by Nicole Dere
Madame Carina herself wielded the clippers on Jan’s black locks, while one of the Toru girls did the honours with Marty. Bewildered as they were, neither of the nude figures crouching on the rather sticky softness of the black leather cushions had any thought of hesitating to obey or to question what was to be done to them. The electric clippers purred, scissors snipped, the clippers were changed and buzzed again, until Marty’s short brown hair and Jan’s fuller, richer, raven curls spread in ever increasing quantity about them, until the pale domes of their skulls emerged, covered only by the sparsest of dark fuzz through which the pale scalps shone.
But even this was not to be spared. The shorn victims were instructed to bend over the basins, their heads were soaped, and then fearfully sharp cutthroat razors were wielded, fortunately expertly, over newly bared skin now lathered thickly with fragrant foam, until even this last fine covering was removed. The residue of soap and whiskers was rinsed off, and the couple stared in fascinated horror at the smooth shaven pale domes of the skull revealed to them.
Chapter Twenty
THEY WERE SUBDUED, ALMOST stunned, by the extreme treatment meted out to them at Madame Carina’s salon, and sat silently huddled together, holding hands, on the bench seat immediately behind Clio during the long drive back to the farm from the capital. In spite of their nervousness at the unlooked-for surprise of a trip of 200 miles up to Kendu, the couple had also experienced a high degree of excitement at the drastic change in their routine. Even the feel of the thin cotton kanzuswhich covered their nakedness was unusual, and also highly rousing. ‘Don’t stand in the sunlight,’ Jan had whispered with a giggle. Clio’s generosity had not extended as far as underwear, and for Jan bra and knickers were things of the distant past. Now the shock of the head shaving, after all the other intimate attention paid to their bodies, had stretched even their stoical acceptance of their menial lot to the very limit.
‘You two are very quiet,’ Clio said, half turning her head briefly. ‘You haven’t even said thank you for your fantastic transformation, you ungrateful little buggers.’
Jan’s fingers dug unseen into Marty’s knee through the thin material of the kanzu, and he tardily echoed her murmured ‘Thank you’. She cleared her throat, and added tentatively, ‘It’s just ... a bit of a shock ... a bit extreme.’
Marty tensed, his heart quickened its beat. Jan was taking a risk, making a provocative comment like that. She might well earn herself a thrashing as severe as the one he had undergone for her. He had sensed she had become just a little less subservient since his caning, because of the change in her sexual relations with Clio: the startling fact that their mistress had begun to play the active role in their lovemaking, instead of just lying back and allowing her lover-slave to pay homage. He was relieved to hear the throaty, relaxed laugh with which Clio greeted Jan’s statement.
‘You look bloody gorgeous, the pair of you! You know you do! Absolutely sensational! So stop fishing for compliments, you little tart!’
It was clear that not everyone shared Clio’s opinion when the car swung into the drive at the front of the bungalow in the mellow light of late afternoon, and the driver and her two passengers alighted. Muriamu and Adamu had come onto the veranda to greet them, and they let out a shriek of incredulous laughter, their cupped hands held up to their mouths. One of the shambaboys joined them, with a similarly astonished reaction, and then a small gaggle of hooting totos.
Clio serenely ignored their audience’s mockery. ‘Come on! Get those ridiculous nighties off and let’s see you in all your glory.’
Neither of the two figures in her wake had reached the first of the three wooden steps leading up to the veranda, and the wide open doors of the living room. But by now long inured to their habitual nudity in front of the two house servants and the other workers about the compound, they quickly undid the buttons at the cuff and at the chest and pulled the white garments up and over their heads. Familiarity might have bred contempt but had not diminished the delight with which the spectators observed the pale forms, and there was another hoot of laughter, which increased in pitch and volume as they noted the glistening quality of the newly perfumed silky pale skin and, in particular, the smooth perfect hairlessness of the flesh over the pubic mounds.
Ant’s reaction was no less extreme when he came home an hour later to be greeted by his lover, with her two faithful acolytes curled like obedient hounds at her feet. ‘What the fuck have you done to them now?’ His tone and his expression did not indicate unqualified approval.
