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<Reference ID="114356" Date="3 Apr 1984"> <Title> Slave Girl Convict [5] </Title> <Author> Dolcetta (dolcetta AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author> <Author> Grim Williams (gw AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author> <Publication> News Online </Publication> <ByLine> Tom Shipman </ByLine> <Name> Investigative Journalist Arrested in Adante </Name> <Text>
</Text> </Reference>
<Fragment ID="872976" Date="1 Jul 1984"> <Name> Janet Tomkinson </Name> <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location> <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator> <Text>
The engineer hadn’t gone. At least, he’d gone, but now he'd come back. Apparently, the first time he’d brought the wrong cartridge. He’d also returned with a colleague who needed to service the scanner because this was now two weeks overdue. These things were important, he declared with a leer. But it was too much for Janet. She couldn’t think, couldn't work. Her mind was so confused, sleepy, that thoughts refused to form. They lay in her mind, unconnected, separate, congealing her to inaction. “I didn’t know you had the 2210e up here,” the engineer explained, scratching his head. He sat upon one of the desks, paying more attention to the wobble of Janet’s breasts than to replacing the toner. “I thought it was the 2212.” The inattention became evident, when, with a noisy clatter, the old cartridge slipped from his fingers, falling close to where Janet was sitting. “Excuse me,” he said, bending beside her and gazing along her legs to the space between, and then up at her face. He was so close that she could smell his testosterone, so intense that her heart couldn't beat, and so very, very masculine. Their eyes met. Damn! She was melting: so hot. What was he after? What did he want? There was a hollow ache in her belly that was becoming worse by the second. If she got up now, she knew there would be wetness on her seat. She was being exposed to and examined by a man. “Oh God. This is impossible. I’ve got to get on with my work,” she thought, resisting the sensation to squirm on her seat, forcing herself to keep still. Behind her, one of the other women was complaining petulantly about the fuss and that there were too many people in the office. She smiled weakly and watched him feel about on the floor, but with his gaze fixed upon her. Janet kept her thighs carefully closed, desperate that he shouldn't see how wet he was making her. He returned her smile, and then stood, the cartridge in his hand, his eyes not once leaving hers. And then… another man came in, gazed quickly at her like a punter eyeing a stripper, and mumbled something about having to look at the phones. Please. No. How long was she going to have to endure this torture? There was work she was supposed to be doing. She looked back down at her monitor, vague, inattentive, flicking back through Shannon’s diary. She began to read, swallowing hard, forcing her mind to focus. When was this? She wasn't sure. It must be before, just after Shannon was arrested. Oh God, that man was looking again, and such an awful smirk. Were her nipples hard? Oh God, they were. How long could she sit still like this, not moving? How long could the nightmare last? </Text> </Fragment>
<Reference ID="278044" Date="5 Apr 1984"> <Publication> News Online </Publication> <ByLine> Tom Shipman </ByLine> <Name> Journalist accused of Spying </Name> <Text>
</Text> </Reference>
<Reference ID="762906" Date="28 May 1978"> <Photograph> Dunganny Prison </Photograph> <Photographer> Peter Hancock </Photographer> <Image>
</Image> </Reference>
<Fragment ID="3574510" Date="8 Jun 1984"> <Name> Shannon's Diary </Name> <Location> Dunganny Prison </Location> <Collator> Victoria Wilson </Collator> <Text> Dead. Buried. Forgotten. I've never been so humiliated. They bound my wrists to a rail. I didn't know they did that. My arms were above my head and pulling upon my shoulders. I was naked, Peter's sperm running down my thighs. I felt exposed, vulnerable, humiliated. I wanted to shout, to scream, to call out to Peter, but I couldn't see him. I'd lost him. It was only later that I found out he was their informer, their snout. He'd tipped them off and led them to me as a sheep to their slaughter. Not a word passed my lips. I couldn't scream. I'd been struck dumb. I'd lost him. I guess it was the shock of those policemen bursting into my room. The overwhelming sense of shame. The trauma. Peter still inside me, filling me with cum. I was cowering on my bed, shaking with fear. They yanked me up, tugging at my arm. They wouldn't let me dress, not even a sheet or gown. Someone shoved me in the ribs. "Why should we hide the trash you are?" he grunted. His hands clawed my flesh. Even now I have gaps, black holes in memory. I can't remember, not everything. It's the shock. I try to think back, to remember what they did, what I said, but my mind is a muddle. I can vaguely remember them escorting me outside, still naked, still flushed from the pleasure of that fuck, the neighbours looking on. But as to what came after: the flash of photographers, the police