Pamela Thornton was, as anyone in the little Southern town of Durwent, Mississippi, could have told you, one of the most beautiful girls ever seen in those parts. Her own parts, needless to say, quite warranted that lavish praise, even granting the fact that this sleepy town of some four thousand inhabitants was hardly a sufficiently large population center to give its male appraisers very much quantity to help them with the comparisons.
There was, however, no doubt that Pamela Thornton would have drawn looks of frank and unabashed carnal desire no matter in what part of the country she had been born, and indeed there were a number of young men in Durwent who believed it to be their mission in life to enjoy her mouthwatering charms. Thus far, however, their rather clumsy and obvious efforts had met with no success whatsoever. Indeed, her derisive disdain of their amateurish attempts to fondle her magnificent bosom or bottom, to slip their hands under her skirts to caress her stunningly rounded ivory thighs or to touch that sacrosanct cleft at their apex which was still virginal to the male, had earned her the sobriquet of "The Icebox Princess."
At eighteen, Pamela Thornton had outgrown the possibilities of emotional happiness in this farming community, just as she had outgrown the drearily unimaginative education which was all that Durwent had to give its young. Her marks had been exceptional at the James Durwent High School (named like the town itself, after a post-Civil War plantation owner who had settled here in about 1868 and built a small cotton acreage into a highly prosperous community). She longed to go to a college, perhaps the fashionable girls' institution at Oxford, but the bare facts of life were that her parents were extremely poor. Not only that, her father, Walter Thornton, was heavily in debt to Ernest Lattemeyer, the elderly vice president of the Durwent Bank and trust Company.
Walter and Minerva, Pamela's mother, owned a produce farm a few miles south of the little town, raising yams, string beans, corn, squash and tomatoes. They had managed over the years to provide food on the table for their two children, the other being Pamela's fifteen-year-old sister Sally, to pay their taxes and to have a few comforts but that was about all. In the past two years, their land showed signs of needing to lie fallow, so Walter Thornton had approached old Ernest Lattemeyer for a substantial loan to buy farm equipment and to process his land for eventual soy-bean growing. The banker had dealt with him for twenty years and knew him to be hardworking, reliable and honest, so at the present time there was an outstanding debt of seven thousand dollars on which Walter Thornton had been able to make only obligatory interest payments over the past twelve months. It was a subject of constant conversation in the Thornton household, and Pamela was growing oppressed by it. Never before had she wanted to be free of Durwent and the monotonous regularity of her days there. Now that it was July and high school was over and the prospect of college looked more distant than ever in view of her father's indebtedness, she was restless and unhappy.
Auburn-haired, slightly more than medium height with her stature of five feet six and a quarter inches, she possessed that indefinable quality of sensual sulkiness and insolence calculated to rouse an astute member of the opposite sex ferociously eager to conquer her. Her face was oval, the cheekbones somewhat highset, and her uptilting aquiline nose with its thin, widely flaring wings as well as her ripe, insolently curved mouth bespoke a rebelliousness and arrogance of spirit which had more than once sent her would be suitors home after an unsatisfactory date muttering to themselves, dreaming of riotous scenes in which she figured prominently. Since, however, most of the young males were already the rather dull-witted byproducts of a sleepy little town, their nocturnal fantasies were rarely complicated and sadistic only in the fact that they envisioned themselves mounting the ivory -skinned beauty and plundering her maidenhead. Not one of them would have had the creative intellect to project her as an ideal candidate for voluptuous sadism.
And yet subconsciously, perhaps, in her indecisive concern about how to spend this oncoming, boring summer on her parents' little farm and how to manage in spite of the impoverished state of her father's finances to break away completely from Durwent, Pamela Thornton yearned for something to happen, someone to appear out of a clear sky, to change the dull, irritatingly repetitious pattern of her days and nights, and bring at last vigorous energy and decision into her life. She could hardly know that fate was planning to do exactly that.
Pamela's fifteen-year-old sister Sally was exactly the opposite in viewpoint, attitude and personality. In fact, her father had often threatened to take the strap to her-which he had never done to any of his girls for all his blustering talk, for Walter Thornton was a mild-mannered, almost apologetic kind of man-because even at this precocious age, the saucy brunette was showing signs of an excessive interest in the opposite sex. Unlike Pamela, Sally Thornton enjoyed the company of boys and since she had no pretensions to greater things, had consequently no yardstick of comparison to tell her that they were inevitably predictable and that, when the time came for her to marry one of them, her connubial pleasures would be just as limited as their clumsy technique in petting and necking presently displayed. Nonetheless, Sally Thornton had very nearly lost her maidenhead to stocky seventeen-year-old Dan Trevors, the townheaded, boorish and bullying son of a somewhat more prosperous farmer who lived about a mile east of the Thorntons.
Last night being Saturday, Sally had grudgingly obtained her father's permission to go to Durwent's only movie with Dan with the stipulation that she be home no later than ten-thirty. Personally, Walter Thornton did not think very highly of the youth, but he and Dan's father Ed had been good neighbors and friends for fifteen years and consequently he assumed that Sally could come to little harm with the strict surveillance which both Dan's father and he nominally exercised. However, the movie had been a stereotyped Western, and midway through it, Dan Trevors had whispered, "Whaddya say we sneak out and go have ourselves a walk over to Rabbit Hollow, Sally girl?" and the saucy brunette had giggled and whispered back, "Sure, let's, Dan honey! This is really a crummy picture."
Rabbit Hollow was a somewhat facetious name given by the natives to a secluded little grove near a small creek about two miles northeast of the town. It was a favorite spot for picnics by day and a trysting place for lovers by night. It was also not the first time that Sally Thornton had sneaked off there in the company of Dan Trevors. She had dated him about five or six times since her fifteenth birthday last March, and she had already been to Rabbit Hollow three times and learned what heavy necking was like. On this particular Saturday evening, she wanted to learn a great deal more. Already the precocious minx had discovered the secret delights of using her finger between her sleek, lithe, olive-sheened thighs as she lay in bed in the dark and conjured up what it would be like to have Dan Trevors fuck her. She knew the word from some of her girl friends at school, and one of them, Daisy Blanton, had already "gone the limit" with a tall, lanky sixteen-year-old boy who happened to have more spending money in his pocket than any other male Durwentian pupil because his father was a traveling salesman for a heavy machinery company and easily out-earned any farmer in the vicinity.
So Dan and Sally had walked out of the movie house and, holding hands and giggling inanely at each other as adolescents who have sex on their minds, yet are not quite certain how to go about it, or what to do. Half an hour later, they had found a secluded little nook near a large cypress tree, not too far from the bank of a little creek, and Dan Trevors promptly grabbed Sally by the waist and kissed her hard on the mouth and then began to delve his tongue between her eagerly parting lips. After that long and enthusiastic Frenchkiss, he had slipped his left arm under her shoulders and, turning on his side to her, begun to slide his right hand along her pretty bare calf on up to the knee-length blue cotton skirt. Sally had shivered and giggled, and she had begun to feel the lips of her dainty pussy twitch and moisten with feverish anticipation.
She'd let him put his hand there, right on the crotch of her white cotton panties, and rub her pussy a little, till she'd almost died from wanting him to go much further than that. But she was wise enough to realize that since he hadn't come prepared, there might be certain reprehensible dangers if she were too generous with her favors. At fifteen, Sally Thornton already knew that boys used "safes" to keep from getting a girl "knocked up." Pamela, while theoretically being familiar with such edifying information, never referred to the subject of sex and certainly never in the vulgar four-letter words which Sally had already learned and which indeed would have cost her the strap had Walter Thornton ever heard her use them.
On this hot Sunday afternoon, Sally was thinking ardently of Dan and wishing she could be back with him in Rabbit Hollow. Pamela, listlessly sewing a button on one of her old dresses, looked disconsolately at it and wished she could be preparing for college with a brand-new wardrobe, anything to get away from this uninteresting farm life.
"Min," Walter Thornton stretched as he rose from the living-room chair, "what do you say we go for a spin? It can't be any hotter outside than it is right here."
"I'd like that, Walt. Let's. Maybe the girls would like to come along?"
"No thanks, Mom," Sally drawled. She much preferred to be alone with her burning memories of handsome Dan. Up in her room, all by herself, locking the door, she could pretend he was there with her. She'd take off her clothes and play with her pussy and make out as if he was actually fucking her with his hard young prick. Mm, it would just be super!
"What about you, Pam?" Walter Thornton somewhat anxiously asked. His face was drawn and he looked older than his thirty-three years, just as his plump, dishwater-blonde wife, Minerva, at thirty-eight already looked fifty. Life on this Mississippi farm was drudgery, unrelieved by the pleasures which people in the cities could enjoy when they had a little extra money to spend on their foibles. Here, the conversation, day and night, was how to pay back the loan, or how to raise enough crops and escape drought so as to have enough money for the children's clothes and perhaps a new dress for Minerva. So Walter Thornton could well understand why his lovely young daughters were dissatisfied, yet hopelessly he knew he could do very little about it.
"You go along without me, Dad," the lovely auburn-haired older girl smiled patiently at him. "I think it would do you both good to get away from us kids."
"Now that's no way to talk, Pam dear," Minerva Thornton scolded. "You know we love you both, and we wish we could do more for you both. You know I'd love to see you go away to college, Pam dear."
"Don't talk about it, please, Mom," Pamela sighed. "It just isn't going to happen, and I've made up my mind to it. Maybe I can find a job around here somewhere. But you and Dad go for a ride and go courting again, and then think about us."
"You're a good girl, Pam, and you and Sally are all that's keeping us slaving like this," said Minerva Thornton, blinking her eyes to keep the tears away. Then she turned to her husband: "Come on, Walt. Our children know better than we do what's good for us. Maybe a little drive alone thinking things out and maybe a little prayer will ease this burden we've always got wearing us down."
Walter Thornton took a last look at his daughters, smiled wistfully, raised his hand in token of departure, and then went out of the house. His wife followed, with a last grateful look at her two lovely daughters. . .
They were both tired, and the sun was hotter than they knew. Along the dirt road, it seemed to glare into the windshield. Walter Thornton was thinking hard, as he always did. If only he could sell a little plot of his ground to one of his neighbors who had more money than he, just enough to pay down the tuition for Pamela. She was such a fine girl, she deserved a better life that what she had on this miserable stretch of ground that sometimes didn't seem worth all the toil and sweat and labor he put into it.
Immersed in his thoughts, he didn't see a produce truck drive suddenly out of an intersecting dirt road to the left, until it was too late. Minerva uttered a shriek: "Look out, Wh-" It was too late. The truck crashed broadside into the old Ford, and Walter and Minerva Thornton were dead by the time the horrified thirteen-year-old boy who had snitched a ride on the back of the truck could stumble towards the wreckage and identify them. The truck driver himself was unconscious, with a fractured skull.
Fate had just stepped in to decide the destinies of Sally and Pamela Thornton.
"It's a dreadful thing, Mr. Saltiel," white-haired Ernest Lattemeyer shook his head and sighed. "You'll never find more hardworking people than poor Walter and Minerva Thornton. I think they put their lives into that little plot of ground, and the produce they got out of it is as good as anything you'll find in the State of Missouri. They didn't have enough land, and they just had bad luck."
"That's the way it goes sometimes," Francis Saltiel agreed in a bland, unconcerned voice. He was black-haired, wiry, and there was a distinguished touch of gray to his temples. At forty-six, he had made a fortune in a land investment company in Florida about a decade ago, and parlayed it into several stock companies, two small Miami hotels, and a chain of restaurants in Dallas and Fort Worth. He was in Durwent at the suggestion of one of his good friends and client, Jack Dantzger, and he had asked for the head of the Durwent Bank and Trust Company to go over this piece of business for his friend.
"Yes, but the real ironic thing was that the Thorntons were killed by a farmer who's been beating them out when it comes to making money, a produce farmer just like them. He had a fractured skull, but he's recovering. Just a hard-headed cracker, you might say. But that's the bad luck of the poor, you might say, Mr. Saltiel. Anyway, how can I serve you?"
"My client is Jack Dantzger, as you know. He owns several mortgages up this way. I was in Baton Rouge and decided to look around this state. It's got a wonderful history, and I've never been here before."
"Oh yes, I remember Mr. Dantzger's name. Seems to me he has quite a few mortgages in this area. Good gracious-"
"What's the matter, Mr. Lattemeyer?"
"I just remembered. One of the mortgages is on the Thornton farm itself. You see, two years ago Mr. Thornton came to me and wanted a loan to buy equipment. He was hoping to go into the growing of soybeans. Very profitable in certain parts of this state, but unfortunately it didn't work out for him. I guess I was just part and parcel of his luck all throughout his life."
"What are you getting at, Mr. Lattemeyer?" Francis Saltiel drummed his elegantly manicured fingers on the top of the desk and stared coldly at the other banker. He had little emotion, was sophisticated and used to wealth. He also knew what it would buy: not only the comforts of life, but also plenty of pussy. Indeed, he had been without pussy for a week now, wandering through the South on business. He was longing for a high old time, maybe in New Orleans, or perhaps when he got back to Miami. And then maybe a month on his yacht in the Caribbean, with some particularly tasty piece of cunt aboard who would keep him from getting bored. He was tired already of this hot little dusty town. Dantzger was going to pay through the nose for sending him to such a Godforsaken place.
"Well, the point is, when I made this loan to Walter Thornton, I put it into a mortgage. And it seems that your Mr. Dantzger happened to acquire the mortgage, and since you're representing him, and the Thornton's are dead and there isn't any money at the house at all, it's up to you to decide whether to foreclose or to take any other action you deem necessary, Mr. Saltiel."
"Of course, foreclose. Can you sell that little farm for anything?"
"Not for too much, and certainly not enough to meet the loan, I'm afraid. But you know, the Thornton's left two very attractive girls. One is fifteen and the other eighteen-that's Pamela, a very smart, spirited young lady. She's been hoping to go to college, but of course that won't be possible now."
Francis Saltiel's ears had pricked up at the mention of two daughters. "Hm," he said as he reached into his coat lapel pocket for a Corona cigar. "Maybe I could go out and meet them. I'd like to see the farm anyway, before I decide."
"Of course, Mr. Saltiel. I'd be glad to drive you there myself."
"No. Just tell me how to get there. I'd like to meet these girls and just find out what their parents were like and what they're like. You know-we won't talk banking or anything like that. I'll respect their bereavement, naturally."
"That's mighty nice of you. And if you can find it in your heart to do something for those fine girls, I'm sure the Thorntons would bless you from heaven, Mr. Saltiel," the old white-haired banker rose and shook the hand of the elegantly dressed taller man before him.
Francis Saltiel nodded curtly, turned his head and walked out by the bank. Ernest Lattemeyer looked after him and shook his head.
"There's something about that man," he mused. "I can't put my finger on it, but he's a cold-hearted one. I only hope a little mercy touches him when he meets those nice girls. Poor Walter and Minerva-they did their best but it wasn't good enough. I just hope those poor girls won't have to be thrown on relief or something like that." He could not guess that their future was to be decided in a way that would certainly not put them on public welfare. But it would be solved in a way of which he, as an honorable gentleman of the old school, could never possibly have approved, and it was as well for his own peace of mind that he was never going to hear about it.
"Pam, whatever are we going to do now?" Sally Thornton wailed. She was wearing just her slip and, barefooted, was out in the kitchen heating up a pan of leftover coffee from the night before. The voluptuous, older, auburn-haired girl sighed and shook her head. She was in just bra and panties, her face still drowsy from sleep, her eyes red from crying most of the night before she had finally been so exhausted that sleep had claimed her.
"We've got to get out of here, that's for sure, Sally. I wanted to go to college, and now that won't ever be possible, just not ever. You know they didn't leave anything. I wish they were still alive!"
"Well, who doesn't?" the younger girl flared angrily. "That's a fine thing to say, Pamela Thornton! You don't know how selfish it sounds! But then, you've always thought yourself so uppity and better than most around here in Durwent, let's see how smart you are now figuring things out."
"You're wrong again, Sally, the way you always are," Pamela said wearily, passing a hand through her disheveled auburn hair. "At least I'm old enough to go out and work. You can't. You're less than fifteen and you haven't had your schooling yet."
"I can get some nice guy to marry me, that's what."
"Sally! Don't joke about things like that."
"Who's joking? I'll have you know I've been out with Dan Trevors in Rabbit Hollow a couple of times, and he's real sweet on me. We almost went the limit the other day, we sure enough did. I bet I could get him to put a ring on my finger if I told him I'd give him pussy."
"What a filthy thing to say!" Pamela Thornton walked over to her younger sister and slapped her smartly across the face. "Don't you ever let me hear you say a thing like that again! Why, if-it's as if you were a tramp, and you're not-you're my sister."
"You've got no right to hit me," Sally sullenly grumbled, rubbing her flaming cheek and giving Pamela a look of undisguised hatred. "Just because you don't go out with boys and neck doesn't mean I'm not natural and healthy. I'll bet Dan wouldn't give you a look, you're so snooty. You're going to wind up an old maid if you keep on acting like that, you see if you don't."
"For heaven sake, Sally, please don't lets quarrel now. With Dad and Mom gone, we've got to think exactly what we're going to do. I know that Dad owed old Mr. Lattemeyer money on that farm loan from a couple of years back. Do you realize we're in debt? The first thing they're going to do is take over this farm and everything else. And even that won't be enough to clear that loan."
"I-I know, Sis," Sally was quickly contrite as she stepped back and put her arms around her sister, putting her cheek against one of Pamela's magnificent swelling titties. "I'm scared, I guess I have to admit it. But there's nothing in this awful town to help us out. That's why I say maybe I could get some guy to marry me."
"His father wouldn't let him, to begin with.
He's not much older than you are. So you just put that idea out of your head. No, I'm going to Oxford and get a job, maybe as a maid in somebody's house, somebody rich. Maybe I could even get you a job there, and that way you could go on to school and finish up good, the way Dad and Mom would have wanted. I've just got to get you out of here, just as I have to get myself out," Pamela said with quiet desperation.
At that moment there was a loud knock on the front door of the little house, and the two girls turned, startled, then looked at each other, wonderingly.
"Now I wonder who that could be?" Pamela said. "Quick, put your robe on and go find out. I'll hurry and get dressed."
But Francis Saltiel hadn't waited for anyone to open the door. He had turned the knob, opened the door and stepped inside. With a quick glance around the shoddy little living room, he grimaced with distaste, and then walked out of the room, down the hall, just in time to see pretty Sally Thornton struggling into her bathrobe over her slip and coming towards him.
"Oooooohh! I-I didn't see you, Mister."
"Don't be frightened. I came here to have a chat with you and your sister. You must be Sally Thornton."
"Sure, that's who I am. Pam's gonna be right out. Who are you, Mister?"
"My name is Francis Saltiel. I've just come from the bank and that's why I want to talk to you and your sister. May I sit down?"
"Sure, sure, Mr. Saltiel. Gee, I was just saying to Pam I sure hope we can get out of this awful town. It's so crummy and dead, there isn't anything we could do here."
Francis Saltiel had taken out a cigar, neatly bitten off the tip with his strong teeth, and spat it onto the floor, and was lighting it. He eyed the saucy-faced, olive-skinned brunette.
"I'd say there were a number of things a pretty girl like you could do, Miss Thornton. Ah, this must be your sister."
He rose courteously and inclined his head to Pamela Thornton, who had hastily put on a best dress which was made of plain yellow cotton, and her shoes and stockings. He sucked in his breath, his eyes widening at the sight of the magnificent auburn-haired beauty. The two girls were a vividly contrasted pair, and in his connoisseur's opinion, represented two of the tastiest pieces of young cunt he had ever seen.
"I hope I haven't disturbed you and your sister by coming here, Miss Thornton," he said in a suave, bland tohe. "I've just come from the bank, and I told Mr. Lattemeyer that since I own the mortgage on this house and farm, I wanted to talk with you girls about the future. First of all, may I express my deep sympathy with your terrible loss."
"Th-thank you, Mr. Saltiel. It was an awful shock to us both. In fact, when you came, Sally and I were just talking over what we were going to do. There is nothing in this town. There isn't any work, and Sally has to finish her schooling. I was thinking of going to Oxford and maybe finding work there."
"Perhaps I can be of service. Legally, since your parents died in testate and since they have almost no interest in the farm and house, that property would be forfeited to me since the mortgage is still outstanding. I'm sure you understand. But I didn't come here to be cold-hearted and legal, please believe me." He gave them a winning smile and covertly undressed them in turn with his eyes.
Sally, the pert brunette, made him feel that here was a girl of defiant, sulky nature, a superb candidate for a whipping and lessons in bondage and docility. But this red-haired vixen was even more fiery, and insolent to boot. It was obvious from the way she carried herself that she considered herself great shucks in this little town. Decidedly, it had been the happiest accident of his life to come out here.
"Could you really help us, Mr. Saltiel?" Sally Thornton gloated, her eyes shining, as she glanced impetuously at him and then at her sister.
"I think I might be able to. You say you'd like to go to Oxford to find a job, Miss Pamela?"
"Yes. Dad had a friend there, and I was thinking of maybe calling on him and asking what he thought. I really don't know anybody at all outside of this little town where I was born. I wanted to go to college, but I won't be able to now. There's just no money," Pamela Thornton disconsolately sighed.
"You seem to have a keen mind, and you speak very well. I see no reason why you couldn't be helped out to finish your schooling," Francis Saltiel gave her a sympathetic smile, the smile of a wolf studying its imminent prey and trying not to show it. The schooling he had in mind for Pamela Thornton would hardly be college. To be sure, she would be given a very thorough curriculum, as comprehensive as possible. With her younger sister, the courses would be perhaps fewer and in some ways even more delightful. It was with the auburn-haired beauty he felt the most immediate sexual lust. He knew exactly what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. They were going to become indentured bondservants, in a manner not unlike that of young women who came, several hundred years ago, to the Colonies. As such, they would be subject to whip and bed whenever he desired it.
"Are you trained for any particular work, Miss Pamela?" he pursued.
"No, nothing. I guess maybe I could be a secretary. I don't have a typewriter, but I could learn that quickly enough if I had one. I can write letters, and of course I finished high school and I got very good marks, Mr. Saltiel," she earnestly explained
"Hmmm. You wouldn't look down on menial work, such as being a maid or even a governess to a family?"
"Oh, no! I-I like people, really I do. I think I could be good with children. I've sort of been Sally's-well, big sister, and taken care of her."
"I've taken care of myself, thank you all the same!" the saucy-faced brunette flashed.
She hadn't fastened the robe nor buttoned it very well, and Francis Saltiel, turning to flash a look at her, caught a glimpse of how the slip outlined her two high-perched, widely-spaced, delightfully firm, round little titties. Also, since her feet were bare, he had an excellent look at the olive-sheened, sinuously curved calves and dainty feet. She was really a superb piece of cunt, appetizing, fresh and ingenuous. She had a kind of impertinence which just begged for a good sound thrashing before she got fucked. He could see her now, rubbing her stripped bottom, peering up at him from her contorted face, as she was made to kneel down on the floor between his straddled legs, as he smoked his cigar and waited for her to take his prick out of his pajamas and lick and suck it humbly. Alma, his mulatress housekeeper, who was a pretty good trainer of slaves herself, would just love a go at this impertinent little black-haired bitch, he told himself.
"Now, now, girls," he said gently, with a little chuckle, "this won't do at all. I admire spirit, and I think you are both being very brave. I'm going to help you, both of you. As it happens, I live in Miami, and I have a yacht there. I also have a home, and I could use a governess for some of my charges. As for you, Miss Sally, you could finish up your schooling there-for they have very good schools there-and if you like you could get a job after that, or possibly I could even find something for you to do on my estate. I have citrus holdings, you see," he lied.
"And-and-"
"It's pleasant work and it pays well. Would that suit you both?"
"It would be wonderful," Pamela Thornton gasped, her eyes shining. "I-I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Saltiel. I do want to be with my sister, and it's awfully kind of you to come here and offer us both a chance, when you don't know us at all."
"I look forward to knowing you both very well indeed," was his casuistic answer. He rose, inclined his head towards both girls. "I'd like to leave this evening. Do you think you could be packed and ready by seven, say? I'm going to drive to Baton Rouge, and from there we'll take a plane to Miami. I have an important business engagement in Baton Rouge, and I'm sure if you come along, the trip will be much more pleasant and we can get to know each other better."
"That's wonderful! I do so want to travel, especially after being stuck here in this little town all my life," the auburn-haired beauty enthusiastically exclaimed. "It's very generous of you, Mr. Saltiel, and Sally and I are going to work very hard to please you."
"I'm counting on that, young ladies. I must go now. I'll be back at seven. Oh, by the way, would you like a little money, maybe to buy some food or something or just for incidentals?"
The two girls stared at each other, and then blushed. Allowance was an unknown word in the Thornton household. It was Pamela who finally summoned up pride enough to stammer, "I-I think we can get along, Mr. Saltiel. I-we-we'd like to earn what we get."
"And you undoubtedly will, with an attitude like that. Till seven, then, ladies." And with another courtly nod to them both, Francis Saltiel walked out of the house, hardly able to conceal his gloating joy and sadistic anticipation.
Sally and Pamela had packed what few possessions they wanted to take away with them from the mournful little house where now there was no life and assuredly no joy. Most of these possessions, of course, were clothes, and yet the two girls had only enough to fill one of their father's old imitation leather suitcases which they had found in the back of a closet, never used in his arduous lifetime.
Francis Saltiel drove down the dirt road and onto the turnoff which led to the farm, in his green Cadillac sedan, bathed, shaved, wearing a particularly smart, snappy tailored suit which had cost him no less than $500, and a pair of Brioni shoes made in Rome and selling for $75 a pair. The tangy smell of cologne emanated from him, but it was certainly not effeminate cologne. Indeed, the last thing in the world Francis Saltiel would have been accused of would have been a lack of masculinity, as poor Sally and Pamela were destined to learn to their sorrow.
He could hardly contain himself in his satisfaction. The naivete of both teenaged girls had been such that they had accepted him without question and hardly even debated the risks attendant in going off with a perfect stranger. He intended to take them as far from Durwent as he could by midnight; then he planned to stop at the first available motel or hotel for the night, to conclude the day which had been so superbly successful. Financially it had been successful, as well. He worked with a partner, Leopold Darden, who was in his own way as much of a pussychaser as Francis Saltiel was himself. And he had just put in a long distance call to Darden to sail at once in their yacht and dock at the wharf in Baton Rouge. Thence they would set out into the Gulf and head out past the Miami coastline for Le-cayano, a little island in the Grand Bahamas which he and Darden had purchased about five years ago from the British government for a mere trifle, located some hundred miles to the southeast of Free-port.
Francis Saltiel had been an only child, the son of an extraordinarily rich investment broker who had owned on the side a string of women's dress shops in the East and Southeast of the United States. His father had died when he was twenty-three, but the two of them had had a falling out while he was in college, because already Francis Saltiel had shown himself to be a pussyhound of the first magnitude. Despite his father's wealth and sophistication, the elder Saltiel was extremely moral, and when he learned that his son had purposely debauched the most virtuous and beautiful girl in the college and then callously refused to marry her when she became pregnant, he disinherited the youth.
Francis Saltiel, accordingly, had gone to work for a rival stockbroker as soon as he was out of school, and soon he was as knowledgeable as his own father had been. Eventually he and the old man had become reconciled, but the senior Saltiel had changed his will only sufficiently to provide a relative pittance to his son, the rest of his fortune being given to charity. But by now, Francis Saltiel did not really regret his father's millions. He. had their equal of his own making, and he had invested his money shrewdly. His affairs were in such excellent shape, indeed, that he proposed to take a vacation of at least three months in the paradise of this privately owned little island in the Caribbean, where he would live like a feudal lord, surrounded by beautiful play girls, who would bow to his every caprice.
