By the time he was twenty-five, he had easily half a dozen mistresses installed throughout London, Paris, and Berlin, women who could give him every kind of love, from the abject submission of a cringing slave to the bold companionship of a tall blonde Lesbian who was a switch-hitter and who often arranged for him sessions at which two or three girls would be present. Together they would play out various scenes and games, and Lord Henry's perverse proclivities grew apace.
Throughout his life, as a recurring motif, there was always the dream: to live in a civilization where sexual slavery was legal, and every form of erotic liberty and license was permitted.. . .
THE VOYAGE
CHAPTER ONE
The steamship Anastasia, bound from Hong Kong to San Francisco, with a stopover at the port of Honolulu, had cleared Guam two days ago. The captain, a bluff, jovial Yugoslavian named Mirko Soprovnik, received radio reports of a typhoon in the area of Wake Island, and, accordingly, instructed his chief navigator to set the course southward by twenty degrees towards the equator to avoid all risk. Since it was a pleasure cruise for the most part, Captain Soprovnik did not think that his passengers would express displeasure at being, at most, an extra day aboard his vessel.
It was a warm calm July evening in the year 1924. From the dining saloon, ornate with a crystal chandelier and red velvet carpeting, there came the pleasant buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses and of silverware, against which one heard the discreet background of melodies played by a five-piece string ensemble.
At the captain's table, Soprovnik, resplendent in his formal evening uniform with gold braid markings on both sleeves to designate six years of service as the master of the Anastasia, was lifting his champagne glass to toast the elegantly beautiful woman seated to his right. She was Marcia Chalmers, a wealthy heiress bound for her native city of San Francisco after a pleasure trip to Tokyo, Hong Kong and Ceylon in the company of her attractive but meekly deferential maid, Jacqueline Wilson.
"A toast to beauty, Madame," the captain gallantly murmured, and Marcia Chalmers self-consciously smiled as she lifted her glass to acknowledge the tribute.
"Thank you, Captain," she murmured with properly demure and downcast eyes. "Then you think we will not be too late in reaching San Francisco?"
"Oh, no, Madame," he shook his head, "at most twenty-four hours. I assure you, this change of course was for the safety of our passengers. There are reports of a typhoon building up ahead of our original course, and the conditions may continue for at least forty-eight hours. We are heading south, but, if good weather prevails, there is no reason why our powerful engines cannot make up some of the lost time once we are out of Honolulu."
Marcia Chalmers shrugged her beautifully rounded creamy shoulders, enticingly displayed by her silver lame" evening gown. "I think that is very wise, Captain," she agreed. "Another day on this delightful ship will not displease me in the least."
Captain Soprovnik inclined his head. "Madame is most understanding and most kind," he replied, his dark eyes glinting as they swiftly contemplated the alluring valley of her full, firm, widely spaced breasts, which the bodice of her gown so provocatively revealed. Then, turning to his left, he politely inquired, "And you, Mr. Granville, I trust that this slight delay which we may incur will not be too greatly inconvenient to you."
John Granville, a handsome brown-haired industrialist of forty-three, smilingly hastened to reassure the master of the Anastasia. "Not at all, Captain Soprovnik. My daughter Betty and I have no pressing business whatsoever. As you know, after my wife's untimely death in April, I felt it best to take Betty on a trip to the Orient so that both of us might try to forget our grief. She has been in an exclusive young ladies' finishing school for several years, and our sad bereavement has given us an opportunity to become acquainted with each other again." With this, he turned to his left to smile at this golden-haired daughter, who quickly smiled back at him and squeezed his hand, the while lowering her magnificent blue eyes as a vivid blush crimsoned her satiny cheeks.
Captain Mirko Soprovnik sighed and nodded sympathetically. "Yes, Mr. Granville, I can understand that. My own dear wife died a dozen years ago, and I have had my work to distract me from remembering my loss. But at least, Mr. Granville, you have your daughter to console you, whereas I was not blessed with children, alas."
John Granville's virile features were shadowed as he glanced quickly back at Betty, and responded softly, "That is very true, Captain Soprovnik. Betty is indeed the living image of her beloved mother. So I am fortunate to be reunited with my daughter. But perhaps, if it had not been for my business travels, I might have been beside my wife, perhaps might even have prevented her death by seeing that she had expert medical attention at the time she contracted the rare disease that ended her life."
