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Why sex worker activists should support the decriminalisation of street work

First published on Harlot’s Parlour.

(I’m not a sex worker activist and though I’ve been planning this post for months, I wasn’t sure if I should write it; if I’m not a sex worker activist, or even a representative sex worker, then how can I tell sex worker activists what to think? But after a  brief conversation on Twitter, I decided to finally post this. – K )

If you’re for sex workers’ rights then you have to be for street sex workers’ rights too. Otherwise you’re not standing for ALL sex workers. If you think that your brand of sex work, whatever it is, should be decriminalised and that you deserve rights but that street sex work should remain criminalised, then that’s elitism. You’re saying that you’re “better” than street workers, or that you’re different to them in a way that you aren’t different to other sex workers who work in different areas of the industry but not on the street.

And if you take the view that street sex work is dangerous and therefore should be criminalised – well. Doesn’t that sound familiar? It’s the antis’ argument against the entire sex industry (including the adult entertainment industry). So, basically, you’re an anti – just an anti who wants non-street work decriminalised but is still for the abolition of street work.

Finally, if you believed that street sex workers have agency and can choose to work, how could you deny them human and labour rights? So it’s clear that to be in support of criminalising street sex work, you have to see street workers as having no agency or in need of “rescuing” by sex worker activists. Again, this might sound all too familiar.

And let’s be practical – criminalising street sex work in the UK has been proven to create what academics call the “revolving door” effect: street workers are fined for soliciting and then have to do more sex work to pay off the fine. While working to pay off the fine, they’re arrested again and hit with another fine, and so on. Which actually stops them from “exiting” street work (oh, how I hate that phrase – for all other jobs we say “finding another job”.) So, if you’re eager to rescue street workers, criminalisation actually works against your objectives. Not to mention the fact that a woman or man with several soliciting offences on their criminal record is not going to find it easy to get employment in another industry.

The Merseyside model includes exiting strategies and only uses arrest as a last resort, though unfortunately the use of exiting strategies instead of fines is, in my view, just as intrusive and is also a harassment – not to mention insulting as it implies that street work is unacceptable and that the worker doesn’t have agency. (That’s the one bit of the Merseyside model that I would wish to see changed. I mean, if they’re so obsessed with rescuing, why not rescue street workers into another type of sex work, like indoor work or, if they fit agencies’ preferences (or there are ‘specialising’ agencies nearby), agency work?)) Not that I’m for rescuing anybody anywhere; it’s just an interesting question why the police feel that the entire sex industry is exploitative but other industries are totally fine.

The fact that street sex work is criminalised might be making it more dangerous. Since clients were criminalised for kerb-crawling, maybe the law looks more equal, but it might be having the effect of weeding out the clients who don’t want a criminal record, leaving only those who might already be known to the police. How are the workers and clients supposed to report any violence they witness or experience if they know they’ll get a court appearance and a criminal record? The clients know that the workers might not report violence so they might not be deterred by the possibility of police action. (This could also be true of the sex workers, who might be more prepared to perpetrate crimes against clients because they know the clients won’t report it.) I’m not just talking about violence here, but blackmail or theft as well.

Therefore, the more dangerous you think street sex work is, the more you should be in support of decriminalising it. While there is some evidence (in the Home Office report referred to below) that criminalising clients forces street workers to work indoors in relative safety, that was a small-scale study and it’s obvious that there are still street workers even though street work is criminalised in the UK.


R. Matthews (1986) “Beyond Wolfenden? Prostitution, Politics and the Law” in R. Matthews and J. Young (eds) Confronting Crime, London: Sage

R. Matthews (2008) “Prostitution, vulnerability and victimisation” in Prostitution, Politics and Policy, Abingdon: Routledge-Cavendish

The Scottish Executive (2004) Being Outside: A Response to Street Prostitution (about exiting strategies and small red light zones in non-residential areas of cities. Proves that there’s only about 2,000 sex workers in all of Scotland who street walk OR work out of flats – meaning that less than 2,000 are street workers, as the number includes independent indoor workers.  Available at:

J. Phoenix (2000) “Prostitute Identities: Men, Money and Violence” British Journal of Criminology 40 (1) 37-55  (There is violence, but it’s not as bad as some NGO’s make it seem, and it’s hard to see how criminalization would enable these sex workers to report violence to the police or leave violent boyfriends. Oh, and non-sexworkers also experience domestic abuse, even rape.)

R. Matthews (1993) Kerb-Crawling, Prostitution and Multi-Agency Policing”, Police Research Group Paper 43, London: Home Office

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Posted by on June 18, 2013 in Sex work


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BEST post ever on anti-sex work radfems’ tactics in silencing sex workers.

Feminist Ire

The feminist movement really is in a pickle these days. It used to be a given that things like prostitution, pornography and stripping were bad, but nowadays there’s some resistance to these time-honoured notions. Women are increasingly coming out as sex workers and demanding rights. As feminists seek to shut down strip bars and criminalise clients, those women are complaining not just that they’ll lose their livelihood, but that they’ll be at increased risk of abuse and violence if their industries go underground! You can’t let such trivial concerns get in the way of your crusade, so below are some handy tips for discrediting these pesky meddlers. Remember: being an actual sex worker doesn’t entitle her to speak about sex work!

I don’t believe you; you don’t realise the harm you’re doing to yourself

This is generally your starting point. There you are, explaining that no woman…

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Posted by on September 25, 2012 in Feminism, Sex work


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The UK Government Torture Act (a sociopolitical BDSM satire)

The UK Government Torture Act

David Cameron was very unhappy. His pudgy face looked glum. ‘Why don’t people like all my reforms?’ he wondered sadly. He tapped his styrofoam coffee cup. ‘I really wish I could make people stop protesting.’ Suddenly, he had an idea. Jumping up from his seat, David ran to his office where he dialled a certain number. ‘It should be set up by now,’ he thought; I put the reform through months ago.’ “Hello?” he said. Nick Clegg was walking by and saw David through the open door. David winked at him conspritorially.”Is the Torture Fund ready?” he said into the phone. “Oh, yes, good! Well, I’d like to draw out two thousand pounds please, by virtue of s32 of the Torture Policy. Yeah, it just got put through; there was a law reform some months ago…the Governmental Torture Act 2012. Thank you.” He put the phone down and skipped around the room with delight. No longer would he have to endure the taunts of dictators at UN summits; no more would they tease him about how many people they had tortured while he was unable to get away with so much as telling a big fib or shooting a dog.

