“Are you lost?” Drake asked.
“No, Sir.” He seemed awfully close as he looked down at her. It felt uncomfortably intimate, especially when she remembered what she had done earlier.
“Slaves use the starboard passageway. This one is for crew.”
“Yes, Sir.” Her next words almost stuck in Pam’s throat. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Didn’t Christine tell you?”
“Yes. I… I forgot.” Would he punish her? Her belly fluttered. A prickle teased her pussy as Drake’s dark-brown eyes looked into her nervously uplifted ones. For the merest heartbeat she thought she saw a trace of warmth in his gaze, gone the instant he spoke.
“Don’t forget again.”
“Yes, Sir. No, Sir.” She made to continue on her way but his hand on her shoulder stopped her. Heat rushed across Pam’s skin and flared in her suddenly rippling sheath. She caught her breath.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Y… yes,” she stammered through her surprise. Looking into his face was a mistake. Fresh tremors teased her sex. The Venus Dust was still affecting her. His gaze dropped to her breasts. Pam kept still and resisted the need to slap away the hand that rubbed the dark-red point of one nipple before sliding down her belly to lift her loincloth. A finger stroked her depilated mons and made her shudder as it brushed the half-upright bud below, before coming to rest on her dew-bathed vulva. Pam’s heart raced. The finger pushed gently into her.
“Miss Peake?” Drake asked.
Pam managed a nod as her lower belly tightened and her hips gave a jerk she could not quite suppress.
He smiled when her pussy contracted around his probing digit. “At least she didn’t beat you this time, but be careful around her. She’s not only a danger to herself.”
“How am I supposed…?” Pam cut off the rest of the question, and her resentment along with it. He knew as well as she did that she was helpless before Persephone and all of the other passengers. Did he take some sort of cruel pleasure from reminding her of the fact, and by humiliating her with his intimate touching that she dared do nothing to resist?
Drake withdrew his finger and wiped it on the perfectly pressed handkerchief he took from his pocket. “Get some rest. I’ll tell Christine to put more ointment on you later, and to make sure she does your tits this time.”
Breathing hard, Pam stared after him for long seconds as he walked off down the corridor. When he looked back over his shoulder she shook herself and hurried on her way to the slave quarters. She had nowhere else to go.
The meal she got there was filling but plain. The Company wasted no money on slave girls. Only Christine, the overseer, had a bed to herself. Pam had to take turns sharing with two other girls on different shifts. As soon as Pam had eaten, she lay carefully on her side to keep her weight off her aching welts and tried to sleep. What could possibly have made her surrender so cravenly to the touch of another woman, to have enjoyed the penetration of the big dildo, the tease of feminine fingers, the warm and incredibly stimulating lap of another girl’s tongue? Two years of self-imposed celibacy was part of the answer, she admitted wryly, and that damned drug. For no reason she could understand, her thoughts turned to Rafael Drake. The trembling aftershocks of her double climax determinedly refused to subside. Too stimulated to rest, Pam glanced around to ensure her fellow slaves were all sleeping, slid a hand to her swollen clit and began to rub.
*
A sharp bite of the cane to her bottom brought Pam instantly awake. Christine was bending over her.
“Hand off your pussy and get ready. You’ve got twenty minutes.”
Cheeks aflame, Pam pulled her hand from between her thighs. She must have fallen asleep with it there. The girls were given exactly a minute and a half to shower and had to devote the rest of the time to arranging their hair and make-up perfectly, including, since it was the eight in the evening until two in the morning shift, rouging their nipples and nether lips. Pam found the task humiliating enough without daring even to think how the result must make her look to everyone else.
Christine lined them up and gave each girl a careful scrutiny. She had been a slave for over twenty years, yet she was dressed almost identically to the rest, the only difference being a thin, blue band decorating the hem of her scanty white loincloth and the little cane she carried, a symbol of her limited rights to beat her charges. Pam guessed she was in her late thirties, still pretty, though her breasts and belly were probably less firm than they had once been. How had the woman stood it for so long? She would never be able to do the same without going mad. Pam gulped. Unless she was already mad and lying sedated in a hospital somewhere. She had to get away, had to find that blackness somewhere out over the ocean.
