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<Fragment ID="899276" Date="1 Jul 1984"> <Title> Slave Girl Convict [10] </Title> <Author> Dolcetta (dolcetta AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author> <Author> Grim Williams (gw AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author> <Name> Shannon Courtney </Name> <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location> <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator> <Text>
My stomach was churning, iced up, heaving with the knives of hatred and the muddle of pathos.
Here I stood, suffering the foggy gaze of these guys, smelling their fear, knowing it well. For it was the same terror that had yellowed my blood and frozen my thoughts, embittering me with its creeping cirrhosis.
Here was the fear and certain knowledge of approaching death.
My erstwhile torturers stood precariously on their creaky chairs, their dicks level with my twins, ready to spurt, their stupid members hard and ridiculous, ready to smoke their last, their final dirt.
And I was to be their executioner. All I had to do was make them cum.
Such a trivial task.
How could they resist me?
Their hard disgusting flesh would be as putty between my fingers, their quivering knobs as soft clay between my ruby lips. I had only to let the brusqueness of my tongue flick across the little hole of each obscene spear, biting gently upon its cleft. I had only to kiss the tightening balls, teasing, laughing at them, licking away the perspiration of defeat and lo, these simple toys would spurt down my grateful throat, sooner rather than later, granting me the white frothing wine of victory.
Such a trivial task.
And why not?
Why should they live? What right have scum to life?
Hadn’t they raped me? Taken my dignity? My pride? My confidence? My innocence? And left me soured and cynical, bruised and demented?
Oh yes, it would be simple. I had just to chew upon that excited manhood, resisting the temptation to bite the smarmy oedemas, anticipating the moment of their final gasp.
Their necks were upon my figurative block, the sword was raised. I had merely to strike.
Could Samson deny Delilah? Could Adam resist the apple? Ridiculous! So what hope had these miscreants of weathering a woman's resolve? My hands and my mouth, all fighting as allies against them, murmuring with pleasure, three sirens, daughters of Phorcus, would hasten them to the rocks of annihilation.
So easy.
Such a trivial task.
And yet I felt their horror, smelled their stench. I imagined their thoughts.
They were awaiting my decision, wary of my every movement. They were the errant husband with lipstick on his collar; I was the innocent wife. They were the child with a craving for sweets; I was the dentist with the menacing drill.
How they must hate me, staring into my eyes with unuttered curses on their grey parched lips.
They knew.
They knew I could do it. If I wanted.
And yet…
I paused.
And yet…
Whose was the hand resting upon my shoulder, staying my victory, urging me to caution?
“Come on!” I told myself. “What’s wrong with you? This is your chance. This is what you wanted! What raped woman doesn't yearn for revenge, cradling that hope and holding it as a lofty beacon to sustain her through dark, black days? Here it is! That chance. Go for it. And why not?"
The issue was… the problem…
That was the problem. I felt sick.
How could I touch these ugly swollen tools?
How could I allow them to soil me again?
Eh?
What raped woman can touch again the objects of her torture? How could I?
The very thought was repulsive, churning my stomach and making me unwell. I was sweating. My chest was heavy and every muscle was tight.
Oh God.
What a dilemma!
How could I take their vomit upon my body? For that's what it would be: not the sweet honey of a lover, but the loathsome puke of a rapist. How could I behave like a whore, giving them sex for a price? It would defile me, making me dirty in a way that would never come clean. How could I possibly handle these men of my own free will and volition? For the lucre of revenge?
The thought was unbearable, disgusting.
Wouldn't that present them with one last final victory, so that even in death they would prove triumphant?
Wasn't my master, the Great Adam Tomlins, seemingly so magnanimous and generous, actually teasing me to defeat?
This thought held me back. I was sick to the point of nausea.
"Shannon?"
I was in a whirl, unconscious of the lights, of the dying men, of my own inaction.
"Shannon?"
It was the sex. That was the problem. If I were being asked to pull a lever or kick the chairs from under their feet I wouldn't hesitate. But to perform a sexual act upon the very men who had humiliated and defiled me was choking my mind. It was foul and gross.
