Irontown 1: Student Maids (28 page)

‘Do you think they have teams of gynatons out here at night scrubbing the streets?’ Mel joked, then realised that might literally be true.

They found a pub that had a walled beer garden with seats under sunshades. Nervously they went in to the bar.

The barman clearly recognized them. Their standard costumes must have been like uniforms to a Shackleswell native. ‘And what can I get a pretty pair of gyns like yourselves?’ he asked with a grin.

He knew they were naked and ringed underneath their coats. However he served them cheerfully enough. A drink and a sandwich were a token each.

They sat outside eating and drinking slowly while trying to get used to this unnatural freedom. It was not even Sunday. They should be in lessons now…

‘Do you suppose we’ll get into trouble for letting Bolt run away?’ Cam asked.

‘We’ll we weren’t chained to her,’ Mel said. ‘Nobody’s ever said anything about what to do if somebody escapes. They just assumed we’d all behave. We could always say we thought Bolt would meet us later.’

‘I don’t want to lie,’ Cam said. ‘At least Shackleswell is honest in the way it treats us. That’s why we have the collars and chains. They don’t expect us to like everything they do to us, just try our best to serve and…’

She was interrupted by the appearance of the barman by their table.

‘Excuse me, girls. I know it’s your day off but do you want to earn yourself a few extra tokens?’ he asked. ‘A couple of our regular games room gyns are off sick and we need some performers to fill in.’

‘Doing what, Master?’ Mel asked hesitantly.

He told them.

Mel blinked. They were not being commanded to obey, simply requested, as if their desires actually mattered. It was a choice. They had the power just to say no and walk away. That was real freedom and the idea that they would give up a few precious hours of it was laughable. She glanced at Cam and read the same understanding in her eyes.

‘We’ll do it, Master,’ they said.

The huge dartboard hanging on the wall in the pub games room had the outline of a slave girl picked out in wire in between the normal radiating numbered grid lines. It portrayed her with her back to the board, her head up, her arms drawn out and wrists aligned with cuff hooks on the board rim. Her thighs were pulled up and bent back level with her hips and her knees were bent at right angles.

Mel fitted the outline perfectly, held in place by cuff hooks and narrow metal straps about her elbows, chest, waist, thighs and knees. Further support was given by a right-angled bar projecting from the middle of her board capped by a rubber plug that was lodged in her rectum. She was almost totally immobile and she strained against her bonds with a perverse thrill. A mesh guard over her face was her only protection. She was a living target. The darts themselves had fine short points projecting from rounded sticky pad heads, ensuring they did not penetrate deeply but still stuck to what they hit.

Contoured and numbered wire grids clipped tightly about Mel’s breasts and groin delineated the target areas. Hooks in the grids pulled her labial rings wide, making the wet pink mouth of her sex gape. Numbered wire loops showed that a hit on her breasts scored twenty, her areolae twenty-five and her nipple crowns fifty, while her labia were worth twenty five points, her vaginal mouth, a natural bulls-eye, fifty and her clitoris sixty. That was of course the most exquisite agony.

The players were good and her most sensitive parts were their favoured targets. Mel wailed and slobbered about her gag as their darts feathered her breasts and groin. They only raised pinpricks of blood but the pain combined with her bondage aroused her until she was dripping onto the floor.

When a game was won the board was lowered and the winner claimed his prize between her gaping thighs. Mel was a target for darts and for the players’ penises. Like any gynaton she was there to be penetrated one way or another. By then she was in desperate need and welcomed the hard shafts that filled her aching void and rammed her against the board.

Next to the dartboard was the skittle alley. Cam was suspended over the end as the target for a game of Bat and Skittle.

Her arms were stretched up and outward over her head by a spreader bar linking her wrists. It was hung by a pair of chains, allowing her to sway and twist a little if she struggled but bringing her back to rest facing the bowlers’ end. More chains ran down from the ends of the spreader bar to her ankle cuffs, holding her splayed legs wide with her feet dangling just above the boards of the alley.

