Isle of Bondage

by Mark Andrews

  These sessions started at six each day and went on until the same time at night, each session lasting two hours so that every slave on the island got in three sessions a week at the gym and many were required to perform more at home as well.

  Phil was there among them.

  She had been brought out of her dungeon cell to join the ten o’clock session and I wandered over to watch as Jack personally supervised his interim course for her. He took me aside and explained this was far harder than the regular course he would be developing over the next week. “Makes them think this is their real workload, James, and most really bloom as we whip them to harder and harder effort over the first couple of sessions. Watch her now as my assistant canes her bottom to direct her to faster repetitions of the push-ups...?

  “Of course they are far more efficacious for the muscles concerned if performed very much more slowly, but this will exhaust her and then we will punish her properly. Watch...”

  They did. Push-ups and sit-ups are hard work and the slave-assistant had his foot on her back to make it even harder still and eventually, she just collapsed. They pretended disgust at her weakness and ordered her over to a waist-high pillory into which they bade her place her neck and wrists so they could lock her in place.

  This meant she was bent over with her buttocks perfectly exposed for the cane. You will remember she had been paddled yesterday but they had all but recovered from that punishment. Indeed, I could see no remnant of the marks that had emblazoned them after that ‘welcome’. No doubt they were still tender however.

  They were. She screamed beautifully at the very first stroke, wielded expertly by Jack and her bottom gyrated madly from side to side. They only gave her five strokes but they were applied hard. As he later told me, “Half measures are worse than useless, James. These slaves want to feel the full wrath of our discipline, even if they hate the pain...”

  Once again I had reason to marvel at the human psyche that could relish the idea of slavery, even to accepting dreadful pain when they were not really all that masochistic.

  We stayed the remainder of her session and I watched avidly as Jack and his assistant put her through a full gamut of exercises that would leave her truly exhausted at noon when they would drag her back to her cold bare cell to recover while Preston and I repaired to the hotel dining room for a pleasant lunch.

  That afternoon he took me to see the quarry.

  If I had thought the slaves I had seen working in the pig pens and the gymnasium had it hard, now I really saw what slave-labour meant. Preston assured me that here were the slaves who really craved to be ‘forced’ into the hardest work their bodies were capable of.

  “But surely they can’t want for this to go on the for the rest of their lives?” I said.

  He laughed. “Oh no. Except for one, all of these slaves spend only a couple of weeks here and then go back to their homes and their regular lives. But, so far at least, they all return regularly, are ceremonially stripped naked and then are run out here at full tilt to begin their period as quarry slaves.”

  “How long do they work?”

  “They start at six, work until twelve when they have an hour off, then it’s one in the afternoon until six in the evening, every day. There’s no Sunday off for quarry slaves...”

  I stared down at them. Each was superbly built, yes the girls as well as the males. And each was performing his or her allotted task at full speed. Not that they were hurrying. Quarrying can be dangerous work but the quarry-master knew his trade and while he kept them hard at it, he still observed all the safety rules.

  Whips were cracking constantly and while they were mostly just in the air, the overseers were not at all backward in lashing the naked back and buttocks of a slave who was either perceived to be slacking or who had just taken a short-cut that might endanger his or another slave’s safety.

  Once more I marvelled that human beings could actually get off on voluntarily offering their bodies to such abuse but the ‘proof of the pudding...’ and I could certainly see in their eyes that these young men and women were truly relishing their roles as quarry slaves.

  We stayed there for a couple of hours for Preston agreed with me that watching as these naked paragons of human physical development (as well as being handsome or beautiful, of course) toiling at the hardest labour imaginable, was wonderful to behold.

  There were others watching as well.

  Many of the owners thought it most entertaining to sit under a shade and watch as only a few feet away, stark naked, sweaty and dirty slaves worked with pick, crowbar, or huge sledge-hammer to prise the massive blocks of stone out of the quarry face.

  There is something about watching other human beings at work that pleases we so very complicated class of animals. But when those humans are extraordinarily good-looking and their bodies honed to perfection, and presented totally nude, their sexual organs on open display, the sight becomes nigh on irresistible, hence the spectators. There weren’t just owners, either. There were a couple of free residents, a man and his wife who were taking a few hours off from their drapery shop to enjoy the sight of naked slaves toiling under the whip.

  That night I dined alone, or at least at a separate table in the hotel dining room. This also served as the island’s one restaurant and some of the other owners were also dining as well as one resident couple.

  I realised though that this was as much an entertainment as an occasion to partake of fine food. Although every owner had a score or more of his or her own slaves, and the residents had one or two on lease, it was always pleasant to watch other people’s slaves at work and the waiters and waitresses who served at those tables had been trained by Bill Blake to be the very best there were.

  Naked they might have been, and beautiful and handsome to boot, but they performed easily as well as the top waiters at the Savoy or Claridge’s, serving the tables with as much aplomb as if they had been dressed in tails and white tie!

