Vesta - Painworld Read online

  Although she could not bend her neck to see down between her legs, Clarissa’s other senses were now on full alert and she could tell that the harness, as Christina finished adjusting the final buckle, was designed so that the two front straps divided and passed upwards in a V-shape, so that her sex, distorted and made more prominent by the cloying rubber of her bodysuit, was framed by it and not obscured from view in the slightest. She felt more naked now than if she had truly been so, and could not understand the little shivery fingers that seemed to be dancing up and down her spine.

  ‘Yes, a pretty filly indeed,’ Christina murmured. Her eyes were gleaming now, but she did not allow herself more than a few seconds to admire the effect so far, for there was still more to come in Clarissa’s humiliating ordeal. There was absolutely nothing the younger girl could do to resist as the heavy bridle assembly was lowered over her head.

  She did consider trying to refuse to take the rubber-covered bit into her mouth, but she guessed, correctly, that it would have done her no good. In fact, she was convinced now that any lack of co-operation would bring severe punishment as its reward, not just now, but even worse later. From what Christina had been saying these beasts were capable of just about any extremes, and this was being tempered only by their need to convince Marlon that she would be released to him, safe and unharmed, when he had given them whatever it was they wanted so badly.

  Mute now, Clarissa stared stoically straight ahead, only the stiff collar preventing her from bowing her head under this latest burden, for the bit, straps, chains and thick blinkers that were positioned to either side of her eyes combined to make a total weight of several pounds, she guessed. And having ensured that the straps formed a satisfactorily close fit, Christina added even to this, by the addition of several small bells, above her forehead and to either side of the strap that secured the bit itself.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Christina said, finally stepping back to take in the overall effect. ‘I should have done this for that Connolly bitch. But then,’ she added, with a malicious grin, ‘if she thinks she’s seen the last of me, she’s in for a big shock. In fact, I think I’ll get her tack ready when we get back from our little trot this afternoon. The two of you would make a very nice racing pair.’

  James Naylor stood peering over Jurgen Koenig’s shoulder, trying to make some sort of sense of what was on the German’s VDU screen. Koenig was nodding his head as he scrolled through the seemingly endless displays of figures, tables and diagrams, but as far as Naylor was concerned, the entire thing could have been written in hieroglyphics.

  ‘What’s the verdict?’ he demanded, unable to contain his impatience any longer. Koenig scratched his chin before replying.

  ‘What we are looking at, my friend,’ he said finally, ‘is a perfect example of what can be attained if the resources are made available as and when they are needed.’

  Naylor snorted angrily. ‘Just stop whining on about money and tell me straight,’ he snapped. ‘Has he done it, or hasn’t he?’

  Koenig sniffed, but did not turn away from the screen. ‘Whether he has, or whether he hasn’t,’ he said, deliberately, ‘is still a matter for conjecture. What we are looking at is the theory of what friend Vincent has put together, plus engineering drawings of his various hardware developments.’

  ‘And you can’t tell me whether they work or not?’ This time Koenig did look round, but only to give Naylor a sideways look that bordered on contempt.

  ‘My dear chap,’ he said, and the tone of his voice was unmistakable, ‘you could point out a car to me and ask me if it works. And I could say yes, it has an engine where an engine should be, it has wheels in all the appropriate places and the drawings show it has brakes, a gear box and so on, but there would be no certain way of knowing that it worked until you placed the key in the ignition, started it up and made it move.’

  ‘We’re not talking about bloody cars here!’ Naylor snarled, but Koenig remained unmoved.

  ‘Of course we’re not,’ he answered amiably, ‘we’re talking about something more complex than a million cars, something far more advanced, even, than the technology they are using to send men into space. You see,’ he continued, rising slowly to his feet and turning fully to face Naylor, ‘we are not just talking about the most powerful computer programme yet devised, we are also dealing with a processing system even more powerful than that. We are talking about the human brain here, my friend.’

