Irontown 3 Read online

  IRONTOWN 3

  Single Volume Edition

  Adriana Arden

  © Copyright, 2015 Adriana Arden

  The right of Adriana to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This electronic book published by Silver Moon

  Silver Moon is an imprint of Fiction4All

  www.fiction4all.com

  Chapter One

  Jane Frobisher awoke in the middle of the night filled with the terrible realization that she was not alone in her darkened bedroom. But by then it was already too late.

  In the dim green glow of the display of the bedside clock radio, which showed 1:47, she saw the indistinct silhouettes of five shadowy figures bending over her and her mind filled with a surge of terror as she opened her mouth to cry out. But a strong leather-gloved palm clamped down about her face stifling her scream while other hands grasped her wrists and shoulders, spreading them wide and holding her upper body down. Her bedclothes were torn back and two more men grabbed her legs before she could kick out and pulled them flat and wide.

  The hand clamped over her face relaxed but only to push something wedge-like and hard but with a soft rubber coating into her mouth between her teeth. She felt spring jaws clamp about her tongue. Then the hand was pulled away but her tongue was now clamped and her mouth plugged. Her teeth clenched about the rubber-coated clamp but that only increased the pressure on her tongue. All she could do was snivel and whimper and dribble out of the corner of her mouth.

  The man who had clamped her tongue now snapped what felt like a rubber-lined metal collar in two hinged sprung halves about her neck. Meanwhile the two figures holding her arms were fastening similar but smaller cuffs about her wrists. Elastic bungee cords dangling from them were pulled up and sideways and hooked about the headboard of her bed. Then the hands holding her upper body down released their grasp. Jane tried to jerk upright by reflex only to feel the elastic cords pulling her back down. She felt more cuffs being snapped about her ankles and more bungee cords stretched out from them to secure her legs to the lower posts of her bed.

  Then the men released their hold on her and Jane whimpered and bucked and twisted, but she was spread-eagled and totally helpless. A figure moved to the window, which was open onto the brief mild June night and pulled it shut and then drew the curtains across it.

  Her bedside light came on illuminating Jane and the men standing over her. They wore military style black trousers with multiple pockets and black jumpers with reinforced shoulder and elbow patches. They had back packs slung over their shoulders. Their heads were covered by black masks and hoods, with goggles over their masks concealing the slits in the fabric through which their eyes peered, and commercial dust masks over their mouths.

  She looked from one to the other, whimpering as her stomach knotted up in fear and wishing she felt braver, but they said nothing. Instead one of them took out a camera from a trouser pocket and began filming her while a second pulled out a pair of sharp black scissors and to Jane’s horror slipped them up between her legs and began to cut through the trailing hem of her nightdress which had rucked up to her mid-thighs. The sharp blades sheared through the thin white cotton from her crotch to her cleavage. Two more snips cut through its shoulder straps. Then the men dragged the remains of the nightdress out from under her, leaving her totally naked.

  Filled with dread Jane sobbed and tried to close her thighs together and strained her arms against the cords holing her spread wide, but she could conceal nothing from the intense goggled gaze of the intruders or their camera.

  Jane had a mature but still well-toned and slender figure. Her streaked tousled hair was the colour of old gold. Her creamy pale skin had a light dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose and cheeks and the upper slopes of her shoulders. When not contorted by fear she had cool, sophisticated, good looks with a strong slender jaw line, keen deep, intelligent pale blue eyes, sardonic arched brows, a firm determined nose and red expressive lips. When standing her high, pale neat breasts had scooped upper slopes and distinct red-brown up-tilted nipples. Now spread-eagled on her back her breasts trembled like pale pink jellies on her chest whose ribs showed above her tightly nipped waist, making her hips seem fuller. Her buttocks, straining like her thighs and calves against the cords that held her legs wide, were pale and well rounded. Below her flat stomach and the dimple of her navel with its fleshy button centre was the swelling mound of her pubes capped by a small triangle of dark gold curls.

  The man who had cut her nightdress off now took out a device like a heavy rubber-sheathed hand torch, but instead of a clear lens at its head end for bulbs to shine through it had a cluster of crocodile clips. The man pulled three of them out of the device, trailing coiled plastic coated wires behind them. He flicked her nipples, which were already standing up in terror, and then fastened two of the clips to them, making Jane’s eyes water as the metal teeth bit into her sensitive flesh. Then he reached between her splayed thighs into the cleft of her vulva, squeezed the fleshy hood of her clitoris and closed the third clip about that.

  Jane yelped about her clamped tongue and flinched in pain as her most sensitive and intimate organ was clamped. Oh God no, what were they doing to her?

  Wordlessly the man held the torch up and pressed the button on its side.