The single target skittle was a heavy tapering wooden teardrop with a long neck that was thrust deep up her rectum so that it hung freely beneath her. Its neck was carved into half a dozen thick ribs, helping her anal ring clamp about it and hold it inside her. A pair of light chains stapled to the sides of the skittle ran up Cam’s back and over her shoulders to clip onto her nipple rings.

The bat hung between her legs in front of the skittle. It was a flat round wooden paddle just brushing the floor with a long shaft that was plugged into Cam’s vagina. Hooks screwed into its sides secured it to her pussy rings. The shaft was in two sections joined halfway up by a heavy coil spring, allowing it to flex when struck. She used it to protect the skittle and prevent it being knocked out of her anal grip.

The players stood at the end of the short alley and bowled down wooden balls at the skittle and Cam tried to deflect them with the bat. They could shift about the end of the lane trying to get a clear shot at the skittle while Cam twisted round in her chain to protect it. Every strike on the sprung paddle set it bouncing and shivering, twisting it against her labial rings while the upper end churned about and vibrated inside her vaginal sheath. Soon she was lubricating profusely, making the bat handle shiny and dripping onto the floor beneath her splayed legs, joining the stains left by numerous girls who had hung there before her.

When a ball got past her guard and struck the skittle it was more painful as it jarred inside her rectum. A hard blow would dislodge one of the ribs from her grasp and it would slip one notch out of her sphincter. Blow by blow it would be loosened from her until it dropped out of her rear. As the skittle toppled over it tugged on its chains that jerked her nipples upward. Her yelp of pain signalled the end of the game.

The successful bowler would of course claim his prize of her now unplugged rear as she hung swaying in her chains blinking back the tears.

In other words it was just a normal afternoon in a Shackleswell pub.

‘We’re a real pair of pain slut sex slaves,’ Cam sighed a couple of hours later as they left the pub.

‘We’re gynatons,’ Mel corrected her.

‘Same thing?’

‘Slaves don’t get days off.’

A police car drew up by the side of the pavement and PC Colter leaned out of the driver’s window. Beside him sat PC Mattock. Mel’s stomach flipped.

‘Found you, Spring 157,’ Colter said with a grin. ‘Get in, you’re wanted back at the station.’

Mel gulped. ‘Why, Master?’

‘You’ll see. On the way we’ll pick up your chain-sister, Bolt 184. You as well, Cam 031.’

‘We… don’t know where Bolt is,’ Cam said nervously.

‘Oh, we know exactly where she is,’ Colter said casually, ‘she’s doing a runner. Do you think those anti-swearing chips are all you’ve got in your collars? They’ve got locator beacons in there as well. Now you two come with us…’

With heavy hearts Mel and Cam climbed into the back of the police car and it drove off.

As they headed out of town Mel slumped in her seat. Bradawl had not been so naïve as Bolt had thought. They had never really been freed. It had all been an illusion. ‘Will you be able to catch Bolt before she escapes, Masters?’ she asked miserably.

‘We’re not trying to catch her,’ said Mattock with a chuckle. ‘A lot of new girls escape on the first free day they get and we let them. They need to get it out of their system. They either sneak back later and say nothing or report themselves, feeling guilty, so we give them a spanking to make them feel better.’

Mel’s head spun as she tried to take this in. ‘Then why are you going after her, Masters?’

‘Because she’s stopped trying to escape.’

‘She’s… stopped?’ Cam said incredulously.

‘Which means she’ll probably need her chain-sisters for a bit of emotional support.’

Bolt was hunched over with her legs drawn up tight and her head resting on her knees, exposing the dark cleft of her shiny ringed pubes. She was sitting on a weathered outcrop of rock beside a narrow country track that wound up a hill overlooking Shackleswell. She hardly stirred as the police car drew up and Mel and Cam scrambled out and ran up to her.

‘Are you all right?’ Cam asked anxiously, stroking Bolt’s hair.

