Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 

   THE SLAVES PROGRESS, A ROMANCE.

   (c)2004Maslakovia Studios maslakovia@yahoo.co.uk

   ISTANBUL, APRIL, 1884

   PART ONE THE HOUSE IN GALATA

   The moonlight's silvery sheen covers the darkened buildings as the black
steam-carriage quietly drives through the back alleys of Istanbul's Galata
district.  The labyrinthine streets twisting in the night up from the
passenger dock at the shore of the Golden Horn, pulling the wealthier
travellers to the delights of the nearby Rue de Pera, home to the foreign
embassies and their associated hotels.

   Galata itself, a haven of small-time criminals, prostitutes, Jews,
Armenians, Arabs, and Europeans of a certain type, exudes an air of menace,
even to the hardened men who crew the steamships and the massive
steam-driven airships docked and pyloned at the port of Karaköy below. 
Money is gambled, vast quantities of alcohol, opium, and hash consumed,
women fought over, and men sent to an early grave far from home.  The
jumble of wooden, brick, and stone houses proving to be a maze of much
deadlier intent than the childish attempts of English landscapers.

   The carriage eases to a stop in answer to its passenger's soft rap on
its roof, the driver engaging the braking lever as he jumps from his seat.
The carriage door is opened even before he can reach for the handle and his
tall, foreign passenger steps down into the cobbled, slimy street.  The
driver's mate looks around uneasily at the tall buildings looming crazily
around them, not a light to be seen, no sounds save for the far-off howling
of one of Istanbul's innumerable packs of roaming wild dogs.

   The tall foreigner, his long, expensively tailored coat opened, his tall
hat under his arm, stroked his handlebar moustache and turns to speak to
the driver in the clipped terms of the English military aristocracy.

   'Unload, start with that large one.' He points to the darkened wood
seachest fastened to the rear of the carriage, its brass fittings shining
white in the eerie moonlight, its leather straps tightly buckled, and a
curious array of small holes drilled neatly into its lid utterly ruining
its designed purpose.

   As the two Turks begin to loosen the ropes around the chest with all the
enthusiasm of a couple of Egyptian sentries looking at the tanks, steam
catapults, and desert walking machines of the Mahdi's army from the walls
of Khartoum, the Englishman authoritatively marches up to the door of the
nearest house.  Rapping once, he steps back.  Presently, the door opens to
reveal the inescapably gnome-like features of an English gentleman's
gentleman.  He looks around in a state of some perplexity before his eyes
adjust to the dark and he can make out the face of the visitor.

   'Lord Haswell!' he exclaims.

   'Yes, Arthur, thrilled to see you too,' Haswell makes no attempt to
disguise the ironic timbre to his voice.  'Earl Shadforth is at home, I
take it.' Haswell also makes no attempt to halt his progress as he marches
through the hallway of the house and into its study.

   Lord Richard Abercrombie Fitzsimmon Haswell, dissolute, libertine,
adventurer, head of a particularly successful baby-farming enterprise,
exporter of English girls to Belgian brothels, and, most recently, as we
shall see, kidnapper.  Haswell's life up to this point has been a long list
of adventures far, far removed from any concept of genteel society, he is a
brash, confident man of no small intelligence and humour, although anyone
meeting him for the first time is more than likely to check that both
morals and pocketwatch are still securely in place upon leaving.

   However, there is to be a change in the life of this immoral adventurer,
he has already primed the boiler and unlocked the brakes of fate's Prime
Mover, and now something he could never suspect will send it crashing
through Haswell's life with pachydermal levels of force.  The more astute
reader will no doubt have a clear concept of this agent of change.  The
rest will have to wait until the box is opened.

   For now, we return to the opening of the study door.  Earl Peter
Shadforth has been hoping for a quiet few weeks away from England and his
admittedly ghastly family.  The house in Galata, rented under a pseudonym
of little believability, but ample financial support, is his hideaway.  A
place of relaxation, where a gentleman of means can indulge any whim, no
matter how twisted, without feeling pressurised to conform.  At this
moment, as Haswell opens the door, the study is a room of dark wooden
tables and bookcases, mixed with leather library chairs and various Ottoman
carpets and tapestries.  A well stocked drinks cabinet takes pride of place
in one corner, opposite a small locked cabinet, which contains the Earl's
complete collection of hallucinogens and relaxants.  The low gas lighting
bathes everything in a warm dirty-orange glow.  Earl Shadforth, comfortably
in his favourite chair, whisky by his side, an illustrated copy of Goblin
Market in one hand, semi-tumescent organ in the other is, as one might
assume, in a state of some disorder.

   'Dickie', he begins, 'my word, I never expected to see you here, I
thought you were to be in Maslakovia for at least another month.' He
hastily puts both book and member away; drains the remainder of his drink.

   'That was my plan, Peter, but I,' he pauses, 'I had to cut my visit
short.'

   Haswell smiles at his friend's uncomprehendingly dull-witted expression.

   Shadforth blinks, forgets that he has done so and blinks again.  He does
this several times until Haswell becomes concerned that he has developed
some sort of oriental tick, finally the Earl gets his words gathered in.

   'But, but, but,' admittedly not that well gathered in, 'but Dickie,
Maslakovia, slaves, unbridled libertinism with tightly bridled pony-girls,
I've been trying to get in for years and you cut your visit short!  Are you
unwell?  Dying?  Pox'd?  Cursed?  Religious?  Please, Dickie, tell me that
you're all right!'

   Haswell sighs, the seachest, weighing heavy in the arms of the
carriage-driver and his mate, has made its way into the study behind him.

   'Put that down, and get out.' Haswell closes the door behind them.  He
bends to undo the straps.  Shadforth opens the valve on a nearby gas lamp
and peers over Haswell's shoulder into the open box.

   'Dickie?  Is, is that a...' His voice trails off.

   'You know, Peter, I like you a lot better when you give your mouth a
rest, and, yes, Peter, this is a genuine Maslakovian sex slave, I've been
using ether to keep her quiet.'