bustling me into their van, tying a rubber belt about my mouth, those things I know only from the pictures I've seen. It's all so murky. I remember the moans of the girls and wondering what the noise might be, feeling the steady trickle of cum running down my legs, the horror of discovering where I was. But I think that was later. It was a terrible sight, a picture that haunts me. On either side, both in front and behind, was an overhead rail, steel, two inches in diameter. It sends shivers down my spine just thinking…. Two rails; either side of the van. And from them... there were women, lots of them, young women, just like me, all naked and suffering. Hanging. Groaning. Hanging by their wrists, hanging from the rails. Many had heads bowed, weeping, bruises on their chests, moaning from the pain. Such a terrible sound! My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I caught the expressions of one or two. They were as disoriented as I, their eyes dull, emotionless, and deep with frozen anguish. The journey wasn't easy. We were thrown about, the transporter rocking from side to side, knocking us together, one naked corpse against the next. The cuffs binding my wrists tugged at my arms, digging into my flesh. Every sinew hurt. The transporter took a sharp left, throwing me against the side of the van, my pelvis striking the hard steel with an almighty crack. "Owwwl!" I sobbed, my voice silent in a chorus or anguished torment. We straightened and my momentum threw me back, the whole of my weight jerking upon the cuffs. My arms were dead, sore; my shoulders tortured. "How long?" That was the thought filling my mind. How long will this torment last? For God's sake: how long? The journey was already proving too much for some. There was a terrible stench and even in the limited light I could see puddles upon the floor. I was so glad I hadn't done that. But my own bladder was hurting. I wasn't immune. The strain was becoming unbearable. What had begun as a dull ache had now sharpened into needles of pain cramping my stomach. How long? I crossed my legs to contain the overwhelming pressure. But that only intensified the strain upon my wrists and shoulders. It seemed an eternity. Where were they taking us? Surely we must be there by now, wherever it was. But I didn't know where I was going: I hadn't guessed. But at last the van came to a stop, the engine died, and I heard the gruff sound of voices from outside. I wanted to listen, to hear what was said, but the words were lost under the whimpers of strangled lament from around me. Shit, this was grim. I shuffled from foot to foot, looking up frantically to the heavens. I needed a bathroom bad. I couldn't hold it much longer. There was a metallic clatter and the doors opened, a shaft of brilliant sunlight dazzling me. I blinked for a second, my eyes adjusting to the intensity of the light. Now I could see more clearly: the other girls, their raised, tortured bosoms, their aching arms, their small tufts of private hair, their puddles on the floor. Oh shit. I looked beyond, outside. I saw a big yard, surrounded by high, grey walls topped with roll upon roll of thick barbed wire. Oh shit. My thighs were shaking uncontrollably like those of an old woman Shit. A single drop of urine escaped my urethra, ran down the inside of my vagina and hung undecided upon the tip of my lip. Control yourself, Shannon. Control yourself. It'll be all right. You just need to keep calm. Be calm. They began to untie us. There were four of them in all, warders in smart black uniform. Two remained outside, keeping watch, while the other two ungagged and untied us, leading us out, doing their best to unnerve us. "Come on, Shannon," one of them slavered as it got to be my turn. He was a thin man, not tall. A Weasel. He pulled the gag from my mouth. "Well look here, so this is the pretty song bird. We've been waiting for you." How did he know my name? That was all I kept asking. That single thought confused me. I know that I didn't answer. He grasped my naked breasts and squeezed them greedily, twisting them in his pincer-like grip. His fetid breath was filling my air. "What's wrong, Shannon?" he grinned. "Cat got your tongue? Feeling a bit shy?" I hated his clammy hands holding me there. It hurt and I must have shown my displeasure. All at once, he dug his nail into the tip of my nipple, screwing it in. I yelped out in pain. "No, sir," I grunted. "What's that?" he grinned, his fingers finding my other nipple and rolling it menacingly between his fingers. I sucked in my breath, twisting helplessly by my arms. Please! Not again! He smirked. "What was that, Shannon? I didn't quite hear you!" I knew it was coming long before he actually did it. I tried to prepare myself but there's no way you can. He jabbed his nail into me for a second time, gouging into the rear of my nipple and bringing fire to my eyes. I twisted about on my chains, sobbing and shaking with pain. "No, sir," I grunted, answering him again but much louder this time. God. The mother fucker! Resist him, Shannon! Resist him! But I needed to escape. The pain was unbearable. I had to get away. His fingers were on my breast, my pride. I couldn't