The Deception Of Choice, Episode One free porn video

The Deception of Choice. Episode One, comprising Chapters 1 and 2. Preamble In which the hero is introduced to the reader. These chapters concern an enforced selection, random or otherwise, and its consequences. About hope against sad inevitability. About futility in the face of nameless authority. How it will all end is as yet unclear. Doubtless all in tears though. Life usually does. Chapter 1 "That one .... in the charcoal suit at the end of the bar." The woman was in her mid thirties, smartly dressed in a dark blue skirt and simple tailored white shirt. She inclined her head towards the man by her side who was slightly scruffy and looked ill at ease in her company. "He will be staying at the Mandrake Hotel, Cromwell Street on the 6th next month. Take him then." "No problem," her companion said. "Get rid of the casual approach. If there is a problem you may find yourself taking his place." She smiled, a charming, attractive smile showing perfect lips framing even white teeth, her eyes dancing in genuine amusement. The man sensed someone walk over his grave and shuddered. "He will be arriving about 6.0 p.m. Room 365. Booked under the name of Jackson, David Jackson". "No mistakes. No fuss or disturbance. He must just not be there any more. We will arrange for him to check out. Your job is just to take and deliver him to the usual place. Payment as usual on completion." The man at the end of the bar drained his glass and left. The woman watched him go and smiled to herself. She drained her own glass of white wine and rose from the small table in a swift graceful movement and walked out through the bright door space into the evening sunshine. The man left felt cold, finished his own glass and went to the bar for another whisky. * * * * * David Jackson opened the letter that was waiting for him on his return. The rest was junk mail, but this was a heavy, quality envelope with a small company logo embossed in the left hand top corner. It confirmed his interview the following Thursday in Guildford. It was happening quickly. The head hunter had only contacted him 5 days ago. Naturally he had jumped at the chance. The salary was of course almost double what he was getting at the moment, but what made the offer so very attractive was the breakthrough it represented in responsibility and opportunity. The company was unknown to him, but he was assured that it was the subsidiary of a large and reputable French firm that was intent on entering the British market. That explained the opportunity. He would be in at the very beginning. Just the interview to get through now; but the head hunter had inferred that this was largely a formality. Inside the envelope they had also enclosed rail tickets, 1st class naturally, and a booking at the Mandrake Hotel. So no expense spared! Thursday could not come too soon. * * * * * David Jackson opened his eyes slowly. Nothing. Pitch blackness surrounded him. His head ached, throbbed in time with his pulse; he rested his head back and felt a rough textured wall behind him. He stared into the darkness hoping that his eyes would accustom themselves, that there would be some outline, some clue to his surroundings. Nothing. He was very cold. He shivered. He wrapped his arms around himself seeking warmth. He became aware that he was wearing nothing but his shirt. His suit gone, boxer shorts gone, shoes and socks gone, tie gone even. The cuff links off his shirt had been removed, leaving the double cuffs loose around his wrists and over his hands. He felt for his watch but it had been removed He was lying on a rough thin blanket on what felt like a stone slab, a stone bench. he explored it with his hands and found it to be more correctly a ledge about 6' x 2'6", 3" thick and at chair height from the floor. The floor was uncovered, stone or concrete. He was very cold. He also felt sick and his mouth tasted foul. He needed to urinate. He tried to remember. Thought was an effort. He had to time the thought progress to move in the rhythm imposed by the metallic pounding inside his skull. The appointment. There had been an appointment. For a job. He felt a surge of panic. He would be late. It was important and he would be late. He must get dressed. What would they think? He thought back. He recalled the hotel and registering at the desk there. And being given the key. He had gone to his room.... A spasm of nausea swept over him. The room turned around him... slowly steadied. He had gone down for a meal when he had heard his name paged. At the reception desk a man was waiting for him. A man from the company. He said he had some company background that they thought he would be interested to see in preparation for the interview tomorrow. They had had a drink together first in the bar and then the man...Charles...had asked him to come with him to the car so he