Feminists Against Capitalism and Exploitation

 

 

The four men stared out of the window at the house opposite.  It was a tall three-story one in the centre of a terrace.  Once it had been grand and imposing but was now extremely run-down.  The paintwork was peeling, the garden was full of weeds and blankets hung in place of curtains over the windows.  On the door a crude hand-written sign had been pinned: ‘Headquarters of FACE.’  FACE, the men knew, stood for Feminists Against Capitalism and Exploitation.  They also knew ‘headquarters’ was a far more impressive word than the house deserved.  It was just a squat, a filthy and disreputable tip which brought down the house prices in the whole street.  And the four girls who squatted there were noisy, disgusting troublemakers.  The names of the four were written on slips of paper lying in a hat on the table beside the watching men.  Each of them now solemnly drew out a name.  Wayne picked Laisa, Steve got Mel, Parveena was assigned to Neil and the final one, Ariane, fell to Martin.

“Remember,” Steve said.  “It’s not enough just to beat ‘em.  We’ve got to turn ‘em completely.”

Each of them nodded.  “First one wins,” Neil said.

“First one wins.”

 

Parveena bent over the cooker and sniffed at a large saucepan.  She tasted the lentil stew bubbled away in there and added a little more turmeric.  Checking the time, she turned the rice on.  Parveena did most of the cooking for the squat, as well as the washing up and the cleaning.  “The woman of the house,” she sometimes called herself, although never with bitterness.  After all, she didn’t really mind her chores.  She was a small, slender Indonesian girl with tapering eyes, an oval face and a button nose.  Her black straight hair was cut short and she wore an androgynous tee-shirt and jeans, but her dress sense was less strident than her house-mates.  She was overall less assertive than they were, less gifted and not very bright.  She rarely thought for herself and had only drifted into the women’s movement through the influence of others.  The way she saw it, she could help it best in a support role.  She couldn’t do what Ariane did, for example.  Ariane was huddled over the kitchen table, writing.  She was always writing something; articles, pamphlets, protest letters, campaign leaflets, all in support of the cause.  Parveena thought that Ariane was a genius.  The Iranian girl could have been anything; she had the brains and the looks, with a tall, curvaceous figure, olive skin and large, soft eyes.  But she had turned her back on it all to fight patriarchy.  Her black hair was shaved around the back and sides and arranged at the top in a fearsome cluster of spikes.  Her body was invariably hidden by baggy blouses and long skirts which once boasted psychedelic colours but now, having never been washed, were just grubby.  Finally she put her pen down, leant back and passed her work to Parveena for inspection.

“What you think?” she smiled.

Parveena scanned the document.  ‘FACE demands an end to the sexist degradation of women in…’ “It’s great,” she said enthusiastically.  “As usual.”

“I go to printers tomorrow,” she said in her heavily accented voice.  Ariane still struggled with spoken English but her command of the written tongue was impeccable.  “You think I get right… er, right tone?”

“Of course you did, Ariane.  You always do.”

Just then the front door slammed shut.  A second later Mel and Laisa burst into the kitchen, both flushed, excited and clutching armfuls of leaflets.

“Do we fuckin’ rule or what?” Laisa cried with a huge grin.

“Did it go well?” Parveena asked.

“Fuckin’ A.  Really good response, wasn’t it Mel?”

“Got loads of sisters thinking,” Mel confirmed.

“A bit of hassle from the usual scum but we soon saw ‘em off.”

Parveena could well believe it.  They made a formidable pair.  Laisa was tall and extremely bulky, with an immense bosom and backside.  Her arms and legs were also like tree-trunks, although her contours were part-hidden by the baggy dungarees and polo-necked jumper she wore.  Her parents were Jamaican and she celebrated her heritage with a great cluster of long, fetid dreadlocks, together with some Rastafarian badges alongside her feminist ones.  Mel was shorter and even stouter, almost as broad as she was tall.  With at least three chins wobbling underneath her oval face, small close-set eyes and hair shaved into a crew-cut, she was no beauty and happy not to be.  Her podgy arms protruded out of an old tee-shirt and she wore jeans held up by braces.  The pair were the heart of the squat, filling it with their loud talk and laughter.  Yet they could be truly fearsome when aroused.  They were the front-line troops, the ones who led meetings, stormed barricades at demonstrations and – as they had been doing today – hectored indifferent or hostile shoppers.  Both held criminal records and nothing could daunt them.

As Mel sat beside Ariane to nibble at her ear and Laisa wrapped her strong arms around Parveena, the Indonesian girl reflected how well the house worked.  Despite their different backgrounds – Mel was the only white Englishwoman amongst them – they had been together for two years and showed no signs of parting.  It was due to their clearly recognised boundaries.  Each had their own role, kept to it and respected that of the others.  They were complimenting character types – boisterous Laisa, slightly more aggressive Mel, meek Parveena and studious Ariane.  Likewise, their intimate relationships were stable and acknowledged.  Parveena and Laisa were lovers, as were Ariane and Mel; none of them tried to change that.  These factors helped keep them all together.  That and their passion for the cause, of course.

Over dinner Mel and Laisa regaled the other two with tales of their triumphs of the day.  As usual they took more apparent pleasure from vanquishing their opponents – usually groups of boorish young men – than from converting their allies.  Parveena personally thought their approach was too extreme but would never dare tell them so, or take their place.  Afterwards they all collapsed on the sofa to watch their cheap portable telly.  They lived on welfare cheques and so lived extremely frugally.  Mel and Laisa hooted at the sexist clichés of the programmes while Ariane took occasional notes, possibly for use in a later article.  Eventually the two couples went to bed.  As it happened, neither made love that night.  Parveena and Laisa simply lay in one another’s arms; and in their double bed in the room next door, Mel and Ariane were doing likewise.  Yet if they knew what was about to befall them, they probably would have made love with all their strength.

In the very depths of the night, a figure picked the old lock on the front door and stepped into the hall.  After gently shutting the door behind him he crept silently upstairs.  In the first room he stole into, he could just detect two bodies wrapped tightly together on the bed.  One was snoring loudly, the other breathed gently but deeply.  The figure reached into the bag he was carrying and produced a hypodermic needle.  He filled it from a small bottle and tiptoed towards the bed.  Ever so gently, he pushed the needle into Laisa’s thick forearm.  The black woman grunted slightly but remained asleep.  The intruder refilled the needle and this time inserted it into Parveena’s arm.  He waited a few minutes.  Then he tentatively checked that the sedative had worked, gentle slapping each feminist’s face and shaking them.  Neither gave a response.  The man stole out of the room and into the one next door.  One by one and with the same care, he injected Mel and Ariane with the sedative.

Finally he pulled the blanket covering the window aside and looked out onto the street.  He produced a torch and flashed it three times.  Two cars drove around the corner and stopped outside the squat.  Three men got out, entered the house and man upstairs.  They carefully separated Mel from Ariane’s arms and rolled the white woman up into the duvet.  One holding her feet and the other her head, they lifted her up, grunted in protest at the weight and carried her downstairs.  The oblivious feminist was transported out of the house and put on the floor at the back of one car.  Meanwhile the other two men were wrapping Ariane up in the bed sheet.  She was also hauled out and lain on top of her comatose lover.  Laisa and Parveena were removed from the house in the same manner, wrapped up and placed in the other car.  Finally the front door of the squat was closed and the men drove off with their captives.

Parveena awoke, although only slowly.  Her mind was immensely slow and groggy and for a long time she hung in a semi-conscious hinterland.  Gradually she became alert enough to wonder about her stupefied condition, and about the aches which seemed to be afflicting all parts of her body.  She tried thinking back to last night but it was an effort, and she found no memory which could explain her state.  It had been a quiet evening in and then up to bed with Laisa – hadn’t it?  Finally Parveena was able to notice two important facts.  She was not lying in bed with Laisa.  She was not lying anywhere; she seemed to be stood against what felt like a brick wall.  And she could not move.  Her wrists, ankles and waist were enclosed by sharp metal objects which were pinning her to the wall.  Try as she might, she could not break them.  But those around her wrists yielded just a little and gave the clink of chains.

