New Order : New Opportunity

Chapter 11 : The Dangers of Resurgent Males

Constable Margery Dennis scowled at the mess in the room. The woman sobbing beside her was distraught; her house ransacked; the man she thought was hers, and locked in chastity to her, gone.

It was a common enough occurrence, Margery knew. The woman had thought she could keep a man with only the most rudimentary security. Too often it ended like this. She looked at the cage he had been kept in. It should have been strong enough but it obviously hadn’t been. He had burst out of it somehow, probably bracing his back against the top, pushing against it until the framework had given way and the bars had sprung from their mounts.

That had been the start. Once he had freed himself from the cage, he’d cut his chastity belt from himself; not without wounding himself if the blood on the floor was anything to go by. Then he had gone looking for money or anything else that would help him to get away.

Margery felt the woman should be grateful. If she’d come home before the man had run off she could have been assaulted. It just went to show that they couldn’t trusted. She and Valerie would have to think again about the arrangements they were making for Barry.

The woman had no idea where the man might have gone to; she had never imagined that he would do anything like this, couldn’t guess what might have brought this on as he had always seemed so content with his lot.

Margery had her own ideas. But then she’d found the small leaflet stuffed behind a radiator in the man’s room. The leaflet carried a male symbol reasserting itself; the female symbol inverted from the way it was used by New Order. It called on men to take a stand against New Order. To break free of their chains, to abscond from their sponsors. CID would find it useful. It carried an address, She would be surprised if the man didn’t try to go there. After all there weren’t many places for a man on the run. Some people thought that the whole business of dissident groups was being whipped up by the media but then you saw something like this. She looked down in distaste at the broken and abandoned chastity belt. The woman had done the right thing keeping him in one, Margery felt. It wasn’t the law or anything but most of her colleagues felt the only safe male was one with his dick in a cage. In this case even that hadn’t been good enough. When he was taken back into custody he’d be wearing something a lot more secure for the foreseeable future, but that was down to CID.

All Margery could do was to try to calm the distressed woman until a scene of crime officer could go over the place. The anxiety that the man’s actions had caused made her angry. She remembered Barry’s smug “Have a good day” as she had pulled on her uniform jacket that morning. As she thought about it her eyes narrowed, it was about time that Barry was reminded of just how the world worked. Valerie wouldn’t be back until late. Just one smart arsed remark when Margery got home would be all that he would need to earn a good thrashing.

    

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****

Nevin appeared in James’s cell with an apologetic air. “It’s a difficult one today,” he said. “Come with me.”

James followed him down the corridor. Nevin didn’t use the shackles, the combination of alcohol and the disorientating effects of the continued sexual abuse had numbed him so that they no longer feared any attempt to escape.

“You need to get dressed for this one,” James looked at him puzzled. Nevin pointed to a pile of clothing on the table Putting it on was quite a novelty for James; he seemed to have spent almost all of his time naked. It wasn’t anything special just a pair of black jeans, a black tee shirt and a pair of black trainers and gloves. Finally Nevin passed him what James thought at first was another hood. It was only as he pulled it on that he realised it was a ski mask.

“Right,” said Nevin. “Through that door is a lady that’s paid for some very special treatment. There’s three of you altogether. You’ll be doing the prick sex, understand?”

James nodded, his member was already stiffening. It was almost becoming an aphrodisiac; coming down here. The drugs were mostly responsible, of course, but the trigger for arousal was no longer the woman; it was standing outside this door in the knowledge that his prick was going to be put to use.

“So, take your lead from them, Remember she’s paying for this. Understand?”

James nodded again as Nevin waved him through the door. This time the room was sparsely furnished. A single chair stood beside an old iron bedstead. A soiled mattress was the bedstead’s only covering. James wondered what on earth was going on.

“Bring her in here,” a man’s voice snarled in the corridor. The door burst open and two men masked and dressed as James was, pushed a woman into the room.

James, wide eyed behind his mask, saw that she had been tied with thick ropes around her body and gagged with a thick cloth pulled across her mouth. The woman was half thrown down on the mattress. One of the men sat down beside her putting his hand down hard across her gagged mouth. “Keep quiet bitch,” he snarled, “and maybe you won’t get hurt too much.” The other tossed a leather bag to the floor beside the bed.

The woman struggled against his grasp and he cuffed her across the face, knocking her back on the bed as she tried to wriggle free from him. The other man stepped behind her gabbing her bound arms and dragging her to a sitting position.. “Let’s see what she’s got. Maybe we can have some fun with her,” he said.

