by Mark Andrews
I hit her a second time but much more lightly and she turned and looked at me reproachfully. “Hard, Master,” she said, while Phil gaped at her.
I realised instantly then what this was all about. It was a lesson for Phil. Slavery wasn’t a game. If you were serious about it, you took pain, severe pain, as part of the deal. I glanced at my wife and saw understanding pass across her face and now she made me very proud.
“Master,” she said. “Miriam has done nothing wrong. I know she is doing this to show me what I must expect and I understand her lesson very clearly. May I therefore respectfully ask that you remit the rest of her voluntary punishment and allow me to suffer mine?”
Now it was Miriam’s turn to gape. But she didn’t say anything. She just looked at me, awaiting my decision. I could see she was perfectly willing to take the remaining strokes but she would be pleased, too, if I disallowed them.
I did.
“Very well, release the slave and take her place, Phillida,” I ordered.
Miriam now locked the pillory down over her neck and wrists and then prepared her anus for the fig. She used a preparation that would allow it easy entry but would not inhibit the fiery bite of its juices.
Phil wiggled her bottom in fear and I nearly creamed in my pants as I watched her beautiful breasts swinging from side to side in their downward-pointing attitude as well as the rippling of her thigh muscles and the clenching of her beautiful buttocks as Miriam worked on them.
But she was ready for the fig at last and Miriam offered it to me. I moved up to them while the beautiful black girl spread them for me. When it had been her, she had achieved this herself but Phil was untrained and would have clenched them, probably involuntarily, no matter how good her intentions were.
I pushed the little finger of hard, woody ginger deep up into her and she screamed even now as the oil in the root spread out and inflamed the sensitive nerves at her anus.
I grinned as I imagined how she was going to squirm and scream when I applied the cane. This was a punishment. A perfectly legitimate punishment for her slip and she knew it. She had always known that as a slave she would be subject to such painful reminders of her place and her duties and so I had no qualms about caning her. Indeed, by now I was well into my role as a real-life Master and owner of slaves and every new day there was bringing me on to higher and higher planes of pure delight in the role Phil had pushed me into.
I took up the cane once more and stepped back, measuring the distance while Miriam watched approvingly. She was already the perfect slave, of course. It had been something she had wanted, desperately, ever since she had been a girl and she had made herself into the ultimate slave. How long she would last in that role, I had no idea.
Anthony had told me when we had discussed the continuing role of the slaves, that when one of them decided he or she had had enough, they only had to give notice to that effect. They all agreed, that it had to be at least a month, otherwise it would be too easy to simply feel a pique at some action a Master had taken and demand to be released instantly and that would have suited neither party. It meant of course that our ‘investment’ in a slave was tenuous but in practice it apparently worked out alright.
I raised the cane and then brought it down, very hard, across her twin cheeks. The scream was heart-rending, and quite beautiful.
“Aaagheeeaaaghooowwwghaaagh!” it went, or something like that, but it went on and on and on and I laid down the cane, horrified that I had created such pain in the woman I loved. But Miriam, watching me closely, put her finger up to her lips in a silent plea to take heart.
She went around to Phil’s head and squatted down in front of her while I stood to one side, watching the scene with fear, apprehension and love, all mixed up together.
Miriam’s hand went out to stroke Phil’s tear-stained cheeks. “It hurts, doesn’t it, Phil?” she said softly in that tinkly voice of hers.
“It hurts terribly, Miriam. I can’t stand it?”
“Of course you can, girl. You have to. It’s a part of being a slave... You want to be your Master’s slave, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, but do I have to take such horrible pain?”
“Yes you do. Slaves have been punished with pain for thousands of years. You wouldn’t want your Master to be soft on you, would you?”
“No,” she said tremulously, as the girl’s soft fingers caressed her face while her own showed the compassion she truly felt for my wife.
I just watched, spellbound, as this scene unfolded. I knew I had hurt Phil, but Miriam assured me I had to do this, and hell, although I was horrified at my sadistic tendencies, they were there. I loved Phil but I also gloried in punishing her as a slave!
I caned her again and again she screamed. My cock was of course as hard as it gets through all of this. The sight of Phil’s body squirming, her breasts swaying and her bottom gyrating frantically, was about as good an aphrodisiac as it gets but I have to admit I was incredibly turned on as well by the sense of power I felt rushing through me as I wielded that cane.
Power is something I have been used to all my life. Even as a child, I knew that I was heir to a great fortune and while my parents were careful to bring me up to be caring of others of all classes, rank and fortune (my father is a significant philanthropist), it was always there, in the background.
This was different. This was a direct physical power over another human being and once it bloomed in me, it sort of engulfed me in a wave of absolute delight. As a result, as I delivered the remaining eight strokes to Phil’s buttocks, each suitably spaced to allow her to ‘enjoy’ it to the fullest, I rose up on to an almighty high of sexual pleasure and stayed there throughout the session.
