by Mark Andrews
The inspection over, he was keen to see us actually perform and so, after lunch, we were paraded down to the galley, still performing the prance while he strolled alongside, eyeing us off critically but obviously pleased at what Zanda had done in his absence. He came on board to watch us take our places on the benches, still in the same rigid and highly disciplined manner we had been taught and had practised day after day but then he left the galley so he could see us perform the ritual royal salute to him as he formally boarded his ship.
This we did in perfect time to the beat of the drum, every male cock rigid and quivering in apparent desire for its owner’s master; every girl’s nipples and quim flushed and the tits hardened with the same apparent lust for Ali.
That it was all put on didn’t enter into the matter. Appearance was everything although later, when Andy and I had to attend him as sex-slaves, we found he demanded then that we really and truly had to give him our bodies as if we desired him above all else. He was a vain man and while he was indeed very handsome and worked his body hard to keep it lean and supple, he wanted to hear how good-looking he was from us all.
I lay there, alongside Andy, holding on to the locked handle of the oar for dear life, the middle of my body thrust up, vagina gaping and pulsing as was demanded of us, every muscle in high tension, standing up and out from my flesh the same as on each of the other twenty-three girls and boys down on the rowing deck. I let my eyes rotate to Andy and grinned (internally, anyway) as I saw his cock quivering in (simulated) desire for the tall lean man who had just boarded the galley and was now standing, looking down at us all from the poop.
I knew Andy was not enamoured of other males, at least not sexually, which was why I was grinning to myself as I watched his cock erect and then quiver in apparent lust for him. But every single male cock - all twelve of them, were fully erect, trained by the tingles from the implants in their groins but now achieved voluntarily by each of the young males there. And each one was not only hard as steel but trembling. Andy told me this was even harder for them to do than to erect them but by dint of much practice he and each of the others, had learned how to do it.
Then the drum roll stopped and there came the single beat that signalled us to lower our buttocks to the benches and sit up normally, albeit with hands placed perfectly on the looms and backs now perfectly erect.
“Take her out, Zanda. I will take over when we are in the fairway ...”
“Yes, Excellency ...”
We went through the process of warping the ship off the pier and then Zanda pushed both levers to the standard speed ahead position and we began the drum-roll controlled strokes that soon had us slicing through the water at a good pace.
Then Ali took over and now he really put us through our paces. We had expected this, of course. We knew he would want to test us to the limit and he did just that, keeping us out much later than usual, making us keep up the fastest speed for longer than Zanda had done and giving us no rest at all.
And we came through with flying colours, not a single one of us losing the beat or failing to keep up the pressure on the oars.
We might have, for this time, for the first time since Andy and I had joined the team, we were free of the steel collars and rods that connected us together. It seemed Zanda had been surprised by an early arrival by his master who had decided to see if his team was up to scratch without being aware of his arrival and so we had been given no chance to work together without the collars and rods. Still however, we worked as a team and every slave pulled on his and her oars in perfect time with each other.
It really was hard work. I seem to be saying we were actually enjoying our time there. Far from it. We accepted it and we enjoyed punishing our bodies, true, but not to the extent demanded of us there. No-one could possibly like toiling as a galley slave under threat of the whip or a shock to the genitals from the implant. What we did was to put out of our minds the worst parts of our slavery and try to enjoy those bits we found less demanding such as the exercises in the gym. Our decision to become the best galley slaves was motivated by a distaste for punishment rather than an actual enjoyment of toiling on the oars ...
I think we were all more or less exhausted by the time Ali returned the vessel to the pier well after midnight. We had been slaving at the oars for over twelve hours and while our training had prepared us for this, it was still hard. And yet I knew some races lasted over a number of days. Not that we had to row all that time - we couldn’t have, but it was part of the skill of our owners to judge the matter of his slaves’ endurance to a nicety, working them as hard as he dared without totally exhausting them. Over those races, we would sleep at the oars and be fed there. We would be allowed to rid ourselves of our wastes in pairs, one each from opposing oars and we had to be quick about it for at any time, our master might decide to start us up or even increase the pace while a pair of slaves were missing from their oars and their partners would have to carry the load for the short time they were away.
For once, we were allowed to sleep in the next morning but then Zanda arrived at lunch time to inform Andy and me that we were going to be ceremonially branded that evening, before Ali and his invited guests ...
I went pale. I could actually feel the blood drain from my face. So it had come at last. Andy and I were about to have the bright green brands inflicted on our bellies; to feel the searing heat of the red-hot metal and then suffer whatever it was that put the green metal-like colouring over it.
