Planet of Pain (21 page)

Following Fran's orgasm they all swapped round for a second time, and now Kym was the one sighing blissfully as Jo put her newly acquired oral skills to good use, while Trin fucked her from the rear, again in her vagina.

Later still, after Kym had climaxed, they rested for a while, and then they started all over again.

 

‘There's something I don't understand here,' Jo said to Ruth, having returned to the dayroom exhausted but just in time for breakfast. ‘I thought the Solar League didn't allow women in combat roles.'

‘They don't,' Ruth muttered.

‘Then why are some of the guards female?' she asked. ‘Not that prison guard is a combat role exactly, but they're in uniform. Just about, anyway.'

‘What makes you think the beasties are Leaguers?'

‘Well, aren't they?' Jo asked, bemused.

‘A few might be, I suppose. Those who are too dumb or too much of a liability for regular units. Most are independents though, or Alliance.'

‘Alliance?'

‘Sure. Say the right things, fuck the right people, and you might get offered a job. I don't mean you personally. You're too tasty a victim: they wouldn't want to lose you. Plenty of others have gone over, though.'

At first Jo didn't believe it; but then it all started to make sense; the scruffy, hand-me-down uniforms; the lack of weapons. Plus comments made, such as Fran claiming to know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a six-hour anal session.

The more she thought about it, in fact, the less surprised she was. Any sensible person would rather be dishing it out than taking it. Not that she'd be offered the opportunity, if what Ruth said were true. Jo's role in life seemed to be that of perpetual victim, and a damned unenviable role it was, too.

 

 

 

 

Jo's night without sleep had left her dead on her feet. She was clumsy and slow in the mine, and her logged weight at shift-end was abysmal: just forty-eight grams. So she wasn't surprised when the shift supervisor sought her out while they were waiting for the shower bell.

‘Bad news I'm afraid,' he told her sombrely. ‘You're low-weight. Report to the punishment room straight after dinner. Know where that is?'

She shook her head glumly and he described the cabin in question. It was one she'd noticed before, near the centre, painted bright yellow for some reason. Then he asked if she knew what to expect.

‘A beating?' she hazarded, so tired and numb she hardly cared any more.

‘That's right,' he said. ‘Not the usual sort, though. There's no fixed number of strokes; they just keep going till they think you've learned your lesson. As it's a mine related offence one of the trustees will give it. Most of ours aren't too bad, apart from Squires, so just pray you don't get him.'

Jo's numbness lasted all through the shower and most of the way through dinner. Then towards the end it started to dawn on her that she was probably in for a hard time, and her attempted joke to Ruth about the condemned woman eating a hearty meal fell rather flat.

At the appointed time she made her way to the hub and knocked on the yellow cabin's door, thinking that with her luck it probably would be Squires. She heard footsteps and the door opened to reveal Karlyn, Ruth's ex-shipmate and personal nemesis.

‘Well, well,' he sneered, ‘we meet again.'

Jo just gawped; Karlyn was green shift so what was he doing here? It didn't make any sense.

‘Don't just stand there,' he said. ‘Get your arse in here, pronto.' He didn't give her time to respond, but grabbed her wrist and yanked her in, kicking the door shut behind her. ‘Thought you'd seen the last of me, didn't you?' he said. ‘I can just picture it now; you and Faulkner laughing at how you'd got shot of me a second time. But you know what they say: you can't keep a good man down.'

She had no idea what he meant by ‘got shot of me a second time'. It might be no more than paranoia – or maybe Ruth hadn't told her the whole story.

‘Did they explain to you how this works?' he asked. ‘No limit on the number of strokes, and all that?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Pity,' he said. ‘I was looking forward to seeing your face when you realised just how deep a shit-pile you've landed in. So, let's waste no more time. Take your clothes off. We'll start with the physical examination.'

Though it was the first she'd heard of any examination, Jo removed her things without delay. Things were bad enough already without antagonising him further.

He lifted a chair away from the wall and sat down. The furniture in the cabin was basic: a table, two chairs, and a low bench. On the table was a trustee's lash, several coils of thin rope, and a short leather strap-like object she couldn't identify. There was also a jug of water and two beakers.

‘Come here,' Karlyn said.

