Ste Letto
01-17-2003, 3:27 PM
Hi folks, here's somehing I've been toying with. To be honest I'm not sure whether I like it or not, or whether you will. I think some will, which is why I'm posting, but I would like some feedback. I've got some ideas for how more might go, maybe a little less bleak. Please let me know what you think.
1994
It was a cold November afternoon, and all the clocks were striking 14. In his workstation at The Minisry of Free Expression Nelson Starling was hard at work. He calmly leafed through the magazine that he had just taken from a bin at his side. It was an old, yellowed, ripped and unpleasantly stained magazine that depicted naked men and women, in states of seeming arousal, engaged in a variety of unseemly sexual acts. Nelson recognised that the images broke a slew of laws. He knew that the man who had owned the magazine was even now being "processed" by the Ladies of Liberty and would be receiving remedial treatment possibly lasting years before he could be re-admitted to polite society. Nelson shuddered, he had heard enough rumours to convince him that falling into the clutches of the Ladies of Liberty was not a good thing. With a smirk he dropped the magazine he had been examining into a chute on the opposite side of his desk. He heard it slide down into the incinerator. As he turned to collect the next specimen for examination, the swinging metal cover closed over the incinerator, and moments later there came the unmistakable sound of the magazine being consumed in fire.
The Ministry of Liberation occupied the single largest single construct within the City of London. Standing 15 stories high, and extending 10 stories beneath the earth, the building sqautted menacingly over an area 1 mile square. The vast building was a place that dominated the skyline of London as well as dominating the psyches of every man in Britain. From the outside it appeared cold and impenetrable, white marble blocks forming the entirety of it's visible fascia. Only four doors gave access to the building, each one positioned centrally on one face. The building was alligned precisely north, south, east and west. It had no windows.
Maurice Carter, 31, single, 5ft 7; with thinning hair and a paunch, sat naked on a paded black leather couch in his cell. His cell was one of tens of thousands of identical cells. He had been arrested 24 hours earlier, operated on, then thrown into this holding cell. He'd been arrested for posessing pornography. There was a toilet in one corner, a sink and a hand drying machine, otherwise the room was white and featureless. The room was permanently lit by neon lights. He knew what they'd done to him on the operating table. He knew they'd implanted a neutralizer, as they were called. A neutralizer was an electro-chemical device that drew power from his own body and responded to a remote control signal to paralyse him, yet leave him fully sensate. The device also monitored a variety of his bodily functions, arousal included, which was why it had been implanted in his lower spine. It was activated to paralyse him by a keypad on the wall outside his cell.
The room was completely soundproofed. So the first he knew that someone was coming was when the device activated and he slumped, like a puppet with its strings cut, onto the cold marble floor. He lay face down, like a lump of meat on the floor. His body hurt from where his knees, hip, arm and head had smacked into the solid surface. He began to feel escalating fear. He heard the pneumatically controlled door open, letting go a little hiss of air. He heard booted feet stepping purposefully. He heard a small chuckle, and the sound of the door closing again.
Commander Elizabeth Moncrief stared down at the pathetic specimen with a sneer of distatste etched across her beautiful face. At 36 she was at the peak of her physical perfection. She stood 6ft tall in her polished, black leather, calf length riding boots; and her body had the toned, sleek elegance that came from hours of regular exercise and a careful diet. She wore the standard uniform of a Commander in the Liberation Army; a black peaked cap, with a badge denoting her name and rank, a crisp white cotton blouse with sharp creases and epaulettes on the shoulder, a black tie, a black micro-miniskirt, barely black tights, and knee high, black leather, flat soled boots. Her long black hair was tied back in an elegant ponytail.
She did not speak, and Maurice could not; one more effect of his neutralizer. She only wanted to demonstrate to the new arrival his total powerlessness. She strolled into his line of sight and stood there, quite motionless, letting him drink in the simple, undeniable fact of her presence and her dominance. In his immobilised, paralysed state he was completely vulnerable. She began tapping her foot, fighting the urge to laugh or show any emotion.
Suddenly she turned and walked toward his face at a rapid face. Standing facing his face, her booted feet inches from his loose and drooling lips, she drew back her foot, paused, then propelled her toe forward at terrifying speed. Inwardly, Maurice cringed. He feared she would crack his nose, or maybe kick him in the eye to blind him, or maybe kcik his teeth in. Elizabeth's foot came to a halt inches from Maurice's terrified face. She planted her foot on the floor and permitted herself a smile. She walked round him, twice.
She came to a halt at his shoulder. Raising her right foot, she pushed at his uppermost shoulder with her smooth sole. Maurice fell into a position where his back was flat to the floor. Elizabeth spent a few moments kicking him into a completely prone position. When she was satisfied, she lifted her foot a little, hovered it over his right shin, then stepped down. She always enjoyed this first taste of what was to come.
As she transferred her weight to that foot, Maurice felt building pressure on his skin, his shin and his heel. It was vaguely uncomfortable. As she walked across him, stepping from his right shin to his left, Maurice felt a slight burn from her boot sole sliding, then coolness as the air met his injured skin. Elizabeth stepped onto his left shin, paused a moment then stepped off. She allowed herself a slight smile, then stepped onto Maurice's right thigh. The muscle felt soft under her thin boot sole, slightly meaty and yielding. She'd always liked the feel of a man under her boots. Instead of walking across her charge, she placed her other foot next to the first and let her weight crush his thigh painfully. She knew this would set a dull ache going in Maurice's thigh, that would build to a pain and finally agony if she waited long enough. She looked to her watch to time herself. After 5 minutes she stepped onto Maurice's left thigh. Again she let her weight press down on the trapped and helpless muscle just below her bootsole for five full minutes. When she stepped off, Maurice felt his right muscle aching, while his left seemed to be burning.
