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JOSEPHINE A Novel by Miss Anthropy (c) 2000 Miss Anthropy. All rights reserved. This is an erotic work of fiction the setting of which is an alternative history of the United Kingdom. Any resemblance of the characters therein to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The text contains strong language and depictions of persons engaged in violent, sexual and/or degrading acts that some people may find offensive. "In woman, a slave and a tyrant have all too long been concealed" FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE CONTENTS Chapter One:The Sentence Chapter Two:Ladies Only Chapter Three:The New Order Chapter Four:The Lower Basement Chapter Five:Team Sports Chapter Six:The Release Chapter Seven:In the Household Chapter Eight:Captured Pawns Chapter Nine:Party Games Chapter Ten:The Chain of Command Chapter Eleven:Miss Smythe Chapter Twelve:Veronica Chapter Thirteen:The Flight Chapter Fourteen:Internal Discipline Chapter Fifteen:The Director CHAPTER ONE - THE SENTENCE The Judge resumed her seat and, except for the accused, all present followed suit. She peered down on him as he calmly awaited sentence and, for some unknown reason, a thin smile crossed her lips. "Joseph Smythe!" she intoned. "You have been found guilty of seditious libel and the possession of subversive literature, and I will now pass sentence upon you for these offences." The onlookers leant forwards. This was the moment they had been waiting for in delightful anticipation. The Judge continued. "Although there are some who deny it, these are amongst the most serious of charges. They strike at the heart of society, the community and therefore all of us. In dealing with you now, I will treat them as such." She drew breath. Death; thought Joseph, resting his hands on the dock in front of him. He prayed that he would be ready for it, ready to accept his fate with dignity, on his feet, eyes fixed forwards at the Judge. "In spite of this," she said, "I will also show mercy. Mercy you will not understand now, but we pray you will come to appreciate later." A surge of whispers began before the Judge silenced it by glancing round the room. This was unexpected. Many had hoped for a hanging, but it seemed that the Judge had something different in mind. "There are some who believe that defiance to the will of society has two distinct causes," she lectured. "Firstly there are the weak and stupid. People who cannot understand what is expected of them. These can be cured through care, education and discipline and thereby turned into useful members of society. In your pamphlet, every copy of which we will destroy, you criticised our excellent programme for curing male delinquency by the use of female hormones. You wilfully ignored the evidence that this programme has dramatically reduced the incidence of all categories of crime because you cannot accept that society cares for all its members, however vile their behaviour might be." "You know that you are also an enemy of society and therefore in our eyes a criminal, but believe yourself to be in a different category. These are people who are neither weak nor stupid, but in full understanding of the rules of the community choose to set themselves apart from it. You think that you have a right to believe in outmoded political ideas and to ignore the law where it conflicts with these ideals. If we punish you, you will regard yourself as a martyr to your chosen cause. I will not indulge this fantasy." She paused and looked down on her victim like a hawk surveying a frightened rabbit caught in an open field. The monologue was delivered with growing delight as though she had found the perfect sentence. "I have studied your case very carefully, and it is clear to me that your political views arise as a result of mental defects. Your belief in democracy and obsession with individual freedom proves that you are oblivious to the basic laws of human interaction; obedience, authority and community. Because of this, you cannot be a complete human being. This fills me with pity and disgust in equal measure. Despite this, I, and the rest of society, will prove that this moral blindness, stemming as it does from the exclusively male weaknesses of personal pride and alienation can and will be eradicated." Joseph realised what the sentence would be and became pale. His worst nightmare was about to become reality. The hawk swooped. "You will become a responsible member of the community. We will take you into our hands, destroy you completely and rebuild you as a humble, obedient and respectful woman. I hereby sentence you to involuntary gender reversal and detention until such a time as you are fit for release into society. Take her down." As the gavel came down with a crash the courtroom burst into commotion. Applause and catcalls merged into a blur as Joseph's world began to fade around him. Too late, he realised he had lost his grip on the dock and was swooning back into the arms of the policemen. His grim prediction that gender reversal might one day be used against political offenders had just come horribly true. When he came to he was lying on his back on a cold hard surface with a large figure leaning over him. His jacket and tie had been removed and the figure, a female prison officer with short black hair, was gently rousing him. "Come on, dear, wake up," she said. He realised he was lying on a wooden bench in the whitewashed corridor at the foot of the stairs which lead up to the fateful dock. There was still a gentle hubbub drifting down from the courtroom. Still heavy and delirious he tried to sit up. This must be a nightmare. "What happened? I fell..." he started. "Stay quiet. Drink." she pushed a paper cup full of cold water into his trembling hands. Behind her was another wardress, not as tall but much fatter than her colleague, standing with her hands on her hips. "You were out for quite a while," continued the first wardress. "The police brought you down here ten minutes ago." "Bit of a scene up there," the other wardress sniggered. "And in the papers tomorrow no doubt. They called us up just in case, but no-one though they'd go for it. You're legally a woman now. How do you feel about that?" "Do you think you can walk?" asked the first woman. Joseph began to feel the bruises from his fall but at least the sensation had returned to his limbs. "I think so." "I think so, Miss," hissed the fat wardress. There was a painful pause. "Sorry..... Miss." Joseph said slowly. Something in him rebelled against that, but he was tired. "Thank you," said the first woman. "I can see you have a lot to learn, though we will try to be patient. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you for your clothes in a moment. Can you find me something for her, Miss Jones?" "What size?" "Hmmm. Try a 16." Miss Jones waddled away through a side door, while the first wardress, presumably her superior, helped Joseph to his feet. She was well built, with a tight athletic figure, quite attractive in fact, and her crisp uniform seemed to suit her perfectly. "By the way, I'm Miss Stapleton and I'm a Senior Officer," she said. "I look after the unit that takes care of people like you until the surgical procedure is complete, so you'll be seeing quite a lot of me. Most of the time you'll be with the medical team, mind you, but I take care of security. And the discipline side of things, of course. Through the little door on the left please." The door led into a small white tiled room with a table in the middle and some thick but transparent plastic bags in the corner. "Right then," said Miss Stapleton, closing the door behind her. "Everything goes into one of those bags. You'll get it all back once your sentence is complete, though you won't have much use for the clothing. If anyone so much as sees you out of a skirt you'll get a good flogging and