Pamela and Sally Thornton were bound for the island of Lecayano where each would be initiated in a novel way to the anguish and joy of sexual bondage. . .anguish for them, joy for their tormentors.
* * *
The two sisters got into the back of the sedan, and Pamela effusively thanked him for his kindness. "I do want to work, Mr. Saltiel," she insisted. "I'll pay you back, really I will."
"You needn't think that way at all, Miss Thornton," he suavely retorted. "I'm very wealthy, and it's a pleasure for me to help two very lovely young girls to get away from such a desolate, depressing atmosphere. You'd be wasted in that environment, I quite agree. As for payment, there are other things in life besides money, and you're not to fret. I'll be quite content if you come out half as well as I expect."
With that cryptic remark, he allowed himself a mocking little smile as he lit a fresh cigar and cheerfully stared at the road ahead as he steered the car down the highway toward Baton Rouge.
Pamela and Sally had the royal treat of sleeping in twin beds in an elegant motel that night, after having a snack which comprised thick roast beef sandwiches, coffee, and chocolate shakes. They fell asleep happily, each dreaming her own private dream. Sally, that she was locked in Dan Trevors' virile embrace, wriggling her pussy up against his stiff young prick, while his fingers gripped her bottomcheeks and guided her to impale her cunt until she had every inch of his ramrod where she wanted it to be. She moaned and sighed and stirred in her sleep until she wakened Pamela, who was having dreams of being a well-groomed secretary, to a refined, aristocratic gentleman, and then perhaps marrying his handsome son. Her dreams were not tainted by sexual longings, though by now, of course, she had had keen stirrings in her pussy to remind her that she was well past the age for fucking. But she had always looked upon life in a more ethereal way than her more practical, younger sister. She had romantic and idealistic notions about the man she would one day marry and who would command her person so they might together produce a wonderful person.
Francis Saltiel, in the motel cabin next to them, dreamed also. His lips curled with greedy anticipation in his sleep as he saw them both naked, shackled, under the lash, with his beautiful mulatress housekeeper, Alma, directing them through their paces while he sprawled in an armchair, naked except for sandals, a tall frosty glass in his hand and a cigar in his mouth, awaiting the moment when they would vie with each other as to who should have the honor of fucking him first.
Leopold Darden, prematurely gray-haired, with an almost cherubic face, soft, full lips like a girl's, a classic Roman nose, almost no eyebrows and high-arching forehead, examined himself critically in the hand mirror. He took the comb and made his hair more wavy. Satisfied, he put down the comb, took up a perfume atomizer and sent a waft of elusive Caron at his fleshy neck. He was forty-eight, paunchy, about five feet ten inches in height, a fastidious gourmet, an avid numismatist, and an even more avid cocksmith. The effeminate touch of perfume and such clothes as he now wore (a blue, neatly tied cravat, a gauzy blue silk shirt, dacron slacks, a pair of jockey shorts and sandals) belied his real habits in the bedroom. Leopold Darden was not only the equal of his business partner, Francis Saltiel, when it came to sadistic domination of a helpless female, but in some ways even more viciously refined in his methods.
like Saltiel, he had been left a good deal of money by his archaeologist father, who had come upon an ancient tomb in a far corner of Asia Minor about a decade before World War II, stumbled upon a cache of priceless jewels, silver plate and gold dishes, and instead of giving them to a museum, black-marketed them for cash to an unscrupulous Athens fence. The rest of the cache had been proclaimed to the world as a discovery of the first order, which it was. like Saltiel, Darden had been an only child. At the age of twelve, he had come upon his father's handsome, dark-skinned maid Francesca pilfering some costume jewelry out of his mother's dresser. Till then, this handsome, arrogant, round-tittied, full-hipped beauty, twenty-seven and already the recipient of his mother's clandestine Lesbian favors, had behaved towards him as if he were the nastiest of little boys. And on this fateful afternoon, Leopold Darden had held the upper hand and known it.
His mother and father were, out for the afternoon, and he had first closed and locked the bedroom door, then coughed. Francesca whirled, then seeing him, gave a contemptuous little laugh.
"You don't belong in here, Leopold," she said. "Go back to your nursery."
"Not until I see what you've put into the pocket of your apron, Francesca," he had drawled as he moved towards her. Francesca paled, then tried to recover her aplomb.
"I took away some trash, that's all. Your mother had some gum wrappers, so I put them into my pocket."
"You're a liar."
"Do you want to get your face slapped?"
"Not especially. It's going to be the other way around, Francesca. I think I'm going to call the police right now and have them take you. You stole something out of my mother's drawer, and I'm going to tell not only the police, but my father and mother when they get back."
The girl had bitten her lower lip. She stared at the boy, who stood there in the most infuriating attitude possible, legs spread well apart and planted, hands in the pockets of the short trousers, a knowing little smile on his lips. His big blue eyes seemed to be all innocence, but already at twelve Leopold Darden, thanks to his father's belief that he should be taught foreign languages as young as possible, had read French erotica and understood them. He hadn't had any sexual experience outside of jacking off, but he had had many a fantasy in the dark of his room at night. He was about to realize one of them on this lonely afternoon which would mark a milestone in his eventual development and penchants.
"Now look, Leopold," Francesca had tried to mollify him, with a sweet smile. "You just thought you saw something. I'll own I've been nasty to you, but you've got to admit you're always spying on me and trying to look at me when I'm dressing or undressing. That's not nice for a boy your age, Leopold. But I promise you'll change and I won't be nasty to you anymore, if you'll forget all about this."
"Sure I'll forget about it, and you will be nice to me, real nice, Francesca. You know, they really don't do it in your country, but they throw girls like you in jail in the United States. You could get five years for what you just did," he pronounced blandly.
Francesca paled and gulped. She stared at him angrily, wishing she could tear him limb from limb. The infuriating little smile deepened and she began to tremble. She knew perfectly well that if he told his father, the latter would promptly fire her. For the older Darden had tried unsuccessfully to get into her cunt on several occasions, and the fact was that Francesca much preferred the tender blandishments of her own sex; that was why she had succumbed eagerly to Leopold's mother's advances.
"Please, Leopold," she pleaded, "I'll put it back and we won't say anything more about it. All right? Now we'll be friends. I'll call you Mr. Leopold, instead of just Leopold. You're a big boy for your age-"
"I'm a man already, and I'll prove it to you, you thieving Italian bitch!" he had jeered, cutting her short and leaving her stunned and gasping. "I don't care whether you like me or not or what you call me. But either you do what I tell you now or I'm going to call the police. Now you put that stuff right back and be quick about it!"
Her face reddening, Francesca had given him a murderous look and put her hand back into the pocket, drew out the pilfered piece of costume jewelry and replaced it in the drawer, slamming it shut.
"All right," she said sullenly. "I've done it. Now why don't you leave? I promise you I won't try it again, if that'll suit your majesty."
"That's just for starters," he replied. "Take your clothes off."
"What did you say, you little monster?" she cried, her cheeks redder with indignation.
"If you don't, I will call the police. And I will tell my father. I know he's got it in for you because you won't let him get inside of you," the boy calmly countered.
"Dio mio, how do you know that, you little devil?" she had cried.
"I heard him talking to you in the hall just outside your room the other night, that's how. I couldn't sleep and I opened my door a crack because I was going to the kitchen to get something to eat, and I heard him talking. He really has the hots for you, Francesca. I really mean it. But you've got a great shape on you, and I want to see all of it right now. So take your clothes off. You know what'll happen if I tell him, don't you? He'll have you sent to jail, and he might even take off his belt and whip you and then fuck you." Already Leopold Darden knew all the right words, thanks to his mastery of French and German erotica.
Francesca had wrung her hands, trembling visibly. "My God, please, Leopold, please be sensible. I-I don't want to go to bed with your father because-"
"Because you'd rather play with Mother," the relentless boy went on for her, and this time Francesca stared at him as if he were the devil himself. He grinned, knowing he had her where the hair was short: "Sure, I know about that too. There's a guest room next to Mother's and there's a closet, and there's a little piece of plaster loose, and I was in there a couple of months ago looking for something and I just happened to poke my finger into that crack, and guess what I saw? You had your head between Mother's legs. You were licking and kissing her-you know where, don't you, Francesca?"
"You-you-you little fiend-I'll tell your mother that you spy on her-she'll give you a good thrashing and she'll-"
"But you won't tell her. Because if you do, I'll tell her that I've seen you fucking with my father. She wouldn't have any way of knowing that's not true. I'll do it, Francesca, unless you start taking your clothes off right now. Well?"
Terrified by this satanic playing of both ends against the middle, and knowing she could very easily be arrested for theft and deported, the handsome brunette maid lowered her eyes and at last decided to obey. However, she believed that once she had shown Leopold Darden her nakedness, he would be content with her submission. She hadn't reckoned with his precocious virility nor with his inordinate desire for pussy, even at that young age.
Off came her apron, then her black satin dress, then the slip, and he had sat down on his mother's bed and stared greedily at her. She was about five feet seven inches in height, with proud, high-perched and closely spaced round firm titties, not entirely concealed by the lace-trimmed white satin bra which hugged those luscious love-globes. Her waist was delightfully supple, merging into lusciously white hips, and she was possessed of a succulent pair of ass-cheeks, upstandingly rounded, with a broadly widening groove between them leading to both cunt and ass-hole. She presented herself thus, clad in the deshabille of bra and panties, her stockings held up by white tabs of a garter belt which hugged the tops of the off-black nylon hose. He felt his prick harden.
"What are you stopping for? That's a garter belt you've got under your panties, isn't it, Francesca?"
"Maledetto! How do you know so much, you little fiend?" she had gasped.
"You'd better not go calling me nasty names, you know. Then I'll really get you sent to jail. Take off that brassiere now and do it nice and slow," he instructed.
Reddening to her temples, the black-haired Italian maid unhooked the bra and let it drop to the floor. Her olive-skinned, big, firm titties jutted out, with their brownish aurolae surrounding the darker rose-coral crinkled nipplebuds.
"Now just take down your panties and you can keep the rest on," he had sniggered. He was wearing play shorts and a sport shirt, and he began to unzip the play shorts and unbutton the sport shirt, while she blushingly and sullenly began to tug down the panties and let them drop around her ankles.
She had an enormous thick black pussybush, hiding the entrance to her cunt. He stared greedily at it, and at the suave belly with its shallow navel. Then, unfastening the shorts, he delved into his undershorts and brought out a prick which for his age was commendably hard and of reasonably competent dimensions. Next, slipping forward until his bottom was just at the edge of the bed, he reached for her.
"That's nice. Now you come over here and get down between my legs and start sucking my cock and make it good and hard for that cunt of yours, Francesca."
"You monster! You fiend! You horrid little beast! I won't ever do that for any man, least of all for you!" she had gasped, the blushes going even to her earlobes and her throat, as she instinctively clapped one hand over her cunt while the titties rose and fell agitatedly.
"That's gonna cost you extra, you hairy-cunted Italian bitch you," the boy had sniggered complacently. "You know, if I get your ass fucked out of here and thrown in jail, you won't be able to rub pussy with Mother any more. And you won't be able to swipe stuff from her purse. I might as well tell you, baby, this isn't the first time I've caught you taking what you could get around here. Mother's too trusting and you've got her buffaloed because she-likes the way you rub that hairy gash of yours on hers."
Francesca's eyes were disbelieving as she stared at him, her mouth gaping, but she was unable to speak. His pernicious knowledge of her activities in this household, together with his masterful blackmailing at the incredibly precocious age of twelve, left her absolutely annihilated.
"You must be the Devil himself," she gasped at last. "All right. I-I'll do what you want. If you'll promise not to tell anyone-"
"Depends how nice you are to me, Francesca baby. Let's start by seeing how well you can French me, even if you are an Italian broad," Leopold Darden sniggered. He pointed to his prick, which was almost fully erect.
The Italian maid sank down on her knees, lowering her eyes, and shamefacedly crawled forward. Then, putting her hands on his knees, she took the inflated, stiff young cock in her fingertips, with a shamefaced upward glance at him. It was evident from the horror of her dilated eyes and the twitching of her nostrils that she really found it loathsome, for she was really a true Lesbian at heart. Her own first cousin had fucked her and taken her cherry at the age of seventeen back in Italy, and the brutality of the rape had made her shun men.
Slowly she pressed her mouth against his cock-tip, and he reached down with the fingers of his left hand, buried them in her black tresses and twisted, snarling, "Now you smile and look at me while you're doing it. Don't get snooty now or you'll be sorry. Do as I tell you!"
Conquering her revulsion, the naked olive-skinned brunette forced herself to comply with this odious order. Her lips tremblingly attacked the tip of his young prick, closed over it, and began to suck. She tried to force a smile, but the best she could do was a rather weak imitation. Greedily he looked down at her, savoring his victory. When at last she had drawn him nearly to come, she turned her face away and he panted, "Now get on your knees and put your big ass up. I'm going to give it to you dog-fashion, Francesca!"
"Please, no! I'll do anything, but not that-II don't like men-please, can't you understand?" she had groaned.
"You've got your choice, bitch. You either do as I say, or out you go. And I'll tell my father all about how you tried to be nice to me to keep me from calling the cops when I caught you stealing from Mother's dresser," he told her.
She knew she had no choice, and with a groan of shame she had got onto the bed, knelt down, covering her face with her hands, presenting to him her bare thighs, the cheeks of which twitched and shrank as he knelt behind her, running his hands over them. She had moaned and sighed in despair and deepest mortification. Then, reaching under her to grab her titties and squeeze them, the boy had thrust his prick against the hairy cleft of her twat and begun to fuck her with a furious vigor that stunned her. It hadn't taken long for him to come, because he had been so violently roused by her Frenching. Nonetheless, Francesca tremblingly avowed to herself that he was more of a man in some ways than the cousin who had taken her cherry. However, she had hoped that by this surrender, her debt would be paid and she would hear no more about it.
It wasn't, of course. Leopold Darden was a born sadist, and all he had to do for the next year was crook his little finger, and the blushing, downcast Francesca would know that he wanted her to come to his room at night. He wasn't satisfied with just Frenching and fucking; for the very next time they were together, he made her hold open the cheeks of her bottom, yawn apart the cleft and expose her ass-hole, whose virginity had not been taken before and which he now took, despite her groans and pleas. But the excellent salary, the Lesbian affair with his mother, and an occasional opportunity to steal and get away with it, kept her there that entire year. By the end of that time, Leopold Darden's incipient sadism and contempt for the opposite sex was thoroughly nurtured and strengthened...
"We'll be in Baton Rouge in another hour," the captain of the yacht, a tall Albanian with a waxed moustache, fiery eyes, and a passion for gin and for buggering mature females, came up and saluted.
"Thanks, Drago. We'll be taking on some passengers, my partner tells me. Nice little fillies. Not your style, though. How are you making out with Mrs. Amesworthy?"
The Albanian grinned and tugged at the tips of his moustache. "Very nicely, thank you, Mr. Darden. It was good of you to bring her aboard and think of me."
"No reason why I shouldn't. You're a good man, you know all the international law, and you run the yacht like a tight ship.. Just don't hurt her too much. I suppose you've used your cigar on her?"
Mikhail Drago flushed, took off his gold-braided cap and shuffled it between his hands, as he nodded. "Just a little, Mr. Darden. Only on the bottom and between the titties."
"Well, be careful. When we put in to Miami, we don't want her going to the authorities and showing off her marks, do we, Drago? I know she's a lush, but even lushes get sober once in a while. Just don't over do it. You say we've got a full hour? That's fine. It'll give me a chance to give Lola what's coming to her. See that I'm not disturbed in the recreation room, Drago."
"Very good, sir!" The Albanian captain saluted and went back to the bridge of the yacht.
Leopold Darden yawned and got up from the deckchair. From the little table beside it, he poured himself out a last glass of champagne, picked up the bottle and hurled it into the water. Then he drained the goblet at a gulp, tossed it after the bottle, and turning, went down the steps of the companionway from the lounge to the recreation room.
Lola Fenton, a coppery-haired girl from Mobile, twenty-four, who had answered his ad for a secretary three years ago, was waiting for him. She was blindfolded, stark naked except for opera-length hose and a satin elastic garter belt and red leather pumps, and was stretched over a pingpong table, her wrists and ankles wrapped to its corners, lying face down. Protruding from the cheeks of her spacious oval, creamy bottom-cheeks, there emerged a lasciviously flesh-colored rubber dildo haft, complete to the last detail, with dangling balls that prodded against the inner curves of her denuded bottomglobes. She was wriggling and moaning, and no wonder. The dildo was studded with hard little leather whorls. It was also a kind of "figging", because just before he had tied her down to the table and thrust the dildo inside her ass-hole, Leopold Darden had given her a quart enema of soapy water and glycerin. Then the stopper was thrust in, and giving her struding bottom-cheeks a good hard slap with his open palm, he had sarcastically reminded her, "When I come back, Lola, you get the rest of your thrashing for having misplaced that letter to the Suisse Banque Concorde. And then maybe you'd like to go to the biffy."
He had purposely taken his ease in the lounge chair on deck, knowing what agony Lola was suffering. The dildo haft prevented her from evacuating her bowels, and he could imagine the griping and the gasps and the agony she had endured there, tightly stretched over the table, worrying miserably about the good sound whipping that was coming to her. He entered, stripped off his slacks and stood in shorts and shirt and sandals, puffing at the cigar. Lola had heard him enter and uttered a low moan.
"I'm back now, baby. Now for the rest of your sentence. What did I use last time? I think I'll use the leather paddle, and about twenty-five times. You'll just have to remember to be more careful in transcribing a letter!"
So saying he walked over to the side of the room, reached up the wall and took down an oval-shaped leather paddle, whose handle had a cord-like grip which had been looped over with leather. Hefting it in his hand, he moved back to her, while the anguished naked young woman groaned and stirred repeatedly.
Then, silently, he moved to the front of the table, squatted down and took the gag out of her mouth. "You're going to count them. And you're going to say "Thank you, Master' after each one. Understand? Now make yourself ready.'
"Pl-please, Master, I've got to go-it's killing me-"
"You should have thought of that while you were transcribing the letter. Just grit your teeth and do your best. And don't forget, any you don't count are extra."
So saying, he raised the paddle and slammed it down over her right bottom-cheek, and Lola's body shook and the table rattled as she shrieked, "Ohhhh-ooone-ooone-th-thank you, Master. Oh my God, it hurts awfully!"
He proceeded with the spanking. Lola Fenton shrieked and babbled hysterically, imploring heaven to give her strength, begging her master to spare her. But she received all twenty-five, plus four which didn't count because she hadn't counted them and thanked him for them. When he was finished, her bottom was swollen and livid, but the haft was still in place.
"The way your bottom wriggled and the way you yelled have given me a fearful hard-on," he told her. "Before I let you move your bowels, you're going to suck me off."
He slipped off the shorts to reveal a prodigiously swollen, throbbing organ with a plum-shaped head. Twisting his hands in her pageboy curls, he yanked her face up and made the unfortunate blindfolded beauty bring him to climax by Frenching him until he shot his wad. Only then he untied her, and then sniggered, "You can go to the biffy and take out that prick yourself. I'll give you five minutes. Then get back her. I've got more dictating to do."
Francis Saltiel and Leopold Darden were ideally matched. And in all their erotic talents, they had an uninhibited outlet in the little island of Lecayano.
Sally and Pamela Thornton slept luxuriously in their motel beds, and in the morning had what was for them a luxurious breakfast. But the man who had "saved" them, Francis Saltiel, seemed to have lost some of his genial solicitude for them, as he kept glancing at his wristwatch during breakfast in the restaurant and urged them to hurry so they could pack and continue the drive on to Baton Rouge.
Finally, the girls finished with a sigh of repletion, hurried to pack the one large suitcase they had taken from the little farmhouse in Durwent, and got back into the Cadillac while the black-haired, suave financier got behind the wheel and was soon out on the highway heading towards the famous Louisiana city where he would have rendezvous with the Albanian yacht captain, Milko Drago, and his partner, Leopold Darden.
It was just before sundown that they entered Baton Rouge, and the big car headed for the docks and finally parked in a huge empty storage shed just opposite the wharf at which the trim yacht was anchored. It was named The Bellarion, and both Pamela and Sally were enormously impressed when he urged them up the stairway.
"My gosh, you must be awful rich, Mr. Saltiel, to own a boat like this," Sally gushed.
"I'm reasonably well off, yes. But do hurry and get aboard."
"And are we going on to Miami this way?"
"After a few stops along the way, yes. Come along, girls, we'd like to sail with the tide," he impatiently urged.
He let them go ahead for motives which were not entirely those of chivalry: he stared up their skirts, and the sight of Sally's saucily rounded thighs and very spankable bottom encased in a pair of white cotton panties made his prick ache with longing. But when it was Pamela's turn, the view he had of those magnificent thighs and of that bottom ideally made for the whip and for bottomfucking, made him experience a savage hard-on. He knew it was going to be difficult to keep from venting his desires on these two unsuspecting teenaged virgins tonight; but as a voluptuary he wanted to prolong the moment so that he could draw out the sweetest and most lingering nuances of his conquest of them.
The prematurely gray-haired Leopold Darden came forward to shake hands with him, and to eye the two charming sisters. "That's quite a haul you've got there, Saltiel," he chuckled softly. "Are they both yours, or do I get to share on the venture?"
"I've reserved the auburn-haired older girl for myself. But I'm going to break the spunky little brunette in too. However, when it comes to a showdown, Leopold, you can have Sally-that's the brunette. But let's hold off a bit. How are you and that cute secretary of yours doing?"
"I had a lovely time with Lola, while you were gone, Saltiel," the dissipated sadist smirked. "She was a bad girl and didn't transcribe letters properly. I don't think she'll make the same mistake again. I gave her a good sound spanking on top of a very heavy enema. Then she had to French me before I allowed her to pull out the plug and attend to certain pressing little needs. Right now, she's locked in her cabin and told she won't get any supper till I bring in the tray at midnight. She's never let me bugger her, but tonight she's going to do it-or else. But frankly, just to change my luck, I'd enjoy taking that cute little brunette into my stateroom."
"Content yourself with Lola. I don't want these girls to suspect anything until we get out into the open sea and are well on the way to our island," Francis Saltiel whispered.
Meanwhile the virile and handsome Albanian sea captain had been giving Pamela and Sally a tour of the bridge and the deck, and they exclaimed in wonder over the luxury vessel. The two men stared lingeringly after them, exchanging speculative comments on the potential fuckability and spankability of each girl. Leopold Darden offered his partner five thousand dollars to let him have Pamela first, but Francis Saltiel laughingly shook his head: "There are some things money doesn't buy, Leopold. You ought to know that yourself by now. You'll get to do everything you want with her, in due time, so don't be impatient. Just pretend it's Sally you're buggering tonight when you go to see your secretary. That will have to hold you."
"I guess it will," the prematurely gray-haired roue said with a disconsolate sigh. "Well, let's have dinner. I for one am starved. That workout with Lola really took a lot of starch out of me."
"Good living is fine, Leopold, but you're inclined to be overweight, and I can see you're already getting a paunch. Better watch it. Once we get to the island you always let yourself go. And too much food clogs the mind just as it makes the body sluggish. That's an axiom I always remember when I want to have some fun with pretty young slave bitches," Francis Saltiel heartlessly explained. . .
One of the sailors on the yacht was summoned by Captain Drago to escort Sally and Pamela to their stateroom, and the girls were told that supper would be served to them. The yacht was already underway, heading out into the gulf and thence due southeast. It would not, however, stop at Miami except to refuel and to pick up several more passengers whom Leopold Darden had invited to join the little vacationing expedition. One was to be a wealthy and beautiful Lesbian, accompanied by a virtuous young woman whom she had employed as her secretary and whom she had not yet subjugated: the other would be a corrupt, amoral husband who was bringing his virgin bride aboard for what she believed would be an elysian honeymoon but which would end in her ultimate degradation and gangfucking!
Sally and Pamela couldn't believe their good fortune, and as they stretched out luxuriously on their bunks, they sighed raptly. "It's just like a dream, isn't it, Pam?" the younger black-haired girl dreamily exclaimed. Just think how miserable we were thinking about having to stay in that awful little town for the rest of our lives, and now we're actually on a yacht. Aren't these sheets soft and smooth and white, though! And that food-yummy! I'm going to put on weight, I can feel it in my tummy already. And just look at the clothes they said we could wear in the wardrobe, Pam!"
"I know. It is like a dream. I just hope we never wake up," the auburn-haired older girl girl reflected soberly.
Suddenly Sally sat up in bed, her eyes wide, her forehead furrowed. "Gosh, whaj was that?" she gasped.
"What, honey? I didn't hear anything."
"Gee, it sure sounded like a scream-like some girl. That's silly, though. Who'd be screaming on this yacht?"
"You're right. Lets go to sleep. I do hope we stop at Miami, I've always wanted to see it. Maybe Mr. Saltiel'll let us go to the beach, or maybe even see the wonderful bird-park there. You know, they've got trained parrots and cockatoos and macaws who ride bicycles and stuff like that. I once read it in a magazine," Pamela Thornton mused. Then, with a happy sigh, she laid her head down on the pillow, closed her eyes and was soon asleep.
Sally's keener perception had been all too accurate. Poor Lola Fenton had been the one who had screamed, downstairs in a soundproofed room which both men used for the subjugation of their victims. As a finale to her punishment, she had been taken down there naked and blindfolded, wearing only red leather high-heeled pumps, made to kneel on a heavy deep armchair, her wrists locked in iron gyves fixed into the back of the heavily upholstered chair. Leopold Darden had then lectured her again about the costly error she had made in transcribing the important letter, and told her that after this final punishment, she would be restored to his good graces-unless, to be sure, she repeated the blunder. The lovely blindfolded young woman weepingly pleaded for mercy, swearing that she had already been punished enough, telling him that the terrible whipping and enema he had given her earlier in the day had made her very conscious of her mistake and deepened her resolve never to make a mistake again.
That plea availed her nothing. Smilingly the prematurely gray-haired sadist had undressed to his sandals, and, taking a rattan cane, had made her count out twelve good hard cuts over the bare ass. When it was done, she wriggled and squirmed, lowering and twisting her blazingly striped bottom this way and that. He flung the cane aside, knelt behind her, wrenched open her bottom-cheeks, and thrust his violently stiffened prick against the dainty rosette of her virgin ass-hole. And when he had entered himself with a single vicious thrust almost halfway, she had tilted back her head and emitted so wild and raucaus a shriek that Sally Thornton, on the level above, had heard that faint sound emerging through a partly open porthole which Leopold Darden had forgotten to close in this soundproofed chamber aboard the floating palace of lust which was The Bellarion.
The little island of Lecayano was protected by a huge coral reef about five miles off its western coastline, and the only really accessible place for landing a yacht such as The Bellarion was at it's southernmost tip. On the other side of the island, the beach was fringed by bluffs and a small hilly range, and here the water was extremely deep. A magnetic reef had been constructed near the rocky fringe at the northeastern end of Lecayano to prevent unwanted ships from attempting a landing. It could also be used to draw an unsuspecting vessel onto the submerged reef which protruded in a gigantic triangle near the one likely cove for landing. The two sadistic partners had built this a few years ago with the intention of protecting themselves against unwanted intruders and also with the hypothetical possibility that one day they might wish to lure a small craft carrying attractive female passengers who might well become slaves at Lecayano. Tonight, however, this facility had not been employed. And there was really no need: both Leopold Darden and Francis Saltiel had been able to transport enough unsuspecting beauties to provide all the sexual amusements and vagaries they wished to savor.
