Chapter Two (Part Two)
PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF 16 YEAR OLD SLAVEGIRL MARTINE
There are toilet facilities and a shower in an annexe to each cell. Also a table with mirror and plenty of beauty aids for hair and face. A slave-girl has to keep herself looking at her best, whatever the circumstances. If she does not, she is liable to be punished.
Kathie and I showered together the following morning. She is a mild-mannered person and basically very shy. On account of her shyness, she had a terrible time whilst undergoing training. I guess everything was twice as difficult for her to do than most of us. But, in the end, she was fully broken in. She is Irish and has big green eyes. Once they must have flashed merrily; now they are always filled with profound despair.
“Did you have a tough time yesterday?” I asked her.
“Not too bad,” she replied, “but I had to pull out all the stops. That Miss Mayhew’s a right cow, but at least she didn’t ask for me to be thrashed.”
“How did you get on?”
“Gina and I had to service some filthy old German b**st. As school-girls.”
“Yes, you can well say that. He was revolting. But satisfied in the end.”
We got out of the shower and dried. Then we dried our hair with a blower and I combed Kathie’s. It’s reddish and curly. She did mine afterwards. Mine’s easy. It’s just light blonde and long, fastening into a single pony-tail. Once I wanted to alter that but Malik said No. He reckoned the ponytail kept me looking more like the sixteen I actually am.
Food was brought to us by duty; slave-girls pushing a trolley along the corridors and entering each cell in turn. The food is simple but nourishing. Fruit juices, fruit, cereals, wholemeal bread, things like that. If a girl is thought overweight, she is put on a diet. Fortunately I have no weight problems. Secretly, I was rather proud of my figure. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been so good, perhaps I wouldn’t have been where I was. After breakfast, Malik came in and examined us.
“Yes, you’re looking fine,” he said. “Just a little more lipstick, I think Kathie.”
“Very well, Sir.” Kathie sat down before the mirror and applied some more.
“Another nice easy morning,” said Malik. “Just domestic duties on the patio.
” I was relieved to hear it and I know Kathie was as well. It meant that we would not be required
for sexual services and, moreover, the work was not at all arduous. Malik led us up to the patio and removed collars and chains. Cleaning of the stones was still going on. A half dozen girls were panting and sweating as they toiled ceaselessly, a female Overseer in the background. It’s a
most horrible task and it comes to us all in turn. I reckoned the time was about 10 o’clock and, as yet there were no guests on the patio. Doubtless, all lying in getting over their drinking and sexual excesses.
Malik removed our restraints and Kathie and I went into the serving area to get organised. Trays, glasses, ice etc., all had to be ready. We checked that all spirits and wineswhich were likely to be required were on hand. It’s best to get set up properly from the start for, when you’re rushing
around serving half a dozen guests at once, you’ve got no spare time. Women are the worst about being kept waiting. They are definitely crueller to their own kind. Worst of all, being women themselves, they know the true depths of our degradation.
I polished glasses and table tops to wile away the time. The patio scrubbers were led off. Everything looked spotless ready for the most meticulous guest. The first one arrived about 11 o’clock. She was a tall, hard-faced woman whom I did not remember seeing before. Her hair was long and
black, her eyes wide-set, her nose too large and slightly hooked. I hurried towards her as she sat at a table and I gave a little bow.
“Good morning, Ma’am,” I said. “Can I get you something?” Lady guests are always addressed as ‘Ma’am’ unless they are very young, which is unusual. I was bending forward, quite near her and she smacked my face hard. Then she gave me another, a backhands.
“MISS” she almost snarled.
“I... aahh... beg pardon, Miss...” I said meekly, my head ringing from the slaps. It was so unjust. How was I to know she wished to be addressed as ‘Miss’? However, there is a lot of injustice here. I simply had to accept it... and grovel verbally.
“Orange juice with ice. A croissant...”
“Yes, Miss.” I hurried off. This woman was obviously a right bitch and I didn’t want to cross her. Time and again a slave-girl has to suppress her feelings of deep, inner fury. I hurried back and saw that more guests had arrived.
Kathie was serving them, so everything was all right for the moment. Two more slave-girls would be on the patio by midday when things would start hotting-up. The woman did not even look at me when I delivered her order. I was simply a serving object. Nothing more. I was kept reasonably busy for the first hour but not overworked. I was coping quite well. If only all slave duties could be like this, I thought to myself. A youngish man had joined the table of the woman who had smacked my
face. They seemed to know each other. She addressed him as Jason and he called her Claudia. I had not seen the man before; he must be a new arrival.