   Haswell gently lifts the unconscious young woman out of her confinement.
Her wrists are held behind her by thick leather cuffs, a short chain
connects them to the heavy silver ring that pierces both her inner and
outer right labia.  Shadforth stares transfixed.

   'I had to do it, Peter.'

   'Peter?  Are you all right?'

   'They will come for her, Dickie, they will come for you, too.  You will
be stripped of that precious Maslakovian citizenship.  Dickie, why?  You
could fuck her all day, every day without kidnapping her!  Have you lost
your mind?'

   Haswell looks at his friend with the resigned air of an inbred family
patriarch looking at his hideous mutant progeny.  'Peter, that is why I am
here, nobody knows of this little nest of yours, do they?  You always tell
everyone that you've gone to the Cape, of all places.  You will not
understand until she awakes, but look now!  This is what I meant, even
unconscious she opens her legs if someone is near.  She'll start to moisten
soon.'

   Against his better judgement Shadforth peers at the hairless sex of the
Slave, the weight of her arms on the piercing ring drags her lips open,
exposing the pinkness within.  Sure enough, after a few seconds glistening
moisture becomes apparent, the muscles of her inner thighs work against
Haswell's arm that holds her under the knees.  One small drop forms,
running down to her smooth anus and falling to the floor.

   'I am going to put her to bed, Peter.  We cannot really discuss this
properly until then, now open the door, there's a good chap.' Haswell
turns, carrying his precious cargo up the narrow stairs.

   'They'll not take long to find you, Dickie,' shouts Shadforth to his
retreating back, noticing that the first drop has quickly been joined by
others,'All they'll have to do is follow the splashes.' Resigned he pours
himself another drink and sits back down.

   It is probably time now to inform the more naive reader of certain basic
facts of which they may be unaware.  Namely that following certain
unfortunate events in France during 1791, or thereabouts, libertinism fell
very much out of favour, even among the degenerate English, who might have
been expected to keep the fire burning.  But, alas, it was not to be.  In
any event, a small country, Maslakovia, was created in the picturesque
mountain countryside of Central-Eastern Europe, a place where libertines
could come together and delight in each other's deviant perversions. 
Slaves were procured a capital city, Libertinas was built, and the
libertine tradition saved.  Of course, it is terribly exclusive, only
'citizens' are allowed to pass the border, citizenship is conferred
according to a strict standard of sexual prowess and deviance.  Maslakovia
counts among its leading lights several heads-of-state, seven European
monarchs, fourteen monarchs of other countries, a shah, an emperor, an
empress, and eight highly placed members of the Roman Catholic church, all
of whom are deeply committed to keeping the secret little country exactly
that.

   It should, then, come as a surprise to learn that such a solidly
libertine individual as Lord Haswell has kidnapped a slave he had total
carte blanche to treat as he liked within the Maslakovian border, then
there must be a logical, or at least, understandable reason why.

   Of course, there is a reason, not that Haswell himself fully realises it
yet, and she will be waking soon.

   The sun rises quickly in Istanbul, throwing light full into the face of
the World's only transcontinental city.  The call to prayer for the
Mohammedan faithful ricochets around the stone walls and squares of a
thousand domed mosques.  The golden fireball clears the horizon,
backlighting the smoke from breakfast fires, steamships, factories and a
million other sources, big and small, to create an ochre miasma over the
whole ramshackle design.  Tracking its arc higher across the city, the
light of the sun pours through the barred windows of Shadforth's upper
storey, casting shadows across one particular small bedroom, before
alighting, as if drawn, on the face of the Slave.  She wakes, her huge,
heavy lidded eyes, blue as the summer sky, blink in unrecognition.  Her
naturally pouting lips open slightly to call out, but she thinks better of
it and remains silent.  She rolls to the side to put one small, pointed
foot onto the floor.  She stands, for all his kind mannerisms, Haswell has
left her chained, she arches her back to reduce the chain's pulling on her
sex.  Her breasts, so very large and pneumatic respond to the slight
morning chill, the thick piercing through each nipple shining in the
sunlight.  She turns her narrow waist to relieve the cramp of being kept
chained in a box, with only brief periods of druggie respite.  Those who
see her at first assume that she is a doll, or sculpture, created by some
demented individual with scant knowledge of proportional anatomy, so
dramatic is the swell of her breasts, hips, and arse.  She is, of course,
nothing of the sort, merely possessing a convenient combination of
hereditary attributes that, unfortunately, make it nigh impossible for any
man, or woman, for that matter to see her without experiencing some kind of
libidinous crisis.  Safely tucked away in Maslakovia, where such behaviour
is enthusiastically encouraged, the Slave could enjoy, and be enjoyed until
all energies were spent, as it were.  However, like an improper buggering
at a Royal banquet, she has been released into the world, and things like
that can only mean trouble.

   The Slave tiptoes to the window, not that she is trying to keep
especially quiet, tiptoe is her natural gait, would that all women were
likewise.  The chain in her sex, her slave-sign, weighs heavy, she arches
her back some more, the round perfection of her arse catching the sunlight
perfectly, her belly, taught, flat and drawn back aches with a need she
knows only too well.  It has been a long time since her master, as she
thought of Haswell, had allowed her to orgasm.  The drug he gave her made
sex, and all else for that matter, like a dream she could not be sure of.

   The scene outside is typically Istanbul, the creatures of the night have
all but melted away, and the streets are now busy with activity and
movement.  Veiled women in silks tow small children past the houses, on the
way to visit friends.  The street hawkers and vendors shout their wares and
services every four or five seconds, a profusion of riotous noise, colour
and business has taken over the city.  Despite the appalling financial
state of the Ottoman Empire, the suspension of the parliament, and the
incessant complaining of the idle, Istanbul buzzes with trade, gossip and
life.

