by Mark Andrews
But then he moved off to check out the other two parts of his factory. The first part was the treatment plant where the milk from the girls was tested, graded and blended to produce the product that his select band of customers so adored - and then pasteurised to ensure its health status before being shipped daily to Japan for distribution to his clients. They paid a fortune for it but each drank it with relish, aware of exactly what it was and where it had come from.
These clients all had the entrée to the island and came out to see the girls actually being milked, at exercise and labour and were always given a spin around the island in the trap, drawn by two female human ponies and driven by one of the guards.
He watched critically as the technicians in here tested the current batch of milk for taste and purity then blended it with other batches before passing it through the pasteurisation and bottling plant. It was labelled Liebfraumilch, supposedly after the wine of that name but really from the implied connection between a young woman and milk. Its aficionados delighted in its flavour but as they drank it, they enjoyed more the knowledge of where, how and from whom it had been derived than the actual taste - and that it was derived from foreigners for many Japanese have never got over their dislike for and even hatred of foreigners.
Nevertheless, while he too gloried in the idea of drinking human milk forcibly drawn from his two hundred girl slaves, he still tasted the final product from this batch, savouring the sweetness of the human milk as he gleefully recalled the pain evident on the faces of the fifty girls as the breast cups mauled at their udders while sucking out their milk.
From the pasteurisation room he moved to his cosmetic laboratory. Here, the sperm from the males was the principal ingredient used to create the product that really worked to make a woman look younger, smooth out her wrinkles and freshen her skin back to the appearance it had when she was a girl. He marketed this not through the usual channels to the big stores and pharmacies but through his select band of milk customers. It was called the Japanese equivalent of “boy-juice new-skin” and its efficacy could be attested to by every single one of the men whose wives were permitted to use it. Like the human milk, it was very, very expensive but it worked.
As he had with the milk, he took a dab on his finger and smoothed it into the skin of his face, smiling as he felt the sparkling effect that told him the mixture was right and this batch would be as effective as all the others. He had great hopes for this product and while it would have to be re-named if it was to be marketed on a wider scale - perhaps simply NewSkin might be the answer, the loss of the implied source in “Boy-juice” would be a small price to pay.
It is possible of course that an equivalent product could have been synthesised or perhaps a bull or stallion’s sperm might have been just as successful but this wouldn’t be the same. Mabuchi and his clients delighted in the fact that a human male’s sperm, milked from him by force, in painful conditions whilst under the constraints of human slavery, was the source of the product.
Of course Mabuchi assured every one of his clients that every single one of the four hundred-odd slaves on his island were all foreigners. Not a single Japanese drop of milk or sperm was contained in either of his products and thus reassured, his clients bought his products willingly and, by word of mouth only, spread his clientele wider and wider.
Not all slaves were European or Negro, though. There were many Asians amongst them but certainly none were of Japanese blood.
Where did his agents harvest them from? From everywhere. He had trained them himself, teaching them how to assess the physical requirements first and then, if they were satisfactory in this department, move on to the risks attached to kidnapping them. Girls and boys who were drifters or vulnerable and runaways from home were a perfect choice but boys and girls of good family or who had friends who might be insistent as to police follow-up of a missing persons report were to be avoided.
Likewise, the same city was never to be used again and smaller towns and villages not at all. The risks were too great for in them, everyone knew everyone else. Arrive in a city as a tourist, pick your mark, check him or her out and if you were sure he or she was a good option, make your killing.
This was the easy part. Once you had selected your boy or girl, call it in, wait for your partner to arrive from the yacht (which would have been standing off nearby) then proceed with the kidnap. A quick jab to the arm or rear, the bagging and movement in the hire car to the beach where your partner had tied up the boat, the voyage back to the yacht by your partner and your victim and the boat hoisted up, and you returned to your hotel, ready to move to another city while the yacht followed you or went off after another agent’s catch while you checked out your new city.
It all went as smooth as clockwork and in this way, over a period of years, Mabuchi’s three agents had dispatched each of the nearly four hundred boys and girls from all over the world to the little island in the Sea of Japan, there to become a new milk or sperm slave.
Mabuchi was very pleased with his little operation. So pleased in fact that he wanted to think through the implications of the rising demand for both products. The present farm and factory was just about at its limit. There was room for only a few more male and female slaves ...
He decided to go for a spin around the island while he went over the facts in his mind. He strode off to the capstan room where all slaves surplus to the daily exercise and chore sessions of the moment were employed in straining at the row of huge capstans that were mechanically connected to a generator which assisted the diesel plants in producing power for the island. They didn’t make all that much really but it was demeaning, humiliating work and it worked their bodies wonderfully.
He walked in and stood there, gloating over the dozens of naked, straining bodies leaning in at the chest-height poles to which their left wrists were chained, pushing hard against them to turn the massive central shaft set into the floor under which the gear machinery connected the working capstans to the generator in the power room next door.
