Planet of Pain

by B. A. Bradbury

  ‘What did Faulkner tell you about me?’ he asked, without missing a beat.

  Warning bells rang in her head. It sounded like a trap; for her or Ruth, or maybe for both of them, and she was reluctant to answer. The lashing stopped and she knew she had to say something. Then, out of the blue, came a single, brutally hard stroke, the thongs tracing fire across her buttocks. She cried out and he struck her again, equally hard.

  ‘I expect obedience in this, too,’ he warned.

  The third stroke, unbelievably, was harder still. ‘She said you were shipmates!’ she shrieked, desperate to make it stop. There was a pause, then she heard the lash hiss again. She cried out before it even struck her, fearing the worst, but it was significantly less fierce.

  ‘What else?’ he asked.

  There was no delay this time. Jo had learned her lesson. ‘She told me she reported you for sexual harassment, sir, and that you were reprimanded. Demoted, I think she said.’

  She felt guilty at betraying Ruth’s trust, but recognised she had no choice. She couldn’t keep silent. He had the means to force answers from her, and inventing some story or other would be appallingly dangerous. If he caught her in a lie she dreaded to think what the consequences might be.

  There was a long pause, then he started again as though nothing had happened. ‘Sexual harassment,’ he said without inflection. ‘Is that what she called it?’

  ‘No, sir, that’s my own interpretation. She didn’t… say exactly what happened, though she implied… oh… you caught hold of her in some… oh… fashion.’ She was trying to sound like a neutral third party, someone who was keeping an open mind. It wasn’t easy achieving a sympathetic tone as her voice was faltering, and the pain drew involuntary gasps from her lips. Her rear was on fire, and each stroke of the lash was sheer torment. She knew her distress was only too apparent in her voice, and guessed that was why he’d waited till now to engage her in conversation. He wanted to hear, as well as see, how much she was suffering.

  ‘No doubt she forgot to mention the constant come-ons,’ he said. ‘The coy smiles and touching knees under the table. Letting the towel slip as she came out of the showers, “accidentally”, of course.’

  ‘No, sir… ah!’ Jo murmured. ‘She didn’t say… oh… anything about that… oh!’ She wondered if there was any truth in his assertions. Though she didn’t know Ruth well, she somehow doubted it. Some men could delude themselves into believing almost anything.

  ‘What a fucking surprise,’ he said bitterly, then fell silent, and for many long minutes the only sounds were the slap of leather on flesh and her tormented gasps and groans. When at last he stopped and told her to get up she was so stiff and sore she could hardly move.

  ‘Now we’ll play a little game I call Six-of-the-Best,’ he said. ‘It’s important you remember this next part, so listen carefully. One: bending over the table, resting on your arms with your hands clasped together. Two: standing up straight with your feet together and your arms by your side. Three: feet together, bent over touching your toes. Four: lying on your back on the table with your legs straight up in the air. Five: on your hands and knees on the table. Six: standing up straight with your feet apart and your hands on your head. Did you get all that?’

  ‘I think so, sir,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ he said. ‘This is how it works. I say a number and you adopt the appropriate position. I then give you six strokes on your bum. If you get the position wrong, and I have to put you straight, you still get six strokes, but they’ll be a lot harder. Six of the best, in fact. Clear on the rules?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, then. Here we go. Position two.’

  She remembered that one. She stood to attention and he went behind her and gave her six crisp, rapid swipes across her bottom. They hurt – hardly surprising considering the state her buttocks were in – and she struggled to hold the position. As it was her hips jerked forward and she rose onto her toes with each stroke.

  ‘Four,’ he said next.

  Oh, four was one of the table ones, but she couldn’t remember which. She looked at him in an agony of indecision, but he just stared back at her, poker-faced. She climbed on the table, on her hands and knees.

  ‘Nice position,’ he said dryly. ‘Unfortunately for you it’s the wrong one. Four is on your back with your legs in the air. Do it now, and brace yourself for six scorchers.’

