Pet Slaves

by Mark Andrews

  Title Page

  HUMAN DOG-SLAVES!

  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

  Oh, how I had come to fear this man!

  He sat there in the same diaphanous robe he always wore to watch my training, leaning back in the throne-like chair on the dais in the Training Room of his father’s harem ... Training Room! Torture Chamber, more like.

  He was handsome all right, tall, muscular, dark and brooding in the way of the Arab peoples ... and he was perfectly urbane: the soul of courtesy in fact. What I hadn’t realised, back at Cambridge where I had been studying Anthropology, was that he was very easily insulted and my simple refusal to go to bed with him after a quite pleasant first date sent him into a rage.

  Not an open, visible rage, you have to understand. I wasn’t even aware he was angry. He merely nodded, said something to his chauffeur and the big Jaguar headed back to my college. He bade me good-night while the chauffeur held the door open for me to alight.

  I didn’t think anything more of it for I didn’t hear from him again. We had met at a college social. He was attending the university for a degree in Business and was in his last year. I was in my first year. He was the epitome of Arab good looks and courtesy, kissing my hand formally and then engaging me in wonderful conversation. On the spur of the moment, I accepted his invitation to dinner and a dance and even then he was the soul of courtesy.

  It was only during the drive back to Cambridge that he asked me to go to bed with him. I hotly refused, saying I wasn’t that kind of girl. I saw the flash in his beautiful brown eyes but I didn’t think anything of it. Stupid of me? Perhaps, but then I wasn’t aware of the petulance of some of the very, very rich when their wishes are flouted.

  Now here I was, hanging in this dreadful position in the Training Room while he, as near as damn it naked, lolled back on that ornate chair and watched as I was put through my paces by his father’s chief eunuch.

  Your eyes goggle? Oh, believe me, they still have eunuchs alright, and this one had been totally castrated. He didn’t even have his penis, let alone his testicles. His name was Ondoka and his body was absolutely incredible.

  I have said my master was muscular and he was, but in a refined, athletic sort of way. Ondoka was just huge. Well over six feet six tall and with shoulders so broad he had to turn his body slightly to get through a normal door. His chest was two slabs of pure muscle and his stomach a startling array of pebbles that seemed to run right down to his so empty groin ... for yes, he always ‘trained’ us new girls naked since Masoud liked to look at him nude as much as us female slaves, and his sexless loins were therefore on open display to us all.

  Masoud and the eunuch had learned well from Masoud’s father. Waleed was one of the wealthiest men in Arabia. No, he wasn’t a prince but I think his money had originally come from oil. He had however turned that base into an international conglomerate that was worth billions - and Masoud was his heir. They didn’t use such crudities as a whip or a cane to tame and teach us new harem girls. Oh no, it was much more subtle than that, but in its own way, much more brutal, too.

  I had been there only a week or so by this time and every day, for the last week, I had been suspended in this dreadful position, naked, stripped permanently (and very painfully) of every single hair on my body below my eyelashes, while Masoud came down (always dressed in that transparent robe that hid nothing of his admittedly beautiful body) and sat himself in the chair to watch me for a few hours.

  How was I suspended? As I say it was utterly dreadful. Right in front of the throne, down on the stone floor of the chamber, there were these two gleaming stainless steel rods that poked up from tubes set into the floor. They could move up and down and did so as a pair. On the top of each rod was a short horizontal section to which was fitted a metal ankle cuff. These were more like a tube actually and were designed to hold the limb rigid once they were closed tightly around the lower part of their victim’s legs. They were about four inches long and were hinged along their length and although they were able to rotate on a pin attached to the bracket holding them, once they were closed shut, you had no freedom of movement in the legs at all.

  The two rods were set six feet apart but the cuffs could be moved sideways along the rod at the top, closer together or further apart to suit the longer or shorter limbs of its victims and also their level of training in as much as it reflected the degree of flexibility of the hip joint.

  After seven days of that training, my thighs and legs were now stretched out perfectly horizontal - I was doing the splits! Impossible, you say? Yes, I would have said the same thing, except you haven’t taken into account the brutality they employed in getting their way.

  On the first day I had to suffer on that simple but so diabolical machine, Ondoka brought me into the room and bade me stand over the tops of the two rods which were at that time sunk almost fully into the floor. He knelt down and pulled my left leg out towards the cuff, both of which were then at their innermost positions, and snapped it closed. He then moved to the right cuff and tugged at my right leg, growling at me not to resist, pulling it wider apart than was comfortable - much wider than that. Even that first time, I was almost doing the splits, my legs not quite horizontal and the joints at my groin were on fire, sending shards of agony to my brain.

