Slavegirl Island 1.2 SeXStoRY

Chapter One (Part Two) PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF JASON BELMONT I made my way down to the vast patio at the rear of Bianca’s mansion. It was here that a lot of guests gathered at that time of day. The sun was pleasantly warm. Circular white tables were dotted about, with multi-coloured umbrellas over them. Naked slaves flitted to and fro, bearing trays and glasses. These ‘waitress’ slaves were garbed as I remembered before. They wore very high-heeled white leather shoes, the tiniest of white aprons - which did not even reach a depilated mound - and a small white lace maid’s cap. Rather fetching. Taking a seat, I looked around. There seemed to be fewer guests than usual. Three couples, some half a dozen men on their own, either middle-aged or elderly. Two naked slaves were scrubbing the wide steps that led down to the rolling lawns beyond. They would, I knew, have had to scrub the patio before the main lot of guests arrived. I picked up the opera glasses on my table and focused on them... seeing the exhaustion on their features, the panting open mouths, the sheen of sweat on their flesh, breasts swinging beneath them as they scrubbed and scrubbed. As I lowered my glasses, I saw a female Overseer cross the patio and move towards the steps. She was uniformed as customary. A small bolero and short pleated skirt of the thinnest black leather. Thigh-length black boots. Hooked to her waist-belt was a slim switch of plaited black hide. I raised my glasses as she went down the steps and I saw the switch being unhooked. It lashed across the buttocks of one of the scrubbing girls and the distant wail of pain came faintly to me. The second girl got a similarly vicious cut. Another wail. Then both girls were kneeling erect, breasts heaving, hands on top of the head. The Overseer was lecturing, menacing swishing her switch. I guessed she was telling them, unless they bucked their ideas up, they would be getting far more than a single stroke. The Overseer strolled away, re-hooking her switch. No one, it seemed, apart from myself, had taken the slightest notice of the incident. Such scenes were all too familiar at Bianca’s, I supposed. A shapely young blonde passed me, bare bottom wiggling. „Girl!“ I called. She stopped, turned, and came close, bowing. “I want Tomato Juice, a croissant and coffee, black.”I said. “At once, Master.” She hurried away, bottom wiggling even faster. Such service! It couldn’t be bettered. She was back in less than a couple of minutes. A pair of apple-round breasts danced before my eyes as she set down my order. She was bowing again and about to go when I checked her. “There’s ice in my Tomato Juice,” I said. “I didn’t order ice.” Her mouth twitched. “I beg pardon, Master. I’ll change it at once.” I swivelled my chair around. “First you’ll go over my knees, girl,” I said. Without demur, she put down her tray and placed herself across my waiting thighs. Then I gave her three stinging slaps on each cheek of her bottom. The white skin turned a blotch red but she did no more than utter a tiny gasp at each slap. Such a punishment was about the mildest that could be handed out at Bianca’s. “Off you go,” I said, easing her away. She hurried across the patio, still wiggling deliciously. Again, I noticed, no one had taken the slightest interest in the incident. If a guest wanted to slap a girl’s bottom, he was perfectly entitled to. That was the attitude. It was taking me a little time to slip back into this unique environment. In under a minute the girl came back with an un-iced Tomato Juice. “I humbly beg pardon for my error, Master,” she said in a soft voice. I said nothing, simply waving her away. The girls were still scrubbing, the sun was getting higher in the sky and hotter. In the far distance, under the supervision of an Overseer, there was a gang of six slave-girls working on the flower beds. There were so many ways a girl could be made to sweat at Bianca’s. Another ‘waitress’ slave approached, carrying some leaflets. She placed one deferentially on my table. I picked it up and read: MISS BIANCA WISHES TO WELCOME ALL NEWLY-ARRIVED GUESTS MOST WARMLY. THEY ARE INVITED TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ALL FACILITIES AVAILABLE. THESE INCLUDE A SWIMMING POOL, TENNIS COURTS AND A CROQUET LAWN. INDOORS, SNOOKER AND TABLE TENNIS ARE ALSO AVAILABLE. GUESTS ARE WELCOME ON THE MAIN PATIO FROM 10.a.m. ONWARDS, WHEN IT WILL HAVE BEEN SCRUBBED CLEAN, READY FOR THE DAY. DRINKS AND FOOD OF ALL KINDS MAY BE OBTAINED AT ALL TIMES, NIGHT AND DAY. SIMPLY SUMMON A SLAVE. SLAVES ARE READY TO SERVE YOU AT ANY TIME IN YOUR SUITE. ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS RING ROOM SERVICE. SLAVES MAY BY USED FOR ANY KIND OF PLEASURE YOU DESIRE. IF YOU EVER HAVE THE SLIGHTEST FORM OF COMPLAINT, PLEASE INFORM THE CHIEF OVERSEER WHO WILL SEE THAT THE MATTER IS DEALT WITH. TRAINING SESSIONS FOR NEW SLAVES ARE HELD BETWEEN 10 a.m. AND NOON AND 3 p.m. TO 5 p.m. DAILY. GUESTS ARE INVITED TO ATTEND. TWO PUNISHMENT SESSIONS ARE HELD EVERY DAY - AT 12.30 p.m. AND 6.30 p.m. AGAIN, GUESTS ARE INVITED TO ATTEND. TRAINING IS GIVEN AND PUNISHMENT ADMINISTERED IN THE SLAVE QUARTERS. A DUTY OVERSEER WILL ALWAYS BE ON HAND TO GIVE YOU GUIDANCE AND ANY RELEVANT INFORMATION YOU REQUIRE. MISS BIANCA REQUESTS THAT, IF YOU HAVE ANY COMPLAINTS WHATSOEVER REGARDING A SLAVE’S BEHAVIOUR OR SERVICE, THAT YOU REPORT THIS TO THE NEAREST OVERSEER OR TO THE CHIEF OVERSEER BY HOUSE PHONE. HAVE A NICE DAY! STOP PRESS: WE ARE STARTING UP A SAILING AND BOATING SERVICE. TELEPHONE ROOM SERVICE FOR FURTHER INFORMATION. A nice bit of public relations, I thought. At that moment, the Overseer in charge of the scrubbing girls went past me, heading for the steps. The girls were now kneeling, their task presumably completed, both looking quite done in. I watched as the Overseer put a collar about each, linked them by a chain and led them onto the patio. They came straight towards me, ringing wet, stumbling with fatigue, hair matted. I recognised the Overseer. It was Miss Ramon, whom I had met on my previous visit. She was darker-haired, tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp but quite attractive features. She recognised me too. “Hello Mr. Belmont,” she said, “nice to see you back.” “Nice to be back,” I replied. I studied the girls more closely. They stood, mute and docile, trembling slightly with tiredness. Or was it terror? Neither of them looked more than 18, they probably weren’t. “Trouble?” I asked, nodding at them. “Yes, for them,” answered Miss Ramon. “They should have finished on this patio fifteen minutes ago. So they’ll be attending the 12.30 p.m. Punishment Session.” She glanced at her watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes time. Perhaps you’d like to come along Mr. Belmont?” Well, Bianca was nowhere to be seen and I hadn’t much else to do. Except to drink too much before lunch. “Why not?” I said and stood up. Miss Ramon led off the girls, chain clinking, and I followed. Across the joggling bottom of the girl before me was a single vivid weal. The one I had happened to have seen raised. Many more would soon be joining it. I wondered how that youngster must have been feeling. No matter how she might plead, she would not be spared. Discipline at Bianca’s was iron hard. A female guard unlocked the massive door of the slave quarters and let us in. We went along a plain corridor then entered another one which had cells on either side of it. This is where the girls were kept when off duty. Each cell had a grill door so one could easily see in. Glancing, I saw that some of the slaves were chained; others lay seemingly senseless on their wooden bunk. We came to a ‘T’ junction. To the right, I knew, were the Training Rooms. To the left was the Punishing Room. We approached its big, black double doors and Miss Ramon pushed them open. It must have been a hideous moment for any slave. The one just before me, head bowed, started to sob softly. There was a semi-circle of comfortable-looking chairs around the Punishment Block which held centre-stage in the room. Two of these were occupied by middle-aged men. A white male Overseer approached and took the chain which Miss Ramon had hitherto held. He led the girls to a wall on the right, where their wrists were chained above their head, locked into steel manacles. Already, alongside them, two other women had been manacled. One was a woman of about thirty with light brown hair and a really fulsome figure. Too overblown for my liking but I knew many men liked a woman like that. Alongside her was a much younger woman. She was blonde - very long hair - with a superb figure. She was gagged - a broad strap running over her mouth and chin. Her eyes were wide and she kept tugging senselessly on her chains. The Overseer, naked but for his brief restrainer, came back. “Yes, Miss Ramon?” he enquired. “Give them fifteen strokes each, Mason,” she said. “Use a No. 3 rod.” “Very good, Miss Ramon.” There were I knew, three grades of rod. No. l was the heaviest, No. 