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< Reference ID=278566 Date="21 Jun 1984> <Title> Slave Girl Convict [8] </Title> <Author> Dolcetta (dolcetta AT grim_williams.co.uk ) </Author> <Author> Grim Williams (gw AT grim_williams.co.uk ) </Author> <Publication> The Inquirer </Publication> <Page> One </Page> <Name> Adam Tomlin in Sex Farm Quiz </Name> <ByLine> Andrew Mcdonald </ByLine>
</Text> </Reference>
<Fragment ID="887734" Date="1 Jul 1984"> <Name> Shannon Courtney </Name> <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location> <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator> <Text>
Adam Tomlins was riding a high.
It always felt good watching the bitches die, like nothing else on earth: How could he compare the sensation?
Impossible.
Watching them naked and twitching and in despair, listening to the rabid crowds counting off those final fleeting seconds.
It was wrong of course. There was something terribly disgusting about the idea of enjoying the pain and death of another, and Adam regretted that he did so. It made him uneasy, unhappy with himself. He disliked this side of his character more than any other, and yet, he'd no desire to change it. . He was honest enough to admit that it was a part of him. He was a man that enjoyed the agony of a beautiful woman.
He loved it.
The pain in their eyes. The awful comprehension that death was approaching. They were at its door, waiting to be snuffed into its frightful nothingness, and there was no sum of money, no power in the world that could pull them back from its grinning jaw.
God. What a monster he was! He knew it.
He knew what others thought of him too: the liberal do-gooders who stood protesting outside; the loony crackpots who sent their hate mail and daubed death threats upon walls.
He even agreed with them. He did. They were right when they called him inhuman and vile. A monster. But what could he do?
He was drugged, tripped out, riding a crushing wave of euphoria, a mighty surge of adrenalin that thundered through his temples.
He was living. He was alive.
God. What a job he had! What a way to earn a living.
There was nothing like the enjoyment of a sexy woman’s anguish, the anticipation of her death, the fear in her eyes and the writhing of her pain.
It certainly beat sex.
He crashed into his office, slamming open the door. It hit the stop with a hollow thud and shuddered back. He flew past it, across the office, throwing the evening’s script upon his desk.
He wanted a whiskey.
A large one. Very large. Ahhh! He sighed contentedly.
The script had landed inches from Shannon’s head.
She knew a stranger had come in, someone new, someone else to witness the dirt dripping from her purse. She knew this without knowing his name.
“Public Justice, 1 July 1984, Shannon Courtney” she read. The words on the script were quite legible: black blots staining the pristine white paper. Mocking words, sentencing her, judging her, sitting there inches from her nose.
“Well, what do you think?” Adam preened, plumping out his chest, draining back his liquor. Granite had jumped up the moment Adam had entered the room. He stood awkwardly, uncomfortable. “Twenty three calls,” Adam said wondrously. “Twenty three bloody calls. You’d think more than twenty three fucking people would notice that we fried the wrong bitch. Twenty three out of thirty two million. God. This is a nation of tele morons. If we told them the girl in the chair was Queen Cleopatra they’d believe it if she had big enough boobs and an asp tickling her pussy… Give them what they want, eh…Give them what they bloody well want and they notice nothing…"
He stopped.
He froze.
He'd noticed something himself.
His eyes hardened. For a second they were as steel, but then the iron faded.
He’d seen Shannon bent over the table, her head laying an angle, pressed against it. Her ass was stuck out obscenely, messy and coated with wet stale semen.
Adam took two or three breaths and then strolled across to her, wiping his forehead, quizzical, taking his stance a few feet behind, looking down at her ass reflectively.
He didn’t say a word.
Nothing.
Apart for the monotonous intonation of a West Country newsreader relating the news of a terrorist explosion somewhere unknown there was silence.
Silence.
A tinny voice going on and on, unending, unbroken.
What was he thinking?
His face was expressionless, blank: both unmoved and unmoving.
Adam gazed thoughtfully at the open, swollen pussy in front of him, at Shannon’s shimmering butt cheeks, at her long taut thighs, dripping and stained with the evidence of her assault.
Silence.
Shannon didn’t shift. Neither did Tomlins. She didn’t know what to expect. What now? What next?
Another rape perhaps if she were lucky. That’s what a voice whispered into her ear.
If she were lucky.
That was the best she could expect.
Silence.
After all, this was the man, the big executive whose name appeared at the end of each show. She’d seen it so many times, so often that the words rolled off her tongue.
Directed and produced by Adam Tomlins.
Everyone saw that.
Everyone knew it.
