by Ian Smith
“The marks will have gone in a day or so,” he told her. “So, were you looking forwards to sleeping with him?”
“No, Master, of course not. But ... he wouldn’t exactly have been my first,” she added bitterly.
“I should hope not. That’s one of your most fundamental duties, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Master,” admitted Rosie, humiliated.
“Now, let’s move on to the events of yesterday and last night. Tell me everything you saw, every little detail.”
This took some time. Rosie went through the whole day even down to what everybody had for breakfast and in copious detail the evening. Williams whipped her half a dozen times when she missed anything or hesitated. In the end he got the full story and all the time the tape spools turned. If he was hoping for a lead to either who or how had killed Edward Harris, he was disappointed. At the end of it, Rosie hung in her bonds, her body on fire, sobbing. He switched off the tape, took it out and summoned the two Arab thugs once more. They took Rosie down from the chains and, although their mere presence repulsed her, she had to cling to them for support.
“Put her in a holding cell until my officers have finished with the other slaves,” Williams said.
“Yes, Sir,” the one grunted. “Can we...”
“Haven’t you got enough girls in this place to keep you going? She doesn’t belong to us and her owner is an important man with a lot of clout. Still ... she is in police custody. Just don’t leave any signs.” He left the room.
The two thugs were already dropping their trousers. Two distressingly large male organs came in sight. Groaning softly and knowing that resistance would be very stupid, Rosie rolled over onto her back on the cold stone floor and spread her lissom legs. The first thug crawled on top of her, his fetid breath on her face. She turned her face away as she felt his fingers open her sacred orifice up ready for his rigid manhood to invade.
Flashback Five
“Hold your hand out, palm up.”
Rosie whimpered. Reluctantly shaking, inch by inch, she began to extend her hand as ordered, but when he raised the strap he was holding, her hand shot back.
“Not good enough,” said the harsh male voice. The man flicked a switch.
“No! No!” Rosie protested and quickly extended her hand once more, but the man was already pulling the curtain away and walking off.
“Please!” Rosie called after him, but all she could see was the curtain drop back into place. There was nothing she could do but wait for the inevitable.
Rosie was standing on a metal plate her ankles secured by leather cuffs so that her feet could not move and had to remain flat on the plate. The switch he had flicked would now begin to heat the plate until it was too hot to stand on and yet she would have to stand there, her feet burning. Already she could feel it becoming lukewarm.
Rosie was naked except for the metal chastity belt. She had been so ever since that dreadful moment when she’d been forced to strip and, on admitting her virginity, had been fitted with the belt. She had been here two days now; in that time, she hadn’t had a decent bath or shower, instead being hosed down from time to time by a cold, powerful jet and she felt dishevelled and dispirited. She had spent most of the time in a tiny cell, isolated from her friends; there was a crude toilet in the corner that the chastity belt did not prevent her from using. The time spent in the cell was horrible: she felt lonely and frightened and from time to time she could hear the dim echo of a female scream somewhere in the labyrinthine building which sent shivers down her spine. Even so, being in the cell was far better than this. This was her third “training session” so far. On the first two, she had been forced by the whip into all sorts of lewd displays of her body; this time the emphasis was on accepting punishment. Already she had been made, through fear of much worse things, to drape herself over the lap of her “trainer” and lie there passively whilst her bottom was spanked (the chastity belt left her cheeks totally bare and unprotected) and now she was on the plate which was getting hot for the third time. Elsewhere in the large room unseen because of the curtains, she could hear other girls yelping and pleading and the sound of leather hitting flesh. Some of the voices she could recognise as her team mates - voices which sounded very different to their usual timbre - whilst others were of different, unknown girls.
The plate on which she stood was now painfully hot and she knew it would still get hotter. Rosie tried to lift one of her burning feet off it, but the ankle cuffs held her firmly. It hurt, it hurt! She was sweating profusely, but she barely noticed. The plate was getting even hotter and tears were running down her cheeks. If only he would come back! How could he be so cruel?
At last the curtain was drawn aside and he was there. She was so relieved to see him! “Please!” she gasped.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to do as you are told?”
“Yes! Oh yes! Anything!”
He didn’t move. “The next time you are weak and disobedient, I’ll leave the plate on for twenty minutes!”
Rosie wanted to faint. “No, please, I won’t!” she said incoherently. “Please turn it off!”
His hand hovered over the switch, but did not touch it. “So, are you going to be a good girl?”
Rosie’s feet felt as if they were cooking. She had absolutely no choice. “Yes, yes!”
“Are you sure?”
She couldn’t bear any more of the pain on the soles of her feet. “Yes, anything,” she wept, defeated.
He flicked the switch. Immediately Rosie could feel the plate’s temperature start to fall, although it was still painfully high. “Hold your hand out,” he ordered.
Rosie did not hesitate. It was the lesser of two evils. You must be brave and keep still, she told herself forcefully. The heat of the plate was still uncomfortable; twenty minutes on full power was unthinkable.