“Champagne. A bottle. Dom Perignon,” he said, giving me a side glance.
“You’ll join me, Claudia?”
“A bit early, but why not? My first day here this year.”
“My second,” said the man Jason. I was conscious of his eyes upon me as I turned. And I gave my bottom an extra swing as I went off. If he wanted me, he would certainly be preferable to that revolting Herr Brandt. Back I came, in next to no time, uncorked the bottle and started pouring.
The woman Claudia was looking disdainfully into the distance; the man Jason placed his hand on one of my buttock cheeks. I managed to keep pouring steadily.
“Name?” he enquired.
“Martine, Master.” I answered.
“Mmmmm...” he gave my buttock cheek a squeeze. “Well developed for sixteen.”
“Thank you, Master,” I said. There was little doubt that, before long, I would be brought up to him by Malik. He looked very sexy, very virile. The marauding hand left me.
“You don’t fancy this young slut, do you Jason” enquired Claudia.
“She has some merit, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t even considered it.”
“Ah, well, that’s your affair.”
I thought it best to beat a retreat. A snap of the finger could always summon me back.
Some half an hour later, I saw Miss Bianca come on to the patio. She is the owner of the Island and organiser of this Hell on Earth. Or Paradise. According to your status on the Island. The sight of her always sends a shiver down my spine. She is lithe, slim and attractive in a hard way... but one can definitely sense the monstrous cruelty within her being. One can almost see it throbbing, throbbing within her soul. She does not have to perpetuate acts of cruelty at regular intervals (though she does from time to time), it is sufficient that she is the owner of scores of slave-girls who are utterly in her power and must perform as she, and her favoured guests, wish. That is an ever-present delight
within her being. Like taking a heady wine every time one thinks about it.
Miss Bianca took a seat alongside a male guest and I suddenly realised I was the nearest serving girl. Much against my wishes, I hurried over to her table, quaking inwardly. It was so terrible to be near to the very centre of power on the Island.
“Pernod, slave,” she said casually, after I had been standing there for a good half minute whilst she talked to the guest. The fact that I might be keeping other guests waiting, and might thus be punished, was a matter of indifference to her.
I poured the milky liquid and filled the glass with ice. Then back I went. Still nervous. It must have been the nervousness that caused it. I still don’t know how it happened. But, as I hurried to the table, I caught a foot on one of patio stones. I stumbled; I started to fall. Unavoidably, I dropped the glass of Pernod from the tray I was carrying. It crashed to the ground and some of the liquid
splashed on the lower part of Miss Bianca’s lightweight trousers. For a moment there was a deathly silence around the patio. Then a babble of interest and comment arose. I staggered up and saw Miss Bianca looking icily furious. It was unforgivable that one of her slaves should be so careless
in public. Quite unforgivable. I felt as if my heart had turned to stone; icy water seemed to be rushing through my belly. For a moment I thought my legs would crumple underme.
Then a female Overseer looked up.
“Take her away. put her in Suspension. She will be dealt with at this evening’s Punishment Session,” said Miss Bianca.
An iron collar was instantly fastened around my neck and I was led off, trembling all over. I saw the man Jason looking at me as I went past. His lady companion, Claudia, was smiling gleefully. My head was buzzing, my knees felt weak.
Oh dear God, what was going to happen to me?
The terrible realisation came to me that the time was but midday. The evening Punishment Session was not until 6.30 p.m. That meant I would be in Suspension for over six hours.
Once I had endured four hours in Suspension and it had been a terrible ordeal. This was going to be worse. And awaiting me at the end of it, was more punishment. Little wonder that tears of self-pity filled my eyes as we left the patio and descended into the cellars. Soon, before me was the wide
doors of the dreaded Punishment Room. They swung open and in we went.
I saw at once there were several girls chained to one of the side walls. They would be there waiting to be punished at the 2.30 Session. At that time, there were no guest occupying the semi-circle of comfortable chairs behind the Punishment Block. However, a group came in almost immediately.
Probably they had arrived to see me put into Suspension.
The women chattered amongst themselves as if they were at a cocktail party; some of the men took a closer look at the girls chained to the wall. One of them slapped a bottom and another one laughed. I was trembling uncontrollably as Miss Rocha, the Overseer, removed my collar and chain.
“Lie on the floor, face down,” she ordered. I placed my naked body to the hard stone, knowing that I was to suffer the most painful form of Suspension. There are two methods.
