Isle of Bondage

by Mark Andrews

  I know this is different to Phil’s arrival there but most slaves don’t come as the partner or spouse of their new owner. It happens, but not that often. Accordingly, the method I had just described ensures the slave understands that he or she is now really and truly a naked slave who is about to be sold to an owner who may use them in almost any way they choose. Of course it has to be within the slave’s parameters but these are clearly identified during the long interview process and will also be marked on the placard at the slave auction.

  These are conducted as required. Some owners like variety and regularly change their slaves; others like to keep them for the duration of their term as a slave. But when a new slave or slaves arrive it gives owners the opportunity to dispose of unwanted slaves and acquire new ones.

  Yes, it has to be with the slave’s consent but that is almost always forthcoming. Remember these people want to be slaves in every sense of the word. Being auctioned is part of slavery. To be ‘forced’ to stand up on the block while your naked body is appraised, felt over, and then bid upon is as demeaning as it gets and this is what they thrive on. Even if a buyer is known to be rather more sadistic than a slave might like, he or she rarely objects to the sale and although they might apply to the president of the time for release from a too rigorous Master, they usually want to be sold again to someone else.

  This process tends to ensure a Master doesn’t go further than he should but if not, he or she may well be asked to leave - permanently. As I said, it hasn’t happened yet and we hope it never does for to be exiled from the island would be highly shameful and who knows what the person might do afterwards.

  Few slaves ever wear marks on their bodies to show their ownership brands. Not that they are afraid of the pain of either the tattooist’s needles or a brander’s hot iron. Slaves are intrinsically masochistic to some degree and usually a high one. No, it isn’t the pain that deters them but the mark itself.

  Most of them well know that their slavery will be a temporary thing. They might fully intend that it last ten or even more years, but when it is finally over, they will not want their bodies marked, either with a tattoo or a brand they can’t explain.

  There are some however, that want it all. There was one girl who wanted her ears and nose removed, along with her arms and legs at the shoulders and hips and then to be used as a pillow by her Master. Of course it was refused and a year or so later, she was very glad of it.

  But there was a boy who asked that he be branded with his Master’s crest, really branded, on his lower belly with a red-hot iron. His mistress refused, although she confided in me that she would love to see him suffer the appalling pain of the process. “But I can’t, James,” she said.

  “He says he wants to serve me all his days and to demonstrate that commitment by suffering the branding, but how do I know?”

  “You don’t, Marjory. You have done the right thing, I know...”

  But he persisted, every few weeks telling her of his devotion and slapping his muscly belly to show he really wanted the mark. I was there one time when he did this and he grinned at her. “Even if I was to resign my slavery, Mistress, which I am not going to, even if you sell me, it won’t matter. “I’ll just say it’s a birth mark!”

  She looked from him to me helplessly but still shook her head. I knew she wanted to let him have it so I suggested she send him to see the doctor. “Let’s find out how deep his commitment is, eh?”

  Surprisingly, Doctor Swindon came back with the news that he was genuine and that if a very fine branding iron could be made, the mark might even be quite beautiful. She gave her consent then and we all attended the ceremony, which was carried out with a great deal of pomp and circumstance.

  For the occasion a wooden rack-like table was made and placed in the little village square beside the dais. The boy was brought in and ordered to lie down on it then stretched until he was taut. A belt was fastened over his waist and tightened as hard as they could get it.

  The doctor was going to administer the brand and he had supervised its design and construction. It bore a vague outline of Marjory’s family crest but unless you knew what it was, you could be forgiven for not understanding it. This was to provide an out, if ever he changed his mind and had to explain the strange mark on his lower belly.

  The iron was made of stainless steel. The welder had taken strips of the metal that were a sixteenth of an inch thick and an inch wide, and then very artistically bent them into the shape of the bird that represented her crest, surrounding it with a circle. The whole thing was about two inches in diameter and the very thin metal would ensure that the mark, while clean and apparent, was not gross or ugly in appearance.

  The boy didn’t even scream.

  The doctor had offered him an anodyne but he had hotly refused, saying it was a slave’s duty to accept his mistress’ mark without complaint. They had used a makeshift brazier and heated in it the iron until its business end was a deep cherry-red. The doctor had asked the boy, alright he was twenty-one, but he looked like a boy, one last time if he accepted the mark on his body and he had said yes!

  The doctor had then nodded and carefully lined it up so that its top was where it should be and that it was positioned in the very centre of his belly and exactly half way between his navel and the root of his naked penis.

  Then he had simply lowered it down, slowly, deliberately, watching what he was doing very carefully, until the dully glowing metal touched the boy’s so muscly belly. He kept pressing it down however, aware that the writhing of the muscles under the iron needed to be countered or the brand would not be even.

  As I say, he didn’t scream. Indeed, I didn’t even hear a whimper. His mouth was kept pressed tightly together although his blue eyes were rolling around horribly as he coped with what must have been appalling pain.

