Training Centre
Chapter 9

Copyright© 2016 by Tedbiker

Sex Story: Chapter 9 - A longer tale in the Post-Apocalyptic Britain of 'Auction' and 'The Heir'. The Chairman of the Midlands Committee, and his colleagues wish to modify the behaviour of their womenfolk and social circle. Some codes relate to later chapters. Please check them before beginning to read!

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/ft   Fa/ft   Reluctant   Coercion   BiSexual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Post Apocalypse   Spanking   Rough   Humiliation   First   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Lactation  

Monday; fourth active week.

Megan Sanderson – Zero Nine – seemed inclined to co-operate with the Centre regime. At any rate, she got up when called (if slowly), and presented herself at something approximating the prescribed parade rest. That she was the ninth to show up was not commented on, possibly because Ten – Linda Burgin – didn't appear at all.

Linda was treated in the same way as Jesmina Knott, up to and including three consecutive five minute spells on the wooden pony, with an equal lack of effect.

RSM Reg Smith looked her up and down, shaking his head. She was quite attractive, at least physically, with an hour-glass figure, long, tapered legs, firm breasts, and a smooth skin. Unfortunately her oval face, which should have been the completion of a top class model appearance, bore a very unpleasant expression indeed.

"Sergeant Olsen! Corp'l Edwards!"

"Yes, S'Major!" The two trainers trotted over. "Ten will be cuffed – hands behind her back – and secluded in her cell with the door locked. Bread and water in bowls – she can eat and drink like a dog. Or, rather, a bitch. If she makes noise, gag her."

"Yes, S'Major!" Sven Olsen responded for both of them, and Jane trotted off to fetch cuffs while the RSM stared Linda down. Or tried to; her defiance was strong.


Forty-eight hours with her hands cuffed behind her back, wearing a ball gag except at meal times, unable to carry out any but the most essential daily living tasks – eat and drink with difficulty out of bowls, piss and shit, sleep uneasily – had her rethinking her position. She started out as angry, became bored and angry. A severe lack of attention from the trainers or even the other trainees, who were discouraged from communicating with her had its effect, too.

Thursday morning, she got up at first call and stood behind the bars of her cell at parade rest. This was reported to the Major who authorised her cuffs and gag to be removed, and Dick Tracey was to shower with her and make sure she was clean and presentable. In the process, handling her body had the expected effect. She noted his erection, but didn't comment. He didn't demand any service and she didn't offer.

Bread and water breakfast, rendered even less interesting by the aroma of bacon from the other trainees' and trainers' breakfast. She watched as nine women were situated on Sybians. The Major, with Pete Norris and Dick Tracey, approached her.

"Well, Ten? Are you ready to join the rest of our trainees?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll start with the frame. Do we need to tie you down? Will you stay?"

"I will stay, sir."

"It may not be easy, Ten."

"I will stay, sir."

"On the frame, then."

While the other trainees were enjoying a series of orgasms thanks to the stimulation of their Sybians, Linda was experiencing what is generally referred to as a 'spit-roast', two trainers at a time, one at each end until all three in turn had ejaculated in her pussy. She worked out that, when they walked away, leaving her there with semen trickling out of her, that it was another test. She stayed in position.

When the session was complete, Pete Norris told her to get up, and he went with her into the shower. Once that was over and they were both dry, he made her scrub out her cell and clean up where assorted fluids had dripped about the discipline frame. She carried out her instructions without complaint, if not without some resentment.

After lunch – bread and water again – she had her first exercise session, followed by a further five injections of semen – three from the morning shift and two more from Jem Peterson and Andy Downs. She was still not complaining, though she was becoming sore. She was the only trainee to experience a live cock all day, and in fact had to service Sam that night too.

Saturday.

Linda, for the first time, participated fully in the programme and enjoyed a cooked breakfast with the others. Mid-morning, when the others went to assorted chosen activities (including Mirosa's singing lesson) and Megan received her computer, Linda paid the price of her recalcitrance. No computer. "Next week, Ten, if you continue to behave yourself," she was told. She sighed, very discreetly. Bored, she walked on the treadmill until lunch-time.

After lunch, though, she was introduced to the Sybian outside her cell. That was interesting. She'd wondered about the strange noises the others made, about the contortions of their bodies sometimes when they came – it looked like torture.

All the times she'd been fucked – and fucked is exactly the right term – no one had made any attempt to give her pleasure. That included the multiple penetrations by the trainers at the Centre. So she wondered at the odd sensations in her lower body. She was actually frightened by her first, intense, orgasm. By the end of the session, she had to be lifted off the device and carried to her cell. The trainer – Jem Peterson – who carried her laid her on the bed sideways, lifted and spread her legs and thrust into her gaping pussy.

It was a very different experience. For one thing, he was stimulating her clit with his thumb. For another, the angle meant the head of his cock was rubbing her G-spot every time he thrust. She came, and came and came again. Her screams informed everyone there of the fact, too. He had to support her to the shower, wash her and dry her, then carry her to her bed to recover.

At tea-time no-one ventured to comment on her dreamy expression; it was something most of the trainees had worn at some point since their admission. Neither did they comment on the way her eyes followed Jem. That night, she slept better than she had for years.

Sunday, fifth active week.

After the morning sex session, there was a little ceremony in which Helena, Karen, Belle and Griselda had their red collars exchanged for black ones. Mirosa watched as the women touched the new collars and made their way thoughtfully back to their cells. She made up her mind and followed Belle.

"How do you feel about that collar, Belle?"