A week later, David Cameron’s torture machine, called Paradise, was ready in his office. This is what Paradise was: A machine that was first hand-operated then machine operated to spank the person. Then a studded pole would come out and go into their butt and come out, before turning hot and going back in. then Paradise would turn them into a sitting position and push them onto a studded pole. Then the person would find that the spanking arm had a lot of implements that could be changed at will such as whips and paddles. A hot light could shine down, burning their ass. Paradise could press hot iron onto skin, and pierce labia. Finally, Paradise could stuff people like they were turkeys with good, old-fashioned traditional British stuffing.

David Cameron began assembling his secret police, which he was allowed to do by S21 s6(i) of the Act, and in two weeks his state police were trained and ready to do his bidding. David wasted no time in sending the police out to capture protesters. The secret police would turn hot girls and cute boys over their knees and spank them publically on their bare bottoms for everyone to see, until they bawled. The BBC filmed it and the TV news was soon full of cute bums being spanked red. The protesters didn’t really care as they took it as a mark of pride to endure pain for a worthy cause and going through a spanking ensured the admiration and sympathy of friends and family. The more hardcore protesters, or those who dared resist too much when being spanked were informed that they were about to be “transported to Paradise”. They were taken in police vans to David Cameron’s office and put in the machine. Some struggled and some quietly accepted their fate. Some were strapped into Paradise while for others the policemen’s and Cameron’s aides’ tasers and electric batons were enough to force compliance. After a few minutes or sometimes several hours in Paradise the protesters would be bawling and begging Cameron to stop. When they were released from Paradise they would be escorted from the building by the police, always crying and rubbing their hot behinds, but with a glimmer of ecstasy in their tearful eyes. Kalika Rose shook her head angrily at the footage of protesters getting spanked on the news. It was a story about how Nadine Dorries MP was disappointed with the use to which the new government torture was being put. “She put forward a Bill to enforce abstinence by sending women – but not men -who are not abstinent into Paradise,” reporter Tommy Tucker was saying. “Of course this has attracted criticism that this Bill is simply a repeat of the abstinence education for girls Bill which she withdrew in January.” “God I can’t believe she’s at it again,” Kalika sighed, tossing her wild black curls over her shoulders and snuggling into her best friend Rudy’s shoulder, “This government torture is just unethical, it’s against human rights. The state has enough of a monopoly on the legit use of force without being able to get away with crimes.” “Yeah, we should totally join that protest against the Torture Act,” Rudy mused, “The university is sending buses to London.” Kalika raised her head, her brown eyes gleaming. “Yeah, let’s! Let’s put our money where our mouth is.” They high-fived each other, grinning.

Little did they know that, hundreds of miles away from Rudy’s student flat, former politician and all-round lunatic freedom-hating bitch Ann Widdecombe was typing up her column for the Daily Express.  Her hate-filled mind was fully engaged in trying to turn back the clock on the progression of ethics and human rights which had been achieved over the last five decades. Ann furiously typed that the torture program was woefully underfunded and perhaps Cameron – what should he be doing? She moved her lips a few times, then said out loud:  “should be putting more effort into solving the problem of people not being tortured enough instead of giving us equal marriage.” And she typed it. The next day, all the students were talking about – indeed, all everyone was talking about – was the Torture Act. Kalika and Rudy wandered into their seminar and sat next to each other amid a babble of condemnation of Cameron and the secret police. Rudy passed Kalika his iPhone and smirked “Read this Kali – doesn’t surprise you, right?” Kalika scrolled down the screen and read: Rick Santorum told FOX News that “Britain’s methods of enhanced interrogation should be used on homosexuals and unwed teenage mothers. No, I am not opposed to wed teenage mothers or unwed teenage fathers. John McCain may disagree with my stance on adopting Britain’s torture policy – I mean, enhanced interrogation policy – here in America, but that’s only because he doesn’t understand the procedure of how it is done. It is done by spanking, paddling and whipping people and screwing them up the ass. It is an exquisite pain, a beautiful experience and a refined agony.” He turned his trademark friendly smile towards the camera, then it disappeared. “Oh no, my penis has gone hard and that will anger God.” The mention of the offending word “penis” caused consternation among conservatives as did his defence of Britain’s human rights problems, which has been criticised by both the Left and the Right. Obama yesterday condemned Cameron’s use of violence…

“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” Kalika laughed, “Did you see Invisible Children’s new YouTube video? It’s called ‘Cameron 2012′ and it’s all about David Cameron’s crimes against humanity and how he can be stopped in 2012.” “It’s on Facebook!” another student exclaimed, “It’s got nearly four thousand likes – let’s all like it to make David Cameron famous so that he’ll be stopped. It’ll set an international precedent.” The headlines that night featured Mitt Romney declaring that America should start a war with Britain due to human rights abuses; he was backed up by ex-President Bush, who was quick to point out David Cameron’s weapon of mass destruction, Trident. “Trident was quickly discovered by the CIA through analysing the BBC’s online news reports about the existence of Trident,” the international correspondent reported. “As Britain’s weapons of mass destruction have now been uncovered, the UN Security Council may now be likely to see a potential war in Britain as legal, or at least this is what Mitt Romney hopes. Now, back to the studio.”

Tommy Tucker took over, reporting how “Legal scholars and judges spoke out against the reform, claiming the torture  policy breached the European Convention on Human Rights and also the Human Rights Act 1998. Home Secretary Theresa May previously responded by suggesting having the Human Rights Act struck down so the ECHR would no longer apply. We can now confirm that the Human Rights Act has now been struck down, as of today. In other news, former U.S. senator Rick Santorum has apologised for his use of the word ‘penis’ in an interview with Fox News. He staunchly defended his views on the Prime Minister’s handling of the protests-” Rudy switched off the TV.

