A moment later, Sir’s shoes appeared in front of her. “You pleased me, M. Now you may thank me.”
M lowered her head until her lips were touching Sir’s shoes. “Thank you, Sir,” she whispered, again pushing down that curious and unwelcome emotion that threatened to overcome her earlier in the evening.
“You’re welcome. Now go clean off that man’s filth. We’re going home.”
Chapter 10
The flight attendant, a young man with slicked-back hair and a crisp navy blue uniform, smiled in greeting as Ellis and M boarded the private jet he’d chartered for the trip. “Welcome aboard, Mr. & Mrs. Hughes. My name is Brian and my job is to make you as comfortable as possible for the duration of the trip. The first leg of our journey will take us to Addis Ababa in Ethiopia. There will be a brief layover to refuel and change crews, and then we’ll take you on to Mozambique.”
He led them into the cabin, which contained four large seats in rows of two, a sofa, a sideboard and a fully stocked kitchenette and bar. “Is this your first time traveling on a private jet?” the attendant inquired politely, directing his question toward M.
“No, no,” Ellis answered for her. M was under strict orders not to speak to anyone until they arrived on Prince Kamau’s island. And even then, she was to stick to her script. “We’re seasoned travelers.”
M looked up at him as Ellis said this, though her expression remained blank. It was odd to see his slave girl in clothing. He had to admit she looked attractive, even exotic in the silk turban and elegant but sexy dress he’d bought her for the trip. The gold hoops in her earlobes matched the rings in her nipples, and this, too, pleased him.
He’d considered not covering her head, but decided her bald pate might draw unwanted attention and questions. For himself, he loved keeping her head shaven smooth, along with her cunt. He enjoyed the process of lathering her scalp with shaving cream, and drawing the sharp razor blades carefully over her skin while she stayed still as a doe caught in the headlights. He loved painting the hot wax over her pubic mound, and watching her wince in pain as he ripped it away, leaving her skin smooth as whipped cream.
When she stood, completely naked from her head to her toes, eyes downcast, arms hanging loosely at her sides, she exuded the air of a lost, delicate waif that he found quite appealing. He loved how thin she had become, compared to the chubby thing she’d been when he’d first abducted her. He made sure always to keep her marked, the welts and bruises a constant turn-on. The nudity, the thinness, the marks—all of this defined her as what she was—property. His property.
In preparation for the trip he’d forced himself to refrain from marking her for the past three weeks, as difficult as it had been. He did so love to watch her pale skin redden and welt as he whipped, spanked, caned, cropped and paddled her. He’d had to content himself with more creative erotic torture, like water submersion, breath play and intense bondage, and of course constant rough sex, none of which left any lasting evidence.
Though he now took her several times a week into his bed, after that initial deflowering he never again let her sleep in his arms. It would be too confusing for her, he’d decided. No, it was better for her to stay in her sleep cage at night, secure in her chains.
He was still angry that Prince Kamau had insisted on his bringing M along, but he’d reconciled himself to this necessity, and had decided to make the best of it. It would be the ultimate test of M’s submission and obedience.
“We should be taking off in a few minutes and I’ll be serving you dinner once we’ve reached cruising altitude.” The flight attendant moved to the sideboard, where a bottle of champagne sat in a silver ice bucket beside two champagne flutes. “Would you care for some champagne?”
~*~
M lay on the seat, which had converted into a quite comfortable, if narrow, bed, and stared out the window at the night sky. It was hard to believe she was high above the ocean, instead of back home in her sleep cage, cuffed and chained. Sir was asleep beside her, the flight attendant nowhere to be seen in the dimly lit cabin.
Mr. & Mrs. Hughes.
It had startled M to be addressed like that; to hear that surname. Hughes. For a split second she’d had no idea who the flight attendant was referring to, though she was too well trained to voice her confusion. But as she’d mused on it, she’d realized that yes, of course, Sir had a name. It was Hughes. And for purposes of traveling, he was calling her his wife. He must have a first name too, she realized, but for the life of her, she couldn’t recall it. He was Sir. He had always been Sir. And she had always been M.
