The Bottom Line (25 page)

‘They've come to apologise for being so hard on you earlier,' he told me, ‘and they're going to be nice to you and get you in the right mood for me.'

I wanted to tell him that there was no way I was going to have him screw me with these two watching, but discretion warned me not to. After all, my future was in their hands and I'd already had Rory and Howard simultaneously, so there was no reason why I should object to a mixed foursome, particularly since it was far too dark in there for the cameras to be functioning. This was a comforting thought, but it triggered something at the back of my mind that I couldn't quite drag to the front.

Obediently I took off my clothes, walked across to the piece of furniture and lay down on it. My bottom was still sore, I was quickly reminded; I'd been lying on my side as I dozed earlier. What followed, however, quickly made me forget my bruises as Debbie went to work on my breasts, while Tracy spread my legs and gave me a good tonguing. Within ten minutes I'd climaxed twice, I was very wet and Rory was still to come.

When I looked up he was standing there, naked and hugely erect, an imposing figure even in this light. I held out my arms to invite him to mount me, but he shook his head and took hold of my ankles. Then he pulled me right to the end of my couch, so that my bottom was only just on it, pulled up my legs so that my calves were over his shoulders and my thighs splayed against his chest and belly, and drove straight into me.

He grunted with apparent satisfaction and stood there. Then he leaned forward and seized my breasts with both hands, squeezing them hard as he bent over me and began to thrust. Painful though it was to admit it, in more ways than one, I'd never had sex like it: he was like a power-drill as he drove into me, holding me so firmly that I was pinioned. I was just conscious of Tracy and Debbie standing close by, watching with open mouths, and then it ended as quickly as it had begun.

The two girls disappeared and Rory escorted me silently back to my room, then left me without saying a single word. However, the surprises weren't over yet because, on entering, I saw a figure in there too. It was Terry, who put a finger to his lips as I began to speak.

‘Don't say anything,' he said quietly, ‘just listen. Tomorrow morning, whatever happens, don't argue. Just go along with it. Howard and I have fixed it and you'll do all right. Got that?'

I wanted to ask him exactly what he meant but he whispered to me that walls had ears and he shouldn't really be in my room at all. Rory had engineered the punishment session and what followed, but that wouldn't be the end of it. Howard and Terry had done what they could to help and there was every chance that I'd be pleased with the outcome.

I didn't feel pleased the next morning when we went down to meet the weekly boat. I was still bruised and the weals were more prominent, but I was conscious of other, more pleasurable sensations too. What I hadn't seen was just how thoroughly I'd been stitched up the day before. I only realised it when the captain asked me why I hadn't got my things, and it finally dawned on me that the others had betrayed me: they were going to kick me off the island even though I had accepted the punishment. My inclination was to scream at the cameras, to tell the watching world - if anybody at all was watching - just what had happened, but something stopped me: partly a deep instinct and partly Terry's words to me in the early hours.

In the end I got together my few belongings and climbed aboard the boat. Within an hour I was back on the mainland, and by mid-afternoon I was in a taxi heading for my flat. Nobody seemed to recognise me and I had nothing in particular to do, so I gave myself a thorough inspection, noting the presence of several large bruises, blue turning yellow, a number of seriously raised weals and three places where my skin had obviously been broken.

But the deep pain had subsided and I was able to take a long bath, the first for several weeks, go out for a meal and return to my flat just in time to watch the evening's episode of
Spunk
.

I could hardly believe my eyes as the initial shot, the background to the opening credits, showed me naked and tied to the post, the other five standing around with mixed expressions on their faces. Then a holier-than-thou voice began to speak.

‘What you are about to see may shock and horrify you,' it warned, ‘but we feel we have a duty to show these pictures. This is what can happen when a survival game gets out of hand.' There was more of the same, all designed to ensure that every viewer who had tuned to this channel stayed tuned. Then the action began.

They showed almost everything: all five punishments, all five people administering them, the expressions on all five faces. There was no distinct soundtrack since there had been no nearby microphone, but I realised that Terry had rigged the cameras to record every part of my punishment. The actual proceedings had lasted about an hour with me tied to the post, but the edited highlights took perhaps ten minutes - ten minutes during which I was seen being hand-spanked, slapped with a flip-flop, beaten with a table-tennis bat, lashed with the homemade cat and finally given a good belting. The sanctimonious commentary continued throughout with a promise that the programme would be repeated the following evening.

Within forty eight hours I was receiving mail from hundreds of people who'd seen the programme, mail sent to the studio first of all then redirected or, for the rest of the week, brought round by special delivery. It was almost all sympathetic and the sympathy increased when Rory was the next one voted off the island.

Tracy went a week later, by which time my mail was regularly including offers of employment, some of it permanent, some of it decidedly kinky, some of it specific assignments.

I was being courted by half a dozen newspapers and various chat shows, but the letter which mattered most was one from Terry and Howard jointly - and I never learned how they'd managed that - urging me to decline all offers until the show was over.

They, with Debbie, were the last three on the island, the three who would contest the final vote at the end of the final show. I didn't watch that show, I have to admit, since it seemed to me that there was nothing more to be said or done, but I did switch on the following evening for the
Spunk Special
when the result was due to be announced. It was anticipated that up to three million votes would be cast.

After all the preliminaries were over, a lot of the highlights had been run again and various experts consulted as to their predictions, we came to the crucial moment. ‘Terry: two hundred and sixty thousand votes,' said the announcer. It seemed to me that this was a remarkably small total, particularly for arguably the most decent person on the island. ‘Debbie: four hundred thousand votes,' intoned the announcer, after a short pause for expert comment. Another, longer pause, then it was the voice again. ‘Howard: seven hundred and ten thousand votes.'