six months back inside. We don't want that, do we?" Slowly and painfully, Joseph began to undress, dropping the remainder his creased brown suit onto the floor. The room was unheated and he shivered as he exposed more flesh to the cold. A knock came on the door, and Miss Jones came in holding a small orange bundle. She watched the scene with approval. "Don't be shy love, that's it. And the underwear, if you please," Miss Stapleton ordered. Joseph began to glow red with embarrassment as, divested of his other clothes, he slid his underpants down his legs. "Nothing there to hide," chortled Miss Jones, staring at his testicles. "Shall we take 'em off with tweezers?" "That's enough of that, Miss Jones," cautioned Miss Stapleton. "Men get upset by that sort of joke. It's the only thing they're sensitive about, mind you. Hands on your head, Smythe." He obeyed. She began to walk around him in a slow circle, inspecting his naked body. "Anything to declare?" she asked, casually lifting one of his buttock cheeks. Joseph tensed his muscles. The wardress laughed and let go of him. "We'll do a proper search when we get to the prison," she said, giving the buttock a playful slap. "Now bag up your clothes and get dressed." Five minutes later, he was standing before them in a thin orange polyester smock marked 'Government Property' that hung loosely about his body, gently brushing against the hairs that stood on end from the cold. "Good girl," beamed Miss Stapleton. "A lot of my customers struggle like mad the first time we put them in a dress." "It's more fun when there's a fight involved if you ask me." put in Miss Jones, pulling out a pair of handcuffs from her belt. "Home office rules, love. Arms out in front if you please." "One more thing," said the senior wardress as Miss Jones slapped on the handcuffs. "We're allowed to call female prisoners by their first names if we want to. I think it makes for a better atmosphere. Your old name feminises fairly easily to 'Josephine'. I like to get on with my girls if I can. Is the van ready, Miss Jones?" "I think so, Miss. It's out the back, but we'd better hurry." The Press had discovered the location of the van and, despite heavy police presence, managed several shots of "Josephine", trying to hide his face behind his manacled hands. The image would be used, no doubt, to underline the triumph of the Community Party extremists in the tabloids next morning. Anxious to escape the photographers, the wardresses pulled him into the darkness of the van and slammed the door with all three of them inside. The baying of the journalists outside continued as they pushed him down into a seat. As the van ground forwards the horror of the situation finally overcame him and before he knew it tears were running down his cheeks. "Don't worry," whispered Miss Stapleton, who sat beside her prisoner, sliding a burly arm behind him. She guided his head down into her lap and began wiping his face with her free hand. "You're one of us now, or soon will be. Do as we say and we'll look after you. Lie still." In the comfort of her arms Joseph allowed himself to drift into half consciousness, rocked gently by the motion of the van. Hours before, he had sworn to resist his oppressors, to fight them to the death, a death that would make him a martyr for freedom. But the Judge's words echoed in his ears. They were going to force him to repent and, worse still, to 'cure' him. The humiliation of the sentence, and the way in which parts of it were immediately carried out, had smashed his pride into a thousand pieces. Joseph Smythe, the left wing academic renowned for his hatred of the new Government and defence of the old ways of democracy and freedom, has been silenced at last and now stared blankly into the abyss of destruction. He had no future. But another soul was stirring inside the body of the prisoner. A lonely, frightened spirit that had been governed by Joseph Smythe's obsessions since childhood and had never had chance to flower into a person. This soul shared none of its former master's humiliation and accepted physical discomfort as the natural and healthy state of being. All this soul felt now was the warmth of the firm but handsome wardress. It wanted her to draw it closer to her bosom like a new born infant. The journey lasted many hours, and Joseph spent much of it asleep, exhausted by the trial. Despite Miss Jones's objections, Miss Stapleton took off the handcuffs and allowed him to lie down on the bench opposite them. She even found an old blanket to keep him warm. "You'll be reading a bedtime story next," snorted Miss Jones. "She's my responsibility and I'll treat her any way I choose." came the curt reply. North Castle Women's Penitentiary had been founded in 1874 by a group of philanthropists appalled by the treatment of women in the stinking, overcrowded gaols of the time. They held a belief that, aside from a few extremes they regarded as medical cases, all women were inherently morally good and therefore had the potential to become useful members of society. Female criminality, they believed, resulted solely from women being led astray under the domination of wicked men and could be cured if the patient was removed from these influences. Their model prison would seek to cure such fallen women by the application of an exacting formula of care and discipline in a healthy, all female environment, with a strong emphasis on developing feminine attitudes of humility and obedience. This, they felt, would allow the true goodness to emerge from the prisoner. Though it did not share their lofty ideals, the government of the day was happy to relieve itself of some of its female convicts and even more delighted to find that the regime was, on the whole, much more effective than that of existing prisons at deterring inmates from re-offending. Funds for extending the regime to other institutions were, however, sadly unavailable. North Castle was therefore allowed to operate strictly according to its own regulations, and, while the world changed around it, the fortress stayed the same for almost a century. Although many considered its regime enlightened by Victorian standards, it began to acquire a reputation as the harshest women's prison in the country. In particular, some of the more inventive forms of discipline employed in the prison began to attract lurid interest from some quarters. Faced with the possibility of legal action from the foundation governing the prison if they tried to alter the regime, the Government finally closed the establishment altogether and, though the foundation survived as a pressure group, the old stone buildings were used as an isolation hospital for several years. To the horror of some feminists, but to the delight of others of a more authoritarian cast, the new government had allowed North Castle to reopen as a women's prison, managed as a public-private sector partnership with the old foundation who gleefully re-imposed the original regime in almost every detail. The success of the institution and its popularity within the Community Party was astonishing. The prison itself was located in a moor in the north of England, partly built on the foundations of a thirteenth century castle. It was constructed as an oblong quadrangle laid around a cobblestone courtyard with an imposing tower gateway and smaller turrets in each corner. Unlike many gaols built at the time it had surprisingly few single cells, in accordance with its founders' wishes that, wherever possible, female prisoners should be made to live together and share responsibility for one another's welfare. It was, in other words, a near perfect physical manifestation of Community Party philosophy, and, five years after reopening, an ideal site for their bravest experiment yet in penology. Although criminals subjected to the milder forms of feminisation were generally held in segregated units within