Subjugated (4 page)

“They shot Haskins for going easy on a girl in Southeast,” he said. “Remember that we want to save them all.”

Bradley forced his best fake laugh, hoping it sounded like he didn’t really think the joke was funny but felt he had to show the esprit de corps unique to the Army of Western Liberation. Any reference to the fucking of pretty young women must be greeted with mirth and congratulations directed both at the man who alluded to the matter and, more abstractly, to the general who had created the opportunity for his soldiers’ sexual needs to be met with such remarkable fullness.

“She’ll get what’s coming to her, alright,” Bradley replied, a remark that served both to confirm that he knew what Leese meant and to allay any suspicion an observer might have about the nature of their conversation.

“I know she will.” Leese winked, and at the perfection of that wink as a dual gesture of conspiracy and bravado, Bradley felt sick to his stomach. From a man like Colonel Davies, that wink meant,
We all know the way a soldier fucks, and I trust that you’ll fuck that way, too.
From Leese, it meant,
Patience. We will bring true liberation someday.

But how long could they be patient before the passage of time and their implication in the ways of the army—in
the way a soldier fucks,
as told them by men like Sergeant Connor and Colonel Davies—corrupted them? Already Bradley could feel the pull of that way of fucking, and of doing everything else an officer did. It would be so easy to give up the idea that anything in the Western Republic could change, when the Palace of Joy was full of pleasure girls and true believers who would succeed the aging General Dumfries at a moment’s notice and rule the republic the same way for another twenty-five years at least, with pleasure girls in the capital and subjugations in the regions. So easy to go to Springfield and prove, not just to the high command but to himself, that really Bradley Clark fucked the way a soldier fucks.

“This is how a soldier fucks, men,” Sergeant Connor had said, the memorable day when he had brought his two favorite pleasure girls to Human Development class. The Sons of the Liberation had arrived to find that on the dais in the front of the room the lectern had been replaced by a large padded table, and that two naked girls lay on the table, playing with themselves and giving the little cries of submissive pleasure that Bradley now knew very well, but then, had never heard before. Bradley’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight.

Silently, the boys had taken their assigned seats. Bradley’s cheeks were hot, but he already could tell that the heat didn’t come from embarrassed modesty but rather from how hard his cock had instantly gotten and how strong his desire to have sex was. Eighteen-year-old boys were encouraged to jerk off, and given special private rooms in which to do it, where there were shelves full of appropriate reading material. Bradley tried not to go to the MRs (Masturbation Rooms) more than once a week, but some of the little books he read there had set fire to his blood. Now to be confronted with two pretty girls, clearly ready to have done to them what the men in the books did to the girls in the books, seemed to make his veins glow and burn within him.

The little books, which claimed to be by General Dumfries himself, were full of warriors—hoplites, knights, sailors, infantrymen, men-at-arms, and even a few members of the Army of Western Liberation—enjoying the rights of a conqueror over the girls they had saved. In one of Bradley’s favorites, a crusading knight freed two girls from the harem of a sheikh, and then informed them that the price of their freedom was to please him in the boudoir for a night and a day. When the girls at first refused, the knight simply birched them upon their bare backsides until “They grew hot with the fiery excitement of the discipline,” and then “he plunged his knightly lance into their wet, willing cunts.”

As it appeared Sergeant Connor would now do with the girls he introduced as Candy and Lacy.

“They’re not their real names, men, you understand. Pleasure girls put their old lives behind them when they come to the Palace of Joy. Lacy, what’s the best thing in the world?”

Black-haired Lacy answered instantly in a chirping little voice, “A nice big soldier’s cock, sir.”

“Candy,” Connor said, turning to the redheaded girl, “how does a soldier fuck?”

Candy gave a little smile. “A soldier fucks hard, sir.”

Sergeant Connor put the girls on top of each other. He fucked both mouths first, encouraging the boys to come up and watch closely to learn his technique.

