by Mark Andrews
Title Page
ISLE OF BONDAGE
By Mark Andrews
Kinks Books is an imprint
of W&H Publishing LLP.
Publisher Information
This eBook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.
Digital edition converted and published
by Andrews UK Limited 2012
www.andrewsuk.com
Previously published by The Olympia Press
PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.
Copyright © Mark Andrews
The right of Mark Andrews to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and is purely coincidental.
This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.
Chapter 1
Slavery, at least in its modern application, was not something I had ever really considered seriously. Oh, I suppose I knew it still existed in some parts of the world and that many people played at it as a sexual aid, but it wasn’t something that interested me and so when Phillida one night asked me what I thought about it, I was caught short for an answer.
We had just made the most wonderful love together and were both each idly stroking the other’s body in our bed. I loved to do that. She is one of the most beautiful women alive. She is of medium height but her bone structure is perfect and on them is built the most wondrous human form you can imagine. Alright, I know love is blind but if she hadn’t been born to the aristocracy, she would have made a world class model.
She is fair, with silver-gold fine hair that wafts behind her as she walks. Her eyes are the most beautiful violet-blue and are as clear as the most limpid of pools. Her nose is small and gives her an impish look while her skin is as smooth as silk and as soft as satin and is a wonderful shade of the proverbial peaches and cream.
She is the second daughter of the Earl of Sexton but while a member of the nobility, she is not in the slightest bit snobbish and mixes as easily with working class people as with those of her own rank. For the record, my name is James Fenwick and while my family possesses no noble titles, we are also of an ancient line. Both our families are ‘county’ types, that is, rural landowners, although my family diversified generations ago and I am now the heir to a very large estate.
I divide my time between running my father’s seat, Cranwell, and learning the ropes of managing his vast range of other investments but there is plenty of time for leisure, including tennis, hunting and the other usual county pursuits.
This is why her words came as such a shock to me. “James, what d’you think of slavery?” she whispered into my ear as my heart still pounded in my chest after a frenetic round of love-making.
My hand had been idly caressing her beautifully rounded naked breast but it stopped in mid-stream as I raised my head to look at her. “Slavery!” I expostulated. “I’ve never thought about it... What about it?”
“Oh, I just wondered what it would be like to be a slave... Owned by you and not just your wife?”
I thought she was joking and I responded in like manner. “Well if you were, I would keep you naked always and I would have to spank you every time you erred, wouldn’t I?”
She sat bolt upright in the big bed and looked down on me, her eyes now sparkling wonderfully. “Oh, would you? That would be wonderful,” she added dreamily and I realised she was serious.
“What made you think of this Phil?” I asked curiously as she sank back onto the pillows.
“It’s something I have been thinking of for a long time now, my darling James. I have this strange urge to be in thrall to you. As a real life slave... Oh, I know it’s impossible. The servants for one thing ... but I dream about it all the time.”
“And what do these dreams consist of?” I asked, genuinely interested now in this weird quirk of my wife’s.
She grinned across at me. “Well, your permanent nakedness is one of the themes and so is spanking but in my fantasies, you also expose me naked to our friends - say at a party. You make me greet them at the door stark naked and I have to pretend that I am as clothed as they are and expertly fend off all their queries about my naked state. Oh and you also make me go and have all my body hairs removed - permanently so there will be no regrowth and so my sex is openly exposed to them all.”
“Good God,” I said weakly. The conversation didn’t go past that point then because we had both recovered our strength and wanted another round. But now that her fetish was out in the open, she brought it up from time to time and I gradually realised she was serious about it.
So serious in fact that she began to research it on the Internet and through the various sources her electronic enquiries opened up for her. The result was that after a few months of serious digging, she came upon the Isle of Bondage.
Yes, it really exists! And she found out where, how, why and who. Where it is; how it came into existence; what for; and who owns and runs it. She didn’t tell me initially, still not sure if I would be horrified at her very real interest in the idea of real, actual slavery, let alone becoming a part of it.
But our conversations about it, usually in bed and late at night, were gradually leading me to a realisation that I too was becoming quite excited about the idea of being a slave-owner myself. She didn’t like the idea of being a top and I had no thoughts of being a slave myself and I suppose that was a good thing for our thoughts therefore coalesced very nicely.
And so, when she at last had confidence that I would not reject her out of hand for her strange preoccupation with slavery, she told me about the island.
“It really exists, James. It’s called the Isle of Bondage and it is devoted to those people who want to practice slavery, either as an owner or a slave.”
“Where is it?” I asked curiously.