   The Slaves eyes open wide as she takes all this in.  Maslakovia has
quiet, refined streets.  There are occasional whipping posts to which
slaves are periodically fixed, so that they can be beaten, fucked or abused
in any variety of ways.  Many male slaves have been regularly cock-whipped
until unconscious, then revived and whipped again for passing out. 
However, the Slave's main concern with Maslakovian streets is that they are
patently not the ones outside the window now.  The sights, sounds, and
smells are utterly alien to her, she steps back from the window into the
waiting arms of Lord Haswell, who has been watching her for some time.

   She does not turn, but allows him to put his warm hands on her small
shoulders, he caresses them, feeling the knots caused by her confinement in
his luggage, he runs a finger down the deep groove of her spine until it
reaches her waist, he holds her by the hips then runs a hand over her belly
and up below her breasts.

   'Master, where am I?'

   If Haswell notices the slight tremble in her soft voice, he does not
acknowledge it.

   'Do not worry, you are safe.'

   She relaxes slightly, he is her master, he has told her not to worry,
and she trusts him.

   'Let's take these chains off.' His fingers unbuckle the cuffs easily,
she gasps as he allows them to fall, pulling suddenly on her piercing, he
reaches down between her thighs, rubbing the knuckle of his thumb from her
anus along the wetness of her sex, until he can unclip the chain and the
apparatus falls to the floor.

   'Turn around.'

   The Slave turns, her head lowered, but her eyes raised.

   'My God, I had forgotten how beautiful you are.'

   Haswell lifts her chin, and looks into her eyes, feeling himself
drowning in a sea of blue.  His gaze drifts from the light, blonde curls
settled on her shoulders, to her extraordinary breasts, pierced nipples
sensitively erect, to a stomach and waist so slender he could span its
circumference with both his hands and have them touch, to her smooth,
perfect, pierced sex.  Rendered hairless, like all Maslakovian slaves, by
chemicals administered at a very young age.  Down past thighs that never
appear to close, and calves made shapely by years of wearing special slave
heel-pointe shoes, to dainty, delicate feet, standing, as always, on her
toes.

   He holds her close again, the smallness of her body against his makes
him feel even more possessive and protecting.  Her perfect slave's
demeanour, so submissively arousing worries and excites him simultaneously.
He hears her intake of breath as his erection presses against her through
the heavy cloth of his Saville Row suit, her hands wanting to touch him,
yet not daring to, she looks at him, her eyes full of submissive yearning.

   'Please, Master, please.' He takes her small hand in his, her long
fingers with almond-shaped nails tense as he brings them to the buttons of
his trousers, he helps her to undo them.

   She runs her hands down into his waistband, forcing his trousers to
fall, his erection springs free, his full, purpling head rubs against her
belly.  She holds him in both hands, his cock, large, purposeful,
surrenders to her grip.  He can feel the almost painful heat that her body
is generating.  He presses the heel of his hand against her lower belly,
cupping her sex with his palm.  He traps her outer lips between his
fingers, squeezing them tightly together until he can feel the excited
pulse of her racing heartbeat.  She pushes her head back, innocent blue
eyes wide with pleasure, blonde curls like fire in the sunlight, he bends
to kiss her full, open lips, throwing his arms around her to almost crush
the very breath from her.  He caresses the full length of her back, down
across her magnificent buttocks, and lifts her clear off the ground.

   She opens her thighs, spreading her legs around his body, her sex opened
wide and gaping for him, she feels the head of his cock rub against her
piercing and she impales herself on it, feeling its hydraulic stiffness
fill her warm, wet body.  Her muscles tighten around him, she feels his
blood now, coursing and pumping against his imprisoning flesh.  The soft
walls of her sex greedily suck at him, pulling him deeper and deeper into
her body until his cock is buried completely inside her.

   The running wetness of her arousal flows freely over his balls, and down
the arc of his muscular soldier's thighs, he allows her the pleasure of
using her inner muscles on his, by now, painfully erect penis before
carrying her to the bed and gently laying her on her back.

   He withdraws out of her, almost to the tip, before plunging himself back
into her soft, wanton, flesh.  Gradually he increases to a slow,
concentrated, deeply penetrating rhythm.  She stretches her body out before
him, back arched to force her sex hard against him, so supple, so well
muscled, her body begins to glow with the energy and heat of her boiling
circulation.  Again, as has happened since the first time they met, Haswell
becomes utterly consumed by this submissive, insatiable angel, if he were
less of a bastard, less of a libertine, less of a man, he might have had
the intelligence to be afraid, as it is, he knows only desire.

   The Slave feels his swelling, thrusting, pumping urgency and matches her
motion to his, her arms thrown above her head, searching for the bonds that
have tied her to so many beds in her short life in an instinctive reaction,
hands clawing and twisting at the tangled bedclothes as her body is filled
and emptied over and over again.

   She feels him tense, the first wave of orgasm crashes against her
speeding heart, but he withdraws completely from her grasping, now terribly
empty, sex.  He uses the head of his cock to force more of her sweet
lubrication from her vagina to her anus, realising his intent, and feeling
the swell of her pleasure increase again, she strains to open this small
Rosebud of Venus.  She raises her hips to allow him easy entry, moaning
with anticipation.  He carefully aligns the fat, and now very purple, bulb
of his cock against her hole before gently, but firmly pushing his way
inside.

   She feels as if she has been penetrated to her very core, his large,
hard, swollen, beating cock forces its way through her narrow anal passage,
giving her deeper, harder waves of pleasure, but making the void in her sex
seem even emptier.  His cock beats more and more urgently, she knows that
he is close, but that he is trying to delay his ejaculation for her.  The
Slave gasps, both in pleasure and surprise that her master would do this
for her, and this feeling becomes her last rational thought as the waves of
orgasm crash, uncontrolled, against her defenceless body.

   The Slave's orgasm releases Haswell's own, his unwillingness to come
before her showing a gentlemanly streak never before apparent in him, and
certainly surprising to any woman, girl, boy, or domestic pet that has had
the misfortune to cross his path so far.  The pressures, internal, external
and emotional bearing down on his heart and his cock would be enough to
permanently injure any lesser man.