  But then he activated the rods, sending my whole body up about three feet. He now took my hands and bound them behind my back, using more metal cuffs to lock each wrist to its opposite elbow. This too, is a diabolical restraint, especially for those whose joints aren’t used to it. It causes the upper body to crouch over and so partially hide the breasts of the girl being trained or disciplined, in my case, the former.

  But that didn’t suit them and so there was another rod, not connected to the other two that was set between and slightly behind them. It had a snap fitting at its top designed to take a number of different attachments and it too could rise smoothly out of its tube to any desired height.

  Ondoka moved over to a door at the side of the room but soon returned, holding in his hand a gleaming metal collar with spikes - on its inside! It was hinged and was designed to snap onto the third rod, which the eunuch now activated, raising it so that its top was at my neck height. Yes, you guessed it, this gadget was quickly attached to the top of the rod and its open ends passed around my neck and then locked shut. The ultra-sharp points didn’t actually press into the flesh of my neck but if I moved in any direction more than half an inch, they certainly did.

  And so there I was, suspended by my two lower legs, the cuffs holding them being long enough, about four inches, to keep my legs pointing in th
e right direction; my arms were pinioned behind my back and only the sharp spikes on the collar preventing me from falling over.

  And there I stayed, all day, while Masoud came down to loll in his chair and simply look at me. He didn’t say anything, but I did, alternately pleading with him to let me go and then threatening the wrath of God if he didn’t. He just sat through it all, listening, but not responding to my importuning or my threats.

  Occasionally he got up and moved in his graceful way down off the dais to stand in front of me, as if drinking in my beauty and then wandering slowly around me, sometimes reaching out to caress, very lightly, my breast or perhaps my now hairless vagina or bottom, but then he would return to his chair and loll back, his gossamer robe carelessly open, exposing his long thick penis and heavy testicles and his naked groin to my eyes, for yes, he was as bare of hair on his body as I was. It was apparently a fetish of his and his father’s.

  Did he not fuck me? Yes, but not in my virginal vagina. Instead, he shed the gossamer robe from his otherwise naked body and then raped my anus! Of course it was virginal too and as he made no attempt to be gentle with me, it hurt like hell. I quickly discovered he delighted in my screams however and as soon as I was able shut them off.

  As I say, he was brutal, his hands now mauling my soft breasts as he rammed his iron-hard cock in and out of my tender anus while his eunuch Ondoka stood beside him, watching it all. I now discovered the anus is a remarkable organ. It quickly adapted to the wide girth of his cock and the pain began to abate. But it was no less horrible for all that. I was being raped, even if it wasn’t my vagina that was being violated. Once sated however, he accepted his robe from his eunuch and then returned to his chair to loll back and contemplate me some more, then, after an hour or whatever, he would then get up and without a word to me, walk out of the room and I wouldn’t see him again until the next day.

  But then it started all over again. The suspension, the gazing at my naked body held up in that so indecent position, and finally the rape of my anus...

  How did I come to be there?

  Because Masoud had me kidnapped, that’s how. As I said, I just forgot him after that one night when I had refused his sexual advances. But he hadn’t forgotten me. After he went home for the summer break he spoke of me to his father and Waleed told him he should exact revenge on me by adding me to his fledgling harem. Apparently he took his father’s advice and the pair of them arranged my kidnapping, an easy enough task if the kidnappers are professionals and suss out their victims first.

  They did that to me. I had gone home to my parents’ estate in Essex (near Wivenhoe if you want to know the details) but I didn’t make it back to my college. They even knew the train I was catching and had booked seats in the same compartment. On the trip, they merely sprayed me with a knockout gas and then one of them produced a folding suitcase specially made to hold a trussed up victim. While one of them stood watch, the other folded me up like a trussed chook and fitted the case around me, zipping it up neatly. All this I know because Masoud was at pains to tell me - in the minutest detail, just how his agents had abducted me so easily ...

  Oh, I see I haven’t yet introduced myself. My name is Sandy (for Alexandra) Hill and as I said, I come from Essex where my father is a member of the local gentry, not titled or anything, just of the landowning class, I suppose you would say.

  I had a wonderful childhood, went to the right school, had great friends and had then set my sights on becoming a noted anthropologist.

  I am of average build, somewhat slender, I suppose, but with an athletic-type body. My breasts are a bit small but are nicely shaped and my skin is olive, like my mother’s. I would be the first to admit I am no beauty. I suppose I could be called attractive in that girl-next-door type of way but I have an infectious grin that I find hard to keep repressed and I think that endears me to people.

  The drug kept me out of it until I woke up, in a dreadful cramp, still bound up tight and locked into the suitcase. Now though, I was cold, freezing cold, and I could feel a vibration, as if from some powerful engine. And then I realised it. I was in an aeroplane. Trussed up in utter blackness and really terrified, but there, flying to some unknown destination ...