With the first, you are simply put into a body harness and hauled aloft, there to swing helpless. With the second method, cuffs are fastened around wrists and ankles and, to these, chains are attached. The slave is then pulled up high, in a horizontal position, looking down, having to take the strain of her weight on arms and legs. It is a cruel thing indeed. After a short while, every muscle in one’s
body seems to be burning. The only possible relief is to faint. This, however, is usually detected before long and one is revived.
One of the male Overseers began to operate the pulleys which raised me. Up I went... up... up... at once feeling the swain on my muscles. I saw the upturned face of one of the guests. Most of them seemed to be finding it very amusing. When I was about twenty feet up, the liking stopped.
I swung there utterly helpless, facing hours and hours of suffering. Right below me stood the Punishment Bench. And, in due time. I would be over it.
More slave-girls arrived and were chained to the wall. Overseers, male and female, assembled. Guests entered and took their seats. All that was required was the presence of the Chief Overseer. By the time she arrived, my muscles had started to burn and I was sweating a little. I tried to
drive the pain out of my mind, but it was impossibly. I was well aware that that pain would steadily intensify. As the Chief Overseer sat down, a hush descended, except amongst the chained slave-girls, many of whom were sobbing. These I guessed would be mainly those still under training.
“We are in Session,” came the announcement. A pause.
“Miss Paula, what have you got for us?”
“Three girls under training, Ma’am. Disobedience whilst undergoing sexual instruction.”
It was a familiar Litany.
“How long have they been under training, Miss Paula?”
“Seven days. Maybe eight, Ma’am.” They were indeed very new to the horrors of this existence.
“Hhhmm... well, at this stage, I think twelve strokes of the Number 3 cane will suffice.”
One of the girls was uttering a pleading kind of cry. She did not realise that twelve strokes of the Number 3 rod was just about the lightest punishment she could get. In another week or two’s time,
she would be getting eighteen. Later on, twenty four.
“Very good, Ma’am.”
Miss Paula unfastened the first girl in line from the wall and led her towards the Block. She stumbled along, weeping profusely.
“No... no... no....” she kept gasping out. “You can’t... you can’t... NO... NOOOO!”
A male Overseer was taking a Number 3 rod out of the water canister in which all canes were kept... ensuring maximum suppleness.
„Will you do the honours, William?” I heard Miss Paula enquire.
“Sure thing, Miss.” He flexed the rod happily. I imagined these two would be the pair in charge of the girls’ training.
Miss Paula f***ed the girl over the hump of the Block and William raised the top of the pillory attachment at the other end of it. In went the girl’s neck and wrists, down came the top and was locked in position. The girl’s thighs were pulled down and under, being splayed wide. The customary posture over the Block, guaranteeing the buttock flesh would be as taut as possible. The guests were looking on in silence. But eagerly. The girl’s cries and pleas grew louder. They were futile, of course, but I realise she could not help this outburst. It was perfectly natural.
William advanced and tapped the bottom lightly.
“NOOOOOO... AAAAGHHH... NOOOOOO!”
The rod was raised high and came lashing down across the very centre of the girl’s bottom. After a hideous intake of breath, there was a momentary pause, followed by a series of agonised shrieks. Understandably, a girl in her first week of training is exceedingly sensitive to the rod.
“One!” shouted Miss Paula above the cried. “Eleven to come.”
The second stroke fell an inch below the first and there was another eruption of awful shrieking. As I knew myself, it was a terrifying sound to those who waited. The third stroke fell an inch above the first one. It was accurate work but it is not too difficult to be accurate when a girl’s bottom is held virtually immobile. Only when a bottom is squirming uncontrollably is accuracy very difficult
I closed my eyes on the all too familiar scene. But I could not shut out the sounds. The high-pitched whistle of the descending cane...The crack of the supple willow biting into soft girlflesh... The sharp intakes of disbelieving breath...The uninhibited shrieks of pain which followed... The beseeching pleas... Miss Paula calling the strokes... Followed by the whistling of the cane again...
I opened my eyes and saw that the girl’s bottom, which had already carried a tracery of the slim training-switch marks, was now encircled with twelve far more vivid weals. Twintracked
and purpling at the tips. William had caned very hard.
The girl was released and more or less dragged back to the wall. She was weeping piteously. I cannot tell you adequately how awful those first few weeks under training are!
Miss Paula unchained the second girl. She had probably become unnerved by the scene and resisted the tug on her collar and chain. She dug in her feet and fought not to be pulled towards the Block. William simply grinned, picked her up bodily and dumped her over the hump, driving breath
from her body. Quickly and easily, she was secured helpless.