2 medium and No. 3 relatively light, but even the lightest rod was of the thickness and weight of a standard school cane - so, no laughing matter. The No. l was a real brute which could raise a weal over a quarter of an inch wide. I’d seen it done. “What’s Maureen doing here?” enquired Miss Ramon. “Failure to please a guest,” replied Mason. “That’s surprising, in view of her experience.” “Yes, I agree, but there you are. Must take a guest’s word.” “Of course. What’s she getting?” “The Chief Overseer ordered 24 strokes of the No. 2 rod.” Miss Ramon nodded. “That should smarten her up a little,” she said perfunctorily. I was still trying to adjust myself to the fact that such severe punishments were quite run-ofthe mill on Bianca’s Island. “And the blonde youngster?” “Obviously new, Miss Ramon. She’s had a couple of good canings so far, but still won’t settle down. The Chief Overseer’s ordered 18 strokes of the three-thonged Martinet.” “All on the buttocks?” “Yes, Miss Ramon.” “Humph... good... that should quieten the girl down at bit.” The Overseer grinned. “Quite so, Miss,” he nodded. “Especially as I have been ordered to use the Martinet with the zircon-studded ends.” “Indeed? That will make the girl sing prettily. Any more?” “No, Miss. That’s the complement to date. Of course, there may be a few last-minute entrants.” “Of course...” Miss Ramon glanced at her watch and, dead on time, the Chief Overseer entered. She was a tall, gauntfaced woman in her mid-forties, garbed in a black leather tunic and skirt. At once she seated herself on a chair set on a dais beyond the Punishment Block. “The Punishment Session is now open,” she said. I and Miss Ramon moved to chairs a few yards behind and to the left of the Block, which was no more than six or so feet away from us. “Mason...” Their Overseer advanced and bowed slightly. “At your service, Ma’am.” “I have left some instructions,” said the Chief Overseer,” but I see there are two new defaulters. Minor?” “Relatively, Ma’am.” “Deal with them first then.” “Yes, Ma’am. They are to receive 15 strokes of the No. 3.” “Proceed, Mason.” The Chief Overseer sat stonily. Her name was Madame Grosse and she was from Alsace. Half German half French. Mason went to the wall and unshackled the first girl in line - the one who was sobbing. But sobbing more now. “To the Block,” he ordered. If there had been any delay or resistance, he would have manhandled her there himself - and she would get additional punishment. So she walked, weak and sobbing, to her fate. The Punishment Block was of interesting design. At its head it had a pillory structure. Heavy wood with holes for neck and wrists. These were on a level with the top of the leather Block. Once locked into the Pillory, the girl’s torso and breasts rested on a flat leather squab. This squab developed into a high-curving hump when it reached her flanks. Over this she had to d**** herself. But her thighs did not fall down straight behind the Block. The squab was thin and her thighs were drawn under it... being pulled by straps fastened to the lower thighs. They were pulled to the maximum so that a girl’s hindquarters curved in the tautest fashion possible. The most salutary fashion in which to by punished. Also, with her cleft pulled indecently wide, everything was fully on stretched display. I had always understood that Miss Bianca had designed this Block herself. The girl - I gathered her name was Barbara - was now sobbing loudly. Mason walked across the room to a series of troughs set on the opposite wall. Here the rods and birches were lying in salt water so as to keep them hard yet very supple. He took out a cane from the No. 3 trough and flexed it into a semi-circle with consummate ease. He swished it a couple of times and seemed satisfied. Then he approached the Block. “Barbara,” he said loudly. “Fifteen strokes. Ordered by Miss Ramon for being negligent in your duties.” There was the taut, naked bottom. So utterly helpless. I am sure, if the skin had not been so stretched, it would have been twitching with dread. As it was, it simply curved, waiting. Then the caning began. Barbara, who must have been fairly inexperienced, screamed from the very first stroke. Mason laid on five from the right hand side, and laid them on hard. From where I was, I could see the twin-tracked weals leaping up at each stroke. At the first instant, they were white between the tracks. Then the white quickly became bl**d red. Oh how she screamed! After five strokes, Mason laid on from the left. He was obviously an