Introduction

 

I am not a bad person.

I make mistakes sometimes that hurt other people, but they are not my fault. I have issues-my rage often is so intense, I can't control it, and I do things...accidently, perhaps through neglect or a lack of concern, but still accidently. Doesn't everyone? Hasn't everyone been a victim of their imperfect nature at one time or another? Isn't everyone always saying that human beings are imperfect...?

I am not arguing that I don't deserve punishment, but surely the punishment should fit the crime. Isn't this a fundamental tenet of law, of justice? Shouldn't the penalty reflect the offender's intent; shouldn't it consider the circumstances, the motivation, the past experiences that led to the crime? Assessing responsibility is a complex matter.

Unless Shama is passing judgement. The Punishers look at this in a very binary, black and white way-guilty or not guilty. There is no gray for them, no extenuating circumstances, no debate over intent or state-of-mind or background...and no mercy.

"Modern justice, when we get it, is a copout," Adam told me, "...and the penalties are too lenient, too considerate of 'mitigation.' Fines and incarceration are cowardly ways to avoid avenging the injured; they are very tidy, very humane, and civilized, but they do not truly punish. We think an innocent victim deserves more; we think the victim should hear the screams of those who have injured them and watch them writhe. This is the visceral evidence they need to heal."

Adam had a way with words, but it was all bullshit.

"You have betrayed our trust, Amy," he went on, "...and this betrayal has caused the deaths of two people. For this offense, we sentence you to ten years as an Apostate."

We sentence you...!

Who are they to sentence me? The Punishers do not represent the law; they do not have any interest in proving my guilt or innocence; they are not concerned about balancing the scales of justice. Their only goal is to dominate. This pretense that they represent justice is just a spurious excuse to make women submit.

What infuriated me more than anything, though, was his righteousness. He pronounced the ten-year sentence of apostasy with such condescension that you would think he was setting the cosmic balance right, that he was keeping humanity from descending into chaos. It was hypocrisy plain and simple, but I had no choice but to accept it. The only alternative open to me was prison and that was unthinkable.

Don't get me wrong, I am not excusing what I did-what we Apostates have all done-and I don't claim to be innocence or even worth of mercy. I did it; my ambition, my selfish disregard caused the deaths of two men. What I object to is Adam's smugness, as if what he was doing to me wasn't wrong as well.

Assholes...all of them!

But none of this is important at this moment. Right or wrong, just or unjust, reasonable or unreasonable, sanctioned or unsanctioned...these were just words, fancy ideas for men in long robes to ponder. What mattered now was the current horrifying reality playing out in front of my eyes-the punishment he had brought me to watch.

The girl was young, maybe twenty. They had suspended her from the arm of a large iron cross. She was terrified, twisting her luscious body and shaking her head, calling out to her Punisher to have mercy. I sat paralyzed knowing that her pleas would fall on deaf ears. There was no mercy in the Punishers. This sadistic bit of theater was why they existed, why Shama existed.

Adam had explained the pepperminting punishment to me in cruel detail.

"The torturer suspends the girl by her wrists until only her toes and the balls of her feet are touching the ground. Donning a pair of Latex gloves, he works his way down from her neck, slowly rubbing a mixture of peppermint oil, tiger balm, and extra-virgin olive oil into her skin. It is a deep massage, one that covers every inch of skin and gets deep into every female hole and crevasse."

His description keep repeating in my mind as I watched.

"...Unlike cinnamon oil, peppermint goes on cool and builds heat slowly. At first, the Apostate feels sexually aroused by the massage, sometimes they even have an orgasm. The bondage, the crowd...it is quite stimulating having your naked and bound body oiled in public-having your skin caressed, having a man's probing fingers in all your holes-but as the oil's heat begins to build, the arousal turns to fear.

"Can you imagine what it feels like, Amy, to know you are about to burn to feel it coming on, slowly?"

I could, but I stayed silent, afraid to say anything.

"In the beginning, the pain is just a minor tingle in the girl's tits, on her clit, on the soles of her feet. It is like the feeling you get when there's static electricity in the air. Gradually, however, the tingle becomes an insatiable itch then a scalding pain then a burn. For all practical purposes, the ointment is burning her alive. For a time, she will try to control her reactions-it's unseemly to lose it in front of a crowd-but this vanity is short lived. Soon enough she will be thrashing wildly and screaming for help with the desperate urgency of someone in flames.