“It’s in the Pacific, off the usual shipping and yachting routes and is a hundred or so square miles in size. Perfect for what its owners want.”
“Who owns it?”
“Apparently any prospective slave owner who has a million US dollars spare, can buy a unit in the trust - or multiples of them if he or she can afford them.”
“So there are women slave-owners as well?”
“Oh yes, and both male and female slaves.”
“What happens on the island? I mean how is it run and so forth?”
She grinned at me. “The owners elect one of their members as president for a year and he or she appoints a small cabinet to help her run the island. The body of owners together make up the legislature which passes the laws. Because an Englishman started the project, they decided to use English law as the common basis but they make their own laws to control the slavery aspect.”
“What do the slaves do?” I asked then.
“Well, for a start, they are naked. No slave is permitted to cover any part of their body ever! They perform all the labouring duties on the island, their owners donating their services for the public good for two days a week.
“It seems there are other free people on the island apart from the owners. They are citizens and can lease parts of the island as farms, factories, shops and the like. They can’t own slaves, but they may rent them from their owners.”
“It sounds like a large operation,” I observ
ed. “How many people actually live there, d’you know?”
She grinned at me. “I know exactly... There are fifty-four owners, who own three hundred and twenty units between them. The resulting three hundred and twenty million dollars was used partly to buy the island and partly to set up the initial public buildings and infrastructure.
“The citizens who live there have to pay an annual tax and of course the rent on their properties and their slaves and the income from this is used by the owners to further develop the island. Slaves pay nothing.”
“What about these slaves?” I asked. “I mean are they permanent or do they come and go with their owners?”
“Apparently it depends on their owners (and, I suppose on their own wishes, too). Some wish to consider themselves slave-for-life and never ever hope for a return to a normal life; others are more transient, flitting between slavery and freedom and they come and go from the island. But while they are on it, they are as subject to the laws relating to slaves as the most permanent of them.”
“What about these laws? You said they are kept naked and that they work to run the island. What does that involve?”
“The hardest of work...” She was becoming serious now. Gone was the light banter about a semi-legendary island. Now she was really earnest and I realised with a massive shock, that she wanted to be a part of this island. “They are treated as animals, beasts of burden. They are made to slog at back-breaking tasks all day and in conditions even the Roman Empire never imagined.
“They delight in it, of course. Each slave there knows before he or she signs up exactly what they will be facing upon arrival but from what I have been able to dredge up about slaves and slavery in this Twenty-first Century, that is exactly what they want.
“This is no on-and-off again play-acting slavery as practised here in Britain or elsewhere in the developed world. This is real-life stuff and the slaves there are well aware they will face the direst of punishments when they err or are slack in their duties.”
“What sort of punishments?” I asked and I was concerned now that my cock, previously relatively quiescent, was creeping up my thigh as she talked. She noticed it against her own naked thigh and grinned, reaching down to wank it a few times.
“So, you are excited about it too, eh James? But to answer your question, really serious punishment like ritual floggings, old-fashioned canings of course, but even more bizarre things such as a real branding of the flesh...”
To my shame, my cock now sprang to full erection. I had had no idea I was a sadist but in my mind’s eye, it was Phil herself on the receiving end of these dreadful punishments and the thought of her hanging upside down for a flogging had sent lightning bolts to my brain. I suddenly realised I was actually considering investing in the island.
And then another realisation hit me. I sat up and raised Phil up beside me, looking straight onto her so beautiful violet eyes. “You want me to buy a share or two in the island, don’t you?” I said, very deliberately.
She grinned. “Yes.”
From then on, while I continued to perform my work as my father’s estate manager and his student as an investor in stocks and bonds, my spare time was spent in following up Phil’s research and investigations into the island.
But I also took my father into my confidence. I was just over twenty-six and Phil, twenty-three. I had sown my share of wild oats in my youth along with my friends and while Father had not discouraged this, he hadn’t egged me on, either. When I broached the subject of slavery, he looked at me quizzically and his eyes crinkled. “How far have you gone along this track, James?” he asked.
“Only investigations, so far, but Phil seems really keen...” I paused and looked at him incredulously for I had detected a more than passing interest by him in the subject. “Don’t tell me you’re interested in this too?”
“I was. Your mother doesn’t know about it, though and we will not bother her with it. Unfortunately, apart from her lack of interest, I didn’t get the opportunity you apparently now have. We will have to cover your absences with some excuse but that shouldn’t be difficult. Actually, I am interested in some prospects in the US. It might be appropriate for you to spend some time over there investigating them...
