<Fragment ID="900812" Date="2 Jul 1984">

                        <Title> Slave Girl Convict [11] </Title>

                        <Author> Dolcetta (dolcetta AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author>

                        <Author> Grim Williams (gw AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author>

                        <Name> Cathleen Clements </Name>

                        <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location>

                        <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator>

                        <Text>

Adam Tomlins lay slumped upon his red leather chair with his tired head tipped back upon the headrest and his eyes tightly closed. The lights were off, the blinds drawn back and he was dreaming of lost days: of swimming in the sea, of digging sand as a child, of long stimulating walks away from the city and a partner who wasn't ashamed to be at his side.

He was alone, the day was done. His collar was unbuttoned and his mouth was ajar. Half asleep, with his mask of despotic authority put back in its box, he was no different to other men. He was a fragile human with highs and lows like anyone else. The games were over; the show was done. The Weasel and Granite were behind bars; Shannon was on her way to Adante.

He was alone with his dreams and with his past, sinking relentlessly into that murky, ambiguous semi consciousness that is neither wakefulness nor sleep.

The monitors still crackled of course, pumping out their endless flippancy, a shallow babble of emotional despair, of torture and death punctuated by inane comment, stupid quizzes and ridiculous game shows.

That was the world of CCTV.

It was what he did, who he was. It kept bored youths on the straight and narrow, taught them to behave. It educated the populace in a way they found entertaining. But it also had those extra magical ingredients that singled his show as unique: the struggle for survival, illicit glimpses into the bedroom next door, steamy sex, a life beyond the humdrum experience.

Those that criticized him, that misunderstood, frequently labelled him Communist or Fascist, whatever the mood dictated. He was a focal point for their hatreds, for all the wrongs in society. But such misguided individuals couldn't deflect him from his crusade, his personal mission of the past twenty years. The press labelled it "Utopia". They did so in ridicule, to deride his ideas and present them as impractical.

He wanted to make the world a better place for those that deserved it. Those that didn't would be destroyed.

Utopia.

Why not?

"If I have a bad tenant in my house, I kick him out," he'd once said in a magazine interview. "If I have rats or termites, I eradicate them. There's no tinkering or conscience, no other way. Only through uncompromising brutality can we assist the many. Locking people in jail for a year or two may seem humane, but what happens then? You tell me! Everybody knows! In prison, people learn better and more terrible crimes, how not to be caught next time. Where's the sense in that? In a Utopian society the problem of crime must be tackled properly. We must remove those that don't belong, doing so in a way that reminds the rest of us that life is a privilege."

It had been a long personal journey, still ongoing, begun in the depths of anguish, after the tragic suicide of the only person he'd loved.

"Crime is as contagious as Swine Fever or Foot and Mouth," he'd gone on. "The only way to eradicate it is to cull both the diseased and the potentially diseased."

They were big words, brave words.

"But why women?" the article had concluded. "Why do you always go for young, pretty women…?"

Adam had raised a cynical eyebrow and stared the interviewer in the eye. "Because right now, today, this isn't Utopia" he'd replied. "Isn't it obvious? CCTV exists in a commercial marketplace. Its content is governed by what people are prepared to watch. Why are there more Peeping Toms than Peeping Marys? Why rapists but not rapesses? Why does Playboy outsell Playgirl? Utopian ideals must be reached through less than perfect means."

He could change the world; but not its people. The drowning man doesn't check the credentials of his lifeguard. He makes do with whoever is on hand.

And so, for now, it must be women who must suffer.

Like Charlene Dixon.

She'd been a call girl, had lost her virginity at twelve to her step father as a trade for a pair of new trainers. By fifteen she was servicing his colleagues at the factory behind the work's canteen. Twelve months later she was taking six men a night in grubby stairwells littered with junkie's needles and stale discarded condoms.

Was she the delinquent or the victim? The wrongdoer or the wronged?

To Adam she was most definitely the wrongdoer. "We feel sorry for people in bad circumstances," he'd said. "But that doesn't excuse their crimes. Unless we remove all crime and all criminals, there will be a Utopia."

And so right now, somewhere in the building, two technicians smoked cigarettes while caring for their VTRs, languidly watching Charlene being slow crucified upon a transparent wall. It was cheap night time TV, maximizing viewing figures at minimum cost.