  ‘So,’ Naylor sighed, trying to keep his temper in check, ‘we’re no better off than we were two days ago, is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Koenig looked shocked. ‘Most certainly not,’ he repeated. ‘Vincent assured me it does work and I have no reason not to believe him. After all, if he could convince us it did not, why should we want it?’

  ‘Maybe he could be bluffing,’ Naylor suggested. ‘Maybe his machine is a load of old rubbish after all, or maybe it isn’t and what he’s sending us isn’t the genuine article anyway.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Koenig agreed, ‘but I think not. You are, after all, holding his sister as hostage and he would not be naive enough to think you would let her go until we had proof of the value of the goods. I myself have made that clear enough to him.’

  ‘So we have to try this out ourselves,’ Naylor said. ‘How long would it take you to put something together from his data?’

  At this, Koenig promptly turned and sat down again, his entire body rocking with laughter. Naylor stared at him in bemusement.

  ‘What’s so fucking funny?’ he demanded. It took Koenig a few seconds to compose himself, but when he turned again there were still tears in his eyes and he was unable to keep a completely straight face.

  ‘Funny?’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what’s funny Herr Naylor - you are, except it’s not a very good joke, is it? You really have not the slightest idea about all this, do you? Let me explain.’ He jabbed a finger at the screen.

  ‘In there, as far as I can tell in the short time in which I have had to evaluate it, is all the data necessary to build something that will create a sophisticated, realistic virtual reality experience. And the number of people who can share in it at the same time appears to be limited only by the space required to house the individual pods, or terminals.

  ‘We do have most of the computing power we need to duplicate it, though not all, and we can lift all Vincent’s programmes as they are, which will indeed cut out many months of work. I can even add improvements and refinements of my own, given time enough, but such hardware as we currently have at our disposal falls far short of what they have there. And even if you gave me six months I could not guarantee to construct it, not without a great deal of money - money you do not have, or if you do, you have been reluctant to put at my disposal before now.’

  ‘How much money?’ Naylor asked.

  ‘How long is a piece of string?’ Koenig countered. ‘I’m no cost accountant, nor do I wish to become one, but I will give you a guess, if you’d like?’

  ‘Of course I’d like. How much?’

  ‘Six or seven millions - pounds sterling, not marks.’

  ‘You must be joking!’ The colour drained immediately from Naylor’s cheeks. ‘I haven’t got that sort of cash.’

  ‘I did not think you had,’ Koenig replied, evenly. ‘However, the good Fraulein Muirhead evidently has. And she has spent it too, so why bother to reinvent the wheel?’

  ‘What are you saying? You’re not suggesting we try to steal their set-up, are you? My god, I know that place. Don’t forget, I was there long enough. There are top-secret government establishments that aren’t as well protected as that place is now. It was bad enough anyway, but since my little run-in with her the woman’s gone overboard, from what I’ve been hearing. You couldn’t get a brass nut out of there, let alone something the size of what we’re talking about. And if you’re thinking of trying to get in, you
can forget that, too. The place is tighter than a drum.’

  ‘Right now, you are doubtless correct,’ Koenig said. ‘However, I have considered a different approach, an approach which will not only give you control of their machine, but also of the entire Muirhead estate and all the personnel involved there. I have already transmitted certain demands to Vincent, together with further footage provided by the inestimable Christina. He was not happy with what I suggested, but he really does not have any other viable options.

  ‘Tomorrow, Mr Naylor,’ he continued, standing up again and walking across the small room to stand before the open window, ‘we shall walk straight into Marlon Vincent’s virtual world and assume control of it, at a time when the Muirhead woman and all her minions are inside it and at the mercy of whoever has their hand on the tiller, so to speak.

  ‘The initial entry will be made from this very room, via a telephone link, but that is only a temporary expedient, as the sort of data transfers we are talking about are far too massive to be handled by even a group of ordinary telephone lines. However, just as soon as I have established control of the system, Vincent will admit yourself and however many people you decide to take with you, and you can secure a physical control of the premises.

