The Meat Market (Jonathan Harkon Adventures Book 1)

by James Chalk

  She was giving me the same calm stare that Angel had, tracking my movements as I crossed the room. When I approached her, she simultaneously smiled and whimpered. I studied her face, searching for some recognition, but there was nothing there. Her body bore marks of abuse; welts, burns, and scratches were everywhere.

  “Brenda?” I said, “Are you alright? I’m going to get you out of here!”

  She did not respond, so I just started to unshackle her. The first hand I freed reached for my crotch. “What the fuck? Just like Angel! Were these girls drugged? Had they cloned Angel? Wouldn’t they be babies?” All these thoughts whirled round my head as I pushed her hand away and quickly released the rest of her limbs. She collapsed to the floor and then just looked up at me. When I reached my hand out to help her up, she again whimpered and then she offered up her ass, like I was some kind of wild animal in rut that would just mount her on the spot. Disgust filled my thoughts. It seemed that, along with the beatings, these fucking religiopricks had done something grotesque to Brenda’s mind!

  “Please, get up Brenda! I know they hurt you, but we need to leave now.” I said as gently as I could. I knew that it was just a matter of time before security arrived. I wanted us to be long gone.

  Just like Angel, Brenda didn’t respond to any questions. She stared at me like a pet dog waiting for her next command. Worried about security, I gave up and led her out the synthwood door. We entered an empty hallway that matched the dungeon decor of the cell we had just exited. Both walls were lined with doors to more cells; like Brenda’s, each door had a little barred window. Some of the cells were dark, but many had light, and disturbing sounds were coming from inside.

  Brenda followed along obediently, a blank look on her face. She clearly neither understood our risk, nor cared about our destination. Curious, but afraid of what I would find, I crept up to one of the lighted windows and I peeked in. What I saw was shocking in more than one way. A man wearing a priest’s robes was whipping a naked woman. I recognized her from the bar. She was a dancer, named Desiree. She was strapped face-down on some kind of raised saddle. Her voluptuous body was too wide for the saddle, so it gave the appearance that she was balanced on a perch. Desiree’s dark, pendulous breasts hung down the sides of the saddle, and they were covered with welts and oozing blood. Her arms and legs, equally marred, were tied down, with her feet not quite reaching the floor. With each lash of the whip, the priest would grunt, his other hand jerking his exposed penis. Desiree was screaming with the same strange mix of sex and pain I had heard earlier.

  Two other women were also in the cell. They were restrained, straddling rectangular posts that extended from the wall. Unable to place their feet flat on the floor, they were forced up onto tip-toes. Each was naked and gagged, a black ball strapped to her mouth. They had painful looking, weighted clamps hanging from their nipples. They saw me through the bars and stared back serenely. Startled, I stepped back from the door. I looked at Brenda and then back in the window. I couldn’t fucking believe it. “What the fuck?” It was another Angel, and another Brenda!

  I quickly stepped over to another door, Brenda submissively shuffling along behind me. When I chanced a look through the window, I saw yet a third Brenda lying naked on a table. A torturer, wearing a shiny black unitard with matching mask, was at her side. Brenda was making the now-too familiar sounds of pain/sex. Dismayed and confused, I stepped back from the door, right into the arms of the security team that had slipped up behind me.

  Chapter 7

  Blood On The Rug

  “If you are at someone’s mercy pray that they are evil, since evil loves to gloat and mock. A good person will finish you without a word.” - Unknown

  “I have a high art, I hurt with cruelty those who would damage me.” - Archilocus, 650 B.C.

  “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” - Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

  *******

  It was a six man team, armed with stun bars and flechette pistols. Two gorilla sized men had already grabbed my arms, and a third was approaching with his stun rod. Looking past him, I saw that two slightly smaller guys were covering me with their pistols. They were very professional and had been carefully positioned for clear fields of fire. The sixth man, also normal sized, was holding Brenda’s upper arm with one hand, while pushing her hand away from his crotch with the other.