In the middle of the island, which was about ten miles wide and forty miles long, there had been built a compound for prisoners, a two-story white stone building with a labyrinth of subterranean cells, torture chambers, and beside it a small round one-story edifice which served as a kind of entertainment arena for the jaded masters and mistresses of Lecayano. About two hundred yards away was a magnificent hotel-like structure, three stories high, with open balconies (like the Hawaiian lanais), which served as headquarters for the two masters of the island and the beautiful mulatress Alma who had the official title of "housekeeper" but who was a good deal more than that, as we shall see, and rooms for the wealthy, dissipated guests whom the two men often brought for the sake of diversion.
Inside this hotel-like building was a huge kitchen with about twenty freezers and refrigerators in which the supplies were stored. Usually Francis Saltiel or his partner docked the yacht at Miami long enough to pick up provisions sufficient for two or three months, since the run to Lecayano took no more than a day. Whole carcasses of beef, pork and lamb were transported in the iced containers in the bulkhead of the yacht, as well as fruits and vegetables, and various other staples, along with cases of fine wines and liqueurs. The two men had engaged a superb French chef, Antoine Corradieux; and one of his "fringe benefits" together with a huge salary, was the privilege of selecting whichever slave-bitch he lusted for to share his own luxurious quarters on the third floor of this "hotel."
Thus in a few short years these two imaginative and perverse and enormously wealthy men, oddly united through a force of circumstance which need not be cited here, but strongly allied in their communal lusts for sadistic and erotic pleasures, had built a kind of paradise, such as one reads about and rarely encounters in real life.
The weather was balmy, save that in late August and the early part of September, the temperature soared to the nineties at Lecayano. There were few storms, only occasional rains, and generally the year-round climate made this as tempting as any resort place anywhere in the world. Yet because it was slightly away from the usual commercial routes of airplanes and cruising ships, Lecayano remained untouched, the private anachronistic realm of its masters and an occasional mistress.
At times, both Leopold Darden and Francis Saltiel entered into a liason with some beautiful, dominating and imaginative woman, usually as rich as themselves, whose penchant for sadism and inventive erotic sports matched their own. These liaisons lasted several months, and during the time the favored females enjoyed the same arbitrary and despotic privileges as the two men themselves. At the moment, no such liaisons were in progress. Both Leopold Darden and Francis Saltiel had agreed that during their sojourn this summer at Lecayano, the beautiful, spirited mulatress Alma should have the rank of "mistress in title," and should be allowed to undertake the disciplining of the lovely young teenaged sisters Sally and Pamela Thornton.
As the yacht neared its final destination, those aboard looked forward to docking at that little cove along the southernmost edge of the island. But Pamela and Sally, who had seen the yacht dock in Miami in order to take on supplies and the several guests, were puzzled at Francis Saltiel's refusal to let them go ashore. "We'll be back at Miami in a few weeks, girls," he explained, "we're only staying a few hours now. There'll be time enough for you to explore Miami after you've started your work."
"But where we going, Mr. Saltiel?" Pamela nervously inquired.
"To an island which I own," had been his curt answer. And with that the two girls had to content themselves. . .
Alma Vordon unhooked the key ring from a little golden chain-belt round her slim waist, fitted one of the keys into the lock of a door at the very end of the brightly illuminated corridor of the subterranean part of the compound building, and entered.
She was thirty years old, but looked twenty, with an astonishing beautiful figure, and an exotic, sensual face. Three years ago, Francis Saltiel had found her during a visit to New Orleans at the time of the colorful Mardi Gras season. Francis Saltiel had always had an erotic interest in dark-skinned beauties, and had often visited an elegant brothel in some of the larger cities both in the United States and Europe to which his travels brought him, purchasing the favors of a Negress or Arabian or an Egyptian girl extraordinarily gifted in the art of Frenching and giving a man a trip around the world.
Alma Vordon had been the daughter of an elderly French bookshop-owner in the Carre section of old New Orleans, while her mother had been a superb Dahomey Negress, with the body of a superb Amazon.
Alma had gone to college and had planned to take up a business career, when her father had suddenly died of a heart attack while she was in her second year of college, and her mother had been obliged to do her best to run the little shop to earn the livelihood of the family.
Unfortunately, while her mother was gifted in bed, she had little business judgment. She soon got into debt, the creditors swarmed upon the shop, and Alma's mother took to the bottle and died from cirrhosis of the liver when Alma was twenty-five.
She had had to leave college because there simply wasn't any money and there was no question of a scholarship given a girl who was half-Negro, half-white. But she discovered that she possessed a lovely, husky contralto voice, and one evening when she went to a nightclub on Bourbon Street with a handsome white insurance broker who intended to make her his mistress, she found herself singing to the music. The bandleader stopped the number and invited her to come up on the stage and take the microphone and sing it with the band. Alma did so, and the applause was uproarious. That night, as she happily dreamed, a new future began for her.
Unfortunately it was to be short-lived. After singing for a month at the Bourbon Street nightclub, she was offered a contract by the owner-with the stipulation that she devote her after-hours to his carnal pleasure. She indignantly refused, the band itself left New Orleans for a date in Mobile, thence to tour the Southeast and ultimately to wind up in Chicago, where its leader would be arrested on a marijuana possession charge. Alma, out of a job and realizing that she had to keep working to keep alive, sought employment at other nightclubs. But here the barrier of her black blood weighed heavily against her, and she was told contemptuously that there weren't any jobs for "niggers."
She lost most of her savings in simply trying to keep alive, and was almost destitute on the night that Francis Saltiel met her. She had finally decided to sell her body, and was walking down the street near a noted little French restaurant when a drunken sailor seized her and pulled her into the dark shadows of a little alleyway.
There he attempted to tear off her clothes and fuck her, but her cries and her struggles brought Francis Saltiel to her rescue. With one measured blow to the sailor's jaw, he felled her assailant, and then gave the terrified and half-naked mulatress his coat. He took her back to his hotel, ordered a lavish meal with wine sent to the room, and chatted with her.
That night Alma Vordon and Francis Saltiel became lovers. And since the island was almost readied for his occupancy, he made her the amazing proposition which had resulted in her becoming his "housekeeper" but, much more, his disciplinarian trainer and dominatress at Lecayano.
For one of the most profitable and also the most illicit ventures of the two sadistic partners was their training of girls and young women without families or relatives, who would not be missed if they disappeared inexplicably, taking them to Lecayano where Alma Vordon would transform them into docile slave-bitches who could be sold at an enormous profit to some of the wealthy and eccentric guests who were privileged to visit the island. Indeed, this very afternoon, but an hour before the docking of The Bellarion at Lecayano, Alma Vordon was in the process of preparing just such a slave for just such a sale. . .
The mulatress was five feet eight inches in height, her complexion that of dark honey, so that one would have taken her more for an Eurasian or Egyptian girl than for a Negress. Her glossy black hair was in no way kinky, and it was piled in an imposing pompadour, which added to her height as well as to the aura of imperious severity. Her titties were pear-shaped, set high on her magnificent chest, and wonderfully large and firm and widely spaced apart. Her slim waist flared into broadly oval-shaped bottom-cheeks, long svelte, nervously muscled thighs, and sinuously high-set calves. At this moment, she wore a one-piece red leather training costume which gusseted her between the thighs and took her to the middle of her titties, leaving her arms and legs bare. These were sheathed in mid-thigh-length red leather boots with spike heels and shoulder-length gloves of the same material. Her face was an oval, with slantingly set cheekbones, a high-arching forehead, straight nose with rather thick but flaring wings, and a sensual, ripe mouth whose voracious passions Francis Saltiel could testify to-they had drained his prick of juice on many a night, for Alma Vordon was one of the most expert French-culture girls he had ever encountered.
Her black eyes glittered and narrowed now as they studied the trembling captive whom she had been training and who was to be presented this Friday night before a select coterie of guests. The woman was golden-haired, twenty-eight, and stark naked. She knelt on a rectangular wooden top centered over a heavy round wooden post which lofted her to about Alma's waist level. Rings set into the wooden top locked round the hollows of her knees and round her ankles. Her golden hair had been combed out, bound into a thick sheaf, and tied round the half of a thick black rubber dildo studded with tiny whorls and spikes, which had been thrust to the hilt inside her ass-hole. Her arms were stretched in cross, and there was a bamboo rod pressed against her back to which her wrists were corded at each end. Her face was twisted, flushed and streaked with tears. Her cunt had been shaved clean, and the soft pink lips twitched and gaped because the rings on her knee hollows forced her to straddle her thighs a full yard apart. Her body was milky-skinned, voluptuously rounded, she was of medium height, and her name was Mrs. Dorothy Barten. Her husband had been a minor stockbroker who had become involved with Leopold Darden and made the fatal mistake of trying to double cross the latter. He had been found in a New York City alley far on the East Side, apparently killed by a hit and run driver, about three months ago. His beautiful widow had discovered that there was no money left, and then Leopold Darden had called upon her and hypocritically informed her that her husband had left her a trust fun on the island of Lecayano which she must visit in order to obtain. Unsuspectingly, she had accompanied him on the yacht, and then she had found that she was destined to become a slave.
She had fought him furiously when he had tried to take her to bed and fuck her. It had cost her a severe whipping, but she remained steadfastly obstinate. This was now the end of her sixth week of training, and a supreme humiliation and punishment was being visited upon her just to make certain that she would be docile enough tomorrow night when she would be presented for sale.
Her big round closely-spaced titties were like cantaloupes, without sag, needing no bra. In this kneeling, arched, bow-like posture, they jutted out in all their white-skinned glory, the nipples stiff and darkened, for an itching powder had been sprinkled on them, which had erotic tittilations for her nervous system. The same power had been sprinkled on the fleshy pink lips of her clean shaven cunthole, and this was one reason why she was squirming and groaning, and almost hysterical with exacerbation, quite apart from the agonizing distension and friction of that merciless rubber dildo thrust up her ass-hole. Bound as her hair was to its end, she was obliged to keep her head tilted back and her shoulders and back arched and hollowed in the most excruciating of postures.
Her thighs were plump and full, perhaps a bit too short for perfection, her calves were delightfully rounded, but her behind was really an inspiration to the flagellant. Two upstandingly rounded globes, with a gradually deepening cleft between them, dimpled and exquisitely mobile, and very markable with the lash-as Alma Vordon had already learned to her own sadistic joy. Perhaps because of the stigma of her dark blood, she had taken to her new role as an imperatrix and trainer of slaves, and to work upon a haughty white woman delighted her as nothing else could.
Between her gloved hands, Alma flexed a supple black leather riding crop with a tapering thin flap at the end which, as poor Dorothy Barten well knew, was capable of adding vicious sting when applied to the titties or between the legs or the insides of her thighs-"Well, now, Dorothy, do you think you can be a good bitch tomorrow night when I put you on display?" Alma lazily drawled.
"Oh, yes, Mistress Alma, I'll be so very good, I'll do everything you tell me to, I won't make a single mistake, I'll have everyone wanting to buy me, you'll see!" the golden-haired matron babbled. "Oh, please, Mistress Alma, please take me down-I'm dying-oh that awful thing inside my b-bumhole-it's just ripping me to pieces!"
"In a few minutes, but first you are going to get ten lashes on your titties and another ten across your inner thighs and finally five right up against your hairless cunt of yours, Dorothy. That will be for making a face this morning when I came into your cell to bring you breakfast, remember?"
"But I didn't mean to, Mistress, I really didn't mean to-I just hadn't been able to sleep all night-that terrible itching powder-oh if you only knew, I'll do anything you want, anything-oh please don't whip me there, please!" Dorothy Barten hysterically sobbed. She tried to squirm, but this maneuver only activated the deadly haft inside her bottomhole, and she uttered a long sobbing groan and tried to lean back a little to ease the horrid traction between the haft and her dragged-down bound golden hair. In so doing, the muscles of her milky-white thighs flexed violently, and Alma's cruel eyes studied this reaction with particular delight.
She now approached, and began the whipping. Soon maddened shrieks and piteous entreaties filled the chamber, Alma saved the last five cuts against that tender bared cunthole for the very last, prolonging each, and threatening poor Dorothy Barten with additional punishments if she did not fully satisfy her trainer tomorrow night upon the presentation.
And then at last, when Dorothy Barten was released, and the haft was removed, she flung herself down on her knees before the implacable mulatress, and gripping the cheeks of Alma's bottom, avidly sucked against the leather gusset-piece which veiled Alma's cunthole.
This, then, was the island of Lecayano to which the unsuspecting Pamela and Sally Thornton were coming as intended slaves. . .
The Bellarion moved majestically into the little cove at the southernmost end of Lecayano. It was near sundown, and the blue waters were tinted with orange and a brooding darker blue where the reef lay in waiting. Around the horizon for miles, there was not so much as a speck of life, neither plane nor ship. The Albanian yacht captain, Mirko Drago, nodded with a smile to Francis Saltiel. "A prosperous voyage and a safe landing, Mr. Saltiel. That's what you're getting."
"Very nicely done, Captain. You'll have dinner with us tonight, and I'm sure you'll find a pretty girl to share your rooms. You'll go back at once to Miami, and then go down to Baton Rouge. I'll get you a message on the ship's radio when I'm ready for you again."
"How long do you think you'll be staying here this time, Mr. Saltiel?"
"Possibly until almost Labor Day. I'm taking a long vacation, and so is my partner. Besides," this with a broad wink, "we've two charming novitiates this time who, I'm certain, will require a great deal of training before they're ready. Oh, there is one thing you can do for me, Captain Drago. Get this message to Mrs. Augusta Henderson. She's in the Coronado Apartments in Mobile. She indicated she'd like to come visit us in August, and this is an invitation for her to do so. It may well be that she can make arrangements to come back with you on the yacht when I summon you."
"Understood, Mr. Saltiel! I'm just wondering if our two pretty sisters won't be a little nervous when they see that we've come to an island as our destination."
"Leave that to me. There isn't much they can do about it, is there? I doubt that they could swim back to Miami. There are sharks, you know. Now let's get everybody off and anchor the yacht securely, and then come join us when you've refreshed yourself and dressed."
Leopold Darden, with his beautiful coppery-haired secretary, Lola Fenton, meekly following, came slowly along the deck towards the ship's ladder which was being secured by two seamen. Lola Fenton's eyes were red and swollen, but her face was composed and one would never have guessed what a night and afternoon she had spent. She wore a pretty blue felt turban, a matching blue rayon print dress whose hems ended just above her round, dimpled knees which were sheathed in gauzy charcoal-brown nylons.
"You've typed up that memo I gave you this morning, Miss Fenton," he drawled, glancing back at her, a smirk on his sensual lips.
She colored hotly, her eyes lowered. "Yes, Mr. Darden."
"You won't call me Master until those two little bitches have been properly disposed of, you understand. I'm Mr. Darden to you, as he's Mr. Saltiel. Don't slip. When I call you to my private quarters, that'll be time enough for you to call me Master. And I trust you really know who is master, Lola."
"Oh, I do, Mr. Darden. I'll never disobey and I'll never make a mistake again!"
"That I doubt. But at least you know the consequences, Lola. Oh, here they come. Keep your mouth shut, Lola."
Francis Saltiel had gone to the stateroom which the two lovely sisters occupied, and had seen that their suitcase was packed and that they were ready to disembark. As they came out on deck and stared at the tropical coastline of this singular island, they exchanged an apprehensive look.
"Where are we, Mr. Saltiel?" Pamela demanded.
"One of the islands of the Bahamas, Pamela. I have a vacation lodge here, you might say," he blandly retorted. "The seaman will help you down the ladder into the little boat. Don't be afraid."
He watched them handed down by the two burly seamen, watched the men take up the oars and row towards a strip of sandy beach where they could walk out readily from the beached boat, and then turned back to his partner. "I hope Alma will have that blonde bitch ready for sale tomorrow night, Leopold. We've got a prospect at the end of August-that Mrs. Augusta Henderson I was telling you about. Captain Drago will be taking a letter back to her on his return voyage. She's loaded for bear, and she's just dying to get her hands on a pretty young girl."
"We might be able to sell her Sally Thornton, then," Leopold Darden sneered.
"Possibly. But we have a few other guests aboard, like that honeymooning bride. James Mortmain, her husband, came to my stateroom this morning with a most unusual suggestion. Do you know, he's ready to sell her?"
"You must be joking!"
"I'm not. It seems that our young friend isn't quite so well off as we thought. Since we left the States, he got a call from his lawyer. Seems that some of his stocks have hit bottom in a declining market, and he's over extended on margin. He needs money desperately. He picked the wrong time to take a honeymoon, and we can profit from it."
"I thought he was going to be one of us for a while. Isn't he a sadist?"
"Of course he is. But he's also a practical fellow. You can always find another girl to whip and fuck, but this charming wife of his can bring a high price, not to mention some funds for a quick trip to South America where his creditors won't be able to find him," Francis Saltiel cynically replied. "I think Molly Mortmain ought to bring at least ten thousand dollars. That is, if Shiek Haroun-el-Beztar is still enjoying the hospitality of Lecayano."
"I believe he is," Leopold Darden chuckled. "I was just in contact on our ship's radio with Alma, and he's impatiently waiting for us to dine with him tonight."
Thus, already, without either Sally or Pamela Thornton's suspecting, the "resort paradise" to which they had come and the two unscrupulous proprietors of it, were prepared to celebrate their absence from conventional civilization and their return to an uninhibited, sophisticated pleasure which reigned unchecked on this jointly-owned little world, a world unto itself where the only law was that of the master and an occasional pro tern mistress, who they permitted to rule solely for the sake of their own sadistic amusement. . .
Sheikh Haroun-el-Beztar was a black-bearded. insolent-featured Arabian, forty-six years of age but still enormously virile and sadistic. He was the deposed ruler of a Moroccan tribe who, though cruel themselves, had rebelled against his tyranny and risen up and ousted him. That had been two years ago; Haroun-el-Beztar had been educated in England and had had the foresight to open a Swiss bank account where he secreted the bulk of the pitiless and exorbitant taxes which he and his officers levied against the countryside. While escaping with his life, he did not much regret leaving Morocco, nor even his harem, for his vast wealth permitted him to indulge his exotic fancies in the enjoyment of white females.
About a year and a half ago, he had attended a private club in Paris where Leopold Darden was a visiting member and the two men had met for the first time. When Darden had outlined the pleasures available to the wealthy and to the trustworthy on his Bahamian island, the Sheikh's eyes had blazed and he had importuned Francis Saltiel's partner to allow him to pay a visit to the island. There, after enjoying the superb cooking and the wines, the swimming and fishing which the area provided, he had been invited to the private arena to see the presentation of young and mature female slaves, a consign of some eight beauties whom the two nefarious partners had subjugated and trained to take the role of slaves to any future masters or mistresses. At that time, all of the batch had been purchased, and the Sheikh had been discomfited because, as a "guest" he had not been permitted to bid for any of them. Subsequently, he had been able to make three more trips to the island and paid both Darden and Saltiel a fee of fifty thousand dollars as a guarantee of his goodwill. He had come to the island five days ago, and was impatiently awaiting their return today so that he might have an opportunity to choose a delicious tidbit, a docile, well-trained white female, to be his personal body slave.
There were, at the moment, only two or three girls and women now in the cells of the compound undergoing disciplinary regimen under the astute and experienced guidance of Alma Vordon. However, the two partners proposed to offer Molly Mortmain to the Sheikh, knowing the latter's ferocious and impatient resolve to acquire a white woman.
The deposed Arabian ruler had his own smaller yacht and made his home in Tangiers, a magnificent villa in the native quarter of that teeming city. It would be easy for him, therefore, to make a purchase of a woman on this faraway island and deliver her, bound and gagged, in a packing case which would be pierced with air holes to allow her to breathe. Once there, to be sure, she would vanish from civilization forever, and exist only so long as she continued to please her new Arabian master. . .
Pamela and Sally Thornton were taken by the seamen from the yacht to a jeep which was hidden in the brush near the cove where the yacht had anchored. There they were driven to the luxurious main building, where two sturdy Negroes, who had been castrated to prevent their ever taking forbidden possession of the tempting female captives, escorted them to a single but very large room with twin beds.
In the closet of this room there was an extensive wardrobe, and once more Pamela and Sally exchanged wondering glances as they studied the contents, opened the drawers filled with beautiful lingerie, gauzy hose, brassieres and panties so sumptuous and elegant that they could hardly believe their eyes.
One of the Negroes, Dave, six feet two inches in height, informed them that their dinner would be brought to them presently. Twenty minutes later, his companion, Sam, stocky, about five feet ten inches in height and far heavier, brought in a tray and left the room, locking them in for the night. The French chef had prepared roast capon under glass, an elegant tossed salad with a mouthwatering dressing, French pastry, coffee, and tropical fruits, nuts, and candy. As the girls finished this lavish meal, Sally shook her head in wonderment.
"Gee, this is sure like a fairy tale, don't you think so, Pam? I don't care if I never wake up."
"I do." The older girl worriedly shook her head. "Something's awfully funny, Sally. Mr. Saltiel let us think we'd have jobs in Miami. But we weren't allowed to go off the yacht into the city, nor to talk to anybody. Now we're on an island, and here we are, and I don't see what sort of work we could do here."
"You're just an old worrywart," Sally giggled, stretching out on the wide, low bed and yawning deliciously. "I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to get a good night's sleep and think of Dan Trevors. And now that nobody's around to give me the dickens for it, I'm going to pretend that Dan is fucking me!"
"Sally Thornton! You just watch your language, or I'll wash your mouth oout with soap. I'm old enough and big enough to do it, and you know that. Now you behave yourself!" Sally warned furiously.
Sally made a face behind her back, turned over on her side, and without even bothering to take off their clothes, both girls were soon asleep. It was no wonder, for a mild soporific had been added to their food. Soon Pamela was sleeping dreamlessly, for the moment her fears thoroughly allayed. But when she would waken, it would be quite another story!
* * *
Jack Mortmain was thirty-two, brown-haired, with a lean face, shifting brown eyes, sturdily built and nearly six feet tall. He was the dissolute only son of a New York financier who had left him more money than was good for him, and Jack Mortmain had spent almost all of it by the time he was twenty-five, on women, gambling and unsound financial investments. Then, taking himself in hand, he had tried to recoup, and for two years had forged ahead steadily. The continence imposed on him by this period of retrenchment was not to his liking, because he missed the fleshpots and the excitement of the jet set. So he had again gone back to his imagine women and gambling, and narrowly escaped being cleaned out, except for one lucky stroke of buying a little-known stock which skyrocketed over night and made him a considerable fortune.
As the cycle of his erratic life was due again for a change against him, and just as he was determined to settle down and marry a chaste, very beautiful girl who adored him without knowing his real traits, he discovered that he was on the edge of total bankruptcy.
Molly Kendall was twenty-two, a virgin, with silver-blonde hair coiffed in a chic upsweep. She was the only daughter of an elderly Long Island City couple who had retired from their business of antique shops. He had met her quite by accident in an art museum on Fifth Avenue, fallen desperately in love with her and, realizing that he couldn't seduce her, decided to marry her.
They had gone to Miami for their honeymoon, although Molly hadn't really wanted to go there since her parents had taken her there nearly every winter when she was little. Of course, he had his reasons; it had been agreed he would meet the Bellarion there and take his unsuspecting wife aboard, thence to Lecayano, where he proposed callously to sell her to the highest bidder. The two owners of the island would take a modest commission, and Jack Mortmain would have enough cash in hand as a result to go on to Rio or Buenos Aires where there were elegant brothels and where women could be had from almost every nation under the sun to indulge every perversion and sexual variation known to the lusts of man.
Mortmain, knowing what he knew, had decided not to be too demanding with his wife's virginal body on this short-lived honeymoon, for Darden and Saltiel had agreed that the price would be greatly increased if she had had a relatively small amount of exposure to the vagaries of the male. Therefore, in their swanky Miami hotel, he had briefly undressed her, fondled her a little and then, to her astonishment, knelt between her legs and fondled and kissed her cunt until she had spent. In return, he had drawn her hands down to his stiff prick and made her jack him off, telling her tenderly that he didn't want to be a brute and take her cherry on the very first night of their honeymoon.
Molly had been brought up in a fashionable down-state girls' private high school and college, but although she was a virgin, she was far from ingenuous. At both of these schools, indeed, she had been slyly introduced to the sweet torments of girl-fucking, and while she had not shown any great predilection for these games, she nonetheless had been obliged to admit to herself that she had derived some pleasure from the antics of her roommates at both institutions. That was one reason he had been able to make her come simply by gamahuching her on their wedding night, but Molly was vastly disappointed that he hadn't tried to fuck her, because she desperately wanted to know what it was like to have a man's prick buried in her tender cunt and thrust home to the balls and worked back and forth until her most secret tides were unleashed.
On the yacht, on this very night before the landing at Lecayano, he still hadn't taken her cherry, though she had gone so far as to beg him to love her up. Instead, he had repeatedly gamahuched her, and then tickled her clitoris until she had almost fainted away in the fury of her come. His only lapse from the strict program of continence he had imposed upon himself was to turn her over and, jabbing his prick along the groove of her bottom, rubbing back and forth until he finally spurted. Molly Mortmain softly wept herself to sleep as she watched her sleeping husband lying there calmly, with a smile on his face. It was as well for her that she didn't know what he was smiling about; he was dreaming about watching her brought out as a slave and sold to the highest bidder!
On this night, however, when Pamela and Sally were shown to their room, locked in and drugged, Molly and Jack Mortmain sat side by side at the sumptuous table in the dining room on the main floor of this main building, with the black-bearded Sheikh across the table from Molly studying her with ill-disguised lust and admiration. Alma, wearing an orange chiffon evening frock with only a sewn-in bra and wispy panties beneath, and thigh-high long red leather boots with spike heels, sat at the table at the left side of her lover-master, Francis Saltiel.
At Alma's left Elise Duval was seated, and at her left was her attractive, winsome secretary, Penelope Sands.
Elise Duval was thirty-five, five feet seven and a half inches in height, with sandy-colored hair cropped short in a mannish do. She was the head of a rapidly growing New York City advertising agency, and she was a notorious Lesbian "butch." After landing a coveted two-million-dollar sportswear account over three more famous and larger agencies, Elise Duval had decided to enjoy a vacation and had invited her faithful, hard-working secretary to accompany her.
Penelope Sands had no way of knowing that this Bahamian island was actually the retreat of a group of male and female sadists whose only law was their own desires. Nor did she know that her employer lusted for her own lovely body. Penelope was about five feet six inches in height, with a sweet round face, dark-blue eyes, a Grecian nose, a sweet, firm mouth and firm, dimpled chin, while her dark-brown hair was coiffed in a short pageboy.
Elise Duval had made careful inquiries and learned that her secretary, who had been with her two years, had had a boyfriend who had died in Vietnam. She had intended to marry him and, although she had given him her cherry, she had been so relieved by his loss that she had decided to remain true to his memory. This knowledge increased Elise's vicious and greedy desire to bed the lovely brunette and teach her the mysteries of Lesbos. She had made just one subtle overture about two weeks before, when she had blushingly extricated herself from an embarrassing situation and given Elise to understand that "I'm sorry, Miss Duval, I just don't like women to touch me. I can't help it; maybe it's something about Roger and when we were practically married in the sight of God."
Such old-fashioned idealism, needless to say, only intensified the Lesbian's determination to force Penelope Sands to be her bed bitch, and that was why she had brought the lovely secretary to the island.
