This is an old story posted on another site. I came across it when trawling back for RC posts of mine. As originally written, there was no rape, but just BDSM and consensual sex by deception. But as I read, I realised a rape could be quite logical, so I added it. It’s a long story, so here’s the first part, which teases but does not deliver for your slaverers.
Mysteries of the Brotherhood
The beautiful girl lay restless on the beach, long brown legs snaking from short white shorts, pulled out her tablet and read:
“The idyllic tropical paradise of Malisu, set…” Bollocks, as the English said. Here it was.
“Malisu: situated 130 miles north-east of the Maldives, the island has a population of 269,347 (2016 census)…37% of the population is found in the two main settlements, Port Herbert (the capital) and Inalun…main ethnic groups, indigenous Malisun (closely related in language and DNA to Tamils), other Indian subcontinent, Franco-European (the original colonising power) and Anglo-European (more recent arrivals)…main religions, Hinduism and Roman Catholicism…autonomous Indian protectorate since 1950, succeeding British colonial rule…economy based on fruit, fishing and tourism…” Yes, it had been deleted. That was it. She had been right. They didn’t know what was coming to them.
She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Two passing youths whistled. She made an ancient Malisun gesture and they walked on, crestfallen. She checked her watch. Time to get back to the office.
The new I.T. guy Derek Withers was hanging around, an Anglo nerd with big spectacles and a tropical shirt. He tried for the fourth time to invite her out. Calmly, politely, firmly, she put him down.
Francis De Saint Francois Guillory eased back a little in his beloved rocking-chair, put out of his mind his unwell wife’s latest complaints and demands, put down the file he had been reading and looked up at the incredibly beautiful girl who had entered his office.
“You spoke of a major story, Naishadha? Do sit down.” She drew the chair to her and sat down with natural grace. His predecessor would have called her dress suggestive, but this was Malisu after all and the “Port Herbert Catholic Herald” did not exist in a bubble. Only undertakers and lawyers insisted on more formal, less revealing clothing.
“It’s not a story yet, Boss, but it can be one. It’s the Brotherhood.”
“Nine days ago the Malisun Information Exchange did a routine update of its less touristy briefing on Malisu. A lot of people read it – business people, tourists…”
“It included a couple of sentences on the Brotherhood – nothing so special really, that it was thought to have been established in 1806, that it was influential, it’s arms-length and uncertain relationship with world Masonry – nothing even about how its influence marginalises women…”
“Sounds fair enough, then, except for leaving out the bit about women.”
“It’s been deleted. The whole thing. Nothing there about the Brotherhood at all.” She saw a reaction in the often impassive man before her, a light in his eyes, a slight tensing of his arms. She prided herself on spotting such things. It was part of an investigative reporter’s art.
“Well done for spotting that. We can run a story on it, but it’ll be small beer, I’m afraid.” He smiled apologetically. “Naishadha, I dearly want to expose the Brotherhood. They have far too much power, as I’m sure you recognise.” This was it.
“Boss, I think we should send someone undercover into the Brotherhood.” He swung back in the chair, returned to a level position and put the tips of his fingers together.
“Good – I agree,” he said. “But who?” She hadn’t expected to be asked that. She felt honoured.
“Michael, maybe, or Gaganvihari?” she replied. He smiled thinly.
“How do we know neither of them is a Brother?” he asked. She was speechless. Mike Halloran? “Gaga” Shukla? That either of them could be a Brother…but then maybe they could. Men joined to get ahead in their careers, to smooth the path of business dealings, as a kind of insurance against hard times. But Mike was a Catholic and not a casual one, either.
“Mike’s a Catholic, so doesn’t that mean…” He was too polite to interrupt her, but her voice had dried up anyway.
“Nowadays though there’s still a prohibition on Catholics becoming Freemasons - and the Church has seen no reason to treat Malisu’s Brotherhood differently – we know perfectly well some Catholics ignore the ban,” he explained. “Freemasonry is secret and the Brotherhood more secret still, so it’s hard to police. You know as well as I do how much easier it is for a man on this island if he’s a Brother, and the Brotherhood could hardly be as powerful as it is unless quite a few Catholics belonged.” He paused and said sadly, “Of course I’m not saying for a moment that Michael IS a Brother, or Gaganvihari, but I have no way of being sure. They don’t bar people on grounds of colour or anything of that sort either. No, Naishadha, there’s only two groups of people in Malisu who quite definitely aren’t Brothers.”