   Unable to resist any longer, his cock swells even fatter and the Slave
feels his hot, thick ejaculate fill her, pressurised by his still thrusting
cock, such a wonderful feeling of fullness overtakes her that she comes
again, less frantic this time, but with a familiar sensation between coming
and pissing as her own slightly oily emission squirts out onto Haswell's
retreating cock.

   'My God,' he gasps, 'my God, my God, my God.' Repeating this
incantation, Haswell tries to restore the wild arrhythmia that seems to be
overtaking his heart, he looks at the Slave, still lying on the bed,
naturally stretched out, lubrication, his own semen, and her curious
ejaculate leaking from her body.  She breathes deeply and sits upright.

   'Master, thank you.'

   Haswell, waiting for some form of circulatory normalness to be
established, realises that she is looking at him without any sign of the
fatigue generally associated with such recent exertions.  In fact, she
seems to be pouting again.

   'Master, please.  Would you like to whip me?  It has been such a long
time since my arse was properly reddened, or my breasts, or my pussy.  How
am I to be a good slave without discipline?'

   Again Haswell's character denies him the sight of the wood for the
trees, or its possible that the sound of his blood roaring through his
veins like a runaway locomotive has rendered him temporarily deaf.  In any
case, he ignores the plea in her voice as he shakily regains strength and
trousers, clumsily straightening both while stumbling from the room.

   By the time he reaches the ground floor study, a certain calmness has
been achieved.  Haswell sits heavily in the nearest armchair, reaches for
the nearest bottle of alcohol, and pours himself a stiff measure, drinking
it down without any sensation of taste at all.  The ornate wall clock,
Ottoman, with Arabic characters, ticks away lazily in what is now the early
afternoon sunshine.  Haswell's exhaustion is so complete that he has no
idea that the Earl is staring at him intently from across the room.  He
does not hear Shadforth rise, pick up the twisted leather and wood riding
crop from its place by the door, go upstairs to the Slave's room, and
quietly slip inside.

   Haswell falls into a restless sleep, punctuated by dreams of such animal
ferocity that he finds himself almost unwilling to wake up.  When he does,
he discovers that noontime has fallen into late afternoon, and that
Shadforth is exhibiting signs of undergoing some terrible endurance race of
the kind normally undertaken by escaped convicts across moorlands infested
with police dogs.

   'Peter, you idiot!  What have you done?' Haswell shakes his friend
awake, opening his eyes with his thumbs.

   'Dickie, is that you?' Shadforth lurches to his feet, arms, legs and
eyes all strangely akimbo.  'Dickie, what is she?  I don't think there is
an ounce of energy left in me, I went to see what you had done to her, and
there she was, bright as a button, all eyes, and tits, and arse, and she
wanted me to whip her.  I thrashed her until I could hardly lift my arm,
but I kept going until she came, then I fucked her until she came again,
then she sucked every last drop out of me, but I couldn't leave until I had
tongued her to orgasm again.  Then she just looked at me with those
unbelievable eyes...She knew she could finish me, Dickie...Finish me
completely.'

   Haswell looks at the exhausted delirium in Shadforth's eyes.  'You see,
Peter?  How could I leave her there?  What was it you said last night, I
could have fucked her all day, every day?  I did, Peter, and she still had
the best of me!' Haswell takes on the concentrated demeanour of someone who
has either found religion or lost an important limb.  'Such a waste to
leave her there, Maslakovia will not last for long in this new air age,
Peter.  She should be in the wider world, our world, and we shall be the
richer for it.'

   Shadforth sits down again, defeated.  'She will kill you, Dickie, you'll
pour yourself into that open little body and you will vanish, and then do
you know what will happen?' He takes a deep breath.  'She will smile
submissively at some other poor unfortunate and move on.  Dickie, she's a
cat, and don't allow yourself the conceit of believing that we're mice.  To
her, we're just cream!'

   'I know, Peter, I know.' Haswell turns to the bookcase, disturbing the
layer of dust that clings to the leather-bound volumes The Divine Comedy,
Justine, The Libertine's Guide to Venereal Afflictions, Sappho's Big Day
Out.  He smiles to remember the day when as a boy of eight, his father had
introduced him to the pleasures of administering corporal punishment, using
Lucy the chambermaid as a not too unwilling practice partner.

   Shadforth sighs, 'I should have stuck to sacrificing to Venus.  True,
I'd have a right hand like an eagle's claw and the eyesight of a myopic
badger by now, but that, at least, would be the extent of the damage.  I'd
take her from you, Dickie, if I wasn't such a coward, and let her have me.
I want her again, balls emptier than a Palmerston promise, but, Dickie, I
want her!'

   As the two men try to pull themselves back together, the Slave, alone in
the small bedroom tries to piece together the recent events that have
brought her here.  Sticky with the drying semen from both men, and also
from her own juices, she searches for a washbowl.  Finding none, she
cautiously tries the handle of the door.  It opens easily inwards to reveal
the dark, shadowy corridor beyond.  Again, her natural posture allows her
to tiptoe silently along the polished wooden floor.  She hears the murmur
of the conversation in the study below, a warm feeling comes over her as
she recognises her master's voice, he had not whipped her, but he had sent
his friend to satisfy her need.  She has never experienced such kind
consideration before.

   She was provided to him as a night-slave in one of the premier hotels in
Libertinas, he discovered her, like so many others, chained standing to the
bedpost.  At first, it seemed that he had no special desire for her, he had
flicked the rawhide whip at her without particular flourish, and it seemed
that he was to be another disappointment.  A libertine without libido,
occupied only with the opium pipe and the absinthe bottle.  She was fresh
from the Discipliniary, the slave-school, she had been trained in all
aspects of the male response, the female response, and the deliciously fine
boundry-line between pleasure and pain.  She cannot remember anything
before the school, many slaves are sold as babies, or kidnapped, or are
even born to slave mothers who have not been 'fixed', as the Maslakovians
like to say.  She can not remember any family, or any time when she had
been permitted clothing, or privacy, or when any master has deliberately
not come before her own orgasm.