Fear took hold of Parveena, pushing her fatigue aside.  What had happened last night?  Her housemates weren’t the sort to play practical jokes, certainly not ones like this.  The word ‘kidnapped’ stole into her terrified mind.  The solid dark enclosing her increased her panic; she could see no more with her eyes open than with them closed.  She tried to scream but only a muffled grunt came out.  Then she realised that her mouth was covered with a tight strip, made of a material which tasted like rubber.  In fact, she became aware of a similar substance covering most of her body.  The tiny movements she was capable of – flexing her shoulders, rubbing her chin on her arm – produced a slight squeaking noise and the sensation of pressing against a tight outer skin.  Her sense of unreality grew.  Was it possible that she was dreaming-

There was light.  Parveena gasped at the suddenness of it, then desperately craned her head around.  She was in a tiny, utterly unfamiliar bricked cellar.  Metal bands were holding her in place, those around her wrists and arms attached to short chains and the thick one around her waist buried straight into the wall.  And her body was indeed encased in rubber, a black latex catsuit which covered her torso and limbs.  Though she could not see this far, it stretched over the top of her head as well.  Only her backside was exposed, two brown orbs protruding shamefully naked from the suit.  Parveena had seen such costumes before, in pornographic magazines which her housemates would sometimes steal and ritually burn.  Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined she would be in such a suit, in such a posture.  And it was getting worst.

Descending the stairs was a bearded, thick-set white man.  Parveena vaguely recognised him.  He was one of their neighbours who made constant and odious objections to their presence.  He stopped and stared in silence at her for a while, meeting her petrified gaze with a n expression of total disdain.  Parveena was no longer under any illusions.  She had been kidnapped.  Her first through was to wonder what had befallen her housemates, especially Laisa.  Her next was even more terrifying – what this man planned to do to her.

“You’re awake then,” he finally said in a neutral tone.  “Right.  My name’s Neil.  Bu when I remove that gag, which won’t be for a long time yet, you’ll call me ‘Master.’  That’ll be your first word.  It’ll be the only one you ever say again without my permission.  Master.  And you’ll have to mean it from the bottom of your heart.  Because that’s the only way you’ll get out of here.  Otherwise you’ll stay.  And you’ll get this every single day.”

Neil reached into a small cupboard behind him and produced a long willow cane.  As he advanced on the imprisoned feminist her screams grew louder and lower – but only inside her head.  They filtered through the leather gag as impotent muffled grunts, barely audible to Neil let alone anybody outside the room.  Parveena continued making them though, and her efforts were redoubled a second later.  The cane whistled through the air and fell savagely across her exposed cheeks.  She couldn’t remember ever experiencing pain like it.  It was a thin line of fire which lit up her whole backside and coursed through her body.  It was simply unendurable.  She had endured spankings as a child but none could compare to the sheer intensity of the touch of the cane.  And the agony of the first stroke was still engulfing her when the second came.  Neil had aimed it expertly to land parallel to and an inch above the first.  Parveena was unaware of the positioning; she only knew the agony it brought.  The fire returned with even greater strength than before, merging with the first wave to consume her.  A third and fourth stroke followed quickly, each following the same careful pattern.  Parveena’s head rocked back and forth, her gloved fingers clenched and unclenched; the only movement she was capable of.  The terrible feeling was worst because she could do nothing to relieve it.  She longed to rub her increasingly sore buttocks but the chains around her wrists held her tight. Sweat broke out across her body, trapped by her tight leather suit.  It ran freely down her brow though, mixing with the tears squeezed through her tightly shut lids.  And then the fifth stroke came.  Neil had readjusted his grip and aimed the willow at the four parallel weals running across Parveena’s skin.  It landed across all and their fire exploded back into life.  The Indonesian girl had thought it was impossible for the burning to grow more savage.  She was proved wrong.  Amidst the red clouds filling her brain her one coherent thought was: how much longer?

A long while yet.  Ten minutes later, the weals on her cheeks numbered twenty five.  All fell in the same gated clusters.  Neil had given her five across her left orb, five over her right and the remainder shared between the two.  He was very skilled in this perverse art and each cluster was extremely neat.  If the whole of the feminist’s ass was glowing red that was due to the cumulative effect of the strokes, not any going astray.  His victim was, as far as it was possible to tell, hanging limp in her bonds.  Neil briefly wondered if she was becoming inured to the cane.

In truth, no such thing had happened.  Parveena had become so overwhelmed by the pain that she couldn’t properly respond to it anymore.  It filled every part of her body and seemed an integral part of her.  It was so great that each time the cane landed again, it scarcely made a difference.  All she could think was: there, it’s come again.  And again and again; and unbeknown to her, the lines on her buttocks now numbered thirty.  She was heedless of anything else, whether the cellar, her bonds, the tight leather suit, the gag in her mouth.  Her world was simply one of pain.  At the very edge of her consciousness, thought, she was aware of one word.  Master.  She knew she had to say it to stop the pain.  And she knew she must not, although for reasons she could barely remember.

Rough hands suddenly gripped her head.  The ball was pulled from her mouth.  She gasped in shock, briefly feeling that part of her body had been amputated.  She could scream, she could should – and yet, still no sound would come from her lips beyond a heavy pant.  Her eyes were still screwed up in agony but she heard a voice say,

“What do you call me?”

For a very long time Parveena struggled to find words.  They had to be dragged up from a very long way, from far beneath the deep red layer.  Finally she found the right one and whispered it in the softest of voices.

“Bastard.”

Her jaw was gripped and held open.  The ball gag was roughly pushed back into her mouth and fastened in place.  A leather hood was rolled over her head.  It covered it completely and clung to every bump and hollow.  The only gap in the leather was two tiny holes for her nostrils.  Another leather casing was held over her buttocks and she heard a zip being fastened.  When it was in place the cool air of the cellar, her one tiny morsel of comfort, was gone.  Every inch of her body was covered.  She could not see, could not speak and could not move.  She heard the sound of footsteps receding and the blackness grew just a little deeper as the light was switched out.  The Indonesian feminist was left in the cellar, alone with her agony.

The screen showed a picture of a young naked girl.  A second later the paddle landed on Mel’s buttocks with an echoing crack.  Steve leant over to push another button on his computer.  The picture changed, this time displaying a naked man.  The paddle in Steve’s hand remained raised.  A fresh image appeared: two women clothed but kissing.  Down came the paddle again, making Mel’s obese buttocks dance and jiggle.  The next slide was of a man entering a woman from behind.  Mel was spared.

It was another cellar.  Mel was laying on her belly on top of a long, thin bench.  Thick cords lashed her wrists and ankles to the bench legs.  She was completely naked.  Directly in front of her was a large screen; behind her was a computer-generated projector and, of course, Steve.  The feminist had been crudely gagged with a handkerchief.  Her buttocks were bright scarlet; her face was creased in agony and tears were streaming down her cheeks.  She had strained against her bonds until she realised the futility and her strength fled.  She had also tried not to watch the unrelenting series of images in front of her.  That was also impossible, for whenever Steve caught her turning her head away or even closing her eyes he gave her an especially hard blow.  So far the ordeal had lasted half an hour.  The pattern had been incessant – a feminine image was followed by a blow, a masculine one by a reprieve.  Mel knew what her torturer was trying to do.  But she didn’t know how to stop him.  All she could do was desperately hang on, resist the unsubtle brainwashing, wonder how many pictures were left and pray it would be over soon.

Three young women in dungarees on a demonstration march.  Slap! went the paddle.  A man standing over a cowering naked girl and gripping her dog collar.  A close-up of a vagina.  Crack!  A harlot sucking a man’s penis.

Steve readjusted his grip on the paddle in readiness and pressed Enter again.  He knew there were thousands of slides left, downloaded from the Internet and painstakingly collated by him.  And he knew that Mel – God how the sight of her blubbery white body revolted him – had barely started her education.

“Now concentrate.  Concentrate.  Follow the pendant.  The pendant.  Follow the pendant.”

The pendant in question was a small golden droplet on a chain.  Martin swung it on one finger, back and forth, back and forth.  Ariane did all she could to stop herself, but gradually she began to follow it with her eyes.

It was no ordinary hypnotism.  Ariane’s very eyelids were being held; Martin was leaning over her and forcing them to stay open with his other hand.  Virtually every other part of her body was already immobilised.  She was sat in a chair which had fitted metal bands around her arms and legs and a thicker one encasing her waist.  Her head was fixed in a clamp which fastened around the sides and attached to the chair’s headrest; and she was gagged by a cloth.  She was still dressed in the nightie she was wearing when she was drugged, taken from her home and brought to this bedroom.