After dinner, the group at the table repaired to a little comfortably furnished lounge room where a first-run, full-color movie was shown. Then, after a few drinks at the bar, served by the two Negro guards Dave and Sam (who were both handsomely paid and given a bonus to agree to their own emasculation), they went their various ways to bed. Molly Mortmain watched her husband undress, and shivered, running her hands down her luscious hips.
She was five feet five and a half inches in height, endowed with a pair of high-perched, closely spaced, firm round titties, and from her slim waist an enchantingly impudent bottom became all the more enticing in view of the slender grace of her lovely midriff. Her bottom-cheeks were upstanding, tightly spaced. Her thighs were delightfully long and beautifully rounded. Her skin was a kind of baby-pink, and the hair on her pussy was light brown, which had been its natural hue until she had decided to have it tinted silver-blonde to look more sophisticated for her mature, handsome husband. She had put on a black nylon nightie and sat near to the bed, watching him shave, clad only in shorts.
"Jim dear, aren't you going to love me tonight?" she wistfully demanded.
"Of course I am, baby," he said tenderly. "But I'm not a lecher, and you've never had a man before."
"I know, but it seems like a century since we got married, darling, and you still haven't-you know-Please do it tonight. I'm just dying to know what it's like, 'cause I love you so," she pleaded.
He flicked out the light switch and came to bed, shoving down his shorts. His prick was stiff and hard, the lips twitching with desires, but he knew very well he wasn't going to take her cherry. He had seen the way that Arabian sheikh had just about eaten Molly up with his eyes from across the table, and he was going to talk to both Darden and Saltiel to see if they couldn't get the sheikh to up the price for Molly. He'd like to have at least twenty-five thousand dollars clear. With that, a man could start an entire new life in South America.
He sat down beside her, put his arms around her and kissed her hard on the mouth. Molly boldly put her hand out and felt his stiff prick, began to cup it in her soft, warm little hand.
"Don't you want me, darling?" she pathetically whispered.
"Now, baby, what a question to ask! Of course I do. It's just that you're sensitive and a virgin."
"For heaven's sake, Jack, I'm made of flesh and blood, I'm not a cripple or a child," she petulantly flared at him. "Please-I want-I want you to fuck me-there, I've gone and said it!"
"Molly, for God's sake, where did you learn that word?" he gasped.
He recoiled and stared at her in the darkness.
"Never mind. There were lots of girls in the schools I went to who went all the way with fellows, and they weren't married either. You know what I mean. Are you going to do it to me or not? Look, I'll get all ready!"
Shamelessly now, she pulled off the black nylon nightie and let it drop to the floor. Then, sinking down on the bed on her back, she held out her arms to him.
"Come love me, come fuck me, Jack!"
His hands began to caress her thighs and knees and belly, and Molly sighed and gasped with pleasure. But these caresses were very much like the ones her roommates had inflicted on her in college and in high school, and she began to whimper now as her passions mounted, lusting to be fucked, yearning to feel a good stiff male prick cram into her cunt, break away her cherry and make a woman of her.
Now again she felt his hands reach up to her bottom, sink into the firm elastic cheeks, and she gasped, "Oh yes, give it to me, oh hurt me, hold me hard and tight, I need it so!"
But once again Jack Mortmain was dazzled by the thought of the money for leaving his wife virgin as a potential temptation for the buyer, Shiekh Haroun-el-Beztar's price which she would bring, and so again he contented himself by putting his mouth to her cunthole and sucking until at last she helplessly wriggled and squirmed and moaned and finally came.
"Tomorrow night, baby, I'll do it for sure, and that's a promise," he whispered.
Molly Mortmain put her hand out and touched his prick. "At least let me do it for you, and give you some pleasure, dearest," she whispered disappointedly.
He smiled at her, letting her do as she wished. Tomorrow night was going to be terrific. He could see her now, driven up onto the stage, forced to strip under the lash, to expose herself and take all sorts of indecent poses, and then to let the potential buyer come onto the stage and feel her up, put their fingers in her ass-hole, squeeze her titties and her butt, ask her questions about what she knew, whether she had ever Frenched a man or given him a trip around the world.
She would be naked, except maybe for garter-belt, hose and pumps. She would be up there, weeping and begging him to save her, and he wouldn't.
He had such a tremendous hard-on from dreaming of it that in the morning the sheets were sticky with his own love juice. As for Molly Mortmain, the pillow was wet with her tears. She actually believed that she was lacking something to make her husband take her. She didn't know what it was, but she was going to find out as soon as she' could.
Pamela and Sally Thornton were more worried than ever, and even the chipper, self-assured younger brunette almost tearfully admitted to being scared, when, all through that day, the only person they saw was one of the Negro guards bringing in their meals. Francis Saltiel had decided that he would not let them dine with the other guests and then watch the training of luscious silver-blonde Molly Mortmain or the presentation of Dorothy Barten. And once again their sumptuous evening meal was drugged with a strong sleeping potion that made them both sink into a deep and dreamless slumber shortly after eight that night.
By that same time, James Mortmain and Sheikh Haroun-el-Beztar had become close friends, since the unscrupulous young profligate was certain that the bearded Arabian was going to buy his beautiful wife Molly as a slave. With the consent of both of the island's owners, he arranged to sit next to the Sheikh, and during the superbly cooked and multiple course dinner whose piece de resistance was a duckling cooked in orange and brandy sauce and set aflame, he slyly intimated throughout the conversation specific details of his wife's delicious and still virginal charms. The Sheikh was amused and cynically contemptuous of this man who would not only sell his wife but actually try to "shill" for her sale by revealing such intimacies, he was also intensely interested in Mortmain's detailed comments. To possess a virgin who had not yet taken a man's prick in her mouth or her cunt or ass-hole and who was, moreover, thoroughly American and white, with the exotic hair tint of silver-blonde, would be a superb inaugural for the beginning for the harem he planned to have in Tangiers. His own yacht rode at anchor on the other side of the island, in the one place which was safe and which was camouflaged by the rocks and the trees concealing the rest of the inlet. The captain of his yacht, a dour Egyptian, and his crew of six seamen, remained aboard at his specific orders; but to propitiate them for not having this hoped-for shore leave, the Sheikh had promised to buy each of them a slave girl in the secret Ouraned-Nail mart in the native quarter of Tangiers when they should finally dock there on their return journey.
Penelope Sands, dressed in a very modest, business-like linen suit-coat-skirt combination, was beside her employer and intended ravisher, the superb and mature Elise Duval. The two of them would forego the rest of the evening's entertainment, for Elise Duval abominated the sexual act between men and women, and Francis Saltiel explained to her that doubtless both Mrs. Dorothy Barten and Molly Mortmain might be exhibited and forced into being fucked by their eventual buyer. However, the Lesbian intended this very night to seduce her secretary, and she had come to an arrangement with both owners of the island: if Penelope refused to yield, Elise Duval intended to leave her behind for a month, during which time she would be trained by the beautiful mulatress dominatress, Alma.
At last dinner came to an end, the last liqueurs, candies and salted nuts were served, and Leopold
Darden and Francis Saltiel, smoking imported Corona cigars, invited Sheikh Harounel Beztar, James Mortmain and his wife Molly, to accompany them out to the round little auditorium where in the arena not one but two superb beauties would be presented. It was only a short walk from the main building of this island paradise to the amphitheater, and the Arabian tribal ruler, who had never seen it before, was highly excited as Francis Saltiel explained to him the unusual facilities of the building. "We can, your Highness," he purposely flattered the ego of the bearded Arabian by using the latter's former title, "stage games such as they had in the coliseum of Rome during the reign of the Caesars. There are all sorts of apparatuses there for the punishment and torture of rebellious slave girls. The seats themselves are huge loges, extremely comfortable, and there is a miniature bar in each section at the seating area. It will accommodate a hundred guests and half as many of their friends if desired. I had a famous German architect build it for me, and since he shares our aims and pleasures, he took part of his pay in two lovely slave girls whom he personally trained in this very arena."
"Incredible, Mr. Saltiel!" the dark eyes of the sheikh burned with avaricious lust. "Then it appears that my waiting for you was not in vain!"
"Hardly, Your Highness. Because, you see, there will be two young women offered for sale tonight, not just one. And I think you will come away with both of them, if I know your tastes."
"I shall be eternally indebted to you for allowing me to find here at Lecayano a revival of the happier ancient times when, in my country, the measure of owning slaves of great beauty and price was equally the measure of a chieftain of the strongest tribes," the bearded Arabian gutturally exclaimed.
They reached the door of the building. Francis Saltiel unlocked it with a silver key, and, inclining his head, allowed the sheikh to enter first. Molly Mortmain, clinging to her husband's arm, was wide-eyed with wonder. "What's going to happen here, darling?" she whispered uneasily. "You didn't tell me about this place at all. Are we going to stay very long? I'd just love to get back to Miami. Oh why couldn't we go on, say to South America and finish our honeymoon? You know how much I want you. And you've been avoiding me, because you're interested in these men. I don't like them, honestly I don't Jimmy darling."
"Don't worry about it, Molly. After tonight, you won't have to worry about anything, I give you my word," the heartless brown-haired husband glibly responded. He gave her a fatuous smile, squeezed her hand and put a kiss on her cheek, and Molly Mortmain's suspicions were lulled.
It was, to be sure, the kiss of Judas.
Beneath the level of this amphitheater, there was a narrow runway, a kind of tunnel which had been dug between the building and the compound. Thus Alma Vordon, the beautiful mulatress trainer of slaves, would lead Dorothy Barten into the arena upon receiving an electronic signal in her quarters, which would be communicated whenever either of the owners of the island pressed a little magnetic button at the end of the right arm of their loges.
Since there were so few spectators tonight, they all sat together in the very first row. They saw before them a circular arena, made of sand, with a few palm trees planted in it, a little hill, a deep trough filled with water in which snakes slithered-they were not poisonous, though they would terrify the victim. It had the semblance of a desert with an oasis, which was the trough. But in addition, there were various apparatuses planted here and there which illustrated the atrociously sadistic purpose to which this arena was to be put. There was a cross, heavy, of black teakwood, to which a girl could be crucified (by thongs, not by nails). Between two of the palm trees, about six feet apart, two sets of ropes were stretched, and about waist-level, with a net-hammock in the middle, here a girl could be placed and bound, her legs straddled, so the man might stand between her thighs while at the same time he pinched her nipples with tongs or whip them with a tiny wire whip. There was also a metal triangle to the right, to which a girl could be tethered, her wrists drawn up to the very peak of the triangle, her ankles locked in metal gyves at the base of the legs to straddle her private parts to the lash or to the male prick.
As Francis Saltiel explained to the engrossed sheikh, "Later, Your Highness, I intend to stage gladiatorial games, between white women and Negresses, and perhaps even between men and women, the losers to pay the price by whipping and violation, despite their sex. I have many projects for Lecayano. Within the next few months, there will be quite a number of wealthy sophisticated guests like yourself who will pay me well to train slaves for them. With the profits Leopold and I make, we can offer our guests in the future such exotic delights as even Nero or Alexander the Great could not conjure up!"
"Amazing!" the sheikh repeated. "I am told, however, that you brought along in your yacht two very pretty sisters from the United States. Southern girls, I assume, since most of your efforts are concentrated in that area. Are they also for sale?"
"Not at this time, Your Highness. They haven't even been trained. Besides, I have a personal interest in one of them at least, and no man shall precede me with her," Franis Saltiel smiled a thin-lipped smile.
But now the time had come, and, with an apology to his bearded guest, the black-haired sadist touched the magnetic button, as signal to Alma to bring out Mrs. Dorothy Barten and present her to this buying audience of one.
The sheikh took up a pair of binoculars, and trained them on the arena. "This reminds me almost of my own land in Morocco, Mr. Saltiel," he murmured ecstatically. "Ah, but there, I didn't have white women. They were the Bedouin girls, or sometimes even the mysterious Ouled-Nail, Berbers who could dance like no other dancers in the world, and who were especially agile with their fingers and their tongues in draining the juices from a man's zeb!"
"You will find, Highness," Francis Saltiel amusedly observed as he puffed at his cigar, "that the girls Alma trains for me are equally proficient in milking all the juices from a man's prick-which is our American word for your Arabian one, Highness. Ah, but now we are about to see the first slave candidate!"
For suddenly, not far from the trough, a trapdoor lifted, and up from an ascending stairwell out of the subterranean tunnel connecting the compound with this building, Alma emerged amid applause. She was stunning, clad in a purple rubber brassiere and panties, red leather knee-length boots and matching elbow-length gloves, and in her right hand was a five-thonged black leather martinet, while in her left was a silver chain at which she now tugged. One heard sobs, and then one saw the golden hair of Dorothy Barten as she emerged up from the stairwell.
Leopold Darden pressed another button on the other arm of the chair, which immediately made the indirect, ceiling lights of the amphitheater blaze down, illumining with stark clarity the two participants of this exciting drama. A murmur of admiration rose from the bearded sheikh as he trained his binoculars on the stunningly beautiful gold-haired matron.
The leash-chain had been soldered to a hook in a silver dog collar locked round her beautifully sculptured throat, and her golden hair streamed down to her hips. Her wrists were tied behind her back with rawhide thongs and another set tightly buckled her elbows, which had the effect of thrusting out her two magnificently rounded, closely spaced, high-set titties. She was stark naked. Her face was heart-shaped, with a broad forehead, and thick sandy brows, and the dark blue pools of her widely spaced, large eyes were misty and shadowed with not only tears but the wakening of an atrocious anguish and despair. Her Grecian nose comprised of two delicate, thin and widely flaring wings, indicating her sensuous temperament; her mouth was small but ripe, the upper lip a trifle more pronounced, giving her an attitude of superciliousness. Her skin was marvelously unusual for a true blonde (and that she was such Alma knew from having 82 shaved the thick dark-golden bush which almost hid the lips of her cunthole); it was a pale milky hue, unblemished and wonderfully satiny and soft. Her thighs were long and rounded, her calves delightfully curved. She was perhaps five feet five and three-quarter inches in height, weighing about 127 pounds, mouthwateringly distributed, particularly as regards her bottom, titties and thighs. Alma now made her turn round and show her back to the excited spectators: Dorothy Barten's bottom was composed of two solid, ripely rounded globes, with a very tight furrow between them, a bottom to tempt even the most jaded flagellant.
"Who is this dazzling houri from paradise, Mr. Saltiel?" the sheikh muttered without taking his eyes from the scarlet faced naked captive whom Alma now led forward towards the loges. She inclined her head deferentially towards them, and with a yank on the leash-chain and a sibilant command, made poor Dorothy Barten emulate her except that the latter bowed down to the waist and kept her head lowered until a yank of the chain permitted her to straighten.
"Her name is Mrs. Dorothy Barten, Highness," the suave black-haired co-owner of Lecayano murmured. "She is twenty-eight years of age, she has been married three years, and her husband was indebted to my partner. After he sold his fashionable Newport mansion and converted other personal effects, he was still about ten thousand dollars short. He therefore ceded title to his wife, who has been here in training for some few weeks awaiting just such a discriminating buyer as yourself."
"What a magnificent body! My noble zeb throbs with vigor just looking at those breasts, at that bare pink orifice of pleasure!"
"Don't forget, Highness," Francis Saltiel knowingly replied," that she has other orifices to give you pleasure. That of her bottom, for example, which I happen to know is virgin; her husband told me as much. It is true that he had made her French him on several occasions, so we can only offer you one virginity at this time. And she has known how to take the whip, though it terrifies her and shames her. May I suggest also that if you do purchase her and wish to flog her, you have her blindfolded and leave her in a very narrow, dark room with plenty of time to think over what awaits her. Not only does she have a terror of the whip, she is also afraid of the dark, of being locked up, and she also has a deathly terror of mice and rats and insects. Those snakes in the trough, for instance, are there tonight to enforce a certain little act of ritualistic obedience which is in your honor."
"Incredible! And what is her asking price?"
"For this one, twenty thousand dollars. You see, we must make a profit so that we can entertain you lavishly during your stay here, Your Highness," Francis Saltiel replied with a wry little smile.
The bearded sheikh leaned back in his loge, and accepted a cigar which the black-haired sadist offered from a silver box. He puffed at it until it was drawing well, keeping his binoculars trained on the shamed, naked captive all the while.
"You may proceed, Alma," Francis Saltiel called out.
"Thank you, master." Alma bowed again, then turned on her victim: "Kneel down and lick my boots until they shine and you can see your worthless face in them, bitch," she commanded.
The young matron at once knelt down, her arms stiffly drawn behind her back, thanks to the double sets of buckling straps at wrists and elbows. She-seemed almost to grovel as she applied her mouth to the toe of Alma's left boot, and the sheikh could see her pink tongue creep out and begin to rasp against the gleaming leather. After about three minutes, she moved to the other boot with as much assiduity and servility while Alma flicked her crop lightly over the sculptured milky back, shoulders, hips and thighs to indicate to the victim that diligence was essential.
At last she was permitted to rise, and then Alma said to her," Bitch, you have learned to be docile during my training of you. I'm satisfied with you this evening, but I'm sure that His Highness would enjoy seeing you whipped, what do you say to that?"
Dorothy Barten bit her lower lip, and a violent shiver rippled through. She raised her poignantly widened dark-blue eyes towards the bearded Moroccan ruler, and then her cheeks were stained with a blush of shame as she tremulously replied, in a quivering low tone, "I am a slave who exists only to please a master or a mistress. It is an honor for me to be whipped to please His Highness."
"Bismallah!" Sheikh Haroun el-Beztar hoarsely ejaculated, half-rising from his loge. "What incomparable training, Mr. Saltiel! I really must commend Miss Alma."
"You must have seen only a little part of her expertise, Highness," the black-haired sadist chuckled, "Would you like to whip her yourself or will you let Alma do it for you?"
"Yes-but then I've never seen Miss Alma use the whip. I think I should prefer it tonight."
"Let it be done. Proceed, Alma!" Francis Saltiel called out with a wave of his hand.
At this, the mulatress again bowed towards the loge in which the bearded sheikh sat, and then, spreading her thighs and planting her boots solidly on the sand, commanded, "Bitch, come crawl to me, place your head between my legs, stick up that insolent bottom of yours and beg me to thrash it."
Once again the conquered golden-haired captive sank down to her knees and crawled slowly towards the mocking mulatress. She bent her head down low, moved forward, and Alma instantly clamped her legs against the victim's neck and cheeks, yoking her immutably. Then, in a halting, trembling voice in which one heard the hint of tears and sobs, Dorothy Barten gasped, "PI-please, M-Mistress Alma-, give my b-big naked b-bottom a good sound th-thrashing!"
"So I shall, Dorothy. How many strokes do you think constitute a good thrashing?" Alma cynically inquired. In this pose, the magnificent milky behind of the groveling victim was turned towards the loges, and the sheikh fixed his binoculars on those nether globes, licking his lips, and trembling with ill-disguised passion.
"That is a little better, Dorothy. We shall make it forty, though, don't you think? I am sure His Highness would prefer that."
"Yes, of course, M-Mistress Alma," the matron groaned. One could see her naked bottom-cheeks flinching and tightening already in anticipation of what would surely be an atrociously painful ordeal.
"Of course you'll remember not to try to lower your arms to protect your wicked bottom, Dorothy. The first time you do that, I shall have to add two cuts with my riding crop. Are you ready then to be thrashed?"
"Oh I-yes, Mistress Alma!"
"Very good. And by the way, Dorothy, you will count each lash so that his Highness understands that you are receiving your full count. Attention now, I'm going to begin. Stick your bottom out a little more. You may cry all you like, of course, but don't dare try to get your hands down to cover up your bottom, or I'll flay you alive!"
And with this, tightening the hold of her leather-booted legs, the magnificent mulatress dominatress brought down the riding crop vertically over the left ass-cheek of the lewdly positioned, kneeling golden-haired matron.
There was a sobbing cry of "Aahhh! One, Mistress Alma!" And a bright red streak leaped up at once on the pale milky flesh of that voluptuous opulent bottom. The flesh had begun to twitch and spasm, indicative of Dorothy Barten's feverish anxiety and terror. The bearded sheikh swore in Arabic as he tried to adjust the binoculars to bring into still more vivid focus the spacious and luscious nether globes, the sight of the blonde-bush framing that now gaping cunthole, and the secretive ambery-shadowy furrow which separated the huddling globes.
Dorothy Barten managed, by dint of grinding her teeth, compreseing her lips, and closing her eyes desperately shut, to keep from twisting about too much or from crying out loudly till about the twelfth stroke. It slashed over the tops of her hips in a backhanded, horizontal direction, and this time her wellmarked bottom lunged and twisted, and a hoarse cry of agony was torn from her: "Oww ohhh, oh my God, twelve, Mistress Alma! Oh please, I've been good, please not too hard?"
"This one is disciplined?" the sheikh sneered as he turned toward Francis Saltiel.
"You must remember, Highness, that she is American-born, that she had not until she reached this island ever tasted more than a cutting word from her worthless husband. If you could have seen her the very first day she was here, when she fought the Negro guards and defied us, and then seen her exactly a week later when she crawled to the cell door and as they opened it and licked their feet and begged them to give her a good sound handspanking on her naked bottom for having offended them that first day, you would agree that Alma has done an exceptionally good job with her. Besides, knowing how much you admire spirit in a woman, Highness, would you care for a slave in whom there is not one iota of spirit or resistance left? If she were totally docile, if she did everything you wished without causing you the slightest complaint, you know perfectly well your own pleasures would be diminished thereby."
"By the beard of the Prophet, Mr. Saltiel, you understand my very soul-yes, and you are right! And what you have told me of the things she fears will help me add to my enjoyment of her. I am content; let it proceed."
And proceed it did, to the fortieth stroke which cut right down into the tender, narrow ass-hole groove, a lash which drew frenzied screams and the most libidinous wrigglings and jerking of that milky naked body, for Dorothy Barten endured the cruel flogging without fainting. When she was at last released, she remained on her knees, wriggling and twisting herself, tears flowing down her cheeks, while her fingers clawed the air and dug into her palms almost to the very blood as she scored them with her sharp nails.
"And now the ritual of complete servility, Highness," Francis Saltiel drawled, making a sign to the mulatress.
"Bitch, unless you wish another flogging of twice as many strokes from my crop," Alma turned to stare down haughtily at the weeping matron, "You're going to ask His Highness to grant you the unheard-of favor of letting you use your mouth and tongue on his mighty zeb-and you know what that word is, for I have trained you in an elementary knowledge of Arabic the last two or three days, don't you?"
"Oh y-yes, Mistress Alma," Dorothy Barten sobbed.
"You will also ask him first to take you across his lap and spank your fat, insolent bottom a little first. It will help harden his zeb and bring more juice to it for you to draw out and swallow, bitch," Alma continued.
A look of horror and revulsion was congealed on that lovely, tearstained, trembling, heart-shaped face. The young woman's eyes widened, her nostrils began to flare and shrink, her big naked titties to heave agitatedly, "Oh please-my b-b-bottom hurts so dreadfully, oh please, I beg of you to ask him-no, to beseech, His Highness to spare me that at least-didn't I take my th-thrashing obediently, Mistress Alma?"
"You dare to argue, you dare to discuss? Any well-trained slave does neither of these things! I'll ask His Highness to use the crop on your fat bottom till it's bleeding and in shreds if you don't at once go to him on your knees, beg his forgiveness for such a disgusting spectacle, and then ask him to spank you properly before he lets you suck his zeb!"
Dorothy Barten began to weep. Alma stared down at her contemptuously, then picked up the chain-leash grip and gave it a yank. "Follow me then, slave," she sneered.
Bound as she was and yoked as she was by that dog collar, the captive had no recourse but to obey. Alma led her towards the trough and then, plunging her left hand into the tumbled golden curls of the captive, twisted it and yanked at it, shaking poor Dorothy Barten's head as a terrier might shake a rat, as with her other hand she pointed down into the water: "Do you see those snakes? I'm going to throw you in there and leave you in there for an hour. They're not poisonous, but they'll crawl all over your bare body, in between your legs, over your breasts, maybe even into the cheeks of your bottom-would you like that instead?"
"Oh nooooo! ! ! ! ! ! Take them away-I'll do anything, anything in the world, oh please Your Highness, I want you to spank my big bottom, I want you to spank me hard and then please let me suck your royal zeb!" Dorothy Barten hysterically shrieked as she twisted her agonized face back towards the loges.
"By the bowels of Shaitan," the bearded sheikh panted, "A master-stroke! I must reward Miss Alma for the pleasure she's given me this evening. And you, my good friend Mr. Saltiel, for providing such delicious sport in the person of a gaiour who will be the first addition to my new harem in Tangiers."
"We always try to please a discriminating client, Highness," Francis Saltiel smiled.
Alma touched a panel along the circular rim which separated the arena from the loges, and it swung back at once. Flicking the weeping matron with her crop, she urged Dorothy Barten on towards the loge in which the bearded sheikh sprawled, grinning wolfishly at the magnificent naked captive.
He handed the binoculars to Francis Saltiel, and then with an oath, dragged the naked captive over his lap and, palming the small of her back with his left hand, began to smack her stripped and livid bottom-cheeks with the flat of his right hand till she kicked and shrieked and implored pardon.
Then, when he had released her, she tearfully thanked him for this mark of favor, and, lifting up his silken robe, plunged her head between his hairy thighs and began to suck his prick avidly until with a bellow of delight, he arched himself and shot copious jets of gism which Dorothy Barten was frantically careful to swallow to the very last drop.
"You shall have my check on the Swiss bank for twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Saltiel. And my eternal gratitude along with it," the bearded sheikh panted when at last the weeping captive had been led away, down the trapdoor which connected with that stairwell and thence to the compound and her own private cell.
"Thank you for your purchase, Highness. However, I trust your interest won't end with this first offering."
"You have another?"
"Didn't I tell you I did? I think the time has come for her presentation. Alma, be ready! And now, Mr. Mortmain, will you do me the favor of making your lovely wife Molly stand up and take off her clothes, all of them?" Francis Saltiel drawled.
Molly Mortmain stared incredulously at her husband, then at Francis Saltiel, and finally at the bearded sheikh, who was regarding her now with gloating interest, lifting his binoculars to fix on her exquisite face. She wore a red satin cocktail dress, with a wide V-cut at the bodice, exposing the upper curves and a tempting portion of the valley of her high-perched titties. The frock hugged lusciously rounded yet lithe hips, caressed the long gracefully rounded thighs; smoke-hued nylons caressed her sleek, high-set calves. As she saw the eyes of all fix on her, she uttered a cry.
"Jimmy! This really isn't very funny, you know, and it's not in very good taste."
"It's in perfect taste, Molly. You're my wife, and I'm your husband. I want you to get up and take off all your clothes, very slowly. And turn towards the Sheikh, if you please. He's particularly interested in you," the brown-haired profligate casually remarked.
"Mr. Saltiel," Molly Mortmain put out a hand, her face red with shame and embarrassment, "I appeal to you as our host. Jimmy must have had too much to drink."
"On the contrary, I thought he handled himself most abstemiously, Molly. I suggest you obey him. If you don't, I shall have Dave and Sam aid you in taking off your clothes," Francis Saltiel replied in a silky voice.
At these words, the two powerful, emasculated Negroes, clad only in jockstraps and sandals, now came down the aisles toward the front loges, each holding a cravache in his right hand. Molly Mortmain stared at them, then back at her husband, then back at the beautiful mulatress imperatrix, who waited on the sands of the arena with her riding crop in hand, confident that this new slave-candidate would soon be subjugated and put to the auction ... an auction, to be sure, where there would be only one bidder, the deposed Arabian tribal ruler.
"Jimmy!" Molly Mortmain again cried out, her voice rising high with a note of panicky desperation. "What is this all about? What have I done? We've just been married, darling-I love you!"
