901266

<Fragment ID="901266" Date="2 Jul 1984">

<Title> Slave Girl Convict [12] </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 was awake.

He sat in front of his computer, bleary eyed, the lights dimmed apart from a single naked light bulb that cast eerie shadows across the whole room.

The dreams wouldn't go away. Every night he had them.

Rape is as much an attack on the mind as on the body. Nobody sees, nobody knows, but the wounds of the mind are always raw, they never fade, never disappear. The horror of what happened that day would stay with him for the rest of his life.

It was an assault he had carried alone. While people might empathize with the plight of an assaulted woman, a raped man could only be a freakish embarrassment.

For how can a man be raped?

Even Adam couldn't answer that one, despite all the years of meditation, the dreams and his research.

How could he ever "out" himself?

"Lucky bastard!" people would say. "What are you complaining about?" "A pretty girl? Offering you her body? Most men would give their high teeth for something like that…"

Most men...

How can a raped man expect sympathy, compassion, when his rapist is a pretty girl? It goes against everything we know.

Instead there could only be the unspoken insinuation that he'd secretly enjoyed himself, that while he was protesting his innocence he was inescapably implicated.

Adam flicked from room to room, randomly looking for girls, girls in the prisons lying asleep in their cells, girls on the farm prostrate in the straw, Charlene Dixon, half screwed, half corked.

Most of all, he wanted Shannon. He wanted to watch her, to see her asleep, her untidy brown hair strewn across her tranquil face, her long bare leg protruding from under the untidy sheet. He wanted to see her pleasuring herself, her legs parted, fighting to contain her orgasm. He wanted to see her in the shower, soaping her breasts, the water spraying across her passive face.

Shannon was special; Shannon was unique; Shannon was his daughter.

He hadn't discovered that until later. She'd been taken into care, adopted, vanished from his horizon.

But with privilege comes power. He'd gone to the computer and checked the records, so easy when one has access. It was an abuse of his power, of course, but Adam had done it in good conscience.

Life had robbed him of Catherine, had made her sterile: a dud. It had denied him happiness, any chance of a normal life. It had robbed him of a daughter.

But now he had her. He had found her.

Shannon. Shannon Courtney.

It wouldn't be long now. They would be there soon. He could follow her progress on the telemetry screen. He clicked on the toolbar with his mouse maximizing the window. A map popped up, a single blip illuminating its lower half, near the coastline, marking her position on the road. She was approaching the Arden tunnel. Not long now. Once the car was through the tunnel, she would be his.

Forever his.

Not long now. Not long.

Corinne would be waiting for her. Corrine would make her welcome. Corinne would show her around.

She was his slave mistress, the woman who ran the farm.

He couldn't produce Public Justice, spot its talent and run the farm as well. Something had to give.

"I'm not going to be able to get down here so often," he'd told Corinne when it had all begun to get too much. She'd stood in front of him in the stables with her shaved head bowed, her eyes lowered and her drooping breasts dipping below her spreading waistline. She'd been a real looker in her day, a prize catch, but the years had savaged her. Her skin was now disfigured, the area around her nipples peppered with jagged pink scars, her thighs and back cratered from the repeated whipping. After ten years of faithful service, he'd decided to reward her loyalty with early retirement. He'd her pussy stitched up and her collar unlocked.

In return she looked after the girls, training them how to think and live as a slave.

Adam had spoken to her gently. He was fond of Corinne. She'd always taken her punishments with dignity whether she'd deserved them or not. How often he'd vented his anger on her in the early days, willing her to curse him or to rise up in mutiny. He'd hated big breasted women and Corinne was big breasted. How her tits had suffered! How she'd regretted their size! There had been a rage about him then, an unbridled fury that had taken years to soften. But she had never broken. She'd known what it was to be a slave.

Adam stared unblinkingly at the monitors, at the grainy image of an anonymous woman in one of the holding cells. She was barely recognisable as a woman, just a blur of grey upon a bed, but Adam had to look. The fact that he knew she was unclothed made him look.

He was forever the dusty man at heart.

But his mind was elsewhere. In his dream Corinne was strapped to the back of a wooden horse, her cheeks were spread and her sex exposed. Beautiful red stitches locked her pussy shut. Small butterflies had been threaded into an intricate plait that contrasted with the pure white of her bare mound.

Shannon was at his side, wearing her rich red dress, her legs showcased by sheer black stockings. He was telling her what it meant to be a slave, mulling over what her new name should be. "Notice her composure," he was saying, striking the proffered ass with the open buckle of his belt. "She bears ill-treatment with complete fortitude."

