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CHAPTER 10 : CHRYSALLIS
I wonder what they intend for me? What will my life be like, being enslaved to them? They make me wear a collar and they are keeping me imprisoned but apart from that, they are quite kind, in comparison to my nightmares. They don’t shout orders at me, when they tell me to do things they speak quietly, clearly but firmly. Yes, they cane me but from their point of view, I deserve it is because I have not done something I have been told to do or not done it as willingly or as carefully as I should have done. There’s always a reason. I can’t agree, of course, but when I reflect on the circumstances of the incident, there is always a reason, from their point of view.
Then there is the humiliation of having to charge my collar each night. The socket I have to use is about three feet from the floor of my cell, over by the door. The power cable is quite short, so I have to kneel. I kneel to forge one of the chains that binds me. I do it night after night after night. I thought of trying to electrocute myself on the cable once but it is too thick to tear open and the plug slides into a deep, close-fitting socket. There is no opportunity for my fingers to touch the live contacts. So, I have become complicit in my own confinement, as if it is what I desire, too. Just as Neena said. “You will never ever leave us. Your collar is your friend and will help you” Help me to stay confined. Help me to remain always a slave.
There is no calendar for me to see. Not in the kitchen, not in any of the corridors or rooms I have been in. I have completely lost track of how long I have been here, but it must have been weeks and weeks and weeks. Or even months?
What will Joe think now? Or my parents? What will they think of me? Will they think I have just run away? Will the police look for me? The girl, Neena, shredded my passport and Joe must have noticed that it is missing from our home, by now. He will wonder if I have gone abroad. Could the police find me abroad? Could they find me here? Or am I lost? Lost forever?
I’m still trying to imagine where I could possibly be. The girl Neena told me I was near Moscow. Do I believe her? Why should I? Yet why shouldn’t I believe her? There is no point in making me learn Russian if I am in some other country.
Today they took me out of my cell along the corridor and into the Gym. It’s a bit like the ones at Inward Bound and at the University. There are large windows which look out onto the grounds. There are lawns and pine trees, with the garden stretching up to an embankment above us. It’s all covered with deep snow at the moment, so it must still be winter. Winter: the last date I know was Tuesday 10th November. Each day seems to be the same, except that there have been parties. I know because I have had to clean up in the kitchen and there has been a lot more to do. Parties. That must mean it is near Christmas or New Year, or have they passed by?
The gym is much larger than the gym at Inward Bound and, I suppose you would say, more professional.
I’m with a man this time. He looks very fit. Very toned-up and solid. As usual, he says nothing in English, but points to each piece of equipment that he wants me to use, one after the other. He says something that I can’t understand exactly but it’s easy to “get the message”. He speaks with an insistent tone. He sounds as though he thinks I understand him; as if my lack of response is simply reticence. It’s a one sided conversation. It doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
I am taken to the gym almost every day. One day, he makes me run or go through an aerobics routine. The next day, he makes me work out with weights. On “weights days” I have to alternate a heavy work out with a less heavy work out on the next weights session. The training I am being put through seems to be very carefully thought out. They are not just making me work so I suffer or learn obedience or endurance or something. It seems to me that I am being trained for something but I have no idea what. Perhaps it’s just aesthetics, but it is changing me. I don’t mind the exercise, because I can lose myself in the effort. The harder I work, the harder it is to remember why I’m here. I can escape into a world where there is just me and the feeling of my muscles working. And they a realization comes. The programme is very well thought out. It is well thought out because they have done it before.
There may be particular reasons why they came after me, but I am not the first and I will not be the last. There is a line of ever so many girls (and who knows? Even boys?) stretching back into the past and on after me into the furure!
I’m starting to recognise the Russian names of the machines – Treadmill – Bench Press – Cross Trainer – and so on.
On a “heavy day” he makes me do four sets of lifts for each exercise: eight, six, four and finally two. He chooses weights that I really have to work hard to lift. He encourages me (if that’s the word) with taps of his riding crop if he thinks I am slacking but actually I don’t slack. Everything is much easier when I am just thinking about the weights.
On a light day, he has me work the same muscle groups but with lighter weights and more repetitions. The programmes work my back, chest and abs, arms, shoulders, legs and abs again.