  How, and more importantly why, I had no idea. I tried to scream but then realised my mouth was stuffed with a soft ball and no matter what I did, I couldn’t eject it. I tried exerting my muscles against the bonds but quickly established they were very, very secure. I was sensible enough to decide that further struggling, either physical or mental, was going to get me nowhere. I couldn’t get free and so it was useless to sweat and strain trying to; but more crucially, if I panicked, and that was quite on the cards, I might go mad!

  Accordingly, I settled down to wait. Yes, my mind went over all the possibilities, at least those I could imagine but not once did Masoud enter into them.

  When we landed, I could feel myself being hoisted, roughly, just like all the other baggage, out of the plane and onto the cart. I don’t know how they got me through customs, possible Waleed’s influence, I suppose, and then I was lifted up onto another vehicle. I could feel it cornering and accelerating and braking so I knew it was a vehicle of some sort, but then it came to a full stop and once more I was lifted out, carried somewhere and placed on the floor.

  The case was then opened - to reveal Masoud and his father standing over me, staring down at my trussed up self.

  “So, my little English flower, you have come to me at last,” said Masoud, smiling down at me. But I shuddered. The smile was not one of welcome, or friendliness. It bespoke great evil and a threat of a lot of anguish for me.

  “Masoud! What am I doing here? Please have them release me!”

  “Oh they will, they will, my little flower, for my father here, is anxious to see your body - as, for that matter, am I.”

  “My body?” I faltered. “But I have already told you, I’m not like that. I don’t go to bed with the boys I date.”

  “So you said, so you said,” he soothed but then his voice hardened. “But you will with me - and anyone else I choose to give your miserable body to, Slave slut!”

  I blushed, in both fear and shame. No-one had ever called me such a thing before but I was wise enough to now shut up. I rightly suspected we were in his country. The architecture of the house - palace more like - told me we were no longer in England and in any case, the long journey in the plane confirmed it.

  On hand was Ondoka, the huge eunuch but he was then dressed in the traditional clothing of a harem eunuch: baggy, bright blue satin pants that sat low on his lean hips and a sort of bolero, a nearly useless waistcoat that came down only to the line under his broad, chocolate-brown chest and couldn’t possibly be pulled together.

  At Waleed’s nod, he reached down and undid the various straps that held me pinioned so tightly. Of course after God knows how many hours trussed up like that, I couldn’t move. I was totally cramped, but he soon fixed that. He simply reached down and grabbed me under my left arm and hoisted me up, as if I was a feather.

  Without another word or gesture from either Waleed or Masoud, he proceeded to strip me.

  I had been dressed for the journey back to Cambridge in jeans and a tartan shirt, with appropriate underwear beneath them. The shirt was first. He merely moved up close to me, grinned down at me with an expression I was to come to fear, place his huge hands in the front of the shirt and ripped it open, exposing my bra to everyone present.

  I fought him, of course. As soon as I realised what he was up to, I put my hands (now with a little use restored to them) on his massive arms and when that failed, hit his huge chest with my fists. I might as well have been hitting a punching bag for all the difference it made. He just laughed and tore the shirt off my back - literally.

  My jeans were next and again, while I fought him tooth and nail, he proceeded to undo the belt, remove it
from the loops and then tear them open, careless of the zipper, and then dragged them down my thighs and legs. When he had them down to my ankles, he yanked them hard, causing me to fall, hard, onto my bottom, shocked now by the violence of his denuding of my body.

  A few more tugs and my shoes and socks came off with what was left of my jeans. Again he grabbed me by my arm and, apparently effortlessly, stood me up again. I was now dressed in nothing but my bra and panties and these too were made short work of.

  I was naked. Stark naked and blushing furiously, a fact both Waleed and Masoud noted with consummate enjoyment. I tried to hide my body from them by crossing my knees and folding my arms over my breasts, but they weren’t having any of that.

  “Hands up behind head,” growled Ondoka and I was shocked at the low, animal-like tones and also by his obvious understanding of English.

  I obeyed, now very fearful of this man who had so easily manhandled me and then stripped me naked.

  “Legs wide apart,” he added, now producing the standard eunuch’s cane from its holder that was attached to his belt and poking it expertly between my thighs and then jerking it up to attack my vagina.

  His master and Masoud then approached me and the former strode all around me, expertly assessing my worth - for what, I had no idea, but I felt like an animal at a market, being appraised for possible purchase. He even caressed my vulva, poking his fingers carefully inside to arouse my clit and even more importantly apparently, to check out the intact state of my hymen.

  In fact, that assessment wasn’t far short of the mark, except I had already been ‘purchased’, in as much as the slavers had kidnapped me and delivered me into their possession.

  “Yes, my son, I can see why you wanted her. She is no great beauty but I can see the character in her eyes and she has a splendid body. Of course you will have Ondoka condition her?”

  “Yes, father, of course.”