In the world around us there are those that will prey on the weaker, the unprepared, the vulnerable. In pursuit of their own desires or seeking to profit from the desires of others there are always those whose acts are hard for us to understand.
Once more, it is October 2009. Angela is trying to balance her teaching responsibilities and research projects, spurred on by the Dean’s ambitions for the academic standing of the University; Joe McEwan is planning his trip to Cambodia in a month’s time; Jenny McEwan is trying to digest the results of her summer research and Freddie Clegg and Larry are still musing on potential advantages which Inward Bound might bring to their principal, clandestine business.
‘And from far away, minds immeasurably more determined than our own, were looking down on a young woman and slowly and surely they drew their plans against her...’
(With apologies to H.G. Wells…)
Tales From a Far Country is the third episode in the story of the relationship between Jennifer McEwan, an adventurous academic who is studying BDSM games and adult play behaviour and her husband Joe, a civil engineer who is anxious about his wife’s sexual interests and where they might lead. “Tales From A Far Country” is the sequel – well actually a “simulquel” - to our last story, “Such Sweet Sorrow” and explains what happens to Jennifer after her mysterious disappearance.
If you are a new reader, this short resume will help you understand what is going on!
The tale began in our first story ‘Thesis’, when Professor Angela Dawney, Jennifer’s Head of Department and her research supervisor persuaded Jenny to enroll in a consensual slave training programme organised by the adult experience and adventure company, Inward Bound. Angela claimed this would be an excellent psychological laboratory for Jennifer to persue her research but secretly, the Professor hoped to drive a wedge between Jennifer and her husband and win Jennifer’s affections for herself.
Inward Bound has received investment from what purports to be an international transport business called Freddie Clegg Enterprises but is in fact the front organization for Clegg’s highly illegal abduction and slavery operation. Freddie Clegg Enterprises also have hopes for Jennifer’s research - to help them identify and recruit willing victims.
Angela, anxious to use Jenny’s experiences for her own benefit at the earliest opportunity, almost sabotaged Jenny’s participation at Inward Bound. The effect of this was to disturb the ever paranoid Clegg organisation which led to Jenny and Angela experiencing what they imagine to be a CIA inspired “rendition”. This claimed to be an investigation into Internet Crime but was really an attempt to discover if they were were actually in the pay of Clegg’s arch Russian competitor, Anatoly Kustensky who, by an innocent but most unfortunate coincidence, is an old friend of Professor Dawney.
In the end Jenny completed her course at Inward Bound and returned home, marked emotionally, physically and psychologically by her experiences. She realised that she cannot suppress her desires, and wished more than ever to share her lifestyle preferences with her husband.
The second part of the story - ‘Such Sweet Sorrow” - takes place in the months which follow, when Angela has the opportunity to tell the tale of her ‘rendition’ and interrogation to her friend Anatoly Kustensky.
One bright day in London, as Jennifer makes her way to a medical library to pursue her research, she vanishes and despite an extensive and energetic police investigation and the efforts of Joe and her parents, no trace of her can be found.
What has happened to Jennifer? What trials and adventures have befallen her?
Now read on – or start from the beginning by reading “Thesis” and “Such Sweet Sorrow”!
Jenny McEwan: a doctorate student at a University in the English Midlands, studying psychology with a research focus on adult play and the role of BDSM, who mysteriously disappeared in “Such Sweet Sorrow”.
Joe McEwan: her husband, a man less than comfortable with his wife’s sexual interests and where they have led her.
Professor Angela Dawney: Jenny’s research supervisor and erstwhile lover.
Cathy Corbin: Jenny’s best friend and college companion
Freddie and Larry: principals in the highly illegal slaving organization, Freddie Clegg Enterprises, part owners of Inward Bound “adult playground” where Jenny has been conducting her research. (To learn more of them read “Market Forces”)
Anatoly Kustensky: arch eastern European competitor of the Clegg Organization who sees himself as the market leader in the field
Sveta Kustenskaya: Anatoly’s wife and perhaps the ‘power behind the throne’
Neena Kirova: trusted lieutenant of Anatoly and Sveta
Alana Kustenskaya: only child of Anatoly and Sveta
Also: many mysterious and dangerous members of the Kustensky Organisation
Chapter footnotes: Our readers tell us they like them but we have tried to keep these to a minimum and have included some to help readers follow the narrative more easily or to explain ‘idioms’ which might not be familiar to everyone.
TALES FROM A FAR COUNTRY
CHAPTER 1 THE HUNTER OF TVERSKAYA
Anatoly is a hunter, he enjoys the wild places, the pursuit of game; of birds and fish. But Anatoly has another, favourite prey. For him, the best quarry of all is homo sapiens urbis: the only species that provides what he considers a true match for his resourcefulness and cunning.
And because the sport does not end with a kill, there is the shock and dismay of capture to enjoy; the entertainment to be had from careful training and schooling until the prey accepts the life that Anatoly has chosen for it.
Tverskaya Ulitsa is one of Moscow’s busiest streets. Throughout the day, the traffic pours down from the west into the city centre. It’s full of people and that provides an excellent cover for Anatoly. He has an office and apartment just by the junction of Tverskaya and Bryusov Pereulok. Visitors, anonymous in the crowds, can slip in and out of his building and he can enjoy the peace and serenity of the garden square at the rear.
Anatoly looks at his watch. The fruits of his most recent hunting trip are “enjoying” his hospitality at his facility outside Moscow. They will be meeting their new owner just about now, realising that there’s more to their abduction than kidnapping for ransom or some political game.
It had been an unusual commission. Three Slavic types, sallow skin, with some “presence”, the request had said. To Anatoly, the candidates that his research team had found looked homely if he was being polite, but the client had approved. He’d spent a long time picking over the research papers and surveillance photos before making his choice. Anatoly had seen the girls just after they’d been picked up. The way that the ropes grooved into their flesh as they struggled held a strange fascination. Perhaps that was what he client liked. “We’re going to need heavier gear if we make a habit of picking up targets like this, boss,” the leader of the pickup team had said. Anatoly had smiled. They’d clear a good profit by keeping this client happy.
Being overweight is not as common in Russia as it is in some western countries. Anatoly had been worried that the targets were perhaps somewhat out of condition? Sure, it was what the client asked for, but what would others think? Still, if the client wanted girls with some “presence”, that’s what he should get. The customer is always right, so they say, but not necessarily exactly right. Perhaps the “presence” should be muscle, not fat? A shot-putter, not a couch potato. Such a transformation would take time, Anatoly thought, but it could be done and it was more in his style. After all, he had a reputation to keep up. The client would have to wait for his prizes.
Now that decision is made, Anatoly turns to another challenge. He has a more exacting project - a more rewarding project - to think about.
Today he meets his hunting party for the next outing. It’s the preliminary meeting to discuss where they will find their prey; the chase; the capture and the transportation to Anatoly’s estate outside the city. They review electronic surveillance of the subject: landline and mobile phone call transcripts, e-mail traffic and a swatch of recent photographs taken by one of Anatoly’s advanced party, already on the ground. They consider the possible movements of their quarry and pay particular attention to some of the photographs. She has quite a striking appearance but they still want to be sure. There are pictures showing her alone, with others, serious, smiling and laughing, at work and shopping in town.
There is no substitute for being thorough. Anatoly’s former career in the KGB has stood him in very good stead. He smiles when he thinks how in recent years, government agencies have been able to cooperate so much more effectively with businessmen in private enterprise. It has brought so many practical advantages. Anatoly cannot understand why some of the western governments try to place such rigid and impermeable walls between state organisations and business enterprises.
Still, he thinks, their loss is my advantage …. And he needs an advantage if he is going to get his next prey from Britain to Russia.
Transportation can often be a problem, especially if an item is coming from outside the Russian Federation. There are customs formalities; inspections, audit trails – too many opportunities for unexpected problems to arise. The last commercial transaction with the Clegg Organisation had made the use of airfreight risky. That particular “export” involved the supposed repatriation of the last mortal remains of a young lady who was not quite as deceased as might normally be expected for the occupant of a casket. (1) There had been “problems” when she was found. Anatoly suspected that Clegg or someone in his organisation was responsible for warning the police that something was going on. It was too soon to try that again, at least from the United Kingdom.
On the other hand, what about a medical repatriation? Anatoly knows that the ill can travel under sedation if necessary, with a nurse to accompany them and perhaps the nurse might also be a guardian, even a minder? Perhaps that offers a solution? He calls a trusted colleague.
“Artur!” Anatoly’s greeting is spirited. He and the Doctor shared some interesting experiences in past years. Anatoly has respect for Hahn’s thoroughness and reliability. Artur Hahn is an Orthopaedic Surgeon from Liepzig in Germany, actually the former communist East Germany. Hahn had pursued a dual career in medicine and in the Stasi. That was how their paths had first crossed. Now, thanks to new regulations which establish the free movement of labour and the mutual recognition of medical qualifications across all member states, Hahn can work anywhere he wishes in the European Community. At present he is in London, convenient for Anatoly’s current problem.
“âîëê!” the Doctor exclaims. It’s good to hear from the old wolf. “Are you hunting again, Anatoly?”
“You know me,” he replies disarmingly, “how can I do otherwise? It’s like they say, ‘However well you feed the wolf, he still looks at the woods.’.”
Sure, thinks Hahn, that’s Anatoly all over. “How can I help?”
“Suppose you had a patient who had an accident.”
“Hypothetically?”
“Of course. And this hypothetical patient needed to return here to Mother Russia. How difficult would that be? How much – scrutiny – might you expect?”
“It depends,” Artur replies, “on how ill the patient is and how they travel. If their return is being funded through their travel insurance, they will be accompanied by a doctor nominated by the insurers and the insurers will arrange all the flights. The doctor will visit the patient first and make an assessment of their fitness to travel. They much prefer if the patient is well enough to take a scheduled flight. If the patient is transferred by Air Ambulance, a doctor from the ambulance company will visit the patient in the UK to assess the situation and then contact the hospital the patient is being taken to. They may even visit the destination hospital first to discuss the management of the patient in the days before transfer. When transfer arrangements are confirmed, the air ambulance team will take charge of the patient at every stage of their journey from the UK hospital to the destination hospital in Russia.” Artur can almost sense Anatoly’s dissatisfaction with the answer. “I imagine this is not good news. Not quite what you were hoping for?”
“You are right, Artur. It is a very disappointing answer.”
“Do not despair, old friend. You have set me an interesting problem. They have a saying in Britain – ‘Where there is a will, there is a way!’ Leave this with me and I shall see what I can do. Things are not always as difficult as they may appear at first sight.”
It is only a few days later when Dr Hahn contacts Anatoly once more with his thoughts on Anatoly’s problem and some proposals to solve it. It seems that a hunting expedition is a practical possibility. Anatoly is pleased. Artur has shown once more how ingenuity and persistence can overcome obstacles.
A plan and a schedule are agreed. The hunting party will be resident one week before they act. They will remain in constant contact with Anatoly who will provide a four times daily update of the quarry’s activities and projected movements, as gleaned from Anatoly’s continuing, electronic monitoring and surveillance.
It’s Friday. It’s a regular day at the university. I bump into Cathy as I get into the college building. She shakes her head. “Oh dear, Jenny McEwan are you in trouble!”
She’s not serious, I can tell by the way she’s smiling at me.
“The Prof is looking for you. Said she was reviewing your project with you this morning.”
Cathy’s right. I am calling to see Professor Dawney but I’m not due in her office for another twenty minutes.
Dawney is my research supervisor. She likes to keep in touch with what’s happening on the project. I like to make sure she doesn’t get involved in it any more than is necessary.
There is a shared history between us and a tension that neither of us likes to acknowledge. I suppose Angela blames me and I blame her for the things which happened. Neither of us wants to let the other know our true feelings. In any case, my life has moved on. I am not interested in Angela any more. I’m not sure that the reverse is true.
“Well, Jenny, how are you getting along?” Professor Dawney exudes uncomplicated, professional, coolness. I suspect that she has other interests in the project but I’m happy if she wants to pretend that it is all just another, ordinary, piece of academic research.
“I’m quite pleased with progress.” I reply, keeping my true feelings in check, submerging them under the minutiae of my project activities and the politeness of professionalism. “Data collection is complete and I have been able to send the data capture forms to Data Prep, to be coded, cleaned and entered into SPSS(2). Once that’s done it won’t be long before I have the descriptive statistics and we will then get some idea of what analytical work we can do …..”
“Jenny, that’s excellent.” Dawney seems perfectly happy to focus on the project: “I’m pleased. The project is really beginning to gather some momentum.”
“I think so. It certainly looks like that.” I am keen to take advantage of the Professor’s apparent approval. “Er, next week Joe is going abroad: would it be OK with you if I had an away-day in London to see him off? Andy says he can cover my undergraduate tutorials and there are some references I would like to follow up at the Royal Society of Medicine. They have some hard copy journals that our library does not take. I think it will be quicker to take advantage of Joe’s trip than arranging an inter-library loan or asking the RSM(3) to send photocopies.”
“Jenny, of course. That would be just fine. Enjoy the trip – let’s get together again after the weekend and when you’ve got the first results back from the data.”
Dawney seems happy to have the chance to grant me a favour. She likes to build up credits with her students.
I smile in acknowledgment: “Thanks. By the way, how was your Russian trip?”
“Oh, fine. Chance to meet some old friends. That seems so long ago now! I’ve had a lot on my mind for the past few months ...”
Prof looks a little wistful. It’s very uncharacteristic but the moment doesn’t last long. She’s soon back to the one thing she talks about best: work. “Some interesting new research going on too. I’ll let you see the proceedings if you like; some of the methods which were under discussion might be relevant when you come to analyse your data.”
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. I’m not keen to give Angela more of an opportunity to involve herself in the detail of the project than necessary.
I leave Angela’s office feeling happy. I am going to have the opportunity for a last day out with Joe. That will be a good way to send him off.
It is Saturday. Anna Tereshkova arrives at London’s Heathrow Airport using a passport in the name of Vyera Kuznetsova. She is visiting some friends near Windsor. She’s looking forward to some riding. Her friends have stables near Englefield Green. They spend a fine Sunday afternoon galloping in Great Park; by the end of the day, she’s hot. Her tee-shirt beneath her body protector is soaked in sweat, her hair beneath her riding cap, plastered down against her scalp. By the time she has the horse back in the stables it’s not clear which smells more of horse, her or the stables.
As she emerges from the stable block a Mercedes people carrier pulls up. Doctor Hahn gets out. “Anna,” he greets her.
“I think you should say ‘Vyera’, shouldn’t you?” she responds teasingly.
“Of course. Has your accident caused you much pain?”
Anna / Vyera grins. “Not so far, but now you mention it, Doctor, I think I am beginning to suffer some considerable discomfort.”
“Well, in that case. Perhaps we should take you to hospital – they are expecting us. First, though, we have some work to do!”
In the kitchen, Anna strips off her jacket and shirt and begins to make ready. There are various preparations to be made: some are rather exotic and others require a considerable degree of technical precision. When she is ready, Hahn swabs her arm and her back to one side of her lumbar spine with alcohol. He takes blood from her arm and re-injects under the skin to the right of her spine, together with a little normal saline solution. When he has finished, Anna really is in some discomfort. He helps her into his vehicle, reclining the seat and strapping her in. Hahn regularly uses a private hospital close to Lords Cricket Ground. It’s a significant distance from Windsor and Anna is now very glad when the journey is over.
“What did you say that patient’s name was, Dr Hahn?” the Admissions Sister asks. (4)
“Kuznetsova,” Hahn replies, “Vyera Kuznetsova. She has had a fall from a horse and I think she has bruised muscles in her back: there could also be damage to some of the transverse vertebral processes. Perhaps even a fracture. We should make her comfortable and keep her under observation tonight at least. I would like to do some tests to ensure that she can travel but of course her family would like her to return home as soon as is safe.”
By the mid morning on Monday, physical examination shows bruising beginning to appear lateral to Anna’s lumbar spine, exactly as one might expect from Dr Hahn’s initial diagnosis.
Standard x-rays do not confirm a fracture, but the swelling in the area has reduced the clarity of the image.
All in all, the clinical evidence tends to confirm Dr Hann’s suggestion of muscle damage with perhaps an un-displaced fracture of at least one of the transverse vertebral processes – and Anna is clearly in discomfort when she moves. However, with no neurological symptoms such as numbness or paraesthesia or loss of motor nerve function, there is not enough to justify more searching investigation like CT and MR scanning. (5) The treatment is rest, analgesics, careful mobilisation and physiotherapy.
Recovery will take some weeks and the Doctor’s proposal – to send Vyera back home under sedation to control the discomfort of the journey seems completely reasonable.
Vyera’s family has arranged a private flight back and Dr Hahn, as a friend of the family, arranges to transfer her to the airport assisted by one of his medical colleagues and one of his practice nurses.”
London’s main commercial airports - Heathrow, Stanstead, Luton and Gatwick, are all very busy. They deal primarily with scheduled commercial flights and air freight. In recent years private international flights have been redirected elsewhere, including to new facilities at a former military airfield between Camberley and Aldershot, close to the south western edge of London. On Monday, the duty manager at the airfield receives a call from a Doctor Artur Hahn. He is an orthopaedic surgeon, or so he says. He is caring for a Russia national who has had a riding accident whilst on holiday in Windsor. She has possibly suffered fractures of some of the transverse processes of her lower spinal vertebrae and needs to be flown home under sedation and medical supervision. Fortunately the family has been able to charter a private jet which is presently at the airport. Hahn thinks the patient will be fit to fly on Tuesday. Can he arrange the details with the airport medical officer? He mentions the hospital where he works, leaves his mobile number and the number of his rooms. (6)
The duty manger passes the enquiry on to the medical officer. She knows the hospital but she’s never had any dealings with Hahn. It’s a bit of a coincidence though - she was chatting with some of the other airport staff a couple of days ago and one of them mentioned him. Who was it? Oh yes – one of the admin people. She was saying that she’d been referred to him and did anyone know anything about him?
The Medical Officer is a cautious, meticulous woman. She checks the hospital number from the internet and calls back, asking to speak to Dr Hahn. The MO wants to make sure that this is a genuine call and that the doctor actually is who he claims to be. She returns the call to the doctor’s hospital, not to the numbers given to the duty manager.
The line buzzes. The call is answered.
“Airport Medical Officer speaking. Can I have a word with Dr Hahn. Returning his call to me.”
“Ah …” the secretary pauses “… I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Can I Help? er – is it about the Russian girl?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Of course. I can give you his mobile number. Get back to me if you can’t reach him.”
The number corresponds to the number given to the airport duty manager.
The MO is feeling more confident now, but first calls back to the hospital and asks to be put through to the nursing team caring for Dr Hahn’s patient. They confirm the details of the patient and the tentative diagnosis of the patient’s injury adding that the patient really does seem to be in some real discomfort. They also offer her a number for Dr Hahn’s mobile. It is the same number left for her by Dr Hahn and also given to her by his hospital secretary. Next the MO calls Dr Hahn himself on the mobile number she has verified. Hahn is absolutely charming and only too happy to provide her with all the information she asks for. The MO is completely reassured. She looks forward to helping in any way she can.
On Tuesday morning, Joe and I leave our home in Warwick to catch the train for London. Joe has a meeting with the consulting engineers working with his employers on a new project in Cambodia. Joe and the project the team are then travelling on to link up with their Korean partners in Seoul. The London engineers maintain a smart office in Fitzroy Square. It’s not far from the Royal Society of Medicine where I am going but first I have plans to visit a rather swish leather tailors in Marylebone High Street, not far away!
We catch the 9.49 from Warwick and arrive in London for 11.30. Joe hails a taxi and we head off to a Venetian restaurant that Joe knows in Wigmore Street. He asks the taxi to take his luggage on to the office in Fitzroy Square so we don’t have to worry about it.
Together, we enjoy a leisurely lunch. But then it’s almost time for Joe’s meeting. We stroll hand in hand, enjoying the closeness of each other’s bodies and the warm and simple reassurance of holding hands.
All too soon we are standing alone in Fitzroy Square. Just the two of us. “I do hate it when you have to go Joe”, I say. There is a hard lump in my tummy.
“Yes, I know you do,” he replies, looking across at the office building. “The rest of the boys must have arrived.” I am pleased about that. I don’t want to have to share Joe with them while we try to enjoy our last moments before he has to go.
We embrace tightly ….
“Just four weeks,” he says.
“I know,” I reply. “I’ll make sure I get ahead of schedule so there’s plenty of time for us when you get back.
OH, I do hate going. A few weeks ago, I was really looking forward to this trip. Now ….. well, let’s just say I am not”
“Yes, I hate you going too...”
“Look it’s time.”
“I know.”
We hug tight, kiss and part. Joe turns one last time on the threshold of the office door. I smile. He waves one last time. I blow him a kiss.
He smiles broadly and turns away.
Now it’s my turn to leave. I know have the appointment at the leather shop but I feel flat inside. The zest has gone out of the project just now. Maybe I should just go to the medical library? No: I have made the appointment. It will be a sexy surprise for Joe when he gets back and when I think about Joe coming back, I start to feel much better!
“Anatoly Sergeyevitch?” (7)
“Thank you Neena Alexandrovna, Good luck!”
“Vehicle?”
“Check!”
“Electronic jamming?”
“Check!”
“Lookout?”
“Check!”
“Team: stand by. Target in sight. On my mark ….”
Neena Kirova brings her team to full readiness and waits for her moment. She is delighted that Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky has chosen her to be “Field Commander” for this particular hit! “Neena,” he said. “This is may be a challenge but I think you can meet it. You have exactly the right qualities to be successful.” Neena has been working for Anatoly for three years now. She was recruited into the Security Division of Anatoly Kustensky Enterprises after she left the Army. She is delighted to know that her hard work had been noticed and that Anatoly is trusting her with a difficult and important project. She has been so looking forward to it!
Neena watches them from across the Square. The buildings remind her of home – that’s St Petersburg, where she was brought up. The target and her husband stand on the steps to the office where he has a meeting. They must be saying goodbye. It’s going to be more of a “goodbye” than either of them realise. They kiss, hug and embrace one last time. She turns. He begins to enter the building. He turns and waves. She blows him a kiss. “Oh dear,” thinks Neena. Even so, Russians have a romantic, sentimental streak and there is something about this final farewell which softens Neena. But she must put tender feelings resolutely to one side. It’s time to get things under way. She says into her microphone: “Quarry out from cover, moving and vulnerable. Begin operation!”
Anatoly reaches over to his computer and launches a surveillance programme. Think of Google Earth but a fully developed military version, operating in real time. The screen opens and Anatoly enters the target coordinates. The globe rotates, until it is centred over London and then the ground rushes up. Anatoly shuts his eyes: it’s a sequence that always makes him feel sick. When he looks at the screen again, he sees London on a glorious cloudless autumn day. Three sets of cross-hairs mark Neena, the vehicle and the lookout. He pours himself a whisky and watches.
Neena and her Team know the Target’s intentions from the electronic surveillance they have carried out. It’s not hard to predict to her route. The most direct route to both the Royal Society of Medicine and the leather shop in Marylebone High Street is to leave Fitzroy Square at its south west corner, walk into Cleveland Street and turn right into New Cavendish Street.
The plan is simple. Neena will follow the Target for some minutes after she leaves her husband. Neena will call the Target on her mobile number and claim to be speaking from the Engineer’s Office. She has rehearsed her lines until they are second nature to her: Is that Mrs McEwan? Oh I am so glad I have caught you. My name is Neena. It’s about your husband. He has slipped down a flight of stairs in the office. We think he has broken his ankle. We have called an ambulance and thought you would want to be with him. Can you wait for me and I will come to you? Look out for a black Mercedes People Carrier and wave when you see us. They expect that Jenny will cooperate fully and after the touching scene on the office steps a few moments ago Neena is feeling even more confident. As soon as Jenny has finished speaking on her mobile, the vehicle crew will transmit a jamming signal to disable the handset and prevent any further calls. The vehicle will stop, Neena approach Jenny and introduce herself. Once inside the vehicle, events will take quite a different course to that which Jenny expects. How ironic that she will deliver herself into the hands of her own abductors! Simple plans are always best – and safest for all concerned. Even for the Target. (8)
The Target follows New Cavendish Street heading west, just as they anticipated. She looks at her watch – and starts to walk faster. She must think she will miss her appointment.
“Vehicle Crew? I am calling the target. Stand by to jam the handset as soon as she agrees to meet us.”
But before Neena can call Jenny’s number, they see Jenny takes her mobile phone and starts to speak! Neena and her colleagues can eavesdrop on her conversation. The Team are appalled to hear Joe’s voice!
“Joe? Hi!” she says.
A man’s voice now. “The boys were held up in traffic! They are just arriving, so I thought I’d snatch a final call.”
“That’s nice.”
“Did you get to the library yet?”
“Aha, well I’m afraid I’m being just a little bit naughty ….”
The Target is crossing Portland Place. It’s very busy with fast moving traffic. She’s obviously distracted by her husband’s call. There is a man emerging from the taxi and he doesn’t see her. For goodness sake, she is going to get herself run over if she carries on like this!
The two of them collide. Her mobile spins from her hand and crashes to the pavement. Her call breaks up in a hiss and crackle of static.
The man carries on without, apparently, taking the trouble to apologise and dives into the office building adjacent. The Target looks at his back, as he disappears, shaking her head at his rudeness. She picks up the phone. By the way that she’s prodding at it, the phone has probably made its last call. She shakes her head again and then slowly resumes her journey.
As she walks on, she is still trying to get her phone to work but without any signs of success. She’s getting closer to her destination. She pushes the phone back into her bag.
Her husband’s intervention has changed everything. The story Neena intended to tell the Target is now completely implausible. She can’t claim that Joe has suffered an accident because Jenny and Joe have just spoken to one another! The whole plan is collapsing in ruins before their very eyes …
The Target is now only a few hundred metres away from the end of New Cavendish Street; Neena must either abandon the hit or use the back-up plan.
She calls the vehicle and tells the driver to stop the vehicle somewhere along the street ahead of the Target, but before she reaches her destination.
Anatoly has been following the progress of the operation from his office in Moscow, using satellite surveillance data and the position of the Team positions marked by continuous telemetry. He chooses this moment to remind them that he is watching!
“Neena?”
“Da, Anatoly Sergeyevitch!”
“Well?”
“The main street is relatively quiet. The target is distracted by the shops. I recommend a final attempt. Look-out? Where are you now?”
“There is parking on the north side of the street in two hundred metres!” replies the Look-Out, “I am moving the motor bike into the space now. Vehicle? I will move off as soon as you arrive.”
“Be cautious: there is always another day”, says Anatoly. He sounds calm but he is grinding his teeth at the thought of all the preparations so carefully made, all coming to nought. Dr Hahn, Anna Tereshkova, the electronic surveillance, the aeroplane – and what will Sveta say when she finds how much has been spent on what is becoming a complete fiasco?
Meanwhile, the Target saunters along, she’s not far from the leather shop now and she’s caught up time. She’s glancing in the windows of the shops she passes; enjoying the walk and the day.
“Launching final attack. Stand by”.
The Target walks past a newsagents shop. There is an old woman emerging and in the way but Neena bumps past her. It is the last opportunity they will have. This is the moment to be bold. “Please! Could you help me?” Neena calls to Jenny . Neena does her best to look panicked. She fumbles in my bag and looks desperately at Jenny.
Jenny is startled to see a girl of about her own age, in such a distressed condition. To some extent Neena is acting her role but some of her performance is given an extra “edge” by the very real stress she is under! “I am diabetic,” Neena continues urgently. “I think I am going hypo. I can’t find my glucose. My car is just up ahead. Can you get me there safely? I have glucose and insulin there and the rest of my kit ….”
For a moment the Jenny is lost for words.
Neena continues to fumble in her bag. She repeats, “…..please?”
Jenny’s natural kindness and generosity comes into play. Despite her imminent appointment she is only too willing to help. “Yes, of course! Look, do you want to stay here? If you have a mobile, perhaps we should call an ambulance?” she says.
Her reply makes Neena feel almost guilty and yet it also confirms that Neena and her Team are going after exactly the right person:
“Thanks but I am sure I will be fine if I can just sort myself out. Just up the street ….” Neena gestures weakly in the direction of the vehicle.
Jenny puts her arm around Neena “Of course”, she says. “Which one is your car?”
“It’s the black people carrier. On the opposite side of the street ….”
Jenny can see the Mercedes. It really is quite close. The two of them walk on unsteadily.
“What do you think is the matter?” Jenny asks. “I thought if you were on insulin, you got to know how to look after yourself pretty well?”
“Yes, most of the time I’m fine but I was up too early. It’s been a really busy day and I have not had enough to eat. I will be just fine if I can get some glucose into me”
They reach the vehicle and Neena fumbles with the key.
Jenny says, “Here. Let me help”
She takes the key and presses the key fob to unlock the vehicle. There is a large sliding door in the side and two rows of passenger seats, facing one another.
Neena climbs into the middle row, facing the rear of the vehicle. Jennifer follows her in, anxious to see the crisis resolved safely and takes a seat in the rear of the vehicle, facing forwards.
“Can you close the door? I’m feeling cold ….” Neena tells her and she starts to fumble with her bag once more - and manages to drop a syringe on the floor.
Oh what a sweet moment! What marvellous relief! Now she has reached this point, Neena knows she will succeed. In spite of having to alter their plan once the operation was in progress …. Just take these last few steps carefully. The trap is almost closed!
Jennifer leans forward, sliding the door shut, increasingly concerned about her new companion. She should be concerned, but not in the way she thinks! Jenny stretches her hand forward to grasp the syringe …..
By the time she straightens up, Neena has undergone a miraculously transformation – and she is holding a weapon a few inches from Jenny’s body!
It’s a horrific turn of events. Just a moment ago, I was walking down a sunny street and the next I’m in terror of my life.
I can’t believe my eyes. The girl I have helped is holding what looks like a gun at me! When she speaks, her voice has become cruel and menacing. “First, don’t make even one sound. This is a Taser. If I fire it, you will get an electric shock big enough to knock you on the floor. It can make you vomit and piss yourself. Some people even go into cardiac arrest. Would you like that?”
I cannot grasp what’s happening. I stare speechless at the person who, a few moments ago was appealing to me for help and is now threatening me. I shake my head, my mouth open in shock. She must surely be able to read the surprise, disbelief and horror I feel?
“Good girl. There is tape on the seat next to you. It’s sticky side up. Put it across your lips. Smooth it down. Properly … There! … Well done!”
I am stunned. I don’t know what to think. Is this some dreadful re-run of my CIA arrest? (9) It’s almost like something the Inward Bound people would organise.
It’s that thought that wins through. This must be some elaborate game that Corinne has thought up. Corinne and Gaspazha Ylena have done this. This girl even has an accent like Gaspazha’s. Perhaps they are trying out a new “kidnap scenario” on me, to pay me back for the clandestine research I did on them, when I first went to Inward Bound? Well, it’s very convincing. I do just as I am told.
“Take this cuff. Place it round your right wrist … good … and now clip the other cuff to the ring on the chair … good! You really are obedient aren’t you?”
I continue to do exactly as she tells me. I am transfixed with fear at the site of the Taser and it’s only the thought that somehow Inward Bound has something to do with this that let’s me function at all. My body meekly follows the instructions being handed out whilst my mind seems to stand idly by.
As I bend to clip the cuff to the seat arm, the girl launches herself forward and in an instant, she has wrapped a wide band of Velcro strapping over my free arm. She loops a second Velcro strap around my cuffed arm. “Almost done! We don’t want to hurt your wrists.”
The girl’s ironic tone chimes with my idea that this is something to do with Inward Bound. That’s just the way they would think. The girl takes a third Velcro strap and wraps it round my calves and slips a noose which must have been waiting beneath the seat, around my ankles. It prevents me kicking my legs forward. Finally, the girl takes the car seat belt and secures me to the seat …….
In less than 90 seconds, I have gone from a Good Samaritan to helpless prisoner.
The girl sits back in her own seat and smiles contentedly. I sense that there is almost some relief in the girl’s demeanour. “I am very pleased to meet you Vyera! You have been acquired for new work. My name is Neena. We are going to get to know each other really well!”
My brain begins to come back to life at last. Vyera? Who on earth is that? She must think I’m someone else. With that thought I start to panic. Perhaps this isn’t something to do with Inward Bound, at all. Who is this Neena? Some psychopath? Does she really have diabetes and is the diabetes beginning to affect her mind?
I start to mew and shake my head and writhe in the seat, trying to break free, trying to tell this Neena that I am not called Vyera. The girl sees the change in me as my compliance gives way to struggles against the pull of her cuffs. “Don’t struggle, Vyera,” she says. “This car has tinted glass. We can see out but they,” she nods her head towards the passers by on the pavement, “cannot see in. Now, I am going to give you something to make you feel much better.” She takes a pair of scissors. To my dismay she cuts a slit in my jeans. For goodness sake! Doesn’t she know how much these cost? These are my best pair! Joe and I are not made of money! And then she swabs my skin and then produces what looks like a fat biro pen.
“This is an auto-injector and this (I feel an unpleasantly sharp sting in my thigh) is Ketamine. It will stop you feeling so frightened and make you much easier to handle. You will get some more later on. Now, we have an appointment, so just sit back and enjoy your journey!”
With that, the girl – Neena, as she calls herself – climbs into the driver’s seat, starts the engine and begins to manoeuvre into the afternoon traffic.
All the strength begins to ebb from my body and I start to feel oddly disconnected from what is happening to me. Neena glances over her shoulder at me and smiles. She says something which I cannot make out. “Izveneetie, devorshka,” it sounds like. I start to feel numb and then, presently I feel as if I am seeping out of my body and out of the vehicle! I am flying away! See: girl. You thought you had caught me, but as you drive along, I am flying away from you! I am getting away. Ha! I will soon be all gone. Jennnnnnn? Who? That person, there. The one tied to the seat. She is - no I am flying away, through a tiny key hole, all the way back home! (10)
Anatoly glances at the screen of his computer closely. His palms are sweating just a little. He notices that his pulse is running fast. Over his computer, he hears Neena’s calm voice saying, “Target down; Pick-up complete. Target safe and restrained. Time now 14:30. Going to the rendezvous.’
Anatoly sighs. He had not realised it, but he has been holding his breath …
He allows himself a broad smile. A smile, because his Team have accomplished a difficult task in difficult circumstances, a smile because he has now got someone who can give him inside information about a Clegg Operation and a smile because, who knows? This young girl might be helpful to Sveta – actually, he hopes she may even be healing for Sveta, someone who may help to salve some old and painful wounds.
.......................................................................................................
Footnotes.
1. More on Trish. See Market Forces, by Freddie Clegg. Chapter 73
2. Statistical Package for the Social Sciences.
3. The Royal Society of Medicine has the best medical library in the United Kingdom.
4. “Sister” is the name given in the UK to a senior female nurse.
5. CT (computerized tomography) and MR (magnetic resonance imaging) are the gold standard methods for imaging fractures (CT) and ligament and tendon injuries (MR) in bones and joints.
6 Private flights to the London Area are mostly now directed to Farnborough or Blackbushe airports
7. “Rooms” : A rather quaint expression often used by medical practitioners in London to refer to the location of their private practice.
8. Neena uses a Mercedes Viano X-Clusive
9. The electronic jamming idea was inspired by a story in a local UK newspaper, about some traffic policemen who accidentally pointed a radar speed gun at a low flying fighter jet. The jet’s electronic defence system not only jammed the radar gun, but automatically armed and targeted an air to ground missile. The pilot chose not to fire!
10. Russian names. There are quite a few Russian characters in this story and you might find a short note about Russian names helpful. If you were a Russian, you would have three names. A first name (such as Anatoly) a second name derived from the name of your father (if your father was called Sergey, your ‘patronymic’ would be Sergeyevitch if you were a boy and Sergeyevna if you were a girl), and finally a family surname name (such as Kustensky). In Russia, if you were introduced to Anatoly Kustensky, you would call him “Anatoly Sergeyevitch”. If you knew him very well indeed, you would be allowed to use his first name, Anatoly, or its diminutive “Tolya” all on its own. The female version of a family name takes a slightly different form and hence Anatoly’s wife Svetlana (diminutive Sveta) is called Svetlana Kustenskaya.
© 2011 Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg
All characters fictitious.
CHAPTER 2 : CHECK-IN AND DEPARTURES
Joe and his colleagues review their plans and aims for the forthcoming meetings in Seoul and the field trip to Cambodia. They are laying out a memorandum of understanding which will confirm what exactly each firm and member of the team will be responsible for.
The meeting goes smoothly, surprisingly smoothly. It goes smoothly enough for Joe to have time to text Jenny to see if she is OK, after their interrupted call.
One of the team calls Joe out to the office vestibule, saying that their taxi to Heathrow is due. Joe checks his mobile. There is no reply from Jenny. Small talk flows as the team stand around in the lobby, each of them anxious to be on their way. Joe excuses himself and calls Jenny’s mobile. There is no reply. He leaves a voice mail.
The taxi arrives. The engineers clamber aboard and begin their journey to Heathrow. It’s late afternoon but traffic is flowing smoothly.
“You OK Joe?” Craig Evans, sitting alongside Joe, has noticed that he seems a bit abstracted.
“Yes, sorry Craig, I’ve been trying to call Jenny but I can’t get through.”
“She came to see you off?”
“She did. I think she told her Boss that she had work to do down here, though!”
“Bright girl! She’s going to go places!”
Joe laughs. Yes, Jenny will go places, he thinks, but it’s the actual places that he still worries about.
Neena has picked up the two members of the vehicle team and is threading her way carefully through the London traffic. The last thing she wants, is to trip a speed camera or jump a red light with her helpless passenger on board.
They reach a discrete garage, where Dr Hahn is waiting in a private ambulance. Neena drives in and the doors close. Once privacy has been established, Anna greets her with, “Hey Neena, all OK?”
Neena looks across at her and laughs out loud. “Yes, Anna I am very much OK and I am very glad to see how very thoroughly you have prepared for this mission!”
Neena’s teasing remark is made because Anna has shaved her own head. She has done it to help the hospital staff remember her and it will connect the shaven headed girl from the private hospital with the shaven headed girl who leaves the UK as a medical evacuee, if any more searching enquiries are made, but will anyone realise that it is not the same girl?
Now completely recovered from her “injury”, Anna takes up her profession as a nurse once more and helps Heidi, Dr Hahn’s practice nurse and the team to transfer Jenny into the “ambulance”. They sedate her again just as the injured “Vyera Kuznetsova” should be to make her ready for her trip to Farnborough Airport.
Heidi Eisen has been with Dr Hahn for many years. She knows that sometimes unorthodox things have to be done and she also knows how they are accomplished. She bends tenderly over Jenny. “You have been taken ill,” she says, “we are taking you to hospital.”
“Huh? Oh?” groans Jenny, still weak and disorientated.
Heidi picks up another preloaded auto-injector syringe and fires a second dose of ketamine into Jenny’s thigh. Jenny quickly subsides into sleep. Heidi, assisted by Anna takes a pair of paramedic shears and cuts Jenny’s clothing from her body and strips her. Jenny is redressed in the hospital smock Anna had worn and ECG leads are placed on Jenny’s chest. Anna puts up an intravenous infusion line connected to a syringe driver, to deliver just enough sedative to keep Jenny on the borders of consciousness but completely confused and quite helpless.
Jenny is catheterised and her urine drained; she is given an enema and her bowls cleansed. They put her in an adult diaper. An oro-gastric tube is passed into her stomach and the remains of her last meal are removed, to reduce any risk of vomiting. As a final precaution, she is given an intra-muscular injection of prochlorperazine, an anti-emetic. Just in case the sedation should provoke nausea.
Once the medical preparations are complete, they set to the crucial task of finalising Jenny’s appearance. Neena looks critically at Jenny and then the photograph in the passport they have for her. It is a new version of the Vyera Kuznetsova passport. This time, it contains Jenny’s image – well just about. Neena takes a pair of metal bolt cutters and cuts through Jenny’s septum ring twice, freeing a segment and sliding the ring from her nose. Then some other crucial details: Jenny’s engagement and wedding rings are removed and the skin of her fingers massaged so the imprints left by her jewellery can fade quickly.
Dr Hahn, Heidi, and Neena are now ready to resume their journey to the airport with Jenny - or Vyera Kuznetsova, as she will now become - whilst the Mercedes used for the abduction, is valeted with minute attention to detail and returned by the vehicle team to the hire company.
Before they leave, Neena helps Anna to return to her usual appearance. She takes a very carefully crafted blond wig and applies it to Anna’s shaven scalp using skin adhesive so that it will not be accidentally displaced. In particular, very great attention – painstaking attention - must be paid to the areas where the wig meets Anna’s skin. The disguise must be perfect so no suspicions are aroused on her journey back home. Presently, the transformation is complete and Anna’s appearance has been completely restored.
At 3pm, Igor, another member of the team, receives a text. It’s a three digit number. The digits tell him that the target has been lifted successfully, is in custody and he is cleared to execute his final part of the mission.
Igor spends the rest of the day mixing anonymously with the crowds shopping in Birmingham city centre before enjoying a leisurely meal and a movie. He has important work to do later that night.
Dr Hahn follows the M4 west. Joe’s taxi is heading the same way. As they pass junction 4, Joe’s minicab, heading for the Heathrow Exit, happens to pass in front of Dr Hahn’s vehicle as it makes its way to another airport. Joe has no idea, of course, how close he has been to his sedated, captive, wife.
Hahn snorts at the careless driving of the taxi as it swings off the motorway and on the slip road. Dr Hahn turns on to the M25 south, then on to the M3. There’s the usual press of traffic but, today, they pass through without incident.
After one hour and thirty minutes travel, they leave the motorway, turn down the A325, into Aerospace Boulevard and drive up to the airport
At London Heathrow Terminal 4, Joe McEwan elbows his way into a crowded terminal from the taxi drop off and joins the back of a long queue for check in. The other engineers have each chosen their own queues. It’s a bit of a joke between them; last one through to the departure lounge pays for the drinks. Joe pushes the trolley with his bags on slowly forward as the queue for check in moves steadily but not quickly forward. He looks across at his grinning colleagues in the other queues. He’s going to lose. A small child in the arms of the woman in front of him is howling. Joe hopes she’s in a different part of the plane.
Eventually he reaches the check in for Korean Airlines and hefts his bags from the trolley and drops them on the scales. Joe looks relieved as they weigh in just below the magic 20 kilos. The girl behind the counter takes his ticket and passport, beams with her standard, practiced, “designer” smile and goes through the whole “Did you pack this yourself?” routine. Joe, with a patience born of a hundred flights over the last few years, smiles and nods at the appropriate points; happy at the end of it all simply to have succeeded in gaining his boarding card although worried as ever, by his disappearing baggage. He joins the queue for security, snaking through the terminal, shuffling forward every few minutes but this time without the encumbrance of his suitcases.
The ambulance with Jenny, comfortable and hovering on the borders of sleep and wakefulness in the back, parks at the Executive Flight Centre.
Dr Hahn goes to report to the duty manager and the medical officer. Heidi Eisen will accompany the patient to Moscow before returning to London on a scheduled flight. The Russian Embassy people have been very understanding and helpful. In the circumstances, there has been no delay over a visa for Heidi. Two other members of Anatoly’s team are already in the terminal and are waiting airside of security and passport control.
The medical officer and Dr Hahn discuss Vyera. They review her X-rays and case record of the sleeping patient. Dr Hahn points out that he does not believe in half measures when analgesia and sedation are required. After all, the relief of pain and anxiety are surely one of the blessings of life today? Further technical matters are discussed. The MO and the charming Dr Hahn shake hands: they agree: the patient is fit to fly.
The vehicle is admitted onto the apron and drives carefully towards an immaculate blue, white and silver Bomardier Global Express in one corner of the airfield. Down the side of the Bombardier’s fuselage it proclaims: Anatoly Kustensky Enterprises on one side in English and on the other in Russian, in Cyrillic script. Security and UK Borders Agency staff are there to meet the party.
A Passport Control official comes over to check the travellers. He takes the red passport belonging to the woman casualty. To ease her pain during the journey from London she has been sedated and has now been carefully lifted on a stretcher and placed onto a trolley. He opens the cover, guarded on the outside by the double-headed Russian eagle. It states that she is Âåðà Àíàòîëüåâíà Êóçíåöîâà. The photograph shows a young lady, just like the girl on the trolley. But of course, it is the girl on the trolley. The official glances at Hahn. He indicates one of the other members of the party, now gathered by the aircraft steps. Valentine notices the doctor’s nod and comes over to meets the enquiring gaze of the official. Valentine says: “She is my niece. She fall from horse” Valentine takes in the quizzical gaze of the official as he compares the passport photograph with present appearance of âåðà Êóçíåöîâà.
The official is satisfied. He smiles encouragement and the formalities are complete. The security staff, the medical officer and the border control people have done all they can to speed Vyera and her helpers through the formalities and on to their aircraft.
Jenny is vaguely aware of things going on around her. She is barely conscious of the movement but senses the changes in light and the changes in temperature as she is moved. She hears people talking about someone called “Vyera”. None of the staff take the slightest interest in her. She feels there’s something not exactly correct about the way that she is being treated, that no one seems to want to ask her if everything is all right but it’s no more than a vague unease and, in any case, she doesn’t feel she can do anything about it.
Joe finally succeeds in passing security and passport control. Hopping on one leg as he tries to put one of his shoes back on, having retrieved them from the x-ray machine’s conveyer, he wonders how much longer it will be before they all have to submit to a full cavity body search before passengers are even allowed inside the terminal building.
Joe curses the fact that he’s flying economy. Not for him the quiet oasis of the business lounge. He has to put up with the hectic pushing and shoving and fight for one of the few seats that have been squeezed in reluctantly, as a small concession to the idea that not all passengers want to shop, all the time. Joe flops down on an uncomfortable plastic seat, tossing the leather shoulder pouch that he uses as a flight bag on to the seat beside him and checks to make sure that he’s picked up everything after the security search. He looks at his watch. It’s almost time to begin the trek down to the boarding pier. There isn’t really enough time for a coffee or a drink. His friends have already left the bar. Joe isn’t that disappointed. The coffee in the terminal is even worse than the coffee on the flight. And besides, it was his round.
He tries Jenny’s mobile again and again there is no reply. Perhaps she dropped it? He settles for an e-mail. There is just time to send it before their flight starts to board. He catches up with Craig just as he is about to disappear inside the aircraft.
Jenny is carefully carried onto the aircraft followed by the rest of the party. The Ambulance reverses clear and drives back through the secure perimeter. Neena pauses on the aircraft steps and momentarily looks up into the dark evening sky. The stars have begun to come out. She give a smile - well, almost a laugh - of triumph.
In Moscow, Anatoly receives a call from AKE Operations to tell him that the Bombardier captain has just reported that Romeo Alpha 9560 Delta is about to leave and all passengers and cargo are now aboard. He looks at his watch. A successful day – eventually! - and he will be just in time to enjoy a brandy with Sveta before bed.
In the Heathrow Control Tower, a duty ground controllers picks up with the Captain of Joe’s Boeing 747. “Korean two – zero – four, cleared to push. Taxi, two-seven right.”
A Continental DC-10 speeds up as it sees the 747 turning. “Two zero four, give way to the Continental on the taxi way.” Joe’s captain responds sulkily “Tower, give way to the Continental DC-10, two-zero-four. I hope there aren’t too many of these people. We’ve got a slot to hit.” A hiss of static substitutes for an expression of exasperation from the tower. “Everybody’s got a slot to hit, two-zero-four. We’ll do what we can.”
Joe, crammed in beside 300 others, sits feigning attention to a safety briefing that he could almost recite by heart, thumbing idly through the in-flight magazine and wondering whether he is going to try the movie or just settle down with a few drinks and the meal before trying to get some sleep. It’s half past nine in the evening, the flight won’t get in to Inchon until half past four tomorrow afternoon. Joe takes a while thinking if there’s any way that he can make the seat even remotely comfortable. There isn’t.
In the other tower, at the other airport, the controller hears a transmission from Jenny’s plane. “Ground, this is Bombardier Romeo Alpha niner-six-fiver- zero-delta at the gate with Charlie, requesting clearance, departure to the east. We’re a medevac flight so we’d appreciate any help you can give to get us off smoothly.”
Jenny has lapsed into unconsciousness on the Bombardier, unaware of the noise of the engines as the pilot throttles up to taxi. She doesn’t notice the dimmed lights of the cabin or Heidi sitting beside her.
The controller checks the ground radar and replies “Nine-six-five-zero-delta, cleared to taxi, two-four right.” The Bombardier’s captain looks out. The apron is clear, there’s nothing between him and the runway except the pools of purple light that mark the edges of the taxiways. “Two-four right, five-zero-delta.” The half dozen other people on Jenny’s flight peer out as their plane moves off. They settle back in their deep, soft, leather seats.
At Heathrow, Joe’ aircraft has spend half an hour shuffling forward in a queue of other aircraft. It’s half an hour since they pushed back from the terminal pier and they have travelled all of a mile. At last, they reach the runway. The chatter between the tower and the captain and the mantra of pre-flight checks between the captain and first officer give way to concentration as the speed of the aircraft builds and the lights at the edge of the runway blink past at an increasing rate. As the aircraft accelerates past 80 knots, the control surfaces become fully active, the nose rises and the wheels of the 747 lift away from the ground as the ‘plane finally takes to the air.
The Bombardier with Jenny on board has spent less than five minutes taxiing from the apron to runway 24. Another ninety seconds later, she is in the air, following Joe’s plane across eastern England and out over the North Sea.
On the Korean 747, the fasten seat belts sign flicks off as it reaches cruising altitude. Joe wonders again about one of the movies, when drink appears from a smiling Korean stewardess and Craig walks up the aisle past his seat. “Hey,” he says to Joe, “Don’t you owe the rest of us a drink too?”
Jenny stirs slightly. Her eyes flicker open for a moment giving her a blurred unfocussed vision of the nurse, her face in shadow from the cabin lights behind. As Jenny’s eyes close again Heidi leans forward to read Jenny’s pulse, blood pressure and oxygenation on the criticare monitor. She checks the saline drip is running freely, keeping Jenny properly hydrated and then adjusts the syringe driver as it feeds more of the sedative into her vein.
Joe decides on conversation. He heads back to talk to Craig and the other two of his colleagues on the flight. Craig is about half way back. Joe spots the other two right at the back of the plane. They must have boarded well before he got to the gate. He ambles down the aisle towards them, squeezing past the drinks trolley and giving his two friends a wave.
Jenny on the other hand isn’t moving around. She lies on her seat which has been fully reclined to act as her bed for the duration of the flight, helpless from sedation. Even if she were fully awake, beneath the blanket that covers her, there are straps to hold her secure. Of course they are there for her benefit – to keep her safe, as Heidi would explain to anyone who asked, throughout the journey.
As the aircraft climbs, Heidi notices how Jenny’s blood pressure begins to edge up as the pressure on her eardrums changes and as the flight levels off. She toys absent-mindedly with Jenny’s right nipple, squeezing and pinching at it, seeing whether Jenny reacts at all. Amongst the many puzzles of the next few days, Jenny never really comes to understand why her right breast is so bruised and sore.
But that’s the difference between Joe’s Korean Airlines flight 204 and Jenny’s Bombardier. Joe, even though his flight is uncomfortable, noisy and crowded, is going to practice his profession. Jenny, on the other hand – or Vyera as the authorities have come to know her – Vyera, while enjoying all the comforts of her executive jet, is being taken to be a slave.
Flying faster and higher, RA 9560D soon catches up with Korean 204.
The ripple in the thin cold air left by the Bombardier as it overtakes is imperceptible to the passengers in the Boeing – except perhaps to Joe, who feels a sudden pang of anxiety over an interrupted phone call and an unanswered text. And he wonders what Jenny his wife is doing and how she is right then…
A little after 1 am on Wednesday morning Igor drives towards Warwick. At 2 am he parks his hire car near Jenny and Joe’s home. The suburban streets are deserted and there is no one to see him moving through the shadows to enter the deserted house.
He has been here before. He came and went undetected. Well not quite, but the minor disruptions he caused were put down to merely forgetting where things had been put.
The usual domestic barriers to crime present little difficulty for him and this is, after all, his second visit. Once inside, he quickly finds what he wants.
A rucksac, shoes, clothes, jacket, Jenny’s passport, her diary and her laptop, her toothbrush and some makeup.
He leaves her jewellery.
He has almost finished - when he sees the computer. He is very keen to impress the Boss with his part in the operation. He knows that the data inside the machine has been regularly downloaded and sent back to AKE by Yevgeny’s surveillance programme. In a moment he has booted up the PC and opened the desktop. There is a password protection, but he knew the password, in any event. The desktop is neatly arranged and Jenny’s PhD research files are stacked in a directory all by themselves. There is also a calendar and address book. What would someone do, when leaving home for the last time? Cut all ties, surely? Remove all clues to where they were going. Igor wastes no more time. He puts a pen drive in the USB port which loads a programme to erase all the contents of the hard disc. He presses <enter> and it’s done. Irretrievably.
Downstairs, he peers cautiously out of the window. No one passes in the street. He opens the door a crack. Silence. He resets the burglar alarm and leaves as silently as he came. Unseen. Unsuspected.
It’s not until he is many miles down the M40 motorway heading for London that his conscience begins to trouble him. He was not instructed about the PC. Maybe he should have left it alone?
Surely, surely it was an opportune target? He did what someone would do, if they were running away ….. but then what about the target’s computer at the University? Should he have erased the hard disc there? That would be consistent. But wait a moment: first, he would have to know exactly which one it was and reach it undetected. So it had to be left alone. Maybe he had been too thorough? Then again, no operation ever came to grief by operatives being too thorough did it?
Igor, Joe and Jenny aren’t the only people leaving.
In the days that follow Jenny’s abduction, the other members of Anatoly’s hunting party slip discretely away from the UK. Some leave by Eurostar to Paris; some by ferry to Zeebrugge, and some by air to Helsinki and then by train to St Petersburg and so on.
Anna Tereshkova presents a slightly more subtle problem. She has arrived in the UK using a passport in the name of Vyera Kuznetsova, who has left for Moscow. The United Kingdom authorities have ambitions to record the arrival and departures of all foreign nationals and whilst the scheme is - apparently - not yet operational, it would be wise if Anna could leave discretely. After all, the use of a second “Vyera Kuztetsova” passport would be risky .
Anatoly has given the problem some careful thought.
Anna meets one of the secretaries from the AKE office in London at a branch of Starbucks and collects an envelope containing an Estonian passport together with cash.
She takes the train (first class, in view of her still uncomfortable lumbar spine) to Glasgow, connecting with another train to Stranraer and finally the Stena Line ferry to Belfast where she spends the night in the Belfast Hilton.
The following day, she takes the train to Dublin. Since the Good Friday Agreement, the British and Irish Governments have been at pains to remove unnecessary reminders that the island of Ireland is still divided between two nations. There are no frontier controls between British and Irish jurisdiction on the Belfast to Dublin train and citizens of Estonia, many of whom are of Russian origin, do not need a visa to enter the Republic of Ireland
So Anna Tereshkova slips away from the UK into Eire and flies home from Dublin airport first to Paris (to collect her very own Russian passport and to regain her real identity) and then on to Moscow, indistinguishable from many other international tourists and with nothing to indicate that she first came to the United Kingdom as “Vyera Kuznetsova”
Anna smiles broadly to the young passport official at Dublin Airport. “Did you enjoy your trip? Will we be seeing you again?” He replies
Anna continues her gentle flirtation, “Yes, very much and of course I would love to come back – if you will have me!”
“Any why should we not?” he says, smiling back. “Have a safe journey now.”
Anna waves him farewell and is gone.
© 2011 Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg
All characters fictitious.
CHAPTER 3 : AN UNEXPECTED RE-LOCATION
AN ARRIVAL
In the early hours of Wednesday morning, Anatoly’s private jet glides down the ILS beam (1) out of a dark and snowy winter sky, to land at the Chkalovsky military airstrip, near Shchyolkovo, north east of Moscow.
Anatoly still has contact with his old colleagues. It makes it possible to use military facilities when he needs them. His colleagues know that he is still available to undertake ‘official’ duties on some occasions. As a result they make sure that the airfield officials are as helpful as they can be.
When the party disembarks and one of the passengers - still sedated - is taken away, nobody seems so notice. More important, no one asks why and no one asks where; they are used to that sort of thing here, and besides the less you ask, the less you know, and the less you know, the less you will be accountable for.
The formal record of the flight arrival merely states that Anatoly’s jet had been chartered by a returning Russian family who journeyed on to Moscow.
Jenny also travels onwards in the general direction of Moscow, but her journey ends at the Kustensky Dacha, in the countryside some 100km outside the capital.
“Dacha” is perhaps a misleading term. For most Russians, a dacha is a small country cottage where city dwellers might spend the weekend in the peace and quiet of the countryside, grow vegetables and enjoy time out from the city. In contrast, the Kustensky Dacha it takes its style from the comfortable retreats enjoyed by pre-revolutionary magnates and aristocrats (and that of some of their revolutionary successors). The Kustensky dacha is a grand country house set within a large estate and covering many square kilometres. Indeed, the scale of the Dacha ensures that the residents can enjoy the peace of the country side, enjoy a retreat from the bustle of the city and in particular, can avoid the scrutiny of prying eyes.
One of Anatoly’s reasons for buying the estate, was the space it provided to enjoy slaves both inside and out, with no realistic danger of being disturbed. There is nowhere for the slaves to run, unless they are prepared to eke out an existence in the forest and attempt to avoid the hunters that Anatoly would surely send to fetch them back. From time to time an optimistic un-broken slave tries their luck. Anatoly enjoys it when they do!
Jenny remembers nothing of her journey. Nothing of the aircraft bumping and skidding through the cold turbulent air as it landed, nothing of the icy wind blowing sleet and snow flurries over her as she was lifted from the aircraft and into the ambulance and nothing of her transfer from the ambulance to the Dacha. In the grip of her sedation, she is barely conscious, hardly even aware of light or dark, indoors or out. She is still asleep as she is wheeled into a cell in the basement of the mansion, still strapped to the medical trolley.
Heidi checks her patient’s fluid balance: saline-in and urine-out, concerned as ever, for the well being of the one in her charge. Successful anaesthesia and sedation requires careful monitoring of the patient. Just as a hangman seals the fate of their victim by careful attention to their weight and build, so Heidi has to take account of similar factors and knows that her patient must be observed and treated with care.
She disconnects the syringe driver from the intravenous infusion and settles down to wait for the cloud of sedation to disperse and for Jenny to awaken to her new life. Experience has taught Heidi that it’s best for a nurse or for one of the trainers to be with a new slave at this point.
Heidi looks at her watch. She will stay with Jenny until she is able to take fluids unaided and is free from nausea and any risk of vomiting. Then she will take down the intravenous infusion, remove her urinary catheter, and remove the ECG leads from her chest. Only then will she be content to hand over responsibility for the new girl to Neena, and afterwards, she can leave ‘Vyera’ to take stock of her situation as best she can.
I wake up. I feel quite wide awake and yet, not quite right.
I am lying on a hospital trolley. I’m strapped down; not really able to move much, let alone sit up, even if I wanted to. There’s a drip feeding into my arm. I am in a white room. The light is not too bright. A nurse is sitting on a chair reading a magazine next to me. My vision seems to be disturbed and I can’t really see properly. While I can see the nurse clearly, I can’t make any sense of the magazine she is reading. None of the letters look right …
I try to look around the room. I can turn my head, even if I cannot move my body much. The floor has blue sparkly non-slip vinyl covering. The walls are white tiled. There is one door, also white. There is no window. There is a high ceiling. I feel as if I am at the bottom of a deep hole.
It looks like a hospital but somehow it’s too quiet for a hospital. No noise of other patients, no sign of any visitors. None of the bustle of a hospital ward.
I have woken enough to realise that I feel slightly drunk. My mouth is dry. I flop my head back on to the pillow, confused. I try to remember how I got here? What is the last thing I remember? Walking down a street in London, talking on my mobile to Joe …. Joe! What must he be thinking? Then there was a girl who asked me for help …. What happened after that?
The stab of anxiety when I think of Joe brings me round further. I call out …..
The nurse looks up. She smiles and says nothing but checks the drip …
“Look can you tell me? ….who are you? … where?”
The nurse smiles again, ignores my questions and loosens the straps around my arms a little. Then she elevates the head of the trolley and offers me a drink from a plastic cup.
“Here: try this”, is all she says.
It tastes like a dilute sports drink, cool in my sticky mouth.
Suddenly, I feel the need to pee and then I can feels urine flowing out of me. I tense my sphincter muscles but the flow persists. Nothing I do seems to make a difference.
“Help me please! I am wetting the bed!”
The nurse crouches down beside me, peering at a urine bag hanging on the side of the trolley. She glances at me, smiles and pats my arm – a reassuring explanation of why I have not wet the bed. It is only then that I realise I am naked. Fortunately the room is pleasantly warm ….
“Look, can you tell me what’s happened?”
Again the nurse ignores me. She measures the amount I have drunk and the amount in the urine bag. She looks at some figures on a chart. Perhaps the amount which has gone into me, from the infusion?
Then she asks: “How is your tummy?”
“Er, fine I think … how do you mean?”
“Do you feel sick?”
“No, not at all. Should I?”
“Good”, is all the reply I get.
However, she seems satisfied because then she takes down the drip. (2) It stings as the plastic canula is drawn from my arm. She straps a band-aid across the exit wound. She disconnects me from the ECG leads and the coloured lines on a monitor all go flat. She peels the sticky electrode pads from my skin and wipes the sticky residue away and then goes to the foot of the trolley. She fiddles with the catheter and gently pulls. It comes away. She wipes some drops of urine onto a pad. She drops the pad, catheter, urine bag and intravenous infuser into an orange sack inside large red pedal bin marked with the international “biohazard” sign.
The nurse turns and smiles at me and then kisses me on my forehead! Then without a further word or gesture, she scoots the bin out of the room and leaves me all alone. There is a “click” as the door locks and the lights dim.
I try to sit up properly but the straps prevent me. I shout out, but no one comes. The effort of trying seems to leave me overcome by weakness. I sink back against the pillow and drift off into a fitful sleep.
It’s early in the morning of Wednesday11th of November. Winter is advancing fast on Moscow and the wind casts a mixture of hail and snow against the windows of Sveta and Anatoly’s bedroom, scratching and tapping at the glass. Today, Sveta is taking time to wake up. It’s uncharacteristic. Early mornings are one of the things you get used to, when you work in the Media and in her previous career, early mornings were something the staff of the KGB all took for granted.
Tolya – that’s Anatoly, her husband is also stirring. He has something to tell Sveta. He is - having slept on the problem - increasingly anxious about what he has done and anxious about how Sveta might take the news. He knows things about Sveta which she has never been able to confide to him. Sveta thinks they lie buried deep in her past and even deeper in the archives of her former employer. Anatoly knows different. Secrets are always dangerous things in a marriage. But sometimes truth can be a brutal animal, tearing old wounds open, laying bare an intimate history, re-igniting the fears and terrors of past years. For a moment he gazes at her sleeping face, calm peaceful in the early morning. Anatoly has a tender side. From somewhere he is conscious of a half remembered quotation from the Bible ‘and he gives to his beloved, rest’ – or was it ‘peace’?(3) If only he could bring about some peace and healing for his wife …
“Sveta?”
“Hmmm?”
“I think I have someone for you and Alana …..”
“Oh? Who? Where did you find her?”
“She is from England.”
“Working in Moscow?”
“Well, no not exactly.”
“Not exactly? Tolya, (4) does this mean that you have lifted her from somewhere?” Sveta is propelled quickly from sleep to wakefulness by the trend of the conversation.
“Yes: I’m sure she will shape up to be just the person you need, Sveta …..”
“Tolya!” After what Anatoly has just said, Sveta is now wide awake, sitting up and looking down on him, still sprawled out under the quilt.
“For goodness sake Tolya, we need a Nanny. There are specific things you look for in a Nanny. Things you try to gauge in an interview, to see if the girl has them within her in the first place. They are not things you can just programme in. No wonder they kept you in Operations and I was in Strategic Planning!” Anatoly looks abashed for a moment at this barb, but Sveta continues: “Tolya: in a Nanny you look for someone who is, gentle, kind, thoughtful, reliable, fun, authoritative, responsible, forgiving, patient, understanding. Which of these qualities are shared with your sex slave abductees? Is this the sort of thing your training schemes can achieve now? I would have thought that someone with half a brain would realise that and instead would approach an Agency or ask friends or even just put an ad in the Gazyeta ……” (5)
Anatoly has turned over to look at Sveta properly. She likes him to sleep naked, so he is always available for her. Now the sight of him in the raw, half out from under the quilt, with a pained expression on his face is would usually melt her irritation but not on this occasion. How dare he just go ahead with a hare-brained idea like this without discussing it with her?
“Sveta, will you just look at this girl? I’m sure she will be just fine. I mean I have done some homework,” he adds, plaintively. Inside, Sveta’s reaction is provoking all his worst fears for the situation. Should he just get rid of the girl quietly? Or even just debrief her and send her straight back?
Sveta sighs. She knows there will be no good to come from confrontation if Anatoly feels he hasn’t had the chance to say his piece. “OK Tolya. Just tell me the whole story. I just know there is definitely a story here.”
“Well, you remember when Clegg took Alana …..” (6)
“Yes of course I remember”
‘Remember’ is a word that hardly does justice to Sveta’s feelings of dismay and desperation when her only child vanished without trace and without explanation in a foreign country. The little child she had borne, nurtured, cared for. The little girl who, by her very existence, salved so many deep and painful wounds for Sveta
“Well, he was supposed to send us the girl responsible for her abduction but when she was being sent over to us the British police received information that the Chechens were planning to bomb the Aeroflot flight to Moscow?”
“And they found this girl of Clegg’s? Yes, of course I remember the whole thing. Clegg never came properly through with compensation did he?”
“No he did not. Then, last year, when I met him in London he was at pains to warn me away from taking an interest in some sort of consensual operation he has either set up or bought into – I couldn’t quite work out which.”
“Hmmmm, go on ….” Sveta thinks Anatoly is too concerned about the man Clegg. She knows he is Tolya’s competitor and they both trade in flesh - the slave trading business. Why Anatoly gets so concerned, though, is beyond her. Anatoly has always made a point of trading at the “top end” of the market and from what Tolya says, Clegg’s operation is just not in the same class. So why does Tolya bother about him?
“Well, when I had dinner with Angela”
“Ah, Angela ….” Sveta runs her hand over Anatoly’s bum, remembering the birching she gave him as his punishment for bedding Angela. That was a good evening! Yes: she must find a reason for Anatoly to be given another birching – soon! This Nanny fiasco could be it.
“Well, Angela had this cock and bull story about being arrested by the CIA and interrogated. She said, they wanted to know what she knew about me and if I had been asking about some research being done by one of her students.”
“Are you sure that Angela was telling the truth. Sure she had not just made this all up?”
“No. The times corresponded to my meeting with Clegg. It is just in his muddling style.”
“OK, so let me guess the rest. You have tracked down Angela’s student who may or may not be a particular protégé of Clegg’s and brought her to Russia for debriefing and you thought she just might do for a Nanny for Alana …..”
“Well, yes that’s about it.”
“Tolya: full marks for trying but I’m not optimistic at the moment.”