"But you should not so reproach yourself, Mr. Granville," Captain Soprovnik sympathetically replied. "From what you have told me, there was no previous sign of illness."
"That is true, Diane's health was always robust. She must have contracted the malady in Benares last summer when she accompanied me on one of my business trips." He uttered a long sigh. "It was a second honeymoon, and I shall never forgive myself for its tragic ending."
* * *
Ivan Tenkovich had gone out to the port side of "A" Deck for a moment's respite between his duties serving the first-class passengers. Standing at the rail, he looked gloomily out on the serene night. There was a full moon, but not a breath of air was stirring. The dark waters of the Pacific, save for the wake of the steamer, were unruffled. His thoughts were exactly the opposite.. .and with good reason.
Ivan Tenkovich, short and wiry of stature, with short-cropped black hair, and the expressive eyes of a spaniel, had just had his past recalled to him by two beautiful young women, the sisters Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff, to whose cabin he was assigned. They were traveling with an aunt, Madame Dorothea Petroff, who acted as their duena, and they had embarked at Hong Kong. He had not at first recognized them, for seven years had elapsed since the last time he had seen them. And on that occasion, he had sworn an oath of vengeance against the entire Rubutsoff family.
Ivan Tenkovich was thirty-five years old, and since the year 1918 had been a steward on the Anastasia. But prior to that, he had been a serf on the lordly estate of Prince Nicolai Rubutsoff, ten versts west of Moscow. Mother Russia had, even in those troubled, war-torn days been under the domination of the Tsar, and those of common and impoverished birth served their noble masters as virtual slaves.
His face was contorted with the agonized memories of the last meeting so long ago. The war had been going badly for the Tsar and already the conspiracy to assassinate him and the royal family had been set into motion. He himself, Ivan Tenkovich, had spoken out against the oppression of the boyars, and an agent of the Revolutionaries had visited him one evening to enlist his support for the coming overthrow of the tyrants. But a young upstairs maid, Natalie Grikoff, wanting to curry favor with his master, had betrayed him to Prince Rubutsoff.
And so the next morning, Cossack guards had seized him, his beautiful young wife Elisabeta, and his aged mother, and had taken them into the barn. There, bound to a post with his arms behind him, he had been forced to watch the terrible punishment visited upon his innocent wife and mother, while the Prince and his two teenaged daughters, Olga and Tanya, watched Tsarist justice being meted out.
His mother and Elisabeta had been stripped naked, cords were fastened to their wrists and then tied to the rafters overhead until their naked shuddering bodies writhed in the air, their toes scarcely touching the ground. Then two burly Cossacks, armed with nagaigas, had stationed themselves behind the victims, and at the Prince's signal had administered a savage flogging.
Powerless to save them, he had implored the Prince for mercy, offering himself, willing to die if only his mother and Elisabeta would be spared. And Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff had giggled, finding his frenzied pleas a cause for merriment. Although both women survived their savage beating, neither one ever fully recovered from the devastating shame. His mother, already old and frail, fell ill and died soon afterward. His wife, who had been pregnant with their first child, miscarried and died soon after from a massive infection.
But by then he had joined the Revolutionaries, and, quickly disillusioned, made his way across the border into Manchuria and thence to Hong Kong where he had signed on with the Anastasia, for their crew was short of help.
And now Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff had been delivered into his hands-yet how could he avenge his wife and mother even now? To kill them here on board -yes, that could be done even if it cost him his own life. But it was not enough. They should be made to suffer, those patrician, pampered creatures who had relished the martyrdom of the two women most beloved in all the world to him.
Gnashing his teeth with frustrated rage, Ivan Tenkovich prayed for a miracle that would deliver up Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff into his hands, so that he might mete out to them suffering and shame such as his mother and Elisabeta had known before their deaths.
But the sea was calm, the sky was clear and the moon shone brightly upon the Anastasia. Perhaps the age of miracles was past. Or, perhaps, his prayer to the demon of vengeance would yet be answered.