So that was it, and Howard, the contestant with the personality bypass, had won. And yet not only did the announcer not say so, but the figures didn't add up. The total vote was well under half the predicted total. The experts were at it again, pontificating about the reasons for the low vote and speculating about what the future would hold for the three finalists, when the announcer broke in again.

‘And finally,' he said, ‘the figure you've all been waiting for so patiently. The winner of
Spunk
...' he paused for effect while I wondered what on earth he was talking about, ‘with just over two million votes...' He paused again as I felt completely baffled. Surely all the votes had already been declared? ‘The winner, with just over two million votes, is Vikki!'

I screamed, more loudly than at Rory's hardest blow and even though there was nobody there to hear me. I screamed and screamed again. How long I'd have gone on screaming I don't know, because my mobile phone rang, the mobile whose number was known to only a handful of people. I picked it up and heard Terry's voice and then Howard's and, finally, I understood.

 

 

 

To say that I was pleased at being offered a place at one of the country's oldest universities would be an understatement. When I found I'd been allocated accommodation within a famous college my pleasure was doubled. But what really thrilled me more than anything else, strange though this may seem to non-enthusiasts, was getting through the university ladies' hockey trials and being selected for the first eleven, the only fresher in the team.

Our first match was a fairly comfortable one, against a local club that was some way below our level but was happy to be associated with us. We won quite easily and I was satisfied with my game, although I didn't score. Immediately afterwards, however, I learned a painful lesson about the bitchiness of undergraduate life in the sporting circles I hoped to frequent.

Beverley was our captain, pleasant enough in herself, a well-organised midfield player and extremely good at the social and administrative tasks which went with the captaincy. Unfortunately, for me at least, she was incapable of standing up to Macy, our star player, centre-forward and leading prima donna.

It was impossible not to notice Macy, since her two-handed play was flamboyant, her calls were strident and her breasts were large and apparently unconstrained. When she was in full motion they bounced up and down spectacularly, but never to the extent of interfering with her play, difficult though I found that to understand. She dressed more conservatively to walk round the university and the town, though still in a way which emphasised her assets.

My mistake was in commenting on those assets during the game. I whispered to one of the team, as Macy was running through at full pelt, controlling the ball with apparent ease, it should be said, and scoring almost unopposed, that it must be difficult for her to see where she was going or particularly where the ball was. It was one of those silly throwaway remarks that young undergraduates are perhaps inclined to make, when really they ought to know better. We got on with the game and I thought no more about it, not for a while anyhow.

I was having a shower, enjoying the sensual feel of the water running over me and soaping myself languorously, when the curtain was yanked aside and there stood Macy and two more members of the team, all stark naked. For a moment I stood there open-mouthed, not knowing what to say or do. I didn't think of myself as particularly prudish but I had been rather enjoying the fact that the shower cubicles were all separate, so by using my towel as skilfully as most teenage girls learn to, I had managed to avoid exposing my body to public scrutiny.

Clearly such finesse was of no concern to Macy, who addressed me even before I had recovered from the shock of being interrupted. I instinctively covered myself up, stupid though it seemed in the circumstances, but Macy simply ignored my actions.

‘So,' she began, ‘this is the newcomer who feels she has a right to advise senior members of the team about foundation garments, is it?'

I muttered something about its having been only a joke.

‘Aha,' she continued, ‘so it was a joke.' There was a short pause. ‘And what, may I ask, gives you the right to make jokes about my figure?'

Again, I didn't know what to say.

‘I think you should be taught a little respect, don't you, girls?' at which the other two nodded. ‘At least until you have established yourself as a permanent member of our team.' There were further nods and I tried to apologise.

‘Save the apologies,' she told me. ‘Right, Frankie, you know what to do.'

Before I could move to defend myself, Frankie had slipped her hands under my arms from behind and clasped them behind my neck. The main result was that it was almost impossible for me to move, and the second that she was thrusting me forward in such a way that my own breasts were jutting powerfully forward, making a nonsense of my earlier attempts to preserve my modesty.

I shouted at Frankie to let me go and began to ask Macy what on earth she thought she was doing, but it was to no avail.

She stared venomously at me. ‘Hm,' she said, ‘not a bad pair yourself.' Then she turned to her second assistant. ‘Pass me that gym slipper, will you, Johnnie?' Johnnie did.

It was at this moment that I realised what Macy intended to do and I struggled violently, but Frankie kept tight hold of me. ‘Don't you dare!' I screamed at her.

Macy laughed. ‘I think you'll find there are few things I daren't do,' she said, ‘and teaching a lesson to impertinent freshers isn't among them.' And, even as she spoke, she swung her right arm and slapped the side of my left breast very hard with the slipper. I screamed with both the pain and the indignity, but nobody came to my rescue. Then Frankie turned me slightly and Macy took the slipper in her left hand and hit me equally hard across the side of my right breast.

I redoubled my efforts to escape but with no greater success than before, and it was difficult for me to focus on what I was doing because of the stinging pain I was feeling, not the same sort of pain as when you cut or bruise yourself, but a sort of detached pain, as though my breasts were a separate part of me, accompanied by such a numbing sense of outrage that I could not find any more words.

‘Two more, I think,' Macy casually decreed, ‘just to make sure you've really understood.'