This room was plain concrete. Concrete floor, walls and ceiling and even now, so early in the plant’s history, the path followed by the naked human feet round and round under the poles could easily be seen.
Each of them, male and female alike, were hot and sweaty, as was to be expected given the enormous energy output required of them in here, their beautiful muscles quivering and writhing as they forced one foot after the other, each eyeing the guards who had one of the controllers in their hands, ever ready to finger in the number etched into their left cheek and then press the yellow button that would send a horrible charge to their necks. The work was diabolical but a shock from the collar was worse. Each therefore, applied him or herself with all his being to pushing the pole.
Mabuchi stood there, gloating as he stared from one to the other of the slaves and considering which of them he would select for his bed this night ... But then he turned to the supervisor. “Detach numbers 186 and 242 and have them harnessed to my gig. Have them ready in ten minutes.”
The man stood to attention, bowed his head in the staccato Japanese fashion, barked his acquiescence, saluted his boss and in turn snapped his orders to the guards. Mabuchi paid well but he also demanded obedience and efficiency in his men. It would be a close call to unlock the male and female slaves from their poles, run them down to the stable at full tilt and harness them to Mabuchi’s private gig in time but it would be done.
The two slaves, both blond and blue-eyed, he tall and with a physique any male model would give his eye teeth for; she slender and lithe but also with a beautiful physique, were quickly released from their respective poles and then ran at full tilt down the corridor to the tackle room in which the gigs and carts were kept and made to stand side by side in front of the beautifully crafted gig, both nervous of the coming pain of their harnessing and wondering how long the hated Mabuchi would run them outside in
the bitter cold ...
The method of harnessing was horrible in the extreme. There were no handles for them to hang on to or even a belt around their waists. Instead, the single pole that led forward from under the gig’s floor divided in two up near the end. On the left hand side where 186, the male was standing, a massive dildo poked up a few inches back from the very end and immediately in front of this, there was a small metal collar that would go around the root of his genitals.
In 242’s case, there was the anal dildo as with the male version but in her case, instead of the metal collar in front of it, there was another dildo, this one angled backwards and capable of being slid back and forth along the shaft.
Forewarned, the guard in charge of the tackle room had hurried down and had already greased the three dildos. He was standing holding the shaft up so he and his colleague could squat down and feed the two anal models into the boy and girl’s backsides, then move around to the front and clip the collar around the boy’s cock and scrotal root while the other man carefully slid the vaginal dildo down the shaft and into her frontal orifice and then tightened the knurled screw that held it in place.
The two slaves now stood, hands up behind their heads, painfully secured to the gig with a minute to spare, waiting for the horrible Mabuchi to appear.
He did, right on time, suitably covered up and, after grunting his thanks to the guards who had already opened the roller door leading outside, directed the two slaves out into the biting cold wind that raged over the island at this time of year. He pulled the rug he had brought with him over his knees and gloated once more as he looked ahead at the stark naked bodies of the girl and boy as they trotted down the path that led to the one that surrounded the island.
Being around fifty acres, the path around the island was just over a mile and a quarter in length. How many laps would Mabuchi require of them before he allowed them to turn back up the path to the factory, they wondered as they shivered uncontrollably in the bitter cold out there.
Mabuchi smiled. He knew what they were thinking and for the moment he simply allowed his mind to delight in the muscles of their bodies as they trotted along the cliff-top path. His fingers were never far from the buttons on the pair of controllers permanently mounted at the sides of his seat. He had already punched in the numbers 186 and 242 into each of them and if either showed any signs of slackness or worse, ending it all by jumping or trying to jump over the edge, he would be ready. His fertile mind had wandered over this very point actually and he had decided to have a low barrier made of steel pipe erected on the outside of the path. It would be a small price to pay for being able to relax while enjoying their bodies in this way.
The wind whipped around them, turning their golden skin blue but he thumbed the green buttons on both controllers, telling them to speed it up, delighting in the large anal dildos jerking around inside their rectums and imagining the way the tight collar on the boy’s genitals would be forcing his cock into a massive erection while the girl’s frontal dildo had probably already brought her to a couple of orgasms. Indeed, he was sure she had climaxed back there at the stunted bush for she had given a little kick as she had trotted along.
Of course it was essential they run in step or the dildos in their backsides would have jerked around even more than they already were so when she felt an orgasm approaching she had to do her best to absorb its rigours and not make things even worse than they were.
That was bad enough. They had to run with their hands up on the back of their heads with their elbows kept well back behind their necks. They had to run in step. They had to cope with the pain of the anal dildos, the genital collar for him and the huge frontal dildo for her. Then there was the bitter cold of the biting wind licking around their naked bodies and of course the effort of running at a cracking pace while the hated man behind them gloried in their humiliation and pain.
He was no longer concentrating on their bodies, however. He still saw them, of course, but he was now going over the pluses and minuses of expanding the farm, building the extra accommodations for more slaves, hiring more guards and technicians to look after them and to process the extra products.