"By this time, however, her pleas, tears, and screams are pointless; she is beyond help. The chemicals in the ointment are now coursing through her nervous system. There is nothing that anyone can do to stop the process. The agony is unendurable and unstoppable. It has seeped into the core of your being and become a part of you...you are the pain."

He paused, increasing the drama of his horrible explanation.

"Needless to say, it's quite a show."

I turned back to the cross and watched as the girl shuddered in an adrenaline induced climax, lending credence to what Adam had said. My skin crawled with the thought of her coming agony. It was at this moment that I stopped cursing the Punishers for their arrogance and began to think about the ten years of Purgatory that lay ahead for me...and the rumor I had heard that the Punishers minted all Apostates at some point.

 

Chapter One

 

"A good journalist reports the news, she doesn't become part of it."

The professors at Columbia's J-school had drilled this lesson into my head every day. It was good advice if you worked for a reputable news outfit and were covering a riot. It was useless drivel if you worked for a rag like Leisure Time magazine and needed to find dirt for a story. The owners of Leisure Time online magazine promised their one-point-five million online subscribers a sensational story every week. It was how they stayed alive, and they had every intention of delivering on that promise.

Which is where I come into the picture. The specific method they used to fulfill this promise is to hire foxy reporters like me fresh out of school and to use them as bait for the unwary subjects of their investigations. It is despicable. but it did get me a job as a reporter.

I suppose I could have done the honorable thing-worked my way up from the bottom in some reputable news organization-but I have never been a very patient person nor-if I were being honest-am I especially kind to others. Like many beautiful children, my family spoiled me growing up and I developed a serious selfish streak.

The idea of hurting someone to get a good story was not particularly objectionable. When the recruiter-whom I now think of as Leisure Time's pimp-offered me a job as an investigative journalist for the online magazine, I jumped at it despite knowing the magazine's reputation. Nor did I hesitate when I discovered that Leisure Times had hired six other cub reporters...all impossibly gorgeous. I didn't balk even when the managing editor, a hardcore philanderer and fulltime sleazeball named Barry Dillard, put the moves on me my first day in the office.

"You need to learn something right off the bat, Amy," he explained when I objected, "if you want to make your bones in this business, you are going to need friends like me. You are also going to need to get your hands dirty. Here at Leisure Time what counts are results and no one gets results without wallowing in the mud."

The mixed metaphors and trite analogies didn't help cement his position as managing editor, but they gave me time to compose myself. I wasn't a virgin nor was I particularly opposed to aggressive men who wanted sex but having someone feel-up my cunt as a first move wasn't my style.

"Is that what you were looking for between my legs, Mr. Dillard, results?"

Most men would have backed off at this point, especially in this new "woke" age, but Barry Dillard wasn't like most men...he was a lot worse.

"No, I wanted to see if your cunt was wet and swollen. I work better with new girls who have enough ambition to put aside their...juvenile hesitancies. They are the reporters who will do whatever is necessary out there to get me the story. Do you understand, Amy?"

"Yes, I do."

And I did, I really did.

I was not naïve. For all the commotion about equal rights, journalism was still a man's game. In college, many of my professors had traded sex for grades. All the attractive girls knew it, and many relied on it to get their degree. I did it to get into their heads and learn what it really took to succeed. What everyone realized, however, was that it was going to take more than writing skill and journalistic talent to get ahead in this business. Good looks were invaluable and too much of an asset to not use.

I guess, reflecting on it, Barry and I though alike in many ways.

"You think about it, Amy," he continued unabashed, "and come back to see me in the morning. By the way, if you have any thoughts of complaining about sexual harassment, think again. No one around here cares about anything except subscriptions, including office sex. Complaining will just get you thrown out."

"Yes, sir."

What he didn't know was that I was okay trading sex for career success. If the quid pro quo for getting a juicy story was a quick blow job or fucking him in the supply closet, I was his girl. I didn't like his approach and, of course, I would prefer to be making it with some handsome jock, but this was part of the job. It was the same rationale I had used when I fucked my professors.