I’m naked - except for the dreadful collar - but I’m always sweating and breathing hard at the end of it.
The gym sessions have become part of the routine of my incarceration. One day, running and aerobics. The next day weights. It takes … actually I do not know how long it takes. There is no clock and the Gym trainer does not wear a watch. As I get to manage the weights better, he makes me increase the repetitions on heavy days: eight, six, four, two, edges up to eight, eight, eight, eight and then he increases the weight I have to lift and I start the cycle over again. On light days, the weights are jumped up gradually as I get used to them. Every so often, he changes the programme. I still work the same areas of my body, but using different exercises and weights.
He’s keeping a minute record of my progress. He weighs me; measures the circumference of my arms and legs and chest; takes skin fold measurements. In the mornings I have to pee into a glass jug which they take away – to test I suppose.
They sometimes take blood from me - and they keep giving me injections. Every morning. I have no idea what they are for. I hope it’s something like vitamins but I don’t know what to ask and I don’t suppose they would tell me anyway.
They feed me well. Where the food at Inward Bound was chosen to help us loose weight; now I’m eating a lot of protein and carbohydrate. There’s not much fat in my diet. With all this exercise, I have no excess weight anymore. My muscles are plainly visible all over my body
As the weeks pass, I’m beginning to see real changes in my body. My arms and shoulders have grown. My tits are much more pert, lifted up by the development of the pectoral muscles underneath.
I suppose that the injections must be part of the body building programme too? Perhaps they’re steroids? I don’t really know much about that sort of thing but it must be something like that. I can’t imagine how I could make this much progress so quickly, just on my own. What are they going to do with me in the long term? If there is a long term.
There are mirrors in the gym. You need them to be able to make sure your posture is right as you work – although I don’t have to worry; a tap with the crop on calves or thighs or butt soon corrects a bad position. Mostly I don’t really see myself, see Jenny McEwan, I just see this “other person” exercising; someone separate, someone different. Then one day, I see myself as myself for the first time in a long time. I catch sight of my physique reflected in the gym mirrors.
In spite of the fact that my tits are more prominent, the rest of me is becoming less feminine and more … more androgynous.
The more they work me, the more they inject me, the more I change.
I’m leaving the person I was further and further behind. I wonder if I’m even recognisable to the people who once knew me? Would even Joe know me, if he saw me again?
The changes I see: they’re all my own fault, in a way. Although I am merely being obedient, doing as I have been told when I work-out, it’s my own efforts which are bringing about all these changes. I should be horrified and refuse, but how can I? I’m all alone, with them. There is absolutely no one on my side, except perhaps they are on my side? I mean, they treat me well. They look after me. They feed me. They only punish me if I don’t do the things that they think I need to do. Perhaps they are on my side? Perhaps this is how it’s meant to be, for me?
I have noticed something else too - my skin has got darker. I’m normally a pale creamy colour except when I go on holiday and then I go a “Scandinavian brown”. I suppose it’s my mother’s genetics. But now, even though I’m not outside, my skin is tanned as if I’ve been in the sun all the time, for weeks at a time. It is the deepest darkest tan I have ever had. It must have been very gradual, because I’ve only just noticed. But now I can see it just by looking at my arms and legs, my tummy, my hands and feet – I don’t need mirrors. But the mirrors provide confirmation.
And that’s not all. I feel horny all the time. It began as a vague feeling of arousal but now it’s built up to be present all the time. Just as my skin has changed. Gradually but unmistakably. I hadn’t noticed it happening but now I know it’s very different from how it used to be. I can hardly keep my hands off myself; hardly stop thinking about sex. I keep rubbing myself whenever I can; whenever they are not watching me.
I even feel like this while I work hard during the bodybuilding routines. I’m almost getting a sexual pleasure from the way my muscles burn after a workout. While I’m exercising I’m watching my trainer like a hawk. There’s a sensual pleasure in the way that his muscles move under his vest. He catches me staring at his crotch but he doesn’t say or do anything about it.
With the way my posture has changed and the pumped up feeling of my muscles I’m angry with myself for just doing what they want but I’m so horny as well that I don’t want to stop.
