Camp Treve - Part V
Weeks pass quickly in the stone, underground world that is Camp Treve. Turn to
months. The season changes, and the brief winter brings torrential ice storms
ripping across the Alaskan wilderness. My charges take their days in stride now,
including the intermittent beatings I administer with joy. Each, beautiful by
any standard upon their arrival, has turned into something of a goddess.
Carefully controlled diet, rigorous exercise, and hair grown untrimmed. Vicious
wounds inflicted during their adjustment period have healed over. Except, of
course, number 7's missing little piece. They have learned, for the most part,
to comply without question.. given up. All except the redhead, I suspect. For a
two weeks, I have limited their beatings to techniques that leave little in the
way of marks. Started them, also, on turns under a UV unit, tanning them to
varying extents to suit my fancy. Finally, I decide that my charges have reached
perfection. Time for a little fun. I take my time making the video tapes. One of
each girl, showing a little something of her beauty, her personality. Interview
them, display them. They find it a strange but welcome diversion. Sets of these
tapes go out by helicopter, and are delivered to a very select group of wealthy
individuals. Less than two weeks later, my first visitor arrives. The private
helicopter takes off immediately after depositing its lessee on the Camp's roof,
as instructed. I bring my guest down out of the cold, and greet him at the
elevator door. 'Welcome, Mr. Whitting, to Camp Treve.' His angular face bobs up
and down in response, and I gloss over his obvious discomfort. He is clearly
taken aback by my military garb. Standing aside like an usher, I say, 'Let me
give you a little tour of the facilities.' I point out interesting details of
the Camp's construct, and let Whitting get used to being here. He is a quiet,
reserved sort.. a first-time visitor. Thin, tall man in his forties, a tad
uncoordinated, soft-spoken and heavily affected of an Australian accent.
Whitting brought only a small valise to Camp Treve. Over dinner, we discuss his
particular desires, and my fee to sate them. Whitting completes an electronic
transfer of funds, and I show him to the guest quarters for the night. * * *
'Well rested, I presume, Mr. Whitting?' We sit before the control panel at his
request, watching the sleeping girls as we eat breakfast. 'Indeed, Treve. And
looking quite forward to enjoying my little visit. It is a a constant hunger of
mine.' 'Keep in mind,' I say, 'that you haven't paid for any permanent damage.'
'Of course, Treve. Should anything,' Whitting clears his throat, 'accidentally
occur, the prices you quoted still apply?' I nod. 'Good. You see, things have,
er, happened in the past. I tend to get carried away.' I respond with another
nod. I found Whitting through such an indiscretion on his part, one that led to
an extended trial in England several years ago. The young boy's body was
apparently quite mangled. Luckily for Whitting, justice can be bought in England
as well. "Shall I interrupt you if things appear to be getting out of hand, Mr.
Whitting, or would you prefer to see it through?' I eye him curiously as he
contemplates the question. 'No, don't stop me. It's rather cathartic. I will, of
course, make good should it happen.' 'Oh yes, Mr. Whitting. There's no way out
of Camp Treve otherwise.' His Adam's apple bobs at this, and his eyes widen.
Whitting, I decide, is rather pathetic. Weak. I wonder briefly how he would
scream under the lash. Shrug to myself. 'Shall we begin?' He nods, hands
twitching in anticipation. I turn to the console, and send a brief shock through
the cell floor. My charges are jolted awake, and instantly on their feet. They
move towards the door by habit, expecting the morning exercise. My voice booms
into the cell, 'Number 8 only, follow the red line.' I key the door open, and
the girl's shoulders slump as she complies. I'm almost sorry that Whitting
picked 8. She has been quite well behaved during her stay in the Camp. But he
was definitely drawn to the sensuous little brunette. * * * The surprise is
apparent on 8's face as I walk into the wet room with Whitting. A new face after
four months might do that, I suppose. She eyes him suspiciously as he sets his
case on the small rolling table and turns to examine her. 'Number 8, meet a
friend of mine. A rather devious friend, I must admit. I am going to leave you
in his care for a while, and suggest that you follow his orders to the letter.'