“Follow the pendant.  Follow the pendant.”  Martin repeated the sentence over and over again.  He had a deep, rhythmic voice and his words were as absorbing as a heartbeat.  Ariane tried to shut them out.  She tried to not do what they instructed.  But it was impossible.  Still the glittering pendent swung back and forth.  Slowly everything else was melting away and it was the only thing left in the room.

Martin watched her carefully.  Finally he moved the pendent away and released Ariane’s eyelids.  Her expression didn’t change and her wide eyes continued staring into nothing.  Carefully he unfastened the various bonds which held her.  Still no reaction came.

“Can you hear me?” he breathed in her ear.

“Yes.”  Her voice was dull and flat.

“Listen to me carefully.”  He hesitated.  The others had been suspicious of this method.  And it was true, if he told Ariane to call him Master now, she would comply instantly.  That wasn’t the point of the game, however.  There had to be a permanent change, effected by breaking their will.  “You will do everything I tell you.  Everything.  Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Stand up.  Walk over to the bed.  Now lie face down on it.  Do not move.  Do not move an inch until I say so.  Whatever happens.”  Martin lifted Ariane’s nightie to expose her slender, muscular buttocks.  He picked up a heavy wooden paddle which had metal studs fastened into it.  “You are about to feel a lot of pain,” he continued.  “When you wake up, you’ll remember the pain.  And you’ll remember that you deserved it.  What will you remember?”

“I deserved the pain,” Ariane echoed.

Martin nodded.  He brought the paddle across Ariane’s backside, the first of many, many blows.

“You bastard!  Let me go you fucking – aaaargh!”

Laisa let off another deafening scream as a fresh bolt of agony coursed through her backside.  Her whole body threshed wildly, her fat legs flailing, her toes hammering the ground, her head shaking back and forth.  Trying to utilise the charge which the pain gave her, she made another attempt at escape.  She tried to rise, roll, do anything to propel herself away.  But it was futile; and as a reward, Wayne gave her an especially savage blow.  The agony of it knocked Laisa almost insensible for a moment.  She was scarcely aware of the heart-rending squeal she gave, face contorted and saliva splaying out through her thick, twitching lips.  Her body convulsed again, but it was only able to move so much.

Laisa was lying face down on the floor of a basement lit by a single bulb.  She was naked except for a pair of tight black leather high-heeled boots which rose up to her knees.  Cuffs were fixed to the boots and they were chained closer together.  Tight leather cords were tied around the black feminist’s thighs, holding them together and biting into the acres of dark flab.  More cuffs chained her arms behind her back; and cords fixed to them stretched up her spine to a dog collar around her thick neck.  She had awoken in that position half an hour ago.  Watching her had been Wayne, holding a leather whip.  As soon as he saw Laisa’s eyes open he had walked over to her, put the boot on the small of her back and begun.  The attentions of the whip had already turned Laisa’s broad chocolate ass into a glowing expanse decorated with long, bright scarlet lines.  She could not see the sight but was certainly aware of the feeling.  Several times in the past her activities for the ‘cause’ had caused her to be attacked and beaten up.  Nothing had been anywhere near as bad as this.  The intensity of the pain threatened to consume her, to take over her mind and body entirely.  It was unrelenting, the level of agony never dipping.  And far too quickly, it was increased by another stroke.  Just as she thought the last crack of fire was the worst possible, a new one landed and proved her wrong.  Several times already she had come close to breaking down completely.  She wanted to surrender, to plead with her tormentor for mercy.  Anything to end the pain.  But she just held onto her pride and managed to put all her quickly-departing strength into fighting and cursing him.

“Oh God, oh Jesus, let me go you fucking sick bastard!  I’ll fucking kill-”

The now-familiar sequence of noises began again.  The whoosh of the whip through the air.  The resounding crack as it landed on Laisa’s cheeks.  The piercing scream from the black feminist.  It was repeated time after time.  Wayne gradually increased the force until his own arm began to ache, never mind Laisa’s backside.  There was no virgin territory left beneath him; each time now the whip was curling across scores of red weal.  For variety he sometimes directed it against the back of her thick thighs.  The angle wasn’t perfect, however, and he always returned to the more satisfactory target of her cheeks.  Many blows later, he noticed with glee that although her convulsive twitching continued, her struggles were dying away.  Her screams were decreasing in force too and her curses had been replaced by loud, keening wails.  He sent the whip curling over her ample waist several times and then, for good measure, twice across her shoulder plaids.  Each time she gave an agonised grunt and her whole body shook, sending the cellulite rippling.  But she made no other response.

Wayne put the whip down, massaged his aching shoulders and bend down in front of his prey.  For a few minutes she remained insensible.  Tears pushed through her screwed up eyelids, thick lips were stretched in a fearful grimace, the oval face was stretched and lined.  Then her eyes snapped open.  She spat feebly at Wayne and began to snarl, weakly but with venom,

“You can whip me.  You can rape me,  But you can’t beat me.  You can whip me-”

“That’s certainly true.”  Re-energised, he leapt to his feet and took hold of the cord linking Laisa’s dog collar to her cuffs.  With some difficulty, he pulled her o his feet.  “Never thought I’d hear a fat nigger dyke like you talking such sense,” he grunted as he pushed her across the cellar.  The journey ended with her being slammed heavily across some wooden bars which climbed up one wall.

“Bastard!  You can whip me but you can’t beat me.  You can-”

“Oh, I can do a lot more.”  Wayne pressed one elbow into the small of the struggling feminist’s back, pinning her to the wall.  He unfastened her hands.  After stunning her with a swift, savage blow to the kidneys, he stretched her arms out and lashed her to the bars.  Then he unfastened her ankles, spread her legs far apart and also knotted the cords attached to her leg cuffs to wall bars.  “You wait and see what I can do to you, nigger,” he murmured in the helpless feminist’s ear.  “I’ve hardly started yet.”

Through her terror and agony, Laisa felt Wayne’s rough hands reach around her body and grip one of her pendulous breasts.  Her futile struggles increased as he pulled it backwards.  Then a small but intense bolt of pain stabbed at her nipple.  She desperately craned her head round and saw that a small metal clamp was attached to the chocolate bud, its sharp teeth digging cruelly into the flesh.  Yet another cord hung from the clamp.  Laisa gave a little whimper as Wayne pulled the cord sideways, dragging her breast with it.  He fastened the cord to a bar so that her breast was stretched out at right angles to her body; and the bite of the clamp was added to the red throb still coursing through her.  Too spent to begin cursing her tormentor again, the black feminist could only wait as her other nipple was clamped and her right breast was stretched far out in the other direction.  Then she gave a loud gasp and her eyes opened wide.  Another cruel, indescribably cruel, row of metal teeth had bitten into her vagina lips.  She wept as the pain coursed through her like quicksilver, spreading from the area which normally gave her ecstasy.  It was terrible enough to begin with, but it increased even further as Wayne dragged the clamp back and upwards between her buttocks.  He pulled the clamp’s cord between her red-striped orbs, up her back and fastened it to her dog collar.  She was forced to push her head back as far as she could until her wide eyes were staring at the ceiling.  Even then, the collar was slightly choking her and the clamp was almost tearing her vagina lips.

And there the fearsome black feminist stood, naked and utterly trapped, the aches from her whipping barely faded and joined by fresh stabs of pain from her most intimate areas.  There she stood as Wayne picked up a heavy wooden paddle studded with metal and began again.

Time after time the pattern was repeated.  Wayne swung as hard as he could, the paddle slammed into one of her buttocks, the flesh danced and jiggled for a second, and while it did Laisa screamed deafeningly.  Time after time after time.  Even Wayne wasn’t sure how long this part lasted.  He wasn’t counting minutes or strokes.  It would last as long as he wished and his only concern was to deal out as much punishment as he could.  And he could deal out so much.  The red weals on Laisa’s backside gradually almost vanished as the whole rotund expanse of flesh became a blend of bright scarlet and gathering purple bruises.  To even breath on it seemed a cruelty – and still he brought the paddle down on it with his whole strength.  As for Laisa, her sense not only of time but of her place, her nakedness, her captivity, even her tormentor faded away.  Her only reality was an all-embracing, sharp world of unrelenting agony.  She screamed, wailed, blubbered, even pleaded for mercy towards the end and was unconscious of it all.  The enveloping ache from her buttocks, the sudden extra stabs as the paddle landed again and again, the slight increase to the already unbearable fire each one brought – that was all she knew.  She was hardly even aware when the paddle began landing with a slightly sharper slap and the fire leapt from her thighs instead of her backside. The whole of the lower part of its body felt stripped of its skin.  She couldn’t distinguish between the sources of her suffering any longer.