But we still had to trot our owner around in the little gigs that afternoon. He tried each of us out, lashing us to our fastest speed for a lap around the track and then changed over to another gig. He was pleased with me for when he alighted from my gig, he came up to me and fed me a lump of sugar - a rare treat that Zanda only gave us when we had done something exceptionally well. That it was patronising and marked us off as animals being praised with a lump of sugar, I didn’t even consider. I craved sweet things since we had none in our diet which was bland if ultra-healthy and if I could get another lump of sugar by dint of hard work then hard work it would be.
That evening we were bathed very carefully. Not just the hosing and then the rub-down with the coarse towels. No, we were bathed in a hot tub then oiled, the oil rubbed in deep and then the excess removed with brisk rubbing with the sandpaper-like towels that kept our skin fresh and young-looking.
Our hair was dried and combed and then we were led into the sheikh’s dining room where he was relaxing over a sumptuous dinner with his friends,
“Ah the two slaves to be branded,” he said, “bring them over to me ...”
They had all been relaxing on divans around the low dining table but now he sat up and stared at us carefully. “Fine young bodies,” he said softly, reaching out to feel our bellies, my breasts and vagina and Andy’s half-hard cock.
He stared up at us and then ordered us to look at him. For the first time, I lowered me eyes to look into his soft brown ones and saw, beside the cruelty on his face, warmth that quite startled me.
“You two are going to be branded. I enjoy watching my new slaves marked with my crest but I like it better if the slaves are stoical and elect not to be tied down. There is a certain risk in this for it is painful and if you move under the hot iron, you may blur the mark. However, there is a reward if you elect not to be tied down and can stay still throughout the ordeal. If you achieve this, I will allow you a week of freedom. You may wander the island, explore its beauty and return only at night to your stall where you will be allowed to make love at your pleasure ...
“On the other hand, if you wish to be tied down, you will still be branded but there will be no freedom and no sex. Which is it to be?”
I looked at Andy and nodded. We spoke together: “We ask not to be tied down, lord ...”
He smiled and turned back to his guests while we were prepared for the ordeal ahead.
I was to be first and Zanda led me over to the bench, had me straddle it and sit and then lie down on it. He gave me a plug of wood to bite on and softly suggested I grip two handles conveniently located down under the top of the bench at the sides, near my waist.
“You must stay very still, Christine,” he whispered, “for if you move and blur the brand, you will be deemed to have failed and will not win the prize His Excellency has offered you.”
I nodded. “I understand, Zanda.”
He nodded back at me and then stood up, going over to the brazier to check out the branding iron he was about to use on my flesh and also the contents of a little jug held by one of his men. I guessed it contained whatever it was they used to achieve the bright green enamel-like finish to the brands.
Zanda wasn’t wantonly cruel. He didn’t string out this terrifying ordeal and even contrived to keep the glowing tip of the iron from my eyes until the very last minute when I now stared up at it from my supine position on the bench. I clenched my thighs together, drawing my legs hard against the sides of the top of the bench, gripped the two handles as tight as I could, clenched my teeth shut against the plug of wood and watched as the bright red iron began to descend to my lower belly.
The skin there is smooth and the muscles not as apparent as on the upper belly where the abdominal muscles can be trained to a really scalloped appearance.
He knew I was ready and dropped the iron down firmly, pressing it lightly in through the skin to the muscle below.
I had been waiting for the agony and it was every bit as bad as I expected. The searing, burning, excruciating heat of the red-hot iron sizzled and charred its way through the skin, sending off a smell of roast pork but I was more concerned with the pain and how I had to cope with it. It was very quick. Just a few seconds - enough for the glowing iron to burn through the skin and sear right down into the muscle itself and then Zanda quickly withdrew it.
I hadn’t moved. It had taken every last bit of self-control I possessed to stay quite still as the iron had burned me but I had achieved it and now Zanda took the little metal jug, like a creamer in a coffee set, and carefully poured some of its contents into the depression caused by the brand. I raised my head to watch as it quickly spread along the runnels created by the red-hot iron and then sort of coalesced into the same enamel-like appearance all the older slaves wore.
Do you know, I was immensely proud of that brand! It still hurt like hell but now I was a fully-fledged member of Sheikh Ali’s rowing team. All right, I know I have been confusing in my on-off attitude to my slavery but the way I have described it, is as full a recollection of what I felt at each of the times in question. Right then, although my belly was on fire from the branding, I was nevertheless really proud of that bright green mark on my flesh.
It hardened almost instantly after filling the lines of the design and Zanda now helped me up to go and stand before my lord and master. He traced its outline with his finger and then smiled up at me. “Well done, slavegirl. Let us see if your husband can be as stoical as he is branded.”
I had then to go to each guest in turn and present my newly branded belly for his inspection and then go over to where Andy stood, waiting for his turn on the bench. I made a little moue at him and winked to encourage him to bear the agony with fortitude and then Zanda led him over to the bench.
