6
Our training continued at the early morning and noonday shift-changes, our performances each evening in the Officers' Mess (with the 'slave auction' to follow the alternate sessions, when we were just being deprived of another half-hour's sleep). Each of us had to develop and improve her own solo dance under Miss Geil's harshly meticulous attention to detail, and we worked on one together.
But further refinements were added to our repertoire. At one session, we were issued with clothes – little red wrap-round skirts, and strappy cropped harness tops with our numbers and names blazoned across our busts. This was so we could perform a simple strip-tease as our opening turn – the tops and skirts had Velcro fixtures, easily stripped off, and just as easily came off our thongs, each garment spun on a finger, tossed to whichever man we fancied.
It felt strange wearing even these minimal coverings after so months of virtual nakedness, and in truth, even under Miss Geil's sexless glare, we rather enjoyed being strippers, entering into the spirit of the game, showing ourselves off with a range of sexy steps from brazen high kicks to slinky subtle hip-vibrations – Faith, seemingly such a little innocent, revealed a talent for flirty side-glances as she played with her skirt, pretending to unhitch it then pulling it shut again, taunting and tempting...
Our first performance of our strip-dance got a roar of excitement even from the cynical, sex-satiated Officers, they got us to repeat it at the end of the performance, and the money they bid for their half-hoursworth of sex with us hit new highs!
Soon after, we arrived at a training session to find a couple of young Cadets waiting for us with our instructrice, really dishy, one a dark, olive-skinned Mediterranean type, the other a bright-eyed, ever-grinning Black. They were holding long, slender, shiny black cart-whips.
It was easy to guess, we were going to learn a whip-dance, to a tune that began with a few heavy rhythmic blows, then sprang into a lively czardas, faster and faster, fiercer and fiercer. As we girls leapt around, the two youths cavorted between us, eagerly flicking our bare legs and bodies. Though used to the whip, we were hurt enough by the stings to let out squeals which only added to the excitement of the dance, urging our tormentors on to greater and greater fury. At the sudden end, we had to fling ourselves prostrate onto the floor, the whips flashed across our bare backs in time with half a dozen final, crashing chords.
After three or for practice sessions, we found the boys were ready with their whips when we came to perform in the Mess, and we did the whip-dance as the final item. This was even more thrilling for our audience than the strip-tease, it drew thunderous applause.
A little while later, we came into the Training Centre to find a more alarming guest, a giant of a man, his broad chest at my eye-level, little Faith stood hardly higher than his waist. He was dressed from top to toe in black Lycra, his head covered with a black hood decorated with tigerish gold streaks around the eyes and mouth.
"You've all been trained in self-defence, haven't you?" snarled Miss Geil. "Yes, Miss." Indeed, it was part of the programme at Young Libertarian summer camp, the 'terrorist training' that we'd all, under torture, confessed to receiving. "Yes," she sneered, "Well now we're going to see what good that's done you!"
Mats had been laid at one end of the training-hall, with taut lengths of barbed wire stretched around the four sides to form a fighting-ring. The giant strode over, stepped over the wire – there was a saddle over it for safety, but his legs were so long his balls were hardly at risk. "You first."Miss Geil nodded at me.
I took a deep breath, walked across and squeezed between the wire strands very cautiously, feeling the barbs press into my legs but not tearing myself on them, then stood, legs apart, facing the monster.
He eyed me up and down, I made no move. Suddenly, with an animal roar, he leapt at me. My reaction was good, I dived instinctively, dodging beneath his outstretched arm, digging my elbow into his thigh as I passed so he toppled off balance. With a frustrated growl, he turned and came straight for me again. I let him get close, then swung up my leg so my foot met his testicles. My bare foot was powerless to cause him any hurt, but it deflected his onrush, I was able to twist and avoid him again.
I was no better than average among the girls in our self-defence classes, Carina and Julie were a lot better than I, but placed in this situation I found I could put up a respectable show, ducking and diving, dodging and weaving, getting in the occasional kick or jab when my assailant was thrown off-guard by my nimble skipping.
But of course, I couldn't win, sooner or later he'd get me. After two or three minutes of lively dancing around, I kicked out at him a little too vigorously, toppled back, tore my back on the wire. At once he was on me, seizing my foot by the ankle-iron, he swept me into the air, swung me round and hurled me across the ring so I fell against the ripping barbs on the opposite side. I fell to my knees, he grabbed me by the hair, hauled me to my feet, grasped my thong with his other hand and tossed me back over his shoulder so I fell face-down on the mat. As I gasped for breath, he stamped on me two or three time, then knelt over me and began torturing me, twisting my right arm with on hand, grabbing my throat and jerking my head up with his other arm, kneading my buttocks and thighs with his whole weight on his powerful knees.
From now on, it was no contest, I was simply a living rag doll, to be lifted and thrown, spun and swung, hurled time and again onto the floor or – much worse – the barbed wire, arms, slapped, punched and kicked till I gasped for breath, my legs and body trapped and twisted by muscles whose power I had no chance of resisting.
I could only remain limp, trying to use my poor muscles would only risk greater hurt, but I strove to stay alert, occasionally snatching a chance to swing a token punch or kick, to roll or wriggle free for a few precious seconds, even a couple of times getting back to my feet and briefly resuming my dance around him, but I was so exhausted and shaken by the violence of his treatment, I could no longer feint and parry with sure-footed efficiency, I soon stumbled and was at his mercy once more.
Hard to say how long it went on, long enough for my tormentor to display his full repertoire of ways of compelling submission, though if I'd begged to submit (I didn't, I knew it was a waste of breath), there was no umpire to intervene and end my pain. In the end, I was so comprehensively broken he was able to grab me by my hair, swing me up in the air one final time, and fling me across the wire to fall on the hard wooden floor at the feet of Miss Geil. "Next!" he roared.
Carina was pale and visibly shaking as she walked past my shattered body to face the beast, but she put up a better fight than I managed, visibly frustrating and infuriating the brute with her skilful deployment of her own suppleness and quick reactions to turn his strength against himself, though it did her no good in the long run. A moment's carelessness let him grab her arm and at once begin unleashing his rage on her now captive body.
"Vae victis", the Romans used to say, "tough luck if you're beaten". That's clearly the motto of this thug, as it could be for all the MSC. We were simply acting out the philosophy of our conquerors. Being defeated, even in a grossly unequal contest, is a crime for which you'll be brutally punished. No namby-pamby stuff about not kicking a girl when she's down – if she's down, kicking's just what she deserves, and Carina got the full force of that doctrine. "Vae victae, vae victimae!"