I turn to Whitting, ignoring the girl's protests. 'I'll be watching, with the
audio on. Let me know when you would like her collar released, and if there is
anything else you need.' I insist on observing, in person or remotely. Whitting
expressed a preference for the latter option. Whitting's narrow face dips
briefly in acknowledgement, his attention trained on the girl. The tip of his
tongue is running along his upper lip, I note. I return to the control panel to
watch and wait. When I bring up the wet room video and audio, Whitting is still
in the same place. Eyeing her. Finally, he moves towards 8. Reaches out to touch
her, gently, hesitantly. His thin hands caress 8, moving lightly over her
graceful curves. I barely hear him say 'g'day girl' to her, and turn up the
volume. 8 has gone quiet, confused perhaps. Whitting's hands finally reach her
privates, and gently explore her folds. With some skill, it seems, as 8 is soon
hitching into him and moaning with pleasure. When her orgasm is finished,
Whitting cradles her head in his hands and tenderly kisses her. 'What's your
name, girl?' he asks, running his fingers through her hair. Her reply is a
whisper. 'I don't have a name, sir. I am known only as Number 8.' 'Tsk, tsk. A
creature of such beauty should have a beautiful name.' 8 remains quiet. 'Well,
I'll just call you sweetheart. Would that be all right?' He tilts her chin up a
bit, bringing her eyes to his. 'Yes, sir.' Zoomed in tight, I can just make out
a glint of moisture trailing down 8's cheek. I chuckle, and think that this guy
is a sneaky bastard. Fascinating to watch, however. Whitting continues to trace
his fingers about her face and hair. 8 brings her hands up to touch his
forearms. 'Sweetheart, would you like to return the favor? You don't have to, if
you don't want to.' His voice is so damn quiet I can barely hear it. 'Yes.'
Unbidden, I trigger her collar open. Whitting pulls 8 to him. Cradles her in his
arms, kissing her deeply. After a minute, he pushes her gently to her knees on
the tiled floor. 8's hands go willingly to Whitting's trousers. She gives him
patient head, on and on. 8 works slowly, then fast, then brings her hands to the
task as well. Ten minutes go by, twenty. Tiring, 8 pulls back and looks up at
Whitting. 'Come in my mouth,' she whispers. Whitting's amplified scream is
painfully loud in the control room as he launches into a fit of rage. He slaps 8
powerfully across the mouth, knocking her onto her back. Kicks her several times
as she pulls into a ball on the floor. They're both yelling now. Whitting
reaches down for a full hand of soft brown hair and drags 8 viciously to the
frame standing in the center of the room. The girl is clearly stunned by this
sudden change, and cowers away from him. Whitting straps her tautly into the
frame by wrists and ankles, berating her all the while. Runs rope back and
forth, tying her waist, chest, elbows and knees to the frame as well. Spins her
head over heels once, twice. 8 swings to a stop tilted slightly forward.
Whitting withdraws to pace the length of the far wall, casting burning glances
at the girl from time to time. 8 and I watch Whitting from different angles
while he paces and mutters to himself. Finally, he breaks away from the wall and
strides purposefully to the frame. Shaking one bony finger in 8's face, he tells
her 'I've got something for you. Oh yes, I do.' His slap cuts off the girl's
words. Whitting turns to the table, and snaps open his valise. 'You know,'
Whitting begins, his tone conversational, 'I really enjoy watching things in
pain.' He is removing items from the case as he talks.. a large box covered with
dials, a pile of wire, a smaller box. 'I used to do things to rats, and that
would be enough. Then, it wasn't. Cats were better. And dogs. But people are by
far the most enjoyable.' He pulls wire after wire from the pile spread upon the
table, and bends to attach one end of each to the back of the unit with the
dials. Whitting continues his diatribe, and his work with the wires. I lose
count after three dozen have been attached, and decide to count the knobs
instead. Six rows of twelve. 72. A patient little psychotic, I think. Finished
with the wires, but still describing his love for inflicting pain, Whitting
rolls the little table nearer the girl. Opens the smaller box and shakes out a
heap of needles. Zooming in, I note that each needle has a small clip on the
butt end. Over the next three hours, Whitting proves that he is indeed patient.
Pushing thousands of the little needles into 8's sensitive places. Spinning and
rolling her about for better access. Skittering a little dance at her screams.
