by Nicole Dere
The bedroom was equally communal. Five low futons were spaced around the walls, and there was a long shelf, with a mirror above it and cushioned stools beneath it, which served as a common dressing table and was covered with an assortment of cosmetics.
Mags told us briefly something of their history, without filling in too many details at all. ‘We were all together before,’ she explained. ‘We were in the navy. Then Lord Staith got hold of us; it was a sort of pressgang in reverse. That was quite some time ago. Now we’re all happy little galley slaves aboard the Lady Jane.’ She laughed breezily. ‘Yes, that really is its name. And quite appropriate too, wouldn’t you say?’
A willowy girl with tight blonde curls and a languid accent which indicated a privileged background, asked Jane and I conversationally and totally out of the blue, ‘So what’s your man like? He looks pretty dishy to me, I must say, but is he good to you or is he a bastard?’
The frankness of the strange questions took the two of us so much by surprise that we stared open-mouthed at her. So the blonde, whose name was Beth, merely raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Oh come on now, you can trust us,’ she went on. ‘We won’t breathe a word, honestly. Give us all the details. He’ll probably want one or more of us tonight,’ she sniggered lewdly, ‘so any kinky little habits we should know about?
‘I say,’ she went on, leaning closer and looking around conspiratorially, ‘he’s not into other men, is he? After all, the other one looks a bit sweet. Where does he fit in?’ she giggled. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression!’
‘Jack’s my husband!’ I hastily exclaimed, trying to hide my amusement at what the girl had said about him behind a mask of indignation, instinctively feeling I should defend my husband, but then quickly wondering why I should considering the way he had been behaving lately. ‘He’s not our man.’
‘And the “sweet” one is mine,’ Jane added. ‘My husband, I mean.’
‘Oh,’ said Mags, and then indicated our state of nakedness with a confused expression. ‘But surely you belong to Lord Staith now?’
The word ‘belong’ rang round and round in my reeling brain. Even as a denial sprang indignantly to my lips, the shadow of such a shocking possibility seemed to cloud my mind. I shook my head and sank down on the nearest free mattress.
‘Belong?’ I echoed wearily. ‘We don’t belong to anybody. We’ll be leaving here soon, and going home…’
Suddenly a new feeling, or rather, a nagging and overpoweringly familiar feeling, took over. The girls had closed in on us. I felt firm but gentle hands rubbing my ankles and arms, pressing me back and down into the softness beneath me. Then the hands crept up, caressing my shins and calves and thighs, others cupped my tingling breasts and stroking my neck and shoulders. The girls loomed over me, their silky flesh pressing more and more intimately against me, smothering me with their fragrant beauty.
Lips possessed mine and a warm wet mouth kissed my breast, its tongue flickering over my engorged nipple, while another gave the same adoration to its twin. The mouths opened, suckled greedily, and I moaned, let myself go, yielding willingly to the hands that were opening me up, exploring that wet and demanding cleft between my thighs, drawing out every particle of delightful excitement from its running centre, stretching me on the sweetly merciless rack of desire.
My body turned, writhed, and I sobbed in helpless need. ‘Don’t stop… don’t stop…’ I heard myself begging and somehow, somewhere in my fragmenting mind, I knew that Jane was with me, as we both plunged and flowed on the rising tide of passion that swamped us.
‘I recommend this at least once a day for the first month. And a proper whipping too – we’re not talking love taps here. The little fillies come to love it, believe me. It lets them know you’re their master. And that’s what they want more than anything in the world. Isn’t it, my sweet little Moira?’
I could not see him. My head and wrists were firmly clamped in the circular holes of the wooden stocks. A horizontal bar, also constructed of wood, pressed up firmly across my lower belly, nestling uncomfortably against my pubic bone. It ensured that my body, from the hips upward, was bent at right angles to my widely parted legs, my ankles shackled to the two upright supporters of the whole frame.
Alongside me, though I could not see them either, Jane and Carl were similarly pinioned. Thus, our three bottoms were proffered in the bathing sunshine for the punishment about to be inflicted upon them.