The final credit before the screen faded to black.
Adam Tomlins.
No one had told her his name. No one had introduced him, this man that now looked at her so intimately. But she knew who he was. She knew intuitively. She knew by what he'd said and the way the others had reacted, by their silence, by their apprehension.
So here she was.
Being watched by Adam Tomlins.
Naked.
Exposed.
Humilated.
What was he planning?
What was he thinking?
Dear God.
Was he dreaming up some terrible device, some devilish torment through which he could torture her body to the point of execution? Tonight she'd seen such toys, witnessed his cruel games.
So what was the point in deceiving herself? There was only one reason she was here. It was obvious. She was here to be executed. Why pretend? What was the use in lying to herself?
Here was the man.
Her executioner. Her devil. Her nemesis.
Adam Tomlins.
Adam Tomlins was about to tell her how she would die.
She tried to keep focussed on the monitors. The show was over but the audience were being told that they should mark Janet’s death struggle on a scale of one to five.
A vote of five would mean she’d died a good death; a vote of one that her body should be hung up for the birds to eat…
Was that another of Tomlin’s ideas?
He lifted the whiskey to his lips, sipping slowly, imperceptibly, almost not drinking at all. He held the glass still, his manner thoughtful and remote.
He saw the twitching of Shannon’s open pussy. It was swollen and available. “Looks like you guys have been busy,” he grimaced at last, a little sullenly. “Looks like you’ve been soiling the merchandise. Looks like… while the cat’s been away…the mice have played…”
He probably had wanted to rape her himself, Shannon thought. No doubt he was irritated not to have been there first.
The three other men glanced at each other silently. Granite was standing by the sofa, attentive and alert. The Suit was over by the window. The Weasel could have been pretty much anywhere, Shannon couldn't see him. But he was around somewhere… She knew that. Probably behind her… looking…his eyes burning…
“The boys were just having some fun, boss,” the Suit objected with a shrug. “What’s it matter? She’s a bitch…a cunt…. meat for the show… She’s headed for the incinerator anyway, so they thought, well, who’s to know…?”
Shannon froze.
Now she knew.
Now the secret was out.
Shit.
For a moment she lost control of herself, of her bladder, of her legs too. She was so scared. The water escaped. She could feel it, warm and steaming, trickling down her thighs to her knees, then past, across her calves, dripping onto the carpet.
The incinerator.
If Adam had noticed her accident, he didn’t say anything.
But he must have noticed. Everybody had noticed.
How could she have done that?
“Who’s to know?” Adam murmured softly, holding his whiskey against his chin, doing so meditatively, his thoughts far away.
Had he noticed? Had he?
He was speaking. “Is that what you said? Did I hear you right? Who’s to know?” He paused. He was angry. “I know!“ He emphasised each of the words. “I know. That’s who knows. Take her away and clean her up. Look what you’ve done to her. Look what you’ve made her do. She’s disgusting.”
So he had noticed. He’d seen her pee. He’d seen it trickling from her cunt, flooding down her thighs in a golden stream.
God.
She’d actually peed in front of him.
How could she have done that?
How could she possibly look him in the face?
When she’d…
She was pulled to her feet, feeling faint, feeling like dirt beneath their feet. There was a wet patch on the carpet. She stepped over it.
Tomlins had turned his back on her. He was disgusted.
That would earn her the cruellest of deaths, the worst he could think of.
What would that be?
Surgery?
The slow cooker?
What?
She was nothing, worse than nothing. That’s what he thought. She glanced towards him, anxious, keeping her head lowered.
Bad move.
The Weasel had noticed.
He slapped her with his prod, digging it into her kidneys. Shit. God. Her side was split by a sudden searing agony. Shit. She followed Granite across the room, shuffling awkwardly, ignored by Tomlins.
Forgotten.
He'd moved on, lost interest.
She was a cunt.
Nothing more.
“Perhaps we should get her a diaper,” Granite taunted, whispering the words into her ear. “Didn’t your mummy teach you that big girls don’t pee in public?”
Her eyes were prickling with an irresistible urge to explode into tears. Her ankles were sore, the chains around her ankles dragging heavier than ever.
Granite and Weasel escorted her to a shower on the floor below. They ribbed her all the way about what a good fuck she'd been, how it was great to poke such an appreciative woman, and reminded her of the woman she'd watched in the Bare Pit.
Janet, they said her name was. Janet Tomkinson.
She'd put on a good show.
There were three shower nozzles in the shower room. It was a communal shower. Of course it was. That meant no door or cubicle or curtain.
The men stood and waited.