“Six extra for resistance,” announced the Chief Overseer. One of the women guests actually clapped.
“Quite right, too,” she said. William took up his position and the punishment began. It was more or less a replay of the first except that, as the extra strokes awarded were laid on, the cacophony of shrieking sound was even more hideous. It was, I guessed, the girl’s first eighteen stroke caning. It would not be her last.
The girl seemed half senseless when she was re-chained to the wall. She was no longer shrieking, just moaning horribly.
Girl number three did not resist. She had seen what had happened to the girl before her! She went almost meekly to the Block... but she shrieked just as loudly when the cane bit and bit again. I closed my eyes. It was terrible to know that, in the evening, I would be there. Also shrieking.
Three more slaves were dealt with. They were all trained slaves. The first was Marianne, a big-bosomed, big-buttocked slave in her late twenties. A woman guest had accused her of ‘Insolence’ (whatever that might mean) and I soon realised that the woman was in the audience. There was a horrible look of cruel delight on her features and she kept nudging her companions and pointing. I think she was probably a little d***k.
However, when I heard the punishment awarded, I guessed that the Chief Overseer realised that this was a trumped-up charge. Marianne was merely awarded six strokes of the strap, followed by six strokes of a Number 2 rod. I say ‘merely’ but, in fact, the cane after the strap is an exceedingly
painful thing to have to endure. However, if the woman had been believed, Marianne would have been flogged with the Martinet. The woman, incidentally, looked most disappointed when she heard the punishment awarded.
The punishment was administered in a way that I had not previously seen. Normally, all six from the strap would have been laid on, followed by all six from the cane. However, a male and female Overseer worked as a team. The female laid on the strap and, about a second later, the male laid on the cane. It must have been a true agony but Marianne took it surprisingly well. Perhaps she knew her accuser was in the audience and did not want to give her pleasure by breaking too soon. She scarcely more than gasped and groaned at the first four double strokes. Only the last two double strokes were howls of torment. I was proud of her. The woman guest was laughing excitedly. Oh how I hated her!
The burning ache in my muscles was becoming intolerable. Yet I knew I was going to have to endure it for many, many more hours yet. There were two more punishments yet. Each girl received twelve strokes of the Martinet for ‘lack of enthusiasm’. Was this true or false? Who was to say? To be so accused almost amounted to being guilty.
At long last the weeping slaves were led away by the Overseers. The guests, doubtless well content, dispersed to their pleasures.
One of them approached me...
“If I were your Master, I’ll cut off your nipples, slave”.
I was left alone trembling and in torment, suspended from one of the ceiling beams.
You cannot blame me if I tell you I wept bitterly. Looking down, I could see my tears splashing on the stone floor beneath.
After two or three hours, I became semi-delirious. I must have fainted and was lucky that no-one came into the Punishment Room for some time. Perhaps I was unconscious for something like an hour. In that I was fortunate. Then I recall I was on the stone floor again and being revived. An injection, smelling salts. Then, with me racked by great, heaving sobs, I was hauled unceremoniously aloft again.
There to swing and suffer. The burning agony resumed; I was drenched with the sweat
of pain. And all this because, through sheer accident, I had offended Miss Bianca. The injustice of it was beyond belief. Towards the end, I fainted again but this time they didn’t bother to revive me. Those for the evening Punishment Session were assembling. When I was revived again I found I was chained to the wall. The second part of my punishment was about to begin. But I can hardly describe my infinite relief that the first part of it was over.
There were three other girls chained to the wall alongside me. I realised they were the same girls who had been punished at the morning Session... and could only assume they had been rebellious again during their training during the afternoon. The fact that a slave had been punished once does
not preclude her from being punished a second time on the same day. Quite the contrary when a girl is a newcomer! I would say that most newcomers, during their first few weeks are punished twice a day. And I know from experience, a caning over a caning is most salutary.
Their beseeching cries were incessant; their promises to do anything - ANYTHING – were continuous. A girl will make such promises when she’s faced with imminent punishment but,
very often, when she is put to the test again, she still fails. I guessed that these three were at the stage of being ordered to suck cocks and could not bring themselves to do it.