“Well, will you just see her?”
Sveta heaves a sigh: “OK I’ll see her but I want to see her first, before anything else happens to her. Where is she?”
“At the Dacha.”
“How long?”
“She arrived … er … early this morning.”
“OK, OK. I’ll speak to her today.”
“Thank you Sveta. I think she could be just fine.”
“Well Tolya, if she’s not …..” She rubs Anatoly’s bum, gently scratching his skin with her nails. The message seems to strike home to him……
“I know: I will be at your disposal ……”
“Ha! You are anyway! Who would have guessed that the great Anatoly Kustensky is really slave to his wife …?”
Anatoly smiles and kisses her tenderly – but he knows she is right, but just at the moment he is not interested in games. It’s reality – actually, history – he is trying to put right.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
Footnotes:
(1) ILS beam. Instrument Landing System, navigational radio beam used to guide an aircraft down to a runway.
(2) Drip. Colloquial British term for intra-venous infusion
(3) Anatoly has a hazy memory of Psalm 127, verse 2
(4) Tolya. Familiar diminutive form of Anatoly
(5) Gazyeta. Russian word for newspaper
(6) See Market Forces by Freddie Clegg, Chapter 73,
© 2011 Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg
All characters fictitious.
CHAPTER 4 : THE AMBITIONS OF POPOVA
It is October 1984. Ludmila Ivanovna Popova is ushered in by a nurse. She sees the gynaecologist sitting at his desk, the autumn sky through the window behind and notices that he glances away she walks across to him.
“Please - sit down, Comrade Popova.”
Popova expects this to be a difficult meeting and she has come in her uniform, the uniform of a Colonel in the KGB. It has a desirable effect. Doors are opened for her. People speak respectfully. The gynaecologist is on edge …. She will have the truth from him!
“You have the information from your investigations?”
“Yes, Comrade, I have.”
“And you have an opinion?”
“Yes, Comrade, I do”
The doctor avoids her gaze once more as he begins. At that point, Popova knows the news is bad, almost without the need for him to say anything further.
“Ah, I am sorry Comrade. I have no good news. The lesion is cancerous. The histology shows it to be aggressive. The prognosis for ovarian carcinoma is difficult – but there are options.”
“Such as?”
“Well, it would be resection followed by radiotherapy. We can control the growth locally and many patients have significant remissions.”
“How long?”
How long? The question on the lips of every patient but the Colonel is a brave woman and practical, too.
“I am sorry, Comrade. I cannot tell you that with any certainty. We have to rely on statistics, specifically the survival at five years.”
“And?”
“Fifty percent of patients will survive five years but if the cancer has spread into the abdominal cavity, only 20 percent of patients will survive. Then there is the aggressiveness of the lesion to consider... Your histology was discouraging ….”
Popova tells her driver to take her to Sokolniki. (1) As she walks through the park, her uniform has, once again, its usual intimidating effect on passers-by. She is able to walk alone, in peace, in this oasis from the bustle of the city; able to give herself an opportunity to reflect on the passing of time and the fragility of life.
She should feel some form of gratitude, she tells herself. To be spared the decrepitude of old age, that slow, downwards descent into incapacity as bit by bit, her body surrenders to infirmity and decay. But how should she to spend her last few years - or perhaps months? What ambitions remained unfulfilled? What achievements could be her memorial? She has no husband, no family and her friends are largely people connected with the Service. She has given her life to her country, to the advancement of socialism. The Service has been her family. What is the most important work still left undone?
Popova considers her options: how would she know her career had been crowned by success? She would have to rely on the opinions of others, to some extent. Suppose she were to be promoted to General? That would be a confirmation …
She considers further. To die in vigorous middle age, as a General of the KGB. A life dedicated to the welfare of her country and socialism would be a life well-lived. It would be a good epitaph. And so it will be! That will be how she will spend her final days. To secure promotion to General in the KGB ….
But how could it be achieved? She has the confidence of her superiors. She has a capable team at her command. The international situation is challenging; the new, aggressive, American President, Regan and the strident British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. Then of course, there is Afghanistan and the efforts to support the socialist government.
Clearly, there is much to do …
Colonel Popova opens the file on Svetlana Nikitechna Naidenova; the foundling. The young girl had been brought up an orphan, succeeded at school and university, joined the Red Army and seconded to the KGB as her considerable abilities were recognised. The girl had become involved with the son of General Sergey Kustensky, Hero of the Soviet Union. He was what one might call “Soviet Aristocracy”; his son, less politically engaged commentators might call dashing. Much is expected from the son, Anatoly and he is fulfilling expectations - and more.
But he has made a mistake. It seemed he has got the foundling pregnant, just before he is to take up a post at the Soviet Embassy in London. He will need to keep his mind focused on his duties, just as Svetlana Naidenova is required to concentrate on hers. Especially by Popova. Especially at this crucial phase of her campaign. With the situation in Afghanistan deteriorating, the CIA arming the Afghan tribes, this is a very inconvenient time for key workers to be distracted by the physical and psychological burdens of an unplanned pregnancy! And Popova has also begun to notice that she is occasionally in pain. It is nothing that she cannot bear but it is a sign that time is short, for her.
It is late on the morning of Tuesday. Sveta receives the summons to attend the private office of her section chief, Colonel Popova. This is not unusual and in any case, there were several “issues” facing the Service at present, but right now, Sveta feels she can do anything! She is pregnant with Anatoly’s child! At last, she would be part of a family. She will have a family of her own.
The delicate issue, which needs to be approached with some caution, is how to explain to the Colonel that she will need some time away from the Lubyanka(2) in the weeks before her baby is born and for some time afterwards. And then there was her marriage to Anatoly to plan. She would be part of a family at last. A real biological family! With her mind suffused with confidence, she knows she can tackle any situation. Sveta goes happily to her meeting with the Colonel.
“Comrade Naidenova? Sit down.”
The Colonel does not look at her as she enters. Sveta knows at once that something serious is wrong.
Colonel Popova sits at her desk, her secretary at her side and a man in a suit. Sveta has never seen him before.
“You have something to tell me Comrade?” the Colonel begins.
“Er …” Sveta replies as she tries to read what is going on. She has been caught off guard. She rapidly runs through the progress of the various tasks she has been given but none of them seem to be in a condition to cause concern ….
“You are aware of the South Asia situation report? You are aware of how the Soviet Union is fighting valiantly to secure the onward march of Socialism?” Popova peers over her spectacles at Sveta.
“Yes, of course, Colonel”
“And the political challenges being set us by the United States and their allies?”
Sveta glances down at Colonel Popova’s desk: she can see a photograph peeping from a sheaf of papers: the British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher glares at her from the picture, raising her arm in an accusatory gesture.
“And you remember the heroic sacrifices made by workers and soldiers in the Great Patriotic War Against Fascism?(3) You are aware that all loyal citizens are expected to emulate their commitment to the cause and to spare no effort to further the interests of the Motherland in these difficult times?”
“Of course, Comrade Colonel. My loyalty to the State is unswerving.”
“Unswerving?” Colonel Popova reflects the word back to Sveta, slowly, sceptically.
“Of course, Colonel. Unswerving”, but Sveta is beginning to feel sick with fear. Surely, surely her loyalty and commitment are not in question? Has she been informed against? But what is there to inform about? Yet does there need to be a reason?
“And no sacrifice would be too great?”
“Of course not.” Sveta would now make any commitment to survive this interview …
“Then why do I have to point out that in these difficult times, you have formed an irregular liaison with another member of the Service, someone who is being sent abroad on important work and when you, yourself, are handling vital responsibilities and yet you have allowed yourself to become pregnant? (Popova takes special care to spit out the word ‘Pregnant’) You have taken absolutely no steps to deal with the situation, have you?”
“But Colonel … I … we”
“You are a disgrace! I am ashamed of you! You have been brought up by the State. Fed by the State. Clothed. Nurtured. Educated. You now show your gratitude by forming this ridiculous relationship and without any effort to control your biological urges, you put the work of your comrade and this Department at considerable risk. Let me tell you, such disloyal carelessness will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear, Comrade Naidenova?”
Colonel Popova is pleased to see that the Naidenova girl is now wracked with tears, shaking, unable to look at her. Popova redoubles her onslaught:
“Comrade Naidenova, you have just told me that no sacrifice for the good of the Soviet Union is too great for you to make, have you not?”
“No, Colonel, I mean yes, no sacrifice is too great for loyal citizens.”
The girl is shaking her head, her sobs out of control.
“Then here is your opportunity to show me and the rest of your comrades just how much you mean the words you say.
“This pregnancy … will be terminated. Do you hear? Terminated. Arrangements have been made. You will accompany Dr Andropov. Your duties for the remainder of today, tomorrow and Thursday have been attended to. On Friday, we will meet here and you will resume your responsibilities. This enforced absence from duty will be reclaimed from your annual leave.
“Dr Andropov: you will conduct Comrade Naidenova to the clinic at once and deal with her. Comrade Naidenova? You are dismissed.”
As she says ‘dismissed’, the Colonel curls her lip. Svetlana Naidenova is left in no doubt whatsoever about the Colonel’s opinion of her and by implication, the opinion of everyone else at the Lubyanka.
In years to come, Sveta finds her memory of the subsequent events elusive. They call to her sporadically as she encounters a smell or sound or some other sensation which echoes the Termination. The sight of a cream painted wall, the black rubber wheels of a medical trolley, The stab of a hypodermic needle, the pain and bleeding of her monthly periods, reminding her of another episode of pain and bleeding. They all remind her of one winter afternoon on a Tuesday when she awoke, her head intoxicated, swimming with post-anaesthetic nausea, her womb empty, once more an orphan, once more all alone.
Whilst Sveta finds the medical details hard to recall, she is overshadowed by the emotional trauma of her abortion. In the months immediately afterwards, she tries to lose herself in work, trying to justify what she has allowed by submerging herself in the Higher Cause she agreed to serve. Agreed. Agreed? The Higher Cause she acquiesced to, she was unable to resist, she was terrified by. The Higher Cause of the welfare and interests of her Motherland or was it merely the Ambitions of Popova? Sveta works and drinks to distract herself from the pain of her empty womb. The promise of intimacy when Anatoly should one day return, holds no attraction for her. After all, to what did it lead? Terror, pain, guilt and shame. When Sveta sees a mother with her baby in the street, she hides her face and runs from the scene. The young KGB officer driven to tears by the thin cry of a little child.
Presently, Anatoly returns from London and afterwards, a marriage takes place. Sveta and Anatoly declare their love and loyalty to one another and begin to walk through life together, hand in hand as it were, but not far behind, just a step away or so it seems, there is Sveta’s secret memory of the shattered body of an unborn child, the cruel sacrifice to a State and a cause which themselves have passed away ….
Sveta finds it hard to conceive again and when she is finally pregnant once more, she loses the child to miscarriage – and then one more, and then one more again. She has not been brought up to be religious - after all, she is a child of the Soviet Union – but she cannot help but wonder if she is being punished for her cowardice in the face of a desperate middle aged woman, one cold afternoon in winter, years ago?
Sveta then takes an irrational step. She visits the Cathedral of the Annunciation which stands within the precincts of the Kremlin, a stone’s throw from the offices where Stalin planned and executed The Terror.(4)
Close by her in the church, the Icons keep their unending watch, the place where the faithful can peep into Heaven, or is it really the place where Heaven turns its burning eye and watches them? She lights two tapers. One for an unborn child and one for a child yet to be conceived. Within the year, she has given birth to Alana and at last, Sveta is a mother and has a real family all her own. At last, in her secret place an unquiet ghost begins to slumber – for a little while.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Footnotes
(1) A famous park in Moscow: http://www.moscow.info/parks/sokolniki-park.aspx
(2) The notorious head quarters of the KGB, the Soviet Secret Police. Actually, the HQ is a large yellow painted building on one side of Lubyanka Square, not far from the Kremlin. Nowadays Lubyanka Square is a very busy with a constant stream of traffic pouring past the building in question, which is now occupied by the FSB, the Russian Security Service.
(3) The Soviet name for the Second World War
(4) The Great Purge of political opponents and potential rivals and in fact anyone who fell under Stalin’s paranoid suspicion in the Soviet Union in the 1930’s
(5) You might think that the events in this chapter – a young person browbeaten into having a termination of pregnancy for the convenience of others – are something which could only have happened in the old Soviet Union. Unfortunately this still happens nowadays. If our story line has opened old wounds for you we offer our condolences.
(c) Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
CHAPTER 5 : A QUESTION OF ATTRIBUTION
They take me from my cell. When I was at IWB, I was embarrassed to call the room, “my cell”. There’s no embarrassment now because this is not playing. I really am a prisoner.
We enter another similar room. It’s just next to mine in a long corridor; just another featureless white square cell; empty, except for a mat on the floor.
The guard motions me to kneel on the mat. There’s no point in resisting, so I kneel. He leaves. Silence.
Then there is the voice: Soft; firm; feminine; self-assured; confident; business-like. “Stand …”
I stand – actually, kneeling was getting uncomfortable – but the disembodied voice is unsettling. It seems to come from far away. It comes to me from nowhere: no loudspeaker: no sign of anyone speaking personally.
“Turn around …”
I turn.
“Kneel ….”
I kneel again.
“Tell me about yourself ….”
“No thank you.”
“My advice is that you should answer promptly and honestly.”
“Why should I? Who are you? I demand that you let me go immediately!”
This sounds thin and unrealistic even to my ears. I can hear the amusement in the softly accented voice: “You will be here as long as I wish - and you should answer the questions.”
I remember my CIA interrogation by Connie almost with regret. At least on that occasion, there was a real person to react to. This time, I could be talking to a machine. The idea makes me feel cold. The whole room is beginning to feel cold and damp. I start to shiver.
“Tell me about yourself, Vyera.”
“I’m not Vay – what you said. I’m Jennifer McEwan. Please call me by my right name. My name is Jennifer Karin McEwan.”
I’m panicking. I can hear it in my own voice. Perhaps they have the wrong person. Of course they have the wrong person! Perhaps if I can convince them that I’m Jenny McEwan they will send me home?
“Tell me about yourself. As long ago as you can remember.”
This seems to be an opportunity to persuade them. I start to speak. It feels comforting to hear myself speaking of familiar things into the white, cold, empty, unfamiliar, room. I say more than I intend to. I talk about Ely, Cambridge, parents, university, friends, my job. I talk about Joe …..
I’m desperate to show that I’m Jenny McEwan. I am doing it to show them that I am not this “Vyera”.
The voice asks about my brothers and sisters:
How many? How old? Do I see them? Do I hear from them? Do I like them? Do I love them? Would I like children one day?
The voice asks about Joe: How do I manage when he is away? How often is he away? Do I miss him? Do I have friends? Are they boy friends? Are they girl friends? Are they just friends?
The questioning goes on and on and I’m getting more and more uncomfortable. I’m cold, I’m disconcerted by what I’m being asked, I’m very sore from kneeling and I’m desperate to relieve myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I have to pee. Can I go? Please?”
“Of course,” says the voice.
“But I … but there is no ….” I cast my eyes desperately round the cell and notice a floor drain. I know what this means; the same games that they played with me when I first went to Inward Bound. It feels every bit as humiliating as the first time I had to do this. I walk over to the drain and just let go. I seem to pee for ages and ages and the longer it goes on the more my face burns with shame.
“Kneel”, says the voice.
I kneel again. My thighs feel damp, splashed with my own urine.
“Thank you, Vyera.”
“I am not Vyera, I’m Jenny!”
“You are Vyera”, replies the voice. The voice is soft, reasonable, unswerving, patient, implacable. The voice insists on what will be and I have nothing to resist with. Nothing to hold on to. “Your name is Vyera ….”
Deep in my memory, there is a little girl, just three years old. She is hiding under her parents bed, pulling a blanket over herself and laying very still, undiscovered by her brothers who are searching for her. I fly back across the years to my old home. The little girl runs up the stairs. She slips inside the bedroom and under the bed. She covers herself with a quilt and lays quiet, still. One restless move and the Voice might hear her, might see her, might prize her out of hiding …..
“Your future,” the voice gently, insistently, implacably tells me, “is Vyera ….”
“Well, what do you think? Will she do?”
Anatoly leans over Sveta’s shoulder as the both watch Jenny’s image on the computer screen.
Sveta turns the microphone off, and spends a few moments more studying the image of a young naked woman on the computer screen.
“Well, Tolya, she is a nice kid. I think she might do well as a nanny. Her answers corresponded to your background information and she is … has a nice personality as far as I can tell at the moment. I like her. Her tattoo is nice …. but that’s not the point. The point is, is she the right person to be our nanny? The right nanny to help Alana?”
“So what do you think, Sveta? ”
“I think she has absolutely no technical knowledge or family experience to draw on, so she would be useless in the period just after Alana’s baby is born except to help with the routine housework. After that …. I just do not know. Maybe. Maybe not.”
This is clearly not the answer Anatoly was hoping for but Sveta is not going to be over optimistic or unrealistic just to make him feel better.
“Tolya, go get her trained and let’s see how she gets on. By the way, she is going to needs a regular shaving if she is going to stay as smooth as she is now. Maybe … maybe we ought to have her hair lasered? It looks as if her natural hair colour was brown, so that will make the hair removal particularly effective and that will mean she has a lot less maintenance to do. More time for her to concentrate on her work. Maybe start on her legs and work gradually up.”(1)
Sveta chuckles, turns to Anatoly and winks.
“Let’s just watch and see how long it takes her to realise that we are going absolutely all the way up. Perhaps she will try all the more to please her trainers, to see if she can stop the inevitable!”
Now Anatoly chuckles in return. If he ends up selling the girl, at least he will have had some fun with her.
“Take me back to bed Anatoly. After that I need a good fucking!”
Buried in that exchange, the teasing remarks of one lover to another and the conversation which went before, there is a lot of history. Sveta is very anxious for Alana. The precious child she wanted, the child that made her like other people, part of a real family, the child preceded by so much pain and unhappiness. When Alana was safely delivered, Sveta knew that the little girl would be her only child. Sveta knew she was not strong enough to face any more suffering to do with children, any more miscarried babies. Sveta has secreted a knot of iron in her soul to protect her from a ghost which occasionally still taps her on the shoulder, the ghost which walks when she is in the company of other small children even now.
Anatoly likes children. He would have liked more little ones of their very own he but understands exactly why this is a task beyond the strength of his outwardly tough and decisive wife. How he would like to see her healed from past hurts! They say a trouble shared is a trouble halved but Sveta has never shared and Anatoly has wisely let her be, waiting patiently for Sveta to tell him the story of a very particular past unhappiness, in her own time. He had thought of becoming an active benefactor for orphaned children but that would only inflame yet other painful memories for his wife.
Instead, he has indulged his sexual appetites to create his own extended family. It explains why he takes a very personal interest in the welfare of his slaves far beyond what their commercial value might lead you to expect. He always tries to arrange matters so the new life the slave goes to, is in some significant way better than their old existence. It is also an enterprise which does not open Sveta’s wounds in fact quite the reverse: she finds her dominant urges slaked in a very satisfactory way.
This new girl … she is so sparky and attractive and kind! From what he has learned about her, she should be just the person to help Alana and might even be what Sveta needs …He hopes so.
A TRIP TO THE DOCTOR’S
A guard comes for me and I am returned to the white room. My cell. It is definitely a cell. There was some food waiting for me: bread, fruit and tea (in a plastic mug) and that’s all. The food makes me feel better. Perhaps my answers to The Voice have been satisfactory? Perhaps they are just checking the answers before they can let me go? It must be an hour or so after I have finished my meal when the cell door opens. Release! There is a woman standing outside. She is older than me. Perhaps Prof’s age? She has dark hair combed back from her face and tied (as far as i can see) in a pale blue scrunchy.(2)
For some reason I step back away from her. She smiles and enters the cell.
“Please”, she says and holds out her hand. “Can you come with me now? You have had a long journey and we must see you are fit and well.”
So I am going to be released! They are checking me over to see I have come to no harm.
Protecting themselves against any legal action I might bring if they had been careless? The woman is dressed a bit like Celia was at Inward Bound. This woman wears pale yellow scrubs beneath a white coat and white medical clogs. I smile in return and happily follow her.
Father down the corridor we reach another room. The door stands open. It’s a doctor’s surgery or something very like it. She smiles and motions me to sit down,
“May I have something to wear?” I ask.
“Wear?” She replies, her tone of voice suggests she is mildly surprised by my question “But we have seen all there is to see!”
“Yes, I know but I would feel better to be dressed. I do have clothes.”
“Hmm, presently,” she replies and then gets down to business.
“I have to examine you, to make sure you are quite well. Please – over here.”
She takes me to some digital scale and weighs me and then measures my height. She takes my blood pressure and makes some skin fold thickness measurements. Well, I have never had that done at the Doctors!
“I have to take a sample: Please.”
She offers me a pan to pee into. It’s a little demeaning but I comply, anxious to provide no excuse for them to delay sending me home.
A lot more follows. She checks my vision, my teeth, my throat, my tonsils and my ears. The doctor - as I assume she must be – has me lay down on a medical couch - and takes my blood pressure, listens to my heart, feels my pulse, feels my tummy and checks my reflexes. She takes blood from my arm. She is nothing if not thorough.
“We are almost finished. Please – spread your legs.”
“Look surely, I mean if you are just checking me over, do you really … “
“It would be better if you can cooperate,” she replies but I notice her voice has taken on a hard edge. I want to argue but I let it pass. I just acquiesce. She proceeds to eaxamine my vagina and then I realize: this will show that I have not been violated in any way. I suppose they have to?
“One last observation,” she says. “On your knees now …”
I sigh. Well if this is the last. Really the last?
I get onto all fours. I feel her press gently on my back and I push my bum out towards her. I feel the inevitable cold slippery feeling of lubricant being spread over my anus followed by her finger inserting itself into my rectum. She probes and stretches and withdraws.
The lubricant is wiped away and her smiling face confronts me.
“Thank you. I have finished. Come with me …”
I follow her out of the medical room and back to the cell. I expect to find my clothes, perhaps coffee and forms to sign. I will sign anything, just let me get home!
The door of the cell opens outwards into the corridor. She places her hand on my bum and encourages me back into the cell – which is just as bare as when I left it! I turn quickly around: “Look I have made it quite clear that I am not … that I am Mrs Jennifer McEwan … “
But by the time I have turned and got into the middle of my speech, the doctor has almost closed the door! She peeps around the side, smiles and shuts the door.
It thuds closed. It’s a very solid thud and I can hear a latch engage. I have been locked inside once more. Alone. Well, perhaps there is paperwork to complete, before they let me go?
THE IMPORTANCE OF POLITENESS
How long have I been here? After ‘The Voice’ had finished with me, and after I was taken back to the cell by the doctor, I have just been left here. I am worrying what Joe and my parents and everyone at work must be thinking. I have not been able to return the call to Joe. The call which was interrupted when I dropped my mobile. What will he be thinking? What will they all think?
How long am I going to be kept here? Perhaps the things I said to ‘The Voice” (as I call it) are still being carefully checked. Checking that what I said was true. Then they will know that I am not Vyera. That I don’t know anything. And then I can be let go? After they have finished with their paperwork?
I look around the cell where I am kept. It is like a deep white hole. The ceiling is gently curved and too high to reach. The lights are recessed and covered with frosted glass or something and there is wire embedded into it, so even if I could get to it, I could not break it. There is no window and only opening in the white walls is the door. The walls themselves are brick which has been painted. It’s cold to the touch and it makes me feel as if I must be deep underground. I am getting to feel more and more claustrophobic in here. There is a squatting toilet – like the one in my room at Inward Bound – and for taps for water. One hot and one cold. They do not work all the time, though. Then there is a bed. Not really a bed: just a raised platform with a thin mattress covered with grey plastic. The floor is the same sparkly blue plastic there was in the room where I woke up. The door is a very solid looking prison door with a peep hole. It is so quiet. Every so often the door opens (outwards into the corridor, so there is nowhere for me to hide) and there are two guards standing outside. They never speak. One of them waves me across to the opposite wall, pointing a sort of gun. It is like the weapon the girl in London pointed at me, when I was taken. Kidnapped. The other guard carries in a small flimsy plastic bucket with bread, fruit and water. He leaves the new one on the floor and retrieves the old one. He points to the right of the door, to show me where I am supposed to leave it when I have finished. And that is all that happens. Day after day. Actually, there is absolutely no way to know how much time has really passed. I have tried to follow how long I have been here using the lights-on/lights-off as an indication of the passing of days but are they turning the lights on and off each full day? Sometimes the lights seem to be on for a long time and sometimes the ‘days’ go quickly. Sometimes they feed me before I am ready and on other ‘days’ I am kept waiting for food and water until I am ravenously hungry or very thirsty.
All the time I am getting more and more frightened. What if they forget me? Forget to feed me? Let me alone to starve to death? But the nurse kissed me when she left me. Surely she would not kiss me if they were just going to kill me?
Without any warning, the two guards are back. They come right into the cell. One of them covers me with his weapon. The other one straps a broad leather belt around my waist, takes each wrist and handcuffs each behind my back onto the leather belt. I am now completely helpless. He snaps a thick leather lead to the front of the belt and pulls me out of the cell. His colleague, the guard with the weapon follows behind me. Are they going to let me go now? Is this all over?
They take me to another of the white rooms. I should be glad of the change of scene, but I’m not. I can’t imagine that anything is going to get easier. And even though I have had nothing to do, I feel so tired and sleepy all the time.
The room is cold. I’m still naked. They released my arms from the waist belt and I have been secured once more, sitting up in a heavy chair. Thick leather straps across my arms, legs, wrists and chest, hold me in place. I can see the heavy metal buckles that keep them closed but I can no more reach them than fly out of here. I’m facing straight ahead looking at a plain, heavy, wooden table.
The minutes drag by. It may be longer. I don’t trust my judgment of time any more unless I count my breaths. 15 maybe 20 breaths - that’s a minute. As long as I stay awake. But sometimes I don’t even realise that I’ve been asleep.
A man and … the girl both enter the room. It’s the same girl who asked me for help in London! My jaw drops. I stare at her. She smiles back at me: a broad, confident, happy smile. She might almost be saying ‘see I knew we would meet again’. He sits opposite and she sits behind his shoulder. They sit comfortably; I sit restrained. He begins to speak, but I can’t understand what he says; it sounds like Russian but that’s only a guess. The sounds of the words reminds me of the words Ylena used at Inward Bound and when the girl starts to speak in English, translating what the man says, I suppose - her accent sounds like Ylena’s accent.
“Tell me your name …”
“Just wait a minute. I want to talk to the girl there, behind you.” The events in London start to flow back into my mind, first a trickle, then a flood. Anger builds in me. I start to shout at the girl, writhing and squirming against my restraints. “You asked me for help! You said you were ill. I was going to do all I could to help you. What a lie! You lied to me so you could get me here. You took advantage of me. I was prepared to do anything I could for you and you took me for a sucker. How dare you!” I am opening my mouth to continue my tirade when the girl speaks on a mobile phone and at once a guard enters the room with a bucket. He throws the contents over me. It’s icy cold. It takes my breath away. I cough and splutter and by the time I have recovered he is back, this time to pour a second bucket of the same icy water over my head. I sit there dripping, gasping, shivering.
“You must understand first of all, that we will not tolerate that sort of tone, language and behaviour. Your name”, says the girl. “You were going to tell us your name.”
“Jenny”, I sob.
“Pardon? …”
“Jennifer Karin McEwan, and I will not respond to “Vera”, whoever she may be.” I don’t know where I found the courage to say that after what has just happened. I scare myself a little by it and I’m proud of myself a little too, even though my voice is unsteady with sobs.
The man doesn’t rise to the jibe, but merely says “ Vyera. Your name is Vyera” and then continues, “Tell me about Inward Bound …”
“What?”
He looks tired. Disappointed perhaps. Not angry. Just tired. “Please do not waste any more time …”
“Do you mean I can go after I have told you?” I know what the answer will be. I don’t know why I ask. I just do not want to sit here passively, answering his questions.
The man just looks at me as the girl translates my answer back again. He doesn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you just answer their ad and find out?”
“Because I need you to tell me ….”
I look at him and wonder what to do. Well, why not play their game for the present? I stare straight at him. “Again? I’m tired of being interrogated about Inward Bound.” I chose the word “interrogated” deliberately. The man folds his hands together across his stomach and looks down. He’s feigning lack of interest and I wonder how much he already knows about what happened to me at Inward Bound?
“Interrogated? Meaning what?”
“Meaning questioned.” I am shivering violently now. It’s hard to get the words out. “Under duress. Without reference to my rights. Surely you understand? Interrogated. By the CIA. Arrested and interrogated.”
“By the CIA? About Inward Bound? …..”
I nod. “That’s who they said they were. That’s what they said they were interested in.”
The man glances down at some papers and wrinkles his face as he looks back up at me. I notice that both he and the girl have curly cords from an ear piece, disappearing beneath their collars. I do not suppose they are wearing i-Pods.
Every so often their questions and translations pause, as if they are receiving instructions from someone else, someone not present. It’s like I’m speaking to robots. The creepiness of it makes me start to shudder again – that, and the cool of the room and because I am wet through from the cold water.
The man begins again. “So tell me about Inward Bound ……”
It’s my turn to look tired. “It’s all in their ad. You can find the ad in Second Skin.” I nod at the straps that are keeping me locked in my seat. “You might enjoy it. Get some ideas.”
“You spent a long time there. You know more about it than that.”
“What’s to tell? Oh, yes. It’s fun! More fun than here. The trainers are nice.”
There’s a pause after the girl translates. It seems to be an alien concept to them “Nice? ….”
“Yes, they make it fun. They’re tough but they make it fun as well as tough. It’s like its name-sake.”
“What?”
“Outward Bound. It’s this British organisation which does adventure training. A bit like Army Training but without being in the Army. You’d know about that.” I’m guessing of course and he knows it.
“I know The Outward Bound Trust.” (3)
“Well, that’s it really, except Inward Bound is for sexual submissives to explore themselves.”
“And? ….”
“And nothing else.”
There’s another long pause. I imagine them getting more instructions through their curly wires.
The questions tumble on, covering the same ground again, then the same ground from a different angle. Then the questions stop. The two of them depart. Someone else comes, unstraps me, secures my arms behind my back once more and takes me back to my cell. There is some food for me in a bowl, and water. By the time I have finished, my skin has dried but I am still cold. Then the lights go out.
Suddenly the lights are on again. I wake up but feel as though it should be the middle of the night, not daytime again? They take me back to the interrogation room. I’m strapped into the chair once more. There are two new people to question me. Two men this time. They don’t explain themselves.
“Inward Bound. You weren’t just there for the experience, were you? You spent time researching the methods used by Inward Bound. Didn’t you?”
“I’m studying for my doctorate in psychology. This is my research area. How do you know?”
He ignores the question and responds with one of his own. “Pure or Applied?”
“Pure or applied what?”
The men are brought coffee. How good it smells! The Interrogator sips his slowly and suddenly the room seems even colder, as if I am sat under a waterfall of cold air. I start to shiver. He continues to sip slowly. The coffee steams and I start to realise how thirsty I am.
Perhaps if I get to the point, they will give me a drink. I could ask the Translator. His English is good. There is hardly any pause between my finishing speaking and him starting to translate. Never a pause in the Russian or whatever it is he is speaking. And the same when he is translating for the Interrogator. The Interrogator starts and the Translator starts right after. Neither of them pause. Whichever way the conversation goes. Questions into English or answers into Russian, or whatever their language is.
The Interrogator goes on. “Your research was? …”
“How people changed during their stay. Me. And the others.”
“Changed what? Outlook? Personality? Desires?”
“All of those. I wanted to know how the Inward Bound course affected the people who went on it. My research idea was that the course merely uncovers what was there before.”
“It surely adds to what was there? ….” Somehow the interrogation is mutating into a conversation. I’m happy to follow the flow of the discussion. There is nothing I know about Inward Bound that I would want to keep secret from other people.
“No. I don’t think so. It’s not how it seemed. The people remained as they were; just more confident about themselves. More sure. Maybe more committed to something that they enjoy.” I notice at this point that the Interrogator is slowly leaning forward to catch my words and I begin to wonder whether he really needs the Translator. But if he doesn’t, what is the Translator doing here? “Look; it’s no more than you would get if you went on a long holiday climbing or walking. You don’t expect a personality change after that, but you might find that for some people, walking or climbing becomes their main recreation; for others, they might find it is just not for them. Perhaps an occasional day out, but it never becomes their main hobby.”
“Yet that doesn’t happen at Inward Bound, does it? People leaving.”
“Yes it does. Of course. Some people leave early. I think.” Actually I don’t know. There weren’t any on the course that I did. I shouldn’t guess. I should just stick to the things I know. Tell them what I know. Don’t tell them things that I don’t know. Stick to what I know. Don’t guess. Don’t make things up.
“Many?…”
“Actually I don’t know. There were none on my course. Er, I guess it’s because the Inward Bound team carefully vet applications.”
“Are they very selective?”
“That’s how it felt to me. I think they try to give places to people who will enjoy themselves.”
“How are they selective?”
“Well, if you make an internet contact, you start by completeing an on-line form. Someone from Inward Bound will contact you afterwards and arrange a personal face to face interview. After that they send you a follow up email so you can confirm you want to join a course and make a booking. You have to sign papers to say you have given informed consent to the things which might happen to you and what your limits are. I suppose if the experience was really not going to be “up your street’ it would have become pretty clear by that time and the IWB advisor might recommend that you were not quite ready yet. I suppose.”
“But that’s not why you decided to go?” He sees how I respond to his remark. “Why did you decide to go? …”
“I didn’t. My research supervisor suggested it.”
He pauses again. I can tell that he wonders if there is more to it than that. “So none of this was your idea? You had no experience at all? …”
Tell them the truth or be ‘economical with the truth’? What shall I do? I don’t care if they know. I’m not ashamed of what I am, or who I am or what I enjoy. “No, well it was something I thought might be exciting.”
“Exciting to be enslaved?” The Interrogator is looking at the way that I am strapped into my chair.
“No. Inward Bound is about fantasy. Sure, sometimes a bit of the fantasy flavour spills into every day life, but that’s it.”
“Not for some people …”
“No, but it is for me.”
“And for your husband?”
The conversation is moving into areas where I don’t want to go. At first I say nothing. He waits. We both wait. He doesn’t break the silence. I do.
“He’s not very comfortable with it.”
“Disappointed? …”
“Well, maybe. Who knows what the future will bring? Marriage is more than a sexual adventure.”
“But you decided to pay a lot of money to fulfil your fantasies … ”
“No. I told you. My research supervisor suggested it as an interesting research model. The fees were paid from a research fund.”
So for hours, we criss-cross this particular ground. They get served coffee. I go thirsty. They eat lunch. I get nothing. Suddenly it’s over again and I’m taken back to my cell. Once again, there is food for me but only a little water. The food is very tasty and I have no difficulty eating it but I’m left feeling very thirsty and the feeling builds even after the lights go out. My thirst makes sleep difficult. There is no water coming out of the taps in the cell and I lay near the door, hoping that any draft coming under it will somehow help me feel better. I begin to doze. Then the lights are back on and they come for me once more
It’s the man and the girl again. The first two. At least I think they were the first two. I think
“The CIA. Yes, there is a lot here to interest the CIA.” The man looks at his papers and looks up sharply at me. Even through the translation I can plainly understand the sarcasm in his voice. And he’s right of course. But that’s not my fault. Stick to what I know. “There’s more to it than this, isn’t there? What else were they interested in?” he says.
“Well ….. I …. Well, they really wanted to know about someone they thought I had met, someone I was supposed to know.”
“Someone in particular?”
“My Prof had a picture on her desk. They wanted to know if I knew someone in the picture.”
“Who? …”
“I don’t know: the picture was taken at a conference Prof had been to in Moscow. The picture was showed some of the people there.”
This is dangerous, I think. Is that what this is about? The picture was taken in Moscow. These seem to be Russians. Stick to what I know and be careful about how I tell them?
“Why didn’t they just phone and ask? Why didn’t they ask your Professor?”
“How should I know? They arrested me in the middle of the night and took me away.”
He nods, seeming to approve of their methods. It sounds like his style; disorientation, suddenness, unexplained action. He just wants to press on with the questioning though. That seems to be his approach, keep the rhythm going, no real pressure just a natural rhythm to question and answers. I’m not sure if I could stop in time if he asked me something I didn’t want to answer. “Where? …”
“I don’t know – an interrogation centre.”
“And they just asked questions? …”
“More than that.”
“I see. What?”
“They tortured me.”
“Tortured you? Over a photograph?” He seems very sceptical. Not sympathetic; just surprised that they should find it necessary. “How? …”
Why should I care if he knows? He could do the same to me and I could do nothing to prevent it. “It was sexual. Beatings. Whippings. They made me ride something called a ‘pony’. Astride it. Under my crotch.”
There’s a short exchange in their native language between the girl and the man, as if they’re trying to work out a translation for the word “pony”. Perhaps there is translation going on after all.
“and they said they would sell me into real slavery if I did not tell the truth.” I blurt this out. Is that what I think is happening? Do my answers simply confirm the decisions they have made about what they will eventually to with me? I wish I had not said that, but my thirst and the repeated episodes of disturbed sleep are making it almost impossible to be careful in what I say.
All this time the expression on the man’s face shows he doesn’t believe a word of it. He’s deciding that my answers are all some sort of fantasy intended to confuse him; to throw him off the scent. He pauses. And then it’s over again. Back to my cell. No food this time, but oh Joy! There is water. The lights go out. Once more I am left in inky blackness. (4)
Almost as soon as my eyes close, the lights go on once again. They come for me. I am back in the interrogation room. Strapped in the chair. It’s very cold now.
I shiver more and more. The chair holds me firm and I get even colder and more uncomfortable and fidgety.
Is this the last man or the other one? I’m so confused, it could be either of them. I just can’t remember. He takes off on a new line of questioning. “What did they do to you at IWB?”
“Training.”
Training?”
“Well, I learned to clean house very well and to anticipate what the trainers wanted of me and to follow instructions carefully.”
“Carefully?”
“Yes: more carefully than I had at the beginning.”
“So what did they do to you?”
“Er,” I feel awkward explaining. Even though I am strapped naked and completely exposed before him. Describing the things I had to undergo as a result of my own decision to go to Inward Bound is embarrassing. He has found another private area in my mind. I do not really want to tell them. If I tell them I have to admit I was careless. Headstrong. Silly. No: I really I don’t want to tell them. Perhaps it matters. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.
“Go on …..”
I cannot stop myself: “They shaved my head and I was pierced and tattooed and …”
“Chipped?”
“Well yes, how did you know?”
“We just know …. And what else?”
“I was beaten. I, I had sex with some of the other girls.” I am squirming as I say this. He can see I’m distressed. He seems unconcerned.
“The beatings would involve Ylena Zhukova?”
“Yes, but how …”
He cuts me off. “I know her work. Not her; only her name.” It is the first time he has ventured an opinion or said anything that is more than a question. The Translator looks around at him, almost surprised.
“And you enjoyed all this treatment?”
“Yes.” A simple admission. Actually not as hard as I might have imagined, but I look down, away from his eyes.
“Vyera: your fan-“
It’s my turn to cut him off. “My name is Jenny.”
I expect him to contradict me immediately but he seems to consider this for a moment. “Jenny? What does Jenny mean?”
I’m completely thrown by this question. I had never thought of my name having a meaning before. I blunder on: “Just Jenny, it means me. It’s my name.”
He looks unimpressed, as if my answer isn’t good enough. He shakes his head and speaks. The Translator takes up the conversation: “Vyera means faith and truth. You are 836-906-368 and you are Vyera. (5) My advice is to live up to your name: to tell the truth and have faith that you are now in the right hands.”
I am shocked that he knows my Slave Registration Number, the one on my chip, the one on my bar code tattoo. But if they have found my chip they will have read my number. Before I recover myself he slides a photograph from his papers and turns it to face me.
“Do you know this man?” The rhythm of questions and answers returns.
He slides the photograph towards me; it’s a man I have never seen. He is walking out of a building. It looks like a restaurant. He is in his late forties. Slim. Erect. Fit. Tanned. Beautiful suit and tie ….. I shake my head.
“No” is all I say.
And her?
A photograph of a woman now. She is in a shop. It could be John Lewis (6) or something like that. She is striking. Again, in her forties. Dark hair, combed back from her face. It’s a tough face. Attractive, but tough. Once again, she is beautifully dressed. Nothing ostentatious, just very well thought out. Clearly, a successful woman. You can see it in the confident way she carries herself, even in a photograph. Perhaps a lawyer or accountant?
“No”
And him?
This photograph shows a younger man. Very slight tummy. Thirties. Sandy hair, thinning on top. I am about to say ‘No’ when I pause. I look carefully. He is familiar. I crease my brow, trying to remember. The Interrogator notices. He is looking at me closely when I look up at him.
“I’m sorry: I don’t know, but I have seen him somewhere before ….”
“And her?”
It’s Charlotte from Inward Bound! It’s like seeing an old friend. I relax. I smile. I look quickly up and at last I can give the man something he wants; “It’s Charlotte. She works at Inward Bound.”
“We know. And him?”
It’s the sandy haired man again ……
“Yes: I recognise him now. I saw him once or twice at Inward Bound, but I do not know who he is.”
“Aha. And her?”
He slides a photo of a strikingly beautiful black girl towards me. She has a shaven head and a small gold septum ring. Despite the treatment she gave me, I can’t help breaking out into a wide smile; “It’s Connie!”
“Yes,” says the man, “Connie. How do you know her?”
“She was the CIA person interrogated me.”
“She tortured you?”
“Yes. She tortured me.”
“But you smile at her picture.”
Yes! Because Connie was hot, I think, because in spite of being scared I was thrilled. Because it all came right in the end. Because I recognised someone that was familiar and came from my life before here. Because of a dozen reasons.
The man doesn’t feel the need to press his point. The present interview ends and they take me back to my cell. This time there is food – a little and water. I eat and drink as much as I can but that’s not much. Overcome with fatigue, I lay down on the concrete floor and fall immediately fast asleep.
In the blink of an eye, the lights are on once more and they are taking me to the interrogation room. I can hardly keep awake now. Hardly stand. They strap me in the chair and I fall instantly fast asleep.
I am brutally awoken by a deluge of icy cold water which has been poured over me. I feel it cascade over my head and down my back. I can feel it puddling at my feet. I would like to let it just drain off me and go back to sleep, but it’s too cold and I am gasping and spluttering from the shock. I regain wakefulness, but oh so painfully. The room feels so cold and I start to shiver.
When I open my eyes, I see that a man and a girl have come in. The first ones. Or are they? Does it matter? The man begins. He slides yet another photograph towards me. “Do you know this man?”
“No.” That’s true at least. I don’t know who he is. It’s the man in the photograph from Angela’s office but I don’t know who he is.
“But you know something of him. Don’t you?”
It’s like he can see inside me. “Yes. It’s the man that the CIA were asking me about. Do you know who he is?”
The man seems to have come to some conclusion or other. There’s just something about him that seems to sag as he sits back in his chair. His face moves from light into darkness. He delivers a stream of whatever language he is speaking. Not the short staccato sentences of his questions. The girl listens and starts to translate even before he has finished speaking. “Yes, and now you will also come to learn who he is. This man has searched for you. He has found you. You are now his property. You seem to like numbers 836-906-368, now you appear in our asset register as KÀÍ 101109 PX. Let me spell the new number out to you: Kah Aah Enh 101109 aiR Zheh. Both numbers mark you out as Vyera. Slave. That is what you are. Vyera - your fantasies are now over. You are now a real slave. Permanently. Enjoy!”
I struggle to absorb what he is saying. He gets to his feet evidently deciding that our conversation has finished. I’m struggling against the straps that hold me in the chair. I’m frightened and take refuge in defiance. “Excuse me but my name is Jenny McEwan.”
He glances at me impatiently and turns to the girl. There is another staccato spitting of foreign words. “Now listen to me. Listen to me,” she says, her tones failing to carry the menace of his own. “You have been sold and then you have been bought. That is all there is to it.”
For some reason I am more angry than frightened. The fatigue begins to drain from me, chased out by anger. “What? I can’t be sold. I can’t be bought!”
The man gives a dry laugh. “Of course you can! Everything is for sale nowadays. Think how many you know who could have sold you. You said yourself that the CIA threatened to sell you. Perhaps Inward Bound might wish to have your data for themselves and make sure the source does not blab their little secrets to anyone who will listen? Your Professor distrusts you. Perhaps she wishes to take your data and report it on her own account?”
That part is believable but that doesn’t mean she would do this. It’s absurd.
“Your husband is not comfortable with your fantasies.”
“No!” I scream back at him trying to wrench myself free of the straps holding me to the chair. “No!”
“You said so. The fantasies you privately indulged behind his back. Perhaps he is tired of you. Maybe he has given you up to the lifestyle you really wish to lead. It gives him enough to clear his debts and start a new life with someone more ….” There’s a pause as he seems to search for the right word. “Someone more compatible. More predictable. Someone safer. After all, as he rises through his company, can you really expect him to want to be seen with you? A girl with a shaven head and a ring through her nose and a tattoo on her back? Not a partner. Not a wife. A slave.”
This onslaught plays on each and every one of my fears: I am left gasping, floundering by the time he finishes. I have no words to reply. It all seems so logical. So reasonable. So certain.
“Neena,” the man turns to the girl. Now he is speaking in plain English. “Give 836-906-368 something to remind her what she is and who she is!”
“A pleasure!” replies the girl - Neena as I now know her to be. She leaves the room.
The man stays, watching me. A smug smile on his face. Neena returns with a small trolley: she wheels it over to me.
It’s covered with a white cloth, obscuring what’s underneath. She takes a power cord and plugs it into a wall socket. I start to squirm and writhe in the chair. I am having nightmare fantasies about what’s beneath the cloth. She plucks the cloth away and there’s a tattooing hand-piece and a damp sponge in a bowl and some transfer paper.
Nina says, “Vyera, I am going to write on your wrist. If you do not cooperate I shall have the design lasered off and replaced, perhaps on the side of your bald head. Would you like that?”
No words come. I can only shake my head. I have even stopped shivering.
“Good,” she replies, and begins.
She sponges my right wrist. The man looks on. She puts a bendy plastic stencil tightly over my wrist, to guide the tattoo needle. The man smiles, satisfied. She begins to draw the tattoo outline: a black cross inside a black circular ring.
The tattoo needle bites and stings but I just sit passively and watch; I’m too tired, even to flinch.
“This stands for “Owned Slave” she carefully explains. Underneath she writes in Cyrillic carefully pronouncing each letter. “Veh … Yeh … aiR … Aah” as she writes  … E … P … A.
She fills in the black out line with red.
“Do you know why I have drawn in red?”
“No.’
“Red tattoos are the most difficult inks to remove – it makes it all so much more permanent.
“There, she says. No we can all see plainly: there need be no more doubts over your … your attribution. Your name, your status and your ownership are now explicit, at last. You are Bepa and she is an owned slave!”
During Jenny’s interrogation, Anatoly and Sveta review the recordings and occasionally partake in real time, asking their questions through Valentine and Neena, Igor and Pyotr. Now the process has come to an end, Sveta leans back to look at Anatoly.
“Well, Tolya! Was she worth it?”
“How do you mean?”
“All the planning. Sending the jet. All the expenses of the Away Team?”
Sveta continues as Anatoly begins to form his reply: “ ….. It seems to me that this girl is not close to Freddie Clegg and his inner circle. I think we are dealing with a somewhat vulnerable young lady who has been extensively manipulated by your Professor Dawney. Is she lesbian, by the way?”
“Yes, I’m sure she is. Maybe bi-curious occasionally,” he snorts – curious is not a word he’d normally use for Angela’s views of anything, “but with her, it’s mainly girls.”
“Tolya, I’ll tell you what has happened here …..”
“What?”
“Dawney fancied Vyera. Vyera was working in Dawney’s department and Dawney moved in on her. Then Vyera’s relationship with Dawney cools. I expect Dawney would want to be the dominant partner and take rather more than she gives. Later Vyera falls in love and gets married because she is really hetero. Dawney picks her moment and tries to drive a wedge between Vyera and her husband by developing Vyera’s submissive desires and hoping in due course to get her back. I’m impressed. Dawney should have worked for us but that’s not enough to make me like her.”
“Dawney?”
“Yes, Dawney. She is a bitch. She needs to be taught a lesson.”
“And?”
“Well – you had Vyera’s research data copied?”
“Yes; I sent one of the team round and we took her laptop. All the data was there and the work Vyera had done before we acquired her. We have the address of her computer at the university and a surveillance programme was installed on that machine, too. There is nothing she has done in the last eighteen months that we do not know about”
“Well that’s something at least.”
“So … what now?” … and it seems to Anatoly as if he is holding his breath.
Sveta makes her decision.
“I think … I think we ought to keep her. I liked her at first and I think I like her even more now. In the right place she should be fine when she has been properly and thoroughly trained. Let’s get that done.”
Anatoly smiles. He agrees with Sveta: on balance, it had been worth it. He had not got everything he had hoped for, but he has got plenty. And Sveta has said she wants to keep the girl! Ah, relief – accompanied by a hope for the future? Perhaps. Perhaps.
“Sveta?”
“Tolya! “
“Let’s go to bed. You need a good fucking.”
“So do you – and maybe quite a lot more!”
During the night, Sveta awakes. She cannot forget of the image of Vyera forced into the chair before Neena and Valentine, lonely, frightened, punished by being soaked with cold water and all because she protested about who she really was. The image provokes an uncomfortable memory of an unpleasant meeting with a desperate and sick woman: the meeting with Popova.
Sveta does not wish to behave in the way she did. Is that what she is doing now? But there had been other abductees … why should this one be any different? Sveta cannot think of a reason why and yet Vyera does seem to be different, for some elusive and ill-understood reason.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
Footnotes.
(1) It’s a thing to keep long hair tidy
(2) Sveta is correct: Laser hair removal works best on people with dark hair and pale skin.
(3) The Outward Bound Trust
(4) The CIA Headquarters are in Langley, Virginia
(5) 836-906-368 is Jenny’s number on the International Register of Slaves and Submissives and was kindly donated to us by Tanos, the administrator of the Register. You can find it it on-line. Jenny received her number in our earlier story, Thesis.
(6) John Lewis is a famous department store in Oxford Street, London and elsewhere in the UK. It has a name for the quality and style of its merchandise.
CHAPTER 6
NEWSPEAK.
BRINKMANSHIP
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna
Electronic AudioMemo: Re: Vyera: Language Tuition, Stage 1
I began Vyera’s language tuition today. First, I plan to teach her to read Cyrillic characters and to give her a range of commands and responses in Russian which are suitable for a slave. This will confine her within a linguistic prison and maintain her in the role we intend for her. Her prison can be ‘extended’ by adding new vocabulary as her training progresses and she is ready to take on new duties. For practical reasons I will have to use some English with her but apart what I say, the only language she hears will be Russian and I hope this will increase her sense of isolation and vulnerability and her dependence on us in general and on me, in particular.
By the time she gains a reasonable fluency and her new language becomes second nature to her, it is my intention that her training will have taken complete control of her and she will not be able to imagine herself as anything other than our slave.
I attach my thoughts, as the events of this first session unfolded:-
She looks very tired and anxious as she is brought in. I am pleased to see how the stress of her interrogation has left its mark and I hope this will make her easier to work with and more agreeable. She is still naked, of course and at this stage, before she becomes used to it, her nakedness will spark feelings of embarrassment and vulnerability, making her yet more malleable and wearing down her psychological defences more quickly. I greet her in a friendly way but she reflects a sullen anger back to me. I see it rising up from inside her and thanks to her weakened psychological state, she will easily loose control of herself. In fact if she was dropped in water, I am sure that Vyera’s anger would be enough to make the water boil! Her emotional condition gives me another weapon to use against her and I will look carefully for a suitable opportunity.
I am taken from my cell, back to the interrogation room but this time, the only one there apart from me is my abductor, the girl Neena.
She looks up as I am brought in. She smiles. I really hate her when she smiles. She motions me to sit at the table. There doesn’t seem to be any reason why I should not. I look at her steadily. I want her to be quite clear about how I feel. I want her to know how angry I am, at what she has done to me.
As I sit to face her, I have my first really good look at my abductor. It’s just her and me. There are no distractions from the bustle of a street in London or the terror and fatigue of the interrogation they put me through. She is a little shorter than me. Very pale blond hair, pale grey eyes, slightly prominent cheek bones and lips full and lips everted just a touch. In another place and at another time, I might find her lips very inviting. Very kissable. But now she holds no sexual attraction for me. When she has spoken – after she had cold water poured over me – I noticed she has straight white teeth and a little midline gap. The sort of person who has a broad smile. She reminds me slightly of Maria Sharapova, the tennis player – there’s the same rather determined look, the same air of someone convinced she can better whoever she choses.
On the table there are some plain white index cards, a pencil and two books. One has large funny-looking letters printed in it. The other is a picture book (1). On the cover it has cartoons of small children with words beneath each picture – pictures of The Kitchen, The Hall, The Garden, The Shop and so on. It’s the sort of book you might use with a young child learning to read. Neena also has what looks like an “audio wand” such as you get at a Museum, to guide you around the exhibits.
I gaze steadily at Vyera. There is clearly a lot of work to do with her. Vyera should learn quickly, given her abilities but of course there will be obstacles. Nevertheless, she has made a very good impression on me over the past few days, during her interviews
She is an attractive specimen. She - of course – does not have the usual Slavic facial features and she looks different perhaps just a little exotic. She is a few centimeters taller than I am which means she has to look down just a little when I speak to her. Slaves should get used to glancing down and not looking at their Owners or Superiors in the eye! She has an attractive face with a very attractive head. Being shaven really suites her. Her ears are well formed but quite small and sit neat and parallel to her skull. She has attractive straight teeth and a strong chin. It’s not quite an English face and not quite a ‘Baltic’ face, either. I think it’s her pale green eyes which mark her out? Somewhere in between. Her genetics, no doubt. It’s always a pleasure to work with attractive material and she is definitely attractive. For a moment my mind strays to an image of Vyera spread out on my bed. Tied in position. On display. She will be such a tasty girl to play with especially when she has accepted her fate …
However, I have to push these interesting prospects to one side. It is time to begin and I intend to begin with a lesson about names
The girl Neena begins the lesson or whatever it is we are supposed to be doing but she keeps muttering into a small dictating machine. It’s so rude! Does she want to talk to me or doesn’t she? If I could, I would just get up and walk out. But I am too tired and frightened to do anything of the sort – and where would I go? Finally, she decides to pay me some direct attention.
“Ah, Vyerka!” (2) she begins. I'm confused. I thought she was calling me “Vyera” but perhaps I misheard. “It’s time you began to learn something of your new language. We will start with your name. Your full name is Vyera Anatolyevna Kuznetsova. Do you understand?” She looks at me getting no response but not appearing worried by it. “There is a problem though. Vyera is an adult name and you are a slave, so we need something else.” None of this makes any sense but perhaps it is the least absurd feature of my life here. “We will call you Vyerochka, which is the child’s version of Vyera, like 'little Vyera' do you see?”
I’m now beyond mere anger at the patronising way she is speaking to me. How dare she talki to me this way, How dare she say I'm no more than a child. I should be back at work, writing my PhD. She’s talking to me as if I was at Primary School.
But it gets worse. Neena hasn't finished. “Now, if you have done good work and we are pleased with you, we will call you Vyerochka. This is right for a good child or a good slave but it’s not good for slaves to be praised too often. They forget their place, forget that they are,” she almost spits it out, “owned. It would not be good for that to happen would it?” She isn't in the least interested in my reply. “So we will use Vyerka, which is the right form for your name in these circumstances. Never Vyera, sometimes Vyerochka but mostly Vyerka. It almost rhymes with the English word ‘worker’ - which is what you are going to be, for the rest of your life. So, Vyerka, I want you to make notes on these cards and learn the words in this book and learn these words from this book. Each word in this book has a number and when you enter the number on the wand, you will hear me say the word for you. Do you understand?”
I make no attempt to hide my feelings. They must be clearly visible in my face.
She doesn’t respond; she just raises one eyebrow in reply. Then: “Do you understand?” she begins.
“Understand?” I snap back. The anger coursing through me is the perfect antidote to the fears that Neena and her male colleague stirred up in me yesterday. “Look - let me tell you, you cannot do this! You just cannot do this! I will be missed. When I don’t turn up at work people will come looking for me. The police will be sent for and when the police find me, they will find you!”
Neena leans back in her chair and regards me with a half smile playing on her lips and starts speaking into her blasted dictating machine again.
The interrogation has taken its toll but I can see the anger and defiance clearly written on our little slave’s face and she is still ready to put up a fight.
I find her resilience surprising. It is hard to imagine a young woman, naked and bald, behaving as bravely as Vyera does. Her whole manner reinforces Anatoly Sergeyevich’s (3) view of her, which I feel absolutely sure, is not what Vyera intends! I sit quietly listening to her rants. There is no point in interrupting. She spoke bravely but her words show that she still completely misunderstands her situation. After a monent’s reflection, I feel rather pleased. I could have some fun. I look at Vyera carefully. There is quite a stubble on her head. I recall our intention to have all her body hair lasered off. I wonder how she will reconcile herself to that?
“Hmmm?” is all she says finally chooses to speak to me. She doesn’t contradict me, doesn’t argue, she just leans forward, holding my eyes with hers and asks, “Little rabinya Vyerka, just where do you think you are?”
I hadn’t really thought about it, until she asked. Where I am is about the walls and the doors. I haven’t been thinking about the world outside.
“Where do I think I am? I don’t know. London, I suppose or somewhere near there.”
“So, little slave Vyerka thinks she is in London?”
And now at last my spirits soar! She has made a mistake! She has got a word wrong. She – and all the rest of them - are pretending to be Russians and they have got a Russian word wrong!
“Yes. You are holding me in London or somewhere near there and by the way, now I know, I know absolutely for sure, that this is all some form of pretence, because the word for slave in Russian is ‘sluzhanka’, not … not that other word you said.
“Rabinya?”
“Yes: the Russian for slave is ‘sluzhanka’: Ylena Zhukova told me. And she really is Russian. She told me”
Vyera had begun to threaten me with the possibility of a rescue by the British police so I asked her to tell me where she thought she was. In her opinion, she is being held near London! Her remark shows how disorienting her treatment has been. Even though everything is so alien Vyera is hanging on to the idea that she must be somewhere near home. It’s perfect, I thought. She is completely out of touch with the reality of the situation. And, if that was not enough, she is unaware of the true meaning of ‘sluzhanka’. Wonderful!
“I see,” she turns towards me and continues, slowly. “That is understandable but wrong. On two counts. First, words. Sluzhanka means servant. That is appropriate for consensual games, I suppose.” She looks as one who is genuinely considering the point; as though she had not reflected on the matter before. Then she puts the thought to one side as interesting but in the context of now, irrelevant. “But this is not a consensual game anymore. This is reality. Reality needs the real word. The real word in Russian for a female slave is Rabinya. You are now rabinya.” The word is bluntly spat out. It sounds like a bluntly efficient word, a stark and bleak word. It lacks the smoother, more sensual sound of sluzhanka. She is obviously pleased to disillusion me.
“Second, geography. You are not in London. Nowhere even near London, as you would realise at once if you went outside to see for yourself.”
“Well how can I go outside when you keep me locked in here?”
I see her pause for a moment. I can tell that she thinks me naive. It’s as though she’s waiting to turn every word I utter against me; like some sort of judo fighter sparring with their opponent, tempting them into a false move, ready to use an opponent’s strength and weight against them.
Neena calls out to the air: “Open the cell door and the outside door.”
There is a mechanical click from the cell door in reply.
“Vyerka ….”
“My name is Jenny and I would prefer Mrs McEwan from you.”
“Of course.” Neena nods understandingly but ignores my request, the irritating, patronising smile still playing on her lips. “Vyerka, why don’t you go outside and see for yourself? You will find the doors open. Go into the corridor, turn right, walk through two other doors and turn left through the door into the garden …..”
I look back at her in disbelief. I can’t imagine why she is letting me do this. The idea of something other than these four walls distracts me from the fact that I am still naked, just as I have been for the whole time I have been here.
I can see that Neena is enjoying the way that I’m still seething with rage, still trying to hold on to my name. It’s hard to tell what she really thinks though, what she is really trying to achieve.
As I stand up uncertainly, Neena says. “Oh, you will need something on your feet. What size do you take?”
“What? Er, 40, European.”
“Good. So do I. Borrow my clogs. Here.”
Walk a mile in your opponent’s shoes, they say. Well that is exactly what I will do. Walk to freedom in the shoes of my enemy. The girl Neena slips her feet out of a pair of bright pink wooden slip-on clogs and pushes them towards me across the cell floor.
I am momentarily taken aback by her easy suggestion that I should just walk away from them. Where is the trap? Perhaps they have got what they really want from me and they are going to let me run away whilst they all make their getaways too?
I stand, not sure what to do next; held captive by indecision as I have been by the walls and doors. I catch sight of Neena. She seems to be looking at me almost sympathetically as I put my feet into her clogs and turn towards the door.
“Vyerka?”
I pause again. Held by the sound of this strange new name she calls me by. I turn to look at her. I am hoping it will be for the last time.
“Yes?”
“I will have a cane ready for you when you come back inside. You are not being true to your name and I will have to punish you for it.” She speaks with a smile on her lips once more.
This last smug remark is all I need to drive me into calling her bluff. It propels me from the room and out into the corridor, through the doors. I burst through the last one and find myself outside.
As soon as I leave the building, my breath is taken away. It’s as though I have been physically slapped across the face. Ferocious cold surrounds me as I stand on the path. The cold scours me, voraciously sucking the warmth from my body. Neena’s clogs carried the heat of her own body but once outside, it is gone in an instant.
I look up at the sky: it’s pale blue and bright.
In front on me on both sides of the path are piles and piles of snow, far deeper than I have ever seen in England. I drive myself forward. The wind finds me and the cold burns ever deeper inside me. Every breath is painful. The building is behind me and I risk a glance back, to see if there is anyone chasing me. There is no one, but I have my first glimpse of my prison. It is a beautiful classical mansion but it’s not like any British country house I have ever seen. It is painted a pale yellow with the windows openings bordered in white. The architecture, the proportions, the scale are somehow different, foreign. (4)
Tears form in my eyes and as they escape onto my cheeks, they freeze.
Each step I take is becoming less and less certain. My bravado and determination are evaporating into the biting, grinding, burning cold. Suddenly there is a man in front of me. He is completely wrapped in furs against the cold and the wind. He calls out. I cannot tell what he says but that’s hardly necessary because there is no mistaking the anxiety in his voice: he holds up one arm in front of me and shoos me back to the house with the other.
I have been defeated! I cannot walk another step. All the strength stripped from my naked body by the cold. I howl in frustration and despair as he gently leads me back inside.
SOME NEW REALITIES
I am back in the cell. Facing Neena. She is drinking a black coffee from an elegant tall glass in a silver holder. Cream and chocolate float on the top. The sort I remember from skiing holidays. There is one for me, too but in a plastic mug and plain black. My mind lights on the slightest clue. Could I be in Austria?
I warm my hands, blue from the cold, on the sides of the plastic mug. It takes minutes before my body ceases to be racked by the shivering.
In comparison with the outside, the temperature inside the cell is tropical. Gradually warmth finds its way through my body. The man wrapped a blanket around my shoulders when he brought me back. It was a kindly act, considerate, pitying. And pitying is the look that Neena gives me. I must look a sight! She will think all my resolve has gone as my frozen tears melt in the warmth of the room, streaming down my cheeks. She might be right.
“So where am I?” I ask. There is no animation in my voice, just the dejection of utter defeat. I’m not sure that I’m even expecting an answer. Not sure that I will believe when it comes.
It is now time to answer some of her questions, now when her own experience will provide all the verification Vyera needs.
“Near Moscow.”
Moscow? That is preposterous! I was in London. Then not long after I was here. How can I be that far from home? How can I possibly be near Moscow?
She’s waiting for me. She can see that her reply has stopped me in my tracks, just as the cold outside did. She pauses for several seconds. I’m thrown back on my memories; walking in the street; speaking to Joe; meeting Neena and responding to her appeal for help, my capture, the way I was sedated.
Vyera looks at me, her face a picture of incredulity! She cannot accept what her eyes have seen and her body has experienced, so I prod her to think back over what has happened to her over the past few days.
“What is your last memory, before here?”
I don’t need to think about it. That moment is burnt into my memory. “I was walking down a street, in London. Thinking about Joe, wishing I could get my mobile to work, wishing I could finish my conversation with him.”
“Do you remember me?”
Oh yes, I remember you. The girl who asked for help, because she was a diabetic and thought she was going hypo. The girl I was worried about. The girl I helped to her car, to make sure she was safe, the girl who dropped her insulin syringe and by the time I had bent down to pick it up, she was pointing a Taser at me. Oh, yes, I remember you! But all I say is “Why?” and slowly shake my head.
Neena continues happily:
“Once I had you in the car and restrained, I sedated you to overcome your fears, to make you feel better …”
To feel better and less frightened about being abducted? To make me feel better about being stolen?
“ … then you were flown in your owner’s private jet to Russia and brought here. You see Vyerka: what a lot of resources have been used to bring you here. What efforts have been made on your behalf!”
“Why?” is all I can bring myself to say, once more slowly shaking my head …..
“Because you were chosen. Because we can provide you with a useful and fulfilling life with us.”
I sit in front of Neena with my mouth open; I am trying to form words to protest, to contradict, to establish once more my own view of reality but just as my tears have melted so I realise that the option has gone, forever.
I can tell that Neena also sees it in my face. Hope has been frozen out by the cold of winter. She knows that I did not have to believe her. I have come to know it for myself. Maybe the only reality is the reality of my captors. And all they had to do was to lend me a pair of clogs and open some doors. I have nothing to say. There is hardly anything I can say, except -
“I was happy as I was, thank you and what about my husband and my parents and my job and friends? What about my life?”
“No, Vyerka. We are your family now and your life is what we decide for you. Your life is are ours and your life will remain ours. Look at your wrist: it says ‘Vyera. Owned Slave’. You are our slave and you will remain our slave.”
She speaks so calmly, so assuredly that it is almost impossible to disagree with what she says. I look at the marks of the tattoo on my wrist. Is that what it says? Is it actually true? Yes, it is true. I know that it’s true from the research I have done. I can tell that she sees the light of recognition in my face. There’s realisation and following on, a feeling of desperation and horror sweeping round me like a tide as I begin to have an understanding of what this all means for the future.
Vyera’s face crumples up into a mask of – what? Dismay, dread, frustration, despair? She begins to howl and bang her palms down on the table top, as if that could change the reality of the situation she finds herself in. Pyotr enters from the corridor, and lays a heavy hand on her shoulder until this squall of anger leaves her and she becomes calm once more.
As you know, I like caning people! Although there was a part of me that felt sorry for Vyera, it is essential that she accepts our discipline – so caning Vyera was an important ingredient in the teaching I delivered. But of course, I enjoyed it too - resolving the morning’s events.
“Now the punishment I promised. Vyerka must be true to her name and have faith in her Owners. Kneel on your stool and hold the table. If you cannot cooperate I shall ask Pyotr to restrain you”
I pause for a moment and look at her and at the cane laid between us on the table. I do as she asks. How can I not? But inside the privacy of my mind, I continue to scream and scream. This is the only part of what is happening that is familiar to me. Taking punishment. I know what to do. I know how to handle this, but, oh, why is this happening to me?