expert, spacing the strokes neatly about half and inch apart. That’s easier, of course, when a bottom is completely immobilised. Ten long, encircling weals. Yes, I thought, that cane must be a good four feet long. It would crack across both buttocks checks simultaneously. Most, most painful. Mason now came behind the girl and the final five strokes wore laid diagonally. Where those diagonals crossed the horizontals, the bl**d-red turned to purple. Barbara shrieked even louder. Which was quite understandable. It did seem to me a very severe punishment for being fifteen minutes behind in one’s work but, as I have already said, I had not yet readjusted to Bianca’s regime. How could girls be made to do what they did unless there was such punishment awaiting them? Barbara was unstrapped and released from the pillory. She could not stand, so Mason simply carried her to the wall and re-shackled her. There she hung, weeping bitterly. Her companion, Kate, took her place on the Block. She had remained dry-eyed and silent and I rather admired her fortitude. “How old is she?” I asked Miss Mason. “s*******n, I think,” came the reply. I gazed at that taut-curving 17-year-old’s bottom. Amazing. She looked far more mature than that. The thrashing commenced and Kate still showed fortitude. She gasped and squealed but still did not scream like Barbara had done. Not, at least, until Mason was on his second five. Then, like Barbara, the girl really began to yell. And beg for mercy too. What a hope! Mercy on Bianca’s Island? Fifteen throbbing weals over her young flesh, and Kate was led back to the wall to be re-shackled. She joined Barbara in her weeping. Would the two of them be scrubbing tomorrow, I wondered? If so, they would be scrubbing most vigorously. No doubt of that at all. Muscles might be aching beyond all endurance, but then they would remember the cane and find new reserves of energy. That, of course, is the purpose of punishment. Maureen was released and came stumbling to the Block. She was deathly pale... and that was understandable. Twenty four strokes was a pretty savage punishment. “Miss Bianca does not like her guest displeased, Maureen,” stated the Chief Overseer politically. “You are now going to pay for your failings.” Maureen remained silent. She was experienced enough to know that any pleading would be a waste of breath. She was put into the Pillory then curved over the Block. It was quite a remarkable sight. Her bottom seemed twice as large as the two girls who had preceded her. It was almost massive by comparison. Two great gibbous moons of soft buttock flesh pulled taut as drumheads. She began to moan despairingly, long and low, as Mason went to fetch a No. 2 rod. Then I heard a babbling sound and realised she was praying. Later I learned she was an Irish Roman Catholic. Much good did that do her! And, for sure, her prayers were unanswered. Mason thrashed her as mercilessly as he had done the two other girls. If not more so. Here was an experienced slave who had transgressed in a serious fashion. If it were true, of course. One could never be quite certain. However, the word of a guest was always taken before that of a slave-girl. Mason dealt first with the right buttock cheek, laying five diagonal stripes over it, about an inch apart. The fulsome flesh quivered and quaked and one could sense that this woman would have been writhing wildly if she had not been so tightly immobilised. At each stroke Maureen uttered a breathless, agonised gasp but did not actually cry out. It was obvious she was an experienced slave and comparatively hardened. Changing his position slightly, Mason now delivered the next six strokes over the left buttock cheek. Maureen’s gasps were getting more agonised, higher pitched. It was, to me, amazing that she had not yet actually cried out. I, a man, would have already been yelling the place down under such treatment. The slanting weals, twin-tracked, stood out vividly over the taut white flesh. Fascinating and, for me, a natural sadist, a delight to see. Halfway. Heaving sobs were now coming from Maureen, who must have been well aware that worse was still to come. Mason moved his stance again. He was a powerful man with big biceps; a man capable of caning really hard. He measured his victim again. Those buttocks, taut as they were, kept making tiny clenching motions. Very understandable! There was an awful groan from Maureen. Then the caning was resumed. Now the whiplashing rod fell across both buttock cheeks simultaneously... and Maureen broke almost