The Milk Farmer

by Mark Andrews

  I knew Mikate hated other men touching him and being forced to make love to them but he was a very bright boy and knew which way was up. He (and I) had earned considerable privileges by pretending to a total acceptance of our roles on the island. If he had to take a cock up his backside or deliver his own where required, he decided it was a small price to pay for those privileges.

  I didn’t much like it either but it was a constant occurrence. If it wasn’t Mabuchi or his guests and trainers it was the guards who had free rein with us in that regard (and even sexually if they applied for us and received permission). I think apart from having to offer my body to them all - and give them a good time of it - which I hated but did apparently very willingly - it was Mabuchi’s horrible abdominal exercising table that I loathed the most.

  Not the table itself for I quickly recognised what a wonderful belly toner it really was; but the way he used to come and stand beside me, sliding his long fingers up and down my flesh as I slowly lowered my body back and down - and then up again, always by infinitesimal degrees, to that he could enjoy the play of my muscles - and then later, delve into my vagina and begin to excite me. He obviously adored doing this to us and he was as free with the male slaves, exciting their cocks and trying to make them come, I think, as he was with us girls.

  Of course if they did come, then he punished them for their sperm was almost sacred to him. It was the source of half his ill-gotten profits, as evidenced by the little bags of diamonds in his safe, and he wanted to protect that. But it was also because if he could coax a boy into an ejaculation, then that gave him an excuse to physically punish him and I knew he loved to do that, even if I never saw him punish without what he considered was a legitimate excuse.

  His punishments were horrible. The boy or girl was usually (but not always) strung up by his or her ankles, pulled wide apart by the wires from two separate winches fixed to the ceiling in the room he punished us in. He always had a selection of us slaves in to watch as the slave was chastised.

  If the ‘offence’ was committed in the morning, the victim was taken immediately and strung up to wait in utter blackness until noon when Mabuchi, his officers and men, as well as those of us slaves selected to watch (and learn) filed in. If it was the afternoon, the punishment had to wait until noon the next day but he was still strung up that afternoon, to hang there, upside down, all the rest of the afternoon, night and the next morning for the horrible punishment.

  Then the boy or girl was addressed, Mabuchi outlining his faults and finishing up with the sentence ... “You will receive twenty strokes of the cane to your naked buttocks ...” he would say sonorously, as if the sentencing judge of the High Court.

  The executioner appointed to administer the punishment would then slowly strip off his shirt to reveal a very well muscled upper body, take up the long thin Rattan cane and flex it between his hands a few times, then step up behind the girl or boy and begin.

  He would tease him for a while, encouraged by Mabuchi in this, tapping his pert buttocks with the cane a few times, causing him to flinch, clenching them tight and even moaning in fear each time, but then he would raise the vicious implement high above his right shoulder and then bring it down hard, the tip making a whistling sound as it cut through the air, to land with a loud thunk on the softness of his cheeks and causing him to really scream, his body arching out in a taut bow and then contorting into all manner of shapes and positions while his hands flew up to grasp at the red-hot pain at his nether cheeks.

  The executioner would step back then to give us all a perfect view of the boy’s (or girl’s) writhings until he settled down again and would then step forward to deliver the second stroke. Remember, there were always at least twenty of these and sometime more - many more if Mabuchi decided the victim was a recalcitrant. In the bad old days of corporal punishment in schools, even the worst headmaster never gave more than six (of the best) and then always over underpants, singlet and shirt as well as skirt or pants. This was to the bare flesh and the man chosen to deliver the strokes was far stronger and fitter than most headmasters.

  The punishments were not always with the cane, however. There were a number of implements, all of them horrible, that Mabuchi could choose from. There were three forms of what the Americans call a paddle: a leather one, a wooden model and another wooden one, but this one with holes drilled through the wood. Of these, the leather was the least painful and the one with the holes, really terrible. It bruised at the first blow and the recipient of its attentions was usually oozing blood by the end and certainly wore the terrible marks of his or her punishment for weeks afterwards.

  There were also whips of various kinds. There were items called floggers: many bladed whips such as the cat-o-nine-tails, remembered by many a sailor in the Royal Navy of the nineteenth century. But there were worse whips than that, horrible though it was. Many people will have heard of the bullwhip? Sometimes called ‘ol snake’ by the plantation gentry of the ante-bellum southern United States, in the hands of an expert, it can lay open the flesh of a victim as easily as a knife through soft butter.

  The worst of the whips, though, was one developed in South Africa called the sjambok. It is quite stiff and, like the bullwhip, tapers from a thick handle down to the tip, except that it is much shorter. What makes it so evil is the material it is made from. Rhinoceros hide has a raspy, sandpaper-like texture that, when used in this whip, abrades the skin terribly.

  When the executioner is ordered by Mabuchi to use this implement, we slaves watching all shudder and hope never to be the boy or girl dangling upside down over there, with his or her legs drawn out wide apart, exposing his genitals and the soft insides of his thighs, now ready and waiting for the lash of that dreadful whip.

