And Vanessa was going to come, more quickly than she could have imagined. The pressure was building inside her. She couldn’t fight it any longer …
She screamed behind her gag as her body went into orgasm, straining with wonderful futility against the straps and clamps that held her so securely. The muscles of her vagina clamped on to the plunging upper phallus and for a moment its driving motor growled in protest. Discharge sprayed from her tightly plugged orifice and trickled down the impaling shafts. Then she went limp as she descended into the warm dark pit of release …
Vanessa was dimly aware of the dildos being extracted. Her gag was removed and a beaker of water was pressed against her lips. Automatically she drank. Her groin ached with its exertions and her breasts burned. Sweat was drying on her body. Blinking her eyes open, she saw Miss Kyle and the Director examining her with obvious satisfaction, and knew with despairing certainty that they had made their point. They controlled whatever pain or pleasure she experienced. Her pinpricked breasts throbbed in their wire cages. The stinging had diminished to a tolerable level, but it was a continuing reminder of what could be done again.
‘Now,’ Shiller said briskly, ‘perhaps you will tell us what we want to know?’
Too shocked to resist any further, Vanessa choked out: ‘All right … just … please … don’t do that again …’
‘Address the Director properly,’ Miss Kyle said, giving a warning pinch and twist to Vanessa’s engorged left nipple.
To her intense shame, Vanessa found the humble, subservient words bubbling from her lips. ‘I’ll tell you everything … Director. About a month ago, Mr Enwright … my editor … said he wanted to speak to me …’
Two
ENWRIGHT WAS ALONE in the boardroom when Vanessa entered, but displayed on the big video-conference screen was the head and shoulders of a thickset man in his late fifties. He had grizzled hair and a heavy jaw, and in one hand held a cigar that he was jabbing at Enwright.
Vanessa gave a start at the sight of the famous features. It was Sir Harvey J. Rochester, owner of the Globe, half a dozen regional newspapers and numerous other international business interests.
Enwright motioned for Vanessa to take a seat. Sir Harvey’s eyes flickered as he looked her up and down through the camera mounted over the screen.
‘So you’re Buckingham,’ the magnate said in his familiar gravelly tones. ‘Enwright tells me you show a lot of promise. Bright, enthusiastic, go-getting.’ Sir Harvey took a puff on his cigar and waved it at Vanessa with a chuckle. ‘Reminds me a little of myself when I started out.’
‘That’s very kind of him … and you, Sir Harvey,’ Vanessa said meekly.
‘Enwright wasn’t being kind and neither am I,’ Sir Harvey replied bluntly. ‘I can recognise talent when I see it. This may be your chance to show us what you’re really made of. Think you’re up to handling a big story, Vanessa, one that’ll put your name on the front page?’
‘I’d like the chance, of course, Sir Harvey. But if it’s as big as you say, wouldn’t it be better to use someone more experienced?’
Sir Harvey shook his head. ‘I have a hunch this’ll need a different approach, a fresh angle. Maybe by somebody who doesn’t look like a reporter. It might mean undercover work and may be risky. Well?’
Thrilled and excited, Vanessa took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do my best, Sir Harvey.’
Sir Harvey favoured her with a craggy smile. ‘Good for you. Now, tell me what you know about the F. G. Shiller Company?’
‘Uh … well, Shiller Co. is based in London. It’s a successful medium-sized general management company with a range of service, technical and medical subsidiaries. That’s about it.’
‘That’ll do for a start,’ Sir Harvey said. ‘Your job is to find out all about them. I mean everything. Find out how they earn their last penny! I have my suspicions about what’s going at Shillers, something so shocking you’d hardly believe it possible …’ He frowned. ‘But I won’t say any more. You must go in absolutely unprejudiced, find out the truth for yourself and get cast-iron evidence to prove it! Start with their London office. You can have any resources you need to get the job done. Report directly to Enwright. Nobody else must know what you’re working on. Understand?’