The first man pulled at the woman’s dress, ripping it open. She squealed behind her gag, though something told James that it was not a squeal of panic or fear. He grabbed her tits squeezing and pinching at them as the woman seemed to try to break free and then thrust his hand up between her legs and beneath her skirt. A ripping sound accompanied the parting of her skirt seam, exposing her laddered hose and panties torn to reveal a quim surrounded by carefully trimmed pubic hair.

She still tried to break free from the men. The one holding her arms called to James. “Come on,” he said, “What this cunt needs is a good fucking. You might as well do her, that’ll show her who’s boss.”

“Take your lead from them,” Nevin had said to James, so he guessed he had better do as he had been asked. He said nothing as he unbuckled the belt of his trousers, unzipped his fly and dropped his trousers. The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of his engorged cock and she growled, possibly in protest, behind her gag as he advanced towards her. The first man spread the woman’s legs as he slid on top of her crushing her back against the soiled mattress. If there had been any doubts about the woman’s willingness before, once James found his cock sliding into her soaking cunt, he knew that it was no rape. She was desperate to be fucked, hot and wet, pressing against him and wriggling against the embrace of her ropes as he entered her and thrust backwards and forwards. Whoever she was, she wanted nothing more than to be used and misused by these men, forced to degrade herself and to ‘endure’ what no woman would be willing to admit desiring in public.

The woman’s struggles served to arouse James to the point of orgasm. One of his colleagues seemed to sense that he was close to cumming. “Don’t do it in her,” he laughed. “She’s not worth your cum.” 

James pulled out just at the moment of ejaculation, spurting his jism across her belly and breasts as she tried to lever herself up from the bed. The men, slapped her back down as James stood up.

“You hold the slut, she can suck me off,” the first man said as he jerked at the cloth that filled the woman’s mouth.

“Ahh, huh,” the woman grunted as the gag came free and the man straddled her face. James held her arms roughly as she lunged towards the man’s cock, eagerly swallowing it deep in her mouth. The man fucked her face almost choking her but he too pulled back as he came, covering her face with milky spunk. The woman sighed, lost now, James knew, in whatever pleasure she had been seeking when she had decided to give herself up to her current situation.

“She can’t get enough of it!” The other man said. “Let me have her arse.”

“Sure, help yourself.” The one that had face fucked her, grabbed the woman by her torn dress and wrenched until she her face was pushed down against the mattress. Behind her back her wrists were wrapped tightly in the thick hemp rope. The other man knelt across her back pushing his cock into her bound hands so she could fondle him erect before he pushed her skirt back up over her waist and thrust his dick into her arse.

His was the same routine as the others; thrusts until he was almost ready to cum, withdrawal, and then the woman sprayed with cum. As he finished he wiped himself off on her hair. The woman was cooing now, whimpering as she pressed her thighs together trying to will herself to come.

“Here,” said the first man to James, “help us.” The two of them pulled the woman from the bed and dragged her across the room to the chair. “Do her feet,” he said pointing to a loop of rope curling out from the bag they had brought with them.

Between the three of them, they tied the woman to the chair and pushed the gag back in her mouth. They tied her legs spread apart so that as she tried to buck against the ropes to bring herself off, she had little chance of urging herself to orgasm.

“Goodnight cunt,” the first man said. “I hope you had fun.” He gestured for the other man and James to follow him out of the room.

The woman whimpered as she watched them go.

*****  *****   *****   *****   *****  

Anne Tenant strode purposefully across the Millenium Bridge towards the old Bankside Power Station that now housed the Tate Modern gallery. It was a short walk from her offices and a fine day. It seemed like the ideal opportunity to blow some of the cobwebs from her mind before the meeting.

She’d never really considered herself much of an expert on art but she did know about business and when she’d been invited to join the board of trustees it had seemed like a useful opportunity to make some new contacts, including some useful ones in Government.

She passed by a couple of tourists in hot debate with one of the security staff. From the way she was pointing to the signs and shaking her head it was clear that the tourists hadn’t realised that the “No Males” sign meant what it said. It was a shame but until the trustees had finished their work it wouldn’t be sensible to relax the rule.