I walk round behind her and place my hand on her lower back. I press down just a little and she pushes her bottom towards me and just a little upwards just as she should. It was funny. For all her objections and protests, when it came to taking punishment she did just as she was told.
I speak to her again, firmly but also gently. This is not the time for harsh words. It is the time for harsh deeds: actions that reinforce words. I tell her to kneel.
I take the cane and set my stance, feet a little apart. I aim for the lower part of her bum, planning to lay the strokes evenly across both buttocks.
However, there was also the chance to give her some language tuition ….
Neena picks up the cane from the table and walks behind me. I will explain some numbers she says. “One is ‘Adeen’, Vyerka.”
I take the cane and swipe it briskly towards her. I can tell she will burn and sting when I’m finished. I haven’t warmed her bum with a preliminary spanking. Oh yes, it is certainly going to sting!
I hear the whistle from the cane and feel the flash of pain as it lands across my bottom.
“Two is Dva”. Snick!
“Three is Tre” Snick!
“Four is Cheteri”. Snick!
“Five is Pyat”. Snick!
She stops, placing the cane gently on the table.
I struggle to my feet. The punishment has been given me without any of the slow build up I have learned to expect from other beatings. Each cut was laid on with a single, constant, strength and is all the more severe for it. I lower myself gingerly onto my bum.
“Now rabinya Vyerka: shall we begin your lesson again?”
With enormous effort I turn to the cards and books. I hate what she is making me do but I have no more strength left today, to stand against her.
Neena begins, “Here is the Russian alphabet. Ah, Beh, Veh, Geh … Vyerka: say it.”
I parrot after her. “Ah, Beh, Veh, Geh,” each time writing the letter on a card and turning over to write the sound the letter makes on the reverse. Whilst I am doing all this, I am wondering just what will become of me?
The whole thing has been a very enjoyable session. And productive too! I’m really pleased with the progress we made. I can tell I am going to enjoy this girl very much!
UNCOMFORTABLE REFLECTIONS
Some hours later, Sveta has the opportunity to catch up with the day’s events. She visits the web file and reviews Neena’s summary and then reviews the video recording of the conversations immediately before Vyera’s outing into the wintery garden and afterwards, once she was back inside with Neena.
Sveta is pleased. A wave of cruelty washes through her mind: Neena had played Vyera perfectly, goading her into coming to an inescapable conclusion about what had happened to her, showing some compassion by giving her coffee and then teaching her that defiance will always come at a price. Yes: Sveta especially enjoyed the finale! Vyera’s skin marked beautifully and Neena had executed the caning perfectly.
This slave – no, that was not quite right. Vyera was a slave in fact, but far from a slave in her own mind. Novice was a better word. This novice really was an interesting creature. For example: new slaves often had their heads shaven and a ring put through their septum to show then just how dramatically and fundamentally their lived had changed. Although hair grew again, shaving a slave’s head at the beginning of their training snatched away the comfortable image they had of themselves and left then even more naked than naked, so to speak. But this girl turned up shaven and had a septum ring when she was taken. So Neena’s preliminary analysis was exactly right: for this girl, taking away her own language would do as much as anything to play on her feelings of loneliness and vulnerability and help to start the conditioning process.
Before Sveta closes down the video, she runs it through once more and finds she has paused at the moment when Vyera was again sitting before Neena and her frozen tears malting into real tears and rolling down her face. Uncharacteristically, Sveta starts to feel uncomfortable. Her conscience has begun to trouble her, as if cruelty had melted, along with Vyera’s frozen tears.
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NOTES
(1) The picture book is in fact “A First Thousand Words In Russian”, published by Usborne Books
(2) More about Russian names! Once Russians are on first name terms with you, they will refer to themselves by the diminutive of their first name. We occasionally do this in English-speaking countries. For example Bill instead of the more formal William. Frank instead of Francis. Mike instead of Michael. Sveta is the diminutive of Svetlana and when Neena writes or speaks to Sveta (who is her boss), Neena uses the more formal ‘Svetlana’. The Russians are very fond of diminutives and some names have several variations. Russian diminutives always have a child’s version, a version to express endearment and occasionally a somewhat dismissive, even contemptuous version, as Neena explains with reference to Vyera, Verochka and Vyerka
(3) The Russians do not really have an equivalent of ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’ and in formal conversation and use their first name and patronymic instead. Thus it is normal and polite for Neena when referring to Anatoly or when she is speaking to him in person, to refer him as ‘Anatoly Sergeyevitch’.
(4) The Pavlovsk Palace is the sort of building we had in mind for the Kustensky dacha.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
AUDIO MEMO; NEENA ALEXANDROVNA TO SVETLANA NIKITECHNA
Physiology has played into my hands and provided an excellent teaching opportunity!
I went to collect Vyera early this morning to get her started on her work for the day. She has had a language lesson each day with regular testing, to make sure she is absorbing what she has been taught. Afterwards, she has been working as an assistant to the Domestic Staff and has been given all the menial tasks to do, such as cleaning the floors in the detention area, pantries, store rooms and so on. I found her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking as if she was trying to squeeze herself into a tight little ball. She was obviously worried about something, but what? I did not say anything at first. I thought ‘If she has something to say then let her get on and say it.’
Here, as far as I can remember accurately, is how the conversation went:
“Gaspazha Neena?” she breaks the silence in the cell.
“Yes rabinya?”
I'm looking at her, still wondering what problem she is conjuring up now.
“It’s, err, well.” I can tell that she’s feeling embarrassed by what she is about to say. She manages to gather herself. She looks up at me and says, flatly. “It's my period. I am bleeding.”
I exude an air of exasperated tolerance. “Oh, is that all? Stand up. Let me see. Yes you are. There is blood on the inside of your thigh. What are you doing about it?”
“Well, I have washed myself. I thought I should stay in my cell and keep out of everyone’s way until the bleeding stops.”
Surely she can't really imagine we'd let her get away with that? But you have to admire her nerve! Now this was the opportunity to teach Vyera some deeper truths about her new situation and in particular, the chance to teach her slavery is not a matter of playing exciting BDSM games as she had done at Inward Bound. I continued:
“I see. And just how long does this usually take?” I look down at her, tapping my foot whilst I wait for her answer.
“It should be over mostly, in two days.”
“Two days? Two days! You think you will sit around doing nothing each month for two days? Why, that’s twenty four days each year. Whoever heard of a slave enjoying twenty four days complete idleness every year?”
“Well, you could let me use tampons. I could still work, then. It's only because I have nothing here. If you could get me some …..”
“Get your tampons? I am your Supervisor! I am not here to go off on errands for you!”
“No, I didn't mean that. I just meant... If I had….. then... Oh! You are so unfair!” She doubles up on herself sobbing.
“Oh, Vyekra!” I shake my head slowly, showing my irritation. “We can't have this inconvenience every month - and I suppose we have to blame your difficulties last week on pre-menstrual tension? Will we have that every month a week before your period comes? We can't have this! I shall ask your Owner what to do. If there are plans to breed you then I suppose we shall just have to put up with all this and keep you intact but if not, we might just as well have you spayed. Have it all over and done with. You would still be available for fucking. All the better, if you ask me. No worries about contraception, hmmm?”
Her look of horror tells me that this is an idea that had never occurred to her before now.
“Vyerka, for goodness sake! What are you looking at me like that for?” I try to convey astonishment at Vyera’s unwillingness to embrace bodily modifications for the convenience of her new Owners. I press on. “After all you are only a slave now . The Owner has complete rights over your body to do whatever they wish. That’s what slavery is, Vyerka. You just accept what is done with you and concentrate on doing what you are told to the best of your ability. If you exceed expectations, you may be rewarded. If you meet expectations you will probably be kept. If you consistently fail to come up to expectations, you will be disposed of. You are as good as the work that you do, as desirable as the service you provide. My advice to you is to be the very best slave you can be and leave everything else to your superiors.”
The girl still stands there, as if she has taken root. She stares blankly at me. Clearly my words have hit home very hard. Of course my threat to have her womb removed is just that; a threat. It is important for her to be as sexually alert as possible, sexually ravenous in fact. In that context, a hysterectomy would be the last thing to do; but Vyera does not know that!
“This is your problem Vyekra. You are not thinking of your new life in the right way. Slavery is a calling. For some, it’s a calling they hear when they are free and they delight in surrendering their freedom to an Owner who is prepared to accept their service. Others – like you – get taken, They have – to paraphrase your Shakespeare – their slavery thrust upon them. So you have to work hard to learn your new calling. Your focus needs be on what is good for your Owner. You must forget your own wishes and desires and only think about what is good for your Owner. Whatever they wish; whatever they desire - that must be the centre of your life. Your time at Inward Bound gave you completely the wrong idea. You are not here to play games – although if you are good, you might get a spanking or get put into bondage as a reward but that is not what you are here for.”
I can see Vyera has been completely taken by surprise at my attack. I press on.
“Here’s how you could make a start. Your period and your hair,” Vyera’s hand goes up to her shaved but still bristling scalp, “they are making you ‘high maintenance’. Think – do you really want to remind your Owner, on a regular basis, about what a trouble you are?” Vyera is staring back at me, open mouthed. “We could do something by having your hair lasered off. Just look at your arm pits and your legs, and your crotch. Just look at the ugly hair sprouting out of your skin. Think how much less trouble you would be to your Owner if you could be permanently smooth. It means a treatment every four months or so, over about two years and, of course, it’s going to be our decision in the end but if you ask me to make the arrangements, then I’m sure that the Owner would be pleased to know you are trying your best. Perhaps even impressed. It will reduce your maintenance time which looks better on our job planning schedules. Less for us to do. You get to keep your working bits and that way some of the men we give you to, will get a real kick out of fucking a fertile slave, especially a slave who has just ovulated and they are fucking her to get pregnant. Nice feeling for the man.”
For what seems like minutes the girl stands wracked by indecision. Both choices I have given her are unpalatable but she knows she has to choose one. I will have wrung it out of her, but, she can still make her own choice, perhaps the last choice she is able to make for a very long time. She can still play one card in this game, if she is brave enough. I have pointed out that this card is still in her hand. She can play or she can hold. If she holds then the card will merely taken away by us in due course. I wonder what she will do?
“Gaspazha Neena?” she says, hesitantly with tears in her eyes.
“Yes?”
“Will you consider taking my hair away please? Forever. To make me easier for you to keep me?”
So she decides and she plays the card! She decides to make a positive choice. It’s a small statement of independence from her but she chose to affirm our interests. Another victory for us!
When I awake, I feel wetness between my legs. I glance down immediately and see blood. Oh, blast! Its ‘the-time-of-the-month’. It had to come, I suppose but I was almost hoping that they were giving me something to stop my periods. Something in my food … I have not had a period in ages. How long is it? One month? Two? I suppose it’s the terror of being here has upset my cycle. What am I going to do? I am naked so I can’t wear pads. There are no tampons. I am just going to have to ask. It is another level of dependence. It makes me feel like some sort of kept animal.
All too soon, Neena breezes into my cell. I am sitting in a tight ball. I have washed myself but I just feel crushed with embarrassment. She immediately wants to know what the matter is. I stutter and stammer and finally get it out. She is a girl, like me. Surely she will understand? But she is just horrible! She deliberately misunderstands what I am trying to say when I ask for some tampons. She starts to rant about how I have to leave games behind and how I should be looking for every opportunity to serve my Owners and how this is a great inconvenience and perhaps they will just have me spayed if they do not want to have me breed.
Have me spayed? Like a cat? Breed from me? Which is worse? I stand before Neena completely aghast at what she is saying! I begin to feel very cold and sick and afraid. I stare at her with my mouth open. I thought she was vaguely on my side, as my Trainer. I thought she understood what I was going through. I thought she cared! But what made me think that? There is nothing in my experience of Neena to make be think she has any benign feelings towards me what so ever. And, anyway, I do know that slavery is about service – what about the time I spent as personal servant to Gerry at Inward Bound and what about the way I have tried to look after Joe? Even though Joe did not properly recognise what I was trying to do.
I stare into a bleak future. What sort of choice is it – to lose my womb and my future or to keep my womb and have my children taken from me as they surely would be? Fear and nausea wash over me. This is so different from the consensual domination games at Inward Bound, so different even from being in the hands of ‘The Agency’. Of course Inward Bound gave me the wrong idea! For goodness sake, they cannot know what real slavery is. To be completely lost to everything you have loved. To be all alone and completely at the mercy of someone who has appropriated your body. Stolen you. Can use and abuse you, at will. Their choice. Their whim. And me? Left. Alone. No one to speak up for me. A future painted in the coldest grey, brown, blue and black.
She seems to come to some sort of conclusion. She suggests that if I ask to have my hair taken away permanently my Owner would be pleased to know I was trying to be less trouble.
My womb or my hair? What sort of ridiculous choice is that? And in the end, I choose to try and save my womb. I ask her to have them take my hair away …
Neena marches out of the cell and slams the door. I am left all alone. Cold. Lonely. Desperate. Bleeding. She is back soon enough and hands me a small silicone rubber cup.
‘Rabinya’, she says. ‘It’s a mooncup. (1) Do I have to tell you which way it goes in? You take it out after three or four times a day when you are bleeding and wash out the contents before re-insertion. Much better for us girls than tampons!’ Us girls? As though we are on the same side? I am just a chattel nowadays. I don’t think I am a ‘girl’ anymore. I am just something that works and causes inconvenience. I think about all the dreadful things she said to me when she had a solution to help all the time. Was this all just to get me to make some sort of choice? Or to teach me that I am really nothing to them?
It happens two days later. The man Andreii takes me to the Medical Room (as I call it). Its one of the white rooms along the corridor where they keep me. He holds my upper arm, very firmly. He wants me to know that there will be no going back. There is another man there I don’t recognise. He is young and tall with curly longish blond hair and grey eyes. He smiles to show a wide, easy, smile and even, white, teeth. He gestures towards the leather and chrome examination couch. I lay down. Andreii sits by the door. The minder. In case I make a run for it? Yes: that’s what I should like to do but there has been a trade – I think. I hope. I have condemned my hair and saved my womb, at least for a little while. I am feeling very low. I enjoyed being shaven because I know I could always grow my hair again. Now I am starting down a one-way street much as I did with my tattoos. By the time I reach the end, there will be nothing left of my hair and no going back. What if one of my trainers at Inward Bound had asked me? Gerry? Charlotte? Celia? Josephine or Joe my husband? Well, I would have gladly given it up for Joe, had he asked. So what’s the difference now? It’s a defeat. That’s the difference. Another one, along a road lined with defeats. I suppose I am just accepting what would have happened anyway: that they would take something from me. The list is getting quite long now: freedom, husband, parents, friends, job, country, language, and now part of my body: part of me.
I realise that they seem to be waiting for me. I look around. The man offers me some dark glasses. I see Andreii has put some on too. The man switches on a machine. It’s white, medical, malignant. He takes up a hand-piece which comes at the end of a long silvery flexible cable (as far as I can see in these glasses). It’s like a snake. He pauses above my right ankle. The snake is breathing cold air onto my skin and then, it bites. A small bright orange light spits onto my skin. Like a rubber band snapping against me. The snake bites and bites and bites, all round my leg and eventually stopping at my groin.
The man pauses. He has kept up a stream of conversation. Some of it is directed to me – a sort of soothing professional noise, like a dentist, not really expecting a response – and some of the conversation is tossed towards Andrei. Coffee appears for them and water comes for me. He offers me a napkin and I wipe my brow. I have been sweating. It has not been a pleasant morning.
After the break, the man starts again. In an exactly similar way he moves up my left leg to my groin once more. Then we are done. Some sort of soothing cream is rubbed into my skin and I am sent off to work. In the kitchens. Cleaning the work tops and kitchen cupboards. It’s as though nothing untoward has happened. Take something from her. Put her to work. It’s what she is for.
On the next day, I am taken to the medical room again. This time, my groin, bum and arms are spat at by the laser; burning away my hair. At the start, I am made to kneel, forehead on the couch, legs spread, bum in the air. They make me spread my buttocks with my hands, to expose all the skin between my vulva and anus. It is so humiliating. He guides the laser over every square inch of my skin. I can’t see but I can feel his progress. Not a spot is left alone. He turns me onto my back. My groin and labia are lasered in an exactly similar humiliating, meticulous way. I am left feeling violated - but then my body no longer belongs to me anymore, does it? I am something which lives inside a body which used to be called Jennifer McEwan and is now called ‘rabinya Vyerka’.
On the third day Andrei takes me back again. Surely there is nothing left to do? My back was not at all hairy and surely they do not want to damage my tattoo? Suddenly there is a pang of fear. Are they going to try and remove my tattoo? Surely not! It’s so big. It’s too big? But it’s an indelible link with the person I once was. Perhaps that’s why even my tattoo has to be destroyed.
The couch can be made to sit up. Like a dentist’s chair. It’s like a chair today. The man motions me to sit and Andreii wraps a broad strap around my upper body and around my legs. They have me so I can’t move. What on earth are they going to do this time? I am so frightened. I start to wail, and the man lays his hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes. He talks. I cannot understand the words but they sound reassuring, soothing. I calm myself and try and deal with whatever is coming. We all put on the protective glasses – and the he begins on my head. OH the bastards! They really are going to remove all my hair! I am going to be permanently bald. Wherever I go, everyone will see a bald female slave! There will be no hiding place. Neena says she is planning to have my slave numbers tattooed on my neck. With no hair, they will really stand out. I will always carry a placard: “Look at me. I am a slave!”
My tears start again. I start to struggle but the straps hold me firm. There will be no escape and all I have left to do is cry and as I cry tears of anger, regret, and dismay. I can feel the laser biting its way across my scalp until there is no patch or nook or crannie which has not been treated. The task is complete. My fate sealed. I will always be smooth always bald, always a slave.
When Sveta gets back it’s almost midnight. She insisted, when she married Anatoly, on keeping her own career - so she can't complain when her job keeps her late.
In the years after the dissolution of the Soviet Union there were exciting opportunities in the new media and Sveta had eventually found her métier in television. Her skills in interrogation and intelligence gathering made her a natural for a programme doing political and economic analysis. Her former superiors in the KGB were also keen for her to do it and helped her on her way. They much preferred to have one of their own doing things like that and although there is no longer an official censor, the media take care not to be overtly and aggressively critical of the Government.
It’s been a long day. The programme she hosts, “The Next Move”, goes out on Channel 1 after the evening news, "Vryemya", at 9:30. She’s well known for her interviews with “movers and shakers’, showing how and why the country is where it is. The debates that follow explore what ‘the next move’ should be. It’s satisfying but it’s exhausting too. The programme’s animated titles shows chess pieces spread across a map of Russia. A red king stands behind a fallen white queen. Sometimes Sveta can completely sympathise with the way the queen must be feeling!
She listens to Neena’s audio memo. At first she is pleased with the way Neena has stumbled across an opportunity to teach Vyera more about her position but then Neena begins to threaten Vyera with a hysterectomy, to force her into a choice and of course, for Sveta this is like running a knife across an unhealed wound.
Immediately she has travelled back in time. She is in the Lubyanka, walking out of Popova’s office, the doctor at her side. As soon as they are in the corridor, one of the security detail falls in behind them. She passes colleagues she knows. They begin to smile and immediately their smiles fade as they see the look on her face, the dark-suited man by her side and the guard behind. What has she done? Is she under arrest? And they slink away from her, back into their offices lest they themselves become infected with whatever crime Svetlana Naidenova has committed. Her memories begin to accelerate. Sveta does not wish to go where they are taking her. She is in the Recovery Ward, vomiting after the anaesthetic, feeling sore and oh! so empty. Still alone. Still an orphan. The chance of living in a family torn from her.
On the audio file, Neena is still speaking. Sveta wipes the tears from her eyes and once more turns her attention to Neena’s voice which seems so self–satisfied. Sveta almost feels she has, at this moment, more in common with the slave Vyera that she has with Neena.
Neena is explaining how she has brow-beaten Vyera into asking for her hair to be lasered off.
Sveta has heard enough. She closes the file and sends it to the Trash Bin – and pours herself a vodka. A very large glass of vodka.
There she sits, sipping the thin medicinal liquid, recovering from her day and from her memories. She recollects some of the photographs taken of Vyera when she was Jennifer McEwan. She really does look beautiful with her shaven head. Outsanding. Statue-esque. Perhaps being smooth permanently will be something nice for her? Something she will enjoy having done?
Sveta knows this will not be so. It is not so much the taking of the girl’s hair but very much the manner of the taking. Today, for Vyera, Sveta has become Popova. She weeps silent tears of regret until at last, she is ambushed by sleep.
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FOOTNOTES
1. Mooncups. Girls will immediately understand the technical stuff here but blokes who want more information should visit their web site.
CHAPTER 8 : A FAREWELL TO FANTASIES
Svetlana Nikitechna Kustenskaya(1) is sitting in her other Moscow apartment, in the neo-soviet Triumph Palace Skyscraper, on Chapayevsky Pereulok in north west Moscow. (2) When the building was opened in 2007, Anatoly and Sveta bought one of the apartments to give them more spacious, modern and quiet accommodation for friends, guests and business contacts than was possible in their old apartment on Tverskaya. The new apartment in the central tower has magnificent views. It is also more to Sveta’s taste!
Today, Neena is coming to discuss the training of the new slave, Vyera. Sveta is taking a very close interest because Vyera has been acquired so she can work for the Kustensky family and is not, for the moment at any rate, intended for sale.
Neena joined the personal staff of Gaspadeen Kustensky when she left the Army. Her new job is rather like her previous one: training new recruits. In Russia, all young adults undertake a period of military service. Some look forward to it, others do not, but they all have to accept their obligations and work through their training.
Neena is dealing with conscripts once again, so she is on familiar ground. However the conscripts she trains for Gaspadeen Kustensky have to face some additional and rather special challenges. They have to accept that their new lives will be quite different from the lives they once led and that there will be no return, ever. They have to accept a complete change of attitude to their superiors; they must willingly embrace the “technical” skills they will be taught and most of all, they must accept that they are now and will always be slaves.
When she emerges from her car, Neena is impressed! The building has been designed to echo the architecture of the “Seven Moscow Sisters”, the Russian baroque neo-gothic skyscrapers constructed by Stalin after the Second World War, the most famous of them being Moscow University.(3) All Moscow has heard about the Triumph Palace. It was the tallest building in Europe from 2005 to 2007, it is still amongst the three tallest buildings in the city and most of Moscow can see it, most all of the time!
Neena reports to the concierge and is taken up to the Kustensky apartment by another member of Anatoly’s security team.
“Neena Alexandrovna! Do come in!” Sveta is a warm and generous hostess and immediately puts Neena at her ease. “You have arrived in time for coffee. A good journey?”
“Yes, thank you so much Svetlana Nikitechna”
Neena Alexandrovna Kirova and Svetlana Nikitechna Naidenova, now Kustenskaya. Ah, how much history there is in a name! Neena, is the daughter Alexander Kirov and in everyday conversation in Russia, she is referred to as Neena Alexandrovna, her given name and her patronymic. From Sveta’s point of view, it underlines that Neena came from a real family.
But what of Sveta? Sveta, is a foundling, brought up an orphan and instantly recognisable as one from her name. Her maiden name, Naidenova is derived from the word for ‘abandoned’, her patronymic, Nikitechna was given to her by the director of the orphanarium where she was brought up and echoes the name of the Soviet Leader at the time, Nikita Kruschev. Her first name, Svetlana recalls the word for ‘light’, a reminder of the summer morning when a little baby girl was found abandoned in one of the Moscow parks. Thus, on every occasion before her marriage, when she had to give her full name, Sveta was reminded that neither her mother nor her father had really wanted her or had any interest in her. She was, for them, something which could be thrown away.
Is this why Sveta has encouraged Anatoly in his slave-trading adventures? Slaves cost. They are valuable possessions. They are too expensive to merely throw away – unlike a little baby girl, one summer’s evening, years ago …
Russia has for many years been a land of opportunities and Svetlana Nikitechna has done very well. She is intelligent, beautiful, energetic and has had the good fortune to meet, to fall in love with and to marry Anatoly, the handsome and capable son of the famous General Sergey Kustensky, Hero of the Soviet Union. Yet, even now, sitting in her apartment in the Triumph Palace she is still marked out as a foundling and feels oddly disadvantaged in the presence of a younger woman who was brought up by her real parents in a family home and has a proper name.
So tell me, Neena Alexandrovna. What progress?
“Svetlana Nikitechna, I have briefed Pyotr and Andrei and also our Domestic Team about Vyera, her back ground and the particular challenges she faces and I have begun the training syllabus and it has already been an interesting experience for both of us”
“You and the slave?”
“Exactly. This particular acquisition presents some new and unusual problems. These set her a little apart from some of the other girls I have trained.”
Sveta nods, listening carefully to Neena’s account.
“In common with other recruits,” she continues, in the rather stilted tone always expected of her when reporting in the military, “when she realises that she can no longer hide from the reality of her new circumstances she will be hit by a storm of emotions: anger, disbelief, horror, dismay, despair, fear, desperation, home-sickness and even psychological depression. As her trainer, I have to support her through this crisis until she accepts her new circumstances and of course, these symptoms do not arrive in a neat and tidy order.”
“Of course,” replies Sveta, happy to let Neena lay out the groundwork for her report. In any case, Sveta has a perfect understanding of what is involved.
Neena continues: “Vyera is unusual because she already has her own ideas about what it means to be a slave and so she will have to undergo some re-education I have to undo her misconceptions before I can help her into her new position. Some of our traditional training methods are likely to be counterproductive. We will have to be flexible.”
Sveta considers Neena’s words. She has examined the information Anatoly had collected on this new slave. According to the dossier, Vyera has enjoyed fantasies of submission for a long time. She has even put them into practice in some quite brave and unusual ways. There are things she finds exciting about slavery games. The sex, the bondage, the erotic corporal punishment, the submission; these are all things that have been a strong part of her sexuality. But there are the other things which she will not accept so easily; the menial, tedious work; the physical labour; others having amusement at her expense; being ignored and taken for granted; her body and mind exploited by her owners with no reward for her. She is going to find all of those difficult, as Neena makes clear. She continues, “In my opinion, the main challenge here is to make her understand that slavery is to be her vocation and when she undertakes her daily tasks her focus must always be on what is good for her owners and never on what is congenial to her, and that she must be generous and unstinting in her efforts.”
Neena leans forward to emphasise her words. “Vyera’s re-education and the work of moulding her must involve her first in acquiescence, then obedience then acceptance, then agreement and finally a full, willing and enthusiastic commitment to her new role in life. It will be a very rewarding project – for both of us! But as a first step, she has to let go of her fantasies.”
Sveta is impressed. “Thank you, Neena Alexandrovna Such an insightful report! I am sure the little rapina is in good hands. Unfortunately I cannot keep in daily contact with you – too much to do, I am afraid, - but I would like you to send me reports of … significant … milestones? Here: take this Dictaphone. It records electronically. It is more advanced than the one you have been using. You can make notes and email the audio file to me more easily. Can you do that?”
“Of course, Svetlana Nikitechna. I will be delighted to do that. I realise you have more experience in this field that I do and any advice you have or any insights you could share – well, I would be very grateful for them.”
As she leaves the building, Neena reflects on their exchange. It was a short but significant discussion, she feels. It’s quite clear to Neena that despite what Sveta says about being ‘too busy’ to keep in close touch, she is in fact going to take a very personal interest in rapina Vyera’s journey into slavery. That is understandable, as she will work for the Kustenskys themselves, but there seems to be something more. Neena can’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps it was something in Sveta’s face as the spoke of the girl? She finds it curious …
Back in the apartment, Sveta gazes out over the city, towards the dacha and thinks about rapina Vyera. She glances through her copy of the Vyera dossier and looks again at the photographs found on Vyera’s computer in England: the photographs of a little girl … and the date of birth: 03 June 1985. Why, of all the days, did she have to be born then? A ghost from Sveta’s past has been disturbed once more but then, the ghost has never been far away.
From Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary: Tape No. 1
“I thought that we were making some progress over the past several days. Learning her new language. Learning to count in Russian, learning the new alphabet - she was starting to show that she could do as she was told. Today, it’s different. Today she’s decided to be difficult. This is not a problem for me; she will find that we can adapt to her moods. But it will end as a problem for her! However, you can’t reach the end of the journey without taking a few false steps …
I can tell that today is going to be a difficult day as soon as I enter her cell. The scowl she gives me tells me everything I needed to know.
“Vyerka, it’s time for you to come with me.”
She looks up. She says nothing. She is different from yesterday. I do not know what has happened over night but I sense her resistance, like a sledge which glides over snow but then binds on gravel.
“Come with me Vyerka,” I say once more and reach out for her arm. As I take it she swings her weight away from me.
“No!” she yells. “Nyet, if you’d rather.” She swings back and goes to hit me, fists clenched. My military training comes to my aid at once. I keep tight hold of her arm and swivel round presenting my back towards her and drop to my knees. Vyera keeps moving and gracefully rolls over my shoulder and sprawls full length, on her back, on the floor.(4) She’s winded by the impact. She must know I won’t stand for this type of behaviour. I reach behind my back and pull my taser from its holster, point and fire. The bolt of electricity courses through her body leaving her twitching and convulsing, her nervous system completely overwhelmed by the shock. I notice that she loses control of her bladder. A large puddle of urine spreads out beneath her.
Her actions are almost what I am expecting. Hanging on the wall outside her cell is everything I need for my response. I call out for Pyotr who is on duty today. He comes immediately with the straight jacket. We wrestle her twitching body into it, as she stares up at me barely comprehending what I am doing to her and completely unable able to resist. I wrap her arms across her and buckle the restraining straps behind her back. I secure her so she cannot be a danger to us or to herself. The twitching and tremors are beginning to subside but her eyes still stare at me madly.
She has to learn straight away that aggression of any sort will not be tolerated. On the same hook outside her cell hangs a leather hood. I fit it to her. No eye holes, a rubber plug fitted so it is forced into the mouth, a cut-out for the nostrils so she can breathe, and laces at the back to pull the soft leather tightly against her skin.
I strap her ankles together. The muscular spasms induced by the taser are subsiding. I leave her lying on the floor of her cell and shut the door without saying a word. She is an intelligent woman. She will have understood that this treatment is the direct consequence of her actions”
Sveta opens the computer file which contains to surveillance recordings and watches the incident unfold. Neena’s judo was excellent. Vyera was brought down so … aesthetically! She is pleased with the decisive way Neena dealt with Vyera’s belligerence. The tasers had been a good investment. It could bring a slave to their knees (at least) with very little collateral damage and deliver a salutatory lesson at the same time. The little rabinya had deserved everything she received.(5)
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary: Tape No.2
“When I go to find her the next day, Vyera has been freed from her strait-jacket and hood but she looks no less resistant. She wasn’t fed yesterday and had only water from a bowl, left on the floor. That will have helped her to think about her situation. Yesukai, one of the Mongolian Domestic team we employ follows me into Vyera’s cell and puts down the metal bucket which contains her food; a hunk of bread in a small metal dish and a plastic cup of water. She stands when we enter her cell. She flickers her eyes over the bucket but then, taking control of herself, bows her head, evidently recalling some ritual that she was made to go through with her trainers at Inward Bound. Yesukai smiles broadly and also bows! It is clear that Vyera is not entirely sure whether Yesukai is returning her complement or merely making fun of her. Vyera herself is obviously entranced by the fantasy of submission – that is what drove her to Inward Bound – but there is still so much more she must learn to make the leap from fantasy to reality. I almost envy her the discoveries she has ahead of her. Almost.
“Go on,” I say, nodding to the food. She falls on it voraciously and devours it in only a few bites. She lifts her head, startled by her own greedy impatience, and takes a few deep breaths as though the food has suddenly placed some strain on her system. Then she turns to the water, sipping it slowly. I wait wordlessly while she drinks. Every so often she peers at me over the rim of her cup. I look directly back, engaging her with my eyes but saying nothing until she has finished.
“Come with me,” I tell her. This time she obeys wordlessly, a small step along the journey she must take and the next step is to confront her romantic notions of submission. I take her down to the kitchens. There’s quite a mess after last night’s meal.
“Vyerka: your task this morning, is to clean the kitchen. Wash the dishes and pans, clear away the food waste. When all is clean tidy, wash the floor. You’ll find scrubbing brush and buckets in the sluice room and you should fill and empty the buckets from the sluice there, not from any of the sinks or taps in the kitchen. You’ll have to get down on your knees. It will take some effort. These tiles need to gleam. We set the highest standards for cleanliness in the kitchens. I think there may even be a kneeling pad with the other equipment so there will be nothing to hinder you from excellent work. Our Domestic Team will watch over you. They are Batachikan (who is senior) and her colleagues, Damdinsuryn and Yesukai – who you have just met. There is also Ssisma and Arban. Arban is on home leave at present, but you will meet her soon. You are under their authority just as much as you are under mine. You will carry out any instructions they give you as if I had told you. You will find they can make their wishes perfectly clear to you and in practice, there will be no language barriers.
The prospect of menial work obviously troubles her! It triggers another belligerent response. “You can’t make me do this,” she shouts, her exasperated voice echoing off the tiled floor. “You can’t keep me here! Can’t keep me like this! Just who do you think you are?”
I don’t bother to react at first, because it is better to let her make her outburst. I wait quietly as her rage subsides in the face of my indifference. Eventually her anger seems to run out of energy. She stands facing me red faced, breathing shallowly, almost panting as if she has been running, the adrenalin coursing through her veins as a result of her protests. I sense that this is the moment she will either attack me or collapse. I know what will stop her ranting and reach behind my back for the tazer. She sees at once what I intend and backs down immediately, remembering the very unpleasant experience of yesterday.
“No, please,” she says, “I’ll be quiet. Show me what I have to do.”
“This is criminal behaviour, Vyerka. It’s just not acceptable. I have told you what you must do. You can remember what I asked, can’t you?”
She nods, knowing she has gained nothing by her outburst.
There are some things we must get clear, Vyerka. There was a time when you wore slavery like a costume. You took it off when you were tired of the game. You are now wearing slavery as your uniform. A uniform requires hard work, commitment and discipline. I will make sure you get plenty of all three, Vyerka. Do not underestimate me.
Then there is one thing more,” I reply. I have brought a leather muzzle. I hold it out for her. “You will wear this. Wear it while you work and remember that you should always keep harsh words in check.”
She looks at me wide eyed and tearful, sees my other hand holding the taser and takes the muzzle from me. She fits it to herself, fastening the buckles in turn to pull the straps tightly around her head. With her shaven scalp, it’s easier for her than other slaves who have received this particular treatment.
There is a thick rubber bar that fits across the mouth, she puts it in place and, thinking that she has finished, she turns to me. I unfasten the two small padlocks that hang from the muzzle’s collar. One I fit through the ring that closes the muzzle’s bit gag, the other I use to secure the muzzle itself. “There, Vyera, now you can think about the importance of controlling your tongue.” She is already drooling around the edge of the bit. She stands looking at me, spit dripping from the corner of her mouth and running down onto her chin. I wave her towards where I had told her the cleaning things are. She follows my direction and sets to work.
In the end, she does a good job. On this occasion she has worked hard, as instructed and achieved something useful. I tell her that I am pleased with her work; happy that she has made the effort to do things well. At this early stage in her training it is best not to criticise each tiny fault – that can come later. Rather, it is more important to praise her efforts when she complies. “Very good, Vyerochka I am impressed,” I say, using Verochka as a small reward and encouragement. “You can be free of your muzzle and there will be food tonight.”
I point to the floor and in reply she kneels so that I can unfasten the padlocks that imprison her in the leather muzzle. She glances up to me, uncertain what to do. I tell her that she has my permission to take the muzzle off. She does it, slowly, not taking her eyes off me as she unclasps each buckle in turn, staring at me with eyes framed by leather straps until she finally pulls the muzzle from her head. She holds it, waiting. I nod and she carefully holds it out towards me, for me to take from her. “Now we will go back to your cell, Vyerochka. You have more language work to do.”
She walks ahead of me, silently, calmly and perhaps a little more resigned to her new life”
Sveta closes the audio file and reflects on Neena’s clever contrast of costume and uniform.
Her summary of Vyera’s history and former inclinations with what will become her future position was masterly (so to speak); Sveta jots down a note to suggest that Neena might consider looking for an opportunity to returning to that theme as Vyera’s training unfolds.
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary: Tape No. 3
“Vyera is compliant again when I go to see her the next day. She gets to her feet and bows her head once more. I haven’t asked for this but, if she thinks it is the right thing to do, it probably helps. Especially if it helps her to see herself in her new position.
I almost said ‘role’ there, but it’s not a role, not something she’s playing at. Not something she can put on and take off like an actress. Vyera is a slave. That’s what she has to understand. But how far has she really understood and accepted that and how can I help her to see the truth of the situation?
I tell her again how pleased I was with her work yesterday. “This is something you are skilled in Vyerochka. It is good to have a skill. There is much more of that work for you. You will be happy to be so useful to the domestics.”
Something in my words or tone provokes Vyera. She buries her head in her hands and issues a torrent of verbal abuse, swearing at me and about her new home. “I am not a bloody Housekeeper, like them,” she yells, waving at Batachikan from the permanent staff. “I am a university lecturer. I am doing research. This menial, domestic, housekeeping work,” she almost spits the words out, “this is what I would be doing if I had not worked and studied for my career. Can’t you damn well see that? Why should I do this? And why should I have to scrub the fucking floor? Anyone with half a brain should know there are better ways to get the floor clean – cleaner than scrubbing!”
I remain calm her but my quiet, calm, demeanour seems only to agitate her further.
“And you,” she snarls, “silent and smiling. Except that you’re not – you are a manipulative bully! Demanding your own way all the time. Thinking Vyerka will do as she is told.” She looks startled and throws her hands to her mouth. “Oh!” and then begins to punch herself on the side of her head in frustration and anger.
I am about to have her restrained again when she stops, either because she is really hurting herself or because this latest outburst has allowed her to burn off her anger and frustration.
Of course, she has realised that in her rage, she has referred herself by her slave name, not the adult’s version, not the little child’s version but the slave’s version! I find it hard to avoid a smirk of satisfaction but I know that would do no good at all. Instead I talk quietly and calmly. “It is a shame that you belittle these tasks. For such attitudes we had a revolution. There were many things wrong with the Bolsheviks but the dignity of labour was something they were right about.”
She looks at me astounded, hardly believing that the result of her outburst is to be engaged in political dialectic.
However, this presents another opportunity to mould her thinking. “Vyerka”, I begin, using once more the slave’s version of her name, the version she applied to herself. “Recently I pointed out that you now wore slavery as a uniform and not as a fancy dress costume. There is a deeper truth. You are a slave. In a previous life, you did not soil your hands with domestic work (as you might put it) but we have now stripped that cloak from you. You stand naked as you really are. Domestic work, any work we give you, is one hundred percent appropriate for you to do, because you are a slave and working on the instructions of their superiors is what slaves do. We have stripped you of all the ridiculous pretences you once had about yourself and you will never again be left in any doubt about your true status and your calling!”
Of course, that isn’t all that happens. Vyera has to learn that such rude behaviour results in sanctions. When we are dealing with an intelligent girl like Vyera, sanctions are best implemented without further explanation. The slave is then forced to reflect on what may have given rise to their punishment and how they should modify their behaviour in future. A slave will behave correctly when she has internalised the right attitudes and outlooks – and becomes her own task-mistress, as it were.
I have her muzzle. I thought I would need it and I was right. I shake my head making it clear that I am disappointed. I point to the floor. She drops to her knees. I push the bit gag between her lips. She doesn’t resist. She just looks at me with wide eyes that tell me she knows why I am doing this. I don’t even have to ask her to fasten it, she does it herself.
I call over the Batachikan, the Domestic who is in charge of the basement area today. “Take her bowl and jug,” I tell her, “since Vyerka thinks washing and cleaning is unimportant.”
Vyera’s face is a picture of dismay - she had not intended to imply that washing and cleaning were unimportant, only that they were not important for her - and then her eyes then settle on my belt and the taser I carry and I can see that she has learned a healthy respect for it: she does not want to risk me using it on her again. Today’s punishment, a second day in the muzzle, demonstrates how much she is in our power and underlines her complete dependence on us for the least little thing.
In the end she goes quietly with the Batachikan and Damdinsuryn. They take her, as I have asked, to the laundry. There is always plenty to do there. Unfortunately it is hot work as well. In the afternoon she helps to organise vegetables in the cool dark vegetable store and then to take some to the kitchen pantry. When she returns to the cell her body is streaked with the combination of her own sweat and dust from the provisions.
The Domestics tell me that she has done all the work required of her without complaint and there have been no more displays of defiance. I see her into her cell and take off her muzzle. She looks around. “Please,” she says, “can I have my washing things?” She pauses and then tries another tack. “Please, can Vyerka have her washing things?”
This is at once encouraging and disappointing. She is at least associating herself with her new status and identity, which is good. But she stills sees it as something outside herself; something to be used as a manipulative tool, which is not so good. I make no comment on her use of her name. “Perhaps,” I say, “and perhaps Vyerka is starting to see the value of the work she must do? I will see.”
Vyera obviously thought I would give in at once but I simply close the door to her cell and leave her. She looks distraught as I go. She sinks back onto her bed, running her hands up her arms, feeling the stickiness of the sweat and dirt.
The following day she is given more cleaning work. There is no resistance this time, according to the Domestics When she returns to her cell at the end of the day, she finds a jug and bowl waiting for her. I say nothing but, of course, she understands. She looks at them and then at me and says “Thank you, Gaspazha”. The relish with which she washes herself lets me know how much she has valued the privilege that she has just earned through her efforts.”
Several days later, Sveta has the opportunity to listen to Neena’s latest dispatch and Sveta is very pleased to see how Neena is weaving Vyera’s basic training around the opportunities which Vyera herself is providing, as she attempts to put up a token of resistance. But what is one soldier, however brave, against an army? It is clear to Sveta who is winning the war.
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Diary no. 4
“Over the past few weeks, Vyera has been superficially cooperative but I began to notice that she was becoming more tense and “edgy” as the days passed and I had made myself ready for a further outburst of bad behaviour. Just as I expected, her superficially compliant behaviour turned out to be misleading …
This morning, Vyera stands in apparent submission when I go to find her. “Well Rapina Vyerka, I am pleased to see you prepared for duty once more. Are you ready for more work today?”
“I’m sorry,” Vyera responds with an assumed look of puzzlement, “were you talking to me? It’s just I didn’t hear my name. I think you must have me confused with someone else.”
This is ridiculous. She must know that she won’t get anywhere with this.
“You see, my name is McEwan, Mrs Jennifer McEwan, not, ‘Vyerka, Verochka or even Vyera’. And I think you said ‘Rapina’. I think that means ‘slave’. That can’t be right. I am sorry.”
I watch her carefully, not reacting.
“I’m sure I can help out though. Let me do the jobs which have to be done. Until you find this ‘Vyerka’ whoever she is.”
So that’s her game. She’ll do as she is told but only if she can be who she wants to be. Well, it’s different. Unacceptable of course, but different.
I find myself becoming a little tired by all this. I know that in the long term this determined, gentle implacable approach will achieve the best results but her sullen resistance just makes me want to reach for a whip. I don’t let my irritation show. She will feel the whip in due course but at the moment, the only thing that will have a lasting effect work is the slow, relentless erosion of her resistance and this is simply the next step.
“There may have been a Jennifer McEwan, once,” I say, “but she was quite different from you. I am sorry if you are confused but I think I can help.”
I beckon to Yesukai and Ssisma. They are quite strong, surprisingly so for their slight stature, and completely implacable. Ssisma takes hold of Vyera while Yesukai goes to the equipment room and returns with handcuffs, the transport belt and a hobble for Vyera’s legs. Vyera struggles against Yesukai, surprised at the ease with she is held helpless while first her wrists and then her arms are restrained and then finally she is gagged. I do not want to be wearied by the screams which I am sure will start soon. A thick broad leather collar is locked around her neck (perhaps it is time she was collared permanently?) and a lead rein is attached to the cleaning cart so that she has no choice but to follow them as they take their cart and leave.
When I see her later in the day she is still helplessly bound on her bed. Her nose ring has been put back in place and she has been tethered by it to ring set in the wall with a length of chain so short that her face is only a few centimetres away from it. There are the marks of new tattoos on the back of her neck, at the bottom of her back, on her left breast, across her mons and just below her right ankle. Neat, precise, clear. They all say the same thing. They all give her slave number and her number on our asset register
I make a great show of checking each of the numbers in turn, running a finger over the cling film which protects them, along the still raw marks of the tattoos. (6) “That’s right,” I say, “good; 836-906-368. You must be Vyerka. I was sure that you were. Is everything all right now? Also, your shiny nose and nipple rings are not appropriate for a slave so that is why they have been replaced by dark grey rings. Perhaps one day you might earn the silver rings back again but you will have to work very hard for to earn that privilege.
Her whimpered reply is muffled by the gag that she is still wearing but it is sufficient for me. I think she is beginning to accept that each time she confronts us, her resistance is overturned.
I unfasten the chain linking her nose ring to the wall and help her up. “There,” I say. “I hope you are rested, rapina Vyerka?”
She nods, slowly, resignedly.
“Good. It is good for you to rest when you are not working. That way you are ready for all that is asked of you. Aren’t you?”
Another nod, but her eyes are filled with tears.
“You are to help with the cleaning in the kitchens again today.”
She nods, as Ssisma appears. She takes the chain from Vyera’s nose ring and leads her away; Ssisma neat in her dark grey Domestic’s uniform, Vyera naked with nothing but her tattoos. It is quite clear which is the servant and which is the slave. I can’t imagine how Vyera was confused.
When she opens Neena’s email, Sveta laughs out loud. First at Vyera’s creativity. This girl might still have her sense of humour intact and second, at the delicious way Neena had provided the girl with such an appropriate punishment. Vyera refuses to acknowledge that she is Vyera, rapina and she ends the day marked with a slave number anyone can see from any angle. What a delicious irony!
Neena Alexandrova to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Tape: No 5.
My hopes that Vyera had finally understood that she is here for the convenience of her owners, not other way about have been frustrated again. When I went to see her this evening in her cell, Arban from the Domestic Team was with her and insisted on talking to me. She showed me the corridors and entrance hall where Vyera had been put to work today. She had done a good job; an excellent job, in fact. At first I was pleased. Then she showed me something else and now I am not so pleased.
“Vyerka!”
She looks up at me. Normally I would have been pleased by this confirmation of her acceptance of her identity but, in the circumstances, this isn’t anything approaching enough to placate me.
“Vyerka, you have not eaten. You have taken no water. This is not how a slave looks after her owner’s property.”
She looks at me but there is an air of desperation in the way she looks and in the way speaks, as if she realizes that day by day, she is losing her battle against us and now her last supplies of ammunition are running out. “I couldn’t find a meal for Mrs McEwan,” she says, stubbornly. “There was only food for some slave girl; this Vyerka you are looking for. I can’t eat her food that wouldn’t be fair. I must have my own food.”
I sigh. She is going to be very sorry that she hit on this idea, as a way of demonstrating her continued failure to accept her position. However, I remember an earlier outburst when she began to punch herself on the side of her head, to relieve her anger and frustration: another example of deliberate self harm and I will make sure all those who come into contact with her look out for any repetition. It may be that some treatment with anti-psychotic drugs might help her through this phase?
It’s an hour later when I come back to see her after our nurse has finished. Vyera has been put back in her straight jacket and strapped down on the couch in her cell. From where she lays, she can see her evening meal (which has been liquidised and thinned down with milk so that it can flow easily through the naso-gastric tube) passing into her body and there is nothing she can do to prevent it. The tube runs up her nose, down through her throat, into her oesophagus and down into her stomach. The nurse has taken great care to ensure that it was properly inserted and now Vyera can be fed and watered without any cooperation on her part. The nurse is still present when I arrive, to make sure Vyera does not vomit as she is fed.
I crouch down beside her head. Her breath is rasping through her mouth, the discomfort of the tube in her throat evident in every rise and fall of her chest. “Listen to me, Vyerka,” I say. “There was no meal for McEwan because there is no McEwan. There is only Vyerka and Vyerka must eat and drink and keep well for her owners. Because she property. She is their property and Vyerka is expected to take great care of other people’s property.”
The helpless girl on the couch makes a mewling sound. It is not angry, it sounds defeated. She can stay on the drip for tonight. She will work again tomorrow and then, if she takes food and drink, the worst of this might be is over for her.”
Sveta, through the medium of Neena’s audio diary and the surveillance tapes, has enjoyed the battle between Vyera and Neena except for this last encounter, which rubs at some old wounds. The “medical” nature of the punishment. The presence of the nurse. All very necessary but all very disquieting for Sveta. She gets a grip of herself and reflects on Neena’s suggestions about anti-depressants. Yes: that could be helpful. She will take advice. Sveta takes up her mobile and then checks the time. Ah, a bit late to find him in his office and as a ‘conservative’ he does not carry a mobile. The problem will have to wait until tomorrow. But to make sure she does not forget and perhaps also to ease her own disquiet, Sveta leaves herself a note in her diary, and another on her phone, and another, handwritten by her bed.
Yet despite the notes, she spends a fitful night anxiously reflecting on the naked, lonely, frightened girl who was once someone’s wife, once a parent’s child, reduced to punching herself in the head and starving herself, because of what had been done to her by Anatoly and Neena and Sveta herself.
SOME LESSONS FROM HISTORY
Neena Alexandrovna to Svetlana Nikitechna. Audio Tape: No. 6
The weeks have passed into months and slowly, slowly Vyera is adapting to her role as our slave. She accepts the menial tasks given her and works hard at them. Her grasp of Russian continues to improve and almost all the domestic tasks she needs to receive instructions about can be given to her in Russian. Also, commands to send her to various parts of the Dacha and commands to tell her where to go – turn right, turn left, straight on – all these are now in Russian. I think she also understands that whenever she confronts us, she will be defeated and that with her defeat comes inevitable punishment: I recently noticed her gazing at the slave number on her breast. She will never forget how she brought that indignity upon herself. And yet, a slave should be proud of who she is. Slavery is not something suitable for everyone. I wonder how long it will take before Vyera feels proud to be an owned slave, proud to be our property and proud of her numbers – all five of them?
Vyera’s personality – I suppose I really mean her psychological make-up – continue to provide interesting surprises. We are forcing her to accept that she is no longer a free individual: she is a slave. We are subducting her previous view of herself beneath the new reality we have imposed and are constructing a new psychological landscape in her mind. Subduction produces earthquakes and volcanic eruptions and from time to time the psychological tensions inside Vyera do similar things!
Today when I opened her cell door, it was apparently time for an eruption of emotion.
There were no little bows, no ‘Good morning Gaspazha’ instead she began to demand a justification for her abduction and enslavement.
“Can you tell me what authority you have to do this to me?”
“Pardon? Slaves do not speak to their Supervisor I that way, Vyerka. What are you thinking of?”
“I am trying to be perfectly reasonable, but this is not the days of the Roman Empire or the Southern United States. Slavery is illegal. Kidnapping is illegal. In every civilized country, anyone would tell you. You just cannot keep me here any longer!”
Vyera’s voice is steadily rising in pitch as she delivers her little speech and the longer she speaks, the more desperate and diffident she looks. She keeps glancing at the floor to avoid my gaze.
I sigh and place my hands on my hips, the fingers of my right hand touching the taser on my equipment belt. Vyera notices at once. I notice that she notices! But, all credit to her, the presses on with her thoughts and the emotional lava oozes out of her …
“There are organizations against slavery. Governments hold countries to account for their human rights record. Consumers are demanding that international companies uphold basic labour standards … What about the United Nations?”
‘Well what about the United Nations?’ I think. I slide my hand backwards until the taser is more obviously in my grasp and yet she still continues, faltering but she does her best to conclude her argument …
“I mean just because you can does not mean you should. Look, can’t you just let me go?”
“Vyerka! For goodness sake. You must have learned something since you were acquired?
You are a slave. It is the person you are. Slaves have to be in slavery. It’s not good for them to be any other way.”
“But I am not …”
“But you are.”
“But”
“Kneel. There in front of me, like a good slave should!”
“But I am not …”
“Kneel Vyerka! This is your very last opportunity!”
She notices how my grip on the taser has tightened and she kneels and plaintively looks up at me.
“Vyerka, you know whats wrong here? It is your view of history. You were brought from the West and I know that in the West, the Individual is king, so to speak. Even a powerful country like the United States has power divided up amongst the individual States and within each one, Authority is further divided between Cities and Towns and Counties until finally you reach an individual in his homestead. You do not have to organise the world like that. Think instead about Ruric the Viking, the first Tsar of all the Russias. Invited by the Slavic tribes to rule over them and bring peace and order. In this country, which is now your country we prefer that the world has strong, clear, central organization. Every adult understands that their own interests come second to the interests of the State because of that. Also, their individual interests come second to the men and women who run the State. Your owner is a great and powerful man. He controls to destiny of thousands of people around the world. He creates prosperity and helps to bring order. He has given you a tremendous privilege. He has taken you to work for him. But not just to work, but to give yourself completely to him. To be his slave.”
Vyera has bowed her head in the face of this more positive view of her situation. She is silent at last. The ‘eruption’ is over.
“Here is what I will do, Vyerka. Today, you will get on with your duties and tonight I will flog you for wasting time and forgetting what you have been taught. Revision is the mother of learning, as they say and it seems to me that you need to reflect more positively on your good fortune.”
I am as good as my word, of course. That evening, after she has been fed, I return to her cell and make her lean against the cell wall, legs apart. Andrei stands with me, to discourage any resistance on Vyera’s part. I take a flogger and carefully play the strands across her skin. I want to leave her hot and itchy, with a more severe bruise here and there but I want the punishment to be well within what she can cope with, to give a positive reinforcement to my words and to remove the opportunity for Vyera to indulge in self pity as she might if I had been brutal. But I want her to remember she has been flogged for her impertinence earlier in the day.
She stands. I flog her. I start across her shoulders, then her back, then her spine, then her buttocks, then between her legs, occasionally directing the spray of thongs up across her vulva.
I keep the flogging going for many minutes and bring events to a conclusion as she starts to pant and mewl. Finally I go to her, place my hand carefully on her shoulder as reassurance and kiss her gently.
“There: little rabinya! You took your punishment very well. I am proud of you. So lucky to have Owners who care for you so tenderly.”
In the evening, Sveta listens carefully to Neena’s resume and enjoys watching her flog the slave. She agrees with Neena. If that was the best Vyera could do, to be defiant and obstinate, then she was losing the battle for her soul on every front. However, Neena should make a another - perhaps definitive - assault on Vyera’s idea of who she is, to prize from her grasp once and for all, the concept of Jennifer McEwan and everything she stands for …
The girl, Neena, comes for me again.
The door of the cell opens and there she stands. I look up. She looks back at me, calmly. She points to her feet. I know what she wants. I know why she’s doing it. She wants me to get used to doing as I’m told, acclimatised to obeying orders. It’s the same pattern they followed at Inward Bound, but this is different: this is real.
There is no point in making things more difficult than they are already going to be. I get up and kneel by her boots. She taps my shoulder with the crop she always seems to carry. I get down on all fours. She turns and taps the back of the heel of her boots as she starts to walk away. I crawl down the corridor after her.
We enter the next room.
It’s just like the cell they keep me in, except for the heavy wooden table and two chairs. This is where they interrogated me. The room where Neena let me leave to go out into the winter cold. Bitch!
She points to one of the two chairs and I sit. She sits. She lays the crop down. It’s pointing at me as if it’s accusing me of something that I’ve done or I’m going to do.
On the table are several carefully separated piles of paper. They look like they are photographs but they are all face down.
There is a paper shredder. Its power cable snakes across the floor to a wall socket.
I’m uncomfortable and a little afraid as I am when anything new happens to me here. I’m tired and I’m hungry. That seems just to make me feel resigned to whatever they are going to do.
The girl picks up one of the pieces of paper and turns to it over, pushing it towards me.
It is a photograph. It shows a cathedral, a view from across fields. It’s Ely. Where I used to live. When I was a little girl. A carefree, happy little girl. How did she - they - know where I came from? What is all this going to be about? I feel more scared than before, as though the closer they get to the rest of my world the more dangerous it is for me.(7)
She can see my discomfort, my fear. She nods and takes the picture back. She feeds in into the shredder. What is the point of this, I wonder? Do they think they can just rub out my past by shredding pictures. It makes no sense.
She shows me another picture. It’s the river, the Great Ouse. She takes it away. It’s shredded.
Another picture - my old home. I lean forward to take it from her but she pulls it back and away from me. It’s shredded like the others.
Another picture - now it’s my parents walking together. It’s a recent shot. Neena looks directly at me, sees the shock in my face, smiles - and shreds the picture.
She starts on another pile: This time it’s the University. There’s our department, my colleagues, Angela, me walking from the library with my briefcase. She shreds them. Every one. One after another after another. Neena pauses only long enough to make sure I have seen each and every one. It’s relentless; one, then another, then another.
There’s the next pile. It’s our street. My home. Me leaving for work. All shredded. All gone.
Then the pile of pictures. She picks up the first picture. It’s a picture of me and Joe. She pauses. Our eyes meet. Mine are full of tears now. Hers show no compassion, no concern at all. Carefully, slowly Neena turns the picture round and feeds it into the machine. She takes another. This time it’s Joe and me going for lunch on that last day in London. Shredded. Then it’s Joe and me embracing in Fitzroy Square. She hands me the picture. I stare at it. I hold it tight. I hold it against me. The girl picks up the crop. She motions me to stand. I stand She taps the shredder I begin to shake my head and quick as a flash she has struck me on the side of my face. The blow takes my breath away and I fall backwards. Neena rises and walks slowly round to tower over me, as I lay on the floor. She motions me to stand. I crawl backwards away from her. She raises the crop again and slashes me across my thigh. The pain just burns and stings. White. Cutting. All the worse for her sudden strike.
She bends down and drags me to my feet. The she grabs my nose ring and pulls me back to the table. She grasps my hand. The hand holding the picture. I can’t stop her. She is so strong. She pulls and twists my wrist until the picture is caught by the shredder and is drawn in to be destroyed.
There is one last picture.
I’m shaking with tears. She lifts it to my face. It’s a close up of Joe. He smiles at me. She puts it into my shaking hand and then grabs my wrist. She twists my wrist over and I watch myself feeding Joe’s face into the shredder. It chatters and whines and in a second he is reduced to a jumble of paper strips and the last part of him is pulled from my hand by the machine.
There is now just one last little pile of papers with three items.
She holds up the first one. It’s our marriage certificate. She shreds it.
She holds up the second one. It’s a passport. My passport. She opens it to show me my photograph so there is no doubt in my mind. Calmly she feeds it into the machine. Just for a moment, the passport resists its destruction. The whirr of the machine slows. It is forced to grind more slowly but it is in exorable and in a few seconds more, the passport is gone.
There is now just one last piece left. She holds it for me to see.
It is my birth certificate. The official record of me.
“ Girl. Born 03 June 1985. Father: Andrew George Palmer, Soldier. Mother Inga Karin Palmer, University Lecturer.”
The girl Neena takes the certificate and shreds it, leaving my official record as little pale yellow strips of paper indistinguishable amongst all the others in the bin beneath the shredder.
Then there’s nothing left.
Just Neena and me.
I’m back in my cell now. She brought me back here, put me in and locked the door; left me alone. The whole time she never said a word to me. She did not need to. Her actions were crystal clear.
I know what I’m supposed to understand from today. It does not need words. It’s perfectly clear. There is no going back. I start to panic. All that I was, is now gone. I’m no longer a daughter, someone who came from somewhere, someone with friends and a job. Someone who had a husband who loved me. It’s all gone. I’m all alone. With them. Never going home again. Always to be a slave. Never to escape. Never, never, never. I have nothing. I am nothing. I am merely property. There remains only what they want me to do and what they will do to me. Only Vyerka, slave, 836-906-368.
.....................................................................................................................................................
FOOTNOTES
(1) Sveta’s full name. Kustenskaya, is the female form of Kustensky
(2) The Triumph Palace Building can be found at “The Skyscrapers Page”
(3) The Seven Moscow Sisters have a good explanation on Wikipedia.
(4) Of course Neena has learned her judo by studying a master> You can buy Vladimir Putins judo video on-line. You just could not make this stuff up, as they say!!!!
(5) Tasers. Again. More detail on Wikipedia. Apparently, there used to be a taser for personal protection made in pink, for girls!
(6) Cling film is used nowadays to protect a new tattoo for the first few hours after it has been drawn.
(7) Ely Cathedral from across the fens is a wonderful sight. Try “Been There Done That” for a picture.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
CHAPTER 9 : A SERIOUS TORC.
“Svetlana Nikitechna,” Neena writes in her latest report on the progress of her charge, “I am pleased once again to report that Vyera is making good progress with her language studies. For example, she is just as careful with reading and writing as an attentive child might be. I have already mentioned that she has absorbed the ‘working day’ words and phrases that she needs and the instructions and commands she must understand – actually she has achieved much more than that. She goes to great trouble to appear studious. Of course she is intelligent and we should expect her to enjoy learning but I think part of her will see it as a diversion - an escape - from accepting the realities of her existence here. She continues to exhibit some stubbornness about relinquishing her earlier life and I am impressed with her resilience. For example, when I inspected her notebook I discovered that she had been translating the names of her old friends and family into Cyrillic. I am sure you will agree this is clever but not helpful to us. I will not allow her to retain these connections with her former life. In future I will see to it that she practices with our names but I thought you should know about the ingenuity of our house guest! She does not know it yet but she has earned some more cane strokes for that little disobedience!”
Neena smiles as she puts the finishing touches to the note for Sveta, and as she considers her plans for the day. The process of undermining Vyera’s resistance, those many little things that emphasise the differences between Vyera and her Owners and Superiors - some that Vyera may not even notice - will continue but today there is an important event for Vyera, and when she thinks about it, Neena smiles in anticipation once more.
Neena has realised that Vyera can be rather intuitive about the tasks she is about to face. She seems to know when things will get difficult or painful. That provides Neena with a point of leverage because Vyera can be kept in a state of constant fearful anticipation, but it also means that if there is a shock or surprise in store for Vyera, the event, whatever it is, needs to be carefully planned.
Neena and I have come to the end of another language lesson. I can read words in Cyrillic quite easily and fluently now, even if I do not understand what they mean. It’s not so difficult with practice. I was practicing by transcribing the names of my friends into Cyrillic and Joe and Mummy and Daddy. It was a way to keep up some connection with them, so their memory will remain fresh and clear even if there was some subterfuge and duisguise involved. But then Neena read my note book and discovered what I was up to. Of course, they are all behind me now. She tells me so. They are figures in the past. That is what she said. Now I have to practice with the names that Neena gives me. Neena, Lev, Anatoly, Sveta, Alana and so on.
Who are they all? Neena is all too real and I think Lev was the man who brought me in from the garden but the others …… real or invented? I suppose time will tell.
She is giving me a library of phrases to use, but what mundane phrases! Language courses usually tell you how to order coffee and get a taxi and go to the cinema - things like that but I am being taught all the phrases which would be useful to a slave: ‘come here, go there, go straight on, turn left, turn right, wash the floor, bathroom, kitchen, toilet’ and so on. It seems as if they intend to trap me in another language but give me (at first) a very limited palate of words. However, I know psychology and I know that young children learn their own language just by listening. That’s how I learned English and Swedish (my mother’s language). If I can do it once, I can do it again. I will not let them confine me so easily!
“Rabinya, Vyerka!” It’s Neena’s voice. I look up. Immediately I’m disappointed in myself. How could I have answered so easily to the name and status they have given me?
“Coffee?” she asks.
Now I am on alert. This is unexpected. It’s a surprise. Why are they giving me coffee? I’m curious; well curious, astonished, and on my guard, all at once. But I don’t refuse it.
“Spaseeba Gaspazha Neena, Thank you Mistress Neena,” I say. Should I be using what I have learned, to avoid trouble? Or am I falling more under their spell, with every little thing I accept?
She smiles, “Pazh’alsta.”
Back at Inward Bound, Ylena told me that meant ‘you’re welcome’. I smile. It’s an admission that I understand the word. Is that another defeat? Have I let them over-run another of my defences. But do I really have any defences to retreat behind? Any place of safety left to me?
She returns with two coffees on a tray and a box. Her coffee is in the tall glass, black with cream floating on top. Just as it was when I came in from the freezing garden.My coffee is in the plastic mug, just black, once again. Could that be a toe-hold for me? Stimulation from the caffeine to help me hold my ground?
She puts the black box on the table between us. It could almost be a jewellery box. To me it looks ominous. Threatening. I am expecting something dreadful to crawl out from it. She drinks and watches. I drink and watch the box. She is relaxed. Confident. I am nervous. Anxious. More and more ill at ease as the minutes pass ….
The chair is hard on my bare bum. I shift and fidget. She calmly waits ……
She’s taking her time; letting me stew. She can see that I sense there is something difficult on the horizon. Just a few moments away.
At last Neena finishes her coffee. I sigh with relief. Now we will move on, now I can come to grips with the next challenge, whatever it is. She sets her cup carefully to one side and motions me to do likewise. I do as she indicates. She gives me these small courtesies but they all feel like defeats, steps down a road that I do not wish to travel. The trouble is, whichever way I turn, it’s always the same road.
Neena looks me directly in the eyes and leans forward. She opens the box between us. Just for a split second, it does have the look of jewellery: an ancient celtic torc (1) but an instant later I know what it really is: a slave collar; my slave collar. It is polished, shining, bare metal. There’s a ring in the middle, a lock at the rear. Neena looks at me and then glances down at the collar. She smiles but the only way I can respond is with tears in my eyes. This is symbolic, a ‘right of passage’ – if slaves have one right it is the right to know that they are slaves. I knew that something like this would come in time but I’d hoped it would be later.
The collar they have brought for me is horrible. And attractive. And almost stylish. All at once. I wore one all the time I was at IWB and I suppose I was proud to wear it. It showed I was in fellowship with all the other girls. Now I just feel sick, deep inside. One day I will have to rid myself of this collar but it’s another hurdle to climb if I am ever to escape from these people. It’s stupid. I’m talking about ridding myself of it even though I don’t have it on yet. It’s obvious that I’m going to have it put it on me. It must be obvious to Neena too.
“Vyerka! Your collar. See? It has your name and number engraved on it - just here.” Neena’s tone is matter of fact. She smiles.
She picks up the hateful collar and shows it to me, points out to me the neat script on one side: my entry in their asset register: K AH 101109 RZ my name: âåðà and my slave registration number: 836-906-368 (2)
“Rabiyna: I need to show you …this …and this … and this …and this.” Neena points in turn to two areas on the inside of the collar the one opposite the other which are a dull gold colour and then she points to two small round nipples towards the front but once again on opposite sides. I don’t really understand what it is she is showing me. I see it all but I don’t understand what it means. I do understand though, that these features are going to increase their hold on me in some way.
“And last of all you must see - this.”
The collar is about 40 mm deep and 5 mm thick.
“Put the collar on now! It would be best if you placed the collar around your own neck.”
