The Girlflesh Castle

by Adriana Arden

  ‘I’ll add a brief editorial to put it all in context and then we’re ready to go,’ Zara continued. ‘I’ll cover the Director’s address. She wants you and Kashika up on the podium with her.’

  The thought of being in the spotlight suddenly made Vanessa feel absurdly nervous. Then the absurdity of her response struck her. A naked sex-slave feeling shy!

  At lunchtime she had a visitor to her desk. It was Sandra, a pretty, slim, white-collar girl with shaven pubes and a ponytail of blonde hair. She had attended Vanessa during that first frightening, confusing, life-changing day she had served as a sex-slave.

  She hugged and kissed Vanessa. ‘I heard what happened. Was it terrible?’

  ‘The Director told me to write it up so everybody knows the facts. You’ll be able to read all about it in a few hours.’

  ‘And Harvey Rochester was responsible?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s not given up attacking us?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it.’

  Sandra was normally confident and composed far beyond her years but suddenly she appeared very young and vulnerable. ‘He mustn’t destroy Shiller’s. It’s the only life I know!’

  That afternoon level B3 came alive and Vanessa could see it for what it was: a tiny secret underground village of slave girls.

  The girls came in from where they had been serving on other floors of the tower, excused from training regimes, taking time out from play or rest, attending before being shipped off to work in an outlying facility or entertain at some country house party. They flowed along the broad central corridor, known of course as the ‘High Street’, in a many-hued tide of flesh, bare but for multicoloured collars and personal adornments of ribbons, bangles and assorted footwear ranging from sandals to high-heels. The sudden announcement of an unscheduled personal address by the Director had caused puzzled excitement and there was much curious chatter as they filed in through the gates of the yard at the end of the High Street.

  This was where new slaves were trained and where their ceremonies of welcome and graduation were held, making it convenient for today’s address. Slave hutches, kennels, posts and racks were arrayed about its perimeter.

  Vanessa watched the girls form into a semi-circle about the low podium that had been set up to one side of the yard. Trapped as it was under the false sky, she could feel the heat of their bodies, the scent of bare flesh and twenty different perfumes, mingled with the natural exudation of female lubrication that emanated from lovemouths that had been trained to express arousal freely and without shame. It was a strange and undeniably erotic sight made even more wonderful because Vanessa knew each girl was present of her own free will. But now that freedom was threatened.

  She knelt beside Kashika on the podium. With them were the six regular slave girl trainers, all individually dressed according to personal taste. Apart from Miss Kyle there was muscular black Mister Winston in black leather knee boots and matching thong, slender blonde Miss Scott in a black pvc bikini, Mister McGarry in leather trousers and harness top, blonde athletic Mister Tyler in shorts and singlet and Mister Hirsch in calf-length boots and brief leather pouch.

  Despite their very different styles, today all the trainers wore set faces. They knew what had happened, of course. The quirky thought struck Vanessa that if Rochester triumphed they’d be out of a job. What would they do then? Did they have ordinary lives, interests and occupations? She’d only ever seen them handling the girls. It was hard to imagine they could ever be ordinary people. Shiller gave a home and purpose to more than just natural-born submissives.

  Shiller appeared and made her way up to the podium. The buzz of conversation faded. Perhaps the smallest, most sombrely dressed person there, she still commanded instant respect and attention.

  ‘I’ve had you gathered here because of an incident that occurred yesterday evening, involving Vanessa Nineteen White and Kashika Five Cherry. You will be able to read the full details in a special edition of Girlflesh News that will be distributed very shortly, but essentially it involved a new attempt by Sir Harvey Rochester to obtain images of you together with prestigious clients, and thereby subvert this company’s girlflesh trade.’

  A murmur of alarm rippled though the ranks of girls. Vanessa actually saw normally perkily erect nipples shrinking in dismay.

