The Three R's Pt. 02

His fingers fumbled at the strap that fastened her shoes. As he took them from her feet, she said, "Place them there on the floor." She gestured to him to kneel beside her. As he did so she reached forward and unfastened his gag. "My shoes, with your lips, guaillou," she said.

Guaillou -- he had come to view the term almost as an endearment. He knew that she intended it as a term of contempt but still it was a recognition. He bent his head towards her shoes. As his face neared the floor she stretched out her feet close to it, so that as he attended to her shoes, pressing his lips to the toe caps of each in turn, he could see her toes, nails crimson polished, stretching and flexing only inches away.

He saw her lift her feet and felt them placed on his back. "It would be very dangerous to tread upon a real leopard," Catherine said, gazing down at the tattoo on the crouching man's back, "but you, I think, are not so dangerous."

Sam said nothing, keeping his attention for her footwear.

"Have you ever been to Hong Kong?" Catherine asked him.

Surprised to be engaged in conversation, he replied. "No, miss, never."

"My mother worked at the Hong Kong Club. Before '97 the only women there were those that worked in the bar or the restaurants or cleaning the rooms. It was the same for all Chinese too. So Chinese and a woman, my mother felt out of place. They would not expect her to kowtow, of course. They would not be so direct, so obvious. Nothing would be said. But there were expectations. It was clear, it was not a place for us. We had to know our place. Now you have your place."

"Yes, miss." Sam had learned that when those he was serving embarked on this sort of talk, agreement was the best response. Catherine became silent for a moment. A pair of feet in stilt heeled boots appeared beside his head.

Sam heard Natalie's voice. "Can I get you something?"

"Another Bloody Mary, please."

"And is your toy all right?"

"He is very well behaved. Obedient and respectful. A credit to the club." Sam felt quietly proud. "Tell me, is the playroom free? I might like to use it in a while."

"I will check. I believe it is available."

Sam returned to pay his assiduous attention to Catherine's shoes, hoping that either the playroom would be occupied or that Catherine would change her mind. The return of Natalie's boots to his line of sight dashed his hopes. "Yes," she said. "The playroom is free. Shall I have your drink brought in there?"

"Please," said Catherine getting to her feet. "Come along, guaillou," she said to Sam as she jerked his leash. "And bring my shoes." Sam followed her on his hands and knees, Catherine's shoes dangling by their ankle straps from his mouth.

Sam followed Catherine into the playroom. He knew the room well. He could (and sometimes did) find his way around it blindfold. On one wall stood a rectangular steel frame. Catherine took him to it and fastened his wrist and ankle cuffs to the frame so that he was spread out like an almost naked human X. She reached around his head and clipped the back of his collar to the frame so that he could hardly move his head. "There, guaillou," Catherine said, as she sat down on a stool beside the frame "We shall see how to play in a moment."

She smiled as she noticed his eyes flick towards her thighs as the slit in the skit of her qipao fell open. He noticed her smile and quickly set his eyes straight ahead. Catherine laughed. "Too slow, guaillou! Your eyes betray you. Tut tut! This is not what New Order expect with the Respect Agenda."

Sam did not answer. Embarrassed to have his glance noticed, but pleased in some way that she had recognised his desire for her, he couldn't protest.

"Your drink, Miss," a voice announced from the doorway Another male toy, dressed in the uniform that had been destined for Sam was standing with a tray in one hand carrying Catherine's Bloody Mary. The uniform did nothing to create a convincing feminine look beyond the fact that he was wearing a dress and stockings but it did serve to emphasise his menial status. He wore the outfit with an air of resigned humiliation. Catherine beckoned the male maid over and took the drink.

"Do they make you dress this way sometimes, guaillou?" she asked Sam. She waived the maid away.

"Yes, Miss," Sam responded.

"Ha, you don't like it!" Catherine could sense his embarassment. She looked down at the cage constraining Sam's cock. She wondered what the MAMBO data would tell her about him if the cage had been fitted with detectors. Perhaps the availability of MAMBO data to sponsors might give them an additional means of controlling their sponsored males. Some sort of subscription service? It might even help fund the programme. She would remember to mention the idea to Aileen.