ordinary jails, it was felt that the few sentenced to full gender reversal should be kept with other women. Medical facilities were also essential. Despite resistance from some, but not all, of the Trustees, North Castle was selected to house them. Joseph knew a little about the place and its strange association with the government but, hardly expecting the sentence he had been given, had failed to connect it in his mind. An electric shock ran through him when, having shaken him awake, Miss Stapleton announced their destination. "North Castle Penitentiary," she said with a flourish as the van door opened onto the grim courtyard. "I hope you will work with us to make your stay here constructive. Welcome to the family." Lady Justice Henrietta Raven relaxed in the back of the black limousine that drifted effortlessly through the heaving streets of London. She had removed her judicial regalia and now wore only her favourite peach coloured suit, beautifully tailored and very expensive, with a white silk blouse underneath. Her physical stature matched her formidable intellect and, in her youth she was well known for her athletic prowess. Even now she took a leading role in the local country sports association. Her legal mind had taken her quickly to the top of her profession and her tireless struggle for female supremacy had made her the darling of the Community Party. It was her moral arguments, she considered, which had helped to legitimise the party's raft of legal reforms, and she prided herself in being on the panel of experts who had helped to frame the new sedition laws. Today, these laws had faced and passed the ultimate test. They had been used to full effect for the first time. Furthermore, she had dared to use the gender reversal sentence, serenely merciful and supremely crushing, to magnify the crime while utterly belittling the criminal. Her victory seemed complete, but something was troubling her, an uncertainty that often afflicted her after a major triumph. Had she gone too far? Might the Home Secretary intervene if he felt that public opinion was against the sentence? Never! By the time the Party's policies had become too extreme for him he was too weak to stop them. As the only man remaining in the Cabinet, the others would almost certainly overrule him. But why did she feel uncomfortable? She realised that it was the nervous energy that had built up inside her during the trial and worked into a frenzy when she realised that the case was won. It was only released at an intellectual level when she passed sentence. The experience had stirred the juices in her body, which cried out for relief and expression. In a good foxhunt the emotional delight of the triumph of collective power and ritualised authority over elusive vermin was accompanied by a breath of fresh air and a burst of physical achievement. In court, her mind pranced victoriously over a defeated foe while her body remained immobile. She would need to tend to the needs of the body to restore her natural balance. As the powerful car gathered speed she considered how this balance might be met. Prostitutes were dangerous these days, even though the new Public Morality laws permitted all forms of lesbianism as 'natural acts of fellowship between women' while damning nearly everything else outside of marriage. She felt for a moment that she might contact one of her old friends, perhaps someone from her boarding school she might seduce in front of her great fireplace. That might be difficult, she thought, and, in any case, it was more than simply sex that she needed. She felt the urge express her physical power over an inferior being who would submit to anything she chose to do to her. Then she had an idea. Alison. Alison was studying for a law degree in the Oxford college of which Henrietta had been made an honoury Fellow shortly after the Party came to power. She was an exceptionally beautiful girl, with delicate features and fair hair whose father, a compulsive gambler, had recently blown his brains out after the stock market crash had obliterated the family fortune. The girl had impressed the older woman with her intellect at a college dinner, and, on hearing that her father's death had let her penniless and unable to continue her studies, Henrietta took the opportunity to dip into her considerable fortune to rescue her. Certain conditions applied to such assistance of course. Henrietta reached into her handbag for her mobile phone and casually tapped in a number. "Alison! Where are you? Excellent. Manor house. Eight o clock sharp. Yes, overnight. The women on the gate will pay the cab as usual. Good." She snapped the mobile shut and stretched her legs, delighting in anticipation of the evening to follow. Alison was not a natural lesbian, but Henrietta was determined to develop her potential. Two hundred miles away, the Governess of North Castle Penitentiary was preparing to deliver her introductory lecture to the newest addition to her collection of prisoners. Although she had been asked to send two of her staff down to London by the Home Office, she had expected them to come back empty handed. She did not imagine the courts would actually use the gender reversal sentence in a political case. She selected the new file with Smythe's name and a number stencilled on it from amongst the other papers arranged neatly on her desk. Although privately shocked by what had happened, she would remember her duty as a public servant and obey her orders to the letter. Smythe would be treated like any other prisoner. Nevertheless, it was with some apprehension that she called "enter" when she heard Miss Stapleton's unmistakable knock on her office door. The wardresses filed into the room with their prisoner between them looking wide eyed and bewildered. In accordance with the regulations they had put him in a white surgical gown that went down almost to his bare feet and strapped his arms behind him. He would have undergone an intimate body search on arrival and his hair was still dripping wet from the obligatory freezing cold shower. The Governess was glad of the way prisoners were treated just before their introduction to her; it made them harmless and unable to hurt her in any way. The office itself was large, perhaps too large for its purpose and was sparsely furnished, with pale blue walls and a very high ceiling. There were two enormous arched windows, heavily barred and shrouded in net curtains, looking out onto the courtyard some thirty feet below. It was now dark outside, but the floodlights outside cast an atmospheric glow into the room. Though it was late in October, the windows were open a little to allow the outside air to whistle through the room. The Governess liked it that way; it kept her awake and helped her to concentrate as she scribbled away at her walnut desk, which sat on a raised platform opposite the windows. On the hardwood floor in front of her desk were painted three white circles about a foot in diameter and two feet apart. The central one was set forwards from the other two, with a large letter "X" inside it. The governess put on her heavy round glasses as her minions guided Smythe into the central circle, and took up position in the circles behind him. They had both drawn out their batons which they now held in front of them, gripping them tightly with both hands. Smythe looked at the Governess. She was older than the two wardresses, perhaps about forty five or fifty years old with shiny brown hair cut into a bob. Despite the chilly air in the room, she wore an open necked blouse and her coat was neatly arranged on a hanger behind her. Also on the wall behind her desk was a portrait of the Prime Minister, the new Seal of State and a large crucifix. "Prisoner 828 B Alpha Smythe," barked Miss Stapleton. "Female designate, twenty nine, seditious libel, subversive material, possession. Reversal and indefinite