could give him the promised file. Crossing the car park he had felt a little giddy. He had only had the one drink, perhaps two; so it couldn't have been that...Charles had suggested he sit down in the car...until it wore off... And then nothing. Till now. He leaned back against the wall. The mists rolled and cleared a little. His eyes strained into the surrounding darkness. Velvet black. He stood up and groggily felt his way along the wall. It was smooth and featureless under his touch He had gone about 6ft. and reached the first corner when the light came on. Blindingly, searing his eyes, from spots arranged in the ceiling. Even with his eyes closed tight against the glare he could not blot out the glare completely. Slowly his eyes became accustomed to the light. He looked blearily round: not that there was much to see. The room was about 12ft by 14ft. Besides the ledge on which he had been sitting it was bare of what could pass for feature or furniture apart from a wash basin surmounted by a bathroom cabinet adjacent to a toilet lacking both seat and cover. In the far corner he could see a shower head protruding from the wall about 6' up and a drain underneath it. In the wall to the left of the ledge there was a painted metal door As abruptly as it had arrived the light went out. The darkness seemed thicker than ever. It was very cold. David had an immediate, pressing need. He felt his way over to the toilet and sighed as his bladder emptied. He pulled down on the old flush chain...and again. No response. To his left his hand found the tap of the wash basin. He turned it and water trickled out. He ducked his head and cupping his hands doused his face, again and again, drinking from his hands as he did so. The water stopped. David wiped his hands on his shirt in a half hearted attempt to dry them and felt his way back to his ledge. He sat down and waited. Nothing happened. Later he must have dropped off to sleep because he awoke suddenly as the lights came on again. He walked round the cell, for that is what it seemed to be, drank at the washbasin again, and arriving at the door hammered on it. "Is there anyone there?" "Let me out!" repeated, swear words added, louder and louder until his throat was raw, and his hands bruised. No one came. No one answered. There was no response. The light went out. There was no way of judging time. The light came on again spasmodically, for varying lengths of time. Sometimes for what seemed like minutes, sometimes for what must have been hours. Sometimes after what seemed like minutes, sometimes after what must have been hours. It usually came on when he was asleep which made him think that they, whoever they might be, had some means of observing him. It was always too bright to ignore, too bright to sleep through. There was water to drink sometimes from the tap in the washbasin. And sometimes the toilet would flush but never any certainty. He found the shower worked sometimes, and sometimes the water was even tepid. So then he showered. There was shaving equipment and although the water was sometimes cold he tried to shave regularly based on the length of the stubble on his face. The stubble growth was the nearest he had to a clock. It divided time into parcels of a guessed 24 hours. After a while...perhaps on the third or fourth day.... if days still existed, there was food. The first time it happened he did not notice the plate at first. He had been asleep, awakened as usual by the light and lying on the floor had rolled over to find it there in the almost exact centre of the room. It was in effect a ploughman's lunch...bread, cheese, butter, salad. There was nothing with which to eat it, but it was there and he was ravenous. He steeled himself to eat slowly, small bites, chewing thoroughly to make it last. But it was gone all too soon. Food was like the light. It came again at irregular intervals, when he was sleeping, in different quantities, of differing quality. Sometimes he was not at all hungry and suspected that he had eaten not long before and that it was all just to destroy his conception of time. Sometimes he wondered why he slept so much and thought the food might be drugged but there seemed no reason for it. That was the problem. There was no reason for any of it. Once he heard the distant cawing of a crow or a rook. Singly, spaced, caw...caw...caw. It grew louder, louder, until it became a cacophony of noise that had him covering his ears in a vain attempt to block it out. The same thing happened with the sound of a dripping tap. At first he had even checked to see that the noise was not coming from the shower or the wash basin. But it too had risen in volume and then it too had died away. There were other noises. Some he recognised. Some had no meaning, no reference. The temperature changed too. Shivering and cold, sweating and hot. >From non hour to non hour, non day