Wage Slave Read online

  After the right turn past Southampton, Peter’s map had proved faultless, so Adam was pretty sure they were at the right place: a steel mesh gate topped with razor wire and bearing the legend ‘Smith. Private Property` etc. He hadn’t been prepared for such a rutted smear of a track, though.

  “I’II walk back and look,” Debbie conceded, not without some reluctance given the state of the ground and her far from sensible shoes. She found the bell push tucked away behind a bush as promised and decided to let Adam stew while she waited for their host.

  Beyond the gate the access road dog-legged, so her view was restricted to just more of the impenetrable bushes which must have been tall enough to obscure the view from the top of a double-decker bus. There was no sound apart from the buzz of evening insects and the rustle of something darting in the undergrowth. Even Viktor’s tick-over was inaudible.

  After a few minutes of self-conscious shuffling, the thought crystallised that perhaps the Wardles had been held up and she would have to spend the night in the middle of nowhere. The camper was stocked with canned food and bottled water and they would sleep snug in the double bed. But Debbie had one reservation about Viktor’s facilities - the lack of a toilet. There just wasn’t room to carry a chemical loo. That meant using the bushes. And these bushes were not designed for squatting in!

  “All alone, then?” Peter’s booming chuckle made her jump.

  “Oh! ... Sorry, Peter ... miles away. No. Adam is up the road. We drove past and backing up is ...”

  “Nuff said, Deborah. Leave it to me.” Unlocking the gate, Peter swung it wide and gestured behind him as he passed: “Have a look round. We’ll catch up. Hey! Petra!” With a wave, he vanished.

  Adam had told her nothing except that they had been invited to spend a weekend in the country with Peter and his wife. Petra. On the basis of their acquaintance - which hitherto had been far from intimate - Debbie would never have taken the Wardles for the country cottage type, so she was consumed with curiosity. What weekend cottage required seclusion and fortification?

  Several twists and turns later, she understood.

  The hedgerow ceasing abruptly, Debbie found herself at the edge of a large meadow sprinkled with caravans. Not tourers, but luxury thirty-five and thirty-seven footers all of twelve feet wide. Hard standing, paved walkways, brick and slab steps before every door: they were certainly here for the duration. Obviously private, there seemed little likelihood of finding any of these advertised in Dalton’s Weekly. But why here?

  “Convenience,” expounded Peter when they all sat in Viktor, surveying the site. “People of similar outlook relaxing in a convivial atmosphere. We are actually a private club leasing the land from the adjoining farm, the owner of which is a founder member. All services are laid on. In fact, the only thing we don’t boast don’t want is a bar. No licence, no need for authoritarian noses poking in; see? The vans were an inspiration, really. To date we have twenty-three on site, with room for a dozen more. They are comparatively cheap, easily maintained and just as easily traded.”

  “Who lives here?” Debbie asked, noticing the men’s exchange of knowing glances.

  “Membership is strictly by invitation and ballot. More than fifty percent of applications are black-balled. That ...” Peter smiled warmly down at her, “... is why everyone you meet will be so ...” he paused, scanning her face intently, “... tolerant.” He signalled Adam to drive on before adding: “Another advantage of individually owned units is that what each occupant does in his property affects no-one else; legally or ...” again that look, but this time accompanied by a sly smile: “... morally. There, Adam! Last one on the right.”

  They were ushered into a gold and amber caravan with the close, warm ambience of something loved and lived in.

  “Perhaps you’d like to unpack, Deborah, while I show Adam the sights. Your turn later, eh? Make yourself at home. And I mean that. We’ll bring Petra back with us shortly.”

  With an avuncular pat from Peter’s ham-like paw. she was left to her own devices.

  Peter led the way towards a single storey wooden club house at the far end of the meadow.

  “What did you tell her?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Wisest thing, old boy. Forewarned is forearmed. I have explained your problem to the Committee and you have their blessing for the weekend. Of course, should you decide to apply for residence later, you’ll have to take your chances with the rest.”

  “Understood.”