instantly. A gasping howl erupted from her, followed by a babbled plea for mercy. Mason gave her the f******nth stroke just as hard as all those which had preceded it. This woman was now about to truly suffer. Quite a few slaves could take twelve and not bleak but none could go much beyond that. Sheer pain broke them in the end. Loving it, Mason watched the tip of the cane biting as it curled around the slave’s flank. Oh yes, she was really feeling it now all right! The gasping shrieks were getting louder all the time. “YYYAAIIE...EEEEGHH... HH... HHHH... HHHHH... AAGGH... H... MERCEEEEEEE!” There would, of course, be NO mercy. After the eighteenth stroke, Mason changed his position, so that the tip of the cane now bit fierily into the left flank. I watched enthralled, trying to imagine just how much the big, soft -bottomed woman was suffering. In another world, away from Bianca’s Island, this would have been considered a monstrous act. As it was, there and then, it was considered a perfectly normal and rational act. A slavegirl had transgressed, therefore a slave-girl had to be punished. Retching, and continuing to heave with sobs, Maureen was released from the Pillory and Block and more or less dragged back to the wall, where she was re-chained. Three women were now weeping and sobbing incessantly. Pleasant background music one might say. Now it was the turn of the long-haired blonde with the superb figure. I must confess I was much looking forward to this. A rebellious newcomer. Yes, they were always interesting. Mason unchained her from the wall and led her towards the Block. As best she could, the girl resisted, fighting with her feet to hold herself back. It was heroic but useless. I saw her blue eyes, flooding with tears, wild with terror. This, I reflected, is how slave-girls are tamed into docile obedience. Ultimately. “Remove her gag,” ordered Madame Grosse. Mason did so and the chamber was at once filled with sounds of girlish terror, with pleas and promises gabbled out. “AAAAGHHHHH... I... AAGHH... I’LL DO IT... I W-WILL... I WILL... OHHHH... LET GO... MERCY... MERCY... MERCEEEEEEEEE!” Madame Grosse looked on stonily. “Last time you were here girl - to get a sound caning - I think I remember similar promises. They do not seem to have been fulfilled.” “I... AAAH... OOOH... I SWEAR I’LL D-DO... WH-WHAT YOU WANT... I SWEAR!” “You refused to suck your Trainer’s cock,” said Madame Grosse, looking down at some notes. “That is an act of downright disobedience and will now be punished accordingly.” “MERCEEE... MERCEEEEEEE... MER... MERCEEEEEEEEEEE!” The blonde was getting hysterical. She was trying to back away, tugging on the chain, an iron ring biting into her neck. She was desperate. At that moment, ANYTHING seemed better than more punishment. Oh those awful cannings! Madame Grosse looked around the Chamber and saw a small group of Overseers in one corner. “Is one of you this girl’s Trainer?” she enquired. A tall and quite handsome Negro stepped forward. He was completely naked... it was a rule at Bianca’s that Overseers could use a pouch or not. Just as they pleased. “I am Ma’am,” he said, nodding his head. “After a few days this girl became reasonably compliant but now we are progressing to new and more difficult stages, she is becoming rebellious again.” “She doesn’t like the idea of sucking your cock, you mean?” “That’s right, Ma’am.” “It will be dealt with.” she beckoned to the Negro. “It’s Grant, isn’t it?” “Yes, Ma’am.” “What is this girl’s name?” “Melanie, Ma’am.” Madame Grosse’s stony eyes fastened on the blonde. “Melanie,” she rasped, “you will kneel and kiss your Trainer’s prick! As sign of your respect for him!” The blonde ceased babbling and pleading. The moment of truth had arrived for her. Her face became contorted with revulsion, her young breasts heaved wildly. Could she...could she possibly... make herself do it? Make herself kiss a black man’s sexual organ? Her mind reeled... yet, in the background, was the thought of unbelievable punishment. Jason could imagine the furious turmoil in the girl’s mind. What an agony; what a decision! Then, feeling a lustful surge within himself, he watched the blonde Melanie fall to her knees before the Negro and, reluctantly and briefly, press her pink lips to the dangling black length. “I think you can do better than that,” said Madame Grosse sourly. “Get hold of her hair, Grant.” Grant was not unwilling and seized Melanie’s blonde tresses, pulling her face to his penis. “Kiss... kiss... my little beauty,” he said thickly. He