to non day For an age through time that stood still or reversed for all he knew. Then the door opened. Chapter 2. It was dark at the time and he had been dozing, or dozing as much as was possible in the then cold of the cell. The was a matronly figure silhouetted in the doors opening. "They will see you in 20 minutes. Better get presentable." He stood up, conscious of the shirt front which barely covered the top of his thighs and was at best an inadequate covering. He clasped his hands in front of him. "20 minutes? See? Who? Who will see me? The woman smiled. "That is for them to tell you. My responsibility is just to get you there in 20 minutes. Get ready". "I can't see them like this." He was shivering. "I am not covered.... not dressed. I have nothing to wear," he stammered. " I c....cant see anyone like this." The woman was amused. "That is, I think, the least of your problems. And it certainly isn't your decision. However I will see what I can do .... but be ready in .... 18 minutes" The door closed. He sat back. A renewed fit of trembling overtook him. He tried to control his limbs. Staggering to the shower he turned it on and was nearly scalded. The soap was a form of kitchen carbolic such as he thought had not been made since the early part of the 1900s. Still it worked although the smell was pretty offensive. He managed to adjust mixer tap of the shower and began to shave. He had learnt the hard way always to shave first as the water could switch to being icy cold at any time. He lathered, rinsed of the soap and dried himself as best he could on the threadbare towel that seemed to be completely wet after the first pass over his body. He tried to smooth down his hair, which was now long and unkempt, with his hands into some semblance of order. He donned the shirt which was crumpled but fairly clean. Washed, although of course not ironed, only...only...perhaps it was yesterday He waited. Now he could explain...it must be a terrible mistake .... perhaps they had realised .... He wondered if he could claim compensation .... surely he could.... and for the job he had missed too .... He realised he was shivering again. More from nerves this time though. It had been so long since he had seen anyone. So long since he had spoken to anyone. Except just now to the woman of course .... On cue the door swung open and she was there. She stepped inside and handed him a small cellophane wrapped package. "Try these." One hand still shielding himself he accepted the package. "Thanks," and then, "But ...." The package contained a bra and panties set. Quite plain. Nothing too fancy nor elaborate. "But...these are for a woman. I can't wear these." "You must get me something else." The woman was not smiling now. "Ohhhh You do remember then? Of course they're for a bloody woman. There isn't anything else." And as if to underline the situation, "This is all there is." "And if there was there isn't time. You have two minutes to get dressed. If you are going to get dressed." He stared at the panties and bra. The latter fell out of the wrapping onto the floor leaving him looking down at the panties which were quite simple, of a white cotton material with hardly discernible lace scalloping at waist and legs. Their plainness was relieved only by a small red flower embroidered on the right hip front. "There must be something else!" "I am not a fashion House, nor this bloody Jermyn Street." The woman sounded annoyed. "Once on no one will know...Christ the only difference is that they don't have a fly and you're hardly likely to want to take it out and to have a piss half way through the meeting." "But make up your own bloody mind. Bollock naked or not bollock naked, I don't give a damn but we have to go. Now." She picked up the bra by a delicate strap. "This bit is optional," she sniggered. "We can keep it for later though if you like." She seemed to think the idea funny. She turned and spoke to someone outside in the corridor "Hold on. He's coming." "Now .... With or without!" He picked up the panties and turning away slipped them on...first one leg, then the other. She was wrong. They weren't the same. They were tighter, more constricting. He had to weave his hips slightly as he tugged, as he writhed, as he pulled them inch by inch up his calves, his knees, edged them up his thighs. It was more a pantie girdle, that clung to and held his body. "Dear God! Do you need all day?" She was impatient, worried even. He could sense it in her voice. He eased the panties up over his thighs, feeling the constriction, feeling the strangeness of the tight fabric. "Hurry up." She tapped a foot. He pulled them over his hips. His penis and balls squished out sideways, caught in the constricting fabric, uncomfortable and in reality emphasising his maleness. "Tuck them! Bloody Hell! Do I have to dress you as well?" She lunged forward, grabbed his penis and