  It only lasted a few seconds and then the doctor whipped the iron up and off his flesh. There it was! A clean brand although the skin around it was horribly blackened of course. “That will soon go away,” said the doctor, pleased it had been a successful operation for he was not a sadistic person and didn’t really enjoy these little forays into the world of pain that the slaves asked of him.

  When we got home that night, Phil whispered to me that she had admired the boy’s fortitude. She looked at me craftily for a moment and then said, “I only hope when you brand me, Master, that I will be just as brave...”

  Chapter 7

  I was appalled. Utterly so I stared at her in horror for a few moments but then shook my head violently. “No, Phil! No, no, a thousand time no. I couldn’t bear to see you racked by possibly the worst pain you would ever have to face; or your exquisite body marred by a brand, no matter how beautiful you may consider it.”

  “Not even your family’s crest?” she said impishly.

  “Especially by my family’s crest,” I replied very seriously and very positively. “Your body is pristine. There isn’t a blemish anywhere on it. Your skin is like absolutely perfect warm white marble and I can’t bear to think of it being desecrated by a brand, even though I know you want it so much...”

  She let it go then but I could see she wasn’t finished with the matter. Well, I was. I had meant what I said. I loved her dearly then and I still do. I enjoyed being her Master and even punishing her with my hand, the cane or the paddle for her minor crimes but branding her with a red-hot iron as the boy had been today, no way!

  The matter lapsed for it wasn’t long after that we had a very sad day. Anthony, Viscount Grey suddenly had a massive heart attack and was dead in seconds. He was no longer president of our small community by then, having been succeeded by Tadashiro, my gardener Otondo’s former Master, and was enjoying his retirement in training his stable of human ponies. He had been out at the side of his training track when it happened.

  Of course the grapevine being what it was, we were al
l around to sympathise with his widow, Penelope within the hour and since he was to be buried in his family’s vault at their church, Dad, Phil and I accompanied her back to England with the body for the service and burial.

  It was after that she told me she wasn’t returning to the island. “I just couldn’t James. We both loved it there, as you well know but I would see Anthony in every stone of the house and blade of grass in the garden. No, I have interests here and will work at them. Perhaps you will inform Mr Tadashiro of my decision and invite him to find a buyer for our estate.

  “All except the racing stable, that is. I know Anthony would have wanted you to have it and it is therefore yours. I suggest you operate it from our stable until you build your own but Mr Everingham being what he is, I suspect you will soon have your own anyway?”

  I took her hands and kissed her softly on her cheek. So did Phil (now playing the lady again, of course) and Dad shook her hand formally. “Thank you, Penny. Of course I will do as you say and I accept with many thanks your kind offer of Anthony’s stable. I will try to do justice to his memory with them...”

  We stayed in England for a couple more weeks, catching up on our affairs and particularly those concerning Cranwell. Dad’s investments could easily be handled from the island with a computer and the satellite phone, but Cranwell had always been a hands-on affair. We had good relations with our tenants and had set up a sort of cooperative that provided a pool of machinery but more importantly, kept up with the latest in agricultural developments and generally helped them to make the most from their farms. With both Dad and me now spending most of our time at the island, they were losing direction and we decided to seek out a buyer who would continue what we had started.

  It wasn’t as if it had been a family seat for generations. Dad’s father had bought it after he had started to do very well in the original property, so there were no real sentimental reasons to keep it. We would keep the London apartment as an English base but would spend most of our time back on the island.

  On the way back, Dad wondered aloud to us if he shouldn’t consider buying Anthony’s former house. Both Phil and I were horrified. “Why would you want to do that, Dad,” I said. “We love having you with us... Are we not giving you sufficient space?”

  “Oh no, it’s not that. You are both wonderful to be with. It’s just I wondered if I wasn’t in the way?”

  “Certainly not,” we chorused and so that matter was settled before it began. But then it was Phil’s turn.

  She took my hand and smiled at me in that wonderful way she has when she is going to tell me something. I was immediately attentive. “You know how much I have loved being a slave, James?” she said softly.

  “Yes,” I said, aware something momentous was coming.

  “Well, it’s true, I have. And I think I could continue to delight in it, but now that you are going to be training the human ponies, it has awakened something else in my psyche. When Penny was telling you that she wanted you to take over Anthony’s stable of racing ponies, something lurched in me. I knew instantly I wanted to be part of training them, not being one of them, so, if you will please free me, I will become your wife on the island as well as in England...”

  Oh, Phil,” I said, reaching across the airliner’s seat to kiss her gently. Of course I wanted to do it passionately, but I was still an Englishman and we don’t do those sorts of things... “You know how much I have loved being your Master (both she and I were speaking in undertones for if the other passengers had heard us there would have been more than a few eyebrows raised) but I have also longed for the day you would become mistress to our slaves and a real wife to me once more.”