bear his touch. The hurt. The pain. Shit. "Just remember," he warned with horrible menace, suddenly releasing my teat. Thank God! Such sweet relief! "When your trial is over no one will care what you look like. If we mess up your tits or cut your face, it's just damaged merchandise. So what do you say, bitch?" "Oh God!" I moaned. It was a pitiful sound. I didn't know what to say. I had no idea. I hated this weasel. So he hit me, slapping me hard across the outside of the breast. "What do you say?" he repeated, lifting his hand to hit me for a second time. The van was half empty now. The other women were filing out, limp and weak. Dirty. Sombre. "No!" I warbled, hating the sound of my own voice. A woman turned to look at me as she passed. My voice was so weak, so frightened. I was horribly scared. I didn't like being hurt or them cutting me. "I'll do what you ask. Please don't do that again! Please!" He grinned, withdrawing a rubber belt from somewhere about his waist. "Will you suck my cock?" "Oh God, yes!" "Will you drink my pee?" "Yes. Please, just don't hurt me!" He unfastened my hands. "You'll do exactly as I say or you'll feel this between your legs." He pulled a large electric cattle prod from its holster and shoved it under my nose. His eyes glinted as he showed it me. They'd opened wide. He was excited. He wanted to use it, to hurt me. He was looking for an excuse, some justification. He grabbed my stomach, clutching as much flesh as he could in his hand. I shivered. He'd spotted that there was no telltale puddle at my feet. "Please," I begged, grinding my hands into fists. His hand found the tight ball of my bladder and closed about it, his fingers tightening relentlessly. "What would you like to do for me?" he whispered. I couldn't bear the pressure. I could already feel the water feeding along my urethra. "Please!" I implored. "What would you like to do?" "To pee," I whispered, my throat catching on the words. He nodded, squeezing my bladder. "Go one then. Pee!" I gasped. I had no choice. The piss was already coming out, trickling down my legs. What's more, he refused to let me squat. He made me stand and piss over the floor of the transporter, the steaming, golden liquid gathering about my feet. "Shannon," he said, looking down at me in disgust. "You're a cunt." "Yes sir." Life wasn't going to be pleasant. "Say it for me. Say ' I'm a cunt'." "I'm a cunt, sir." He pushed me back sharply and my bare feet splashed in the piss, unable to sidestep the puddles. That amused him. Then I felt the guiding arm of another warder helping me down a wooden ramp to where the other girls were congregated in the yard. I held my hands over my breasts and my lower regions, over the trimmed hair of my damp bush, self-conscious, feeling awkward, dirty. We were all embarrassed, everyone, I think, standing there naked and stupid, most of us smelling of piss. "This way girls!" The Weasel had spoken. We were led through a glass door and into a reception area. My feet were still wet. One of the girls, a pretty blonde one if I remember correctly, began to protest. She was irrational. She didn't want to go inside. Maybe something had snapped inside her, or one of the warders had provoked her. Whatever it was, she suddenly started shouting obscenities and crying for help. "I've done nothing," she screamed. "You wankers! Why won't you listen? I'm innocent. I'm telling you, I'm innocent! I’ve done nothing wrong! I shouldn't be here." I barely saw what happened. Her words had only just registered when two guards approached and touched her naked body with the tips of their batons. One of either side. "Gowwwllld!" She span on the spot, her arms flying up, her head snapping back. Then she collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony and holding her side. She was a strong girl, well built and muscular, a nice tight ass and long firm thighs, but she became as nothing under the force of that jolt. One zap and she was broken. That sobered me. Damn. Cold stone sober now. I could see one of the burns. It was on her side, just above her waist: a deep red blemish in her flawless beauty. God. I'd never seen anyone receive a shock with a cattle prod before, and I never want to see it again. Never. She was convulsing with pain, writhing around on the floor. Even now it wasn't over. Shit. The poor cow. One thing I was sure about. No way I was going to invite them to do that. No way. "Come on, girls," one of them said, smirking and daring us to protest. "This way." He had us and he knew it. No one protested. Obediently we went, subdued, feeling like beasts herded by cattle drovers or Jews by the SS. But for what purpose, that was the question. They took us along a corridor, up some stairs and into a big auditorium. As soon as we entered there was a hushed agitated murmur. "Oh God!" several of us muttered. Everyone of us recognized where we were. We knew this place. This was CCTV, and the studios of Public Justice. My stomach churned with fear. The penny had dropped. Oh God! At the far end was a big cage and we were herded to it while they waited for the court usher to arrive. "Inside!" one of them ordered. "Get in you dirty dumb