‘Yes, Sir Harvey.’
‘Then get started, Vanessa. And good luck.’
The conference screen went blank.
The next week was spent on intensive research. Vanessa obtained copies of Shillers’ financial statements, business reports, corporate structure and even architectural plans of its London offices.
The company appeared perfectly legitimate. Service sector interests were its most profitable division, and obviously provided the capital for additional investment in its other areas. It was efficiently run and was well thought of in the City, who regarded it as a safe investment. However, her enquiries did unearth a couple of curious facts.
First, Shillers was very selective about hiring its staff, never using temping agencies or advertising in the usual papers. In fact it had an unusually low turnover of personnel for a company of its size. What induced such loyalty?
Then there was the matter of the construction of its London offices, which occupied a modern tower block overlooking the Thames. Vanessa noticed that the entrance foyer, reception rooms and a few general office spaces on the landward side were separated from the bulk of the building by a comprehensive system of security doors, with key-card locks specified on the plans. It was well beyond what Vanessa would have considered normal for such a building. That section also had separate lift access to the tower’s two levels of underground car parking. Entry to the lowest of these levels was further restricted by a set of internal security gates.
It was curious, but to find out more would mean somehow penetrating Shillers’ apparently loyal and close-knit structure from the outside. That would be risky, and such questioning might only alert the company. Winning an employee’s confidence by contriving an acquaintance could also take months.
The next option was to get a job at Shillers and work from the inside. Considering its highly selective employment policy, that might come to nothing, but it was worth trying. With her paper’s help Vanessa created a glowing if semi-fictitious CV, and sent it off. While she was waiting for the response she surreptitiously reconnoitred Shiller Tower.
For two weeks she photographed the building and anyone entering or leaving from every angle. Her attention was soon drawn to the traffic using the car-park entrance at the side of the building. Some vehicles were obviously employees’ cars while others were from office supply and service companies, which appeared about as often as might be expected. But there were also cars with tinted windows, small unmarked vans, 7.5 tonne lorries, even a horse transporter.
Vanessa rented an empty office in a building almost opposite the Tower and extended her watch late into the night and the early hours. She recorded the types of these anomalous vehicles, their usual routes and the times they came and went. It soon became evident that there was far too much traffic for a typical building of that size. Something strange was going on, but what?
Then Shillers returned her CV with a polite letter saying they were not hiring staff at present. That left only one option. Somehow she would have to risk entering the building covertly. After careful thought and calling on some of the Globe’s more specialised contacts, Vanessa made her plans …
Braydon Road was a narrow, featureless street formed by the backs of small industrial units and high service-yard walls, often used as a rat-run by goods vehicles. Before six in the morning, with the grey light of dawn flushing the sky, there was normally little private traffic. But as the box-sided lorry turned into the street, a car was revealed angled across the road with its bonnet raised. The driver, bent over the engine, signalled that he would only be a moment longer.
The lorry pulled up while the motorist fiddled with the engine, got back into his car, started it successfully, jumped out again to cl
ose the bonnet, returned to his seat with a quick wave of thanks and drove off. The lorry continued on its way and turned towards Shiller Tower. In a couple of minutes it halted at the security gate guarding the entrance to the car park.
Clinging on tightly to the lorry’s underframe, secured by snaplink cords attached to a climbing harness, Vanessa’s heart thudded. She heard a few casual words exchanged between the driver and the gate guard, then the barrier lifted and the lorry moved forwards into a world of echoing concrete and the harsh light of fluorescent tubes. The vehicle slowed again and there came the rattle of a mesh gate rolling aside to let it through. That was the inner gate dividing the car park. Her gamble had paid off. She was entering the Tower’s mysterious high-security zone. The lorry swung down a ramp to the lower level, came to a brief halt, backed a little way, then stopped.
The engine cut and Vanessa heard the driver jump down from his cab. Footsteps sounded on the concrete, the rear doors of the lorry opened and a ramp was lowered.
