A Girl Called 51 Read online

  Title Page

  A GIRL CALLED 51

  By

  Roger Clarke

  Publisher Information

  A Girl Called 51 first published in 2009 by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  PO Box 152

  Waterlooville

  Hants

  PO8 9FS

  United Kingdom

  Digital Edition converted and published by Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © Roger Clarke

  The right of Roger Clarke to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Advisory Note

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Introduction

  She felt his cock nudge against her buttocks as he gripped her, taking himself in hand to steady his aim.

  His first thrust back inside her was hard and deep and was just as quickly gone. He had used it to lubricate himself. Next time his aim was higher, between the cheeks of her bottom.

  ‘No, please!’ she cried, suddenly realising his perverse intent.

  ‘Silence!’

  Chapter 1

  Erica Pettinger loved to dance. She was very good at it and she knew it. She could pick up a rhythm and hold onto it, swaying her body sinuously, at one with the pounding beat of the club music. She was not bothered about the small crowd of young men who had gathered near JoJo’s bar, swigging from their bottles of Becks and making ribald comments about her long legs or unfettered breasts.

  She knew she looked good. Her long dark-brown hair, freshly washed and dried before she came out, only served to amplify the movements of her body. The shimmering dress, clinging like a second skin, promised much, and revealed what each flick of the skirt as she twirled was meant to. The UV lights picked up a brighter triangle front and back through the shimmer of the dress, where the shape of her tiny white thong showed through.

  Hers was a deliberate ploy, to entrance, to make people want her and to not let them have her. She wanted to be untouched tonight. The last couple of times she had been to this club she allowed herself to be picked up by men who, under the light and quiet of the night, had not lived up to the promises made on the dance floor. They bored her. Tonight she had arrived with her friends from work and tonight she would leave with them.

  Tony, the club’s resident deejay, had noticed her too. But then he always had a few words for her. Tonight he singled her out during a particularly energetic techno number, encouraging her to gyrate to the beat so energetically and fluently that the crowd on the floor seemed to part to give her space, with several dancers giving up their own attempts so they could just watch her. And that made Erica worse. She loved being in the limelight, or any other light for that matter. She would have been happier as a television celebrity and fully intended to get there someday, someway, somehow. Her stepfather would help.

  Erica was not very keen on her stepfather. Laurence Pettinger, MP. She did not like any politicians and being the daughter of a Member of Parliament caused people to make certain assumptions about her that she did not like. She wanted to be known as herself, not merely as his daughter. He had never been much of a father anyway, shipping her off to boarding schools and finishing schools and anywhere else he could dump her. As for her mother… well, they say behind every powerful man stands a powerful woman, except in their case it was difficult to see the join.

  Mother was the ambitious one. Without doubt she wanted to be the Prime Minister’s wife, but any hopes she had there had been dashed years previously when, in a vote for a new Party Leader, Laurence Pettinger had been eliminated at the first round. But it merely dented, rather than halted, her mother’s ambitions.

  Meanwhile, Erica decided it was her duty to rebel. They wanted her out of the way, so she did not interfere with or endanger their privileged position, which made her feel obliged to seek her own fame, rapidly becoming notoriety. The tabloid press adored her. She was seen out with footballers and music and film stars, pictured swinging her endless legs out of limousines as the cameras flashed.

  Her denials of involvement with any of these men always carried a sparkle from somewhere behind her eyes, so that the interviewer was never quite sure whether she was serious or not. But most of all, any requests for ‘a little more leg, Erica’ were met with at least twice as much as she was asked for.

  When her parents realised she could not – would not – be tamed, they sought to keep her profile as low as possible, which meant keeping her in petty cash. She was not above kicking up a storm if they denied her anything. Expense accounts with the best stores and membership of the trendiest clubs and casinos were all hers for the asking. And Erica asked… and asked… and asked again.

  JoJo’s was her favourite scene – for now. They indulged her too; knowing that sooner or later the press would latch on to her and along would roll some free publicity.

  Occasionally she would hear her name spoken in hushed tones. ‘Isn’t that…?’ voices would ask, never finding it necessary to complete the sentence. She intimidated some men; others saw her as a challenge. Erica did not care. She could pick and choose – and she did.

  After the dance she joined her friends at a table on the low gallery. The surface was littered with bottles and glasses, some empty, some not even started. It was not unusual for men to send drinks over. They imagined it would buy them a piece of her, but she did not come so cheap. She needed a long drink after all the dancing, but the array of iced beverages at her seat were all her ‘usual’ – vodka and slimline tonic. She downed two glasses quickly, enjoying the cool liquid and prepared to wait for the kick of the alcohol.