They stood by the door, looking at her expectantly.
Waiting.
They glanced at each other, grinning.
They were waiting for her to pull off her dress, to see her naked again.
“Hurry up, bitch!” the Weasel growled, glancing at his watch. “How long do you think we’ve got? Mr Tomlins is a busy man.”
Shannon dropped her head, turned her back and with a sigh, pulled off the dress, shrugging it from her shoulders. There were no buttons to unfasten, no zips to lower. It was a mere wisp of paper. Down it came, slithering over her hips, across her thighs and onto the cold ceramic tiles.
She was naked.
Again.
“Very nice,” Granite jeered. “Guess what? My cock’s all hard again. I reckon you’re going to be busy tonight, don’t you, dear little Shannon?”
What was the use in arguing? What was the use in fighting? She stepped out of the dress, discarding it, leaving it where it fell upon the floor.
She stepped towards the middle of the three showers, under the rusty nozzle, dragging her feet, pulling her chains behind her.
They were going to plug her again.
But at least she could clean herself first.
There was a tap in front of her with a dial to adjust for hot and cold, red to the left, blue to the right. She turned it full on, turning the dial to the left, towards the red: wanting it hot.
“The lady looks kind of lonely, don’t you think?” Granite remarked wistfully, leaning back lazily against the wall. “Perhaps she’d like us to help her? What do you reckon? Would you like that, darling?”
Shannon ignored them as best she could. It was humiliating to be watched, but at least the soap and hot water would rinse away the dirt. She scrubbed her breasts, she scrubbed her pussy.
Again and again.
Scrubbing.
Scouring.
Rubbing.
The water was scalding, purifying, running down her legs, draining into the sewer.
“Three of us, three showers,” the Weasel observed wryly, winking at his partner. “Three showers. And guess what? We’re not so clean ourselves…”
Shannon didn't hear. The soothing caress of the water was a stronger force upon her mind. She needed to be clean, to be rid of the dirt. The steady hiss from the nozzle was like music, calming and comforting her damaged flesh, making the hurt and the pain go away.
But only fleetingly.
The relief wouldn’t last. The dirt kept coming back. Each time she moved, as soon as the fierce, angry pressure of the spitting jet drained from her skin, the filth returned.
Like the soothing ice upon a burn. Oh God. Why wouldn’t the dirt go away?
The relief was only while the red hot water embraced her flesh.
So transient…
Oh God. Please make it disappear! The dirt!
It wasn’t enough. She needed more… The water was teasing her, tormenting, promising so much, delivering so little.
“Come here and give us a kiss…”
Oh God…
What now?
Shannon knew she was in danger. She knew through some invisible second sense. She swivelled around, almost slipping on the floor.
She’d been seduced by the shower, its hiss... by the need to be clean… but now…
Oh God.
There they were, both of them. Naked. Ugly. Their cocks hard, erect, lifted high, swaying and obscene…
Oh God.
No!!
“Come on, cunt!” the Weasel repeated, stepping towards her. “Every condemned woman deserves a last meal: so suck us. That would be nice. What do you say? Otherwise we'll stir it with Mr Tomlins, tell him how bad you’ve been. Come on! Or do you want me to punish you properly?”
The words were like nails, clawing into Shannon’s skin.
Punish.
Why had they punished her? What had she done?
Why would they do so again?
Why?
Is rape just a cheap way for a man to punish a woman? Is that what it's all about?
Is it?
Such confusion.
Or do you want me to punish you properly?
The words.
She couldn’t forget those words.
“Give us a kiss!” the Weasel grinned, rolling his tongue obscenely along his bottom lip, gripping his dick at the base and rubbing it steadily. “Give us a kiss or we’ll punish you. Be good and we’ll repay you handsomely.”
Shannon sank to her knees, offering them her tits, her mouth, whatever they wanted.
She'd been raped, attacked. She'd been violated. The experience had blown the fuse on her emotions. This was a Pavlovian response, an automatic one.
She was reacting: instinctively, submissively. He'd told her to be good, and so she was.
She fell to her knees, sitting in the discarded filthy water awaiting her punishment.
The men were laughing, arguing over who should be first.
The water dripped from the tips of her nipples. Her stomach was still lathered with soap.
“Let’s take her together,” Granite trembled excitedly. “You and me both. You in one hole, me in the other. That’d make a pretty sight, two cocks, both at the same time."
The image formed within Shannon’s mind, being taken by one man in the ass while the other penetrated her pussy. She could see the picture, she could hear them laughing, stoking her up, slamming their thick rods into her holes, when suddenly something snapped.