‘Oh, come on, Ant! They look absolutely fabulous!’ His look indicated he was not quite convinced. ‘Look. Go with him, Jan. Go and have your bath, my love. Let her scrub your back for you! You’ll feel much better afterwards, with a few more drinks inside you. Go on, take him away and get him cleaned up, sweet pie.’ She addressed her remark to Jan, who rose immediately, with an anxious glance in Ant’s direction.
‘Oh, all right! Come on then. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it,’ he grunted. She padded barefoot after him, with a last look back at her mistress, who gave her an encouraging nod.
For all the casual attitude of Clio and Ant, this particular pairing off was unusual enough for Marty to feel non-existent hairs rising on the back of his neck as he eyed his wife warily, but she seemed relaxed enough as she held out her glass for him to refresh her drink. ‘He’s a grumpy old sod, my man, isn’t he?’ she observed as Marty padded over to the drinks that stood at one end of the long sideboard and replenished her gin and tonic. ‘But I bet he’s really turned on by her. I bet he’s got a foot-long hard-on in there, eh? Because the pair of you really dolook divine, I swear to you. Come here, sit close.’
She gestured for him to crouch as before at her feet, which were raised on the animal skin footstool, so that she was almost resting horizontally in the deep cushions of the armchair. Her right hand reached out and rested on the shiny dome of his head, which she caressed sensuously. ‘Don’t you think you’re bloody beautiful, the two of you? Aren’t you turned on by your little partner, sweet pie?’ She took his left hand and placed it high on her bare thigh. He knew the movement was a command, and he let his hand slide slowly up over the cool flesh, following the swelling contours, his hand and wrist hidden now under the fine silkiness of the long evening skirt. His palm continued its upward stroke until he felt the crease where thigh met belly, and his sensitive fingers encountered the curls of her pubic hair, still soft and fragrant from her bath. She wasn’t wearing underwear. She rarely did in the evening, unless she and Ant were going out somewhere, and not always even then. His hand moved on, passed lightly over the puckered cleft that marked her labia, and teased the fold of tissue with practised, feathery caresses. He felt her involuntary response: the lift of the belly, the slight opening of the sex lips, the moistness of the inner folds, the shift and tightening of the thigh muscles clenching about his wrist. As he stroked her, with his slow rousing skill, he shivered at the corresponding caresses of her hand on his newly shaven smooth skull.
In the shower room along the corridor, Ant was already stripped and standing under the tepid streaming water. The blond hairs on his chest and the thick clusters about his arms and legs looked darker and straighter than they did when dry, and clung like delicate strands of weed to the skin beneath, most of which was dark too, tanned by the constant exposure to fierce sunlight – except for the small white triangle about his pubis, where the hair clung thickly, and the tiny patch that covered the tight curves of his buttocks. Immediately below hung his penis and scrotum, flaccid still yet somehow deeply redolent with his potent masculinity. Jan could not help but stare at that thick tube, with its rim of folded foreskin, like a lion’s ruff, through which the acorn shape of the helm declared its prominence. Already longer and thicker than Marty’s cock at its most rampant, she thought, in traitorous but helpless comparison.
Why did she try to lie even to herself? she wondered. Why try to deny the powerful urges of desire that e
ven now, at the sight of this splendid male nakedness, were causing the muscles of her cunt to tighten, the throbbing hunger producing the oily fluid to facilitate the thrust of the penis deep within her vagina? Time and again she had tried to ignore or repudiate this urge, to cling to that lesbian facet of her nature which she had so wholeheartedly embraced when things had started to go wrong between her and her husband, long before Mags Evans had, so literally, imposed her powerful grip on her. And she was still in denial, every day and every night, when Marty made love to her, with his tongue and his expert fingers, and even on the rare occasions, becoming rarer, when they tried to fuck and his limp little prick would spend itself as soon as its swollen, wilting head touched her vaginal lips – or sooner.