"You'll find, Sheikh," James Mortmain calmly ignored his wife's heartrending entreaty, addressing himself to the bearded Arabian, "that my wife can offer you three virginities-her cunt, her ass-hole and her mouth. I've taken particular pains not to break her cherry."
"Most thoughtful, young man! She is all the more valuable with those prizes still to be enjoyed by her fortunate owner, who shall be myself if she pleases me," the Sheikh declared.
Molly Mortmain heard all this dialogue with growing stupefaction. Suddenly she uttered a cry and tried to run up the aisle to escape. But the Negroes had anticipated her maneuver, and the taller-Dave-ran swiftly on ahead by some seven or eight rows to apprehend her, and caught her by a wrist, then dragged her, shrieking and pleading, back to the front row. Sam seized her other wrist, and the two blacks held her, panting, trembling, her face scarlet, her eyes huge with horror and shame, before the smirking Francis Saltiel and his partner, Leopold Darden.
"That was very foolish, my dear. The first thing you must learn is to obey. But I will give you an opportunity to lessen the severity of your punishment," Saltiel said, in the most casual of tones. He sounded more as if he were discussing a tea party than the stripping, flogging and selling of a beautiful young wife whose three virginities had not even been taken by her treacherous husband. "Dave and Sam will let you go, and I shall count twenty. If by then you are not naked, you shall receive only twenty lashes on your naked bottom with a leather paddle. Otherwise, I'm afraid I shall have to turn you over to Alma, who is my official trainer of slaves."
"Slaves? Whipping? In God's name, what are you talking about? What nightmare, what joke-what ghastly joke is this?" the beautiful silver-blonde hysterically demanded.
"It's no joke, honey," James Mortmain chuckled as he lit a cigar which was offered to him by Leopold Darden. "I hereby divorce you. I shall repeat it three times, and I think, Sheikh, that in your country such a proclamation immediately separates husband and wife. Isn't that true?"
"You are well informed, Mr. Mortmain. It is quite true. Repeat it twice more and she is no longer your wife," the Arabian sadist chuckled. James Mortmain accordingly repeated the formula of separation twice, and Molly Mortmain uttered a horrified cry: "Oh my God-but what have I done? Jimmy, my darling, how have I displeased you? You can't mean this-you didn't bring me here to get rid of me-say you didn't! Say it's a dream, a nightmare, you're playing a trick on me-tell me what it is-I 'll make it up to you!"
"Save your breath and strength, baby," he said cynically. "I'm not your husband any more, and you'd better obey orders from now on. Personally, I think you could stand a good thrashing on that big ass of yours."
Molly Mortmain heard her husband's renunciation of her, stared at his insolently impassive face, then burst into heartrending tears, but they availed her nothing.
"I'm waiting, Molly," Francis Saltiel said in a voice that showed a note of irritation. "Let go of her, Dave and Sam. I'm going to count to twenty, Molly. One. . .two. . .three. . . "
"Oh no-my God, I'll pay you-yes, that's it-I'll pay you, Mr. Saltiel, to take me back to Miami! What a monster he is, but why did he marry me, then! I've money, I've a good deal of money-I'll pay you anything you ask, but get me out of this horrible place!" Molly Mortmain babbled.
"Three. . .four. . .five. . .six. . . " Francis Saltiel continued to count as if she had not even spoken.
Her eyes were enormous now and her magnificent round titties had begun to rise and fall turbulently, as she clenched her fists, staring wildly from face to face, seeing only lust and cruelty in every gaze. Even the two Negroes who could not have sexual relations with any of these succulent victims but who had accustomed themselves to that deprivation in return for wealth that they could not otherwise have earned in their lifetimes, stared greedily at her.
"You've very little time if you expect to be undressed by the time I reach twenty," Francis Saltiel warned. "Seven. . .eight. . .nine!"
"Oh, I can't! It's inhuman! Oh God, you've no right-I'm an American citizen-"
"Here on Lecayano, Molly, there is no citizenship, there is only the law which we establish. Your husband has brought you here to sell you as a slave because he is in desperate financial straits. And now that we have had a chance to be with you on the yacht and to know you, we believe, Leopold and myself, that you will make a very excellent slave. Will you undress now, or must Dave and Sam strip you naked? I warn you, you will get a good deal more than the leather paddle if that is the case," the black-haired sadist warned.
Again Molly Mortmain stared at Francis Saltiel, and then she burst into hysterical laughter. "You're just trying to scare me. Yes, that's it! This is all a practical joke-yes, my goodness, you all had me scared. But it's a horrible thing to do to a girl on her honeymoon. Jimmy, I do love you. I'll be the best wife you ever had. Please, darling, I don't like all these people around when I want to be alone with my husband-"
"I'm afraid your time is up, Molly," Francis Saltiel broke in, his voice harshening. "Dave, Sam, oblige the lady."
"A pleasure, Boss," Dave chuckled thickly. He and Sam again seized Molly Mortmain by the wrists, each using his left hand. Then, with his right, the taller Negro took hold of the bodice of the frock and ripped it down, while Sam, reaching behind the horrified young woman, took hold of the low-cut back of the frock and did-likewise. The frock tattered and dropped to her feet, revealing an exquisite beige satin slip, cut to the proportions of the frock and thus showing much of her lovely bare back and the upper curves of her titties as well as the enticing valley between them. But before she could utter more than a cry and try to jerk her wrists loose, the two Negroes again seized the slip, and in a trice this too was ripped from her body and she was revealed to the assemblage in only white nylon panties and matching bra, a tiny white satin-elastic garterbelt hooking up her gauzy nylon hose.
"Oh stop! Don't do this to me, Jimmy-oh, what have I done? In God's name, if you needed money, why didn't you come to me? I could have got it from my family, and I have some in my own accounts. Oh, please, darling, save me-don't let them do this to me, if you love me!" she poignantly implored.
But her husband leaned back in his loge, puffing at his cigar, all his voyeuristic proclivities excited by this novel scene in which he was a passive spectator watching his own wife being stripped naked, to be thrashed, then sexually degraded, and finally sold as a bed-bitch to this bearded sheikh.
"Please, Mr. Saltiel," Molly Mortmain tried a last desperate appeal, her beautiful hazel eyes blurred with tears and widely dilated as they fixed on the sardonic face of the ruler-owner of the island. "I swear to you, I'll get you all the money you want, but don't do this to me. I don't deserve it. And besides, you've no right, you know. You can't just kidnap me and dispose of me here-there are laws, you know."
"Continue, boys," Francis Saltiel ordered with a weary sigh. Then, addressing the bearded sheikh, he said in a voice loud enough for Molly to hear, "As you can see, she's quite undisciplined. But perhaps this initial thrashing will give her the idea of what is in store for her. And I recommend that afterward you subject her to regular flagellation until she comes to regard the whip as her very life."
"But of course, my dear Mr. Saltiel! It is going to be wonderful to have two white slaves. I shall be able to tie them up together by their thumbs by the same cord, with a rope wound around their waist, stark naked, their toes just touching the floor, in my little villa in Tangiers," Haroun-el-Beztar purred greedily, his black eyes dancing with an unholy light. "I myself shall wield the lash on both, until they plead with me to spare them, each trying to outdo the other in pleading and trying to draw my attention to the other so I won't flog her. And the winner, of course, shall share my bed, while the loser shall remain thus all night long, with a sound flogging awaiting her at dawn from one of my Bedouin servants."
"A very excellent program, Your Highness," Francis Saltiel chuckled. Meanwhile, the two Negroes had begun to rip off Molly's bra and panties, leaving only the thin garter belt, the hose and the red leather pumps with rhinestone buckles on her insteps. She uttered a shriek as her light brown pussyhair was seen, contrasting with the magnificent silver-blonde tinting of her coiffure, and she tried desperately to bend over and clench her thighs together to hide this most intimate part of her still virgin body. The bearded desert ruler sucked in his breath and swore in Arabic, as he put the binoculars upon her to bring the delicate coloration, the fine skin texture, the delightfully smooth belly with its wide, shallow navel, the magnificent titties with their provocative aurolae and the crinkly buds of the nipples palpitating as her bubbies rose and fell violently now and her shame and terror mounted.
"Take her, Alma," Francis Saltiel called.
The beautiful mulatress put her palm on the rail of the low enclosure which set off the amphitheatre itself from the loges and agilely vaulted over it. Swinging her ridingcrop in the air menacingly, she approached the now frantic, sobbing, naked young woman and, plunging the fingers of her gloved right hand into Molly Mortmain's silver-blonde hair, twisted and yanked while the Negroes at once released the victimized young wife. With shriek upon shriek of anguish, Molly Mortmain was forced to sink to her knees, and then the riding crop whistled down to streak her lower back with two biting slashes that left angry red streaks over the smooth satiny flesh.
"Come along with me, bitch," Alma jeered, as she applied still another stroke, this time across the shoulder blades of her writhing, groveling, shrieking, naked captive. By dint of using the riding crop and yanking at poor Molly's hair, the mulatress dragged the girl towards the rail and made her crawl over it, then flung her down on the sand and stood, feet planted solidly apart, hands on hips, greedily stared down at the trembling, exquisite silver-blonde captive clad only in her garter belt and nylons, for in the scuffle her pumps had fallen off.
"Of course, a thrashing, Mr. Saltiel," she looked back at her master, saw him nod. "I should say a good handspanking first, to humiliate her, like a little child who has been naughty and has had tantrums."
"An excellent preliminary, Alma. And then?"
Francis Saltiel leaned forward, rapt with interest.
"Twenty-five with the leather paddle, and then as many with my riding crop. And of course I shan't break the skin. The blows to be delivered to her ass and upper thighs, with perhaps a few good slashes in between them," the mulatress responded.
"A splendid program! Your Highness, do you approve?"
"Bismallah! By all the angels in the gardens of the Prophet, I do indeed!" the bearded Arabian panted, licking his lips and almost dropping his cigar in his sexual agitation.
He had donned, for this entrance into the round amphitheatre, a white silk burnous and sandals, and he was naked under it. Already his prick was in a savage state or rut. Having watched Dorothy Barten's subjugation, he now found that he desired Molly Mortmain even more, especially because of the piquant circumstances surrounding her presentation. A virgin wife, cast adrift by her husband and offered callously for sale to the only bidder at this private little auction on an island where the only law was that of two men who owned it.
Molly listened to this exchange of comments regarding her punishment with growing consternation and disbelief. She saw Alma nod and begin to turn back towards her, and she scrambled to her feet and once more tried to run. But the mulatress bounded after her with an agility that was amazing and suddenly thrust out with her left foot, making Molly stumble and plunge directly into the trough which contained the snakes, stirring and coiling. With a wild shriek of almost inhuman terror, Molly began to flail desperately with her arms, crying, "Oh, the snakes-get me out of here-oh God, have mercy on me-I don't want to die-Oh Jimmy, save me!"
The two Negroes leaped down onto the sands to reach the trough, lay down on their bellies and stretched out their arms to draw in the weeping, naked young woman.
"And that," Alma hissed, "will cost you something extra, as you shall see. Put her on the cross, boys!"
The two Negroes dragged Molly towards the teakwood cross, as her contorted, tear-bathed face turned back over her shoulder and she continued to shriek, "Oh no, Jimmy, don't let them-oh please, how could I ever have hurt you so, to do this tome? For God's sake, don't let them-I beg of you, in the name of human decency, don't let them!"
There was a deathly silence in the arena now, as the Negroes forced her to her feet, locked her arms in the metal gyves at her elbows and at her wrist, forcing her to stand on tiptoe. Her bottom-cheeks arched out in shrinking and trembling condition already in terrible anticipation of what was to follow.
Alma, meanwhile, had gone over to a little metal coffer near one side of the trough, opened it and taken out an oval-shaped leather paddle. She returned to the cross, dropped the riding crop onto the sand, transferred the paddle to her right hand and exclaimed, "Twenty-five with the paddle. They will feel like this-but only after I've given you the handspanking, you rebellious bitch!" With this, she struck a quick, glancing blow at the base of Molly's voluptuous, naked behind. Molly screamed and tried to struggle, but the gyves held her arms solidly outstretched in cross, and only her panting titties, belly and loins pressed against the cross, while a dull red splotch at once sprang up on the fine skin of her naked ass.
Then, tossing the paddle to the sand, taking her place to the victim's left, Alma began to administer a humiliating, painful handspanking with her gloved right palm to that voluptuous, naked ass. Molly burst into tears, pleaded, implored, played aloud for Divine mercy, screamed, twisted, tried to kick, and finally, shamelessly, implored mercy from her torturer as her bottom gradually reddened and the ill-fated area began to agonize her. Pampered as she had been all her life, it was the first time she had been so dealt with, but there was, alas, far more for her to endure than this juvenile chastisement, however humiliating and painful it seemed.
Now Alma took up the paddle and applied twenty-five slowly administered spanks, visiting every cranny of the two shuddering, contracting asscheeks, while Molly's cries rang out frenziedly and her body was bathed with sweat as she tried to jerk her arms free of the gyves.
After a brief pause, Alma picked up the riding crop and now visited some twenty lashes, divided between the victim's flaming ass-cheeks and upper thighs, with Molly bellowing and shrieking, babbling incoherent words, jerking and kicking as best she could.
Now, lowering the crop, Alma leaped it up five times straight into Molly's cunt, and each lash drew an inhuman prolonged wail of unspeakable suffering. Then lowering the crop, panting, her body dripping sweat, the mulatress asked, "Now are you ready to obey, bitch? Or would you rather have a dozen more cuts where you just felt the riding crop, in that little cunt of yours?"
"Ohhhhh NOOOOOOOOO! For God's sake, no more-I'll do anything-anything-only stop-I'm dying-have mercy!"
"Release her, boys!" Alma waved the crop. The Negroes unshackled the half-fainting silver-blonde young wife, who was trying to rub her fiery bottom and even to soothe her stinging pussy, to the sound of brutal, salacious laughter from the sheikh and poor Molly's own husband.
"Your Highness," Alma inclined her head respectfully toward the bearded Arabian, "would it please you to have this slave-bitch come suck your prick as a kind of pledge of the service she will be only too happy to perform after she is your personal property?"
"In the name of Allah the All-Generous!" he hoarsely panted. "It would be an act not only of great hospitality but also ease my agony! I am bursting from watching you apply such a magnificent thrashing, and it has taught me much.
"Your Highness is far too flattering over my poor and humble talents," Alma purred. Then, her face hardening, she kicked poor Molly's inflamed bottom with the toe of her right foot, drawing a frenzied shriek from the naked young woman who lunged forward and fell flat on her belly, both hands again rubbing the injured place. "Get up, before I flay the hide off you! Get up, I say! Get up and go to the railing before His Highness, climb over it, and go to His Highness. Kneel down, lift up his burnous, get between his legs and put your mouth on his prick and suck out all the juice. If you dare spit out a single drop, Molly, I'll put you back on the cross, this time facing me, and I shall give you fifty lashes on your titties and as many on your cunt. Do you understand me?" the mulatress hissed.
Dazed with pain, suffering and shame, wanting only to escape the fiery agony seething through her body, the naked young woman half-dragged herself across to the rail, managed to stumble over it, and sank down on her knees on the carpeted steps leading to the loge. The sheikh awaited her, his eyes blazing, his chest heaving. Slowly she bent her head, tears blinding her eyes as they spilled over down her cheeks. Then her trembling fingers lifted the silken burnous and her head disappeared between the hairy, gnarled thighs. A moment later his eyes rolled in the indescribable expression of a man who is being gloriously Frenched. He clenched his thighs together, panting, "By the bowels of Shaitan, this slave has so soft a mouth, and yet is thoroughly draining my zeb-more-use your tongue now, you white slut-use it, or I'll have the nipples torn off your breasts with red-hot pincers-yes-ahhhh, NOW! Drink it all! Drink your master's seed!"
He plunged both hands down and grasped, under the burnous, the neck of the whimpering, shuddering Molly Mortmain, forcing her to accept the odious draft of his bubbling gims. She retched and gagged, swaying on her knees. But the knowledge that the least act of rebellion would cost her even more pain than her body now shudderingly endured, compelled her to accept this degradation.
James Mortmain, his fly open, was jacking off, his eyes greedily following every nuance of his young wife's subjugation.
Francis Saltiel lit a fresh cigar, gestured to the Negroes to bring liqueurs, sweetmeats, nuts and fruits for the guests to enjoy.
"Well, Your Highness, do you wish her?" he demanded.
"I will pay whatever price you ask. I do not haggle over such a treasure," Haroun-el-Beztar gasped.
And thus, in one night, the Arabian ruler acquired two beautiful white slaves, whose life thereafter would be a living hell and who would share in misery and in agony the vicious lusts of their debauched and perverted master.
Elise Duval had gone to her room directly after din-new, and her secretary, Penelope Sands, entered her room directly across the corridor from her employer. Just before leaving the dinner table, Francis Saltiel had given the passionate Lesbian a key to Penelope's room, and Elise determined this very night to make a final attempt to seduce her lovely employee. Failing that, she would leave Penelope here under the domination of the tyrannical mulatress, Alma Vordon. Four weeks of the whip and bondage and all the rituals of servility would certainly humble even the proudest spirit, Elise knew.
Once inside her room, she went into the luxuriously tiled and fully mirrored bathroom to prepare herself for this seduction scene. Disrobing, she eyed herself critically. She was tall, her skin somewhat tawny. Her breasts were small and widely spaced, uptilting, but with large, well-developed brownish-coral nipples. Her belly was sleek and flat, like a man's, and it had a deep and very narrow navel-nook. She had cropped her brown pussy-hair to leave only a kind of circular fringe round the delicate pink lips of her cunthole, and she now took a scarlet lipstick and delicately tinted them, shivering and closing her eyes at the exquisite sensation of this friction. Her thighs were long and coltish, rather more muscular than was ideal for a female body, for she was a great practitioner of indoor sports like handball, swimming, and calisthenics. Her bottom was oval, tightly compact. With her mannish hairdo and her insolent features, she could easily have passed for a man with the proper attire. A firm chin, an aquiline nose with thin, widely dilating wings, a high forehead, very thin brows, and gray-green eyes whose lashes she trimmed to make short. This gave her gaze a more intense and insolent potency, and it was in keeping with her aggressive personality, for she was a decided "butch."
She put on a white satin blouse, black tailored satin slacks, with a silver-lame belt, and sandals. Then, pulling open the second draw of her dresser, she took out a black leather case and, tucking it under her arm, inspected herself a last time in the mirror and then walked slowly across the hall.
Key in hand, she fitted it into the lock of Penelope Sands' door and quietly entered the room. Penelope uttered a startled cry. She had her back to the door and was studying herself, as it chanced, in the oval mirror atop her dresser. Elise Duval's eyes glittered and narrowed with lust. For her lovely secretary wore only a pair of peach-colored nylon panties and fluffy blue bedroom mules. Her delicious body was otherwise naked, her skin a soft white, wonderfully smooth and unblemished. And the panties tightly sheathed two upstandingly round bottom cheeks with a gradually broadening crevice that gave access to both her cunt and ass-hole. Her thighs were beautifully rounded, but not excessively so. Her calves were slim and high-set. But the mirror showed Elise Duval also her secretary's naked titties, which Penelope instinctively covered with both hands as she turned now, face flaming, to face her employer. And the sight of those gorgeous titties determined Elise to brook no defiance tonight. That was why she had brought along the special leather case-in it was an artificial male prick, with a web strap that could fit around her loins.
"My gracious," she said softly, "you mustn't be ashamed in front of me, Penelope dear, Do put your hands down. What lovely breasts you have!"
They were indeed lovely; high-perched, widely spaced, proud round globes embellished by the narrow rosy aureoles in whose centers palpitating dainty, crinkly pink nipples which looked almost virginal.
"Please, Miss Duval, I-I was just going to bed. Is there something?"
Elise Duval carefully groped for the lock of the door and turned it, her hands behind her back as she confronted the embarrassed young woman. "Yes, there is something. You know, Penelope, I've been very pleased with your work. I mean to give you a substantial raise when we get back to New York."
"That-that's very kind of you, Miss Duval. Are-are we going to stay on this island very long? I really-to be honest with you, Miss Duval, I don't really like those people. That Mr. Saltiel and Mr. Darden frighten me a little."
"Oh?" Elise Duval moved closer now, her thin lips curving in what she wanted to be a sympathetic and understanding smile. "I can understand, Penny dear. They've had unusual lives, and there's something of the adventurer in them. But I'm glad to hear you don't like men."
Penelope Sands' cheeks blazed even more fiercely now as she blurted out, "I didn't say that, Miss Duval! I just said I don't like those two men."
"I know. But you see, Penny, what you resent in them and fear in them is exactly the quality which all men have at heart. They're ruthless, cruel, selfish, and possessive. But women aren't like that, not at all."
"I-I'd rather not discuss that with you, please, Miss Duval. I-I would like to go to sleep."
"But let's chat a bit, dear. Because I have so-much to say to you," Elise Duval murmured huskily as she came closer.
"Please-I want to put a wrapper on or something-"
"But that's silly. We're two women together, grown women, and you've nothing to hide. You're so beautiful, Penny, it's a shame to hide those lovely breasts of yours. Please put down your hands. Here, give them to me." Elise Duval, tossing her case onto Penelope's double bed, extended her hands, which were short, the fingers sturdy, the nails cut almost to the cuticle. They were mannish hands indeed, and as such she herself cared for them.
But the lovely brunette recoiled, with a startled little gasp, her color deepening, her hands still clutching her rapidly swelling titties: "Please, I-I admire you very much, I like to work with you, Miss Duval, but that's all."
The Lesbian pretended to misunderstand. "But of course that's all, dear. Have I made any demands upon you? I just want us to be friends."
"Not-not that way. Not ever. I-I think I'd better tell you that so there won't ever be any misunderstanding between us again, Miss Duval. I-I'm not that kind of girl."
And now there was no mistaking Penelope Sands' meaning. The Lesbian compressed her thin lips and her face paled in a sudden irrational fury at this silly, ingenuous young bitch who dared defy her. "I see," she said contemptuously. "Just because you were fucked once or twice and the man died in the war, your silly sentimental twaddle has made a hero of him. I suppose you're keeping your cunt like a kind of sanctuary for his spirit."
"How dare you talk to me like that! Get out of here-I-I'm offering you my resignation. And if you'll please arrange for me to get back to New York, I'll be very grateful to you." Penelope Sands' voice was trembling.
"It won't be that easy, Penny dear," the Lesbian gloated. "There's no regular commercial transportation to or from Lecayano, I'm afraid. Anyone here has to depend on the good will of the owners, the very men you don't like. Besides, I've arranged with them to put you up here as an honored guest. However, if you go on making nasty remarks like the one you've just thrown in my face, Penny, I'm afraid I shall have to be very harsh with you. And I would hate to do that, you're so lovely."
"I told you once, and I'll say it again and for the last time," Penelope Sands was trembling violently now, and her hands clutched her titties even more vigilantly. "I don't want an affair with a dyke. I'm perfectly natural and normal. Yes, Roger and I went to bed together, and we were going to be married when he died. And that doesn't mean, though, that I'm never going to have another man again. I want to be a woman, and that's what a woman's for, to be loved by a vigorous, healthy man whom she admires and respects and loves."
"You cheap, filthy little tramp, to talk to me of men that way!" the Lesbian sneered. "All they have is that dirty hard prick between their legs, and
I'll that's all they ever want to do to a girl is to put it into her cunt. Oh yes, I've no doubt it feels nice at the time, but once they've had their pleasure, they don't care for you at all. They'll leave you to get pregnant or diseased, they'll abandon you for another girl whose cunt pleases them more-"
"Will you please leave my room, Miss Duval? I don't have anything more to say to you," Penelope Sands declared in a trembling voice, blinking her eyes to clear them of the tears of shame and anger.
"You're forgetting that you're my employee, my dear. Also, that you're here at my invitation and you will leave only when I say so," Elise Duval triumphantly retorted. "But come now, I'm willing to forget what you've just said. You and I could be very happy, Penny. I could teach you many lovely things, things you'll never have ever from any man."
"If you want me to puke, Miss Duval, just keep on telling me things like that. I'm not a woman-lover, and I won't ever be, and I don't know how more plainly I can speak to you. "I-I've been aware for some time that you have a morbid, unnatural interest in me. I do like my job, the money is wonderful, and you've treated me very well. But now you can certainly see it's impossible for me to be associated with you any longer, feeling as I do about a thing like this."
"You're really very brave and defiant, aren't you, Penny? I wonder how you will feel and talk, though, once your put down over a sawhorse with a nice sharp ridge rubbing into that sacrosanct cunt of yours, and maybe a rubber prick with nice little spikes stuck up your ass-hole? Blindfolded and gagged, with a whip lying over your back to be used when your trainer enters your cell for the next session. Yes, I really wonder if you'll be quite so bold and free with your tongue as you are now," Elise Duval viciously declared. Then, going to the bed, she unlocked the case and drew out the artificial prick. "You see, I can fuck you too, and even better than your really dear dead Roger. And I'd advise you, Penny, to let me do it to you. Otherwise, mark my words, you'll be crawling on your knees to me and begging me very humbly to let me do it to you. And maybe I won't want to then."
"You filthy degenerate creature-I'm going to spit in your face in another minute if you don't get out of here!" Penelope Sands stamped her lovely foot. The movement made her titties jiggle, and Elise Duval's eyes glittered with an unholy, lustful light.
With a sarcastic laugh, the Lesbian put the dildo back in the case and locked it. 'I'm sorry it has to be this way, dear. And I don't think you're going to go to bed to sleep tonight quite so quickly as you think. In about an hour, I'll be seeing you again. And maybe you'll have changed your mind by then. Otherwise, I'm afraid I shan't be responsible for the consequences."
With this, she turned oh her heel and, unlocking the door, slammed it shut as she left. Penelope Sands hurried to the door, locked it again, and then flung herself down on her bed and began to weep hysterically. . .
It was nearly midnight, and the large building which housed the guests and the owners of this perverse island had retired for the night. Sheikh Haround-el-Beztar had reluctantly decided not to enjoy his two new slaves, Molly Mortmain and Mrs.
Dorothy Barten. Accordingly, they had been locked up in an isolation cell in the basement of the compound, both naked, blindfolded, seated upon a trestle whose top was angular but covered with horsehair padding. Their wrists were drawn high above their heads by a single cord fixed to a ring in the ceiling, while their ankles were corded to the lower legs of the trestle. A rope lashed round their waists, so that their naked titties were pressed tightly together, and each was conscious of the other's breathing throughout the long atrocious night of suffering. It was a night of penance, meant to enforce docility for the hour when the deposed Arabian tribal ruler would command them into his presence and exact of them their first compliance as his slave-bitches. Now that his business at Lecayano was done, he proposed to set sail the very next night with his two white slaves aboard and head for Tangiers. Perhaps in the fall he would return for a new showing of slaves for sale. And so he slept with a cruel smile on his full lips, his hand fondling his prick, dreaming of the exquisite hours when these two white women should grovel at his feet and each try to surpass the other in proving her loyalty and submission to him to escape the fiendish little torments he would devise for the loser. . .
Down in the corridor of the main building, the two Negroes Dave and Sam crept noiselessly, till they stopped before th door of the room occupied by Penelope Sands. Dave noiselessly unlocked the door with a master key, and he and his companion tiptoed in. Penelope Sands lay sprawled in sleep on the wide bed, her eyes still swollen with the tears of shame she had shed after breaking with her Lesbian employer. She had put on a white nylon nightie, and she lay on her side facing the door, so that their eyes could feast on the gentle, rhythmic swell of her titties, make out the pouting nipples pressing against the filmy stuff, and see the dark thatch of pussy hair at the apex of her lovely rounded thighs. Dave grinned to his companion, softly whispered, "Sometimes, man, I think we got a bad deal when we let ourselves be made into eunuchs. I tell you, looking at that ofay chick right now, I'd give a lot to be able to fuck her."