The recipe was both ingenious and simple.

All you did was nail a naked woman to a transparent wall. It had to be transparent so that the cameras could cover the angles. Then, you offered her something to rest her body upon so that her weight wasn't pulling so viciously upon her punctured wrists.

A steel cork screw was the most common offering, its gleaming tip callously positioned to the entrance of her pussy, mechanized so that it rotated at a precise rate of once per minute.

A dastardly invention. If Charlene were to succumb to its temptation, she would prolong her life for a short time but at a terrible cost: the cork screw would rupture her love canal in the same way a cork screw splits a wine cork.

"The Final Screw," the trailers had promised.

But if she resisted its temptation, then, hanging by her arms as she was, she would find it increasingly impossible to breathe and would slowly asphyxiate. She would suffocate within the hour, the viewers were told.

But the viewers weren't stupid. They understood that such an outcome could never happen. No one could escape the cork screw. No one. At some stage as the woman fought for breath and her strength ebbed away, her body would inevitably slide down the transparent wall onto its cruel blade, stretching her wide and tearing into her love tunnel.

It was sadistic, vicious and morbidly fascinating. Men went to work bleary eyed, unable to resist staying up to the final plunge.

"Are you coming to bed, darling?" the wife might call.

"Not just yet. I've a few chores to do. I'll be right up…"

And she would sleep, untouched, unloved while in a separate room her man watched every jerk and spasm of a naked tortured woman.

How long could she resist?

Five remote cameras were directed at her, waiting for the inevitable.

Once the cork screw had begun to bite she would get some respite from her distressed arms and chest, but was now caught in a different trap. You can unscrew a cork screw, but you can't pull it out. Gradually, it works its way deeper and deeper inside, each mechanical turn of the screw stretching the pussy more, burying itself into the back of her vagina and beyond.

It would take hours to accomplish, and the end would become a race between death by crucifixion and death by screwing.

And in that uncertainty there was the opportunity for a fast buck.

This, after all, was CCTV.

"Ring the triple fours, 0444 444 444, and tell us how you think convicted felon Charlene Dixon will die. Will her cork be unscrewed or will she be double crossed? That's tonight's competition. Ring us now. The first correct answer picked by our computer will win two fabulous seats to the smash musical, Cheese Cake. Ring us now on 0444 444 444. Calls cost no more than 150p for a two minute call."

Charlene was fighting valiantly to stay away from the cork screw, the wrenching agony in her wrists and arms unbearable. Perspiration drenched her naked body. Her screams were closely monitored by the two technicians. How long could she resist?

For certain, she would never see the sun rise: for the winners would need to have been announced before the 6:00 AM handover to the more lucrative, and therefore infinitely more exciting, Breakfast Television.

In the meantime, the cameras caught every twitch, every groan. They were everywhere, above her, below. One pointed directly between her legs, waiting for that inevitable moment when she sank onto the cork screw and it penetrated her cunt. Once or twice it brushed her lips, but each time she pulled herself up, howling with pain.

The technicians watched their monitors impassively, sucking lazily upon their cigarettes, carefully noting each nervous twitch, each frightened spasm.

These same images played in Adam's office too, unwatched, unimportant. For he slept alone, and yet also with company.

For he too was being watched, the voyeur caught in his own game, watched from the corner of his office. The watcher was a pale, timid figure, tall and elegant, a woman with thick brown hair and small plum like breasts.

"Why always women? Why is it always women that you kill?" The words of the magazine article hung heavy in the air.

The woman stepped unsteadily forward, through the thick mud and dirt of accusation, through the huge divide that separated him from her, finally revealing herself as being young and beautiful, with an intelligent face and soft poignant eyes. She wore a loose white nightdress and flat white slippers. Her hair was tousled and she was without makeup or jewellery.

She sat down painfully at Adam's side, leaning her head upon his knee, sharing his angst, feeling his loneliness. Her head rested upon his thigh, her tears moistened his trousers.

It was a warm familiar spot that she regarded as home.