  Shiller raised her hands in a calming gesture. ‘However, I’m glad to say, due to the bravery of the girls involved and swift action by our security team, that the attempt failed. There is no immediate danger. But you will understand that security must be tightened to prevent any further attempts at infiltration. This will involve thorough body searches of all girls entering or leaving the building for personal visits unescorted.’

  At this point Shiller suddenly smiled almost mischievously with a twinkle in her eye, yet somehow without losing any sense of dignity. Vanessa felt the mood immediately lighten.

  ‘Now, I suspect most of you have no objection to your orifices being deeply probed by the more robust members of our security staff and may indeed find the experience enjoyable …’ there was a ripple of laughter ‘… but I wanted you to be in no doubt that this in any way reflects a lack of confidence in you or your discretion. I trust you always to maintain this company’s standards of quality and service whatever may come. I promise I will do everything in my power to defeat Rochester, but there is a very real possibility that he will try again, perhaps by some other means. All I ask is for your continued vigilance and understanding, the precious gift of your bodies and the boundless delight you take in submission. Together we will prevail!’

  A wave of applause filled the yard, girls and trainers as one. Even as she joined in Vanessa felt the lump return to her throat. Were slaves anywhere praised so highly by their Mistress? Only Shiller slaves. Surely something so unique could not be allowed to fail!

  Five

  TEN DAYS PASSED after Shiller’s speech in the training yard. Vanessa thought of it as an interlude while she waited for either Shiller or Rochester to make the next decisive move. Meanwhile life continued normally down in B3, or at least what was accepted as normal in such a strange place.

  The chain girls, who had read Vanessa’s account in the GN special edition with avid interest, were all deeply sympathetic. Every time she went down to B3 she received an embarrassing amount of attention and many barely veiled submissive offers of pleasure from off-duty girls that she had to politely decline. It was all very flattering and made her feel like a slave girl champion, bravely defying Rochester on their behalf. Shiller was doing so all the time, of course, but the machinations and manoeuvres of big business were remote, whereas they could identify personally with a girl strapped to a bed having her nipples and pussy zapped.

  Some of their enquiries concerning her responses to that incident verged on the clinically intimate, and she became involved in debates over the merits of electrical versus physical torture. It was not what had been done to her and Kashika but who had done it and for what purpose that won their sympathy. That was what they found both frightening and indefensible. The helplessness, pain and sexual stimulation she had undergone, taken in isolation, were something else entirely. In other circumstances they could be the source both of personal pleasure and entertainment to the tormentor.

  Her candid admission that the pain had driven her to wet herself was another point of interest, at least to other slave girls. There was widespread admission that the act of peeing when aroused could be exciting and might even trigger an orgasm. They all seemed to have tails about clients who had forced it upon them at various times. The joys of lying in cooling pee on a bed divided opinion, and the value of a rubber sheet or a fabric one were hotly debated. They were all agreed, however, that a remote-controlled inflatable bit-gag was a neat idea.

  Only slave girls could turn such an incident on its head like that, Vanessa thought with pride, and only Shiller girls could discuss it so openly. She might suggest to Zara that a forum for such matters be open
ed in GN.

  Vanessa wrote up her piece on the clinic for the next regular issue of GN, though she thought it might be a little anticlimactic compared to her dramatic exclusive. Still the clinic’s work deserved to be documented and it would interest girls about to serve there. It should be that sort of story she wrote all the time, she thought resentfully, not revelations of clandestine assaults and warning of threats to their very way of life.

  Another of these pieces was coverage of the new security measures. The practical consequence was a simple device, made of scaffolding poles, of two upright posts in front of a horizontal bar, being set up by the B3 lift doors. All girls entering or leaving the level in street clothes would have to be searched and scanned for electronic devices. Mister Jarvis and the other changing room and dormitory guards were also empowered to make extra locker checks of clothes and possessions. Vanessa recorded these changes and added a personal plea for the girls to accept them.