“Ok, we have to go to the demonstration now,” he said, pulling his laptop out of his bag, “I’ll sign us up, right?” “Sure. But why did you draw a bunny on your wall?” asked Kalika, pointing at a pencilled scribble above the TV. “Oh, it’s because of the Axe Bunny. He’s a real-life superhero, like in the movie Kickass. He sort of saves people from the secret police and makes life hard for anyone who threatens freedom.” “I’ve never heard of him,” Kalika said slowly. Rudy turned his laptop towards her. “Neither had I till I found his website by accident!” There was text describing what Rudy had said, but in more detail, and death threats to Cameron. And a few photos of some guy in a sexy, scary pink bunny costume wielding an axe. “That’s just some stupid geek who’s made himself look like a twat, he’s not going to take down Cameron,” said Kalika.

Two days later, Kalika and Rudy were marching in London with six thousand others, demonstrating against the Torture Act and the repeal of the Human Rights Act. It was a warm, sunny day and although the distaste at what the government was doing hung heavily on everyone’s minds, the mood seemed more positive; the atmosphere was festive and hopeful. Kalika was wearing a leather jacket over a red dress and Aztec-print leggings, her hair flowing in a curly mass over her shoulders. Rudy was wearing a denim jacket, dark jeans and a t-shirt with a bunny on it. After about half an hour of peaceful demonstration, the black-clad secret police appeared, pouring out of various cars, buses and shopfronts. They seized protesters, pulled out little black folding stools from the slings on their backs and spanked them over their knees. Rudy began to shake and Kalika squeezed his hand. “Don’t be afraid,” she hissed, “Never be afraid of the government.” “What if they get us, you idiot? It’ll hurt so bad!” Rudy snapped. One of the policemen pulled out a paddle and started paddling a young man hard on the seat of his jeans. He started to squirm and cry. Rudy stopped dead in his tracks but Kalika pulled him after her. “If we stop now then it’ll all get worse, we’ll never be free again. We have to face them and show them we have no fear,” she said.

The older man walking next to them threw down his placard and unzipped his shirt…the zip kept unfolding; he was zipping down his jeans – the material fell away revealing the black police uniform. Everyone scrambled to get away – his hand gripped Rudy’s wrist. “It was my fault, I talked him into it,” Kalika said breathlessly. Arms encircled her waist and she was lifted up by another policeman; he had spiky black hair and looked about thirty years old; he was muscular and handsome. Kalika was carried bodily away, looking over her shoulder at Rudy, who was flipped over his captor’s lap. The man yanked down his jeans and boxers, exposing two warm rounded cheeks. Kalika thought Rudy’s butt was cute and small.

The policeman took out his baton and smashed it into Rudy’s bare bum. Rudy’s head jerked but his teeth were clenched in determination. Another very hard smack hit his trembling rear, leaving a pinkish mark. “Yeah – you watch,” said Kalika’s captor, pinning her arms to her sides. A series of whacks thudded down, covering every inch of the boy’s butt – Rudy began to yelp piteously. “We will win! How dare you betray your fellow citizens like this? Cameron’s whore!” Kalika snarled. The policeman spanking Rudy reached over his shoulder and his hand returned clutching a black paddle; he expertly paddled Rudy until his bottom was bright red – Rudy was squirming and making sharp kicks. Brown hair flopped sweatily over his eyes. The policeman changed rhythm and pelted Rudy’s sit spot; his legs were scissoring the air and tears rolled down his face. “I’m s-sorry!” he howled, “I’m sorry! Please stop – it hurts so much, I’ll never do it again!” The policeman’s hand fumbled at Rudy’s jeans and drew his brown leather belt from its loops. The policeman folded it and brought it down hard on Rudy’s well-punished butt. Rudy howled in pain, kicking frenziedly. The policeman thrashed his scarlet ass over and over – Rudy bucked and writhed around, wailing and then finally bawling like a baby. His face was nearly as red as his butt; his captor strapped him until his sit spot turned light purple and Rudy was lying limply over his lap, then he let him up, still bawling and with a fiery red ass. Rudy clutched his bottom.

Kalika’s captor released her and she ran over to him and hugged him. Rudy was crying so hard he didn’t even notice that his thick cock and balls were on display to the many women in the street, who Kalika imagined to be feasting their hungry eyes; actually, both sexes were more concerned with the use of violence by the secret police than the naked displays. Rudy’s jiggling equipment seemed a lot more obvious and shameful than her own, were she to be naked. She pulled up his pants and he winced as the cotton scraped over his swollen buttcheeks, clasping and rubbing his hot bum through the cloth. Then he slowly pulled up his jeans, zipping them but leaving the top button undone so they wouldn’t cling to his throbbing ass. Rudy and Kalika walked back to the bus that had brought them to London, Rudy crying and rubbing his seat all the way.

The next day, Rudy wasn’t in class. Everyone was talking about the protest and the spankings they’d seen on the news; Kalika and two other students were the only ones in class who’d actually been there and they soon found themselves in the spotlight. Kalika told them that Rudy had been spanked, which provoked further outrage. “I hope Cameron gets sacked,” Kalika said bitterly to Tristan, the boy who was sitting in the seat Rudy usually occupied. “Really? I think most people do,” he said slowly, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair. “What else do you feel about him?” “He’s using violence to take over democracy and censor free speech and control us,” Kalika continued, “I emailed the ICC and the EU about him, I don’t know if it’ll do any good though. But I hope the ICC puts out an arrest warrant for him.” A couple of people clapped. “Wow, you’ve been busy,” smiled Tristan, “What else did you do?” “Oh, I set up a Facebook group against him – well, lots of people did Facebook groups. And I made a couple of YouTube videos. Anyway Cameron must know about the Facebook groups, he’s watching Facebook.” “That’s just a rumour,” Tristan countered. “It’s true,” said the girl sitting behind him. “They just aren’t allowed to report it. He’s reading our texts too.” Professor Sharane Brown strode into the room, sat down heavily and surveyed her class. “I know this is going to be difficult, but let’s try to concentrate,” she sighed. After a moment’s thought, she stood up and wrote on the whiteboard: Law. Democracy. Justice. “Now who can tell me how those three things interact? Let’s have a discussion.” Tristan put his hand up. “Uh, Professor, I think we’re supposed to be studying justice and its relation to ethics, not to law and democracy.” The girl sitting behind him slapped her desk. “Can’t you see this is way more important?”