"You did all right before you went into the deal, black boy, and so did I," Sam reminded him. "We had all the poontang we could roger. Now we got dough, we'll own ourselves a piece of land, and we'll be just as good as all these rich ofays. Anyhow, we can even buy ourselves a while chick if we want, and just whup hell out of her ass and tits and cunt. Leastways, no law says she can't give us a good Frenching even if we can't use our dicks to poke her twat. Now shut up and let's do what we came here for, man."
Penelope Sands stirred in her slumber, perhaps from a bad dream, or a subconscious presentiment. She rolled over onto her back, just as the two Negroes swiftly seized her, Sam clapping a hand over he mouth to stifle any outcry. She woke at once, her eyes bulging, tried to struggle, but she was trundled out of her room like a sack of potatoes and out to the compound. There, Alma Vorden was waiting impatiently.
"Did she give you any trouble, boys?" the lovely mulatress demanded. For this midnight session, she wore only thigh-long red leather boots with spike heels, shoulder-length matching leather gloves, a brief red leather bra which exposed the upper half of her proud titties and the satiny valley between them, and a kind of rhinestone G-string which exposed her magnificent buttocks, abdomen, and the velvety insides of her thighs, but covered her cunt. The two Negroes stared at her admiringly, and she grinned: "Stick around, boys, if you want a free show. Besides, I may need some help. I sort of worked myself to a frazzle with Dorothy Barten, you know. And then I had that workout with Molly. Now let's see, I'm supposed to give this square little bitch a good paddling on her sweet ass just as a starter. First, you can take her nightie off. I want to look her over."
Penelope Sands struggled frantically with her Negro captors, and of course to no avail. Her face congested, her eyes enormous with terror, she uttered a shriek when Dave laughingly ripped off the nightie. The two Negroes gripped her by the wrists and elbows, standing on either side of her and thus presenting her stark naked to the appraising eyes of the exotic and cruel mulatress. "What is the meaning of this? Yu've got no right to treat me this way! I demand that you let me go-who are you?"
"My name is Alma Vorden, bitch, and I happen to be not only the housekeeper but also the trainer of slaves at Lecayano," Alma retorted. "Yes, I can see why Miss Duval has the hots for you, Penny. You've really got a pair of gorgeous titties and a very lovely ass, just made for a good whipping. Which is what you're going to get right now, by the way, in case you're wondering what's going to happen to you. And don't be afraid of these black boys, they're not going to fuck you. Matter of fact, they can't. All right, boys, I think for starters we'll bend her over the wire and ring her nose to the floor."
"Why are you doing this? You've got no right, let me go, do you hear me?" Penelope Sands cried frantically as the two Negroes dragged her towards a fine steel wire which stretched from one wall to the other about waist-level in height. Dave gripped her wrists and dragged them up high on her back, making her cry out in pain and instinctively bend forward. Sam, meanwhile, squatting down on the other side of the wire, was busy locking a strong little iron ring about the size of a wedding ring round a heavy iron floor ring the size of an ankle gyve. At the other end of this small ring, connected by a silver chain, was a similar tiny ring; the pressure of his thumb-pad on a tiny little catch unlocked it, and he at once clamped it against the delicate nostrils of the naked young brunette. A wild scream tore from the victim, and she wriggled and squirmed.
"Better not be too lively, Missy," Dave cautioned, "Or you'll tear out the membrane, and it can hurt real bad and you'll bleed plenty. Just bend way down there and stay down, get me?"
Panting hoarsely, groaning and sobbing, Penelope Sands was forced to obey. Meanwhile, the two Negroes resumed their fettering of the unfortunate victim. Dave reached up for a dangling pulley rope and wound it round both her wrists, tying them viciously tight, adjusting the rope so that her arms were dragged upwards at an angle. This accentuated her bent-over posture over the wire, with her head dragged down by the traction of the pitiless nose ring. Next, Sam locked her ankles with silver gyves at the end of whose chains a tiny ring, similar to the nose ring, fixed again into another floor ring, thus straggling her feet a yard apart and exposing the gaping pink fissure of her cunthole. Finally, a strong cord was wound round her waist and the thin but unyieldingly strong steel wire over which her belly was draped. And as a last precaution, still another pulley rope, but this conveying a thin strong cord instead of a heavy rope, was lowered while Sam caught up the sheaf of her short pageboy, and tied the thin cord round and round and made several intricate knots.
When the two Negroes stepped back, poor Penelope Sands found herself bent over, her arms dragged up high, her legs hugely straddled, and her hair tractioned so that the slightest movement would send twinges of agony through her tender scalp. Nor could she move her face about too freely, lest the pinching clamps of the fiendish little nose ring bite through the tender membrane separating her nostrils. Whimpering and sobbing, the naked young beauty was thus rendered completely helpless and vulnerable to the flogging which Elise Duval had sadistically ordered for her as just a foretaste of what was to be her lot until she at last accepted her Lesbian bondage.
"But why are you doing this to me? Oh God, it hurts-please, please tell me why!" Penelope Sands sobbed. The perilous feeling of losing her balance sickened her, though the Negroes had pinioned her so expertly that she actually could not possibly fall. The only danger was in the sudden movement of her head, because of the pitiless nose ring. And already, its pinching torment made her hold her head still, her eyes bulging and glassy with tears, afraid almost to breathe and breathing out of her mouth, from which exhaled her hoarse, shuddering sobs.
"I won't need your help any more, boys, thanks a lot. But you're welcome to stay if you wish," Alma said cheerfully. She considered the distended milky ass-cheeks of the groaning, pinioned victim, and then, stealthily, moving up behind the bent-over naked captive, drew back her gloved right hand and applied a violent smack to the plump center of the right buttock, followed by one equally hard to the other cheek.
Taken by surprise, poor Penelope Sands jerked fitfully and then uttered a shriek as the pitiless nose ring bit even more cruelly into the nasal membrane. Her eyes goggled, threatening to bulge from the sockets, at the searing, unspeakable pain that swirled through her, and she cried out hysterically, "Oh my god in heaven, don't hit me, oh don't! You'll tear me-oh for God's sake, this is criminal, horrible-you've got no right-oh why are they doing this to me?-what have I done?"
"It's really not your business to know, bitch," Alma said in a jocular tone as she lingeringly passed her gloved right hand over the shuddering bottom-cheeks, admiring the rosy splotches imprinted from her first two spanks, and delectating over the sensitivity of poor Penelope's apprehensively quivering and rippling flesh, as well as the sight of the shadowy groove whose distension because of the straddle of the legs allowed the mulatress to glimpse the puckering rosette of that virgin ass-hole, "but the fact is you made Miss Duval real mad when you wouldn't give, baby. Take a tip from an old hand, when rape is inevitable, just relax and enjoy it, because, baby doll, Miss Duval is bound and determined to rape your sweet ass and that cute little coozie of yours, one way or another. And if I were in your shoes right now, honey chile, I'd sure as hell make my peace with her. You're in for a good as swarming tonight, and lots more on the schedule tomorrow."
"I'd rather die-oh, this is barbarous, criminal-when I get back to New York, I-"
"You aren't getting back to New York, bitch, so put that thought firmly out of your mind. You'll only torture yourself thinking about it. You won't get out of here until Miss Duval says so,-likewise Mr. Saltiel and Mr. Darden," Alma interrupted in a cynical tone. She reached between the yawning milky thighs of the shuddering, bent-over victim and, taking a sprig of pussy-hair between red-gloved thumb and forefinger, yanked it out. A wild scream tore at once from Penelope's mouth, and her body jerked and squirmed violently. "See what I mean?" the mulatress relentlessly pursued. "This is just a sample of what you're going to get starting tomorrow, if you still don't feel like cooperating with Miss Duval. You're going to be her slave, honey girl, you're going to gam and lick her ass-hole when she tells you to, or else. It's not so bad. I've gone the girlie route myself, and sometimes it feels real snazzy, better than with a man. Cheer up, it could be worse. Suppose you'd been sold to that rough old bearded character who bought Mrs. Mortmain and Mrs. Barten tonight. You'd be so sick of prick inside of a week, honey child, you'd just be dying to come back her to little Alma and get your coozie tickled a little-like this!" So saying, she gouged her forefinger deeply into Penelope's cunt, and then began to forage around, till she found the clitoris and began to rub it back and forth persistently.
Penelope Sands uttered a cry of horror and shame, tried desperately to clench her legs, but of course couldn't. But the muscular spasms and flexions which rippled along her calves and thighs and bottom-cheeks, and the shaking of her body provided the cruel and beautiful torturess with her own lascivious pleasure. She put her left hand to her G-string and began slyly to frig herself through the shield which hid her cunt, while she continued to gouge Penelope's cunt and flatten and rub and role the throbbing clitoris of the brunette captive.
Then as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped, and applied two more harsh slaps with her right gloved palm against the upper summit of Penelope's right buttock, followed by two more on the other globe at the very same place. Each time the leather-sheathed hand smacked noisily against that tender milky flesh, Penelope Sands' body jerked and weaved slightly, allowing an even more lubricious display of her gaping pink cunthole and the puckering and clenching aperture of her voluptuous pink ass-hole., wile tears and sobs and groans manifested the unhappy young woman's mortifying shame.
"Dave, make yourself a little useful. Hand me that rubber flyswatter hanging over there on the hook," Alma drawled. The taller Negro chuckled, nodded, and brought it to her, then passed both his ebony hands over the cringing milky hemispheres of Penelope's voluptuous, distended, and vulnerable bare ass. "This is really a scrumptious ass, this is," he pronounced, with the air of a connoisseur. "Makes me real horny, it does, even if I can't do anything about it. Consider yourself brown-holed, you cute ofay bitch, 'cause if I wasn't what I am, you'd be feeling a big black dong stuffed up your a-hole right this minute!"
Penelope groaned and sobbed, trying to squirm her naked flesh away from the Negro's defaming touch, while Alma shook out the fly-swatter, formed in a find of short rectangular piece, quite flexible, and, though thin, cruelly stingy. Making a sign to Dave to move to one side, she planted herself at the victim's left and, raising the fly swatter, brought it down with a flick of her wrist so that the applicator clung tenaciously over the right hipslope. A poignant wail escaped the victim, and her hips jerked convulsively, but already the fly-swatter had smacked against the other slope, evening the pattern already manifesting itself on the milky-sheened flesh of that magnificent naked behind.
Now, relentlessly and without a word, Alma Vorden began to spank the unfortunate young woman. Alternating on the shuddering, contracting globes of Penelope Sands' jutting ass, beginning at the top of the hips and working down towards the base, she covered the voluptuous posterior with flaming bright swatches of stinging torment, and under each noisily smacking blow the naked brownette wailed and groaned and sobbed.
Her fingers clawed her palms, which were sweaty, and she tried her best to keep from moving her head lest the nose ring again excoriate the tender and already over-sensitized nasal membrane. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her eyes were haggard and blinded with them. The violent shivers and spasms which rippled along her thighs and calves each time the fly-swatter smacked against her jutting behind enchanted the sadistic mulatress.
She did not stop until she administered at least forty swats and then paused, breathless and quivering with a voluptuous excitement which the subjugation of so beautiful a white victim engendered in her psyche.
"That ought to keep you warm tonight, honey chile," she pronounced. "You'll stay that way tonight until breakfast tomorrow, which will be at eight. One of the boys here will bring it in, a bowl of bread and milk, and you'll lap it up. You'll have just so much time to do it, too, or else they'll report to me and you'll get another asswhacking. Oh yes, there's one more thing. If you haven't changed your mind by the time the boys bring you your breakfast, you'll have a solid week of whipping. Three times a day, Penny girl, and each one will be different, I can promise you."
"Oh no! Oh dear god in heaven, it's unjust, it's inhuman! You have no right to keep me a captive here against my will-"
"Don't talk like something you've read out of a book, bitch!" Alma snorted, while the two Negroes slapped their thighs and cackled with amusement. "And don't blame me if your ass feels a little sore right now. I'm just carrying out orders, get me? But if you'll take my advice, you'll tell the boys when they come in tomorrow morning that you're just dying to girl-fuck Miss Duval. And maybe, since she's got the hots for you so bad like I'm told, she'll forgive you and kiss you and make you all nice and well."
"I-I'd kill myself before I'd-before I'd-oh my God, won't anyone help me?" Penelope Sands burst into hysterical sobs.
Alma Vorden shrugged. Then she squatted down and unlocked the nose ring. "Nobody said anything about this all through the night, bitch," she said, not unkindly, "but you're valuable merchandise. And me, I don't think you've got the spunk or the guts to stay all night long with your head bent down like that without moving it some, even in case you do fall asleep a little. So Im letting it off. But that doesn't mean I won't be ready in the morning to whack your ass until you wish you'd never been born. Sweet dreams, honey child!"
And then, raising her hand, she delivered a ferocious swat which bridged the cheeks of Penelope's already furiously swollen and shuddering naked .ass, drawing a frantic cry of poignant anguish, and strode out of the isolation cell, with the two Negroes laughing uproariously in her wake.
Francis Saltiel decided as soon as he woke on Saturday morning-though it was actually closer to noon than morning-that he would begin at once the subjugation of the younger Thornton sister, Sally, the vivacious and, in his opinion, precociously oversexed brunette.
In his opinion, a direct line with the younger girl would be the expeditious way of confronting her with her new status, while he intended to play a cruel cat-and-mouse game with lovely, mature, auburn-haired Pamela. And so, directly after he had had breakfast brought to him by one of the Negroes, he dressed in a sport shirt, dacron slacks, and sandals, without bothering with underwear, and, lighting a cigar, directed himself toward the compound where poor Penelope Sands was enduring her first true day of servitude at the order of the relentless Lesbian dominatress, Elise Duval.
Sam had brought the naked brunette her breakfast, and squatting before her, had slapped her face until she at last weepingly bowed her head to the bowl and lapped up the bread and milk. The cord around her updrawn pageboy tresses had been eased to facilitate this, yet she could not even then evidence too much mobility without being painfully reminded of her atrocious pinioning. She had slept very little that night, as might have been expected. The throbbing in her naked behind had seemed never to end, and even this morning the flesh was inflamed and still a vivid pink. Her muscles ached atrociously, especially at the arms and shoulders, for her arms remained drawn high behind her back and upwards, and the cordining at her wrists had chafed them cruelly, in her struggles to ease her painful posture, as well as when she had jerked and squirmed under the prolonged and painful spanking.
But when she had finished her breakfast and when Sam, grinning at her lewdly and reaching out a hand to cup one of those magnificent round titties of hers and squeeze it, had demanded whether she was ready to capitulate to her employer's demands, Penelope Sands had gasped out, "No, never, I'd rather die than do a filthy thing like that. I won't!"
Sam had chuckled, pinched each of her nipples until she had screamed, and then walked leisurely out of the cell, pausing on the threshold to remind her that she would doubtless see Alma very shortly.
Indeed, an hour later, the mulatress trainer entered, in her one-piece gusseted body sheath, gloves and boots, her face impassive and cruel, flexing between her gloved hands a swishy rattan cane such as is used in England in private and public schools to thrash the bottoms of recalcitrant boys and girls.
"Sam has communicated your message to me, bitch," Alma announced peremptorily as she took her place behind the shuddering, weeping young woman. "Personally, I think you're real stupid. But then, it's your ass, honey, not mine. I'm going to give you fifteen swats with this cane, and then a good sound handspanking. And after lunch, you'll get another dose. And then another one just before you go to beddie-bye tonight. Get ready!"
Before Penelope could even cry out or stiffen herself, the cane flashed forward and launched its burning kiss over the tops of both nether globes. A wild, strident scream was torn from the victim, who jerked and squirmed violently. A second cut already fell before she had finished her outcry, landing about an inch below the bright red horizontal bar imprinted on that already flushed spanking background. Another, even more anguished cry announced the suffering inflicted by the flexible rattan. By the fifth stroke, which cut viciously across the plumpest sectors of both .naked ass-cheeks, Penelope was screaming for mercy, twisting and wriggling, jerking her updrawn wrists, her body shaking and quivering violently.
"Well, if you're ready to ask Miss Duval's pardon for being such a stubborn bitch, I can hold the rest of this off till I check with her," Alma coldly pronounced as she raised the cane and patted the young woman's naked ass just an inch below the flaming mark left by the previous cut.
"Ohh-awwww-ohhnn-noo-oh kill me instead, I can't stand it. Oh God in heaven, have mercy on me-please, please, I can't-I can't do a filthy thing like that-I'm a decent girl-I-oh don't beat me any more, I'm so tired and it hurts so, have mercy on me!" Penelope Sands hysterically babbled.
Swisshh, thwackk. The cane described a flashing arc, with a crisp and characteristic smack as it bit home over both bottomglobes at exactly the place Alma had selected. Penelope Sands' body seemed to lunge forward, then her hips shook violently from left to right, and the cheeks continued to quiver and contract and yawn in the most licentious manner long after her wild, harrowing cry had died away in the stone dungeon.
"Now if it was me," Alma jeered, "I'd rather take a lovespanking any time from a dyke than have my ass torn to pieces with this swisher, when you know damn well you aren't going to be able to stand all of it. And don't forget about this noon and tonight, baby. Maybe this will help you make up your mind." With this, lowering the cane, the mulatress diabolically lifted it up until the tip pressed against the gaping petals of Penelope Sands's pink cunt-hole. A frenzied cry: "Oh not there, oh don't hit me there, for the love of god in heaven!" burst out, as the naked young woman tried with all her might to clench her thighs or at least contract the lips of her cunt and make that tender orifice less vulnerable.
With a mocking little laugh, Alma lowered the cane to the floor, and flicked it up almost effortlessly, stinging the gaping cunthole.
"Ohhharhheowwouuuua yyyy yeeowww!! ! Oh stop, not thre, not between my legs, oh please, dear God, I'm going to die, I can't stand it!" Penelope Sands almost bellowed in her unspeakable despair and torment. Her body jerked and swerved, fighting the bonds that pinioned her in this shameless, ben-tover pose. Her wrists jerked at the pulley ropes, till the overhead pulley creaked in protest. Her eyes rolled to the whites, and sweat and tears bathed her face, and Alma could smell the dank, tangy odor of girl sweat in her armpits, could see the drops trickling down the naked sides.
Now, moving round to the front of the bent-over victim, the mulatress tapped each of the dangling round titties in turn, and then administered to each a deft little flick of the rattan which drew incoherent shrieks and pleas and tears, and the most lubricious wrigglings and twistings. Maddened by pain, Penelope Sands fought for breath, her body uncontrollably shaking and trembling as Alma once more returned around to contemplate the livid, jutting ass-cheeks and then regaled them with a diagonal cut which crisscrossed several of the horizontal striata already visible upon that magnificent bare ass.
"Aiiiieowwouuuuarhhhh!! Oh stop, I'll do anything in the world, please stop! Have mercy, have mercy in the name of God, you're killing me!" Penelope Sands shrieked.
"Shall I call Miss Duval then?"
"Oh God-I can't-I've been a decent girl all my life-I can't-"
Alma Vorden raised the cane, then lowered it, then up from the floor in a backhanded cut, slashed it against the base of both huddling, shuddering naked ass-cheeks. It was too much; Penelope Sands could no longer endure this pitiless torture: "Aiiiiee-owwuuu!! ! Yes, oh God, yes, send for her, oh I can't stand it any more, I'm dying-I'll do whatever she wants, if she'll only have this stopped! Have mercy, oh don't whip me any more, oh please don't!"
"You're sure now, bitch?" Alma persisted, patting the cringing, swollen and streaked bare bottom cheeks all over with the flexible rattan. "Because if I go get her and you change your mind, I'll take the skin off this big ass of yours, don't think I won't! And I'll have turpentine rubbed into the wounds. And oh, how you'll sting then, baby girl! I'll even rub some on that cute little twat and that bumhole of yours-"
"Oh no, I want to talk to her, I'm ready, I'll do anything she wants, oh please don't torture me any more, please!" the frantic naked young woman implored, then burst into hysterical sobs as she realized the enormity of her sacrifice.
Alma had just left the cell and was on her way to the quarters of the sandy-haired Lesbian when Francis Saltiel greeted her. Immediately, as befitted her true status with him, she sank down on her knees and bowed her head before him: "I was just going to tell Miss Duval, master, that her secretary is just dying to see her. I think Penelope is going to be a very good little dyke from now on," she humbly explained.
"Good work, Alma. But I'm going to start training that southern brunette, right away; why don't you have something to eat and come back here. In a way, it's a pity Sally won't be able to see the rest of Miss Sands's training, because it probably would impress her very much. I think you can manage to convert her to obedience in short order."
"Thank you, master. I'll hurry and have something in the kitchen. May I bring you something too from Antoine?"
"No thanks, I've just had breakfast. I think I'll take a walk out near the shoreline just to get a breath of air. Then there will be time to amuse myself a little with that very sexy brunette, who thinks herself already a grown young woman. I'm quite sure she's still a virgin, just like her older sister."
Alma Vorden hurried to the room occupied by Elise Duval, deferentially knocked, and was told to enter. Inclining her head in respect to one of the guests of the master, she informed the sandy-haired Lesbian that Penelope Sands had pleaded to be given a chance to talk with her employer. The arrogant face of the Lesbian glowed with triumph: "I'm indebted to you, Alma, and I'll see that you get a little reward. I really hadn't thought dear Penny would give up the struggle so soon, which is a good testimonial to your abilities. By all means, have her brought here!" Elise Duval hissed.
A few moments later, Sam ushered the trembling, weeping, naked young woman into the room occupied by the aggressive Lesbian who had until now been her employer. Penelope Sands was stark naked, her hair disheveled, her eyes swollen with tears, and the marks of her flogging plainly outlined on the livid, shuddering cheeks of her voluptuous ass. Sam had flung her down on her knees, and Elise now approached, in the mannish blouse and sacks and sandals, her hands in her pockets, swaggeringly approaching to gloat over the downfall of this virtuous young woman whom she had coveted so long and who had so rejected her only last night.
"So you've come to your senses, have you, Penny dear? I'm so sorry that you spent such an uncomfortable night. No, stay on your knees. Better yet, kneel on your palms. I want to be sure that your submission is quite sincere. If it isn't, back you go for a full week of training. The fact is, I was thinking of leaving you here for an entire month while I go back to New York and work on some of those new accounts. By the time I return, you ought to be very well trained."
"Oh no, please, please, Miss Duval, don't do that to me! I-I'll do whatever you want-only I can't stand any more pain. Oh please, please take pity on me and don't do that!" Poor Penelope Sands lifted her tear-stained face up toward the heartless dominatress.
Elise Duval reached out a hand and rumpled the dark-brown tresses. "You're really sure that you're going to be a good slave girl if I pardon you the rest of your training, then?" she demanded.
" Y-yes," was the answer in a dying voice.
"You will call me mistress from now on, then, Penny. Let me hear you say it!"
"Y-yes, m-mistress," Penelope repeated in a faint, trembling voice.
"That's a little better. But say it with conviction. And from now on, when you speak to me, always kneel and look up and smile humbly at me, you understand?"
"Yes, m-mistress."
"As my slave," the Lesbian went on, "I have the right to punish you each time I find your attitude or your service faulty. Remember that. And seeing that you are so sensitive when it comes to a whipping, you may expect plenty of whippings if you don't please me. All right. Here is your first order as my new slave: Bend down your head and kiss each of my sandals."
Shuddering, Penelope executed the demeaning order. Elise's thin lips curved in a triumphant smile, her eyes narrowing to pinpoints of lust as she stared down at the groveling naked body. "Very good," she dryly observed. "Now, you will find the zipper to my slacks. Find it with your teeth and yank it down. When you've done that, you will lick and kiss and suck my cunt until I come. Is that very clear?"
Penelope Sands stared at Elise Duval, her eyes huge, shadowed with horror and shame and pain. The gray-green eyes of the Lesbian narrowd again:
"Be quick about it, or back you go to Alma," she warned.
The threat sufficed. With a whimpering sob, poor Penelope Sands leaned forward and, with her chattering white teeth, sought to engage the silver zipper of the dacron slacks. At last she managed it, drew it down as far as it would go. Then, following her mistress' instructions, she used her nose to widen the fly of those slacks until the furry niche of Elise Duval's cunt was exposed. Then, shuddering, closing her eyes, she submitted herself to this supreme degradation. Her mouth began to press against that imperious cunt, her lips to apply moist and noisy kisses-this at the sibilant order of the dominatress-and finally her tongue to probe between the twitching lips and find at last Elise Duval's clitoris and rub it until suddenly, with a groan, the sandy-haired Lesbian plunged her fingers into Penelope's hair and, yanking and twisting it, mashed the young woman's face against her cunt as she gave down her love juice.
Francis Saltiel knocked at the door of the room which Pamela and Sally Thornton occupied, and in a few moments pert Sally herself answered, still evidently drowsy with sleep which the drug had induced the night before. "Oh, hi, Mr. Saltiel!" she exclaimed, "Pam and I did so much want to talk to you today. Is it all right now?"
"Yes, I think we can have a little talk," he smiled hypocritically. "But I want to talk to you first. You see, you're not old enough yet for a job, so I'll have to make some disposition."
Pamela Thornton now came forward, her lovely, haughty face furrowed with a frown of anxiety. "Good morning, Mr. Saltiel," she quickly interposed. "I'd like to talk to you too. Are we going to stay here very long? I thought I was going to work for you in Miami."
"That's not possible until I conclude my affairs here, Pamela," he responded. "But I've been meaning to sit down with both of you and discuss my plans. I'm sure you'll find them quite satisfactory. Why don't you wait here and let me show Sally something of the island? Then I can have my discussion with her and then I'll come back for you."
"Well, all right," the auburn-haired teenager dubiously replied, giving Sally a rather nervous look, "But I do hope we can straighten this out today, Mr. Saltiel. We feel sort of lost here, there's nothing for us to do. And I don't think the climate's very good for us."
"Oh? Why do you say that?"
"Because we get so sleepy all of a sudden and we go to bed much earlier than we ever did back home," Pamela Thornton answered.
"Yes, I can understand how you feel. But if you'll be patient just a little while, I'll be back to talk to you privately. Right now I'd like Sally to come along with me," he used his most persuasive smile.
"Might as well, Sis," Sally shrugged. "I'd like to see what's on this island anyhow. See you later, Pam!"
Pamela Thornton closed the door behind her and went back to sit down on a low wide couch, her face, furrowed in concentration. There was something she culdn't quite put her finger on here, but she didn't like it the least little bit. Maybe they had made a mistake, coming away with a man they didn't know. And yet he was certainly wealthy, when he talked about giving them jobs and taking care of their schooling and things like that. And they didn't have anyone else to turn to. She just hoped for the folks' sake everything would turn out all right. . .
"You're a very pretty girl, Sally," Francis Saltiel complimented the pretty young brunette at his side as they walked out of the main building and headed towards the compound. "I'll bet you have lots of boyfriends back in Durwent."
At this reminder of her faithful suitor Dan Trevors, Sally blushed vividly. "Well, I did have a few boyfriends," she confessed. "And I sort of miss one special one. But I suppose in Miami there'll be lots of fellows I can meet."
"Undoubtedly. And what about your sister? Does she have any boyfriends?"
"No, she doesn't seem to care for them. She wanted to go to college in Oxford, but there just wasn't any money. And then when our folks died well, you know."