  A few strokes will be laid across his buttocks but then, usually because Mabuchi has decided the victim is in need of a severe thrashing for his crime, the whip will be applied between his legs and sometimes (again when Mabuchi has decided to make a real example of him) even ripping off his testicles towards the end of the punishment.

  Of course he is no longer of any use as a sperm slave but once his penis has also been surgically removed by Dr Akira, he will bring a fine price as a naked ladies maid to one of Mabuchi’s clients’ wives, or more likely, gangster’s moll, foreign eunuchs being especially favoured for this role in the ultra wealthy criminal class in Japan.

  If the victim is a girl who has erred badly, the vagina may end up so horribly abused as to be incapable of repair and in those cases, the doctor will perform a hysterectomy on her and then close off her vagina completely, leaving only a small opening for her to urinate from.

  I am not making this up either. I saw a male and a female slave so flogged with the sjambok that he was turned into a eunuch and she the female equivalent of the same thing. I was made to watch the girl being operated on and then had to speak of it to the assembled slaves of my dorm during breakfast the next day. Believe me, the lessons we learned on that island were well ingrained after only a few weeks there.

  But there were other punishments, even more horrible than those I have just described.

  One that I will never forget as long as I live was carried out in the depths of winter when snow lay on the ground but the day was crisp and clear. Every one of us slaves was marched out of the building to stand in the snow, shivering mightily but aware (because Mabuchi had told us so) that the controllers were now tuned to each slave jointly. If a single one of us made a wrong move, we would all receive extended yellow shocks and if that wasn’t enough a red one would follow. None of us moved.

  The victims, a beautiful Swedish girl was brought out and a boy from Thailand who had actually spoken to each other - and in rebellious, nay treasonable terms. They had actually discussed escape. They were stupid but they didn’t deserve what Mabuchi now ordained for them.

  Outside the building there was a large gallows: two hi
gh upright posts surmounted by a crosspiece. All three timbers were round and very sturdy, some twelve inches in diameter.

  The pair of them were hoisted up by their thumbs and left dangling with their toes a couple of feet above the snow-covered ground. And then it started. One of the guards now came out of the building with a hose in his hand. Have you guessed? Probably not, for it is really too horrible to imagine.

  But yes, if you thought he was going to spray them with the nozzle, you guessed right. Almost instantly, the thin layer of water on their bodies froze but of course they didn’t stay still, moving their bodies every which way to try and keep warm and to rid them of the rapidly forming ice.

  Alas, the guard simply sprayed them again - and again - and again, and gradually, the ice began to build up on their flesh until it imprisoned them. He was careful to keep their faces free of the water for Mabuchi didn’t want them to die of suffocation but from the burning pain of the ice now totally coating their bodies.

  In time they lost movement in one part and then another of their bodies and eventually they were encased in an inch or more of solid ice. By that time of course, they were unconscious and the drama of the executions was over. We were marched back into the building and went under the hot spray of the cleaning race that warmed our frigid bodies back to some degree of normalcy.

  I was appalled at what I had just witnessed and ashamed of myself that I had done nothing to prevent it. Of course I knew that if I had even lifted a finger in support of the two slaves dangling so forlornly there in front of me, I, and every one of the rest of us, would all have suffered the most debilitating pain of a yellow shock which would have immobilised me anyway, but still I mourned that I hadn’t even tried.

  The two bodies were left out there for the rest of the winter, gradually acquiring more moisture and building up the ice around them until they became unrecognisable as human beings.

  I used to wonder incessantly how much pain they had suffered. I knew it must have been awful for I hated the icy cold rinsing showers we endured every day and they followed the too hot washing race and should have been welcome as a coolant. Extreme cold has the effect of burning on the flesh and I thought they had probably suffered the fires of Hell before their bodies had succumbed and they had passed out.

  Believe me, I thought about them all the time in the days following those executions and my mind left alone for many days its formerly constant excursions into the possibilities of our escaping.

  Executions were rare, of course. We were valuable commodities as farm animals and Mabuchi wasn’t about to waste us if he could avoid it. But, at least in his eyes, they were necessary to keep the rest of us nearly four hundred slaves in line and the supply of new slaves was in any case, constant.

  This was more to top up the balance after a slave past his or her prime was shipped off to Japan as a plaything for one of Mabuchi’s clients. I wondered how they got away with keeping slaves in this day and age but then wealth equals power and if you have enough of one, the other follows and when you have that much power and influence you can get away with just about anything.

  The other execution I remember vividly was an impalement. Yes, really! A sharp stake up the backside of a recalcitrant American girl. This one was a real beauty: tall, blonde, blue eyes and a figure Elle would have died for, although perhaps on second thoughts, she was a trifle too muscular to be a successful model. Nevertheless, muscles or not, she was a real beauty.

  Her fault was her mouth. She had come from a quite wealthy family and never let anyone, including Mabuchi, forget it. In the end he got tired of her abuse that no amount of yellow shocks seemed able to tame and we were all assembled in the gymnasium, a slightly warmer venue than the one outside (where the two bodies still dangled from the ropes, now thickly coated with a foot or more of ice).

