1 comments/ 1736 views/ 3 favorites Steel Willy By: MsTrina A morality tale of drugs, lust, drunken sadistic lesbians, and evil devices. Oo-er! 1. The rather unpleasant Staff Sergeant Krell was acting C-in-C at the Detention Camp. Stood before him was the new arrival, 'Prisoner 392'. Judgmentally, he eyed the young woman up and down, observing superficially that she was a looker, tall, had long fair hair, and was in her twenties. Nice tits. She exhibited a sullen air of haughty indifference. "Are you going to kill me?" she enquired, as if she couldn't care less. "Paperwork, paperwork, why always is there paperwork?" Krell complained rhetorically, opening the accompanying letter from the referring clinic. He cursorily scanned its text, muttering to himself "... blah blah... Patient 392... referred for aversion therapy... blah blah... aim is curative treatment for patient's drug abuse habit... tut tut... achieved by psychosomatic inducement of the subconscious... blah blah... drug abuse associative with physical pain... blah blah... pleasurable stimuli conducive to drug-free lifestyle... blah blah... exploit condition and state of patient's sexual development... blah blah... use of positive and negative stimuli... blah blah..." It was signed by the eminent behavioural psychologist himself, Dr.W.Goest MD PhD, and carried a post-script which adhered to language in which Krell was better versed: "... repeat conviction for narcotics violations... provincial court has granted leniency... short sharp judicial birching rather than substantial custodial sentence... needs to be administered separately and prior to commencement of aversion therapy, which may proceed immediately afterwards, subject to medical examination... (blah blah)..." The sergeant smiled patronisingly. Then, in a friendly, though distantly mocking tone, answered. "Kill you? Why of course not, my dear. Well, hopefully not. Our duty is to cure you. Enable you to see the error of your ways. We have only your welfare in mind. Over at our Correction Centre, we have pioneered ground-breaking and interesting techniques for implementing the good Dr.Goest's clever ideas. Of course, as with all medicine, the person for whom it is prescribed may find it at times unpalatable. But always keep remembering, my dear, it's entirely for your own well-being." He continued to leer at her body, inwardly burning with misogynistic resentment. He himself possessed no talents nor physical features to endear him to the opposite sex. Indeed, he felt there was nothing he had been born with to naturally help lighten life's load. He had had to work continually, combatting adversity and overcoming setbacks, to achieve the position he had now secured. But there was she, imbued with intelligence and nubility, and able to command the attention and favours of any male on the planet, and all the potential power and wealth which that implied. Yet, she wastes it. Drugs. Ends up here. Idiotic, spoilt ingrate. Krell would see to it she paid a price for her unforgivable profligacy. Why should someone be given a free meal ticket through life and its hardships, only to fritter it away? He scribbled instructions on a makeshift form, and summoned his corporal. "Sir!" Corporal Pembridge responded. "Be so kind as to escort our guest to C-Block. Present this schedule to the duty officer and deliver 392 over to the orderlies, who will be more than happy, I'm sure, to look after her. Proceed, corporal." Pembridge dutifully obeyed orders, as subordinates do, and must. He glanced at the work detail, raising an eyebrow as he did so. It was not untypical of Krell's dismissive style: '(1) 392 Judicial flogging. Use the dykes (Bates/French). They decide what and when is enough. (2) Thorough medical report - check 392 still breathing. (3) Introduce 392 to Steel Willy - see how much the brat can take. Film it. All of it.' "You're in for a bit of a do, Miss," the corporal said sympathetically, as he accompanied her to the foreboding, sunken building which served as the Correction Centre. C-Block had no windows, and was situated at the very edge of the camp, out of the sensitive earshot of barracks, training school and administration offices. The girl ignored what she considered to be the corporal's pathetic attempt to engage her in conversation. Unperturbed, Pembridge, the eternal optimist, continued "Mind you, Miss, nice day for the time of year. Listen to the blackbirds chirping away over the perimeter fence." "Fuck the blackbirds," the girl said. 2. The enthusiastic C-Block boffins were rightly proud of their new, improved, masterpiece of robotic engineering. Its polished, chromed-steel tubular construction afforded enormous flexibility of re-configuration, and could readily adapt to the size and shape of the designated patient, and the intended positive, and negative stimuli it was programmed to dispatch. Steel Willy, inspired by, and appropriately named after Dr. Wilhelm Goest, whose aversion therapy it was intended to implement, stood in readiness for deployment. With features borrowed from both gyno and dentist's chairs, motors purred quietly in its base, standing by to power the various adjustments for reclination, seat height, arm, leg and head supports, and their associated snap-lock restraint belts and cuffs. And particularly for the concern of female patients, it enabled precision placement of vibrating stimulation aids and operation of the main thrusting piston, with its comprehensive set of dildo attachments, variable speeds, angles, and depths of penetration. The so-called negative stimuli, those intended