Wayne was actually a little more sparing towards Laisa’s thighs.  He steadily worked his way down the blubbery trunks, alternating between left and right.  Soon the chocolate skin was glowing a dull red all the way down to the knees, but he left it at that.  Finally he gave half a dozen more blows across the multi-coloured mass of the buttocks.  They were especially savage, and Laisa accompanied each one with a particularly loud squeal.  Then Wayne put the paddle down.  He watched the imprisoned black feminist for a few moments.  She shuddered, blubbered, twitched helplessly in her bonds.  Her breath came out in rapid pants and her head shook slightly from side to side, allowing him brief glimpses of her contorted, tear-stained face.  He unfastened the cord from her genital clamp.  Her head snapped forward, but again the overall agony was so intense that she barely registered this slight mitigation.  Nor did she notice her breasts being untied from the walls, releasing the mounds to spring back to their natural positions.  She even didn’t notice her arms and legs being untied from the bars and retied together, he former behind her back.

But then Wayne tossed her dog collar leash over a higher wall bar and caught the end again.  And he began to pull.  He had to use all his strength, fighting against the dead weight of the feminist’s bulk.  For a few seconds he struggled to make any impression.  Gradually, though, Laisa was lifted off her feet.  She felt the collar tightening around her neck, choking off her air supply.  That was sharp enough to cut through the pain of the beating.  Panic and then terror built inside her as she struggled to breath.  Wayne inexorably pulled her higher into the air.  Truly desperate now, Laisa swung her body back and forth, strained at her bonds, tried to cry out; but there was nothing she could do.  She could not breath.  The darkness of the cellar began to swim around her.  Her mouth swung open and her tongue flopped out.  The panting of her breath turned into frantic, stentorian gasps, but it was not enough.  As her wide eyes began to almost pop out of her sockets, her ebony face turned a deep purple shade.  Her body was almost still again now, except for a feeble kicking of her heels in thin air.  Her head flopped back and she stared wildly into nothing.  She felt consciousness start to slip away from her…

And then without warning, Wayne let go of the cord.  Laisa dropped nearly a foot and landed heavily in a huddle on the cellar floor.  Her great frame thrashed about, the bound legs kicking spasmodically.  Wayne caught a glimpse of her contorted features and saw that the collar was still too tight.  He pressed his foot on her breastplate, reached down and tugged it a little looser.  Desperate, racking breaths began passing through Laisa’s body.  Wayne kept his foot where it was, pinning his captive to the floor.  He gazed dispassionately down at the black feminist, her lolling tongue, her fat, twisted face, her wide and petrified eyes.  After a few minutes just a little composure returned to her.  And almost immediately she made a little attempt to escape, just an extra squirm of her body.  It was pitiable and of course completely futile, but it was there.  It wasn’t time yet.

“Eventually,” he announced flatly, “You will call me master.”

Laisa’s lips trembled.  Terror still filling her from the near-hanging fought with the returning agony from her buttocks.  Mixed in there was just a flicker of defiance.  “Y-y-y-b-b-“

“Not yet, I know.”  With that, Wayne pulled down his trousers to reveal his stiffly erect penis.  He took hold of the leash attached to Laisa’s collar and pulled it hard again.  The leather closed around her windpipe once more and her jaw dropped open in a frantic search for air.  Wayne directed his rod downwards, into her mouth.  A second later a powerful stream of urine shot out.  Laisa coughed and retched.  She tried frantically to spit the golden liquid out but it was shooting in too quickly for her to manage.  Some bubbled across her thick lips and over her cheeks, a little bubbled out of her nose but most went straight down her throat.  Finally she had the foresight to turn her head away.  Wayne let go of the least and simply continued to urinate over the black feminist’s head, across her screwed up eyes and into her flapping dreadlocks.  The stream eventually ran dry and Wayne shook the last few drops out over his captive.  As Laisa continued feebly coughing out the remnants of the liquid, all of it splashing on her face, Wayne took his foot off her and tied her leas to the wall bars.  Then he grabbed hold of her jaw, shoved a handkerchief in her mouth to gag her and tied it around her head.  Finally he walked out of the cellar.  The black feminist huddled by the wall, naked, bound and helpless in the dark.

Over the next few mornings, Laisa came to know the follow routine.  After a few hours of nightmare-haunted sleep she awoke on the cellar floor.  The stiffness induced by her posture – for her arms were always tied behind her back – and the dull ache from the nipple and genital clamps which were never removed quickly became supplanted by incessant pain from her backside, back and thighs.  She lay helplessly for up to an hour.  Then Wayne would enter the cellar and perform his morning ablutions.  He urinated and defecated over Laisa’s face.  There was no longer any attempt to make her swallow it; he simply let the substances splatter over her skin and hair.  He also never allowed Laisa to wash any of it off.  Her face was left covered with faeces, and only the next stream of urine a few hours later rinsed some of it off.  It was never enough, however.  Her face became caked with the foul substance, an extra brown mask above her own chocolate skin.  It worked its way into every fold and every wrinkle, slowly becoming absorbed into her pores.  Meanwhile her dreadlocks became sodden, matted lumps, noxious smelling clods which clung to her scalp.  As Wayne also didn’t let her use the toilet, Laisa was forced to go where she lay.  She defecated on the floor and forced her urine through her clamped vagina lips.  Soon the whole cellar became permeated with the vile bouquet.  Laisa absorbed it with every breath she took and eventually she could not remember life without it.

After defecating on her, Wayne would remove her gag and give her a glass of water and a piece of dry bread.  It was the only sustenance she received the whole day.  As if even this was being overly kind, after she had finished ravenously devouring the bread he quickly tied her back to the wall and gave her the first of her daily beatings.  His implements would alter; sometimes the whip, sometimes the paddle, sometimes a cane.  It barely mattered to Laisa.  The first blow across her backside was always the worst, bringing her skin back alive and sending forth a bolt of pain that was as intense as the last one of her previous beating.  Her screams echoed around the cellar as she felt the now-familiar red mist engulf her eyes.  And it continued, twenty or thirty more blows.  If Wayne was using the cane he liked to send it travelling down the back of her cellulite-heavy thighs until parallel red weals ran all the way down to her knees.  The whip was also used on her thighs but also sent curling around her back, making the skin glow there as well.  The paddle, meanwhile, was used exclusively on Laisa’s scarlet backside.  During the beating the black feminist would scream, sob, curse and plead.  Wayne let her make as much noise as her agony demanded and took no heed of it.  When the punishment finally ended, he would gag her and go out to work.

Savage as the morning beatings were, they were only a prelude to the evening sessions.  After his dinner, Wayne tied Laisa face-up on the bench and again emptied his bladder and bowls over her face.  Then his imagination took over.  On her first full day in captivity, the clamps were finally removed from her nipples.  She gasped with relief at the sudden slight reprieve, although the throbbing was still intense and the once-firm buds remained misshapen and blotched with red.  Then Wayne produced two needles.  He pushed them one by one into Laisa’s nipples, each millimetre of their inexorable progress increasing her suffering by another notch.  Finally the needles had gone right through and stuck out of the chocolate drops.  As blood seeped down her breasts and she wept with pain, he produced two more needles and bent over her vagina.  The sharp metal rods were pushed through her vagina lips and clamped the slit together.  Again Wayne guided them slowly along their journey, apparently delicately though in truth to maximise the pain.  Laisa screamed and threshed her head back and forth, unable to cope with the sharp, incessant agony the needles were bringing.  She thought she had never felt pain like it before.  Perhaps she had not – but then Wayne managed to increase it.  He turned the black feminist over on the bench, picked up his cane and set to work again.  Throughout the day Laisa had had to cope with the severe throbbing from her backside.  It had barely receded as hour followed interminable hour.  Now each crack of the willow made her body burn with an ever-increasing fire.  Wayne struck savagely and expertly, no thought of mercy in his mind.  Laisa’s cheeks had become a mottled morass of bruises and weals.  Each time the cane struck it landed across a dozen red lines, even landed exactly on the course of an old blow.  Again the feminist’s thighs were not spared.  Soon the dark brown expanses of flab were covered almost as thickly with scarlet tramlines.  By the end of the session, Laisa was too exhausted even to scream.  Each fresh blow was only marked by a pitiful whimper; and between them she let out a low, agonised keening noise.  Her eyes were screwed shut, her mouth hung open to emit occasional dribbles of saliva.  Even the needles stuck into her were eventually forgotten.  When Wayne finally turned her back over, removed them and reattached the clamps to her bleeding nipples and vagina lips, only another whimper greeted him.