"Yes, I'm sorry. Here we are now." He opened the door of the compound and gestured for her to enter as she walked ahead, his eyes feasted down her legs and bottom. Sally had put on one of the outfits she had found in the lavish wardrobe provided in their room. A pretty yellow minidress, whose skirt exposed fully half her thighs, a pair of charcoal-brown pantyhose with a wispy pair of white nylon panties underneath, open-toe sandals and a white nylon bra. As she walked quickly ahead, her charmingly rounded thighs and calves jiggled with that wonderfully youthful resilience of flesh which always attracts the male eye, and the suave black-haired sadist felt his prick throb with hungry anticipation.
The tight hug of the minidress emphasized the jouncy, upstandingly rounded and rather compactly set cheeks of her voluptuous young ass, a most tempting target for the lash. Her black hair, gathered into a tight braid which dangled just below her shoulder blades, was glossy and soft-sheened. She had combed it to leave a little row of bangs along the top of her forehead. Her face was particularly provocative to this connoisseur of cunt: heart-shaped, but with a deliciously insolent little snub nose with very widely flaring wings, a petulant though full mouth with the upper lip slightly accentuated, high-set cheekbones, and very large, widely spaced dark brown eyes with thick brown lashes and finely narrowed curving eyebrows. She had a kind of insolence and rebelliousness to her, which he could sense at once and which he knew would intensify his pleasures of dalliance with her.
"My gracious, this is quite some place!" she turned back to smile at him. "Who lives here, Mr. Saltiel? And that round building right next to this? What's that for, Mr. Saltiel ?
"For my entertainment, Sally. But you'll see it in due time. Let's go downstairs now." He opened a door which led to a winding stairway to the subterranean dungeons and torture chambers, and Sally, after a momentary hesitation, began to descend. His eyes devoured her, seeing as she turned the jut of those firm small round lovely titties of hers. He liked the olive-skinned warmth of her complexion, for it heralded a particularly velvety feel when he would grant himself the luxury of caressing her ass and thighs and belly.
"There are lots of doors down here, Mr. Saltiel," she announced as she reached the lower landing.
"I know. We're going to open one of them, and there we'll have our little talk, Sally," he controlled the quivering lust in his voice as he came up alongside her and, taking a key ring from the pocket of his slacks, fitted it into the lock of a door directly to his right and opened it. "In here, my dear."
Trustingly, Sally Thornton walked across the threshold, and Francis Saltiel at once moved behind her, closing the door and pushing a little concealed button just below the knob which automatically locked the cell from the inside as well as from the outside. Then he flicked on a light switch on the wall directly to his right, and Sally Thornton uttered a cry of consternation and turned back to him, her eyes huge and questioning: "Oh golly, what's this awful place? Why did we come here, Mr. Saltiel?"
"To have our little chat, Sally, remember?" he chuckled as he took a cigar out of his coat lapel pocket and lit it with a silver lighter. "I've been waiting for this for quite some little time, Sally. I must say that though you're considerably younger than your sister, you have a great deal of charm and natural endowment which I am certain is going to prove highly satisfying to me and then, to be sure, to the man or woman who will ultimately own you."
"Own me?" the young brunette echoed, her mouth agape, color rushing to her lovely cheeks. "Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Saltiel? Aren't I going to school?"
"In a manner of speaking, decidedly you are, my dear. And we shall begin our very first lesson at once. I want you to take off your dress, Sally."
The room was windowless and narrow, with a low ceiling. It was amply equipped for seances of subjugation. There was a heavy whipping stool at the side of one wall opposite him, with buckling straps at middle and front and rear legs to pinion a victim tightly and up-thrust and outjut her bottom for a sound thrashing. There was also a metal triangle in the center of the room, with metal gyves soldered to the base of the legs and to the peak of the triangle. On this a girl could be stretched and straddled, fucked or buggered, whipped or tortured as desired. To his left, there was a low wide couch with concealed buckling straps, which could be used either for cooperative fucking or for, if the victim proved rebellious, the straps which snared her wrists and ankles and spread-eagle her for the probing of his prick. Finally, there was a deep low armchair, also equipped with metal rings sewn into the upholstery, as well as a series of concealed buckling straps so that a captive might be forced to kneel facing the back with her arms drawn well over it, her knees stretched widely apart and her wrists pinioned, so that her bottom would loom up, the cheeks distended if he cared to apply a cravache between her ass-cheeks or up between her straddled legs to sting her tender cunt.
To his right, along a row of hooks set into a wooden panel, hung an arsenal of whipping instruments, from a cowhide paddle of rectangular shape, a flexible white Malacca cane with cord grip, to a three-thonged martinet. But on a little tabouret at the right of the armchair, there lay an old-fashioned round black wooden hairbrush, a flexible, well polished brown leather sole and several other implements whose uses Francis Saltiel was expertly acquainted with.
Francis Saltiel had seated himself in the heavy, low armchair, relit his cigar and was insolently staring at the pretty brunette teenager, who regarded him, open-mouthed, eyes wide with astonishment and incredulity, and finally a vivid blush appeared on her olive-satin cheeks.
"What did you say, Mr. Saltiel?" she echoed.
"I said, Sally, to begin by taking off your dress. Completely. Just drop it on the floor."
"Are you nuts or something, Mr. Saltiel? Why did you bring me to this place, anyhow?"
"To teach you a lesson in deportment at the very beginning, young lady. You're a very impertinent little bitch, and it's going to be my pleasure to alter your impudence in favor of a much more acceptable attitude. In a word, Sally, I'm going to spank your bottom very hard. Your naked bottom, young lady. Take off your dress this moment!"
"You must be off your rocker, talking to me like that. I'm not going to take off my clothes for anybody, least of all you," the pretty brunette flashed, stamping her foot until her small round titties jiggled.
He calmly flicked the ash of the cigar into the ashtray stand at his left, took a last draw on the cigar and laid it in the ashtray. Sally began to back away nervously, her eyes wide with fright. "You keep away from me! You let me out of here, I want to go back home!" she wailed.
"You have no home, Sally. You're forgetting that, aren't you? I took over the mortgage on the farm and the house. You haven't a place to live, unless out of my kind charity I provide one for you. And the same is true of your sister, Pamela."
"But you said you'd give her a job in Miami and find something for me to do-"
"I am finding something for you to do. A great deal. You're going to learn how to become a slave, and eventually some man or some woman with a good deal of money and a special talent is going to buy you and take you home, but you'll also have to obey whatever you are ordered to do. That's why you are going to be trained, to accept this, and I'm the one who's going to start your training." He came a step towards her. "I gave you an order, Sally. Take off your dress at once!"
"You go plain to hell, Mr. Saltiel!" she flashed. And then she tried to run for the door.
He expected this, and seizing her by an elbow, flung her back and with his right hand slapped her viciously across the cheek. Sally Thornton uttered a cry and put her hand to her injured cheek, staring at him as if she couldn't believe what was happening.
"You-you hit me!" she gasped.
"That's quite correct. And I'll do it again and again and again unless you obey. Are you going to take off your dress or aren't you?"
"I won't! You must be a queer or something, wanting to get me alone here and take off my clothes for you!"
His eyes blazed and narrowed, his lips twisted viciously. "You're going to regret that in a few minutes. Well, if you're not going to obey me, I'll have to do it for you."
With this he seized her and with both hands gripped the bodice of the dress and began to tear it down. But Sally, with a cry, kicked him hard in the shin, making him jerk back and howl with pain. Then, as he was rubbing his shin and grimacing, she made a break away from him and ran for the door, not knowing that the camouflaged little catch had already been thrown to block just such a maneuver.
By that time he had recovered, and seized her from behind; his left hand went around her waist, and the right hand ripped the dress down from the back of the neck and it fell into tattered shreds on the floor. Sally uttered a cry and twisted, trying to kick again, but this time he had mastered her. Lifting her up by the waist, he carried her, kicking wildly in the air and hitting out at him with her clenched fists, back to the chair, where he seated himself and drew her down across his knees. Immediately his right leg clamped over her nylon-sheathed calves, his left hand gripped both her wrists, and then he gloatingly passed his right hand over the jouncy hillocks of her tempting young ass, sheathed so diaphanously by the pantyhose and the wispy nylon panties underneath.
"You-let-me-go, do you hear me, Mr. Saltiel! You just wait! You're going to get it yet, for doing that to me! Damn you, anyhow! Stop it! You're just a dirty, nasty old man, and I hate you!" she cried hysterically.
"Not quite so old as you think, young lady. That's quite an impertinent tongue you've got. I'm going to teach you to use it in a much more satisfying way before you're through, you may be sure. But first things first! I promised you a spanking on your bare bottom, and that's precisely what you're going to get."
With this, he inserted his right hand inside the waistband of the body sheath and yanked it down to the hollows of her knees. Sally shrieked and tried to wiggle off his lap, but in vain. By this time he had fucked down the little nylon panties and twisted them inside the pantyhose, and her magnificent bottom was upturned, clenching and tremoring, the olive-satiny skin smooth and unblemished. The dark, shadowy groove that led to her ass-hole tightened instinctively, and the teenaged victim tried to tauten all her muscles in a furious defense against this profanation.
Then, to her absolute consternation, Francis Saltiel passed his right hand slowly over the cheeks of her naked bottom and began to palpate them deliberately, lingeringly, while she cried out indignantly, twisting and squirming as best she could, turning her congested face back to him both to insult, threaten and beg for mercy.
"Oh, stop that! You've got no right to treat me like this-take your hand away-you pull my panties back up, you hear? You're just a dirty, nasty brute, Mr. Saltiel, and you just wait-you're going to go to jail for this! You tricked us, you said you were going to take care of us-"
"I didn't lie about that," he ironically replied as he continued to pat and squeeze and pinch the resilient cheeks of that beautiful young ass. "You've no cause for complaint so far as getting attention is concerned, Sally. And now for your spanking. Perhaps when I'm finished, you can find something else to say to me."
Then, taking a firmer grip on her wrists with his left hand, tightening the clamp of her right leg over hers, Francis Saltiel raised his right palm and brought it down with a furious, sonorous smack. Instantly Sally bucked, and a bright pink splotch appeared on her right ass-cheek, the outline of the spanking hand.
"Oww! You cut that out!" she raged.
His only answer was to apply another spank to the center of the other ass-cheek, and now Sally reared up her hips, then flattened, then swerved them, and a piercing cry, more of indignation than of pain, rose from her.
"Goddamn you anyway! You cut that out!"
"Yes, indeed, a most undisciplined little bitch," he said to himself, thoughtfully, as if musing alone, his right palm caressing the now flaming summits of her beautiful young ass, while she squirmed and burst into tears of humiliation. "A slave, Sally, never curses her master or her friends. You are going to learn that such rebellion leads to further punishment. I had thought of letting you off with a handspanking, but I'm afraid you've earned a little more than that. We'll see, however, just how you feel when I've finished the first part of your punishment."
His hand rose and fell for about five minutes without cessation, alternately landing on right and left cheek, traveling down to the middle of her thighs and back, crisp and sonorous and emphatic slaps which made the lovely, elastic flesh of her ass and thighs jiggle and flatten and spring up in the most salacious, tantalizing way. His eyes feasted on the coloration which his hand dealt her olive-satiny flesh: from bright pink to dark red and thence to swollen torment. When he paused, breathless and with is hand stinging him painfully, he had applied at least seventy smacks, and the contrast between her naked lower back and lower thighs and the angrily inflamed rondures of her naked ass made a salacious spectacle. By then, too, his prick was savagely hard, and as she twisted and wriggled and tried to kick and jerk free, her loins and belly rubbed constantly over his prong, which was concealed from her by only the dacron slacks.
After about the twenty-sixth smack, Sally Thornton no longer cursed or threatened or insulted her executioner. She began to cry, her shoulders shaking with sobs and then piercing cries arose, interspersed with spaced-out, incoherent phrases, babbled words, which attested to the fiery torment raging in her beautiful bare ass.
' ' O w w w h h h ! Boohoo, oh pleaseowwweeeyoowwww! I can't stand it, Mr. Saltielmy poor heinie-oh, stop it, please-you're killing me-my heinie's on fire-I'm dying-oh please ahrrrr! ! "
Her face was bathed with tears and congested, and she twisted her head to look backward, straining at her tethered wrists, her body arching and jerking. He now released her wrists and tucked in her waist with his left arm, and the feeling of his bare hand against her naked side caused his prick to throb with a venomous demand to be assuaged. He withheld himself from fucking or buggering her, for as a slave, her virginity would guarantee the highest of all possible prices from the potential visitors who would visit Lecayano. But he knew he was going to have to have release before much longer.
"Well, now, are you perhaps feeling a little sorry that you called me all those names, Sally?" he demanded.
She was sobbing wildly, her body shaking. He lifted his right hand and applied a pinch to the inner edges of both ass-cheeks, bridging them, and drew a poignant, rising scream from the unfortunate half-naked teenager.
"Owwwwouuuhhrrreee eeyouuuuwww! Oh please, please stop! I can't stand it any longer, I honestly can't, Mr. Saltiel!"
"Now that's a little better. Are you ready now to do what I tell you to?"
"Oh, please, please let me bo home! Please let Pamela and me go home, Mr. Saltiel," she whimpered.
"I told you that was impossible. I see I shall have to continue spanking you until you are ready to obey."
So saying, he applied ten more hard smacks, these distributed over the base of both bottom-cheeks and upper thighs. They drew even more hysterical, shriller cries than ever, and Sally Thornton finally surrendered.
"Boohoo-boohoo-Oh, I'll do anything you say, only stop spanking my poor heinie, Mr. Saltiel, PLEASE!"
"Very good. But I'm going to put your newly found obedience to the test at once. Stand up, now."
Groaning and sobbing, poor Sally feverishly and awkwardly got to her feet and at once clapped her hands to her naked, tortured ass as she stood there, tears running down her swollen cheeks, he could see the black curls of her silky pussy fur framing that adorable virgin twat.
"Now take off everything except your sandals," he instructed. "I'm going to count twenty. If you haven't finished by then, Sally, I'm going to tie you up over that spanking stool and take the strap to your bare heinie, as you so picturesquely put it. One-two-three-four-"
"Oh, wait, don't hurry like that-I'll do it-I don't need the strap-oh I'd just die, Mr. Saltiel," Sally Thornton wailed. Frantically she rushed her hands behind her to unhook her bra and let it fall, exposing sleek, small, but beautifully firm, olive-sheened titties, their narrow aurolae and their pert little coral buds. It was almost more than he could stand, and he crossed his legs and pressed convulsively against his aching prick so as to control himself.
"Go on!" he growled.
Sally didn't hesitate. She stooped, uttered a sigh and a grimace of pain, but forced herself to tug off the fucked-down hose and panties, to slip off her sandals and draw off the garments, then to put her sandals back on. Then, stark naked, still weeping, her hands rubbing her bare bottom, heedless of the fact that she showed him titties and cunt, she stood before him, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
"I promised you an extra for being so free with your tongue, you remember," he growled. He relighted the cigar and leaned back, his eyes devouring her.
"Oh please don't. I couldn't stand any more-you just about killed my poor heinie, Mr. Saltiel," Sally Thornton groaned.
"I will pardon you another dose on one condition only. If you say no, Sally, I'll tie you down over that stool and I'll put metal retractors to the cheeks of that very pretty heinie of yours, then I'll take the strap and whip you right on your ass-hole. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Oh Lordie yes-oh not there, I'd surely die-oh please, not that, Mr. Saltiel. I-I'll do what you want, only please-please don't whip me there-please!"
"Very well then. Get down on your knees and crawl over to me. Put your palms on the end of the chair arms," he instructed.
Whimpering and sobbing, the chastised young brunette obeyed. She stared up miserably into his brooding, lust-tautened face and shivered, then closed her eyes. Her naked titties rose and fell violently in her emotion, and sobs choked in her throat.
"Now then, take one hand and open the zipper of my slacks," he instructed.
Again she obeyed, and then uttered a cry as she saw his huge prick pop out, its lips swelling with all the juices welling up within his bubbling shaft.
"Ohhhh-oh please-don't make me-oh no!" she babbled.
"I see you have a general idea of what I have in mind. Tell me, before we go any further, are you a virgin?"
"Sure I am, Mr. Saltiel-" she sniffled. "Oh please don't do it to me, don't go all the way-please-please say you won't!"
"I have no intention of taking your maidenhead, that is, assuming you have one. Stand up now, spread your legs apart and hold the back of your neck with your hands. I want to investigate the facts myself before I go on with your training," he ordered.
Her face scarlet with shame, Sally rose to her feet and clasped the back of her neck, then closed her eyes as she straddled her legs immodestly apart.
"Step a little closer!" he commanded. When she obeyed, he put his right hand out and with the forefinger began to probe between her cunt lips.
"Oh, don't do that ... don't touch me there, Mr. Saltiel, please don't!" she gasped.
"Stand still, or you'll get the strap and you know where," he snapped. And as she began to cry softly, he went on with his probing. He came up against the virgin seal and knew that she was indeed unprofaned by man.
"Well, I'm glad you didn't lie abut that. Now get back down on your knees and lay your right palm on the arm of the chair," he ordered. Sally obeyed. "Now reach your other hand out and take hold of my prick-yes, yes, Sally, that is what you are going to call it from now on. Reach out and take hold of it."
Again the girl obeyed, gingerly holding his ramrod, a look of abhorrence and yet fascinated wonder on her tearstained, congested face. She closed her eyes and knelt there shivering.
"And now, bend your head forward, put a nice sweet kiss on the top, and then put your mouth around it and suck it until I tell you to stop," he continued.
"Oh no-oh, I couldn't do that to anybody. It's too dirty-oh please-no!" she wailed.
"You'll have to have the strap after all, I see. And when I finish, Sally, I'm going to turn you over in reverse on the stool and take the strap to those nice little titties of yours. I don't think you'll like that very much," he warned, his temper rising.
"Oh please don't do that-I'll do anything, even that-oh please, please don't whip me!" she cried out, agonized with terror.
"Go ahead then," he conceded curtly.
Leaning back, his thighs spread to aid her, he resumed his cigar. It had again gone out, so he relit it. Meanwhile, Sally, gasping, approached her mouth to his prick. Her lips trembled uncontrollably, and he sucked in his breath in sadistic glee at her suffering and shame. Finally her rosy, tear-stained mouth brushed the tip of his cock.
"Now put it inside, all you can take," he warned. "If you try any tricks, you and you sister will wish you'd never been born. I'll have Alma come in here and really whip you. I'll put you upside down on that triangle, your legs straddled a yard, and Alma will take a switch to that furry little pussy of yours. Do you understand?"
Agony and terror struggled for mastery on the strained, contorted, tear-wet features of the lovely young brunette. Now, with a despairing moan, she forced herself to perform the odious, nauseating task. Her lips were open, accepting his prick, and he saw her cheeks bulge as she took all she could inside her mouth. Her body was shivering as with ague, and then she began to suck, with quick, strong suction which made him groan with ecstasy.
His right hand moved out to plunge into her hair and to twist it, ensuring her compliance.
"Now run your tongue against it," he ordered hoarsely. Sally obeyed.
Suddenly he could bear the torture no longer; with a loud bellow of delight, he arched in his chair and squirted a fountain of spunk into Sally Thornton's distorted, gasping mouth. Her eyes bulged, as she tried to cope with this jet, and he ordered brutally, "And if you choke on it or spit it out, you'll really be thrashed!"
By dint of frenzied struggling, retching and gagging, the poor girl finally swallowed it. Then, burying her head in her hands, groveling before him, she burst into tears, while from his chair he watched her, reveling in her subjugation. It was the beginning of a new life for Sally Thornton, and Pamela was next.
As this Saturday evening lengthened and her sister did not return to the room, auburn-haired Pamela Thornton grew more and more uneasy. When the taller Negro guard Dave, entered her room with' a tray of supper, she exclaimed, "Can you please tell me where my sister is? She went away around noontime and I haven't seen her since."
But the eunuch-guard had had his orders from Francis Saltiel, and he went out as silently as he had entered, locking the door behind him. Pamela hurried to the door, turned the knob, only to find that she was locked in. And now an unreasoning fear took hold of her. She knew at last that she was a prisoner here on the island, and she had a terrible presentiment that her sister had already experienced some misadventure.
She turned to the bay window of her room, and gasped with relief at the thought that here was a way of egress. But when she tried to open it, she found it locked and then saw thin steel bars set just outside it, masked by the darkness which covered the island of Lecayano. It was strange that she hadn't noticed them before. And yet psychologically, since she was worried over her sister's absence, her sense of danger was magnified and thus she could see what had been invisible to her in the past.
And then suddenly the door opened, and she whirled around and uttered a cry. Leopold Darden stood on the threshold, smirking at her. He wore a dressing gown, sandals and under the gown a pair of jockey shorts. The prematurely gray-haired sadist had been unable to control his lust to possess the older Thornton girl, and when he had discovered from Alma Vordon that his partner Francis Saltiel had out of pure caprice decided to undertake Sally's training this evening, he had impulsively yielded to his mounting lusts.
He had sworn the mulatress to secrecy with the bribe of a thousand dollars and the promise that when he returned to the United States, he would bring back a pretty young girl destined to be her own personal slave, a slave who would not be sold after Alma had trained her
The imperious mulatress had, just as he had known she would be, been tempted by this offer. Her lover-master had begun to take her for granted and had assumed that it was sufficient pleasure for her in her nearly slave status to have the training of all those girls and women brought to Lecayano for subjugational regimen which would ultimately make them objects of great value on the auction block for the bidding of the wealthy guests he and Leopold Darden invited to the island. Alma, perhaps because of her past rejections by the whites, secretly detested them. And the thought of possessing her own white slave, who would be responsible to her alone and over whom she could rule with a pitiless hand, had greatly dared the dangerous game of betraying her own master Francis Saltiel.
In the basement of this hotel-like edifice which quartered all the masters and guests of Lecayano, there was a spacious and beautifully furnished soundproofed chamber. Alma knew that this subjugation room had not been used in many a day and that Francis Saltiel would probably not think of looking there. So she had made it ready and told Leopold Darden that if his partner should demand to know what had become of Pamela, she would say that the girl had somehow escaped from her room when her evening meal had been brought and managed to elude the guards and hide somewhere on the island. Then, when Saltiel should go in search, Alma would go down to this secret chamber, bring Pamela back and pretend to have captured her, meanwhile warning the victim that if she dared deny the story Alma meant to tell Saltiel, she would endure such horrible agonies as would make her hair stand on end
Not only did Leopold Darden lust to fuck the beautiful auburn-haired virgin, but the thought of deceiving his own partner and being first to enjoy Pamela's cherries of ass-hole, mouth and cunt proved an irresistible lure to his insatiable and sadistic nature. His eyes swept the trembling young beauty and then he said suavely, "I believe you're looking for your sister, aren't you, Pamela?"
"Yes-oh, yes I am, Mr. Darden! What's happened to her? Can you tell me? I'm so worried-"
"No need to worry. I'll take you right to her," he glibly improvised.
"Oh yes, do please, I do so want to see her and make sure everything's all right!" Pamela gasped. And unthinkingly and unsuspectingly she followed the prematurely gray-haired sadist down the end of the corridor and thence down a narrow flight of stairs which led to the basement. Apart from this large well furnished chamber, it was used mainly as a guest room, with many stalls in which the wealthy guests of the island would leave their trunks or other possessions when they visited for two or three months, as sometimes occurred. The subjugation room itself was at the far back of this enormous basement, and Leopold Darden, a flashlight in hand, so as not to run the danger of turning on the huge basement light which might be seen by his partner, directed the anxious young beauty.
They came at last to the broad door, and Leopold Darden took the key which Alma had given him, fitted it into the lock and turned the knob. "She's in there, Pamela," he exclaimed.
As the auburn-haired teenager hurried forward and then halted on the threshold because the room was covered with an obscure darkness to which her eyes did not immediately adjust, he shoved her forward, stepped in, slammed the door and locked it my pressing a little catch just under the knob, then flicked on the light switch.
A cry of stupefaction and fear broke from Pamela as she turned to confront. "She's not here, Mr. Darden! You-you lied to me-why did you bring me here?"
"To amuse myself, my dear," he drawled. "If you must know, your sister is being entertained-or rather, to put it more accurately, is entertaining by my worthy partner. I doubt very much that he would care to have you interfere. But I confess I've a certain interest in you myself, and so I'm going to train you in my own way."
"What are you talking about? What is this place? Oh God, what are those dreadful things?" Glancing nervously around Pamela Thornton had just perceived a kind of gibbet-like whipping post, an upright post with a heavy cross arm set in the middle of a narrow platform ascended to by three wooden steps, in the center of the room. The walls were thickly padded for soundproofing, there was no window, and all the light came from a huge indirect light fixture set in the middle of the ceiling. There was a wide and very low couch at the left of the door, and across from it at the other corner was a sawhorse whose horizontal top formed a triangulated arch, fiendishly shaped, capable of biting into a tender young cunt and causing it atrocious chafing when the victim was under the attack of the lash, wrists and ankles strapped to the lower legs.
In the corner of the room to the right of the door stood a pillory, with two small holes for the wrists and a larger one for the victim's neck. And finally in the opposite corner, there was a small bench, not more than four feet in length and three feet wide, into whose front legs were fixed adjustable metal gyves for the victim's wrists. Directly above it dangled a pulley rope at the end of which was a pair of silver ankle bracelets. It was on this apparatus to which Pamela Thornton was to be affixed for her ordeal tonight!
The auburn-haired beauty had put on a red satin dress with short sleeves and a wide V-cut at the back almost down to the chinkbone. It was exceptionally daring, but it brought out the voluptuous ripeness of her magnificent young body. Under it she had put on a white satin slip, white bra and panties, and she had put on her first pair of sheer nylon hose, adjusting a white satin-elastic garter-belt under the panties to hookup the tabs of these caressing stockings, the very finest she had even worn. She wore black leather pumps, with moderate three-and-a-half inch heels. This attire, which she had put on just before supper and which she had stared at in the mirror with a secret kind of narcissism, made her look far older than her eighteen years. And the sight of her as he had entered her room had determined the prematurely gray-haired sadist to brook the possible wrath of his partner by stealing Pamela Thornton away from him and himself enjoying her cherries, even though it had been agreed that the girl was to be reserved for an extremely wealthy amateur buyer of female slaves.
"You're really quite a dish, Pamela," he chuckled, licking his lips and savoring what he was going to do to her. "I think I'll appreciate you more than my partner does. His idea was to train you as a slave and then sell you. Oh yes, I can do that too, but it would be an utter waste to let such a tempting piece of cunt as you leave here as the property of some man or woman without my having shown you how a pretty bitch like you could be made to respond to an expert master, such as I am."
"You-you-what are you saying, Mr. Darden? My sister-what has Mr. Saltiel done to her?"
Leopold Darden shrugged. "Not very much more than give her a good sound thrashing, would be my guess, Pamela. He has the silly notion that she ought to be saved for a buyer with a very generous checkbook. I think I can still get a pretty good price for you even after I've broken you in. Now take off that dress. I want to see you naked just as soon as possible."
"I won't! Oh, I've been a fool-Sally and I ought to have known Mr. Saltiel wasn't going to do all those nice things for us without trying to get something for it!" Pamela Thornton exclaimed, more to herself than to her mocking interlocutor.
"That's a very practical philosophy which comes a little late, Pamela. And I wouldn't concern myself with your sister if I were you. Because unless you do what I tell you to, you're going to experience a great deal of pain and you're going to have to do it anyway." So saying, he walked over to a chest beside the couch, opened it, and, after a moment's deliberation, took out a black leather crav-ache. It had a thick short stock handle, and the thong was braided, about two feet long, its tips split into three strands at the end to impart a vicious sting, especially to the cunt and titties or between the bottom-cheeks of an unwilling female victim.