THE HEIRESS
CHAPTER TWO
Marcia Chalmers frowned as she entered her stateroom. The long ocean voyage had begun to bore her. At least in the exotic cities she had visited there had been a coterie of distinguished men to flatter and fawn on her. In Ceylon, there had been that dashing British major.. .what was his name? Oh, yes. Major Brandon Fortescue. A most interesting man, with quite a good deal more culture than one would have expected to find in an officer who had spent upwards of forty years in the army. He could talk convincingly of the arts and literatures, and he could turn a pretty compliment. He was a bachelor, but of course everyone knew that he slept with his two pretty Burmese housemaids. They had had only four days in Ceylon, and Marcia found herself wishing that the itinerary of the cruise might have been extended for an additional week. It would have been very interesting to pit herself against the impregnable bachelorhood of Major Fortescue. She had flirted with him coyly that last night at the Officers' Club, even going so far as to pretend to brush her leg against his under the table. He had flushed and apologized, and she had regarded him with the most innocent look out of her large, widely-spaced dark brown eyes. She could tell that he desired her. But then, every man did. Yet here on the Anastasia there were so few men worthy of the game. Perhaps that John Granville, the American widower with that simpering, golden-haired daughter of his, might be fair prey to her flirtations-if only he were alone!
"Jacqueline," she called feverishly, "come undress me. And then I want you to give me a facial massage. I have the most fearful headache this evening. All of a sudden, it's so sultry and still outside."
"Yes, Miss Chalmers." Jacqueline Wilson meekly approached, her eyes downcast. She was twenty-three, of medium height with a round heart-shaped face that boasted adorably wistful dark blue eyes, a demure little Grecian nose, and a soft, bold, tremulous mouth. Her dark brown hair was coiffured in a prim oval-shaped bun at the back of her head, with a tiny fringe of curls all along the top of her smooth forehead. She had been Marcia's personal maid for eighteen months, and had long since regretted having been selected for the post. When her parents died in a fire caused by a gas explosion in their San Francisco apartment building, she had found herself destitute. A kindly employment counselor, touched by the girl's brooding grief, had suggested that although it was quite evident that her schooling and breeding had fitted her for others things, she had never done office work of any kind and her majoring in drama at college was not the password to a lucrative position in the City of the Golden Gate. Realizing the practical wisdom of this evaluation, Jacqueline had listlessly agreed to offer herself in domestic service, and Miss Lind at the agency had two weeks later glowingly announced to her that an ideal position was at last available.
Marcia Chalmers was the only child of Philip and Gloria Chalmers, who had died when their daughter was only fifteen. She had been brought up by an elderly aunt who pampered her a great deal. Since she was an heiress in her own right, Marcia's life had been unruffled by adversity. Her aunt had spent ten thousand dollars on her niece's debut (held at the Mark Hopkins Hotel), sent her to a finishing school in Zurich, given her several trips to Paris and New York, and now this lengthy Oriental cruise. Many would say that Jacqueline Wilson was indeed fortunate in working for a beautiful young woman who was heiress to one of the largest fortunes in San Francisco, and to be able to attend her young mistress on all her glamorous travels. But only a single week had passed before Jacqueline Wilson knew all she wanted to know about Marcia Chalmers. The latter was vain, narcissistic, and doted on what she called "flirtations" which were nothing more nor less than the shrewd and calculated enticement of the male to declare his passion for her, a passion which would be as luckless as he in hoping to fulfill the erotic dreams of making Marcia Chalmers fall in love with him.
The fact was that she was a demivierge. Marcia Chalmers was twenty-four, with coppery-red hair styled in a thick long pageboy whose curls rested between her shoulder blades. Her face was a sensitive oval, almost classic until one saw the imperious upper lip, the contemptuous insolence that showed in her gaze, and heard the petulant tone of her clear, naturally sweet and high voice.
Even as early as finishing school, Marcia Chalmers set herself with gusto to the sport of enflaming the lust of men. In high school, as a sophomore of fourteen, she had caused the expulsion and disgrace of a hapless fifteen-year-old boy, charging that he had behaved indecently towards her. She had allowed him to carry home her books and then inveigled him into a vacant lot behind a billboard, where she had asked him if he wished to kiss her. When he had blushingly acknowledged that he did, Marcia Chalmers feigned an eager anticipation for his embrace. But no sooner had he put his arm around her shoulders and tried to brush his lips against her cheek than she had started to scream for help and had cried out that he was going to ravish her. By way of dramatizing herself, she had cleverly torn her dress and petticoat. Her testimony was accepted and the boy was expelled from school, and then nearly sent to a juvenile home. It was only fear that she had gone too far, in this first testing of her powers against the world of male adversaries, which had led her to withdraw her charges.
And thereafter, wherever she moved in social circles, wherever she traveled, there were incidents and episodes. Major Brandon Fortescue had luckily escaped with nothing more than a mild disappointment in his desire for her.