Her first duty in the saloon was to serve dinner. Relieved though she was to discover she had not been assigned to the table where Persephone Peake sat beside the Commodore, she was also acutely aware of the blonde’s gaze following her as she carried dishes back and forth. As the meal ended, Jerry Morgan and the band arrived, followed by the bosun and his mate and an anxious-looking slave girl. The grinning MC did not go into detail about the girl’s offence when he exercised his sarcastic wit to increase her humiliation and fear as she was strapped to the caning frame.
Pam tried and failed to shut out the swish of the cane and crack of it striking the girl’s buttocks as the bosun laid on a dozen strokes. Wincing, she leaned over to take a breadbasket from a table and a hand closed over her right breast. It buzzed uncomfortably in the firm grip. She looked to her right. Mrs. Harcourt, the woman who had examined her bottom earlier in the day looked back, eyes bright.
“Are you juicing, dear?”
A hand slid between Pam’s thighs before she could even think of closing them and two large fingers pushed inside her. Alarmingly, her sex quivered as she looked left and saw the woman’s husband.
“Yes, she is.” His thumb found her upright bud. “And she’s standing to attention.” They both laughed. “Shall we have her, my dear?”
“I think so,” his wife replied, “but I’d like to see the Zulu girls perform first.”
Mr. Harcourt summoned a white jacketed crewman. “We’d like use of this one. Suite Twenty Two.”
The steward wrote on a card he carried, produced a red grease-pencil from his pocket, and when Mrs. Harcourt released Pam’s tit and she rose upright, he wrote ‘twenty-two’ on her shoulder. “Stay. I’ll arrange a relief,” he told her.
“Kneel,” Mrs. Harcourt ordered, and Pam sank to the floor between the couple, scarcely able to believe the little flow of moisture that accompanied the removal of the man’s fingers from her sex. Was the influence of Persephone’s Venus Dust ever going to wear off?
The audience applauded when the caned girl was hauled upright and led away to a man sitting at one of the tables. Pam had overheard another girl say that caned slaves were often used by passengers immediately after their punishment. Worryingly, the Harcourts had clapped as enthusiastically as the rest and with the same flush of excitement on their faces. They did the same when six of the Zulu stokers mounted the stage, their lithe, muscular bodies rippling and gleaming with oil under the lights. In vivid contrast to their brown skins each carried two large, white rubber dildos. They had not been performing their earthy and provocative dance for long before revealing that the phalluses were not merely symbolic.
Pam had never seen anything like the show they put on, first filling their glistening pink pussies with one dildo, then presenting their shiny, firm buttocks to the audience and working the other deep between them. She did not like girls. That was the truth, Pam forcefully reminded herself, guilty, ashamed and astonished by her reaction, until she realised the lascivious performance was not what was making her excited. The images filling her head were not those of the naked dancers but of herself sinking to her knees or standing naked and exposed before Drake. She remembered how she had shivered in fear and arousal as he had lifted her tiny loin covering to expose h
er bald sex, and the instant tingling his broad finger had provoked as he had slid it into her pussy. By the time the Africans had finished their carnal display of sexual agility and abandon, Pam’s blood was racing through her veins, her nipples pulsing, and trembling warmth once more teasing her sex.
The moment the applause died the Harcourts rose, drawing Pam to her feet, and set off towards the passenger cabins. Stunned and breathless from what she had witnessed, and with the girl’s caning reminding her of the consequences of any disobedience, she followed meekly in their wake. She looked back when they reached the door and saw Persephone’s glittering green gaze upon her and a pout of what might have been displeasure on her glossy lips.
The couple were not gentle but neither did they hurt Pam the way the blonde mistress had. While their own slave girl helped Mrs. Harcourt undress, Pam had to assist Mr. Harcourt to do the same and then suck him while his wife knelt at her side, watching intently and continually smoothing her hands over the welts the whip had carved into Pam’s back and buttocks. It was uncomfortable and embarrassing, but nowhere near as bad as the flogging Miss Peake had given her tits.