I remained silent, trying not to contemplate what was going to happen to me. I was certain that I would be flogged rather than caned. That terrible Martinet... with its three tightly plaited thongs, each one with three lead shots at its tip. Can you imagine what nine lead shots biting into one’s
flank is like? Simultaneously? Again and again? Once I had received eighteen strokes and, during that punishment, had prayed to die. I did not, needless to say. Human beings are far more resilient and stronger than they think. Was I going to get eighteen? or even more? I seemed to shrivel inside
at the thought.
There were half a dozen or so guests looking on when the Chief Overseer entered, looking as implacable as ever. She surveyed the three newcomers stonily.
“So,” she said, “twelve strokes of the cane does not seem to be sufficiently persuasive. This evening we will make it eighteen.”
There were screams of protest and terror.
“Excellent,” commented a male guest. He was elderly, with bulging eyes. He was sweating with excitement.
“Proceed, Miss Paula.”
“Very good, Ma’am.” William was also in attendance and it was he who brought out the first struggling, kicking girl. She was quite frenzied but he handled her with ease. It was Miss Paula who drew a cane from the iron trough while William first pilloried her then secured her thighs. A weal-striped bottom protruded tightly, with all the girls charms fully displayed. The elderly guest, right behind the Block, licked his lips most greedily. Miss Paula took up her stance and the caning began. As in the morning, the Punishment Room was filled with gasping shrieks. Awful, ear-splitting sounds which left Miss Paula quite unmoved. She caned with relentless vigour: long, lashing strokes. Each one falling across both buttock cheeks, each one curling round and zipping into
the flank. Nine fell from the left, nine from the right. It was a cruel performance... and it was repeated twice more. The sounds were unbelievable. The third girl fainted after twelve strokes but was quickly revived. By the time it was all over, my head was ringing. The elderly guest had
gone a puce colour and his heavy jowls were quivering. A sickness began to well up in me. Now it was my turn.
At that moment, another guest entered. Distraught as I was, I saw that it was the man called Jason who seemed to have taken an interest in me that morning. He looked quite decent but I could only suppose he was as bad as all the rest... revelling in the sufferings of young women.
“Now we will have, Martine,” said the Chief Overseer. My legs felt like rubber as William led me towards the Block and, of course, all my muscles were still one big burning ache.
Up went the top of the pillory and in went my neck and wrists. Down it came, entrapping me. I felt the smooth, hard wood. Oh what terror there is in that moment! The moment of complete helplessness. There is nothing, absolutely NOTHING one can do to prevent what is to come. My
belly was on the leather hump, pushing up my hindquarters; my thighs were widened and secured tight. It was all so hideously familiar. I did not feel anything about being so blatantly displayed to all. I had grown accustomed to it. All I could think of was what degree of agony I was going to
have to endure. Through a mist of tears, I saw the Chief Overseer consulting a piece of paper. She addressed the assemble company.
“It seems that Martine offended Miss Bianca this morning,”she said. “A piece of downright carelessness. The girl has been in Suspension for six hours which, to say the least, is somewhat discomforting...”
The cruelty of that casual reference to my awful sufferings was borne in upon me.
“...Originally Miss Bianca stated that the girl should be well flogged. However, most unusually, there has been an intercession. One of our gentlemen guests pointed out, a little later, to Miss Bianca that, though the girl had stumbled and dropped a tray, spattering Miss Bianca with liquid,
the fault lay as much with a patio stone as with the girl. It had, apparently, been raised an inch by some burrowing a****l. He indicated this to Miss Bianca who generously conceded there was something in what he said. Accordingly, Miss Bianca ordered that the girl should not be flogged but merely caned.
” There was a pause and I felt a Rood of relief but this was quickly checked by the next words. “Martine will receive twelve strokes of the Number 1 rod.”
My bl**d froze. I had once received six strokes of the Number 1 rod and that had been bad enough. It raises ridges of blazing torment and, despite intense treatment these are visible and still tender for several days. I may say that the Number 1 rod is not often used on account of the damage it does. All the same, it seemed marginally preferable to being flogged savagely with the Martinet.
Who was my ‘benefactor’ I wondered? Could it be the man called Jason?
“William, you will apply the rod,” said the Chief Overseer. I felt my taut nates give a convulsive twitch of dread. I heard a woman titter. I heard the rod withdrawn and then William swished it through the air. It made a deep rasping sound, not a high-pitched whistle like the slimmer
canes. As I have said, I think, it is twice the diameter of a Number 3 cane, being about the thickness of an index finger. Yet, despite its thickness, it is as flexible as a Number 3 or 2 rod. Again the rod rasped through the air. Again my nates twitched. It was cruel of William to stretch my nerves so. But it is something commonly done by Overseers. The rod tapped my helpless flesh. I clenched my teeth. I prayed for strength. The hard face of the Chief Overseer was gazing upon me with seeming unconcern. Then the rod left me. The awful rasping sound came again but this time it terminated in what seemed like a red hot bar being laid over my buttock flesh. It was mind-bending in its
intensity and I uttered a series of gasping shrieks. I could not believe such pain could be. Why had I not remembered it was so bad?