Pamela uttered a cry of horror when she saw him turn back to her, whip in hand. She stared around frantically for some way out, and realized there was none. "Don't you touch me! You've got no right to treat me like this," she warned, but her voice was shaking.
Leopold Darden's mocking smile deepened as he came slowly towards her, the cravache dangling from his right hand. He was in absolutely no hurry. He knew his partner's penchant for whipping and he knew also that pert brunette Sally Thornton had certainly exasperated Francis Saltiel enough to want to prolong a good whipping session. No, there wasn't much danger that his partner would discover what was going on down here. And by then, it would be far too late for Pamela. He was going to fuck that sweet bitch until she came, he was going to stripe that lovely creamy ass of hers until she begged him to put his prick anywhere into her virgin body just to stop the whipping. And there were other delightful little things he was going to do just to make sure she would grovel at his feet and beg him humbly to fuck or bugger her or be permitted the rare privilege of Frenching him.
"Are you going to take off your dress, Pamela, or am I going to have to nTake you do it?" he greedily demanded.
"I won't, you can kill me, but I won't ever do anything like that. And you better be careful, Mr. Darden, or-oww! you-you hit me-you horrible, wicked man, you hit me!" she cried in consternation as, Leopold Darden, tightening his lips, swept the cravache across her lovely chest, stinging the bare flesh left in the decolletage of the red satin dress His eyes blazed at the sight of the bright red mark left by the braided whip.
"Perhaps now you'll understand that I mean what I say, Pamela. Take off your dress and be quick about it!" he said in a harsh voice that trembled with impatient rut.
Pamela suddenly kicked out at him, but Leopold Darden had already anticipated her movement. Stepping adroitly to one side, he cut her across the belly with the cravache, and Pamela doubled over, clutching her belly and crying out hoarsely in her pain.
Swiftly moving round and behind her, he swept the cravache twice ever her jutting bottom, shaped out delightfully by the tight red satin dress, before she could again twist round and, uttering a scream of pain, lunge at him with one hand to try to wrest the whip away.
"So you want to fight?' he panted, relishing the savage aspect of this duel. His prick was already thrusting hard against the jockey shorts, and Pamela's flushed, indignant and tearstained face had never seemed more deliciously provocative as now. "I'll give you everything you want, you sweet bitch. But in the end, you're going to be whipped and then fucked, yes, Pamela, fucked until you beg me to cream you down!" he mouthed.
Now again the whip slashed down, this time biting against her soft creamy neck just where it joined her lovely body. A sure cry of pain attested to the torture of that lash, and she clutched at the mark with one hand while she tried to run. Leopold Darden was on her, bringing the whip down again and again as he slashed at her shoulders, back, bottom and finally at her calves. Two lashes there made her stumble and fall flat on the floor, at which he flung off his dressing gown and then, bending down and plunging his left hand into her disheveled auburn hair, swept the whip down three times over her bottom. "Are you going to undress? Are you? Are you?" he reiterated hoarsely.
"Oww-ahrrr-oh please-it hurts me-stop it, Mr. Darden-you dirty brute, I won't, you can kill me, you won't have anything from me, I won't let you!" she cried in spite of her pain.
He cast aside the cravache, knelt down and, seizing the neck of her dress with both hands, ripped it from her body. Pamela tried to roll over and to strike at him, but he sat his left knee in the small of her back and now tore down the slip. Her lovely creamy back was revealed, already marked by the angry stripes of the whip. Now he ripped off the bandeau of her bra, and then, moving away and squatting down, began to tear at the rent dress and slip until he had wrenched them off her body.
Pamela uttered a scream and stumbled to all fours, then totteringly righted herself. Her hair was tumbled over one cheek, and her naked titties jiggled as she tried to run towards the door. In only garter belt panties and hose and pumps, she was even more exquisitely fuckable than had she been stark naked, and his prick was already threatening to burst through the shorts as he went after her, having retired the cravache.
A viciously placed diagonal stroke of the whip from her right shoulder down to the left side of her bare back made her shriek and twist, bending forward and dashing one hand behind her to rub the blazing stripe. Another blow made the whip cling round the ripest curves of the voluptuous ass-cheeks, and an even more frantic cry of pain assailed his eager ears. "Everything off, you bitch, everything now!" he hoarsely ejaculated, again slashing the whip over her bottom.
Pamela Thornton twisted, her back against the door, tears running down her cheeks, her fists clenched, magnificent in her young but useless heroism. Leaving herself vulnerable as she did, he took instant advantage; his right hand rose, the cravache whistled down to bite over her titties. Pamela shrieked again, wordlessly, clutching both those luscious love-globes, and he at once slashed the whip over her belly, and then finally lowering it to the floor, leaped it up into her cunt. The panties were scant protection; a frenzied, porlonged scream tore from the maddened, naked young beauty, and she twisted round and ground herself against the door, her hands ingenuously rubbing her bottom as if to disperse the fiery sting of the whip and also to prevent more lashing.
Leopold Darden had never been so thrilled as by this defiant young virgin. The fingers of his left hand plunged into her auburn tresses yanked them back, tilting up her agonized face, making her move away from the door, and as she half-turned, the whip whistled over her belly, and then over her naked titties. She screamed and tried to grip for the whip, almost catching it, but he drew it away and, again yanking her hair and moving round behind her, slashed the cravache diagonally over her bottomcheeks.
"Oh no-ahrrr-arrrhh-you're hurting me-oh you filthy brute-stop it-oh if I were a manI'd kill you-oww ouuuuu!! ! Stop it, oh not there, not on my boobies!" she wailed as the cravache again striped those magnificent titties with its burning kiss. Covering her right tittie with her left hand, she struck at him with her right fist, and by luck managed to deliver a glancing blow on the point of his jaw.
Leopold Darden grinned sadistically. Then he twisted his fingers and tugged downwards, so that, willy-nilly, the shrieking auburn-haired teenager was forced to sink down on her knees. Squatting behind her, dropping the whip for the nonce, he ripped away her panties, tore them from her body and flung them aside. He could see the angry welts brought by the cravache, and as she tried to twist round, he caught a glimpse of the dark-auburn bush of her virgin cunthole.
"Now you're going to learn your lesson, you lovely, rebellious little bitch!" he snarled.
He let go of her hair, and Pamela suddenly flung herself at him, her arms locking round his legs, trying to tackle him and fell him to the floor. He let himself fall relaxed, so as not to hurt himself, for the floor was padded thickly like the walls, as an insane asylum cell would be for a violent lunatic; as he found himself beneath her, and she tried to straighten up and get away, he shot his right fist forward, crashing it against her jaw. Pamela uttered a stifled groan, and slumped across his body, unconscious.
Immediately he got to his feet, bent down and lifted her inert, voluptuous and almost naked body. Her pumps had been scuffed off, and one of her stockings had a long, jagged ladder in it from the top down to the knee. These and the garter belt were all now that covered her creamy virginal body.
He carried her over to that short bench, laid her down on her back, and then lowered the pulley rope. Quickly he made the ankle bracelets fast round the slender limbs, and hoisted the pulley up till her legs were drawn straight up. Then, squatting down, he drew her arms behind her and down to the lower legs at the front of the bench, locking her wrists in the metal gyves which had been fixed into the heavy wood. Thus she was presented, her titties arching up, her legs drawn up from the hips straight up in the air. Finally, reaching under the bench he drew up a buckling strap and tightened it round her waist till the leather bit into the finely grained creamy skin of her belly.
Leopold Darden stood over the unconscious naked auburn-haired orphan girl, his eyes feasting on the regular, rhythmic rise and fall of those creamy titties with their exquisite coral buds. The nuance of only her garter belt and even her torn stockings seemed to make her more enticing than if she had been stark naked. He stripped off his jockey shorts now and leaned closer to study her face. That lovely oval visage was taut, a kind of frown imprinted on it. He could see an imperceptible fluttering of the eyelids. With a greedy leer, he gripped his prick in his hand and aimed it at her face. Then he began to piss.
The torrential stinging stream plashed against her eyelids, nose, mouth and cheeks, until at last he had emptied his bladder. Then he straightened, planted his hands on his hips, and felt his cock harden again, aching more violently than ever.
Gradually Pamela Thornton's consciousness returned. Her eyelids fluttered violently, then drew back. She stared up at him, and then slowly her face began to contort in a mask of disgust and loathing: "You-you ought to be locked up for good-oh, you filthy dirty bastard, you-you-you-"
"Yes, my dear, I pissed in your face to bring you back to our private little party," he chucklingly interrupted. "Before I'm done with you, Pamela, you're going to beg me to fuck the hell out of you. I'm going to make you ask for it, you'll see."
"You can go to hell! You won't get a thing out of me-I-I think I'd puke if you even touched me!" she panted.
"We'll see," he nodded gloatingly.
Going back to the chest out of which he had taken the cravache, he opened it and studied the contents for a moment. Then he took out a white heron plume and a short-handled, oval-shaped leather paddle. Armed with these, he seated himself on the little footstool so that he could commandeer her magnificently naked, slightly distended, upturned creamy bottom-cheeks and legs. His eyes devoured the gaping pink cleft of her virgin cunthole, and he could see the shadowy furrow which led to her temple of Sodom, the dainty nook of her ass-hole.
His prick was already enormously swollen as, he sat on the edge of the stool and contemplated Pamela's vulnerably exposed ass, cunt and legs. Then, delicately, with his left hand, he advanced the heron's plume towards her inner thighs and began to stroke them, alternating on each leg from the crotch to the knees and back again. She began to squirm, exacerbated, closing her eyes, her teeth clenched, determined to give him no satisfaction.
Playfully he leaned forward to caress her nipples with the tip of the white plume, and did so until they began to stiffen and darken, and until the flaring and shrinking of her nostrils told him that despite her self-imposed stoicism she could not prevent the attunement of her healthy young virgin body.
Then again he restored the feather to her thighs, but avoiding her cunt, and he watched with greedy joy the spasmodic flexions of her muscles and the involuntary starts and tremors which made her legs jerk against the ankle bracelets and in turn made the pulley creak in protest.
Pausing a moment, he now applied the feather to the cheeks of her bottom, delicately fronding every creamy cranny of those lovely, jouncy curves, till he neared the inner edges of the slightly distended, ambery groove of her ass-hole. And then, after another pause, he darted the feather down against the soft, puckering petals of that virgin temple of Sodom.
Pamela Thornton uttered a stifled gasp, her head tilted backwards, her eyes tightly shut, and he could see the muscles of her jaw stand out as she determinedly choked back any sound which might delight him. Wafting the feather back over her naked ass, he advanced it toward the dark-auburn fronds which framed the gaping petals of her cunt lips, and then he tickled these with a lingering persistence.
Pamela moaned, her face turning from side to side as if a restless fever griped her. Beads of sweat had begun to stand out on her forehead, as well as in the dark tufted nooks of her armpits. Her fingernails dug into her sweaty palms and scrabbled against the legs of the half-bench. Her hips began a kind of jerky squirming, and she groaned aloud as he now delved the plume into her cunt and up against her clitoris. Her eyes opened a moment, glassy and bulging, and for an instant she seemed to stare at him wonderingly, wanting to know by what pernicious magic he was drawing her onward to sensual yielding against her will.
Leopold Darden chuckled. "You're not so shy as you pretend, you high-toned imagine Southern bitch," he told her. "You watch and see if I don't have you begging to be fucked, Pamela girl!"
Then, suddenly, lifting the paddle in his right hand, he dealt two hard smacks against the base of each creamy bottomglobe. The transition from languorous pleasure to sudden stinging pain took Pamela Thornton by surprise: her hips jerked, her legs kicked, and a stifled cry escaped her lips. Then she twisted her face to the other side and again tightened the muscles of her jaws, her entire body stiffened and determined to resist.
The light pink outlines of the paddle against the soft creamy satin of her naked ass stood out voluptuously, delighting this almost psychopathic sadist. She had very nearly pushed him over the edge by slandering him and defying him, and it would not take much more to hurl him into the morass of sexual madness. With tremendous self-control, however, he pursued his deliberate task of teaching her the melange of pain and delight, and he had sensed that her sensitivity, though virgin, was highly keen, and he knew he would gain his lust-reward when at last he brought her to a babbling, sobbing pitch of almost frantic near-orgasm yielding.
Once again he returned the feather to tickle her ass, not forgetting to guide the white plume along the shadowy crease and to tickle her ass-hole back and forth until she whimpered and groaned, digging her sweaty palms almost to the blood. Then quickly, without warning, the paddle went to work again. Two hard spanks on each bottomsummit drew a muffled "Ohhahhhhoooooh!" from the courageous, naked auburn-haired victim, and her head slightly rolled, her eyes glassy and dilated again as she fixed them on his flushed, contorted face.
Now once again, his plan of alternating attunement with agony went on, and Leopold Darden wafted the feather over her belly, along her sides and over her titties, dallying with her nipples until they stiffened and darkened, all the blood drawn to those erogenous tidbits. Again the paddle smacked crisply, attacking the upper summits of each bottomglobe with three sharp, crisp spanks. Pamela's body jerked and lunged as much as the holding-strap allowed, her legs kicked and the pulley creaked and her sobbing "Ahrrr, you can kill me but
I still won't!" rang through the room.
"We'll just see now, girl," he gloated, and again the feather descended, tickling the fleshy soft rims of her cunthole back and forth and back and forth again. A telltale trace of pussy moisture which spelled the beginning of her arousal began to appear now. At that moment he delved into her cunt with the feather to find the stiffened nodule of the clitoris, fondling it and rubbing it, until her head began to turn restlessly back and forth and her eyes to roll, her nostrils flaring and shrinking and smothered little moans to escape her.
As soon as he saw her body shivering, he put the feather away and lifted the paddle. It smacked on her upper right thigh, then on her left. It searched out particularly sensitive spots, especially considering how tightly her legs were tractioned upwards. Pamela could not help uttering a moaning "Oh Lordie-oh you dirty coward, you!"
Now the feather caressed where the paddle had left its bright pink on those lovely thighs, and glided down over the bottom-cheeks, visited her ass-hole lingeringly, as again Pamela Thornton's face became congested and flaming and her head rolled back and forth, her eyes unseeing, whimpering gasps emanating from her trembling lips.
Then, setting the feather on her belly, Leopold Darden began to spank in earnest. With about five seconds between each stroke, he made the paddle dance against the upturned, distended naked ass-cheeks, alternating on the globes, starting at the tops of her hips and working upwards-in this reversed pose, to be sure-to the base and back again.
She could not long suppress her cries. By the twenty-fifth stroke, she tilted back her head and uttered a piercing cry, wordless and agonized.
By the time he had given her forty spanks, her bottom was inflamed and a fiery red, standing out salaciously against the warm cream of her thighs and belly and those wonderful panting titties.
The time had come for Pamela Thornton and for Leopold Darden. He had had to pinch his prick-head with left thumbs and forefinger to hold back the savage urge to frig while he watched her agony under the paddling. Now, kicking away the footstool and rising, holding only the feather in his left hand, he gripped her left knee-hollow with his right hand and arched himself towards her. His stiff prick prodded the twitching and moist petals of her cunt-hole.
"Oh no-don't you do that to me-oh no, I don't want it-stop it! stop it!" Pamela cried.
Frenziedly she tried to twist her hips away from that fatal penetration, but in vain. He dug himself into the lobby of her cunt and thrust himself down till he felt himself come up against the barrier to bliss, her virgin cherry. His left hand directed the feather over her titties, along her thighs, into her sweaty armpits, and then setting his teeth and drawing a deep breath and gathering all his strength, he thrust downward with all his might.
A shriek arose from Pamela Thornton as she felt her maidenhead yield to that pitiless battering ram, and Leopold Darden uttered an echoing cry of triumph as he felt himself stab into her to his very balls.
Then, letting the feather fall where it would, he gripped both her knees with his hands and began to fuck her.
The excruciating twinges of pain which the laceration of her cherry had caused began to dwindle. The ruthless friction of his savagely swollen prick digging in and out of her swollen cunt commenced a subtle assault on her innermost nervous system.
Attuned as she already had been by the feather and by the spanking, Pamela Thornton's healthy young passions had come to the surface despite her heroic resolve not to surrender to her torturer.
Leopold Darden's face was twisted in tormented ecstasy, as he clutched her nylon-sheathed knees, his fingers digging cruelly into them, his prick hilted in the tight confines of her quaking twat. He could feel the walls of her sheath grip and battle him, and the headying sensation of conquest made him grind his teeth as he sought to hold back the bubbling spunk that yearned to gush forth and ease the savage aching in his balls.
Then slowly he drew himself back along the volutes of her quim, almost to the brink, observing the bloodied spear of his weapon emerging from that soft, pink, ravaged gape. Then with a grunt, he dug himself back to the balls again.
"Ahhhhhrrrrr! Oh kill me, kill me and get it over with, you dirty, filthy, insane bastard!" Pamela cried hysterically, turning her face from side to side, her eyes glittering with tears as she stared unseeingly at the ceiling. Her fingernails clawed at the bench, her hips swerved and twisted, and the inflamed cheeks of her voluptuous young ass contracted and spasmed, displaying the puckering fissure of her bunghole as all her sensitivities were now flagrantly assaulted. The tickling he had done with the feather and then the burning spanking he had done with the paddle had brought her further along than she knew toward the abyss of complete capitulation. Now that the twinge of her shattered hymen was dispersed, now that his prick had begun to scrape the tender walls of her hitherto unprofaned cunthole, Pamela Thornton was being forced toward yielding that which she would rather have died than yield.
Again and again he pressed home, drawing out slowly, closing his eyes and grinding his teeth as he fought the maddening urge to jettison his torrent of bubbling gism into her quaking twat. Now, moving his left hand away from her updrawn left leg, he applied his forefinger towards the clitoris, and as he drew back slowly again, began to rub the already exacerbated button, the very key to her secret emotions.
Pamela immediately jerked and squirmed, her head rising, the neck cords standing out against the ivory satin of her lovely throat. Her' mouth gaped in a raucous groan, and her titties rose and fell wildly in the abandon of control. The subtle admixture of pain and passion was like a cantharide in her cuntshealth, and it was forcing her towards the dreaded abandon of her proud young spirit and flesh.
He flattened her clitoris down into its cowl of protective pussy-flesh and rubbed it back and forth, as with short, quick little strokes he fucked her. And then suddenly he could hold back no more and with a maddened roar shot his essence deep into her. At the same moment, his finger prodding back her clitoris and flattening the button back into itself, Pamela's body jerked fitfully, her head rolled again and her mouth gaped in a hoarse, throbbing cry: "Ohhawwahhhrrryeeeeeowwwwouuuuuu!! ! ! "
Her body threshed and squirmed, her legs kicked madly and the pulley creaked again in protest. He crouched, his prick ebbing out the last viscous drop and his left hand felt the wild trembling of her leg muscles as his greedy eyes swept her body in turmoil.
"I made you come, you prissy little Southern virgin, didn't I?" he thickly boasted.
Then, staggering away from her, he lowered the pulley rope, unlocked the gyves that held her wrists, and the ankle bracelets which pinioned her slim ankles. She lay sprawled, her upper body lying along the bench, her legs hugely straddled, the bleeding gape of her deflorated cunt upturned and lewdly exposed. Whimpering, her titties rising and falling violently, her head slowly rolled from side to side. Dazed and broken by the upheaval and the shattering earthquake of her innermost emotions, Pamela Thornton had known at last the blazing cataclysm of passion.
He went around the head of the bench and reached down to squeeze her titties, his bloody prick rubbing against her nose and cheeks. "And now, you slut," he mouthed, "you're going to suck my cock clean and then beg for another good fucking. Maybe if you're a really good girl, I'll brown you, and then I'll have all three of your cherries, Pamela girl. Stick out your tongue and start licking my cock clean, or I'll take that paddle to your titties, so help me!"
"I don't think you will, Darden," a suave voice broke in upon the prematurely gray-haired sadist's lustful boasting.
Leopold Darden whirled, his eyes widening, then he uttered startled: "For Christ's sake, Francis, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same question, Darden," the suave-voiced co-owner of Lecayano came forward, a Colt .32 automatic in his right hand aimed at Leopold Darden's heart. "So you couldn't wait, eh? That was very stupid of you, Darden. First of all, I had this girl reserved for myself. Besides, I see you have gone and taken her cherry. You've just lost about ten thousand dollars for us. I hope you're satisfied."
"We can get plenty of girls," Leopold Darden tried to propiate his enraged partner. "Hell, there must be pretty bitches like this all over the deep South. And what about you and that Sally."
"I just whipped the hell out of her ass, but I left her a virgin, which is more than I can say for you with Pamela. I think, Darden, it's time to dissolve our partnership. There have been a few things about our deal I haven't liked, and tonight just about tops it off."
"Now wait a minute, Saltiel!" Leopold Darden babbled. "We can talk this over man to man. Sure, I went berserk because this bitch gave me some real masty talk. I don't take that from anyone. But she's still got her mouth and ass-hole virginities and that's worth something."
"Not as much as it would have been if you'd left her alone. I wouldn't have minded so much if you'd just whipped her. But even there, since you knew how I felt about being her first trainer, you could have had brains enough to have left her alone. And I imagine Alma had a hand in this or you wouldn't have got the key. Alma's going to have a little answering to do herself when I get through with you, Darden."
"Don't! Don't shoot-now look-I've got plenty of dough in the bank in Miami-you can have it all-there's plenty for all of us-"
Francis Saltiel slowly raised the automatic and aimed it at his partner's head. With a gurgling cry of terror, Leopold Darden flung himself to one side and lunged with his arms out in a football tackle. A shot rang out but missed, and then Francis Saltiel was felled to the floor. The two men rolled back and forth, twisting and kicking, punching each other, as Leopold Darden managed to grab his partner's wrist with his left hand and point the gun off towards the door. Finally, gouging his nails into Francis Saltiel's wrist, he made the latter drop the gun.
During this struggle, Pamela Thornton had dazedly restored herself to consciousness. Sitting up wanly, she stared uncomprehendingly for a moment at the two struggling men, and then her eyes fell on the gun. Rising carefully from the bench, she stumbled towards the gun and retrieved it, just as Leopold Darden smashed his fist against his partner's jaw and left him dazed and groaning.
"That's a good bitch!" he called to Pamela, looking up and seeing that she was holding the gun. "Just keep it trained on him. I'll be good to you, Pamela, you'll see. I-"
Pamela's lips tightened and her right forefinger pressed against the trigger. There was a sharp report and Leopold Darden's eyes goggled as a tiny black hole appeared in the center of his forehead. Then he fell over backwards and lay sprawled in death.
Slowly Francis Saltiel shook his head and tried to sit up. He found himself looking into the muzzle of the gun, and then he too knew no more, as Pamela's finger again squeezed the trigger of the squat little gun. . .
As soon as Pamela Thornton had made sure that her two abductor-torturers were dead, she put back on the tattered frock and, still gripping the gun with the safety catch off in the event that someone else should try to intercept her, directed herself toward the compound. The Arabian sheikh had already sailed with the tide on his way back to Tangiers with his two white slaves, Mrs. Dorothy Barten and Molly Mortmain. There was now no one on the island except Alma and the two Negro guards to stand between Pamela and freedom. Elise Duval and Penelope Sands hardly counted.
She opened the door to the compound and then stopped, her eyes widening. The two Negroes stood there, watching her.
"Well now, look at what we've got here, boy," Dave said to Sam with a chuckle. "How the hell did you get loose, white gal?"
"Mr. Darden and Mr. Saltiel had a fight, and Mr. Saltiel had this gun and was going to kill him, and then they started fighting and I was untied and-and I guess I shot them both. And-and I'll shoot you too if you don't help me and my sister Sally get out of here!" Pamela gasped.
"You mean they're both dead?" Sam incredulously demanded.
"You'd better go see. They're back in that main building, in the basement. That's where Mr. Darden took me," Pamela explained.
"Lawsamercy! I'm gonna see for myself. Dave boy, don't you try no tricks. If this little ofay gal done like she says she done, we better treat her right," Sam called over his shoulder as he broke into a trot.
"Where's my sister?" Pamela anxiously asked.
"She's with Alma. I guess Mr. Saltiel got real mad when he found out what was happening, and he sent for Alma and made her admit that she gave Mr. Darden the key to that special place. They don't use it much any more. But I can't believe it-you mean you killed them both?"
"I had to. Now take me to my sister!" Pamela commanded.
A strange new exhilaration came over her now. She had survived. She had outwitted her two sophisticated tormenters, and now there remained only the liberation of Sally. After that, there was the problem of getting back to the United States; but it was small indeed compared with the solution of her previous dilemmas.
Dave led her down the corridor and opened the cell door. Pamela gave a horrified cry. Sally was stark naked and bound to an isosceles triangle, her wrists bound high above her head and fixed to the peak, while Alma, also naked as the day she was born, was trussed against her, a rope lashed around their waists, and her wrists also tied to the top of the triangle, their ankles fixed widely apart to the lower corners of the triangle. The marks of a severe flogging appeared on the mulatress's magnificent naked behind and thighs, and she was weeping quietly.
"Alma girl, this here little white chick did in Mr. Darden and Mr. Saltiel," Dave excitedly announced.
"Sally-my poor darling, what did that horrible beast do to you?" Pamela cried as she saw the marks of Sally's spanking.
Sally began to cry, and Dave promptly untied both naked captives, taking Alma into his arms and patting her cheeks and crooning to her as a father might to a frightened little girl, while Sally ran into Pamela's arms and the two sisters kissed and hugged excitedly.
Sam returned, his face grave. "It's like she said, Dave. You can bury them right now, if you want."
"If that ain't somepin'! " Dave ejaculated, shaking his head and staring at Pamela with a new respect. "What you figure you're gonna do now, girl?"
"Get my sister and me back home as fast as we can!" she answered.
"You don't have to, not really. Those two men owned this place," Dave explained. "They made lots of money selling slaves-but then, I guess you found that out. There's no reason why all of us can't work together and maybe live here free and equal and have our fun without none the wiser. They brought the island outright, and nobody's going to bother us here."
"It's like a dream," Alma murmured dazedly. "I've been that man's slave-it feels like a century right now. And then he turned on me, all because I made one little mistake. He called me a dirty nigger bitch, and he forgot all I did for him. No, I'm not going to cry for him. But I owe a lot to you, Miss Pamela, and if you say the word, you and your sister can stay here and we'll work for you."
Pamela took a deep breath and her eyes moved around the torture chamber. Then a curious little smile played on her lips as she murmured, "Why does it have to be girl slaves all the time, Alma? Why can't we maybe make slaves of a few nice looking white boys? And maybe a nice bright black boy for you."
"Why not indeed?" Alma giggled.
And thus on the island of Lecayano, two orphaned sisters had found not only a new home but a new ambition and goal in life. And today, only a few devotees know the existence of the island and what its mysterious buildings contain. Mrs. August Henderson of Mobile knows. For when she visited the following month, she found herself captured and made to accept slavery under Pamela herself, who now wears leather boots and gloves and a one-piece corselet, and uses the whip as well as Alma ever did.
Yes, Pamela's passionate whipping and fucking wakened her into this transformation. And her younger sister, Sally, is busy training handsome young boys and men who will ultimately be sold as slaves to stud beautiful, wealthy, jaded women. She doesn't miss Dan Trevors any more, because she's found how satisfying it is to tie a young man naked to the triangle and reach around behind him with her riding crop and slash his bottom while she impales her squirming cunt against his stiffened cock until she tastes the release which she never had with her young lover back in Mississippi!
