by Mark Andrews
I didn’t even pay tax on my earnings from the farm for officially it was a research establishment and didn’t make any profits! Oh yes, I was doing very nicely from this operation; far better than from running the company and was adding almost daily to my little stock of diamonds.
It took but a minute or so to count the two hundred little plastic bags that made up my little horde and then I was out of my suite and following on behind the two slaves as they were led to the cleaning race.
I was particularly proud of this machine. It could clean all of my slaves in only a few minutes and if the hot soapy water was too hot, the cold that followed it, icy, and the wind tunnel of hot air, again too hot, I didn’t mind for the temperatures first opened their pores, allowing a proper cleaning of their flesh, the cold water closed them again and the blast of hot air very quickly dried them. They combed their hair as they passed by the mirror and were thus through the whole process in under a minute from beginning to end. They were separated by one metre intervals at all times and so we could thus clean the residents of all four dormitories in under quarter of an hour. That’s not bad going if I do say so myself.
Nearly four hundred slaves, all washed, dried and hair combed in just over twelve minutes. If you’re interested in the details, the cleaning race was ten metres long, the rinsing race half that, and the drying tunnel another ten metres. That makes twenty-five metres and it takes each one of them fifty seconds to traverse all three areas. With one metre separations and three hundred and seventy-odd slaves, that comes out at 12.33 minutes for all of them.
I walked along the outside of the races and tunnel, watching as 367 and 371 entered the first race, immediately soaping their naked flesh down with their hands, cleaning every part of their bodies as they walked slowly forward, their skins quickly assuming a lobster-red hue (or Phillipa’s did, anyway) until they reached the end of the hot race and entered the blast of icy-cold sprays that quickly turned her skin blue and his a greyish colour. The slaves all tried to hurry through this race but the guards were vigilant and any who tried were quickly zapped with a yellow shock.
As Phillipa emerged from the wind tunnel, she grabbed a comb and ran it through her golden locks while Mikate struggled to comb his tight curls as he walked behind her.
They looked superb, the pair of them. Oh yes, the other three hundred and seventy-odd slaves were also paragons of lithe athletic beauty but this pair were something else. I caught myself with a start. What was this? Did I have a soft spot for them? I think I did but I also thought they were worthy of it ... How foolish of me.
I stared at her tall and slender but so supple body in lust. Her firm breasts flounced beautifully but they were also full with her milk - how well my hormone suppositories worked to keep them all in full lactation - and would soon yield up that milk to my ingenious milking machine. Her thighs corded at each step and I almost drooled as I watched her butt dimple and shake slightly, each one in turn forming into harder muscle as her body passed over the leg. I also loved to watch her belly muscles ripple as she walked - oh yes, a paragon of female beauty all right.
But her lover was also a perfect human, tall dark and handsome the Westerners say; well he was certainly that, his fine physique almost as interesting to me as Phillipa’s.
They moved into the mess and joined the line being served. This was also a highly efficient operation, the single plate issued to each slave contained a mush that was bland but contained all the food elements, fat, carbohydrate and protein as well as the roughage and vitamins necessary for a healthy human being. The same mush was issued night and morning and it was made purposely bland to underline to the slaves they were now considered less than human - animals on a farm, no less ...
They had no utensils. After leaving the servery, they moved out to stand on feet painted on the floor in rows and columns and there, at the signal, tipped up the plates to their mouths, swallowed a measure of the food and then stood for five seconds as it slipped down their gullets to their bellies, repeating this process twenty times until the plates were empty then, by rows, turned and left the room by the exit door, placing the empty plates in the receptacle so that they would later be cleaned and stored by the work detail assigned to this task. That group would also prepare the meat and vegetables for the huge hoppers in which they were cooked and then pureed ready for the evening meal.
I watched as 367 and 371 turned and left the room, docilely placing their plates into the little window where the slowly moving belt took them back up to the kitchen area. I followed them into the gym and now watched as they moved into the early warm-up routines that wouldn’t interfere with the food in their bellies. I watched for a few minutes but this was routine stuff and so I went to have my own breakfast, a rather more interesting meal than that which the slaves had just taken then returned to the gym to watch as my two favourites began work on the heavy equipment.
This morning she was working on the parallel bars and he on the vaulting horse and I was torn between watching one or the other for both were now very skilful in throwing their naked bodies around and over these two items. If I had been inflamed watching the pair of them walking through the cleaning race, I was doubly so now as her magnificent body twisted and swung around, over, across and under the twin bars of her machine while his body looked equally superb as he leapt over the horse with apparent ease, every muscle in his body a perfect example of how good the human body can be made to look given the right diet and proper exercise.