Later, at Kalika’s flat, Rudy was smugly showing Kalika a YouTube video of the Axe Bunny. He was tall, well-built, and wearing pink bunny ears. The effect was of a cute, muscular bunny. He was also sitting on a public bemch spanking Rick Santorum over his knee, using the strap part of his gun belt. Santorum was crying very comically, like a big overgrown baby, shrieking every time the belt thwacked his reddening butt. His grey trousers had been pulled down to his knees. “I wish he was spanking Rick Perry,” Kalika murmured. Rudy touched her hand. “He’s originally from the States but he lives here now, he must’ve gone back to get Santorum. I’m sure Perry and Mitt Romney are on his hit list.”

The video had made headline news, and the police were hunting down the bunny. The news coverage had ensured that the video had gotten millions of hits and the bunnyman was now famous. Kalika wondered if Santorum was embarrassed about the fact it was on the news and so everyone knew he had been spanked and would be able to see the video for evermore. Santorum was thrashing around over the bunny’s lap, bawling his eyes out. His black hair was messed up and he looked cute; she very nearly felt like fucking him, but then remembered what he was. Kalika looked at the bunny’s face and decided he was good-looking, though she couldn’t tell much through the gas mask. “Stop it! Please!” Santorum begged, tears streaming from his evil but lovely eyes. His legs, encased in expensive suit legs, kicked frenziedly. Laughter from some unseen onlookers rang out, and a dog barked. Santorum suddenly struggled wildly, kicking and punching – the bunny smashed the strap onto his ass as hard as he could, bringing it up high and cracking it down several times as his captive threw back his head and wailed pitifully. Clapping could be heard and a woman with a small child shuffled into view with a camcorder and a big smile. “This is for trying to ban abortion!” the bunny yelled. Then he swung his arm back and let it fly until it whistled and came to an abrupt halt as Santorum’s butt got in the way. Santorum screamed as the bunny whipped his arm back and let the belt loose once more, again and again as a large crowd gathered and the honking of horns sounded. Children’s voices started calling out the numbers in disjointed voices: “…18…19…20…21..” After 25, the Bunny’s leather-clad arm went behind his back and withdrew a paddle. “This is for trying to ban birth control,” he pronounced. “I’M SORRY!!” Santorum yelled, “Please no more! I’m sorry!” “No you’re not,” snapped the Bunny, “But you will be.” The bunny whacked the paddle down on the loony’s tail and was rewarded with a long howl. The children started counting, a lilting litany while older voices cheered and a gang of girls started chanting “Go! Go! Go!” Santorum’s ass got redder and redder, turning scarlet and deepest red as the Bunny finally put down the paddle and switched him for trying to ban pornography. Then he made Santorum bend over with his palms on the wooden bench and whacked him a few times with the switch, so enthusiastic cheering. The bunny bowed as Santorum pulled his trousers up and ran away, and got an encore.

Kalika burst out laughing and, not knowing quite why, she kissed Rudy on the tip of his nose and then on his soft mouth. He kissed her back, and they peeled off their clothes slowly and with real delight, caressing each other. Kalika rubbed Rudy’s sore, firm rear. It was still a raw, angry red from the previous day. Rudy sighed with pleasure as she rubbed gently. Then they cuddled, holding each other, fearful of the police brutality they had seen and wondering what worse was to come.

That night the secret police broke into Kalika’s flat. When they busted the lock on her bedroom door they found her standing there in a red basque and black velour jogging bottoms, with a sharp knife in each hand. “I sleep with these under my pillow now,” she purred. “I knew you’d come for me.” The police drew their guns and tasers. Kalika glared at them. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to meet us outside,” they told her, “Then you’ll be taken to Paradise.” They turned and walked out of the flat.

Kalika quickly dressed and gathered her things in her bag; she wore a blue and gold dress over black jeggings and boots, and a gold-coloured choker. An Ankh ring glittered on one hand. Taking one last look behind her at the flat, and wondering when she would see it again, Kalika locked the door behind her. The police searched her and confiscated the two phones, three recording devices and four knives they found in her bag, purse and boots. Then they stuffed her into the van and drove her all night to London.

Kalika was sound asleep when they arrived; she awoke being carried through the drizzly London streets. Kalika lay still, then sprang out of the policeman’s arms – but she remained stuck to him. The policeman grinned, then let his arms drop, but she still remained held – by black material. She was in a harness. “Remember me, Kalika?” he asked conversationally, and yes – the dripping black hair, the broad shoulders – “You held me at the demo!” she gasped. “Yep. Shouldn’t have gone shooting your mouth off to a secret policeman; we’ve been looking for whoever put up those YouTube vids.” “Tristan?” said Kalika in a low, dangerous voice, her eyes narrowing as she pictured getting her revenge on him. “Yep. And no, you ain’t never gonna see him again, so don’t even think of gettin’ payback.” A hood was pulled over Kalika’s face, leaving her in blackness.