  The result of course was that once we reached the island, I issued the appropriate proclamation, countersigned by President Tadashiro, freeing Phil and making her mistress of my estate which now became ours. Dad remained as a permanent house guest, of course.

  John Everingham started work on our new stables building while Otondo, assisted by Dad’s pony slaves, began on the training track. This was merely the inner and outer fences and the gathering and laying of the tanbark that made the track soft enough for the ponies to race flat out without worrying about their feet.

  In the meantime we took up work with Anthony’s stable.

  Up until then, our days, Dad’s and mine that is, had been spent in leisure and enjoyment but now we had something serious to do as well and we both relished the prospect. Phil’s days had been rather more involved, of course, but she found her new leisure quite to her liking.

  Each of the owners who raced slaves used Jack Williams’ expertise to develop their ponies’ bodies to best advantage and since they were slaves, this meant they could be trained with a single-minded purpose to achieve those aims.

  Again I stress, this was with the inherent, although unspoken acceptance of the slaves themselves. They sweated and strained and they pretended to hate the enormous effort demanded of them but they always had an out, they could at any time ask to be released from their slavery. None did.

  But racing with the saddles on their backs or harnessed to the gigs required a great deal more than just physical strength and endurance. It also involved strategy, style and pure grit and determination. In the case of the female ponies, who raced the gigs in pairs, it also meant a dedicated attention to racing in tandem with their partner.

  Neither Dad, Phil or I had any experience with horse-racing but we knew how to get the best out of people and we spent all day first on Anthony’s track and then our own, working with the grooms to chivvy the three male and three female ponies along to better and better times.

  They appreciated our efforts, as did the grooms and soon we had a wonderful team spirit among the dozen of us involved. There were the three of us owners, Dad, Phil and me; the six slave-ponies and the three grooms who lived in rooms in the stable.

  The ponies were in all respects treated as real equine ponies, being housed in stalls with only straw to sleep in and, for the sake of appearances, tethered by their nose rings to the back wall. They could easily undo these of course. No slave on the island, except initiates and those under discipline, were ever really locked up.

  The three grooms had once been ponies themselves and I had no doubt some of the present stable of ponies would graduate to such a position once their yearning to be a pony had died down. It was significant that we owners had the resources to employ them, even if we didn’t really have a proper job for them.

  For example, if one of them had asked to be freed right then and wished to be made a groom, I would do so instantly, although I well knew three grooms were quite sufficient for our needs, especially with Dad and Phil and me involving ourselves in the training.

  They were wonderful days but we didn’t exclude all our former pursuits. We still went out and about to parties and other functions and for this we needed another pony. Not one from our racing stable. They were a different class and we wouldn’t be ruining their chances of success at the next race meeting by involving them in mere hack gig work. So Phil and I needed at least one more pony to partner Miriam.

  “Actually, James,” said Phil. “I think we need a pair. I need Miriam as my maid and her household duties are now more onerous since I am no longer there to help. Why don’t we look for a matched pair, perhaps twins to take over as our personal ponies?”

  “Of course you are right, my love. Alright, I’ll ask Preston. He’ll know what’s available or perhaps arrange to import a new pair...”

  “There’s nothing here right now, James, but I was looking through the database of slave applicants. You remember Craig and Tina?”

  “The eunuchs who are now owners?”

  “Yes. Well how would you like a pair who could almost be described as their facsimiles?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all,” I said grinning hugely at him. “As I remember their bo
dies, they were truly superlative and handsome? In fact, that word doesn’t begin to describe them at all!”

  “I agree. Well the pair I have in mind... here, look at their photos...” I took the proffered file and gasped. This pair were as blond and blue-eyed as our two most recent pair of owners and their bodies, photographed naked as required were indeed very attractive.

  “Swedish, eh?” I said as I scanned the file.

  “Yes, and just twenty-one. You should have them for a few years, at least. Alright, I’ll set the machinery in motion. You should have them in a couple of weeks if all goes well. In the meantime, would you like a loan of an electric buggy or can you borrow a couple of slaves from somewhere?”

  “We’ll use a pair of racing slaves in the interim, Preston. It will interrupt their training but I don’t really want the bother of a buggy.”

  “You won’t have to. Look, I happen to know our president has a couple of extra slaves who might be suitable. Why don’t you ask him?”

  We did and he loaned us the two slaves, both male but nicely muscled and good-looking but we were looking forward to acquiring our own pair of twins. When they arrived at last and had been put through the same initiation Phil had all that time ago, it was now two years nearly since we had arrived on the island the first time, we took them home and began their training as our two new ponies.

  They were even better looking than their photos had indicated and they were just as keen on being the very best slaves on the island as Phil had been. We decided to take them to our bed, with Miriam of course, she was always in it with us, and she began immediately to show them how to make love to us and to each other, just as she had with us.