Ant beckoned her impatiently and she stepped into the narrow glassed cubicle. His great brown hands fell on her shoulders, thrust her down on her knees, and she felt that inevitable convoluted mix of excitement and frustration at the clear unspoken command for her to fellate him. Her neck and face leant forward, she let the throbbing column brush across her brow and nose, let her puckered lips bestow a series of swift light kisses upon its already stirring, lifting potency. Those lips parted, nibbled, and her tongue flickered, over the strawberry shape of the great glans, which swelled, reared and stretched the foreskin tight. Her gentle fingers came up, curled about the pulsing hardness of the shaft, steered it to her opening, stretching, worshipping mouth, her hungrily lapping tongue as she took the helm inside, not attempting to draw it as far as she could to the back of her throat, but grazing lightly with her teeth, sucking, tasting the salty emission already beginning to flow, ever faster, ever thicker.
Ant groaned. His behind was tightly clenched, two deep hollows formed, the muscles rock hard as he resisted driving his prick as far down her working throat as he possibly could. He could feel her uplifted arms about his hips, her fingers digging into him just at the upper swell of those flexed buttocks. His own hands lifted too, and he stared down at that pale dome, looking fragile as an egg, its surface gleaming under the cascade of water. He felt her brow pressing vigorously into his pelvis just at the line of his dark, streaming pubes. The exotic spectacle of the bald, bobbing head, the encompassing, working mouth fastened so firmly about his surging penis, stirred him so powerfully he groaned aloud. His instinct told him he was at his crisis point and suddenly he felt a desperate desire to possess her properly, not to discharge into her mouth but to fuck her. He dragged his erect prick clear of her. He had to exert some force. She gave a whimpering cry, tried to hold the contact, thrusting her head after him, but he stooped, grabbed her by the thighs and brutally scooped her up, lifting and jamming her back against the white tiled wall. He drove his body between her parted legs, her feet waving in the air, and lanced into her already well-lubricated and receptive pussy with his rigid prick.
He held her in mid-air, impaled on his cock, his great shovel hands clasped about her behind. She was unaware of the painful hammering of the wet tiles into her spine. Her arms wound tightly about his wide shoulders and sturdy neck, their writhing bodies soldered for some timeless beating seconds before he came. She felt the great release of his fluid inside her, and then the unstoppable onslaught of her own coming, the terrible, ecstatic force of it surging and soaring through her, in waves, and all the while that pole-hard cock of his buried deep in her, while her feet waved, kicking in the spattering drops of the shower, on and on, and she screamed, until his mouth was sealing hers, his tongue driving into her warm wetness, tasting the salt tang of his own sexual emissions, and they collapsed, still joined together, onto the wetness of the tiny restricted floor, and remained, tangled, limbs folding as their passion died under the steady cleansing stream of the descending water.
Back in the living room, Marty’s fingers were buried in the soaking fissure of Clio’s cunt, thickly coated with the seeping issue that indicated the rising degree of her excitement. His hot face was resting on the pillowy coolness of her upper thigh, and he breathed in the distinctively pungent aroma of her arousal. Surely it was time for them to move to the privacy of the bedroom, for the double doors that led into the room were still wide open, the late sunlight still falling in a block across the faded rugs and wooden floor, and his own crouching form, as well as Clio’s long, tanned and undoubtedly stirring limbs.
‘Oh Christ! I need a towel or something. Don’t let me stain these cushions again!’
Marty felt a shiver of nostalgia as he reviewed the years they had been together – and still were! Even though their roles had changed so dramatically. Not really, though. He thought back to that long ago night on Observatory Hill, their loving under the stars. He had been just as much her faithful slave then. Only now he acknowledged it. The whole world did.
At that second, in spite of the dedicated effort he was putting in to his present task, he heard, muted by distance, the closed door, and the running water, but nevertheless unmistakable in its urgency and meaning, the shrill, wavering cry of Jan, in all the abandoned force of her crisis. Unavoidably his body tensed once more, his fingers quivered before resuming their caressive attentions.