The second and third nights, Wayne used the paddle with equal ferocity.  By this time Laisa’s backside had become a single great bruise.  The raised lines of the cane’s weals had been lost in the discoloured mass.  It made no difference to Wayne.  He stuck with the same force as before and the slap of wood hitting flesh echoed endlessly around the cellar.  Even lying on her back on the bench had become an unendurable agony for Laisa.  There was no word for the feeling evoked by the paddle each time it landed.

On the second night, the beating was preceded by Wayne lighting a candle and holding it over his captive.  He ran it across her shoulders, her breasts and her ample stomach.  Everywhere it travelled it dripped little globules of hot wax onto her flesh.  He paid especial attention to her vagina, ringing the sensitive skin with lines of wax.  Finally he brought the flame itself onto her wiry black pubic hairs.  They sizzled, curled up and vanished – while the wax continued to drip onto her mound.  Her groin was left sore, reddened and bald.  It was a painful and humiliating torture but not excruciating.  Laisa even found herself willing for it to continue.  As long as it did, her beatings would be deferred.  She continued to dimly hope that Wayne would spare her – but of course that was in vain.

And he more than made up for the mildness of the candle the next nigh.  Again Wayne removed the nipple and vagina clamps.  This time he replaced them with what felt like more clamps.  However, they were electrodes attached to a generator he carried in and plugged in.  Laisa watched in dazed horror as he turned a dial on the generator.  The next second a jolt of unimaginable force ripped through her.  It felt as if every part of her body had been struck simultaneously.  Her whole body convulsed, so powerfully that she almost broke through her bonds.  Consciousness slipped and slid around her mind, only returning slowly and imperfectly.  Even after she had recovered a little she continued quivering uncontrollably.  Her feet kicked helplessly together, her fingers flexed and a muscle in her cheek twitched madly.  Wayne watched the shaking, panting feminist with interest for a while.  Then he turned the dial once more.  Again she jerked violently, letting out an oblivious “Nggg!”  Her head shot forward and her sodden dreadlocks slapped across her face.  Wayne delicately peeled them off so he could see her wide, empty eyes and her spasmodically twitching lips.

After each beating the ritual was always the same.  Wayne would lift her up – with some difficulty, for she was barely conscious by this stage – and push her back to the wall bars.  Again he would loop her leash over a higher bar and pull.  It may have been a ritual but Laisa could never know for sure.  As she was lifted coughing and kicking into the air, as the collar tightened around her throat, the primal fear descended as thickly as ever.  Each time she was convinced that this was the one, that her tormentor would not let go and would turn into her murderer.  And her wide white eyes rolled panic-stricken in her dark face and another stream of urine would seep through the tight clamps on her vagina.

And now when Wayne did let go, bringing her crashing back to the floor, the terror did not leave her.  Because she knew the ritual would be repeated the next day, and the day after that, until the final time.  There was nothing she could do to stop it.  The fear merged with her constant pain, with the degradation she was plunged into.  More and more it was becoming the fact of who she was, pushing out her earlier identity.  Her previous existence as a headstrong, militant feminist… that seemed like a dream now.  She was a creature to be tortured.  When Wayne chained her back to the wall and left her in the cellar for another night, that was the only reprieve she could comprehend.

Mel was still naked, still gagged, but had been moved from the cellar.  Now she was in Steve’s bedroom, tied face-down to his bed with her arms and legs wide open.  Her broad backside was bright scarlet.  Steve had continued her ‘re-education’ once an hour for the past three evenings, on the same lines as before.  Feminine images brought pain; masculine ones or pictures of heterosexual sex spelled reprieve.  It had not worked as he hoped, however.  In the rare moments when he removed the gag to allow her the minimum of food and water, she had cursed him as fiercely as ever.  It was time for the next stage.

Steve opened the bedroom door to let the mistress in.  She was a skinny, rather aged woman but she had dressed the part; black leather gloves, boots, corset, in fact black leather all over her body.  The whips she carried were also leather.  While she hadn’t been cheap to hire, Steve had heard she would do what was asked professionally and without hesitation.  Nonetheless, she looked started when she first saw the obese feminist bound to the bed.

“Are-“ she began but Steve put his finger to his lips and led her back out.

“Don’t speak, he ordered.  “Don’t break the mood.”

“OK.  But are you sure about this?” the mistress whispered.  “It looks like she’s had enough already.”

“My wife likes it rough.”

“And she’s given her permission, right?  There’s laws about this.”

“Course she has.”

“All right.  I’ll trust you.  Well, I’ll trust your money.  OK, let’s do it.”

When they went back in, Steve motioned for her to hold back.  He bent down by Mel’s head.  “Mel,” he murmured.  “Look at me.”  She lifted her head and stared at him with bloodshot eyes.  Her rotund face was contorted by the gag and by the pain constantly wracking her body.  “And look over your shoulder,” Steve continued.  “At the woman waiting there.  At the woman.”  Mel twisted her head round, not to obey Steve but because she didn’t trust his words.  “She’s going to hurt you, Mel,” Steve continued relentlessly.  “She’s going to hurt you because she wants to.  She hates you, Mel.  You can’t trust your own kind.  There is no sisterhood, Mel.  You can’t trust women.”

He straightened up and indicated to the mistress.  She snapped the whip between her hands and raised her arm.  The leather chord whistled through the air and curled viscously around Mel’s tender buttocks.  The feminist instantly gave a loud, muffled grunt and threw her head back, her face locked in a fearful grimace.  Her midriff lifted up and slammed back down onto the mattress, thrashing about as the pain coursed through her.  The bed rattled with the impact and the chords binding her to it bit deep into her wrists and ankles.  The mistress waited till Mel had subsided a little, then brought the whip across her wobbling thighs.  As the feminist writhed again in helpless agony, the mistress mouthed, “How many?” to Steve.  He held all twenty digits up.  The mistress looked dubious but then shrugged.  And the whip was sent whistling onto the broad expanses of Mel’s buttocks again.

After the twentieth blow had finally been issued, as Mel lay weeping, twitching, writhing on the bed with a line of fresh weals covering her backside and thighs, Steve held another sotto negotiation with the mistress.  He untied his prisoner from the bed, only to fasten her arms and legs tightly together and pushed her face-down onto the floor.  Then the mistress walked up and down her back.  She didn’t dig her spiked heels in – as Steve had asked her to – but when she knelt down on Mel’s shoulders, pulled her head back and spoke Steve’s words, she delivered them with real venom.  She called the feminist a bitch, a dyke, a disgrace to her own kind.  She called her a filthy ballbreaker who only lived like she did because she was too fat to find a man, she called her a revolting animal all real women were ashamed off.  The mistress ignored the pleading look in Mel’s eyes, ignored the pitiful noises coming from behind the gag.  Finally she squatted over Mel, pulled her leather pants down and, Steve holding the feminist in place, urinated on her.  Mel was able to turn her head away but the golden liquid still splashed over her crew-cut head, seeping between her stubbly hair and dribbling over her cheeks.  The mistress had needed the toilet anyway; the stream was a long one.

Mel lay sobbing and coughing on the floor while Steve led the mistress out and paid her.  When he returned to the bedroom, he bent over his captive and whispered in her ear, over and over,

“You can’t trust them, Mel.  You can’t trust them.”

The golden pendent gradually swung to a halt.  Martin looked into Ariane’s dilated pupils to satisfy himself, then commanded,

“Remove your clothes.”