I can’t bring myself to even touch it. It seems such a malignant thing, a dark smooth shining symbol of what has happened to me. As for the parts of the collar that Neena has pointed out - I’m just frightened of them, even though I don’t know what they are. Somehow this collar does more than show I am their slave. I recoil in my chair away from her – and then I realise there is someone else in the cell. He must have slipped in when Neena was talking to me. He is standing behind me.
It all happens in one fluid movement. The man places his hand on my shoulder. I half turn to look at him. Neena must have picked up the collar because the next thing I feel is her sliding it round my neck. I swing back round to face her and it’s as if the collar slips past me, going the other way. I feel a pressure on the front of my neck and then feel it snap shut.
It fits, perfectly. When I turn, it turns. It is as if it has been made to fit my precise measurements. I am sure it has. My hands go up to grab it. There is barely any space between the collar and the skin of my neck. As I pull at the front it the collar is hard against me at the back. As I try to pull it to the right, it squeezes me on the left. My arms fall back into my lap. I look up at Neena …..
“There!” she says. “Another significant moment in your new life. A watershed!”
I didn’t need her to tell me that. There is something sinister about this collar, something hateful.
“Oh dear,” Neena says, “such large sad eyes! But you need not be sad. All you must remember is that you will never leave us. Never, ever, ever. Your collar is your friend and will help you. Help you to be a good obedient slave.”
I’m frightened and Neena knows it. In spite of her sympathetic tone it’s clear that my being frightened suits her purpose very well.
“Vyerka,” she says, “let me now explain how your collar works.” Neena is standing in front of me now. She lifts herself up and sits on the table. She is wearing black military jackboots and plants her foot between my thighs on the chair. I have to spread them wider to give her room. It makes me feel even smaller and more vulnerable. I’m certain that what she is about to say is not going to make me feel any better. She takes my chin in her hand and lifts my eyes to hers. I remember ever word exactly as my dismay grows.
“First, the collar has a micro-processor inside which keeps in touch with our computer. It tells us exactly where you are all the time. We will never loose you and you cannot get lost either. Our computer will log your position and open and close doors for you. The power comes from a generator in the collar which feeds off the warmth of your skin (3). It never runs out of power, thanks to you. Now that’s clever, don’t you think?
“Second, the gold bands are electrical contacts. They will shock you severely if you go out of bounds. It’s very unpleasant and goes on and on and on until you get back where you should be. Much like the Taser shock I once gave you. But this needs more power than you can generate, rapina. You have to keep the collar charged every day. You plug this contact into the socket I showed you in your collar and this plug goes into the wall socket. The collar will prick you when it needs to be charged, little, short shocks. It will still have plenty of charge left when it starts to prick. And I mean plenty! It’s a good plan to charge the collar yourself every night. The House and the Estate are divided into zones. We will set your zone boundaries every day and the computer will tell your collar. When you are at the edge of your boundary the collar will prick you, to let you know. And I have already explained what happens if you try to go out of bounds.(4)
“Third, if you know your history you might remember that it was a capital crime for slaves to run away. Slaves who were recaptured were executed. You are subject to the same rules. The two nipples I showed you on the inside of your collar can each release a microlitre of an opiate called etorphine.(5) It is toxic to humans. It soaks through the skin. Just those two drops on your skin – a micro litre is the size of a small raindrop - and you will die in about thirty seconds. Don’t doubt me about this Vyerka, you will die. It’s a painless death, I believe, but you will die. If you try to escape. If you go out of range, we can signal your collar and it will release the etorphine onto your skin and execute you – and we can execute you ourselves at any other time, if we wish.
“So there you are Vyerka! Tethered by an invisible, unbreakable chain. A chain which will watch you every moment of every day. Unable to go anywhere you have not been sent. Ever. A chain which will tell us where you are and tell us whether you are doing what you have been told. No more slave games like Inward Bound. You are a real slave now. This is reality for you. You have been properly enslaved. You are chained. A real slave for the rest of your life! Do you have any questions?”
Have I any questions? I open my mouth and – nothing. There is nothing to ask, nothing to say. Only the bitter taste of despair, clutching at me with icy fingers ……
Neena pauses and waves of nausea break over me. I believe her, completely. I am sure that what she says is true. I am utterly lost. There is to be no going back. I am here for all my days. No Joe, no family of my own, never to see my parents again.
So now I have nothing to loose! Perhaps I should just provoke then into killing me now? Just have done with it all?
Neena is speaking again: “and now rabinya, let us finish the day where we began. Learning Russian. I caught you writing out names of people I had not given you permission to write. These are names from your past Vyekra. You are not going back to the past. Let me help you to remember. Up on the table top please.”
She is going to cane me again …..
I climb onto the table and kneel in front of her, bow my head to touch the table top and wait. I know there is no resisting her.
An instant later and I feel the cane connect with my skin.
I wrote six names.
She lays on six strokes. White, searing, grinding burning, painful. There is no erotic dimension to the pain at all. It is punishment: simple, concise, elegant, complete, pure and burning.
But in my mind, in the deep silent privacy where even they can’t reach, the cane burns the names brighter - Joe, Mummy, Daddy, Cathy, Josephine, Charlotte.
“Svetlana Nikitechna,” Neena begins again, “we have passed an important milestone today, successfully. The slave Vyera has her collar! She did not put up any physical or verbal obstacles - and she is not even protesting her name any more. She is fully aware that, now she has been collared, she has crossed a significant frontier. She is understandably subdued by the events of the day and could not bring herself to touch the collar once I explained its purpose and capabilities. Her face was a picture and she looked at me with large, round, sad eyes as I explained exactly how the collar would confine her! Rest assured: I pulled no punches! Nicolai helped me with Vyera and held her while I placed Vyera’s collar around her neck. She initially clutched at the collar and tried to pull it off but as soon as she realised the futility of what she was attempting, her only other reaction was to turn dull eyes towards me and to shake her head slowly. Svetlana Nikitechna, I think we can be confident now that the slave Vyera is - at last - coming to accept that this is not a game. That she belongs to us. And will always pay for any disobedience.”
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Footnotes:
(1) A Celtic Torc : decorative neck bands worn by high status (one assumes) individuals in the centuries around the start of the Common Era . If you’re interested look for the Great Snettisham Torc on the Beritish Museum web site : imagine wearing a kilogram of gold around your neck, serious bling!
(2) The number on Vyera’s colla: K AH 101109 RZ vyera 836-906-368
K - Kóñòåíñêè, in other words ‘Kustensky’
AH - Àêòèâû Hîìåð, in other words,’ Asset Number’
101109 – the date Vyera (or Jenny, as she used to be) was acquired
RZ vyera - Rabynya Zhenskii vyera, in other words, ‘Slave Female vyera’
836-906-368 – Jennifer’s number on the international Register of Slaves and Submisssives
(3) Power generation from body heat. Tracking people – and others – search out RetrievaTracking. Power generation from body heat is being developed by Thermolife.
(4) The effects of a shock collar on people. Plenty of examples on Youtube : there are a surprisingly large number of these!
(5) Etorphine: details can be found on Wikipedia.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
CHAPTER 10 : CHRYSALLIS
I wonder what they intend for me? What will my life be like, being enslaved to them? They make me wear a collar and they are keeping me imprisoned but apart from that, they are quite kind, in comparison to my nightmares. They don’t shout orders at me, when they tell me to do things they speak quietly, clearly but firmly. Yes, they cane me but from their point of view, I deserve it is because I have not done something I have been told to do or not done it as willingly or as carefully as I should have done. There’s always a reason. I can’t agree, of course, but when I reflect on the circumstances of the incident, there is always a reason, from their point of view.
Then there is the humiliation of having to charge my collar each night. The socket I have to use is about three feet from the floor of my cell, over by the door. The power cable is quite short, so I have to kneel. I kneel to forge one of the chains that binds me. I do it night after night after night. I thought of trying to electrocute myself on the cable once but it is too thick to tear open and the plug slides into a deep, close-fitting socket. There is no opportunity for my fingers to touch the live contacts. So, I have become complicit in my own confinement, as if it is what I desire, too. Just as Neena said. “You will never ever leave us. Your collar is your friend and will help you” Help me to stay confined. Help me to remain always a slave.
There is no calendar for me to see. Not in the kitchen, not in any of the corridors or rooms I have been in. I have completely lost track of how long I have been here, but it must have been weeks and weeks and weeks. Or even months?
What will Joe think now? Or my parents? What will they think of me? Will they think I have just run away? Will the police look for me? The girl, Neena, shredded my passport and Joe must have noticed that it is missing from our home, by now. He will wonder if I have gone abroad. Could the police find me abroad? Could they find me here? Or am I lost? Lost forever?
I’m still trying to imagine where I could possibly be. The girl Neena told me I was near Moscow. Do I believe her? Why should I? Yet why shouldn’t I believe her? There is no point in making me learn Russian if I am in some other country.
Today they took me out of my cell along the corridor and into the Gym. It’s a bit like the ones at Inward Bound and at the University. There are large windows which look out onto the grounds. There are lawns and pine trees, with the garden stretching up to an embankment above us. It’s all covered with deep snow at the moment, so it must still be winter. Winter: the last date I know was Tuesday 10th November. Each day seems to be the same, except that there have been parties. I know because I have had to clean up in the kitchen and there has been a lot more to do. Parties. That must mean it is near Christmas or New Year, or have they passed by?
The gym is much larger than the gym at Inward Bound and, I suppose you would say, more professional.
I’m with a man this time. He looks very fit. Very toned-up and solid. As usual, he says nothing in English, but points to each piece of equipment that he wants me to use, one after the other. He says something that I can’t understand exactly but it’s easy to “get the message”. He speaks with an insistent tone. He sounds as though he thinks I understand him; as if my lack of response is simply reticence. It’s a one sided conversation. It doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
I am taken to the gym almost every day. One day, he makes me run or go through an aerobics routine. The next day, he makes me work out with weights. On “weights days” I have to alternate a heavy work out with a less heavy work out on the next weights session. The training I am being put through seems to be very carefully thought out. They are not just making me work so I suffer or learn obedience or endurance or something. It seems to me that I am being trained for something but I have no idea what. Perhaps it’s just aesthetics, but it is changing me. I don’t mind the exercise, because I can lose myself in the effort. The harder I work, the harder it is to remember why I’m here. I can escape into a world where there is just me and the feeling of my muscles working. And they a realization comes. The programme is very well thought out. It is well thought out because they have done it before.
There may be particular reasons why they came after me, but I am not the first and I will not be the last. There is a line of ever so many girls (and who knows? Even boys?) stretching back into the past and on after me into the furure!
I’m starting to recognise the Russian names of the machines – Treadmill – Bench Press – Cross Trainer – and so on.
On a “heavy day” he makes me do four sets of lifts for each exercise: eight, six, four and finally two. He chooses weights that I really have to work hard to lift. He encourages me (if that’s the word) with taps of his riding crop if he thinks I am slacking but actually I don’t slack. Everything is much easier when I am just thinking about the weights.
On a light day, he has me work the same muscle groups but with lighter weights and more repetitions. The programmes work my back, chest and abs, arms, shoulders, legs and abs again.
I’m naked - except for the dreadful collar - but I’m always sweating and breathing hard at the end of it.
The gym sessions have become part of the routine of my incarceration. One day, running and aerobics. The next day weights. It takes … actually I do not know how long it takes. There is no clock and the Gym trainer does not wear a watch. As I get to manage the weights better, he makes me increase the repetitions on heavy days: eight, six, four, two, edges up to eight, eight, eight, eight and then he increases the weight I have to lift and I start the cycle over again. On light days, the weights are jumped up gradually as I get used to them. Every so often, he changes the programme. I still work the same areas of my body, but using different exercises and weights.
He’s keeping a minute record of my progress. He weighs me; measures the circumference of my arms and legs and chest; takes skin fold measurements. In the mornings I have to pee into a glass jug which they take away – to test I suppose.
They sometimes take blood from me - and they keep giving me injections. Every morning. I have no idea what they are for. I hope it’s something like vitamins but I don’t know what to ask and I don’t suppose they would tell me anyway.
They feed me well. Where the food at Inward Bound was chosen to help us loose weight; now I’m eating a lot of protein and carbohydrate. There’s not much fat in my diet. With all this exercise, I have no excess weight anymore. My muscles are plainly visible all over my body
As the weeks pass, I’m beginning to see real changes in my body. My arms and shoulders have grown. My tits are much more pert, lifted up by the development of the pectoral muscles underneath.
I suppose that the injections must be part of the body building programme too? Perhaps they’re steroids? I don’t really know much about that sort of thing but it must be something like that. I can’t imagine how I could make this much progress so quickly, just on my own. What are they going to do with me in the long term? If there is a long term.
There are mirrors in the gym. You need them to be able to make sure your posture is right as you work – although I don’t have to worry; a tap with the crop on calves or thighs or butt soon corrects a bad position. Mostly I don’t really see myself, see Jenny McEwan, I just see this “other person” exercising; someone separate, someone different. Then one day, I see myself as myself for the first time in a long time. I catch sight of my physique reflected in the gym mirrors.
In spite of the fact that my tits are more prominent, the rest of me is becoming less feminine and more … more androgynous.
The more they work me, the more they inject me, the more I change.
I’m leaving the person I was further and further behind. I wonder if I’m even recognisable to the people who once knew me? Would even Joe know me, if he saw me again?
The changes I see: they’re all my own fault, in a way. Although I am merely being obedient, doing as I have been told when I work-out, it’s my own efforts which are bringing about all these changes. I should be horrified and refuse, but how can I? I’m all alone, with them. There is absolutely no one on my side, except perhaps they are on my side? I mean, they treat me well. They look after me. They feed me. They only punish me if I don’t do the things that they think I need to do. Perhaps they are on my side? Perhaps this is how it’s meant to be, for me?
I have noticed something else too - my skin has got darker. I’m normally a pale creamy colour except when I go on holiday and then I go a “Scandinavian brown”. I suppose it’s my mother’s genetics. But now, even though I’m not outside, my skin is tanned as if I’ve been in the sun all the time, for weeks at a time. It is the deepest darkest tan I have ever had. It must have been very gradual, because I’ve only just noticed. But now I can see it just by looking at my arms and legs, my tummy, my hands and feet – I don’t need mirrors. But the mirrors provide confirmation.
And that’s not all. I feel horny all the time. It began as a vague feeling of arousal but now it’s built up to be present all the time. Just as my skin has changed. Gradually but unmistakably. I hadn’t noticed it happening but now I know it’s very different from how it used to be. I can hardly keep my hands off myself; hardly stop thinking about sex. I keep rubbing myself whenever I can; whenever they are not watching me.
I even feel like this while I work hard during the bodybuilding routines. I’m almost getting a sexual pleasure from the way my muscles burn after a workout. While I’m exercising I’m watching my trainer like a hawk. There’s a sensual pleasure in the way that his muscles move under his vest. He catches me staring at his crotch but he doesn’t say or do anything about it.
With the way my posture has changed and the pumped up feeling of my muscles I’m angry with myself for just doing what they want but I’m so horny as well that I don’t want to stop.
Is that what they want? Or is that what I want? My trainer - the man - watches me working hard at the treadmill, pounding away relentlessly. He smiles, standing legs astride, watching me. I’m sure I can see the swell of his cock beneath his shorts. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m watching him. I’m running harder than ever. I have no choice but actually, I do not think I want a choice anymore. I am going to change into the person they want and that’s that.
Finally a realization dawns. The programme is very well thought out. It is well throught out because they have done it before. There may be particular reasons why they came after me, but I am not the first and I will not be the last. There is a line of ever so many girls (and who knows, even boys?) stretching back into the past and on after me into the future! I feel as if they have poured cold water over me again. The shock of realization. Its not particularly about me. It’s about what I represent. A particular collection of knowledge and talents which are useful for the moment and will be discarded when the usefulness comes to an end, in favour of someone else. I suddenly feel very cold and sick. My claim on life seems to be much more tenuous and provisional. To be kept alive only whilst you are useful …
As Jenny is forced to juggle her desires, her fears, her life and the insistences of her owners, her owners are thinking about her too.
Anatoly has just arrived back at the dacha from Moscow. Sveta sits on the couch in the comfortable room they use as an office. She is crossed legged, with her laptop open, watching the closed circuit TV input from the gym.
She is feeling better about the girl. It seems her sessions in the gym are at last providing her with some ‘reward’ for all the work which is demanded from her. At last, she is being built up physically as some respite from being torn down psychologically. Sveta hopes Vyera can find some solace here at least and at the moment, these thoughts salve some of the guilt and discomfort that Sveta has felt over the girl’s abduction and transportation. After all, it was not Sveta’s idea, so why does she feel so guilty?
“So how is our acquisition doing?” Anatoly asks.
Sveta looks up. “Very well. Tolya, I’m delighted! Have you been watching?”
“No I haven’t. I have had too much else to do but let me see.”
Anatoly joins Sveta and together they look at the computer screen. There’s an image of Vyera being taken back to her cell by Andrei. Her skin is really quite dark brown now, a marked contrast against the white walls. Her muscles have built up. They show excellent hypertrophy and definition. She looks much more like a body builder than an academic. It seems to suits her, completely.
“Hmmm,” Anatoly looking closely, leaning over the screen. “The combination of the steroids and the exercise has been very effective. The melanocyte stimulating hormone has had its effect too.”
“Not really a pale English rose, is she?” Sveta replies.
Anatoly grins. He approves of the transformation which has been achieved.
“And look, she keeps masturbating.” Sveta points at the screen as Vyera, furtively runs her hands up the insides of her thighs trying to use her body to shield what she’s doing from the cameras that she knows are there, watching her. Something in the way she does it convinces Sveta that Vyera knows she has almost certainly failed to keep her masturbation secret and she still doesn’t care.
“So she does. That’s what I expected. It’s a side effect of the hormone which is darkening her skin. (1) After it was developed there were efforts to increase its effectiveness and some of the formulations also increased libido. Commercially this was felt to be a bit of a nuisance but I got hold of a version of own….”
“Our own?”
“I mean one developed here, not in the West”
“Ah. Tolya, I thought for a moment you’d been branching out into new businesses without telling me!” Sveta teases him, giving him the opportunity to think about what she might do to him if he had!
“Anyway, this particular variant very much increases libido and I thought it would be fun to try it out on her. It will take her mind away from her other problems perhaps.”
“Well maybe but, you know Tolya, I think that it might be keeping Vyera’s mind from her other work. And that’s not good. I’m going to arrange for her to have something which might help her to manage her urges. We have all her measurements. I’m sure I can find something to help.”
“Help by alleviating the problem, or simply preventing her from succumbing to it? A helpful way or a frustrating way?
Sveta gives Anatoly a wicked grin. “Anatoly, before long she will be boiling!”
He shakes his head. “Sveta, you are a dangerous woman,” he says with respect in his voice.
She smiles. She is happy for him to know that. “Yes,” she replies, “I am, and you will not forget it, will you?” She rubs Anatoly’s shaven head and winks. She has still has not given him permission to grow his hair again.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Footnotes:
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
Over the past two days, they have lasered my body hair again. It was not as unpleasant as it was on the first occasion – mainly because there seemed less to do. There was some small relief because the ordeal was less protracted but there was still the accompanying sadness. I had to face the fact that I could never again be the person I once was. Never again would I have little downy hairs on my arms and legs which turned golden when they caught the light of a sunny afternoon; no public hair to shave or not to shave just as I wished and no hair on my head to cut or grow or style or colour or comb or even scratch. But, more than sadness, there was again the feeling of intimate violation, when I had to kneel on the operating table and spread my buttocks with my own hands, to give access for the destruction of even the little hairs around my anus so that there would be nothing left.
I was taken back to my cell afterwards, my skin feeling bruised sunburned. They allowed me a little time to myself to rest. In the circumstances, after all that’s happened to me, sexual interest, sexual tensions and sexual feelings should be the very last thing on my mind. But perhaps that is all that I have left to me? Perhaps sexual feeling is something I can create and enjoy in my own mind, private to me, secret from them.
The feelings of sexual arousal torment me more and more. I have to do something about it. I have to hide it from them but I have to find some relief, even if there really is nowhere to hide.
When my work is over, as soon as I’m back in my cell, as soon as the door is locked and the lights have faded and I am alone, I lay on the mattress with my legs spread wide and bring myself off. I am so horny that it does not take long thank goodness, because I don’t know when they’ll be back. At first there’s the sense of relief and I lick my fingers to clean up, taking delight in the taste and the smell of something I have done for me.
As the release of orgasm fades, I’m astonished at my own behaviour. When the feelings began, I brought myself off secretly at night, when I thought they might not be able to see. But the desire for release just grew and grew. Now I do it whenever I’m alone. I just can’t help myself and I don’t care what they see ……
I’m alone in my cell, lost in my sexual dreams, eyes closed. I suddenly sense that someone is behind me! I feel a tap on my shoulder - it’s Neena and Andrei. Damn! I had been so wrapped up in my fantasies I did not hear then come in. Neena has tapped me on the shoulder with her crop: my eyes jerk open and there they are: both of them looking down at me and laughing. Neena is slowly shaking her head, as if she is disappointed in me, or perhaps to say; ‘now you didn’t think you could have secrets from me, did you?’ I suppose that I must have put on quite a show.
I stop immediately and they motion me to stand up. My reverie is replaced with foreboding. I’m sure I’m going to be punished. I’m sure I’m not supposed to be “enjoying myself” ……..
Andrei takes my arms behind my back and handcuffs them. I don’t resist. There’s no point, I would not win anyway. He stands holding my arms, keeping me upright. Neena bends down and straps my ankles to a metal bar – a leg spreader. My ankles aren’t held very far apart, just far enough to stop me bringing my legs together.
She gets up and opens the bag she brought in with her.
I start to squirm – this is going to be it. This is my punishment coming. They are going to hurt me with something. The man holds me all the tighter. Despite all the bodybuilding, I have done, he is much stronger than I am.
The girl opens the bag and brings out, what? She holds it up towards me smiling. It’s a chastity belt; shiny, silver and black. If I was not where I am, I might find it interesting but now it’s not interesting at all, because they are taking yet more away from me. The only thing I have left for myself.
I struggle and struggle: I don’t want even these very little pleasures taken from me, things I can still do for myself without having to wait for them or wait for their agenda or wait to earn favours. But of course that’s why they are doing this.
“Why? Why?” I shout.
“Because your body is ours and you are not using it properly”, she replies
“Your body? It is my body! You can force me to work for you but my body is mine. It’s me!”
I am pleading with her. Pleading for them to let me alone, to have some small thing for myself, but Neena is implacable. She just repeats their logic. I am trying to find a sentence to counter it but I cannot take hold of one, wherever I look in my mind, her voice comes to me: firm, reasonable, logical, inescapable.
“Rabinya, your body is ours. That is what it means to be a slave. You are owned. We own you. Your body, your mind, your strength, your talents, your abilities to give pleasure and to experience pleasure …”
“But what is left for me?”
“For you?”
“Yes: me!”
“Why nothing, of course! You are wholly owned. There is nothing left for you. The moment I took you, all your claims to your body and mind, thoughts and actions transferred to your new Owner. Your training shows you what this means, helps you to understand and will bring you to complete acceptance. Quite soon now, I expect, you will completely understand that you have nothing. You are nothing. Your life is to live for your Owners. Here is another lesson. Your Owners are now taking your sexual pleasures from you, because they do not belong to you anymore. They are for others. For your Owners.”
I am held tight whilst the waist strap of the belt is wrapped around me and connected: it feels hard, smooth, cold, unyielding. I can smell Neena’s perfume as wraps her arms around me, encircling my waist with the belt. Her perfume is sweet and pungent and intoxicatingly erotic. She must have worn it on purpose; exciting me with a perfume and simultaneously taking away my ability to enjoy my own body, to consummate the desire she is deliberately inflaming.
Then she spreads some cream around my pussy. On each side of my labia. Around my clit. Under the clit hood. Then she brings the crotch strap up between my legs and connects it to the waist band. I can feel it, from the waist band at the rear, between my buttocks, across my anus as a thin round smooth curved bar and then as a wider plate across my perineum, my vagina, mons and abdomen, passing up to the waist band at the front. The strap is cold and seems to follow the contours of my body perfectly, clamped firmly against my crotch. She locks the catch shut. There is a very solid final ‘click’.
Andrei releases my arms and steps back.
Neena smiles broadly, then runs her hand over her own crotch then winks, shaking the keys at me and then pocketing them ostentatiously. She releases me from the spreader bar and Andrei unfastens my handcuffs.
“Our body is now safe from damage and unauthorised stimulation. Just two practical details which you have to know. You can pee through the drain holes and the front of the belt but I expect you to rinse afterwards, to keep yourself and the belt spotlessly clean and polished, to keep it looking at its very best. You will be proud to wear the belt. Next, the crotch plate is locked at the front and secured at the back by the bar over your anus. It will not interfere in any way with your work in the dacha or in the gymnasium – but the bar crosses your anus, so you will have to ask permission to have a dump. The bar can be released for that particular natural function and it will be relocked at once after you have finished.
The pair of them turn away and leave me alone once more, leaving me locked up alone in my cell. I pound my fists on the wall: angry, dismayed, frustrated, defeated. Yet again, defeated. I feel intimately violated: physically and spiritually. Neena’s words sting and burn. To exist just for the use of others, my “Owners” who have no proper claim beyond their strength, resources and circumstances. The arrogance behind Neena’s statements really does leave me breathless and I stand there, panting
As soon as they have gone, my hands fly down to the crotch piece but the fit is perfect.
I try to get my fingers beneath the metal edges but there is no space and no give. Whichever way I bend or turn, the fit is quite simply perfection. I beat on the front plate but there is no sensation – apart from a tickling from my skin around my labia and my clit: it must be coming from the cream she spread on me before locking me up. I squeeze my legs together against the plate but there is no relief at all.
Finally I collapse down on the floor and scream and scream and beat my hands on the floor in anger at the humiliation of it all, but the sexual torment in my mind and the itching from my intimate parts continues, unabated.
It’s late, sometime after Neena and Vyera’s encounter and her introduction to the chastity belt. Anatoly and Sveta are relaxing in the sitting room of their Moscow apartment, enjoying coffee, brandy and the effects of a good dinner.
“Anatoly; just come and see this,” Sveta says as she slides her laptop across the coffee table towards her husband, “Neena has just emailed this to me.”
He leans forward and watches the video of Vyera in her cell. She is now wearing her chastity belt, firmly locked into it. It seems as if Sveta’s predictions that Vyera would be “boiling” are coming true. Sveta is grinning as the video unfolds.
Vyera kneels on the floor trying to wrestle with the belt as she hears the sound of her cell door unlocking. She stops and looks up towards the door. Neena enters Vyera’s cell and stands looking down on her. Vyera stares at her for a moment, as if wrestling with her own intentions. She crawls over to Neena, kissing the toe caps of Neena’s boots, pushing her bum up into the air.
Anatoly begins to feel an itch in his groin: he knows what he would do if he was Neena. Presently, Vyera looks up at Neena in a pleading way and nods towards her crop. Neena laughs out loud, saying; “surely you don’t, do you?”
Vyera’s command of the language does not go that far but she makes quite clear that yes, she definitely does. Perhaps, muses Anatoly, we can rely too much on precision in language and forget that one often does not need words to convey meaning, even some quite unusual meanings!
Vyera leans forward, kisses the tip of Neena’s crop, and presents her bum.
Neena stands to one side and begins to stripe Vera’s buttocks counting the strokes as she carefully and gently and artfully applies them.
As the heat builds in her bum, Vyera wiggles and squeezes her thighs.
After five strokes Neena stops, gazing at Vyera, her head on one side.
Vyera looks up and pleads with her eyes for more.
Neena smiles and lays on another ten stripes, harder this time.
Vyera wiggles and squeezes her way through, her breathing getting heavier as her “ordeal” progresses, except it does not look like an ordeal to either the participants, or to the watchers.
Neena stops.
Vyera pleads.
Neena starts again, much more briskly and is rewarded by Vyera pushing her bum out more and more, greedily drinking the sensation. She is turning a lovely colour. Even though her skin is really deeply tanned, the thin red hyperaemic welts are easy to see and start to form a magnificent pattern.
Suddenly Anatoly’s concentration is interrupted by the sensation of Sveta’s hand on his crotch, gripping his erect penis through his trousers.
“Aha! So now I know what I have to do with you tonight Anatoly Sergeivitch! Except you are going to feel the strap and the cane.” Sveta is evidently pleased that her husband has responded as he has. “And,” she says, “I think, as Vyera enjoys punishment so much, I shall have her spanked regularly, too. As a little reward for hard work. It seems as if this will be a more creative way for her to relieve her sexual tension than just masturbating on her own. It’s a shame not to allow slaves some pleasure, don’t you think?”
Anatoly knows the delights that can be had from a skilful balancing of pleasure and pain. He knows the power of favours given or withheld as much as punishments administered or remitted. He turns to his wife. “Just as long as we get to take our pleasures too,” he says.
That phrase, the seemingly innocent ‘just as long as we get to take our pleasures too’
trips Sveta up in her anticipations. Sex as pleasure. Yes, there was a time when sex was a completely wonderful, intoxicating pleasure, until an unexpected pregnancy lead to the horror of accusation followed by pain and afterwards, by shame. Sveta’s ambitions for the evening begin to wilt in the harsh winds of her memories. Shame. Guilt. Deceit. Why does this slave bring it back so? It’s a question Sveta does not really need to ask. She knows. Jennifer McEwan, now known as Vyera Kuznetsova was born on the Sveta’s due date. The day when Sveta and Anatoly’s first child was to be born. The child that Popova made Sveta sacrifice, for the Motherland.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
CHAPTER 12 : DR MENDELEYEV
EMAIL: SVETLANA NIKITECHNA TO NEENA ALEXANDROVNA
I am conscious that Vyera has a lot to achieve for us. I have arranged with Dr Mendeleyev to review the data we collected before Vyera was taken. Let me know when you feel Vyera has completed sufficient basic training to begin other work?
EMAIL: NEENA ALEXANDROVNA TO SVETLANA NIKITECHNA
Vyera has been doing relatively well in recent weeks. She has not indulged herself with any further rebellious acts, nor attempted any potentially suicidal behaviour now that she has her collar. It is difficult to be completely confident about whether she has fully accepted her new role and status but I can say she is compliant, at present. I think it might be the right time to give her the challenge of new work but I will also try to give her an opportunity to show us how genuine her compliance really is.
Modern Sanitation.
Neena wakes me. It’s quite early. One of the Domestics, Arban , follows her in with my breakfast. She looks rather sulky, as if it’s not her job – I don’t suppose it is!
Being served breakfast! Now that is a change. There must be some “event” planned for today. I feel pleased about the breakfast but then I’m immediately apprehensive as I think about what it might mean and what I might have to do to earn it.
“Please,” Neena says, sensing my hesitation and gesturing to the tray they have brought for me. Usually any meals given to me in my cell come in little plastic boxes (which reminds me of a Chinese take away meal) inside a plastic bucket, but today the meal has arrived on a tray.
There is no chair or table in my cell (of course) so I have to squat on the floor to eat the food provided. There is muesli (almost needless to say), cold smoked fish (delicious), fruit (refreshing), fresh baked bread, (smells wonderful), butter, coffee (smells even better) and water.
As I finish it I glance up at Neena. She has joined me on the floor, reading what looks like a Russian version of Hello magazine.(1) She looks up at me and says, “Today you begin some important work, so I have got you in the mood. Please wash now and we will go”
OK, I think to myself, now I have to pay for my breakfast. It is probably going to be very “expensive” What is this all this about?
And after the pleasure of breakfast comes humiliation. I hate it when people watch me when I have to go to the toilet. I always close my eyes if there is someone there. Up to now, it has just been when I pee but my situation now is much worse.
“Excurse me, Gaspazha. I need to have a … have a dump”
My face burns with shame as I say it.
I have to ask because of the design of the chastity belt which Gaspazha Neena has locked on to me but that does not seem to cancel the embarrassment I feel. Really, it is Neena’s fault but I feel that it is my fault. I feel dirty. Silly.
“Why are you blushing?”
“I … I … I do not like being watched when I go.”
“Yes: I have noticed and now you will always be watched, won’t you? Watched when you pee and watched when you dump. Especially when you dump.”
“Yes, Gaspazha.” My face burns even hotter.
“Rabinya, this regular event– and it will be regular, of course – this regular event will help to teach you humility. You will be watched every day and there will be no opportunity for you to hide your animal side. Would you be embarrassed if a pet dog took a dump when you took it for exercise? I think you might be quite glad. There would be no reason for any ‘accidents’ later in the day. Do you agree?”
“Yes, Gaspazha.”
“So for me, knowing you have had a dump means I do not have to worry about you being distracted from your work during the day. I know you are clean. And you have to be frank with your supervisor-of-the-day about your animal needs. Do you see? It underlines that you are less human and more animal. It is good for slaves to remember that free people are above them is every possible way. Even – perhaps especially – in these rather intimate ways.
Bend forward!”
This latest humiliation is dreadful, but there is no avoiding it. As instructed, I bend forward. I feel Neena release the rear bar of my belt.
“Go” she says
I squat – and dump – and weep. This is so unfair. What have I done to deserve this treatment? I do not take long and stand to flush the toilet. As a do, I see Neena. She wrinkles her nose and tears stream from my eyes in reply.
“You may get washed now, rabinya,” is all she says.
The washing facilities are similar to those at Inward Bound but not as smart. There is the squatting toilet, taps for hot and cold water, a plastic bucket, a towel rail and plastic cups for a bar of soap and my toothbrush. I have to fill the bucket and get washed piece-meal and then pour the dirty water into the toilet and away down the drain. Since I don’t have hair anymore washing is easier than you might think, but oh! the humiliation of the process. To be compared with a kept animal.
There is no pleasure in washing anymore. I’m done in no more than ten minutes and maybe quicker than that.
Now I have to face Neena once more. To stand meekly in front of her.
“Bend forward.”
I sigh and bend and get rewarded with a slap on my bum, as a punishment for sighing. She fixes the horrible anal bar in place again.
“There”, she says, obviously pleased that there has been another opportunity to teach me how much my life has changed, “There! All clean until tomorrow. And secure.”
The Desperado
Neena shoos me through the door with a tap on my bum with her crop. She send me left, down the corridor (tap again); a security door opens to my right and (tap) I climb up a spiral staircase, past the ground floor (tap) up to the second floor (tap) then left (tap) out into another corridor. Neena has me stop in front of a door.
She turns to me. “Your instructions. You work here today. Meals will be brought to you. You may use the toilet in that room there and your collar will shock you if you try to wander anywhere else. Clear?”
“Da, Gaspazha! Pazh’ alsta!” I respond but I’m becoming more nervous. Any change of routine has the same effect on me – increased anxiety - and this is a big change of routine.
She knocks. I wait with growing unease. The door is opened by a middle aged man, with receding curly black hair, glasses and a shaggy pullover. He has been smoking a pipe and the room smells of sweet tobacco. The window gives a view of the garden, green and beautiful after the harsh winter snows. He smiles and ushers me into an office complete with desk, chairs, shelves, files, a computer and piles of computer print out.
“Good morning, Vyerochka,” he starts. “I am Dr Mendeleyev.” His voice is quiet, his manner rather formal.
“Good morning, Sir.” I’m waiting to see what’s coming, still nervous about things. I also notice he has used the ‘little girl” form of my name …
“I understand that you have been conducting some psychological research?”
“Yes, I was. Before, before I came here…”
“Yes, of course. I can understand that your situation has not provided many opportunities to study.” It’s laughable – he’s talking as though he’s counseling some poor first year student that’s been having family troubles. “But you shall study once more! The growth of the mind is important to your Owners. The work you were doing is interesting. I will be your research supervisor.”
This seems completely bizarre. I’m standing here naked and hairless and this man is talking as if we were back at the university. But for the first time there is perhaps a glimmer of insight into why I was kidnapped. Could they really have seized me because of the work I was doing?
Dr Mendelyev leans forward. “Tell me where you have got to. How far have you got with your data …?”
In spite of myself I find that I’m engaging with him. The whole approach takes me back to a world I’m comfortable in. In spite of all the rest of what is going on around me, I end up discussing things just as I would with Angela.
“I was about to start on the analysis. It’s quite difficult of course given the rather anecdotal nature of the data but I was hoping to try to develop some sort of taxonomy from the responses. I planned to begin entering the data into the statistics programme ….”
A wave of regret breaks over me as I begin to talk about the life I once had. He sees my reaction, smiles and puts his arm round me. It’s a comforting gesture for a moment but of course it’s not enough.
He continues, “Well, Vyerochka, here is some good news. Data entry is now complete. I have had frequency tables drawn up for your variables. Please read them through and tomorrow we can plan the analysis. Oh, yes and here is a list of variables for each of your questionnaires ….”
I am staring at him open mouthed. “This is my data? My research?”
He nods.
“But how did you .. did it get ..”
I look down at the piles of paper and back to him.
Neena takes charge of the situation. “Vyerka, its now 08.00. You get coffee at 10.30 and lunch at 12.00. Please work well. Make sure you have completely orientated yourself to the task in hand by then. This is my advice to you. Do the job you have been given and do not waste time on things that do not concern you.”
After they leave me I flop down in the chair and begin to go through the papers and the data. It is my research data. The files contain copies of my questionnaires. Others contain the papers I have had copies for my review of relevant work. There are copies of Second Skin- but not the exact copies I had used, because they are unmarked. Just how the hell has all this got here? And why?
I stare out of the window wondering about this. Could Angela have been duplicating all my data and sending it to her contacts in Moscow? Was that why the Agency were so interested in whether I knew her Russian friends? Could it be the people at Inward Bound?
Could it be something to do with Joe’s work? That doesn’t seem likely I might just as well ask myself if it could be anything to do with Joe. Could it be anything to do with Joe?
I turn to the computer; it’s running. I press the Enter key and the usual Windows desktop appears with all the standard applications I am familiar with: SPSS, Word, Excel, Access, PowerPoint, Firefox, Outlook …
Firefox and Outlook. Email! I feel a surge of adrenalin rush through my body. A connection to the outside world! They must have made a mistake. They can’t have realised what that means. I glance over my shoulder. I try to make it looks as if I am searching the shelves, in case they are watching but I can’t see any cameras. Even so, I swing the PC screen round to face the window and move the chair in front of it, trying to make it look as though I am casually trying to set the workspace up the way that I like it. I don’t need any time for further reflection. I must do this, while I still have time, before anyone comes back, before anyone realizes.
Click! I launch Firefox. A dialogue box opens - and asks me for a password. Ah. Well what did I expect? If I could get onto the internet with Firefox, I could leave messages in “contact us” at Joe’s company’s website. I could go to my own email account and send one from there; so I can look over the wall from my prison, but the gate is locked. Well … not really surprising, surely? Disappointment, but no surprise. And yet, there is still Outlook. Is it worth checking?
I click the Outlook icon – and it launches! Once more, elation and hope surge within me:
The inbox is empty.
Click! I go to New Mail Message. The familiar email proforma opens.
I write quickly and accurately. I am naked but I am sweating:
I type in the addressees.
- our home email address
- Joe at NHCE
- Prof … but what if Angela is responsible for all this? …. No! I leave her off the list.
- Cathy and George Corbin at their home
- Cathy at the University.
That’s enough!
The subject: “Help! From Jenny!” I start the body of the message ..,
“Dear Joe. Please help me. I have been kidnapped to Russia. I am in a large county house near Moscow. The people responsible may know Angela. All my research data has been duplicated and sent here for me to continue the project. They say they will kill me if I try to leave. Please find me and take me home. Please help. Love Jenny.”
Click! I press send – and the message is gone – and once more, I am alone, staring at the empty Inbox screen.
I know I have to try to cover my tracks. I need to makes sure they don’t realise what I have done. I go through each step in turn, deleting information as quickly as I can, terrified that I will be disturbed and discovered. Clear sent messages – empty deleted items folder – confirm the deletion.
I glance up at the door and breathe a deep sigh.
Click! I return to the empty Inbox. It stays empty. No “Out of Office” messages. No “Mailer-Deamon we are sorry we cannot deliver your message.” Nothing! The message and copies must now be safe on servers in the West. Waiting patiently to be found by Joe and Cathy.
I feel another sting of adrenalin. There’s still more unfinished business. Clear out the Internet temp files, clear out the cookies, clear out the history. Clear out the history? That’s what they’re trying to get me to do with my own personal history. As long as I can resist, I’ll hang on to my history, thank you.
At last! I am once more alone on the windows desktop. All evidence of my cry for help is gone. Erased from before the eyes of my captors. I allow myself a smile of satisfaction.
Neena and her colleagues are not as competent as they obviously like to think. My rescuers will be here by and by, just you see and in the circumstances, I shall especially enjoy a cup of Neena’s coffee when I am released. With cream and brandy. In the glass, with the silver holder.
I decide that I might just as well get on with some work! I don’t imagine I will be able to take this with me, but I will take away the memory of what I have done and once back home I can ….. back home …. Oh! Back home. Joe and Me, we’ll go out to that wonderfully expensive restaurant and have some fantastic meal, we’ll go away on holiday together just the two of us; Joe and Me …..
I spend the next several hours working as hard and as productively as I have done in months. Somehow I’m able to focus on things here, without distractions. I set up relevant files on Excel and Word. I take stock of the paperwork and as far as I can, I rewrite my analytical plan.
I then open SPSS and begin to read through the frequency tables …it was good to be using my brain again, so very good.
Coffee arrives, as promised, then lunch.
At 4pm according to the PC clock, Neena and Dr Mendeleyev arrive.
“Well my dear, and what progress have you made?” the Doctor says in a kindly way.
I present a summary of my work during the day. Mendeleyev scans the paper I have produced. “Yes,” he enthuses, “a good start! I will look forward to reviewing your proposals for the analysis tomorrow.” He puts the paper down on the desk. “Now if I might be excused, I think Neena has things she wishes to discuss?” Mendeleyev looks across at Neena then back to me. He smiles and leaves the room.
I look up at Neena. She looks down at me. “What’s this?” she says as she hands me a sheet of paper. I’m shattered to see it. It says:
Help! From Jenny!
Dear Joe.
Please help me. I have been kidnapped to Russia. I am in a large county house near Moscow. The people responsible may know Angela. All my research data has been duplicated and sent here for me to continue the project. They say they will kill me if I try to leave. Please find me and take me home.
Love Jenny
And then the forelorn list of email addresses I thought I had contacted …
I open my mouth but no words come. I’m appalled. I’ve pointed them at Cathy, I’ve shown I think Angela is involved in some way. They’ve probably stopped it going. But what if they haven’t? They might go after Joe or Cathy or Angela. I’m desperate; astonished by my stupidity; appalled by what I may have exposed Joe, Cathy and Angela to; devastated by the fact that I’ve probably failed to raise the alarm. I blush bright red – and bury my face in my hands
Neena continues, “What are you?”
I look down at the floor. “A slave,” I mutter. I know that’s what she wants to hear.
“Do slaves think for themselves and take initiatives?”
“No.”
“Do slaves follow orders given to them?”
“Yes.”
“Do slaves disobey instructions?”
“No.”
“Do slaves take advantage of their owners?”
I hesitate but the answer is inevitable. “No.”
“Do slaves repay kindness with treachery?”
“No.”
“Did you really think we would leave you alone with an open internet email connection? After all the trouble we have taken to bring you here? After all the care we have taken of you?”
Well, did I really? No, I don’t suppose I did really I just couldn’t believe my luck and then … when the email seemed to transmit …
By now tears are streaming down my face. I just hang my head …
Neena sighs and shakes her head in disappointment. She briskly clips a lead to my collar, cuffs my hands behind me and marches me out of the office and back downstairs towards my cell. I can’t help noticing what she is wearing: a white shirt, black leather skirt, an ankle bracelet and her clogs on her bare feet. She looks so sexy – but these days anything seems sexy to me; even now when it’s obvious that something pretty unpleasant is going to happen as a result of my actions.
When we get to the basement corridor I’m led into the punishment room. It’s no surprise. She grabs my collar in her fist and pulls me across to the spanking horse. She’s not angry or violent, just decisive and completely in control. In a moment she has me strapped down, but then I don’t resist. They have trapped me yet again, tricked be into showing that I am still hoping for freedom, for home.
Neena slips her clogs from her feet and leaves them tidily by the door: she is wearing a gold ring on one of her toes. So sexy, so desirable …… I hear her pad away behind me to fetch… what? …. And then she is standing in front of me, holding the inevitable cane. It’s smooth, honey brown, shining. She makes sure I see it. I know she intends to use it to burn a memory of the consequences of my futile behaviour into my body and into my brain.
Neena speaks for the first time since we left the room where I was working. Her voice is quiet and calm. “In Russia we use the metric system; things go in group of five and ten. You British and the Americans still use what you call Imperial. There things so in groups of six. Very well rabinya Vyerka. If you want to be in Britain so much you can have your punishment in sixes instead of fives!”
It’s a dramatic statement but I don’t imagine she intends to give me any more or less strokes, which ever way she counts. She will beat me until she is convinced that I won’t forget.
“I am going to cane you Vyerka,” she goes on. “Cane you for trying to take advantage of us. Cane you for being disobedient and ignoring a direct order. Cane you for being stupid. I shall cane. You will count.”
I whimper. I know that in what’s coming there will be no erotic sensation. No pleasure, just pain.
She begins. No warm up. No gentle spanking first. Just the hard burning cane.
“Who are you?” Whack! “Vyerka!”
I gasp from the pain of the stroke but start my counting, “Adeen.”
“What are you?” Whack! “A slave!”
“Dva.”
“What are slaves ?” Whack! “Slaves are owned property.”
“Tre.”
“What do slaves do?” Whack! “Slaves follow orders given by their Owners and their Handlers.”
“Chety-ri.” The strokes are coming quickly. Neena’s questions and her own answers following in quick succession.
“Can slaves take decisions for themselves?” Whack! “No they do not take their own decisions.”
“Pyat.”
“Can slaves organise their own lives?” Whack! “No. Slaves live the lives set out for them.”
“Shest.” I can barely keep my mind on the numbers.
Neena pauses. She comes round to face me. I am sweating, writhing, sobbing. “So was your little rebellion worth it rapina Vyerka?”
I know there is no sense in arguing with her. I dumbly shake my head …..
She straightens up and returns to take up her position behind me again.
The spanking horse holds me kneeling and presenting my bum and back for convenient punishment. My head can droop over the far end and I can see Neena’s feet. She takes up her position. I can see from the way she grips the floor with her beautiful toes that she has raised the awful cane to begin again.
“What happens to slaves?” Whack! “They stay with their owners!”
“Sem,” I continue counting.
“Can slaves go home when they like?” Whack! “No they stay in custody.”
“Vosem.”
“Why do slaves wear collars?” Whack! “To remind they are owned,”
“Dyesvat.”
“To remind them they have no freedom.” Whack!
“Dyesyat.”
“To remind them they must not escape.” Whack!
“Adeen nadtsat.” These last three strokes seem harder than ever. I can feel myself drifting.
She returns to her mantra of questions and answers. “Can Slaves ever escape?” Whack! “No they can never ever escape.”
“Dva nadtsat.”
She pauses once again. She saunters round to face me again. She lays a hand on my back and massages my sweaty skin gently, lovingly. “Are you enjoying your punishment, Vyerka?”
“No,” I sob, my eyes all puffed up with tears. My voice is gasping as the waves of pain continue to lap across my bum, as I try to focus on her questions and on saying what she wants to hear, saying what I need to make it stop.
“What are you, Vyerka?”
“Rabinya,” I stutter but it’s the word she wants to hear.
“Yes, you are rabinya. And are you sorry for what you tried to do?”
“Da, Yes, Gaspazha, I am s … so… sorry.”
“Good, rabinya Vyerka. I am pleased that you admit it. You are learning and learning is often difficult. But there is still more learning to do.”
Neena is behind me once more. I know that she is preparing to beat me again. This time I do not look. I screw my eyes tight, but I still hear the awful two seconds of warning as the cane hisses through the air towards me.
“What do slaves know about their Owners and Handlers?” Whack! “Slaves know their Owners and Handlers know best.”
“Tre nadtsat.”
“Do slaves ever know what’s best?” Whack! “No slaves never – ever – know best.”
“Chet-ir nadtsat.”
“Do slaves know what’s best to do?” Whack! “No: slaves only do what they are told.”
“Pyat nadtsat.”
“What happens to disobedient slaves?” Whack! “They are punished.”
“Shest nadtsat”
“Do they deserve punishment?” Whack! “Yes, a disobedient slave always deserves punishment.”
“Sem nadtsat.”
“Is punishment good for slaves?” Whack! “Yes, punishment is always good for slaves.”
“Vosem nadtsat.” I’m lost now. Questions, strokes, answer, numbers, swirling in my brain.
But she’s stopped. “Thank me slave for your punishment.”
“Thank you …” I am gasping, numb, dazed. “Thank you, Gaspazha Neena for my punishment.”
There is a wash hand basin in the room. Neena runs warm water over a cloth and washes my face, taking away the mucous from my nose and wiping away my tears. She puts a hand tenderly on my shoulder: “Did you deserve your punishment?”
I’m broken, shattered by the beating but somewhere inside I feel I did really deserve it. It is not hard for me to say. “Yes, Gaspazha Neena I deserved my punishment. I was stupid and unkind to try and take advantage of you. Thank you for caning me. I am very glad the email did not transmit.” All this takes some time as I gasp out the words. Has she finished, I wonder? Well there be more to endure?
“Pazh’alsta! Your punishment is over – for now, but rabinya Vyerka …..” Neena’s face is close to mine now. Her hand is still on my back. I can smell her perfume. Sweet. Delicious. “… you made a mistake in your Russian. You said ‘dyesvat’ and that is wrong. It’s ‘DYEVYAT. I suppose I shall have to start all over again. Right from the beginning. That’s the right thing to do. Isn’t it? Well, isn’t it? Tell me …. ?”
I am in floods of tears. I just cannot go through the ordeal again but I have to be honest. You see: that’s my name. Vyera. Truth. “Yes, Gaspazha, yes. You should start all over again,” I wail; my whole body racked with sobs.
“Well done for being truthful, rabinya Vyerka. Because you are truthful, you shall have a reward. I know about a Russian Domme and I think you might have met her too - anyway, she lets her slaves carry cane strokes forward if they can’t manage everything on Punishment Day. Looking at your bottom …. well, I don’t think we can do much more without drawing blood.” I can’t see what she can of course, but I am sure that she is right. Neena carries on, “But there is a catch, because the slaves must pay interest on the strokes deferred. Ten per cent per day. Eighteen strokes owed. Ten per cent of eighteen is one point eight, so that has to be rounded up to two. So, today you owe eighteen. Tomorrow twenty. The next day twenty two. You will not be ready for another caning for, oh perhaps ten days, maybe even longer, so your “overdraft” will be eighteen and your “interest” will be ten days at two strokes per day which makes twenty. Add interest to overdraft to calculate the whole debt – and that is thirty eight! OHHH! Thirty eight strokes of the cane … of course you could just pay off the interest next time and keep your overdraft …? This email of yours has turned out to be very expensive, has it not little Vyerka?”
Neena is talking about Ylena at Inward Bound. But that was when slaving was a game. Now it’s my life.
I sob. “Thank you, Gaspazah Neena.” I know I can take no more now. It doesn’t matter how many strokes she adds, how much interest there is to pay. I can’t take any more.
“Pazh’alsta, rabinya,” she replies, ”but before I leave you just let me show you something else …”
Neena leaves the room and a few moments later returns with a laptop. She brings up a chair to the spanking horse and sits down with her back to me and the lap top on her knee so that I can see the screen over her shoulder. She launches an internet explorer and goes to The Slave Register site. I am on this site. I am 836-906-368.
Neena logs in, using my slave number and password. How did she know the password? But they know everything about me. She goes to the registration certificate. It should say I am a submissive, and my top is Joseph. But its been changed. There is nothing about Joe any more. It now has my status as Slave. Property. Owned, and my Owner is “Polar Star”.
Neena glances up at me. Our eyes meet. She smiles and merely says:
“ … for the avoidance of any doubt”
Later in the evening, Neena calls Sveta to bring her up to date with developments. She calls her mobile. She knows tht Sveta will have switched on ‘call minder’ if she does not wish to be disturbed at the moment. Safer than phoning the apartment in Tverskaya or at the Triumph-Palace. The mobile rings, and rings, then –“Sveta.”
“Good evening, Svetlana Nikitechna. This is Neena Alexandrovna.”
“Neena! I am glad you rang. I expect this means you have some news of our little protégé?”
“Da, Gaspazha. The was some progress and there was also some disappointment. It was as I had suspected. Vyera has still a long and perhaps painful road to travel before she fully accepts that her life has irrevocably changed and that she is no longer Jennifer McEwan.”
“Ah – tell me.”
“She made some good progress in her academic studies. I checked what she had done and I was pleased. Her training has not blunted her intellectual ability. She achieved more than Dr Mendeleyev had expected, so progress was made in that department.”
“And?”
“The office computer she used had Fiirefox and Outlook on the desktop. I protected Firefox with a password but left Outlook fully operational except that I blocked outgoing email traffic.”
“Go on ….”
“Vyera checked Firefox and then attempted to use Outlook to email her husband and someone called Cathy Corbin to tell them she was being held near Moscow and asking to be rescued.”
“Not also Professor Dawney?”
“No.”
“Ah. Interesting. Corbin is a friend, a close friend actually – and a colleague at work. So Vyera is resourceful, still hopes for rescue and is brave enough to make an escape attempt. I am not surprised. She has not been with us for very long and not long enough for her world view to change fundamentally. So what did you do?”
“I had printed her email and she broke down when I faced her with it. Then I caned her. I have sent you an email with the video recording. I hope you approve?”
“Approve? Yes, of course. That was exactly the right thing to do. She must realize that we will react immediately to correct her, if she provokes us with these lapses in behaviour. I will look forward to watching you at work, Neena Alexandrovna. Anatoly Sergeyevitch and I are both very grateful for all the efforts you are making. I am sure Vyera will, too - in due course.”
However, Sveta is uncharacteristically anxious about watching Vyera’s punishment. After she has closed the call, she checks her email inbox and sure enough, there is a file waiting for her. She takes a deep breath and begins to watch.
The recording has been taken from the surveillance cameras one of the training rooms. She has a split screen view of Vyera’s face and Neena wiping a cane energetically over Vyera’s bottom, asking her a series of questions and supplying the correct answers. In no time at all, Vyera is squealing and crying with complete loss of control whilst Neena implacably continues her punishment. Sveta would normally enjoy watching Neena ‘at work’ but this time, with this girl, the only thing she is conscious of is the cruelty of what she sees. Sveta fast-forwards the recording, mainly to see that Vyera is all right after Neena has finished with her. Poor little girl! So much pain and all because she wanted to go home! There has been no erotic thrill for Sveta in the recording, only sadness on Vyera’s behalf. ‘Oh please, little girl hurry up and submit to us and then there will be no need to beat you and hurt you so!’
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Footnotes:
Hello Magazine. Essential reading in Europe if you want to know what the celebrities are up to. It is published in many countries, including Russia.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
I am so sore. I pass a very restless night. It is such a relief when the cell lights begin to fade up to signal a new day. But today, I shall have to see Dr Mendeleyev again and this time, with my bottom black and blue and striped with welts; the unavoidable, embarrassing, humiliating evidence that I have been disciplined by Neena.
Humiliation and humility. I have begun to think a lot about these two words. Similar words but significantly different. Humiliation is being shown - especially shown in front of other people - what you are and what your place is. Humility is taking stock and making a realistic assessment of who and what you are and behaving appropriately. If I can get ‘humility’ right, I might be able to avoid ‘humiliation’. I might just get just one step ahead of them. Perhaps I can avoid being tripped up so much. Perhaps even avoid some of the traps and ambushes they set for me. It might even help me survive, somewhere deep down as Jennifer. And yet, if I willingly search for the position they want me to occupy, will there be anything of Jennifer left?
Ssisma (I think it is) brings food – back to the usual plain but wholesome menu (but then what could I expect after my ridiculous attempt at an electronic escape?) – and a note in Russian which I am relieved I can read now, to tell me I will spend the day on cleaning duties – so what a relief! But Mendeleyev must know what happened. Surely. What was it he said? ‘I believe Neena has things to discuss with you.’ So the embarrassment is delayed but it will come soon. Inevitably.
In due course, another of the Domestic Team comes for me (I can’t remember what this particular one is called) and I have to signal to her that I need the toilet. They – the Domestics - are not collared, so there is a clear distinction between them and me. They must see it too. They must know that I am merely ‘property’ whilst they are ‘employees’.
She pushes me forward to release the anal bar and I re-live my embarrassment of yesterday but worse, because she can see the effects of my punishment. She giggles and traces the welts across my buttocks with her finger. I ‘perform’ and then get washed and after she has locked me up again, I am taken to the kitchen and begin cleaning the sinks, worktops and floors and all the time I am working, I think about the way she has a key to my chastity belt, as well as Gaspazha Neena. Another lesson. I am not ‘special’ to Neena, I am just another piece of equipment the Domestics can use if they need it. I think about the humiliation of my chastity belt and the things I have to do now – asking for the toilet and being supervised on the toilet – and everyone at the Dacha knows. It has all happened so fast! I was once was duaughter, then a wife. I once was a student, then a research scientist and then, in the twinkling of an eye life changed and I became a slave and a kept animal.
The kitchen is a large “professional” set up, so the owners, I mean my Owners – how that idea makes me angry and yet gives me a stab of sexual satisfaction at the same time - must be in the habit of catering for quite large parties of guests. I hope I am not on display when that happens, looking like I do at the moment. Imagine: hordes of smart successful men and women gazing at this naked slave with cane marks striped across her bum and thighs and Neena explaining in a happy relaxed tone to anyone who asked ‘Oh yes, this slave required discipline and she behaves so much better afterwards. How? I cane her, of course.’ It might be slightly better if they were holding a Kinkfest I suppose and in that case, the guests would want to take turns at beating me … which might be slightly more fun and definitely less humiliating. But I suppose I will just be kept locked away in my cell when I am not wanted.
As I move around the kitchen, I can feel my collar beginning to prick me as a warning to keep in bounds whenever I approach one of the kitchen doors.
The whole cleaning exercise takes a couple of hours and when I’m done Andrei takes me off to the gym for a weights workout. This is one part of my incarceration I really enjoy. I have become addicted to the way my body has changed and glad to see how the weights I can lift has steadily crept upward even though I am losing my femininity as a consequence. I don’t need a bra anymore. My pecs hold my breasts firmly up and out and my nipples stick up pert and cheeky. Then (as so often) there’s a stab of regret and sadness. I am sure must be unrecognisable to all my old friends; unrecognisable to Joe; even to my parents. That is the price I am paying. I enjoy the exercise but because I enjoy it, I have to pay. This time, the price is to become unrecognizable to all those I know and love. Jenny McEwan is now dead: she has gone and in her place is Vyerka, rabinya. When I have these thoughts I should be distraught, but when I’m in the gym, driving up the dumbbells in a shoulder press for example, all I feel is a sort of excitement, like skiing downhill, intoxicated by speed and wanting to go all the faster.
Then there is my skin colour. No longer a Scandinavian deep summer tan: more like an Indian girl. And all the time, the feeling of sexual arousal. An unscratchable itch. Literally unscratchable thanks to the chastity belt they make me wear. Its front plate curves perfectly over my vulva, covering my lips and my clit, leaving them to throb and itch and so I pour my energies into my work outs: sexual energy into physical performance. Physical satisfaction into muscular development. How I wish I could get my hands on Neena or even that Korean (or whatever she is) Domestic: I imagine tearing their clothes off, my lips sucking on their nipples, swirling around their belly buttons (I wonder if Gaspazha Neena is pierced there?) down between their legs, up and down there labia, across their clits and finally, finally, across their anal buds …..
Andrei brings my session to a close with a tap on my shoulder and a smile. He is pleased with my progress. I am pleased with my fantasies. I study his reflection in one of the mirrors which line the walls and catch him admiring my bum as he gets another injection ready. What is this stuff they give me? Actually I don’t care what it is, anymore. The thing which is fills my mind is sexual fantasies of serving strong attractive Doms and Dommes ….
Another day dawns and this time Gaspazha Neena comes to get me up: she is always so sexily dressed, to my eye, whether she is formal or casual. Today it’s smart casual. The black leather skirt again, the pressed white shirt, black tights and shoes, but from beneath the black nylon around her ankle comes the occasional flash of gold from her ankle bracelet. She carries a bag with her.
“Good morning rabinya Vyerochka. More intellectual work today. Under supervision.” She smirks as she stresses the word: we both know what she is talking about. She has used the name Verochka, so perhaps I am being given a chance to increase just a little in their estimation? For taking my punishment well? After all they have done to me, a simple change in the sound of the name they have given me, and I start to feel some responsibility to behave well, from their point of view. Am I really so easy to mould into the person they want me to be?
“Eat, then toilet, then get washed – and then get dressed,” Neena continues
Dressed? Now this is different. When I am ready she tips the contents of her bag on to the floor: dark cord jeans, a white T shirt, a dark blue polo shirt and a red fleece jacket, dark socks and black slip on clogs. These are the first clothes I have worn in ever so long. The material itches and scratches my skin for ages after I have put on the clothes and I really miss my nudity. Also putting on their clothes, dressing in the way they have chosen for me – it’s another watershed moment.
I mean, we are all so used to dressing the way we want – style, colour, design but I’m being dressed by other people without any reference to my wishes. Like being in prison. In prison – that’s what Gaspazha Neena said when she was punishing me: slaves are in custody. And look at the way I’m talking about them now. Neena is no longer the girl or Neena. She is now Gaspazha Neena. I don’t feel a surge of outrage anymore when they subject me to these various indignities. I just accept that this is how it will be. But I feel calm about it! The calmness is the only thing that is frightening me now. Like passengers clinging to the Titanic as it finally sinks beneath the sea: a dull inexorable final sense of inevitability. Dyes have been cast. Concrete has set. Molten metal has taken up its shape in the mould and cooled. They have taken me and made me a slave. Forever theirs. Forever their slave.
I am ready. Gaspazha Neena takes my hands behind me and handcuffs me. We march out of the building into fresh sweet air of a summer morning. It smells mild and damp and earthy. Our feet scrunch across gravel to a little convoy of three cars. A black Mercedes in front and behind and a people carrier in the middle. There are assorted men in smart black suits milling around. They climb into the two other cars after Gaspazha and I have been seated. My hands are unfastened and refastened to my seat. She leans forward and wraps a blindfold across my eyes. She converses in Russian to one of the men, some of which I can follow and much of which I can’t. Our convoy moves off, twisting and turning on the estate roads until eventually, we start to pick up speed and drive smoothly onwards, so I expect we must be on a motorway.
I can sense Gaspazha lean forward. She strips off my blind fold and I have to screw up my eyes against the brightness of the day.
“Time to show you something of your new country”, she says.
I peer out of the windows. I see what could be the suburbs of any modern European city. Houses, fields, some industrial buildings, bridges, some electricity pylons in the distance, other cars and commercial vehicles on the road - and the road signs: they are all in Cyrillic. As we drive on and the density of buildings increase so does the sense of being somewhere alien and it’s the mundane everyday details which make it so - such as the road signs, the way the buildings have been painted, the look of public buildings and the onion domes of the churches. As we get deeper into the city, the advertising billboards become oddly heroic. They stand is a carefully ordered line along the central reservation, each board rising from the ground on a single tall metal pole. For a moment, just a moment, my spirits begin to rise. One of the boards ahead has a very familiar name – it proclaims Marks and Spencer – and immediately my spirits fall because beneath it tells me I will find the store in Kiev Station Square … (1)
They are letting me see where we are going and they are not being kind. They are being clever and calculating and cruel. Rubbing my nose in the fact that I have been abducted and transported.
Look! they are saying to me, Look! You hoped it was some big pretence? Hoped that even though we said you were in Russia, you were actually in your home country? Well little rabinya Vyerochka, take a good look. Look with your own two eyes. What do you see? I see the vast Stalinist gothic towers of Moscow State University rising up in front of me. Dominating all the buildings around. The central tower soaring upwards, crowned with a red star. I feel like a criminal as she hears the sentence of the judge, telling her she will spend the rest of her life in prison. The rest of my life as a slave. Games are over. Now I understand. Now I know. This is the dreadful reality I must live with now! (2)
We stop. Gaspazha leans forward and removes my handcuffs.
“Now Vyerochka. I hope you are not going to try to run away? Do you remember what I told you about your collar?”
I nod my head.
“Look” she says. She tales out her mobile phone and presses ‘Contacts’. She scrolls down to BEPA.
“This word here? Do you know it?”
“BEPA? Yes, that says ‘Vyera’”
“No, I mean the word in front of BEPA”, Neena replies.
I shake my head.
“This word is ‘execute’ If you run, I will press ‘Execute BEPA’ and your collar will release the poison which will kill you. Do you understand me Vyerka?”
I nod dumbly.
“Good girl!” She says brightly. Just follow Pyotr – that’s the man in front of you. I will walk behind.
As we walk to the main door, a young couple saunters towards us. It could have been Joe and me. They are hand in hand, their bodies pressed into one another’s. She has wonderful luscious blonde hair, which shines and glows with health. I had hair once, but now it’s gone, for ever. I’m just bald. Smooth. Brown. Joe is gone too. The odd thing is my memories: these recollections should burn and sting - and they used to - but not anymore. I can revisit them in my mind and there is a eerie calmness. It is like remembering a favourite teacher from school days. The memory is nice but – it is just a memory. It’s power to affect who I am and how I feel now, has gone.
Neena is beside me now: “Tonight rabinya, you will visit my bed. I expect you to lick me to a delightful climax. I will not be satisfied with just one. I expect you to honour each and every erotic zone between my legs. Do you understand? I’ll spell it out for you: navel, thighs, labia, clit and anus. There is a nice broad leather paddle I would like to try on you. I’ll bring it up from the Punishment Room. You are going to feel that paddle – unless you are very good everywhere and I mean everywhere.”
(When Neena is really serious, she always speaks English, to leave no doubt. She is speaking English now.)
“Will you be good, rabinya? I mean will you be ravenous for another woman?”
This is the first time they have mentioned using my sexuality for their pleasure. I recall telling Josephine at Inward Bound that I was ready to let them play with my sexuality and how much more like a ‘real’ slave I felt afterwards. How much more ‘owned’ Now I am a real slave in the most complete and absolute sense of the word. An asset to be enjoyed and exploited.
I grin like an idiot and reply, “Spaseeba Gaspazha. I will look forward to that very much.”
“Good girl” replies Neena, patting my bum.”
We are going to see Dr Mendeleyev. When we reach his office it is clear that Neena and Dr Mendeleyev have more ‘things to discuss’.
“Vyerochka: We want you to go see Julia Romanova.” (Neena pronounces her first name “Yoolia”) “Just go straight forward down the corridor. Turn left. Her office is first left. Can you find your way?”
“Da, Gaspazha.”
“Will you get lost?”
“Nyet Gaspazha.”
“What will you do if you cannot find Julia?”
“Come back at once, Gaspazha.”
“Good girl. Off you go.”
Once the office door closes, Dr Mendeleyev sits down and folds his arms. He puts aside his avuncular air as he opens his discussions with Neena.
“So?”