  Jane screamed about her tongue clamp and her body convulsed and her hips lifted clear of the bed as hammering electric needles of pain stabbed through her nipples and clitoris again and again. Her eyes bulged and filled with tears. She lost control of her bladder and a steam of hot pee spurted over the bedclothes. The watching men chuckled behind their masks while the one with the camera swung it round to capture the shameful display.

  The terrible shocks only lasted for ten seconds but to her it felt like an eternity. Then the man released the button on the pain torch and Jane sagged back limp and trembling, feeling her urine soaking through the sheets under her naked buttocks.

  The one who held the pain torch bent over her and slapped her tear-streaked cheeks to get her full attention and then he said: ‘That was a demonstration of what you will suffer if you do not obey me exactly, do you understand?’

  Still twitching and trembling and too confused and shocked to think of defying him, Jane nodded.

  ‘In a moment I will remove your tongue clamp so that you can answer certain questions that I will put you. You will not speak unless you are spoken to. You will not plead, beg, insult or threaten. You will answer every question I put to you promptly and truthfully, nothing more and nothing less. Do you understand?’

  Jane nodded again while in the depths of her spinning mind she thought that this seemed more like an interrogation than the sexual assault she had feared.

  ‘And when you answer you will be properly humble and call me “Sir”, do you understand?’

  Again she nodded. The man removed her tongue clamp. Fearfully she pinched her lips tight, saying nothing as she had been instructed.

  ‘You are Jane Frobisher, aged thirty-five, and you are an artist specialising in painting
subjects associated with the industrial heritage of Great Britain, is that correct?’

  Why did they want to her to confirm this? It was common knowledge. But nevertheless she answered meekly as instructed: ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And you came to Shackleswell to paint scenes of its old mill machinery and the newly restored steam railway line, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And for that purpose you have rented this house, Number 14 Old Tannery Lane, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And when you arrived did Mayor Goldsmith welcome you to the town?’

  It had been reported to the local paper. He had said he was an admirer of her work. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘So you are an officially acknowledged resident of Shackleswell?’

  She supposed she was at least a temporary one. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Are you fit, healthy and fertile?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Are you living with any male who takes responsibility for your actions?’

  What kind of question was that? Nevertheless she said: ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Are you in service or a registered slave?’

  A what? But nevertheless she said meekly: ‘Of course not, Sir.’

  The man pushed the tongue clamp back into her mouth and then turned to the man holding the camera and addressed it. ‘There it is: confirmation from her own lips that this woman is living here in clear contradiction of the founding rules and principles of Irontown society.’

  Jane knew that “Irontown” was the nickname for Shackleswell that it had acquired during the heyday of its Victorian industrial past, but she had no idea what “rules” he meant and could only gape up at him in utter terror mingled with bewilderment

  The man continued: ‘We in the IRES are taking a stand against such laxity and backsliding, starting with arranging a suitable punishment for this woman…’

  He removed the clips from her nipples and clitoris and put the pain torch away. Then he un-slung his backpack and from it took out a rubber marking stamp and an ink pad, a spray can of shaving gel, razor and scissors, all of which as Jane looked on in horror, he carefully laid out on her stomach and between her breasts.

  Then, while two others clasped her thighs firmly so she could not move, he carefully clipped away her pubic hair leaving only stubble behind, collecting the curls in a plastic bag. Then he soaped and shaved her sex clean and smooth. Jane froze in horror as the blade scraped about her most tender orifice. Nobody had ever done anything like this to her before. Yet he did so with a steady hand and did not leave a nick on her skin, even as she felt her still tingling and aching clitoris perversely throbbing and swelling under his masterful touch.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said when he was done, stroking her now smooth sex lips, ‘now you just need to be properly marked…’

  He took up the rubber stamp holder. Jane saw that it already had a string of large rubber characters in its frame a couple of centimetres high. He inked them and then, holding her cheeks to keep her head still, he pressed it against her forehead. Then he re-inked the stamp and pressed it against the soft flesh of her lower belly just above the mound of her freshly shaven pubes.

  Two other men freed the cords holding her spread legs down and lifted her legs up and doubled her over until her knees were pressed against her shoulders and her buttocks were raised high. Carefully the man re-inked and then reversed the stamp block and pressed it against the upper slopes of her buttocks just above their cleft, then her legs were lowered once more.

  The cameraman took fresh close-up pictures of her head and groin and then turned the camera round to display them on its screen to Jane.

  ‘That is how a woman like you should look,’ the pain torch man told her.

  “NAIL 107” had been boldly stamped on her skin in black ink. And now she saw that the same characters were also inscribed on a large metal disk tag that hung from the front ring of her collar. What were they doing to her? What did any of this mean? But all she could do was whimper and whine pathetically.

  ‘Now we shall take her to a place where she can serve the people as nature intended…’ the pain torch man said to camera.

  They unhooked the rest of the cords holding her down and pulled her arms round behind her and padlocked the rings of her wrist cuffs together in the small of her back and then did the same for her ankles. Feebly she tried to resist them but they were too strong for her.

