from the lift back to
their places in line. Again, my nine charges stand restrained before me,
although three are shivering uncontrollably.
I address the girls once again. 'Camp Treve, and the ten of us for the moment,
are in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. The nearest human presence is a
military outpost, one hundred eighty miles to the south. Miles of ice and snow.
The average temperature this time of year is about zero. There are no vehicles
here at the Camp. As I said, you are free to leave any time you wish.'
I return to the collared women, pushing a large wheeled brazier filled with
glowing hot coals. A number of thin handles protrude from its heat. 'This should
warm the room a bit,' I say, glancing at each of the shivering women who had
thought to leave.
'Earlier, I said you would pay for breaking the rules of Camp Treve. I see that
each of you has already done so.' Several gasps and small protests respond.
Again, they are shifting uneasily. 'Each of you bore a number on your right hip,
and that number is your only identity here. As I have no intention of memorizing
you by number, it must be displayed at all times.' I slide my hand into a padded
mitt as I speak. 'Since you have taken it upon yourselves to remove these
numbers, I must apply them in more permanent form.' With this, I pull the first
glowing iron from the fire, swinging its red-hot tip before their eyes. They
follow the two-inch high numeral with wide eyes, and begin to beg.
I thrust the iron back into the fire, shrug off the mitt, and take the
restraining band to number 1. The spring steel band hooks to the wall on either
side of her right thigh. Working the ratchet, I pull the band to excruciating
tightness. She pleads desperately with me. I retrieve the first iron.
'This mark will be quite permanent. You may wish to interlock your hands behind
you.' She does so. Others have desperately grasped the iron as it sinks into
their flesh, seriously burning the palms of their hands.
I line the iron up, aiming for the fleshy pad directly beneath the point of her
hip bone. I watch the fine hair on the area shrivel back from the heat. She, of
course, can go nowhere. With a sure strike, I press the small '1' into her.
Quick as lightning, it smolders its way, burning her flesh. 1's violent screams
echo throughout the chamber, accompanying the sound of meat on a grill. The
others are screaming in sympathy or fear.
After a small fraction of a second, I pull back the iron with some effort and a
slight ripping sound, and place it aside. I apply a wet, cool towel to the area.
A slight steam rises. Number 1 hangs from her collar in shock, cleanly marked. I
release the steel band and move on to number 2.
Number 3 tries to fight me off, and I slap her face. Slap her breast with all my
strength, leaving a clear red imprint of my hand. She resorts to futile attempts
to cover herself, screaming. She, too, feels the iron's heat.
Finally, I stand back and take in my freshly numbered charges. They are numb
with shock, and hang rather quietly in their collars, with just a sob here and
there. I slather antibiotic ointment into and around each brand. 'Follow the
rules in the future, ladies,' I say, as I turn to depart.
'Sir?' one asks.
'Yes?' I reply, turning half about.
'What are the rules, Sir?'
'You'll learn them as you go,' I say with a bit of a wry grin. 'If you suspect
you shouldn't do something, it's probably against the rules.'
'Number 7, stand in the center of the cell.' My harsh voice, amplified and
surrounding them, startles the women awake. 7 moves groggily to the center of
the room as the others scoot uncertainly back against the walls.
'Number 7, did you masturbate last night?' On the monitor, I see her throat
work, but her gulp is inaudible.
'No, Sir.'
'Number 7, turn to your right and watch the monitor.' I work at my console,
revealing a monitor in their cell and starting the video from last night. The
low-light, computer-enhanced video has a greenish tint, but clearly shows the
naked number 7 huddled against a wall. Her right hand moves slowly between her
tight thighs. Little shudders wrack her frame, betraying her stealthy orgasm.
'Number 7, did you masturbate last night?'
'Yes, Sir,' she says quietly. I tell her to say it louder, and she does.
'Number 7, move to the door.'
'Please, Sir, I didn't know..' All nine women scream and hop to their feet as I
send a strong shock to the floor. The others are yelling encouragement at her as
number 7 moves in jerks to the barred door. When she reaches it, I shut off the
current.
The door slides silently open before her. "Number 7, follow the red line until
you receive additional instruction.' She moves to follow my orders, and door
locks securely behind her. I sync my monitor with the one in the cell, and the
other nine of us watch number 7 proceed along the red line. She follows it
through the main chamber, and I activate a barred door on the far side, allowing
her to continue along the line down a narrow corridor. I switch and pan cameras
to keep her in view.