No. Even that was a lie. Even the matter of their deaths was bothering me.
Of course, they needed to be punished. They had hurt me, cut me deeper than any knife could reach. But there had to be an alternative. Surely.
"Shannon. You can do it."
But I couldn't.
My thoughts became irrational. A sly devil perched himself on my shoulder. He took me by the hand and led me through his arguments. "It's very simple," he said, pulling open the front of my dress so that he might admire my body. He seemed to like my breasts. I didn't want him to see my breasts. "While these men live, no woman is safe," he said, licking them with his long forked tongue. "How would you feel having another woman's rape upon your conscience? It may seem cruel, but there can be no alternative. It is a matter of justice."
I twisted away, angry because I knew he was right, angry because of the way he was arousing me.
Another spirit appeared as his advocate, an angel with long white hair and a loose satin gown.
"Perhaps so," this one argued. I staggered around, almost stumbling, searching for the source of his voice. "Justice is deserved for certain. But why should you kill them? That is vengeance, not justice. Aren't they human, like you? If we stoop to the gutter and fuck in it with loathsome rapists, how can we not be covered with their dirt?"
The devil spat at him in disgust. He was red and naked with long horns poking from each temple. His chest was sinewy and his buttocks were tight. He wandered across and examined Granite and Weasel, blowing softly over the ends of their dicks, yearning for them to spurt but knowing they would not.
Only a woman could light that paper.
"They have to be punished," he growled. "There has to be penance."
"But the punishment should fit the crime," I protested. Whose words were these? Not mine for sure. Yet I remembered them well. "This is too harsh. It doesn't suit."
The devil smiled mockingly. "And so what punishment does suit this invasion of your vagina? Don't you feel it still? The afterglow? The soreness? I'm sure you do. But what else have they left? A little gift? A memento? Have you thought about that? Well wrapped, and under embargo for nine whole months. What might it be? Chlamydia, trichomonas, gonorrhea? Or perhaps a little herpes, syphilis or hepatitis? Who knows what delights these lice might be carrying. If you escape all these, a child will seem a relief. A boy? A girl? Nine months: shall I return and discover what quaint surprise awaits you then?"
My angel applauded approvingly.
Was it the prison? Anxiety? Was I mad? Sane people don't hear voices. I covered my ears to keep him out, but he spoke directly to my mind. "Well done!" he said. "How like Public Justice! Go for the emotions and to hell with the facts! A subtle tactic but how well it works."
I was ill. Maybe that was the explanation.
What did they expect me to do? To whom should I listen? I didn't care for either of them. I wanted to be gone.
"Master! Please!" I begged.
I couldn't play the whore. Anything else. But not that.
If my master wanted me to lash them, then I'd whip their backs until their flesh was cut to ribbons.
I hated them. They were the scum of the earth. But I couldn't kill them.
"Come on, Shannon," I heard my master urge.
"Please," I begged. "Send them to prison…"
I would be their jailer. That didn't frighten me. Nothing frightened me.
Except to touch them. To kill them. To be forced to look at their disgusting cocks.
How could I pretend to be turned on by these men? How could I choose to caress their bodies? There are some things beyond a woman's volition and this was one of them.
"Come on, Shannon! You're not going to let me down. Remember the price of failure."
Yes, I remembered. I knew what would happen if I failed. Hadn't my master spelled it out?
He would release Granite and the Weasel, and allow them to fuck and torture me. I would be snuffed in my master's room of toys by the very men I'd proved unable to kill.
What sick irony!
"Get a grip on yourself!" I screamed. I could well imagine the nature of the toys. "Courage, Shannon. Courage. Steel yourself. Be strong. Do it. Touch them. Make them cum."
There would be the guillotine to dice me into a thousand slices of salami, beginning with whatever parts most took their fancy. There would be coals to warm me up and ice to cool me down. Spits the length of a javelin and hooks from which to suspend my tits. There would be nails to fix me to the furniture and electric prods to encourage me to part from it.