The horse began to rock from the force of his blows and after each one, Corinne ''s anus winked back at him, the only visible sign of her inner agony. He stopped, reminded by it that not all doors were barred. Her pussy might be sewn up, but not her ass.

"Watch," he said. "And imagine yourself in her place. For one day, most certainly you will be."

A long iron spit appeared, and by its own volition prodded the asshole of the bucking woman, slowly sinking into it.

"What should I do?" he asked the bound woman, pinching her pendulous breasts with all his masculine force.

"Whatever Master wishes," Corinne panted in reply, pausing between drawn breaths.

Adam grinned maliciously. He bent down. "I want to see you die," he growled into her ear. "I want the other end of the spit coming out of your mouth, your wrists and feet trussed to its ends and to see you dangling over a roaring bonfire fuelled with branches of dried hawthorn. What do you say to that?"

Corinne bit her lip. Adam was not one to joke with. "Whatever Master wishes," she repeated.

But as she spoke, her voice changed, becoming younger and harder. Adam wasn't phased by this metamorphosis, but rather accepted it at face value as one does in the bizarre world of dreams.

The were small rings upon the ends of this woman's nipples and a tattoo upon her pussy. He saw an upside down cross.

"Let me go, you mother sucker," she screamed, fighting the iron cock invading her back passage. It sank further and further inside her, relentlessly stretching and filling her. Her ass cheeks quivered in pain. "What have I done? What have I ever done to deserve this?"

Adam's eyes hardened.

They always protested their innocence. No one was ever guilty of anything. That's why he'd invented the Wench's chair. Until then, there had only been the innocent in the Room of Toys. All reckoned that justice had been miscarried.

Never had that child been so often aborted.

The girl kicked and bucked upon the rocking horse, struggling against her restraints and against the indignity of her posture. Her big breasts shook and jimmied to her movements.

"You fucking bastard," she sobbed, the spit finally piercing her cervix, lubricating the cold steel with a film of red mucus.

Adam watched with cold detachment, willing the spit on, wanting it to hurt and destroy.

"You wanted to be fucked," he murmured vindictively. "So take your fucking. This is for Kate Clements and all like her. I'll see you in hell, you bastard. And all your murdering family too."