  I considered my options and decided that the odds were very poor. Years old advice from my Uncle Friedrich came to the forefront of my thoughts. “Know when to fight and when to surrender. Do what you must to live. You are Harkon. You must survive. You will adapt and overcome, but only if you live. Then, when the moment is right, give no quarter.”

  Uncle Friedrich would be satisfied. Not proud, as he considered pride a weakness. But he would be satisfied. I surrendered meekly, gratified when they didn’t stun me. Instead, the two gorillas pulled my arms behind my back so that my hands were touching, while Mr. Stun-Rod applied some kind of spray-on adhesive. It completely covered my hands and forearms and solidified into a tight black sheath. Next, they forced me to my knees and used the spray to seal my feet into a single, too-tight sock.

  Satisfied with my restraints, the gun men holstered their pistols. Mr. Stun-Rod clipped his magic spray-canister to his belt and started walking down the corridor. He looked over his shoulder, saying to the others, “Bring him and the meat doll. They’ve earned a visit with The Bishop.” The Gorilla Twins grabbed my upper arms, pulling me up, and then they frog-marched me along behind their boss, my feet dragging behind.

  It was a long trip through a bunch of corridors and doors. I couldn’t see much except for the stone floor and Brenda’s bare feet as she shuffled along with the group. Eventually, we arrived at our destination. My first clue was when the fucking gorillas dropped me. It knocked the wind out of me, but at least I turned my head in time to avoid breaking my nose and knocking my teeth out. Instead, my mouth ended up jammed into Brenda’s heel. Some of my teeth sliced into her skin and she started to bleed on my face.

  A little dog’s high-pitched bark was echoing in the room. The shrill sounds repeated over and over, interspersed with a panicky snarl. An effete sounding man was speaking over the infernal yapping, “No, no, don’t put him there! Now look what you’ve done! This meat doll is bleeding on my rug and it’s your fault. Do you know what you have damaged, you ignoramuses? This is a handmade rug, smuggled from Persia Colony. How could you be so stupid? This will be coming out of your pay, you know! Why are you just standing there? Get her out of here, now! Take her back to the cells. Put her into service where she can earn her keep. We have paying customers waiting, you know!”

  With that, I watched Brenda’s legs shuffle away, along with those of the guards. The dog stopped barking and came into view. She was a tiny, little thing with lots of brown and dirty, white fur. A pink bow had been tied on top of her head. The long fur sprouting from her muzzle was stringy and greasy. She snarled as she approached, and then nipped my nose with vicious little teeth. I snapped my teeth at her and she jumped back.

  The man with the effete voice was yelling, “Harvey, Harvey!”

  I heard trotting feet and then another man entered the room, stepping over me. His heavy, brown robe brushed over my face and then blocked my view. I heard him saying, “Yeth, Your Eminenth?” with a soft, lisping voice.

  The damn dog had returned to start licking the blood off my face. At least she wasn’t biting anymore! Meanwhile His Eminence, assuming a whiney tone, was saying, “Harvey, look what the security boys have done to my rug! I want them docked in pay! Docked, do you hear me? DOCKED!”

  “Yeth, of courth Your Eminenth, of courth. Your with ith my …”

  “Oh dear, I need this rug cleaned now! Please see to it! Oh, and Harvey, please do something about this Special before he further soils my lovely rug!” His Eminence interrupted.

  Harvey’s robe brushed back across my face, interrupting the dog’s little treat. Then Harvey hoisted me up, like I w
as a child, and placed me upon my feet, backed against a wall. Holding me there with one enormous hand, he reached with the other into a pocket in his robes and produced a wide collar with a buckle and ring attached to it. He fastened the collar around my neck with the ring in back. I felt him slide the ring onto a hook on the wall and then adjust it so that it held me tightly, but didn’t restrict my breathing. Afterward, he stepped away, allowing my first good look at the room and its occupants.

  Harvey was leaving, his wide shoulders and frame filling the doorway as he ducked his head to pass through it. A bishop was standing near the entrance with one arm cradling the dog. He was idly stroking her fur while frowning at a dark spot on his rug. The bishop was a portly man who wore a dark purple cassock with cerise buttons and sash. The heavy jowls of his face gave him the look of a bulldog. His skin color was close to gray, and his beady little eyes were a flat, washed-out blue that emphasized the black of his pupils.