All I had to do was touch them. It couldn't be so hard.
I forced myself forward, made my arm reach out. I had to touch his groin, Granite's groin, his thick hairy tool. The foreskin was drawn back; the flesh coated with his slimy pre-cum.
My fingers stalled, quivering, shaking.
"Come on. What's the matter? Shannon!"
My master wanted to help me but he couldn't. I was beyond his aid. My fingers wouldn't move, my unconscious mind rejecting conscious commands. It was as though I were trying to push them into a burning furnace. The harder I tried, the less they were inclined to grip the quivering girth of Granite's penis.
But I had to do it. The rules were simple. It was them or me. Either they died or I did.
If I failed they were sure to rape me. One way or another I would suffer their cocks. It had to be better now than in the room of toys.
What if I caressed myself with a long, thick dildo and a large tube of grease, I thought desperately. It might be enough. It might make them cum.
But the angel shook his head slowly. He'd sat down on the floor to the side of the Weasel. He knew me well. He was right. This would be no different to touching them. Impossible. Like selling my soul. Like drinking another man's vomit.
Oh God. Is Granite smiling? He knows I'm trapped! He's aware a lifeline has been thrown, how my disgust protects him. Even now he smells victory. See that glimmer of hope in his eye! The flash of conceit at the folly of the female! Behold that gaze of silent mockery!
Dear God!
I knew that once again they had me in their clutches. And this time the pain and humiliation would be orders of magnitude more terrible. They would focus their anger, their fear, their humiliation on exacting an awful and terrifying revenge. Slaughter wouldn't be swift.
Again I felt the hand upon my shoulder. I twisted round more quickly this time, better prepared, to see the shape of a man, his face darkened and unrecognisable. He squeezed me gently as a friend, offering me encouragement.
"The punishment should fit the crime," he reminded me. "This is too harsh. It doesn't suit."
Oh my God! "Pappa? Vati?"
It was my father!
By what devilish device…?
But even as I spoke, even as I fell into his large paternal embrace, his spirit faded into the ether and I found myself clutching only the darkness of my memories.
"Pappi?"
I was distraught. Eleven years since he died. How could he tease me and leave me in misery? How could he abandon me at my moment of despair?
"Pappa?"
I choked upon the word.
The electricity crackled and a spot light flashed on, dazzling my eyes and lighting me up. All around there was darkness. Only I and the dying Bozos were visible: me sobbing, they straining upon the balls of their feet merely to stay alive. In the distance I saw movement and dull red lights. Were the cameras on? Was this being filmed? Was I on TV?
Was this all some presentation?
Instinctively I tried to pull my dress together, to conceal my bare breasts and the triangle of my pussy. Then I remembered that I couldn't. The dress wasn't intended to conceal my nakedness but to expose it. Undeterred, I used my arms and my hands to hide myself.
I didn't want anyone looking at my body.
What was happening? Was I on TV? Were people watching me? I screwed up my eyes, shutting out the intensity of the light, trying to see.
Once again I felt a hand touching my shoulder. I swung round but this time there was no one there. "Pappa?"
Silence.
How could he play such games? Now?
Even so I recalled the sweet memory of his face, his warm voice and the many lessons he taught me. I was in my school blouse, short skirt and pig tails, sitting upon his lap, nestling against his fatherly bosom and listening to his sage advice.
At once, I felt his spirit within me, his power strengthening my weakness, and I knew for certain that he was here, guiding my thoughts and my plans. I couldn't see him; but even so he was around. I could hear his wise counsel reverberating within my memory, shaping my thoughts and my life: "Always do to others as you'd like them to do to you."
It was what he lived by.
"Be brave, Shannon; be honest; be true to yourself."
That made me choke.
How often I'd taken him for granted. How often I'd thought I knew better. How often I'd been proved wrong.
"Come on Shannon, tell us what you've decided. The viewers are becoming impatient."
And so, seemingly, was my master.