But I never had the chance to tell him that. By the time I made it back into his office the next morning, he had already moved on to someone else-a petite bombshell with a comic book figure named Sharon, who dressed for work as if she were going to the beach. She was coming out of his office when I was going in...with bits of white cum still clinging to her chin.

"He assigned me to the 'mayor's girlfriend' story," she whispered cattily as I passed.

I just smiled and nodded, but I felt empty inside. This was the story we had been discussing yesterday when he slipped his hand under my skirt. I should have just sucked it up instead of engaging in a verbal duel with him. We all wanted the story. It was a sure winner; the girl with whom the mayor was having the affair was gorgeous. A cheesecake picture of her, paid for by the magazine, at the head of the story would have guaranteed our readers' interest.

"Come in Amy, I have something else for you," Dillard said coyly, still straightening his pants.

I sat down, trying to look eager. The man was a pig.

"This story has real potential if you can break in. It's perfect for you with your...more sophisticated thoughts about...relationships."

I knew he was toying with me, punishing me for yesterday's rejection.

"We have information that there's a secret Park Avenue men's club that is into some serious BDSM. I want you to sniff it out for us and get me a story."

My heart sank. A "secret Park Avenue BDSM club" was one of the traditional stories that the magazine tried to peddle. I had heard from past cubs that Barry assigned it to newcomers who acted as if they were too good for him. Sharon and her tight cocksucking lips had stolen the story about the mayor's affair leaving me with the dregs of a BDSM fantasy.

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday, Mr. Dillard, and I wanted you to know that I have no issues with friendships at work. I think that they..."

"Don't worry about that now, Amy. Concentrate on this assignment; it's a story I've been trying to nail down for years. We will get back to...our relationship later, after you have earned your spurs with this assignment."

I knew what he was really saying...I had sinned, and he needed to punish me before he could accept my apology. I would get a real assignment when he was satisfied that I had suffered enough. This was the way things worked in his small kingdom. I nodded, defeated for the moment, and he continued.

"The magazine has a confidential informant who tells me that this men's club is now actively looking for new male members and new girls to participate in their kink. Our CI thinks the club's name is Sharma or Shama, something like that. You are going to need to get inside and get me some pictures...juicy stuff, you know.

"This is just the kind of thing our readers want to know about. If you get me the right material, I can even make it a feature...a two-page spread for several weeks with pretty girls in compromising positions, that kind of thing. But, like I said, you will need to get inside, deep inside to get me the truth."

The truth...?

I almost laughed in his face. Barry the sleazeball had no interest in the truth...zero. He wanted something sensational, something edgy that would appeal to their one-point-five million Generation Z subscribers. This kind of sensational soft-porn was what they paid their fifteen-bucks a month to see and read. The only part of "the truth" Barry cared about was the part that allowed him to avoid a libel suit.

I nodded solemnly as if I was also a seeker of truth.

"Good. I can give you ten weeks. If you get me a story, it will run the week of September 15th. Don't worry if you don't have all the i's dotted and t's crossed by that time, just make sure you have substantiation so that any assumptions we need to make look plausible."

He paused and glanced at me to make sure I understood his point.

"I want weekly progress reports and a first draft by September 1st. And keep this assignment to yourself; I don't want anything to leak out before I am ready to publish, understand?"

I nodded again, encouraged by his enthusiasm. Maybe this was a real story.

"Where do I start, Mr. Dillard?"

Canned assignment or not, this was my first opportunity to write something. I was ready to give Dillard his blow job whenever he asked-Sharon notwithstanding-but in the meantime, maybe I could make something out of this.

"Our CI thinks a Wall Street guy named Adam Devereux is involved. I had one of the girls do a background check on him. He is thirty-one-years-old and a Wall Street wunderkind. He runs the foreign-exchange trading desk for some big bank. Last year, they paid him a bonus of forty-one fucking million dollars-more than most successful people earn in a lifetime. I want you to get close to this clown and find out how he is involved, what he knows, especially what they do to the girls and how they get them to stick around. Focus on the juicy stuff, you know."

I nodded my head.

Clown...!

Barry was calling Adam Devereux a clown...! Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. A story about Leisure Times, about its exploitive hiring practices and how its sleazeball managing editor traded decent assignments for blow jobs would be a lot more interesting to Leisure Times's than some fancy rich-guy club hiring submissives for a BDSM-night.

