“Move.” The man behind her nudged her between the shoulder blades and she stumbled forward, forcing her jellified legs to walk.
The chatter of voices ceased. All she could hear were quiet movements as people settled. She had to know if he’d come and she quickly peered around the room, but there was no sign of Blake, nor Jen or Sym or either of their husbands. She spied Millicent, with Oona, perched on a bench with what must be their men. The privilege of seats was afforded to lifers, not Corporate wives, who remained on their knees. How she hated the whole system of inequality.
Millicent smiled at her. Not a smile of greeting, but one of malicious delight. She folded her arms across her chest and whispered something to Oona, who in turn smothered a giggle.
The absence of Blake almost wiped out her resolve to keep her head high and her nerves hidden from view. She stood by the bench, ignoring the straps and stared at her bare feet. She’d vomited in the cell’s toilet before they came for her, unable to keep any food in her belly. Nevertheless, the lack of nourishment didn’t stop her from marching out of her cell, refusing to let them manhandle her.
The constable announced her crime, emphasising the ‘despicable’ assault on Millicent and near ‘riot’ she’d caused in the Green Dome. The exaggerations were greeted with gasps and the volume rose when he decreed her harsh punishment. “Strip her.” He barked at his comrades.
The one with coarse hands took hold of the white fabric, ready to tear it from her, but she pushed him away and picked up the hem. “I’ll do it,” she snapped. She drew the flimsy dress over her head, unveiling her pale skin.
She shook as she climbed onto the bench, determined to keep as much dignity as possible. The cold surface made her flinch and goose bumps shivered across her body. The straps bit into her skin as the men bound her in place. Looking at the contraption was not as terrible as lying on it. She felt more exposed, more stretched out than she thought was possible. She rested her head on one side, looking away from the constable.
“Doctor.” The constable called out.
Lysa gritted her teeth as the medic made much of his duties. He probed and pinched her bottom, deliberately sliding his fingers between her bottom cheeks and pressing her anus. “All’s good,” he pronounced, then attached the heart monitor on her back.
She waited, heart pounding and belly rumbling with nerves. She braced herself for the unction—the dreaded arse heater, as the constable proclaimed its application. About her, the crowd seemed to lean forward, as if they wanted a better view of her reaction to the horrible cream. She hoped it would be no worse than the bleaching agent she applied. He rubbed it into her buttocks using more pressure than necessary and kept circling each cheek with the heel of his palm.
Her eyes widened as he slid a finger into her cleft, just as the doctor had done, and spread the cream about her anus, then down into her slit. She wanted to shout, protest at his unjustifiable actions, but they would only get her more strokes of his switch.
The heat came instantly, nothing like the prickling whitener, it roasted her bottom into a fire. She gasped, struggling not to cry out. She already felt like she’d been spanked, except when Blake did it, he built up the heat and pain gradually, unlike this awful searing in her flesh. How would she cope with the cane?
She fought the instinct to clench her buttocks, knowing it would make it far worse. Her body prickled with sweat as the oppressive heat of the room closed in on her. About the auditorium, the tension was palpable as numerous breaths were held.
Tears welled, she’d fought them back for hours, but now she could no longer keep them at bay. She’d let herself down, but more importantly, she’d let Blake down. This dreadful situation would never had arisen if she hadn’t interfered and insisted on putting right an injustice. Now the Corporation was using her body to perpetuate their prejudices. There was no escape and Blake wasn’t coming to rescue her. Perhaps Harkess had been right—her husband didn’t love her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the constable lift the switch high above his head, poised to strike. Fear flooded her emotions, drowning out all others.
“Oh, help me,” she muttered then squeezed her eyes shut.
Chapter Eleven
Blake removed his breathing mask and wiped the grime from his face. His shift underground had finished and along with the others from his team, he’d come up in the massive elevator to the surface
. For some unknown reason the mine on Colony 16 seemed cooler and less claustrophobic.
Five days in and two more to go. He volunteered to go because the extra money on offer made it worth the hard toil. However, he missed Lysa and longed for her delicate mouth closing in on his stiff cock every morning as he woke. After work, he would lie on the bed in the sparsely furnished guest pod and yearn for that same mouth kissing his lips and greeting him with a warm smile.
His cock twitched in a familiar fashion and he dismissed his beautiful wife from his daydreams. What he wanted now was a shower and food.
“Yo, Blake.”
Blake turned and saw his shift supervisor waving at him. “Yeah?”
“Message from fourteen. Somebody called Yuri.” He gestured at the Comms screen.
“Sure. I’ll get to it once I’ve cleaned up.” He hung up his breathing apparatus.
“Says it’s urgent. Something to do with your wife?”
Blake froze. The heat emanating from his perspiring body evaporated quickly and a cold, clammy sensation replaced it.
What had she done?
* * *
The airlock door in the shuttle bay spun and Blake shot through the gap. He almost collided with Jen, who came bounding across to meet him. Behind her waited Yuri, Craig and Sym, whose face was deathly white.