The Three R's Pt. 01

Chapter 3: The Dublin Road

Norm Hailman was cold. When he got off the boat on the southern side of the lough there had been no one to meet him, like he'd been told there would. The boat didn't wait. Norm sat down in the lee of a wall for about an hour, hanging around in case someone turned up. They didn't. As it got lighter, Norm wanted to be on the move.

He walked about fifteen miles as dawn turned into morning and then afternoon. He felt like he was being watched all the time, even though there weren't many people about. He caught himself worrying more about the reaction of women than men, even though it was an irrational response where he now was. He still hadn't got used to the idea that he was beyond the reach of New Order.

To reduce his paranoia he changed his route but skirting around the villages and farms added miles. He couldn't avoid the roads completely though and that was another source of worry. It seemed like that a Garda patrol was going to drive up at any minute. He wasn't sure what he would say to them if they stopped him. There hadn't been any hints from the team that had got him here. All they had said, was "you'll be all right, don't worry about it." Should he declare himself as some sort of political refugee? Did not wanting to be buggered by your girlfriend with an eight inch strap-on dildo constitute a valid asylum claim under the Geneva convention? He wasn't sure, but he was fairly confident that he didn't want to discuss it with an Irish police officer anyway.

It began to get dark. He found a barn to rest up in overnight. November in County Cavan was no place to be out overnight if you could avoid it. Then he headed south-west from Belcoo to get as far as he could from the border. He followed the edge of Lough Allen and knew if he passed by Leitrim he'd eventually get to the Dublin road. In as much as he had any sort of plan, he reckoned his best bet would be to find his way to Dublin and get some sort of work there. The further south he got from the border, the less likely he would be to run into Garda patrols. He hung on in the barn until late in the morning.

Travelling was not as easy as he had thought it would be. There were some suspicious looks as he went through the smaller villages. He knew he looked dishevelled and unshaven already. He tried to walk as if he had every right to be there and knew just what he was doing. It seemed to be working. Nobody challenged him. Maybe they were put off by the smell he seemed to have picked up in the barn, though, he thought.

He was well out in the countryside, miles from anywhere and thinking about maybe changing over to moving at night and resting up during the day when a van slowed down on the road beside him. Norm wasn't pleased to be attracting attention. "Are you looking for a lift?" the driver asked.

The driver sounded friendly. More than that, clouds boiling up in the west with the threat of oncoming rain helped Norm to overcome his reticence. "That would be great," he said. "I'm heading to Dublin."

"You'll be English." It was a statement more than a question.

Norm was disappointed that it had taken the driver only eight words from him to work that out but it didn't seem to make any sense to try and deny it. He nodded as he got in. "Does that make a difference to whether or not I get a lift?"

"No, but maybe I can help you. Were you off a boat from Belcoo?"

"Why would you think that?"

The driver smiled. He started the van and carried on heading south.

"We see a few newcomers from there. You obviously got across all right?"

"Uh huh," Norm wasn't sure how much he should share. Actually he wasn't even really sure what his status was in Eire. He'd not heard of men being returned and the group that helped him get to Belcoo hadn't said anything about problems once he'd crossed over. But then, he thought, they wouldn't, would they?

"Things must be tough from what I hear. Heaven knows how Johannsen and her gang got elected in the first place."

"Uh huh," Norm wasn't anxious to be drawn into the discussion even though the driver appeared sympathetic.

"You're someone who keeps himself quiet. That's a smart move. If you're not set on Dublin, I know some people in Sligo that would like to meet you."

"What sort of people?" His experiences over the last few days of people trying to help him hadn't always been the best, and had encouraged a natural suspicion, although in fairness he had got to where he had wanted to be.

"People who aren't sure about New Order ideas. People who are worried something similar might happen here."

"I don't know. I'm not really up on the politics. It was more a personal thing. I just couldn't put up with things over there any longer."

"Please yourself. They'll give you a meal and a roof that doesn't leave you smelling like the prize sow's favourite boar at least."