I walked between the two spots from time to time, now watching her as she flung herself around on the bars, then went back to the horse to watch as he ran up to the springboard, jumped onto it and then leapt over the horse, each time executing a different vault, sometimes somersaulting, sometimes doing the splits as well as a variety of other manoeuvres, each of which displayed his tall lean and so beautifully muscled body to a tee.
But then I wandered over to the duty trainer and whispered to him. As a result, first Mikate and then Phillipa were, in turn, taken off the bars and horse and placed on the belly-exercise machine.
I have already mentioned this machine and how much I delight in watching and feeling a slave working his or her muscles on it. With Mikate first, followed by Phillipa, I had the opportunity to watch (and feel) the two best slaves working their belly muscles and I did this now with the black boy as he began the routine, first stretching his body double, lying with his head right down at his ankles, stretching his broad back so I could run my hands over the silken flesh. I whispered to him to remain in that position until I had finished fondling his body and allowed my fingers to trace over his beautiful arm and shoulder muscles, then down his back to his buttocks and then back again, over and over until I said he could proceed.
He then, very slowly, raised his body (his hands were of course clasped up behind his head with his elbows pulled as far back as he could stretch them) and now, as his belly came into view I moved in close again and placed my hand on it, marvelling at the ripple and play of those splendid muscles as they began to take the strain of the weight of his upper body as he slowly leaned further and further back, eventually lying quite straight and then continued on, stretching his belly even further as his head and shoulders dipped down towards the floor below him.
At this point, his stomach muscles were at full tension and I gloried in the way they quivered and strained as he stretched right down until his head was almost to the floor and his back was bowed back, almost at a ninety degree angle. As I said before, this is an excellent stretching routine and works many of the muscles of the body, but particularly the abdominal, thigh, hamstring and back muscles.
At that point though, I didn’t care which muscles it worked. Feeling the dark chocolate skin of this boy, so satin-smooth over muscles that were honed so well they were smooth and fluid to the touch, as I think I’ve said before, like cream over warm marble...
I sto
od beside him all the time he was on the machine and then waited as he was replaced by 367. I delighted in fondling 371’s body but hers was an even greater thrill. And remember, I had just had a night with the pair of them, fucking her until I was sated while he did the same to my backside. I had had a couple of hours of them last night and then again this morning. Now, I was inflamed all over again as I began to feel and fondle her body as she began the same routine her boyfriend had just completed.
I stayed with them until it was time for their morning milking and now followed them into the milking room to watch as she knelt down over the bar opposite him who was similarly squatting and then, at the buzzer, both waited with trepidation as the breast cups or penis cup moved to suck in the appropriate organs and begin the work of milking them of their milk or sperm.
I loved to come in here and watch as my slaves were milked. They were now no more than animals. Superbly honed animals of beauty and grace and a lithe athleticism that would be the envy of many an Olympic athlete, let alone an international model, but animals nevertheless. They were kept permanently naked to underscore this point to them and were regimented as no military personnel had ever been. Every action, every movement was pre-ordained and had to be performed with military precision. They were cleaned, ate, exercised and milked all by rote and then, even when on a work detail later, had to perform it with the same regimentation, even if that meant they were less than efficient in performing it. The state of their minds was more important than their work output.
They were slaves.
Slaves of as low a status as I could instil into their minds. They were simply bodies that I used for my own profit and pleasure. Superb bodies with handsome or beautiful faces, but bodies nonetheless. And each day I milked the girls of their breast milk and the boys of their sperm, pasteurised and blended the one and processed the other, selling the two products for a huge profit, the end result of which now resided in the little safe behind my father’s portrait.
As the cups mauled at Phillipa’s breasts I gloated at her pain and suffering. I enjoyed watching the girls being milked and it was just as satisfying glancing across at the line of boys opposite, each kissing or licking at his partner’s face while she attempted to do the same to him. This was a requirement but I knew it was something most, if not all of them quite enjoyed.
After the milking, the pair were scheduled for a work detail but I cancelled that. I wanted to take them out for a spin around the island. I had just heard that snow was now falling outside and it would be pleasant to watch the pair of them shivering in the icy air outside as I whipped them to a real gallop along the bitumen path.
Some of the gigs were designed to take two slaves at once, the single pole splitting in two but otherwise identical to the single-slave models and I sent word down to the tackle room to prepare one of these for my use.
I followed the pair down there now and watched in satisfaction as they were harnessed, side by side, to the gig. They had been used on the gigs before but not together and I wondered how long it would take them to work out that it was essential they keep in step or the anal dildos would really churn around inside their rectums.
I was well covered up, of course, to face the driving snow outside but they were still stark naked and I gloried in the sight of their shivering flesh as the roller door opened. Out we went and I spent the whole of the next hour or so sitting there, watching their beautiful bodies perform as human ponies while the snow slowly covered the island and only the new fence on the outside of the path indicated where it was.