  That the new measures were accepted without resentment or an apparent drop in morale was partly due to Shiller’s decision to trust the girls with the truth and partly the self-discipline that existed in B3. This was not the kind of discipline enforced by chains and whips, but the sort that grew out of the sense of community and shared purpose that all the chain sisters felt. The new ritual that accompanied the process reinforced this mood. Kashika came up with a rhyme to go with it, which was reprinted in GN, much to her delight.

  ‘Please lift our skirts and lower our knicks,

  Search pussy, tits and derrière.

  With welcoming mouths we Shiller chicks,

  Show we have nothing to declare.’

  The girls bent over the frame, grasped the uprights and spread their legs in a submissive accessible posture, but they were not restrained. Hair, if long and normally tied up, was left loose. They then begged to be searched, some of them chanting Kashika’s rhyme. A scanner was run over them, their mouths, hair and cleavage were checked and their vagina and rectum probed. By encouraging the girls to ask for the search it made it seem less of an imposition. Shiller had taken up Vanessa’s suggestion and every once in a while a selected girl would be given a dummy camera or other object to attempt to smuggle out. So far none had succeeded.

  But Vanessa was only too aware that Rochester had not given up. He’d had a taste of personal revenge but once again he’d been cheated of his ultimate goal of destroying Shiller and taking over her girlflesh business. He might, with some justification, blame Vanessa for this latest failure and hate her even more, and he was a powerful and vindictive man. It was not a pleasant thought.

  Vanessa did not return to her flat except accompanied by a security guard to check her post and see all was well. She spent her days in the office and nights down in level B3. She would have loved to share a dormitory with Kashika and the Cherry Chain girls, but instead she was passed around between the trainers and stayed in their chalets.

  Having spent years training slave girls, dominance came as second nature to them and they bore an unquestioning air of authority that required total obedience in return. They made use of Vanessa in their individual ways and she was perfectly content to serve them, relishing her surrender of choice.

  It felt right that she serve as often as possible like an ordinary chain girl. It was also the perfect antidote to any danger of her quasi-celebrity status amongst the girls going to her head and would help maintain her empathy with them and keep her writing focused on their viewpoint. These were the people who had trained Kashika and Cherry Chain only a few months ago. Vanessa had not undergone any formal slave training and had learnt by example and necessity as she went along, discovering her own secret pain-slut submissive nature along the way. Of course she didn’t need to be restrained at night to keep her from trying to escape any more than other Shiller chain girls, but it was unthinkable to stay in the building as a free woman. It was no good having the submissive instinct if it was not regularly exercised. Besides, it made her feel safe. The highlights stood out in her mind long afterward …

  Mister Hirsch used her rear as a footstool while he watched a DVD of a classic black and white western. She was bound face down on her knees with her arms pulled back under her and cuffed to a short bar that also secured her ankles. A strap went round both her elbows and knees, pulling them inward. This pushed her bottom up high with her sexmouth pouting between her thighs. She was placed so this aspect faced him as he lounged back in a big club chair. He was naked except for a pair of highly-tooled leather boots complete with spurs that he rested on her bottom. The peak of her posterior supported the lower calves of his boots, so the spurs overhung and just brushed the curve of her lower back. As the film progressed, however, he began to shift his feet and run the spurs back and forth across the taut swell of her buttocks, or else probe her cleft with the silver toecaps of his boots. By the time the film was done she was desperate for his cock, which he duly obliged by feeding into her sopping cleft.

  Miss Scott had her dress in a maid’s cap and pinny and made her scrub floors, clean and polish her chalet until it was spotless. The slightest fault was rewarded by a swipe of a cane across the upper slopes of her breasts while she knelt meekly with hands folded behind her. She was then taken to the shower and made to scrub her mistress’s back and bottom. As she was kneeling engaged in this activity Miss Scott turned about, pushed Vanessa’s head down and peed over her. As the hot water flowed though her hair and dripped off her nose Vanessa felt a deep and entirely appropriate blush of shameful delight at being reminded of her place so simply. The wonderful unfairness struck her that when she was forced to wet herself in bondage and under duress she was demeaned and yet when a Mistress peed over her she was still demeaned.