‘Has anybody hurt you?’ Mel added.

Bolt raised her head, revealing confused, tear-stained eyes. ‘I’ve got nowhere to go,’ she said pitifully.

‘You were going home to Northampton,’ Mel said.

‘That’s not home… it’s where I lived… but there’s nobody there who wants me back. I’ve got… nothing!’

She and Cam sat down on either side of Bolt and hugged her gently.

Mel looked out over the city of Shackleswell, which stood there solid, purposeful and dominating. It was the first time she had seen it like this. Now she knew that slave girls served it at every level, from pubs to assembly rooms, in the streets and the underground. They were essential to its survival and they bound it together. The city machine was built on their sweat and suffering and sustained by their orgasms. The price of being part of it was the total surrender of their bodies to pain and humiliation and the reward was belonging intimately and completely to something greater than themselves that was both frightening and wonderful. She could not escape it now. None of them could.

‘Then you’d better come home with us,’ she told Bolt.

Bolt looked at them and then burst into tears.

Chapter Fifteen

Mel felt a cold shiver as the three of them were escorted into Shackleswell Central police station, recalling her first visit. As Colter and Mattock led them to the interrogation rooms her stomach began to churn in anticipation, even though she was a different person from the naïve innocent they had tortured those months before. Now she did not try to ignore that darkly thrilling frisson of fear but revelled in its grip because she knew it would make what followed more intense. What that said about her she no longer cared.

They entered the interrogation room. The truth rack stood in one corner with its impaler rod glistening as though it had been used recently. Mattock commanded Bolt and Cam to stop there as they took in its “X” frame central table, the sinister devices on the walls and the folded gibbet arms.

‘Are you going to punish me for escaping, Master?’ Bolt asked meekly.

‘No, girl, not for escaping, but we will give you a good hiding for the trouble you caused us having to find your friends and bring you back.’ He looked at Cam. ‘And we’ll give you a few licks for lying when you said you didn’t know where she was.’

Cam bowed her head. ‘Sorry, Master.’

‘I’ll get some of the off duty lads in to give you two a proper seeing to. Now get your coats off…’

Mel moved to join them but Colter took her arm. ‘No, you come this way…’

He led Mel on through double security doors into a smaller side room. ‘I want you to meet somebody we arrested earlier,’ he said. ‘She’s just waiting to be taken to Gryndstone…’

He ushered Mel inside with a pat on her bottom and closed the door behind her. Within was a small bare cell with a naked girl dangling from the ceiling. Her wrists and ankles were strapped together and a chain pulled her arms up above her until she stood on her toes. Her blonde head hung over her chest. Lash stripes showed scarlet across her full breasts and thighs.

As Mel entered she lifted her head fearfully. Mel gave a choking gasp and sprang forward to embrace her.

It was Madelyn!

Mel did not know how long she hugged and kissed Maddy while brokenly poured out her words of love. Maddy squirmed in her embrace, kissing her passionately in return even as she wept with joy. Finally Mel recovered her composure sufficiently to pull back a little, wiping the tears from her own and Maddy’s eyes.

‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that again,’ she said huskily.

‘As long as I have,’ Maddy sobbed.

‘But how did you get here? I never told you where I was.’

‘Somebody left a message on my phone saying you were in Shackleswell.’

‘Who?’

‘A man. I didn’t recognise his voice and he didn’t give a name, he just said he was… something strange… a “gynaeneticist”, whatever that is.’

Now Mel understood. That was why they had graduated so quickly. Bradawl had set all this up. Maddy’s disarrayed hair had been hanging across her forehead. Only now did Mel notice the official pink court label taped underneath. She brushed the hair aside. The label read: “SPRING 202.” That could not be chance. Thank you, Headmaster, she thought silently.

‘I only got here this morning,’ Maddy continued, ‘but before I could even begin looking for you these policemen said I was a vagrant and arrested me and I had to strip and there was this judge on a television and they used this machine and…’