Then, moving to the other side of the table, he methodically fucked both cunts, content to let his fucking speak for itself. After that, he asked a student to get the lube, and he fucked both asses, first instructing them on the finer points of bottom-fucking, such as was needed with a girl who had never been fucked there before to break her anus in gently at first. “Unless it’s a subjugation,” he said. “At a subjugation, the general expects that the girl’s first anal teach her and her town a real lesson.”

* * *

Because army couriers came to the Caprio house with some frequency, since Jenna’s father was mayor of Springfield, and because subjugations happened so rarely in any given town, word did not spread about what would happen on the first of May. Over the weekend, life assumed a kind of maddening normality; her parents would quite probably not have wanted to discuss the red panties, or the subjugation itself, even if they could have done so without the high command eavesdropping on them. So, in the knowledge that everything they did could well be observed that moment by an officer or a bureaucrat, they went about their regular lives.

Jenna tried so hard to act normal that she began to think she might be losing her mind. Every normal thing—eating, discussing the day’s business, doing her homework, and above all, going to the toilet—seemed no longer normal, because of the lacy panties that enclosed her, underneath the work pants she wore to help with the chickens on Saturday, and underneath the skirt she wore to church on Sunday. She wondered, and blushed to wonder, if the panties had the same effect on her parents: when they looked at her, did they see the naked girl in only the tiny red lace underwear, as who it seemed Jenna couldn’t avoid seeing herself no matter what she wore over the things?

The bathroom, though, held more shame than any other place. It had never bothered her before that the government put cameras in the bathrooms, because it was the way she had grown up. In a world where the Human Development teacher could make you open your pussy and take a picture of it, and then bend over the desk and spread your bottom for another picture, what did it matter that she might be observed doing something as boring as relieving herself on the toilet?

Now, though, not only did she have to lower the red panties, but she knew that because she had them on she would be watched very closely, and soldiers would be laughing to see the pout she always made before her pee came, and to hear the embarrassing sound of the golden liquid rushing out of her private parts while the lacy panties sat bunched around her knees. Then wiping, with the tiny little thrill of pleasure it always gave, which now seemed magnified by the sight of the panties and the memory of the way they rubbed against her there sometimes.

And the thought of the soldiers watching seemed to make that little pleasure ache all the more, especially because of the part of the letter that said she must not touch herself there, except on Thursday night. Then, too, she would always see her pink razor, sitting on the shelf at the side of the tub, and wonder how she could bear to shave in the place where she knew she must. Every time she saw it, she thought,
I should just get it over with
. But she didn’t; she couldn’t.

Monday morning at school should have been joyous. With only four weeks until graduation, the seniors were giddy, and very little work was getting done. All Jenna could think of, though, was what she wore under her uniform, and the recurring though nonsensical thought that maybe one of her friends would notice. She put an artificially bright smile on her face, and pretended she still expected to go to college in the Eastern Commonwealth.

Until Paula—at whom Jenna had not been able to look all morning, thinking about what the letter had said concerning her and Amy—said at lunch, “I think Joe’s going to ask me this weekend.”

Jenna felt the blood drain from her face. This weekend. Joe Smith would ask Paula to marry him—which was all Paula had ever wanted, as far as Jenna could tell—and Jenna would be subjugated in her house, then brought to the town square, it seemed, and subjugated there as well. Maybe Joe would ask Paula while they watched the soldiers have sex with Jenna.

Maybe Paula will play with herself while they’re whipping me.

The thought provoked so many terrible, troubling emotions that Jenna not only couldn’t even tell what she was feeling—although she knew she felt shamefully warm in the red panties, under her modest uniform kilt, and that was the worst part—but she couldn’t suppress a little sob.

Paula looked sharply at her, as if anxious that Jenna, who had said she wouldn’t marry until she had finished college, might disapprove, but Amy, sitting next to Jenna, apparently saw that she was distressed by something else.

“Jenna?” the sweet chestnut-haired girl said. “What’s wrong?”

How could she hold it in, when she really did need their help, shameful as it was, and when she knew the officer—Captain Clark—would probably punish her if she didn’t ask her friends the shameful questions?