“She is doing much better now. And she is great fun, from my point of view! She still has so much spirit. She puts her physical and sexual energies into her fitness regime in the gymnasium – physically, she is magnificent - and she still has resources left to learn her new language and complete the other tasks I give her. I am very pleased”
“At night?”
“Much better. The frequent panic attacks Vyera suffered from when she was alone in her cell and had time to reflect on her position; as she realized that time was passing and there is no sign of release; that she really was trapped in slavery and would remain trapped for the whole of the rest of her life, these are now much less frequent and the attacks she has, are less severe.
Overall, she is much calmer. She sleeps much more soundly. She no longer talks in her sleep; not even about Joe. She wakes much more refreshed. When we drove here, it was absolutely clear to her that all we had told her - about being in Russia - was true. She paid close attention to what she was seeing, but she had a calm, resigned air about her. Psychologically, she seems much more compliant.”
Mendeleyev nods slowly, evidently weighing Neena’s observations against his expectations and his experience. “So it seems to be working well”, he muses. He leans forward to glance through some laboratory reports: pink for haematology, blue for clinical chemistry. ”Analysis of the urine and blood samples Andrei has taken allow me to monitor her production of stress hormones. That is the sort of information which allows for a more precise titration of the drugs we have given her to the response she exhibits. It moves the whole training process to an higher plane.” Mendeleyev nods his head slowly. “Yes, our efforts have been well rewarded.”
“And then there is the propranolol she is receiving.(3) Effective at reducing blood pressure and equally effective in salving painful memories. You see Neena: our memories are not like photographs. Once taken, photographs remain unchanged. Our memories are more complex. They reform each time we visit them and they can be associated with different emotions on each occasion. Months ago, when this girl thought of her husband, it would be a happy memory. More recently, the memory would be associated with the sense of intense, painful loss. Now the propranolol has restored calmness to her. The memories of things past are no longer painful. Also her sexual appetite is increased by the melanocyte stimulating hormone. All her new memories and speculations about her future are coloured by sexual desire which is delightfully exaggerated by denial. Who would have thought that a chastity belt could have such an important adjuvant role in pharmacological psychology?”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Footnotes;
(1) Marks and Spencer. A famous and revered British shopping chain. Branches abroad are a godsend for British ex-pats who can now buy exactly the same undies abroad as they buy at home! If you are searching for this particular branch, go to Kiev Station Square; it’s number 3 on the list of Marks & Spencer’s sites in Moscow!
(2) Moscow State University. An iconic Moscow building from the Stalin Era. One of the Seven Moscow Sisters built after the Second World war (known in Russia as the Great War Against Fascism) and sometimes referred to dismissively as ‘wedding cake architecture’
(3) Propranolol. A drug first used to treat the pain of cardiac angina but more recently used to treat patients who have persistent psychological distress from psychological trauma, eg: ‘post traumatic stress disorder’
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
I am standing outside a door marked in Russian script ‘Julia Romanova’. I knock and a voice calls, “Come In!”
I am confronted by another girl. She about my age with a bush of curly hair (oh, to have unkempt hair again, just for the fun of teasing out the tugs and tangles in it). She looks up quickly and beams a broad welcoming smile. “Vyerochka! Welcome! Dr Medeleyev said you were coming. I have just made coffee. You will have some?”
You bet I will - and one of the croissants, if I’m allowed. Julia pours two mugs; hands me one and also offers – no, hands me - a croissant, unasked.
“Well. So you are Vyerochka?”
What should I say? “Yes, I know that’s what you all call me but actually I am Jenny.” I know that will get me another caning for disobedience. I feel that I had better play for safety. “Yes, I’m Vyerochka – in Russia” (so with just a little defiance dressed up as precision.)
“Aha … well I know your situation of course ….”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. Don’t look so surprised. Universities in the UK and US are always doing contract research for government or commercial interests, so don’t judge us too harshly for doing the same.”
“No, I wasn’t it’s, it’s … it’s all been … er … to end up here.”
“Hmmm, yes I suppose it must have been., “ She looks at me with something between sympathy and understanding and then brightens: “Still, now you are here and you will never go back so perhaps you had better make the best of it? And by the way, just as a bit of advice – you are Vyerochka everywhere.”
If this had come from Neena, I could have coped, but coming from this other girl, same age as me who seems to know all about my abduction and takes it all in her happy, breezy, stride … I start to weep but seem to run out of emotion. My tears dry up. I think about my “situation” and begin to feel calm inside. As if I had been given some sort of anaesthetic.
“Look, Vyerochka we have a lot to get through so shall we just start?”
So I start, launching into a description of the project much as I would if I was presenting it to one of Angela’s colleagues or to a group of undergraduate students.
“I have had the opportunity to conduct a longitudinal observational psychological investigation into the play behaviour of adults, specifically sexual play, specifically again BDSM fantasies and games, specifically again power exchange games between Dommes, Doms and subs.
“My sample contains 100 individuals. The parent sample was 120 and there have been 20 subjects lost to follow up, for various reasons. The sample was self selected.
I run through the details explaining how I had set the research up.
“The context is people who applied to spend one to two months following a consensual slave training programme at a commercial ‘adult adventure playground’ called Inward Bound.”
“The subjects are all asked to complete a questionnaire when they submit an application to join a course at Inward Bound and they all have a personal interview afterwards. This is standard practice. For my investigation, they were asked to accept further questionnaires and interviews during and after their ‘adventure’.
Julia is still sitting quietly watching me and listening. She doesn’t say anything but lets me continue, “Basic descriptive statistics were collected for all subjects such as
age, gender, sexual experience, sexual fantasies at base line. The sample was divided into two groups: one month adventures and two month adventures. The ratio was 2:1. Also there was a gender bias for both groups of 3:1 in favour of females.”
There’s plenty more and once I start, I find it hard to stop.
“I collected the same data from two reference populations so I could compare the Inward Bound Adventurers with their peers. The first group was volunteers from University sports clubs. They were matched for age, gender, social class, academic achievement, sexual experience, sexual fantasies. I thought people might be reluctant to talk but they were very open and BDSM fantasies are really quite common, “The second group was drawn from contributors to a BDSM Consensual Slavery Message Board based in the UK. The Board Administrator gave permission for me to email contributors and the first email came from his “admin” address.
Julia’s attention seems to be wandering and I guess that I have not told her anything that she doesn’t already know or hadn’t already guessed.
I conclude by summarising the research questions:
Do the IWB adventurers change during their stay?
“The questionnaires after the ‘adventurers’ returned home were designed to see if changes in their outlook were maintained and if their home life changed.
“I had not managed to start on the detailed analysis before … before …”
Julia sees me hesitate and is watching me more closely as I carry on. I take a deep breath.
“... before I came here. However, my impression is that IWB subjects are a little more extrovert and have more BDSM experience, and BDSM fantasies than the “university” reference population, but were very similar to the people contributing to the Consensual Slavery Message Board. It seemed that subjects became more confident with their fantasies during their Inward Bound Experience; subjects were more likely to push at their boundaries and try to achieve more, so to speak, the longer their IWB adventure went on and that both these last effects were more pronounced in the subjects who had the Two Month Adventure.
“From that I draw the implication: people who are likely to enjoy BDSM experiences can be detected by questionnaire and the questionnaire answers predict which people are prepared to actualize their fantasies and when they are given the opportunity. Furthermore, they are likely to modify their behaviour, to do things they would not have done before.”
I stop. My coffee is cold. I have been all of the talking. Julia goes to make some more.
“So what do you need to do now?” she calls over her shoulder. “I mean that seems well thought through.”
It’s just the sort of thing someone might say back home. I feel absurdly relaxed. “Well, really it’s just the stats analysis to see if my superficial impressions of what the data says are actually correct.”
“Well, Vyerochka, here is some good news for you.” Julia puts another cup of coffee down in front of me. “The data has been entered into a statistics progamme for you – SPSS for Windows.
Are you familiar with that?
“Yes, that was the programme I had intended to use. I met Dr Mendeleyev recently who told me the data was now in SPSS and I had a first look at it. At home though, I would have been able to speak with a statistician, but here ……”
“Vyerochka: this is your home and yes I agree. Statisticians are very helpful. I should know because I am one! I will be able to guide your thinking. I heard that you had quite a busy day, recently?’
She smirks at me. So there I am, humiliated once more and advised, in passing, of just how fully informed Julia must be about ‘my situation’, as she put it earlier. From somewhere a spark of non-compliance flares: I feel myself narrow one eye and slightly turn my head as if to say ‘thank you but that was not necessary!’
Julia just laughs in reply and – and I giggle in reply to her, the tension broken
There is another problem, though. “And what about the psychology? I was working for an expert until ….”
“We can support you there too. Contacts …..”
Contacts ….. Does that mean Angela? Surely she would recognize the data at once if someone sent it to her, or realize that the study data was being analysed somewhere else if an unknown person emailed particular questions to her? Could I use this to send her a message? Ask the sort of questions that I used to ask her? Or ask questions in the way I used to ask her? That would be safer, in case she is involved with them… A little fountain of hope is beginning to well up inside me until it is quashed by Julia who continues ……
“Dr Mendeleyev has spent an academic lifetime in psychological research and I believe he may even know your former supervisor”
Julia stresses former and I realize that, as ever, they are one step ahead of me. All avenues of escape indentified and closed before ever I knew they were there.
Julia continues, “It’s probably best for you to continue working at Dacha Kustensky ….”
Dacha: a country house in Russia. Kustensky: is that the place or is it the name of my Owner? Excuse me! The person who thinks they own me. Excuse me? No - I am going to have to give this up. They do own me. I suppose they always will, until I am disposed of …..
“Vyerochka! Are you listening?”
No, I was not listening. I was gazing out of the window, across the roofs of an alien city, wondering which direction is west. The west. Where I came from. Once.
“I’m sorry Gaspazha”
Julia smiles, as if to tell me that she knows exactly what my daydreams were. She carries on. “This whole thing is very interesting. A new meson production method ….”
“Forgive me Gaspazha, I’m lost.”
“Yes, you are. Be grateful you have now been found. My boyfriend ….
(A boyfriend! Oh, to have a boyfriend again. A boyfriend like Joe …)
…. works in the high energy physics lab. Mesons are sub-atomic particles. In his lab they have a proton-proton scattering device, which produces mesons after the interactions between atomic nuclei – which are all very energetic. Now you would think, that to get people to do what your subjects have been doing, you would need lots and lots of psychological energy, but you don’t, do you? Just create the right conditions and your subjects changed. They became their true selves. It’s all really quite gentle. Not what you would expect from a ‘slave training programme’? Hmmm?”
Julia continues: “So what are you actually going to do for the analysis?”
“First, I will tabulate the frequency responses for every variable. Then I will compare the results for the two groups at the various time points during their adventures and look for differences greater that ten percent and test for statistical significance to see if they are too large to be random chance variations.”
“And the direction of changes?”
“I want to map the direction of any changes to see if then the changes seem to run in a particular direction. A tide running in favour of clients becoming “more kinky” so to speak. Next, I will look at the responses from individuals to explore the variations they experience. I will look to see if they seem to run in a particular direction, too, or if they merely eddy backwards and forwards. Then finally, I aim to build a statistical model to see if it is possible to predict changes in an individual’s outlook on the basis of their original questionnaire responses.”
“Well, Vyerochka, it seems to me that you are going to have your work cut out!” It’s not clear if Julia is impressed by the plan or if she thinks I am mad to attempt it. Whichever it is she has obviously been asked to make sure I see it through so she doesn’t waste time on praise or skeptical comment. “Here is how we should tackle it. Coming up here every day is not practical, because it would waste too much time and in any case, you need close supervision at the moment ….”
“But surely I should be here with you for that? Although I’m used to doing research independently you know.” I’m offended that she thinks I need her to keep an eye on my work. Even Angela lets me work pretty much on my own.
Julia laughs and points to my collar, “Vyerochka! I mean behavioural supervision, not academic supervision.” I’m embarrassed now by my naive comment. How could I think that the academic issues were more important than my Owner’s worries that I might try to run away or send desperate emails asking for rescue! “I think you will agree, that you are still settling into your new position in life. To be precise, getting used to being an owned slave.” I nod in recognition of my stupidity. “So you will work at the Dacha, and keep in touch with me by email and web-conference – we have got Skype, for example.”
So this bouncy, bright, happy young girl of my own age who offers me coffee and croissants, is totally at ease with my status as an owned slave, and happy to do what she can, to keep me enslaved. How disappointing!
“Yes, I understand” I reply weakly. I can see she is quite right of course. Travelling up would take quite a lot out of each day. They would have to let me live like a normal human being. So I just agree but inside, deep inside I’m angry and despairing both at once. I have been defeated again. I thought reasonably frequent trips up to Moscow would be stimulating. Help me keep contact with “normal” people. A change to make proper friends. Perhaps people who could spark a rescue for me. As ever, this has been anticipated. Once more; gently, firmly, and implacably; escape has been removed from my grasp ….
“So, Vyerochka. This has been very useful time and now its time to get you back, out of the way of temptation! I’ll let Neena know we are finished.”
She picks up her office phone and calls Neena from wherever she was. ‘Back out of temptation’s way.’ I must be totally transparent to them …
I’m back in my cell at the Dacha.
My clothes have been taken away from me.
I have been fed and I have got washed, cleaned my teeth – they call it “your daily maintenance” as if I was some sort of tractor.
Suddenly, the cell door opens. Neena is standing there.
She beckons me to turn round and handcuffs my wrists behind me. She clips a thick leather lead to the ring in my collar, as though I was some sort of dangerous wild animal. Then, holding the lead tight, gripping it close to my neck, she leans forward and plants her tongue deep in my ear. It is unexpected; wet and tickly. A deep inside tickly. A very sexy tickly. Suddenly I am aroused inside. Of course it needs hardly anything to trigger arousal in me these days but even so, Neena’s actions pick things up more than usual. I can feel my heart starting to beat faster. I am led out of my cell and down to the punishment room. Neena picks up a broad leather paddle and winks: She reaches down and pats the front of my chastity belt. I can feel her tap and her tap further heightens my sense of sexual anticipation - but there is no physicaI relief, yet I still twitch in response.
“Punishment is always good for slaves,” Neena says in a measured tone, “especially when it comes with some sexual service” she smiles slowly, as if sharing a confidence before leading me out from the punishment room and on upstairs …….
We are in her bedroom. It’s part of a small suite. I suppose there must be a bathroom, a sitting room and her bedroom. Small is relative. The suite is far larger than the upstairs of my own house – my own house? I probably mean the house I once lived in, and it seems such a long time ago now.
She unclips my lead and motions me to kneel on the floor.
She inclines her head: I start to kiss her shoes, the tops of her feet, her ankles. She steps out of her shoes. One after the other, I take careful hold of them between my teeth and carry them over to the door, where I stand them side by side. I scamper back and begin to kiss her toes. Beneath her tights I find her toe ring and her ankle bracelet as I move my lips to her ankle. She lifts her foot to allow me access to her soles. I gently rub my lips against them; kiss them; enjoy their leathery warmth.
She carefully, slowly strips her clothes off: I watch her hungrily. Blouse. Skirt. She pauses.
My lips travel slowly up her legs, around her knees, up her thighs and across her crotch. I pout my lips and rub. Rub slowly, firmly across her mound. I can feel her labia through her pants. She is hot, musky, moist. She purrs.
Her bra comes off and her breasts swing free. Small, beautifully formed, nipples erect
She looks down at me: “tonight you are here to pleasure me; that will be your new task. Its time we taught you to serve us more intimately.” She raises one eyebrow and smiles once more.
I feel a rush of desire. A desire to be used. It feeds on the constant feelings of sexual arousal which have been with me for so, so, long now. It’s a dam weakening, beginning to crumble, ready to let the waters of sexual passion surge out.
“Spaseeba Gaspazha!”
Her smile becomes a laugh. She knows I am sinking into uncontrolled desire - to serve, to belong, no going back, no wish to go back, to be owned, used, disciplined, to be fully their’s. Always the unscratchable sexual itch, prodding me forward, deeper into slavery.
“Take off my tights,” Neena says, “with your teeth.”
I kneel up and gently take the waist band in my teeth and pull. First left side, then right side. Then above her right buttock, then her left. Then at the front of her, to the right and to the left. My shoulder rubs her mound. It was warm; now it’s wet, through her knickers – actually a deep pink silky G string. I think of her wetness as I tease her tights and string down. I anticipate my attack on her body. She will soon be naked in front of me. She shudders once more, her desire building. I begin to tantalize her through her silky string, my tongue slipping across her labia, beginning my exploration of her secret folds, finding her clit, tasteing her.
As I strip her, pale, tanned, creamy, skin emerges, stretched over toned, defined muscles. Her tights are now in a puddle around her ankles. I have to sweep up a mouth full with my tongue before I can remove them from her feet, her beautiful feet. Her toe nails are perfectly shaped. Painted a bright pink. My lips and tongue trace paths across and around. Across the dorsum. Between her toes. Around her ankle. Across her soles. Gee, this girl smells so good! I begin to ascend up her claves, to circle her knees, across her thighs. I have reached her crotch. I pause and look up into her eyes. I am now a wild dangerous animal, drooling, ready to devour her.
She smiles down at her plaything. “Go on,” is all she says and releases my hands from the cuffs …..
My tongue begins to explore more thoroughly. She is shaven. I can feel the little bumps of her hair follicles, but across the top of her mound is a crest of blond pubic hair. Carefully I trace her lips. Left and right. Bottom to top. Outer surface and inner recess. I can revel in her wetness now. I can taste her properly.
The dam bursts! I grasp her thighs and draw her towards me. My mouth is clamped on her. My tongue rasps up and down. I catch her labia with my tongue stud . I move it forward and back, forward and back. She writhes but this time it is she who cannot escape. All my exertions in the gymnasium begin to find an application. She is my prisoner now. She is squealing and my tongue is rubbing. She is gasping and crying and my lips are sucking. She is trembling and convulsing: I will not let her go until I make her come. Uncontrollably, desperately come. I will torture her to ecstasy!
She is limp and trembling. We are now both on the floor, entwined like snakes and in each other’s arms. Gently, I gather up her mucous with my tongue and swallow her, savour her. She moves, smiles, takes my head in her arms. Our mouths meet and our tongues find one another. She tastes me.
“Vyerochka! Oh Vyerochka! I am going to spank you – as your reward. To make you hot again for me. Would you like that?”
“It’s not for me to say Gaspazha, but as a matter of fact, yes I should like that very much!”
In a flash I have turned towards her, forehead on the floor, buttocks in the air, to enjoy her paddle as it licks across my skin leaving its hot red prickly burning kiss! A reward for services rendered and the reddening of my buttocks is a match to start another conflagration of sexual passion.
Whilst Neena and Vyera are locked in a passionate embrace, Dr Mendeleyev receives a telephone call:
“Igor Ivanovitch?”
“Da, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. How are you? I was expecting you to call.”
“Ah ha. You have something to tell me?”
“The girl’s project or the girl herself?”
“Both, actually. Lets start with the girl.”
“Vyera?”
“Vyera …”
“She is doing well. I expect you have regular reports from Neena?”
“Neena is a soldier, so she is interested mainly in compliance. You are interested in the mind so you will have formed a more far reaching impression?”
“Anatoly Sergeyevech, these are early days but the girl is coping well with all she is having to come to terms with. It seems she is not only compliant but is less anxious about being compliant. She is sleeping better and no longer sleep talks about her husband. The pharmaceuticals she is being given are making her memories less painful. She can accept some gentle teasing about her enslavement and even make an appropriate (yet perhaps mildly defiant) response. She can still socialize properly and her intellectual capacity is un-damaged. Julia Romanova was very impressed with Vyera’s account of her work and how she proposes to carry out the analysis of data. I spoke at length to Neena during and to Julia after Vyera’s visit to MSU (2) today. Vyera has had to grapple with a very significant burden but … so far … she is managing well and adapting to it.
Her old life was more congenial that her new one: she had an absorbing job at work, a very satisfactory … well, that’s not quite right. She had a good relationship with her husband and ambitions to build it into an even better one. That is a contrast to many of your other recruits whose new circumstances - eventually – are better that those they leave behind. Thus Vyera is a much more demanding and taxing project.
She is a very intelligent girl of course, but her intelligence can be harnessed to the cause, so to speak. I believe the time has come to lift her eyes from merely being compliant, to embrace the idea that she is mastering herself so that she can serve others. That in due time, she will have a position of responsibility once more. That she is serving to lead, as it were.”
“Responsibility?”
“Yes: she should be given responsibility. Of course, she has that in small measure already. She is given a task – let’s say cleaning - and she is responsible for the correct and thorough execution of the task and she knows that a poor performance will come at the cost of punishment. However, Vyera is an intelligent and creative person: soon she will need to move on and take responsibility for a more extensive area. After all, we are expecting her to complete a challenging intellectual project, to the standard of a doctoral thesis. We cannot expect her to function at a high level academically are revert to being an automaton in other areas of life?”
“No, indeed not. You will remember the burdens Sveta Nikitechna carries ….”
“Yes, of course.”
“I was hoping this girl could in some way …”
“I know: be part of a healing process. Guilt and shame cannot be eradicated easily but this could be a step. As I said, it is early days but I can say you have chosen well, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. Vyera has a kind and generous spirit. A far as I can tell, she still has both of these qualities. It is what you need in this situation.”
“Ah ha. Have you discussed developments in Vyera’s training with Neena?”
“Only in outline. I wanted to have this conversation with you first but I imagine you are …”
“Happy to go forward? Yes. Please do. What did you have in mind?”
“Academics engage in both research and teaching. Vyera has taught undergraduate students herself. I am sure you will have some other projects in planning or even in execution which might allow her to begin to teach others once more …”
“Ah … I see. You mean have her take some part in training other er, recruits?”
“Exactly. Not yet but in due course. When she has had some more experience. With the right recruit”
“Well done, Igor Ivanovitch! I knew your advice would be helpful!”
“It’s a pleasure, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. It reminds me of the old days!”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Footnotes:
1. Safe Words. A word or phrase used in a BDSM scene by one of the players to stop the action in case of fear, anxiety or pain in excess of what they were expecting or were able to cope with.
2. MSU. Moscow State University is known colloquially as ‘MSU’ to Muscovites
© Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2011
I wake up in Neena’s bed. I am still boiling. I had no relief last evening. Quite the reverse. Neena used me and used me and then used me again.
I licked and sucked her. Feet.Toes. Calves. Knees, Breasts. Nipples. Tongue. Labia. Clit. Finally, after she had come, she made it clear that her anal bud required a long and careful lick. She was absolutely clean, thank goodness but even if she hadn’t been, I know my duty was to obey her.
Then she handcuffed me to a short chain fixed to the side of her bed and fondled my nipples as she drifted into sleep. So here I am. The light of early morning is filling the room. Neena is still spooned into me and I’m bursting to pee. She stirs and turns over. Turns again and opens her eyes.
“Rapina! You were good last night. Too good for straight little girl - I didn’t know you were so completely bi - or perhaps you have always been completely lesbian but never had the opportunity to know yourself properly?”
“Spaseeba, Gaspazha but I don’t think I really am. I did what you wanted of me…..”
“Yes you did, didn’t you? And that was all it was, was it?” She looks at me in a way that tells she doesn’t believe it. She doesn’t care though. “Good,” she goes on. “I am pleased with you. It’s time I used you regularly …..” She yawns.
I feel a stab of anticipation. For goodness sake, what has become of me? I am looking forward to being the sexual plaything of this girl. Yet what choice do I have? In every practical respect, I am merely a chattel, to be exploited and used.
“Gaspazha?”
“Rapina?”
“May I go to the toilet?”
“My toilet?”
“Any toilet. Please.”
“Why?”
“I need to pee.”
“Do you? Well, so do I. Come here.” She reaches over me, unfastens the chain from my cuffs and leads me into the bathroom. She has a large walk in shower – a “wet room” in fact. “On your knees,” she says to me. “Over the drain.”
I crouch over the drain, legs apart. I wait. I know that she won’t be pleased if I just do as I need without her permission. She keeps me hanging on for what seems like an age.
“Now pee!”
I still dislike being watched but by this time I am desperate. There is no reluctance on my part. I let go and my urine flows out through the drain holes of my chastity belt. As my pee flows it reminds me that throughout all the sexual congress of last evening, it was Neena who reached climax. It was Neena who enjoyed sexual fulfilment whilst I could only enjoy her pleasure as I remained frustrated and burning with desire. The desire which drove me to do anything and everything Neena asked me to do. The sensation of urine flowing from me, the feeling of my bladder emptying is almost sexual. It must show in my face. When I open my eyes Neena is gazing at me, smiling.
“Enjoy yourself?”
It seems an almost obscene question, but of course Neena knows the answer in any case. “Da Gaspazha! Spaseeba!”
“Good.” Neena smiles with a sympathetic air. “What is the main task of Rapina?”
I have been well drilled in what I am expected to say by now. “To serve others Gaspazha.”
“Over here!” She points to the floor over the drain. “On your back!” I turn and lay on the floor, facing up. She squats over me. “You know what is coming now, Rapina?” I give a whimper. I know what she intends. But if I am to serve, I have to do as she says. “Now it is time for Rapina to have a nice warm drink. She will swallow everything. She will do her best not to spill even one drop!”
Neena stops, evidently wanting some acknowledgement from me. “Da Gaspazha …..” She hears me agree; she can tell I acquiesce. She knows I will do it. She seems even more certain of my obedience than I do. My reverie of a few short moments ago has gone. Do I have to do even this?
I have to because Neena is now kneeling right above me. My head is between her knees.
“Rapina?”
“Da?”
“Where is your mouth?” She frames it as a question but I know it is an instruction. Carefully I place my mouth around her labia. I feel her relax. First there is a short spurt of warm fluid. It stops momentarily, then restarts more confidently as it were, then establishes itself as a rushing stream. I swallow and swallow. It seems to never stop. I do all I can to make sure none of her urine escapes my lips and overflows onto her thighs. Eventually the flow subsides. Eventually I can stop drinking, but my mouth is full of the musty, yeasty taste of her.
“Did you enjoy me, rapina?”
“I have never done that Gaspazha …..”
“That is not what I asked …..”
“I am sorry Gaspazha, I, er I don’t know ….. Was I satisfactory?”
“Yes, you were satisfactory but being satisfactory is not enough. Did you enjoy me?”
Actually I did enjoy her. I am ashamed to say I did but that seems to be my fate. To serve her yet more intimately.
“Well, rapina? I will ask you once more and then I will cane the answer from you …”
“Da, Gaspazha,” I confess. “I enjoyed you.” I can’t look into her eyes, as I admit it.
She realises that I am speaking the truth and taking my chin in her hand pulls my head round until our eyes meet. Her’s, hungry; mine, tearful and defeated. I have to admit that another defence has been breached, another fortification has been over-run.
She smiles. She knows that, once more, victory is hers.
She dictates her terms. “I am pleased to hear it. Do you know? You would not enjoy it half so much if our body had not been carefully protected from unauthorised stimulation! See what care we take of our property, rapina, so it performs just the way we want it at just the time we want it.” (during this little speech, Neena has been gently tapping my chastity belt, to make quite sure I am understand her completely). She continues: “You will soon accept sexual service as a normal part of your service. Regular. Frequent. Something you will look forward to. Something you will enjoy!”
Will I? Will I really? Jennifer Karin McEwan, BSc (Honours) University of Cambridge, PhD student. Wife of Joseph McEwan, civil engineer. Daughter of Colonel Andrew Palmer, Royal Artillery. Looking forward to drinking the urine of her captor. Her torturer. Looking forward to being a sexual plaything of anyone she is given to.
“Kneel and wait!” I kneel on the floor of the shower area whilst Gaspazah gets washed. She goes to find a towel. Presently, she is back. “Go back to your cell and drink some water, then clean your teeth, then go to the back door. I will meet you and Andrei. House Security will permit you these movements on your own – but nowhere else.”
She winks. I get the message. She unfastens my wrists and I go on my way. Just before I leave her suite I notice a curious picture on the wall. It’s a print of an illuminated X-ray. The bones of a lumbar spine are supported by a scaffolding of metal. Is that Neena’s spine on the radiograph? Her souvenir of some horrific accident she has had?
Presently, I am in the basement corridor at the door through which I walked, out into the garden, out into the winter snow. How I remember that day. The day when I first knew that I now lived in a different world. Andrei arrives. He is dressed for a run and carries a pair of running shoes and socks.
“Here, rapina. Yours! Please to get dressed.”
Mine? But slaves do not own anything of their own? I do not put this into words but merely do as I am told. It’s creepy. These are precisely the same make and size of running shoes I wear at home. Even the socks are the same. As if they know every detail about me. As if I am completely transparent to them. My history. My hopes. My fears. My likes. My dislikes. All open for inspection. All laid bare to their gaze. Or perhaps it’s my other life which was merely a dream and – really – I have always been rapina Vyerka?
Neena arrives also dressed for running. She is so beautiful. She is wearing blue lycra capri shorts and a white sports bra. In between her skin is bare, showing her tight toned body. Her hair is combed straight and tied back into a pony tail. Oh, to be able to tie my hair back! To feel it pulling on my scalp again! And above her spine is a fine surgical scar …
“Rapina! Here!”
I go to her. She takes a key and unlocks my chastity belt and smirks!
“A welcome change? Well you deserve a treat after your work last night, but no time for enjoyment just yet – I mean that sort of enjoyment!”
She smiles and wrinkles her nose. They never lose the opportunity to underline how they can control even my most basic desires. Give. Take. Give back. Take away. According to their desires. Always theirs. Never mine. No more personal autonomy, even over my own body.
“Rapina, before we go: I have my phone here. It will keep in touch with your collar. If you fall too far behind, your collar will start to hurt. If you are foolish and try to escape ……….”
“I understand, Gaspazaha!”
She smiles and patronisingly pats me on the butt. Inside I am angry. That nonsense was uncalled for. I’m not a complete idiot. Where on earth could I run to, anyway? But I suppose that’s not the point. She is making sure I never forget how I must live now. Making sure it’s always in front of me. Rubbing my nose in my slavery.
There’s a final humiliation. I catch Andrei admiring the bruises Neena has given me last night, to add to the cane marks which still linger ……
The summer has come and the day will be very warm. You can tell from the smell of the earth. Beneath the trees there are carpets of flowers, blue and white. Soon I am sweating freely but at least I am naked and the air on my bare skin is wonderful. How could I ever have done this in my other life? Neena sets a gentle pace at first and then gradually increases, then slows, then speeds up again, in intervals of I suppose two or three minutes. My gym time has always included work on the treadmill or the cross-trainer but, oh, to run properly again! Do I care if we see anyone? No! I feel free for once and completely brazen about my nakedness.
In front of me, Neena’s blond hair, combed back into a pony tail bobs and shakes, bounces, whips and rolls as she runs and once again, I feel the stab of regret that I will always be bald. I steal a glance at her breasts inside her bra. I had breasts once. Never large, but breasts all the same. Now the effects of all the weight training I have done and the drugs they have given me have left me looking more like a man with large nipples. As if to mock me, both nipples are proudly erect and the rings which decorate them bounce and tap my areola as I run. And my colour. I look with envy at Neena’s creamy pale skin and glance at my own deep brown skin. How fortunate she is not to be a slave like me!
How has it come to this? I worked hard at school and university. I was not promiscuous. I loved and respected my parents. I married …. Yes, I was married. I was a research student working with a world expert and all these things have led me to abject slavery whilst Neena, a girl my own age gets to use me in any way she chooses. She is free. I will always be a slave.
The paths lead us around the garden closest to the house, which peeps through the trees as we run. It’s been built on a slope with the basement corridor (where I live) opening to the outside at the rear of the house and the main entrance (on the first floor from my point of view) opening to the outside at the front. It’s a very imposing building. In the middle, a gracious dome crowns the centre and two wings spring from either side. A collection of “utility” buildings lies to one side, built against a walled garden which must have provided the kitchen produce in days gone by – and perhaps now it does again. The house commands a view of the surrounding country-side which ripples and rolls away into the distance: woods, fields and more woods. The whole place has a tranquil, peaceful air. The path has taken us down to a river which flows slowly by. It is crossed by a small suspension bridge, spanning the dark smooth waters.
We pause on the bridge. “Vyerocka?”
“Da, Gaspazha?” So, after my work yesterday and last night I am now Verochka once more. I feel an absurd stab of pleasure and gratitude.
“The river: we can swim there now it is the summer. Not as warm as the pool inside but often more fun! Anyway: I will send you presently.”
“Spasseba, Gaspazha …..”
Finally, we return to the House. We three spend a few moments catching our breath and stretching – but I feel fantastic! It’s been like a taste of freedom.
“Enjoy?”
“Da Gaspazha! Spaseeba!”
“You are welcome, rapina. Now summer is here, we will do this frequently. There are enough paths and trails within the Estate to give us anything up to a 25 km run.”
Neena leads the way inside and the door locks shut behind us. In prison once more ……
“Rapina!”
“Da, Gaspazha?”
“Here, Andrei – she’s yours.”
Andrei takes me through into the gym for what I expect to be another weights routine. Instead he takes me into one of the side rooms and motions me to lie down on my back on the massage table. He straps me down: my wrists, my chest, my neck. Then he sets up stirrups at the far end and lifts my legs into them. This is different. I wonder what trial they have in mind for me now? Andrei disappears and Neena comes to my side. She leans close. “Rapina? What are slaves for?”
“To do the work their owners set for them.”
“Good, but there’s more, because what you said, could apply to employees. Slaves are there to be used. We have used your mind. We are strengthening your body for physical use. We have altered your appearance for our pleasure and amusement last night I began to use your sexuality. I used you as a sexual toy. Get used to that. There will be a lot more coming, if you will pardon the pun. Will you come? Not always, but this morning might be different because,” she leans forward and drops her voice, conspiratorially, “Andrei is going to fuck you and you are going to fuck him. In fact you are going to try to give him the best fuck he has ever had and it you don’t, it’s the cane. Understand?”
“Da, Gaspazha.”
“Final thing. He is going to take you bareback. You are going to get his sperm right up into your cervix, I hope. And there is nothing you can do about it. You might even come. Enjoy!”
She is gone. I don’t protest as she leaves, nor yet as Andrei returns. I don’t question his right to do this. He is naked, erect. He kneels between my legs. I feel his tongue on my labia. He is good! The tongue travels carefully, gently up and down, up and down. It swirls across my opening, then across my clit. I start to buck as far as I can on the table. He continues carefully working on my labia. I start to get very wet. It’s not his saliva, it’s me. My vagina starts to drool for him. I wanted to save myself for Joe. This is a rape, and yet, it’s not a rape because I am not being driven, I am running with Andrei! My breathing is deep. I am moving my hips to follow his tongue. He laps the mucous pouring from me, then he stands up. He smiles. I feel the head of his penis begin to poke a little way inside me. I mew in response. He replies by pressing a little further in. I lift my hips to him. He slides deep inside me. Oh, get in Andrei! Get right up in me! Stretch me, blast you! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!
Carefully, gently, teasingly he begins to rock back and forth. I reply with my hips, squeezing him as he moves. He smiles. I smile. He rocks. I buck and squeeze. He loosens the strap over my waist. I respond by lifting my hips even more enthusiastically to him. He leans forward and wraps his arms round me and starts to ride in earnest and, in earnest I respond; the mare to the stallion. Each time he surges forward, I squeeze his prick, forward, squeeze; forward, squeeze; forward, squeeze. The pace quickens, builds, the tension in him ratchets up and them I feel him convulse, and then feel warmth deep within me. He comes and comes and comes. I have been properly fucked! I am a toy, to be taken, fucked, exercised, spanked, fucked again – and the shame of it is, I am loving it. I squeeze and squeeze the very last drops of sperm from him. He is still now and as his tumescence fades he slips from me. I bask in post coital glow – and then feel his tongue at my vagina. He is cleaning me with his mouth! How about that? He has taken me and now he is cleaning me, wonderfully, gently, intimately! Even Joe has never done that for me. Then of course, it’s my turn. He straddles the table. His prick inches from my face. He gets off and unstraps my neck Then he is back. I lift my head and start to suck the mixture of my mucous and his sperm I suck and swallow. He starts to grow again. I carefully clean him with my tongue and get to see him develop another full erection. I smile, then giggle. He slaps my thigh. Oh, wonderful heat. Please use a crop next time? He mounts me again. I welcome him into the depths of my body – and the fucking begins all over again.
Email.
From: Neena Alexandrovna
To: Svetlana Nikitechna.
Subject: Rabinya Vyera.
I have now begun to work with Vyera’s sexuality, habituating her to the idea that even in this ‘intimate’ and personal’ areas, her task is merely to use her body to pleasure others with no reference to her own wishes, wishes in either what she is told to do or with whom she is asked to do it.
I had her in my own bed last evening and gave her to Andrei this morning after her training run. She was not (from her perspective) protected by any contraceptive precautions although recently she has received another injection of intra-muscular depo-provera for contraception.
I am pleased to tell you that Vyera has enjoyed – actually very much enjoyed – this new development in her training!
Neena’s email appeared on Sveta’s cell i-phone just before she was due on air and, as almost any news of Vyera can bring on unpredictable emotional responses, Sveta has elected not to open the mail until after her broadcast.
It’s half past ten. The closing credits of “The Next Move” have rolled across the screen. The animated graphic of chess pieces sliding across a map of the Russian Federation has reinforced the message that carefully thought out change is key to the development of the Russian economy and state. “Researched, Written and Presented by Svetlana Kustenskaya,” say the credits. Sveta is proud of that, the sense of something that is her own, entirely her own. It had been a difficult edition, too. Even with Sveta’s experience it had been no easy matter to tread the fine line between the needs of a modern economy and those of what is still, at its heart, a state that prefers not to loosen its grip. She is now alone in her office at the media centre. She takes a deep breath and reads Neena’s message.
Part of Sveta is glad that Vyera has at least found some aspect of her training which she can thoroughly enjoy – at least if Neena’s summary of events is to be trusted – and then it occurs to Sveta that however careful the precautions, girls who get fucked can also get pregnant. Sveta starts to perspire. What would they do if Vyera got pregnant? Instantly, she is back in 1980, leaving her office full of joy at carrying Anatoly’s child, carrying the child into the arms of those who, hours later callously destroyed it. She couldn’t have Vyera go through that same experience. Not for her sake, not for Sveta’s own sake.
Sveta’s heart is racing: she must speak with Neena. The girl must be used in such a way as to reduce the risk of pregnancy to an absolute minimum …
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
I have begun to notice pictures in my corridor and then even in my cell.
They are in my line of sight. Everywhere.
At first I never seemed to have time to look properly but now, perhaps because I am better at doing what they want me to do, I have time.
They all show a girl, like me, in the company of others. She is always happy. The people with her always seem pleased with her.
Here she is serving them tea.
Here she is cleaning a room. The sun is shining through the windows and everything is lit up with a golden glow.
Here she is in the garden picking flowers. It’s a summer day. She is wearing a loose dress and is barefoot. She always smiles.
Then, gradually the pictures change. Little by little. Do they change them when I am not looking? Or were they always like this and I have only begun to see them clearly?
The backgrounds are less general, more specific: things I have seen here. Places and rooms I have been to, here.
Finally, I recognise the girl in the picture: it is me.
Here I am serving tea to a man and a woman. I do not recognize them but in the picture, they smile at me.
Here I am helping the Domestics to cook
Here I am cleaning a room, Neena’s room
Here I am running outside with Neena: she has the encumberance of clothes. I am absolutely naked. Gloriously naked. I am not even wearing my chastity belt.
Here I am in the gym. You can see the definition on my muscles. It looks so sexy!
Here we are swimming in the lake and everyone is happy.
Here I am on my knees looking up. Someone stands behind me, their hand rests on my shoulder. I smile: fulfilled, happy, safe, at peace.
They are taking something from me again. The sense of anger I used to have because I had been stolen. The determination I used to keep inside me, the determination that one day I would see someone again – but I can hardly remember his name anymore. It was a man. Was it my father, or someone else? The sense that I was … was … who was I? I have almost forgotten now. Now I am the girl who is loved, because she is obedient. Fulfilled, because she serves. Safe, because she is confined. Happy, because she exists only for others. Her superiors. Her owners. Everywhere I look now, the image is repeated. Gently, persistently, beautifully, happily repeated: you are rabinya.
I will not be able to hold on to … to …. Jennifer Karin McEwan for much longer. She is like the sand in an hour glass. Each day more and more of her flows away and very soon now there will be nothing left. The pictures are helping to do it and they are everywhere I look. On the walls, in my cell, in my head after I close my eyes to sleep.
Everywhere the pictures whisper to me, “rabinya!”
Has the time come at last? To let the final grains of sand slip out of the hour-glass, taking the final vestiges of the person I once was away with them forever?
I think it really has. I am collared and chained and in prison here. I am to serve a life sentence. There will be no parole for me. I have been trained to serve with all my body, mind, heart and even my soul and to enjoy it, be fulfilled by it, to be at peace with it, even sexually excited by it. Could I ever really ‘go back’ if I was ever given the chance? I do not think so; not any more.
Perhaps I should ask Gaspazha Neena if there could be some sort of ceremony, to formally lay to rest the shreds of memory I still have of a life I once had, in another place, when I was someone else. A funeral for Jennifer McEwan, nee Palmer. An ‘interment of ashes’. To pronounce a final ‘farewell’ and leave these ghosts of my past, to rest in peace?
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg : 2011
“Igor Ivanovitch?”
“Da, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. A pleasure to speak with you again. How can I help?”
“A client has asked me to arrange some arrangements. A meeting and discussion with you would be helpful. This afternoon?”
“Da: where shall we meet?”
“Tverskaya?”
“Tverskaya, agreed.”
It is 5 o’clock in the afternoon and, Doctor Mendeleyev arrives at Anatoly’s office at the Red Square end of Tverskaya Ulitsa. Anatoly has arranged for tea and for a few moments the two men socialise until Anatoly abruptly puts his cup down and turns to business.
“A client has asked me to take the daughter of a business rival. A personal dispute. Something about unpaid debts. This is not my preferred work you understand. This is work for bailiffs, not for me. But, I have known him for a long time. There are obligations.”
Mendeleyev knows better than to try to explore the reasons for Anatoly’s indebtedness to his client. Instead he returns to the matter of the girl. “The abduction is a prelude to extortion? Or is it merely revenge?”
Anatoly snorts. “Actually, it’s more a ‘payment in kind’.” The idea obviously is somewhat distasteful to him. “The proposal is to take the daughter and sell her as payment for the debt. A token payment, really. That just makes it acceptable. If it had just been merely an opportunity for extortion before returning of the girl, then I would have declined. I am not going to be involved in some grubby criminal act like that! Ransom is not my style.”
“Quite so,” Mendeleyev agrees. “You intend to take her into slavery, then?”
“Yes. Then to sell her on after training so that some of the financial matters can be resolved.”
“Ah. And the problem?”
“Two problems. First; she is American. This increases the risks you understand. Others may be content to work far from their home in places where they cannot exercise influence but for me this has usually been unnecessary. The old Empire certainly. Europe, yes. But beyond? The problems become greater the further away you are geographically and culturally. Fortunately, she is working in Germany at present”
“And the other problem?”
“Second; It seems unethical.” Mendeleyev nods. For others it might seem strange but Igor Ivanovitch knows that Anatoly’s approach to his trade has a curious underlying morality. “She will suffer for the inadequacies of her father. This is almost certainly unfair. Of course I do not know if she has, in some way brought about her father’s situation but that seems unlikely. He may – or may not - feel her loss. She will feel her change of circumstances very acutely. Her new life will not be an improvement on her former life. I prefer that the slave’s new circumstances should be better than their old at least in some respects.”
Mendeleyev listens as Anatoly rehearses his explanations. He knows he is not being asked for advice on this. He tries to turn the discussion to an area where he can assist. “So how can I help?”
“It is about when I bring her to the Dacha.”
“You are not using your other facility?” Mendeleyev looks puzzled for a moment and then understanding dawns. “Of course you are using the Dacha to train Vyera. I had not thought you would use it for others.”
“It would be preferable to use my main facility but I was thinking over your remarks about Vyera: giving her more responsibility. I wondered …”
“If it was appropriate to involve her with … ?”
“… the new slave’s training?”
“Precisely.”
“Hmmmm”. Doctor Mendeleyev fumbles with his pipe. He knows Anatoly does not approve of smoking and he does not light up. “Well … perhaps. It will show what Vyera has learned. It will allow us to see how far her loyalties are to you and how far she feels for the new abductee. Then again, it will remind her about her own past life, now lost and her reflections will turn her eyes away from the future. Anatoly Sergeyevitch, there are both advantages and disadvantages here. May I reflect and reply to you in the morning?”
“Of course, old friend. I would rather have a careful answer, than a quick answer.” Anatoly stares past Igor. Talking almost to himself, he says, “I suppose she does not have to know the reason for her abduction. Perhaps that would lessen the blow?” He turns back to his old friend. “Would you like me to have one of the staff drive you home?”
“Thank you Anatoly Sergeyvitch but I like to walk when I have a new problem. It is an aid to creativity.”
In the night I heard someone screaming. It was an angry wailing screaming tirade. I listened hard to make sense of them and then I realised - the words were in English.
In the morning, Neena comes to get me from my cell. She has a black eye! I am appalled. How could someone do that? How could they have overpowered Neena or had her at such a disadvantage?
My surprise must be written all over my face. Neena answers my unspoken questions. “There is a wild animal in one of the adjoining cells. You are to help me subdue her. Come”
I follow her meekly. I notice she is dressed in very ‘serious’ clothes: her high black military boots, a military style tunic and her belt. Her hair is tied is a tight neat pony tail. We pause at a door, two down from mine, along the corridor. She turns to me and puts her fingers to her lips, motioning me to silence. She applies her eye to a peephole in the door – and waits, her right hand on the door handle and the left grasping the swipe card above the card reader which will unlock the door. In an instant, she has unlocked the door, burst into the room and taken her tazer from her equipment belt. She fires at a small red haired naked girl who has just turned bright angry blazing eyes towards her.
The girl grimaces and collapses, screaming and writhing onto the floor and lays there twitching.
“Come” Neena orders, “bring!”
She points to a small bag hanging on the corridor wall.
By the time I join her at the side of the stricken girl, Neena has rolled her over.
She up turns the bag and shiny metal cuffs fall out, a shiny silver colour and lined with black rubber.
“See: they fit like – this. Now you apply them to her anklets.”
I follow orders. It doesn’t occur to me to do otherwise. I snap the bands around the girl’s ankles, feeding one end formed into a tongue into the opposite side which bears a thin recess and squeezing the band shut. It’s not easy as the girl twitches in reaction to the tazer.
“Chain!’” Neena orders.
The anklets each bear a ring riveted to the side and I attach a length of chain with a small carbineer clip to each one which Neena locks shut with a special key. By the time the girl has stopped twitching she has been inescapably restrained: her hands restricted by the chain which passes behind her back and her legs hobbled by the chain between her anklets.
“This slave, who is called Pavea, has messed the floor, Vyera. There is a bucket and a wash cloth outside. Clean her up and help her to her bed” – Neena puts her face close to the girl’s ear and says “– unless she would prefer the floor?’
Neena continues, whether for my benefit or for Pavea’s benefit, I am not sure. “Pavea means small and humble. She is certainly small but not yet humble, which is to say she does not understand her place. Perhaps this first lesson will be helpful to her?”
Neena leaves the cell, banging the door.
I stand up, sigh, retrieve the bucket and return. This time, the door locks and I am trapped alone with Pavea, the dangerous wild animal.
I make to start to clean her up. In gratitude she snarls, “Get your black bitch hands off me - do you hear me? Huh? You people have got no right to keep me here.”
I am completely taken aback. It’s partly the spitting of the word ‘black’. What on earth led her to say that? And It’s partly the ‘you people’; I’m like her, I’m not one of ‘you people’. Can’t she see that?
“Look,” I reply, “you are covered with your own urine. Neena has chained your hands. I’m sure you would be much more comfortable if you would let me clean you up and clean your cell floor?”
“Well, just go and get the fucking key, unchain me and let me deal with myself on my own, stupid! That Neena bitch is going to be sorry when my Daddy finds her.”
Pavea’s outburst is so completely unrealistic I find myself giggling at the girl’s invective but she has not finished.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.” I can’t help my bluntly unsympathetic response. It’s one of those expressions that has always made me feel completely uninterested in the person uttering it. Pavea of course, takes no notice.
“My name is Tracy Randolf. My daddy owns the Randolf Corporation, do you hear? When he finds you, - when he finds me - your ass is going to be on the line. You are going to jail, sister –you and that fucking Neena bitch Do you know, how long you go down for in Texas for kidnapping? Years! You’re facing twenty years without parole! Minimum!”
She spits the words out once more. It’s obviously mean to frighten me but it has the opposite effect. Twenty years. Is that all? Twenty years and then I could go home, Home to see my family, if I can find them. To see my parents if they are still alive. To see Joe, if he still wants me. All in only twenty years. My eyes start to water.
“Pavea, twenty years is a bargain, if you ask me. At the moment I am doing life without parole and without the privilege of visitors”
This seems to stop the silly girl in her tracks, but just for a moment until she recovers her bluster.
“My name you fucking black bitch is Tracy Randolf. Ms Tracy Randolf, not Pavea!”
I sigh once more. I know I said similar things once. How unrealistic I was! How Neena and her colleagues must have laughed at me. Even deep inside, day by day, it becomes more and more impossible to hold on to the person I was. Vyerka is like the sun rise on a frosty morning. Low in the sky and intensly brilliant, the glare making it impossible to be anything apart from Vyerka.
“Pavea. Neena has told me you are Pavea and as far as I am concerned, you are Pavea and if I get caught, calling you anything else apart from Pavea, my bum is going to be caned long and hard for disobedience and I can’t see any reason so far, why I should put my bum at risk for you. Now will you please stand up and get cleaned and you can enjoy watching me wash your floor?”
Sulkily, Pavea gets up and I get to do as I have been told. I wipe her clean as gently as I can and then clean the floor
Pavea glares at me from her bed. “ You’ve given in to them, haven’t you? Well, we Americans never give in. We never give in ‘til we’ve won and we always win in the end. Always. I am getting out of here, just you see.”
“Best of luck”, is all I can say in reply. Once I might have thought she could be right. Now I know she isn’t.
Neena is back in the cell as soon as I have completed my given task. She must have been watching. I am so relieved I did not make common cause with Pavea and start calling her by her old name! As if in confirmation, Neena says: “Vyerochka! We are taking this creature to the punishment room!”
To which Pavea succinctly replies, “Go fuck yourself, bitch!”
Now she has been restrained, it’s an easy task for Neena to pass a thick leather belt around Pavea’s waist and attach a chain to it. She drags her out of the cell and along the corridor. It’s a familiar route for me. We enter the room and, accompanied by volleys of invectives and expletives, Pavea is strapped over the punishment bench, her bum nicely displayed and completely vulnerable.
“Now, Pavea, Vyerochka can tell you lots of stories about her time in this room. I have wondered about how to deal with you. I thought of the whip and then of the cane and finally I decided to flay your skin with a birch. You will be birched to punish you for daring to strike me and to begin your education. You are a slave, Pavea, and slaves accept discipline!”
For all her abrasive unpleasantness, I have to admire Pavea. She glares back at Neena and spits out: “You, sister: you are going to jail – like her.” She wags her head in my direction. “I tell you, the Law will find you wherever you are and I am so going to enjoy testifying at your trial.”
“Vyerochka; I have heard enough of this nonsense. Gag her!”
I wrestle a heavy leather panel gag and harness over her head, clamping her jaws shut with the straps over her scalp and pressing the heavy stiff leather pad over her mouth by pulling the strap behind her head tight, too.
When Pavea has been silenced, and she has had her fill of trying to dislodge the gag by shaking her head, Neena squats down in front of her and meets her angry gaze directly. “Now, listen to me. Listen to me. There will be no trial because we are not in the United States.
If you go east or if you go west, we are separated from the United States by an ocean. You are here to learn some manners and to learn your place, a place in which you are a mere slave. You have also to learn a new language. Vyerochka will start your further education and teach you numbers and you will commit them to memory on pain of another birching.” She pauses and stands up. “And now, I am going to begin and you are going to squeal.”
With that Neena turns and grasps a generous bunch of birch twigs. They are green and whippy. She takes her stance and swipes the switch across Pavea’s bum. Pavea’s eyes immediately widen and she inhales sharply. It’s clear that this will be an arduous few minutes. I am standing next to Pavea and merely say.
“One, but in your new language, Adeen!”
Neena swipes Pavea again. The birch is generously broad. It covers the whole of Pavea’s buttocks with each stroke. Pavea sucks air in and her eyes widen once more as the twigs land. As she breathes out, she lets out the first squeal.
“Two, or as you should say now, Dva!”
Neeva paints Pavea’s bum for the birch a third time. This time she is screwing her eyes up and beginning to pull against the straps which hold her implacably, presenting her buttocks perfectly. There will be no escape for her until she reaches whatever destination Neena has chosen.
“Three, in other words Trey”.
Neena changes position. This time the birch will strike right to left instead of left to right. She carefully delivers three more strokes. She does not hurry, leaving Pavea just enough time to ride the wave of pain to the crest before urging her onwards, higher. But the time Pavea has ‘enjoyed’ six strokes she is sweating and mewling constantly.
Neena pauses and walks slowly round to face her directly. Once more, Pavea and Neena are eye to eye but it’s only Neena who is speaking.
She lays a hand on her shoulder gently, almost encouragingly. “Now Pavea! Slaves must learn they will always be under discipline and they have to learn that quickly. I always like to see a new recruit gets a taste of punishment as soon as possible after their arrival. That was your first six strokes. You are a rude, bad tempered, headstrong girl who has struck her trainer. That is not going to be tolerated – do you hear me, Pavea?”
Pavea still has enough presence of mind to realise when she is beat – at least in this round. Her tear filled eyes stare back at Neena who continues. “Your next six strokes are your punishment!”
Pavea obviously thought she was through because even before Neena has resumed the session, Pavea has begun to wail through her gag and squirm in her bonds.
“Vyerochka: where are we?”
“Shest, Gaspazha – that is Six, Pavea.”
“Shest, Vyera? Shest? Surely we are only at cheteryi? Oh - Pavea,” says Neena, addressing her directly once more, “that means four.”
Pavea goes wild! She bucks and squeals and pulls at her bonds. She had hopes that Neena had completed her birching. She then had to absorb the news that she was only part way through and now she is burnt by Neena’s teasing about the number of strokes she has already received …
“Yes, Vyera I am sure it was only four. Still, punishment is always good for slaves. If Pavea is to receive a couple of extra licks I am sure she, in due course, will thank us for spending extra time with her.” Neena implacably paints her birch across Pavea once more. “So! Py’at!”
Five … six … seven … eight … nine … ten … eleven … twelve times.
Each stroke is carefully measured. Each stroke briskly delivered. Each stroke splaying out over Pavea’s bum leaving a trail of bright red, ridgy welts in its wake.
As the punishment carries on, its clear Pavea is in another world. She squeals just as Neena told her she would, squeals, bucks and writhes. By the twelfth stroke her face is streaked with tears, mucous streams from her nose and drool from around the leather pad that gags her. She is panting and heaving, trying to breathe through the pain.
Neena carefully lays the switch down. She crouches down again in front of her prisoner. She graps Pavea’s bushy hair and once more, forces eye to eye contact.
“I can do that to you any time I want, Pavea! Anytime I think your behaviour needs to improve a notch, it will be the birch, or cane, or whip. My resolve will not break. Vyerochka? Clean her up, wipe her bum with the brine cloth and leave her to burn for a little while … oh wait … what have we here? She has pissed herself again! You will not forget the floor Vyerochka, will you?”
I nod in acknowledgement. No, I will not forget, because if I do, I will have to change places with Pavea and I have no wish to ‘further my education’ at present.
Presently, Neena and I escort Pavea back to her cell. She is still wearing the leather restraint belt around her waist. Neena chains her to a ring on the wall, giving her enough room to reach the toilet and the door but not enough to pass through. On Neena’s orders I write out the numbers zero to ten in figures and below each one the name in Russian in English letters and Russian Cyrillic. I write figures on separate index cards and stick them to the cell wall with blue tack.
“Pavea …”
“Tracy!”
“Pavea …”
“Are you completely stupid? My name is Ms Tracy Randolf!”
“ … You have a number – well, you will soon have two numbers. One will be your registration number on the International Register of Slaves and Submissives and the other will be your number on the Asset Register here. They will be tattooed on you. See: here …” I show Pavea the tattoo on my breast. The tattoo which rewarded my headstrong and ill-considered rebellion … when was it? I have forgotten. So long ago now ….
She furrows her brow. I can see she must realise that there is the possibility that I am telling her the truth but I can almost see her make the mental effort to push the obvious conclusion away…
“So I will soon have the option to call you by your number, if you would prefer?”
“You little bitch! Goddam you! Either you are one of the Faculty or you have sold out. You’re the worst kind of nigger. Black but wants to be white.”
Pavea’s remarks cut me like a knife. I could be close to this girl. We could be allies to help one another through, but instead she heaps insults and invective on me at every opportunity. I close my eyes, “I’m not black. I was as white as you when I came here. If I’m black now it’s because they did it to me. And, if they want to, they’ll do the same to you. They’ll do anything they want to because they can. You have to know that.”
For the first time Pavea’s aggressive stance weakens. “What?”
“They did this to me. And they’ll do it to you. If they want to.” I don’t want to say anymore. I feel tired. I turn and explain the index cards. “Gaspazha Neena will test your knowledge tomorrow Pavea. I would learn the numbers, if I were you’
“What Neena?”
“Gaspazha. It’s the formal way to address a female superior or someone you don’t know well in Russia. Literally, it means Mistress”
“Russia? Don’t gimme that crap. We are in Germany and you can get extradited Stateside from Germany. Like I said. You two will end up behind bars in my home state pretty soon now. Mistress! I’m not calling that Neena bitch Mistress.”
Another wave of fatigue breaks over me. I can’t be bothered to argue or even warn her about the consequences of what she is doing. It rakes up so many painful memories of defiance followed by utter defeat. I turn from her and close the cell door.
Alone in my own cell, I have the opportunity to muse over Pavea’s remarks about prison. Prison would be so much better that slavery! I would know why I was there and why I had deserved it. I would be able to have visitors. Joe and my parents and brothers and friends would know where I was and what had happened to me and why.
Joe and my parents would have closure, Joe could start his life over or stay married to me, just as he wished and I would know how long I had to serve and be cared for by the Authorities in a way that was regulated, all set out in black and white. My fate would be public and official, not a strange disappearance. Yes: how lucky I would be, to be in prison.
A MORNING’S ORIENTATION COURSE. SIGNS OF THINGS TO COME
“Good morning Rabinya!’
Neena is in my cell. We go through the familiar litany at the beginning of the day; “Washed?”
“Da.”
“Teeth cleaned?”
“Da.”
“Cell cleaned?”
“Da.”
“And tidy?”
“Da.” (but what is there to tidy?)
“Language studies from yesterday?”
“Da, spaseeba, Gaspazha.”
“Breakfast?”
“Nyet, spaseeba Gaspazha.”
“Toilet?”
“Nyet spaseeba, Gaspazha”
“Harosho, rabinya. You are making progress! New slaves have so much to learn and it is important to teach them just how much their lives have changed. Not everyone is a natural submissive and some have to learn to be so. It is often very difficult for them but there are things we can do to help. Today, we will help Pavea again. Go to the kitchen to get your food and report here. Then I will permit you to use the toilet. Fifteen minutes only.”
I scurry away looking forward to having even my plain food to eat but also anxious about having to face Pavea again. In fact Pavea feels like a bigger ordeal than the demeaning toilet supervision I have to endure …
Pavea is once again her defiant, surly aggressive, self. She takes care to direct her unpleasantness at me, rather than at Neena. Perhaps it’s a survival technique she learned is some corporate jungle, somewhere?
“Why the fuck do I have to see you again?”
She completely ignores Neena as if she was not there.
“Can’t you just take yourself off some place else? Just get the hell out of it?”
“No, rabinya Pavea,” replies Neena, re-exerting control of the situation. “Rabinya Vyera is here to help you – adjust.”
“Help me adjust? Her? She is a disgrace. She has sold out to you people. I wouldn’t trust her not one inch with anything.”
Pavea’s arms are still chained so once more, it’s a relatively easy matter to strap the transport belt around her and take her out of the cell. I pull on a lead clipped to the belt. Neena grabs a handful of her hair and pushes her from behind. Between us we get her into the ‘medical room’ and strapped onto the examination couch. It’s been set in the upright position.
“Vyerochka: take this and shave Pavea’s head. Completely bald. Leave no hair. Then go over her again with an electric razor. I want her completely smooth – as any new slave should be. She has to see herself in a new light. I want her to see herself bald every single time she catches sight of her reflection!”
Pavea gasps and turns wildly to look at me and then back to Neena. “Get the fuck away from me you bitch you would …” Her voice falters. Perhaps for the very first time she sees me and takes time to recognise what she sees.
“Well, rabinya?”
Neena looks at me and hands me the clippers. She raises one eyebrow quizzically. This is a test for me as well as an ordeal for Pavea. Will I follow orders without hesitation or question? Where is my loyalty? To my Owners (personified for the moment by Neena) or to a fellow abductee, a fellow westerner?
Pavea is looking wildly from one to another. She is not quite certain if this is a bluff. “Look you stupid bitch, I can’t go back shaven? It’s going to be all the worse for you when they catch up with you. This is serious assault, you mother fucker you are gonna leave me alone. Do you hear? You are going to leave me alone!”
I clear my throat. “No Pavea. I am going to do exactly as I have been told.” After all: this is about survival and anyway, I have grown used to being bald. A long forgotten memory returns to haunt me. Me in another place, with a shortish haircut, me strapped into a chair, being invited to look at the statuesque, outstandingly beautiful Ramatou Diallo, Miss Face Of Africa 2006. Her full African lips, ravishing smile and clean shaven head. A genial American was shaving my head. How did he do it? Start at the bottom and move slowly up to the crown. Start at the back and move round to the side. First one side, then the other. Finally, come from the front up to the very top of the crown, and there you are. Shaven. Well, buzz-cut.
All the while, Pavea has been screaming and shouting at me, trying to dodge her head away from me, but there is no escape for either of us. No escape for her, because she is firmly strapped down and wherever she moves her head, I patiently follow. No escape for me, because I have been given a direct order by my Superior and in any case, I am shaving Pavea for fear that something far worse will befall me if I do not.
And then I am finished. I am standing in front of this now crying and weeping girl, surrounded by a pile of beautiful fuzzy red hair, finishing her off with an electric razor to get her smooth. Like Samson, now her hair has gone, her strength seems to have gone and the poisonous words which poured from her mouth have gone too. Flowed all away as her hair lightly fell to the ground.
“Almost finished” announces Neena. She is pressing her advantage, now the sting of her enemy is drawn,
“Vyerochka: hold her head firmly. No! More firmly than that … better. Don’t you dare let her move, do you understand?”
From a surgical bowl, Neena draws an IV introducer and with Pavea’s attention still caught up with the removal of her hair, Neena passes the introducer straight through Pavea’s septum: line up, check orientation, one firm push through. For a split second, Pavea’s septum resists. The tissue refusing to give way and then it is defeated by the scalpel sharp edge of the introducer.
Pavea gasps. Her eyes widen once more. She tries to focus her eyes on what Neena is doing but it’s too late. Neena was too fast. Pavea knows immediately she has been pierced, and as I continue to hold the sobbing Pavea steady, Neena withdraws the introducer and threads the septum ring through the cannula and withdraws the cannula itself, leaving the ring inserted.
I gaze at it. As I carry piercings, I have a personal interest in those of others. The cannula must have been non-standard, because Pavea’s ring is thicker that the standard jewellery gauge which is usually inserted. 3mm rather than 1.5? But the issue is the statement that the ring will make. This ring declares that the girl who wears it is a slave. Neena is inserting the ball closure. She has to squeeze the ring-opening pliers very firmly to find enough room to insert the ball. Once in place, she relaxes her grip and the ring closes with a very firmly with a sharp metallic Snap! This ring is not coming out. Even Pavea must realise that.
I have done Neena’s bidding and assisted her with no feelings of guilt or regret – or even remorse, for what I did to Pavea. I think I actually enjoyed watching her transformation begin – felt satisfied at the role I played in it. And yet, how can I regard what I have just done with such equinimity? How can I have played my part in this cruelty? Because I no longer think it is cruel. Pavea is a slave, like me. This is what happens to slaves. It has all happened to me. Pavea has to earn the new realities of her life. To pretend her life could carry on as it did before, thanks to some thing I said or did or did not do – well, I have learned from bitter experience that I might as well try to hold back the incoming tide. Encouraging Pavea to shelter behind such a futile hope - that would be the real cruelty.
This has been Pavea’s watershed moment. The time when she was forced over the cataract and fell into the boiling waters beneath. The moment when Tracy Randolf vanished and Pavea, rabinya surfaced from the seething cauldron.
Email: Neena Alexandrova to Igor Ivanovitch Mendeleyev, copy to Anatoly Sergeyevitch
I have completed the first day’s training with Vyera helping me to process the new slave Pavea.
Pavea took every opportunity to be as unpleasant as she could, especially to Vyera, who she plainly sees as some sort of traitor. She, Pavea, spoke and behaved exactly as do some characters in American Police dramas; so much so that she was almost a caricature. This is unfortunate because it protects Vyera against the temptation of being sympathetic to Pavea.
However, there were three incidents during which Vyera demonstrated her attachment to us. First when she was alone in the cell with Pavea and Pavea was demanding to be called by her own name. It must have stirred memories for Vyera but she steadfastly refused to use any other name but Pavea.
Second, she shaved Pavea’s head as instructed and was not deflected by Pavea’s invective (at first) nor by her tears (during the process).
Third, Vyera assisted me in placing Pavea’s septum ring, with no flinching.
In conclusion: there is some evidence of Vyera’s habituation to her slavery even when she is given an opportunity to look backwards, but I cannot accurately tell how far the habituation has gone, as a result of this particular challenge, thanks to the unpleasantness of her “American Cousin”.
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
CHAPTER 18 : A NIGHTCAP.
There has been some sort of party.
I only know because I have been working to prepare it, and to see that it is a success. I have not seen the guests; I have been kept hard at work downstairs in the kitchen. I can’t help feeling like Cinderella. Yes, I bloody well should be going to the ball!
In real life, but I actually mean in my former life, I was a university lecturer, married to an engineer, working for a PhD, with a wide circle of friends. To get me here, I have been drugged and abducted and subjected to all sorts of unpleasantness, humiliation, exploitation and brutality. If anyone deserves to go to the party, I do!
Instead, I have been made to wash floors (this morning), clean the kitchen (this afternoon) and be a kitchen porter (this evening). I have washed and scrubbed, chopped vegetables, scoured pans, cleaned work surfaces, got things out from cupboards and stores and put things away again and wiped down and tidied up - and there has been that wretched Pavea creature to put up with. She and I had to scrub the floors together. Whenever, Neena’s back was turned. Pavea took her opportunity to threaten me with all the things she would do to me when she gets home. The only consolation is that her threats are completely empty. Neither of us is getting home. Ever. How I wish we were – even if that meant going to prison. Prison and a time-limited sentence would be so much better than what I have now: a never ending life of abject servitude.