Lord Staith’s words were spoken close by my side. I could feel his warm breath on my shoulder, and I felt his hands stroking my breasts as they hung naked, teasing them until my nipples ached and stood out in rubbery hardness.
Then he let one hand slide slowly down my belly, until he was plucking at the silky tendrils of my pubes. I bit my lip, gasping with renewed hunger when his fingers traced the damp lips of my cunt, sending it throbbing to heightened arousal. My thigh muscles locked, my haunches tightened, and I whimpered at this stimulation, feeling the sticky wetness seep over the probing fingertips. I tried to push my belly forward and down a little, to increase the pressure of those taunting fingers, but the hardness of the wood thrust unyieldingly back against my pelvis and I moaned with frustration.
‘There, there, my dear,’ the aristocratic tones purred, the fingers sending the fires of desire ever stronger through my captive flesh. ‘You’ll soon feel something far more delicious eating away at you, and you’ll express your gratitude to your master, won’t you?’
Master, he said it again. I shook, and a huge sob wracked my bound body. Jack was not, I wanted to shriek, my master! I was nobody’s slave! But then, what was I doing there, in the burning tropic sun, naked and tethered like some sacrifice and about to be whipped like a dumb beast, with all the other naked figures and a considerable crowd of excited villagers watching avidly? And the man who was going to wield the whip, that sleek instrument of chastisement we had already been introduced to, was undoubtedly at that moment entitled to the term ‘master’.
Lord Staith let the three long lashes trail softly over our bare backs. ‘See these strands?’ he asked, addressing Jack, for our position clearly meant we could not. ‘Bound in silk, they are. You can lay them on as hard as you like, and they won’t cut the skin or scar it permanently in any way.
‘And you must lay it on as hard as you can,’ his lordship urged Jack, and for the first time his voice thickened, betraying the excitement that was making his squat penis stir and thrust against the soft chamois nest that closeted it. ‘It is essential that you do so,’ he continued earnestly. ‘They must be absolutely certain that you are their lord and master. They must be left in no doubt that they belong to you.’ His voice lightened again. ‘And that applies even to Carl!’
‘Don’t worry, your lordship; they’ll know who is their boss all right!’ Jack’s voice was also hoarse with excitement. And perhaps a little uncertainty too, I speculated. For all his bravado, this was a situation as novel to him as it was to us. In his own way he was facing a test, just as we were.
But he was as good as his word. I was the first in line. There was the briefest of whistling sounds as the air was disturbed that I felt as much as heard as the triple lash descended. With a sharp crack a ripple of fire bit through my clenched cheeks, and the wooden frame shook and creaked as I fought desperately against my restraints. In an additional fine flare of agony the tips of the lashes curled around my hip and bit into the crease of my belly and thigh.
The wooden rings cosseting my neck and wrists chafed as I twisted, and the iron rubbed my ankles as I strove to move, to kick out, but they went unnoticed in the world of throbbing torment covering my bottom.
I’ve no idea how long I waited, sobbing blindly, for the next strike. Only that it seemed an age, as Jack moved along the line punishing all three in turn, one stroke for each, before returning to deliver the second to my still scorching bottom.
The lashes swept down again and I went through the same howling dance of ordeal. My poor bottom felt as
though the skin was split, though when later I saw the results of the beating on my own flesh and that of Jane and Carl, I had to admit that his lordship’s words had been correct. Though our behinds and the backs of our thighs were covered in a profusion of thin, lividly red raised weals, not one millimetre of our skin was broken. And though the weals remained visible for days, darkening to a rich multi-hue of bruising, continuing to ache abominably and to be overlaid with the fresh marks of the subsequent beatings we endured, eventually they faded and disappeared, leaving our skin as smoothly unblemished as it had been before.
My world had shrunk to a blazing torment of agonised flesh, but then, with a shock that soared perversely over that private universe of pain, I felt a glow of consuming arousal, infinitely more powerful than the excitement caused on my captured body by Staith’s inquisitive fingers.