But Adam didn’t acknowledge this interloper. Not at all. He didn’t open his eyes, nor did he as much as stir a muscle. For he was in that murky ambiguous existence that is neither wakefulness nor sleep. He didn't welcome her with his hand nor greet her with a smile. These were painful mistakes he’d learned from long ago. He knew that if he disturbed the dream, invaded or shattered its transience, then this wonderful apparition would melt into the ether as a shadow dissolving in a squall, driven from his solitary presence, destroyed by the very love that he yearned to bestow.

Adam had pinned a name to this apparition, a lovely name, a beautiful one that fitted her precisely.

Catherine,

Her name was Catherine Clements.

It was a name that he loved, a name that rolled easily from his tongue, that was pleasant to his ear and poetry to his soul.

"Catherine!"

He tensed, the young woman’s attention was suddenly diverted. A young man had called to her, a shy lanky strapling with a joyful laugh and a youthful optimism.

“Hi, sexy,” he laughed, lolloping towards her, a spindly bunch of flowers held out as a present, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. “

All at once Adam saw that the pair were in the open. It was a bright summer day, the colours were bold and the light was bright. The spines of an overhanging willow rustled in the warm breeze, children chattered on the tow path of a narrow canal and a small frenetic dog ran merrily from its owner.

They kissed. It was a warm passionate kiss, her body melting into his, his hands unashamedly grasping the cheeks of her butt, their hungry mouths crumbling into one.

He could smell her perfume, feel the softness of her womanhood. There was no doubting their relationship. She was his woman; he was her man.

When he finally broke the cinch, he gave her the flowers and pulled her playfully along the tow path, laughing at nothing and talking of everything as only those can who have the fever of love.

Soon they were alone, walking merrily along the narrow footpath, dodging the clusters of nettles protruding from beneath a wire fence. Sheep grazed beyond it, and several crows pecked at the grass searching for worms.

Catherine was examining the flowers. "Where did you find them?" she asked, sampling their scent. They were wild, uncultivated. She didn't for a moment imagine that Adam had bought them. "The prefect's garden? The cemetery?"

He checked over his shoulder for eavesdroppers, a grin creasing his face as he contemplated his answer. "Do you know the big house in Acacia Avenue?" he whispered with mock confidentiality. "The one with the big bay windows…?"

She groaned, pulling away from him, frustrated rather than angry. She stared again at the flowers, wondering what to do with them. "Oh my God! Adam!"

Adam chuckled. "Took them right out of the front garden, from between the fuchsia and the chrysanthemum. Not that he saw me. The dog collar was out. I looked for his car: Nowhere. So, I thought, what flower is so sweet or obstacle so challenging…"

Catherine didn't know what to say. It had been a romantic gesture, born of innocence and love. But even so! She despaired of Adam at times. "My father will go mad! He's bound to know it's you!"

For the house in Acacia Avenue was Catherine's own house.

Adam pulled her to him, his fingers wandering down her back and then into the crack between her cheeks, separating them and pulling them apart. She caught her breath as he felt through her clothes, pressing the tip of his little finger against her anus. "Rubbish! What do you think, Kate? That I left a calling card? How will he know it was me?"

She kissed him again, accepting the thickness of his tongue, responding to it eagerly. His finger was now pushing into her ass hole, making her wriggle involuntarily. "Because there's a camera," she mumbled, finding it difficult to talk with his tongue in her mouth. They parted. "Some kids sliced his tyres so he bought it. It looks out of the upstairs window. Adam! How could you!"

He kissed her again. "Because I love you!"

Again, she broke away. "Liar!"

"I do. I promise."

They were kindred spirits; she was a mirror to his soul.

But sometimes there's a price to pay for the impudence of innocence, for the sins of one's youth. God has his Devilish streak, a celestial camera of his own, and he'd watched with disdain.

For what other meaning is there to tragedy?

God had taken dear Catherine's life.

It was a fanciful idea, of course; one that Adam could see through by the logic of the day. But come the loneliness of the night when the sun goes down and the shadows become ghosts; as the past merges with the present and we grope for meaning within distant fragments of broken, abused memory, here, logic was simply a fancy.

How he missed her! The smell of her skin, the turn of her lip, the charm of her laugh!

He remembered those times Catherine had let him into her father's church. It was the only place for them to go. He remembered how they'd sat in the confessional, one in each half, teasing each other, confessing the wicked things they were doing.

"I've taken off my panties and I have my legs wide open and two fingers in my pussy," Catherine had confessed. "What about you?"