  The room was full of ornate furniture with lots of gold leaf, fancy inlays, and curlicue detailing. It all looked very old and delicate, made perhaps from exorbitantly expensive, intercolonially protected, earthwood antiques. Sitting, on what looked like Marie Antoinette’s couch, was a priest. Tall and gaunt, he sat with a ramrod straight back, his legs uncrossed, and his hands folded into his lap. His unadorned, black cassock with simple white collar was immaculately pressed and starched. It gave him a severe, almost military, demeanor. His face looked hard-nosed and pinched, with skeletal cheekbones and sunken gray eyes. His skin had a sallow, unhealthy pallor that gave him the appearance of the walking dead, or perhaps the grim reaper incarnate.

  Another Brenda lay at the priest’s feet. I knew she had to be a different one from before, because neither of her feet was bleeding, and I had just seen the bloody-footed Brenda leave with the guards. This Brenda’s hands and feet had been lashed behind her back so that her hands touched her heels and her knees had to stay bent. She had a collar like mine around her neck, but the ring was tied to her hands and feet, thereby forcing her to keep her head up. It looked terribly uncomfortable. Her poor body was so battered and bruised that you could barely tell she was naked. The black ball-gag strapped in her mouth completed the wretched tableau.

  The priest’s head was turned toward the bishop. “I am in a hurry to return to my estate, Your Eminence. I wish to complete my inspection of the Specials before leaving. But, by all means, feel free to stand there and lament your rug. I have no need of your assistance.” he said, his tone dripping in sarcasm.

  After a brief pause, and in a more reconciliatory tone, he continued, “The first one you sent me is excellent. I’m quite enjoying her. However, from what I have heard, these two are a tad, shall we say, too exuberant for the estate. I prefer my staff alive,” he chuckled.

  “Of course, of course,” simpered the bishop, his rug forgotten. “I am very glad she is living up to expectations, Father Timothy. Specials are so rare and so, well, special.”

  Father Timothy reached down from the couch with his long arms and rolled the Brenda onto her side. His gaze travelled slowly up and down, inspecting her body almost clinically. She stared up at him with fire in her eyes, clearly defiant. I was surprised by this and wondered why she wasn’t exhibiting what I had come to think of as the typical submissive, “meat doll” behavior.

  He bent over, placing his mouth next to her ear, and licked her. Her head tried to jerk away, but he just pressed closer. Then, in a low voice, he said, “This is what happens to people who fuck with me, Agent Asteri.” He laughed and then licked her ear again, saying, “They get fucked, my dear.” His hands reached out and first roughly squeezed her breasts, followed by an even rougher handling of her vagina. She squirmed and fought in her restraints, but only managed to choke herself.

  All the pieces started to fall into place within my mind. I could finally see the completed picture, and boy was it ugly! The VIP Lounge was a brothel that catered to sadists. Somehow, they were cloning adult women. Also, they had to be messing with the girls’ minds to make them into subservient sex slaves, “meat dolls,” as they called them. When the poor women got hurt too badly, the religioprick bastards just tossed them, alive, into an incinerator and made new ones! The callous disregard for human life and suffering was appalling.

  I wondered if they had cloned all the dancers from the bikini bar? I thought about my sister Abigail. When she left home she told me, “I’m off to explore the world! I will ply my trade as a dancer. Mother and Father will be proud. I will become a banquet of beauty and grace for hungry eyes and hearts!” Abigail’s art was far from the sort of dancing that went on in a bar, but still I could not help but think that people like this fucking bishop with his disgusting little dog could be preying on her even now!

  The sudden realization that this Brenda could have been someone’s sister galvanized into action. I desperately tried to pull loose from the wall. Hands and feet still bound, my neck muscles bulged and strained against the collar as I thrashed and twisted my body, but the chain easily held in place.

  Father Timothy heard my struggles and turned his zombie eyes toward me. He strode over and stood very close, our noses almost touching. “You fucked her too, didn’t you, Mr. Dough? That’s why you’re here, you know. Your penis did this to you,” he said with a smile, looking down at my crotch.