'Number 7, enter the next room on your left.' My instruction booms throughout
Camp Treve, and she complies. 'Stand against the far wall, facing the door.' I
watch her take in her surroundings as she crosses the room. A low, padded table.
The stone walls draped with whips, chains, paddles, some of the latter prickling
with metal spikes. Several apparatuses draped with opaque sheets. She reaches
the wall and stands as instructed. At a leisurely pace, I exit my quarters and
head for corrective room 1.
'First, you will be disciplined for lying to me.' I stand before her as she
presses against the wall, quivering. A sharp rebuke upon my entrance has
motivated her to silence. 'Then, we will address your sexual transgression. Your
peers will watch throughout.' A click on my remote brings a monitor here to
life, providing us a view of my other charges, observing us with rapt attention.
She sobs.
I instruct her to face the wall, and secure her ankles and wrists to chains,
spread wide. She forms an X before me, stretched against the cold stone. 'For
your lies, you will be flogged.' I ignore her protestations as I move to the
side, selecting a longish flogger with a dozen narrow rubber fall peppered with
small steel beads. The beads click together as I shake it out. 7 turns her head
at the sound, catches a glimpse of the fierce-looking implement and begins to
scream. I let her, and take up a position behind her.
Intending to truly discipline my charge, I start with a powerful, full stroke to
her ass. 7's high-pitched, pain-laden scream bounces throughout room. I can hear
their amplified echoes trailing down the halls from the holding cell, where they
must be deafening.. I have that amp at full volume, that the other prisoners not
miss the slightest moan in this room. A glance into the monitor shows the other
eight, hands clasped over their ears, mouths agape in mirrored screams. Angry
red dots appear in stripes across her tender flesh.
I administer a vicious beating, fifty strokes in all, each slamming into her at
full bore. She is pressed against the rough stone by the force of the blows, and
it abrades the front of her body. By the end, her full weight hangs on her arms,
tears stream down her face, and her screams of pain are an incoherent stream of
sound. 7 screams quite well. Her back, ass, and thighs have become a mass of red
except of her spine, which I have avoided. Little indents, oozing blood where
the skin has split, dot her flesh, especially her ass, where I have
concentrated, and high back where her shoulder blades near the surface.
I turn the hose on her. Icy water powers away her blood, and spirals down a
drain in the floor. The women on the monitor watch on in stunned silence at the
brutality of 7's punishment, and its gory result. With gloved hand, I smear a
paste onto her back, inspiring a series on new screams. The mix of healing
ointment and fiery cinnamon oil burns into her open wounds.
When her shudders slow, I release her bonds and she drops to the floor. I lift
her in my arms, laying her gently on the table. The cool plastic covering is
soothing to her burning back, and 7 is compliant, exhausted, as I restrain her.
Wrists bloodied from the earlier strain at the table's head. Waist strapped
tightly down. Ankles to thighs, and thighs tautly to the base of the table.
'While at Camp Treve, you will receive only the sexual gratification I see fit
to grant you.' I speak loudly, as much for the benefit of the others as to 7. A
quick check shows both audiences to be attentive. 'Number 7, last night you
masturbated yourself to orgasm. The stealth with which you did so, and your lies
to me this morning, prove that you suspected this act to be a violation of my
rules. Not that this matters. As I informed you yesterday, transgressions are
dealt with quite harshly here.'
I roll one of the draped machines to the base of the table, strip off the cover
and lock its wheels. The piece gleams brightly, all shiny metal. A single
jointed arm extends from its squat base, and I position in near her sex. I use
the remote to re-position the camera, panning in until her prone form fills the
view afforded my other charges.
'Your punishment will fit the crime. We will start by giving you the orgasms you
seem to desire so desperately.'
She lays helplessly spread before me. I gather some lubricant on a finger, and
begin to gently massage her clit. It grows to fullness under my attentions as I
stretch it gently. I carefully expand her hood, pulling it up to make room for
the machine's little tube. Push against her public bone, pressing her as far up
the table as her restraint allows. 7 will be unable to pull away from the
machine's touch.
I move the rubber and metal tube at the end of the arm into place, fitting her
clit snugly into its grip. Press it into her and tighten the arm's joints,
locking it in place. I run straps from the arm around her hips as a final
caution.
All in readiness, I bend to the machine's base. Turn on the power. A display
lights, and I select several options then hit start. The device emits the
faintest of buzzing. I stand back to watch her reactions.
7 thrusts her hips at the machine. Her head is thrown back, eyes closed. Tongue
to lips, moaning softly. The machine's sound changes slightly, and 7 pushes her
pelvis into its kiss with more serious intent, helpless against her building
arousal.