They didn’t complain, though. And I was pleased to see they learned very quickly to trot along in perfect step, each left buttock cheek hardening in tandem with the other and each thigh muscle throwing out at the same time while their bodies swayed in perfect unison.
I stared forward at them, watching the massive dildos poking out of their bottoms and the pole as it reached forward between their thighs, imagining the other dildo in Phillipa’s vagina and the too-tight ring around Mikate’s cock and balls, forcing yet another erection on the boy.
Both were on a sexual high, I could see it from the little skips they gave occasionally but these two were very well disciplined and recovered their steps instantly. Of course her skin soon turned blue from the cold but I wasn’t worried about pneumonia or the like; the effort of running at the cracking pace I demanded of them would keep them warm for the time I made them trot me around the island and afterwards a hot shower would soon restore their body temperature.
Oh yes, I was very pleased with my island and its slaves ...
Phillipa 3
By now, months after our arrival at the slave island, my breasts were fully functional and were full, painfully so, by the time each milking session arrived. I know it was the suppositories they forced into our bottoms each day that was doing it but I still felt like a milk cow every time we fronted up to those horrible machines and I know Mikate felt the same way about his sperm milking, too.
Our only bright spot in our days there was still those milkings, though no matter how much they hurt Mikate and I got to kiss each other throughout the sessions. Them and the nights we spent chained to Mabuchi’s bed while he raped me and poor Mikate had to rape him in turn, of course. I have to say our Japanese owner was an expert at lovemaking and on the occasions he allowed Mikate and me to make love together afterwards, I thought all my Christmases had come at once!
These didn’t happen all that often but when they did it was wonderful ... so was it when we were allowed to talk to one another - another concession Mabuchi had awarded us, presumably because we tried hard to please him. Not because we wanted to but because we had both independently decided that along this path lay our best hope of getting under his defences.
I knew that Mikate was trying to find a loophole in them although at the time I wasn’t exactly clear along which lines he was working. I should have, I suppose for I had worked out from snippets I had heard the guards speaking of, that he was an electronics engineering student. In my case, I was studying the building itself but so far had come up with nothing.
I did catch sight of Mabuchi’s cache of jewels though, one time he was in a hurry and opened his safe while I was passing through his living room following on after Mikate and the guard. I caught sight of the dozens of little plastic envelopes of what looked like diamonds but I didn’t let on, of course. I stored the information for future reference, though.
Our days were full, if regimented. I didn’t mind the exercises and the chores for they took my mind off our plight and in any case, I had always enjoyed physical work. The fact that our exercises were far harder than anything I could possibly have dreamed of didn’t faze me, either. I almost gloried in pushing my body to the limits and I know Mikate was the same. Oh what a beautiful body he now had.
It had been pretty good when we had been kidnapped and thrown onto that island together for he had been a gymnast of some repute and they always have splendid bodies, but now, after months under Toyonari’s regime, it had fined down even more, his muscles no bigger than they had been before, but now superbly defined - the skin as smooth as silk and so apparent all over his dark chocolate flesh.
Now that we were allowed to talk to each other, I told him how much I adored his body and he said the same nice things about mine. But then, gradually, we created a code to speak of other things. We still praised each other and spoke of our love, but under the words were hidden meanings. It took a while to develop this of course but over the course of a few weeks we managed to create quite a vocabulary of hidden meanings to quite normal words and in this way communicated our joint search for an escape from Mabuchi.
I still hated being milked of course, even if I did get to kiss Mikate during the sessions. The way the membranes inside the cups pressed in on my breasts - udders, the Japanese called them, no doubt to humiliate us even more - was horrible. If you ar
e a girl, you will know what I mean and if you are a male, then perhaps you will try to imagine what Mikate went through each milking session as the milking cup jerked up and down the shaft of his penis, rubbing the skin and giving him a lot of pain in the process.
But it wasn’t only the pain of the milking; I think the shame of being lined up like real milk cows, bent over the long steel bar and then forced to accept the twin cups on my ‘udders’ each morning and afternoon, while the guards, Mabuchi and even worse, his wealthy guests watched - particularly the vaginal dildo jerking in and out of our bodies and bringing us to multiple orgasms, was even worse.
My nakedness I had come to accept - in front of my fellow slaves, the guards and Mabuchi, but when he brought strangers in to gloat over our bodies and even offer them to them for sexual use, it was utterly horrible.
Mabuchi himself was a good lover and had a fine physique. Not all his guests were the same. He didn’t torture us gratuitously; some of them did, turning us over their knees for a sound spanking like little girls or making us lie back the other way with our feet and hands draped backwards down to the floor while they explored our breasts and vaginas very intimately - and usually painfully, as well. And Mikate indicated (by means of our code) that he and the other males were just as subject to the advances of these horrible men as well.