   A cool draught across the new, red stripes so recently, and
enthusiastically put across her buttocks by Earl Shadforth brings her out
of her reverie.  One of the doorways in the corridor has come ajar, she can
see blue and white Iznik tiling just beyond, and a glint of brass piping.
She pushes the door open to the small bathroom, there is a small enamel
bath with a hot water shower attachment, a washstand complete with a large
mirror, and a Turkish style toilet sunk into the floor.  Uneasily she
enters, the tiles cool on the balls of her feet.  She looks at her own
reflection in the mirror, trying to see why her master would risk
everything to kidnap her.

   It began when Haswell noticed her out-of-proportionness, he squinted,
poked, caressed, and finally, to her great relief, fucked her until he was
quite unable to stand.  It was then that he noticed what had been painfully
apparent to many frustrated slaves, desperate for a good, honest fucking,
frigging, or flogging that Maslakovia was becoming a place infested by
lotus-eaters.  He asked her history while pulling on her pierced nipples to
an exquisite degree.  He then had her flogged with the strap, to get area,
and the quirt, for detailing.  When he told her that he was to leave at the
end of the following month, the Slave cried herself to sleep in the city
dormitory, the overseer there felt so sorry for her that they let her be
put in the Burton Square stocks the next day.  With her anus and vagina so
blatantly displayed, and used, and whipped, she expected to regain a little
of her old enthusiasm, but she just felt lonely.  Until she felt his
familiar hard, stinging slap full on her right buttock.  She almost came
right away, but she waited for whatever he wanted to do to her.

   It seemed to take forever, he spanked her upraised arse until she could
feel it glowing red and swollen in the fading light, he applied his belt on
her inner thighs, and twice directly onto her throbbing sex, she was sure
that if he had used the buckled end she would have not been able to control
herself and longer.  He hooked a finger through her piercing ring and
pulled it back sharply, stretching the holed labia back, far more than she
had previously thought possible.  Then he pushed the thumb of the same hand
into her anus, rocking her pleasure centres as he pulled on the ring and
pushed his thumb deeper, then releasing the tension and almost withdrawing
from her.  After a very short time her anal muscle clamped tight around his
invading digit as she came with a flood of released frustration.  He
released her from the stocks and allowed her to suck his cock right there,
in the centre of the city, a sure sign that he considered her to be his
special slave.

   He tortured her most deliciously for the next few days, orgasm followed
orgasm as he investigated and stimulated every fibre of her being with
chain, whip, and rope, often exhausting himself to the point of collapse in
the process.

   Then, one day, he had his large seachest brought to his room.  She
thought he was leaving and wept without shame, but with some hope for a
last fond spanking.  She did not see him pour a little ether onto his
handkerchief and remembers little of the resulting journey, only dimly
being aware of a sleeper carriage on a train, and a first-class cabin on a
steamship.  Of course, the box is somewhat clearer in her mind, as she
occasionally regained consciousness, surrounded by suffocating darkness,
legs tucked up and the constant pulling pain of the chain connecting her
sex to her wrists.  She thought it was a new torture and tried to enjoy it,
but the agonising cramps made it all but impossible to keep quiet, and when
she did cry out her master would open the box somewhere private, massage
the knots out of her aching muscles, then administer the handkerchief
again.

   Her reflection could offer no more than this, she stepped over to the
bath and opened the shower faucet, stepping into the hot stream she takes
the bar of Pear's soap and begins to wash.  Not wanting to hurry, and half
hoping to be caught, the Slave begins at her shoulders, delighting in
watching the soap run in white rivers down across her chest, she knows that
she is bigger, and firmer than most other women, and was taught to enjoy
her body as much as possible, in order to best give pleasure to others. 
Her nipples rise again, the thick silver rings lifting slightly.  She soaps
her breasts, each full orb, yielding, yet resistant sways slightly as her
hands travel down across the taut flatness of her belly, the deep pit of
her umbilicus acting as a small soapy well, overflowing South.  The water
carries her hands naturally between her legs, not wanting to spoil the
moment, she washes her inner thighs, slowly moving closer and closer to the
smooth, flawless folds of her sex.

   Gently, she allows her fingers to merely graze the surface, even this
lightest of touches is enough to excite her.  Working the soap across her
vaginal perfection, she feels an electric charge as a finger finds her
clitoris unhooded and sensitised.  She works the soap into a lather before
pressing the smooth slippery bar between her inner lips and over the
entrance to her sweet interior.  Reaching behind her back with her other
hand, she takes the soap over the velvet circle of skin surrounding her
anus, dragging it up between her truly, perfectly, global buttocks.

   Stomach, hips, sex, and arse, all forming the most pleasing set of
deeply dangerous curves ever seen, more quickly now she rubs and pulls at
her clitoris, the little erection responds by sending jolt after jolt of
charged feeling up through her body.  The hot shower seems cold on her skin
as she reaches another peak of ecstasy.  She repeats Haswell's methodical
treatment, reaching behind to pull on the piercing ring and pushing her
thumb into her anus, arching her back as far as she can, the pulling,
pushing, rubbing reaches its inevitable soapy, wet climax.  The Slave falls
to her knees with the first wave of her orgasm and twitches her body
violently with the ones that succeed it.  Eventually she lifts her head,
golden hair plastered down, the sound of the water splashing on the enamel
of the bathtub.  Shakily, she gets to her feet, the soap almost finished
she washes herself again, finishing with her pointed little feet.

   Finding a large towel, she dries herself quickly, and, not knowing what
else to do, and not wanting to be alone, she tiptoes downstairs to the
study to find her master.

