A Mere Fleabite A Time Changes Everything Story Part 2 of 3

 

By Peony D. Beckside

Chapter Three: Impossible!  Unbelievable!

 

The men are so strong.  Big and muscular, brawny if you like.  No sign of excess fat.  I watch as two of them, under the command of the rat Kyril Flavius, remove the girl from each of the cages.

The procedure seems to be the same.  The door is opened, the girl is summoned forth.  If she’s reluctant from fear, she’s physically grasped or dragged out by her hair.  As she stands, her arms are pulled behind her back and pinioned in what looks like decorative handcuffs.  A metal anklet is locked on her lower left leg.  For identification purposes, I surmise.  The metal collar that she wears, as do I, is removed.  I don’t quite understand why.  Doubtless there’s a reason known only to our captors.  A fat probe of leather is thrust into her mouth, gagging her effectively.  A large black leather bag-like item is dropped over her head and shoulders.  The only significant differences between it and a burqa are that it’s shorter, draping down to and over the hips and that the bag has no opening for the face  A strap is fastened from the back to the front between the legs, so the garment cannot ride up.  It’s loose enough that air can get inside but the woman inside is effectively blindfolded.  It has no holes to allow arms to protrude, but then the woman’s arms are secured anyway.  For all that, the bag is still tight enough to have some of the effects a strait-jacket would have.  Once in the bag, the girl will be totally helpless, but then of course, that’s the whole point of the garment.  I notice that each bag has two metal D-rings attached.  One at the front of the bag at neck height and the other correspondingly, at the back.  The men attach short chains from the front ring of one girl the back of another, and subsequently the next girl is attached likewise.  They are forming a chain of women.  There’s a specific word for this, a chain of people, of slaves.  The word pops into my head.  Coffle!  Yes, that’s what this is.  It’s a coffle.  How barbaric!  I’m horribly aware that in short order I too will shortly be added to this shameful parade of flesh.

They come to my cage.  There are four of them.  I should be flattered.  Doubtless given my Police training in unarmed combat, they are taking no chances with me.  I debate whether I should fight, struggle.  To do so will no doubt be utterly pointless other than as a form of impotent protest. Yet, to supinely acquiesce and let them truss me up like this, as a kind of ‘oven-ready turkey’ goes against the grain.

The matter is moot.  I am simply dragged out of my involuntary bolt-hole and held vice-like while my wrists are secured.

“Open your mouth or I will break your teeth.”

This man is, I feel, quite capable of doing just that.  Held as firmly as I am, resistance seems pointless.  I open up and feel the sour taste of a leather prong that’s doubtless been used to gag many women before me, to effectively silence me.

The restraining bag is efficiently pulled down over my upper body and secured.  I am moved, placed clearly.  I hear the chink of light chain in front of my face and at the back of my neck.  I tug at, test my bonds, but it’s hopeless.  I am held perfectly.  I’m confused at a feeling that I have, a feeling of reassurance, a pleasingness that I cannot escape my bonds.  No!  Pleasingness is not the right word.  A ‘rightness’ perhaps?  Very strange...  An acknowledgement of the professionalism and expertness of these my captors, maybe?

Clearly we are being readied for transportation to somewhere else.

 

Over the last few days, and as I have watched the other girls being ‘bagged and tagged’, I have wondered where we are to be taken.  If we are to be killed why all the rigmarole?  We could have been murdered at any time after our capture, or before for that matter.  No, clearly they want us alive.  That’s a relief of sorts, but alive as what?  That guy, Alyena’s master had laid it out we are to be slaves, sex-slaves if we can ‘make the grade’, that we have a value-a monetary one.

I’m not sure that I want to try to be a sex-slave.  Sure I like sex especially when the man is skilled, but I’m not a slut.  Not one of those women with ‘round-heels’, that’s easily pushed onto her back whenever a man wants to fuck her.

I wonder though if I will be given the choice as to whether I’ll put the effort into learning how to be a slave-slut.  These people don’t give me any sense that what I want or don’t want means anything to them.

So, they call themselves slavers, where is there a market for good-looking women as slaves. I’m warmed briefly by the memory of what Alyena’s Master had said that I’m ‘Not displeasing of appearance’.  On one level, I should be offended at that.  Every woman has her vanity.  She KNOWS that she’s the most desirable of creatures.  However that certainty is, from childhood whittled down by a market-driven society that denigrates us for its own ends.  Our hair is the wrong colour, our breasts are too big (or too small), our teeth aren’t white enough.  It goes on for ever, until everyone but the few true special beauties, fail to appreciate and believe they are desirable in their own right.

Saudi-Arabia?  The Gulf States?  Columbian Drug-Barons?  Russian Mafiosi?  Are we to become harem slaves of rich Emir’s, Don’s, Oligarchs, or Princes?  Surely they’d be rich enough to afford to buy us; for surely we must have an economic value otherwise it wouldn’t be worth the while of these slavers to abduct us.

A nagging fear leavens such high-flying thoughts.  Perhaps we are destined for some seedy brothel in one of the less reputable sin-cities of the world.  Chained to a bed, having to satisfy up to fifty men a day.  I shudder at that thought.