  “Iif all goes well - with your problem, that is - I may have another suggestion to make. Something nearer home, geographically. And more advanced, you might say. But that is just by way of a word to the wise. Frankly, it depends as much on how you handle the situation as on Deborah’s reaction.

  “For now, follow my lead. Keep your mouth closed, and your eyes and mind open. Right?” Peter paused with his hand on the door handle, awaiting some sign of reassurance.

  “Lead on, McWardle. I place my edification confidently in your hands,” Adam intoned, feeling like a new boy on his first day at boarding school: eager to make an impression yet fearful of what might be demanded in the way of tribute by this imposing figure of a prefect.

  Seemingly satisfied, Peter waved Adam through the door and stayed a step behind, anticipating his reaction.

  Adam took one look and stopped in his tracks. Evening sunlight lanced through the windows, too tired to carry motes and smoke but happy for its waning smile to warm the rows of waiting cheeks. All styles of cheeks. Some were full. Some lean. One pair looked decidedly haggard, contrasting with the next in line which carried sufficient adipose tissue to pad a pig, maybe two if they were only medium size. They were adorned in various ways. With nylon, cotton, polyester or whatever. Some shiny, some matt. Some diaphanously insubstantial. Some in tangas, one pair in Directoires. And several cheeks were bisected by the narrow strip of elastic indicating a g-string. Of them all, pig-bum alone - wouldn’t you know - it was stark naked, cellulite gleaming evilly like the aftermath of some dreadful pox. Next to each raised bum, for to a woman, their owners were knelt back to-front on the seats of folding chairs, skirts hiked around their hips was an impatient male face turned critically in Adam’s direction. Thirty-odd chairs in all. In two rooms before the low dais on which stood yet another, similarly occupied. The whole was presided over by a small, dapper man In a blue pin-stripe suit. The chairman?

  Adam noticed that the ritual positioning was not matched by a common dress code, members being clothed to taste. The most outstanding examples were a tall man in a tight fitting leather jump suit and Pig-Bum’s companion, an anaemic, chopstick thin fellow wearing only a towel around a waist which seemed to stretch from knee to neck.

  The pin-striped Hon Sec, for such he was, beckoned Adam forward.

  “Welcome, young man. And to your good lady in her absence.” With effusive gestures he directed Adam to the chair Peter set out for him. “Bear with us while we complete our customary formalities. Peter, if you please, resume your place.”

  Peter sat next to the full, blooming g-stringed posterior of, Adam surmised, his wife, Petra. Though from that angle it could very well have been anyone friendly.

  “Members - and friend. In conclusion, it only remains to welcome one and all to another weekend of open hearts and palms. Long may we reign,..” sang Dapper Suit, to which every assembled male, Adam excepted, responded: “Long may we reign!”

  As one the men rose, turned to their partners and commenced beating the retreat on their bums; an arrhythmic festival of spanking which left Adam in no doubt that he had come to the right place.

  “What was all the applause?” asked a bemused Debbie when the trio trooped into the caravan, only to stand nonplussed as all three burst out laughing.

  ***

  Petra was a paisley person. In her forties, she
was reminiscent of the late hippy era: all macrobiotics, craftwork and cottage-industry clothes. And looked well on it.

  Of similar height to Debbie, she was of stockier build, but not unattractively so, her breasts and buttocks swelling from the foothills like homely mountains. Her warm brown eyes were equally welcoming below the knitted woollen scarf worn as a headband to control her long, straight dark hair; the ends of both being brought forward to trail over one shoulder. The outfit was completed with a paisley print linen dress and leather sandals.

  Altogether, Debbie felt relaxed in her company. There was a strength in Petra which immediately placed her in the dominant - almost maternal - role. After ascertaining that Debbie had settled in, she led her off the help make them all a snack.

  “It is an odd coincidence, your names,” Debbie ventured. “Peter and Petra, I mean.”

  Petra smiled: “No coincidence, dear. I’II explain it all, one day. When you know us better.”