Having seen me perform, He didn’t need any instruction and laid his body down without instruction. He opened his mouth for the plug of wood, gripped the handles tightly and then looked expectantly up at Zanda who nodded and then went for the iron that had been re-heating in the brazier.
Andy’s branding was a straight facsimile of mine, even to his silence and complete stillness as the iron burned through his skin and muscle and then Zanda withdrew it and poured more of the thick liquid into the marks he had burned into Andy’s flesh.
Now, over the heads of the men who had come to watch us branded, I could see the liquid solidifying onto the burned flesh and in less than a minute it was as hard as mine now was. I could touch it without adding pain to the wound and it was as smooth as real baked enamel. Also, the pain was rapidly abating. I think it must have had something to do with the green stuff but while it still hurt, it wasn’t the excruciating agony of a few minutes before.
Andy was escorted by Zanda over to his owner and once more he went through the same ritual, this time congratulating the pair of us on our achievement. And it was some achievement, believe me. Everyone has suffered a burn at some stage in their lives but if say, you touch a hot plate on a stove, you can instantly draw your hand back, rush over to the cold tap and relieve the worst of the pain.
Andy and I couldn’t do that. We were free. We could have brushed Zanda aside and leapt up off the bench but we forced ourselves to stay down on it, quite motionless while the branding iron sank down through the layers of our skin and into the meat of our lower belly muscles. We had to use our own strength of mind to keep still right through the actual branding and afterwards as Zanda poured the liquid enamel into the wounds.
“Take them away, Zanda. Let them have their week of freedom but then I shall wish to try them out myself ...”
I hardly heard his words. Freedom! We were going to have a whole week when we could roam the island quite freely, only returning to our stall at night and even then we would be permitted to make love all night if we wished. No infibulating rings; no chains. It was a glorious thought ...
And it was a wonderful week. My heart warmed to our owner, forgetting he was the one responsible for our slavery, or at least the man who had bought us, had us stripped, depilated, modified, ringed and now branded. Now though he had given us a week of freedom to do as we liked.
We made the most of it. We roamed all over the island - it wasn’t all that big although it had a mountain in the middle of it. It was a true tropical island with swaying coconut palms in some areas and dense tropical rain forest in others. We didn’t venture too far into these as Zanda had said there were snakes and other nasties including some of the vegetation that could give our naked flesh some horrible rashes.
Anyway, we preferred the grassy area with the coconuts, the blue lagoon and the wonderful white coral sandy beaches where we lay and touched each other to our hearts’ content. We also made love, long and often. There was no danger of me falling pregnant. Even though I now no longer had the pill, my time was not right and so we indulged whenever we had the urge - which was most of the time.
We lay on the beach and in the grass and Andy’s long thick and now almost permanently rigid cock ploughed into me, bringing me to a series of wonderful climaxes after each of which I clung to his now so athletic body as if I was about to be separated from him right then.
No-one followed us. We were quite alone. We couldn’t escape. There was nowhere to go but in any case, we were too much in love and desirous of fulfilling that love to waste time in considering the impossible.
We did wonder, when we weren’t busy making love or just caressing each other’s wonderful bodies, at how long we would be kept as galley slaves, for none amongst us was more than middle twenties and yet the big houses had obviously been there for many years. I later found out Ali’s father had built it when he had been invited to join the small group of human galley-slave enthusiasts.
So far, though, we were quite unable to fathom what our futures might be. One thing was certain: they would not be returning us to our former lives. Even if they bribed us with huge pay offs, they couldn’t be sure we wouldn’t spill the beans and it wouldn’t take that much for the various navies of the world to find this island once they knew it existed and what it was being used for.
I won
dered aloud if perhaps we might become guards or one of Zanda’s training assistants. “Possibly, Chris, but they go off on leave somewhere. They could then just as easily tell all ...?”
“Yes, you are right. Anyway, I want you to make love to me again. It looks as if Peter down there, is ready again ...”
Peter was the euphemism Andy gave to his cock. I giggled every time he used it for with him, it was almost as if Peter was another person and had a life all of his own. Right then though, I didn’t care if he did or not; I just wanted him inside me, bringing me to yet another of those glorious ecstatic climaxes.
With our new athleticism and much increased physical stamina, we could make love together for much longer than before and Andy was even able to hold back on his ejaculation, spinning it out to three or four of my orgasms and his recovery period was also much quicker.
I don’t think they fed us anything special to achieve this. I think it was just our so healthy life-styles: no nasties in our food - very little fat, all our carbohydrates unprocessed and a perfect balance of protein as well. Vegetables raw most of time, the meat with its fat removed but with nuts and lentils and the like as well. As I said before, it wasn’t all that tasty but it was good for us.
We left the stables right after breakfast and returned just before the evening meal, finding our own lunch as we prowled around the island. The others looked at us enviously and I asked Zanda how many couples had opted for the voluntary brand and achieved a successful outcome.