Norm thought about the offer. His driver didn't seem bothered either way. Sligo would mean going back the way he had come but on the other hand maybe somewhere away from the capital was a good idea. It started to rain. Suddenly a sympathetic welcome, a meal and a roof sounded even more attractive.

And, he realised that what his driver said about the smell was true -- he hadn't noticed up to that point. In the end he said, "What the hell? I hadn't got any plans for Dublin anyway."

"Sure, that's the right attitude," said his driver, turning the van around and heading north.

Chapter 4: Club Regina

Catherine Chee was enjoying her evening. She came to Club Regina a couple of times a week. It was one of the many establishments catering to an exclusively female clientele that had sprung up since New Order had come to power and it gave her chance to relax after work.

Bars and restaurants were thriving on the back of the new economics of female purchasing power. There were plenty of places offering somewhere to take a drink, meet up with friends, listen to music or eat a meal. Some had luxurious spa facilities, some boasted classy food or specialised in live music or exotic cocktails. There were venues for every taste as long as you had money and these days most women did. Club Regina, however, existed to satisfy a particular set of enthusiasms that Catherine subscribed to; ones that been very much legitimised by the new social order which legitimised any woman that had a taste for dominating males for sexual pleasure.

The day had been a difficult one for Catherine. Her latest project was proving difficult to get going with. Club Regina offered the opportunity to put those concerns to one side for a while at least.

Catherine was proud of her Chinese heritage. She rarely wore western fashions, much preferring the sensuous lines of a silk qipao like the dramatic one in black silk edged with crimson that she had chosen for today. She chose her make up to accentuate her Asiatic features and cultivated an aloof air as the personification of what she considered to be the superiority of Chinese culture. It was an attitude that had been handed down by her mother, together with a lasting dislike of western males for the condescending, snobbish and racist way the ex-pat community had treated her family in Hong Kong, before they had moved to the UK. She found delight in exploiting the current climate that allowed, even encouraged, the degradation and humiliation of men. The chance to have examples of the western, self-satisfied, male sex kow-towing to her in front of others was too good to ignore and the club provided a convenient environment in which to indulge herself.

As usual, she started in the bar. A table for one on the edge of the room, well away from the small stage where there were occasional displays of punishment or humiliation, was her preferred spot. The room's hostess, Natalie, a Rubenesque girl in leather corsetry that seemed barely able to contain the flesh within, appeared by her side with a menu card. Catherine knew what she wanted but she took the card anyway and looked at it briefly.

"Your usual, Miss?" the hostess enquired.

Catherine nodded. "Thank you, that would be ideal. And a Bloody Mary, please."

The hostess nodded. "Of course," she said and left Catherine to watch the comings and goings in the club room. It was early and there were only half a dozen women there besides herself.

A few moments later the hostess reappeared with an almost naked man in tow on a leash connected to the metal cage that was locked around his genitals. He wore a face-concealing leather hood and was silenced with a ball-gag that, Catherine noted with satisfaction, distended his jaw in a painful looking fashion. Exactly as she had ordered, Catherine thought.

She sat back on the couch, sprawling comfortably in a way that seemed casual but was calculated to allow the slit of her qipao's skirt to reveal the length of her thigh. The way the man turned his masked face told Catherine that he had seen and appreciated her pose.

The man's wrists were cuffed, a short length of chain linked them. He carried a small tray with Catherine's chosen drink. It wasn't easy. His restraints left him feeling he was about to drop the tray at any moment. At a snap of the fingers from the hostess, he dropped obediently to his knees alongside her.

It was one of the reasons she kept on returning to the Regina, Catherine thought. They did this so well.

She had always had a dominant streak. At school, her nickname had been "Chee Who Must Be Obeyed". She had felt teased at the time but now she embraced her dominant nature with enthusiasm. The club provided her with the opportunity to indulge herself.

"Can I get you anything else?" the hostess enquired.

"This will be fine for now, thank you," Catherine responded.

As the hostess left, Catherine picked up her drink took a sip and replaced it on the tray. The man continued to kneel motionless. Catherine took a sip of her drink. The cares of the day were already slipping away. In her handbag on the floor near her feet, her phone bleeped, signalling an incoming call. She reached down and picked it up to answer the call.