‘All OK?’ the driver asked.
‘No problem,’ came a woman’s voice from within. ‘They slept most of the way.’
‘What was that hold-up about?’ a second male voice asked.
Vanessa’s heart skipped a beat. Two people had been travelling in the back of the lorry.
‘Just a stalled car,’ the driver explained.
Vanessa breathed again. It was sheer luck that they hadn’t heard her stowing away beneath them.
‘Right, let’s get them down below,’ the woman said.
‘Down below?’ Vanessa wondered. But they were already on the lowest level.
‘Want them to take the gear down with them?’ her companion asked.
‘No,’ the woman said. ‘Send up another chain for it later. This lot deserve a rest. They’ve had a busy night.’
‘Another chain?’ Again Vanessa wondered at the odd phrase.
The other man chuckled. ‘Fair enough.’
Vanessa heard a soft scuffing whisper of movement from within the lorry, accompanied by a metallic clinking. This odd procession of sound passed slowly down the ramp and off across the concrete floor. Then came the swish and whirr of lift doors opening.
‘I’ll go up and have a bite to eat,’ said the driver. ‘See you later …’
As the echo of his footsteps receded, the shuffling and rattling sounds inside the lorry ceased. There was a soft clunk of closing doors, then the fading sound of the lift in motion.
For the moment at least, Vanessa was alone.
Taking a deep breath, she unclipped her securing lines and dropped into a crouch under the lorry. Still doubled over, she stripped off her harness and packed it away into the toolbox slung beside her, removing from it a blue peaked cap bearing the Shiller logo. This matched the overalls she was wearing, based upon photos she had previously taken of Shiller maintenance staff at work.
Vanessa slipped out from under the lorry and cautiously peered round its bulk.
Except for half a dozen cars and two plain vans, the level was empty.
She glanced into the still open rear of the lorry. Down each side ran tall mesh frames, which she took to be tool racks. There were also several large chests on wheels, of the sort stage crews used to transport concert props and equipment. She would like to have investigated their contents but she had no time to waste.
Opposite the open back of the lorry were the recessed doors of a large lift with a stairwell door to one side. Mounted on the wall beside the call buttons, just as the building plans had shown, was a keycard reader. A similar device was incorporated in the lock of the stairwell door.
Vanessa crossed quickly to the lift. Opening her toolkit, she took out a slim wafer of metal and plastic and slid it into the jaws of the reader, with which it merged almost invisibly. Then she pressed a miniature camera, concealed within a grey cornice-like shell, into the shadowy inner angle of the lift-door recess, to which it adhered. Finally she went round to the back of the stairwell block and waited.
A few minutes later she heard the lift ascend. So there was another level below this one. The doors opened. The voice of the man who had ridden in the back of the lorry said: ‘Right, get that lot unloaded …’
Again came the odd shuffling and clinking, followed by what she took to be the sounds of the wheeled crates being rolled down the ramp and across to the lift. After a minute or so the doors shut again and the lift departed.
Vanessa let out her breath. They had not noticed her spying devices, but she needed somebody to open the doors from the outside.
An agonising half-hour passed before a car came down the ramp into the park. Vanessa heard a couple of chattering women get out and make for the lift. They keyed their way in and set off upwards.
As soon as the doors closed, Vanessa darted round to the door recess, recovered her pirate reader and camera and returned to the back of the stairs.
The reader plugged into a specialised gadget in her toolkit. When this flashed a green light she withdrew from its slot a new keycard. If everything had functioned correctly, this was a clone of the one last used to access the lift.
The camera downloaded on to a small screen where it showed the lift-door keypad. She magnified the image and played it over until she could read the pass-code number the last user had entered.
Vanessa closed her toolkit and walked round to the door side. Heart pounding, she swiped her pirated card through the reader and punched in the code. The lift door opened smoothly.