When he finally stands back, she bristles with glints of silver. The needles
seem as dense as her pubes about her sex, dozens protrude from each nipple, and
they track the length of her ass crack with perhaps a hundred more into and
surrounding her anus. Thin lines of them run down her arms and legs. Needles in
the webbing between her toes and fingers. Under her nails. Blood trickles from
hundreds of the holes. Next, Whitting begins attaching the wires. Yet another
box emerges from his suitcase, this one full of short lengths. He connects them
meticulously. I note a certain art to it, strategic groupings wired together
with the short pieces and to a single lead from the shock box. Two groups for
each nipple. Inner and outer labia separated by side, clit distinct from those.
He works untiringly for hours. Finally, he stands back to admire his work. Nods
to himself, then turns to face directly at the camera. 'Shall we have a spot of
food, Treve?' I buzz the door open. * * * I watch Whitting play at the dials. He
is like a musician, thin hands moving rapidly, surely, over the little knobs.
His eyes see only 8. She dances in pain as he plays with her, and she sings in
harsh screams. Yanks against bonds that hold her tight. Uncontrollable spasms
wrack her, sometimes in several places, occasionally across her whole prickly
body. He continues into the night. 8 has gone hoarse, and only emits infrequent
yelps. She is dripping with sweat. A peaceful, blank look has settled on
Whitting's face. He watches 8 intensely. Finally, he flips a switch and the girl
sags in the frame. Bending over the box, Whitting spins dial after dial, setting
them for something, I presume. He flips another switch on the box and 8 screams
in a hoarse expression of pain. On the unit, lights flicker randomly, one next
to each dial. A row of LEDs down one side undulates slowly up and down. I grin,
then laugh aloud. Whitting, it seems, is full of tricks. I confirm my suspicions
by tying 8's reactions to the changes of the lights. The total intensity of the
shock is going from weak to strong and back while a shifting pattern of leads is
live. Whitting watches 8 for something over an hour, that blank look still on
his face. Finally, he asks to come out, and I comply. We sit in the kitchen
eating a late night snack. 'A fascinating device, Mr. Whitting. And my
compliments on your patience in it's use.' He nods. 'Worth the wait, Treve, for
me at least. Your girl is marvelous. Everything is better than I could have
hoped.' 'How long do you wish to leave her like that?' 'I thought I'd get a good
nights sleep, then watch her for a while longer. I hope that's all right?' I
sigh inwardly. 'You paid for two days, Mr. Whitting. 8 is yours for that time.
However, I will have to ask you to stay a day longer than anticipated to make
sure her extremities recover.' I'm not particularly excited by the prospect.
Eventually, at least, this little man will depart the Camp. * * * I rise early,
as usual, and set about my normal routine. Review cell video from the previous
night, exercise eight of my nine charges. Then sit watching 8 from the control
room, waiting for Whitting to wake. The girl, still helplessly bound, sags limp
on the frame. Random shocks continue to course through her sweat-covered body,
observable only by the involuntary spasms they incite. At least she's not dead.
Whitting finally buzzes, and I release him from the guest quarters. He moves
quickly down the hall straight to the wet room. Foregoing breakfast, it seems. I
release this door for him as well. He makes a complete circuit around 8,
observing her intently. Stops before her. 'Look at me, girl,' he says quietly.
8's eyes flicker open briefly, filled with pain and exhaustion. 'Look at me,'
slightly louder. Again, she tries to comply, but can't hold his gaze. 'Look at
me!' Whitting yells, slapping 8 for punctuation. 'Look at me! Look at me!' Again
the little man is enraged, his slaps rocking my charge's head from side to side.
Whitting's feet jig about and his yells continue. My hand is on the microphone,
but I remember our earlier conversation. This strange man will have his
catharsis. Whitting finally stops his tirade, and ends up with 8's head between
his hands. Thumbs propping her eyes open. His face less than an inch for hers,
staring. I notice his arms trembling with exertion. 'You will LOOK at me when I
tell you to LOOK AT ME!' His voice has risen in pitch, breaking falsetto at the
end. They stay that way for a long time. Finally, he says to her in a more
controlled voice, 'You will look at me. Oh yes, you will.' He pulls away and 8's
head drops forward once more. Whitting returns to his box and shuts it off.