"Becky! Hi! Yes, good to hear from you. Me? Oh, fine. Nothing much. Over at Regina's. Just chilling out, really."

The conversation went on. The naked slave stayed motionless beside her with Catherine seeming to take no notice of him. With only half her mind on it, she reached across to pinch and squeeze at one of his nipples, carrying on her conversation. The man whimpered. Catherine brought her hand up sharply to slap his face, irritated by the interruption. She looked back into his face. Mirrored lenses over his eyes hid any expression even from that close but from his posture Catherine could sense that he was staring out devotedly from behind his mask. He was obviously content with his position in life.

"No. That's OK. No, nothing much. We could get together Tuesday. OK. See you then." She tossed the phone back into her bag and took another sip of her drink. She looked again at the man. She didn't recognise him. His mask covered his features, as was usual with the toys she chose, but she could usually tell one from another by their bodies and the way they behaved. This toy was definitely new. She would certainly have remembered the distinctive tattoo of a leopard's head on his right shoulder but it was unfamiliar.

She preferred it this way; a silent, anonymous, slave beside her to use or ignore as she chose. The menu had plenty of other selections. She could have had him without the mask, without the gag, without the fetters, without -- even -- the cock cage. But this was how she liked them, his stupid guaillou face covered up. Our faces all look the same -- that's what your kind used to say, she thought - but at least we have faces.

She took her drink from the tray. "Head down, guaillou!" she barked. "Face on the floor."

He put his head to one side, unfamiliar with the Chinese word. "guaillou," Catherine explained, "a good Chinese word. It means 'foolish foreigner'. Now, face on floor. By my feet."

He did as she ordered and moments later felt the threatening presence of the tips of her high heels pressing on the back of his head as she rested her feet there. With his face pinned to the floor, he smelt the lingering scent of stale drink, tobacco and cleaning fluid in the carpets beneath him.

Catherine looked around the room. Even among the half dozen women that shared the room with her there was plenty of variation in choice of slave from the club's menu. To her right a group of three evidently shared an interest in having sissified company. One had her man in an outlandish frou-frou outfit, another had chosen to have her slave dressed in women's underwear, while the third had her man waiting on her in the plainest of black and white maid's uniforms. Another couple preferred their men naked apart from a hood and cock cage and shackled like her own. One of the men stared at Catherine, struck by her unusual look. She met his gaze, unwilling to be viewed as some sort of exotic exhibit by virtue of her traditional costume. The woman accompanying him saw the exchange of looks and dealt the man a slap for daring to direct his attention to another woman. Catherine smiled.

Part of the attraction of Regina's was not only that it provided a venue for dominant behaviour but it allowed you to demonstrate your dominance to others. Catherine would admit that she preferred to be seen with a devoted servant here in the club bar than to have a man in her house. Here it was clear to all that she had the man under her control. And besides, she told herself, it was not like she had the chance to exercise her interests at work these days. Men were thought to be too unreliable to be used in her team in even the most menial roles. She didn't get any opportunity to amuse herself in the office.

At the door to the room, a woman appeared with a man who was conventionally clad in a suit but wearing a hood like Catherine's own slave. It was unusual for someone to bring their own slave to the club. She couldn't imagine bothering with that. Catherine was happy to come and get a footstool like Leopard-head any time that she fancied one. The club could worry about managing him the rest of the time.

She supposed the couple would have come from work. She was smartly dressed in the sort of designer label clothes that Catherine preferred to ignore. Perhaps she had been recently promoted on the back of the Government's 'womanisation' programme designed to make sure all real decision making in business was done by the female sex. He seemed content with his lot, as far as could be told with his face behind the hood. Maybe he had once been her boss and now found himself in a subservient role as her p.a. and expected to indulge his new boss's sexual enthusiasms after work as well. She wondered how he felt about being brought here. Catherine was glad not to have to think about those things with her own companion.

Leopard Head moved slightly, trying to ease the discomfort of being bent beside the seated Catherine.

"Keep still guaillou," she snapped. "No, better, fetch me another drink."