Catherine sipped her drink. She shouldn't really consume alcohol when she was playing, she knew, but she wasn't planning anything extreme. It would amuse her to tease Sam a little, to keep him helpless and wondering what she might do next, but this time, at least, he would be spared a beating unless he did something to upset her. There was a couch opposite where Sam stood bound. Catherine lay down on it, noticing again Sam's gaze at her legs. She enjoyed it. She thought of herself as short and not in the least elegant but, she supposed, the short, split, skirt of the qipao did make the best of her legs. Sam's admiring look was a pleasant novelty.

"So, are you sponsored?"

Sam was surprised to be asked. The last thing that usually happened in the playroom was for the Mistress to engage in a cosy bondage-side chat. "No miss," he answered. "The Club, they are almost my sponsors, I suppose, but not formally sponsored, no."

"You seem content with being here. I would have thought you might resent the way things are done these days."

Sam knew better than to say anything politically controversial. It had been made quite clear during his induction training that his opinions on the the current government were of no interest to the staff or the members. "It's what people voted for, I suppose," he said, non-committally.

Catherine found his response amusing. Men everywhere seemed to have learned to keep their views to themselves, so different to the bad old days when her male work colleagues seemed to think that almost everything needed mansplaining to her.

Sam stretched against his bonds, not so much testing their strength as trying to gain some measure of comfort from a slightly altered position.

"Are you uncomfortable, guaillou? Or is that something else you cannot express an opinion on?"

"No, Miss," Sam responded It was a question he always found difficult to answer. Should he admit that he was and goad her into making his position worse or should he claim that he wasn't and run the risk of her saying that she would do something to make him so? He watched, concerned, as Catherine got to her feet and approached him. Was she going to tighten the straps or alter how he was bound?

Sensing his trepidation she reached behind the cage that enclosed his cock and gripped his balls. Her sudden touch made him flex against the straps. Catherine smiled, amused by his wordless response. Sometimes the toys needed to be gagged but this one, Catherine thought, this one knows how to be quiet.

Catherine was wondering how much Sam knew about the ECR movement. She scraped a single finger nail across Sam's chest. He winced as she approached his nipple, wary of whether her sensuous touch was about to turn to a punishing pinch. If he did know something, he wouldn't last long with the department's Inquisitors. Of course, the use of sexual responsiveness in interrogation was formally frowned upon but Catherine was pretty sure that it was used and the Sam would find it difficult to resist. She was never sure whether that was any worse than the more physical methods used by the MCF but in reality it didn't seem like Sam would have much to say.

Sam wondered for a moment whether Catherine's sudden interested questioning mean that she was suspicious of his involvement with Gerry and the others. Maybe she was only tormenting him because she thought he might be involved in anti-government activities. He dismissed the idea almost at once. After all, why should she be bothered about that when she had just come to play and have a few drinks in the club?

Catherine decided to return the conversation to safer areas. "So, for you New Order has been a good thing?"

He nodded his head as much as the clamped collar about his neck would allow. "Yes, I suppose so. Of course there are restrictions but in many ways my life is easier."

Catherine thought about his words. She knew that there were plenty of men that were quite happy with things as they were now. There were some whose sexual orientation fitted well with the new order of things and there were those that agreed with the political ideas behind New Order too. She wasn't sure that Sam was either of those, though. There seemed to be an element of fetishistic pleasure in his response to her, she felt, and he seemed more like a man that had found a convenient, even comfortable, niche. It was certainly true that the tattoo studio he used was implicated in male subversive activities and he had certainly been sufficiently on board with them to get an "ECR" tattoo but she wasn't sure if he was really active in what the tattoo implied. She was going to carry on watching this toy on both a professional and personal basis.

Chapter 25: Alternative Perspectives

In the bar of the Pride of Éireann, Norm and Danny were enjoying a drink with Patsy."How was it going back to your old hunting grounds?" Danny asked Norm.