To add insult to injury, as the day has worn on, they fed me bland, meagre, food and nothing else. My tummy is rumbling and I have been tortured by the wonderful smells of cooking.
The main event is over now. I am surrounded by more tedious things to do. Rinse plates, stack the dishwasher, hand wash the glass and china – there have been twenty people here for goodness sake; I will be here till midnight. Then I have to wrap and put what has not been eaten back in the fridges and the cold pantry.
I am eyeing the leftovers. They have had poached salmon. Some lies, quite untouched, on the serving dish. There is also some wine left. Actually one bottle is almost three quarters full.
I wrestle with temptation. I should probably just leave all this. That’s the “safe” thing to do and it’s probably the “required” thing to do, but I am alone in the kitchen. With this lovely food. I have done as much as anyone to get the meal ready. Bugger them! What’s needed here, is some restorative justice! And my commission for being involved with Pavea. I’m getting into her American way of thinking!
I make another furtive glance round. I am completely alone. The salmon looks so good, smells so good. It’s been baked on crushed rock salt. Perfection! I take a fork and gently press down on the flesh. It flakes away. Another furtive glance. Am I expecting an alarm to go off?
Quickly I pop the morsel in my mouth. It is good. Very good! Still no one comes. I help myself to some more – and then some more again. Now that’s better! Shouldn’t be greedy – but they will never miss a little more. I have a little more, well quite a lot more. Very satisfying! And with it? Wine, of course! Aha - a German white, Trocken. Brilliant. I take a swig from the bottle and swirl the cold, pale yellow, fluid around my mouth. Now that’s good, I think. Crisp, bone dry, definitely better that the last bottle I got from Waitrose! (1) It probably cost quite a bit more too, I expect.
I am still alone. I’m getting quite bold. A glass: yes I will finish this episode with a glass. After all drinking it out of the bottle hardly does justice to something this good. The wine feels better with each mouthful. Even so, there is a worm of doubt wiggling in my mind. For a moment I have returned to the world I once used to inhabit but now I must come back to the new world in all its grimness. Back to plain boring food; back to working below stairs; back to being Cinderella in her tattered clothes. Actually, no clothes at all in my case. Perhaps it would have been wiser to leave well alone?
Shortly after, two of the Domestics bustle in - Damdinsuryn and Batachikan - and my routine begins again. Tidying. Rinsing, washing, drying. By 2am the job is done and I am escorted back to my cell.
As I arrive, so does Neena. She is still dressed as she must have been for the party. She has a wonderful royal blue cocktail dress and black strappy sandals on her bare feet. She looks so beautiful. I am surprised to find her here with me at this time of night.
“Rapina!” she says brightly. “Did you enjoy your evening?” She’s smiling; she has obviously had a good time. And perhaps too much to drink?
For a moment I do not know what to say; whether it should be “Yes, thank you. I was glad to serve you. Was I satisfactory?” or perhaps the more honest “No actually! I have worked all day and I have been on my feet since 6 am and it’s now 2 am and I am bloody exhausted.” In the end I say nothing.
Neena continues, “I like baked salmon. It’s one of my favourites.”
Like an idiot I reply, “Yes, it’s very good isn’t it?”
“How do you know?” She is still smiling but the tone of her voice is suddenly cooler.
I’m worried now. Does she know about my illicit meal. “Well, err, I have had it before.”
“Before when?” Now her voice sounds almost forensic.
“Before I came here.”
Neena looks coolly at me. “Actually Vyerka,” she says slowly, “you had it (she glances at her watch) two hours ago.”
How does she know? I was alone? I looked! By now, though, it is clear to anyone that Neena is right because my face has blushes a deep red. I look down to hide it. Looking down. Another admission of guilt. Or maybe she just thinks I am being respectful.
“Here,” continues Neena. “A night cap!”
She hands me a small shot glass filled with a fawn liquid. It could almost be Bailey’s Irish Cream. I don’t really feel I have any choice but to drink it. It has a musty, “hairy”, taste. For a second or two after I drain the glass there is just the after-taste; odd, not alcoholic, not pleasant but not unpleasant either.
Then, suddenly, my stomach heaves. I dash to the toilet and the remains of my contraband meal spew down into the pan. I heave again. More. And again. More. Now vomit is filling my nose and mouth and streams down into the toilet. I turn to look up at Neena. I can hardly make her out through the tears which are being squeezed from my eyes. She is wrinkling her nose at the smell I am making and the sight of me, retching.
“Ohhh,” I groan, clutching my stomach and crouching forward as another stream of liquid powers from me. “Aaaah.” I lean to one side and heave again, dryly retching into the toilet. “What was that drink? … Oh! This is not fair!”
“But it is fair! Taking things that don’t belong to you is not fair. Don’t deny it. Here is a video of you in the kitchen.” Neena holds up her I-phone and plays a video. It has obviously been taken from a security camera. But where was it? I thought I had looked!
“Then why ... hurrlp...” I double up once again.
“Because if you take things you will be made to give them back and you will be made to give them back at our convenience, not at yours. Now, after you have given back what you have taken, there will have to be punishment. I have not whipped you yet? Something to look forward to. To help you understand your place. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Vyerka! Oh, tell me, was it worth it?”
I gasp and retch and spew and retch and I can’t speak. There’s the raw feeling of stomach acid in the back of my throat and the taste of my own vomit to distract me.
“No,” continues Neena, her disappointment and disapproval clear in her voice. “I suppose it wasn’t. Remember your place next time, rapina Vyerka. You are a slave. Slaves DO NOT enjoy the privileges of their Owners.” Her admonishing words are interrupted as another wave or retching racks me. “And here is the irony: I had authorised the Domestics to give you some of the fish tomorrow, for your breakfast. A reward for hard work. Still, now you are getting a different reward for different work! Good night, rapina.” She turns on her heel and leaves.
Fish! The very idea fills me with revulsion. Another wave of nausea sweeps over me and I can feel there are more of them gathering strength, waiting to break over me, waiting to break me.
Neena’s words are still running around my head. My place? I cannot forget my place after this! I wish I had been more thoughtful. I knew I should have left the food severely alone. Strangely, I don’t feel resentful, that I was caught or that I am going to be punished – whipped, even. I actually feel I deserved to be caught, deserve what is happening to me now and deserve to be whipped. In fact, I feel that I should be more grateful for all I do enjoy, all the privileges that they do give me, and that I should not take things for granted here. I now have to rely on my Owners, for all that I once took for granted when I was someone else, in some other place, in some other life, which I can hardly remember anymore.
“Why are you here?”
“To be punished, Gaspazha.”
“What are you to be punished for?”
“For stealing food, Gaspazha.”
“Do deserve your punishment?”
“Yes, Gaspazha, I do.”
“I am going to whip you and you are going to thank me for each stroke, do you understand?”
“Yes, Gaspazha. I am sorry for the way I behaved.”
“Why will you thank me?”
“It will teach me my place. Help me to remember. If ever I am tempted again.”
There is another witness to my punishment. She has been tethered to one of the columns supporting the roof. It has small metal rings brazed on it for just such a purpose. She chooses this moment to say - “Oh please! I have never heard such bad play-acting in my life. Even in Grade School. You two are just the limit.”
Neena ignores the interjection. “How does your tummy feel this morning?”
“It is sore, Gaspazha.”
“Have you had anything?”
“Only water, from the jug in my cell.”
“Very well. Here is the first stroke. You will count. Strokes you fail to count will merely be added as extra. I will not tell you how many you are to receive.”
I feel such an idiot to be standing here, so exposed with Neena elegant and formal, with Andrei looking smart in a suit and tie and with Pavea watching me, gloating at my humiliation. It’s so embarrassing, to have been caught so easily. I should have known it was a test, last night. I was given the opportunity to show what I have learned, to show that I could behave myself – behave as I have been told to do, without someone constantly watching over my shoulder.
But like the silly little fool that I am, I did not do what I should have done. I just gave in to temptation. I wanted to pay them back when the opportunity presented itself. Now I have to pay for my foolishness. I am going to pay dearly. I deserve to pay. Oh, what a fool I am …
I have been strapped to a St Andrew’s Cross in the gymnasium. A wide leather belt has been placed around me, to protect my kidneys but otherwise, the back of me is fully exposed. Heels, calves, thighs, bum, back and shoulders.
Neena is standing behind me. She was there when Andrei brought me here. She was dressed rather formally, in a crisp white shirt and the black leather skirt she often wears. A simple but substantial black leather belt passes around her waist, closed by a yellow brass buckle. It is almost masculine. She wears black tights and black military boots which end just below her knees.
In her hands she holds the whip which will help me understand exactly who I have become now. She made sure I got a good view of if before I was strapped in place. It was a light tan and thick. Dangerous. Serious. Something which can cause real pain, can cut and split my skin. Now I wait. I can hear the quiet thud as Neena uncoils the whip and its tail spills onto the floor. There is a feint rustle. That must be her taking up the handle, holding the tip delicately in her free hand. I am facing out towards the gymnasium windows. Outside the rain falls softly. There is a feint reflection of her in the glass.
I catch a glimpse of movement, am conscious of a hissss and then a sharp crack! against my right shoulder. The whip stroke burns bright and hot. How is this going to feel as she moves down my back? Across my ribs? There are waves of panic rising inside me. This is serious. There will be real pain. I cannot avoid anything she wishes to do to me. I am going to suffer for my own stupidity.
“Adeen!” I gasp and mew.
“That’s one, in case you had forgotten,” offers Pavea.
“Good!” She replies. In Russian, ‘Haroshow!”
She strikes again.
“Dva …ah .. ah!” The whip strikes my left shoulder.
“Haroshow” comes her reply.
“Treeeee …..” She is moving down my back. The whip has licked round the side. Into the area below my sholder, across my upper ribs. She will whip me on the other side next. I just know the tail is coming snaking towards me …
“Chet …eeeeer …reee.” The whip does not fail my expectations … is hot, caustic and unremitting.
“Pe ..eee …ya …ya …yat.” It it burns a vertical stripe down my spine. There are voices in my head. Reproaching me for being a little thief, for taking what did not belong to me, my body has to suffer for the sins of my mind or perhaps my soul?
“Your skin is marking beautifully …” Neena’s lips are at my ear. I can smell her now. Fresh and sweet. “When you have served your sentence, I will have you photographed and the imaged placed in your cell, to remind you of the price of disobedience and presumption and theft. What do you say?”
“Spaseeba Gaspazha. I would like that very much. It will be very helpful to me.” I know that it’s what she wants to hear and I almost believe it.
Her voice is warm, almost encouraging as she says, “Haroshow, rapina!”
“Now you listen here: you two just love this, don’t you? You are both just getting off on the whole performance. Play-acting! It’s supposed to be punishment but you’re just a couple of lesbos into BDSM!”
Pavea’s scolding, gloating opinions heighten my sense of shame and dejection. They drag a sharp nail over the wounds Neena is raising on my body. Her presence is making the punishment all the more severe and humiliating.
“Shhyee … eeest!”
Another whip stroke has found my skin. It has travelled up across my right buttock from the crease above my right thigh to the apex of my crack. Oh how it burns and scalds me!
“Sem, … sem, … sem, … sem ….” I am sobbing now as another stripes me across my left buttock cheek
“Vo …aaaaaa … ssssem.” The whip has landed across both cheeks of my bum, left to right
It re-ignites all the pain from the other previous two strokes
“AAAAAAgh, AAAAAgh, AAAAAgh, Dye …eeee …eeevit.” And now it repeats, right to left
Oh, oh, oh. What a stupid cow I am! All this for fish and wine!
“AAAAAAAAGH, AAAAGH, AAAAAAGH, AAAAAGH.” I am beginning to howl uncontrollably but I must say the number, I must say the number. “Dyes … dyes … dyesiiiit!” There is another bright burning track down my spine ….
“Oychen Haroshow, rapina. You have taken your whipping very well. Well deserved and well taken. I am proud of you!”
“Huh!” Says Pavea, “A couple of dykes enjoying themselves.” But the bile seems to have gone out of her voice. She sounds tentative, as if the scene played out before her is beginning to undermine her defiance, showing her what might be her fate after all.
“Spaseeba, spaseeba, spaseeba,” I reply, the words tumbling out uncontrollably.
“Just two more – because I expect you still like to count in sixes?”
Two? Two more? I can’t take any more. No more, please … please?
“AAAAAAAA, AAAAAAA, AAAAA,“ The whip has curled over the back of my right thigh. It lands with a loud crack and then tears itself from my skin. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ….”
There has been a loud Crack! and a bright gripping flash of pain across my left thigh. I just howl and howl. I cannot say the numbers! She will continue until I say the numbers and I cannot remember what they are!
“Rapina?”
“AAAA … aaaaa …” my cries subside into sobs …
“Rapina?”
“I can’t remember the numbers, Gaspazha, I can’t remember the numbers …” I am babbling in panic. I can’t remember the last two numbers. What if she starts all over again?
She squeezes my shoulder: “Your sentence is over and … (she is looking down at my legs) …you have pissed your self, rapina. You will have to lick it up.
She has finished? Oh! She has finished with me. All I have to do is to lick up some piss from the floor. Oh! So grateful! I am so grateful.
Andrei releases me and I collapse down onto my knees. My skin smarts and burns where the welts are stretched by my posture. I begin enthusiastically to lick the floor, lapping up my own urine with my tongue – and the base of the cross – nothing must be left.
Without warning there comes a visceral animal sound. For a moment, I cannot understand what it could possibly be it until I catch sight of Pavea from the corner of my eye. She has started to wretch! At the sight of my whipping or at the sight of me licking my urine from the floor? For once, all her confidence has fled from her. I catch sight of her writhing in panic, but held fast by her bonds. She has been appalled by what she has just witnessed and she continues to vomit her breakfast, such as it was. She has no choice but to observe my tortured body and my abject surrender to the instruction of Gaspazha Neena. She must realize at last that I, too really am a slave, and that if I can be subjected to punishment, so can she – and so will she. And she has the memory of her birching still fresh in her mind and the shaving of her head and the piercing of her nose. All these memories must have come flodding back to her. A tsunami engulfing her as she witnessed my own torture and its aftermath.
Presently, the floor is clean and I kneel in front of Neena as the emotional storm which has broken over Pavea gradually clams.
“Well, rapina?”
“Thank you for my punishment, Gaspazha.”
“And?”
I bend forward – Oh how my skin burns and smarts – and kiss her boots: left and right. Toes and heels and insteps and toes. I do not venture up the calves until invited. Neena does not invite me.
“For the rest of today, you will not speak until spoken to. Nod if you understand?” I nod. “Go back to your cell. Wash yourself and then present yourself to the Domestics. You have work to do today. There is a large amount of laundry to be washed, dried and ironed.”
As I leave the gymnasium, I hear Neena say, “And now for you Pavea! I am very disappointed to see you often have so little sympathy for a fellow slave. Andrei: help me put her on the frame. Its time she felt a whip on her back. You will find, Pavea, that the whip burns just a hot if it’s wielded by a dyke as it does if wielded by someone who is straight!”
As I make my way to my cell, the air fills again with the sound of Pavea, wailing in despair at what is being done to her.
Sveta has left early to prepare her TV news programme and Anatoly has time to himself in his office in the Dacha. He has a difficult call to make. Everything to do with Sveta’s history seems to be difficult. He has noticed she is drinking more as Alana’s pregnancy wears on and she is becoming much more brittle. Like dark clouds massing on the horizon, Anatoly’s anxiety is building. He needs advice. He sets up a Skype connection …
“Igor Ivanovitch?”
“Anatoly Sergeyevitch!”
“Have you some time?”
“For you, Anatoly Sergeyevitch I have always time.”
“Er,” uncharacteristically, Anatoly is finding it hard to say what’s on his mind, “its about … you see … I am getting really worried about Sveta and I mean, well it’s probably everything coming together – work, Alana, the baby – but … well I don’t think she is managing things well, at the moment. Actually; I am getting quite worried about her. She is drinking …”
“I see … I see.”
There is a long silence. Anatoly is about to pick up the thread again when Dr Mendeleyev clears his throat and resumes the conversation.
“Has she ever talked to you about Popova?”
Anatoly nods, it’s a difficult area. “About Popova? About the abortion?”
“Quite so. About Popova and what happened.”
“Sveta? No, never. I was told in confidence when I got back from London but I thought I, well I thought it would be best if Sveta told me herself. When she was ready.”
“Hmmm. That was very wise, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. Very wise. And Svetlana Nikitechna has never mentioned anything to you in all these years?”
“No.” Anatoly’s monosyllabic response shows how he feels about this.
“Ah.” Igor nods sympathetically. He knows that it is little recompense but he feels at least he has shown he understands. “What … what Svetlana Nikitechna really needs is a trusted friend or a trained counselor to help her unburden herself. You are her husband and you are too close emotionally. Besides, it’s your relationship and her history which is keeping Svetlana Nikitechna in bondage. This sounds cruel but it’s not your fault – nor hers. However, if there was someone neutral but caring she could speak with, that would be such an advantage …”
“Can you perhaps explain something to me? I’m her husband. We are very happy together. I would have thought that she would find it easy to confide in me. That all these years of marriage would give her confidence in me? Yet she cannot. I feel – well, almost betrayed – have I failed her too? Where have I let her down?”
Igor shakes his head. “It is not because of what you have done but who you are or perhaps what you are. The problem, Anatoly Sergeyevitch, is that you matter. In fact you matter so much that Sveta Nikitechna is deeply afraid that what she has to tell you would hurt you badly and the more years pass, the deeper she feels the wound will be. This is the heart of the issue; you have a family behind you. Svetlana Nikitechna is an orphan and feels her situation acutely. You were a wanted child. She was an unwanted child; an abandoned child. She allowed Popova to brow-beat her into aborting your first child, so there is guilt. Popova played on her fears of abandonment, of being unworthy of you, so there is shame. She was unable to conceive and then carry her other babies – until Alana - so she fears judgment and punishment. These are the memories she always carries with her and they may be brought to the surface by all manner of innocent circumstances. Now there has been the problem of Alana; Alana also failed to conceive easily and I expect that each day, Sveta fears the telephone call which will tell her that Alana has lost her baby and each day Sveta will wonder if the judgment which has fallen on her will also fall onto her only child, because of what she did to that other child.”
There is silence. Dr Mendeleyev’s words are as painful to Anatoly as any he has heard; all the more painful because there seems to be so little he can do to resolve the situation. For someone who has seen and done what he has done it seems almost inconceivable but he feels his eyes begin to water …
“So … is there nothing I can do for her?”
Mendeleyev leans forward, his image enlarging on the screen, first of all with a reassuring smile. “Well … you have done so much already. You are loyal and honest with Sveta, caring, considerate and fun. From her point of view, you have stood by her. However, the present situation … is more a … well even though I am sitting in what some used to call “A Temple to Rational Materialism” … in my opinion, you are dealing with matters of the soul, and not merely matters of the brain. My advice is: continue to be loving and patient but I should warn you that a crisis may be on the horizon. When Alana’s baby is born. This may provoke emotional reactions for Sveta. You may have pieces to pick up. She will need your help. That may be your best opportunity for a proper resolution, when you may both have an opportunity to be completely honest with each other.”
“And the girl?”
“Vyera?”
“Vyera. When I sourced her, I thought she might be useful to Alana after the baby and be good company for Sveta when Alana was busy or wanted time to herself.”
“Yes. Vyera.” Igor’s expression takes on a slightly abstracted look, as though he is staring over Anatoly’s shoulder. “Anatoly Sergeyevitch I have discovered that there is a issue with Vyera.”
“Issue?”
“Does Sveta Nikitechna know the Vyera”s date of birth?”
“Of course: she has read Vyera’s data file. How could that be of significance?”
“I had some research done in the archives at The Centre. Our state has many flaws but it keeps exceptionally good records. The due date for Sveta’s aborted child was the same as Vyera’s actual birthday. Vyera is, I am sure, a constant reminder for Sveta of the child Popova forced her to abort.”
“That can be easily remedied.” Anatoly’s blunt response earns him a chiding look from Igor.
“No. Absolutely not. The damage is done. The extra complication that is Vyera has been added to the mixture and cannot now be withdrawn. If Vyera disappears, history will merely repeat itself for Sveta. I believe that now Vyera is a member of your household, she must stay. But you should watch, my friend. Watch and take care of your wife. Her feelings may prove stronger than she is used to. She may need you to catch her if she misses her footing.”
Anatoly nods. It’s as though he has suddenly discovered a steel ball is, in fact, just made of china. That something seemingly strong and resilient is actually delicate and fragile. He’s not sure that he knows how to deal with this. Igor Mendeleyev knows just what he is feeling but he knows too, that this is not the moment to offer more advice.
Footnotes:
(1) Waitrose. An up-market British supermarket. Part of the John Lewis Partnership.
www.waitrose.co.uk
CHAPTER 19 : THE USE AND ABUSE OF STATISTICIANS
Neena visits my cell in the evening. She doesn’t usually come at this time. It’s generally the time of day when I can get a few moments to recover my senses but suddenly it looks like I won’t even have that chance now.
I stand up as she enters the cell, bow my head and hold my hands behind my back. It’s becoming instinctive, I hardly realise that I‘ve done it. I glance up momentarily. She smiles, it’s friendly but it also seems like an expression of satisfaction at how I am learning to behave. "Your colleagues have been doing some good work recently," she says, "so it’s time to give them a reward."
‘Colleagues?’ She makes this sound like a normal workplace! I suppose she means the group of Koreans that I have been working alongside. I don’t think of them as colleagues: they have rather smart grey uniforms whilst I am always naked, none of them wear collars, and none of them have numbers tattooed on their skin so it’s clear that they are employees whilst I am a slave. A stereotypical response is needed from me now. All I say is, "How can I help, Gaspazha?"
"You can help because you are the reward. Tonight you will serve them in every way they wish. I shall of course receive reports on how you have performed. You will not let me down, I hope? After all, a Captain who gives a reward to her crew will feel very angry if the reward turns out not to be very rewarding?"
Once I would have been appalled. Now I am merely resigned to my fate. Accepting. It’s clear that Neena means that I am to be given as a sexual plaything to a trio of domestics who "had done good work recently". Neena hasn’t specified what exactly the Koreans are going to do with me but she doesn’t really need to.
The Koreans. Actually I have no idea where they come from. They might be from Mongolia? Perhaps China? I picked on Korea, because that was where … what was his name? Joseph! He was called Joseph and that was where he was going, the last time I saw him. How long ago was it now? I really have no idea. Ever so long …
Joe! I still think of him but I am so busy. Days go by before I spare him a thought and even then his memory has totally lost its vividness. It’s dulled, as if I’m anaesthetised. It is like seeing a tiny image of him which gets smaller and fainter, smaller and fainter each time I think of him. All my waking hours are full: wash, run, gym, fuck, do academic work on my data, do housework, wash, lick, suck, sleep and so on the next day. And the next day. And the next. And for so very many days now.
‘The Koreans’ all speak very fast and never really speak to me except to give instructions - "You wash" or "You clean here". One of them seems to be in charge of the other two and I have called her "Tiger Lily", after the Chinese conjurer’s daughter in the Rupert Bear Stories (1) but her real name seems to be Batachikan.
To fill the empty space until one of them arrives I find myself saying, "I shall do my best to entertain our Korean staff, Gaspazha"
"Korean? What are you talking about?"
"Er, Batachikan and her colleagues .. I mean … I thought …"
"Koreans? They are not Koreans. Whatever gave you that idea? They are Tartars, from Mongolia. Their ancestors held large parts of Russia until we overthrew them." She looks at me with a tired expression. "Of course, I sometimes forget that you know so little proper history. It was called ‘The Tartar Yoke’; a dreary period in our history. (2) Now the tables are turned and it is … satisfactory … for us to have them tamed and working as domestic servants. Whilst they are servants to us they are Superiors to you. Slaves never have colleagues except perhaps for other slaves. Slaves only ever have Superiors. Do you understand?"
"Yes Gaspazha. I am sorry I spoke in a careless way."
"You might be," Neena almost snaps. "Ah, here is Batachikan, now, come for you."
She comes over to Neena and I, smiling. She clips a lead to my collar and handcuffs my hands behind me. She puts her had to one side and then the other as if she is considering whether that will be sufficient for now. She seems happy enough.
Before she goes, Neena takes a broad leather spanking paddle from a bag she is carrying and hands it to ‘Tiger Lily’ who bows in gratitude and leads me away. I glance over my shoulder, only to see Neena smiling and blowing me a kiss – as she abandons me to my fate.
Together we climb up to the upper story of the dacha. I have a fleeting few moments to reflect on the short revelatory conversation with Gaspazha Neena. So they are from Mongolia. A wave of regret washes over me. Mongolia. Not Korea. Another thin strand which connects me with my former life has been slashed through: the two ends separate and fall away from each other. Not Korean. No connection with … with … Joe. Mongolian. Even more alien than they were before. I am not going to be used by the sort of people who Joe has rubbed shoulders with. I am in the hands of people whose name and whose home is the proverbial expression of the far-away and remote and utterly alien. Mongols, from Mongolia.
But Neena began by calling them my colleagues and then had to correct herself by underlining the idea that they were my Superiors. Which they may be, but then Neena has made a mistake. She has spoken without due care and attention. So she is not infallible after all …
The Mongolians have a suite to themselves in the very top floor of the Dacha. I guess that it’s the former servant’s quarters. Batachikan points to the ground as we enter and I kneel obediently. She goes through to the sitting room and one of her colleagues – Ssisma - returns, smiling the same impassive smile she usually wears. There is a tug on my lead. I follow the two of them into the bedroom that they all share.
There is one single bed and one double. I am clipped to the foot of the double bed and one of them blindfolds me. The blindfold is leather; soft and completely effective. It is wrapped around my head and closed with a broad Velcro fastening. It is not coming loose until it is peeled off. There is silence. Then the rustle of clothes being removed. Then giggles. A hand begins to play with my breasts, then nipples. There is a gentle tug on my nipple rings followed by the wetness of a tongue. As the tongue swirls up and down my nipple I too start to giggle and, worse, I feel myself getting wet.
It confirms to me, that I have started to enjoy being used. My moral defences have been completely eroded and washed away by the constant assault on them.
There’s a hand brushing my labia. More giggles. They find my wetness. Many more giggles and incomprehensible words now. I don’t need a translation, though, because I can guess what they are saying. "Look at this slave. How wet she is. I thought she wouldn’t like this sort of thing but this one obviously does ……"
There’s a tug on my collar and I follow. It leads me up onto the bed and I am guided between someone’s thighs. A hand presses down on my head guiding it firmly down on a shaven crotch. My lips find a girl’s labia, so I start to brush them with my lips, as gently as they have been with me: up down, up, down. The labia smell slightly tangy, but clean. They get wet. Out comes my tongue, greeted by more giggling and excited words when they see my stud. I lick. Up. Down. Up. Down. The wetness gets more pronounced. Whoever it is must be enjoying themselves because they begin to mew and move their hips. They slide ever so slightly away from me. I have to lean forwards to catch them. It leaves my bum sticking up in the air and Slap! The paddle catches me. Firm. Not brutal. Just an ‘encouragement’ to keep going I suppose. I keep going and so do they. Whoever has the paddle keeps up a steady patter on my buttocks. My tongue keeps gently rubbing the other girl’s labia. She is so wet now that her lips part and I feel her clit. I swirl across it. Making the shapes of letters with the tip of my tongue. She seems to find "O" and "I" and "F" are particularly exciting, because this is where she starts to buck and really squeal and squeal and squeal and comes and how she comes! Comes with a twisting and bucking of her hips; she holds my lips firmly down onto herself and I am in complete intimate contact with this orgasmic female, trapped by her hands and by her colleague behind me.
They pause. There is more rustling. The girl in front of me moves away and some else takes her place. The performance begins once more. I, brush the girl’s labia (not shaven this time) with my tongue. One of them paddles my arse. I assume that the third is enjoying the show. Maybe masturbating herself?
The new girl climbs steadily to ecstasy as my bum begins to burn. I suppose that I am going to have to go through this for the third girl as well?
As the gentle beating goes on, I get more and more distracted by the burning, slapping, pain. It’s a real effort to keep my lips and tongue on target when at last the girl orgasms, thank goodness. I do my best to enjoy the short respite.
Ominously, there is another changing of places, but this time something different is happening. There is a finger on my anus. It runs something slippery across me. I kneel, keeping still. The finger slowly penetrates. It rubs round and round. My sphincter relaxes in spite of me. And then the finger is replaced by something else. Harder. Wider. They press, gently but constantly. I do all I can to relax. A dildo slides into me and there is someone on the other end of it. She mounts me. Holds me firmly round the waist. More noise in front of me and then my head is once more pushed towards another – the final vagina. As I lick, the girl behind me enthusiastically reams out my bum. I begin to pant as I try to lick the other girl’s clit. It’s not a polished performance but what I am now lacking in technique, I make up for in enthusiasm. I am being so completely slutty. As the girl behind me drives the dildo into my bum I gasp and squeal and press forward driving my tongue as far up the other girls vagina as I can and so we go on and on until both of them climax!
I’m exhausted from the physical effort of it and from the psychological shame of it. They strip my blindfold from me and I face them. The three of them are lounging naked, in post orgasmic bliss. They are laughing at me. They know that while they have reached physical emotional sexual satisfaction, I’m high and dry; still panting for it. The front shield on my chastity belt is implacably preventing me getting any relief of my own. Of course they realise and they laugh some more at my predicament. It’s true - I am just here to be used. And the worst of it is that I love it now. I could go through the whole thing again and still want to do it yet again, over and over again.
The following day I am taken back to the University. Somehow Neena seems to expect that I can just forget the things I am being put through, and pick up my academic work as if I were any other researcher. It’s another bizarre contradiction; the measured, analytical me on one hand and the debauched, sexual me on the other.
Neena tells me that I am to see to Dr Mendeleyev and Julia Romanova. I am to give them a report on the progress with my (or maybe their?) research.
She takes me in to a tutorial room half way up the University’s main tower. The windows of the room give magnificent views across the city. Neena has given me the same clothes to wear once more, so I feel rather more confident about giving a presentation. There was a time when I would never think twice about doing this but by now, after taking the subservient role all the time, it feels very strange to "command attention" again and I’m not sure that I even like it anymore. I find I am asking myself if Dr Mendeleyev or Julia or even Neena could present the data and just have me on hand to deal with any details? But it seems that I am not going to be allowed this luxury.
As we are waiting for two other people to arrive, I shuffle my papers nervously and re-read the list of points I have to make. The door opens. The others all rise and greet a tall, very attractive woman in her - well? – it’s hard to say. She’s certainly at least thirty, but could be in her forties, even fifties. She is confident, attractive, poised, elegant. She is followed in by a man ….. oh fuck! ….. oh, oh oh!
It’s the man in the photograph, the photograph that "Agency" showed me after they took me from Inward Bound! This is the man that "The Agency" was so interested in; the man in the photograph on Angela’s desk. I start to feel sick.
"Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky and Gaspazha Svetlana Nikitechna Kustenskaya! Thank you so much for coming!" begins Dr Mendeleyev.
Kustensky. Kustenskaya? The name of the Dacha. So it’s the name of the Owner ….. my Owner!
I burst out in a cold sweat, heart racing, feeling sick with anxiety. This is the man who arranged my abduction and my enslavement. Coming here to listen to me discuss how young innocent men and women were prepared to lay bare their innermost fantasies. To strip themselves more than naked. What on earth might my research be leading to?
Dr Mendeleyev has just finished introducing Julia (Neena needs no introduction) … " and this of course is Vyera. Have you met in person yet? Vyera: come to meet Gaspadeen and Gaspazha." Dr Mendeleyev is using the adult version of my name. For the first time in a long time, I am Vyera.
They stand only twenty feet from me but the journey towards then seems to take hours. What do I say? Do I smile? Even allowing for my inherent desire to be polite I can’t bring myself to say, "Such a pleasure to meet you." What do slaves do when they meet their Master and Mistress for the first time? Their new owners? The people who apparently have the power of life or death over them?
I walk unsteadily over, bow my head and hold my hands behind my back just as I do when I greet Neena in the mornings. For goodness sake why? But I just stand there. The woman takes my chin in her hand and lifts my face so our eyes meet.
"I am Svetlana Nikitechna," she says.
"And I am Anatoly Sergeyevitch", says the man, resting his hand on my shoulder.
"I’m sorry" I try to say, "I am not sure what to do", falling over my words.
"You are doing well, rabinya," replies the woman. She smiles at her companion as if to say, you see there is truth in Vyera. "Please, we should start."
Once these bizarre formalities are concluded, Dr Mendeleyev steers proceedings back towards something approaching normality, in as much as it can be.
"Our purpose today is to give Vyera the chance to describe her findings from this most interesting research project. She has been responsible for data collection and analysis. I have provided advice concerning the approach to analysis and Julia here has provided detailed advice concerning the use of the statistical tests for the significance of differences between the groups of subjects. However, I can say that the work which Vyera is going to describe is the results of her own very considerable efforts ……"
He smiles and holds out his arm, palm open as a signal to me to begin. Everyone sits and turns their chairs towards me. I feel lonely, cold; more naked than if I wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
I suddenly think, what happens to me after this project is complete? Will I merely be disposed of, my usefulness at an end? I shake this thought away. It can’t help things now. Now I just have to get through the report. I clear my throat and begin.
"As you know I can speak a little Russian but this report is technical and I do not know enough words so may I speak in English? "
Heads nod around the table ……
"This project began as a doctoral research project at a University in the UK. It was sponsored by the University Department of Psychology as part of a wider investigative effort into the effect of play behaviour on psychological stress in adult men and women." I am relieved to find that as I fall into my stride everything else slips away and once more, I can function as an academic with something to say: "This investigation tracks the psychological changes which take place in volunteers who take part in extended consensual slavery games.
"Can I ask who proposed this research?" interjects the woman, Svetlana.
"Er, it was suggested to me by the head of department, Professor Dawney … er, as a suitable project and because not much was known about …."
The woman smirks and looks pointedly at her husband who looks oddly – just for a moment – uncomfortable. There has been an unspoken communication. I get the strong feeling that they know all about Angela and the games she likes to play. Gaspazha Kustenskaya clearly does not like her ……
"The project was based at ……."
The more I speak, the more I slip back into the skin of my former self. The more I seem like the self-confident, precise, informed, articulate woman who used to be Jennifer McEwan. Perhaps I am now possessed by her ghost. The slutty creature who lost herself in licking out women she barely knew last evening begins to fade away.
" …… so to summarise. First, our experimental sample was self-selected and thus biased to contain subjects who were likely to enjoy BDSM and MS experiences. Second, during their adventure, they became more confident in their fantasies and more confident about actualising their fantasies in real life. Third, these differences were clearly significant with p values of < = 0.05 and in some cases p values of < or = 0.01." (3)
Dr Mendeleyev raises his eyebrows at this point and glances at the Kustenskys.
"Fourth, the experimental group were significantly different from the reference population whose sexual outlook was (in the statistical sense) normally distributed. Fifth, the strongest "reactors" to the various experiences could be predicted from the answers to the initial questionnaires but there were some other subjects who showed milder initial bias towards BDSM and MS fantasies but who nevertheless began to react strongly and positively as their adventure unfolded."
I stop speaking, my presentation over. My audience sits chewing over my concluding remarks and then spontaneously begins to applaud. I smile broadly and my eyes begin to water. I wipe them with a tissue from the pocket of the jeans I am wearing. So it seems I have done well after all.
"Questions?", asks Dr Mendeleyev, rising from his chair.
"I would like to start", responds Gaspadeen Kustensky. Dr Mendeleyev nods. "So you could identify subjects who would enjoy their slavery experience and complete their training successfully by the use of a screening questionnaire and your identification is usually accurate?"
"Yes, in this sample."
"Can you tell if the training itself was the most important factor, or the people?"
"No: the population was already biased to include only people who were likely to make the most of their experience and training. It’s not possible to determine from this project if it is the people or the training which is most important."
"So if you picked up a subject at random, does the Inward Bound programme make them different people? Are you able to predict the extent to which they are likely to be affected by their experiences?"
Suddenly with a shock I realise where this is going. They are interested in my research because it might identify people who could be trained most easily for slavery! I open my mouth and close it. I feel very dry. I try to speak again but nothing comes out. It is a confirmation of what I have begun to suspect. I am not the first abductee and I will not be the last girl or boy to be kidnapped into slavery and it is the results of my research which will smooth the path of the slavers and help them to identify and train the future slaves!
Gaspazha Svetlana takes up the questioning. "It seems to me that you have tracked changes in people who are already enthusiasts?"
It feels easier to answer factual questions than to give opinions. Somehow I feel that makes me less complicit in all this dreadful criminal conspiracy. "Yes"
"And enthusiasts get more enthusiastic if they are encouraged in the right way?"
"Yes. That’s what the data show."
"And you would need a quite separate investigation into the effects of BDSM and MS training on people who had no bias towards that sort of sexuality in the first place?"
"Yes, certainly."
"So perhaps a randomised controlled trial would accomplish this?"
"I am sorry?" This level of sophistication in Gaspazha Kustenskaya takes me completely by surprise.
"I mean," she continues, looking towards the others in the room, "if one collected a sample of say, 100 subjects and then allocated them at random to two groups of fifty, and exposed one group to BDSM and MS training and the other merely to deprivation of freedom, it would then be possible to assess how effective the Inward Bound methods were at changing a subject’s mindset?"
"Well, yes but how could one ever do that? You would need Ethical Approval and that would imply describing the nature of the experiment to the subjects and then there is the question of informed consent. At Inward Bound they ……." I do not finish the sentence. As I speak, I know that consent, informed or otherwise, is not on their agenda.
Gaspazha Kustenskaya just smiles broadly and nods. Her husband continues, "Yes. I agree ordinarily this would be difficult to achieve."
His tone and facial expression convince me that the sinister implications of his remarks are not only in my mind and that ethical approval isn’t something that comes high upon his agenda. I try to grasp what might be my one last opportunity to rescue the situation and to rescue innocent men and women who might fall prey to these slavers, as I have done.
"But Gaspadeen, but Gaspazha do you need to know if the Inward Bound methods are effective at changing the mindset of someone with no BDSM or MS interest? There is no shortage of volunteers – paying customers too, don’t forget - who want to go to Inward Bound and follow the course there ….."
Gaspazha Kustenskaya then smiles broadly once more and says to her husband, "Well there you are Tolya. That’s why they are interested. Instead of having to go after people, the people come after them!"
I cannot understand the full implications of this remark, in particular who exactly "they" are, but everyone else in the room obviously does. Gaspadeen Kustensky is nodding in his head in a way that says whatever it is that he has just learned has impressed him. Svetlana his wife is looking smug.
We travel back to the Dacha, walking back to the car, then driving through suburban Moscow. As we go I cannot help noticing how many people are speaking on mobile ‘phones. Mobiles: once a luxury to acquire, then something merely useful, now something which could bring about my execution. My hand strays to stroke the collar that defines my slavery and sits around my neck as a continual threat to my life.
The thought wriggles and writhes in my mind. I know I should probably not ask but I cannot let it lay. "Gaszphaza Neena?"
"Da, rabinya?"
"Can I ask you…"
"Well, there will be a cost." She cuts me off. "You have not had a caning recently and I was thinking that it is probably time you felt the cane again, especially after this afternoon. You performed well. Your owners were very pleased with you, but it is important for slaves never to forget what they are, and the cane is a wonderful way to remind them – or the whip, of course." She sees my nervous acceptance of what she says. "Is your question worth an extra caning, given that you will be caned tomorrow in any event?"
I don’t need to think. "Da, Gaspazha. It is worth it."
"Really? No hesitation? So definite? So sure? Well, you had better ask me."
Odd. This woman is my own age. Perhaps younger. We are from the same educational background, I guess. We probably enjoyed a similar upbringing, and yet she is now in charge of me and I must obey her commands. She can dispense physical punishment to me and I have to gratefully accept it. All because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All because others were interested in work I was asked to do by yet another ‘someone else’. How strange the twists and turns of our lives are!
"And your question is?"
"My special number on your mobile phone …."
"Your execution number?" Her blunt response convinces me more than anything else of how real that threat is.
"Er, yes. I am worried about people dialling wrong numbers ….."
"Ha!" Neena laughs out loud. It’s obviously a foolish question but it doesn’t feel that way to me. "Well, what should I to tell you? I could say that’s it’s none of your business - and it’s not, by the way. I could say that it’s a risk you will have to live with." I bow my head but Neena continues. "I could point out that your new country went from a backwards agricultural nation to a nuclear power in 30 years, launched the first satellite, put the first animal in space, sent the first space probe to the moon, photographed the dark side of the moon for the first time, put the first man in orbit and brought him back safely to earth, launched the first useable space station and landed the first ever functioning space probe on Venus. So with all this in mind, do you think our country is incapable of arranging a secure mobile telephone connection?"
"I’m sorry Gsapazha. I see I was foolish."
"Actually, rabinya, you can’t dial the number with just any ‘phone and there has to be two way device to device communication. That’s the real answer. Reassured?"
"Yes Gaspazha. Thank you."
"How much are you reassured? How many strokes is my explanation worth, do you think?"
For a moment I am at a loss for words. "Er … er … well it has set my mind at rest so it has to be worth … several." Neena is really making me squirm now.
"Several? Is that all? To be reassured that you will not be accidentally killed by someone, oh, ordering a pizza say, or calling their lover?" She looks at me with one quizzical eyebrow raised.
She obviously wants me to set my own punishment. If I go too low, she will delight in increasing it. If I go too high, she will delight in giving me more cane strokes than she intended and telling me all about the extra pain I have awarded myself and all for not trusting her and the Kustenskys. It’s another domination game. I asked one question. She gave me five answers. Russia is a "metric state" and things go in fives and tens so I swallow hard and say. "Twenty five, Gaspazha?"
She glances quickly towards me – and laughs. "Yes: twenty five. That will do nicely! Oh and the five you were to get anyway makes thirty. Tell you what. I will carefully record it and have it set up on your computer so you will have to watch your punishment each and every time you switch on. A suitable reminder of what happens to slaves who do not trust their owners as much as they ought? What do you think?"
"Da, Gaspazha. Spaseeba."
"Pazh’ alsta, rabinya!"
We pass the rest of the journey in silence until we reach the Dacha. Neena who has been driving, parks the people carrier, switches off the engine and says to me, "Now, I have your final task for today – well probably I should say tonight. There are three rapacious young women who have been waiting all day to play with you! Go to your cell, take off all our clothes, leave them on your mattress neatly folded and report for duty. You know where to go!"
I can feel my heart rate beginning to climb, my mouth waters and I start to look forward to my "next duty". The Academic has been left 100 km away in Moscow. The slut has reappeared.
"You really are beginning to enjoy this aspect of your service, aren’t you?" Neena has seen through me immediately, of course.
"Yes Gaspazha, I am ashamed to say."
"Ashamed? Don’t be ashamed. That’s an instruction. Do you understand? I said you were becoming wonderfully slutty and sluts are made, not born. I expect you to apply yourself enthusiastically to your sexual service just as you do to any other aspect of your service, but this time, the measure of your achievement will be how much you can wholeheartedly enjoy it.
"Da, Gaspazha."
"Now off you go ……"
I climb the stairs and follow the corridor until once more I am standing outside the door of the suite used by the ‘Koreans’ but as I now know them to be, the Mongols. Another visit to Outer Mongolia. I knock and then kneel. Neena’s words still occupy my thoughts. To be made into a slut. To enjoy being a slut. To be fulfilled by being a slut. Is that really how it must be for me?
The door opens and I look up into the smiling face of Batachikan.
She beckons me inside. Her two friends are waiting for me. This time they are Arban and Damdinsuryn. She is dressed in a silk dressing gown. They are already naked. A large, realistic dildo and a knobbly butt plug stand on a table, side by side, ready.
With no more hesitation, Damdinsuryn lays down on her back, lifts her legs into the air and glances towards me. No words are needed. I am to lick her. Labia, clit, breasts, thighs. I begin to perform my duties. She has evidently been using a skin cream. It makes it easier for my tongue to glide over her body and she tastes nice, in a creamy way. By the time I reach her clit, her cunt is drooling and I have to keep lapping it up, so to speak. The more I perform, the more abjectly I want to serve sexually.
My own sexual desires are almost always unsatisfied (unless Andrei has taken me) and I am constantly smouldering, even burning with desire.
The girl orgasms. In a parody of polite behaviour, she smiles, gives me a short bow and Arban takes her place. I begin again. Kiss. Rub. Tease. Lick. Suck. Kiss. Rub. Lick. Suck. Lick. Suck. Stroke. Stretch. Suck. Lick. Finally she reaches orgasm. She smiles broadly. She bows.
Arms reach around me. The third girl. Batachikan herself. She is holding the dildo.
She finds two recesses in the front plate of my belt and connects the dildo. It’s held firmly by corresponding latches in its base. It juts from me. It’s obscene. Thank goodness I am not a man like … what was his name? The man I used to be with, so long ago? How lucky I am not to be like him, having to waddle round with an erect prick sticking out from your body whenever you are aroused. How much more attractive we girls are! But then sometimes our tits can get a bit hangy. But of course, I no longer really have tits. With all my exercise and diet I look quite androgynous. I suppose I must look a bit like a man? A eunuch with no prick? Except I have prick now.
‘Tiger Lily’ is on the bed in front of me, legs apart. Hips on a pillow. I bend and begin by nuzzling at her labia; careful rub after careful rub. Then I start licking; slow, careful, deliberate licking. She juices. I lap. My tongue travels up from base to clit. Up. Up. Up. Then I swirl across her clit itself. Now she squeals out loud She begins to buck. It’s time I penetrated her. I have never done this before. Better be careful! I slide slowly past her outer ring. I nudge the dildo deeper. She is very wet! There is no resistance. I suppose a man must feel the muscles of the vaginal walls but all I feel is the pressure of the base of the dildo on my chastity belt and receive - as always happens – no sexual gratification from my own vagina or clit – and of course, I feel nothing of Batachikan herself. Slowly, firmly I let my dildo travel on inwards. I have no proper feedback, as a man must have. I wonder what it used to feel like for … that man … when he took me? Suddenly my mons and hers touch. She gasps. Someone swipes me on my bum. I start to pump her. In. Out. In Out. One of the others begins to paddle me. In. Smack! Out. Smack! In. Smack! Out. Slowly, then faster, then faster we three beat out this strange sexual tattoo. Batachikan mews, gasps, bucks, mews, writhes – and comes. And now it’s my turn to give out a little torture. I continue to ream her cunt! She is squealing in ecstasy and I just continue. She is desperate for me to stop. Serve her right if she lets go of her bladder and wets her bed! The other two look on and laugh, obviously enjoying their friend’s sexual discomfort. It’s not long – perhaps a dozen strokes? – before I slowly subside and let her recover.
There is a hand on my shoulder. I stand. Arban has the key to my belt! She gently takes my wrists and cuffs my hands behind me, so I cannot interfere with what they have planned. Carefully she disconnects the dildo and offers it up to my lips. I am to lick it clean. To chuckles of delight and satisfaction from the three of them, I lick the dildo clean of ‘Tiger Lilly’s’ vaginal juices. It’s like licking an ice cream. Perhaps that is what is causing such amusement? Finally, the dildo is pristine and it is laid down. She unlocks the front plate of my belt. Then she lubricates the dildo again by sliding it up her own cunt – and, bobbing down onto her knees, she pushes it up into my own vagina. The dildo still slick with her juices and it is now snuggled right up inside me. There is nothing I can do to prevent them. What about the risk of infection? Now all our juices, our body fluids are intimately mixed.
She lifts the front plate back over my mons. Re-engages the lock and closes it – click! – trapping the dildo inside me. But it does feel good to have a full cunny again!
Arban turns back to the bed. She kneels, head to the mattress, bum in the air – and points to her anus! She wants me to rim her! With a sigh I kneel behind her and begin, circling her bud, sweeping across the little starfish, exploring the crinkles, teasing the opening. She relaxes. Her anus beckons. I really, really don’t like this – ordinarily. But the prolonged sexual tension and the dildo in my cunny begin to work their spell and on I go: margins, centre, inner area. I blow gently on the anus and I see it relax, to show the mucosa within. I feel my bum being patted. It’s a signal. It’s telling me to lick ever more intimately. I obey, rolling up my tongue to fuck this girl’s anus and on I go until she straightens up and Damdinsuryn takes her place and I reprise my performance. Nuzzle, kiss, lick, blow, kiss, lick and as the flower opens, explore her more deeply. Thank heavens they are all clean!
Eventually, I have rimmed all three of them. At least they seem pleased with my efforts.
"Now you. On bed! On knees!
I obey, of course.
Someone disconnects the rear bar of my chastity belt. It gives them access to my anus. A finger runs across it; cool, slippery. It slips inside me, slowly stretching me this way and that. It’s replaced by something firm, hard, rounded. My anus begins to stretch over the head of the knobbly butt plug. The plug seems very slippery. As soon as I relax, it pops in quickly. They continue to push gently. Another bulbous ridge slips inside me. Then another. Then the last and my sphincter grips the terminal groove firmly.
The rear bar of my chastity belt is replaced, securely trapping the plug inside me, just as the dildo has been and for good measure they tie the ring on the end of the plug to the rear bar, to make absolutely sure that the butt plug stays put. One of the Mongolians pats my bum and I stand. They all stand, smile and bow. Batachikan says, "You go back to cell now. Enjoy!"
She smirks. She knows how odd this is going to feel. I’m plugged at both sides. Each way I bend, however I move, the intruders remind me they are there. But there is more. The butt plug is tingling. Whatever they lubricated it with, is beginning to feel peppery. Not painful but very peppery.
I bow out of politeness (after all, they are Sluzhanka and I am merely rabinya) and return to my cell. I shut the door. It locks automatically.
By the time I have cleaned my teeth, my arse is slowly burning. There is nothing I can do about it. The lubricant is buttery. It will not rinse off easily and someone has taken my soap away.
I spend a restless night, unable to find a position where the fullness of the dildo in my cunt does not remind me that its there, filling, and stretching me and in my bum, there is a constant feeling of fullness mixed with a smouldering, peppery tingling ……..
A deep ravine now separates Sveta Kustensky from her slave, Vyera. Some time ago, they could have stood shoulder to shoulder as equals. Two capable women, happily married to successful husbands (both, coincidently in the engineering business) with careers of their own, except perhaps one difference: that Sveta would be older and financially more secure.
But now? Ah! What a difference there is. Vyera is completely and irrevocably in the power of the other woman and her husband and his other employees.
This change of situation is weighing heavily on Sveta’s mind. She lays in bed unable to sleep. It’s something which often troubles her now. Her mind revisits Vyera’s presentation at the university; the organisation of ideas, the work done to bring the project to fruition, her eloquence, her poise as she answered questions, the glint of the room lights on her slave collar …. The collar. The chain which checks and confines her.
How, Sveta asks herself, can I be complicit in this crime? The girl has been stolen. Her work has been stolen. She thinks of another, another who should have shared a birthday with Vyera, another who should have stood tall and enjoyed the summer sunlight warming their body, another who had life stolen from them, for the convenience of others, another whose remains are now forgotten particles of dust somewhere scattered on the face of the earth and who lives only in Sveta’s imagination.
She slides from bed and goes to the study to drink. She once found the sedative properties of alcohol to be a comfort. She knows it has lost none of its ability to anaesthetise the despairing mind, at least for a time, but now? Somehow its capability seems dulled.
What is the girl doing now, Sveta wonders? She hopes Vyera is sleeping soundly, at peace. The untroubled sleep of the innocent.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Footnotes:
(1) Rupert Bear. Famous British cartoon character features in the Daily Express newspaper who began his adventures at the beginning of the last century. The pictures accompanying the text are always very carefully drawn and the text has three versions to suit children at different reading ages. Curious? You can track down this year’s Rupert Annual at Amazon or for serious nostalgia freaks try the originals on e-Bay! (£90 for a 1953 original last time I looked, Freddie.)
(2) For more about Neena’s ruffled national pride over The Tartar Yoke, see the Wikipedia entry.
(3) Vyera/Jennifer is quoting ‘P values’ which indicate the probability that the effects she has found in her data are due to chance. The smaller the decimal fraction is, the less likely the effect in question is merely due to blind chance.
Interested? Then check out:-
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg, 2011
CHAPTER 20 : ANOTHER NAME, ANOTHER COUNTRY
THE AWAKENING
Sveta Kustenskaya has spent another disturbed night, sleeping fitfully and only moving deeper into sleep by the time she has to get up. Something has to happen today, but what is it? At last the memory presents itself to her conscious mind.
"Anatoly, do we really have to go through this charade this evening?"
Anatoly has also spent a poor night, constantly disturbed by his wife’s tossing and turning. He (almost) welcomes the opportunity to get up and start the day at last, but Sveta’s question … surely?
He puts his puzzlement into words. "But surely this was what you wanted? We talked about his months ago and even Mendeleyev thought it would be a good idea?"
"Mendeleyev? Did he? Well that’s almost a reason in itself not to put any trust in the idea and I am sure it was entirely your idea, Anatoly Sergeyevitch!"
Anatoly sighs and climbs out of bed. "Sveta, can I make you some tea or coffee? What time do you have to be at the Media Centre? "
"What’s the time? – is that the time ? I’m sorry Anatoly but I have no time to waste drinking tea with you. I shall have to get ready. I suppose we are actually going to have to go through with this?"
"Well, no we don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel its right anymore …"
"Oh, all right lets get it over and done with it if that’s what you are so determined to do. When do we have to be there?"
"Er, I thought six for seven pm. Would that …? "
"I will have finished work by two. Let’s meet back here … can you please just get out of my way and let me into the bathroom please? I have to get ready."
Anatoly leaves Sveta to get ready and goes into the kitchen to make himself coffee. What should he do? Make Sveta some tea would be the safest course of action. It will be there if she wants it and she does not have to drink it if she doesn’t. As the kettle sighs and the coffee percolator spits and fizzes, Anatoly’s mind revisits the conversation he had about Sveta with Igor Mendeleyev. Day by day, it seems that Sveta is becoming less rational. Is this the crisis breaking at last? The first lashings of rain blown ahead of the fierce storm to come?
Isn’t that the way it always happens? You have had a dreadful night and then, by the time you are supposed to get up, you finally get to sleep? Even in my extraordinary world, some things don’t change.
I have been on my bed all night, kept awake by the peppery butt plug and the feeling of it inside me. Finally, perhaps about 6am, my body surrenders to sleep. It is only moments later when Neena comes to wake me.
One minute I am - at last - dead to the world. The next thing I know, someone has poured cold water over me.
It’s a shock! I open my eyes to find Gaspazha Neena looking down at me and smiling. "Time to get up, sleepy head. You have a busy day today."
It takes me a few moments to realise where I am. It obviously amuses Neena but she doesn’t give me any time to recover my wits. "Here," she says, "the keys to your belt. Please remove it and the .. ah .. accessories. They will all need washing. Then get washed yourself ….."
The water is hot and refreshing; thank goodness. I am fully awake at last. I turn to face Neena who throws me my towel. By staying with me, she has made sure I have no opportunity to masturbate myself and have some little satisfaction. "Get dried, dry your belt, bring it with you and follow me. I think you know where."
Yes, I know where. The thought of my appointment with Neena’s cane was one of the things that kept me awake until sleep had finally driven it to the back of my mind. Now it elbows its way to the centre of my attention. Apprehension grips me once more. Meekly I follow her to the punishment room.
I lay myself across the spanking horse obediently. There is no point in protesting or resisting. I am going to be caned and that’s that. I am a slave and slaves are regularly disciplined, sometimes for infractions they have committed and sometimes just because their trainers think it will be good for them. Now it’s my turn. At least Pavea is not here to gloat at me.
I wonder what – what were their names? My memory seems to be fading. There was a man and this girl I knew called something like Karen or Cath or what was it? And the man, he was important to me but what was his name? What will they be doing now? They will still be sound asleep, probably. I wonder if they remember me? I ought to remember them better than I do now. Here am I, though, separated from them only by distance, being strapped down to be disciplined. It’s partly because my trainer thinks it will be good for me and partly because I asked if I could be killed by accident.
Whilst Neena gets ready, I think of them both. I imagine a message from me, flying across the earth, through the dawn sky, reminding them that I still exist, that I am still here breathing the same air as they do.
"Rabinya!," says Neena brightly, "We are ready to begin!" She stands quite close to me, stroking the back of my neck as I lay stretched out across the punishment horse. "First, tell me why you should be caned?"
"Because slaves have to be reminded of their place and because I asked a question."
"Yes and no, rabinya. You are right, yes, slaves need to be reminded of their place but no, you are not being punished because you asked a question. You are being caned because you did not trust your Owner to take proper care of you." She pauses for a moment to let her remarks sink in. I nod my head in acceptance. "How many strokes should you have?"
Surely this question was settled between us yesterday in the car on the way back from Moscow? I think for a moment. It is the same problem as always. Too few and she will give me more; too many and I will suffer more than I need. Is Gaspazha Neena testing me again? Tempting me to try to trick her into giving me fewer strokes that I proposed yesterday?
"Thirty, Gaspazha"
Neena seems satisfied and it is a punishment I think I can bear. "Good girl. Thirty. Confirmed! You shall enjoy one stroke each minute for thirty minutes. Now count!"
So it was a test after all. She said ‘confirmed’ which obviously refers back to yesterday. I must be learning to play the game at last. Then my mind looks for something else to think about. The year has turned. The snows of winter have come and have now been driven back by the rapid advance of spring. Gaspazha is wearing some white Birkenstock sandals. They look so comfortable. A thong passes to the inside of her big toe to meet a strap which passes over her instep. Her feet and legs are bare. It’s an odd contrast; comfort for her and pain for me.
Looking ahead into a large mirror on the wall, placed so slaves can ‘enjoy’ the sight of themselves being punished, I can see her toes grip and then I hear the first stroke hiss towards my bum.
A bright firey line is painted across my bum.
"Adeen," I say. She has taken me slightly by surprise with the prompt arrival of the first stroke.
"Adeen" she echos – and then continues "Adeen, spaseebaGaspazha! That’s right isn’t it?"
"Da, Gaspazha." I know what is coming next. There is no escape from a lack of obedience to the correct form of address to my mistress.
"What should I do?"
"You must begin again, Gaspazha."
"Pazh’ alsta, rabinya. I shall."
I wait for the second stroke, but it will be merely the first "official" stroke. Neena’s sports watch chimes: she aims and lets another cane stroke fly.
"Ah! Adeen, spaseeba Gaspazha!"
"Pazh’alsta, rabinya," she replies.
Over the next twenty nine minutes I painfully climb towards thirty cane strokes. When she told me that it would be one stroke each minute, it seemed as though it would be easier to take. One stroke each minute draws out the ordeal psychologically. In fact, it’s much worse than blows delivered in rapid succession.
With each stroke, Neena slowly makes her way down my buttocks, then diagonally, right to left, then diagonally, left to right. There is not an inch of my bum which can shelter from her cane. As my bum becomes more and more painful I become more and more conscious of how slowly time is passing, of how many more strokes I must endure, of how long it will be until the beating is over and of how full my bladder seems. Can I hold on until Neena has completed my punishment? Could I ask to go to the toilet? And risk starting from "one" all over again? No thank you! After twenty I start to cry and moan with each new stroke.
"Ah," she says, "That sounds so nice. Music to my ears!"
At last we reach thirty. I sob and sob. She comes to me and wipes my tears. "Now Vyera, I am going to leave you now for a little while to burn quietly. It there anything you need?"
"Please Gaspazha, may I pee?"
"Of course. Let me put something under you and then you can let go let go."
She releases the straps which hold me sufficiently for me to shuffle back so she can place a bowl between my legs
I let go. I pee and pee and pee. The pale golden urine streams away from me. I feel drips, at first warm and then cold, spatter from the bowl against the inside of my legs. I hear the gentle singing of the impact of the liquid on the metal bowl. I am aware the Neena is watching, following my every reaction. It’s no easier now than it was the first time that I was made to pee while someone was watching, back at Inward Bound. When I have done, Neena gently wipes me clean.
I watch horrified as she picks up a long straw. She places the bowl on a stand in front of me. It’s so close that I can feel the warmth of the urine on my face, its pungent smell fills my nose. Neena pops the straw into the bowl of urine, pushes the other end between my lips and says, "Now little Vyerochka here is another challenge for you. I expect to see all of this gone. Look upon it as conserving your – our – electrolytes! Begin!"
So, with Neena standing by and watching, I have to drink my own urine as a full and final humiliation.
I look up at Gaspazha with pleading eyes. The last drop of urine has gone from the bowl, the sharp tang of its taste fills my mouth. I can feel the acidity rasping at the back of my throat. I don’t know how my stomach is keeping it down. I don’t even want to think about that.
"How do you feel now, Vyerochka?"
"Just very tender, spaseeba Gasapazha and thank you for spending your time with me." I used to loathe speaking like this but it’s about survival and survival is a game I have to play as effectively and cleverly as I can. However, as the days have passed into months, this sort of response has come to seem more and more natural and appropriate for me. I say nothing of my urine drink, not wanting Neena to think it was easy or that it was difficult. She seems to ignore it too. Perhaps it was just another test of obedience.
"You are welcome, rabinya!" With a single finger tip, she traces one of the cane marks across my buttocks. "Well, today there is much to do. Presently I will come back to release you. Then, you will lock your belt around yourself and after you are to go and get breakfast – there is some thing for you in the kitchen." Mainly what I want is to clean my teeth – anything to get the taste of urine from my mouth. "Afterwards you are to help the Domestics to prepare the Dacha. Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensky are coming for the weekend and they will be arrive late this afternoon."
After breakfast (which I eat standing up, to the amusement of the giggling Mongolians and without a chance to clean my teeth) I join them in getting the house ready.
This gives me another opportunity to see the house from end to end, without restrictions from my collar. The Dacha is, of course, magnificent. In fact the house is so large that vacuuming the carpets is almost aerobic exercise in itself!
Imagine you are touring an English Country House; an inlayed polished wooden floor in the entrance hall, oil paintings, wonderful carpets, fine furniture and enough space to show everything off properly. That’s very much the feeling at the Dacha. The house never seems cold, even in winter. Even though it must be well over one hundred years old, the architect ingeniously created a building which would be comfortable all year round. For example, the marble columns in the entrance and made of wood and painted to look like stone. The floor is wooden, but made of pale and dark woods and gives the impression of an Italian black and white chequer-board marble floor. Had the floor and columns been of real stone, the building would have been impossible to keep warm during the Russian winter!
The Domestics keep everything very tidy from day to day so the main task is to set out the dining room table (eight places) and to make up the beds in four rooms. There are two double beds and two singles. That means two couples and two other guests staying and two more people joining the other guests for the meal.
There’s a note telling us what will be served tonight, so that we can get the table settings correct. The menu is rather extensive for a Russian evening meal. The note says, "Ukranian beetroot soup served cold with sour cream, Caviar with blinis and more sour cream, Coulibiak (a fish pie with salmon mushrooms spinach and roasted buckwheat and fresh vegetables - 1) and finally, fresh fruit pavlova. There will be champagne before the meal, vodka between the courses, a white wine with the main course and an Italian Vino Santo to accompany desert – and a single malt Scotch with coffee."
This is more like obyed the main meal of the Russian day which would normally be served in the middle of the day. Oozhine - the evening meal - tends to be lighter and less formal. I know this because I have had plenty of practice getting meals ready!
Perhaps there is to be some sort of celebration and the guests can only assemble together this evening?
When I come tp set the bottles out I see that the scotch is Laphroaig. I remember that I bought some, once. I bought some for … for … Joe on his last birthday or I should say the last birthday I was with him. Joe! That was his name. I had almost forgotten his name! How many birthdays have passed by now? I have no idea. In my mind, I am suddenly back at home with him. He unscrews the cap and pours two glasses. One for him. One for me. I lift the glass to my lips and I am met by a pungent, peaty medicinal tang. Then the taste. Smouldering, smokey, autumnal sensations spread across my tongue. The sip leaves a burning heat as I swallow. How that memory burns once more! How strange that it should be so strong, so potent and triggered merely by the name on a bottle. Have they done that on purpose or is that just coincidence? Because this time the memory still hurts. As I leave the bottle on the side table, I catch Neena looking at me.
"Vyerochka – is there anything wrong?"
"Nyet, Gaspazha. Spaseeba."
"Vyerka! You are not being true to your name."
Oh how these people seem always able to look right through me! It seems she knows at once when I am lying. I should have been called ‘ëæåö’.
"I’m sorry Gaspazha Neena. It was the whisky. It was the last birthday present I bought my husband and the memory hurts a lot. I did not want to trouble you with it."
"Ah," is all she says for a moment but then goes on. "That is strange. There was a girl like you who was married but I did not think Vyerka was ever married. In fact I am sure of it. No slave can be married, only owned. No, Vyerka was never married. If that had been so, her slavery would be too hard to bear. You must be mistaken Vyerka. Mistaken about being married. I am sure you will think differently about it soon."
I look at her bleakly. I understand what she means but I still cannot bring myself to nod in simple acceptance. I say: "Thank you Gaspazha. Of course slaves are owned and not married. I was being foolish."
I have not quite accepted her point of view. I didn’t include the name ‘Vyerka’ in my answer. I wonder if she has noticed my tiny rebellion? The thin thread which joins me to my past. A thread which will snap for ever at any moment.
The day has moved on. It is late afternoon. I have been working in the kitchen, getting things ready for the chef. I am given a snack to eat and then sent off back to my cell.
I am alone at last. I am glad. I return to be with Joe and spend my time as an invisible companion to Joe and his wife Jenny on his birthday, the last birthday Jenny was with him. Jenny is very like me. So very like Vyerka. We might look the same, but she is married and Vyerka is a slave. I watch them as he opens his presents, as they make plans for the day, as they return in the evening and enjoy a whisky together. Can they see me? The time-traveller, watching them from the future, peeping at them from out of the shadows? Perhaps it is best for them to be unaware of my presence. What good would it do if they were to catch sight of me? A grim apparition who will bring pain and suffering into their lives. So I remain in careful hiding.
"Vyerochka?"
"I’m sorry Gaspazha. I didn’t hear you come in."
"Get washed. Clean your teeth. And here, put these clothes on – and also this. You are wanted." She leaves as suddenly as she appeared.
Getting washed is easy but getting dressed feels very odd nowadays. It is a long time since I have worn anything except the collar and the chastity belt - and she has given me perfume! I have not worn perfume in ever-so-long and thought that I would never wear it again. It’s heavy and sweet and very sensual. Why are they letting me use perfume? Am I to be sold and this is part of the marketing exercise? Neena has also given me a simple but rather elegant black dress and smart black penny-loafer shoes. There is no underwear, tights or stockings but there are anklets and wrist bands for me to wear. They complement my collar but seem to be mainly decorative. Naturally, everything fits perfectly, even the clothes. The wrist bands and anklets are round in section, perhaps ten millimetres thick. One section drops out when you pull the band apart. This time, the minor segment is held in by the springiness of the material, but there are two tiny holes on the underside which look like the entry points for some sort of key. (2)
There is no mirror in my cell, so I have to wait for Neena’s return to know if I am a suitably presentable waitress.