No.
She couldn’t.
She couldn’t take the two of them. Not at the same time.
She stumbled to her feet, the chains pulling her back. She stood up, swinging round to meet her attackers.
On the wall beside her hung a towel. Instinctively she grabbed it.
No!
They were laughing. “Come on darling! You know you like it. What's up? You want us to chase you? Is that it?"
One of them grabbed the white cotton towel and pulled it sharply. Shannon came too, unwillingly, unable to let go, not prepared to lose her protection. She stiffened as his arm spooned around her front, cupping her breast. It pulled her body into his own, reeling her like a fish on a hook. She hit out, jamming her elbow into his chest.
He yelped. It was Weasel. His hand squeezed mercilessly upon her breast, his nails digging deep in revenge.
Shannon screamed. It was fear and pain and hatred all rolled into one. She turned her head, shivering with emotion.
He had her. His hand was clamped to her right boob, constricting, squeezing harder than she could have thought.
It was too much! Much too much! There was no way she could fight. He had her! No way she could take such pain… the agony…
He had her! She couldn't breathe. He twisted her like putty until she was facing him, staring right into those jubilant, victorious eyes.
“Bad idea, cunt!” he croaked, cruelly mashing her tender, bruised titty. “Very bad. Now I'll have to fuck you with the cattle prod. How do you think that will feel?”
Shannon shrieked. She couldn't imagine anything worse. “No!”
That was all she could shout. His nails were digging into her flesh, bringing tears to her eyes, making breathing impossible.
Oh shit! Granite had the cattle prod. It was coming! His hands were upon her thighs, pulling them apart.
She fought, but with the Weasel crushing her tit it was hopeless. She couldn't fight that.
He pressed her against the wet floor, sliding her over it, Granite parting her legs, forcing them open. He had her. Her pussy was exposed. He was pressing the tip of the prod against her tender hole.
“Say, please,” Weasel ordered, holding her near, licking her face with the tip of his tongue: her cheek, her nose, her chin. “Say: Please fuck me with your long, hard tool. Give me a nice electrical orgasm, a magical moment. Say it! Say it, Shannon.”
She couldn't! How could she?
Then came relief.
“Let her go.”
The Weasel froze.
What?
Shannon turned her head. It was the Suit.
He was standing in the doorway, stiffly impassive, gripping a new paper dress and glowering at the warders.
The Weasel bristled with unspoken frustration and was immediately on the defensive, releasing Shannon’s breast. “It’s what she deserved," he said. "She was asking for it!” He clambered to his feet, awkward in his nakedness.
As he let go of her, Shannon's breast screamed out, even louder than before. She grasped it, kneading it, holding it protectively, kneeling down, nursing it, working to contain the pain.
“Mr. Tomlins doesn’t agree with you, gentlemen,” the Suit replied stonily, pointing to the little camera concealed within the ceiling. He threw the dress to Shannon. It fell onto the wet tiles. She grasped it, holding it tightly against her front, gazing fearfully from man to man like the little frightened mouse she had suddenly become.
“Put it on,” the Suit instructed her sternly. “Mr. Tomlins is waiting.”
She did so. It was a little wet from the floor but it didn’t matter. She had something to cover herself. She clutched her right breast. It was so tender, on fire, screaming at her.
Hurting.
She was taken back to Mr Tomlins' office.
Her legs were still in irons, chafing and heavy, scraping upon her ankles.
God.
Step by relentless step.
When she got there she found Tomlins sitting at his desk, puzzling over a laptop, clicking irritably upon a mouse.
There was a chair set in front of his desk, a soft one. It hadn’t been there before. Who? Had he put it there? He bid her sit down and when she had the Suit departed, as impassive as ever, closing the door behind himself with a gentle click.
“You look better,” Adam Tomlins said after a while. Shannon could feel his eyes examining her. They were gentle but persistent, probing, noticing how the water from her long wet hair was soaking into the paper of the dress, how the damp patch was radiating outwards, downwards to where her bust was, causing the thin cellulose to cling to her breasts. She could feel him looking, examining her twins, she could feel the bodice of her dress becoming transparent through the intoxicating cocktail of his intense gaze and the ever creeping water. There was a hunger in his expression.
He missed nothing. Nothing at all.
She squirmed uncomfortably, feeling a little too warm.
But there was also softness, a kindness in his eyes. “You look… stronger,” he said at last. “Calmer now.”
Shannon didn’t answer. She certainly didn’t feel those things. She was in turmoil, her pussy sore and heavy and her right tit aching from its mauling.