  Over the deafening noise she told Lisa, a blowsy blonde who she worked with and who trailed along with her occasionally, that she needed the toilet. Lisa was a secretary at the advertising agency owned by Nigel Hopcroft, a friend of Laurence Pettinger who, no doubt, had talked him into giving Erica the job in the first place, where he could keep an eye on her. She did not care about the job – it was a means to an end and nothing more. This was when she came alive. At night. Days were for ordinary people.

  The two girls worked their way through the crowds, all too aware of the straying hands of so many men as they passed. Some she did not mind, some she found offensive and said so. She could cut a man dead with one glacial glance.

  There was only one other girl in the toilets, repairing her hair in the mirrors. Erica and Lisa chose adjacent cubicles, chatting between them. They heard the door go as the other girl left, but they did not realise someone else had entered. Lisa, leaving her cubicle first, chatted brightly while Erica flushed the toilet. Then she stopped.

  ‘Lisa?’ Erica called, but apart from the muted thud of the base beat from the club there was nothing but silence. ‘Lisa?’

  She made sure her dress was as decent as could be and unlocked the cubicle door…

  The shock stopped her calling out and, by the time she could react a strong leather-gloved hand was across her mouth and her arms were held from behind. Sh
e tried to kick out at a swarthy grey-faced man in front of her, but the one holding her anticipated the attempt and lifted her clear of the floor. A third man had a similar grip on the struggling Lisa, and a ball of cloth was stuffed into her mouth and held there with a band of surgical adhesive tape. While the man continued to hold Erica the other two quickly bound Lisa’s wrists behind her and her feet together, pushing her back in the cubicle and taping her arms and legs to the toilet and cistern as Erica watched in horror.

  Climbing up and leaning over the divider from the cubicle Erica had used, one man pushed the door to and bolted it. Then all three turned their attentions on Erica, one producing a bottle and a cloth pad from his pocket. She guessed that the sickly smell was chloroform, making her renew her futile struggles. As the cloth pad approached her mouth and nose the leather glove was lifted, but Erica did not have enough time to scream before the noise cut off. A few seconds later the world before her eyes started to melt into blackness.

  Chapter 2

  Erica’s head pounded her awake. She knew it would hurt to open her eyes. She could not remember anything at first and thought she’d had a deep sleep, until the memories faded in. Still she thought she’d dreamt it all, but trying to move wrenched her into reality. Her legs were spread wide, as were her arms, each firmly secured to the four corners of a large bed with buckled leather cuffs attached to stout chains. She snapped her eyes open quickly, the pain from the glare sending sharp spikes into her mind. A heavy metal collar around her neck rattled chains as she moved, chains she could see were attached to the bed-head too, keeping her from rising more than a few inches from the mattress.

  And she was naked.

  Erica did not recognise the room at all. Light orange walls gave way to a pale cream ceiling. The furniture, or what she could see from her restricted position, looked expensive and classy. Dimmed wall lights provided all the illumination in the room – looking round she could see no sign of a window, just two heavy-looking doors leading to God-knew-where. On her left, beside the bed, stood a cabinet. Next to that was an upright chair. The right wall was made up mostly of mirrored wardrobe doors, with a circular table and three chairs in front of it. Between the doors stood a drawer unit, and directly above her watched the staring eye of a video camera.

  ‘Help, let me out!’ she called, struggling uselessly to pull her arms free. ‘What do you want with me?’

  The camera stared dispassionately back.

  She tried calling a few more times, with similar lack of response.

  ‘What do you want?’ was a stupid question, she realised that. She was being held because of who she was. Or rather, as usual, who her stepfather was. She had no idea of how long she’d been there, nor even if it was day or night. The search would have started by now, she was sure of that. Even if they had not missed her, Lisa would have been found and raised the alarm. She thought about her parents making phone calls and mobilising the best police forces to find her; probably Special Branch for a politician’s daughter, or at least a few detectives. Perhaps they were even raising the ransom to secure her release, ready for a dramatic exchange and the subsequent media circus that her mother would milk for all she could.

  Her thoughts turned cold and clammy. How many times had her mother called her an embarrassment to Laurence’s political aims? What if their daughter were found in a heap in some field somewhere, naked and battered? Or if she were never found? Her mother would tearfully appeal to the TV cameras, pleading for her release, but would she really want it? Would her stepfather get higher up the political ladder by harnessing the public’s sympathy for his missing, possibly dead, daughter, who would never again embarrass them?

  With a sick feeling in her belly Erica realised her mother could well sacrifice a pawn to protect the king.

  ‘Help, let me out!’ she tried again, looking into the camera’s eye. She pulled and struggled until she had no energy left to pull any more. Then she started to sob, tears running down her face into the pillow as she asked, ‘why, why, why?’ over and over again.