"Vyerochka! Excellent. You look charming. And you smell Mmmm! Your job this evening will be to help entertain the guests." She smiles as she sees my suspicious look at the word ‘entertain’."No, Vyerochka, not everything is about sex. But you are getting to be wonderfully slutty. I like you like that! You will be making sure they have drinks and so on. All the guests know about your situation, so there is no need for you to be embarrassed. We can trust you to behave?"
"Da, Gaspazha! Of course."
Perhaps this is another level of training? I must be through the basics and now they are trying me out in a more public space.
‘We can trust you to behave?’ she says! For goodness sake! What sort of an idiot do they take me for? But that’s not really the point. I am a slave and slaves get instructions. Slaves should not think for themselves. These instructions about everyday behaviour keep me grounded and remind me what I am and for some reason also give me a sexual thrill. It’s the reminder that I am a slave, a captive, something owned, property.
By the time I come up and into the main hall, company has clearly arrived. I am suddenly panicky: how do I start off? Neena is standing for a moment on her own. I walk up to her and gently put my hand on her shoulder. "Excuse me, Gaspazha but how should I greet everyone? Should I go down on my knees to Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensty and the other guests?"
She half turns to me and speaks over her shoulder. "No, rabinya, absolutely not! But well done, for asking. Fetch a tray of drinks from the servery and circulate in the drawing room. Introduce yourself as you offer the drinks. This evening, you are simply Vyera, not rabinya or rabinya Vyera , but if someone else refers to you in that way, you should acknowledge it. And of course if anyone has anything they need of you; then you will fulfil it. Understand? "
"Spaseeba, Gaspzha Neena."
"When you address others, all the men are Gaspadeen and all the women are Gaspazha."
"Spaseeba, Gaspazha Neena."
"Finally, drinks. There will be wine and soft drinks. You will see why."
"Spaseepa, Gaspazha"
"Pazh’alsta, Vyera."
Gaspazha Neena, for the first time ever, since my training began in earnest, has called me Vyera! The adult form of my name. For goodness sake why? What exactly is happening this evening? Presumably some sort of intimate dinner party for friends of Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensky and whilst they want the convenience of my slavery, they do not want the fact of it to disturb the repose of the party?
As instructed, I circulate in the company. Seven happy relaxed well adjusted people - and one slave. There is a woman close to my own age. She is pregnant; it looks as though she has not very long to go. She is there with her husband. She as a strong resemblance to Gaspadeen Kustensky, so perhaps it is his daughter? There are two other men. Office types, I would guess.
"Everyone knows your situation," Neena said. So why does no one object? It’s not as though slavery is recognised as a legitimate employment option? I suppose they do not object because they must all be involved in my abduction and enslavement…..
Gaspazha Sveta bears down on me. "So nice to see you again, Vyerochka. I enjoyed your presentation at the University. Are you enjoying yourself here?"
What??? But then, I am supposed to be "adapting", so I say - "Spaseeba, Gaspazha. Well, it’s all been very different from what I have been used to and, er ….."
(Oh! Idiot. What are you saying?)
"Yes?" Curiosity is alight in her eyes
"No, I’m sorry I shouldn’t."
"No, you should. Tell me."
"Er, well I (I cast my eyes down, afraid to look at her) I still think about people … people I once knew. I wonder if they are all right."
"Yes, of course you will. It must feel a little like a bereavement, but you will have to accept that life for you has changed and those that you once loved will cope without you. We in Russia have had more experience of this sort of thing than many people in Western Europe: the Stalin period and then the war …."
"Yes, I understand, Gaspazha. I only wish them to have some closure, so they could move on and forget me"
She smiles and lays her hand on my back as she speaks. Her hand presses me against her. Almost a motherly gesture. It seems very comforting. I smile and relax. She smiles back and gently pushes me towards the pregnant girl. "Now, Vyerochka come and meet Alana and her little one!"
Alana laughs and joins us.
"Hi, she says. "You’re Vyerochka, right?"
"Yes, that’s me."
She laughs again. A soft friendly bubbly laugh. "Here, meet the baby." She takes my hand and places it on her bump. "What do you think?"
"Ah … ", I rub her gently " … ah – oh! It moved!"
"Moved?" She laughs once more. "When doesn’t it move? Recently it’s been wriggle, wriggle, kick, kick, squirm, squirm all day. What do think about that?"
"Must be tough," I reply. She nods. I go on. "Your English is very good …"
"Yes. I was at the LSE for a spell." (3)
"Aha. I was at Warwick." (4)
"Warwick? OK, I went to the castle but that’s about it." (5)
Neena appears at my shoulder. "Excuse me Alana, but duty calls for Vyera." The sudden snap back to the reality of my situation is bizarre. I am jolted from exchanging small talk about universities to the reality of my slavery.
Alana seems not to notice the shock that I feel. "Ah, there you are Vyerochka. A slave’s work is never done."
I smile. Confirmation that ‘they all know about your situation’ "Da, Gaspazha", I reply and even manage to add a smile, "Absolutely true."
Neena continues. "Check that the kitchen staff are ready to serve and then ask everyone to come into the dining room."
"Da, Gaspazha, but we are one guest short."
"No we are not." She replies as though she cannot understand why I have said what I said. "Don’t you realise? You are coming to dinner."
THE TRANSFORMATION
I am completely taken aback! Me? Eating a meal with my Owners? It seems out of place. Wrong, somehow.
I cannot think of anything worse. I am placed between Sveta Kustenskaya and Neena.
I don’t want to be here. I want to be on my own. In my cell. Alone with my memories, whilst they are still present, before I forget them all. Before I lose touch with Jenny and there is only Vyera.
Instead I have to be polite, to follow the conversation (still very difficult) and to eat what is now unfamiliar food.
The food is rich and filling, but at least I only get water to drink. Nevertheless, I start to feel very hot. I’m very conscious of everywhere that the dress touches against me. There is an uncomfortable itching behind my knees. I want to stand up and stretch and breathe some cool air.
It’s like being a little girl once more, having to attend a big family meal. I am trapped inside with people I hardly know, listening to conversation that I mostly do not understand.
My bum passes from tender to itchy. The smooth leather of the chair becomes sticky with perspiration from my buttocks and between my thighs and I begin to itch. I’m aware that I am shifting my weight from one leg to the other. I see Alana looking at me as if to say, ‘what on earth are you doing?’ but then Neena whispers something to her and as she glances back to me, she gives me a knowing smile. Understood, forgiven and humiliated, all in a single smile.
At last! At last we reach the coffee and whisky. By now I don’t care whether the Laphroaig will conjure up painful memories or not. The whisky and coffee simply mean that this new, refined torture will soon be over. I even find my mind wandering to happy memories of my abject, raunchy no-holes-barred sexual servicing of the Mongolians. Of Batachikan and her colleagues. I would rather be with them than be here.
Gaspadeen Kustensky gets up. For goodness sake, surely not toasts? But he looks directly at me. "Vyera: in times past it was normal for slaves to take the name of their owners. I believe in the UK there is a black singer called Elle Macpherson and if my memory serves me correctly, the Clan Macpherson comes from Scotland where the people are white, not Africa where the people are black!" (6)
Laughter ripples round the table at this heavy handed, politically incorrect, humour.
Actually, he has got the name wrong. He means Kiesha Buchanan. (7) I glance over at Alana who smiles back and with the narrowing on an eye and a slight turn of the head, reminds me not to correct her father. I make a tiny nod in acknowledgement that her message has been received and understood, but I do like it when they get things wrong. Even trivial things.
Gaspadeen Kustensky is still speaking: " … and even though the details of traditions change as the years pass it is appropriate for people who live in Russia to have Russian names.
"I would like to introduce at this point Mikhail Barisyevech Yamskoie, my lawyer who has something to say."
"Ladies and Gentlemen. Over the past few weeks, I have been at work on certain legal formalities. Now I can tell you that from midnight tonight, the Authorities recognise that Vyera will be legally accepted as Vyera Antol’yevna Kuznetsova. Congratulations!" (8)
There is applause from the guests surrounding the table; Neena leads towards me and whispers " Congratulations Vyera! There are lots of famous Russians called Kuznetsov, for example Svetlana Kuznetsova is a famous tennis player and Admiral Kuznetsov … " The applause and murmurings is stilled when Gaspadeen Kustensky rises again and this time introduces "….. Volodya Alexeevitch Simeonovsky from the Office of Inwards Migration of the Russian Government. Volodya Alexeevitch….."
Volodya rises. He is the second office type. He clears his throat. "Vyera Anatol’yevna Kuznetsova, your status has been examined by my office and I can tell you that you fulfil the criteria for Russian Citizenship. I have been authorized to tell you that you are now a citizen of the Russian Republic and have been issued with a passport – which I have here."
He hands a small red book across the table to me. Its cover is guarded by the double headed imperial Russian eagle and inside, there is my photograph showing my bald headed image set beside the official passport rubric, in flowing Cyrillic. I even appear to have signed the document.
I am dumbstruck.
Sveta Kustenskaya leans across and gently gathers up the documents "There!" she says, her arm comfortingly around me once again, "I don’t think you have anywhere suitable to look after these, so I will keep them for you."
The assembled company rises and raises their glasses towards me in a toast.
In that moment I have never felt more alone and vulnerable. I began the meal as an abducted English woman and by the end of the meal, I have had my real name and my real nationality stripped from me. Paper is the curse of the modern age and now all the official paperwork right around the whole wide world will know me as Vyera Anatol’yevna Kuznetsova, Citizen, Russian Republic.
My abduction and my transformation are made complete. Complete not with beatings, not with sexual service, not with a new language, not with transportation from my home but with paper. Implacable, irrevocable, official paperwork.
Anatoly was pleased – and relieved The party had gone well after all. It had fulfilled all his technical expectations of it; Vyera was delightful, she had behaved absolutely correctly and Sveta was her usual charming self and left no clue about any other feelings she might be harbouring, the feelings she spat at Anatoly early that morning.
He climbs the stairs to their second floor room and as he enters, hears a bump! bump! bump! coming from the en suite bathroom. He opens the door to find Sveta fully dressed but standing in the shower, banging her head off the wall, with blood streaming from a cut above her eye. Each time she strikes her head, a bloody stain widens on the cream wall tiles.
He rushes over to her, gathering her into his arms and pulling her out if danger. He takes his handkerchief and holds it over the wound, the sort of wound a boxer might suffer and inflected as Sveta battered her head against the wall.
"Sveta! Sveta! Stop! What is the matter? My love, what on earth is the matter?"
Sveta turns towards him as though registering his presence for the first time. She seems to sag as she sees him and slumps back against the bloodied wall of the shower, sliding down until she’s sitting on the floor. She holds her head in her hands, then buries it between her knees, streaking her skirt with blood. Finally she looks up at Anatoly. "It’s the girl!" she blurts out, "The girl. Vyera. She wants closure! The only thing she wants is closure for the people who love her!"
Anatoly blinks in response, still not understanding why his wife is behaving like this or what she means.
"I want closure! Me! After all these years, I want closure but it will not let me. It’s always there. It always follows me around. It knows it was my fault. I let them take it away and it was my fault, my own fault, my own grievous fault!" Sveta delivers her speech, wracked by sobs. Anatoly has to listen carefully to understand exactly what his wife is trying to say.
Sveta is in a tight sobbing bundle on the floor. She makes to strike her head again. Anatoly pushes his hand between her and the floor of the shower, pulling her to him and holding her tightly, her blood smeared across his white evening shirt.
"Sveta: you must tell me. You must tell me what is wrong …"
She looks at him with wild eyes and nods. "Yes," she says, "Yes. Then I must go. When I have told you, I must go. I am not worthy of you. I let them kill yourchild. So if I tell you, I must go."
"Please, please don’t go, just tell me. Tell me now."
So Sveta tells him. She tells every step. She drives the scalpel deep into her memory, lancing the abscesses of dismay, fear, pain, guilt and shame. She tells him everything; from leaving her office pregnant with their first child, to her return home, alone, with an empty and bleeding womb. At last, with her husband beside her, she relives the cruelties of Popova.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Footnotes:
(1) Coubliak / Coubliac : Waitrose sometimes have this on their deli counter. Go on, give yourself a treat.
(2) Axsmar. Check out Vyera’s bracelets and ankets. Go to the Talena tab. You can read the site in English. http://www.axsmar.eu
(3) LSE. The London School of Economics, almost always know in the UK as ‘The LSE’ www.lse.ac.uk
(4) Warwick. The University of Warwick. www.warwick.ac.uk
(5) Warwick Castle. A famous UK tourist attraction. www.warwick-castle.co.uk
(6) Elle Macpherson. www.ellemacpherson.com: notsure how the confusion arose here, but we’re all allowed mistakes, even Anatoly.
(7) Kiesha Buchanan. www.keisha-buchanan.comFormerly of the Sugababes,
(8) Kuznetsov is the third most common Russian surname, so the Kustenskieshave "hidden Vyera in a crowd" However, Neena is correct in what she says aboutfamous Russians called Kuznetsov!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuznetsov
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Svetlana_Kuznetsova
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolay_Gerasimovich_Kuznetsov
(9) Exocet. French designed and built guided missile. After launch, it flies at very low altitude making it hard to detect and its arrival completely unexpected. A big threat to the British task force in the Falklands War. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Exocet
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
CHAPTER 22 : MOTHERCARE
Anatoly and Sveta are asleep in one another’s arms. Sveta is dreaming of Alana as a little girl and a family holiday to the Crimea. Alana is playing with a little bell. Sveta realises in a moment of rational thought that she is asleep and wants to stay that way. "If only Alana would stop ringing the bell", she thinks as she drifts deeper into sleep once more … With a start Sveta realises the noise is the bedside telephone. The ’phone is on Sveta’s side of the bed. She picks it up.
"What? It’s Sveta? Who is this?" She’s awake quickly, a legacy of her military career.
"Mamma?"
"Alana?"
"Mamma, I think the baby is coming. Vitaly is taking me to the clinic. We have called Dr Maevitch."
Although she has been waiting for this moment almost as keenly as Alana, the sudden onset of labour still has come as a surprise. "Oh … ah … we will come …wait for us … no, I mean go right away. We will come up now. Is that alright?"
"Mamma," Alanna’s tone is almost scolding. "Leave it to me and Vitaly We will be fine. There is no need for you to race up here just yet. Let me get to the clinic and Vitaly will let you know what is going on. Alright?"
"Yes, alright. I … we … we must keep in touch."
"Mamma: it will be alright. I am telling you."
By now, Anatoly is also awake. His little girl is going to have her own baby! He remembers Alana as she was. As a little girl. The funny things she did and the funny things she said. Why did they not write them down more carefully? And now, his little girl will soon be a mother and have her very own tiny baby …
He turns over and places a hand gently on his wife’s shoulder. This will be a difficult day for her. A confusion of hope, joy, anxiety and regret for the children she did not have and especially for the child she could have had.
He says: "I’m going to make tea. Would you like some?"
"Yes, let me come with you."
Hand in hand, Sveta and Anatoly leave the safety of their room and pad down into the kitchen.
I am alone in my cell when in the middle of the night the door is thrown open. I had a second or so of warning as the lights came on and locks clicked open. In the door way stands the naked form of Sveta Kustenskaya. She walks straight in and sits on my bed. "Vyerochka," she says, "Alana has telephoned. Her baby is on the way. Anatoly and I are having tea in the kitchen. Please come and join us. It does not seem right for us to be alone."
I obediently follow her, trying to squeeze the last vestiges of sleep from my mind, to be confronted in the kitchen by my Owner also completely naked, looking for cups so he can pour the tea!
The whole scene is bizarre beyond belief.
"Vyerochka: the cups: do you know …?"
"Da! Gaspadeen. Here let me help you."
"Thank you – no – take three cups. There! That’s better. Please join us. Sveta has told you about Alana?"
What a couple they are! For two people who must be somewhere in middle age, they have been spared many of the ravages of time.
Gaspadeen is tall, beautifully muscled with not a hint of ‘middle aged spread’. He holds himself perfectly erect in his posture. You can see he is in very good shape. As he turns, I see the heraldic emblems of the KGB tattooed on his shoulder. It is clear now why the Dacha should have such a well organised and well equipped gymnasium. Gaspazha is also tall, but not quite so tall as her husband. Her complexion is more swarthy and her pubic hair is as dark as the hair on her head. She has the poise and grace of a gymnast and the body of an athlete - a runner to complement the ‘body builder’ physique of her husband. Her mons forms a neat dome between her legs with her labia nicely formed beneath. The tops of her legs have been carefully waxed (I guess) and her public hair has been shaped into a little knot above her labia. I find my mouth beginning to water. What would she be like to suck?
Gaspadeen Kustensky thrusts a cup into my hand. Breaking up my fantasies. "I don’t usually take milk but I have added some jam. Is that... I mean are you happy with …?" So odd that he is polite and thoughtful! Concerned that his slave might still enjoy her tea with milk, the English way and not tea with jam, in the Russian way. Has he forgotten the efforts which are being made to help me forget my English ways? Perhaps, at a moment such as this, forgetfulness is understandable.
"Da! Gaspadeen. I am perfectly happy. You are both very thoughtful. So when …?"
"The little one has not been born yet! Alana telephoned to say she is going to the clinic," replies Gaspazha Sveta on his behalf and continues:
"She has also asked – no, that’s not quite right … she has told us to stay here until she has news."
"Ah. Well, I am sure that is … er … understandable. A time for the couple themselves?"
"It is rather like the night of one’s marriage, adds Anatoly Sergeyevitch, "Not the occasion for parents to be close by!"
"No, absolutely not!" It’s how I would feel if it was me.
So at last, a moment of shared experience between the three of us! We have all had that moment of perfect intimacy, after our marriages. They have taken my marriage from me and Neena, their lieutenant, has tried to persuade me that the moment belongs to another girl in another world. As things stand right now, she is correct but that other girl and I are still connected by some shared, tenuous memories. Especially in the stillness of the night, when I can still feel her, when I even feel that I was her. The curious thing is that now I feel no resentment, as I probably should. No feeling of having been cheated out of an experience - bearing the baby of my husband – which should have been mine - would have been mine in due course, had I not walked down a particular street in a particular city at a particular time on a particular day. Yes: I am happy to do all I can to help others to enjoy this precious moment and I feel completely at ease with no disappointment or envy at doing so.
"We were planning to send you and Neena to Moscow to look after the house for Vitaly whilst Alana is in the clinic. When she comes home, there will be a professional paediatric nurse - Ocsana - to help with the technicalities. She has received training in London, by the way and you will be able to attend to all the other things which have to be done and then we’ll see."
And then we will see. Here I stand, naked as the day I was born, planning the homecoming arrangements for the grandchild of my abductors, drinking tea with them, all of us naked, and feeling completely calm and sanguine as though that is how my life was meant to be. It’s the calmness which is so disturbing. Why can’t I still have the fire of someone like Pavea? The fire which burns within, to reassure me that one day - one day - I will be the mother of a child created by me and ... and … what was his name?
Dmitry Vitalyevitch Zhukov arrived in the world at 06:30 on a summer morning in June.
The staff (which of course now includes me but excludes Pavea who is still locked away safely in her cell) are gathered in the dining room where Svetlana Nikitechna and Anatoly Sergeyevitch make their announcement. There is champagne for all of us, even for me, and we toast the little boy and his parents and bask in the happiness of his grandparents who are in equal measure, delighted and relieved at his safe arrival. A photograph has been sent to Anatoly Sergeyevitch’s i-phone and the phone is passed round for us all to admire a small squashy face of the sleeping infant, the rest of him wrapped in a white shawl, cradled in the arms of a tired but radiant Alana.
Neena approaches me: "you and I are to go to Alana’s home in Moscow to make things ready. You will stay there for as long as you are required. I hear you were up in the night?"
I smile. A rude but interesting awakening!
"Da, Gaspazha, I can leave with you at once."
"Be at the garden door at ten, I will collect you from there."
The garden door. The door from which I stepped into the depths of a Russian winter, a year ago, or was it two? It seems so very long ago now. The door through which I stepped and first knew, first really knew that my life had changed for ever.
During the journey to Moscow, Neena briefs me on my duties and also sets up the ground rules. "You will have to go on shopping errands and assist Gaspadeen Vitaly and the nurse Ocsana. Also, I understand there is still work for you to do on your research report, so Dr Mendeleyev and Dr Romanova will need you at the University from time to time. It would be ..." she searches for the best word "... convenient if we can rely on you to find your own way around the City on the Metro."
I find that astonishing! It’s a degree of freedom they haven’t allowed me before.
"You can be accompanied, if necessary. The question is: can I rely on you? Do you at last know your place, Vyerochka? Will it be better to have you chaperoned?"
Well, how on earth do I reply to a question like that? Neena is proposing to give me a limited freedom, to be more a normal person once more. Is this that long hoped for opportunity for escape? But where could I go? Who do I know? I could turn up at the BBC office and tell my story. Would they believe such a fantastic tale? If I knew where the British Embassy was I could appeal for help but my appearance bears no relationship to any records they might obtain of me and – assuming I got so far as crossing the threshold - whilst languid passport and nationality checks were made, my collar would signal my whereabouts and receive instructions to release its poison, to execute the runaway slave. Also: where are they anyway? I have not had access to anything which would tell me. It’s clear. Neena is merely setting a temptation in front of me. I have to reject it.
"Thank you Gaspazha, but I would prefer to be chaperoned. First, I do not know my way around. Second, I do not want to suffer the consequences of getting lost: I do not want to ‘worry’ my collar as it tries to make sure I remain within any boundaries you have set. Third, this sounds like the chance to live a conventional life, but I do not have a conventional life anymore and I do not want to be tortured by the constant comparison of how I live now and what life was like for another girl in another place in another time. So please let me have one of the security staff as my companion!"
Neena smiles broadly." Bravo rapina! What a good reply! By your answer, I know you are now ready to take more responsibility and be more useful to us than you were before. You shall have Pyotr for the first few days. Afterwards, I will let you have a map of the city and the Metro, which will clearly show the areas in which you are permitted and the areas which are out of bounds and then you will be on your own responsibility – but you can be sure, we shall still watch!"
I sigh in reply. This limited freedom will in fact be merely a longer leash. It will be another kind of hard work.
"If you look in the glove compartment you will find two things you will need" Inside I find a mobile phone and a wrist watch. I gaze at them uncomprehending for a moment. A watch and a phone I have not had a watch in ever such a long time and the mobile? Suddenly it seems to have something dangerous about it. This is something that could get me into serious trouble. Do I really have to take them? I would so much prefer to do without.
Neena ploughs on, "The mobile has only certain permitted numbers. You will only be able to reach my own mobile, the duty security guard at Vitaly and Alana’s home, Vitaly and Alana themselves, Ocsana, the Dacha and any other numbers I add. Those would be Julia and Dr Mendeleyev on days when you have to work with them."
So, she really must be serious ...?
E-mail from Neena Alexandrovna to
Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky and
Dr Igor Ivanovitch Mendeleyev
I am very pleased to report really excellent progress by Vyera.
I gave her instructions about her work for Vitaly and Alana in Moscow and mentioned in particular, that she would have to run shopping errands. I gave her the opportunity to ask for a chaperone to keep her under close supervision or to accept my offer of free access to the city.
Without hesitation, she asked to be chaperoned, to keep her grounded in her new life as a slave and to avoid the emotional torment of thinking of herself as a free individual once more and living a ‘conventional life’, to use her own words.
This answer makes me think that she is in fact now ready to work within a normal social sphere but within clearly defined boundaries. She should still receive regular discipline, not for the punishment of infractions (now quite rare) but to maintain her view of herself as an enslaved individual and that for her, enslavement has become her natural state.
We reach Alana and Vitaly’s home once more; the small detached house in the neat Moscow suburb.
The garden is now full of flowers and flowering shrubs. It is very beautiful and tranquil.
I am in the downstairs office with Neena and Pyotr. Neena spreads out a plan of the Metro. It’s not a standard plan. All the lines are present but only some of them are in colour and only some of the stations are included. (1)
"So these are your boundaries", Neena tells me. "You can reach the University directly using Line One – here, do you see?" She glances up at me to make sure I am paying attention.
"Then", she continues, "we may need you to go here". She turns the plan over to reveal an extract from the Moscow street map showing the area around the University. When you leave the station, you turn left onto Vernadskogo Prospect and walk straight ahead. Then turn first left onto Stroiteley Ulitsa. Walk straight ahead and under the new Leninsky Prospect bridge turn right and walk down old Leninsky Prospect. In the second block on the left you will find the shop you need. It is called ‘Mothercare’. What’s funny?"
"I’m sorry, Gaspazha. I think I have seen that before."
"Ah ... really? ... ah. I do not think they exist outside Russia. I am sure if you reflect, you will agree you must have been mistaken."
So, occasionally my Owners and their colleagues actually do make mistakes, because I can even remember being taken to Mothercare when I was a little girl. There is one in every British town, but that’s something I will keep to myself. (2)
I reply, "Yes, I am sure you are correct", but actually I do more than merely acquiesce. I summon up the mental effort to drive the memory away somewhere safe, somewhere far out of mind. Dwelling on it will do me no good and bring me no peace.
Neena is speaking again, "Tickets on the Metro cost twenty eight roubles for each journey (3). You will buy one ticket for each journey. Your ticket allows you to pass through the admission barriers, onto the platform and through the exit barriers at your destination. Today you will make these journeys with Pyotr. I expect you to complete your task without the need for any advice or help. When you come up onto street level, you will check-in using your mobile ‘phone. Is that clear? Quite clear? We know how long the journeys should be at any particular time of day and will expect to hear from you within five minutes of our estimate. Incidentally, we will be aware of any operational problems on the Metro network. Are my instructions still clear, rabinya?"
"Spaseeba, Gaspazha, ya ponomayoo!" Thank you Mistress, I understand. The words of my new language trip from my tongue effortlessly ...
"Harosho, rabinya Vyerochka. I will look forward to your report and Pyotr’s report about you."
Like an aeroplane on auto-pilot, I engage with the protocol for navigating the Moscow Metro and set off to find Mothercare; this establishment which is only to be found in Mother Russia, according to my Supervisor but which I know will give me a painful sense of déjà vu, when I finally enter its doors.
The Metro is breath taking. The scale of the design and the flair of the construction. I have, quite simply never seen the like before.
As I gaze at the chandeliers, the marble floors, the ornate plasterwork, the colourful mosaics, I am torn between emotions: I should feel pride, when I gaze at the achievements of my country because I am a Russian myself: they told me so. These are achievements of my country. Or should I acknowledge the feeling of alienation I still have. The certainty that I do not really belong. That I am a stranger in a strange land?
Once in the train, I take a seat and inspect my fellow passengers. The old, the middle-aged, the young. The old seem wearied by years and the changes and chances of troubled lives. The young are familiar: the happy confident optimistic faces found in any modern city. The middle-aged: A curious hybrid of the two extremes. Confident, yet apprehensive. Prosperous, yet wary of what the future may bring.
I emerge onto a street with booming fast moving traffic. I check in using the mobile phone that Neena gave me. There’s no sense of approval at the other end, just recognition of the fact that I have emerged and I am doing exactly as I have been told.
As I approach my destination, it is instantly recognizable. A ghost from a former life which still walks and haunts me. I have to buy a baby changing box, baby wipes, a baby changing bag and ‘natusan’ whatever that may be.(4) I take them from the shelves, present myself at the checkout and discover that I have change from the cash which has been given to me. I check: there is still money left over once my return ticket has been bought. This is a deliberate challenge. I should merely return ‘home’ but something draws me back to the displays. I stand admiring the little baby dresses and baby grows. They are so tiny. So innocent. On impulse, I buy one! A white and pale blue striped all-in-one baby-grow with smocking across the chest and trimmed with bright blue, white and red at the collar and cuffs. I will get beaten for this, but I do not care. I will blame a ‘maternal instinct’ when they question my brazen failure to follow instructions! The fact is, I just do not care anymore. I am a woman. They have sent me to a baby shop. I am helping to look after a baby. Women in my position buy things for babies.
As I leave the store to return to the house with my purchases and my contraband, I find myself thinking about an old life I once led and a man with whom I shared it. I cannot imagine ever going back now and after so long, would he still want me? Surely the time has come to exorcise his ghost from my mind and set him free to live his own life: to make new friends, to form new relationships and to walk on into the future, unencumbered by memories of me. With a great effort, I try to visualize his image, to imagine him standing in front of me, one last time. We hold hands. We kiss, gently, respectfully on the cheek and then take a step back, to regard each other for the last time. Our hands slip apart. He smiles. I smile. He turns, walks, turns again to give me a fleeting smile as he looks at me for the last time over his shoulder and then he is lost in the press of the passers-by on the pavement as he walks away westward. I stand and watch his retreat. I wish him well and turn to descend into the Metro and to resume the strange new life to which I have been recruited. We are both free now. He is free to live his life. I am free to embrace my chains.
MISSION CONTROL MOSCOW
E-mail from Neena Alexandrovna to
Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky and Svetlana Nikitechna Kustenskaya
Dr Igor Ivanovitch Mendeleyev
I am pleased to report the Vyera returned from her first solo mission into Moscow safely.
She had followed her instructions to the letter – well not quite to the letter, but see below. She made her journey by Metro accurately , found the shop quickly and made her purchases successfully. She then returned immediately.
She reported her progress using the mobile ‘phone she was given and examination of the unit after she returned showed that she had not attempted to call any unauthorized numbers and she had not tried to send a text – in fact she had not explored the text option.
She was tracked both by her collar and also by a RFID hidden in her clothes which shows that there is an operational back-up if either of the units fail.
She was discretely observed throughout and there was no cause for concern at any point.
She reported her progress using the mobile ‘phone she was given and examination of the unit after she returned showed that she had not attempted to call any unauthorized numbers and she had not tried to send a text – in fact she had not explored the text option.
When she realized that the money she had been given was more that she needed to make her purchases and buy her ticket home, she indulged herself and bought a little baby-grow for Dmitry.
This was not included in her instructions but I did not punish her for this little disobedience because:
1. She did not use the money for her self
2. She thought of our interests, not hers
3. It shows that the training she has undergone has not damaged her humanity nor her womanly instincts
4. If you will permit me to say – it is just lovely! I have attached a photo taken on my mobile.
I hope I made the correct decision, in the circumstances?
…………………………………………………………………………….
Footnotes:
"Tolya?"
"Mmmm?"
"How is Vyera getting on with her research?"
Such a question! It is early morning and Anatoly and Sveta are in bed together. Sveta is awake but that is far more than you could say for Anatoly. To be shaken out of sleep and interrogated about a slave’s research project at this time in the morning. For goodness sake!
"What? Er ... I ... er ... I don’t know. I have not spoken to Mendeleyev for ... er ... a while. I have been thinking about Alana and Vitaly and little Dmitry. I think she is "writing up" or something, so there is a comprehensive account of what she has done ... er ..."
Anatoly yawns, turns over and attempts to re-establish his connection with the unconscious.
"Tolya! Are you listening?"
"No, not really."
"I think we should give Vyera something back. We have taken a lot. It’s time to give back."
"Huh? OK ... erm ... yes, I guess so. We could ...."
But before he can finish his sentence, Anatoly is asleep again, leaving Sveta to make plans.
I am coming to the end of my project. There are so many mixed emotions. I am amazed I have been able to marshal the data, carry out the statistical tests and answer the questions I set myself when I started. For a moment I think about how the whole project began, in an untidy office with Professor Dawney talking about some observational field work she wanted me to carry out. It is a life-time ago. Trying to remember begins to make me feel sick: it was so long ago and so far away! I have a sensation which is almost like vertigo.
Over the past several weeks I have spent all my free moments writing up, checking references, checking the Bibliography (Dr Mendeleyev is very particular about how the citations are written out) and assembling the overall account:-
It is a Thesis. It is my thesis. And now it is complete. But what will happen to me? Now my intellectual labours are complete, will I remain just a domestic slave and a sexual muse? I have completed the task I have been given and now I wait to be used for something else. That’s what it is to be a slave.
What I still can’t quite understand is why my life has changed in this totally unexpected undeserved way? The ‘how’ is straight-forward but the ‘why’ remains obscure.
Before I was Active. Now I am passive.
At this point in my life, I had expected to be obsessed with having my research published. In fact, I now obsess about shopping. Running the errands. Reporting when I enter the Metro and leave, when I enter the shop and when I leave.
I used to teach students. Now I use my body to pleasure other people. Instead of teaching, I fuck and I suck and I lick.
I expected to find myself enthusiastically searching my intellectual horizon for new research ideas and opportunities. Now, I pour my efforts in to cleaning, so not a speck of dust nor spot of dirt is left. Partly I do this because it is how I am, but mainly there is the certain prospect of punishment for any failure to maintain standards.
I used confidently make presentations at meetings of my colleagues: now I am glad to wait at table and I am grateful to be completely out of the lime light.
Before, I would prepare applications for research grants. Now I, with unrestrained enthusiasm, prepare my body for physical and sexual exploitation.
Before, I disciplined my mind for the intellectual challenges I would face. Now I have my body disciplined to be at the disposal of other people; my Owners, my Trainer and anyone else I am given to.
In my occasional moments of clarity, as I am just now, I am horrified. Before long an unscratchable sexual itch begins and I throw myself into an abject surrender to physical and sexual slavery. I love it, perhaps as I have loved no other.
Neena comes into my cell. The lights have just faded up and I have gone through my daily ritual of personal housekeeping. I am expecting her to give me a list of my tasks for today. I have been back at the Dacha for several days now. Alana and Vitali do not need my help for the time being and I have picked up my routine once more. Today we will run outside and I will go to the gym for a ‘shoulder and pectoral muscles and heavy weights’ session but Neena surprises me. "Tomorrow, rabinya, you will be examined on the research work you have completed. Your report has been properly printed and bound, using the papers you have been working on. One copy is in Russian. The other in English. Today, after exercise, you will work upstairs in the office and review the English copy. Mark any errors in pencil. Score through technical errors with a forward stroke and spelling and grammatical errors with a backwards stroke. The computer will be turned off, by the way.
She smiles a smug smile, to remind me of the day when I tried to make a bold and desperate escape through email.
I reply, brightly, "Thank you Gaspazha Neena, for keeping me from temptation!"
"Your visits to Moscow have made you cheeky, rabinya Vyerka. Perhaps you need a caning to keep you grounded?"
This time I keep any more clever remarks silent in the privacy of my mind and merely hang my head.
Some two hours later, I am in the office. Coffee has been provided.
Two large-ish books are open on the office table. It is my Thesis, except not officially a ‘Thesis’, I suppose but merely it is a research report which I am completing for others, who will benefit from my work. I suppose binding the report into a book keeps it tidy?
By the end of the day I can report to Neena that there are only six small typing errors in the English version and the report can be presented tomorrow – but to whom? I made a detailed summary at the University some months ago to all the people who cared about the project. The only person left out was Angela. For goodness sake, Angela will not be coming will she? Suddenly I feel as if I have been stood under a cold shower. I feel sick, cold, distraught, desperate. What if Angela was instrumental in proposing me for abduction? What would I say to her? I imagine myself standing before her, naked. I present the report. She begins to cross examine me, all the time smirking. Her face eloquently telling me that I should not have left her to marry Joe, that my present condition is my punishment for disloyalty whilst her voice delivers calm, measured, taxing academic questions.
During the night, Angela visits me in my dreams. I kneel at her feet, just like I used to do. She speaks. I listen. She proposes. I do as I am told. She demands. I agree. She tells me to leave Joe. I refuse.
I wake up alone in my cell. I realise that she has won. I have been taken from Joe and he from me. This is my punishment for disloyalty. Life imprisonment and slavery.
In the morning, Neena brings me to the dining room. I am dressed in a white shirt, a black skirt and black slip-on clogs on my bare feet. I am sweating and trembling. I will have to face Angela.
"Vyerka! What is the matter with you?"
I can’t speak. I open my mouth but no words come.
Neena grips my arm firmly. It hurts but the pain is welcome. It keeps me from my fears. "Now listen to me. Listen to me. You will present your report just as you did at MSU. You will answer the questions put to you. You will do no more and you will do no less. Do you understand Vyerka? You will knock and walk through that door and I will follow behind you. You will do it now."
I am sitting on one side of the dining room table. Opposite me sit, Dr Mendeleyev, Julia Romanova and another man I have never seen before. He says he is Dr Andrei Mikhailovitch Akunin. He is an epidemiologist.
The three of them take me through each section of the report, asking how the research began, how the subjects were chosen, randomization, blinding the subjects to the nature of the investigation, informed consent (consent, for goodness sake!), data collection, verification, data organization, analysis and the inferences drawn. All the questions seem astonishingly easy. I am still waiting for the difficult questions to begin when Dr Mendeleyev, acting as chairman, draws proceedings to a close. (1)
"Thank you Vyera Anatol’yevna. Please be patient with us for a few moments whilst we reflect on what you have told us."
I feel Neena tap me on my shoulder and the two of us retire into the drawing room next door. The Mongolians have left tea. Neena directs me to sit in one of the chairs and pours me a cup.
"I am sorry Gaspazha! I have not poured for you. Forgive ..."
"Be quiet Vyera. Drink your tea and wait patiently like a good little slave, will you?"
"Yes, Gaspazah. I am sorry."
Why has she called me Vyera? That is the adult form of my name and unsuitable for a slave. My examiners called me Vyera Anatol’yevna. Perhaps Dr Akunin does not know ‘about my situation’?
"Your bum will have plenty of opportunity to be sorry, soon enough."
Suddenly Julia Romanova is at the door. She smiles. I stand. "Dr Kuznetsova", she says, "please follow me."
Uncomprehending, I follow. In the dining room, Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensty have joined Dr Mendeleyev and Dr Akunin. Ssisma, one of the Domestics is standing with a tray bearing glasses of champagne.
Dr Mendeleyev leans forward across the table and offers me his hand. "Congratulations, Vyera Anatol’yevna. My colleagues and I agree. You have defended your Thesis successfully. Your Thesis has met the standards required by the Lomonosov State University of Moscow to award the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. You are now Dr Vyera Anatol’yevna Kuznetsova."
Every one applauds - and I weep. Gaspazha Sveta lays her arm across my shoulder. "There, there, little girl", she says as if comforting a small child. "There, there."
The cars climb to the crest of the hill and park so their passengers may get out; Neena, Vyera, Pyotr, Anatoly and Sveta. In front of them, a vista of Moscow is spread out. Behind them, the central tower of Moscow State University rears up. Until 2000 it was the tallest building in Europe. (2) It is a breathtaking wedding cake of a building. Magnificently constructed and detailed but it is a building to overawe and a building to make the individual feel small and insignificant.
Vyera feels small now, as she is lead towards it. Poytr in front. Neena to her side Her Owners walking behind. She remembers the story she heard at school as a little girl: of Abraham leading Isaac up the mountain to be sacrificed. (3)
She is smartly dressed. A simple, elegant, formal black dress and shoes. Her legs are bare save for a gold ankle bracelet. It could be decorative but Vyera knows it is symbolic, to remind her that she is not as other people are. Reminding her that she is a slave, where ever she is and whatever she has been told to do, she is and she will always be enslaved. She has a new collar for today. A seamless, round, brushed silver metallic band encircling her neck. It is understated but this new understated collar has all the important lethality of the collar she usually wears. Neena told her so.
They pass through the main entrance, into the foyer. The little party stands for a moment. Gaspadeen Kustensky extends his hand: "Well done, Vyera. None of your predecessors have such an achievement to their credit. Congratulations!"
Sveta Kustenskaya leans forward to embrace and kiss. A light kiss on her cheek. "Remember to enjoy the moment. We are so very proud of you. We will enjoy watching you so much!"
The Kustenskies and Pyotr leave and Vyera is alone with Neena. "You have read the instructions?"
"Da, Gaspaszha."
"You know where to go?"
"Da, spaseeba."
"Good. We will all be waiting for you at the end."
Neena smiles and Vyera is at last alone, alone in a crown of happy boisterous young people but Vyera knows she has expectations to fulfill. She looks at her academic gown and in a moment of clarity, remembers that this moment should have been shared with others,
But they are no others, only Owners.
Vyera takes her place and the Ceremony unfolds in the cavernous University Assembly Hall. At the front, a dais stands before an enormous mosaic splattered with Soviet iconography in red and gold. (4) Against this background, the University Rector delivers speeches to the new graduates: congratulations on their achievement, recognition of their hard work done, thoughts on what the future may hold for them. Ah, if they only knew! Could any of those present imagine what the future might be or the bare headed girl in the front of the congregation? A future which will involve corporal punishment, bodily modification, sexual, physical and intellectual exploitation, perhaps disposal when her usefulness came to an end and even execution if she dared to abscond?
It is coming close to her time. Those to her right are standing, passing forwards under the orders of the Ushers. She obediently follows, as she should, to walk across the dais, to shake hands with the Faculty, to receive her scroll and to walk on into her future as Dr Vyera Anatol’yevna Kuznetsova, PhD, Lomonosov State University, Moscow. Dr Kuznetsova, rabinya.
Photographs always make people smile. Against the heroic, monolithic, background of the University buildings, on a warm sunny summer’s day Vyera is photographed in her academic robes, black and gold, her head covered by her Doctor’s hat, her Scroll in her hands, on her own, with Neena, with Anatoly, with Sveta, with her new "family" all together and in the company of Dr Mendeleyev and Dr Romaonva, as an academic triumvirate.
Has she enjoyed the day? The satisfaction of achievement has been alloyed with a nagging unhappiness. The day also belonged to Others who were absent and whilst Vyera often finds it difficult to remember who they are, because their names and faces are now small and often blurred in her memory, she is aware of the voids that they should fill on this happy day, this day of achievement, this day of celebration.
I have been summoned to the University, to see Drs Mendeleyev and Romanova.
Sergey, the security guard on duty today, gives me exactly enough money for the tickets I will have to buy to travel on the Metro. 28 roubles each way, 56 roubles in all. Together, we verify that my mobile is charged and working. He gives me just a little more money - the price of a phone call – just in case my mobile breaks down. I confirm the route I will take. He releases me from the house and I begin my journey.
I check the time at the station and send Sergey a text to tell him that I am about to enter.
I catch Metro from Chisty Purdy to Universitet, nine stops away on Line 1. As the train plunges down the dark tunnels, I read the names of the stations on the Metro Schema and play with the strange poetry of their names: Tverskaya, Arbatskaya, Kievskaya, Park Kultury, Pachatniki and Yasenevo.
As soon as I am above ground once more, I send a text to confirm my position and prepare to penetrate the warren of corridors and floors in the main university tower and presently I am once more standing outside the door which says: Þëèà Ðîìàíîâà.
I confirm my position by text to Sergey again and knock ...
"Dr Vyera!"
"Gaspazha. Vasha rabinya. Mistress.Your slave"
"What a day it was, last week; I was so pleased to see you graduate!"
"Yes: so unexpected. My Owners were very kind to me. I had not expected such ... generosity. The ceremony was wonderful and such a beautiful day and then to be taken to lunch afterwards. I was not expecting anything at all. After all, slaves ..."
"Are there for the benefit of their Owners."
"Yes: I understand that so much better now."
"You are very fortunate."
"Yes: I know. I am very fortunate."
"How does it make you feel?"
"Feel? ... it makes me feel ... grateful and also that I have a responsibility not to let my Owners down. Not to disappoint them in any way. Gratitude, resolve to do all I can to be the very best slave that I can be and always a responsibility to do my very best."
Julia pats me gently on my bum, smiles and says "Well done, rabinya"
Rabinya! She has never actually used that word about me in my presence before and I feel absurdly pleased. I smile broadly. She smiles in return. I want to kiss her for her kind words, as I feel them to be.
"Coffee?"
"Oh yes please."
"Well, more work! As you know, research gets published and we have to publish the work you have done."
"Publish? But the field work ... should ... I mean how can you keep the location of the field work confidential?"
"Confidential?"
"It was done abroad. We are Russians. Anyone reading a research paper would want to know where the field work took place. They would expect it to have been carried out in Russia. Unless the field work is to be repeated at a facility in our country?"
"Well done Vyerochka! You have been such a good investment! Of course you are quite correct and yes, your original field work is to be repeated. We will improve the experimental methods and the data collection. The exact context will be different, of course. However, at this stage, we intend to publish the experimental strategy and then during the next twelve months, we will describe the improved methods as the new experiment unfolds. Your task here today is to write up the preliminary communication."
"I am sorry to argue but surely people will know ... will recognise?"
"Who, exactly?"
"Professor ... Professor ..."
"Dawney?"
"Yes. Professor Dawney"
"Professor Dawnwey’s brain is not always the source of her own ideas."
"Oh – how do you mean?"
"Your project was originally suggested to her, by Igor Ivanovitch and Professor Dawney thought she could see potential in it. It provided her with some sort of opportunity ..."
My jaw drops. Angela had seen some sort of opportunity in this project. An opportunity to have me trained as a slave! Initially a consensual slave but how consensual would that remain as I fell deeper under her influence? And little by little she would prize me away from ... from ... what was his name? The man I used to be with?
Julia is speaking again: "so at least you know exactly where you are with us, hmmm? You are safer. Vyerochka? Are you all right?"
"Da, spaseeba, Gaspazha. It’s ... I mean, I often feel sick when I move between the world I live in now and my memories of the world I used to live in. It feels like vertigo. I do not like to go back there if I can help it. It hurts me."
"Ah, I see. Travelling between worlds. And I took you back by talking about ..."
"Yes. Please, do not mention her."
"Of course." She hugs me and I snuggle up to the warmth of her body and the sweet softness of her fuzzy hair. She smiles a satisfied smile and I feel relieved to be back safe where I belong, as their slave.
I spend the rest of the day writing up the preliminary report. It is so easy, almost as if I have done it before. The flow of the ideas, the sentence structure, the quotations in the bibliography. I write in English and Julia translates it across into Russian. Before mid-afternoon the task is complete.
My mobile rings. "Rabinya?"
"Da?"
"Alana!"
"Gaspazha!"
"Give the mobile to Julia."
"Gaspazha Julia?"
"Da."
"Eto Gaspazha Alana."
"Ah. Give it to me."
She holds out her hand for the mobile and talks animatedly to Gaspazha Alana about the birth of her baby and Vitali and about Yuri her own boyfriend – or is he her partner now?
Arrangements are being made for Julia and Yuri to visit Alana and Vitali and meet little Dmitry. I should have liked to invite Julia to my home because she is so nice but slaves do not have anything of their own. I have been given a place to live but it is not ‘my’ place and in any case, it’s difficult to entertain in a cell and what would I give them anyway? I have nothing. This is one of the sadness’s of my calling. Not being able to be generous or to repay kindness, except with my efforts and my demeanour. Those are all I have left to give.
Julia leans her head towards me.
"You are to get some ‘Baby Wet Ones’ from the Pharmacy in Chisty Purdy. (5) An account has been arranged. Just give your name when you arrive. It will be ready for you. Understand?"
"Da, Gaspazha, spaseeba"
Julia returns to her call. "Yes, Alana. I have told her. Yes, we are done. She is on her way"
Julia closes the call, smiles at me and returns the handset. I am dismissed.
The following day, Neena arrives to take me back to the Dacha. Vitali, Alana and little Dmitry are going to visit Vitaly’s parents and so, once more, I am no longer needed. I help them pack and by mid-afternoon we are ready to depart.
Before we leave, Neena imparts some news.
"A colleague of yours is doing some acceptable work at last and is more compliant. A reward is to be given. You will not let me down, I hope? Stand still! "
The Moscow house has a garage beneath it and our conversation has taken place in confidentiality of the garage. Neena hands me the leather discipline hood which I snuggle over my head and Neena closes the zips and collar strap to imprison my head until I am due for release. She has done this to make sure I have plenty of time to think about my coming duties with no distractions. As we drive to the Dacha I am left alone in my warm, dark, sweet smelling leathery seclusion, to contemplate being given to Pavea, Pavea of all people, as a sexual toy!
I am standing in one of the basement cells at the Dacha. I am still wearing my hood but apart from the hood, I am naked. My hands are strapped behind me and my legs are secured to a short spreader bar. Neena brought me here and prepped me before leaving without any further explanation.
I stand like this, apparently alone for several moments. I am expecting to hear the gloating voice of Pavea but there is silence. A hand gently begins to tease my thighs. I wince in surprise at its unexpected touch. The hand spends some moments rubbing, tickling, brushing my labia. My chastity belt has been removed but not my chastity piercings. The hand caresses them in a teasing, tickling way. My legs begin to tremble. I can feel my cunt beginning to get wet. The rubbing and tickling stop and there is silence. The hand holds my bum and I feel a tongue on my labia. The rings discourage an early attack on my inner labia and the tongue bides its time exploring me. Presently, the tongue tip begins to push between the folds of my labia between the rings. I can feel the gentle erotic stretching. I can feel my cunt beginning to drool in earnest. The chastity piercings prevent any penetration by a cock, but they do not keep a tongue at bay. The tongue takes its time. It wriggles, probes and finds my inner lips and presently, it finds my clit. The tongue spends several minutes playing there. This is such a refined torture! My body is sweating. My legs are trembling but I am nowhere near coming. The owner of the tongue must realize, as they – she as I guess it is – she continues to play slow sensuous music with my body.
Abruptly, the stimulation stops. Pavea’s voice says, "Kneel, you bitch and she slaps my bum hard!"
I kneel and she strips off my hood, laughing at how my face is covered in perspiration.
"On your back!"
I slither onto my back facing her.
"You taste good, do you know that?"
"Er, I’m not sure."
"That Neena bitch gave me just one half hour and I have just fifteen minutes left to use you, see?"
Pavea shows me an electronic timer, relentlessly counting backwards to zero. She squats over me.
"My ass! You are going to spend the last ten minutes tonguing my ass. I want to be caressed, and licked – licked right over the star-fish, mind. I wanna feel your stud – and then I wanna have a nice gentle tongue fucking. I think I’m clean but, well I just dunno exactly. Anyway, whatever. Off you go!"
I am under orders. I have to comply. Once I would have been appalled at this sort of behaviour. After the Domestics I stopped worrying. This particular defence had been washed away long ago. Then there was Neena, and how I love Neena, but Pavea?
Yet, I am a slave and slaves just do as they are told. I spend the last ten minutes of this particular servitude tonguing Pavea’s ass to her apparent satisfaction.
Pavea’s reverie and my humiliation are abruptly ended by the electronic alarm.
"Damn you!" gasps Pavea: "I was almost there!"
Seconds later Neena is with us. My legs are unstrapped and we both struggle to our feet, to stand before our Trainer.
"Pavea." says Neena brightly. "Have you enjoyed yourself?"
"Sorta", she replies. Pavea continues to be astonishingly - heroically - insolent or so it seems to me. Perhaps this is just her ‘way’. The effects of her upbringing and her culture.
Neena raises one eyebrow in reply.
"So assess your colleague, rabinya Pavea. Marks out of ten?"
I gasp: I just know what is coming: "Well, gee I suppose the bitch tried hard but she has so much to learn. I’d give her ... oh, I guess four out of ten. She needs more practice!"
"Only four out of ten", muses Neena in reply, well she has not had opportunities for sexual service recently, so I can understand that she may be out of practice but four out of ten you say? Why that leaves six marks to earn. In Russia we count in groups of five but you were, once upon a time, an American and Americans like groups of six so, six times six is thirty six! That means Vyera has earned herself thirty six cane strokes."
Neena tut tuts and slowly shakes her head at me. For my part I feel so let down by Pavea. I tired my best. I start to shed tears at the way Pavea has landed me in trouble and encouraged Neena to arrange a severe punishment for me. But Neena has not finished. She turns to the smug, smiling Pavea.
"It is a shame to waste an educational opportunity. Slaves have to cultivate a generosity of spirit. This, Pavea, is something you have to pay particular attention to. Tomorrow, you shall watch me give Vyerka a warm-up spanking and then thirty six cane strokes, one per minute. Afterwards, so you can fully appreciate Vyerka’s learning experience and to give yourself the opportunity to think more deeply about generosity, Vyerochka will prep you with a spanking and I will cane you, the same thirty six strokes! So, something for you both to think about overnight!"
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Footnotes:
(5) Baby Wet Ones. Try TheMommyInsider for these…
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
CHAPTER 24 : A VACATION IS ARRANGED
Anatoly, Dr Mendeleyev and Neena are facing each other through computer screens. They are holding a regular on-line meeting to discuss the progress of a number of novice slaves as they progress through their training. The meeting has been in progress for some time and they have reached what will be the two most difficult items.
"Igor Ivanovitch? The next item is ‘Research Reports’ and you want to speak to this?"
Dr Mendeleyev clears his throat." Yes, thank you, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. This is my item. As you probably know, it is normal for Academics such as Julia Romanova and I to publish our work. Indeed Higher Education has almost become an international commodity. MSU is very keen to rise to the top of the ‘world league of universities’, so the Rector expects to see a continuous output of research papers from all departments."
"Quite so, and the consequence for us?"
"Is that we have begun to publish the results of the Vyera Investigation."
"So?"
"Other research groups will become aware of what we have accomplished."
"The usual consequence of publication, I think. Do you have concerns? Someone in particular?"
"In particular, there is Angela Dawney. Her in particular because I first suggested an investigation on these lines to her. It was a casual, perhaps ‘tongue in cheek’ suggestion and I was astonished to see how quickly she had picked up the idea and made progress with it."
"And she will be surprised to see her own data in print under your name?"
The image of Mendeleyev shifts uncomfortably on the screen in front of Anatoly.
"There are two issues, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. First, I should have discussed the commercial sensitivity of the data with you, so I apologise. However, you should know that MSU is very keen to exploit commercial advantage for its own ends, so perhaps it is wise not to alert their income generation people by classifying this particular work as ‘commercially sensitive’ "
"Second, Dawney will be alerted to the data but she will not know that it is the same data that Vyera was collecting in the UK. Only that the investigation and data is very similar. She may, of course, just think that we have proceeded with my original idea after all."
Anatoly snorts, it would hardly be like Angela to remember that someone else had an idea before she did.
"Third", the image of Mendeleyev looks down and Anatoly immediately knows that this is where the real trouble lies, "in our first report the authors were listed as Mendeleyev, Romanova and Kuznetsova. We had intended to keep Vyera’s name off the paper but through an oversight, it was sent to the journal intact and Vyera’s very own manuscript was used."
"Ah." Anatoly paused to assess the potential significance of this new fact.
"Has Dawney a list of your staff?"
"No, of course not."
"So there is nothing to connect Vyera Anatol’yevna Kuznetsova with Jennifer Karin McEwan?"
"Not directly but the manuscript is in Vyera’s words. They might match the words she had used in similar written work before she was brought here."
"Ah … I see … but she has been with us for many months now. Surely her previous work will have been discarded?"
"Possibly, and then again, possibly not."
"And you propose?"
"We cannot retract the report but we can make sure that VA Kuznetsova never appears again in future reports. I do not think Vyera has any further expectations of an academic career."
"I don’t think we plan to sponsor any further research at this point," Anatoly says, drily. "Thank you, Igor Ivanovitch. Clearly we must keep a careful watch."
Anatoly pauses for a moment or so and weighs Mendeleyev’s concerns in his own mind. There is nothing which can be done now but it is certainly a mistake. The best they can do is to make sure it does not become a bigger one.
"Now, next item. Tell me about the progress of", he glances down to check a name, "of Pavea?"
Dr Mendeleyev and Neena both take a deep breath. Pavea has proven to be a very awkward project.
Neena begins. "I have to be frank, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. She is difficult. Progess is slow but progress is being made. I think she is beginning to break."
"Igor Ivanvovitch?"
Dr Mendeleyev clears his throat. "She has been a disappointment, Anatoly Sergeyevitch. When she became available, I thought she would be helpful in Vyera’s training. I think I mentioned that she might provide an opportunity for the slave Vyera to … er … practice her skills as a teacher and to lift her horizon from the domestic work she had been undertaking but - I have discussed the position with Neena Alexandrovna – Pavea has merely been an additional trial for Vyera to endure. I am sorry the scheme has not been successful. In the circumstances, I could recommend Pavea’s transfer to the normal facility?"
Anatoly regards his two colleagues and pauses. Pausing always makes subordinates anxious. They have to await his judgment. In this case, his judgment on them! Anatoly clears his throat. He has news. Very unsatisfactory news.
"I have today heard from the friend to whom I was repaying a favour in the matter of Pavea’s abduction and training. You will remember the circumstances?"
Mendeleyev and Neena both nod carefully.
"It seems that the loss of his daughter has had a very salutary effect on Manfred Randolf. He has spent the last several months repaying his debts and bringing his accounts up to date. I think he suspects his daughter’s disappearance has something to do with his former approach to business. He is trying to get her back by making amends and here we have a problem. My friend has asked me to discharge Pavea, but is that practical? That is my question."
"Practical?" Responds Mendeleyev,
Anatoly continues: "From what you have told me, she is not completely trained. She is nowhere near compliant. She will remember us. She will remember what has happened to her. She will rush to the authorities. There will be complications."
"If I may offer an opinion?"
"Yes, Neena Alexandrovna, please"
"I think she is making progress. It would be a great pity to release her (assuming that is the decision) at this point. Many of her character flaws are being corrected."
"Neena Alexandrovna: we are not here to improve the characters of young American women!"
"Of course not, Anatoly Sergeyevitch what I meant was that if she could be detained for longer, any release might not be connected with Mr Randolf’s behaviour so closely and Pavea would have completed her training. She would be programmed much more completely. Any release would be safer."
"Igor Ivanovitch?"
"I agree with Neena Alexandrovna. Releasing Pavea at this point would be perilous, almost like interrupting a hanging after it had begun. The result would be the worst of all possible worlds. Far better to let the process go to completion, for all concerned."
Anatoly sighs. Mendeleyev’s rather gruesome analogy seems to have hit the nail on the head. One thing is certain. He will not to get involved with revenge or punishment abductions ever again. They are just too much trouble.
Neena walks down to the basement corridor. She has just left Vyera in the guest bedroom. She licks her lips over the idea of Vyera in the bed of the African. Restrained. Naked. Vulnerable. Available. Brazen. She thinks about how the night will unfold and its on-goings. She imagines Vyera impaled on the throbbing penis of their guest, her user. His body, firmly gripping hers. Vyera bucking in response. The flow of their intimate ballet gathering pace.
Gradually his balls become tense. He slows his pace, thrusting deeper and slower, his foreskin peeled back by the contact with Vyera’ vaginal walls. The final few seconds in which he abandons all control. Perhaps with his mouth firmly clamped on Vyera’s neck, sucking hard as he ejaculates deeply into her hot moist, receptive perhaps fertile vagina. Vyera would know. She would feel it. She would know that she might become pregnant! Her belly swelling so delightfully. A ripe fruit. Such a suitable ending for her training. After all, no contraceptive precautions were one hundred percent reliable!
She had spent part of the day with the African. Vyera had kept him company on a run through the grounds of the Dacha and had than spent time with him in the gym. So at least they were acquainted. Soon to be very much better acquainted!
And now to deal with Pavea!
How interesting that her father has reacted to her disappearance by undertaking a sober reflection on his own life. How American! He has systematically proceeded to pay all his debts. Like Matthew the Tax Collector (1), he has repaid all that he had owed. The reason for Pavea’s abduction and enslavement was now cancelled. Her father has, knowingly or unknowingly, redeemed her. Anatoly Sergeyevitch has agreed that Pavea should be restored to the bosom of her family.
Neena is, however especially pleased that he has agreed to let Pavea complete her training. It would have been such a shame to discontinue early, just when Pavea was beginning to break. The rude, abrasive, wearisome creature was at last beginning to learn some manners. Her training was starting to improve her. Yet, there was a final opportunity for some education. Before she was transferred. Some thing for her to carry away with her. A souvenir of her experiences at the Dacha ...
She has been brought to the punishment room and strapped over the spanking horse. Neena seductively runs her hand over the victim’s buttocks.
"Gaspazha Neena?"
Now that is progress. Not ‘You. Bitch’, not even ‘You Goddam Bitch, don’t you know who I am?’ or even ‘Get you Commie Hands off of me, you Fucking Bitch’ but instead the perfectly polite and appropriate response. Scrubbing floors was obviously good for her, that and the demeaning body modifications she had endured. Her septum ring and the stud through her lower lip, right in the centre of her face.
"Izvenetie, pa’zhalsta, Gaspazha Neena": excuse me please, Mistress Neena. Why, the girl has even said it in Russian!
"Da, rabinya?"
"Have I done wrong?"
"Nyet." (and she has not challenged her status. She has accepted the title ‘slave’)
"Oh, then why ..."
"Does there need to be a reason?"
"Nyet, Gaspazha." (and merely a sigh of resignation)
"So you are learning?"
"Da, spaseeba, Gaspazha."
Pavea was being so compliant they Neena begins to suspect this is the prelude to the American trying to negotiate some sort of deal to avoid punishment. Time to disappoint her.
"Punishment is always good for slaves, Pavea. I could not remember when I last strapped you. And, as Vyera is busy elsewhere ..." (a fleeting image crosses Neena’s mind: Vyera bucking and writhing on the black guy’s prick. He comes. He pumps Vyera full of sperm. She is fertile. He is fertile. Nice!) ...
"So I thought we should spend some quality time together."
"Oh, spaseeba ..."
"Pazhalsta!"
"Now, Pavea: I have news for you. You have been purchased! (there is a short gasping intake of breath from Pavea) You are going to a new home (actually her old home, but the true state of affairs had to be kept from her) but it’s a bit soon. In my opinion you need more time with us to complete your training. At one point it seemed that we had very little more time left. For example, you have not been tattooed with your slave name and number, but we will get that done before you go. I thought at the top of your right thigh, just where everyone will see, if you should get to wear a bikini or a thong in public. Also, perhaps across your breast, or on the back of your neck? It will be in Russian, of course, but you will be surprised to find how many people, will be able to read it correctly and will understand your true status. (Neena immediately realises that she has allowed herself to say too much. She had implied that Pavea might not stay in Russia. Better be more careful!) Anyway: I spoke to your present Owner who agreed that you will stay until we Trainers are fully satisfied with you. We intend to move you to another facility but as a souvenir of our time together, I am going to strap you! Hard. This is called "The Texas Prison Strap". You come from Texas, don’t you? Apparently, the prison authorities in Texas use it to discipline their prisoners. (2)
"Da, Gaspazha"
"You know? Well, let’s have a look at it together."
Neena carefully demonstrates the strap to Pavea.
"Look how long and thick it is - and wide too. You are really going to burn, with this. Imagine you were in prison, and I was some beautiful black officer. There you are before me, restrained and helpless and I get the job of correcting your behaviour and your loud mouth talk! Wonderful!"
Neena gets up to take her stance. She was going to enjoy strapping Pavea’s buttocks. The strap was a very attractive pale tan colour and had such a pleasantly sweet sexy leathery smell. And heavy, too. Hmmm. Neena has to swallow. Her mouth had been watering, in anticipation. Thinking of the job in hand. Thinking about Vyera being fucked. Thinking about Pavea having to complete her training as a slave before they would let her go. Completely trained. Completely subservient. Completely disciplined. How long would that be? It could be months and months. Perhaps a couple of years. Ah, life was good!
Neena takes her stance. On impulse, she slips off her Birkenstocks and lets her bare feet grip the floor. She grasps the handle of the strap firmly, takes her arm back and brings it smartly forward, turning her body to follow through, like a fore hand shot in tennis. The strap licks across Pavea’s buttocks. It makes a very satisfying ‘Hiss, Crack!’ Pavea lets out a sharp gasp. For an instant, the strap has leaves a pale imprint of its impact, which after a second or two more, turns a satisfying deep pink.
"One", says Pavea
"Nyet", replies Neena. "Adeen!"
"Oh, izveneetie. Adeen."
"Pavea: you know you should always try to speak the language of your new owners by now. What must we do?"
Another sigh of resignation comes from Pavea: "Start over."
"Da! Start over"
Neena changes her position. She feels sure that the aesthetic result of Pavea’s strapping will be so much better if she delivers the strap alternately from left, then right. The strap has already left a broad pink band. But then, that is a characteristic of the implement, when carefully handled. The Domme could concentrate the area of attack. The width of the strap left no doubt about where the impacts were landing. The sub was also left in no doubt about what was happening to them. No doubt at all!
"Let’s begin properly", she says, brightly. "Remember! You are being punished in prison by a tough young beautiful black officer for all your foul mouthed comments over the past months. I think you deserve this ass-whipping very much, don’t you?"
Pavea continues in submissive mode:
"Da, Gaspazha. Spaseeba"
Hisss, Crack!
"Adeen, Spaseeba, Gaspazha."
Neena smiles and her mouth waters again. ‘This creature really does seem to have accepted her place. Perhaps we really have done her a favour, after all’, muses Neena as she changes sides to deliver the second official stroke of … how many? … twenty? … perhaps just as many as needed to leave Pavea very red, very tender and very tearful?
OUT OF AFRICA
Amos Aruna has enjoyed a very good evening. The hospitality was impeccable, the food was first class and his friends, Anatoly and Sveta Kustensky had been delightful. Of course, that was the sign of a true friendship: they could all take up just where they had left off and the passing of years was as nothing. He is looking forward to the rest of the weekend - but not as much as he is looking forward to going home to Africa.
Amos is an entrepreneur but in the nineteen eighties, he had won a scholarship to MSU to further his academic and sporting education.
In years gone by, this was one of the ways in which the Soviet Union had made friends inside a predominantly ‘western’ sphere of influence. The western powers had significant anxieties but they also found it difficult to object. After all, they did exactly the same thing, but the Soviet advantage was that had never been a colonial power – at least not in Africa and so could present a fresh face and an unstained hand on the continent. A hand that was interested in freedom for oppressed peoples and liberation of subject nations – in Africa.
Amos had been someone who appeared on Soviet Radar three times: as an athlete, as an academic; and as someone who would, one day, be a man of influence.
He had first met Anatoly and Sveta when he was a student, although if would be more correct to say that Anatoly and Sveta’s employers made sure that Anatoly and Sveta met him!
This was a very unpromising start to the relationship. One party very far from home and the others, under orders to be friendly and welcoming, to send Amos Aruna back home with some very pleasant memories of Russia and the Russians, in spite of any other personal feelings they might have.
However, on this occasion, Anatoly, Amos and Sveta all got on with each other extremely well and genuine bonds of friendship formed, and grew and endured.
They had many shared interests and in due course, Amos was able to give some of his countrymen and countrywomen - almost always country women – the opportunity to work in Anatoly’s organization. Some of them returned to Africa to use the commercial and technical skills they had learned and quite a few remained in Russia, busily practicing some very special skills there! Their new lives were in a very significant sense, an improvement on their old circumstances which, of course, was essential to the business arrangement Anatoly and Amos had agreed.
The clock edges passed eleven pm and Amos, thanking Anatoly and Sveta for their generosity, says it is time he was in bed. He climbs the grand stairs to his room and wonders how a nation known in years gone by, for sober minded egalitarianism could, in some twenty years have transformed into a nation where the rich could be quite so spectacularly rich?
As he opens his door, a hidden sensor obediently turns on the room lights and thoughtfully adjusts the intensity to a relaxing and soothing level, all the better to help him enjoy the vision of a naked Vyera on her back, arms apart, her wrists in soft leather cuffs and fixed by short straps and snaps (so as not to mark the furniture) and fixed to the bed.
Amos just for a moment is taken completely by surprise, before he dissolves into laughter. He just cannot believe his eyes! Is he dreaming? But the ‘Vision’ speaks to him, "Good evening, Gaspadeen. I have been left to entertain you over night. I hope I am acceptable to you?"