  She lay on her back as instructed and raised her legs. She couldn’t remember if he’d said together or apart, so she spread them wide.

  ‘Yes, we all know you’ve got a cunt,’ he said. ‘No need to keep flashing it.’ He took hold of her ankles and closed her legs. ‘Reach up as far as you can and grab hold of your legs,’ he said. ‘Hang on tight; these are going to sting.’

  Her heart was in her mouth as she held her legs. He drew back the lash and struck her, and she let out a plaintiff scream.

  ‘Quiet,’ he warned.

  ‘Sting a bit’ was the height of understatement. These strokes would have tested her at any time, but now, with her buttocks in their present state, the pain was almost on a par with the public flogging she’d been given on Eridani. On that occasion she’d been strapped down and unable to move. Now she had only her willpower to rely on, and it took all she had just to lie there, gripping her quivering legs while he delivered five more dreadful strokes. But lie there she did, counting them off in her head, and letting out a long groan of pain and relief after the final one.

  ‘Three,’ he said.

  She rolled onto her side and stood up. Again she wasn’t sure about the position. It was bending over, she thought, but resting on the table, or touching her toes? She glanced anxiously at him, biting her lip uncertainly, but his face still wasn’t giving any clues. She said a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening, and touched her toes.

  ‘Lucky guess,’ he said, moving behind her to deliver the six normal strength strokes.

  After that it was easier to remember the positions, and in turn she stood with her legs apart and her hands on her head, then on hands and knees on the table, and finally number one: bending over the table with her hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer.

  The positions might be easier to remember, but they grew increasingly harder to hold, and as the final six were delivered she knew she was right at the limit of her endurance. If he planned to flog her some more he was going to have to tie her up or send for help, whether he liked it or not.

  ‘Game over,’ he said. ‘You can stand up now.’ She straightened and turned to face him. ‘Six positions, six strokes in each, and only one wrong guess,’ he said. ‘You did rather well, for a dumb blonde.’

  He waited, but she refused to rise to the bait. Insults meant nothing to her at this moment. The only thing that mattered was what he intended to do next; more flogging, or was he satisfied she’d suffered enough? He poured himself a second beaker of water, watching her over the rim while he drank. It was another ploy, of course. He wanted her to ask for a drink so he could punish her for speaking out of turn, but she didn’t fall for it, saying not a word, desperately thirsty though she was.

  He seemed to realise she’d seen through his scheme, for he shrugged, filled the spare beaker and handed it to her without speaking. She drained it in three big gulps before he could change his mind, and set it down on the table close to the jug, hoping for a refill. He didn’t oblige, but gripped her arm instead and led her to the middle of the room.

  ‘Position six,’ he said.

  Her heart sank. Were they playing the game again? Somehow she didn’t think so; she knew the positions now, so most of the novelty was gone. He would certainly have to tie her up if they were. She couldn’t take thirty-six more strokes otherwise.

  She spread her legs and put her hands on top of her head, fingers interlaced. He walked around he
r slowly, slapping the lash lightly against his leg as he looked her over. He stopped behind her and dragged the thongs over her buttocks, the most superficial of contacts imaginable, yet still she flinched.

  ‘Do you know what the universal currency is in this place?’ he asked.

  Before she had time to answer she heard the sound she’d been dreading. Fire laced across her buttocks and she shrieked, but by some miracle her fingers remained clasped on her head. Slowly the trembling subsided as she got herself under control once more. ‘No, sir,’ she croaked when she felt able to speak.

  He resumed his slow circumnavigation before enlightening her. ‘Sex,’ he said. ‘Someone like you can get almost anything she wants just by spreading her legs or opening her mouth. Position three.’

  She touched her toes and waited. Again he stopped behind her, and again tormented her with a light kiss from the lash. She knew what was coming next and grasped her ankles tight, knowing she had no hope of staying down otherwise. The lash struck and again tore a shriek from her lungs. She almost offered herself to him then and there, but made herself wait. It had to come from him; and she was certain he was about to propose it.