“As to the seed capital, think nothing of it. You needn’t touch your trust fund. I will be able to put my hands on at least one million dollars without straining our resources but if you want to invest more, that will have to come from your own resources.
I won’t bore you with the details of our becoming an owner of one unit in the island’s trust but our first journey there was interesting.
We had decided that we wouldn’t experiment with Phil’s slavery before our arrival there. Neither of us knew much about the practicalities of slavery, ancient or modern, and as she had observed, living in the manor, with all of its servants around, it wouldn’t have been possible anyway.
We flew to Brisbane, Australia and spent a couple of days there, then went on to Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea. From there, we travelled by successively smaller aircraft, stopping off at various locations in the South Pacific that I will not detail. The actual location of the island is a secret and its owners and residents, slave or free are all anxious it remains that way.
The final stage was by seaplane since there is no runway even on the island - by design. It is surrounded by coral reefs and to get through them, you need to know the passage. It is not mapped and the few boatmen that know it are not telling. This is a further defence against itinerant yachties.
The island has an ancient volcano, long extinct, in its centre and the land all around it slopes down to the sea. It is very fertile and is largely covered with tropical jungle although parts have been cleared for the farms and the estates of we owners.
Upon payment for a unit, the new owner is shown a map of the island and the location of possible sites for his estate. It is then up to him or her to build the sort of house he or she wants. We have a builder on the island and he has a team of slaves to assist him. He doesn’t own them, but leases them from the owners. He might as well own them however for they are his more or less permanently.
I had discovered that some of the original owners have quite large slave stables. Once you start acquiring slaves, it sort-of snowballs and it isn’t hard, given the surprising number of men and women who crave to be slaves, to build up a decent size slaveholding in no time.
As a newcomer, I would be content with one slave, my wife, at least until John Everingham finished my house. In the meantime, we would stay in the island’s hotel, run by another non-owner resident, Bill Blake.
The seaplane was met outside the reef by the island’s sheriff, its only full-time employee. Preston White, had been a police chief in a small town in southern America and he was eminently suited to his role on Bondage Island. He was tall and muscular and had just the right mix of southern disdain for slaves coupled with an authority that carried him through most situations.
He held up his hand to assist me down into the boat but Phil, as a slave, had to fend for herself. I think she understood this. She was no longer an aristocratic English lady, but a slave, a thing. Preston gestured me to a comfortable seat in the cruiser; Phil, he escorted down to the small focsle and locked her into a tiny locker there, looking meaningfully at me as he turned the lock.
“It’s designed to spring open in case of accident so don’t worry, Mr Fenwick,” he reassured me.
We then proceeded towards the island where the boat’s coxswain skilfully steered it in a convoluted course in through the reef opening towards a small jetty where his crew of slaves, a male and female, assisted him in mooring it.
They had stayed below decks until the seaplane was taking off but then took on their normal deckhand duties. I glanced at them curiously for they were the first real slaves I had ever seen. Both were athletic-looking, but the
male was definitely muscular. Both were stark naked of course but more so even than simply without clothes. Their bodies had been somehow depilated so that there was no hair on them below their eyelashes. I thought they looked magnificent with their genital organs on open display to the sheriff and me. He didn’t give them a second glance however. I suppose he saw it all every day.
They had a curious hairstyle and I asked him about it. He smiled. “Each owner or lessee of a slave or slaves, decides how he or she wishes to identify their human property, Mr Fenwick. Some brand them, but most have devised other means. Lorenzo here opted for the hairstyle you see on these two animals: all hair shaved except for a plaited side-knot. He only leases the two of them but he also uses them on his small vegetable garden when not running the island’s boat.”
I nodded. “And me? Do I need to mark Phil?”
“Not yet. Not unless you both decide to make the island your permanent home. In the meantime, a collar locked about her neck that has your name and hers on it will suffice.” He paused and looked at me carefully for a second or two then went on. “Have they told you the procedure to formally enslave your property, sir?”
“Only in the broadest terms. Perhaps you might explain it to me?”
“Sure. When we reach the pier, I will collect her from the brig. I will then place a tether around her neck - may I say here, sir, that she is a perfectly beautiful young slave...?”
I grinned at him. I had taken an instant shine to this very muscular but also very correct man. “You may indeed, sheriff...”
He grinned back at me then went on once more. “ you and I will be transported to the village in a gig. She will be tethered to it with her thumbs cuffed behind her. She will find running to keep up with the two ponies quite difficult.
“Once we reach the village you will find news of your arrival has spread and many owners and probably all the residents, slave as well as free, will be on hand to see your wife enslaved.