She moved to him, and he put his hands on her hips and drew her closer still. He pushed his hand between her thighs and inserted his first and second fingers into her vagina. ‘Don't even think about lodging a protest over this,' he said. ‘It's strictly within the rules, under section three. “Trustees should examine the prisoner to ensure he or she is fit to receive punishment”. What it doesn't state is
how
to perform the examination; it leaves that to the trustee's discretion. Which means I can do pretty much whatever I want to you, right?'

He worked his fingers in and out slowly, watching her face, and she bravely kept her expression carefully neutral.

‘You looked surprised to see me a minute ago,' he said. ‘Was that because I'm supposed to be on green shift?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Thought so,' he said. ‘Someone will always swap shifts with you, for a price. I had to pay a lot to swing this punishment detail, but it's money well spent. If you hadn't interfered four days ago Ruth Faulkner would have snagged the low-weight reprimand for sure, so you're going to regret poking your nose in, believe me.' His fingers continued to move inside her, his eyes on hers all the while.

‘Okay,' he said, withdrawing his hand, ‘it's my considered opinion you're fit to receive punishment.' He stood up and went to the table to retrieve his lash.

‘Right, listen carefully as I'm only saying this once. You'll be adopting a range of positions over the next couple of hours, and once you're in position you'll stay put. I don't want to have to piss about with ropes and stuff, but the rules allow it and I will if I have to. I don't want the hassle of gagging you either, but if you make too much of a din you'll find yourself wearing that.' He nodded at the leather strap, and she realised what it was.

‘I can also send for help if necessary, though I definitely want to avoid that as they'd think I can't even handle one female prisoner. What I expect from you, therefore, is full cooperation and instant compliance with my orders. If you start to play up, and I do have to send for help, I swear I'll flay the hide off you. Have you got all that?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I hope so, for your sake. Right then, let's get moving. I want you face down on the bench for starters. Shift it away from the wall so we've got more room.'

She dragged the bench out into the middle of the room. It was a solid, steel-framed affair with a flat, thinly padded slab seat. She lay face down as instructed, her head overhanging at one end and her feet at the other. She didn't know if she should keep her arms by her sides or on the floor or what. She tried it several ways, and settled for elbows out, hands clasping the bench's tubular legs. ‘Is this okay?' she asked.

‘Yes. And that's the last word I want to hear from you unless you're answering a question from me, got that?'

He moved around to her left side, and from the corner of her eye she saw him shake the lash to unfurl the thongs. Here we go, she thought miserably.

He struck her across the shoulders, and continued to strike, moving slowly down her body as he had with Ruth in the mine. But this time he didn't stop when he reached her ankles, but reversed direction and worked back up again. To her surprise the strokes were relatively mild; they stung, certainly, but no more than that. Since he'd already promised she would regret ‘poking her nose in' it didn't take a genius to figure out that the session would be a long one, and would get progressively harder as time went on.

‘We call that the sunbather, in case you didn't know,' he smirked. ‘You're just starting to flush up now, and in a few minutes you'll be pink all over as if you'd laid in the sun. Now turn over and have your front done.'

Jo wriggled onto her back. She couldn't reach the bench legs so she gripped the side rails instead. It felt strange with her head overhanging the end, unsupported, but when she raised it Karlyn corrected her.

‘No, keep your head right back,' he said. ‘The last thing you want to do is catch one in the face. The tip of a thong can take your eye out.'

She hurriedly tipped her head back, just in time, for he began to lash her again, starting just below her throat and working downwards. It hurt more this time, though she suspected he wasn't hitting any harder. Perhaps fronts were more sensitive than backs; or maybe it was simply that she was less used to being struck here. Since her capture she'd been paddled once, flogged once, lashed on numerous occasions in the mine, and every time it was on the buttocks. Though the previous beatings had been more severe than this, she nevertheless felt astonishingly vulnerable lying supine.

The stinging thongs moved over her breasts to her belly, at which point the urge to draw up her knees was huge. She fought it, of course, and he carried on down, over her hips and thighs and shins to her ankles, and then back up again as before. By the time he'd finished she was tingling all over.

He took a step back. ‘Okay, that's the sunbather, as I said. Now I'll give you an idea of what it's like to have your cunt whipped. Lift your legs and spread them wide.'