  They left her there for hours. Maybe they were watching, maybe not. She had no way of knowing. Then, for the first time since she’d come to, she heard sounds from beyond one of the doors, distant at first yet getting ever closer. She looked up as best she could as the door clicked and swung wide, allowing a girl about her own age to enter. The girl was blonde, her hair falling over her shoulders past the big metal collar around her neck, the attached chains going down each of her arms to leather cuffs, each secured in place with a small padlock. From there the chains continued to her similarly padlocked ankles. Unlike Erica, though, she was not naked; she wore a small lace bra, a thong and suspender belt, all in white, setting off black nylon stockings worn above black high-heeled shoes. The girl carried a bottle of mineral water.

  The heavy door swung steadily closed and locks clunked mechanically into place.

  ‘Help me,’ Erica called, but the girl did not seem to hear her, giving no response or even looking at her. ‘Where am I?’ she tried again.

  The girl simply walked to the side of the bed to place the tray on the bedside table before unclipping her collar and unscrewing the water bottle. She tipped the water to Erica’s mouth and waited while Erica drank greedily.

  ‘Why won’t you speak to me?’ Erica asked her desperately.

  For the merest moment the girl’s eyes made contact with her own and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. All the time Erica tried to question her and all the time she refused to answer. When Erica got really frustrated the girl whispered, ‘No talking.’

  Suddenly a man’s voice boomed out over a loudspeaker set somewhere in the ceiling. ‘36, I heard that!’

  Fear overtook the girl’s face as Erica watched. She closed her eyes in some terror Erica could only guess at.

  ‘Stand at the end of the bed,’ boomed the voice. ‘And wait.’

  Without hesitation the girl did as she was instructed, waiting, trembling, her eyes lowered. Less than five minutes later the door swung open again. Standing there was a man in a black shirt and jeans, a mask covering his eyes. He was a big man who almost filled the doorway as he stepped through it.

  ‘Close the door,’ he said to some unseen listener. His was the voice they had heard on the speaker.

  The door swung mechanically closed and the locks clicked back into place. He ignored the girl at first, though she visibly cowered from his presence. Instead he walked over to Erica, looking her over before reaching a hand directly between her legs and pushing two fingers inside her.

  ‘What the hell…?’ Erica shouted. ‘Get off me. Let me go!’

  The man just smiled. ‘You’ll learn,’ was all he said, his hands starting a journey over her body, feeling her breasts, hair, legs and back to her pussy, while she cursed and called him names, telling him in no uncertain terms what she would do to him when she got loose and how her stepfather would have him castrated. But all her threats did were to cause him ever more amusement.

  ‘Like I said, you’ll learn,’ he said. ‘36!’

  The girl snapped to attention.

  ‘You did talk, didn’t you? You may answer.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Any excuse?’

  ‘No, Master.’

  ‘Good, 36. There really was no use denying it. Now, we’ll show 51 what obedience and punishment are all about, won’t we?’

  ‘As you command, Master.’

  ‘What’s all this 36, 51 crap?’ Erica spat at him.

  ‘You’re new, so I’ll explain,’ he said calmly. ‘Slaves don’t have names here…’

  ‘Slaves? What are you talking about – slaves?’

  He ignored her question and carried on patiently. ‘Slaves don’t have names here. The first was called 1 – she’s no longer with us, of course – and the next was called 2, and so
on. Easy to grasp, no? You’re the fifty-first. Nobody knows your name apart from the board, and nobody cares. You’ve ceased to exist as you were. You’re 51 now, available for use by anyone who chooses to use you.’

  ‘This must be some kind of sick joke.’

  ‘I can see you need convincing,’ he smiled at her. ‘Very well. Prepare to be convinced. 36.’

  ‘Yes, Master?’

  ‘Suck her pussy.’

  ‘Yes Master.’

  Without hesitation the girl moved round to the side of the bed, climbing between Erica’s legs and pressing her lips to Erica’s pussy, dipping her tongue inside with practised skill.

  ‘Get her off me!’ Erica screamed, but the girl did not move away, just kept sucking until he told her to stop.

  ‘Now kiss her.’

  Erica moved her head to the side but the man’s powerful hand gripped her chin, holding her still while the girl pressed her lips to Erica’s, transferring her own taste with the kiss.

  ‘Cease,’ the man told her. ‘Back to the end of the bed.’

  Again the girl did not falter in her immediate obedience. The man let go of Erica’s chin, walking over to a cabinet by the door. He pulled open a drawer and took something out. When he faced them again Erica saw it was a vicious-looking whip.

  ‘Oh shit, no!’ she cried.

  ‘Lean forward, 36,’ he said quietly.

  Erica caught the girl’s terrified eyes as she bent forward across the foot of the bed, placing her hands on the mattress between Erica’s legs for support. The man stood a few feet behind her, the whip coiled in his grasp. He let the end fall on the floor, telling her to count aloud, and then drew the whip back before lashing out across the girl’s buttocks.