It seemed to flow along with the pain, I felt myself running with it, my sex pulsing deliciously in climax. My muscles locked, every part of me fused to this sensation, my legs were rigid as iron as I tensed and lifted my mortified flesh to that consuming fire. I was opened to the very core of my being.
From far away, through my waves of ecstasy and confusion, I heard Jack’s voice demanding, ‘Who is your master?’
‘You are!’ I instantly blabbered without thinking twice. ‘You are my master!’
Some time later I returned vaguely to awareness of my surroundings, and the pain, which wrapped itself like a hot blanket around my flesh. Fingers were probing urgently between my thighs, just below my stinging buttocks, seeking the lips of my sex, opening me. Then a rigid cock ploughed into me; was it Jack? I wondered hazily if it was my master or not, but I didn’t know or really care as I let it impale me, and then I came again, sobbing with gratitude.
Chapter 23
‘Keep still, my dear.’ Lord Staith’s voice was hoarse and urgent, and I felt his warm breath fan over my exposed sex. I was lying on my back, my spine rigid against the hard wooden surface of the tabletop. My legs were bent, turned outward, my knees up to my breasts, my feet jutting to the side. My hands were grasping the backs of my knees tightly, endeavouring to hold myself as still and as open as possible. My bottom was positioned right at the table’s edge, so that Staith, sitting in his chair, had full access to my vulnerable sex, which was stationed mere inches from his rubicund face.
I gasped, and then held my breath, struggling not to tremble, as I felt the tip of his tongue flicker with gossamer lightness over the upper folds of my moist labia at the outer edges, just where the paleness began to darken towards the slippery brim of the divide. I frantically wondered how long I could endure this divine torture, how long I could keep still, when every fibre of my being wanted to move, to seize his silvery head and grind it convulsively into my softness. I visualised the severity of the punishment I would receive, relived the intensity of the punishment I had been given only hours before, the red weals still vividly evident on my bottom, the throbbing pain I could still feel, and held myself as still as I possibly could.
How long was it since Jane and I had been transported into our utterly servile existence? How many days had it been since we became slaves? How many weeks had passed since I have up my freedom? Three weeks? Four weeks? I had only the vaguest notion of time, which forced on me the knowledge of the shattering success of the whole operation; the endless reminders that our sole value lay in our bodies and their submission to the will of others. It was not just the punishments, though as Staith had forecast, they played a vital part in our metamorphosis. We still dreaded them, had already learnt, appallingly quickly, lots of subtle ways to reduce, at least by a fraction, their excruciating severity, by playing our slave’s role to the full, by the utter passivity and acceptance of our subservience. The very way we stood, the waiting stillness that was a negation of our will, that special dumbness of our silence that totally muted our individuality and our will as individuals. It was becoming second nature to us now to behave like good little slaves. As were the cries and screams of pain, the sobbing pleas for mercy which we knew provided our masters with that extra thrill, the extra little progression towards that attainment of bliss they hungered for, their need as urgent as ours, the goal equally ephemeral, always just out of reach to possess us utterly.
But there was more to it than the physical punishment. We were never allowed to forget our bodies, or our sexual nature. We could not get away from it. After that first public chastisement all pretence of our status was cast aside. Perhaps the sickest aspect of it all was that we went along with it from the very beginning. For all my private, rebellious thoughts and my promises to myself that I would do something about it, I did absolutely nothing about it at all. I let them make a slave of me. And to my shame, deep within me was a willingness to let it happen that was more than dumb acceptance. It was like some mysteriously dark flowering inside me, taking over my rational mind, which kept protesting against my fate, a dark flower blooming deep in my soul hour by hour and day by day.
And I was forced to face the fact that its seed came from within me. It had always been there, lying unrecognised and dormant, waiting to be stimulated and watered by just the right persons and circumstances. The bizarre conditions of our capture and our victimisation by the lovely but sadistic Krista, had first caused it to awaken and grow.
Yet another powerful element in our subjection was the mirroring effect of seeing it happen to another person, the one closest to you, as I watched Jane, and she watched me, slip further and further into the helpless entrapment our minds and bodies traitorously contributed to.
Especially our bodies.