whores!" We shuffled inside, sick and despondent. What was to become of us? CCTV! We didn’t want to go into the cage. There was something awful about being locked up here, but we had no choice. No one dared to risk the prod. No one dared its deadly vengeance. They locked the door, imprisoning us in their box. A girl next to me dropped to the floor, with her back leaning heavily against the iron bars. She was about twenty with short brown hair and small conical breasts. She had a slight figure and her face was stained with dirt and tears. She dropped her head into her hands. "I don't want to die," she cried, snot dripping inconsolably from the end of her nose. None of us had a hanky to offer. Nothing. Not even a sleeve between us to wipe away the mess. I sat down beside her, the best I could do. There were no words. They were dried up inside. Empty. I was numbed. I couldn't offer consolation because I was in need of it myself. All I had was my company. I sat at her side and we waited together. Christ. What had I let myself in for? What had I done? Idly I counted the girls. There were twenty-six, all of us female, aged from about eighteen to about thirty-five. There wasn't a man here at all. That told its own sorry story. And there wasn't a garment to share. Twenty six naked women! I looked outside, through the gaps in the bars. I saw the auditorium where Public Justice is recorded. There were rows of chairs raised into a bank facing the main stage: that's where the audience sits. The cameras were lined up at the front with canvas bags draped over them. The stage itself, where Lusty Linda would strut her stuff and interrogate that evening's public enemy was eerily empty. It was macabre, thinking of all the young women who'd met their end upon that very stage. It was so familiar because everyone watches Public Justice. Everyone. All the world takes delight in someone else's misfortune. God. But please not me! Not me! "What's your name?" I asked the girl at my side, trying to escape the horror. "Bernadette," she whimpered, shaking her head. Her snot snaked down to her belly, hanging like a slimy tentacle. I glanced at it in disgust. "They're going to kill me," she added disconsolately. "I know they are. I hate Public Justice. They kill all the women on that show. All of them. " "Not all of them," I countered half-heartedly, noticing a strange looking hairdresser's chair to the left of the stage. Christ! It was the wench's stool! Damn! I tried to concentrate on what I was saying. What had I been saying? "Even if you're guilty, sometimes the mitigation helps," I added weakly. "Girls do get off!" But inside I knew: no one is innocent on Public Justice. No one. Gradually the auditorium began to fill. First, the cameramen came out and readied their cameras, pulling off the canvas, pointing them at the wench's stool. Next came the quiz masters, dressed in fancy robes and long old-fashioned wigs. They talked and laughed and prepared their notes. Finally the warders returned, menacing us with their cattle prods, poking them in our faces. Six girls were taken out of the cage and led away. Their names were called and out they went. I never saw them again. I sat wondering. Was it good or bad that I hadn't been chosen? Were these six the lucky or the unlucky? Had they just escaped some terrible punishment or were they to receive one? I had no idea. “Jennifer Russell!” shouted one of the quiz masters, reading the name from a clipboard. A young woman near me lifted her head. I could see she was shaking. “Yes?” she swallowed weakly. “Are you Jennifer Russell, citizen number 3357152, born at the 5th of May 1979?” ERROR! She nodded. They led her off and placed her in the wench's stool. She didn't want to go because she knew. We all did. We'd all seen Public Justice, every single one of us. She was caught in the dazzle of the headlights, frozen between her fear of the chair and her fear of the prods. It wasn't a very enviable choice, but the cattle prods won by a whisker. She sat down obediently, and immediately her wrists and ankles were fastened to its arms and its legs. “Jennifer Russell, you are accused of being a dangerous criminal," read the quiz master. He was in his early sixties and his hair was grey. He spoke solemnly, slowly and clearly. "You are accused of committing adultery. Do you confess this crime?” She shook her head. “No,” she cried. There was a gasp from the women around me. I turned away. I couldn't believe what she'd just done. She was in the wench's stool for God's sake! I placed my hands over my ears. I knew exactly what would happen. Everybody did. One of the quiz masters pressed a button. Immediately Jennifer's body jerked upwards and she was thrown out of the stool, only her hands and her ankles remaining in place. The cameramen were filming this, every jolt and cry. I think they were enjoying it too. Jennifer's breasts were thrown sideways, one to the left and one to the right. Her pussy lifted eighteen inches off the stool, her legs parting and her gash opening wide. Her body bent into a sharp curve, then tensed, locking, before falling back into the stool with a sickening thud. God! How could she have been so