detention. No previous time served, ma'am." "Thank you, Veronica," replied the Governess. "Does she have a Christian name yet?" "Answer the Governess," Miss Stapleton prompted. Suddenly, something snapped in Smythe's mind. Joseph Smythe, rational thinker and people's crusader against the abuse of power had been stunned into silence from the moment of the sentence, and had remained in a stupor while some other energy had kept his body moving. But the sight of the symbols he had learnt to despise brought him sharply to his senses, and a rage at the indignity of his treatment rose within him. The women were waiting for an answer. He would give them one. "My name is Joseph Smythe, and I have not committed any..." Miss Jones stepped forward behind him. The Governess nodded. The sickening blow that crashed into Joseph's ribcage sent him sprawling onto the floor. Miss Jones had knocked the wind clean out of him and for a moment of terror he could not breathe before his lungs filled slowly with air. The women above him looked down, fingering the handles of their truncheons. Slightly embarrassed, the Governess muttered a short prayer under her breath. The pain, agonising to begin with, subsided very quickly. Miss Jones prided herself in her knowledge of how to shock, stun and, above all, terrify a victim with a simple truncheon blow without causing permanent damage. She had perfected this art on hysterical female convicts, instantly cowing them into submission, and was delighted to discover that the technique worked equally well on male victims. "Help her," said the Governess. Miss Jones obliged by seizing hold of Joseph's hair, and, with the help of Miss Stapleton who supported him by his trussed arms, dragged him up into a kneeling position right in front of the raised desk so her could just about see over it's shiny surface. The Governess looked down, a motherly expression of concern on her face. "That was very silly, Josephine. Very silly indeed. You must always answer truthfully any question put to you, and not speak unless I, or another responsible person asks you to do so. Please help us not to hurt you again. Do you understand?" "Yes. Yes, ma'am." He could barely speak, but his strength was slowly returning. He began to feel the bruises from the blow and his fall. She smiled. "Then perhaps you could tell me your Christian name." "Josephine." The name came instantly out of his mouth as his voice regained it's tone. "Josephine, ma'am." "Thank you, Josephine. Now let's see if you can stand up again." The rebellion was over, and something inside the prisoner felt genuine regret that Joseph's outburst had made these kind women use violence to restrain him. The bruises on Josephine's outer temporary body were inflicted by the arrogance of the vile creature Joseph that had been master for so long. The wardresses helped their captive to stand while the Governess began her standard discourse. "Now there are a few things about this institution that you need to understand," she began, in an officious manner. "You will understand these things before you have been here for very long; my staff and I will make certain that you do, but it will be more comfortable for you if you try to learn them now. Firstly, the political nature of your offences, and the penalty the Court has imposed, do not mean you will be treated any differently from any of the other girls sent here. The only differences are that, while the medical procedure is at an early stage, you will be kept separately from the others. "I also refuse to have one of my uniforms contaminated by a hideous female designate until I am personally satisfied that her femininity has reached an acceptable level." She smiled. "Don't worry, recent advances in medical science mean that this will be much sooner than you think. The sooner we can have you in the general population, the better." "This, you understand, is only the beginning. Cutting out the bad bits of your body and replacing them with nice ones is only a prerequisite to the real work of this establishment, which has been going on for over one hundred years. Why do you think you have been brought here, Josephine?" The wardresses, who were still supporting Joseph on his feet, gripped him tighter, with their batons ready in their free hands. The nylon straps binding his hands were digging into his wrists, and his arms were aching from cramp and his bruises. He took a deep breath. "Because you want to change me. To make me into a woman, ma'am," he replied, glad that his mind was working again. A neutral, bald statement of fact. The Governess smiled. "Well done! I can see that we will teach you very quickly. And why are we doing this?" A number of answers crossed Joseph's mind here. Most he dismissed as dangerous, either as defiance or obvious sarcasm, either of which would bring more pain. It was, it crossed his mind, an interesting question, and one he had never completely answered in his invectives against the Community Party's penal policies. He needed something neutral, something safe. "To protect society?" This was more hesitant. "That's right, but there's much more to it than that. Those male hormones have poisoned your brain so much that you don't realise that we actually want to help you. We want to help you to become a better person so that you can play a part in our community!" Though clearly reciting the official party line, she seemed genuinely enthusiastic. "In the old days, heretics like you would be executed or kept in prison for the rest of their lives. If we were only interested in protecting society, we would still do that today." They still did, when it suited them, thought Joseph. But again there was a voice in the back of his mind that wanted to believe that this woman would help and to protect him if only he let her. She continued. "You are very lucky to be here, though you won't realise it to begin with. This is because some of the ways in which we train our girls seem unpleasant. Some of them, like the one Miss Jones had to use a few minutes ago, are intended to show you the consequences of being disobedient. Others are things that unhealthy people do not enjoy at first, but good ones find most pleasurable. You will probably find the outdoor games we do here fall into this category." "When you have convinced me that we have turned you into a better person, you will be ready for the next stage. We will slowly introduce you back into the community by finding you a suitable employer you will learn to obey in the way we will have taught you to obey us here. With our help if necessary, they will complete your education and if you satisfy them over a two year period you will be free to do as you choose within the law." "Most of our graduates stay with their employers for longer and you will find that a great many domestic staff started learning their manners right where you are standing at the moment. I am proud to say that we are also represented in religious orders and the nursing profession. Some of the girls end up working as wardresses here, though we ask them to wear a special badge so that the others know what happened to them. Miss Jones has one, and we're very proud of her." Fingernails dug into Joseph's left arm. Miss Jones did not appear to share her mistress's enthusiasm for discussing this particular topic. "Now, before we finish I would be delighted to answer any questions that you have. Please don't waste time by saying anything foolish. Miss Jones doesn't want to hurt you again." Joseph was curious. "When will the operation happen, ma'am?" "Much sooner than you think. We should be ready to do you tomorrow or the day after. It's important to get the surgical stage over with as soon as possible." For political reasons, thought Joseph. He felt sickened at the prospect of what was about to happen to him, but in another way quite calm. The treatment they would give him would turn him