to forge an association with the ill-behaviour one would be trying to eradicate, were deliverable by up to six pull-out coiled cables, each with skin-comfortable electrode clips which could be attached to any chosen area of the body, though most learned opinion, (among males at least), was that nipples and outer labia were obviously the most efficacious contact points. Jolts of electric discharge, of varying intensity, could be scheduled with regular or intermittent intervals, and even sequenced to deliver a quick-fire 'round-robin' set of shocks. It was indeed an ingenious piece of integrated, multifunctional apparatus, and could be set up to deliver prolonged mixtures of positive and negative stimuli for sessions up to one hour at a time. And it had been thoroughly checked for electrical safety, and exhaustively tested operationally - albeit on a crash dummy, who, apart from jumping about a bit during some of the more extreme electro subroutines, had remained spectacularly impassive throughout. 3. WPCs Bates and French were alone together, enjoying a break in the staff lounge. An almost empty gin bottle betrayed their likely mental and physical condition. They wriggled. They squirmed. They were embraced, and indulging in a long, deep kiss. French's hand slid down from Bates's neck to the small of her back, then to the large of her bottom, where long polished fingernails found soft flesh to dig into, underneath a police uniform skirt. "WPC French," said the other, in a near-inebriated response to the painful, but welcome, invasion of her private posterior, "I'm going to... hic... have a feel of your titties... would you mind awfully?" "Mmm, WPC Bates," French replied, in similar tone, "You pissed-up milf, I shall have to lock you up in my boudoir dungeon if you don't behave your silly, sexy... brrp... self." They both giggled, and continued petting, while the phone continued ringing. Eventually, French begrudgingly answered it, attempting to maintain a telephone manner consistent with efficiency and sobriety, despite Bates's probing fingers down the front of her panties. "Bugger. Sounds like we've got work to do," French announced. "Some junky fem's been brought in for a judicial. Damn, just as I was getting, mmm... going." "No peace for the wicked," concurred Bates, "and we ARE wicked, are we not, WPC French?" Both women, though slightly worse for wear, still were capable of conveying their personal depraved desires to one another, through little more than a knowing glance, or a nod. They resumed their full-frontal up-and-down hug, kissing with wet open mouths and full eye contact. They finally broke off, straightened their attire, and made their way, arm-in-arm, to C-Block, their favourite playroom. "Your turn to work up a sweat, I believe, WPC French," said Bates, referring to the task of administrating the flogging. "I don't mind," replied French, "though you are so graceful - a sight to behold when you are in full flight. And you're such a spiteful bag, I'm sure you'll do a much better job than me. I'm good at counting and mopping brows." "Hmm," replied Bates, "in other words... hic... good at sitting on your fanny while someone else does the work." The women managed to settle the demarcation of responsibilities by the time they had reached C-Block's ante-room, where they now polished their boots and selected appropriate implements from the large box of assorted whips, paddles and canes. "What is it to be? Twenty lashes?" "Not specified, WPC Bates. Therefore, as many as we like. I can only count up to a hundred, though... brrp..." "One hundred it is then, WPC French." And they laughed again. Brutality to that extent was, of course, unthinkable, but the very notion of arbitrary cruelty afforded them high levels of arousal. 4. Staff Sergeant Krell had lunched extravagantly, and the glass of port had put him in exceptionally good spirits. On his way back from the officer's mess, he dropped by C-Block, and quietly took up a position in the gallery, a viewing platform reserved for official observers. He was, after all, surely entitled to some occasional 'entertainment'. The orderlies had stripped, and inspected the girl, and brought her to the correction room, having had to bind her wrists as a result of her antisocial tendency to lash out at people in authority. The girl could hardly not have noticed the trestle in readiness for her immediate thrashing, and the gleaming, humming machine waiting to contribute to her further torment. And the dummy sat in the corner with a hideous grin on its face. WPC Bates, still a trifle wobbly following the effects of fresh air and alcohol ingestion, read out the sentence in as stern a voice as she could muster, finishing by demanding "Do you understand?" "Rot in Hell." The girl practically spat out her response. Bates sighed, and continued. "There are three ways of doing this..." "Two," French prompted in a loud whisper. Bates started again. "There are two ways of doing this - the hard way, or... hic... the difficult way..." French shook her head in despair, and decided to take matters into her own hands. "Orderlies!" she instructed, "Get the bitch over the frame. No, wait... what's that smell?" There was indeed a smell - the smell of acrid smoke which had started billowing from the base of Steel Willy. Then there was a flash, a crash, and flames. The lights extinguished and the sprinklers deployed. The girl felt cold water raining on her naked body. Alarm bells clanged, sirens wailed, and chaos reigned. Everybody was hurrying in different directions, desperate to exit the