Dream-like, the Iranian feminist stripped off her blouse and skirt.  She alone was held in fairly good conditions.  Of course, she was locked in a small bedroom and bound and gagged for most of the time.  However, Martin fed her well and let her keep her clothes on when she wasn’t being punished.  But whenever he entered the room he effectively removed her will.  The pendant was forever swinging; and when it did, Ariane belonged to Martin.  It was becoming easier and easier.  The Iranian feminist was growing increasingly receptive so that a few swings and a couple of words were all that were needed now.  The most difficult part remained, however.  How he could use this power to control her when she was out of the pendant’s influence.

She stood naked before him, awaiting his next instruction.  He savoured her slim, dark body for a moment before asking, “Who am I?”

Ariane frowned.  “I… I don’t know.”

“Good.  In a moment, someone else will come in.  She’s a tall white woman, very plump, cropped hair, wearing dungarees-“

Her confusion grew for a second, then she brightened joyfully.  “Mel…”

“That’s right.  Mel.  You’ll do exactly what she says.”

Martin let the room.  He returned a second later carrying a cane.  As soon as she saw him, Ariane’s face blossomed rapturously and she rushed towards him.  “Mel, where have you-“

“Stop,” Martin rapped out.  “Shut up.  Lie face down on the bed.  Don’t move from there.”

Confused but still excited, Ariane did as instructed.  Her backside and thighs, right down to her knees, were a criss-crossed mass of weals.  “Mel, what’s wrong?  I’m so glad to see you, darling.  I- aargh!”

The cane had come down savagely across her injured backside.  Ariane leapt half-way up, but after a gesture from Steve fell whimpering back down onto the mattress.  “Christ, what are you doing?” she cried.  “Mel, what’s – nyaargh!”  A horizontal stroke had landed across her left buttock.  The Iranian feminist writhed in agony on the bed, punching the pillow helplessly.  With tears beginning to run down her cheeks, she twisted her head round to stare at Steve.  “Please, Mel!  Why are you doing this?”

“I can’t help it.  He told me to.”  Martin leant over and gave her right buttock the same treatment.  Ariane’s whole body convulsed in pain.

“Christ, no, Mel!  Please don’t!  Who?  Who told you to?”

“That man.  Martin.  I’ve got no choice.  I belong to him now.”

“What do you – aaaargh!”  A particularly brutal stroke landed on the join between her buttocks and thighs.  She screamed, wept, thrashed wildly around the mattress.  As soon as she had calmed down just a little, a fresh crack announced another blow falling squarely across both cheeks.

“I belong to him,” Martin repeated to the sobbing feminist.  “We all do now.  Don’t you see?  The movement’s over.  We’ve lost.”

“What are – yaaargh!”  The cane had bit into Ariane’s backside one more time.  A fresh cluster of red weals were already forming on her delicate skin.  “Please, Mel, for God’s sake!” she screamed.  “How can you do this to me?  I love you.”

“I’m sorry.  I really am.  But I’ve got to do whatever he says.  I belong to him.  And he wants me to make you realise that.”  This time the willow landed across the slender, writhing thighs.”

“See what?” Ariane moaned piteously.  “Oh God, see what?  What’s he done to you?”

“He conquered me.  They’ve conquered us all.  Parveena and Laisa too.  The movement’s over.  And you have to give in to him.  I’ve accepted him as my master.  You’ve got to do the same.”

“You’ve gone fucking mad.  I’ll – aaaagh!”  Her body kicked up and down as the pain from the fresh stroke coursed through it.  Then she screamed again; a vicious diagonal blow across her buttocks.  And again; one more scarlet line to decorate her thighs.

“It’s the only way to stop him,” Martin told her flatly.  “Believe me, I tried to resist.  But it’s the only way to stop the pain.”

So it continued; the brutal caning which Ariane thought was being delivered by the woman she loved most in all the world.  And with each fresh burst of agony, a little more of her conviction crumbled away.

By this time, Parveena was having difficulty even remembering who she was.

She spent day and night chained to the wall, totally encased in her rubber suit.  She could not move, could not see, could not speak, could not hear, could not touch.  Once a day a tiny hole was unzipped in front of her mouth and her gag removed.  A tube was pressed between her lips and a thick liquid was poured down it.  She swallowed the liquid because there was no alternative.  Afterwards, the gag was put back again, that zip was closed, another by her groin was opened and a tube was inserted a little way into her vagina.  She urinated down it; not very much because her sustenance was so slight.  With one notable exception, these were her only connections with the outside world.  With any world, for that matter.  She was trapped in a void with nothing to keep hold of.  Soon even the simplest of actions, the tiniest movement, the glimpse of sight, became distant and fantastic memories.  And then her very thoughts began flowing away from her.  She tried constantly reminding herself of the basic things; her name, who she was before the imprisonment began.  Gradually, though, they became mere labels and she forgot what they meant.  She may have slept or not.  The distinction between waking and sleeping had grown so blurred that it was hard to tell.  For Parveena there was only one thing left in the world, one force which lit up the blank void.

Once a day Neil unzipped the panel of the suit which covered her buttocks.  He then gave her at least thirty blows to her cheeks.  Sometimes he used a paddle, sometimes a cane.  Each was delivered with all his strength, making no allowances for the mass of red blotches already disfiguring the feminist’s skin.  Parveena screamed deep in her throat – but of course, nobody heard her.  The strokes were regular, patient, well-measured.  Neil had all the time he wanted and he knew his victim could do nothing to resist.  And after the final blow had been delivered, he immediately fastened the panel back again.  The thick leather trapped the heat of the beating in and Parveena’s sole contact with the outside world was lost.

That was all she knew now.  It was increasingly all she could remember.  Pain.  It was the sole component of her life.  And this strange rubber mannequin, once a lively, independent feminist, gradually began to internalise the role forced upon her.  During the hours and days she hung motionless, knowing nothing beyond the intense throb of her buttocks, she started to accept it.  Not because she wanted to.  Simply because thee was no other choice.  She also knew there was one final part to her submission.  She hadn’t been given the choice yet.  There was no time between the gag and the tube.  When the moment came, though, she was sure she would take it.  In the tiny part of her mind still capable of rational thought she reasoned: it might bring release.

Day after day Wayne’s torture of Laisa increased.  After the black feminist had been imprisoned in his cellar for three weeks, the evening sessions were lasting well over an hour in their entirety.  He still defecated and urinated on her as a prelude.  Straight afterwards, though, he now dragged her over to a large bucket.  It was slopping full of what could only be labelled waste.  A Vile mixture of urine and watery faeces, possibly not all human in origin.  Wayne pulled Laisa’s head up by her dreadlocks and plunged it into the bucket.  He applied the same method as the daily hangings.  Laisa was held under for over a minute until she was close to passing out.  The liquid seeped into her nose, her ears, all her pores.  Sometimes she accidentally swallowed a mouthful and once it got into her eyes.  She would struggle instinctively a little but she had no strength left.  Her thrashings grew increasingly feeble as time wore on and her air disappeared.  Finally, as she was growing feeble, her head was abruptly dragged out again.  She would be thrown to the floor and lie coughing desperately.  Some of the caked faeces on her face was at least being washed away by the immersions, but her ebony skin was being stained a dull, inhuman colour.  Her dreads were now just a single sodden lump and she smelt truly appalling.

Then she was dragged to the bench.  Mostly she would not resist or even protest but let Wayne take her from punishment to punishment with blank resignation.  Her face was permanently etched into lines of misery and her eyes were dull and vacant.  She waited as Wayne re-attached the electrodes to her nipples and genitals.  Several times a night her body convulsed as the electric charge coursed through it.  There was no way to prepare for them, no way to accustom herself to them.  Indeed, each one seemed to be worst than the last.  Every time the current seemed to strike every part of her body simultaneously, knocking her mind into numbness.  Her head tossed wildly, slapping the drenched dreadlocks across her face; her fat breasts and thighs wobbled for minutes afterwards.