Kalika heard snaps and felt herself being released from the harness and gently deposited on the ground. She stood up swiftly. The hood was removed. David Cameron was in front of her talking to a cute naked boy in his late teens with spiky brown hair. He looked the same as he did on the telly. The second thing she noticed was Paradise, because the boy Cameron was talking to was held lovingly in two of its golden arms, dangling horizontally. Another arm descended from beneath the huge yellow smiley face, and the smile widened happily. The arm had a little studded iron extension on it; it began to glow a little red, then it cooled and started whirring round. The arm thrust the extension into the boy’s little pucker and he screamed, thrashing his legs wildly as the studded arm pushed into his poophole. The two other arms let go and the poor guy rotated round and round as the arm whirred. Another arm, this one with a hand-like protrusion, caught him so he was once more dangling. He screamed again as his turd portal was scraped raw by the turning studded arm. Paradise’s round yellow face took on a look of concentration as it changed the extensions on its two free arms.

Cameron turned to an aide with waist-length red hair who was taking notes. “I think we’re just about done,” he muttered. He gave Kalika a nod, then pulled his Blackberry from his shirt pocket, checking his texts. He grinned as he read Hey, congrats on getting the new law pushed thru! Saw the human rights guys get pwned in that debate with you the other night, lmao!! Need any tips on torture, just pm me on Facebook or whatever. Ayatollah xx. Cameron stowed the phone back in his pocket; he’d reply after work.

The boy shrieked as a wooden paddle thwacked into his plump naked rear, swung back and then pounded the helpless ass over and over, turning it pink to dark pink to red as the boy hollered and squirmed, weeping and then crying. He looked like a little boy with a bright red behind. The hot studded dildo extension rammed back into his poo-gate and he yelped – it withdrew and shot back in – the paddle slammed into the boy’s soft mounds as the dildo jerked in and out of his butt, turning over and over and now glowing red-hot. “Owwweeee! My bummy!” the boy wailed, as Paradise smashed a cane onto his strawberry-red bottom. Paradise flicked the cane at his sit spot, producing a lone howl, then swished it again to land on exactly the same spot. The boy pissed. A stream of pee splashed out of his hot, stiff cock onto the carpet, making a small yellow puddle. Paradise switched the boy’s sitting area again – and again – and again. “Mummy!” he howled, kicking furiously, his exposed boyish charms fully visible to Kalika, who pulled down her leggings and started wanking. David Cameron looked over at her with a puzzled expression, and firmly turned his back to her. To distract himself from her soft moans, he pulled out his Blackberry and started scrolling through his messages. Well done, David. I always said bring back the birch but people wouldn’t listen. It’s good to see you taking matters into your own hands in true Tory fashion. Ann Widdecombe. Hi, Mr Cameron. I just want to apologise for what I said to you at the last UN summit – you’re clearly not soft and I totally misjudged you. Btw, get you ass out the ICC, dem is gonna fuck you up bad muthafucka. – Mugabe.

”I’m finished, Davey-boy,” droned a jerky, robotic voice, and Paradise placed the boy on a soft pad attached to its front. The boy curled up on his side, quivering and bawling, rubbing his butt. Kalika changed the rhythm of her strokes. The aide ripped a sheet off her pad and started a new one. “Kalika Rose?” she asked, looking at Kalika, who just continued wanking. “Well, we ID’d you electronically and that’s who you are. You’re the first person to be put in Paradise for putting up YouTube videos and also for badmouthing Cameron on Facebook and during a seminar; yes, I know everyone’s been badmouthing Cameron, but you’re going to be the first to set an example.”

“Really?” said Kalika happily, “I’m the first? That’s kinda cool. I’m sort of proud of that.” “Aren’t you going to deny the charges or plead for mercy?” asked the aide, confused. Her nametag said Katharinne. “Nope.” The policeman who had carried Kalika went over and helped the boy up and out of Paradise. “Have a nice day,” said Paradise, his face smiling. “I’m going to take notes about you and if you wish to see a copy of these notes, you can write to our department and ask to see them under the Freedom of Information Act 1995 and the Data Protection Act 1998,” said Katharinne. Kalika nodded, uttering a low moan. Katharinne dragged a chintz armchair from over by the window to near where Kalika was standing.

The secret policeman plonked himself down, grinning smugly as he gripped Kalika’s wrists and threw her down hard over his lap. “I’m Roland,” he smirked, “and I will be punishing you today.” He slapped Kalika’s bottom hard, pushed up her dress and rolled her leggings down to above her knees. Kalika wriggled violently and Cameron pushed a button on his desk; a group of guards bustled through the door and pointed tasers at her. Roland smacked her bare bottom, and the sensation was not altogether unpleasant. Kalika felt herself blush as Roland smacked again and again, covering her entire butt with stinging heat – it was embarrassing and she guessed she must look very babyish to Katharinne, the guards and Cameron, being spanked like this over someone’s knee. But it also felt kind of nice as well.

Roland spanked her expertly, using his spanking training skills. Kalika’s helplessly bared bum felt hotter and hotter as swats landed all over her cheeks, hard and fast, so she couldn’t predict where the next one was going to fall. Her ass was a prickling fire and she bit her lip to stop herself yelping. But her feet jerked and kicked and as Roland thrashed her mercilessly she began to squirm around on his lap. Kalika felt her eyes well up with tears as the tingling pain in her behind intensified into a burning.  Then the pressure on her lower back lifted and Roland helped her up. One of the guards stepped forward, taking Kalika’s sweaty palm, and he and Roland walked her over to Paradise. Her head was held high, clitoris jutting proudly out.

However Cameron was not moved by this unusual show of defiance; they all succumbed in the end, in Paradise’s arms. Not that she was the first; far from it; he’d had people scream and swear at him as they were tasered limp or manhandled kicking and punching into Paradise; the people of Britain had not yet learned to fear their government – they didn’t know how to. But they soon would. Paradise turned his big yellow face and looked down at her.

Kalika felt a thrill of fear; how would it feel? How much would it hurt? There weren’t any books about this; no courses, no self-help books, no way to prepare your mind and body by yoga or meditation. There was just you and Paradise. You go in with your thoughts, she’d heard. And you come out with ideas. And when you come out, they’re yours, Kalika, Paradise said. Not anyone’s. Not society’s. They’ll be yours. “You can talk in my head!” she gasped. “Paradise talks to everyone,” Katharinne said softly, smiling. “Except to me. He only talks out loud to me,” said Cameron, fiddling with his Blackberry again. “She,” corrected Katharinne, “Paradise is female.” Cameron shrugged. Roland and the guard lifted Kalika up onto the velvety pad under the machine’s chin, and the face inclined downwards, frowning slightly. Then it smiled. I am neither male nor female nor neuter. I am Paradise, the ultimate reality. I am the machine built for no other purpose than to deliver people into the ultimate reality of pain.