stupid… the cow… to volunteer for that? She gasped and began blubbering uncontrollably, whether words or just unintelligible garbage I couldn't tell. “I am sure, you will soon confess your crime, Mrs. Russell,” her interrogator informed her, shifting from one foot to the other. "You are very pretty. Attractive. Desirable. I'm sure you found it very easy to tempt your lover. What did you do? Flirt a little, undo the odd button…? Tease him? Tempt him? Tell us all about it, Mrs Russell. Our audience would love to know." He nodded to the torturer. “I did nothing wrong,” Jennifer screamed, panicking. Her body stiffened. The next shock would be imminent. Any moment. “I'm not guilty.” I believed her. She had to be innocent to be this stupid. The interrogator stayed the hand of the torturer for a moment. “It'll be the job of the court to judge your guilt," he said icily. "The only matter of concern here is whether you confess to the charge. Did you commit adultery?” “No!” she screamed, closing her eyes, knowing precisely what would happen. Waiting. Expecting. Somehow, slowly, reluctantly, I was beginning to admire this woman. She was incredibly brave, even if completely insane. Yes, I admired her, but what was the point? Why was she resisting? They'd get her eventually. They always did. Her body was hit abruptly by the shock. She was thrown high, her muscles shaking with spasm, the electricity juicing her tissues. For a second time her body quivered, arching, her pussy gaping wide. She had a lot of hair, it was thick and untrimmed, yet it didn't hide a thing. As expected, she fell back, thumping against the stool. Shit. Don't do it Jennifer! Can't you see that resistance is folly? I mumbled the words under my breath, not daring to be heard. Blood was oozing from the corner of her mouth, dripping onto her chin. I shook my head slowly. She'd bitten her tongue, or maybe cracked a tooth. Stop, I silently begged her. Stop. You've done enough. No more! Each of us gazed in silent horror, willing her to stop, to confess, to tell them what they wanted to hear. And while we watched, we were also dreading…. terrified, knowing that it would be our turn next. “We shan't end our investigation without a confession," the quiz master warned, stepping up to the wench's stool. He reached down and placed a hand on her desiccated pussy, stroking it gently. She groaned, trying to pull away from his invading hand. "I'll ask you one more time. Tell me, Jennifer. Confess it to me. Did you commit adultery? Tell me the truth.” At last, she seemed to get the point. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. "Tell me," her tormentor repeated, teasing her pussy lips, holding them open. A cameraman stepped up to capture the shot. "Admit it!" She barely spoke. “Oh God. Forgive me!" "Admit it!" "I did… Yes, forgive me!” I sighed. Thank God! "You did what?" "I committed adultery." She burst out crying, whether from relief or for another reason, I had no idea. It didn't matter. They were finished with her now. She was unfastened and led away to sign her confession. “Shannon Courtney!” Eighteen women had been called. Eighteen pitiful creatures. Anxiously I stepped forward. The warders grabbed my arms and led me to the chair. One of them was the Weasel. "Why don't you plead innocence?" he whispered in my ear. "Like the other one. Give us some fun. I'd like to see you dance." I was stiff with fear, my body as straight as a board. Oh shit! My wrists and ankles were fixed to the cold steel bracelets. I felt the leather upon my bare skin, my back, my ass and my thighs. “Are you Shannon Courtney, citizen #13345121, born at the 17th January 1969?” ERROR! The quiz master had spoken. I nodded. What else should I have said? It was the truth. What could I have done? I'd watched from the cage as woman after woman had been led to the chair, one or two resisting, but mostly confessing to the silliest of crimes. And now it was my turn. Am I stupid? Not a bit of it! "Are you a virgin?" "No sir!" Am I feeble brained? Not at all. "Are you married?" "No, sir!" Had I learned from the mistakes of others? You bet. Without thinking, without even waiting to hear the charge, I gave them what they wanted. “I confess.” I screamed, making sure that the guy with his finger hovering over the switch could hear me. "I admit that I did it! I'm guilty. Please! Guilty!" The interrogator grinned. He took my confession as a compliment. "So what have you done?" he asked, leaning against my chair, fondling the underside of my breasts with the palm of his hand. "What have you to confess to, since I haven't yet read out the charges?" Damn! Now I was in trouble. Now I was in real, deep shit. For even worse than not confessing is to confess too soon. Now they thought I had something to hide. It was a dire mistake, confessing too soon. I'm sure it was the turning point, the beginning of my end. Now I would have to confess to everything, absolutely fucking everything: thoughts I'd regretted, careless words long repented, every dusty skeleton, just in case perchance, I missed the one measly minnow of which they had intelligence. </Text> </Fragment>
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