She found it harder to make herself lick the woman’s pussy and nibble her bud with her lips, but the man’s fingers working rhythmically in Pam’s own sex as she did it acted as both threat and encouragement. After that the couple’s focus turned to one another. Harcourt mounted his wife, and Pam had only to lie on the bed beside her and do her best to ignore their noisy enthusiasm as they made love for several embarrassing minutes.
They did not continue their activity to its logical conclusion. Instead, with his wife holding Pam’s head and the weight of Harcourt’s body astride her keeping her in place, she was forced to suffer the indignity of the man’s bulbous-headed cock jetting thick, sticky come over her face. To her surprise Mrs. Harcourt lapped the glutinous stuff from her cheeks, nose, chin and tightly compressed lips and positioned her mouth a few inches above Pam’s. Mr. Harcourt leaned close.
“Open.”
Fighting nausea, Pam obeyed. Mrs. Harcourt’s lips parted and released a thin, slow trickle of her husband’s semen into the American girl’s mouth. As it pooled at the back of her throat, Pam resisted the need to gag. Mrs. Harcourt sat up, breasts jiggling as she gave a shiver and smacked her lips.
“Swallow,” she told Pam.
Somehow she forced the slimy, salty fluid down to her stomach without vomiting. An image of her kneeling before Drake and doing the same popped into her head. Her pussy gave a long, rippling tremor.
Harcourt rose and with his shaft already showing signs of reviving gave one of her erect nipples a tweak. “Good girl.” His attention returned at once to his wife. She was pretty but with her breasts beginning to droop, her thick waist and plump thighs she had nowhere near the beauty of the young slave girls. Yet it was plain he preferred her. He was proof that emotions like affection, compassion and love did exist in this world. It was not only a place of cruelty and oppression and indifference to suffering… unless you happened to be a slave. But his wife had better watch out. Harcourt was a man. He was bound to betray her in the end.
He took a coin from the bedside table and gave it to Pam before pushing her towards the door. Her glance back showed he had already rejoined his wife by the time their slave girl closed it behind Pam. Loincloth clutched in one hand, she stood in the corridor and examined the coin in the other. It was shiny and looked new. According to the words around its edge, the head stamped into it was that of Edward the Ninth. On the reverse Pam read ‘half-crown’ and the date, nineteen eighty-five. Was it really the same year as in her own world? She had not thought about it, but the steam powered airship and low voltage electricity, the vaguely Edwardian-looking clothes of the men and the odd mixture of Art Deco and Art Nouveau decoration about everything Pam had seen, had given her the impression she had travelled back in time as well as…. She did not know what the other sort of travel might have been. It made no difference. What this horrible world was like was not important. All that mattered was getting back to the one she knew was sane.
A door opened further down the corridor and Miss Peake’s bodyguard appeared, saw Pam and beckoned her closer.
“Been enjoying yourself, lover?” Eve asked. “Here, see what you’ve been missing.” Her strong arm circled Pam’s waist and she opened the door a few inches.
The American girl recoiled. Persephone was sprawled across the bed, both feet on the floor, both hands clasped around a slave girl’s head to hold it tightly between her parted thighs. The slave was kneeling astride Milly, who lay on her back on the floor with her face buried in the unknown slave girl’s crotch. Tania stood behind her, smacking a stiff leather paddle onto the slave’s taut, rearward-thrusting buttocks. They were glowing fiery red.
Eve closed the door. “Be glad it’s not you, lover. Miss Peake was pretty annoyed when the Harcourts beat her to you.” She pushed Pam against the wall. Wincing at its pressure on her striped backside the American girl looked warily into the tall bodyguard’s blue eyes as Eve cupped her left breast and rubbed the ball of her thumb on her firm nipple, confirming, not that Pam had ever doubted it, that the muscular girl’s sexual preference was the same as her employer’s. “I can see why,” Eve said, laughing softly and sliding her other hand down Pam’s belly.
“Please don’t,” she begged as two long fingers pushed slowly between the tickling lips of her sex. The girl’s big breasts were almost in her face and two broad, stiff nipples thrust darkly pink against the thin white silk of her blouse.