I gazed up into the glare of the light. It was white and hot like the noon day sun. Perspiration trickled down my bare cleavage, soaked into the red fabric of my dress; tears ran sticky upon my stained cheeks.
Where was he? My master? I could hear his booming voice but could no longer see him at all.
"The cameras are rolling. Tell us what you're thinking. People want to know."
Granite's eyes opened imperceptibly. He wanted to know. That was the only expression that crossed his ashen face.
There was the power of life and death in my hands. What was I thinking? They all wanted to know. The weight of decision had dragged me into indecisiveness. But now I must come from under its shade.
Slowly I shook my head. What could I say? How could I answer? It was them or me. That much for certain.
"I don't want to kill them," I stuttered. "Yes they plugged me. They raped both body and soul. But that's done and no punishment can right that wrong. Nobody can return my integrity."
Oh God. How did I get caught up in this predicament? What was it to me whether they died or not? What was the name my master used? Bozos. That's all they were. Bozos. Non persons. I wasn't interested in execution. I never wanted to see them again.
I took a deep breath, listening to the silence and to the unsteady rhythm of two shallow gasps for air that filled it.
Once again I felt a hand, this time grasping mine, squeezing it gently, encouraging me to continue. I didn't need to glance to see who it was for I already knew.
What should I say?
But… Of course.
I straightened.
"I refuse to play your game," I stated, more firmly than I felt. The room of toys was distracting me. I had a picture in my mind, of the Weasel with a tub of lard, grinning maliciously as he greased an iron spit. My ass cheeks were held open by a metal clamp, while Granite peppered chilli powder into my ass hole.
I felt the hand tightening over mine. I continued. "It isn't right what you ask. What are you trying to do? To make me the same as you? To turn me into an animal, unthinking, cruel? What claim have I to take the life of another? What right have any of us? Should we kill because the public demands it? Or murder to satisfy the masses? Is that what we mean by democracy?"
I was breathless, glowing with rage and with frustration. My words rebounded from the back of the auditorium, shrill and hollow, ignored and unanswered.
And yet I was gaining confidence. I had crossed the precipice; there was no going back now. For what I had dared to say they would kill me. I would be gutted, dismembered, impaled, raped to death. Who knows what terrors they had in store? Perhaps something beyond my imagination.
And yet I would bear it. Sure I would scream, I would beg and grovel and be hideous to behold. But I couldn't back out. This price I would pay. I might lose the dignity of the flesh, but would gain dignity of spirit. I was being urged on, encouraged, driven by the angel at my side and the paternal hand clutching my own.
"What have we fought for? What is democracy? I tell you it's not just a vote; or even the chance of a vote. It's not government by the people but government for the people. Every citizen, male or female should live without the threat of a midnight call, or of becoming TV fodder."
A voice spoke into my ear. "Speak to the world," it said. "Be brave; be honest. Be true to yourself."
But I hesitated. How much time did I have? Who was listening? Just my master?
Just him?
There wouldn't be anyone else. What director would permit my ravings to be transmitted? I was a flea protesting in a vacuum.
"It doesn't matter," a voice explained. "It isn't for them, but for you. Even if no one else hears, be true to yourself. Truth cleanses with the fire of the refiner, razing the bad, but purifying the good."
This time I obeyed.
The words came from the pit of my stomach, from the bowels of my being. "Look at me," I screamed. "I'm an innocent woman. Look how they've dressed me? Look! Stripping me of dignity, of humanity for an extra tick in the ratings! What are we when we surrender human decency for a mere bowl of pottage?"
I don't think I expected applause, but I expected something. Perhaps to be shot, a bullet plunging into my chest, blood and flesh exploding in a jagged mushroom of red mist. Would it hurt? Would there be pain? Or just the silence of oblivion?
I heard the quick dash of steps running in the darkness. A few seconds more. I would be dead. It would all be over. Unless…
Unless I played them at their own game.
I pulled my dress, thrusting out my breasts, spreading my legs. "Is this what you're after? Is this what it's all about?" I stuck my fingers inside my cunt, performing like a slut for the benefit of unseen eyes. Somewhere my performance was being recorded. How could they stop it before they'd run a slide rule across its value? Money was God. So how could they kill me while they yet pondered my potential to the ratings?