But had she? If Sir had to have a name, then didn’t she, too, have one? Sir told her she was M. He told her slaves didn’t require names, nor did they deserve them. She was M, and that was all. But had it always been so?
She knew that it had not. There had been a time before. There had been a different life. But each time she tried to recapture memories of that time before, they always moved just out of her reach. Sir would not want her to remember. To remember was to disobey. And to disobey resulted in punishment.
Sir had been so good to her, especially these past few weeks as they prepared for their trip abroad. She owed him everything. She would not disobey. She would not think about that murky past that no longer had a place in her life. She was M. She belonged to Sir. He was the Master of her body and soul. He allowed her to serve him. She lived for him. Without him, she would die.
M touched the silky turban that covered her head, wishing she could take it off. The champagne and rich food they’d had for dinner had left her feeling queasy. She wanted to visit the cabin’s bathroom, but didn’t dare risk disturbing the sleeping man beside her.
When the flight attendant had first placed the trays with the sumptuous fare in front of them, M had waited for Sir. He had tucked into his food, ignoring her. She had sat quietly, her stomach growling as she stared at the meal in front of her, wondering when Sir would give her a bite.
Brian, who had hovered nearby, leaned over them suddenly, asking, “Is there something you needed, Mrs. Hughes? I can get you something else if the food’s not to your liking.”
Sir had put his hand on her forearm, giving it a hard squeeze, while he answered for her. “No, no. Everything’s fine. We’ll let you know if we need anything else. Thanks.” He’d stared at Brian until the flight attendant had moved away from them.
“Eat,” Sir had said in an undertone to M. “Use the knife and fork and feed yourself. Go on. Don’t attract attention. Remember, things are different when we’re not at home.” M had picked up the fork, stifling a sudden, frightening urge to plunge it into Sir’s arm. The impulse had shocked her, and her hands shook a little as she had cut and eaten the chicken in its heavy cream sauce and sipped at the bubbly, cold champagne.
After dinner, Sir had read a newspaper while M stared out the window, watching the setting sun splash the sky with vivid golds and pinks that had darkened to violet, deep blue and finally black. Later in the evening Sir had instructed her to go into the bathroom and masturbate, which she had done readily enough, dutifully asking for whispered permission to come, even though he couldn’t hear her. In an odd way, she believed he could hear her, almost as if he were a god, all-seeing and all-knowing, even though she knew this couldn’t really be true.
She enjoyed the release orgasms gave her, especially when they weren’t accompanied by a whipping or other “erotic torture”, as Sir called the pain he usually administered along with the pleasure. The orgasms Sir gave her could be more powerful, but they exhausted her, whereas those given at her own hand were sweet and simple, without cost.
Sleep eluding her, M continued to stare out the window as she thought about where they were going. It was hard to imagine they were flying all the way to Africa to find a sister slave. M’s feelings were mixed on the matter. She was excited that she would have someone else to talk to and be with, someone other than Sir. But she was also kind of jealous. After all, Sir and she spent eve
ry moment together, except when he was called away for his business or other obligations. As Sir often told her, they were closer than vanilla partners could ever be. Theirs, he assured her, was the sacred bond between Master and slave, one that could never be broken. How would a third person fit into that equation? Of course, she never volunteered her feelings on the subject, as Sir had never asked.
In the days and weeks that followed his first mention of Prince Kamau, Sir had spent hours drilling M on proper behavior and decorum once they arrived on the island. Over and over, he would say, “Tell me again what your story is, if anyone asks.”
Dutifully, M replied, “I came to Sir seven months ago to learn true submission at the hands of a Master. I came willingly and of course I can leave at any time. Not that I want to. Sir is my Master, and he makes me very happy. He takes care of all my needs and satisfies all my wants. I am truly the luckiest girl in the world.”