Thwack!
Her palm stung as he brought the leather down across it. Somehow Rosie held still.
Thwack!
The sting increased considerably. Rosie fought a desperate battle with herself to hold still.
Thwack!
Only by remembering the pain in her feet, which still throbbed, could Rosie make herself take this.
“Other hand.” His voice was cool, authoritative, brooking no alternative. Rosie withdrew her throbbing left hand, placing it under her armpit in a vain attempt to lessen the sting, and held out her right palm to take its share.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
Now both palms ached and felt swollen and bruised. “Bend over,” he ordered sharply. Chewing her lip, Rosie obeyed, placing her hands on her knees for support.
Thwack!
Fresh fire erupted in her bottom as he laid the leather across her cheeks. Rosie gasped but made herself stand still.
“What are you, girl?”
“A slave, Master,” Rosie replied miserably. She was growing accustomed to these question and answer interludes.
Thwack!
“Presumptuous little minx! Not yet, you’re not!”
“A trainee slave, Master,” Rosie amended.
“That’s better. Keen to become fully trained, are we?”
“Oh yes, Master,” Rosie said quickly. He did not reply, so she knew she had to expand on her answer. “I want to be out of here and serving a Master, giving him pleasure with my body,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. She was, after all, still a virgin, despite her naked state.
Thwack! Rosie’s bottom was beginning to feel sore.
“You just want to be out of here,” he told her flatly. “But never mind, what type of man are you hoping will buy you?”
Rosie’s mind worked frantically. What sort of answer was best? A kind and merciful man? That might not be an advisable reply.
/> Thwack!
She had spent too long thinking out her reply. “A handsome man, Master,” she said hurriedly, the first thing to come into her mind.
Thwack!
“If you get bought by the ugliest, fattest old man in Xanxta, you’d better give him the same service you’d give to a young man with film star looks,” he snapped.
“Yes, Master, of course I will,” Rosie said hurriedly. She would have to! It wasn’t a nice thought.
“So, what sort of man?” he persisted.
A light dawned. “Any man, Master, as long as you get a good price for me, so you make a good profit.”
“You fawning little slut,” he said, amused. “But it’s about right. Of course, you could get bought by a woman.” For a moment, Rosie saw that as salvation, thinking of a kind woman who might look after her, almost mother her. Then it occurred to her that a woman who bought a female slave was more likely to be a lesbian. That was almost worse than being bought by a man.
It seemed that there was no escape from her fate; and what was more, she was desperate for it to happen, so that she could get away from this dreadful slave centre. Surely nothing could be as bad as this!
Chapter Six
Rosie had been left in a cell for several hours. Every time footsteps came near, her heart seemed to stop beating, but they always passed her cell by. Her mind went back once again to those first terrible days, her slave training. Yes, she had been glad to get out, to become a slave, to be sold to Tyler Mason, even though she was raped on her first night at his mansion and, her virginity gone, was subsequently passed around many of his friends, houseguests and his revolting brother, as well as being treated as a skivvy and abused and humiliated in so many different and awful ways. It had all been hard: but it was better than being in the Slave Training Centre. In this place, all your worst nightmares came true, and there was no escape by waking up.
At last one of the guards came to her cell. Rosie stood up nervously as he entered, her body stiff from her whipping and double ravaging. She feared more interrogation, but instead she was taken outside the front of the building. It was evening now and the sun was fading, taking most of the heat with it; Rosie felt quite cool. Charlotte and Cora were there, both still as naked as she was. Cora stood away from them, as she usually did, but Charlotte came forwards and the two girls embraced quietly.
As they parted, Rosie noticed that her friend’s front was bright red. “Martinet?” she asked quietly.
The redhead nodded soberly. “He put a vibrator up me first for a while, till my nipples were hard and sensitive. It hurts more that way.”
“How about Cora?”
“She’s got a well marked bum: cane, I reckon.” Charlotte didn’t show any sympathy for the older woman, who neither of them liked. “You?”
“Electric shocks, then a bullwhip. Cassandra?”
“She hasn’t come out yet. We’ve got to wait for her and Ashley’s being harnessed to the cart.”
“Did he really need to torture us like that?”
“Probably not but I’d guess he was having fun.”
“Bastard.” Rosie spoke very quietly. At that moment, Cassandra emerged from the building. Her red eyes indicated that her stay had been no more pleasant than that of the other girls, and her reddened, rope-marked and welted breasts suggested the manner of her own suffering. The four naked females waited a while longer and then Ashley appeared from around the corner, pulling the cart behind him. He came to a halt outside the front of the building and all of them now waited. Rosie was conscious of the fact that it was growing considerably cooler now, as it did at dusk in this land, and the slightest prickles of goose pimples were starting to form on her bare skin. It was something of a relief when Police Chief Winters came out of the building, settled himself into the cart, and cracked the whip over Ashley’s back, adding to the welts already there. The cart started off and the four nude girls began jogging behind it.