Jo did so, feeling more vulnerable than ever.

‘Normally you'd be shaved for this,' he said. ‘It's too late now to fetch a razor, so we'll just have to make do. Put your hands behind your knees and hold your legs open. I'm warning you now; you'll definitely want to close them when the pain starts. You won't close them though, will you?'

‘No sir,' she said, holding her legs as instructed.

‘Good, you'd better not. I don't know if cunts really are extra sensitive, or if it's purely a psychological thing, but most women seem to find this much more difficult than having their arses or tits whipped.'

He moved around, dangled the thongs on her belly and trailed them lightly down over her vulva. She shivered, waiting anxiously for him to begin.

‘This is sometimes called a crack-whack, by the way,' he said, obviously in no hurry to start. ‘Funnily enough, this sort of punishment isn't all that common. Most trustees seem to prefer a good old-fashioned arse lashing. One-track minds, they've got, if you ask me.'

She began to suspect he was deliberately stalling; making her wait, knowing how nervous she was.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘One crack-whack coming up. Legs open, remember.'

Since he wouldn't be striking anywhere near her face, and since waiting in ignorance of what was happening was simply too unnerving, she lifted her head – just in time to see the lash descending. She whimpered as it struck and flinched mightily, though the stinging pain was no worse than before. The lash continued to rise and fall, and as he'd predicted, she felt an overwhelming urge to close her legs. But she refused to give in to it, thinking he was entirely right about how difficult this was. He gave her an even dozen, then stepped away once more.

‘That's just a taster,' he said. ‘We'll try it again later, for real. Right now it's time to learn a new position.'

It was called the frog, and she soon discovered it was remarkably uncomfortable. He made her straddle the bench, right at the end, facing away from the seat. He then ordered her to put her elbows on the floor. She leaned forward and put her hands down, then dropped her shoulders lower still till she could rest her forearms on the floor, and just as she was thinking it wasn't as bad as she'd expected he demanded an adjustment.

‘Arms back and feet forward,' he said, presumably wanting her more froglike.

She complied, drawing her arms back until her elbows touched the legs of the stool, and shuffling her feet forward as far as they'd go, until her knees were actually higher than her shoulders, which felt much more cramped. Karlyn made no further comment, so she assumed she'd got it right.

He began to lash her buttocks, regular as a metronome. He was striking harder than before and the thongs were stinging fiercely. The escalation she'd anticipated had started already.

For many long minutes he continued in silence, patient and unhurried. He could afford to be patient, of course – he had all the time in the world. Time was no ally of hers, however, for each second that passed meant another stroke on buttocks that were becoming ever more tender, and she was growing increasingly desperate.

Finally he stopped, to her great relief, and stroked her bottom as though assessing the damage. ‘Okay,' he said, ‘we'll take a short break. Stand up and stretch, if you like.'

She took him up on the offer gratefully, stretching her stiff limbs and rubbing her inflamed buttocks. He poured himself a beaker of water and drank, staring all the while at her body. She knew he wanted her: she'd seen it in his eyes when he put his fingers inside her. It was tempting to try and use it, but that was a dangerous game. Any offer she made would surely be recognised for what it was – an attempt at manipulation.

He drained the beaker and set it on the table. ‘Time's up,' he announced. ‘Down you go, Miss Frog.'

Dejectedly she straddled the bench and took up the arduous, undignified position once more. The beating resumed, harder than ever. It was hurting badly and her hips jerked with each stroke, so that she rocked back and forth, riding the bench like a jockey riding a horse.

‘What did Faulkner tell you about me?' he asked, without missing a beat.

Warning bells rang in her head. It sounded like a trap; for her or Ruth, or maybe for both of them, and she was reluctant to answer. The lashing stopped and she knew she had to say something. Then, out of the blue, came a single, brutally hard stroke, the thongs tracing fire across her buttocks. She cried out and he struck her again, equally hard.

‘I expect obedience in this, too,' he warned.

The third stroke, unbelievably, was harder still. ‘She said you were shipmates!' she shrieked, desperate to make it stop. There was a pause, then she heard the lash hiss again. She cried out before it even struck her, fearing the worst, but it was significantly less fierce.

‘What else?' he asked.