I had no reservations, no pride. I had a cause more powerful than mere feelings of shame. There was a truth that I knew and I needed to express it.
So that I could cleanse myself of the dirt of institutional rape and the baggage that comes with it.
Hadn't I thought long and hard about mitigation? A good act might yet keep the dogs at bay. "Tomorrow it could be you," I gasped, biting my lip and moaning in feigned abandon. Your wife or daughter, your girlfriend, sullied, humiliated, defiled, playing with herself to prolong her life – imagine that - in fear of the room of toys. What would she do if she were me, here, right now? Would she do this?"
I sank to the deck, lounging back, parting the lips of my slit.
"How can we speak of freedom, of the right to travel, of integrity, to sanity and life? We discuss human rights, yet we allow money and the power of TV to dilute those rights until they're worthless and forgotten."
I groaned, frigging at my pearl as fast as I could. It was nerves rather than judgement, the anxiety of a woman possessed. With my free hand I squeezed my breasts, pulling expressions of approaching ecstasy. It was a game, an act, but one that like most women I am used to playing.
How gullible men are! How easily fooled! How they yearn to believe our climaxes are genuine, and yet how uncaring they are to make them so.
I shuddered with mock delight, anticipating the approach of an enormous orgasm. Stretching my thighs, I forced them to yawn, to pull upon the leaves of disgraced pussy lips.
The spotlight was upon me, I could feel it within me, heating me up, making me perspire, making me wet, a pencil of intensity probing my velvet vagina, penetrating my defiled love tube.
"No one should have the power to take the life of another," I gasped, shuddering at each word, writhing upon the floor, twisting and contorting like a demented demon. My breathing was heavy and laboured. I squeezed hard upon my nipples, begging them to harden. "No one should have the power to enslave another or to determine their sexual behaviour."
In my mind I could see the TV screen, a big juicy close up of my open sex, my finger chattering inside, ten to the dozen, stoking my pearl, heating it up.
"Oh God."
My eyes opened wide, fixed and concentrated upon the darkness. My body arched and stiffened; and for the merest moment my finger froze inside my pussy. I had the sensation of a needle puncturing the skin of my perineum.
"It's wrong," I muttered, my face drooping, my arms and legs becoming heavy. "Execution is wrong. I refuse. Take me to the room of toys. Get it done with. I'm tired. No more. Enough of this game."
There was applause, and unbeknownst to me, the bright white spotlight faded slowly and smoothly to a perfect black matt. I lay inert upon the dusty wood: lifeless, unconscious, and condemned.
My performance was over. Granite and the Weasel continued to gasp in the darkness now, sucking in air without letup or pause.
I was oblivious.
"Cams out!"
I was unconscious.
</Text> </Fragment>
<Reference ID="322789" Date="29 Jul 1984"> <Publication> Secret Vice </Publication> <ByLine> Susan Poole </ByLine> <Name> Off the Wall </Name> <Text>
</Text> </Reference>
<Reference ID="4617139" Date="1 Jul 1984"> <AudioTranscript> PJ Control Room </AudioTranscript> <Channel> Two </Channel> <Position> 0 hrs : 51 mins </Position> <Editor> Carolyn Brown </Editor> <Text>
"She called me Pappa. Did you hear that Stuart?"
"Yes, sir. She was delirious."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Look, I want her out of here. Take her to Adante. Make sure she's unharmed. Remember she's on 21-E. Make sure everyone knows that. No more cock ups. And get Corinne. Let Corinne look after her."
"Of course, sir."
"God, look at her. Isn't she a peach?"
"Yes sir. She's very pretty."
"Just like her mother."
"Her mother, sir? I didn't know you knew Shannon's mother."
"Yes, I knew – know – her mother. Know her very well. Don't you see the resemblance? Even now Stuart? You idiot. That girl is my daughter, my own fucking daughter."
</Text> </Reference>
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