The Girlflesh Institute (Nexus) (15 page)

‘Meanwhile, try writing a few fillers for the next edition of
Datumline
. I’ve had a pile of titbits and minor personal interest stuff sitting around here for weeks …’ she handed Vanessa a bulging file. ‘Pick out the best ten. Fifty words min, three hundred max.’

‘Yes, Mistress Editor,’ Vanessa said, taking the file.

It was routine and rather boring work. The sort of thing junior reporters usually got stuck doing. But it made it easier to forget being naked in a corner of an office full of potentially unfriendly faces. She suspected that while she was seen to be working hard on a job for Zara she was less likely to be bothered. It also confirmed the scope of Shiller interests that her previous research had revealed.

Shillers controlled companies, large and small, all the way from the manufacture of abrasive materials to, for some inexplicable reason, a chain of yoga schools. There was even a ‘zed’ – a small city zoo – but that was run as charity, so perhaps it didn’t count.

How many of those subsidiaries knew what was going on under their central offices? More than a few, perhaps. Shiller herself had said that the spywear Vanessa wore had come from one of their research departments. How many outwardly respectable companies supplied the needs of the girlflesh trade?
Somebody
had fitted out level B3. Who made the special colour-coded collars the girls wore or those freaky horse-head masks for the pony-girls? Nobody could believe they were all being sold to bondage enthusiasts over the internet. When she blew the whistle on this lot, a whole house of cards would come tumbling down.

By the end of the morning she’d written short pieces about the minor triumphs and occasional humorous misfortunes of Shiller workers from all over the country, and found herself actually looking forward to going down to B3 to see how the Cherry Chain girls were doing. Well of course, she told herself, that was because they were in essence the true story she was after. The scoop of the year.

Recalling Zara’s trip to the toilets yesterday, Vanessa sneaked a visit before submitting her filler pieces. Though she could simply order her to submit to her wishes, clearly Zara enjoyed finding excuses for having Vanessa to herself. In her turn Vanessa was going to do her best to see she gave her none.

Zara skimmed the items. ‘Yes, that’ll do.’ She filed the copy and smiled broadly. ‘Now, do you need to go to the loo?’

‘I’ve just been, Mistress Editor.’

‘What about some lunch?’

‘I remembered to bring sandwiches today, Mistress Editor.’

She planned to eat quietly at her desk. While she was forced to walk around naked, she wanted as far as possible to avoid meeting anybody outside the magazine office and level B3.

Clearly determined not to be thwarted in her little game, Zara rallied. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you saw our senior staff restaurant. It’ll give you an insight into the sort of training Cherry Chain will be
doing
. My treat.’ She held up the red-leather leash. ‘You go as my pet, of course …’

The restaurant was on the tenth floor and offered a fine view over the city, with the Thames snaking away almost from under their feet to fade away into the distant haze. The interior featured a lot of stylish chrome work and was softly lit.

As they entered, Zara took a padded mat from a selection hanging on a large hook by the main entrance and pushed the handle between Vanessa’s teeth for her to carry, as her hands were once again cuffed behind her. Resigned to her fate, Vanessa kept her eyes lowered and followed obediently after her editor as she found a single table and took her seat. Zara fastened the end of the leash to a hook hidden under the table-top and pointed to the floor by her chair. Vanessa bent over, dropped the mat, shuffled it into place and knelt down beside Zara.

A waitress came over to the table.

She moved with dainty steps due to the short hobble chain that linked her ankles. A slimmer chain lifted the middle of the hobble from the floor, preventing it from dragging or jingling unduly, and vanished between her thighs. Her face, except for eye and nostril holes, was covered by a mask of silvered plastic, moulded into an expression of serene prettiness. Integral with the mask was a moulded silver waitress-cap that perched on top of her head. The cap bore the number ‘7’.

Her wrists were rigidly cuffed a little apart so that her hands were held upturned before her. The metal spacer-bar of her cuffs was linked to her collar ring by a short chain running up between her breasts. Its length had been adjusted so that the bar nestled in the fleshy concavity of their undercurves. Another short
chain
linked her upper arms behind her back. With her arms thus confined, it looked as if she was about to cup and lift breasts in offering. Between the two sets of restraints the girl was left with a small degree of movement and could, Vanessa supposed, carry things with care.