She watched as he nodded his acknowledgement, got to his feet and went off towards the bar. Catherine watched as he went. A cute backside, she thought. At some point it would be good to see how it responded to a paddle or a whip. Contemplating the punishing of Leopard Head quite took Catherine's mind off her worries about work.

Chapter 5: Sligo

Norm's driver chatted amiably as they headed towards Sligo but didn't actually get around to introducing himself, Norm noticed. Mostly his conversation seemed to be centred around pointing out the various landmarks along the way.

They van pulled up in Castle Street. His driver nodded towards to green door of a bar on a corner. An engraved sign on the door's glass panel said "Pride of Éireann" over a harp. Around the door enamel signs encouraged the idea that a wide range of alcoholic beverages were available inside. "I should go in there if I were you," he said. "Have a chat with Danny Monahan. Tell him Eddie thought you could be a help."

Norm grabbed his bag, thanked his driver and got out. His feet had barely touched the pavement when the van drove off.

It was a cold afternoon, and he needed no second urging to get out of the wind. The door to the bar let him into a cosy room. A fire burning in a grate on one wall looked like it was never extinguished. A few groups of men were sitting around but there was none of the furtiveness that such gatherings had come to have back in England. The place looked refreshingly normal to Norm as he stepped up the bar and ordered a whiskey. A glass with an inviting double measure of Bushmills appeared. As Norm took the glass he spoke to the barman. "I'm looking for Danny Monahan," he said.

The barman was slow to respond. He was a tall, wiry man and moved as though worried that his limbs might not be entirely under his own control. He ran his hand across the top of his head, taking so much time to speak that Norm felt something of importance was going to be said. In the end he was non-committal. "Well, there's a lot of Dannies," the barman replied. "And a lot of Monahans too. Why would an Englishman be looking for any of them? And why would he be looking in my bar?"

"A friend of his suggested I should look him up."

"A friend? Now that's a rare thing. And for Danny too! Even rarer."

Norm was beginning to get irritated. "Do you know where I can find him or not, because if not I'll pay you for this drink and let you get on with your day." He had hardly finished speaking when he was aware that someone was standing right beside him.

"I'm Danny," a slow, quiet, voice said. "Who the fuck are you?"

Norm looked around. The voice had come from a man a good six inches taller than he was and a fair bit wider too. The barman had found something else to do at the other end of the room. "Eddie said I should look you up. He seemed to think I might be of some use."

"And why would that be?"

By now Norm was feeling that he had very little to lose. "I'm not sure but it's possibly got something to do with the fact that I'm just over the border from the north, I spent last night sleeping in a barn, that I've got no papers and no place to go and that when I've paid for this drink I'll have the princely sum of 50 euros left in my pocket. Apart from that I'm pissed off that the only way I could get somewhere to have a quiet drink without worrying about some police bitches breaking up the party was to come all the way over here."

The man beside him laughed heartily, clapped him on the back. "Sure, that sounds like the finest reasons imaginable. Let me buy you another drink."

It was the start of a heavy evening.

They found a room for Norm upstairs from the bar. It was small and cramped. He was sharing it with several dozen cases of Irish whiskey. It wasn't great but it was a great deal better than the barn he had slept in on his first night and given that it hadn't stopped raining since, Norm was grateful that he'd bumped into the van driver.

When he woke next morning his head was telling him just how many too many whiskeys he'd had. Danny was standing in the doorway, looking annoyingly to be without any sign of a hangover. "It seems like you are what you say your are," he said.

"That's comforting. And there was me wondering if I was really someone else," Norm replied. He was feeling that he hadn't put in all this effort to get away from bullying women so that he could be bullied by someone else.

"Did your girl really want to go for you with one of those strap-on things, then?"

"That's when I decided I'd had enough."

"Jeez, there's no telling what they'll get up to next. We're doing what we can here to help the fellers over in the six counties and we're trying to make sure that none of your woman Johannsen's crazy ideas catch on in the Dáil. You're welcome to stay here. Eamonn here needs a potman and if you can see your way to helping us out in what we're doing for the lads over the border then all the better."