1994
It was a cold November afternoon, and all the clocks were striking 14. In his workstation at The Minisry of Free Expression Nelson Starling was hard at work. He calmly leafed through the magazine that he had just taken from a bin at his side. It was an old, yellowed, ripped and unpleasantly stained magazine that depicted naked men and women, in states of seeming arousal, engaged in a variety of unseemly sexual acts. Nelson recognised that the images broke a slew of laws. He knew that the man who had owned the magazine was even now being "processed" by the Ladies of Liberty and would be receiving remedial treatment possibly lasting years before he could be re-admitted to polite society. Nelson shuddered, he had heard enough rumours to convince him that falling into the clutches of the Ladies of Liberty was not a good thing. With a smirk he dropped the magazine he had been examining into a chute on the opposite side of his desk. He heard it slide down into the incinerator. As he turned to collect the next specimen for examination, the swinging metal cover closed over the incinerator, and moments later there came the unmistakable sound of the magazine being consumed in fire.
The Ministry of Liberation occupied the single largest single construct within the City of London. Standing 15 stories high, and extending 10 stories beneath the earth, the building sqautted menacingly over an area 1 mile square. The vast building was a place that dominated the skyline of London as well as dominating the psyches of every man in Britain. From the outside it appeared cold and impenetrable, white marble blocks forming the entirety of it's visible fascia. Only four doors gave access to the building, each one positioned centrally on one face. The building was alligned precisely north, south, east and west. It had no windows.
Maurice Carter, 31, single, 5ft 7; with thinning hair and a paunch, sat naked on a paded black leather couch in his cell. His cell was one of tens of thousands of identical cells. He had been arrested 24 hours earlier, operated on, then thrown into this holding cell. He'd been arrested for posessing pornography. There was a toilet in one corner, a sink and a hand drying machine, otherwise the room was white and featureless. The room was permanently lit by neon lights. He knew what they'd done to him on the operating table. He knew they'd implanted a neutralizer, as they were called. A neutralizer was an electro-chemical device that drew power from his own body and responded to a remote control signal to paralyse him, yet leave him fully sensate. The device also monitored a variety of his bodily functions, arousal included, which was why it had been implanted in his lower spine. It was activated to paralyse him by a keypad on the wall outside his cell.
The room was completely soundproofed. So the first he knew that someone was coming was when the device activated and he slumped, like a puppet with its strings cut, onto the cold marble floor. He lay face down, like a lump of meat on the floor. His body hurt from where his knees, hip, arm and head had smacked into the solid surface. He began to feel escalating fear. He heard the pneumatically controlled door open, letting go a little hiss of air. He heard booted feet stepping purposefully. He heard a small chuckle, and the sound of the door closing again.
Commander Elizabeth Moncrief stared down at the pathetic specimen with a sneer of distatste etched across her beautiful face. At 36 she was at the peak of her physical perfection. She stood 6ft tall in her polished, black leather, calf length riding boots; and her body had the toned, sleek elegance that came from hours of regular exercise and a careful diet. She wore the standard uniform of a Commander in the Liberation Army; a black peaked cap, with a badge denoting her name and rank, a crisp white cotton blouse with sharp creases and epaulettes on the shoulder, a black tie, a black micro-miniskirt, barely black tights, and knee high, black leather, flat soled boots. Her long black hair was tied back in an elegant ponytail.
She did not speak, and Maurice could not; one more effect of his neutralizer. She only wanted to demonstrate to the new arrival his total powerlessness. She strolled into his line of sight and stood there, quite motionless, letting him drink in the simple, undeniable fact of her presence and her dominance. In his immobilised, paralysed state he was completely vulnerable. She began tapping her foot, fighting the urge to laugh or show any emotion.
Suddenly she turned and walked toward his face at a rapid face. Standing facing his face, her booted feet inches from his loose and drooling lips, she drew back her foot, paused, then propelled her toe forward at terrifying speed. Inwardly, Maurice cringed. He feared she would crack his nose, or maybe kick him in the eye to blind him, or maybe kcik his teeth in. Elizabeth's foot came to a halt inches from Maurice's terrified face. She planted her foot on the floor and permitted herself a smile. She walked round him, twice.
She came to a halt at his shoulder. Raising her right foot, she pushed at his uppermost shoulder with her smooth sole. Maurice fell into a position where his back was flat to the floor. Elizabeth spent a few moments kicking him into a completely prone position. When she was satisfied, she lifted her foot a little, hovered it over his right shin, then stepped down. She always enjoyed this first taste of what was to come.
As she transferred her weight to that foot, Maurice felt building pressure on his skin, his shin and his heel. It was vaguely uncomfortable. As she walked across him, stepping from his right shin to his left, Maurice felt a slight burn from her boot sole sliding, then coolness as the air met his injured skin. Elizabeth stepped onto his left shin, paused a moment then stepped off. She allowed herself a slight smile, then stepped onto Maurice's right thigh. The muscle felt soft under her thin boot sole, slightly meaty and yielding. She'd always liked the feel of a man under her boots. Instead of walking across her charge, she placed her other foot next to the first and let her weight crush his thigh painfully. She knew this would set a dull ache going in Maurice's thigh, that would build to a pain and finally agony if she waited long enough. She looked to her watch to time herself. After 5 minutes she stepped onto Maurice's left thigh. Again she let her weight press down on the trapped and helpless muscle just below her bootsole for five full minutes. When she stepped off, Maurice felt his right muscle aching, while his left seemed to be burning.