  I found the meals I had there were superb, but much added to by the sight of these magnificent naked waiters and waitresses. (I am not chauvinistic, but I refuse to comply with the ridiculous idea that women have to have the same titles as their male counterparts!)

  That night, Miriam led me through another round of the most wonderful sex imaginable. This time, instead of her mounting me, she showed me how to make love to her in ways that preserved my strength and yet enhanced my sexual pleasure. No, the basic action wasn’t different. I still mounted her and jerked my weapon in and out of her beautiful quim; it was the way I did it that was different: the timing, for example.

  Instead of me merely thrusting in and then going for it, hell for leather, she taught me to thrust a couple of times, hard but then lower my body onto hers and kiss and/or fondle her while just maintaining a slight movement of my cock inside her. I won’t go on about it. There are countless little variations but you need to be shown them and she did, that second night, at least on that theme.

  Each night thereafter, she carefully steered me through a revision of last night’s lesson (and those of previous nights as well) and then embarked on a new course. She wasn’t in the least dominating in this. Indeed, I had the illusion I was in command at all times, such was her skill at diplomacy, but of course it was she who was Master-minding the night.

  After that second night, Phil joined us and now Miriam showed the pair of us how to enjoy each other’s body a thousand times better than we had been up to then. I don’t say our lovemaking had been bad before. It hadn’t. indeed, I thought it had been wonderful and so did Phil. It was just that post-Miriam, we learned how to make it so much better and the both of us were grateful to her.

  It really was a quite extraordinary scenario. There were we, a loving man and wife, even if the wife now chose to be a slave; and there was Miriam, who now made up our threesome, joining us in my bed in the hotel and s
teering us through the whole gamut of sexual delights.

  You could read the Kama Sutra till Hell froze over and still not learn what we did from Miriam over the weeks that followed and later on, too.

  Preston had suggested to me that I leave Phil to his tender mercies for the first couple of days and I did. He and his colleagues, such as Jack Williams, the PE Instructor, as well as Shaun Crosby, the quarry-master, gave her an initial work-out that sorely taxed her resolve to be a slave, running her ragged for the first few days.

  After my first full day being guided around the island by Preston, he suggested I spend the next few having a look at possible sites for my house and talking to John Everingham about possible designs, but also looking in on Phil frequently, staying to watch as they worked her to the limit. “And then, James, I suggest you take her to your suite. Let Miriam guide her in her dual roles as your servant as well as your sex-slave. Believe me, Miriam will be the very best teacher she could have.”

  And so it proved. I chose a delightful spot a couple of miles out of town beside a stream that would give us permanent water, with plenty of space around for the tropical garden I wanted to develop; talked to John and over the next few days, agreed on a plan for our house, while spending the remainder of the time watching Phil in the gym, at the unspeakable toil in the quarry and then at her first comical attempts at playing the role of human pony.

  She loved it all. Yes, even the quarry. She only spent a day there although I didn’t tell her how long it might be. Nevertheless, she knuckled down and applied her muscles to the tasks set for her until she collapsed, exhausted. I was over there in a shot and Shaun signalled to another slave to hoist her over his broad shoulder and take her up to the grassy area outside the quarry - it was situated against the side of a hill - and there I tended her until she came to and was able to return to her work.

  There was no question she would be excused the rest of the day’s toil, merely because she was tired. She was a slave! Slaves worked! I knew she would have it no other way.

  But then, after the first few days, she returned to me (and Miriam) full time and my new slave took her in hand while I was out talking to John Everingham or seeing more of the island with Preston or visiting other owners and getting to know them so I could learn more about the morés of the island.

  It was a wonderful first week for me - and for Phil too, she later told me. “It was hard, Master (she always had to call me by that title when we were on the island), but I loved it. The very idea of being forced under the whip to work in that diabolical quarry or to pull one of those gigs around the roads, always sends wonderful thrills through and through me.”

  “You are glad then, that we have come here?”

  “Oh James,” she said (she slipped up there and would have to be punished for her error), “Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand times over. I feel so wonderfully humiliated all the time. Every time a Master looks at me and my naked body, I feel another thrill of that shame...”

  “And you like that shame?” I asked curiously.

  “Oh yes. I can’t explain how or why, but when I see another slave whipped and think it will be me next time, even though I hate the pain, I thrill to the very core of my being.”

  “I see,” I said gravely. “Well, you slipped up badly a moment ago... Do you know what it was you did?”

  She thought about it for a moment and then, to Miriam’s amusement (she had been watching this little interchange) her face cleared and she looked horrified. “I called you James, didn’t I?”

  “You did indeed. When were you last caned, slave?” I asked her in the severest tones I could muster.

  Her face clouded for a second or two but then she straightened it. She had wanted this and she knew what slavery entailed. “Two days ago, Master, for taking a moment off to wipe my brow in the quarry.”

  “Disgraceful!” I said in mock horror. “Well you clearly need a reminder as to your status and mine. You are to be caned ten times. Go and fetch the caning pillory and a suitable instrument.”