</Text>

</Reference>

<Reference ID="7498994" Date="2 Jul 1984">

<Certificate Type="Death">

<Name> Shannon Courtney </Name>

<Born> 17 January 1969 </Born> !ERROR

<Died> 1 July 1984 </Died>

<PlaceOfDeath>

Beckensfield, CCTV Headquarters

</PlaceOfDeath>

<CauseOfDeath>

Legal Homicide

</CauseOfDeath>

<DoctorCertifying> Dr. Gordon Smythe </DoctorCertifying>

<DoctorCertifying> Dr. Peter Nelson </DoctorCertifying>

</Certificate>

</Reference>

<Reference ID="12112380" Date="19 Nov 1993">

<EmailArchive> CCTV-HQ Secure Mail Server </EmailArchive>

<Text>

To:	Adam Tomlins [adam.tomlins@grimwilliams.co.uk ]
From:	Victoria Wilson [victoria.wilson@publicjustice.co.uk ]
CC:
Created:	Fri 19 Apr 1993 00:16
Subject:	brain splitters
Adam You bastard! You got me. I admit it. What have you done with her? I know you've got Daisy.. God. She's just a kid. That's all. What are you? A pervert? I want her back. Please, Adam. If you're after blood, take me, not her. It's me you want. I'm the pest. You know you want to fuck me, to kill me. I have two arms, two legs, two breasts. Think about it. They could be yours. No more Victoria Wilson. Whatever you want me to do, Ill do. I've written a story. I know you like women who tease you. Read it. I'll lay down for your knife, every November, just like in the story. Think about it, Adam. Victoria Wilson, naked, quaking with fear, awaiting your knife. Just don't hurt Daisy. Please Adam. I beg you. She's all I've got. In desperation, Victoria Wilson Two days in November by Victoria Wilson I have a young lady in mind. She is brunette, with beautiful brown eyes. She is sexy (of course), with large breasts and an attractive, voluptuous figure. She married a rather rich man, a famous surgeon who is older. He has now retired on health grounds since he has a dicky heart. But she is not pure. This young woman has a secret. Every year, on the first weekend in November, she goes away by herself to a small cottage in the country. There, she has a secret lover. He is married too, but they’re very much in love. Every year, in the first week in November, they go away, leaving their families, to enjoy 48 hours of shared intimacy. It is a special time: it is their time. But now it is different. It has been for the last four years. Ever since the woman arrived for her secret rendez-vous with only one leg, severed at the knee. Her husband, the surgeon, had discovered the secret, and in his jealousy, exacted a cruel revenge. “But you can’t stop me from seeing my lover,” she said to him. “You can’t lock me up. I’m not a child. I’d find a way, somehow.” The surgeon agreed. “You’re right. I can’t stop you. But each time you see him, when you return, if you return, then I'll take a little more from off you in revenge. A hand, a leg, an arm. That is the price. The price of your love, the cost of betrayal.” This young woman knows that she could leave her husband. That is the sensible thing to do, the logical thing. But there is a trap. If she leaves, she will forfeit her inheritance. She will have nothing. So she reasons that maybe her husband will only live another year, another two. He is old. He has a heart disease. It can’t be long before he dies, before he bequeaths her his large estate. But it has already been four years since the knowledge of her adultery became known. The first year she lost the bottom half of her left leg as punishment. The second year the remainder went. The third year she lost the lower half of her right leg, the fourth year saw the rest of it go. That was a year ago. It is a year since she lost what was left of her second leg. The stumps are now healed. But she faces an uncertain future because it is the first week in November once again. And she has come to her little cottage once again. She knows that when she returns home, if she returns to her husband, if she has the courage, that he will operate again. Until she awakes, she will have no idea what he will do, what he will remove. But she knows it will be something. She will have to pay the price for these sublime moments of pleasure, this ecstasy with her lover. Maybe her husband will remove a hand, or the lower part of her arm. Maybe he will even remove one of her breasts, her pride and joy. Which will it be? What will she do if he removes one of her breasts? God. How terrible! She will be hideous! Will her lover still find her attractive? Will he still love her, still want her, when her titties are gone? She doesn’t know. But she knows he likes her without her legs. She can see his trousers. She can see the way he is looking at her. She still feels desirable, she still feels wanted. Maybe he will love her even when her titties are gone, and her arms, and… what will be after her arms? What choice does she have but to risk it? What choice? The alternative is beyond comprehension, that she never see her lover again. She would die rather than lose him. For he is her life, her joy, her morning, her evening. Even though she only sees him once a year, she thinks of him often, she holds him in her heart always. What can she do? Her lover is sitting on the bed waiting. She unfastens her jacket, pulls it open, removes her bra, throwing it on the bed. She pulls off her panties. She knows why her lover finds her attractive without her legs. It is novel to him. He is curious. It is different. He has never seen a naked woman without legs before. There is something else he will not have seen. She touches herself. She touches her slit, feeling inside for her pearl. For she knows men. She knows how men like to see a woman doing this, abandoned, wanton, acting the whore. And she wants to be his whore. She wants to be abandoned. She wants to scream, to cry out loud, to show him her passion, to prove that she is truly his woman. She wants to steam him up, that most of all. She wants to excite him, to feel him inside her, penetrating her, filling her, loving her, touching her soul, her mind with his sex. He is the only one who had ever done this to her, has touched her mind with his sex. It was almost a contradiction in words, but she had felt it; he had done it. “Pick me up,” she begs. “Lay me on the bed. Tell me that you love me.” “I do,” he vows, pulling off his shirt. He can’t take his eyes from her, her beauty, her wonderful twins, her smooth slit, her scarred stumps. His tree of pine darts at once to an upright position. He likes her stumps. How well she can see that, and she is pleased. He is attracted to her. Look at his cock! Look at it grow! He pulls off the rest of his clothes and lies upon her, cuddling her, holding her tight. “Don’t go back,” he pleads. “Stay here. Your husband is stronger than he looks. He’s not going to die. He won’t die just to spite us. He’ll live to be an old man, haggard and grey. By then, what will be left, my dearest? What will you be? You can’t go back. Not again! What will he do?” He places his penis at the entrance to her pussy, tickling her a little, rubbing his knob against the wet of her pearl, caressing it, before carefully pushing it inside. She gasps, grasping the sheets with the palms of her hands. Maybe it’s the last time she will do this. Maybe next year she will have no hands. “Love me,” she begs. “I don’t care. I love you, my dearest. I will love you until I am nothing but a beating heart. And even then I will love you. I will love you eternally. Forever. Two days a year at the beginning of November." Remember, Adam. I'll take off my clothes, all of them; lay on your table. I'll submit to your knife. I'm yours, totally. Just give me my daughter.

</Text>

</Reference>