   The slave does not hear the frantic wheezing coming from the door
opposite the bathroom.  Naturally, not actually having a sense of privacy,
it never occurred to her to close the door behind her when she went in. 
Doors are for masters' use only.  The wheezing comes as a result of some
truly heroic masturbation on the part of Arthur, Earl Shadforth's servant.
After shooting his bolt almost immediately upon seeing this submissive
perfection performing extremely lewd acts in the shower, he found that her
effect was so profound that his underused manhood was hard again within
moments, as opposed to the customary days.  Not wanting to waste this
somewhat tawdry bonanza, he pounded away on that organ again and again.  Of
course, Arthur, being a product of a distinctly lower middle class
upbringing, found that such prolonged physical activity leads to severe
consequences.  The wheezing so conveniently unheard by the object of its
cause was the onset of a middling attack of respiratory failure, which will
leave its victim face down in a pool of his own emissions, and praying
fervently for a safe return to his family home in Bromley.

   As Arthur sinks slowly to the floor, to twitch and shake in a most
undignified, febrile manner, the Slave cautiously pushes the already open
door of the study wide.  Both the Lord and the Earl turn to see her, framed
in the doorway, the tobacco brightness of the Istanbul sunset colouring her
smooth, tight skin and throwing all of her charmed curves into delightful
relief, the silver through her nipples shines more strongly against
aureoles dark pink and brown.  It seems as if the forceful forward
projection of her breasts has passed beyond any mere limitation of
three-dimensional existence, moving with unimpeded progress into planes of
reality unimagined by any man or science.

   She enters the room, keenly aware of the typically male response she is
causing in both libertines.  They watch, dumbfounded as her tiptoed gait
works the muscles in her calves and thighs, pushes her hips back and her
chest forward.  She holds her arms bent slightly, away from her body,
unused to the lack of cuff, or strap, or chain.  The piercing through her
sex rubs against her thigh, pulling her lips open slightly, and giving her
a gentle feeling of constant, intimate contact.

   Haswell feels the pull in his trousers, and also a tightness in his
chest as the Slave walks towards him, which leaves Shadforth hypnotised by
the flowing perpetual motion of her arse.  Two interacting soft, yet firm
planets of such erotic, mystic perfection, colliding constantly.  Her hips
are pushed so far back that when these planets disengage, he is offered a
view directly exposing her heavenly entrances, already glittering with the
sign of her own excitement.

   'Dickie,' Shadforth squeaks before clearing his throat, 'Dickie, what
are we going to do with her?'

   Haswell taps a fingernail against the Slave's piercing, sending a small
shudder through her body, the ring rocking back and forth, dragging her
folded lips open on every heavy swing.

   'Put her on the table, Dickie, I have a little wager for you.'
Shadforth's eyes are alight with an intensity only usually seen at the
track, or in the dock, 'There is a hook for a light fitment in the ceiling
above, I'll fish out my old bondage equipment.' He quickly darts from the
room, returning moments later with a length of stout chain and a pair of
Metropolitan Police issue bolted handcuffs.  The Slave climbs up onto the
polished mahogany of the table, Shadforth climbs up beside her to cuff her
wrists and to attach the chain from cuffs to ceiling.

   'Kneel.' He tells her, with her arms raised fully, the chain is just
long enough to reach.

   'Lift her up a little, Dickie, she should not be able to rest her knees
on the table, nor be high enough to put her feet flat.'

   Haswell lifts the Slave, feeling the warmth of her naked arousal even
now.  Shadforth adjusts the chain until it the Slave's knees are three to
four inches above the table.  In this position, she must either hang
painfully from the ceiling, or support herself with the muscles in her
thighs and shoulders.  She shifts her weight between these two
alternatives, straining, sweating and shaking with the effort.

   Shadforth places a long champagne flute between her legs, tall enough
for the piercing ring to rest just below its rim.  'If the glass falls,' he
tells her, 'you will hang untouched for three days.'

   The Slave fully understands the awful consequence of these words, but
finds herself warming further just by the thought of being punished.  'Now;
Dickie,' says Shadforth as both men retreat to gaze upon this vision of
stressed perfection, 'I'll wager five pounds that she produces three inches
of lubrication within the hour.' He twists the end of his moustache in
time-honoured rascally fashion.

   'I'll say two,' answers Haswell, peering intently at the sheen of
moistness already formed on the Slave's inner sex.

   The libertines drag a chair each over to the table to watch the Slave's
hanging sufferings.  She can see their eyes absorbing every detail of her
denuded body, the inner structure of her ribs thrown tight against the skin
by the extremity of her posture, she tenses the muscles of her inner thighs
and is rewarded by a sharp intake of breath from her master.  Her body,
though pained by her bondage becomes flushed with the heat from the blood
coursing fast and burning in her breasts, belly, and sex.  She feels the
silver ring knock against the glass as her lips fill with red longing.  A
fiery drop of fluid follows its own slick trail through the secret ways of
her darkened purse before escaping along the outer curve of the ring.  The
rapt, and by now frankly pop-eyed, libertines watch with breathless
con-centration as this first sweet drop hangs for a moment before falling
with silent gravity into the bottom of the glass.

   'Thirty seconds.' Shadforth notes, consulting his pocketwatch.

   The Slave tries to suppress her arousal, knowing that her master has the
lower estimate, but each suppression leads to renewed and more feverish
feelings rushing through her young body.  The libertines, also, are not
unaffected, she is quite aware of the bulging evidence within their
trousers.  Haswell, in particular, is having difficulty, fondling himself
under the guise of straightening his shirt or waistcoat.  This, again,
sends the Slave yet greater feelings of arousal, her aching muscles burn
with their efforts, and the delicious feeling of cool openness around her
anus and closedness around her sex make her feel deliciously uncomfortable.
The juice now dripping more quickly, each drop a short interval from the
last, slowly filling the elegant ringing glass.

   'My God, Dickie, I don't know how much more I can take.'

   'Steady, old chap.' Haswell's voice has a peculiarly strangled note to
it, he is committing the primary etiquette faux pas by visibly sweating,
but cannot take his eyes from the Slave.

   She is open, eyes, mouth, anus, vagina, all agape and unashamedly needy.
Haswell hears a throaty noise, turns and sees the Earl sitting shirt
un-buttoned, trousers removed, hands not daring to even approach his fully
erect, pulsating manhood that points ceilingward with undisguised urgency.