  ‘Once that is done, I suggest you deal with Vincent before he starts fretting about the beautiful Clarissa. I am assuming you have no intention of releasing her, not if I am to judge by the tremendous amount of fun your Christina currently seems to be deriving from her.’

  ‘I think Christina would break his neck first,’ Naylor muttered.

  Koenig laughed. ‘I am sure she would and I do not doubt she is capable of doing it, but we are not murderers here, are we? Besides, it would be a criminal waste of an excellent resource. No, I suggest the safest way to deal with our Mr Vincent would be to put him safely inside his own virtual world, from where we can control him as easily as we shall control the others.

  ‘Apart from the efficiency of such a plan, I think you might find it all rather amusing. Think of it as one giant toy box, inside which you will find every little goodie you have ever wished for.’

  Wherever they were, Clarissa was certain of one thing: Christina had not been exaggerating when she said it was remote and isolated. All around, in every direction, the horizon was dominated by bleak, featureless hills, rising up out of the tangle of moorland and sparse coppices, without a single indication of human habitation other than the big house and its surrounding outbuildings from which they had emerged.

  The pony cart itself was not heavy and had been well designed to be pulled by a human equine, balanced perfectly on its single axle, the two huge wheels moving over the less than even ground without hindrance. But the added handicaps of Christina’s bulk and the weighted hoof boots made for hard work, and Clarissa was very soon sweating profusely inside her rubber pony skin.

  She had been hitched to the twin shafts by means of metal clasps attached to her hips where her wrists had first been secured, and a long rein ran back from either side of her bit strap, enabling her driver to guide her left and right by the simple expedient of tugging on the appropriate trace. Any signs of slacking were quickly rewarded by a savage slash across unprotected buttocks, Christina clearly being well versed in the use of the long carriage whip she employed for this purpose.

  Biting fiercely into the bit, eyes screwed up in concentration, Clarissa could do nothing but keep going forward, the jingle-jangle of her harness bells accompanying her every step, ringing loud in her ears and serving to emphasise the humiliation of her position.

  There appeared to be a network of trails leading across this wilderness, but they were hardly well defined and Clarissa stumbled several times in her unfamiliar footwear. Fortunately, Christina seemed well enough aware of what she could or could not expect, particularly from a novice such as Clarissa and did not insist on anything above a gentle trot, though even this soon had leg and back muscles protesting and Clarissa was relieved when she was eventually reined in beneath the shade of a small group of straggly looking trees.

  However, she soon changed her mind when she saw the contents of the small case Christina had brought with her on the cart. Unable to utter any coherent protest because of the bit, she nevertheless squealed loudly enough when Christina brought the barbarous looking needle up to her right nipple.

  ‘Should have finished this earlier,’ the Dane said, ‘but I thought we’d break you in a bit first. Now, hold still.’ Not that she left Clarissa with much option, for her fingers exerted a vicious grip on the ring that was already through the swollen teat. The point penetrated helpless flesh and the sound that ripped past the bit gag was so much like a frightened whinny that Christina commented upon it.

  ‘Very good sound effects,’ she sneered, withdrawing the needle and threading the gold ring through in its place. ‘You see, you won’t miss that tongue at all when it’s gone, will you?’ The second nipple was likewise pierced, eliciting still more squeals from its terrified owner, though in truth there was very little pain to what she had been anticipating.

  ‘Now for your extra bells,’ Christina said, replacing the needle carefully into its case and withdrawing the two shimmering gold orbs to clip to the nipple rings. She gave each a playful flick with her finger, setting them tinkling merrily in unison with the bells on Clarissa’s bridle as she tried to jump back.

