2
The Guard who'd branded me now led me to the door out of the building and pointed across a wide open ground to a long wooden building with a watchtower at one end, "The Director of Punishment's Office", he informed me, giving me the piece of paper with my details, "Hand this in there, they'll tell you where to go."
I ran, my instinct told me a slave mustn't hang about, and something soothing to my burning thighs, even exhilarating, in the feeling of free, athletic movement in the open air after so many weeks of confinement in stuffy cells and bondage in Torture Chambers. I didn't pause to look around, but knew I was in a very extensive, level, open area with the building of the Interrogation Centre along one side, other lesser buildings and stretches of barbed-wire fencing along the others. The office I was heading to stood alongside a gateway with guardposts either side, the wire gates shut.
I reached the DP's Office and mounted the steps. A Guard at a window took the paper, checked my identity, said," M68 you're in, that's hauling. Over to the gate in the far corner, the Guards there will direct you."
Off I ran again, this time noticing with a sharp knot of terror in my stomach a row of wooden crosses along the perimeter furthest from the Interrogation Centre. I remembered the horror of Anne-Michaela's death, I could see no bodies on these, but guessed if there were any they'd be on the far side, facing the fierce sun that was blazing on the gritty surface making it painfully hot to my bare feet.
At the gate, the Guard had already been told of my coming, he just checked my ID, opened the gate and pointed me onward, down a steepish, stony slope to a sort of railway halt, a platform with a wooden building on it. tracks like a narrow-gauge railway on either side, with small wagons parked on some, and various apparatus.
A Guard emerged, again evidently expecting me. "Right, Eulalia, you're on truck 9." He led me to one of the wagons, marked with a large figure 9 on its side, standing laden with some grey, dusty substance with a foul smell that was attracting a black covering of buzzing, pullulating flies. "Hold your arms up." He took a broad leather belt that was hanging in readiness over the front edge of the wagon, and fitted it round my waist, buckling it tight at the back. it was like the one I'd been made to wear in the Torture Chamber, when I was half-drowned in the shit bath, it had two rings on the front from which hung chains.
Now I had to stand in front of the wagon, with my back to it. He showed me a pair of bigger chains from either end of the front fender, and how I had to run the chains from my belt between my legs and clip onto these bigger chains, harnessing myself to my truck. "Now, my little donkey, your job is to haul your truck up to the top of the ramp," he indicated where the track ran up to some structure a great deal higher in the distance, "When you get to the top, you find bay 9 and stop there – this is the brake," he showed me a lever at the lower right side, "and this –" he pointed to a wheel on the end of the truck behind me, "is your control. Turn it to the right and it will empty, then turn it back up. Simple, eh?" "Yes Sir." "When you've emptied your truck, you take it down the other ramp, you'll have to stay upright of course, leaning back on it to support it. When you get to the bottom, you'll find bay 9 down there. Park the truck under the chute, find the lever by the chute, fill the truck and start up the up-ramp. That will bring you back here, where your load will be checked and weighed before you carry on. Understand?" "Yes Sir."
Yes, it was pretty straightforward, my 'rigorous hard labour', no intellectual strain, just sheer, relentless slog under the merciless sun, with Guards and Cadets posted and patrolling, whips in hand, to keep the constant procession of girl-hauled wagons creaking up the long, hard climb and rattling down again. I leant forward, felt the weight of the loaded truck tugging at my hips, bent my legs to press with my feet, and began to pull. He showed me the route to follow to join the main trackway, pausing to let a girl pass before I set off on my first haul up the ramp.
The main effort was of course concentrated in my pelvis, where the tight belt constantly tugged. I was still in some pain in that region, an after-effect of all the rapes and sexual Torture I had endured, I'd been bleeding a lot, my female plumbing still coming to terms with all that had been inflicted on it. I used my legs, especially my thighs, to press forward, so that my lower body didn't take unbearable strain, and grabbed at the sleepers between the tracks to give additional haulage with my arms and shoulders. So, crawling ape-like, hair hanging down over my lowered face, my bum constantly turning from side to side to the rhythm of my legs, my whole body worked at pulling the punitive burden.
As I at last approached the top of the ramp, there was some holdup, the girl ahead of me stopped, I pulled on the brake, sank to my knees and waited. After a minute or two, we moved forward, paused again, and, after two or three more stops, reached a wide platform covered by a metal roof that did nothing to diminish the heat. The track curved round and took us to a series of number bays, I found number 9, eased my truck cautiously onto a branch track that took me to the edge of the platform, overlooked an open HGV trailer parked far below. I pulled on the brake, turned and took hold of the control wheel. It wouldn't move, I was panicky, but saw a handle above it and guessed that was the release lever – luckily I was right, once I'd pulled that down, the wheel turned, indeed so sharply I couldn't stop it. With a loud whoosh the foul stuff cascaded down into the trailer below, a cloud of black flies and evil-smelling dust rising above it.
I returned the wheel to the top position, pushed back the control, and manoeuvred back onto the main track. Getting down was less strenuous but more tricky, leaning back against the still-weighty wagon, stepping with my bare feet from sleeper to sleeper as I tried to keep the thing steady, dreading what punishment I'd earn if I let it derail or capsize. Towards the bottom, we passed under a bridge only just high enough to allow our wagons through, and then into a tunnel where the gradient levelled and it became necessary to crawl again, hauling through a pitch dark, chokingly dusty, roastingly hot mine gallery.
At last there was light, then open air again, and we were in a kind of quarry, with a wide oval surface around which the track ran, taking us as expected to another series of numbered bays. At number 9, I positioned my truck under a chute, located the lever, pulled that down, and a mass of the smelly grey dust poured out, so fast I had to push the lever back urgently to avoid overfilling, doubtless a punishable offence.