   Briefly, Haswell supposes his friend's action to be an attempt to win
the wager, but upon seeing the expression of utter supplication and
surrender on Shadforth's face, and also a fit of wholly sexual straining by
the overheating Slave in her bonds, Haswell practically flings himself out
of his garments to stand trimly muscular and naked, trying his damnedest
not to touch the hypersensitive tip of his own ridiculously erect penis.

   'M...Master.' The sight of the two libertines so obviously close and in
need of relief, increases the pressure in the belly of the Slave, her
nipples, now painfully erect, hold their own heavy silver clear of the
tight skin of her firm breasts.  She tries not to arch her bach too far,
but her vagina and anus are desperately empty, the sweet sense of
restriction and denial overcomes the burning ache in her shoulders and
thighs as she feels the first small clench of ultimate pleasure.

   Cruelly unable to move her sex from its precarious position over the
glass, the Slave, freely sweating from the horrid variety of pressures and
strains placed upon her vulnerably naked body and soul, gulps at the
charged atmosphere with both mouth and anus.  Trying to find some succour,
both orifices open and close to a sexual rhythm all their own, both painted
vividly red by the charged circulation of her perfectly submissive,
perfectly aroused, perfection.

   'The glass, Peter, the glass!' Haswell's voice sounds strained, even to
him.

   'I can't look, Dickie, my eyes are all out of focus.'

   'Peter, you win,' Haswell laughs.

   'How long has it been?'

   'Not yet half an hour, but the glass as almost half full.'

   'She hasn't pissed herself has she?  I love it when that happens.'

   'No, Peter, it's all lubrication.' The Slave can hear the note of
astonished pride in her master's voice, her heart quickens as he comes
closer to look at the glass beneath her dripping sex.  She holds her breath
as he comes close enough to feel the heat pouring from the very pores of
her skin.  He puts a hand on one sweat-slicked hip, moving his hand down
between her tensed, red-striped buttocks to find her anus desperately
opening and closing in an attempt to swallow his teasing fingers.

   'No moving.' Haswell's voice is firm.

   'Yes, master.' She shakes with anticipation as he gently puts one, two,
three fingers into her rectum, working them softly around and around inside
her welcoming heat.  She throws her head back, overwhelmingly conscious of
the glass beneath her, her lower body wholly still, but consumed by inner
turmoil as she feels his fingers go yet deeper.  She sucks at them with her
anal muscle, trying to take them further inside, feeling them rubbing at
the wall to her empty sex.  Sweat pouring out of her she tries to stave off
the impending orgasmic spasms, but this is the time that the Earl recovers
his vision sufficiently enough to join the fray.  Pressing the heel of his
hand hard against her taut belly and abdomen, he pulls the piercing through
her right nipple painfully up.  The dull ache of one, and the sharp pain of
the other combine to push open the gates of her orgasmic flood.  Haswell,
feeling her whole inner body tighten suddenly, throws his free arm across
her hips to hold her still and to ensure that her thick, oily ejaculate is
caught unspilled in the glass below.

   The orgasm subsides, they remove the cuffs from her wrists and gently
lay her suddenly limp form on the table.  Haswell lifts the champagne
glass, swirls the strange semi-opaque liquid around, eyeing it with the
practiced eye of a French vineyard owner, before lifting it to his nose and
inhaling deeply.

   'Vintage stuff.' He says, and drinks half the glass, passing the
remainder to Shadforth, who drains the remainder with a much less
theatrical performance.

   'We should bottle it, Dickie.'

   'Later, Peter, my most immediate concern is obtaining some relief from
this awful testicular pressure.'

   Neither man has noticed that the Slave has risen to kneel on her heels,
hands on her lap, arms pushing her breasts forward slightly.  They have
drunk her juices and she can see that both men have powerful erections that
are in need of relief.

   'Let me help you, master.'

   With the sunset streaming through the lead windows of the study, the
Slave takes both men in hand, applying exactly the right amount of pressure
to each purple-headed, libertine cock.  The Lord and the Earl
simultaneously feel the utter delight of the Slave's sensitive hands,
constricting and pulling and releasing in a symphony of expert furtling. 
She feels the pulsing, swollen veins, livid under the thin sheaths of skin,
and the oozing release of pre-ejaculate.  As one they experience the aching
jolt of restrictive pressure before the Slave's controlling hands squeeze,
then pull each to his own eruptive climax.  White gobbets and sticky
aftertrails arcing delicately through the air onto the Slaves thrusting,
upraised breasts.

   She suck them both clean, letting her tongue offer soft caresses mixed
with an occasional deliberate scrape of teeth until both Haswell and
Shadforth feel strangely empty, yet refilled, their erections hardly faded.
In fact, each libertine feels a familiar stirring in the base of his penis,
as if each recently emptied cock will, at any instant, spring again to
attention, if only she will continue her manipulations.

   The two men, both in the prime of life, both an irredeemably proud black
stain on the good name of his family, scourge of man, woman, and beast,
both of them now fearfully anticipating that first heart attack or brain
embolism.

   Fortunately, a loud hissing, clanking and general uproar outside
announcing the arrival of a much grander steam-carriage than the one in
which Haswell arrived interrupts these maudlin thoughts.  Hastily
redressing, and shooing the slave upstairs, the libertines adopt Gilbert
and Sullivan attitudes of upper-class repose, in order to best greet this
new, and undoubtedly influential visitor.

   The loud rapping on the door is met with a lack of response devastating
in its absence.  It is quickly followed by a more insistent rap, and
something that sounds suspiciously like a kick as well.

   'Arthur!' Shouts the Earl, 'Get the bloody door, will you?'

   'Arthur!'

   'Arthur, you little shit!  What do you think I pay you for?'

   However, as may be remembered by those readers not skipping forward to
the bits wholly concerned with descriptions of the heroine's inner biology,
the hapless servant is non too able to execute his duties, and the angry
Earl is left in the unenviable position of having to open his own front
door.