into en entirely different person, that was clear. A person that he did not know and could not identify with. Someone inhabiting his body, albeit in a mutilated form but with another personality. Joseph Smythe would be destroyed forever. He remembered the tranquillity of his mind when he faced the prospect of his death and became aware that, the person he used to be had been sentenced to death. "Will I remember who I was before you cured me?" he thought out loud. "Oh yes!" beamed the Governess. "You will remember and understand everything much more than you do now. I'm afraid you will hate yourself at first for the things you did wrong but, when you are one of us, you will learn to forgive your previous self, just as we forgive you now. I think that you in particular will find our programme of religious instruction comforting." "I'm an atheist." The words came out of his mouth before he had time to think. The Governess was astonished for a moment, and Miss Jones raised her weapon prematurely. With a sudden resolve, the Governess shouted. "Jones! Off! Don't you dare hit Josephine for that reason!" She was almost overcome with rage for a moment. Utterly cowed and humbled by her mistress's anger, the young wardress dropped her baton to the floor with a clatter. "Nobody can be forced to accept religion, child!" The Governess began to calm down. "Miss Stapleton! Please could you note one further Disciplinary Mark for Miss Jones. Miss Jones, do I need to remind you that there are six months left of your two year probation to run? Or should I ask Miss Stapleton to find a more tangible means of restoring your memory?" Silence. "Well?" "I'm sorry, ma'am. I forgot Rule Thirty Seven, ma'am. It won't happen again." "I sincerely hope it does not! Pick up your truncheon and resume your rightful position as a trusted servant of this establishment." "Yes, ma'am." Miss Jones fell into a sullen silence. "Now, Josephine," continued the Governess. "You have seen that you will be treated fairly and in accordance with the rules. I am glad that you have told me you do not know about God, because it means we have to make a special effort to help you. Attendance at chapel is compulsory for all girls, but we will never use force to make you accept the truth of Christianity. Belief in the State is a matter of duty, and we will obtain that by force from you if we have to, but only God has the power to bring you to your knees before Him." The Governess was staring past her minions and their captive, looking out into the ethereal light beyond the windows. A pause for reflection and she dismissed all three of them. "I think I'm going to enjoy Miss Smythe's moral education," she whispered to herself. Judge Henrietta Raven's Oxfordshire mansion was suitable for her in many ways, not least in its imposing structure. Set in acres of woodland kept much as it had been for hundreds of years, the house itself had been built in the seventeenth century, though partly rebuilt two hundred years later after being severely damaged in a fire. The elegant Victorian frontage with its understated Gothic lured the unsuspecting visitor into the dark Jacobean chambers within. In the great hall a cavernous ceiling, sporting the original blackened beams, frowned over a truly enormous fireplace with an old iron spit large enough to roast a pig whole. It was truly a spectacular residence, and it had a history to match. Seized from a Royalist nobleman in 1646, the house was awarded to a Major General in Oliver Cromwell's New Model Army. Although a good soldier, he was an unimaginative man who lived entirely under the sway of his domineering wife. She forced him to accept an appointment as a regional governor under the military dictatorship Cromwell established after the Civil War and lost no time at all in abusing her husband's authority. The house soon became the unofficial headquarters of her network of spies, informers, corrupt Army officers and other, less savoury characters. The primary purpose of this network was to amass a considerable personal fortune, mostly made up of items torn from the homes of Royalist sympathisers or plundered from churches by Puritan zealots. There were, however, rumours that she was not averse to having her minions abduct a young man or, more frequently, a woman, from the village nearby to satisfy her voracious appetite for sexual pleasure. Henrietta liked to believe these rumours about her distant ancestor and often mulled them over in her mind while relaxing in her leather armchair beneath the scorched rafters of the giant room. One of her servants had actually found something that appeared to be an old manacle with a chain attached to it, sadly too rusted to be serviceable, half buried in one of the cellars. This now adorned the fireplace opposite the roasting spit as a useful talking point when she wanted to excite a guest with tales of the house's history. Fortunately, one of the maids had anticipated the arrival of her mistress and, by the time Henrietta returned, the great fire was already roaring. Henrietta did not believe in central heating, preferring to keep old fashioned fires glowing in the rooms she inhabited while letting the rest of the house stay cold. In fact, the great fire in the hall was so powerful that, when the logs were heaped upon it in the depths of winter, its warmth radiated throughout the house. Henrietta joked that any visitor could never lose themselves in the mansion; the hear from the great fireplace would always guide them to the hall. Henrietta sat in her usual position close to the fire awaiting the arrival of the evening's guest. She thought for a minute about Smythe, trying to imagine how miserable he, or rather she, must be feeling at the moment. Henrietta had a considerable amount of influence in the Home Office which she might bring to bear to ensure that Smythe's treatment was suitably unrelenting but, she considered, it probably wasn't worth the effort. Besides, she had other things on her mind. The sound of two pairs of heels clicking on the hardwood floor roused Henrietta from her contemplation. Her oldest housemaid, a fat woman in her forties who could barely squeeze into her tightly buttoned uniform had just shown Alison into the far end of the room. Henrietta motioned for her guest to come forwards, leaving the maid standing smartly by the doorway. Alison appeared even more fragile than usual, clearly underweight, and very pale. Lady Raven quickly checked her compliance with the dress code laid down for these visits; white blouse, knee length navy skirt, no make up, no jewellery. Everything was in order. Henrietta pointed down at the bearskin stretched out in front of the fire where Alison sat, cross legged, looking up at her mistress with eyes wide open like an eager puppy. "Maid!" Henrietta called. "Can you fetch me the cherry brandy fudge from the kitchen and a pitcher full of ice from the freezer downstairs. Oh, and a cognac for me. Make it a double." "Yes, ma'am." The maid departed. Henrietta sighed, wallowing in the heavy silk robe draped around her powerful body. "My dear little Alison. I'm sorry to distract you from your studies like this, but you must appreciate I need you on occasion. I trust everything is well with your studies?" "Yes, ma'am" "Good. And did you hear about the trial?" "Yes, ma'am" Henrietta was irritated. "Alison," she said, sternly. "I expect my servants to say 'yes, ma'am' when I give them an order. I am talking to an Oxford undergraduate and expect rather more that one syllable in response to a question. Unless you particularly want to spend your next few weekends in my kitchen, which I very much doubt, you had better make my investment in you a little more profitable. Now tell me what you think about the trial." Alison was silent for a moment. "I think it was a landmark", she said. "A - a watershed. It shows that political offences can be