SO17 Excerpt

 

 

Excerpt 1.

Normally, Ray Prentice sat and masturbated to the personal records of the new arrivals who would shortly be entrusted to his care. Today though, it was been done for him. A golden-haired girl was on her knees sucking away enthusiastically at his engorged cock. She wasn't particularly good at it, well not yet anyway. But Ray was determined that practise, and his paddle, would ultimately make perfect. He leaned down and pulled the teenager's mouth off him and gently slapped her rosy-red cheek.

 

"It's the underside of it that's more sensitive, you silly little girl! How many more times?"

 

He slapped her other cheek just a little more firmly to emphasise his point before sliding back between her lips.

 

"Yeth, thir. Thorry, thir," she mumbled.

 

"Just get on with it!"

 

Really, the youth of today had no idea!

 

Although, he thought ruefully, who would have imagined a couple of years ago that he'd be in this position, complaining that a pretty, entitled 18 year olds blow job wasn't quite good enough? His rise from paper-shuffling Council worker to his present position, head of State Orphanage 17 had been meteoric. Until the Revolution he'd led a quiet, unassuming life. He was married, the kids had grown up and left home and he was merely seeing out his dull, unrewarding job until his pension appeared. But, in one of those weird twists of fate, his boss at the Council had married the local area representative of the People's Government. He'd always got on with Annette, they were both fierce believers in Socialism and racial equality. Despite his mild exterior he'd often been on marches and protests, waving placards and demanding social justice.

 

The two of them would often engage in long discussions about how the present system was wrong and how the rich should be made to pay, and indeed to suffer, for all their previous sins. Their inherited wealth, their assets, made no doubt at the expense of ordinary working people should be appropriated by the State and re-distributed. At the time those strongly-held ideas and beliefs seemed nothing but a pipe-dream. A pleasantly diverting pipe-dream, but nevertheless still an unobtainable fantasy despite, in Ray's case his utter conviction that he was right and the rich, the hated 1%, should be made to pay. The chaos that the country seemed to be falling into only served to support his beliefs. A long National pandemic had exacerbated the growing gap between the rich and the poor, the undeserving elite and the proletariat. The newspapers had even stared printing articles and pictures of the wealthy sunning themselves on tropical beaches while the rest of the population suffered in the cold, lock downed Mainland.

 

 

Excerpt 2.

Phoebe McDonald shivered as the minibus passed through the arch, leaving the crisp winter sun behind her. The other girls on the bus looked as apprehensive as she felt. All five of them had come straight from juvenile court. It had only taken a matter of minutes to process all of them. There was no legal mechanism as such, to be honest there didn't need to be. All of them had been consigned to State Orphanage because, in the eyes of the law at least, they were orphans. Not in the acknowledged sense of not having parents. All the 18 to 20 year old girls in State Orphanage 17 had parents and the majority had older siblings. However, all of them, all those '1 percenter's' who were over the age of 21, were currently serving periods of time in penal colonies. Thus, the girls were technically orphans and therefore the responsibility of the State.

 

The State took this sort of thing quite seriously. The propaganda department had shot reels of film extolling the joys of State Orphanages and emphasising the caring, nurturing side of the People's Government. Their parents might well be enemies of the State and therefore the enemies of the people, was the message. But look how we take care of their children for them? Cue films of happy, smiling teenagers in nice airy buildings being entertained by attentive orphanage staff. Phoebe had seen films, they all had. It was required viewing nowadays and those sorts of films were often shown on prime time TV slots. Despite this, the dark forbidding exterior of State Orphanage 17 didn't exactly fill the five girls with joy. This apparently was to be their home until their various family members were reformed, whatever that meant.

 

The van doors were flung open.

 

"Out, out"

 

Uniformed men and women were banging on the side of the van with sticks. Hurriedly the girls got to their feet and filed out. The girls had been instructed to dress 'respectfully' for their court appearance and had on smart dresses or skirts and blouses. Trousers or jeans were a thing of the past for them. Almost immediately, Phoebe felt a hand go under her skirt and cup her bottom cheek through her knickers.

 

"Hmmm, nice," whispered a male voice in her ear.

 

She tried to pull away but received a sharp rap across her backside with his cane.

 

"Girls here at Number 17 should never try to resist an officer," he barked at her in a rough voice.

 

He took her by the backside again and steered her up the steps and into the austere building almost at a trot. Around her she could see that the other girls were being similarly manhandled. One large girl, dressed in what looked like a school blazer, was being led by the ear by a grim-faced young woman. They were herded through corridors and eventually stood looking up at a large desk. Each had to confirm their name, address and age before being logged on to the computer system. Then, almost at a trot again, they were led to large empty room manned by one man . On his long table he had five boxes with five names on them.

 

"Strip!" He said, "and put your rags in the boxes provided."