No, he decided at last. At least for the moment, he would leave things as they were and if the demand rose much more than he could cope with, increase the price. Later, perhaps in another year, he would consider the matter again ...
Phillipa 1
I was very excited that day. It was getting near the end of the athletics season and into high summer. I had done pretty well in my home town of Sydney, and had headed north to Brisbane for the national championships. What’s more, I won!
Oh, my name is Phillipa Strong and I am - or was - a university student studying architecture although my real love was athletics. I trained hard and did pretty well, the meet in Brisbane being the culmination of many years of that hard work. I had dragged myself through school and university, both my parents being disinterested in anything but their daily fix of beer and plonk but I largely ignored them anyway.
I didn’t realise it then of, course, but this combination made me a ripe plucking for Mabuchi’s man, that and the fact that I was considered quite attractive with soft golden hair, blue eyes and a fine olive skin.
As I said, I won my event - the two hundred metre dash - with a few centimetres to spare and I knew I was on track for the Olympics, the qualifying round for which were to be held shortly. I knew I had it in me to gain gold for Australia and this was my real goal.
Alas, it was all to come to nothing.
On that fateful day, having received the medal and accolades from my athletics friends, I was on my way back to my hotel from the track when these two Japanese men approached from the opposite direction. One of them stopped me and asked me directions and then there was nothing. I don’t even remember the jab but there must have been one, I suppose.
I woke up in a tiny room on a ship. That much I knew from the motion and the smell. The room was more like a locker actually and while it was clean enough, and painted a pleasant cream colour, there was nothing in it at all. I was lying on the steel floor, still dressed in the track-suit I had worn over my running gear, brief silk shorts, the ultra brief top female athletes wear these days, socks and walking shoes. The bag that had contained my wallet and running shoes, etc, was gone. In fact, there was nothing else in the room at all.
I tried the door, of course, but it was locked. I banged on it but, being steel, my efforts came to nothing. Even when it did open to reveal another Japanese man he just stared at me in that inscrutable way the Japanese have, ignoring my questions totally as he handed me a tray containing food and drink and then passed in a bucket, presumably for my wastes.
The door banged shut. He had said nothing at all and so I was still as ignorant of where I was and why as I had been from the moment I woke out of my coma or whatever it was.
But I was hungry and ate the food ravenously even though it was Japanese fare. Rice and some other stuff mixed through it. Not being an aficionado of eastern food I had no idea what it was but it was tasty and I ate every last morsel. The drink was orange juice and I downed it in one gulp. I sat there on the cold steel deck and wondered what the hell had happened but of course I got nowhere and I soon stopped for along that course lay madness.
I thought back over nice things. Athletics events mostly but also my university friends and how well I had been going with the course Again I had to redirect my thoughts. Anything to prevent morbid recriminations. What might have been ...
They left me there for days. How many I have no idea for there was no porthole in my tiny cell. I saw the keeper twice a day when he brought my food and took the slops bucket, exchanging it for another one, but that was it.
Then, after what seemed like weeks, I felt the ship’s engines slow and stop and the anchor rattle out of the hawse pipe. This time, though, it was different. At other tim
es I had felt the ship stop but the anchor had not been dropped. Shortly afterwards, two of them entered my cell and cuffed my hands behind my back then led me out of the room and up onto the deck. I saw three other girls and two boys also being led up and each of them, although from different parts of the world (one was black, another very fair and the third girl looked Thai while of the two boys, one was black and the other Malayan), were stunningly beautiful or handsome, and like me, highly athletic in body.
We smiled tentatively at each other for a few seconds then I looked out over the side of the motor yacht to see a craggy island some half a mile away. Even now, a boat was being lowered down the side of the ship and then we were bundled down the companionway and into it by more of the unsmiling but very muscular Japanese crew.
We sat there, not saying anything - what could we say - but in any case prodded to silence by the sour-faced Japanese who held guns pointed at us as the boat headed towards the one small beach we could see in the distance.
Once there, we were ordered out of the boat and into a sort of cage on the end of a stout cable that led up the cliff face. Up we went, to be met by more of the Japanese and were then marched along a path towards a grim concrete building in the centre of the little island.
We entered through a steel door and then traversed corridors all marked by a starkness I had never seen in a building before. The walls and ceiling were all plain unfinished concrete and even the floor was only of the same material although it had been smoothed out before being allowed to set. The doors were all plain steel and the place seemed absolutely silent. It wasn’t, but only because the concrete walls and the steel doors prevented any sound coming through from the various rooms in the place.
The three of us were led into a room that was somewhat more ornate than the corridors we had just traversed. It was panelled in timber for half the height of the walls and had a pleasing wallpaper adorning the rest. The floor was carpeted and the furniture made of beautifully crafted carved wood. I was to discover this room was part of Mabuchi’s personal suite and was used to ‘interview’ his latest slaves as well as address his staff.