balls and with dexterity born of long practice, thrust them backwards between his legs, withdrawing her hand in one swift movement as the fabric snapped back into place. A wave of vitality sapping shame and embarrassment spread over him. "Get out." He staggered out into a brightly lit corridor. He lurched forward out of the cell that had been his home, refuge for so many weeks, months .... There were two figures in what appeared to be dark blue uniform overalls behind her. They looked bored, indifferent. "I could handcuff you," the woman, the wardress, said. "But you are not going anywhere in that state I think. Not that there is anywhere to go. Not from here." She looked at her watch. "Besides which it takes time which we haven't got. Waste of time if you ask me .... Bloody collar and all. Where do they think the poor sod would go?" She looked at him. "Follow me...and if you even think of running, remember the two behind you would love you to try." In truth he did not consider it. He was still weak and disoriented. It was happening too suddenly after all the none-happening time. He stumbled. He was aware of the inadequate, crumpled, shirt flapping round his thighs. Increasingly he was conscious of the contrast between that and the sexy, tightly hugging panties, pristine clean, which concealed, yet outlined his genitalia. He felt lost, inadequate, exposed. He caught a glimpse of the small embroidered flower on his hip and felt troubled. Unnaturally worried by such a small inconsequential thing. But however inconsequential the sight triggered increased awareness of the tight, lace scalloped panties that gripped him. The corridor turned left, and left again. At intervals there were other identical doors. Then on the right there was another door. A rather more imposing one. There was a small brass plaque on it at eye level. "COMMITTEE ROOM." The woman stopped and knocked, softly, deferentially. "Enter." The voice was female, mellifluous, authoritative. The woman turned the door handle and stepped aside as she swung open the door in front of her. In doing so she placed a hand on his back and thrust him over the threshold and into the room. Taken slightly by surprise and still weak, he staggered slightly and, regaining his balance, stood there with his hands clasping the front of his shirt tails and concealing the front of his knickers. The room was panelled in light oak with a few scattered, airy with light streaming in from the four ceiling length windows opposite him. He was dimly aware of several oil paintings, landscapes mainly and a couple of chairs in the corners of the room. The main feature was the large long desk facing him at which sat three women. Two were in their mid-thirties, the other, facing him on the left was perhaps late twenties. All however were quite outstandingly good looking. Beautiful even. They were all immaculately turned out. Conservatively but expensively, fashionably, dressed like young aspiring bankers who had just ousted an ageing male board of directors. They oozed the charm and presence that only confidence and good looks can give. Any one would have stopped the traffic in a crowded street at the rush hour. But the one facing him in the centre was in another league. Why it was at first difficult to say. She had all the attributes of beauty. Hair like newly opened chestnuts, a tapering oval face, perfect slender chin under lips a man could drown in. Green, green eyes under quizzically arched dark brows. But that was not the reason. The others in different ways could have rivalled her physical appearance. But she, she had presence. She radiated presence as a fire radiates heat. You could feel her there. There was no doubt who was in charge. She smiled again. Perfect lips parted in a perfect curve over perfect teeth. The green eyes sparkled with what could be mistaken for humour. But he knew it was something else looking out from behind the eyes. Perhaps at another time, in another place she would be capable of humour. But not now. Her eyes chilled him and he was shaken by a frisson of fear. He dropped his gaze. He mumbled. His voice cracked. He struggled with the words. His pent up anger and frustration faltered. "Why am I here?... I demand to know .... an apology .... there must be some .... please .... Please let me...... To his mortification he started to cry. He dropped his gaze in misery. His indignation ran into the sands. "Do sit down." The chestnut haired woman indicated the chair drawn up about 6 feet in front of the desk. She smiled again and this time perhaps there was amusement lurking there. If anything it chilled him even more. He stumbled forward and sank into the chair. His bare thighs prickled on the soft velvet seat. He held his hands in his lap clasping his shirt fronts and vainly trying to hide his panties. He furtively wiped away a tear. He struggled to regain some