One day Wayne attached those breasts with a series of long, thin needles.  He removed the various clamps from her nipples and slid one shaft into the disfigured bud on her right breast.  Its journey did not stop until the point was protruding from the far aside.  The left nipple was punctured in the same way.  His movements were terribly slow and methodical.  He slid the metal in and guided it with apparent care.  His only concern, though, was to extract the maximum amount of pain.  He wanted her to feel every centimetre of the voyage.  No sooner were Laisa’s buds skewered, he took two more needles and slid them into her breasts just beneath the tip.  And then two more a little further down.  Soon she had a line running half-way down each of her large breasts, two rows of metal heads delving in one side and sticky, sharp tips peeking out of the other.  It was excruciating, of course.  Blood was dribbling down her body and she was whimpering pitifully from an agony which seemed to grow with every second.  Alongside the pain was fear.  She was terrified that Wayne wouldn’t remove the metal from her body before giving her the next electric charge.  Because she was still convinced he meant to kill her eventually.

Naturally, the beatings still came each evening.  It was almost a relief to Laisa when she was turned over and they began.  At least they were uncomplicated and predictable.  And by now her backside and thighs ached so incessantly that when the whip rained down on them again, the agony only increased a little.  She could still dimly remember what it had been like to feel the bite for the first time.  But she couldn’t recall a life without the throbbing from her cheeks.  That was too distant.

On the twenty first day of her imprisonment there was a change in the routine.  After beating Laisa especially heavily, he left her tied face-down on the bench and left the cellar.  He returned a few minutes later.  On his command, she looked up dully and saw he was leading a large Irish wolfhound.  She didn’t comprehend its meaning at first.  Then, however, he spoke an order to it.  With his help, the dog climbed onto the bench in between her outstretched legs.  She felt a wet nose snuffling her vagina.  A rough tongue licked her lips.  Wayne walked further along the bench, pulling the dog with him.  Laisa felt the fur of its belly tickling her sore back as it crouched on top of her.  A sudden bark in her ear made her flinch.  The dog was straddling over her.  She could hear its rapid pants, smell the rankness of its breath, feel a little globule of its saliva drip onto her shoulder.  She understood now but refused to accept the truth.  Even though all signs were pointing to it – that couldn’t be right, could it?  Surely even Wayne, utterly depraved though he was, had his limits?  He wasn’t about to-

Then a thick, hard pens began to enter her vagina.  She sensed Wayne’s hands reach down and help guide the rod inside her.  The dog gave another harsh bark of excitement.  And Laisa came alive.  She had lain passively through all her torments of the past few days but she was suddenly energised again.  Her eyes shot wide open, her torso buckled wildly, her limbs strained at her bonds and she began screaming into her gag.  Yet it was for nothing.  Her struggles were in vain and they were not heeded.  Wayne finished helping the wolfhound’s dick into her body.  The knot thickened deep inside her.  He held his dog steady as it began to fuck her.  Its strokes were hasty, clumsy, without any subtlety at all; but it knew what to do.  Its hind quarters rapidly pumped up and down as its cock slid incessantly through the tight channel.  Laisa wasn’t the first woman it had fucked.  Wayne had trained it on a series of very well paid prostitutes.  Perhaps the dog got genuine pleasure from the act – who knew.  Wayne only cared about the satisfaction he got from watching it.  The hairy body pumping into the smooth one; the exquisite look of disgust on the face of the women as they thought what was happening to her.  And seeing this feminist dyke get a real dick was best of all.

Laisa had to endure it.  There was no other choice.  She had to lie there as the canine rod plunged in and out of her  The smell and touch of the beast were constant reminders of what was inside her.  Her virginity had technically gone a long time ago; a series of candles, dildos and fingers had seen to that.  She had never let a man touch her, though.  She had never had a live penis inside her.  And now… She felt physically sick but there was something beneath her nausea.  A deep, empty pit.  Everything she was proud of was destroyed.  Everything she had fought for was lost.  She had nothing left.  This was the end result of her struggle; bound to a table while a dog raped her.  Laisa even forgot that she had been drugged and brought to the cellar against her will.  Her degradation was so complete that she started believing she was complicit in it.  The wolfhound began to make a curious low growling sound as it reached its climax.  Its thrusts became even more frantic.  The pain which its bulbous penis generated became more intense.  The dog continued to jerk for a few seconds more.  Finally it emitted a burst of cum into Laisa’s pussy.

And something snapped inside her.  as she felt the warm, sticky substance seep into her, her mind began to crumble.  She thought about her current humiliation, about the last weeks of torture and the future stretching out in front of her.  Only one thing was certain now.  There was no way out.  She had lost.  Her only hope was to admit that realisation in the hope that he would make it… better.  She no longer prayed for her release.  What would she be released into now?  But could she get a little mercy.

Wayne seemed to sense the change which had come over her.  After pulling his sated dog off the black feminist, noting with glee the glistening traces of cum clinging to her dark lips, he removed her gag.  Sure enough, the first words she spoke were the ones he had been striving so hard for…

Later she spoke them again over the phone.  Steve, Neil and Martin still came round the next evening to hear them in person.  Anyway, there were further checks they wanted to do.

Laisa was carefully prepared for the interview.  Her dreadlocks were shaved off, right down to the scalp.  A long blond wig was fitted in their place.  A tight leather corset, buttoned at the sides, harshly trimmed back her extensive belly.  Her large breasts hung over the top of it.  They were ringed at the base by leather bands fastened to rings on the corset.  A pair of nipple clamps hung from the other end of her breasts, these with little tassels attached.  More leather covered her thick legs, this time in the form of binding fishnet tights also fastened to the corset.  The feminist awkwardly balanced her bulk on high-heeled shoes.  Cuffs tied her ankles and wrists close together and she wore a dog collar, the leash firmly in Wayne’s grasp.

The last three details were just further ways of confirming her humiliation rather than precautions.  Wayne knew she would not try to escape.  He knew it so surely that he brought her out of the cellar into the sitting room.  And when his friends arrived he even took her with him to answer the door, giving her her first taste of fresh air for nearly a month.  She did not respond to it, however.  Nor did she react as Wayne fitted her uniform in place.  She had become an automaton.  She only did anything when she was instructed to.  At all other times she just stared dully into space, her eyes glazed and mouth slightly ajar.  And when the other three men entered and lounged on the sofa, she stood in front of them for inspection.

“Shit, Wayne,” Martin laughed.  “This can’t be the same stroppy nigger, can it?”

“Course.  Tell them who I am, nigger.”

In a dead voice, Laisa said, “You’re my Master.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m your slave, Master.”

“You’re my fat nigger monkey slave.”

“I’m your fat nigger monkey slave, Master.”

The other three were already unzipping their trousers.  “Guess you win, Wayne,” Steve said.  “That’s a pound we all owe you.  In the meantime… we’ve got some bananas for the monkey.”

Laisa was made to crouch down in front of them.  Martin thrust his cock in her mouth and ordered her to suck.  While she obeyed, Wayne bent over her and took her crudely from behind.  He had never wanted her before.  She revolted him too much.  In the context, though, seeing how it would further her humiliation, it suddenly became exciting.  Martin tugged hard on her leash, Wayne’s thrusts were as harsh as his strokes when he beat her.  After they had finished, she had to swallow Steve’s cum while Neil roughly sodomised her.  For an encore, they all watched as Wayne’s wolfhound fucked her again.  Finally she lay still on the carpet, five sets of semen inside her.  The men formed a circle and urinated on her.  Any hope of mercy was comprehensively dashed.  Laisa was their plaything now and they would do whatever their perverse imagination suggested.

She was given a reprieve, however.  Wayne may have won the bet but that was never really the purpose of the exercise.  All four feminists had to be broken utterly and brought to the same subjugation as Laisa.  The other men returned to their homes, their tasks and their captives.

Parveena crumbled the next day.  Neil’s thoroughness probably cost him the bet.  She may have surrendered earlier but he wanted to keep her locked away to make sure.  Days and nights locked in sensory deprivation, knowing nothing but pain, had all but destroyed her mind.  Virtually everything had flowed away from her.  When Neil finally removed her mask and spoke the instructions in her ear, she agreed because she could manage nothing else.  Independent thought was lost to her.  The orders about how she would live her life in the future, the service she would show him, the correct positions for men and women… the Indonesian girl accepted them all.  She had become a blank page for him to write on.  And if she paused when he unstrapped her gag, that was simply because she was trying to remember the basic mechanics of speech.  Finally, though, she managed to gasp out the words he was waiting for.