treated just like other crimes and that..." "What makes political offences different from other crimes?" "The people who commit them think that they are in the right?" "You can do better than that. Lots of murderers think they are the moral saviours of the universe. Would you put Smythe into the same category as this sort of criminal?" Alison paused to think. "Political offences are different," she said, "because unlike ordinary crimes they are aimed against the community as a whole rather than certain individuals." "Which makes them very serious, I presume?" "Yes, ma'am. And those who commit them feel that their actions are justified by their own twisted standards." "'Twisted' standards?" "Standards which are different to our own, like the communists in Russia or the democrats in the United States and continental Europe...." "So would we be political offenders in the United States or Russia?" "They would treat us as such." "But they would be incorrect in doing so of course." "Not within their own set of standards." "So in fact a political criminal is merely someone whose moral and political views differ from those of the community in which they live. Correct?" "No," blurted out Alison, suddenly aware she had fallen into a trap. Henrietta beamed. "Of course, had you said 'yes' at that point in front of a witness, you could in theory be charged under Section Three of the Public Sedition Act. You would have implied that the moral standards imposed by the Community Party of Great Britain are no more valid than those of Russia or America. I'd give you three months for that, maybe two because you've got a pretty face. Ah, here's the maid. On the table." The maid rested a brass tray holding the cognac, the sweets and a heavy earthenware jug on a dark oak table by Henrietta's seat. "Go and light the fire in my bedroom," said Henrietta. "We will be retiring in approximately an hour. Make sure all the equipment is ready. I may require the maid's assistance later on." "Yes, ma'am". The maid left the room. "Now, where were we. Ah yes. I was giving you a lesson in how people like our friend Mister Smythe; Miss Smythe, sorry, think. Unlike you and I, they do not believe that the standards set by the community have any absolute claim to correctness. This is why they defend such monstrous doctrines as the 'freedom of speech'." Henrietta took a sip from her brandy. "Oh yes, before we go on, I suppose a minor penalty is in order for falling into my little trap. Come a little closer and up on your knees please. Close your eyes." With a certain apprehension, Alison obeyed. Henrietta let her kneel in silence for a few seconds to let her anticipate what might be coming before drawing a long smooth icicle from the pitcher and inserting it down Alison's cleavage. "You can open your eyes now," she said. "That was only a minor penalty. You can guess where it goes for a major penalty." Alison felt the icicle inside her blouse beginning to melt and trickle down between her breasts. She shivered at the icy water against her warm body. "You can sit back down again now, and let the cold water run down onto your private parts. As I was saying, Smythe and others like him, her, insist on the community tolerating a diversity of views because they do not believe that the views held by the community can be justified in rational terms over and above anyone else's. We, on the other hand, believe that the community that we, and our mothers and sisters have built is superior in every way to other forms of government. Which brings me to your other point. Political crimes are the most serious that can be committed because they aim to destroy society itself, or to remake it in some other, horrible form." "And these are the defining features of political crime?" said Alison, shivering a little. "Now, what makes my judgement today so special?" "Because the crime was punished just like...." "That's not it. Political offenders have been given prison sentences on a regular basis for the past six months. What about the terrorists I hanged in July?" "You saw it as an illness to be treated and cured, just like other crimes have been. That's why you sent him to North Castle." "Why do you think I did that?" "It endorses the fact that our doctrine is the only rational one. Anyone who disagrees with it is mentally deficient." "Correct," smiled Henrietta. "Open your mouth, dear. I'm going to reward you for that. You look like you need fattening up." She popped a lump of fudge into Alison's mouth. The conversation continued for some time and to Alison's relief her mistress found no further need for 'penalties' during the evening. At length, Henrietta rang the bell for the maid who came quickly into the room." "Is the fire going?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am" "Good. The maid will take Alison up to my room now. Get her undressed and put her on my bed face up. Use the leather straps, not the chains this time, and a blindfold. If she behaves herself the maid may put one blanket on top of her to keep her warm while I'm finishing my brandy. I'll leave that to the maid's discretion." "Shall I use the gag on her, ma'am?" asked the maid. "Oh, heavens no! I want her to enjoy herself. Furthermore, unlike your average whore she can be reasonable conversation when she wants to be," Henrietta smiled at Alison. "Let the maid look after you, dear. I won't be a minute." CHAPTER TWO - LADIES ONLY Smythe did not know if he was awake or if he was still in some horrible nightmare as the wardresses bundled him along the passage barely letting his feet touch the floor. The light of early morning filtered through the arches that made up one of the walls of the corridor, like a medieval cloister but with iron bars that broke the cold light falling into the stone floor around him. He was aware of pale figures moving in the courtyard beyond; arms thrusting in the air, boots pounding on the hard cobblestones, women shouting and the smell of cold sweat. These perceptions merged into the nightmares that had plagued him when, hours ago they had unbound him and released him into a room they called the Observation Cell. This tiny cell was always flooded with light from above and contained only a mattress, a bucket and a clear plastic blanket. One of its walls was a thick glass screen. For some reason the very fact that the room was under such close scrutiny made him feel strangely safe and protected, and despite the blinding light he fell asleep immediately. As they dragged him down the corridor brief snatches of his troubled dreams passed across his mind and were forgotten forever. He was a child once more, standing alone by the wrought iron railings of the schoolyard lost in childhood fantasies but fearful of the real world around him. The girls around, who seemed much older than him clustered together in their groups playing games with skipping ropes and chattering endlessly. Already they had leaders, followers and outsiders amongst their own kind the others treated with a cruelty the simple rough boys could never understand. He remembered hating them bitterly at the time but in later years his adult mind appreciated why. Even as children they were acquiring the tools of power they would later use to manipulate, control and dominate society. They were learning about relationships, co-operation, hierarchy, and above all psychological torture. The boys their age were charging round the playground playing football or pretending to be soldiers. They didn't stand a chance. The present situation brought itself forcibly to his attention as the wardresses brought him to a halt by a white door. Nothing was left in his mind except the horror of what was about to happen to him. The morning's session in the Medical Suite was perhaps the most unpleasant time in Smythe's entire life to date. Most of it was spent naked, strapped onto a plastic couch while three nurses