M was vaguely disquieted by this script. She knew she hadn’t come to him willingly, though the details of that were blurred in her mind, and she knew she couldn’t leave at any time, though she no longer wanted to. After all, where would she go? Her world was here now. Sir had become her world.
Sir had warned if she deviated from the script, she would be severely punished. Then he would smile and tell her he was pleased to have such an obedient slave girl, and he knew she would make him proud in front of the prince and his entourage. She desperately hoped she would succeed, because she knew the price would be heavy indeed if she failed.
~*~
Zahara stood still in front of the mirror as Jira carefully applied kohl around her eyes, painted her nipples with rouge and dusted her body with a delicately scented gold powder that made her skin softly shimmer. The diamond nose stud the prince had given her for her birthday sparkled like a promise. Today was the day!
The golden-haired, handsome American Master was coming to see her. Of all the potential sub girls in Prince Kamau’s harem, the man called Master E had selected her! If chosen, the amount of money that would be deposited into her bank account boggled the mind. It was more than either of her parents had ever earned in their lifetimes. The funds would enable her to someday go to university to become a nurse, which had always been her dream.
Since Zahara had first discovered the prince’s erotic D/s training school, or harem as he preferred to call it, when she was surfing at an internet café in Maputo for job opportunities, her life had unfolded like a magic folktale. A year ago nearly to the day, a private yacht had collected her from the port and taken her to the prince’s magnificent and opulent compound on the otherwise deserted island, and she’d never left, except to return to her small village on holidays to visit her family.
Her parents and siblings were under the impression she was still living in Maputo, and earning a living as a nanny to a wealthy British family while studying English, a story she let them believe, as they would never understand or condone what she was actually doing.
Along with the erotic training in D/s, which suited her sexual orientation and temperament, Zahara had made real friends among the women of Prince Kamau’s harem. Jira, the prince’s consort and lover, was her closest friend, and the thought of leaving her behind, even for a handsome, rich American, made Zahara sad.
“Don’t worry,” Jira said now as she smoothed jasmine oil over Zahara’s long braids, “after the one-year contract with the American is over, you can travel back to see us. Maybe he will even permit a visit before that. And you have been chosen, Zahara! No more waiting and wondering if you will be selected. You will know, at last, the joy of submission to a man who will love and cherish you as you deserve.”
Zahara said nothing to this, not wanting to appear ungrateful. The thing that bothered her about this American coming to see her was that he already had a sub girl, one he already loved and cherished. Prince Kamau had allowed Zahara to read the emails, and the American’s words were still etched in her mind: M will always be first and foremost in my heart. She is not only my slave girl, she is my lover and my confidante. She is my soul mate.
Though Zahara found the use of an initial instead of the girl’s name peculiar, the man’s words made it clear he was in love with this girl. Would there be room in his heart for another? When she’d voiced this fear to Jira, Jira had smiled knowingly. “There is plenty of room in a man’s heart,” she’d laughed, “and in his bed, too. Remember, the D/s relationship is not like others. A Master can love all his sub girls, though he might love each in a different way. Look at the Prince. While I’m his consort and his chosen one”—Jira had beamed with that quiet, radiant joy she always exhibited when talking about the prince—“he loves Aisha and Imani just as much. You will see, dear one. Have faith. The prince will make sure this is the right man for you. If not,”—she shrugged philosophically—“there are plenty more Masters in the sea.”
Later that afternoon, Zahara knelt up on the silk cushion, her back arched, breasts proud, eyes down. She was naked except for the thin gold chains that hung around her neck and from her waist and the dozens of gold bangles on either wrist, also gifts from the prince. Her hands rested, palms up, on her spread knees. She kept her face a mask of calm serenity, though her heart thumped in her chest. She wished she possessed the true serenity that Jira radiated like a glowing aura around her person.
“You have more grace and serenity than you know,” Jira had told her as she’d helped her into position on the dais in the corner of the receiving room. “Remember what Kamau says—just be yourself. Your grace will follow.”