Turns down every dial, then flips it back on. 'Now. Let's try again.' He doesn't
seem quite under control to me. 'Look at me.' 8 struggles to comply, but can
barely pick up her head. She sags back. His hands go to the machine, and her
right tit starts to twitch. He repeats his command, she her feeble attempt to
obey. 8's left tit begins to quiver. Actually, a faint smoke appears as well. I
sigh, and sit back. Dead already, I presume. * * * Some hours later, Whitting
and I sit in the control room. He has reverted to his reserved manner. His hands
intertwine and he eyes the floor while speaking. 'I suppose things got a little
out of hand in there, Treve. As I said, that tends to happen.' I wonder if he
can feel my glare boring into him.. hope that he can. 'I'll make good as I
promised.' 'I don't like people who lack self-control, Whitting.' He looks up,
startled by the cold tone in my voice. 'Self-control is the most basic form of
strength,' I say, holding his gaze, 'and strength is the only thing I respect.'
'Treve, I..' 'Shut up, Whitting. Don't say another word to me, or I'll snap your
scrawny neck.' I pause, to make sure he understands. 'You owe me one and a half
million dollars, the incremental price for a snuff. Payable right now.' I slide
over and gesture to the computer. Whitting emits an audible gulp, and moves to
the machine. The satellite link is already up, connected as he was returning
from the wet room. He types in the transfer request, and stares in disbelief at
the result. Insufficient funds. We sit in silence for a moment. 'The markets are
closed, but I can get the money on..' The tazer pressed into the side of his
neck cuts off the rest. * * * 'Treve! Treve! I'll get you the money!' Whitting's
screams echo through the halls. I watch him on the monitor, stretched on the
frame in the wet room. His eyes remain studiously averted from 8, whose body
I've positioned against the wall, looking at him. He's been conscious for a
while now, and is quite hysterical. I collect the things I want and head to
visit Mr. Whitting. 'You can shut up now, Whitting. Save your voice.' He does
so, momentarily at least, and eyes the hammer and handful of nails that I set on
the little tables with some trepidation. I start to break the 2x2 in my other
hand into three parts. 'Treve, you can't do this. We had a deal!' 'We did have a
deal, Whitting. You broke my rules.' I shake out the singletail from my belt.
Whitting breaks into pitiful whining as I move behind him, and changes to
high-pitched squeals when the whip starts shredding his back. I enlighten him as
I go. 'You see' crack 'torture should be done' crack 'from a position of
strength' crack 'and self-control.' Concentrate on his upper back, turning it to
living hamburger. His blood splatters to the floor. Satisfied with his back, I
toss the whip aside and walk around to face him. Whitting hangs quiet, panting.
'Look at me,' I say, in a mild, quiet voice. He does, the irony apparently lost
on him. 'You fucked up. I suspect you've done that a lot over the years. Only
this time, you can't buy your way out of it.' 'I'll.. I'll get your money.'
Pleading eyes, peering into mine. I turn and run my hand over his little shock
box, which I played with briefly while Whitting was unconscious. 'I really do
admire your little toy. However,' I continue, picking up the nails and hammer,
'I don't have your patience. Eight channels seem quite sufficient.' I circle
behind him. Place the first nail against the center of his left ass cheek.
Whitting starts screaming again as I tap it in until it hits bone. Then the
other cheek. I thread number three vertically through his anus, in the top and
back out the bottom. The nails aren't very sharp, and are rather thick. It takes
a fair amount of pushing. Whitting has passed out, so I connect leads to these
three nails and wait. When he comes to, I start again. Pinch one nipple and
shove a nail through behind it. Same on the other side. Then, I roll one corner
of the table between his legs. He looks at me, shaking his head no. I smile
back. Three nails, three small pieces of wood. First nail through one testicle
and into the wood. Second testicle run through as well. Number eight straight
through the head of his cock. I sit back with the shock box, working the dials
and watching Whitting dance. Wonder briefly whether the device can cook his
penis without killing him. Perhaps in a day or two I'll find out.
End Part V