“Why not? You’re ready for it, lover.” Eve’s fingers wriggled. “You’re oozing honey down there and pretty soon your clit’s going to be hard as a button. I’d really love to give those lovely tits a proper sucking and fuck you senseless with a strap-on. And the way your pussy’s acting I think you’d love it too.” She laughed. “Front and rear, eh, lover?”
“No!” Pam made a sound between a gasp and a sob. “It’s not me. It’s that awful Venus Dust.”
Eve laughed. “Oh, is it really?” She withdrew her fingers and her expression became serious. “It must be hard for you. Everything must seem strange right now, and maybe frightening too, eh? In spite of what they’re saying I don’t think you’re one of That Kind.” She shrugged, big breasts shaking. “Yet you still got yourself into this, though I can’t for the life of me work out why. That wild story you told is just too far-fetched to believe.” She closed her lips over her glistening fingers and sucked them. “Mm, you are sweet.” Her smile seemed to hold some genuine sympathy. “Off you go, lover. I’m travelling on Miss Peake’s ticket. I don’t qualify for extras like enjoying you, worse luck.”
With the embarrassing effects of Eve’s exploration tingling between her legs Pam hurried away, only realising too late that she had missed a chance to find out what That Kind were. As she tied her scanty covering around her hips she almost bumped into someone coming out of one of the cabins.
The slave girl held up a small coin. “A shilling. That’s all he gave me.” She continued alongside Pam, walking stiffly. “Try not to attract Lord Brinley’s attention,” she said in the same low tones she had used to complain about her meagre gratuity. “He only likes it rough. And I mean rough.” She pointed to the thick lattice of crimson lines across her buttocks. “My arse is on fire and not just where you can see it. He’s been lashing and buggering me on and off for the last two hours and he does it bloody hard. I swear my bum’s raw, outside and in.” Her accent and choice of words showed she was English. “I’m Daisy by the way.”
“Pam. No, I mean Ann. Ann.”
“I was there when they flogged you. I’ve never felt the whip. I’ll bet it hurts.” Daisy shivered. “The knots look wicked.” She seemed very young. Perhaps she thought it was inevitable that sooner or later she would feel the torment of the wet cords.
“How old are you?” Pam asked.
“Nearly twenty-one. How about you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Then you must have taken a while to be sure,” Daisy said. “I suppose that’s the best way, rather than just jump in without thinking.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Oh, no! My parents defaulted on a loan so the bank took me for part of the debt. I’m not That Kind.” Even among slaves there seemed to be distaste for what everyone thought Pam was.
“Neither am I,” she said, though it was probably a waste of time. “How long have you been a… a….” The word would not come.
“Two years, near enough. The Company bought me from the bank so this is all I know. There were five of us so they got a discount.”
Pam’s belly flipped. She really was casually discussing the buying and selling of human beings. The girl turned into a narrower corridor while Pam continued along the main one.
“Aren’t you going to spend your money?” Daisy asked. “There isn’t anywhere you can keep it.” She gestured at their near nudity and grinned. “No pockets.”
Pam followed her to a small kiosk next to the kitchen entrance.
“I need chocolate after that,” Daisy said. “I don’t mind the fucking. It’s quite nice and the pain is usually tolerable.” She giggled. “Even fun sometimes. But I don’t like the way Brinley gives it out.” She held out her shilling and pointed to a small chocolate bar amid the candy and snacks displayed on the counter.
“Shake your tits first,” the grinning crewman behind it told her. She swung her generously proportioned breasts back and forth.
Cheeks burning, Pam had to do the same to secure a ‘Snackers’ bar and she also bought a toothbrush. The Company expected its slaves to look perfect at all times but provided few of the necessities for accomplishing it except at the kiosk, and at its own inflated prices. As they made their way to the slave quarters she savoured the taste of the chocolate after the bland food she had eaten since her arrival.
“Mm, as good as a fuck,” Daisy said, licking the last crumbs from her candy wrapper.
Still chewing on her larger bar, Pam withheld her opinion and raised the hand holding the threepence she had left. Nothing at the kiosk had been that cheap. “What do I do with this?”
Pam-Ann Page 8