The slave-waitress went down on her knees beside Zara and handed her a copy of the menu, which was fastened to her wrist-cuff bar by a length of elastic cord. The menu was a plastic laminated scroll, fastened top and bottom to rounded wooden rods, and came with an attached marker pen.

After a little deliberation Zara ticked some boxes on the menu, then rolled it up tightly. ‘Take my order!’ she commanded.

The waitress stood and turned her knees outwards, spreading her thighs as far as her hobble chain allowed. Zara thrust the menu up into the girl’s vagina until only the ends of the scroll rods were showing. Vanessa heard what might have been a moan of pain or pleasure come from behind the inscrutable mask as the girl bent over to ease the tension on the elastic cord that now cut through her soft sex lips and across her clitoris before running up inside her.

As the girl turned and shuffled away, bent over almost double, Vanessa saw how the hobble chain support was attached to her. A protruding metal eye-ring gleamed against the dark smudge of her anus. The support chain was snap-hooked to this.

Zara stroked Vanessa’s hair and said, in that half-musing way people employ speaking to an animal when no response is actually expected: ‘Cherry Chain will have its turn serving in here, but not until they’ve learnt poise and deportment. The regular waitresses are all fully trained girls.’

The waitress brought them wine on a small tray. Vanessa wondered how she could serve it while hampered by her cuff bar, but the designers of her restraints had thought of that. The stems of the glasses slid into slots in the tray rim, with the bowls resting on the tray top. She set one glass down on the table before Zara, carefully lowering the tray and pulling it back to disengage the stem. The slot rims were of different heights, Vanessa now saw, allowing the girl to set a glass down without disturbing the rest. She then knelt down beside Vanessa and set her glass on the floor. It had a straw in it.

As Vanessa drank, she glanced round the room, which was filling up. Peering between chairs and table legs she saw she was not the only pet there. There were seven or eight others, which made her situation seem a little less onerous.

Their owners, and she hated to use the word even in her thoughts, stroked and patted their heads like pampered dogs and fed them titbits from their own plates as treats in addition to the food in their gleaming bowls set out on the floor. Their girl-pets smiled affectionately back at them, rubbed against their legs or rested their chins on their knees, occasionally making plaintive whining sounds as they begged for more.

Vanessa blinked. Some of the girls seemed to be wearing elaborate prosthetic make-up. At least three had tails growing from the base of their spines. How were they attached? One slender creature with close-cropped ginger hair even had pointed ears and delicate feline whiskers. All she could see of another girl-pet was her upturned backside displaying plump sex lips that appeared to be closed by a zip fastener.

This was getting freaky …

More details struck her. Some of the girl-pets’ collars did not match the regular colour range. There
were
leather, silver and gold, some decorated with scrollwork and even studded with gems. Were they the private slaves of Shiller managers or the possessions of visitors to the building? The possibility would have seemed preposterous only a few days ago, but now she gave it serious consideration. How many places were there in London where you could freely take your slave out to dine?

There was so much she still did not know.

The food arrived: a plate for Zara and a bowl for Vanessa.

‘Eat up like a good pet,’ Zara commanded.

Vanessa buried her face in it, trying not to think about the strange unsettling people around her.

After a few minutes she felt Zara’s hand slide over her upraised haunches. Her fingers circled the crinkles of her anus and then dipped into the soft cleft-pouch beneath.

Nearly choking, Vanessa glanced up. Zara was not even looking at her. She was casually eating with a fork in one hand while idly fondling her with the other. And nobody else appeared to be taking the slightest bit of notice. And why should they, Vanessa thought wretchedly? Here such behaviour was normal. She was the one with her instincts and sensibilities out of place.

She tried to ignore Zara’s touch and focus on eating, but it was no good. Before a restaurant full of people she was being fingered and responding by getting wet. It was insane. What had they done to her?