"Get close to him, Amy, and he will give you the entree you need to write something interesting and important."

Get close to him...this was code for "do whatever you need to do to get the story, including fucking him;" Interesting and important...this was code for information and pictures that were titillating and revealing.

"Any suggestions on how I do that, Mr. Dillard?"

He stared at me for a second then exploded.

"Use your fucking brain, Amy, or use whatever part of your anatomy you can!" he shouted, annoyed that I was playing word games with him again. "I am sure that you will have no problem prying a good story out of a freak like Devereux. He will be excited to talk to someone as...interesting as you."

He hesitated, pretending that he was thinking of an answer for me on the fly.

"He's a swimmer. You're a swimmer.

"Hang out at the gym in a sexy bathing suit and see if he bites. My guess is that he will find you irresistible in a one-piece. Reel him in carefully, though, and don't lie about being a reporter or about where you work. New York State law requires us to disclose that stuff, and it's hard to defend our story in court if we don't. Have some explanation ready that puts him at ease."

He paused for a moment then decided it was important to clarify why she should not lie about those things. I already knew the rules, of course; I had been studying them for four years at Columbia.

"We don't want him suing us later and winning a judgement that hurts the magazine. Guys like this don't like it when someone outs them, and they have the resources to hit back...hard. Just get the story without lying about what you are and where you work. This is the tricky part."

No shit...!

This was the reason no one had yet succeeded in getting the story. Barry needed to say this to cover himself and the magazine, but he was hoping that an overzealous reporter like her, whom he had warned to follow the law went rogue. How could anyone blame them or the magazine if that happened? It was the reporter who would take the fall.

Stupidly, I could not resist baiting him one last time.

"Are you saying you want me to lure this guy with the promise of sex, Mr. Dillard? Is that really fair to him? Won't that compromise my integrity...as a reporter?"

He looked at me for a minute then shrugged.

"Look, it's fine if you're not comfortable with this assignment, Amy, I will give it to someone else. Debbie is looking for something she can sink her teeth into. The CI's lead is too good for us to pass it up, and I know the story is going to have legs this year, I can smell it. But if this kind of assignment bothers you, I understand... I will find you something else."

Dillard really was a sleazeball. My career, my reputation, even my life were unimportant to him. All he wanted was the story. This was why they hired fledgling journalists who looked like sexy models. They needed bait, fat juicy worms to put on the end of a hook in the hopes of catching a big fish.

My face didn't show any of these thoughts. Yesterday, Barry had been trying to get into my underpants; today, he want to pimp me out to some rich guy for a story.

I had no doubt he would give the story to someone else like Debbie-a bubble-headed beauty queen from Texas Southern. I also had a feeling about the CI's information-it sounded real. This story really could have legs this year. Last year, the magazines story on "the New York meat market" had been a flop, and the year before its story on "BDSM goes uptown and upscale" had landed them in court looking like fools. This would be my opportunity to turn this loser around; all I needed was a chance.

"Okay, Mr. Dillard. I will figure it out and get you weekly progress reports and a story by September 1st. But I want to keep my notes until we're done, okay?"

I had heard the rumor that Leisure Time doctored reporters' notes to make themselves appear innocent of any wrongdoing and to add the dirt they needed to make the story more sensational. Keeping my notes would give me some added measure of control; it was personal liability insurance.

The vein throbbing in Dillard's ruddy neck told me that I had managed to piss him off...again. He had been expecting gratitude, like Sharon had shown him with her lovely mouth, instead he had gotten a demand.

"No problem," he said, recovering smoothly. "You can turn your notes in with your first draft on September 1st, but if your progress reports show me that you are going to fall short, I will give the story to someone else...fair warning, okay?"

I nodded again, happy to have won the point.

"I will also fire you on the spot if you fuck up this lead," he added. "I want to be able to send someone else in if you fall flat on your face. You're gorgeous, but you might not be Devereux's type, you know?"

I knew that this parting shot was to remind me that he had the power to make things difficult for me. Getting fired even by a rag like Leisure Times would not look good on my resume.

"Close the door on your way out, Amy, and, ah, good luck."