He had been extremely apprehensive when Clio had ordered Jan to attend Ant in his ablutions, clearly for more than mere back scrubbing. Perhaps it really was meant as a sop to him, to divert his anger at what she had had done to their twin body slaves. Marty still felt anxious, quite often, about the relationship between his wife and her lover. They were both such strong characters. His master and mistress. And Jan’s too. He knew now exactly what that meant, the degree of their dominion over him and Jan. He would always be afraid of Ant Van Reis. It was in the nature of things. The alpha male. He who must be obeyed. But Marty’s emotions concerning Clio were more complex. She had after all been his wife. Still was, in the eyes of the law. Not that that counted for anything.
Clio once more seized his wrist in a vice-like grip, this time to thrust his hand away from her pudenda as she struggled to sit up and flick her skirt over her exposed limbs. ‘Sounds like our little Jan is doing a great job of diverting Ant from any dismay at your new billiard ball hairstyles.’ She swung her narrow feet down to the cool floor and slipped them into her open sandals. ‘I think we’ll go along to the bedroom. You can finish me off with your silver tongue! Let ’em see how wecan get just as turned on, my little slaphead!’
When Ant and Jan entered the bedroom some minutes later, it was not Marty’s newly shaved pate they immediately beheld but his raised bottom, for the head in question was firmly ensconced deep between Clio’s widespread, sprawling knees.
Chapter Twenty-one
JAN STARTED WITH SURPRISE at the suddenness with which the looming figure appeared on the veranda, silhouetted by the bright sunlight behind him. Instinctively, she folded her left arm over her breasts in an attempt to hide them, while her right hand dropped to the bare expanse at the base of her belly. She did not recognise the tall, broad shouldered individual at first. He was not one of the workers, or at least not among the number who worked about the garden or the compound. It was Sunday. Clio and Ant had gone into Kengui, to the club, where one of the monthly golf competitions was being held. They wouldn’t be back until well after dark, and maybe not until the late or early hours. She was about to ask him if he was seeking Adamu or Muriamu, both of whom were relaxing on their day off in their quarters. Then she noted the crisp white shirt, and the crest at the breast pocket: the school badge which had become so familiar to her ... and the shining black face. ‘Odhiambo!’ The name came out in a smothered gasp, and all at once she was again acutely aware of her nakedness and bent forward from the waist, hopelessly trying to conceal as much of herself as she could, scorched with her sense of shame.
‘What have they done to you?’ Patrick Odhiambo cried out. His staring eyes fixed on the pale prominent dome of the skull. His expression of horror was so great that Jan actually raised her hands from her loins and put them for an instant to her shaven head. ‘It’s true, then? There’s
been talk of you – and the other mzunguteacher – kept out here, as slaves. Come! You must come with me at once! I will save you. Do not be afraid, Janet! We will go to the police! You’ll be safe, I promise!’
She turned in alarm and ran back into the living room. He made to follow her, but paused in the doorway and glanced nervously about him. Jan dived for the wooden and basket-weave settee, She grabbed one of the heavy square cushions and held it in front of her, hugging it to her to hide as much of her body as she could. ‘You must go!’ she said urgently, her eyes wide with shock.
He took another step forward, into the room. ‘No! Where are they? Those people? They cannot do this. Come with me, right now. I can save you. Don’t be afraid.’
‘You don’t understand – Patrick. I can’t. I have to stay. My friend–’
‘We can come back for him – or send someone – the police. We must leave now!’ His face shone with sweat, his expression was wild with fear. He took another pace forward, and reached out a long arm to seize her. ‘Come on! Before someone comes–’
‘No! I told you! You don’t understand! I don’t want to leave.’
He was desperate now, and clearly at a loss. ‘You’re afraid,’ he said for the third time. ‘Don’t be. I will not let them hurt you. But we must go now!’ He grabbed her wrist, tried to pull her up to flee, and the cushion fell away from her as she struggled. She let out a scream. ‘Let go of me! You’ve got to go now! Patrick!’