Jenna compressed her lips into a tight line, and looked from Paula to Amy and back to Paula. “What is it?” Paula asked, her face full of compassion.

“I… I got… from the army…” she choked out, with another sob.

Her friends’ eyes went instantly wide. “No,” Paula said. “No, no, no.”

“Oh, my God,” Amy whispered. “When?”

“Saturday,” Jenna said.

“Oh, God,” Amy said. “I’m so sorry, Jenna. I’m so sorry. Oh, God.”

“They can’t!” Paula exclaimed. “You’re the best student in school, and you’re the mayor’s daughter…”

“That’s why, though,” Amy whispered.

“But it should have been…” Paula’s voice fell to a low murmur. “Dammit, it should have been me. I’m the bad girl. I even… I even think about it sometimes.”

“What?” Jenna gasped.

Paula looked to either side as if she was worried she might be overheard. Jenna wondered whether the surveillance microphones in the lunchroom could pick up their conversation.

“I think about being subjugated sometimes, when I… you know.”

Amy nodded, but Jenna was still mystified for a moment until she suddenly realized that Paula was talking about exactly what Captain Clark had written in the letter. She took a deep breath and said, “Actually, you’re not going to believe this, but…”

Bradley watched the feed from Jenna’s bathroom alone that night. Officers awarded subjugatory duty were permitted a private feed, in order to prepare for the subjugation, and Bradley felt the need to use the privilege, if only to clear his head.

In the officers’ mess, they were probably still watching the edited video of Jenna’s conversation with her friends Amy and Paula. Colonel Davies had gotten his propaganda officer, a major named Stewart, to edit some of the footage from the archives of Amy and Paula pleasuring themselves in their rooms at night in with the blushing tidbits of advice they had given Jenna, after she asked them for their help with what she must, according to the letter Bradley had sent, do Thursday night in front of her mirror.

Bradley couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about that, along with his cock-stiffening arousal. He had devised, on his own and straight out of his fantasies, the requirement that Jenna play with herself two nights before her subjugation. He had known as he had written the letter that went with the panties that if the general read Bradley’s instructions to Jenna—as he almost certainly would—he would find them diverting. Colonel Davies, too, had given Bradley many plaudits on the idea, and today had presented the edited video as a sort of thank-you gift for the notion, which the colonel said he would like to borrow for his future subjugations.

Normally army surveillance didn’t extend to capturing the audio from crowded settings like a high school cafeteria. When a girl had received notice of subjugation, though, various more advanced technologies were usually deployed, such as the installation of a parabolic microphone in the lunchroom of Springfield High. Though not every word of the girls’ licentious little colloquy was audible on the audio feed, there were certainly enough immodest little utterances to create a filthy video, so hot that Bradley found to his dismay that he did not mind when Colonel Davies demanded that he watch it again.

Jenna said, “I have to play with myself Thursday night.”

At first Amy and Paula apparently couldn’t even understand what she meant. Major Stewart intercut puzzled looks on their faces with enhanced shots of their fingers running up and down their pretty young pussies in the secret of their bedrooms. Amy, it seemed, would lie on her tummy when she abused herself, while Paula took the more traditional pose of spread legs and raised knees.

“Wait,” Paula said, “you mean… like that?”

Jenna nodded. “In front of the mirror. With the panties on.”

A close-up of Amy’s face on the video, clearly aroused but also extremely guilty about the sexual excitement felt at her friend’s expense. A shot of Amy in bed, wanking herself frantically, and running two fingers inside her pussy as she whimpered out her passion.

A shot of Paula, blushing, with a quick cut to her in bed, moaning as she used one hand in front and the other behind, pushing a finger wickedly into her little anus.

Jenna said, “I’ve never…”

Amy said, “Neither have I!” Amy’s delightful, naughty rear view, with her finger, too, inside her bottom-hole as she rode her other hand in front the way a girl might ride a rocking horse.

Jenna, looking sharply at Amy. Something about the way her face reflected an inner conflict—surely about whether to tell Amy that the army knew very differently about her masturbatory habits.