knew he was going to have a wonderful time training this youngster. Melanie, her nose and mouth pressed to the male flesh, heaved and gagged, yet managed to f***e herself to kiss and kiss. “She doesn’t seem too enthusiastic,” stated Madame Grosse. “Still, that can be remedied, I’m sure. We’ll make a start now. Fifteen strokes of the Martinet, Grant, and, as her Trainer, you can administer them.” “Very good, Madame.” “I don’t want her over the Block, I want her hung by the wrists, feet six inches off the floor.” I watched as a shrieking Melanie was seized and wrist shackles put on her. Then she was pulled aloft. It was evident to me that, having now kissed her Trainer’s prick, she had expected to escape punishment. Not so! On Bianca’s Island, there was no forgiveness even if one did have second thoughts. Making terrible groaning sounds, the shapely blonde hung, swaying, by her wrists. One could see the tension in her arm muscles. Her rounded white bottom could not have looked more vulnerable. Soon, I thought with relish, it will be a very different colour. “You have been caned, girl. Twice,” said Madame Grosse. sound as they fell over Melanie’s white buttock cheeks, the lead pellets biting into her right flank. For a few seconds, the girl was robbed utterly of breath, making a great ‘oouuffing’ sound as her breath was sucked in. Then the true impact of the pain got to her and a piercingly shrill screech of torment filled the Chamber. Oh what a sound! I watched the mad writhing of that young, weal striped bottom with the very greatest pleasure. A bottom that now carried three encircling weals, purpling where the lead shot had bitten. Unhurriedly, Grant moved across to the other side of Melanie and gave her the second stroke. Now it was her left flank which received the agonising bite of the lead shot. Both buttocks, of course, receiving the burning torment of the three thongs of tightly-plaited rawhide. Sixteen still to come, I thought, and felt just a twinge of sympathy for the youngster. I reckoned her at no more that 17 or 18. What a fate! Remorselessly, Grant continued to flog her, laying on a stroke about every ten seconds. Melanie’s screams became a****l-like; she was in a constant frenzy of writhing as she swung back and forth and from side to side. The girl was certainly learning a very severe lesson and I reckoned Grant would be getting his orders obeyed rather more promptly in future, no matter how unpleasant they might be. After seven or eight strokes, with the screams coming to a crescendo, Melanie fainted, despite the stimulant-endurance injection every slave-girl receives daily. The pain was just too much for her. She was quickly revived with strong smelling salts and Grant resumed the flogging. By the time the thrashing-kicking girl had received her eighteenth stroke, she was senseless again. Her buttocks were a mass of weals. Fifty four agonising stripes, to be precise. Without doubt, this was a lesson which would live in the girl’s memory for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe for ever. I sensed that Grant had broken her, once and for all. He would but have to threaten the Martinet and she would obey. There would be minor rebellions in future, of course. What else could one expect? Yet Melanie would have taken a long step downwards into the depths of submission. I found that my nails were digging into the palms of my hands. There was no doubt I had been tremendously roused by the spectacle. I would have liked to have been able to flog a girl in that fashion but guests were only permitted to use a cane or strap in a fairly modest way. That was understandable for, otherwise, things could easily get out of hand. Melanie was taken from her shackles and carried from the Chamber. The other three were led out shortly after. Still sobbing. Another punishment session was over. “Care for a drink?” asked Madame Ramon. “A very good idea,” I said. I stood and gave her a friendly pat on the back. “Quite some flogging that.” “Yes, I don’t think Grant will have too many problems about cock-sucking in future,” she smiled. We left the Chamber and mounted some stairs. “There comes a time, quite early in Training, when a girl has to be given a flogging like that. It makes them realise we mean business. Thatthey WILL have to obey, no matter how difficult they find it.” “Sure,” I agreed. “They have to learn. Where would we all be if they didn’t!” Miss Ramon tittered and gave a long sideways look. “You really enjoy it, don’t you?” “I really do,” I replied with a smile.