busied themselves prodding, probing and measuring every inch of his body. None of them spoke except to order him to change position, stare into lights they shone in his eyes or to keep still while something uncomfortable was happening. At length a female doctor in a white coat swept into the room and, following a brief conference announced herself as the surgeon who would carry out the operation. "You seem to be a fairly healthy specimen for a male," she said, checking some details the nurses had recorded on a clipboard. She looked about forty years old, with a round face and friendly features. "I expect your academic lifestyle kept you away from most of the vices characteristic of your sex. Naturally, as a woman your state of health will improve further, especially during your stay with us." She looked disdainfully as his stubby penis and pink, shrivelled testicles. "The sooner we get these off the better," she said, lifting them up with a glass rod and allowing them to flop down between his legs. "We're clear to go ahead with that tomorrow. Most of the real work will be done by the hormones of course, plus a few extra chemicals that will speed the process up wonderfully. You realise of course that some of these will soften up your bones temporarily so your skeleton ends up the right shape. It's all fairly painful, by the way, but so are lots of things about being a woman you'll never get to experience." "We'll make her experience some pretty nasty things," put in one of the wardresses that had dragged him into the room. "Don't you worry about that. We make the little bitches learn the hard way." "I'm sure you do," said the doctor. "But that's none of my business." She picked up an alarmingly large hypodermic needle. "By the way," she said "I will be making a complaint if you send any more Level Two's to my infirmary. I'm here to turn bad boys into nice girls, not to clear up the mess you women make of one another. Hold still, Smythe, I'm going to take a blood sample." The hypodermic needle went deep into Smythe's arm and he could feel it drawing blood out of his veins. "Not much we can do about Level Two's," replied the wardress. "They discipline each other. You don't get many Level One's in here, do you? That's because we're professionals." "Hmmm," said the doctor, pulling the needle out of Smythe's arm. "There we go. I just need to run a few tests on this to see what dosage would be suitable. Then you girls can take my patient away and beat him up as much as you like." "If only," replied the wardress. "The Governess can be a real dragon when it comes to the rules. Jonesy told me the crazy cow gave her a Mark yesterday because she nearly gave this one a belting when she shouldn't have." She leant over Joseph so that he could taste her breath. "She's really mad about that, you know Miss Smythe. Said she'd screw a bit of respect into you for that when they've made you into a proper woman. Think about it, Josephine." "I suggest you hold this discussion away from me and my staff," muttered the doctor, squirting the blood out into sample jars. "I know jolly well what you lot get up to with your prisoners but I don't want to hear the details." "What's the matter, doc?, heterosexual?" sneered the wardress. "I wouldn't say that," grinned the doctor, winking at one of the younger nurses, who blushed as she did so. "But I don't officially know what goes on outside the Medical Suite, and I have no intention of finding out." Hours later and two hundred miles away, Henrietta was once more luxuriating in her mansion, enjoying a brief respite before her duties called her once more into battle against the enemies of society. She had asked her maid to fetch her a wide range of newspapers so she could properly enjoy Smythe's humiliation while ensuring that all the opinions expressed were in line with those she had expected. The previous night had been delightful and, as expected, had helped her to release some of her internal tension. It was not really the sex that had done the most for her, more the warm sense of power she felt as she strode into the master bedroom and whipped away the blanket to reveal the beautiful girl, bound and helpless on the bed underneath. The girl would have been waiting on tenterhooks anticipating either pain or pleasure entirely at the discretion of her mistress. On a whim Henrietta had chosen the latter for her, and with soothing words went to work on Alison, gently massaging her soft pink skin which, though taut and shivering at first slowly relaxed as the girl felt progressively safer in the power of the older woman. The Judge slipped off her own clothes and pressed her warm body close to that of the helpless prisoner, fondling her small white breasts until the nipples became little buds, hardened with anticipation. She began to play with Alison's sex, her long experience in arousing other women slowly overcoming the resistance until, when she stopped for a moment as an experiment, Alison pleaded with her to continue. She went on until finally the girl reached a climax, spilling out her juices over the bedclothes. Henrietta breathed with delight as she saw Alison's face transformed in an instant from a picture of ecstatic delight to a mask of horror and self loathing as the climax dispelled her sexual pleasure, leaving her only with a profound disgust that she had been brought to an orgasm beneath another woman. Henrietta had reflected for a moment on the power she had wielded to force another human being to do something she clearly regarded with the greatest revulsion and to actually enjoy the experience of her own humiliation. The thought of this brought her to her own climax and, rubbing her clitoris against Alison's bony hip for a final stimulation she spilt herself all over her with a whinny of delight. Now, enjoying a peaceful afternoon, Henrietta smiled gently at the memory. She was also looking wistfully at old black and white photographs, in particular one of the prefects at her old school. Her first experience of sex was too distant in her memory to remember precisely, though she was certain it was at her severe old boarding school that it happened. Even now she breathed in sharply at the thought of these athletic young women and the dimly remembered time when she was helpless in their power. She was disturbed by Penelope, her youngest maid, who had just walked into the room with a look of terrified astonishment on her face. "What is it?" she snapped, irritated at the interruption. "Telephone call, ma'am." "Did I not inform the maid that I would not be taking calls today?" "But ma'am, it's the Prime Minister's office!" The maid was trembling. "What? Are you sure?" "Yes, ma'am. She wants to speak to you in person!" In a moment Henrietta was on her feet, charging out towards the hall. She had met the Prime Minister on many occasions before at official functions, but this was the first time anyone from her office had wanted to speak to her directly. She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts and picked up the old fashioned receiver. "Raven speaking," she said. "Ah." The cracked but unmistakable voice came back over the phone. She realised who she was speaking to. "Raven. There you are. You're a good girl, you know that?" "Prime Minister?" "Yesterday, Raven. Yesterday. That was... everything I had hoped for from that trial. Do you know how many of the opposition are leaving the country as we speak?" "I read that James and Williamson had both gone over to the Continent, ma'am" "That's just the start. You realise a great deal more of our opponents will shortly be under arrest?" "I'm not aware of police activity." replied Henrietta, cautiously. "Of course not. Neither is our friend the Home Secretary, fortunately for us. You know he told me privately he wanted Smythe released?" "Released?" "Yes, dear girl. Silly man. Of course I overruled him. In fact I'm