When they arrived at Tyler Mansion, evening meal was in full flow. A highly harassed Bassett was directing three naked slave girls, whom Rosie presumed were hired from The Slave Shop, as they hurried about their tasks. The girls were quite pretty and evidently experienced slaves. Rosie almost felt a pang of highly irrational jealousy, although she noticed that Master Freddie was having a field day groping them and they were welcome to that as far as she was concerned. She, Charlotte and Cassandra were instructed to quickly put their uniforms on and soon the three of them had taken over serving, their tits as usual jutting out from the cut-outs in the fronts of their maids’ outfits. The three hired girls were dismissed somewhat to Master Freddie’s disappointment, and Bassett was instructed to arrange for their return to the shop and the payment of the fee.
Around the table were Tyler and Joanne Mason, Freddie, Elizabeth, Dr. Chase, Philip Saunders and Donald Peters. Jefferson Williams was waved to a spare seat and Rosie moved forwards to serve him a meal, trying to forget the pain he had inflicted on her only a few hours ago.
“So, Chief Williams,” Tyler Mason said, “I trust that after you deprived us of our slaves all day that you have made substantial progress. Are you ready to make an arrest?”
“I am pursuing several lines of enquiry,” Williams replied carefully.
“He means he doesn’t have a clue who did it,” Freddie Mason observed.
“Or how, which intrigues me more,” Philip Saunders added.
“It’s a very complex case,” admitted the police chief. “So, we have to get as much data as we can to give us a chance to work it out.”
“I understood you were leaving that to our guest here,” said Tyler Mason, nodding towards Donald Peters.
“They tell us you are an expert in complex cases, Mr. Peters,” said Joanne Mason smoothly, covering her husband’s rudeness as best she could.
“I’ve handled a fair few cases over the years,” admitted Donald. “Certainly this is one of the more interesting ones.”
“Interesting! Impossible, more like,” Philip Saunders said.
“It happened, so it can’t be impossible,” Donald replied mildly.
“So how was it done?” the dentist persisted.
The detective did not reply straight away. “At this stage, I have to admit I don’t know. Certain other things are becoming clearer in my mind, but the method ... I have to admit I’m stumped on that.”
“Do you mean that you know who did it?” Elizabeth Saunders asked.
Donald Peters smiled. “There are indications. But until I can work out how it was done, I think it’s best to say nothing.”
Freddie Mason looked up from his close inspection of Cassandra’s boobs, having pulled the blonde onto his lap. “Tell us this, then: do you think anybody else is in danger?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
Tyler Mason grunted. “Well, nobody will be in danger in that room. Now your police team has finally finished with it, I’ve had it locked up and it can stay like that.”
“That seems a reasonable precaution, Tyler,” Dr. Steven Chase said politely.
“Actually, I don’t think the room is dangerous,” Donald Peters disagreed mildly.
Faces turned to him. “Several people have died there,” Philip Saunders pointed out.
“Two, to be exact, before Edward Harris,” Donald said. “I did some checking of records in the coroner’s office this afternoon. In both cases, they were recorded as natural causes and I have no reason to suppose they were anything else. But two deaths means that the room acquired a reputation and legends have been born from less. Somebody then decided to take advantage of that reputation.”
“Who?” asked Joanne Mason.
“The murderer, madam,” Donald replied quietly.
There was a long silence. Rosie looked around the room. Each of the Mason family and their two g
uests looked anywhere but at each other, for fear of suggesting the suspicions that hung in the air. Jefferson Williams was watching carefully, trying vainly to spot any indications of guiltiness. Charlotte had her eyes lowered as she quietly cleared things away, whilst Cassandra was occupied with Freddie Mason’s hand under her tiny skirt, trying to look to him as if she was enjoying herself whilst to Joanne Mason she gave a picture of pained acceptance. Rosie herself just felt very frightened.
Tyler Mason had enough sense to bring the meal to a close. “You’ll be our guest tonight, of course, Mr. Peters?”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason, that would be most helpful.”
“Slave Rosie, you will attend to him.”
“Yes, Master,” said Rosie immediately, masking her own feelings of dismay.
The party broke up. Rosie showed the detective to one of the guest rooms, whilst Ashley was sent to collect his luggage. She had barely shown him into the room when there was a knock on the door. Jefferson Williams came in, holding several cassette tapes and a portable player.
“These are the recordings from the interviews, Don,” he said.
“Thank you, Jeff. I’ll listen to them tonight.”
“Were you bluffing when you said you were on to the murderer?”
Donald Peters smiled and looked his friend in the eye. “That’s not quite what I said, Jeff.”
“You suggested it.”
“Well, if I suggested it, it must be true. See you in the morning.”
The police chief stood his ground. “Just tell me this: can you solve this almighty tangle?”
The smile faded slightly. “I’ve got a few ideas in terms of who did it. Proving it might be more difficult. The trouble is that, to be frank with you, I don’t have a clue how it was done.”