composure. He sniffled. The woman turned her attention from him and talked in a low voice to her colleagues. There was a Georgian silver teapot before them and the younger woman poured herself a new cup and sipped it reflectively. The minutes passed. He tried to control the spasmodic tremors that made his body twitch. "Please .... I must insist .... I demand to know .... I have friends .... I know .... people ...." The woman didn't deign to speak. She just looked at him and he fell silent. The consultation between the three seemed to have finished. The chestnut haired woman turned back to him. "We ask the questions," she said. "You must answer them succinctly and to the point. That is all you are required to do. Do you understand?" "I only wanted to protest, to explain." "Yes or no. I will not ask you again. If it is no then we can arrange for you to resume your stay in the reception area until we convene again in another two month's time. Do we have your co-operation?" He dropped his eyes to the floor and mumbled, "Yes." "Speak up." "Yes." "Good. Then we can proceed." She shuffled papers in a file. Picked up a pen. "Your name?" "David, David Jackson." The name sounded strange. It belonged to another time. A time when David Jackson had really existed. When the name had meant more than he now felt. The chestnut haired woman shook her head and leant over, first left and then right to consult the other two. "You will have to do better than that. I ask you again. What is your name?" "I said... It really is. I am David Jackson. Please believe me .... there has been a mistake." The green eyes flashed with menace. "Succinct. Remember. Answer the question. We have neither time nor inclination for an autobiography." "What is your name?" "Jackson... I swear... David Jackson, I have no..." She cut across his protestations. "Jackson we can accept. David no. Do not try our patience." "We need a first name. What is your first name?" "I do not know .... I ...." The delicately arched eyebrows rose just a little further. "You do not know?" "I thought it was David. I haven't a middle name. Only..." Confused he let his voice trail away. In desperation he said, "I do not mind .... Edward, or John or George. Or .... I do not know .... I thought it was David." "You do not know? Really. You thought it was David. Only thought it was David?" This time the amusement in the woman's voice was palpable. "You do not know? Perhaps you would be better returning to your accommodation until you can decide?" "We were obviously correct in questioning your attachment to the name David. You seem to have a somewhat cavalier attitude to names. I certainly know mine, as I am sure do my colleagues do theirs." She looked at her watch. She shook her head, causing the chestnut locks to sway and shine. "We can't wait all day .... perhaps we should give you more time to reflect? I really have other things to do." He felt a wave of desperation sweep over himself at the thought of what he had endured over the last weeks and months. "No .... Please. Just Jackson will do. It doesn't matter. I .... I don't mind .... I don't want to go back. Just Jackson will do." "May I remind you that this exercise is not for your benefit. We need a name for you." Her tone was glacial again. "Jackson is not enough." "If not David .... it doesn't matter .... any name will do ...." He felt desperately tired .... sick in his heart. He just wanted to end it. He started to shiver again. "Please ...." His voice faltered, tapered off .... "Please?" The delicately contoured eyebrows rose again. "Please what?" "Please...any name that pleases you. It doesn't matter. Not to me. It doesn't matter now." The woman smiled, a slow languorous smile, a satisfied smile. "You would like us to chose a name for you?" He nodded. " Please." "It is irregular, but in the circumstances ....We have already wasted too much time." She turned to the others at each side of her. "Any suggestions?" The three heads bent together. The chestnut flanked by blonde and black. They whispered. "Yes, I think that will answer very well." She smiled at the woman to her left. They all nodded. She turned back to him. "Sophie, Sophie Jackson. That's settled then. Good." "Such a pretty name...I am sure you will grow to like it." He looked at her.... "But." He tried to concentrate. "I ...." "Aren't you going to thank us for solving your dilemma?" She was all business like again, gathering up the files before her. "You don't seem very pleased," she added. "It is not what I expected...it is a girl's name." He felt stupid, out of his depth. "Of course it is a girl's name. More importantly it is a name. A name where there wasn't one before. A name for someone who was, by his own admission, lost for a name. At least now you have one and we can progress from that. Build on it." "Yes." He felt confused, muddled. Nothing made sense any more. "Thank