Phil’s screams gradually abated so that by half way through, they were no more than whimpers. Miriam explained that the fire in the ginger gradually abates and since we spread out the strokes with intervals of a few minutes so that I could walk around my wife/slave and enjoy her pain and suffering, the latter half she only felt as normal cane strokes. I also mitigated them after seeing her first terrible reaction to the cane.
Was I ashamed of my delight in her agony? Yes, I was. But as everyone there on the island, from Anthony to Preston to Miriam was quick to inform me, this was a perfectly normal human sexual reaction. If I had not been turned on by it, they would have worried!
Chapter 5
Our days continued in like manner.
Mine were singularly leisurely. I was roused at seven-thirty, when I was presented with tea and toast by my two wonderful slaves and while one of them made breakfast, the other busied herself with my clothes and then saw to my morning ablutions and shave.
It was a most pleasant part of the day, to be fussed over by two of the most beautiful girls in the world, stark naked and each trying to make my comfort her prime concern.
At eight-thirty I breakfasted, waited on by one of them while the other knelt at my feet accepting titbits from my plate. After breakfast I read the papers in the hotel morning room while Miriam and Phil tidied up my room.
The rest of my day would be spent inspecting the progress on my new home, visiting one or more of my new friends on the island or perhaps playing a round of golf or taking Lorenzo Agostini up on his offer to show me the island from the sea.
My two slaves had it rather harder.
They had to rise at four-thirty on the days they were scheduled for the gym to be there at five and then perform a rigorous workout for two hours and then race back to the hotel to wash themselves down and be ready to serve my morning tea and toast by seven-thirty on the dot!
Then they had to split up, one to work in the little kitchen to make my breakfast while the other bathed and shaved me. They took it in turns at this duty and I didn’t mind in the least for to have either of their naked bodies close to me in the shower, massaging me while at t
he same time cleansing my body, was one of the nicest parts of my day.
And later, as she carefully shaved me, moving all around me, her slender body (black or white), on perfect display to my now very alert eyes, usually had me randy as all hell and required another session of love.
Here, Miriam took the lead for she knew so much more than Phil and I combined and then tenfold! It didn’t happen every day. Some days I had appointments and I am never late. I abhor being kept waiting and I never keep others in that state. But more often than not, even after a night of torrid love-making, we had another session before breakfast.
That was always a light meal, which is why I didn’t take it in the hotel dining room. Just a small bowl of cereal, a piece of fruit and a cup of coffee.
If I was going out, the two girls then became my ponies.
Miriam taught Phil how to harness herself to the new gig I acquired and then trained her how to keep in step and to stare straight ahead, never looking to the side; to raise her legs to just the right degree, and to keep in perfect step with her partner. She always bridled herself and handed me the reins so that I could steer her where I was going. I queried her on this for I thought it would be just as easy for me to tell her where we were going and then let her take me there.
“Oh no, Master. That would never do. When we are ponies, we are just that. You must always drive either me or Phil with the reins!”
I shrugged, accepting what she said and I suppose in one sense, I really liked the idea that as ponies, they could neither understand nor speak to me. All orders had to be transmitted with the reins or the whip.
The whips used on these occasions were what are called coachwhips. They have a long rigid handle with a tail of about equal length, the combination of which enables the driver to reach their backs and bottoms from where he or she is sitting in the gig.
I loved to watch the pair of them harness themselves up, I only had to make the final adjustments, then sit in my gig and watch in awe and in lust as the pair of them stepped off, even reaching a fair gallop at times as we traversed the roads on the island.
Apart from those in the village, they were all dirt roads, which made it easier on the feet of the slaves, but apart from that, we owners liked the rural nature of our island which is why there were no motorised vehicles there (or at least none that were powered with combustion engines) nor were there any diesel generators to mar the peace and quiet.
The gas turbine that powered the village was quiet enough and in any case was in a shielded building while each individual rural owner had a combination of power sources including small hydro-electric plants, waste digester, solar panels and wind-powered generators. They are expensive sources of power, or some of them are, but they ensured we always had some power available to us and since we didn’t need large amounts, they all worked very well.
In my own case, the little stream that ran through my new estate had quite enough fall behind it to power a two kilowatt plant and I also had a wind-generator and solar panels that charged batteries which ran the lighting in my new house. These were of the latest kind: LED’s (light-emitting diodes) which use almost no power and last indefinitely while providing a very bright light and this meant that the batteries were easily able to cope with the load. That meant the rest of my needs, such as to run my TV and DVD units, computer and other appliances was easily taken care of by the other sources. The island was purposely quaint but it used all the very latest energy saving devices.
I had been there six weeks when the dreadful news came.
My father called (yes, we had the latest in satellite phones there) to tell me Mother had only weeks to live. It seemed she had contracted a devastating form of cancer in her pancreas and the prognosis was grim.
Phil and I flew out immediately, leaving Miriam to help Bill Blake in the hotel while we were gone.