  Mister McGarry used her, literally, as a living lamp-stand stood by his chair. He impaled her anally on a steel rod that rose from a solid round base plate and then bound her with a dozen straps, working up her body until she was fixed rigidly to the post. Her arms were bent and twisted outwards, forearms strapped to upper arms and then in turn strapped to the sides of her chest. Straps even went over her fingers, bending them outward and leaving her hands palm-up and level with her shoulders. A final strap went over her mouth forming a gag. He brought out four thick stubby red candles set in holders made of thick metal foil, like cake cases. Two of the bases were level and two cut at forty-five degrees. With double-sided tape he stuck the two level candles to the palms of her hands and the two with angled bases to the upper slopes of her breasts, so that they stood vertical. Then he lit them, put on some soft background music, dimmed the room lights so the light from her candles shone out, sat in the chair beside her, picked up a book and read by the light of her candles; the ones on her breasts trembled slightly as she breathed.

  Soon the candles grew warm and trickles of hot wax began to run into her hands, flowing between her fingers and dripping onto her thighs, and down and around her breasts. The wax melted and flowed so easily, Vanessa suspected it must be unusually soft. These rivulets dripped off her nipples or joined and trickled down through her cleavage. They flowed over her stomach, into her navel and even reached the edge of her pubic bush before finally hardening. The candles rapidly burned down to mere stubs and their metal bases grew hotter, but she could do nothing to put them out. Only when she was frightened she might be scorched and was making little whining sounds did Mister McGarry seem to notice. He put down his book, got up, blew the candles out, turned off the music and electric light and left her alone in the sitting room all night streaked in hardening candle wax.

  Mister Tyler did not play such subtle games. Laying her on her back across his bed he bent and spread her, pulling her forearms and shins together so that her elbows were pressed against her knees and wrists next to ankles, and buckled sleeve restrainers about them. Threading ropes through rings in the ends of the sleeves he pulled her wide so she opened her body to him. Tying the rope off to the top and bottom of his bed she lay with her bottom hanging over the edge, her
anal ring pouting and her vulva bulging invitingly. He stood over her, sliding his rock-hard penis first up her vagina and then her anus, all the while slapping her breasts with a rubber paddle, making them bounce and tremble and flop back until they took on an even rosy blush.

  Miss Kyle was a complete contrast. She bound Vanessa with black rubber adhesive tape, strapping her arms to her sides and leaving only narrow strips of bare flesh between the winding coils. Pads of cotton wool went over her eyes and into her mouth and were taped in place. When she had been turned virtually into a rubber mummy, Miss Kyle laid her down in her bed and climbed in beside her. For an hour Miss Kyle’s expert fingers toyed with Vanessa, caressing her breasts, teasing her nipples, slipping into the close humid cleft between her thighs and tickling her pulsating clitoris. The imprisoning strapping seemed to contain Vanessa’s growing arousal, trapping it within her like steam in a pressure cooker, until finally she bucked and arched and orgasmed wildly.

  Mister Winston was the principal trainer in B3’s ponygirl stables, a part of the complex Vanessa tended to avoid. Perhaps it was because it was almost the first thing she had seen months earlier when she had infiltrated level B3 as Rochester’s unwitting spy. The image of girls harnessed and kept in a stable like animals had at the time shocked her deeply. Even though now she knew the girls had been there entirely voluntarily the irrational aversion lingered. Perhaps it was the costumes they wore. They were not merely harnessed like ponies and used to pull carts, they had been given horses’ heads. These were artfully sculpted equine masks moulded out of translucent plastic. While admitting they were very clever and striking, Vanessa had always thought they diminished the humanity of the girls in a disturbing way that mere slavery did not.

  Perhaps Mister Winston knew about her feelings, because when it came time to serve in his chalet he ensured she confronted them, literally, head-on.