you." "It is in all our interests," she said. "That you have a name." "You are dismissed. We will see you again when you have settled in at the Holding Wing and we can better adjudge your progress." She nodded to the woman who had remained standing behind him throughout the interview. "You can hand him over to Ms. Horner. She will take care of him now." "Oh and Sophie," she turned back to him, "I know you have been living in somewhat primitive conditions of late. But your appearance is not up to standard. Your attire is hardly decent, and your hair...!" She affected a mock shudder. "Obviously with you personal hygiene ranks alongside name recognition. Really! I hope there is a radical improvement before I see you again." She turned aside to talk to her two colleagues as all three started to shuffle the papers in front of them, impatient to depart. He felt the woman warden's hand on his shoulder. "Up! Come on. It is over. Come with me." He rose, staggered slightly, and was again acutely aware of the tight grip of the panties and the constriction they caused from hips to groin.. He hesitated. He looked to the table and would have spoken but the three women were seemingly locked in conversation. There was no eye contact to be made and he was aware that they considered him already gone. He followed the wardress as she opened the door and passed through into the corridor. His two guards were still waiting there, impassive, bored looking. There was the sound of heels and from the opposite direction a youngish woman came into view. A brunette dressed smartly in midnight blue halter-necked dress that flattered a figure that needed no flattery. She was in her mid -twenties, perhaps slightly too plump for model status. Medium height but the heels of her classic shoes added a good 3" to her stature. She radiated a vitality and cheerfulness that warmed the spirit. In spite of his dejection he could not help but like her; wish her to like him. She was like a dart of sunshine, of light, in the misery that had become his accepted norm. She smiled at him. "Hi Sophie, I'm Laura." "It's OK Gloria." This to the wardress. "I'll look after her. No need for your goons." Even the wardress seemed to be softened by her presence and smiled. "OK Laura. She is all yours. See you around. Take care." She turned and shepherded the guards in front of her back down the corridor. He stood there, even more acutely embarrassed by his appearance. He felt naked, worse than naked in the all too obvious panties, and scruffy all too short and revealing shirt. He wanted to please her. Wanted to be his old self for her so that she would respect and like him. She smiled into his eyes, She seemed oblivious to his condition, to his embarrassment, even to the cause of it. She was just friendly as he remembered girls to be. "You poor sweetie. You must be absolutely exhausted. Come along. You'll find it all gets so much better from now on." She walked along side him, not in front, not behind but as a friend would. For the first time since the nightmare began, he felt as if all connection with his humanity had not been broken, that he was still a person. They turned a corner of the corridor. "Not far now," she said. "Not far and we will soon have you installed and comfortable. I bet you are dying for a long soak in a hot bath, something to eat and then a warm bed." Her friendliness washed over him, but as he sank into it, there was a discordant, far off bell in the back of his mind. He felt a distant twinge of unease. Something was wrong, something that had been said, or said at the wrong time. His weary mind picked at it, trying vainly to concentrate. He could smell her perfume which did not help. He tried to dismiss his qualms. So much had been said .... his name Sophie? Then the use of her instead of him .... someone .... Laura had used her .... and a she. But it was more than that. Something that did not fit in. He was jolted back into the present. Laura had stopped before a door. "Here we are," she said. "Hope you like it. I can promise you it is far, far better than your previous one, you poor darling." She smiled at him sympathetically. As she turned away to open it he saw that the door had a card on it held by brass corners. The door swung open and, as Laura stepped aside to let him enter, he saw that the card had a name on it in a fine printed copperplate. ~ Sophie ~ And he remembered. That was what was wrong. Laura had called him Sophie when they first met, as he exited from the meeting. When she couldn't have, shouldn't have, known. And now this. The name plate on the door. They had always known. It had been a charade. He had been destined to be called Sophie. It had been planned. His mind struggled to come to terms with it. To understand the ramifications. He was aware of her presence behind him as she hustled him over the threshold into his new quarters.