It is the girl he met earlier in the day. The girl who had taken him running and kept him company in the gym. The girl’s face wears an expression of concern and seriousness, as though she intends her words to be taken completely at face value.
Amos is in two minds about what to do next. Whether to go straight back downstairs to thank Anatoly and Sveta for their generosity whilst politely declining it or whether to engage this creature in conversation. Curiosity wins over politeness.
"I .. er … I would like a cup of tea. Can I make one?"
"No, please, let me."
"But you are in no position to be of much help …"
"If you release me I can arrange one for you."
Amos cautiously approaches Vyera, as if he is lighting a dangerous firework, and releases one of the snaps. She in turn releases its colleague, rises from the bed and lifts the room phone, dialing the kitchen and asking the Domestic on duty (Yesukai) to bring a pot to them.
"Indian, Chinese, Sri-Lanka or Kenyan?"
"What? Oh, Indian please. With milk."
Vyera relays the message to the kitchen and turning to Amos says, with a smile: "Just a moment. I am having one made for you."
"Me? What about you?"
"May I?"
"Of course, why shouldn’t you?"
"Well, I am only a … I mean it's my job to make sure you are satisfied."
"Only a what?" Amos is, of course, immediately aware of what had been called Vyera’s ‘situation’. but he decides to toy with the girl, just a little …
Vyera realises that the open mouth of a bear pit could be yawning in front of her and replies: "I work here. It’s my job to entertain you."
"Entertain? Is that what you call it?"
Amos rises and takes a small book from his pocket and a photograph of a woman. She is black like him, with a wide smile. Her hair is in small neat plaits, tipped with white, blue and red beads and cradled in her arms is a small child. He gazes at the photograph of his wife and then offers it to Vyera: "This is Anayah, my wife or perhaps these days I should say ‘I am her husband’. She is holding our son Abraham when he was little. How I miss them! One thing which surprised me when I came here – to Russia – was the way the word to be married changes if it’s a man or a woman speaking. The woman almost says (to my African/English ears) I am husbanded and the husband says ‘I am wifed. I think that’s rather nice. The other thing which surprises me is to find you here! So whose idea was this?"
In an instant, Amos’s tone has become sharp and cold. For a moment, the prospect of fucking this slave (as she obviously was) has been very enticing and then he remembered Anayah and his determination to be faithful to her. Seeing Vyera also reminded him of the other girls he had sent to Russia, never to return. As the years passed, as he has seen his own children born and grow to adulthood, his conscience has begun to trouble him. Surely there had been more positive things he could have done apart from being a slaver for a friend? Now here was the reality of what he had done. An English girl left for him to play with. Who was she really? Who were her parents? What had she come from? True, there was an erotic dimension to the situation but it was flavoured with cruelty. At this hour of the day, with his mind increasingly taken up with the idea of embracing his own wife, his beloved, this slave girl holds no attraction.
"I am sorry. I think my ow… my employers just wished to make sure you had everything you might wish to enjoy your evening."
"So they have sent you, have they? Somehow, they do not seem to be the sort of people to do that? I think your presence in my bedroom is completely unnecessary! We Africans are all too aware of exploitation and especially aware if you come from West Africa, as I do, about slavery. You seem to have some thing of the slave about you. After our tea, you will leave me alone. Is that clear?"
Vyera is completely taken aback with this unexpected turn of events. It was nothing like what she had steeled herself to accept. She was expecting to leave Mr Aruna’s room in the morning with a cunt wet with his sperm, perhaps even pregnant. Neena had taken particular delight in pointing out that Vyera’s contraception might have been discontinued and that she and Gaspadeen Kustensky might be looking forward to developments.
Vyera is also beginning to feel very anxious and fearful. What will Neena say if she leaves the room un-fucked? Has she antagonised the guest in some way? Will the collar she has worn today, the collar she wore at her Graduation, even permit her to leave, as he is asking her to do?
Vyera’s rising panic is interrupted by a knock at the door. Aruna rises immediately and opens the door to confront a smiling Yesukai in her smart uniform. She bows, offers a tray, bows again, smiles and glides away.
Vyera is also on her feet, moving to take the tray and pour the tea.
"Sit down please girl, will you?" says Aruna, testily
"Oh, yes, I am sorry"
"Milk and sugar?"
"Please."
"That’s very English."
"I am Eng … ", but Vyera stops herself too late!
Aruna casts a glance at her through narrowed eyes. "How interesting: an English girl, in Russia who keeps getting confused between her Owners (as I think she meant to say) and her employers. A girl who also has a number tattooed on her breast and … yes and on her foot. Just who are you?"
‘Well just who am I?’ wonders Vyera but her instincts of self preservation are active. "I am Vyera. That’s my name."
"Real name?"
"Yes."
"Name you were born with?"
"Vyera is my name. I am Vyera Anatoly’evna Kuznetsova. I am. Really."
And of course, she really is. Neena says so. Her Owners say so. She has a passport which says so, the Office of Inwards Migration says so, the Register of Graduates at Moscow State University says so.
"When I get home – to Africa – do you want me to speak to anyone?"
Well, does she? Yes, in her inner most being, her secret place, where even her Owners could not reach, she wants the African to ‘speak to someone’ about her, but how long will it take for him to return home and how long would it take for ‘speaking to someone’ to mature into a rescue or even just a message to … who were they? … her parents and the man … what was his name …? Just a message, to say she was all right but to forget her because she would never come home? Too long. After all, she knows she can be executed in a moment, the time taken to key in a special number into a mobile ‘phone. And anyway, does she want to be rescued anymore?
Aruna’s offer is really much more of a taunt. Vyera also remembers that these walls can have ears, even eyes too and that the walls are almost certainly watching her and listening. She summons her courage, resolutely pushes her disappointment away and replies, "Thank you but there is really no need to speak with anyone. I am perfectly happy here. This is where I live. Where I belong."
"Very well", replies Aruna. "If you are sure." But in the privacy of his mind, he is sure of quite the opposite. That she does not belong and he remembers with some regret the young man who in years gone by would have definitely ‘spoken to someone’, after his safe return. Meanwhile, he intends to leave his friend’s mansion with his virtue intact.
"You have finished your tea? Good. Then please leave me – and good night." He walks to the door and opens it for her.
Vyera, gets to her feet again and walks toward the open door, waiting for her collar to prick and then begin to shock her and what should she say then?
The collar does not respond – or rather, the collar takes account of the new situation and allows Vyera access to the upper bedroom corridor, allows her to find the service stairs and allows her to make her way to the basement and (she feels sure) to retribution.
Neena meets her.
"Vyerka: into your cell!"
"I am so sorry, Gaspazha, he just did not …"
"I know. This is very unsatisfactory. Oh, you did not say farewell to Pavea."
"Farewell?"
"Yes: she has been ransomed. She is gone."
Alone in her cell. Safe behind her locked door, Vyera weeps bitter tears. This evening, she was offered the chance to cry for help - an offer which she politely and firmly turned away. But then, to find that Pavea’s unrealistic, over-confident, arrogant American Optimism had won the day! She had been released. She was going home. But Vyera was left. Alone. In service. In prison. Enslaved.
Hardly fifteen minutes have passed since Amos Aruna had vanished up to his bedroom when Sveta’s mobile quietly chimes.
"Sveta?"
"It is Security, Svetlana Nikitechna."
"And?"
"Events are not going well."
"What events?"
"Vyera and the African."
"Vyera and Aruna? What do you mean?"
"She was left in his room to entertain him."
"Who authorised this?"
"We had instructions from Anatoly Sergeyevitch and Neena Alexandrovna."
"Exactly what is going on?"
"He has rejected her. Vyera has ordered tea from the kitchen and he has told her to leave his room."
"Can you replay me the conversation?"
"Replaying …"
The conversation; the tone of Aruna’s voice; the conversation with Vyera, each and every phrase inflames Sveta. She is dismayed at the ridiculous, clumsy and embarrassing situation as it unfolds.
"Security? Re-programme Vyera’s collar to give her free movement between Aruna’s room and her cell. Send someone to wait discreetly in the upper landing and take her quietly back to the basement. I shall have to speak with Mr Aruna immediately Vyera leaves."
"Done already! I reprogrammed as soon as I realised the African was going to throw her out. Vyerka is already in her cell"
Sveta heaves a sigh of relief. At least someone knows how to do their job!
She is furious at the casual way Vyera has been used. It is also the point at which Sveta realises that Vyera has become much more than a slave. In fact she is, in Sveta’s mind at least, more of a friend, almost genuinely one of the family, even an adopted daughter, almost a slave no longer …
Sveta is standing outside Amos Aruna’a bedroom. It is her home but she feels acutely uncomfortable and wishes she was not there at all. She is about to knock. She pauses. What on earth can she say? To make amends? To set the clock back in their relationship just twenty minutes? Time enough to stop Vyera being left for Amos to find. There is nothing she can do to avoid the discomfort of confession and apology. She knocks, softly …
The door opens and Amos is standing before her. "Sveta! How can I help?"
"Amos … its me: I have come to apologise to you."
"Oh?"
"Amos I am so sorry. I did not know about Vyera being left in your room but I am here to apologise and take responsibility."
"Well don’t you think the responsible party should make their own apology?"
"Yes, but I am not sure where Anatoly has gone and I don’t really even know if it is him and I wanted to come at once, as soon as I found out what had happened."
"But how did you know? I hope you have not had my room bugged - have you?"
Sveta is sweating profusely now. Beads of perspiration have formed across her brow. Her dress feels tight and damp. You have not bugged my room have you? The answer is ‘yes’ but it is yet another ‘something’ which Sveta wishes had not happened.
"Its just that we found Vyera wandering in the corridors, going down to her own room and Security let me know and I found out what had happened."
Sveta’s face seems to be burning under Amos gentle questioning. She is telling more lies to her friend to try and make amends for the mistakes of others …
"So why would that be a problem? Vyera walking through the house? She lives here doesn’t she? That’s what she told me."
"Yes, yes, Amos she does live here but these days, well we have to be careful …"
"Yes but surely Security would not contact you to say they had found Alana walking down the corridor, surely? So what is the difference with the Vyera girl?"
Amos is really making Sveta squirm. She knows it. He knows it.
Sveta is close to tears. She ploughs on: "Yes, well, er you see, Vyera is … well you know we… er, for some years … try … I mean Anatoly always tries to make sure that the lives they have after we … er … are better than what they had before and Vyera is … Oh, Amos I am sorry. I am so sorry. I don’t know why this has happened. I know … we know that you and Anayah have been together for so long and are still so in love and … its just that I am so sorry about Vyera. I think maybe she just fancied you and Anatoly thought you being so far from home …Oh! Amos I am just so sorry …"
Sveta cannot say any more. She has no words left. She opens her mouth, but she cannot say another syllable. Its obvious that she is acutely embarrassed, distraught, even, by what has happened: testing the loyalty Amos had for his wife, exposing a West African (of all people) to the reality of the contemporary slave trade, in which he has been complicit to some degree, and severely testing an old friendship.
Amos smiles. "Now Sveta, I always knew you and Anatoly were a red blooded couple. I have to say I am cross about finding the girl in my room. Yes she was a temptation and I am a long way from home, but … well, we have known each other for so many years now. Let’s not loose our friendship over a single silly act of clumsiness?"
Sveta is even more embarrassed by the way in which Amos repays rudeness and carelessness with magnanimity! "Thank you Amos, I am so sorry and you are so generous," she sobs.
"But I think," Amos continues, "that Anatoly should have the grace to apologise too …mention it when you find him, huh?"
So Sveta is dismissed, chastened by his words of her friend but relieved that a friendship does not lay in ruins – at least if Anatoly can play his own part in its restoration …
……………………………………………………………………………………..
"Just what on earth did you think you were doing?" Sveta has found Anatoly in their bedroom where she has fled to recover from the shame she feels after her recent encounter.
"I’m sorry Sveta, its just that I thought it might be a nice way for him to round out his evening and …"
"The point is that Amos is very loyal to Anayah. He wants to keep himself for her. Putting Vyera in his bed - laying a temptation in front of him – would look to be extremely rude and careless. You know the sort of relationship they have. Remember? Last time they were here together? Its bad enough to make a faux pas in front of strangers but to do it in front of a friend is very much worse. It looks just horrible, rude, patronising, even cruel … the list could go on and on! Whatever good this weekend might have done has now been completely wiped out and the reason is complete lack of sympathy for the person we have staying with us. And what was gong to happen if Vyera got pregnant? Do I get to play Popova with Vyera? Is that what you thought would be good for me?"
"Sveta, I am so sorry. You are quite right. Absolutely right. Is there anything we can do? Anything I can do?"
"I have of course apologised but whether we can all get back to where we were before tonight is quite another matter. I tried to suggest that Vyera was just suffering from high spirits. It seems very unkind to blame her and whether he believes me is another matter entirely. At least he has not demanded to go straight back to Moscow. Look Anatoly, you are going to have to go speak to Amos immediately. My apology is one thing but you will have to do your part. You have to go. You have to go now."
There is something unmistakeably dangerous in Sveta’s demeanor. A cocktail of desperation and complete dismay at what has become of the evening. An evening which ought to have been a very pleasant interlude with an old friend. Anatoly realises that Sveta’s psychological strength is almost exhausted. It is his turn to shoulder the burden. "Sveta, you are quite right. I will go see Amos at once. Immediately."
………………………………………………………………………………………..
At last a new day comes. When Sveta wakes up, she finds Anatoly spooned behind her. His warm body is comforting. How every girl should have a husband all to themselves, she thinks – and then remembers with a jolt how carelessness could have prized Amos away from Anayah and how Vyera (just one little girl amongst many, over the years) would never enjoy the comforting warmth of her very own husband. Sveta is dragged from reverie into the real world in all its cruelty and the recollection that some of the cruelties could be layed at her door.
"Tolya?"
"Hmmm?"
"Can we go on holiday?"
"Holiday?"
"Yes. I want to get away."
"Oh? Where?"
"Away from here. Somewhere different, but not too far."
"We could take the boat?"
"The boat?"
"Yes: take the boat down to ‘Peter (3) and then maybe out into the Baltic."
"Why not." Anatoly knows that it is time to build bridges and some time away is probably a good idea. "I would like that. I would like that very much."
"We could take friends?"
"Oh … friends? Not just us? Not just you and me?"
"Well ... it might be fun …"
"I just wanted to be with you … if you could .. I mean, if anyone wanted to come as far as Peter, that wouldn’t be so bad but then I would want it to be just you and me."
"Crew?"
"Oh, yes, well I do want a holiday so yes we will need the crew as well – and Vyera."
"Vyera?"
"Yes: I want her."
"Why?"
"She might not be ready."
"Oh …"
"Look, let me ask Mendeleyev and Neena what they think. If she is ready …"
‘If she is ready’ thinks Sveta. ‘If we have beaten her into shape enough. Beaten and annealed and beaten some more until she is incapable of being the little girl she once was.’ Out of the bitter soil of Sveta’s history another weed is beginning to take root. Guilt over how she has treated Vyera.
"When can we go, Tolya?"
Anatoly thinks for a moment, "Well your TV programme has finished for the summer and there is nothing to keep me in Moscow at the moment so … well, what about the weekend after next?"
‘Yes: I would like that. Thank you, Tolya. Let’s go the weekend after next."
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Footnotes:
(1) The story of Matthew the Tax Collector is in St Mark’s Gospel, Chapter 2 at verse 14
(2) The Texas Prison Strap. Obtainable at Paddlewerks.
(3) Saint Petersburg is often known colloquially in Russia as ‘Peter’ rather than ‘Sankt Pyetyerboorgie’ which is a mouthful, even for Russians!
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
It is July. The days are long and hot. Gazpazha Svetlana Nikitechna has just announced that she, Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch and some friends will take their yacht for a cruise in the Baltic. Alana, Vitally and Dmitry will stay behind in Moscow but I am to go with Gaspadeen and Gaspazha, a sort of ‘Girl Friday’, on the boat. There will be guests, so I am to wear clothes and have a new, more modest collar. My clothes are white capris, a yellow T shirt and flat sandals. The collar will look like an example of hip modern jewellery to others. It’s just a plain metal band around my neck but I know different and in case I have any false expectations, Yuri, the boat’s technical officer reminds me that the boat has an electronic boundary just like the dacha and the collar will keep me in bounds, as usual.
Every once in a while, Neena carefully inspects my skin, to search out any heroic rear-guard action from my hair, any small area of resistance which must be vanquished and burnt to ash. I knew there were a few brave follicles, beginning to push up tiny spiky hairs in my groin and at the sides of my head. They are of course, discovered and condemned. I felt rather sorry for them! So brave and yet so futile. I had tried to keep them secret, but before I am ready to be sent off with the holiday party, Neena arranges another session for me with the dermatological laser so I can bid what must surely be a final farewell to my body hair.
A small convoy leaves the Dacha, together with the ever-present security detail and travels to a marina north of Moscow where we board the boat. There is not much luggage. I have spent the previous days packing and most things have been sent on ahead. When I was getting my Owners’ things ready, I thought they had such attractive things. Smart clothes, casual clothes, all so beautifully made and presented. What must one do, to deserve a life like this? What should I have done, to be on the other side of this impregnable wall which separates Owners from Servants, or in my case, slaves? It’s merely fortune, I think. They are just like me, really. No more intelligent, or attractive but the river of life flowed differently for them or perhaps the currents chanced to carry them to a more favourable part of the stream. However, at least I can enjoy some of this good fortune and life could have been infinitely worse for me. Perhaps I have spent too long thinking about what I do not have and not (as I should) spent enough time being grateful for what life has given me. After all, how many of the children I went to school with can now spend a month on a millionaire’s yacht, cruising under the warm, bright northern skies?
Moscow stands on the Moskva River from which it takes its name. From the Russian capital it flows east to the Okan, on to the Volga and further down to the Caspian Sea. But our route lays to the north, along the Êàíàìë èììåíè Ìîñêâûì, (1) (Kanal Emyeni Maskvi) the Moscow Volga Canal. It takes us towards the Baltic; to the upper reaches of the Volga and on through a system of waterways which travel to St Petersburg and afterwards, the sea. It was built by Stalin’s gulag prisoners. Before them the serfs farmed for the dvoryanstvo (2). It seems we Russians have always known about slavery
The Kustensky’s yacht, is like all their other possessions quite simply first class. Built to their specification, it lacks no amenity that the seriously indulgent traveller could wish for. It was also built in Moscow, something Anatoly Sergeyevitch is particularly proud of. I have heard him say so. (3)
There are public areas, promenade areas, and the state rooms. They all exude luxury. Even the crew cabins are for the most part more comfortable and spacious than would be found on many other vessels. Some accommodation is more modest and secure - that’s where my quarters are but I am happy with that. I cannot imagine living in any other way now. It is what I deserve, what is appropriate for a slave like me. The need for security when all one could do is dive into a cold river and swim to a hostile shore is open to question though. With the certainty of execution by my lethal collar, the security provided by the accommodation is probably more than is really needed. But as Alana said, that’s not the point. They don’t imprison slaves merely because slaves need to be imprisoned; they do it because that is what they enjoy doing to their slaves.
I hear the crew talking about places as we follow the river and then the canal. Uglich, where Ivan the Terrible’s young son was killed – some of the crew compare Anatoly jokingly to Ivan and hope for better things for Dmitry; Yaroslavl, the oldest city on the Volga River untouched by World War II; the White Lake and on to the Volga–Baltic Waterway. There’s Goritsy and the Kirilov Belozersky Monastery, founded to commemorate hermitage of St. Cyril.
Sometimes, I long for the solitude of a hermitage. There’s hardly a moment when I’m alone, or so it seems. Even though the boat is large and comfortable we are never far away from each other and yet, even for slaves, a boat has advantages. I have less to do than if I was at the Dacha or in Moscow with Gaspazha Alana. Of course, ‘less to do’ does not mean that I am idle, with breakfast to serve and clear away, rooms to clean, linen to wash; lunch to prepare and serve, lunch to clear away, drinks to pour, coffee to serve … and sun tan oil to rub on guests.
I look at their pale, oiled bodies and for once, feel smug! I am brown naturally nowadays; Pavea used to taunt me about being negro black. I would have to agree with her now and although ‘black’ is over stating things, deep brown is exactly right, so the oils and lotions are one affectation that I have no need of. Whilst the guests are working hard on their tans, to get as brown as may be fashionable but to avoid burning in the sun – I am serene, for once confident that I am at last one step ahead of my Owners and without any additional effort, I get much browner than they. I wonder if they are envious of this little part of the path I have trodden? It’s strange – once it was slaves who were weather beaten and brown like me, while the aristocracy made sure they had the pallid complexions which proved they had no need to labour. Then the workers were pale and the wealthy tanned as a mark of their leisure. Now we have the bronzed owners and the burnished slave. Who knows which is which?
We cross Lake Onega and on to Lake Lagoda. It’s enormous, like a sea; Europe’s largest according to one of the sailing crew.
We float on, drifting along on smooth currents beneath blue unclouded skies, until we reach St Petersburg. Here is another breath-taking panorama of churches, palaces and majestic classical buildings on each side as we cruise down the Neva and we reach our mooring at a very smart Marina. Well, how could it be otherwise? (4)
I am confined to the boat – Sveta takes pleasure from seeing to my confinement with an enthusiasm that far outweighs the necessity for security - whilst owners and guests take shore leave to visit the Mariinsky Ballet, to dine at restaurants and to see friends. (5)
We stay three days. It is three days when there is just not much for me to do, so at last I have a holiday of my own, after the first day when Svetlana Nikitechna has completed experiments on me with various arrangements of straps and ropes.
When the boat is occupied, I am occasionally confined by the pricks and shocks from my collar to stay below decks, out of the way. But, when there is just me and the professional crew on board, I have the run of the ship (almost – the pricks and shocks start of I get close to the ship’s rail). I can even enjoy lying on deck to read and enjoy the sunshine. My Russian is now good enough for me to enjoy some of the simpler books. And of course there are magazines. It’s a treat to read again, even if it is only the Russian edition of "Hello!"
We leave St Petersburg – just Gaspadeen, Gaspazha, me and the sailing crew - and head out into the Baltic. Baltic! It’s a synonym for everything cold and unpleasant but for us the weather is kind, almost Mediterranean. The day passes in a leisurely way as we sail west south west, between Finland on our starboard side and Estonia to port and then I realize: I have left Russia!
It’s a strange feeling, mainly an insecure feeling. Suddenly, I am anxious. I catch myself looking forward to returning to the security of familiar things, places and routines. But of one thing I am certain, I can rely on my Owners to keep me safe and for me, secure confinement can always be relied upon! As I think about it, I find I am grateful.
I could ask where exactly we are going to but I don’t. After all, I am a slave and why should a slave be privy to their Owner’s business? I would rather not know. It is easier for me to merely get on with my tasks and when there is no work to do, I enjoy the cruise along with the rest of the company.
I am on deck, collecting up some of the empty glasses from where Gaspadeen and Gaspazha have shared a bottle of wine. There’s a mobile phone on the table; it chirrups as I pick up the last of the glasses.
It’s a text message. I know she will want to know. She has only brought her personal phone and there are only a selected few people who have this number. I pick up the phone. The message is from Yevgeny on Moscow. She will definitely want to know. It must be important. I’m sure that he wouldn’t bother her if it wasn’t.
I knock on the door of her state room. I hear her cursing in Russian before she calls me in. She’s lying in bed with Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch. He’s still asleep
She rises from the bed to check the phone, pulls on a robe and pads out of the state room and onto the deck. She returns his text with a call.
"Yevgeny?"
I can’t help over hearing the conversation. Sveta is standing right outside the state room door I couldn’t leave without pushing past her ….
"That’s right, Stockholm?"
There’s a short pause before Sveta speaks again. "Yes, I know. Well they may be potential buyers for the asset I suppose."
Yevgeny replies.
"I see," responds Sveta. "They will be resident for several days, perhaps two weeks? All of them?"
There’s another pause while Yevgeny talks. Then Sveta cuts in again.
"Ah …. So there is a significant possibility of a chance meeting …."
As always these conversations go on as if I were no more important than a piece of furniture. The way she talks about "the asset", it could be anything. It could even be me.
Night has fallen. I say "night" but in fact it’s barely dark. The sun has dipped towards the horizon but at this high latitude, at this time of the year, night is just a dim form of day. I am in my cell – actually that’s not fair, because it’s really just a small cabin in comparison to the state rooms of the principle guests and the Kustensky’s – force of habit, nowadays I suppose.
The door opens and Gaspazha Sveta stands outside.
"Vyerochka: I cannot sleep," she says. "Go fetch a bottle of champagne with two glasses and bring them to me on deck. Oh and open it if you will ….."
I find Sveta on the stern deck- I am surprised to find her naked. Not that I expected her to be prudish, but I am still surprised to find she is at ease when any of the crew might happen by and would see her. The weather is not cold and the breeze merely cool. I offer her a glass and await her instructions concerning her drinking companion – presumably her husband, Anatoly Sergeyevitch.
To my further surprise she pours a second glass and offers it to me. She says, "Here you are Vyerochka. Enjoy!"
I don’t need to be asked twice. I do not get the chance of alcohol very often. Once, it brought me a severe whipping, then there was the day I successfully defended my Thesis, then after my Graduation and finally, after the birth of Alana’s baby. This will be the fifth glass in - how long? Two years? I take the glass and sip. The wine fizzes and seethes in my mouth. It has a sweet musty yeasty taste. And beyond that is the tingle of unfamiliar alcohol on the brain.
"What do you think of our Russian champagne?"
The question could sound strange to western ears, but it’s no longer strange to me. I am a Russian now; it’s champagne from my country. It is our Russian champagne.
"It’s delicious, Gaspazha. Thank you. It is also quite unexpected."
"Well, all good slaves deserve their rewards." She nods her head to my labia, still neatly closed by the rings that Neena installed.
"Can you?" she raises her eyebrows and nods her head towards my imprisoned vulva asking if I can give myself any sexual stimulation.
"I don’t know, Gaspazha. You have not given me permission to … enjoy myself. I suppose I would feel more than I can in (Should I say my? No settle for the, after all ownership rests with the Kustensky’s) the chastity belt but it’s a nice change."
"Yes, I’m sure. Perhaps a holiday privilege?"
I have finished my glass – too quickly. The alcohol doesn’t help. That and my constant state of horniness. I set the glass down. She sets hers down beside it and walks over to me. She embraces me. It’s not a sexual embrace, more like sisters or a mother with her daughter. The affection is almost overwhelming.
"Vyerochka?"
"Da, Gaspazha?"
"Will you indulge me? Tolya is fast asleep and I am hot for him."
I’m not sure I like where this is leading, but training comes to the fore and after all what choice do I have? "Of course, Gaspazha. How can I help?"
"Here," Sveta says, passing some black leather cuffs to me. "Place these around your wrists and ankles."
I strap the cuffs on me, as bidden.
"Now, stretch your ankles between those rings, and your wrists between those ….."
Sveta kneels down to fix my ankles and tiptoes to fix my wrists with snap shackles. I stand, stretched and spread and vulnerable. I remember another night, a world away when I was Jenny, when I had been promised my freedom by a girl called Connie …..
Sveta has disappeared and I am left alone on the deck, under the summer moon, to gaze out on the silver ripples across the Baltic.
Sveta nuzzles my ear: she has returned. "Now, little one. Now I am going to warm your skin. To scratch and tingle and burn you just a little."
Sveta - I glance at her over my shoulder – picks up a flogger and swings it towards me. The impact is merely soft. I feel a wind from the tails as they approach and then a soft thud – and somewhere in the background, just the hint of a scratch and a very small burn.
She plays the tails over my body for several minutes. Slowly. With patience. Unhurried. Thoroughly. Leaving no area of accessible skin below my neck un-visited. She pauses and refills her glass. She drinks and presses the glass to my lips. I refresh myself. I am drinking on a empty stomach and the effect of the alcohol - from our country - makes me giggle!
Sveta picks up another flogger.
"Horsehair! she whispers. Do you know horsehair? It’s scratchy. Itchy. Now, Vyera," she presses her finger to my lips. "Just concentrate on itching in silence!"
"Da, Gaspazh ..zh..zha," I gasp as the thin tendrils make their extended tour of my body. My calves, outer and inner thighs, my vaginal lips, my butt and back and shoulders and arms. Scratching, tickling, tingling, burning, biting.
She stops. I glow. She kneels in front of me - and licks my labia!
OOOOH! It feels so wonderful. The sensation and because of who is playing with me! Her tongue explores. It circles around the chastity rings, pushes between the labia. Explores my clit. Wriggling, Pushing. AAAHHH. I moan louder and pull on my bindings. She stops – and chuckles. I pant.
Yes, she says, I thought you would be able to feel quite a lot more, but you see, rabinya, it feels all the more enjoyable after your strict diet! I think you might now understand why we had to protect our asset?
"Da, Gaspazha! And thank you!"
"Pazh’alsta! I will have you carefully locked up again when we get home. Won’t that be nice?"
I am still hovering near orgasm and all I can say is "Yes, thank you so much Gaspazha!", although exactly what I am or will be grateful for, is open to question.
We drink another glass of champagne each. Her freely. Me, being allowed to sip from the flute she holds for me. She leaves for a moment and I am alone, with the see breeze playing across my naked body, the moon glinting on the rippling waters of the sea. Sveta returns.
"I had to pee. Do you want to?" She moves her hand slowly, firmly up from my mons towards my navel. Inevitably, the hand presses on my filling bladder. "Do you?"
"Da, Gaspazha." I try to speak in all humility but the giggling from before, the sensations of the flogging and now the pressure on my belly all seem to conspire against a proper demeanour for a slave.
"Hmmm. I bet you do." It’s clear that Sveta understands how I feel. She doesn’t take exception to how I speak. "You will be filling. Stretching." As she says the word I choke back a giggle, the word ‘stretching’ seems absurdly funny somehow. "But, you are going to have to hold it whilst I flog you. I will be very cross if you let go. I might even birch you them. I birch Tolya. Did you know that?"
That surprise, even shocks me. How can that be? "Nyet Gaspahza."
"Hmmm. I birched him after the last time he fucked Professor Dawney. Does that surprise you?"
She is still rubbing my bladder. Holding on is getting more difficult or was but her news about Angela, Angela of all people drives all other considerations out of my mind. The question is which is more strange - Angela fucking with Anatoly? Angela fucking a man? Angela fucking at all? Anatoly fucking Angela in preference to Sveta?
"Angela, Gaspazha? But she is …"
"Of course, Jenny would have known that." It hurts to hear her talk about Jenny in the past tense. "But apparently not always."
I begin to wonder about what happened to Jenny, "Did Angela send me to you? Send Jenny to you?"
"No," Sveta is candid, not contesting my right to know. "No, but she mentioned Jenny to Tolya. She claimed to have been arrested by the CIA who were interested in Tolya and all because of Jenny. Is that strange?"
"They interrogated me too. They said it was because of Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch."
Sveta nuzzles my neck again. She continues. "Well I’m glad they told us about you because I’m glad we took you and now, I can’t imagine not having you." Sveta is rubbing my clit – actually brushing my labia and manipulating the top of the ring which passes through my clit hood. It has the desired effect. I start to drool, after her previous attentions. She must feel it too because she stops abruptly and turns to pick up a flogger. I can just see it trailing from her hand.
"Can you see Vyerochka?"
"Da, Gaspazha."
"What are the colours?"
"The tails are white, blue and red Gaspazha." White. Red. Blue. The colours of our flag (6)."
"This is heavy oiled hide, rapina. It will thud and sting and burn and perhaps …." Her lips are close to my ear again, "… even cut. I will lick your skin with this flogger everywhere."
A quick movement. She is standing behind me. I can feel the breeze from the storm to come. It breaks over my right shoulder, then my left. A shower of stinging rain and the thump of the mass of the flogger. Burning spreads out from the impact. She wields the flogger again and again. She is true to her word. She moves slowly down from my shoulders to my back. Across my buttocks and down the back of my thighs. Across my calves and then round to whip down past my breasts and nipples. Around my stomach, left to right and right to left. Up between my wide-spread legs: inside my left thigh, inside my right thigh and across my vulva.
In my mind’s eye, I can take up the position of an observer and watch two naked women at play on the deck under the sky. I imagine the graceful throw of Gaspazha’s arm, and the sinuous path of the whip until its tails embrace their victim, that other naked girl. The image is unbelieveably sexy. I would not be anywhere else for anything or anybody. I am, in some strange way, in heaven.
I loose count of the strokes. I’m lost in the repeated sensations, in the way that each blow builds on its predecessor. She stops and I am left to enjoy the tingling, burning afterglow.
"Did you enjoy that Rapina?"
It takes me time to realise that she is speaking; still longer that she is speaking to me. My body is still swaying to the rhythm of the blows that have now ceased. "Da Gaspazha! It was - wonderful!"
"Do you enjoy being rapina?"
"Da Gaspazha. Tonight – now, it is wonderful to be rapina Vyerka. Thank you for taking me!"
"Pazhal’sta," she replies, "Don’t mention it!"
She presses the champagne flute to my lips once more and between us, we finish the bottle.
Sveta releases me. I return to my cabin to sleep for another few hours before my duties begin again. In the morning, I am woken by one of the crew and when I emerge above decks for the first time I find that we have made landfall!
We are winding our way between islands and on many of the buildings I can see there are flags which carry the blue and gold crosses of Sweden. I know where we are. We are entering the Stockholm Archipelago. Stockholm! My mother’s – Jenny’s mother’s - birthplace, the place where she grew to woman hood; where she met Jenny’s father; the place where I was conceived; of holidays from my childhood; the place where I used to visit relations and do holiday jobs. I know it well.
The yacht noses carefully up the channel which will lead us to the harbour and the Old Town – Gamla Stan – the centre of the city.
I see the familiar landmarks: the tower of the city hall, the modern buildings of Hörtorget, the island with the Vassa Museet and the Harbour Bridge. It’s a strange feeling. The cityscape is familiar but the circumstances make me feel as though I am looking at it from behind glass. The yacht berths. Customs and Immigration officials board. Passports are inspected. Documents are checked. One of the officials is a woman of my own age. She has long blonde Scandinavian hair, neatly tied back and her handsome happy face enhanced by her radiant blue eyes and the healthy tan of her skin. She glances at me. I smile. She looks at my passport, my Russian passport.
For a moment a voice inside me seems to be prompting me to tell the girl who I really am. Jennifer McEwan, a British citizen who was kidnapped from London and enslaved by the Kustenskies and I want asylum and protection until my husband can come for me. But who am I now? I have a new name, a genuine Russian Passport with my photograph inside. I appear on the records of the Russian Interior Ministry and I arrived on a luxury yacht with my employers. How could I deny that? It’s all true. What would it sound like? Completely implausible, that’s what. So I, Vyera Anatol’yevna Kuznetsova keep silent and smile and the Officials continue with the formalities for me and the rest of the crew. Eventually, all is complete. Hands are shaken. Welcome to Stockholm! And then it’s back to work …….
We stay in Stockholm several days. The Kustenskies are on and off the yacht regularly. Sometimes during the day. Sometimes in the evening. There is no shore leave for me here – especially here – and my collar firmly reminds me to remain on the yacht on occasions when I approach the rails. My first impression is strengthened. I am in the heart of a city that I know intimately but I might as well be watching it on television. I can no more enter Stockholm than I could step through a television screen and arrive on the set of a TV drama.
My thoughts are interrupted by Sveta’s arrival, "Rabinya?"
"Da, Gaspazha Sveta."
"We are leaving Stockholm this evening. Dinner will be served as we depart. Please begin the preparations …."
I scurry away to begin but soon there are difficulties. As I walk up from the kitchen to the dining room, my collar begins to shock me. At first it’s merely a small pricking, almost a tickle. I put down the things I have brought and return to the kitchen. The shocking stops but as I try to take some plates to the dining room the shocks return, but this time it becomes stronger and stronger. I daren’t go as far as the dining room. Then I can’t leave the crew deck at all and the more I move the worse the shocks become. My world shrinks and shrinks and shrinks. Finally I have to appeal to the yacht’s technical officer.
"Yuri?"
"Da?"
"There is something wrong with my collar."
"Oh?"
"It keeps shocking me."
"You probably deserve it!"
"Yes, I probably do but I cannot leave the lower decks anymore and Gaspazha is expecting me help prepare dinner and then I will have to serve."
"Perhaps you have been restricted?" Yuri sees from my reaction that I have no idea why this might be. "Perhaps you have been sold and they are keeping you safe and sound for your new owner?" He is laughing but his words send a chill through me. It could be true. What if it is true? It can’t be true! It was only a few nights ago that Gaspazha said how glad she was that I was hers. Why would they dispose of me? What have I done? Where might I be sent? Who is going to take me?
I cannot leave the lower decks anymore so I cannot ask Gaspazha, She will think that I have disobeyed her order. I cannot appeal to her and she will think I should be sold anyway.
I fall on my knees and start to weep, right in front of Yuri.
"All right, all right," he tuts, without much sympathy. "I’ll check. Just stop that blubbering …… Now come here."
He takes the collar in his hand and leads me towards the stairs up to the upper deck - and the collar bites us both, hard.
"Blya!" he gasps pulling his hand away. I squeal and rush back down the stairs as fast as I can.
"Just you stay there, Vyerka. I’ll check," he calls to me, still shaking his hand as if somehow that would ease the shock.
Presently he returns. "Go to your cabin and wait!"
So it’s true? They are getting rid of me? I slink away. Well, I am just a slave and slaves are property and property gets sold. It’s been nice here. Now I will have to do my best somewhere else. But inside I feel horrible, dirty, discarded. I sit on my bed, my feet pulled up to my chest – and wait.
Yuri appears at the door: "Your collar is well fucked, just like all you little slaves should be!" He gives a throaty laugh at his own joke. "I checked the computer programme and the electronic boundary and that is all OK so it must be the collar. Gaspadeen and Gaspazha have told me you have to have it taken off. I would be careful if I were you, though …."
.
Careful? Why would I need to be careful? What does he think I am going to do? He unlocks the collar, touching it gingerly at first, not anxious to be shocked again. Gratitude wells up inside me. It’s the collar! It’s just the collar! I am not being restricted. I am not being sold! I rush off to resume my duties, full of relief and gratitude!
The meal is ready. I have been sent to clean myself up and get changed – a dress and flat sandals. I have even been given some perfume. Perfume!
I do my very best to look my very best. Actually, without hair, that’s much easier!
I begin to serve the meal as the crew casts off from Strandvägen, where the boat has been moored and we begin our journey home. The yacht turns lazily round and carefully moves east and then south to pass Galäparken and the Vasamuseet. The route will then take us between the islands of Skeppsholmen and Kastellholmen on our starboard side and on the eastern, port side, the islands of Djugården and Beckholmen and then onwards, returning into the Baltic
It is 9 pm. The sun is sinking low in the sky, setting over Skeppsholmen but the eastern side of the harbour is starkly illuminated, like the stage set of a film or a play. We have just begun to pass Galäparken. I am bringing drinks on a tray into the dining room when, across the water, I see them.
A chill runs through my whole body as though I have seen a ghost. I can see them sitting on the quay, perhaps only two a hundred metres away a little ahead of the boat. I have worked hard to forget them but now there they are, all three of them, gazing out over the harbour at the end of the day.
I’m feeling numb. It’s so unexpected. I retreat into the world which is now familiar to me. I press on with what I’ve been told to do, enter the dining room, distribute the new glasses and collect the old. Sveta’s eye catches mine. It holds me, interrogating me. I say nothing. As I leave the room, I sense her rise and follow me.
Sveta seems to sense immediately that there is something wrong. She calls me.
"Vyerochka!"
"Da, Gaspazha?"
"Stop! What is it?"
I try to look at her, but my eyes keep being drawn to the three figures, seated quietly on the quay. She looks steadily at me and I look back at her, through tears. I look again over to the quay and back to Sveta.
She stands there, saying nothing as I stand there weeping. It is as though time has slowed down. Sveta seems absorbed in her own thoughts, as though some moment, that she has waited for has finally arrived.
"Vyerochka, do you ever feel the need to give thanks?"
It’s an astonishing question after all she and her husband have put me through but sometimes there are good days and I can be thankful.
"Yes, Gazpazha, sometimes. Yes."
"I’m sorry. It’s foolish of me to ask," she’s confiding in me for some reason I don’t understand. The way she is speaking makes it seem as though there is some strong current running beneath her surface. "Giving thanks can be so difficult. Not just being grateful but giving thanks. I do. It’s true. I really am grateful for all my good fortune; a career, a successful marriage, material prosperity, a measure of celebrity, a lovely daughter and now my small, pink, wiggly, charming, grandson. I’m glad to be able to share him. I know he is Alana’s child but he really feels a bit like mine. Anatoly has given me Alana and Alana has given me Dmitry. But what can I give?"
I’ve never known her to speak like this. It’s as though somehow I have triggered some strange unburdening of feelings that have deep and painful roots. But as for me, I’m still peering out across the water barely aware of what she is saying. She may have her grief but mine is almost unbearable.
She looks towards the quay. She knows what it is that I can see.
"Well?" Sveta says.
I can’t let myself think anything other than we will never meet. "He will have someone new, he will not want me now ….." I speak through a veil of tears, slowly shaking my head.
"And your parents?" Sveta asks. Why is she putting me through this? She must know that I can’t go back. That she and Gaspadeen Anatoly could never let me go back.
I turn to look out again, over the waters of the harbour, at the three people, sitting waiting, now one hundred and fifty metres away.
"He has no one else. He still searches for you. I know, I have watched him."
I cannot understand where this conversation is leading. Why is she telling me this? To taunt me? I know that I have to reply truthfully, the inescapable consequence of my name.
"I have had to work so hard to give them up. It was so painful. All the pain is back here inside me now."
"Here," suddenly Sveta grasps the tray. "Now listen to me, listen to me! Are you a slave?"
"Yes."
"Are slaves obedient?"
"Yes"
"Will you follow the instructions of your Mistress?"
"Yes. Of course, Gaspazha."
"Then here are my instructions. Go! Go now! This is your Jubilee, your time for rejoicing. I am giving you back to Joseph."
I stand transfixed; barely able to believe what she is saying. She takes my arm and pulls me to the ship’s rail, pushing me to climb up onto the slippery polished metal.
The yacht is beginning to gather speed. I stand there, perched, one leg either side of the rail, held fast by indecision, scared to leave the ship, scared to leave this world, like a bird which has alighted on a ship in mid ocean. What can I do? What should I do?
As I stand on the slippery rail of my owner’s yacht, my owner’s wife is telling me to escape. To leave them. To turn my back on everything I have done in order to be their slave. I have learned to be obedient but now I want to disobey. To stay. To be the person they have made me. To live in a world where all I need to be is obedient. To do just exactly as I am told.
But now she is sending me away. I am so afraid. She wants me to leave? Am I really going back? Am I really to go home?
I have to follow her instructions. I have been taught so thoroughly, trained so carefully, always to follow instructions of my superiors. I am standing unsteadily on the rail. Gaspazha holds my hand to steady me. Suddenly there is no hand and she plants a terrific slap on my bum.
It’s a signal to my body to do what my mind cannot decide on. By reflex my thighs contract driving me outwards and clear of the boat. For a few moments I am air-borne until I hit the cold harbour waters and disappear beneath with the same chilling shock that I felt when I first stepped outside of the dacha. I hear the roaring of the water in my ears as I disappear beneath the surface and then the vibration of the Yacht’s engines growing dimmer and dimmer with each second. The water is cold around me. I arch up to the surface and in an instant my head is in the warm summer air.
As I break water, I hear Sveta’s voice, metallic, distorted by a loud hailer. "Mr McEwan! Mr and Mrs Palmer! One moment, please!" she is calling as you might call to someone that has forgotten something. "Mr McEwan! Mr and Mrs Palmer! One moment please!" Sveta’s voice carries clear over the water. Other couples and passers-by turn towards it. I see my father look sharply up; then Joe. They are looking out over the water, trying to make sense of why they should be called. I turn one last time, to see Sveta waving and pointing to me in the water. I know now I must try to reach them. I wave and one of them turns towards me, to Vyera or to Jennifer - swimming towards them in the water
As I reach the shallows, I struggle out and clamber onto the quay. I stand before them. They look at me. Astonished. Uncomprehending. Still not understanding what is happening. Not knowing who it is, who stands before them.
I have spent so long aware of the ways in which I am changing that it is almost no surprise to me that I am unrecognizable to my closest family and to my husband. I glance from face to face to face. They look back at me with puzzled stares, my dark skin, a muscular hairless body, naked beneath a borrowed dress, seeming like some alien creature.
I turn to the man I have tried ever-so-hard to cherish in my most secret place, the man that in spite of everything I could not make myself forget. I say, "It is me Joe. I am sorry I have been so long. I can go back if you do not want me anymore?"
A part of me almost hopes that he will give his permission.
Andrew, Joe and Inga are sitting on the quay, after walking from the restaurant back towards the city. It has been a perfect end to a lovely day except that the days are always stained, stained by the fact that Jenny is no longer with them.
It is not just her absence, it is not knowing what has become of her, whether she is alive somewhere and might come back one day, or whether she has died and is no more.
Each of them feels it differently, each at different times, but all of them feel it. If only they knew, then they could rest, they think. A few months ago, they thought of her every day. Now, they do not think of her so often. She is always close to them, the memory of her is always nearby, but they each notice that the mundane business of ‘every day’ is pushing her memory aside now, much more than ever it used to.
So they sit. Inga is snuggled close to Andrew watching the world go by and wondering if it might be time to go back to the summer house. A slight chill is in the air, now and the sun is low in the sky. The buildings across the harbour are dark, in shadow because of the brightness of the setting sun. The boats are also dark shapes. Gliding smoothly into births or out of port. Inga is aware of a large yacht moving in front of them on the far side of the channel but she doesn’t pay much attention, only recognising that it is passing by, interrupting her thoughts ….
Andrew is thinking about Jennifer’s disappearance; asking himself whether she has just left her parents and Joseph for something else. He can’t believe it of her. He thinks of the last sighting that is known of her; the report by the old lady of the bare headed girl speaking to another woman. For Andrew that must have been Jennifer, speaking to the person who precipitated her disappearance, or abduction – or murder. Hardly a day goes by, in which he does not think of her and the pain inside is always the same. Just as real. When he was in the army, death was a constant companion. Now, he repeats again to himself the poem he used to say in his mind when colleagues went out on patrol, never to return:
"Death is nothing at all. I have just slipped away into the next room. Whatever we once were to one another, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name and speak to me in the easy way you always used. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, somewhere very near … " (7)
Except that death, in time, brings closure. Disappearance leaves an open, raw, bleeding wound.
On this summer’s evening, in the city where he met and fell in love with Inga, he feels these uncomfortable anxious thoughts creep up on him. He sighs. He knows that they had come to say goodbye; to say ‘goodbye’ to Jennifer. He and Inga brought Joseph so that he would know that they knew he had to move on with his life, too. He wanted them all to leave a good memory of her here, of family holidays, good fellowship with relatives, of a lively little girl growing up towards adult hood, of a loving wife.
Joe was very uncertain about coming on holiday with Andrew and Inga. When he is with Inga and Andrew the loss of Jenny is brought much closer, biting into him more deeply than it does normally and he knew, just knew the moment Inga ‘phoned and made the suggestion, he knew that they were all going to Stockholm to say goodbye to Jenny. He knew Inga and Andrew were telling him that if he felt it was time to move on with his life, then they understood and it was OK for him to do the best he could.
Joe is wrestling with a tangled knot of emotions. He wants Jenny back. He doesn’t want to say a final good bye but he knows he can’t go on as he is. He is infatuated with Gwenda or maybe something more. The time they spent together earlier in the summer still makes his mouth water every time he thinks about it. And yet Gwenda had told him he should come here to Stockholm. And she said she would be in Stockholm too; a sort of analgesic to look forward to if his feelings became too raw, as the days went on. And maybe, Joe thinks, maybe it is neutral ground for me to introduce Inga and Andrew to Gwenda?
So Inga, Andrew and Joe sit on a bench on the Djugården Quay, watching the world go by on a warm summer’s evening, enjoying the after effects of a good dinner, and sitting quietly with their own thoughts.
Each of them knows what their thoughts probably are. About Jenny. Jenny as a child. Jenny as a teenager here in Stockholm enjoying holidays with Inga’s relatives. Jenny as a university student doing holiday jobs here. Jenny and Joe as a young married couple. And then no Jenny at all. Just an empty void where she once was. But not quite a void. It’s a blank space which gnaws and aches and nags them, demanding their attention.
But for Joe, there’s an almost sacrilegious moment that comes crowding in as he stares down at his feet. In that moment, as he drops his head, his thoughts have shifted and he is on his knees. He is naked. He is rubbing his lips over Gwenda’s bare feet, exploring the spaces between her toes with his tongue, enjoying the warm leathery smell of them. He is plotting his journey to her ankles, up her calves, between her thighs and into her ‘gina. To rub his lips over her other lips. To enjoy the heady scent of a woman becoming aroused. A woman starting to get wet. A woman in heat. A woman who wants …
Suddenly there is a voice: hard, brittle, and metallic, coming from somewhere across the water. "Mr McEwan. Mr and Mrs Palmer. One moment please!"
The three of them respond, slowly at first, not really realizing that they have heard their own names. And then, their own thoughts are rudely pushed aside by the call.
"Mr McEwan. Mr and Mrs Palmer. One moment please!"
The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing across the water. As they look up, a large yacht is disappearing off to their left, and there seems to be a woman on the deck waving, but surely not waving at them?
At first only Joe can sees the swimmer. Has the boat just missed running them down? Is the woman on the boat asking them to look after whoever it is in the water, to see that the swimmer is all right? You can swim in Stockholm Harbour but not usually in this part.
And about the person in the water: have they come from the boat itself? Why should they do that? The boat can only just have cast off, because it is making for the deep water channel out into the Baltic.
In his curiosity about the person in the water, Joe doesn’t ask himself how the woman on the boat knows who they are and overlooks the fact that none of them knows anyone with a boat like that.
Andrew, Joe and Inga are all equally puzzled by this bizarre turn of events. Andrew says to Joe, "Clients of yours? You could do with some more who can afford a yacht like that."
And Inga adds, "maybe someone we know must have come into money?"
Joe points out the person swimming towards them. "But look, there is someone in the water"
Completely disconcerted, Joe and the Palmers wait for the swimmer to reach the shore. Other bystanders watch as well, intrigued by what is going on.
The swimmer has had to cover at least one hundred and fifty metres and it takes them several minutes before they reach the shore and rise up out of the water.
Out climbs what looks like a young shaven headed muscular boy except that the boy is wearing a black dress. As the water streams off him, the dress clings to his skin and its quite clear that he is naked underneath and also that he is not a boy at all, but a girl.
For a moment Joe’s face breaks into a broad smile. Gwenda! He’s sure it’s Gwenda! What on earth is the girl playing at? It’s not how he would have introduced her to Inga and Andrew and what, for goodness sake, is she doing jumping overboard from a yacht and why was she on the yacht in the first place?
The three of them, Inga, Andrew and Joe, stare at this apparition from the sea as this strange, brown skinned girl looks up at them and says, "It’s me Joe. They said I could come back. Do you still want me?"
In that instant, Inga and Andrew know that it is Jenny. All the incomprehension vanishes. They know it is Jenny! Inga knows that it’s Jenny because of the way she moves her head as she looks up. She has always moved her head like that, since she was ever-so-tiny. Inga’s little girl! It is her! She has come back! And for the moment that feeling crowds out any other questions - ‘What has happened to her?’, ‘How is it that she is suddenly here?’ - None of that matters.
Andrew knows that it’s Jenny too, though his own first reaction is to ask himself what the hell the girl has been playing at? Has she been in Stockholm all the time? And if she has, why didn’t she turn up at the summer house instead of emerging from the water like some sort of Labrador retriever, coming back with a stick? And then his eyes are full of tears, his throat closed up. He glances away, to blink the stinging tears out of his eyes. There is so much he wants to say, but he cannot say anything. He just stands and gazes and slowly shakes his head and smiles, sighs and cries. His little girl is back. Back after, oh, so long. Back as inexplicably as she left. She vanished into thin air and she has returned just as suddenly, but this time from the cold dark waters of Stockholm harbour.
Inga turns to Joe. He is just gazing blankly at the strange apparition, just as lost and unsure and astonished as Inga was. And then she - Jenny - stretches her arms out to him.
And then it dawns on Joe, he is looking … at Jenny. His disappeared wife, restored as a mermaid from the sea. It’s her: it is Jenny! Oh my God, it’s Jenny!
He stands there as if frozen in stone. The two of them look at each other. She says "It really is me Joe. I am so sorry I have been so long."
He can’t form any words.
And then she says, "Do you still want me? I can go back. You do not have to have me if you do not want me anymore…"
He should be glad, overjoyed, exultant but first, there is crushing disappointment. This is Jenny. Jenny means pain. For Joe, Jenny means trying to be someone who he isn’t. Jenny means worry. Anxiety. Dismay. Loss. Embarrassment. Jenny had gone and he feels he should have started over. Started with Gwenda. Started with someone who seemed to be a much easier person to be with. Such wild unrestrained overpowering fun.
And yet. And yet. Tears fill Joe’s eyes. The idea that he might "not want her anymore". This is the girl he mourned for. Earnestly sought for. Tried new things for. Would go anywhere for. The story of his search for this girl is inked on his back. The indelible mark of his deep inside desire to be reunited with her is there. And now this girl is standing before him asking:" do you still want me? I can go back, if you do not want me anymore."
This girl - his wife - stretches her arms out towards Joe. He stretches his arms out to her. They stretch out over six hundred lonely days and nights. Over dismay. Anger. Fear. Tears. Despair. Loneliness. Over Gwenda. Over his resolution to ‘start over’.
The two of them are tentative. As if even the touching would burst a bubble and in an instant, they might both vanish from one another.
They stretch towards each other. So far. So very far.
Joe feels her fingers touch his; cold, hard, trembling. Their fingers close around each other’s. And hold. They draw close and embrace. It seems to take hours. At last they are holding each other and in each other’s arms.
Joe tries to think back to when they last held each other. In London, that sunny autumn day, Long ago.
He bends his head to touch hers and the two of them are wracked with sobs. Not caring how this has come to be or why but only happy that it has.
So there they stand, in tears, in each other’s arms, in the gathering twilight as a cool breeze plays around them and the light fades. And Jenny only looks away once towards the yacht which has vanished into the gathering darkness before Andrew puts his arms around them all to guide them back home, turning them away from the other people on the harbour side who have been watching them. He, his wife and Joe have only two thoughts at this moment, "Jenny, thank heavens you’re back," and "Jenny where on earth have you been?"
On board the yacht "Andrei Tupolev" (8) as it cruises through Stockholm harbor, Anatoly Kustensky is enjoying an evening glass of champagne when his wife abruptly gets up from the table and follows Vyera out on to the deck.
He is aware of a conversation, but takes no real notice.
His thoughts are on what they will do when they reach Tallinn, their next port of call but then, without warning, he hears Sveta’s voice, magnified and distorted, through a the loud hailer. ‘Mr McEwan. Mr and Mrs Palmer. One moment please’
Anatoly reacts at once. He knows the names instantly; McEwan and Palmer, Vyera’s husband and parents in her former life. What on earth is Sveta playing at, he thinks?
He follows his wife out onto the stern deck, just as one of the crew, startled by someone diving from the boat, arrives as well.
Sveta is waving to three people ashore and pointing to a fourth figure in the water, swimming away from the boat ...
"Sveta, just what on earth is going on?"
"There." Sveta points to a swimmer who is striking out, cutting through the water, making for the shore. "There she is!"
"Who?"
"Vyera of course."
"Vyera?"
"Look, that’s her parents and her husband. See? There on the quay." Sveta seems transfixed by the view out across the harbor. To Anatoly she sounds manic, completely unaware of the significance of what she has done.
"But Sveta ….?"
"Yevgeny was in touch. I knew they were in Stockholm and well, Stockholm is not that large, so there was always the chance of a meeting. And I wanted to do something good." Sveta is talking quickly, obsessively, glancing over her shoulder almost at every other word to see how close Vyera is getting to the shore. "Vyera gave us all we – you – wanted. It seemed appropriate, somehow. Being good feels rather more satisfying than being cruel. I have had enough of cruelty. Her collar malfunctioned and had to be removed. If I was more religious I would say it was a sign that her time with us was over. We have enjoyed her and now she must go back to her husband and her parents. After all, she will always love them. We cannot buy her love nor offer more than theirs."
Her words tumble out but the force of them proves to Anatoly that this is not just deranged rambling. Anatoly gazes across at his tough, decisive wife, open mouthed at what she is saying and what she has done.
He notices she is crying.
"Oh, Anatoly but I will so miss her. She was so much fun. It was almost like having another daughter. We should have had more children of our own Tolya. If only I had been strong and brave enough."
In the pit of his stomach, Anatoly instantly feels a tide of nausea break over him, followed by fear and dread. It doesn’t take much to imagine the consequences of this; one of their slaves, leaping from their world back into the outside world. He is appalled. He says nothing but he’s thinking, "Oh Sveta! Sveta! What on earth is this impulsive, reckless, romantic, dangerous thing have you done?"
And he’s asking himself, what on earth he is going to do about it?
Joe holds me all the way back to the summer house By the time we reach there, night has fallen and we leave the taxi and walk up the path, through the trees and into the house.
The smell is instantly familiar from childhood and many visits since then. The polished pine floors, the coffee and somewhere the sweet lingering aroma of quince.
Mummy is at my side. She offers me some towels, a T shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She says she will make some coffee and asks me if I want to shower. She’s trying to cope with what must be an extraordinary situation with ordinary actions. They must all want to ask so many questions but none of them press. All of them seem to want to pick things up as if nothing has happened. I know that can’t go on. Mummy keeps the conversation practical. "You must take a shower. You’ll be so cold."
Must. I can respond to that. I nod, acquiescing, and take the towels. Joe follows me as I go through to the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything as I go inside.
Do I want a shower? It has been so long since I was allowed to want anything for myself. Now I can just go and have a shower just because I want to have a shower. It seems wrong, somehow. Improper. Of course, they do not know yet. Their daughter and Joseph’s wife is a slave. She is owned. Her place is to look to the needs of others and make do for herself with what remains.
And she still is a slave, not was a slave. I don’t feel I have escaped. I do not remember Gaspazha telling me she was giving me my freedom. All I remember was Gaspazha telling me that she was sending me to Joe. I was a slave in Russia who belonged to Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch and Gaspazha Svetlana Nikitechna. I am still their slave but now, I have been sent to my husband and parents here in Sweden but I am still their slave and will still be their slave just as surely if we return to Britain.
The dress has shrunk against me cold and tight and stiff. In the shower it takes an effort to break its grip on me and peel it off. So, even the dress knows! It is almost as though the dress (their dress) is reminding me that I have not broken free, that I have merely been sent on another errand.
I do not linger long in the bathroom and emerge wrapped in the towels and carrying the borrowed clothes (Of course: how could it be otherwise? Slaves have nothing of their own) and go to Joe’s bedroom. Actually, I suppose that is our bedroom. How strange that sounds. To have a bedroom of my own to share and not to visit the bedroom of someone else to serve them in some way.
There is something else I have to do now, but what? Of course! I shall have to get dressed! I can no longer spend my days naked. What a nuisance! As I turn to the bed I find Joe. He has stolen into the room. He looks at me and I at him. I see him gasp and put his hand to his mouth as he gazes at me.
"Jenny … what has … what did they … Oh Jenny!"
"What’s the matter?"
"It’s your skin and …"
He points to the rings closing my labia and gently traces his finger along the beautiful marks made by Gaspazha Sveta’s whip. How I shall miss that whip and the other whips which have caressed my body. He looks at the slave mark on my breast, unable to understand what he sees.
I know they will press me with so many questions. I have no idea how I can answer them and not put Joe and Mummy and Daddy in horrible danger. Some will be easy like this, some will be much harder. "It’s my slave number, Joseph. My number and my record on the Asset Register. I was disobedient and I was marked. Here … and here … and here – oh, and here, to help me understand who I am. I am sorry Joe, if I am a disappointment to you."
"Jenny. Jenny. Stop it! Of course you are not a disappointment. I have wanted you for so long. What does it matter if you bring with you a few marks and rings? But we are going to find these people, Jenny. Call them to account for what they have done to you - and done to us!"
What is he talking about? Find Gaspadeen and Gaspazha?
They do not need to be found. I know exactly where they are. I have the telephone numbers of the Dacha, of Vitali and Alana’s house in Moscow, of Gaspazha Neena’a mobile, and the email address I must use. I have all these in my head.
"Jenny, in the morning we will have to go to the Police. Tell them. Report what has happened."
"Report what has happened? Report what? What has happened is that I have been sent to you. Why should I report my Owners to the Police for sending me to you? Joseph: I have been sent back to you. Be grateful for what you have been given!"
He looks at me astonished, not understanding what I am saying.
Suddenly Mummy comes into the room. Her presence breaks the tension. "Coffee is ready. Come through to the lounge. Daddy has poured us all some aquavit." Another injection of enforced normality. She takes hold of my elbow, gently propelling me out of the room and away from Joe’s incomprehension.
In the Family Room I can sit in a chair, not kneel on the floor. How odd it seems and in silence we drink coffee. Daddy hands round Aquavit. It burns down into my tummy. It begins to take effect. Curiosity begins to smoulder. They haven’t pressed me to talk, for nearly an hour, but finally curiosity sparks into life. Joe breaks the silence, "Jenny darling, what on earth happened? Where have you been? How did you get to look like this?"
"No Joe, please." Please don’t ask, don’t ever ask. You must never ask."
There is panic in my voice and I am sure there must be panic on my face as I reply to him.
"Don’t you see? This is a fairy tale. I was taken ... unwillingly ... You must always know that Joe ... unwillingly... And now I’ve been given back. It’s a fairy tale. Magical. But fairy tales, especially Russian ones can have bad endings if you look at the magic too closely, or try to know and understand it too much. If you still want me, Joseph, you can never ask. And if you don’t want me, I’ll go ... but you still can never know
They take my words for confusion about the past but it’s much more than that. It’s uncertainty about the future. They told me I would be executed if I ran away. Can I ever be safe? What will I do when they send for me again? When they want me back? When I open our door, or go to work or go shopping and suddenly find Gaspazha Neena standing in my way, telling me my time here is over. I am to go with her. Back into captivity?
In time, the effects of the coffee and aquavit take hold. Their warmth and the events of the day conspire together. I can hardly keep awake. Joe leads me back to the bedroom and in seconds I am falling into a black void, or so it seems. I am sure that when I wake up, I will be safe in my cell on the Andrei Tupolev once more. Ready to resume my slavery. My vocation.
EPILOGUE: A SWIM IN DREVVIKEN
The summer house stands on a small bluff overlooking the lake. (9) It is a classic of 1930’s Swedish domestic architecture. The bedrooms are small. The kitchen is very "efficient". The bathroom is spaceous and the public areas where the family meets and enjoys each other’s company – are large and enjoy airy views.
In Stockholm, the summer sun rises between 3 and 4 am. It sends streams of light into the east facing bedrooms.
Jenny is awake early. In most of her mind she is still Vyerochka and is thinking about her tasks for the day. She is out of bed and into the kitchen to unpack the dishwasher, set out breakfast and make coffee for Joe.
Inga pads up behind her: she places her arms round her daughter, something she had thought she would never do again.
"God dag litten flika!" Good morning, little girl!"
Jenny starts, surprised that her mother had spoken to her in Swedish, her second - no, now her third language.
By force of habit, she replies in Russian, then English and finally Swedish
"I’m sorry Mamma, I thought I would be alone. I was going to wake Joe and then maybe go for a swim ..."
"Yes, Inga replies, Yes, do that. I will keep out of the way for you and make sure your father does, too."
She looks down at herself and across at her mother, cuddled in a long white dressing gown. She had forgotten that now and in the future, she would not be expected to spend her days naked. More unfamiliar normality.
Jenny goes back into the bedroom. She sits on the bed and strokes Joe’s hair from his face. He opens one eye.
"Coffee?"
"Oh, er coff … coffee, yes thanks Jenny that would be … be great." It’s a surprisingly normal question, a surprisingly normal reaction. She was away for so long and now she’s back. She’s dark skinned, muscular, whip marked, numbered, pierced and ringed and they are talking about coffee.
During the night Joe had been tortured by dreams in which Jenny kept disappearing, then reappearing only to disappear once more. He had found Gwenda but she never knew where Jenny was. He studies her for a moment. Her body is strange but that doesn’t matter. They embrace; glad to feel each other’s bodies once again.
There is a path through the garden that drops steeply between rocks to end on a wooden walkway. The path carries onwards through reeds and boulders to the lakeside. The early morning is very still and the lake flat calm, as a sheet of glass. Mist hangs over the water and obscures the opposite side.
Hand in hand, the two naked young people walk into the water. Naked? The lake side is secluded and this is Scandinavia, after all. For a moment it hurts. Joe makes no complaint as the cold water rises up his legs and chest. It reassures him that he is not dreaming; that his wife really is beside him again after all these months. There needs be no ‘starting over.’ Now they can start again.
For Jenny, the water is just as cold, but for her, the cold reminds her, underlines to her that her life has changed again; she is home; she is safe and yet there is - the sting of parting. What will become of the little baby Dmitry? His young parents Alana and Vitaly? Neena? Andrei? Julia? Sveta and Anatoly? It is true – she misses them. She had begun to love them too.
Together, they strike out from the bank. Now the water has become a cool caress, easing tense muscles, opening their lungs to the morning air. Beneath them Drevviken vanishes into green, brown depths. Around then, the banks of mist drift mysteriously. Behind them, the summer house stands on the bluff, and a thin Swedish standard snakes and whips from a flagstaff in the gentle breeze: blue and gold, blue and gold.
In the lounge of the summer house, Inga Palmer gazes down over the garden and across the lake, to watch her daughter and son in law enjoying the freedom of the water, free at last from the anxiety of not knowing whether they would ever be all together again. She sips her coffee. Elation wells up within her. She doesn’t care where Jenny has been or what has gone on, she only cares that her daughter has been restored to her. Can the summer house have ever seen a happier day?
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(1) For further information about Êàíàìë èììåíè Ìîñêâû, (try "Kanal Eemyeni Maskvi" ), in other words, the Moscow Volga Canal on Wikipedia
(2) Dvoryanstvo, part of the Russian nobility.
(3) For further information on yachts built in Moscow, see the Timmerman Yachts website. We thought Anatoly might have chosen a Timmerman 33!
(4) We thought The Central River Yacht Club might be suitable.
(5) Readers up to speed with the world of Ballet will know that The Mariinsky has changed its name recently and used to be known at The Kirov. Actually, since its foundation it has been The Imperial Ballet, then The Soviet Ballet, then The Kirov Ballet and now The Mariinsky Ballet!
(6) Inspired by a flogger made by Heartwood Whips. The Heartwood Company may not be operational at the moment and you might want to try Essentia Whips in the UK who according to their website, can also produce whips in lots of colours.
(7) From a sermon by Henry Scott Holland, 1847-1918, Canon at St Pauls Cathedral, London
(8) Andrei Tupolev, a Russian engineer and aviation pioneer
(9) Lake Drevviken, Stockholm
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
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