She was miserable, defiled, disgusting.
And yet…
His eyes were upon her, burning, curious, and yet not hard at all. In fact, quite kind.
“So what am I to do with you?” he asked, sitting back and sighing thoughtfully. “What indeed?”
He didn’t expect an answer and neither did he get one. Shannon remained stiff, quivering under his examination.
This was it then.
She was in this man’s hands, totally at his mercy. He was the big executive, the man with the power of life and death: her life; her death. She knew it, didn’t doubt it.
And yet…
What was he thinking? Beyond the obvious, of course. He would be thinking that. But what else? What else was on his mind? There was something unknown… unspoken… strange…
He picked up a pencil. He sighed. “Officially you don’t exist,” he explained, rolling the pencil between his fingers. “Officially you’re dead. Your possessions are to be confiscated and your relatives notified. Those things go without saying. The wheels will whirl, the system will turn. No one can stop that now. It’s the way things are.”
He paused.
“I can’t bring you back to life again. I can’t, even should I want to. Everyone saw you executed, saw you dispatched to the next world as the common criminal you are. It happened. All the official records say so. I can’t do anything about that. Too many know. Too many saw.”
He hesitated.
What?
What was he going to say?
“So we have a problem.” He was struggling to find the right words. She sensed it. But what was he trying to say? What was he wanting to tell her?
“A problem. You have it. I have it. What do we do with a prisoner who doesn’t exist? A prisoner who should be dead?”
Shannon had no idea. She waited for him to continue, the hair rising on the back of her neck. She fidgeted upon her seat, shuffling self-consciously, rattling the chains about her ankles.
There was a comedy on television. She could see it from the corner of her eye. A cartoon. Shannon could hear the tinned laughter and the bizarre effects.
Tomlins was tapping upon the desk, thinking, speaking slowly and carefully. “I guess I have two options. The easy one is that I kill you. I send you downstairs and let you choose how you die. That’s your right. You were convicted by a legally constituted court, convicted on your own evidence, by your own confession.”
Shannon gazed at him uncomprehendingly. There was a horrible chill in the air. What was he saying? What had he said?
He wasn’t looking at her now. He was looking at the pencil that he was tapping so regularly, so steadily against his desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“You could never again be a free woman. That’s impossible now. Shannon Courtney no longer exists. Shannon Courtney is an executed felon. Shannon Courtney can quietly and inconspicuously disappear. I’ll make it quick, as easy, as painless as possible. I promise. That’s the first option.”
Shannon held her breath. He had stopped tapping. His fingers were tense, unmoving.
“Or…”
That single word hung in the air, the sentence unfinished, barely even started. He was toying with her, playing. She sensed it.
What was he after?
She swallowed hard, her heart thumping upon her chest, threatening to break, threatening to shatter into thousands of tiny splinters.
Her impatience got the better of her. How could he keep her in such suspense? What was he saying? What other option could there be? What olive branch was he holding out? She hardly dared hope… hardly dared think…
“Or?”
Her question hung in the air, its answer, oh, so eagerly awaited.
He got up.
God.
“Answer me,” she thought frantically. “Tell me the worst! Anything! Just don’t keep me here in this terrible suspense…”
He slid his chair back under the desk, straightening it, and then turned towards the window and looked out. His back was now towards her.
“I don’t hold you to blame for this evening,” he said. “It’s not your fault you missed the show. I can’t blame you… don’t blame you for anything. You were late and you’ve... you’ve benefited from… from the mistakes of others. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to kill you. If you want…”
He stopped again. Shannon was listening anxiously with folded brow. What was he saying? What did he mean? There had been a quiver in his voice, the hint of emotion.
Strange.
Shannon didn’t understand.
She waited until he began again. Waiting. He was still staring out of the window, seemingly ignoring her, and yet she seemed to know, to recognise that he wasn’t ignoring her at all.
He coughed. “I want you to be… you see… I’ve always wanted a beautiful woman who would be… who would be… my slave. If you choose, you may be… you may train to become that slave. Your choice. Not much of a choice, I know. You'll be mine, to do with as I wish, to use and to abuse, to serve my every need. You'll have no will, no thought, not even a glimmer of an emotion to call your own. It’s not much of an alternative… no… but at least… at least it is an alternative. I give it to you as my gift… The choice is yours. “
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<Reference ID=277956 Date=" 21 Jun 1984> <Publication> The National Independent </Publication> <Page> Seventeen </Page> <Name> Women's Group Claims Corruption at CCTV </Name> <ByLine> Jane Milne </ByLine> <Text>
</Text> </Reference>
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