It had always been her seducing him; never the other way round.

He'd hastily opened his trousers and had hooked out his tool. "I've got my cock. It's in my hand, as thick as a man's arm, and I'm stroking it, thinking of your fingers in your pussy."

"My pussy's very wet. It's wet because I'm thinking of you."

"God."

She'd grinned secretly to herself. "Is it hard? Your cock?"

"Very hard."

"I thought it might be. That's very bad, you know."

"It is?"

"Of course. Especially in Church. We must make it go soft."

"We?"

"The best way to make it go soft is to use a woman. Tell me what I should do. Tell me how to make it soft."

He'd been confused. "I don't understand."

"Perhaps if I suck it, swallowing your cum. What do you think? That should make it go soft. We must do something. My father says there's nothing more wicked than a man's erection."

He'd hesitated. "I think if you suck it… I think that might work."

They had both come out of their separate halves of the confessional, shyly, eagerly, her totally naked, him completely dressed.

She'd held her hands shyly across her body, burning from the way he was looking at her, but wanting him to touch her, wanting him to love her.

"I'm a virgin, Adam."

"It's my first time, too."

"And I'm frightened."

She hadn't been able to believe how naked she felt. In front of him it felt magnificent.

"I know. You're beautiful."

He'd continued to look, his eyes exploring every inch of her, praising her small breasts, glorying in her flat mound. At last she had been able to bear it no longer.

"Am I really pretty?"

He'd nodded. "You're so sexy I could shoot right now. I'm sure my jism would fly right across and hit the Madonna in the eye. God, Kate. Please. Move your arms. Let me see how pretty you are."

And so shyly she'd done so, swallowing hard, wanting him to look at her, holding her breath, unable to bear the suspense. She'd glanced down at herself, reddening. For her nipples had grown into hard pencils that were as long as her breasts were small. "Adam. Tell me the truth. What do you think?  Do you think they're petite?"

Somehow the word petite was less offensive to her ear. But even so, she would have died on the spot if he'd said yes, if he'd agreed with what she already knew to be true. But instinctively she knew that he wouldn't.

"They're perfect!" he'd sighed. And looking at his cock, she'd known that he meant it.

She'd relaxed. "Adam. Can I touch you… your cock?"

It had jerked up in expectation. He'd nodded.

Timidly, she'd reached out, touching it tentatively with the tips of her fingers, beginning at the tip, moving slowly towards the base. He'd not moved. He'd stood passively, enjoying her touch, his breathing quickening.

But then, all of a sudden, they'd been grasping each other, fumbling and uncertain, greedy and desperate, his hands pawing her naked skin, hers tearing at his clothes, ripping them off. She'd been frightened by the steel of his chest and by the iron of his thighs as they'd wrapped around her, enveloping and suffocating her.

Yet she hadn't dared to ask him to stop or slow down in case that he had.

She'd needed him inside her. She'd needed his prick in her pussy, fucking her.

And so they'd done it. They'd made love on the altar in front of the cross, watched by the Virgin Mary and the crucified Christ.

Again, that had been her idea.

"So that she might see what she'd been missing," Kate had declared.

Afterwards she'd lain on the altar dreaming of heaven wherever that was, him beside her, his strong arm stretched lazily across her breast.

He was the one, her first, the one to whom she'd surrendered her cherry.

Of course, after that, they'd done it many more times, meeting furtively in the obscurity and the darkness of the church. They'd gone at it like rabbits, experimenting in increasingly bizarre ways.

Kate could never get enough cock. "Let me kiss it… sit on it… stroke it…" "Lick me," "Blindfold me," "Tie me," "Whip my butt…"

Where would it have ended?

The Church had become their secret love nest, their increasingly perverse activities watched shyly and with disfavour by a shocked and blushing Madonna.

Had she deigned to punish them for such unpardonable insolence?

Was that why Catherine had to die?

In the loneliness of the night, when shadows turn into ghosts and memories grow warped and twisted, superstition becomes a powerful force and logic and reason, simply idle fancies.

God had spoken to him, and having spoken, Adam could now but struggle vainly to make amends.

He saw some youths leaning over the parapet of a low bridge up ahead of them. There were three of them: a teenage girl and two boys, all punks.

He stared, particularly at the girl.