  The stake had been set up in the middle of the room. It was six feet high and tapered from a sharp point at the top to about a foot thick at the base where it had been bolted to the floor using four angle brackets. Ladders had been set up on either side of it and the girl, number 258, according to the brand on her cheek, was dragged in, her thumbs cuffed behind her back but otherwise as naked as the rest of us.

  I stared at her body appreciatively, mourning that such a perfect physique was about to be destroyed. No doubt she was too, inside ... but if she was, she didn’t show it. She maintained that aloof superiority right up until the moment she died although she couldn’t help whimpering and eventually screaming blue murder as the wooden spike pierced some of her internal organs.

  Two of the more powerful guards dragged her up the ladders and then, while two more held her feet out wide from down below, they manoeuvred her bottom over the lethal-looking, needle-sharp point of the stake and then pulled it down so it entered her anus.

  She never stopped trying, though. Even after it had entered her and was about four or five inches inside her, she was still proclaiming her freedom and exhorting the rest of us to rise up against our oppressor.

  I sympathised with her motives but thought her quite stupid, even as I admired her beautiful body.

  The guards below her let her feet go now and she immediately used them to grip the stake to prevent her sliding down any further on the stake, while the two guards on the ladder also let her thighs and arms go, scurried down the ladders and removed them.

  She was now perched six feet above us, her knees splayed wide in the position necessary to allow the soles and heels of her feet to grip the smooth surface of the wooden stake while the muscles of her thighs and calves were clearly working hard to keep the pressure applied.

  Her torso was upright. She was a proud girl, this one and she sat perfectly erect, her breasts flouncing beautifully and her belly muscles writhing as she struggled against the mounting pain in her lower body.

  No one said a word. Mabuchi stood directly in front of her and I wondered at the expression on his face. I got it eventually, in a flash of understanding. This girl was one of his favourites. He had taken a great deal more from her than he would from most of us because he adored her body. I could see why.

  Her face was strikingly beautiful with high cheekbones, a peaches and cream complexion and really fine, silky blonde hair that wafted behind her as she walked. Her body was quite perfect, especially if you like a girl athletic rather than voluptuous. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her sleek form: her breasts were full but not at all sagging, her waist was slender in the extreme and her belly as flat as a tack although with quite prominent abdominal muscles showing through. Her hips widened out some but not too much and then moved to her very shapely thighs and calves. Oh yes, she was the absolute ideal body for anyone who favoured the muscular rather than curvaceous in a girl.

  Now though, she was perched up on an impaling stake that was eventually going to kill her - and in as painful a way as the ice had slain the other two still dangling from the gallows outside.

  I knew that if she had any sense, she would let her feet go and allow the weight of her body to do it quickly, but we human beings are not sensible. Not when it comes to self-preservation, anyway. We will clutch at straws and will do almost anything to prolong life if there is even the faintest hope of survival.

  There wasn’t with this girl but she was damned if she was going to succumb without a fight and my heart went out to her (on an emotional level, even if my mind told me she was stupid).

  She sat there, her powerful thighs cording and rippling as she gripped the lower reaches of the stake and spat vituperations at Mabuchi while slowly, in tiny slips, her body inched down the stake.

  I won’t drag out her death. I am sure you are horrified at it and so was I as I stood there with the other slaves, all watching in silence as the stake moved further and further into her body, piercing first one organ and then another and she slowly weakened with the pain.

  She finally let
go after about an hour and then her body slumped as the stake emerged from just under her left breast and she was dead.

  Once more, as I had before, my mind went into shock and all thoughts of escape were erased from my conscious thoughts as I attempted to come to grips with Mabuchi’s sadistic foibles.

  He continued to use Mikate and me quite often as his sex partners. Without wishing to seem immodest, I knew we were his favourites. Hell, we had both worked hard to please him for along that path lay a lessening of the horrors each of us slaves suffered on that terrible island.

  I have to say I looked forward to those nights - for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it meant that Mikate and I were together and were often afforded the privilege of actually making love together - after we had pleased Mabuchi, of course. But there were other advantages, too. It meant that we were not available to the guards or Mabuchi’s trainers for although he had that sadistic streak in him, he was a good lover and unlike most of the others, at least with us, didn’t paddle or spank us before raping us, something the others seemed to feel was a mandatory part of their raping us, although I later found out he was as bad as his men were with the others - again something our attempts to please him had brought us.

  But above all, it meant that we were permitted to speak to one another and by now we had developed this code that allowed us to communicate secretly about a range of subjects without Mabuchi being aware of it. It wasn’t a code really but a means of transmitting a hidden meaning by analogy and we got quite good at it eventually.

  For example, when Mikate told me how he adored the ‘main trunk’ of my torso so much and delighted in ‘exploring’ it, he was telling me that he thought he was close to finding the control room, the ‘main trunk’ being the wires leading into it.

  We had to be very careful for although Mabuchi’s English was not all that good, if we were too blatant in talking of things other than our love for one another, he might catch on and then we would be facing a death as horrific as the slow freezing of our bodies or perhaps the impaling stake and the memory of watching both those executions was just too horrible to contemplate.