“Minors and women.” She considered this.
“We can’t use a minor, so…oh, gosh!” She stared at him in confusion. “But I’m…well…” She realised she was blushing. How did you point out to your scrupulous, reserved, priest-like boss that you had breasts, a round, bouncy bottom and, well, other things?
“I could ask Maria,” he continued, “but frankly she’d be out of her depth. You wouldn’t. As for the obvious objections, I don’t want to be over-familiar, but…how can I say this…your upper figure is quite willowy and as for the lower, there’s no comparison with Sachi, for example, and you wouldn’t be wearing tight shorts.” She’d just stopped blushing but now she felt the flush returning.
“But…well…my face, boss? I can have my hair cut short, I was thinking about that anyway, but, um…”
“I see the problem,” he replied with a hint of a smile, but I know an excellent make-up artist and I expect he can not only make your mouth look less feminine, he can change the apparent contours of your face. You’ll still look a rather effeminate young man, but you’ll pass muster.”
This was almost too much to take in. She was struggling to believe that she could be made to look like a man, but the idea of masquerading as a man among men was oddly attractive, sexy almost. That she would be putting herself in danger did not bother her, provided the make-up job was good. And if she was the reporter who blew the Brotherhood wide open – well, the fame and the benefit to her career would be very welcome, but she would glory most in the powerful blow struck for justice, fairness, openness and women’s liberation.
“That is if you want to do it, of course,” he said. “Unfortunately I don’t see any other way of penetrating the Brotherhood.” A mad joke about screwing the bastards came into her mind but stayed away from her mouth.
“I want to do it, Boss,” she said.
“Excellent. I’ve dreamt of this day for years. You realise it could be dangerous?”
“Yes. That doesn’t bother me. I want to strike a blow for democracy and for the women of Malisu.”
A slim young brown-skinned man with delicate features, sensitive eyes under designer spectacles and a fluffy, half-grown beard slipped out of a shop in the Old Quarter of Inalun and paused on the pavement. He seemed to be nervous about something, for he looked around uncertainly; but then he strode forth blithely, almost jauntily. He was dressed informally in clothes that would have been uncomfortably heavy in the dry season near sea level, but the Old Quarter was at least perched on a hill caressed by sea breezes and it was the beginning of the rainy season, though not actually raining that moment. He wore a loose, many-pocketed battledress camouflage jacket and baggy khaki trousers; a bright blue baseball cap on his head seemed out of place, but was in fashion. A prostitute waggled her bottom at him, looking over her shoulder; he smiled and shook his head.
The young man walked at a leisurely pace to the bus station and boarded an “express” bus for Port Herbert. A plump middle-aged man sat down next to him, engaged him in conversation and, on discovering the young man had artistic interests, invited him to see his nudes. The young man politely declined. When the bus finally arrived in the middle of Port Herbert, he alighted and was met by a tall, greying, intellectual-looking white man.
“Charles!” cried Francis Guillory enthusiastically, “you look quite the man now!”
In the taxi to the Naval Town he explained the situation.
“I’ve had a word with Father Fernando. You’re his nephew just returned from working in California and Mumbai. He’s fixed you a place in a travel agent’s down by the Docks. Somewhat odd place – the clients who come there are sailors or passengers off ships. The sailors can be civilian of all nations, or Indian or British Royal Navy. Still, they want one-day tours round the island, that sort of thing. With your computer skills, person skills and knowledge of the island it’ll be easy. Oh, and, just in case someone at the ‘Herald’ is watching, the story is our correspondent in New Delhi is ill and you’ve gone there as temporary replacement.”
“And you think someone will approach me about the Brotherhood?” She was becoming doubtful, but she was also demonstrating her new, lower voice. At school she’d been famous for imitating the male teachers.