I hate you. You were sent to destroy liberty, Kalika thought back. She gathered her mental force and hurled it at the machine, attacking its psyche. Its expression barely faltered. No. I was built to destroy liberty. But the idea of me was sent into the minds of men for a higher purpose. I was sent to bring you liberty. Paradise’s soft arms encircled Kalika, raising her up to its face. The saucy grin widened and another arm appeared, wielding a wooden paddle. It fell onto Kalika’s butt and she yelped. Cameron laughed, not unkindly. Paradise paddled her hard and fast, Kalika trying to keep silent but squealing and wriggling uncontrollably. She felt very embarrassed but resolved not to give Cameron any real satisfaction of seeing her break down. Then the arm retracted, only to shoot out a hot iron paddle that pressed down on her bottom. Kalika squeezed her eyes shut and groaned as the blaze intensified, her helpless cheeks burning. She began to cry, blushing as she realized that the guards, Roland and Cameron were seeing her weakness. It felt like Paradise was holding a fire to her bare ass – but it felt so good! I see your soul and it is mine. Join your mind to mine, even for a second, and you will have my strength; together we will bring liberty, sexual freedom for the children to come. “Not through you,” Kalika said out loud. “Never by you. That would be a mockery.” For that I admire you. It is a shame; you throw away a great destiny.

Cameron eyed her suspiciously as Katharinne scribbled away. He looked over at Roland and said hoarsely, “Use the new function.” Roland turned pale. “But, please – el presidente – you cannot do that. She is young still. Have mercy.” Cameron drew himself up, and his eyes were cold. “Do not presume to tell me how to do my job.” “Please, at least consult your legal team first,” Katharinne pleaded, stepping forward and placing her hand on Cameron’s arm. “It will only take a moment, and as you know they’re on their way now because of the legal problems with the machine’s new function that we talked about.” “I told you I refuse to go over this matter again!” Cameron snapped.

Paradise lifted the hot paddle away and Kalika gasped in a big breath, crying hard now. A tall woman burst through the door, pushing the guards aside and waving a large file. She dumped her briefcase on the floor and hissed at Cameron “You cannot do this!” “And why not?” sighed Cameron. “Because, generalissimo – Prime Minister – it is a copyright infringement! And a breach of intellectual property laws! A torture machine to electrocute people’s genitals already exists, and that government will sue you for breach of international copyright laws – they could take you to an international court.” “Their leader has been ousted for a year,” Cameron snorted. “But his government still remains,” the woman countered, “and as your chief legal advisor-” Two female guards grabbed the lawyer firmly and marched her out of the door. Cameron visibly relaxed. “Proceed,” he nodded.

“You can’t do this to me!!” Kalika screamed, exhilarated, excited and terrified all at the same time. Roland walked over to configure the electrocution system, but Paradise raised a gold arm. “My ability is my own to control.” There was a soft whooshing noise and Paradise’s eyes glowed gold for a second. It sighed, swaying almost as the power coursed through its hot metal body. An arm came up with a small probe on the end. Another arm gently pulled Kalika’s leggings down further and rearranged her dress. Paradise looked deep into Kalika’s eyes. It is an honour, Kalika, it said, in the moment before the probe’s tip touched her inner labia and fire – or power, pure power such as the heroines of ancient ages had wielded – coursed hot through her nerves, her leaping blood and searing thoughts. She was joined with Paradise – not the joining of minds it had suggested, but the pure carnal pleasure of the flesh. She felt sickeningly powerful, capable of anything. Cameron was quailing looking at her and she directed her burning gaze upon him, telling him with her eyes how he was nothing, how she could kill with a mere look, a single flash of fire from her pupils. In that moment everyone in the room perceived her great power, and were afraid. The electricity continued to tickle her and Kalika threw back her head in wild joy, uttering a cry, a howl of delight and rage and dominance, like the hunting-cries that had terrified the pine forests of old. The orgasm flowed from the electric current and was one with it.

“VIDEO THIS!” Kalika screamed, “Why isn’t anyone filming?!” She bucked and writhed as her vagina pulsated and throbbed, expanding and contracting to the beat of the electricity. “I am KALIKA!” Kalika roared as her body contorted, muscles flexing; it was eerily beautiful. “I am Kali, I am strong, I am beautiful! I am woman! I am man! I am –” “Full power! As high as it will go!” yelled Cameron. Roland fiddled with a complex keypad on Paradise’s side. A bolt of lightning shot into her labia. “More!” she screamed. She turned her fierce eyes towards Cameron. “More!”

A guard began stamping his foot on the floor and the rhythm travelled round the room until everyone except Cameron was drumming the ground. Paradise’s electric shocks synchronised with the drumbeat and the hot iron paddle slapped Kalika’s sore ass, again and again in sync with the drumming as she wailed out her pain and delight. The windows blew apart in a glass explosion and a pink bunnyman landed in the room holding a machine gun. A sinister gas mask obscured his face, he was wearing pink bunny ears and a sexy leather costume which instantly moistened all the pussies in the room. A little cotton bunny tail was attached to his large, rounded bunny butt. “Let her go,” he said, pointing his gun at Cameron.

“The Axe Bunny! He’s real!” gasped Roland. Katharinne strode calmly over to the bunny and placed a delicate hand on his weapon. “Now, I’m sure that if we all calm down we can find a solution,” she smiled. Her other hand went to his crotch and squeezed it. Cameron’s eyes bulged out of his head. “You’re outnumbered,” said one of the guards, raising her taser. The others followed suit. “I have a gun,” the bunnyman pointed out. “I can kill all of you and free everyone in the whole country from your regime.” “Do it!” Kalika yelled.