"Nerve wracking. I'm not cut out for intrigue and undercover work."

"Well, you know, I think that makes you the ideal man for it. You got the cards in and you got yourself out. We got paid and everybody's happy."

"I'm not so sure about the lot in Mudchute," Norm responded.

"It sounds like that whole set up was a shambles," Patsy chipped in. She looked no less dishevelled than when Norm had first seen her at Dublin airport. He'd become used to the fact that she didn't see why she shouldn't give her opinion at any opportunity. Danny seemed to be happy to put up with it and Norm was happy to have her around. She'd spent most of the drive back from Dublin explaining why the current crop of Irish singers weren't a patch on the ones that she'd grown up with. For Norm it had been a refreshingly normal experience not to be regaled with this or that political issue.

"Maybe. There's some people there that know what they are doing. I wasn't impressed by the speed with which Gerry took off at the first sight of trouble though but Jack -- the lad I took up the river seemed to be a bit brighter than the rest; once he got over the shock of the MCF turning up on their raid. I mean, I know sod all about this sort of thing but even I could tell they were rank amateurs."

"Now that's where we have the edge," Danny said. "A fine long tradition of knowing when to keep your head down and when to stick it up. And a nose for who you can rely on and who you can't. From what you've said, I think that lot in Mudchute have got a leak, the same as our friends had over the border. They need to get that plugged before they get completely taken apart. It'll start off with events like the ExCel thing getting disrupted and then one morning they'll all wake up to find an MCF officer hammering on the door."

"And, of course, Danny, you just do it for the cash. No complicated moral compass to mess with your judgement, eh?"

"Now, that's unkind, Patsy. Accurate, but unkind. Whoever's funding that lot in Mudchute ought to be looking to get better value for money though."

"You don't suppose it's the government themselves? As a sort of 'let's set up an incompetent dissident group to make all protestors look bad' thing?"

"You're a cynical soul, Norm Hailman," Patsy downed the last of her Guinness. "Which is a good way to be, believe me. I suppose I could ask a stupid question like, 'Do you want another drink?' but I'm guessing you do."

Norm nodded and Danny did too. Patsy took the three glasses off to the bar.

"That sounds a bit smart for most of the governments that I've come across. No, there will be a bad apple somewhere in Gerry's circle. He'll need to convince me he's fixed that before we do any more business with his group."

Norm nodded. He wasn't sure if Danny was right but he wasn't in any rush to head back to the UK.

Danny smiled, "Sure, we can forget about all that for a while, though. Our friends over the border are looking to take another consignment of those magazines. They might not overturn the government with them but it would be good to let them have a bit of fun. Anyway, you seem to have hit it off with Patsy. She usually can't be bothered to hang around after doing one of her taxi jobs. I reckon you could be in there. She's a sucker for an English accent. How the devil you managed to pass yourself off with an Irish passport, I'll never know."

Norm was surprised. He couldn't remember that last time that he'd be 'in' anywhere. Perhaps things were picking up after all.

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Catherine was looking at the map view of her data.

Well, she thought, that's interesting. Two of her "person of interest" dots were in the same spot in central London. It wasn't Victoria or Mudchute as she had expected. This was a new location, not far from the British Museum. Somewhere called Phil's Place on Woburn Walk, according to her maps. It could be worth exploring further she said to herself, making a note to discuss it with Aileen the next day.

She closed her laptop and looked at her watch.

It was time for the small island of peace that she gave herself everyday by taking tea late in the afternoon, It wasn't quite the ritual event that her mother and grandmother had known but she always took time, and care, and thought over it. It was something completely unrelated to the rest of her life. It gave her escape.

She took down the small teapot that had been passed down to her from her great grandmother as she knelt on the floor as her mother and countless generations before her had done. Great grandmother had used the teapot in Hong Kong but it had been old when she had acquired it, a fine piece made for a grand Imperial family. It was precious. It had been passed on to each daughter in turn, cherished and used by each.