  The largest man threw her over his shoulders and carried her downstairs like a sack of potatoes, while the others followed, turning off her bedroom light as they went.

  Cautiously they opened the front door to check all was clear. At this time of night half the street lights were off. It was just possible to make out the form of a second car – a hatchback of some kind – parked in the small front driveway next to hers with its rear facing them. Two men went ahead. One climbed into the driver’s seat while the second opened its boot. Accompanied by the pain torch man the man carrying her quickly carried her across to it and dumped her in it while the last man carefully closed the door behind them.

  The others climbed into the car. Its engine started quietly and it drove off into the night.

  ***

  The journey took less than ten minutes, although subjectively for Jane, huddled up naked in the boot and sick with terror, it felt far longer.

  Then the car came to a halt again. The boot was opened up and she was hauled out and thrown over a shoulder again. She felt cool and damp summer night air caressing her wet naked buttocks and she shivered not so much with cold but a renewed sense of shameful exposure. However there was nobody to see her.

  They were in an otherwise empty car park beside a set of high solid gates set in a very long high brick wall that stretched away in either direction into the darkness, picked out only here and there by the glow of streetlights.

  Jane recognized the massive wall as the one surrounding Rowland Park which lay almost in the heart of the city. It was one of the odd things she had noted about Shackleswell, apart from the politeness of its inhabitants and its unusual neatness and lack of litter. The park was only open for the use of permanent residents. Apparently it was all due to some old civic tradition.

  The big gates were locked but the men seemed to have keys to them. They passed through them into a space between them and a second inner set of equally solid gates, offset from the outer, which they opened as well. Why did a park need such an elaborate set of double gates? Then they were through them and Jane saw trees and lawns and neat flowerbeds and many paths winding away into the night.

  Turning on torches the men strode along the dark deserted paths with confidence until they came to a curious structure nestled amongst the trees. It was a small six sided open building with a domed roof, a little like the old yarn or butter markets sometimes to be found in the high streets of country towns.

  ‘This is the park’s castigorium,’ the pain torch man explained softly. ‘People still use it when a slave… or a wayward wife or daughter… needs some public discipline…’

  Jane was still struggling to comprehend what was going on. A “castigorium”… public discipline? What was this place?

  They carried her into the castigorium. Within, ringed about its big central pillar and radiating out from it, were half a dozen small wedge-like compartments each with a double outer door. The partitions and doors were formed out of ironwork lattice grilles which stood just over head height and had clearances beneath them. They took her into the nearest one.

  By the light of their torches she saw resting with its head end against the central hexagonal pillar was a sloping wooden lattice panel the size of a house door. It had heavy metal bolts fitted to its corners and some mechanisms beneath it and also at its head end and sides, all of which were connected by rods, gears and pulley wires to what looked like a large mechanical clock of antique design mounted on
the pillar above it. The clock’s big brass face was marked out in 24 hours and it had extra dials and what seemed to be alarm hands fitted to it. On either side of it several large pendulum-like weights hung in long glass-fronted cases. On the left side grille hung a dispenser of wet wipes, paper towels and a waste basket. Hung on the right side were a chalkboard and a water bottle which fed into a coiled clear plastic tube ending in a rubber ball with a large blunt rubber spike protruding from it.

  The men laid Jane onto the tilted grill and unlocked her cuffs. Overcoming her feeble struggles they spread her out to its four corners and hooked her cuff rings over the integral bolts which snapped shut about them. A broad leather belt was buckled across her stomach, holding her hips still. Two plate-sized flexible metal rings like large hose clips which were set on the ends of adjustable arms mounted at the head of the grill were swung down over her shoulders until they could be fitted over Jane’s breasts. Worm screws were turned in the string of notches cut into the outsides of the ring bands to tighten them about their roots until they fitted snugly.

  Rubber straps mounted on gear-driven spindles were pulled across her body from the sides of the frame and passed over the insides of Jane’s splayed thighs and their ends were hooked to the grill beneath them. Hung on the straps were two large crescent shaped bulldog-type clips with rubber lined jaws which they pinched about the thick flesh lips of her naked outer labia.

  The pain torch man wrote on the chalkboard: I’ve broken Irontown’s rules and need to be taught a lesson by cock and cane. Then he pulled out her tongue clamp and replaced it with the rubber ball gag attached to the water bottle hose.

  ‘Suck on that if you need a drink,’ he told her. ‘We don’t want you to dry out. You’ve got to stay nice juicy for what’s to come…’

  The rubber spike now jutted out of her mouth under her nose and she realized in fact it was a red rubber dildo. Meanwhile the others were turning a crank handle in the side of the big clock, winding up its spring. The hanging weights rose to top of their casing. They set its hands and dials and the mechanism began to tic ponderously.