  Despite my dire circumstances, I breathed a sigh of relief. If they didn’t know my real name, then there was no Democ connection. The attack had been a coincidence. I just had to deal with this sociopathic priest and his friends. At least I had no fear of being turned over to those bloody Democ terrorists, or of betraying my family!

  Looking over at the bishop, Father Timothy mused, “These two will do nicely for my little soirée. He is a very pretty boy! I don’t want you playing with him before the party. I’m looking forward to watching my guests break them, not you. Have them ready, along with two dozen assorted meat dolls. Don’t disappoint me!”

  Turning back to me, he said, “You never told us what she gave you or where you put it. You caused my colleague here such troubles.” His hand reached down and encircled my penis. “My goodness, John, you are so nice and thick! Are you long too? That will fetch a good price.”

  He started stroking me, trying to get me hard, but my penis had other thoughts. My penis believes that sadistic bastards in severe priest uniforms are sufficient reason to shrivel up and imitate a peanut. Go figure! Angered, he began to squeeze and tug me painfully hard. I tried not to react, to give him no satisfaction. I stared into his eyes concentrating on my hate, on the ways I would kill him. He saw my defiance and let go of my cock. His hand gently slid down to my balls, cupping them. Then he laughed while he squeezed, until I passed out screaming.

  *******

  Consciousness returned slowly. The aching pulses of pain emanating from my groin were so overwhelming that I focused my attention inward, choosing relief over clarity. A nerve block would cripple my legs, so I adjusted my brain chemistry instead. The radical changes ensured physical relief, but they dulled my mind and my awareness wandered.

  I found myself looking around. I was in a cell, hands and feet spread wide apart, and tightly shackled to the wall. I remember thinking that they had done a good job restricting me this time. I had no leverage and there was no play in the bonds. I could see where they had used heavy bolts to anchor the shackles. I noticed that the synthstone wall was quite well-done. The builders had included the imperfections and irregularities found in authentic stone construction. I wondered if the shackles and bolts were made from expensive, real iron and steel, or from some cheaper synthetic?

  My mind led astray by a pack of happy little neurotransmitters, I hummed a song from my childhood while contemplating the irony of stone. Our space-based civilization spans an entire solar system, and that solar system is filled mostly with rocks, yet we use synthetic stone for building materials. Stone is just too valuable to waste! We live on stone and mine stone. It is real estate and
resources.

  Thinking about how stone is a non-renewable resource took my happy thoughts on a journey to Earth. I like the story of Earth. Well, I like the part about the Earth Reclamation Project I’m proud that the Harkon family has been such a large part of getting that multigenerational task started and of maintaining the effort. Renewing the ecology of Earth is no small task. On old Earth, before the ecological collapse, there were things called rainforests. Rainforests were vast areas of land filled with fauna and flora. The biodiversity was staggering! Millions of plants, animals, and insects were lost to clear cutting for human expansion, until finally only small protected enclaves remained. Ultimately even those died, choked by the plastic sands. After that, the only wild animals left on Earth had lived indoors within zoological exhibits and labs.

  I thought about how tigers and pandas had been preserved by the Chinese breeding programs, how the Chinese started those programs so much sooner than the other efforts. I thought about how pandas aren’t really bears, and about how bad an idea it would be to put a tiger and a panda in the same exhibit. I giggled into the ball gag.

  Unless, I mused, the tiger was Baihu. Baihu wouldn’t eat the panda, unless I told her it was okay! Hmm, I wondered, what would Baihu sound like eating a panda? Would there be funny-sounding grunts and roars? Would the panda scream? Would it sound like the noises in my cell?

  The noises in my cell? My eyes focused on the tableau before me. The roars and screams were Brenda’s. The grunts belonged to a man who was forcing his way between her legs. Two guards had pinned down Brenda’s muscular arms and were holding her firmly as she strained and bucked, trying to escape the rapist. An evil grin twisted his pointy rat face as he reached his goal and began to shove himself inside her.