The other woman frowned. "Feel?"

"Doesn't it mean you're ... available? To men, to use you?"

"All three holes?" Belle smiled. "I'm probably not the right person to ask. I actually like being used. I like to be hurt, did you know that?"

"You do? I wondered why you kept getting, well, there were those clamp things on your nipples, and I could hear you being spanked sometimes. Other stuff, too."

"I confess, I'd quite like to ride the wooden pony, too."

"Really? That sort of thing frightens me."

"It should. I didn't realise before, but pain ... pain helps me come. If you're not like that, it's just cruel." She sighed. "You need to talk to Helena, perhaps."

"I'm not sure..."

"I am. Come along."

Helena was playing the piano, an arrangement of Dvořák's 'Humoresque' number seven, so she was easy to find. She looked round and stopped. "Hullo, Mirosa. Come to sing?"

"Um ... I didn't want to disturb you."

"'S okay. I like playing while you sing."

"Actually," Belle interrupted, "she came to ask me about wearing a black collar. I told her I was the wrong person to ask."

"Oh, because..."

"Exactly."

"So what do you want to know, Mirosa?"

"Well, that black collar says 'you can do anything you like'. Or does it?"

"That depends where you are. I don't think I'd want to be outside in a black collar. At least, not without someone to look after me. But I've learned to put up with things I wouldn't have dreamed of doing before I came here. I don't much care for having a cock in my back passage, but at least here they make sure I'm properly prepared, so it's not really painful."

"I don't think I'd want it without lube," Belle said, "it hurts a bit anyway, but I don't mind that, as I said before."

"Here, I make sure I'm lubed up every morning," Helena said, "but usually the trainers check anyway. Most of them prefer my pussy, so it's just a precaution."

"I never thought I'd actually enjoy, you know, sex," Mirosa said, blushing. "In fact, I thought no man would want me like that."

"But you've learned differently, haven't you?" Helena giggled, girlishly. "I was similar. I never thought I'd enjoy sex, either. I was a bitch about it, too – which is why I ended up here. But that's the best thing that ever happened to me." She frowned again and went on, "Except having Karen. And I spoiled her."

"Hey, don't get down!" Belle scolded, "That's water under the bridge, dear. Both of you are learning differently, like Griselda and me. And, you know, I might never have found out what floats my boat and gets me going. It's been a revelation. I just hope Philippe can learn how to, you know..."

"You're going home when this is over?"

"I think so. Unless Philippe ... well, unless he doesn't want me."

"Me too," Helena said, "I think Sylvester will want me. I think. Otherwise ... well, I'll be looking for another career. And I doubt my piano playing will ever be good enough for people to pay to hear me."

"Humph." Mirosa almost snorted. "I don't know. At least you two look good."

"You don't seem to have any trouble with the men here," Belle pointed out. "Actually, you look pretty good, Mirosa, and you're toning up. Bert really likes you, you know."

Mirosa blushed hotly. "Well, maybe. He's nice to me, anyway."

"So!" Helena changed the subject abruptly. "Are you going to sing, or not?"

"Sing."


It was only women of the 'upper strata' of society who would be admitted to the Centre. Obviously, that was about power and influence; women from poorer elements could be easily dealt with. If the family did not want to apply suitable discipline, or if they fell foul of the law, there was always the slave block, or involuntary servitude in a less considerate milieu than the Centre. Where there was no-one to care, the women became merely property – objects to use.

The Committee set out to solve problems in their own families; problems for them, certainly, but also what they saw as problems for the community they administered. Committing members of their own family indicated their determination to make changes. Others in their social circle, also found in the centre an answer to their problems. It was not always the fault of the women that there were problems, of course...

That fifth week, the designed complement of the trainees at the centre was reached with the arrival of IS29/11 and IS29/12.

Eleven was Jennifer Butcher. At nineteen, she was only one year older than Bennie Hemming, whom she knew. Dark haired, tall, pale, slim and intense, she'd secluded herself in her room the day she finished her last examination and refused to talk to her father at all. Her mother had left trays of food outside her room and perhaps half the time some, or all, of the food had gone. Her father had somehow got her declared mentally ill and used that to get her admitted to the Centre. She wore a white collar.

Twelve was another study in contrasts. Barely average in height and, well, plump, she too had dark hair, but a dark complexion to go with it. She had a worn down, despondent air about her. She was Martina Rossetti, wife of yet another businessman, and thirty-eight years old.

The Major had been reading the information sent ahead of the new trainees from the hospital. Perhaps more correctly, he'd been reading between the lines. When the two women arrived, he gave them the usual spiel. They complied with his order to strip, blank-faced, and adopted the position he specified. The other trainees watched, with varied expressions, as he walked round them, but he didn't touch them.

"Eleven, Twelve, I want to talk to you in the office, separately." He looked round thoughtfully. "Zero Two, I'd like you to look after Eleven for a few minutes. Take her to your cell, or hers might be better. Twelve, stand firm. The rest of you, dismissed." The women scattered, some in pairs, including Karen and Jennifer, conversing. "Come with me, Twelve."

Martina trudged, head down, behind the Major to the office, where he pointed at a chair. "Sit, please." When she obeyed, he grabbed another chair and sat near, at an angle, rather than behind the desk. "Tell me, Twelve, why you're here."

She peered at him from under lowered eyebrows. "Isn't it all in the notes, sir?"

He snorted. "There's a lot in your notes. But after serving in the Army I can smell bullshit a mile off. Excuse the expression. But the notes are full of it."

 
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