  ‘Though the rules don’t expressly forbid it,’ he said carefully, ‘I’m not sure it would be ethical for me to offer leniency in exchange for sex. Position two.’

  She stood to attention, refusing to let his words dismay her. He wanted her, and the time was right. She watched him circle her once more, then stop behind her. Again she felt the soft touch of leather against burning buttocks, the precursor to another dreadful stroke. She clamped her jaw and clenched her fists tight by her sides, waiting fearfully.

  ‘Having said that,’ he went on, ‘I see no reason why you shouldn’t propose it.’

  The possibility of a trap again occurred to her but she barely hesitated, so desperate was she for the beating to end. ‘I’d be more than happy to do whatever you want, sir,’ she said, as seductively as she could, though her voice cracked after every other word. ‘Anything at all.’

  He came around in front of her and looked directly into her eyes. ‘Anything? Oral? Anal? All three holes in succession, maybe?’

  ‘Anything, sir,’ she said fervently.

  He nodded slowly, then without another word he unfastened his trousers and took out his cock. He pulled on it slowly, though he was already fully erect. He went to the nearest chair and sat down, parting his knees. ‘Oral then,’ he decided. ‘Let’s see if that mouth of yours can do anything other than lie and scream.’

  She didn’t even try to figure out what he meant by that – the ‘lie’ part, anyway – she just knelt down and took his cock in her mouth while he sat back in the chair watching her endeavours, but just when she sensed his climax starting to build he pushed her away, rolled her over onto all fours, hurriedly knelt behind her and shunted his erection into her vagina. He thrust rapidly and she sobbed as his hairy groin slapped rhythmically against her ravaged buttocks. Then he grunted, held her hips and penetrated her as deeply as he could, and shuddering as he ejaculated. He stayed inside her, moving slowly, then finally he withdrew and slumped back in the chair.

  ‘Listen to me, O’Donnell,’ he muttered quietly, ‘and listen good. If you ever cross me again you’ll find yourself back here before you can blink. No matter what it takes, no matter how much it costs, I’ll fix it that you get low-weight and I get to dish out the reprimand, you hear me?’

  He sounded spent from his exertions, but she had no doubt at all that he meant it. ‘Yes, sir,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now get the fuck out of here.’

  Chapter 18

  Jo’s sleep was troubled, full of disturbing dreams, and she woke to find her bunk shaking and the room filled with a low rumbling sound. She sat up fearfully and realised others were awake too. Ruth slid off the bunk above and squatted beside her.

  ‘Cave-in,’ the young woman muttered. ‘Big one from the feel of it.’

  It was the start of hours of uncertainty and frustration. Everyone was up, milling about in the corridor, and rumours flew back and forth. Eventually the shift supervisor appeared with some solid information. There’d been a major rock fall, he said. All of section four was gone. Two full gangs from white shift had been in there, forty-odd prisoners and a dozen or so trustees; no one knew exactly how many yet.

  Fear clutched at Jo and her chest tightened until she could hardly breath. Bel was in white shift, Stella too. Right now one or both of them might be dead, or buried alive.

  ‘They planning a rescue attempt, chief?’ a man called out.

  ‘No,’ the supervisor said grimly. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? The whole damn section’s gone. There’s nothing we can do for them; no way we can get in. We just have to accept the fact they’re lost and get on with it.’

  Others shouted questions, some fearful, others angry, and the thing rapidly deteriorated into a yelling match. Jo caught hold of Ruth’s arm.

  ‘I’ve got to go there,’ she said desperately, above the racket. ‘I have to find out if Bel’s all right.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Ruth said, ‘they won’t even let you into the hub. The whole place will be locked down. They’re always fearful of riots after a cave-in.’

  ‘I can’t help that,’ Jo said. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She started to leave, and now it was Ruth who was doing the arm grabbing.