making sure Miss Smythe gets the snip first thing tomorrow so there's no going back. No, Raven. I have a more serious problem. The Home Secretary. You see, I think it's time we improved the proportion of women in government." "How could I help, ma'am?" A thin laugh came back over the phone. "I'll take that as a 'yes' then, shall I?" came the reply "Of course, it isn't official yet, but if something embarrassing should happen to him, I will be looking to replace him with my people. As you know, there's no longer any requirement for members of the government to be in Parliament. Who better than a fine legal mind such as yours?" "I'm honoured you should think so, ma'am." "Good." Click. The phone went dead. With a growing sense of excitement, Henrietta returned to her great hall to make plans for the future. In the bowels of North Castle Penitentiary Smythe was sitting alone in the Observation Cell. He could see one of the younger wardresses prowling around in the corridor outside, occasionally peering through the glass window to see what he was doing. He was exhausted from his stay in the Medical Suite and his bruises from his encounter with the Governess were still throbbing. The journeys around the prison had been too disorienting for him to build any kind of mental map of where he was. The Medical Suite must be on the ground floor, he thought, because it adjoined the corridor looking out into the courtyard. On the trip back to his cell they had taken him up at least three flight of stairs, higher than the main wall. He must be in one of the corner turrets or possibly the main tower over the gateway. Beyond that he could only guess. After the Medical Suite they had taken him to a small room which he presumed was Miss Stapleton's own office. She was there, behind her cluttered desk, tending to a duty roster on the wall behind her. Along the other wall stood a rack of antique truncheons, painted with gold lettering and kept in beautiful condition, along with some old looking handcuffs and a fearsome cat-o-nine-tails which, thankfully, appeared to be permanently fixed in place. Miss Stapleton herself was wearing a different outfit to the normal wardresses' uniform. This was much more formal and old fashioned, consisting of a heavy black ankle length dress, long sleeved, belted tightly at the waist with a starched white collar and cuffs. The uniform emphasised Miss Stapleton's attractive features, her sturdy but feminine frame, red cheeks close cropped hair and the brass insignia she wore served to underline her natural authority. She turned and smiled. "Hello, Josephine. Did everything go well for you this morning? I expect you're hungry. It occurred to me that we forgot to give you anything to eat last night. I'm sorry about that. We'll give you a nice bowl of soup in a moment and something else later. You must let us know us if you need anything." "Thank you," replied Joseph. The wardresses had released their grip on him but he felt almost too weak to stand. There was something warm and reassuring about Miss Stapleton. "The worst thing you can do is suffer in silence. We are here to look after you, but we can't do that if we don't know how you're feeling. Now, listen. I'm afraid we have to keep you in the 'Goldfish Bowl' for the time being. I know it's quite boring in there, but I've told the duty officer you're allowed to masturbate if you want to. I know it helps. Ah, here comes Miss Jones." Miss Jones strutted into the room, also in the formal uniform but obviously junior to Miss Stapleton from the insignia it carried. Joseph also noticed, pinned near her heart, a silver badge fashioned like a butterfly with a topaz in the centre. She seemed more attractive as well, and, though clearly overweight for her height seemed more muscular than obese. She glared at Smythe's attempts to stay on his feet. "Stand up straight!" she growled. Smythe did his best to obey. "We won't worry about that sort of thing for the time being," said Miss Stapleton. "She's had a very busy morning with the medical team and I think she's rather tired. By the way, I'm putting you in charge of her for the time being. Given you two don't seem to have got off to a very good start, I think it will do both of you a lot of good." In his cell, Smythe was reflecting on the events of the day. The promised meal had materialised, and it was only when he slurped up the rich tomato soup that he realised how hungry he had been. For most of the day he had not had time to think about what was happening to him; his concerns had been entirely physical and about surviving from one moment to the next. Now, left on his own he felt detached from reality, any reality at all, and the jumble of thoughts in his head had nothing concrete to latch onto. Despite all that had happened so far, he remembered he was Joseph Smythe and, whatever labels they chose to place upon him he was still a man, a wild beast in their captivity and their enemy. Their enemy! His mind drifted back once more, not as far as the schoolyard, but to the lecture hall where he stood five years ago at the height of his power. The lonely little boy had found a world in which he could prosper and find an identity. This world bound by rules and regulations, simple and clearly understood which, if he was prepared to live a humble academic's life placed few if any restrictions on his speech and thought. He became, for a time, so arrogant as to assume these freedoms were permanent and could never be taken away by anyone. It was then he saw the first uniforms amongst the youth who listened to his artful critiques. Red and black, he noticed them, always sitting together in little clumps, mostly women, firing shrill and biting questions at the end of the lectures. He felt indulgent and welcoming towards the youngsters at first. They were few and, after all, merely enjoying the freedoms he expounded to provide an intellectual challenge for the forces of freedom and democracy to engage with. The just would, of course, win out in the end. As time went on, and the Community Party grew in strength and audacity, the chanting and the catcalls began, inside and outside the University, Smythe began to feel like a hunted animal. Mindless hostility, he thought at first, before realising it was a highly intelligent and organised hostility slowly undermining his position. The anger inside him knew no bounds. He felt like a man playing a drunk at chess whose opponent had just made an illegal move, childishly refusing to play on unless it was accepted. But this was no game and he was forced to accept the moves his opponent had made. When the Party came to power, albeit still encumbered by the trappings of the old system, he suddenly found his position at the University untenable and was cast down from the world in which he lived. Living largely on the charity of his last few friends, he found his opportunity when asked by a contact with the underground press to write a pamphlet on the new Government's legal reforms. He remembered hammering away at a borrowed typewriter in the early hours of the morning, using his intellect as before but to a different end. This time his intention was not to enlighten or inform his reader, setting out the good and bad in both sides of the argument. It was to set out a bitter, one sided polemic, fuelled by an animal hatred of the Community Party and everything it stood for while criticising, ostensibly, one aspect of their policy. It would spread his hatred like a virus. It would be his revenge. The underground press loved it and, though a part of him felt that he had betrayed his own principles of intellectual impartiality, he basked in the knowledge that he had struck a blow against the oppressor. He knew he would continue until they destroyed him. He came to his senses and winced from the glare of the unforgiving light above. Cold sweat has soaked the thin surgical gown. Th