I was still shrieking when a second red hot bar flamed up. Sheer breathlessness checked my shriek. But only for a few moments. Then my piteous cries recommenced. The second stroke fell just above the first - which was central on my buttocks - the third stroke fell just below thefirst.
Such pain could not be endured! There was now a band of excruciating torment about three
inches wide, blazing as if it were literally on fire. yet I was only a quarter of the way through my punishment “MERCCCCCEEEEEEEE! MERCEEEEEEEEE!” I was crying out.
No matter how experienced you are, no matter that you know the futility of it, you simply can’t stop yourself begging.
Remorselessly, William continued with the caning. I thought I would lose my reason. Once more I prayed for death. After the eighth stroke I fainted abruptly. Not only my bottom but my brain seemed to be on fire. I came choking back to life with Miss Paula holding powerful smelling salts
under my nostrils.
“Better keep them there, Paula,” I heard William say.
“Makes sense,” said Miss Paula.
So I received the final four agonising strokes sucking in great wafts of smelling sales, I am sure I would have fainted again.
Released and feeling more dead than alive, twelve red hod bars now blazing, I was not re-chained to the wall. William simply tucked me under his arm and took me out of that dreadful place. And straight to the Treatment Room. After three days, there was only faint marks where the red-purple ridges had been... and I was no longer sore. It meant, however, that I had to undergo Healing Ray and Healing Ointment Treatment for some twelve hours every day. It was, in fact, a blessed relief to lie there, shackled face down on a bench, doing simply nothing.
In due time I returned to my cell and received considerable sympathy from Kathie.
“It was so unjust. It definitely was not your fault.”
“I know,” I answered hopelessly. A slave simply has to accept what happens to her, just or unjust.
Malik came for me on the afternoon of the day of my return.
“A gentleman is asking for you,” he said perfunctorily. I followed my Overseer meekly on collar and chain. My life of servitude was beginning again.
I entered the gentleman’s bedroom and got into the required posture. I realised at once this was the man called Jason. Malik took off my collar and left.
“I can’t believe your bottom’s recovered already after what was done to it,” he said. “Come up on the bed and let me have a closer look at it.” I did as I was told, pushing my behind towards him, feeling his hand running over my flesh. “Just a few faint marks. Nothing disfiguring.”
“I’m glad, Master.”
“I would not want to displease you by being disfigured.”
He gave a little disbelieving laugh. I suppose it was difficult for him to understand that a girl could say such a thing!
“Do you know it was I who got you off a flogging?” he asked.
“I... I suspected it, Master...”
“But I didn’t realise they were going to give you such a terrible caning. That was really brutal. An ordinary cane would have sufficed.”
“If you say so, Master.”
“Come alongside me.” I did so...and he fondled my breasts, my belly and, finally, my cunt.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
“Thank you, Master.”
“And only 16, right?”
“That is right, Master.”
“I hope you are going to show how grateful you are to me for getting you off that flogging. I reckon you would have got 24 strokes of the Martinet, maybe even more.”
“Yes, Master,” I agreed.
“Worse even than that caning you got I reckon.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. He was probably right.
“So you’re going to show your gratitude?”
“Oh yes, Master. I shall please you to the very utmost of my capabilities,” I answered.
“Which are considerable, I am sure.” He smiled. This was far better than having a Herr Brandt to deal with.
“We’ll do it by stages,” he said. First of all, I want you to suck me. All the way.”
“Then I want you, a little later, to toss me off between your lovely tits.”
“Then I want you on top of me. Riding me.”
“I may fuck you again later. Depends how much strength I have got left.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Plenty of keenness. Plenty of gratitude, eh my pretty?”
“Oh yes... YES... Master!” I was going to pull out all the stops for this particular guest. After all, he had taken pity on me, which was most unusual. The result might not have been what he expected but, at least, he had tried.
“Right then,” he said. “Let’s have that mouth at work.”
“Yes... yes... Master.” I slid between his strong thighs and began to kiss his prick avidly. I was not only a slave. I was a WILLING slave...
END OF CHAPTER TWO