The bunny fired a rapid round of shots, turning his gun in a semicircle until everyone in the room except Kalika had been shot. Katharinne grinned at him. “Bulletproof vests,” she said.

Kalika and the bunny were tortured all night long, and received ten orgasms each. Anyone listening outside the door would have heard the sound of a very long spanking and the crying of a very sorry and hot-bottomed rabbit boy. Then the sound of drilling might have been heard, along with wild screams as the red-hot paddle was applied most vigorously to a bare bunny bum. Then Kalika’s cries from the electrocution were joined by the bunny’s. Kalika’s favourite part was when Paradise gave her an electric shock on her ass, followed by multiple shocks – perhaps fifty going off at the same time – all over her rear. It burned! It raged in her helpless butt like an inferno, but the agony was pure and the joy she felt was purer still. Paradise lifted her gently, depositing her on the little velvet shelf below his face, then a square light was thrust over her hot behind and an intense light shone down on her cheeks, burning her rump horribly. Beside her, the Bunny, naked except for his rabbit ears, was getting whipped by another arm, his plump butt a dark, rosy pink. The light seemed to get hotter and brighter until Kalika was screaming and flailing around madly; Paradise pulled her into a sitting position and lowered her bum ever so gently onto a hot metal plate. The arm that had been whipping the Bunny went still, developed a knobbled pole, and lay flat to the floor with the pole jutting up like what sociologists call a phallic symbol. The Bunny was left dangling while another arm extended with gold fingers, which groped inexorably toward the Bunny’s nether regions. Kalika didn’t see what happened next – though this looked very promising and she was already dripping from the torture – because Paradise pushed her onto the pole, which forced into her clenching poophole. Kalika yelped, prompting a giggle from Cameron. Kalika slid slowly down the pole, whimpering at the discomfort in her burning turd portal. Paradise lifted her a little way up the pole and let go of her so that she sank further down again. After a while of this (with Cameron filming on his Blackberry) Kalika was pulled into the diaper position and dropped onto Paradise’s little shelf. Enjoying this, my dear one? It said. The arm with fingers on it held her in position while another arm descended with a tiny, flicking strap smaller than a pinky finger. The strap descended towards Kalika’s butt and whipped her asshole over and over. She squeezed her eyes shut and yelped each time it hit her rosebud, the yelps blending into one.

After their adventures, the secret police told them that they would be driven back home or to whatever location they chose; the bunny chose to be dropped off in central London while Kalika was given a long but comfortable ride back to her flat. The car’s interior had been altered to allow people to lie on their tummies, and the police gave her an ice pack for her now raspberry red and purple rear.

When they parked at the flat, one of the policemen picked up Kalika and carried her into the close, up the stairs and to her flat door where he put her down. She was trembling. He cuddled her and then left. Strangely, however, not a single protester tried to sue the government. Indeed, a new fervour could be observed in the demonstrations and more and more people seemed to be protesting. The same protesters were being captured and tortured again and again, and they were certainly more compliant and polite now.

Then David Cameron decided to allow the public to hire Paradise to spice up their sex lives, in order to raise funds for the torture program. People queued up to rent the machine at the reasonable price that was offered; oddly enough, as the press noted, a lot of people who had been forced kicking and screaming into Paradise were now lining up to pay for the experience. The number of protests dropped significantly. The sex industry boomed as replica Paradise machines and all sorts of one-function spin-offs such as spanking machines and fucking machines were mass-produced at larger rates than ever for those who did not live close to David Cameron’s office. Sex toys were in greater demand than ever before. Corporations vied with each other to get the contract to use the Paradise logo or get a product endorsement from Cameron. The economy was slowly boosted and the recession began to reverse.

It was a cold day outside. Kalika and Rudy flopped on the cushions in front of the TV, stuffing their faces with chocolate. They were watching a new sitcom about a sex toy company which sent its employees off to different corners of the globe to source good torture devices which would be brought back to the company and developed into prototypes for SM sex toys. The cold, calculating Vivien was giving a presentation on where to source the latest designs for SM toys. As she finished her presentation, she turned off the TV. Another character, Marco, spoke up. “That wasn’t a presentation, that was just a clip from the BBC lunchtime news,” he complained. Vivien turned towards him and eyed him coldly. “So?” she breathed. Marco was visibly squirming in his seat. “So…uh…well, it’s just that…” “Well, the point of that clip was that Syria is the best place to go right now to source designs, but we will be sourcing blueprints, not pre-prototype models. And we must send a team to go there immediately before our rival companies get the information and start selling products derived from the data – everyone in the industry has their eye on Syria right now, it has really become number one in the sensation enhancing field.” “Pre-prototypes?” Marco tremored. Vivien sighed. “Pre-prototypes are actual devices obtained in their local context, which the boys in the lab will use as a reference to come up with a prototype sex toy which is safe, fun and enhances the sex life of the consumer.” Marco looked as though he was about to be sick. “In the local context? So, they’re-They’re actual – things to –” “I prefer to call them sensation-enhancing objects or physical stimulation gadgets,” said Vivien smoothly. “And we will not be obtaining them on this particular assignment because the style of sensation enhancer that has been developed in Syria is too large to be easily transported. What we will be aiming to source are plans, blueprints, any information at all which will help us simulate the Syrian regime’s achievements in a safe, fun way.” She leaned forward, surveying all the impassive faces around the conference table. “For this assignment, I’ll need a team of four motivated, assertive, dynamic individuals who are team players. You will be collaborating with local designers and engineers of the devices, researching how the sensation enhancers function and negotiating deals with the government for this information.” She straightened up. “And of course, with the data and hopefully blueprints that you bring back, we will be able to modify the designs to be more consumer-friendly, affordable, lightweight and above all fun and safe.” The scene cut to the interior of a train, where two company employees were sitting; one of them opened his briefcase, displaying the pre-prototype devices he had managed to buy and joking about always travelling with interesting briefcase contents. “Let’s change the channel,” Rudy groaned, “this is just sick, why on earth did OFCOM let this air? I’ve half a mind to complain.” Kalika changed it to the Channel 4 news. It appeared that bishops and priests, as well as Ann Widdecombe, spoke out against the popularity of sex toys but it was too late; sexual repression was finally coming to an end and society demanded more and more pornography; women were demanding dirty mags full of hot boys getting spanked and raped, and the double standard was shattering. The improvement of the economy meant that everyone had more disposable income and they spent it on the sex industry. More pressure groups had formed, advocating poly marriage. With delight, they learned that Nadine Dorries’ abstinence enforcement Bill didn’t even pass its first reading. As the news ended, Kalika said she wanted to give the sitcom another chance, and they caught it just as another half-hour episode was beginning. This time a team of 20 employees was heading off to Fantasia as this state was now officially the world leader in sensation enhancers. This was welcomed, as Fantasia was a popular tourist destination because of its history. However, this time instead of sourcing gadgets, the team had been contracted to help build a device.