Father met us and there were tearful embraces before we piled into his Jaguar for the sad trip home to Cranwell. I was shocked to see Mother. In just the short month and a half we had been gone, she had shrunk to half her size and looked dreadful. It seemed the cancer had been lurking for some time but had then broken out all over her body and she didn’t have more than a week or so left to us. I know it sounds unbelievable but Father told me he hadn’t called me immediately, hoping the doctors were wrong. They weren’t and all we could do was try to make Mother’s last days as comfortable as we could.
I won’t describe them. They were awful days and despite the English penchant for ‘stiff upper lips’, I found myself on the brink of tears every time I looked at poor Mother.
We buried her in the family vault and after a couple of days on introspection and worry about Father (for they had been a very loving couple and I knew he would not do well without his wife by his side) I suggested to him that he return to the island with us.
“Just for a few weeks, Father,” I said. “It will get you out of here and give you something else to think of. And I could use some advice as to decorating the house...”
I didn’t need it and I think he knew it but after initially saying he couldn’t leave Cranwell so suddenly, he changed his mind and I contacted Anthony to ask if it would be alright. “Of course, my dear boy. Most certainly bring him out if you think he will fit in...” I explained to him the gleam in my father’s eye when I had confided in him my intentions to go there in the first place and he chuckled. “Sounds like we might possibly have yet another owner, eh James?”
“Oh I doubt it. It’s just to ease him through this first difficult time without Mother...”
“I understand. Well, we’ll see, eh?”
Father fitted in alright.
Indeed, he slipped into the role of a slavemaster almost instantly. I think his questions about the island and its operations, geography, owners and residents, and everything else about it, were at first just to take his mind off Mother’s death, but then, as he began to perceive the totality of the slavery practised there, his quick mind realised just how perfect it was for all three classes of inhabitant: owner, resident and slave. Each was there of his or her own volition entirely and stayed there only as long as he wanted.
There was no question of really enslaving a free human being and therefore it was incumbent on each owner or lessee of a slave to ensure his or her needs as a slave were met. This was indeed treading a fine line, for the human psyche being what it is, each slave had a different perception of his slavery, of how much humiliation and pain he wanted or needed and of how deep his slavery was to be.
And it wasn’t a matter of discussing it, either. You can’t sit down with a slave and debate how much humiliation and/or pain he wants. Such a discussion would utterly ruin the slave relationship and so the Master or Mistress has to work it out for him or herself.
Take the case of the aristocratic German owner, Mistress Lisl von Eckhardt. She was definitely a sadist of the first order, but she had to temper her sadistic desires to the level her slaves were prepared to accept or lose them.
She had a dozen or so slaves however and each of them was different. Oh they were all masochistic. She wouldn’t take a slave unless he or she desired pain and degradation and in huge quantities but she still had to contain her sadism to fit within heir limits.
I will describe our first visit to her estate to illustrate the point I am making.
It happened a few weeks after our return to the island. Father took a room in the hotel (although we would soon be moving into my house which was by then almost finished) and every owner now included him in their invitations to me to go to their houses or attend race meetings or whatever. (Yes, I will soon describe one of those race meetings so be patient).
When the invitation came from the Baroness, I read it out over breakfast and was shocked to see Miriam’s face pale and her hand start to shake as she poured me some more coffee.
“Why Miriam
, whatever is the matter?” I asked, genuinely concerned for she looked awful.
“It’s her, Master. She is a horrible woman!”
“What the matter with her?” I asked mildly.
“She is the devil incarnate. She loves to hurt us slaves...”
“But I thought there were strict rules about over-stepping the bounds...?”
She back-pedalled a bit at that but eventually she did look down at me again and answered my question. “Yes, there are, and yes, she doesn’t go beyond what is allowed and yes, I suppose her slaves accept what she does to them, but they are such terrible things...” she finished plaintively.
Father had watched this little interchange from across the breakfast table and he grinned. He adored Miriam and she him and over the last few days I had allowed her to go to his room to, er, assist him in undressing, etc. That she didn’t return until the next morning was neither here nor there. I didn’t think him disloyal to Mother. She was gone and he was here on an island devoted to sexual slavery. With a bevy of beautiful naked girls thrust into his face all day, what else could you expect?
“I think Miriam is being a trifle impertinent, don’t you James?”
I caught his drift immediately. “I do, Father,” I said sternly. “Perhaps you would do the honours?”
“Most certainly,” he said, then with a certain degree of mock severity added to his tome, he went on. “Come here, girl, over my knees!”
Immediately, her fear and horror disappeared and a wonderful grin spread all over her face. “Ooh, yes, Master,” she said excitedly and I gathered her spanking was a new part of their nightly ‘exercises’.
She bent down over his knees and he gave her a half dozen meaty slaps with his bare hand while Phil and I watched eagerly.
You may be wondering how my wife coped with stripping off in front of her distinguished father-in-law for the first time?