She heard the rumble of the jeep arriving at the house, the sound of the front doors opening and then muffled voices. She stiffened with anticipation and then laughed softly at herself. “Relax. Remember your grace. You have been selected for consideration, but not yet chosen. Show the American you are worthy of his attentions.”
Zahara could hear them talking now—the prince’s deep, melodious voice, Jira’s low, sweet murmur and another man, the American man, his voice also deep and pleasing to the ear. She longed to hop down from the raised dais and steal to the door so she could peek out and get an advance look at the pair of Americans who had traveled across the world to meet her, but of course she remained in position.
She would never dream of disgracing the prince or herself with such behavior. She had been told to wait in the kneeling presentation position, and that meant her eyes stayed downcast until she was directed otherwise. Soon enough, she told herself, recalling one of her father’s many proverbs: A patient man will eat ripe fruit.
~*~
M felt as if she had arrived on a movie set. Though she was exhausted from the long trip, she couldn’t help but gape in awe at her surroundings. Though it was still winter back in the States, the air in Maputo had been hot and humid, making her sweat beneath the turban, her feet chafing in the high heels Sir had made her wear.
It was cooler on the island, which was like something out of a travel catalog, the sand along the shore a soft pinkish white against the pure, deep turquoise of the sea. A welcoming breeze blew in off the water. An open jeep was waiting at the dock to whisk them inland along a narrow road that led to a walled compound. Once the gates had swung open, they entered lavishly tended grounds, the colors lush and tropical, a wealth of exotic flowers scenting the air. The huge house that spread out before them made even Sir’s house look like a cottage.
At the open door stood a handsome pair who smiled in greeting as Sir and M climbed out of the jeep and made their way up the path. The prince himself was younger than she’d imagined, perhaps in his early thirties. He wore a flowing shirt of white cotton open at the throat, the hem of the sleeves embroidered with brightly colored patterns, and matching loose white pants. His shoulders were broad, his tall, lean body muscular, but it was his face she found so compelling it was hard to look away.
His skin was like smooth, dark chocolate over high, sculpted cheekbones. He had a wide, hawkish nose, the nostrils flaring slight
ly over a large, sensuous mouth that curved up in a wide smile, revealing very white teeth. His large, expressive eyes were black, except for a curiously beautiful ring of gold around each iris. There were laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and a genuine kindness in his smile that recalled someone or something in her life, though she couldn’t remember what exactly.
The woman who stood beside him exuded elegance despite her bare feet and the sheer silk shift she wore that did little to hide the graceful, naked body beneath it. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her skin the color of cinnamon brushed with gold, her eyes an unexpected and beautiful emerald green. She wore a thick choker of beaten gold at her throat and her dark hair hung in a long, thick braid down her back, plaited with gold ribbons. Each time she moved, little bells tinkled on the gold bracelets she wore around her slender ankles. M felt dowdy in comparison, despite the lovely dress Sir had bought for her with its matching silk turban and the elegant, if uncomfortable, high heels on her feet. She was relieved when introductions were made to realize this was not the woman Sir had come to acquire.
“I am Kamau and you are most welcome to my home,” the prince said as he ushered them into the cool of a huge marbled entry hall with vaulted ceilings and brilliantly woven throw rugs scattered over shiny blond hardwood floors. He extended his hand toward Sir, who shook it, and nodded graciously toward M, his smile so warm and sincere she found herself smiling back, and realized with a small shock that it had been a very long time since she’d smiled.
“This is Jira, my consort, my submissive, and the love of my life. And may I call you Ellis?” he said, smiling now at Sir.
“Oh.” Sir cleared his throat. “Well, yes. Yes, of course.”
Ellis. His name is Ellis. Ellis Hughes. What is my name?
“We don’t go on ceremony here,” the prince said, reaching out to pat Sir’s shoulder. “Master E is fine for the internet, but I prefer real names when meeting in person.” He turned now to M, adding, “We know you only as M. With your Master’s permission, please tell us your given name, lovely one.”
Dark Obsessions - Volume I: Four Intense Capture Fantasies in One Sizzling Collection Page 47