  Each suite in the hotel, and of course every house on the island, had these portable pillories that were designed to slot into special receptacles John built into many rooms in each house. They were made of an aluminium alloy that while light in weight, was very strong. They comprised a sturdy hollow pipe about four inches in diameter, whose base fitted into the slot in the floor of the room. It was surmounted by a flat crosspiece that was divided into two sections that were hinged at the right hand end. There were holes formed in the top half of the bottom section and the opposite sides of the fixed bottom one so that when the top piece was lifted, the neck and wrists could be placed in the half holes, and secured there by replacing the top section and locking it shut.

  Further concealed lugs in the floor allowed the slave’s big toes to be secured out wide apart to further enhance the pain. Miriam assisted me in securing Phil into this apparatus and then we were ready, so I thought.

  Now though, my second slave spoke up. “Master, in order to enhance your slave’s punishment, perhaps you might consider figging her?”

  “Figging her?” I said. I had never heard of the term. She grinned wickedly while Phil looked worriedly at her. She and Miriam had become good friends in the last couple of days, Phil recognising that the younger girl knew a thousand times more than she did about the art of being a perfect slave, but she also knew that Miriam’s loyalty was to me, not her and that my enjoyment of my slaves, both of them, was paramount in our relationship.

  “It means, inserting a plug of peeled ginger up her rectum, Master. In the Nineteenth Century, troopers used figs of peeled ginger to make their horses lively and to cause them to hold their tails up high. Applied to a slave’s anus and inserted in his or her rectum they cause a burning pain, especially when the buttocks are clenched. When used in company with the cane, it makes the slave try to keep his or her buttocks soft and thus adds to the pain of the cane.” She paused and then, with a wicked grin, added, “The results can often be most comical... Perhaps, Master, you would like to try it on me first, just to demonstrate?”

  I stared at her. She had told me she was not masochistic in any degree and yet here she was volunteering to suffer what she suggested was considerable pain, just so I could see the results before applying it to my wife/slave.

  Well, if she had offered, who was I to refuse and in any case, I delighted in her delectable bottom so much, the sight of it bent over with one of these fig-things in it, would doubtless be most entertaining.

  “Very well, slave... er, do we have any of these figs?” I asked, a trifle uncertainly.

  She grinned broadly. “Oh yes, Master. Master Blake provides a fresh hand to each occupied suite every day. Shall I prepare and fetch a couple?”

  “Please do.”

  She was out of the room and back in a trice and in the meantime, I released Phil from the pillory. “Are you really going to do that to me, Master?” she asked fearfully.

  “Of course. It will be a salutary reminder to you to watch your manners in the future, won’t it?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said resignedly.

  Just then, Miriam was back and holding a small basin with two figs of freshly peeled ginger floating in water. The figs didn’t look like a fig. They were really just roughly round sticks of whitish material at one end of which had been cut a notch for the anus to settle around.

  She went and laid her neck and wrists in the holes recently vacated by Phil and she then locked the top piece down.

  “Just push it in, Master. I have already greased my anus for you. Make sure the notch is at the outside end and push it in until my anus clenches around the notch. If you wait a few moments, the oil in the ginger stick will have time to, er, excite my anus and then it will be time to cane me. You should apply the cane at full force, Master,” she added, but I could tell she wasn’t loo
king forward to the unearned punishment and once more I marvelled that these girls (and the boys for that matter) could so willingly accept this pain in the name of their slavery.

  I did as she suggested, carefully pushing the rounded end of the fig into her puckering brown hole, noting how easily it opened to accept the thing. It then slid right inside until, as she had suggested, the anal ring closed down over the notch. That left about an inch protruding from her buttocks but their pert curves would protect the fig once I started to cane her.

  “Might I suggest five strokes, Master, very hard.”

  “You may,” I said. Already my cock was rigid at the thought of caning this beautiful young thing, her slim body so sleek and yet so athletic, it’s fine muscles apparent without detracting from her wonderful femininity.

  I took up the cane, a length of springy rattan that they had at first imported from Malaya where it grew in profusion, but now grew for themselves. I bent it between my hands, aware that Phil was now watching these events with a very real fear written all over her lovely face. I was tempted, just for a moment, to throw down the cane and draw her into my arms, soothing her and assuring her we would leave this place and resume our old lives but then I looked again and through the fear I could see the gleam of anticipation... No, she wanted this, even if she was frightened silly of the pain she knew was coming.

  I marvelled at Miriam’s consideration for Phil. I knew her volunteering for a demonstration was aimed to ease my wife’s terror and not to show me the effects of the fig. Phil’s punishment could just have easily have done that. But this beautiful dark girl was prepared to offer up her own pain to show Phil it was bearable, if still very uncomfortable.

  I lashed the cane down across those curvaceous cheeks, hard, and immediately she clenched them. Obviously it was impossible not to and the howl she let out as she did so told the story. Clearly it was the peppery juices coming from the fig that had engendered this reaction for while I had hit her bottom hard, I knew she was far too stoical for that to have been the cause.