building. The girl grabbed her chance, and ran for it. 5. In panic, she fled down corridors, up corridors, then up some stairs. Where the hell was she? No more stairs. But more corridors. A door to the left. A door to the right. Both shut. What if she blundered into a room full of fire, guards, or even the fierce dogs she could hear baying for blood? She began to despair. Hear dogs barking... hear dogs barking... hear... hear... hear birds singing... hear birds singing? Behind this door... what had that corporal said? Blackbirds singing outside the compound? Could this be an external door? She kicked the release bar. Nothing - except for a bruised bare foot. She backed onto it, as if to sit with her full weight on the bar. The fire door fell open, and the girl fell through it. The security door was indeed an integral part of the camp perimeter, and she was now on the outside. But how far was she going to get, naked, out in the open, with dogs in pursuit? "Quick, this way, Miss!" It was Pembridge. He was partially out of sight, behind some fuel tanks. Should she trust him? Surely he was the enemy. But then, his blackbirds had shown her the way. Her confused logic told her that he was the best option she had. "Here, Miss, put on my overcoat - you'll catch your death, you will." She was still too confused about whether to say 'thank you' or not, though she was grateful for the freeing of her wrists, the immediate warmth, and something to cover her nakedness. But her warmth suddenly chilled. A large, brutish rottweiler materialised, baring razor-sharp teeth. A vicious snarl was building up to a bark which would attract her pursuers. Assuming she had fallen into the corporal's trap, she froze, gulping for breath. Had she escaped mad human beasts, only to be savaged by a four-legged one? "Don't worry, Miss," Pembridge assured her. "It's only Rex. Me and he are the best of pals, isn't that right, Rexy boy?" And the corporal bent down and stroked the animal. "I always bring him leftovers from the mess kitchen. Go on, give him a stroke, then he'll know you're a friend too." The girl was in auto-pilot. She did as she was told, conscious that she was stroking the very animal who a minute ago was about to rip her arm off. She reassessed the situation, still suspicious of the corporal's motives. "Aren't you going to get into serious trouble helping me?" she asked. "To be honest, Miss, I've been planning to get out of this place for some while. You coming along, gave me the push I needed. I don't think what they're doing here is right. It's not the way to get someone out of the bad place their life is at. It just makes people bitter, more insular and withdrawn. Better to be made to get out and about, appreciate nature's gifts which are free to enjoy, take on life's challenges and reap the rewards. Of course, you need a bit of help sometimes... and a bit of luck." The corporal's clear-minded philosophy and purity of spirit began to rub off on her. "I suppose I did hit lucky with the fire alarms just happening to go off when they did." "Yes, Miss." Pembridge agreed. "I expect me switching over the whole building to 3-phase 440 volts might have had something to do with it." The girl felt a strange sensation in her facial muscles. She suddenly realised it was the first time she had smiled for days, weeks, possibly months. Pembridge was fast becoming her unlikely action hero and guardian angel. "Shit. You did that? That was you? Shit. So... what do we do now?" "We wait in this little hidey-hole till dark, Miss. We're sitting ducks if we run for it now. Over that hill is a road. Get there, and I'll flag down a car. The province border is only twenty miles or so to the west. Then we're home and dry." She was having difficulty grappling with his simplistic solutions to everything. "We'll flag a car down? It'll take us to the border? How exactly is that going to happen? Why is anyone going to do that for a pair of desperate fugitives?" "I've got a rifle, Miss," Pembridge reminded her. She gave up. Her negativity had been pummelled into oblivion. She didn't bother asking how they would get over the border without papers. Pembridge would surely already have a plan. "Listen, don't keep calling me 'Miss', my name's Rachel." "Sorry, Miss... er... Miss Rachel. That's such a lovely name. My name's Rupert." "Rupert?" She was close to creasing up, but quickly regretted her insensitivity. "Oh, I'm sorry, that's a lovely name too." "That's ok, Miss Rachel," came back the corporal, unfazed. "Friends call me Ruby." At which point, she could hardly contain herself any longer, and her facial smile-muscles went into overdrive. She had been rescued from sadistic drunken lesbians, and the clutches of Steel Willy, by a soldier called Ruby, and was cuddling a trained killer called Rex. Yet despite the continuing precariousness of her predicament, she felt alive, and excited about the future, and what she could contribute to it. "What will you do when we've crossed the border, Ruby?" "My mum and dad have a little farm in the uplands. They're not getting any younger, and they need some help." "Take me with you, Ruby?" "I'm sure we'd be delighted to have you, Miss Rachel, especially Hermione." Oh dear. Instantly a setback. He has a sweetheart awaiting. Or maybe it's even his wife. Was Rachel's new blue sky clouding over already? "Hermione?" "Yes, Miss Rachel, she's our cow. Wonderful milker, but she won't let a man touch her." Rachel rubbed her hands together, on the pretext of keeping them warm, but thinking "Ok, Hermione, you and I are going to get along just fine..."