The feel of them, the caress of that balmy air on our nakedness, the insatiability of our sex drive, all these things played a part in mysteriously chaining us to our new and, as we told ourselves as a means of attempting to justify our shameful subservience, inescapable fate. We made love with each other whenever we could, which was not often, because it felt good to know that we were the same in so many ways. Then there were the five girls from the yacht, who had doubtless been given instructions to keep us simmering with need – and to satisfy that need so shatteringly that we wept with the sheer bliss of its fulfilment, no matter how many times they brought us to the dizzy heights of climax.
And there was not only lesbian loving. There was also Peter’s sturdy erection, as well as increasingly casual bouts of sex with Jack. Even Carl was involved, at the command of the figures that had taken over his life as well. Preoccupied as I was with what was happening to Jane and me, I barely had time to notice that Carl seemed to be succumbing just as hopelessly to his role of slave as we were.
My thoughts spun away on an increased surge of sexual pleasure and hunger at the delicate slurping going on between my spread thighs. I was whimpering, my whole body thrumming with my efforts not to let myself slip over the rushing edge to the beautiful climax I was fast approaching. Frantically, I realised that the working mouth had withdrawn, though I could still feel the light brush of its lips, the fanning warmth of breath over my running flesh, as Staith murmured against my very cunt. I fought to concentrate on that soft, throaty whisper.
‘Think of all those wonderful opportunities your lovely body possesses for one such as me, my dear.’ The sticky fingers of one hand, pungent with the aroma of my sex juice, played over my features. They pressed gently on my lips and I sucked hungrily on them as they slid into my mouth, and I nibbled gently at them. They withdrew and travelled down, and briefly tweaked my nipples, which were already achingly erect.
A finger traced the narrow slit of my navel, before the hand continued its journey downward, over my quivering belly and the damp curls of my mound, to plunge into that sweet opening awash with the fluids he had coaxed forth from me. I gasped at his fingers’ possessive play over the entrance to my vagina, followed by their exquisitely slow insertion. Nothing of my most intimate flesh was spared. I winced, and flinched at last at the discomfort of a probing digit insinuating itself into the tiny
fissure of my anus, groaning at the deep discomfort of its penetration, the forcing of that reluctant ring of muscle which surrendered finally, only to close again over the intruder with fierce resistance.
He held me open remorselessly, in all those sensitive areas, and I wept openly, my sprawled thighs shaking. ‘Every sweet little hole in your body belongs to me, my sweet, all those divine little O’s. And O is for obedience, my dear. That is all you need to remember. You understand me, yes?’
My head swam and the words echoed in my mind, as though I had heard them before, or been waiting to hear them all my life. ‘Yes, my lord,’ I whispered, the tears flowing freely. Already I knew when he expected, would demand, an answer from me. He pushed his mouth forward once more; his lips parted and kissed my sex in a long, lover’s embrace. I shuddered, felt myself starting to come, tried to resist and lost. My tummy quivered and I flung my head back, my hair spreading wildly out across the table as I howled in ecstasy.
Days later, Jane and I were standing motionless as statues on either side of Lord Staith’s chair, at the head of the long table. Perfect bondservants, we remained silent and still, moving only on command to attend on him, or Jack, or anyone else who might require our services. We no longer shared in the democratic assembly at mealtimes, had not done so since the day of our first whipping. Nor had Carl. Like us, he stood to one side, watchful and dumb. It was, as we were well aware, part of our training, to help us transform fully into our new station, as were the punishments and the increasingly casual and public use of our bodies as sex objects.
And there were other painful reminders, too. Like the small silver rings biting into our nipples. Both Jane and I had petit nipples, which meant they had to be teased and pulled and elongated to allow the spring clips to fasten into place. The vaginal rings, considerably larger, were easier to fix, nipped into the tissue of the upper folds of our labia. When we were first fitted with these adornments we both gasped, and could not hold back the tears. I did not think I would be able to endure the excruciating pain, but we were assured we would get used to it. And we did, but that fierce bite into our tender flesh was yet another constant prompting of our new servility.