  The kitchen adjoined the living room with its supremely comfortable free-standing chairs and settee - nothing cheaply built-in about this home-from-home. Opposite the kitchen was an alcoved dining area with glass topped table and chrome chairs. From it, a central aisle flanked by a storeroom, toilet and shower on one side and Debbie’s and Adam’s bedroom on the other, led to the master bedroom. Each bedroom - Debbie had poked more than just her nose in - was equipped with a brass-railed double bed, and valanced linen to match the frilly pastel drapes.

  Given the inevitably open plan design, a caravan allows only slightly more privacy than a two-seater privy. Which meant each couple could easily hear the other. Peter didn’t even raise his voice to gee Petra up. “Are you cooking it or growing it, woman? We’re hungry!”

  “Nearly ready,” Petra answered evenly, with a placating smile to Debbie: “Will you reach down the plates, please Deborah?”

  Debbie’s dubious expression made Petra laugh while she did as she was bid, whispering: “I know it’s none of my business, but is he always so domineering, Petra?”

  “It comes naturally to big men. Adam doesn’t strike me as a wimp, either,” Petra answered in a normal tone, making Debbie wince and glance uneasily at the partition. Petra picked up two filled plates and waited for Debbie to take the others. “if he was, you wouldn’t be here, would you?” she said, trailing a definite note of rebuke as she led the way outside.

  They ate al fresco on patio chairs in the sultry twilight, lights coming on around them as miscellaneous sounds of activity replaced the dwindling birdsong.

  Debbie ventured the observation that she had heard no birds while waiting at the gate, though they seemed plentiful within the meadows confines. But her gambit was greeted with indifferent silence, suggesting - as it was unanimous - that she had spoken out of turn.

  Petra’s eyes remained focussed on her plate, while Adam’s cool blue and Peter’s cold grey eyes roamed the deepening horizon. She thought better of pressing the point, deciding to beard Adam as soon as they were alone and demand an explanation of such treatment. One of Heather’s dictums echoed unbidden in her ears ‘Children should be seen and not heard’. And that was precisely how she felt. in an effort to salvage her pride, she muttered: “Predators, probably,” and rose to take her empty plate inside.

  “Wit!”

  Adam’s curt injunction stopped Debbie cold. She stared at him, surprised at the peremptory tone. Adam swallowed the last of his food and held out his plate. He looked at her with an expression which brooked no argument.

  “Take them all when we’ve finished And wash up!”

  “Of ... of course. I ··· I was going to,” she stammered.

  “That’s right,” Adam turned away and resumed his reverie, leaving Debbie feeling more confused than ever.

  Petra finished last and made to rise, until stopped by Peter’s restraining hand so that she, too, just handed up her plate. Debbie, distraught to distraction, ran inside rather than make a further public spectacle of herself. She washed up with much clacking of crockery and grinding of teeth as she strove to subdue the racking sobs which threatened to engulf her.

  She was obviously the victim of some conspiracy, though one in which Petra seemed to be less than whole-hearted. Did that mean she disagreed with the men’s conduct? Or merely felt sympathetic to Debbie’s plight?

  The dishes dried, Debbie was absently dabbing her eyes with the tea towel when she heard Peter snap: “Over!” Sneaking a glance through the doorway, she watched in amazement as Petra left her seat and lay across Peter’s thighs, hands flat on the ground, face obscured by the dangling trail of scarf and hair.

  Peter’s shoulder obscured her view of Petra’s nether regions, but she clearly saw the hem of her dress tossed above her waist. She also saw his great hand rise as if to wave, then fall: SMAKK! The impact jerked Petra’s body forward. SMAKK!

  “Oh, my God!” Debbie choked, as: SMAKK! Each blow slow, heavy and delivered with such deliberation as to leave no doubt that they were not love pats. Eyes wide, tea towel stuffed unknowingly into her mouth, she stood a paralysed witness to Petra’s prostration.

  Expecting to hear sounds of alarm and footsteps running to the rescue. she heard only the resounding smacks which rang clearly in the still air.