He couldn't help it, the temptation was too great. For a start there was her dress. She wore a man’s check shirt. It was unbuttoned, with only a single safety pin connecting the two sides. It was untucked at the waist, hanging over badly torn jeans.

Adam also couldn't help noticing that the safety pin hid very little.

But it wasn't just her provocative dress that caught Adam's eye. It was her persona. Her lips were brushed deep mauve, and her cheeks only a shade or so lighter. Her eyes had been daubed black and she wore a crucifix in her ear. She had bright red, spiky hair and was chewing gum.

The boys weren't any more conservative. They had shaved heads and tattoos across their foreheads.

Who were these people?

The redhead was calling out to him.  “Hey mister, you got some spliff?"

Adam shook his head.

But the girl on the bridge wasn't so easily put off. She jumped down from the bridge and sauntered towards them. “Hey mister, I was talking to you!”

Kate tightened her grip on his hand, mistrustful because of the girl's bizarre appearance. "Who is she? Do you know her?"

"I've never seen her in my life."

He stepped forward cautiously, moving in front of Catherine. The boys had followed the redhead off the bridge and were now standing in the middle of the tow path in the variegated shadows of the willow trees, blocking the way.

They were big framed, in their late teens, with a coarse, intimidating presence.

The redhead came close to them, looking first at Adam, and then at Kate. "What's with you shit heads? You deaf? Didn't you hear? I asked a question."

Adam glared back in disbelief, staring at her ferociously. "We were simply minding our business."

One of the boys urged her on. "Don't take crap, Stace! Show 'em who's boss!"

The girl clicked her tongue disapprovingly, visibly annoyed. "Shut up, Merv," she said, pulling a lethal looking knife from under her shirt. "I can handle it!" The knife was about six inches long and an inch or so deep. She lovingly stroked the blade with the ends of her fingers, feeling its sharpness, savouring its menace. It was a wicked weapon quite capable of inflicting serious injury. She glanced up at Adam. "I'll decide whose business you'll mind," she said.

Catherine drew back, crying out in shock, disbelieving at the size of the knife. It was enormous. "Oh my God!"

What was going on here? Adam reached for her hand. His first reaction was to run but one of the boys was circling round him, sidling through the nettles and the briars, cutting off his retreat.

"Calm down there!" Adam bid. Who were these people?

The girl seemed more interested in Kate than in him. She looked her up and down, finally pointing to the small purse on her shoulder. "How much money you got?"

So was that it? They were being robbed?

Kate gave the girl the purse, sensing Adam's agitation. "Don't be stupid, Adam," she warned, worried what he might do. She didn't want any macho heroics. "It's only money. Don't make a scene."

She was right about Adam being angry. Of course he was angry. Money could always be replaced but at what price to his dignity? He was seething inside. It wasn't right, being robbed so easily, by a mere slip of a girl at that!

"Your girlfriend talks sense," the redhead declared, her sharp eyes surveying them closely. Her short hair stuck up in short red tufts, the rise of her breasts stared from inside her check shirt. She opened Kate's purse and looked inside, counting forty pounds in notes and coins.

She nodded towards Adam. "So what about you? How much have you got?"

He straightened stiffly, and then sullenly reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet.

Bristling with rage he slapped it into her outstretched hand.

The girl opened the wallet and searched inside, grinning to herself. "Do you shag her?" she asked, pulling out the notes and cards and slipping them into her jeans. She looked at Catherine, staring mockingly at her small plum like breasts. She dropped Adam's wallet to the ground. "Not much to shag, is there? What a dud! You should get yourself a genuine piece."

"She isn't a dud," Adam mumbled sullenly, defiantly picking his empty wallet from the ground.

Kate reddened with embarrassment. She knew her breasts weren't large. She was flat, she knew that. But to have someone else, a stranger, criticizing her tits and calling her womanhood into question was humiliating. But she stayed calm. She had to. She couldn't risk Adam getting provoked.

The redhead screwed up her face. "Look at her! Of course she's a dud."

The boys sniggered. One of them picked up a stick and used it to flick the skirt of Kate's dress. "Maybe he means what she's missing in the flesh, she makes up for in technique," he said, his stick sliding under Kate's skirt. "Or that she lets him fuck her ass. Is that how she does it?"