Ariane didn’t last much longer.  Martin’s unrelenting hypnosis had undermined her whole world.  She truly believed that every night one of her friends, even her lover, was coming into her room and beating her.  Try as she did to fight it, that was what her senses, sight, hearing and – especially – touch was telling her.  She couldn’t understand why, or what had happened.  But faced with the overlapping waves of pain, with her former ‘sisters’ telling her that the only way to escape it was to surrender, that was all she could do in the end.

And that only left Mel.  Steve’s methods had not proved as effective as the others.  Having not been as clever as Martin, thorough as Neil or barbarically cruel as Wayne, he was having trouble breaking the white feminist.  He beat her until her skin was bleeding and she was screaming into her gag.  He showed her endless films and slides, brought prostitutes into her room, tried everything in his clumsy brainwashing repertoire.  It was no good.  Mel sometimes begged him for mercy and sometimes she seemed close to the edge.  She refused to say the one word he needed, however.

Finally he had to ask his friends for help.  They happily agreed; they had never really been competing against one another.  Besides, time was passing.  Therefore, over a month after the feminists were first abducted, a small party gathered at Steve’s house.  The host brought the guests into the hall and looked with approval at what they had brought.

Each man led his slave by a little chain fastened to her dog collar.  The three former feminists were otherwise unbound although their outfits incorporated a large amount of leather and chains, strapped around their arms and legs, circling their breasts, hanging from their genitals.  Parveena wore a tight leather hood with a small hole cut in it for her face.  Laisa’s ample belly was fastened back by a very tight corset.  All also wore fishnet tights, high heels and ample makeup.  They looked like whores at a particularly seedy brothel.  Each woman walked behind her master mutely and obediently, stopping when he did and obeying every instruction.  Their eyes were blank, their faces vacant.

The group followed Steve into the bedroom.  Mel’s obese frame was still tied face-down to the bed.  She was gagged and naked.  Her eyes were closed and Steve had to slap her face several times before she opened them.  When she did she gave him a drugged, tearful glare of pure malice.

“Wake up, Mel,” Steve murmured in her ear.  “There’s some friends of yours to see you.  Remember them?”

Mel craned a look over her shoulder.  For a moment she stared in incomprehension.  Then her eyes widened in horror as she recognised the three demeaned figures by the beg.  Muffled cries came from behind her gag.

“Tell them who you are, whores,” Steve instructed.

Parveena said, “I am Neil’s slave.  He is my Master.”

Ariane said, “I am Martin’s slave.  He is my Master.”

And Laisa said, “I am Wayne’s slave.  He is my Master.”

All three spoke in the same lifeless, automatic monotones.  Steve smiled and indicated to Ariane.  On a command from Martin, the Iranian girl kneeled down in front of him while he unzipped his trousers.  Mel continued to watch with wide eyes.  She seemed transfixed by the scene, mesmerised as Ariane took Steve’s dick in her mouth and began to suck.  And eventually Mel had to watch Steve’s buttocks jerk a little; and she had to hear the horrible sucking as Ariane gobbled down his cum.  When the Iranian girl was eventually pulled away, her lips were still smeared with a bright sticky substance.  Mel continued staring at the spectacle.  She pictured what her girlfriend had been; feisty, independent, commanded by nobody.  She contrasted that image with the subjugated, humiliated creature before her.  And she looked at her two other housemates, two more vacant sexual objects.  What had happened to them?  Whatever it was, it had destroyed them.  And Mel felt the memories of her own ordeal overwhelming her and her last resistance ebbing away.

It was gone by the end of the night.  Perhaps it went the moment Steve hauled Ariane back to her feet and put a cane in her hand.  Or when Martin pushed her towards Mel and issued the command.  Or when Ariane obeyed instantly.  Or the first time the willow bit into Mel’s tender cheeks, driven down mercilessly by her girlfriend.  Or the second time the cane landed.  Or the fifth, the tenth, the twentieth.

“This is the place, right?  The place I’ve heard about…”

“That’s right.  Come in.”  Neil stepped back to admit the five slightly drunken young men.  As soon as they were inside the living room, they could see it was the right place.

It had once been a squat which housed five militant feminists and their radical society.  Now it had been taken over, cleaned up and transformed.  There was dim lighting, soft furnishings, incense burning and soul music playing.  One man, Steve, leant casually against a wall to keep an eye on proceedings.  Another, Martin, stood behind the three exhibits lined up on the sofa.

“Take a good look, boys,” Neil invited.  One of the women was white, one Indonesian and the third Iranian.  All wore skimpy tops, very short skirts, fishnet tights and high heels.  Their faces were caked with thick makeup and their hair was long; a silver wig in the case of the white woman.  They sat passively as the men leered at them and made suggestive comments.  They seemed incapable of showing any emotion or intelligence.

“How much?” one boy asked.

“Twenty quid for a blow job, fifty for the full works, seventy five for a threesome.  That’s for Slinty and Paki,” he added, poking Parveena and Ariane.  “For Lard-arse,” he indicated Mel, “Thirty for a screw, blow job a tenner.”

“Fat fuck, isn’t she?” the boy sniggered

“Hence the name.  And the discount.”

“Do they talk?” another man asked.

“No.”

“Heard you had another.  A black piece.”

Neil nodded.  “This way,” he said, leading the boys out.  “The Chimp.  Special rates for her.  A hundred quid minimum.  And you’ll need to say up front what you’re gonna do to her and we might need to negotiate.”

He took his clients into a bedroom.  An obese black woman, her head shaven completely bald, was spread-eagled face down on a double bed.  Leather cords bound her wrists and ankles to the frame.  She was naked save for a blindfold and a ball gag.  Her backside was flushed deep scarlet and covered with weals.  More red lines ran down the back of her thighs right down to her calves.

“Jesus!” one man exclaimed.  “She’s even fatter than the one outside.  A hundred quid?”

“Ah, but that’ll buy you a lot,” Neil smiled.  “You can do what you want with The Chimp.  Live out your darkest fantasies, lads.  Anything you’ve ever dreamed of.  I mean anything.”

“Doesn’t she mind?”

“She doesn’t complain.”

One man lurched around the bed, bent down and stared into Laisa’s dead eyes.  “Hello,” he leered, snapping his fingers in front of them.  “Anyone in there?”

“No-one much,” Neil said.  Laisa made no response whatsoever.  “Don’t play with her if you’re not buying.”

“Oh, we’re buying,” he was promised.  The group returned to the living room to make the arrangements.  One man, harder up than the rest, could only afford Mel.  One took Ariane while another two decided to double up on Parveena.  All three ordered ‘the full works.’  The slaves nodded dumbly when informed of their duties.  They rose and silently led their clients upstairs into bedrooms tackily refurbished with soft drapes and dim lights.  Ariane lay on the bed, undressed, spread her legs and let the drunk young man roughly enter her.  Her expression did not alter throughout.  Mel was turned on her front and taken doggy-style, an act which lasted a surprisingly long time.  Parveena was forced to suck one man’s penis while the other was plunged in and out of her vagina.  The two spurts of semen entered her body simultaneously.  Meanwhile, the final punter paid £100 for the use of Laisa.  Giving full reign to his fantasies, he caned her mutilated buttocks for some time, dripped hot wax on her back and urinated over her smooth scalp.  He paid Neil an extra £50 to watch a wolfhound climb on top of her and vigorously screw her.  Finally, unable to hold back any longer, he masturbated until semen splattered over her face.

Neil was right; Laisa didn’t complain.  Even without the precautionary gag she probably wouldn’t have made a noise.  None of the quartet did.  They did what they were told.  And what they were told to do was prostitute themselves for the financial benefit of the men who had conquered them.  Almost every night there were fresh punters.  Almost every night the women opened their legs or, in Laisa’s case, submitted to intense torture.  They had no life outside the house and were rarely allowed to leave it.  Laisa almost never left her room.  Her mind had been destroyed.  She could not speak, could not dress herself, could barely remember how to walk.  She recognised only the simplest instructions – ‘turn over,’ ‘lie still’ and only responded to ‘Chimp’ or ‘nigger.’  And though the others still just about remembered their own names, they could barely recall their earlier lives.  Ariane and Mel were not lovers, neither were Parveena and Mel.  They were not activists and were not women with any identities.  They were prostitutes and they were slaves.  That was what became of the radical feminist group FACE.