Great grandmother had stolen it, according to family tradition in recompense, from the house of the Englishman that she had worked for as a servant in the 1930's. He had raped her, the story went. It hadn't been violent; rather it had been done almost casually in the way that those who feel entitled to something cannot see why it should not be theirs - but rape nonetheless. The teapot, great grandmother had said, had been more than compensation for such an insignificant event. The Englishman had noticed the theft and reported it but could not identify the woman that he thought had stolen it. That had amused great grandmother still further.

Catherine looked at the teapot. It was too fine a thing to have been owned by a guaillou anyway, she thought. He would never have appreciated the fineness of the dull brown clay it was made from or the way its squat form was designed to encourage the best from the leaves that would be steeped within. She poured the steaming, almost clear, liquid into the fine porcelain bowl she always used. The act of pouring was relaxing of itself. The fragrance of the tea added to her sense of well being.

The foolish Englishman would probably have imagined the bowl to be more valuable than the pot but he would have been very wrong. The bowl might be fine and elegant and the pot might be dull and squat but the pot's age, its material and the skill of its manufacture meant it would command a high price from those that cared about such things. The teapot was a good reminder of the stupidity of men and the selfishness they could sink to if they were allowed. It made her feel that her work was all the more worthwhile.

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Gerry was meeting with Jack Toven, Ashran and Spencer Hames in Phil's Place.

"I was pretty pissed that you legged it from the house in Mudchute," Jack didn't feel inclined to shrink away from his feelings about Gerry's response to the failure of the ExCel raid. If that Irish bloke, O'Neill, hadn't been there, I'd have been stuffed."

"Yeah, well, what can I say. I thought you'd be OK. As it turned out I was right. I still don't know what went wrong. At least we gave the Home Secretary a bit of embarrassment. And we did get a dozen out of the detention centre and plenty of debate on the papers about what those bloody detention centres are for."

"Yeah and you'll have some experts on what goes on in them when Terry and Greg finish their sentences," Jack sounded bitter.

Spencer tried to build some bridges."Look at least we're still in a position to try to do something about the way men have been knuckling under."

"And unlike that Safewords lot, we're still able to function. And we've still got most of those ident cards that O'Neill brought over, thanks to you Jack."

Jack downed his drink. "Yeah, well, there is that I suppose," he said, continuing to sound begrudging. It really didn't sound like they had the first idea of how to really resist, reject and reverse. It didn't encourage him to stick his neck out any further than he had done already. "All I know is that whatever you plan next, you'd better keep it a whole lot quieter or else everybody involved is going to end up getting a work over from the MCF."

"I'm still worried about how they reacted so quickly. It can't just have been that they were nearby for the press event, can it? I'm worried it might have been someone in the group."

"Seems unlikely," Spencer said. "Could it be someone around Mudchute?"

"Could even have been O'Neill, I suppose. He didn't sound that Irish to me."

Jack nodded. "That's true enough. And he knew his way around after we split from Mudchute."

"On the other hand, he did get you out of there. It's a puzzle. I don't know. Perhaps someone at Victoria? Maybe Jinx has been mouthing off."

Jack shook his head, puzzled, and then picked up his bag. "It was odd, certainly but I've got to be off," he announced. "I've got a lecture."

"Not a date with Daisy?"

"We're getting together a bit later."

"A bit of politically incorrect interaction?" Ashran smirked

"With any luck. See you around."

As he walked out he was feeling depressed about trying to turn back what was going on in New Order Britain. The more he thought about Spencer's approach and Gerry's behaviour the more he felt that they didn't so much stand for resist -- reject -- reverse as for relax -- roll-over and respect. He either needed to find someone that was a whole lot more motivated than Spence or Gerry or he was going to have to get some ideas for himself, he thought.

The difficulty was coming up with a plan of action. He wondered if the Safewords organisation had actually existed and if it had whether it was still operational. Not that he agreed with that sort of violence in the pursuit of political ends but, well, you never knew.

Oh well, he thought, at least I can talk things over with Daisy later.

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In London's University College, Professor Inge Kerring's lecture had almost concluded. She finished her presentation. There were a few questions. The students began packing up and leaving. Soon, only one remained.