"God!" Adam was appalled: "Shut up! What's that to you? Nothing. Leave her alone!"

The redhead stepped forward and raised her knife, steadily pressing the blade against the lump on Adam's throat until she'd drawn a single red drop of blood. "I'm horny," she hissed. "I want to be fucked. And I've got what this dud' ain't."

"Adam!"

The girl lifted her shirt, exposing her breasts. She did it wantonly, theatrically. They were large and fleshy with small gold rings piercing each nipple. She rubbed them in turn, licking her nipples, showing off her own superiority. Of course, Adam should have looked away, he should have been loyal to Catherine and dropped his gaze, but he was a young adolescent. The problem was, the longer he looked, the harder it became to look away, and with the knife ledged where it was, pressing against his neck, he had the gift of an excuse.

The girl held her bunched shirt with one hand, the knife in the other. "Do I turn you on?" she teased, slowly undulating from side to side, deliberately making her weighty bosoms jiggle.

Kate's cries were becoming more desperate. "Adam!"

Adam heard a scraping noise from behind, shoes scuffing along the earth, the swish of disturbed plants. God. Catherine! What was happening to Catherine?

"Adam!"

The boys had grabbed hold of her. They were trying to kiss her on the mouth but she was pulling away from them. Adam could hear, but couldn't see. The knife was pressed against his throat.

"Leave her alone!" he managed to splutter, trying to turn his head but still being made to stare at the punk girl's breasts. "You bastards!"

“Tell your girl to take her things off,” the girl menaced, pricking his throat with the tip of the knife.  "Tell her to be friendly."

Adam's heart jumped.

There. It was out. They were going to… God, no!

He frantically prayed for some kind of help. Shit! Surely there must be someone walking along the tow path that would help them!

He could just see Catherine out of the corner of his eye. She'd been pushed forward, whether deliberately or coincidentally he couldn't tell. He could see the two boys fingering her dress, playing with the collar, touching the hem. They looked at him mockingly, waiting for him to tell Catherine to undress.

Dear God! Please, no!

There was a long silence. "Leave her alone," Adam begged, a squeak in his voice betraying his fear. He saw Kate's flowers drooping in her hand, her fingers clenched into a ball. She too was waiting… expecting…

God.

His eyes hardened. His anger boiled over. "I'll fucking kill you bastards…you think you're so smart…"

Catherine was distraught. “Adam! Please! Christ, stay calm."

The girl grasped his balls through his trousers, weighing them as she would a large bunch of grapes. She grinned, bouncing them carelessly in her palm. "Yeah, stay calm, Adam. Otherwise I might get mad and cut off your dick, what do you think? Then there'd be nothing for your dud to play with."

"Shit!"

"So what are you going to do? Tell me. I want to know. Will you fuck me? Is that what you'll do? I want to be fucked. I want to feel your angry dick ramming my pussy, pumping me full of your honey. And the dud can watch while my brothers take her up the ass."

Adam shivered with anger! "God. You're monsters! You know that! Monsters!"

But what could he do? She had the knife in one hand caressing the underside of his jaw, and with the other she played with his balls through the material of his trousers.

"Can you imagine how painful it would be if I squeezed?" she smirked. She was an amused cat toying with a mouse. "How it would bring tears to your eyes?"

Adam fought to hold his dignity, holding her gaze, staring back defiantly. But he was powerless to resist her. There was nothing he could do and she knew it. As if to demonstrate her power and to humiliate him further, she unzipped his trousers and hooked out his cock, stroking it carefully, laughing as it lengthened and hardened in her grasp. "Would you like to fuck me? I bet I can make you fuck me. Tell me how you love the size of my titties, how you wonder about the colour of my pussy hair."

All the time she played with his cock, flicking it up and down, pulling back the foreskin and massaging his balls.

He didn't know what to do. What could he do? He wanted to resist her, but his cock had other ideas. He couldn't control it. "Let us go," he mumbled. He wondered whether her body hair was also red. "What are you after? What can we possibly have done?"

She laughed, removing her shirt completely. "You don't mean that. Look how much he likes me. Why would he want a dud when he can have the real thing? Would you like to see my pussy?"

Adam began to panic. The pressure was building as she squeezed her hand into a fist compressing his balls. What would happen? Would they crack? Tears were forming in his eyes. "No!"