The plot was moving, funny and heartwarming as the excited but sometimes slightly homesick Americans struggled with cultural differences and also bickered among themselves; one nerdy guy burst into tears over the challenging nature of the task which the company had never attempted before. But seeing the sights and going into bars with their new colleagues soon brought both sides into friendships, and there was a lovely celebration as the machine was completed and tested on a mean company employee, who screamed a lot. Then the company people left the government building they had installed the machine in, to a hail of Coke, fruit and liquids being thrown and sprayed at them by the Fantasian citizens, who knew exactly what they’d been up to. The scene slowed down as the company people ran in slow motion through the gently arcing fizzy drink and wafting fruit, their new friends leaning out of the windows and waving, a couple of them tearful. The credits started rolling, and Kalika sensed Rudy’s relief that it was finally over.

Ann Widdecombe (having finally worked out what BDSM was and linked it to the sex industry’s copycat Paradise machines) accused Cameron of fuelling BDSM desires with Paradise. She rallied her fellow freedom-haters but so few were willing to join her cause that she decided she would have to do a very immoral thing: take advantage of people who required to be hospitalised for mental health problems. Because most people who have mental health issues go about their daily lives and careers with no problem, Ann had to look high and low for an actual ‘mental hospital’. She and her mob broke psychiatric patients out of mental hospitals – (a minor glitch occurred when Ann was committed to a mental hospital by staff, for severe cognitive retardation – however, she soon escaped) the released loonies instantly joined the repressed bitch and she led a demonstration through the streets of London. Anne and her mob held up placards saying ‘Veil the mind’ ‘Sex is unnatural’ ‘The psychological burkha beats the physical burkha’ ‘Sexual repression for our children’ and ‘The Sexual Double Standard Rules OK’. David Cameron sighed, shook his head, and dispatched his secret police.

They arrested Anne for protesting and she was brought before him, where she lectured him in a voice like a furious harpy. “You can’t torture me!! I’m Ann Widdecombe, a 65 year old virgin anti-abortion crusader! I’m trying to rid the country of illegitimate children! You think you’re so flipping undemocratic with your so-called torture machine? Well I’ve appeared on and hosted nearly 20 TV programs, most of them when I was in Government! I brainwash the masses through TV! Iran is jealous of my undemocraticness!” Cameron sighed. “I didn’t want to have to do this, fellow Tory.” “I’m the single biggest threat to sexual freedom this side of the Atlantic. You’re playing with fire, little boy. You think you’re so cool but you’re no Al-Assad.”

The police tasered her in the face a few times till she shut up. David Cameron was regarding her solemnly. “You were against the government, and now you must pay the price,” he said gravely. “I’m going to torture you for a week and the BBC will film it live for the enjoyment of the public. Let nobody say I am a despot!” Cameron’s aide flicked aside the veil covering Paradise and the torture machine was revealed in its blazing gold glory. It was so beautiful and utterly perfect that Ann fell to her knees and knelt before it. The police lifted Anne into Paradise.

A week later, David Cameron switched off Paradise and the machine drifted off gratefully into standby mode. Anne was pulled out of the machine. She looked radiant. The hard lines of fury on her face were gone; the years had fallen away from her. She was still hideous and fat, but she was smiling a lovely, nice smile. When she spoke her voice was soft and innocent like a young girl’s. “I…I’m – happy!” she beamed, “I feel whole. I feel more myself; comfortable with my sexuality. I don’t hate and fear sex any more. I don’t hate gays, or people having premarital sex.” She walked unsteadily to the door. “I- I’m FREE!” Ann sobbed, rushing back to kiss Paradise tenderly before throwing one last look of longing over her shoulder and waddling out. “Have a…day,” Paradise said, its mouth a horizontal line.

“I tortured someone for a week!” Cameron boasted during Prime Minister’s Question Time, “Beat that Bahrain and Syria! And the BBC didn’t pay me much for the footage. I’ve actually been filming a lot of the torture in order to make myself more publically accountable. No, I’m not profiting by selling the videos to pornographic websites.”

By now the economy had improved enough for Cameron to increase education and health spending and cut down tuition fees. A few bishops made homophobic rants and were taken by the secret police and put in Paradise, and the torture was filmed by Channel 4 (who bought the BBC out of the rights to the footage). People partied in the street as the bishops were thoroughly fucked by the machine and spanked on their evil butts.

Equal marriage was pushed through. And two weeks after that, the protests had stopped and David Cameron was the most popular prime minister ever. However, though the world news was constantly reporting on Paradise’s debut and career, the dictators that Cameron had hoped to impress only laughed at his sissy, lenient treatment of protesters. They also couldn’t understand why Cameron didn’t install torture machines in every police station so he could capture protesters who were not protesting in London. When Cameron admitted that the Governmental Torture Act only allowed for one machine to be built, the dictators couldn’t stop giggling. Cameron didn’t care, though – the protests had stopped! Instead, people were dancing in the streets and celebrating the new age of sexual freedom. Everyone was in agreement that this was the best government we ever had.


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