I absolutely can’t believe the bullshit that Alyena and that Kyril Flavius rat were spouting. Planet Gor?  A mythical planet on the far side of the sun?  It’s laughable except in the minds of science-fiction writers, for whom any ridiculous idea can be turned into a plot.  I mean, when I read that misogynistic tale it was entertaining, but utterly baloney.  Never could I or any sane person believe that the story was real, was someone’s autobiography.  Utter bunkum!  One place we definitely aren’t going is the non-existent planet Gor!

 

The truck has stopped.  We have been sat on wooden benches down the sides of the truck.  The D-ring at the back of this irksome bag has been fastened to some kind of hook or anchorage.  Our ankles are shackled.  The restraint on one ankle having a short chain on it.  This is I think looped under some kind of bar before the corresponding restraint is then fastened to the other ankle.  There is some play, but not enough to get any kind of significant movement.  The springing on the truck is not so good, and/or the road travelled was seriously bumpy, particularly over the last few miles. Suffice it to say that the journey was very uncomfortable.  Despite our gags, I heard a significant number of painful grunts during the journey, mine included.

I listen as intently as I can, all information no matter how apparently insignificant might be more important in tracking down this place; a transit point I suspect, an airfield maybe.  Not a quayside.  There’s no sense of water nearby, much less the sea.  It’s in the countryside, not a city.  I hear the hoot of an owl.  It might take some time, but wherever I’m going, I WILL escape and officially report what happened to me.  I will ensure that my report doesn’t go to Chief Brainerd, since he’s tainted, in cahoots with those who’ve kidnapped me.

They are removing the girls one by one, from the far side of the truck.  At least that’s what I think’s happening.  After a short while they start to remove those on my side of the truck.  The person next to me is removed.  I surmise that I’m next.  I feel fingers unshackling my ankles. Others unfasten my ‘burqa’ from the truck bulkhead.  The hands of two strong men grasp me, lift me and propel me towards the cooler air of nighttime.  I am manhandled off the truck bed.  Two more men grasp hold of my legs while someone unfastens the claustrophobic bag in which I’ve been cocooned.  It is lifted away.  As soon as my arms are clear of the leather they are grasped again by those who’ve impelled me from the truck.  The leather bag is lifted from my head.

I stand there in utter shock!  Total disbelief!  Even if not firmly held I could not escape, such is my awe at what I’m seeing!  I’m utterly mesmerised!  I’m like the jackrabbit caught in headlights of the oncoming car.  WHAT THE FUCK!  What I’m seeing is nothing less than a flying saucer!  A FUCKING FLYING SAUCER!  A stray thought crosses my mind.  Is this a film-set.  But no!  The thing looks absolutely real.  I can’t see any camera’s or stage lighting, any dressing-room caravans.  I should be squirming out of the hands of the men holding me and running like the wind.  I am held by my own incredulity and denial as well as four strong men.

Thoughts cascade through my mind, not least of which is the realisation that what Alyena had said, that this Gor place must then exist, that the UFO tales are not something made up by deluded nutcases.  It’s like a waterfall of reassessment, a reconsidering my most basic beliefs, even my grip on sanity.  The implications just go on and on and on!

Suddenly my conscious brain regains traction.  Shit!  They are going to put me on that thing! They are going to take me away!  Take me to this place I’d never been able to credit as existing.  I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THIS NEW WORLD, this olde-world.  Here at least I understand the basic concepts, the basic rules.  On a new world, one’s fundamental assumptions cannot be taken for granted.  I definitely don’t want to be a slave, someone’s fuck-toy, on either world.

I attempt to struggle, to worm my way out of the hands of the four brawny men.  Rationally I should realise that I cannot, but at this moment I am not rational.  I am pure animal instinct.  I wriggle and writhe for all I’m worth.  The men laugh.  I try to bite without consciously realising that I can’t given the gag that’s still in my mouth.  Such is my grasp on the logicality of my present situation.

All too soon we are at the ramp up into the ship.  I am carted in like a sack full of weasels all trying to escape at once.  There’s something like a bathtub.  It apparently has what looks like a plexiglass hood that’s been swung back.  I am terrified of this capsule, that they will put me in it and close the lid.  I just know without conscious reasoning that if they succeed in putting me in there, it’s ‘game over!’ for me, at least here on Earth.

A fifth man removes the handcuffs holding me, but that doesn’t give me any more escape options.  The hands of the four men holding me are like vices.

The fifth man unbuckles my gag and removes it.  I scream in frustration, and again try to bite one of the men holding me.  So tight am I held that I cannot reach any of them.

I am thrust down into the bathtub.  Held there firmly.  The four men suddenly release me, but before I can reach up to the rim, to stop my cocooning, the fifth man slams the transparent lid down.

I press up with all my might but the cover is immovable.  I bang against it, hoping to shatter it, even though logically I know I will be unable to do so.  I won’t have been the first to attempt to get up out of this pod.

There’s no sound of escaping gas, no smell, no taste, but I begin to feel weary, bone tired.  I want nothing more than to sleep.  My pounding on the housing lid loses urgency and strength.  I struggle to remain awake.  I mustn’t let myself sleep!  I mustn’t let…!  I must...