"Tell her. Tell the dud to undress!"

His cock was hardening. Why? Of all the perverse things for it to do! He'd never seen a woman with bright red pussy hair.

"Tell her that you want her to take off her clothes…"

He glanced tentatively at Kate, not saying a thing, his penis was growing and thickening. His heart was thumping, hurting the walls of his chest. "No!"

It hurt. God, it hurt! She was crushing him, crushing his balls, constricting them, tighter and tighter. Fuck! His body bent forward. He was gasping. Shit! "No."

If you tell her to undress, I'll let you fuck me…"

Kate swallowed hard. She blushed and dropped her eyes. It was only a matter of time. Her hands went to the zip of her dress. Where was the point in prolonging it? Of having Adam blame himself for not being able to resist?

She slipped the dress from her shoulders. "Catherine! Please! No!"

The boys grinned, glancing knowingly at each other. "Take it off. All of it," they said.

"You're to be nice to my brothers, you hear?" the girl smirked broadly, finally letting go of Adam's balls. "I told them if I got the dude, they could take the dud."

She coerced Adam to the ground and sat astride his thighs, tickling his cock with her knife. "Hello, Mister!" she gurgled, snagging through his shirt and trousers with her knife. "You're to forget that dud, you here? Stacy's going to make everything better. Stacy's going to give you the time of your life."

His clothes were a mess, a tangled mire of torn fibres and cloth. But in the middle was his cock, proud and firm and inescapably hard.

The girl cooed softly, standing up, pressing the heel of her shoe softly into his groin. She jiggled her breasts at him. "See. Stacy's going to make you forget that dud, make you forget her forever." She unbuckled her jeans and hauled them down, tugging her panties with them, exposing to him her eager womanhood.

But Adam wouldn't look. He dropped his eyes, determined to do better this time, to be loyal to dear abused Kate. She was undressing, taking the initiative in removing her clothes, sacrificing herself for him. Surely in return, he could rise above his curiosity. How could he look Kate again in the eye otherwise?

But the girl had other ideas. She tutted reproachfully, pressing the edge of her heel more firmly into his genitalia. "Naughty, naughty," she grinned, teasing him, taking hold of her pussy lips and spreading them with her fingers, opening up her whole pussy to him.

But still he refused to look. So she twisted her foot, digging her heel hard into the base of his cock. He gasped in pain, automatically lifting his eyes to look heavenward at her open pussy.

Damn her! Damn the bitch!

It wasn't red. Her pussy was entirely bald of hair, as bare as a little girl, but tattooed with a single upside down cross.

Oh God. What was he going to do? How could he stop her?

Kate was nearby, shyly removing her bra, knowing that she would be further tormented by the result. The two boys egged her on. One of them had a stick and was prodding her ribs with it while the other tugged at the waistband of her panties, helping them down.

At last they had her naked. There she was, beautiful Kate, being teased and humiliated and told she was a joke. And she bore it like a lady. Her breathing was broken and hurried but her eyes remained angry and dry.

One of them grabbed her arms, pulling them behind her back, while the other slapped her breasts and pinched her bare nipples, joking that maybe such things would encourage a little growth. He bit them and licked them and spent an abnormal amount of time talking of them, considering they were supposed to be so freakish.

But suddenly he had to think about himself.  The redhead was sitting astride him, her legs parted, planting herself on his cock. They touched, the knob of his penis pressing against her lips, stretching them, pushing them open.

"Hey, there! Who's a pretty boy, then?" she cackled in delight, slowly sinking down onto him, a contented smile spreading across the vivid mask of her punkish makeup.

"Stacy wants your cum… Stacy wants your baby…"

                        </Text>

</Reference>

<Reference ID="301162" Date="6 Dec 1992">  

                        <Publication> The National Independent </Publication>

                        <Page> Twenty Nine </Page>

                        <ByLine> David Oaks </ByLine>

                        <Name> Voting Glitch  </Name>

<Reference ID="301162" Date="14 Aug 1984">  

                        <Publication> The National Independent </Publication>

                        <Page> Six </Page>

                        <ByLine> Jane Milne </ByLine>

                        <Name> None  </Name>

                        <Text>

                        </Text>

</Reference>