  ‘Wait!’ she said. ‘There’s a right way to do this. Come on.’ She dragged Jo through the milling throng to the supervisor, who was being badgered by half a dozen others, but Ruth elbowed the lot of them aside. She explained the situation to him and he promised to find out what he could. Jo repeated the names and he nodded, at which point others pushed forward with questions and demands of their own. The supervisor eventually went off looking exceedingly harassed, and Jo wasn’t convinced he’d even been listening to her.

  ‘Come on,’ Ruth said, pulling her away. ‘There’s nothing you can do here. May as well go back to bed.’

  Jo went, though she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She lay on her bunk, her stomach churning with anxiety. If anything had happened to Bel she didn’t know what she would do.

  She’d misjudged the supervisor badly. He reappeared within the hour, coming into the dorm and sitting on the edge of her bunk.

  ‘They’re okay,’ he said, rubbing tired eyes. ‘Both of them.’

  Relief flooded her, followed instantly by a niggling doubt. ‘You’re sure?’ she said. ‘Bel Franklin and Stella Fournier?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said, with an exasperated sigh. ‘I talked to one of them.’

  ‘You did? Which one?’

  ‘The big one.’ He cupped his hands in front of his chest. ‘Big here, I mean.’

  Jo felt the last dregs of tension drain from her. There was only one person that could be. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the supervisor.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, starting to rise.

  She caught hold of his arm. ‘No, really… thank you.’

  He looked at her, and some of his weariness fell away as he smiled. She realised she didn’t even know his name. They were strangers, yet he’d gone out of his way to help her when she knew he must have other, far greater problems on his plate than one woman’s concern for her colleagues. On an impulse she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Any more of that, Josephine O’Donnell,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’m apt to forget I’m old enough to be your father. Go to sleep now, you hear? Your friends are fine but you won’t be if you’re so tired tomorrow you earn yourself another low-weight reprimand.’

  He patted her hand, then rose and walked away. Jo couldn’t care less about weight, be it low, high or any place in between. Bel was alive, and Stella too.

  Karlyn, Squires, and every other bastard in this place, she thought – screw the lot of them.

 
The cave-in had dramatic repercussions for all of them. White shift had lost forty percent of their workers, and men and women were reassigned from blue and green to plug some of the gaps. Ruth was one of those scheduled to go, and she offered to take a message to Bel and Stella.

  ‘Tell them I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Hot, thirsty, permanently shattered, but fine. Just don’t mention low-weight reprimands or Harpies, okay? I don’t want Bel worrying about me.’

  ‘Got it,’ Ruth said. She started to leave, then stopped and looked back. ‘I’ve discovered another reason for not making friends,’ she said, her voice a little unsteady. ‘You don’t want to leave them. You know you’ll miss them.’

  She left, and it was only then Jo realised how much she was going to miss Ruth, too.

  Nathaniel was another of the transferees. Jo saw him pleading with the shift supervisor and pointing to Eli. He didn’t want to be separated from her, worried about how she would cope on her own, at the mercy of any guard who saw through her ‘disguise’. As the supervisor shrugged helplessly Nathaniel looked around in desperation, and caught Jo’s eye.

  She made up her mind about him in that instant, deciding he was a decent man who genuinely cared for Eli. Jo went to where she stood gazing forlornly at her protector, and put her arm protectively around her shoulder; and Nathaniel understood. He nodded, looking relieved, and Jo nodded back. It was as good as a contract.

  Which was how Jo, for her sins, became Eli’s new guardian. The very next night Eli slipped into Jo’s bunk, naked and trembling. Jo hugged her, but sisterly reassurance wasn’t what the young woman wanted.

  ‘Please do it,’ she whispered, ‘like Natty does.’

  ‘I’m not sure we should,’ Jo whispered back, trembling almost as much as her new charge. ‘It wouldn’t be right, would it?’

  ‘Please,’ Eli begged. ‘You have to. You promised Natty you would, I saw you.’