She walked in through the vast exhibition space that was the old Turbine Hall. In the middle, Tracey Emin’s new installation, “The Latest People I’ve Slept With” dominated the surroundings with its collection of a dozen twenty foot high, black basalt, replicas of strap-on dildoes, each engraved with the name of the man that she had used the original on. It had caused a lot of debate, some suggesting that it celebrated the male member. Tracey’s view, expressed in a foul mouthed and drunken interview on television, that “of course it does because if we aren’t using these to fuck them, they’d be using their’s to fuck us” hadn’t help anyone to believe that Tracey was mellowing as she got older. Ann just wondered if she could use images of it when they started to advertise her new product.

The offices were at the top of the building with views across the Thames and St Pauls. The conference room had a sign on the door. “Trustees Meeting - Department of Culture Media & Her-itage” it said. Anne winced. She didn’t think that sort of thing helped matters at all, though of course she agreed that they had a long way to go to redress the imbalance of at least three millennia of male viewpoints on western culture.

She took her seat at the conference table, nodding and smiling at some of the other trustees that she had met at the previous meeting.

Anne looked at the agenda. One of the gallery catering house-boys offered her coffee and she took it without really acknowledging him and certainly without noticing the surreptitious lick of his lips as he caught a glimpse of her breasts and cleavage while he leant over her shoulder to serve her cream. It was just as well she hadn’t spotted him. If she had done it would have been his third offence, earning instant dismissal. He caught himself just in time casting his eyes down at the floor before asking Anne if she wanted sugar.

She shook her head. He went on to serve the next woman at the table, taking more care this time with his behaviour.

The agenda looked as though it would have the usual mixture of tedium and interest. Madam Chair, Anne saw, was beginning to gather her papers ready to start the meeting. She waved the waiters away and began.

“Thank you all for coming. We have apologies from two of our usual members. Can I take it that everyone was happy with the minutes of the last meeting?”

There were the usual nods and muttered agreements around the table.

“Well, if everyone is happy I think we can take the actions from last time as we go through the rest of the agenda. They should all be picked up with the various reports that we have to review, I think.”  More nods. “Now Monica, perhaps you can update us on the Gallery Working Group.”

Anne sat back to listen. She didn’t have much to contribute to this part of the discussion. The Gallery Working Group was trying to push through some new policies on exhibits. The government was firmly of the view that it needed to purge the museums and art galleries of works that presented what they termed “an outdated and undesirable view of gender relationships.” Of course there were some that considered the proposals to remove from gallery walls all art that presented females in a subservient role or, indeed, glamorised male attributes as censorship. Anne didn’t think that mattered. It was better that the new generation had positive role models in art. Something had to be done to redress the balance.

Monica was summing up, “So we can begin introducing this policy at once but the problem remains that there too few works in the current collections to fill the gaps left by the material we are removing.  We do need some ideas on how we might go about either encouraging new artists or acquiring material that is more appropriate to our current gender policies.”

Anne winced at the term “gender policies” but felt at last she had a contribution to make. She leant forward. “Madam Chair, if I could just suggest...” A nod from the head of the table indicated she should continue. “This may be seen as a radical view but I wonder if we could consider some new works by male artists.”

There was a sharp intake of breath around the table, furrowed brows turned towards Anne Tenant.

“We shouldn’t overlook that fact that there are men that have expressed the ideals of New Order, albeit in a romanticised manner and from,” Anne looked around the table following the reactions of the other trustees carefully, “let us say, a sexual rather than social or political motivation.”

“Pornographers, you mean,” one of Anne’s co-trustees exclaimed with disgust.

“That’s certainly the conventional view and it’s true that the women in these works are fetishised to a large extent. However, perhaps we should be asking whether their imagination is of value, irrespective of its motivation. Much great art has been created for monetary gain, after all and I think we all recognise that women have been happy to fetishise themselves when it has suited them. While the works I’m thinking of are hardly great art they do have merit and do have the value of representing gender roles as we would want them portrayed.

Monica responded. “It could be interesting,” she said. “An exhibition exploring the way in which the New Order view of society was foreseen, perhaps a combination of art by some of the people you’re talking about with reportage photography exploring the realities of today’s relationships.”

Other trustees chipped in with their own ideas. It was clear that the idea had a measure of support even if there were some doubters. Anne was pleased. She had always felt that artists like Sardax, Nimrod and Namshakh had as much to say about the relationships that were now the social norm as any of the New Order politicos. It looked as if they might get their opportunity for wider recognition at last.

Madam Chair sat listening to the debate, pleased that something seemed to be come from the meeting. She was glad that she’d suggested Tenant join the trustees. This was just the sort of innovative thinking they needed.

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com 

Web Groups:        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

               http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Femdom_Fables/