The sweet course came and it was no better. Vanessa got cream on her nose and Zara, laughing, wiped it off with her napkin. As she did so she playfully tweaked her nipples. They were painfully hard. Zara grinned triumphantly and Vanessa stifled
a
moan. Once again the perverted need had been kindled within her. There was only one way to satisfy its demands.

It was no surprise that when they had finished, Zara led her not out of the restaurant but through the door into the lavatories.

Judging by the sounds coming from a couple of closed cubicles, other diners were also having some post-prandial fun with their pets. Zara dragged Vanessa into a free one, slammed the door, pushed Vanessa up against the partition wall and raped her mouth with her insistent tongue even as she gouged her fingers into the slippery depths of her pussy.

‘Please … Mistress Editor,’ Vanessa gasped. ‘This time … let me come as well.’

‘Well … if you’re a very good girl and give me a really deep tonguing.’

‘I will, Mistress!’

A few days ago the thought of striking such a bargain would have disgusted her. Now it seemed a minor triumph: an assertion that she still had some pride left. Or did she?

Zara hitched up her skirt and sat on the toilet. She pulled Vanessa round until her bottom faced her, then made her bend over, spread her legs and back up. Vanessa’s head went down into the toilet bowl, the seat rim pressing into the back of her neck even as Zara’s thighs closed about her cheeks and her mouth found Zara’s wet groin. Meanwhile Vanessa’s inverted pubes ground into Zara’s face and opened to her tongue. Unable to resist any more, Vanessa surrendered to her instincts and licked her editor’s cunt until she came, even as she herself was tongued to orgasm.

Zara held Vanessa in place with her head down the loo while they both recovered, kissing her sticky pubes and inhaling deeply.

‘There’s nothing like the scent of a girl who’s just come,’ she said wistfully. Then she seemed to recover something of her usual briskness. ‘So, what am I going to do now?’

Vanessa knew. ‘You’re going to pee in my face again, Mistress Editor.’

‘Why?’

‘To remind me, even though you let me come this time, Mistress Editor, that I’m still your slave.’

‘That’s right, girl. And I hope you always will be …’

Her hot pee spurted over Vanessa’s face.

Vanessa was still puzzling over her remark that afternoon, as, camera slung about her neck and notebook in hand, she descended to level B3.

Did Zara really think she enjoyed any of this? Couldn’t she tell she was only giving in to her desires when forced? If she did not realise that in less than a month Vanessa would be helping to destroy all this, then she was deluding herself.

She stepped out into the High Street almost gratefully. It was a perverted place, but at least here it was natural to walk around naked, and slaves outnumbered masters. Almost a recipe for a revolution, she thought a little mischievously, except that the slaves seemed unwilling to revolt. But if she understood them better, perhaps she might discover the secret of the hold Shiller seemed to have over them.

She knocked on the door of the training yard. After a minute Miss Kyle opened it.

‘Ahh, it’s the Slave Reporter,’ she said with a smile.

Once again Vanessa felt her resolve slipping in the woman’s powerful presence. ‘Yes, Miss Kyle,’ she said meekly.

‘If you’re going to follow Cherry Chain through its training, these are the rules. You won’t be allowed to talk to any of the girls face-to-face for a week. They’ve got to bond as a group and we can’t allow any distractions. During that time you can photograph them if you want and ask us about the stages of their training. Otherwise you will keep quiet and stay out of our way, understand?’

‘Yes, Miss Kyle.’

‘Then you can come in. We’re just helping the girls to get to know each other properly …’

The Cherry Chain girls lay on rubber mats in the middle of the yard. Six sprawled on their backs with their legs splayed wide, while the other six lay reversed across them, faces to pubes. Their arms were bound to their sides just above the elbows with black straps, while cuffs fastened to broad, garter-like straps that circled the tops of their thighs secured their wrists. Though they could not use their hands, judging from the snuffling, sucking sounds and the bobbing of their heads, their mouths were evidently busy enough deep within the pussies of their sister slaves, while their pelvises squirmed with equal vigour.

They had no choice, of course. Two of the male trainers stood over them with electric cattle prods. Any slackening of effort was rewarded by a jab in a softly rounded buttock.