Off I set again, through another hell-like shaft, then starting to climb once more, under another bridge, and up to the place where I'd begun. Here again there was some delay, before it was my turn to haul my load onto a weighbridge. During that pause, a little slavegirl came along with a water bottle, I drank it all with gratitude, I was already desperately thirsty, sweat streaming off my back – which the sun hadn't seen during the weeks of my imprisonment, it was burning red raw. When I moved onto the weighbridge, my identity shackle was checked, the weight recorded, a sharp cut of a whip flashed across my bum, and off I set, up the long, long drag once more.
The toil went on, hour after hour, unremitting, relentless. I don't know how many round trips a I managed during that first shift – and it wasn't a full stint by any means, I'd started in mid-shift, but I was quickly reduced to an automaton, plodding on mindlessly, only aware of the wagon in front of me, only just conscious enough to remember what to do at the top and bottom of the ramps.
At last, when I was approaching the weighbridge, I saw that something new was happening. After each girl passed across the weighbridge, she pulled her truck a short distance then stopped, so we formed a line. A team of other girls was waiting, naked, and as each of us stopped, one stepped forward to exchange duties. When I stopped, a dark-haired, petite girl came to me. "Hi!" she whispered – even here, we weren't allowed to talk – "I'm Paula, I'm your oppo." "Hi, I'm Eulalia," I replied very softly, "I'm new at this, what do I do?" "Quick, belt off, put it on me." She unclipped my chains and unbuckled the belt and I fitted it round her waist and connected her to the truck. She then pointed to a pair of blue knickers and a strap-top vest lying on the ground, "Pop those on – we share clothes!" As I pulled them on, she whispered, "Follow the others up to Parade. See ya!" The wagon in front was already moving, it was time for Paula to move off.
The other girls from my shift were running up the slope to the gate in the fence, I followed them. At the gate, we each had our IDs quickly checked, then set off across the wide open space. There were hundreds of girls assembling, from all directions. I caught the eye of the a bright-eyed Asian girl with long dark hair behind me from my squad, whispered "Where?", she beckoned and I followed her at a brisk run to a point where M68 was marked by bricks laid in the ground. There we all stood, in a row, at the ready.
In a matter of a few minutes, hundreds, indeed well over a thousand girls had arrived on this Parade Ground and positioned themselves in orderly rows. Our uniforms varied – a good many were like us, in blue knickers and white vests, but others were wearing shorts or skirts, or skimpy thongs, and while the top garment (if they had one, a few were topless) was always white, the lower ones varied between white, blue and red. The meanings of these various uniforms would become clearer to me in time, at this stage they just bespoke a highly ordered, regimented system in which I was one, small cog.
Cadets were patrolling between the rows of girls, equipped with portable scanners to check our IDs, one by one we held out our left wrists to be recorded. There was also a guards to each squad, ours was a gruff brute who flicked out thighs with his whip even if we were standing perfectly correctly.
We were facing the Interrogation Centre building. In front of it stood a series of platforms. There were was one at each end of the row with a Whipping-Scaffold like the one in the Exercise Yard where I'd seen youngsters like Caterina being flogged. In between was a long, lower platform with a balustrade, and this had another pair of stands with Scaffolds at its ends, so up to four victims could be lashed or otherwise tortured here. They were vacant at this time, as it happened, but I'd soon see them in use.
A couple of officers were on the platform with the balustrade observing the assembly. When the Cadets had all finished there checks and were stood alongside their girl-squads, one of the officers spoke. "Girls to the Gym for Punishment, numbers ...." He reeled off a list, as he did so, one girl after another left her position and scuttled across between the platforms to a doorway in the building. Then he commanded, "Parade, dismiss!"
At once every girl turned smartly to the left, and we filed off, briskly but orderly, through the now-open gateway by the Director of Punishment's Office, across a roadway, and through another gate to another flat, open area with a fairly large wooden building at the top end. We all lined up there, and busy slavegirls handed us each a bowl of stew, a piece of bread, and a mug of water. We took these and sat on the ground, eating and drinking. I stayed with the Indian lass who'd guided me to the correct place on the Parade Ground, learnt her name was Gejo. This was a place where we could talk without too much risk of punishment, but we were all too tired and desperate for food and water, so we didn't exchange any more.
We soon returned our bowls and mugs, tossing them into huge washing vats, then I followed Gejo round the side of the kitchen building to a series of wooden huts. One of these had an entrance marked M68, we went inside, stripped and ran through a very welcome cold shower, up one side and back down the other to retrieve our clothes. No towels, we pulled our vests and knickers on our still-wet bodies and made our way across to a wide bench down the middle of the building.
Girls were already lying on it, we joined them. Gejo explained, "You lie with your head on my thigh, keep your legs apart so the next girl can put her head on yours." Another row of girls was forming alongside us, running the opposite way. So we settled down, like sardines in a tin, nestling in the comfort of each others soft, tired, sweating, aching flesh. Gejo stroked my hair, I stroked her leg, and the pretty blonde curls of the youngster who was resting on my thigh. It was a strange way to sleep, but much more pleasant than the Interrogation Centre cell, and so weary were we, we were soon all fast asleep.
This story blew my mind when I first read it.. I’ve never been the same since!
![[#3 #3] 1125828.jpg](https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/data/attachments/1266/1266026-10e784b77976a866c9fc3ab061d23620.jpg "[#3 #3] 1125828.jpg")
Scots isn't English,