  Surely others could hear? Would this at least persuade Peter to reflect on the injustice of his actions? Why didn’t Adam, whom she couldn’t see from there, object? For that matter, why didn’t Petra herself offer at least a token resistance? What was it all in aid of?

  Again and again palm met posterior, Petra’s body shuddering - or trembling. Debbie couldn’t be sure which - almost continuously.

  SMAKK! SMAKK! SMAKK!

  Without warning it stopped.

  Petra stood, brushed her dress down and walked, head high, inside. She passed Debbie without a glance, lips compressed and only the slightest evidence of dampness above her cheeks. Along the passage and Into the master bedroom she went, closing the door with just the click of the magnetic catch. It was that click which brought Debbie to her senses. She could never have closed the door without slamming it hard enough to wake the dead. Dropping the cloth, she followed Petra and knocked gently. No reply. She knocked again. Only the sound of a drawer sliding. Convinced that Petra’s sufferings were somehow her fault, Debbie came to a decision, knocked loudly and pushed. Petra didn’t look up, but continued to straighten the items she had tossed onto the bed: an Empire line night-dress and matching peignoir. Debbie couldn’t believe it at first - this was her day for surprises - but no, her eyes didn’t deceive her, both garments were made of vibrantly red rubber. While she’d never worn it herself, the distinctive rustle and the fall of the folds confirmed it!

  Crossing her arms, Petra drew the linen dress over her head. Beneath, she was virtually naked; another surprise, for her full breasts needed no support. The thick, dimpled nipples and large, darkly pigmented aureoles suggested as strongly as the stolid hips, a fathomless maternal capacity. Debbie knew Peter and Petra to be a childless couple. Did that explain their relationship, fulfilling each other’s unrequited paternal instincts? Nonsense! She pulled herself together. They had full lives and were sufficiently successful to have adopted, if that was what they wanted. That was too simple an explanation. And would hardly account for the presence of herself and Adam, making no secret of their intention to start a family when they were more settled: certainly before they reached thirty. As Petra hooked her thumbs into the narrow elastic across her hips, Debbie saw that the g-string which peeled away from the plump groin was also rubber, only of a light shade of blue. Surrendering its task with a clammy sucking sound, it collapsed into wrinkled exhaustion around her ankles.

  “He likes things tacky,” said Petra unselfconsciously, bending to retrieve her dress and giving Debbie a heart-stopping view of her livid buttocks. Using it to wipe her sweaty snatch, she added, turning to g
ive Debbie clear sight of the hairless pubes. “Electrolysis. Took a couple of years and quite a bit of money. I had a very thick bush, you see. If I’d dyed it green and stood in front of the gate you two would never have found us.”

  There was no way not to laugh at that.

  The tension relieved, Debbie accepted the offer of a seat on the ottoman and a tissue to dry her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she offered; somewhat generously, she thought. But Petra ignored the overture, preferring to concentrate on wriggling safely into the night-dress.

  With the rubber folds smoothed over each swell and dip of her sensuous form and the teats poked and prodded into comfortable compression, Petra cloaked the peignoir around her shoulders and sat at the foot of the bed one arm atop the cool brass rail.

  “Peter is a very tactile man. He likes things sticking to his fingers. Oddly enough, it doesn’t apply to money. He’s very generous with that.” She paused and studied Debbie closely. “You have nothing to apologise for. I should have known better than interfere. It is what this weekend is about, isn’t it?”

  Debbie swallowed: “Is it? I don’t know.”

  “I think you do. Now, anyway.

  “Maybe. But ...” again Debbie drew a deep breath, trying to quell the rising gobbet of fear which threatened to erupt violently from her stomach. “ ...but ... but he hit you!”

  “Spanked me. I forgot myself. Disobeyed him. If I hadn’t ...” she shrugged, “no problem.”

  “But ...”

  “But nothing! Listen, girl. There was - is - no coercion. I have a sharing relationship with a man who loves me as intently as I love him. Something perhaps alien to you as yet. Oh, I know you two love each other, but you have yet to share the caring.