Is that what they want? Or is that what I want? My trainer - the man - watches me working hard at the treadmill, pounding away relentlessly. He smiles, standing legs astride, watching me. I’m sure I can see the swell of his cock beneath his shorts. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m watching him. I’m running harder than ever. I have no choice but actually, I do not think I want a choice anymore. I am going to change into the person they want and that’s that.
Finally a realization dawns. The programme is very well thought out. It is well throught out because they have done it before. There may be particular reasons why they came after me, but I am not the first and I will not be the last. There is a line of ever so many girls (and who knows, even boys?) stretching back into the past and on after me into the future! I feel as if they have poured cold water over me again. The shock of realization. Its not particularly about me. It’s about what I represent. A particular collection of knowledge and talents which are useful for the moment and will be discarded when the usefulness comes to an end, in favour of someone else. I suddenly feel very cold and sick. My claim on life seems to be much more tenuous and provisional. To be kept alive only whilst you are useful …
As Jenny is forced to juggle her desires, her fears, her life and the insistences of her owners, her owners are thinking about her too.
Anatoly has just arrived back at the dacha from Moscow. Sveta sits on the couch in the comfortable room they use as an office. She is crossed legged, with her laptop open, watching the closed circuit TV input from the gym.
She is feeling better about the girl. It seems her sessions in the gym are at last providing her with some ‘reward’ for all the work which is demanded from her. At last, she is being built up physically as some respite from being torn down psychologically. Sveta hopes Vyera can find some solace here at least and at the moment, these thoughts salve some of the guilt and discomfort that Sveta has felt over the girl’s abduction and transportation. After all, it was not Sveta’s idea, so why does she feel so guilty?
“So how is our acquisition doing?” Anatoly asks.
Sveta looks up. “Very well. Tolya, I’m delighted! Have you been watching?”
“No I haven’t. I have had too much else to do but let me see.”
Anatoly joins Sveta and together they look at the computer screen. There’s an image of Vyera being taken back to her cell by Andrei. Her skin is really quite dark brown now, a marked contrast against the white walls. Her muscles have built up. They show excellent hypertrophy and definition. She looks much more like a body builder than an academic. It seems to suits her, completely.
“Hmmm,” Anatoly looking closely, leaning over the screen. “The combination of the steroids and the exercise has been very effective. The melanocyte stimulating hormone has had its effect too.”
“Not really a pale English rose, is she?” Sveta replies.
Anatoly grins. He approves of the transformation which has been achieved.
“And look, she keeps masturbating.” Sveta points at the screen as Vyera, furtively runs her hands up the insides of her thighs trying to use her body to shield what she’s doing from the cameras that she knows are there, watching her. Something in the way she does it convinces Sveta that Vyera knows she has almost certainly failed to keep her masturbation secret and she still doesn’t care.
“So she does. That’s what I expected. It’s a side effect of the hormone which is darkening her skin. (1) After it was developed there were efforts to increase its effectiveness and some of the formulations also increased libido. Commercially this was felt to be a bit of a nuisance but I got hold of a version of own….”
“Our own?”
“I mean one developed here, not in the West”
“Ah. Tolya, I thought for a moment you’d been branching out into new businesses without telling me!” Sveta teases him, giving him the opportunity to think about what she might do to him if he had!
“Anyway, this particular variant very much increases libido and I thought it would be fun to try it out on her. It will take her mind away from her other problems perhaps.”
“Well maybe but, you know Tolya, I think that it might be keeping Vyera’s mind from her other work. And that’s not good. I’m going to arrange for her to have something which might help her to manage her urges. We have all her measurements. I’m sure I can find something to help.”
“Help by alleviating the problem, or simply preventing her from succumbing to it? A helpful way or a frustrating way?
Sveta gives Anatoly a wicked grin. “Anatoly, before long she will be boiling!”
He shakes his head. “Sveta, you are a dangerous woman,” he says with respect in his voice.
She smiles. She is happy for him to know that. “Yes,” she replies, “I am, and you will not forget it, will you?” She rubs Anatoly’s shaven head and winks. She has still has not given him permission to grow his hair again.
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Footnotes:
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
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