“A talented young man, a newcomer to Port Herbert, in a job with so many opportunities to gain intelligence or to guide visitors towards illegal services? Almost certainly you’ll be approached very soon. If not, well, you can write me an article about travel agents. The recording and locating device is securely in place? I won’t ask to see it!” It was as well, she thought. There was something weirdly sexy, though, about intimately hidden secret devices. Just as well they’d been fitted by a woman, though.
“Turn it on for ten minutes at, say, eleven tonight and I’ll just check it’s working. Good luck!” he concluded.
In the event, it was eighteen days before the approach was made. During that time she grew increasingly confident of her ability to carry off the deception. It helped that the office toilets were all individual little unisex booths, with no lined up urinal. She did have some trouble with the special pads in her shirt intended to hide her nipples, as they rubbed painfully, but she found Vaseline helped. Her walk was dangerous, but she cultivated a stiff gait and told stories of a childhood illness.
A brash Anglo-Indian hotelier, gold tie-pin and expensive haircut, had turned up to discuss special offers for visiting military personnel. Charles/ Naishadha had dealt with some details. When introduced, he had shaken her hand with an odd little twist and she’d suddenly felt excitement. This must be the Brotherhood handshake.
“What a beautiful day!” he said. “The rain only light, so good for this time of year. I understand the famous Naval Supply Water-tower is visible from your office. Could you step outside with me, young man, and show me where it is? This was it.
“You’re not a Brother, then, young man?” he asked as soon as they got outside. Let’s not make this suspiciously simple, she thought.
“The Naval Supply Water-tower is the bluish-grey building just visible between the tall office block with green tinted glass and those cranes. Sorry? A Brother? Oh, yes. I hadn’t really thought about it. I’ve been in California and Mumbai and they’re different worlds. Are you one, then?” Had she got the tone right? It seemed so.
“My young friend, I am not permitted to answer that question, but you may use your considerable intellectual powers to work it out for yourself. Now – would you like to join the Brotherhood? It would be of great advantage to you in your career. Friends in high places, or even in middle places, can be invaluable. You can rise faster – and if evil fate places you in trouble, they can save you.” The man’s voice was smooth and assured. Admittedly no doubt he was generally smooth and assured, but she guessed he’d recruited several Brothers.
“O.K. – that’s the plus points and fair enough, they’re quite powerful,” she replied, “but there must be minuses. What are they?” He wasn’t thrown at all.
“You’re a wise and clever young man, that I can see! Yes, there are some disadvantages. It takes up some time – a couple of hours a week at the least and more if you become more deeply involved. Some Brothers are uncomfortable about some of the ceremonies, but it’s no worse than eating cabbage if you don’t like cabbage, and most Brothers enjoy them. The ceremonies, that is, not cabbage. Are you a Catholic?”
“No, I’m a Hindu. My mother’s a Catholic, though.” Shit, she’d nearly blown it. If she was Fernando’s relative there had to be Catholicism in the family. But the man seemed not to have noticed.
“Nothing to worry about if you were. Despite anything Archbishop Bouchard says, plenty of Catholics are Brothers. So – do you want to be on the plane?” Naishadha was about to ask where to when she recalled that “on the plane” was Brotherhood jargon and the plane was the carpentry sort, not the winged sort. She had to balance this just right.
“Er…this stuff people talk about, corruption, crime even…I take it the Brotherhood isn’t really like that?” She was beginning to get into the spirit of being this silly young man.
“Of course not! But I’m sure you realise that’s all just tittle-tattle and calumny, especially from Archbishop Bouchard, Bishop Bissette, that prig Guillory and the rest of them.”
“O.K., then, thanks – I will.” There, she’d said it.
“Capital!” the man said, actually rubbing his hands. “You need two proposers. I’ll be one and Mr Poobalarayar will be the other.” Poobalarayar was a kind of odd-job man around the travel agent’s and Naishadha had pretty much ignored him up to now. She realised that had been unwise. “We will invite you to the Preparation and the Making. Now let’s step back inside; I’m tiring of this rain.”