  ‘I’ll add some more down there soon,’ Christina warned, jabbing a finger in the direction of Clarissa’s exposed genitalia. ‘I do so like my ponies to make pretty music wherever they go. Now,’ she went on, moving round and pulling herself up into the driving seat again, ‘let’s play ourselves some nice little tunes and then we’ll see if it might not be worth letting you keep that tongue after all.’

  Red-faced, Clarissa was in no doubt as to what the amazon meant; no more than she any longer entertained any doubts that she, Clarissa, supposedly world famous superstar artist, would almost certainly be prepared to go along with whatever she was now told. As she moved forward again, to an accompanying symphony of jingling bells, she reflected on how quickly she had been subjugated and wondered just how many other horrors lay in store for her before she finally got away from this place and these monstrous people.

  Always assuming, she thought grimly, picking up pace, that she ever did get away.

  ‘So it’s all set for another run in the morning?’ Lianne said, stretching herself out on the bed. Seated at the dressing table, Paul Dean was in the process of completing his transformation into his female character of Pauline the rubber maid, in an effort, he hoped, to jolt Lianne out of the lackadaisical mood she had been in since the previous test run of VESTA.

  ‘Does that worry you still?’ he replied, fiddling with the fastening of a heavy pendant earring.

  Lianne made a petulant face at him. ‘It’d worry you if you’d found yourself being burned at the stake,’ she said. ‘And okay, so I know it wasn’t for real, but I’ve been over all that a million times.’

  ‘Well, Marlon’s promised no more witch burning routines,’ Paul said, picking up the second earring, ‘so there’s no need to worry about it.’

  ‘So you say,’ Lianne replied. She lifted the hem of her rubber skirt and made a show of adjusting the suspender clip at the top of one of her latex stockings. ‘But I’m not so sure. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, just laying down in that pod thing, having a load of wires clipped into that weird helmet and then suddenly waking up in a world where you know things are going to happen, even if you don’t know what.’

  ‘At least we now have safe words,’ Paul/Pauline pointed out. ‘Mine’s “jasmine” - what’s yours?’

  ‘Would you believe “belfry”?’ Lianne pouted. ‘And don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Maybe Marlon thinks you’ve got bats in it?’ Paul suggested. ‘Didn’t you ask him?’

  ‘No, I had a raging headache at the time.’

&
nbsp; ‘Well, I hope you aren’t going to tell me you’ve got a headache now?’ Paul stood up amidst a rustle of rubber skirt and petticoats and teetered across the carpet on steepling heels. Lianne looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘No, Pauline,’ she said, reaching under her skirt again and grasping the hem of her rubber panties, ‘I most certainly haven’t. But you can get straight back over there and cuff your hands behind your back, missy. I’ve got a little job for you that only requires your tongue, at least for the time being.’

  She finished dragging the flimsy latex down to her ankles and kicked the garment to one side, lying back with legs splayed, her naked hairless sex lips gaping invitingly. On the far side of the room two sharp metallic clicks announced that Pauline had dutifully followed her instructions, and now he turned back to her, his tongue flicking in and out, eyes as bright as Lianne’s with anticipation and lust.

  ‘You are certain he hasn’t hidden any more code words inside this programme?’ The clock on the wall above the VDU showed it was past three in the morning and Jurgen Koenig’s red-rimmed eyes were evidence of long, unbroken hours of concentrated screen study. He yawned, covering his mouth with the back of one hand, and looked up.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he confirmed. ‘I have found a whole series of what they call “safe” words, each dedicated to a particular individual, the use of which will, or would, I should say, bring their particular participation in this VESTA to a close. I have constructed a simple programme that will disable them at the press of a single key, when the time is right.

  ‘I have also found four separate master code words, each designed to bring the system to a halt in different ways, the final one instigating a total systems crash and preventing the master programme from being restarted for a minimum of twelve hours. He is indeed very cute, this man Vincent, and was at great pains to hide the whereabouts and existence of these codes. But I think I am more than a match for such trickery.’