   Standing outside is a small, trimly moustached, tarbooshed Turk, dapper
in a grey suit of European cut, high collared white shirt, and dark
patterned cravat.  A cloud of white vapour surrounds him, billowing past
the ankles of the nonplussed Earl into the house.  Behind him there waits a
magnificently overdone steam-carriage in glorious green enamel paint and
golden ornamentation, the liveried driver sits high at his steering gear at
the front of the carriage, the equally emaculate stoker leaning on his
shovel at the rear.  On the door, the flowing Arabic cypher of Abd-Ul-Hamit
II, Padishah of the Ottoman Empire.

   The flunkey, for that is what he is, hands Shadforth an envelope of
silken paper, richly gilded and embossed in both Ottoman and Western
script.

   Kasim Pasha

   The flunkey imperceptibly bows his head, turns on his heel, and smartly
climbs back aboard the carriage.  Already at full steam it moves away with
a blast of hot vapour as its driver releases its formidably huge wood and
iron brakes.

   Ashen-faced, Shadforth closes the door and opens the envelope, hardly
able to believe that the paper he is holding has come from very, very high
up in the Ottoman food chain.

   'Peter, what is it?' Asks Haswell, coming from the study.

   'You'll never believe it...I...I've been invited to the Pasha's palace,
that contraption will return on the hour...Do you know what this means?'

   'You're going to die in an explosion?'

   'Kasim Pasha is adviser to the Sultan, he has the whole of the Ottoman
Empire at his beck-and-call, he never, never invites anybody for a
chit-chat, Dickie, this is the chance of a lifetime for me!'

   'Well you had better get yourself dressed then, hadn't you?'

   'I don't want to go by myself, what if I do something embarrassing?'

   'That, Peter, is a foregone conclusion.'

   'Come with me, Dickie, he'll love you, really, please.'

   'Peter, I'm not here, remember?  Incognito.'

   'Don't worry, the Pasha is the soul of discretion, I'm sure we will be
the only ones there, and he'll send a carriage, nobody will ever know.'

   'And her, do you suppose I'm just going to leave her here?'

   'Bring her as well.  I promise you, Dickie, you'll not regret it,
everything these people do is motivated by pleasure and greed, they're just
like you and I, except that Kasim Pasha already has all he could ever want.
Come on, Dickie, you want to show her off, don't you "she should be in the
wider world", well, start at the top, man.'

   Far from convinced, Haswell allows his friend's enthusiasm to win him
over, the two gentlemen retire to dress for the evening, Shadforth in
standard black tie, Haswell in the dress uniform of an Indian Army Colonel
of cavalry, a uniform, incidentally, to which he has no right to
whatsoever, his current location being the closest he had ever travelled to
the British Empire's prime possession.

   About the Slave, they are undecided, she stands shiny and clean again
after washing away the dried semen from her breasts.  Eyes, lips, skin all
aglow with vitality and health, even the lifeless silver punched through
her flesh seems to shine with vitamin cheer.

   'Should we dress her?'

   'With what, Dickie?  I'm not in the habit of keeping a supply of women's
clothing about the place.'

   'Really, Peter.  Does that mean that all of the stories about you are
untrue?'

   'Shut up, Dickie.' He turns to the Slave.  'Have you ever actually worn
any clothing?'

   'Only high-heeled shoes, masks, and leather harnesses.'

   'She's setting me off again, Dickie.'

   Haswell, ever the practical thinker, covers the slave with one of his
own greatcoats, it covers her like a blanket.

   'Master, must I?'

   'Only in the street, the rest of the time you can be in your natural
state.'

   And so, as promised, the steam-carriage arrives and the bizarre trio of
foreigners climb aboard.  Shadforth, overeager as a sadist at a convent
school, Haswell, stiff as a board in his undeserved military finery, and
the Slave, profoundly disquieted by the feeling of fabric against her skin,
uncomfortably unable to display her body to the world.  Overall, she
considers it to better to be naked and bound in chains than to be cocooned
in cotton and silk that clings to the body like a prison that must be
forever carried on the back of the prisoner.

   The driver ensures that his charges are secure before engaging the
forward gear and releasing the brakes, the carriage moving quickly away. 
The Slave shifts slightly on the red and gold embroidered seat to look at
the city passing by.  The greatcoat feels uncomfortable around her,
surreptitiously she allows it to fall from her shoulders.  Haswell,
noticing, says nothing but smiles inwardly as he watches her stare outside,
the childish curiosity in her eyes as she beholds one of the world finest
cities for the first time.  How different to her experiences in Maslakovia,
this is the world in all its chaotic glory.  He lets his eye drift casually
down past her neck to her still, to him, unbelievable breasts.  Swaying and
jiggling in the underlit streets, nipples dark against her skin, the silver
rings catching any glint from moon or window.  Her belly still arced down
as she sits naturally upright, back curved from hip to shoulder, she turns
away slightly and he sees the dark shadow marking the curve of her spine
down to an arse so full and muscular it almost seems carved.  As always,
her knees are parted, he finds himself contemplating how it must have felt
when she was first pierced, how old was she when the heavy ring was first
put through her delicious flesh?  He believes her to be eighteen at
present, certainly no more than twenty, so submissive, and so innocent of
the world.  He finds himself wondering if he could ever trust himself
enough to acknowledge a most distastefully chivalrous feeling she inspires
in his libertine heart.

   They travel down to the fast-flowing Bosphoros, the commercial
steamships glide silently past, heading up towards the Black Sea, or down
to the Aegean, shadowed by the airships of the Ottoman imperial navy.  The
carriage's heavy weight and strong springing ease even the worst of the
country roads to a mild jostling as they continue their imperious journey
away from Istanbul's familiar sights and smells, especially smells,
stopping just beyond the village of Tarabya, at the elaborate, gold painted
wrought iron gates of the Pasha's magnificent residence, windows blazing
with hydraulic-electric brilliance.

   End of Part One