She stepped inside the roomy car and studied the controls. Level B2 was illuminated and the panel did not show anything lower. But there had to be something. What was the trick to get down to the secret level? She noticed the B2 button looked far more worn than the B1. Just how much traffic could there be from a half-empty car park? Perhaps … she pressed the B2 three times.
The doors closed and the lift started downwards.
Vanessa opened her toolbox and switched on the video camera concealed within it. On impulse she also took out a torch, then contrived to put a slightly bored expression on her face. I’m just one of maintenance crew checking for burnt-out light bulbs, she thought.
The lift halted, the doors opened, and Vanessa took a step forwards …
Only the reassuring solidity of the torch in her hand and the mental preparation she had already made enabled her to continue putting one foot in front of the other. She moved unhurriedly to one side and played its beam over an electrical conduit that fed the ceiling light above the lift doors. The expression of virtuous concentration on her face gave no hint that she had just seen anything out of the ordinary. Inwardly, however, her mind whirled in disbelief.
Waiting to enter the lift were a dozen naked women, chained by the neck in four rows of three across. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, their mouths were filled with bright-red ball-gags and their ankles were confined by hobble chains. A large blond man dressed in black singlet, shorts and trainers stood behind the huddled group. As Vanessa stepped clear of the doorway he gave her the briefest of nods, then said: ‘Forward!’ and the girls obeyed.
As the captives filed into the lift they made the same curious shuffling clink Vanessa had heard twice before on the level above, both leaving and then unloading the lorry. Out of her tumbling thoughts came the realisation that they had the same cause. The ‘chains’ the lorry crew had spoken of were literally chains of girls.
Then the lift door closed leaving her alone and Vanessa sagged weakly against the wall.
What had she got herself into? Girls being treated like slaves under an office block in the middle of London. Not just singly but dozens at a time. They had even been in the lorry she had hidden under. The true scale of the thing suddenly struck her. This was what Sir Harvey had suspected: Shillers were slavers … people traffickers … sex traders.
She took a deep breath, trying to keep her nerve. First, she must get her bearings …
Level B3 seemed to be at least as large as the car park above,
but it was far less utilitarian.
The sky-blue painted ceiling, formed from a series of arching vaults rather than flat slabs, was illuminated not by fluorescent tubes but by artfully placed uplighters, making it seem loftier than it was. Long broad corridors stretched away from the lift block to the left, right and straight ahead, bounded by rectangular structures with concrete-block walls painted in different colours. They were lower than the vaulted roof and might have been open-topped. Large potted shrubs lined the corridors, each bathed in light from racks of mini-spots, adding their scents to the warm fresh air. Around the lift the floor was woodblocked, but the corridors were carpeted with thick, dark-blue rubber matting. A distant murmur hinted at activity, but for the moment nobody was in sight.
Cautiously, Vanessa circled the stairwell. In a row on each side of it – quite incongruously – were three compact single-storey wooden chalets, complete with small verandas and roofs almost brushing the painted ceiling. All the windows Vanessa could see were curtained.
At the back of the chalets behind the lifts, a shorter and very worn and wheel-marked woodblock corridor ran between more colourfully painted partition walls to a junction at the far end of the chamber, where it was crossed by a strip of green. Halfway down on the left-hand side, a large double doorway stood wide open. Indistinct sounds were coming from within.
Steeling herself for whatever she might find, Vanessa walked towards the doorway, torch and toolbox at the ready.
Through the door was a stable yard, open to the false blue sky. There was a row of wooden stalls, polished harness hanging on the walls and a pile of hay bales in one corner. But peering over the low stall doors were beasts with the torsos of naked women and the heads of horses.
Suddenly Vanessa realised that they were actually women, their heads enclosed in elaborate equine masks moulded out of translucent plastic. Collars reaching from chin to sternum, with rings embedded in the plastic, confined the women’s necks. Horse-like snouts complete with flared nostrils extended the line of their jaws, while long fluted ears, facing forwards, rose from the sides of their heads.
The Girlflesh Institute (Nexus) Page 2