The machine cycles somewhat randomly through a series of stimulations to her
clit. A gently sucking motion, powered by a miniature vacuum. Vibrations in a
variety of intensities directly into her bud, some faint enough to be barely
perceivable, others like a miniature earthquake, sometimes undulating between
the two extremes. A spinning motion, dragging the slightly roughened interior of
the tube around her tender flesh. A slight shock to either side, just a tingle,
a tickle. Combinations of these sensations.
Quickly, 7 is writhing in orgasm. Moaning loudly. Hitching with squeals as the
intensity drives her over the top. The machine continues to whir relentlessly.
It is about fifteen minutes before 7 starts to beg me to make it stop. Her
hoarse requests are broken periodically by the high-pitched squeaks of yet
another orgasm. Every muscle in her body is taunt, trembling. A light sheen of
sweat breaks out on her, and she glistens under the lights. Her nipples, raw
from the stone walls, strain upward, her chest heaving for breath. Eyes plead to
me. I turn away and walk to my quarters.
I sit back at my console, watching the monitors. One shows 7, strapped in place
as she has been for the last ten hours. Her hair is pasted to her head, eyes
lidded with exhaustion, body trembling helplessly. She went silent some hours
ago as her voice failed her. Still, her body responds defenselessly, wracked by
shudders of orgasms that have grown farther apart but continue despite her
fatigue. The machine continues its merciless attentions.
A second monitor shows the scene in the holding cell. Several girls have curled
in corners to sleep, but the rest continue to watch 7, unable to pull their eyes
away from the girl's torture. Some are weeping in sympathy while others remain
stoic and aloof. I note the reactions of each.
I turn on my microphone, into the cell. 'Wake up and pay attention, my lovelies.
Things are about to get interesting again.' I send a brief jolt into the floor,
encouraging them to gather before the monitor.
I walk to corrective room 1, whistling. My recently over-sexed little pet looks
at me with hazy, pleading eyes. I hold her glance and move to the machine.
Depress a button sending it into one final flurry, every motion set off at once.
The inescapable sucking, vibrating, rotating and shocking against her raw fleshy
bit rocks her almost immediately into a final, protracted orgasm. I let my
gadget run a moment longer, then shut it down. 7's body flops as she relaxes
suddenly, her muscles twitching and cramping from hours of constant strain. She
takes rapid, shallow breaths.
I release the machine from her, and pull it away. Her clit is a bright red,
inundated with blood, rubbed raw. Fluids of her arousal have pooled on the
table. I run a finger through her juices, then rub it on her clit. She twitches
and tries to pull away, screaming silently.
'A bit tender, my dear?' I know she can't answer, and don't expect her to. I
release her sex for the moment. Turn to a cabinet, retrieving three items: a
piece of metal shaped like a popsicle stick but gently curved, a length of fine
wire with a small ball on one end, and a pair of vice grips. There are two small
holes in one end of the stick, close to each other. I thread the free end of the
wire through one, and back through the other. Pull it about, until the ball come
to rest against the back of the stick and a small loop protrudes from the curved
side beyond. I plug in a soldering iron, which will soon be hot.
With the remote, I switch the view in the holding cell to a free-standing
camera, which I position between her thighs while giving myself room to work. I
adjust it to give the other girls a tight view of 7's twat and her raw clitoris.
'7, some might say that you have, in the last ten hours, experienced enough
orgasms to last a lifetime. However, you may not yet be convinced to follow the
rules. We have one last part of your punishment. I am going to remove half of
your clit.' 7's eyes go wide with shock, and she mutely shakes her head, no. I
can faintly hear shrieks of horror carrying through the halls from the holding
cell.
Over 7's whispered protestations, I position the metal stick above her sex,
slide the loop carefully over her swollen clit and pull it snug halfway up. She
tries to squirm away, but her bonds leave nowhere to go.
I check the monitor, and am pleased to find the other prisoners attentive,
peering over their hands which cover mouths wide with horror.
I clamp the pliers on the wire's free end. Holding the stick in my left hand,
pliers in my right, I glance up at 7. 'You earned this. I hope that you will
behave more appropriately in the future.' Suddenly, I jerk the pliers upward.
The thin wire slices cleanly through her bud, severing it against cold steel.
Her exhausted body goes rigid and trembling. A hoarse wheeze escapes her raw
throat. The end of her clit falls to the table, and her blood flows over it.
I cauterize her with the soldering iron, leaving a burned stub drawn up under
her hood. I spray her clean and carry her to the cell.
End Part I