For Marcia Chalmers was definitely charming from almost any viewpoint. About the same height as her maid, she possessed a magnificent and voluptuous opulence of figure. Her breasts were widely spaced, high-set young cantaloupes, succulent and firm and in need of no brassiere. Her belly was slim and lissome, widely and shallowly dimpled, her buttocks were rounded and mouth-wateringly curved, and her magnificent thighs seemed to bespeak a paradise of amorous gratification for the fortunate man who would penetrate between them. Of course, no man ever had.
Two weeks ago, during the stopover at Hong Kong, the pampered heiress had chanced to meet, at the most fashionable restaurant in that exotic city, a distinguished, magnetic and handsome Hindu named Magala Khan who, it was rumored, was a prince of the blood and enormously wealthy, from one of the provinces in Ghulistan. He was at the table next to Marcia's, which she occupied with her maid, Jacqueline Wilson, who always cut the figure of a poor relation opposite the patrician redhead and who was invariably made to feel precisely that lowly status. Magala Khan was in the company of a strikingly beautiful young woman who appeared to be Eurasian, and who wore a caste mark in the middle of her high-arching forehead, as well as two men who were obviously bodyguards and each of whom wore the crest of his royal household, the symbol of a blue scimitar atop the replica of a pennon in black, with a red falcon riding it.
He was a man of about thirty-five or forty, Marcia Chalmers had judged, although she could not be quite certain. His brown skin, his sturdy body which towered fully six feet, his strong white teeth, and beard that showed no gray hairs, all attested to youthfulness, as did his speech, which was remarkably cultured. He was fluent in her own tongue as well as in French, Italian, and even Chinese-she had heard him address one of the Chinese waiters in a dialect which seemed to have delighted the man. She preened herself in the fact that this blue-blooded Hindu ruler had noticed her beauty and had wished to make her acquaintance, for one of his bodyguards had come to her table and, deferentially bowing his turbaned head before her, had communicated the wish of his master to have her and her companion enjoy champagne at his master's table.
He did not introduce the Eurasian beauty to Marcia, save as "my intendant," which puzzled the snobbish redhead till, that night in their suite at the hotel, Jacqueline told her the word, from the French, meant stewardess or major-domo. But through the conversation, however, Marcia Chalmers was able to observe the often mocking and painfully inimical looks the Eurasian beauty sent her across the table.
A day later, one of the turbaned aides of Magala Khan came to Marcia Chalmers' suite to deliver to her an exquisitely wrapped packet, which, when opened, disclosed a magnificent ruby brooch, a present from his noble master. A note was enclosed, asking that the writer be granted the esteemed privilege of dining alone with the recipient of this gift. Naturally, Marcia Chalmers accepted that invitation.
She discovered that it was to be in his own suite, and that she was waited upon by the Eurasian, clad in a native costume of pantaloons and jacket, which left her midriff bare, as well as her feet. She wore silver bracelets studded with tiny rubies, and a necklace of rare seed pearls, half black and half white. The appearance of so much wealth made a prodigious impression upon the San Francisco heiress, and it pleased her to treat this intendant as one treats the lowliest of slaves, or, in the twentieth century, a menial who must work for a living and be subject to the despotic whims of his or her betters.
When the meal was over, and a lavish one it was, Magala Khan dismissed the Eurasian beauty, as well as his two turbaned aides, and began to profess his desire and his love for Marcia Chalmers. He spoke with a poetic beauty, in which not a single phrase could be construed as vulgarity or physical lust, yet the sensual curve of his red lips and the glitter of his dark brooding eyes told the demivierge intuitively what he wished of her. In essence, he proposed to offer her the role of mistress in title, since it was impossible for him to wed. He intimated that affairs of state had temporarily deposed him from the province he ruled in India, and made any permanent alliance, for the time being at least, impossible. Yet, he claimed that she would be esteemed and adored as would a wife, even though their liaison must needs be morganatic. Marcia Chalmers listened, pretending the greatest interest in what he had to say. Magala Khan, believing she was about to acquiesce, with a flowery declaration of love, attempted to kiss her.
Like an unchained tigress Marcia had disengaged herself from his embrace, struck him viciously across the cheek, and, eyes blazing, exclaimed, "You dare to insult me with such a vile offer? I am wealthy in my own right and I could not be bought, for this is the twentieth century. I am not married, nor do I wish to be, and much less would I consent to give myself to a man born of any race that is not white, who already consorts with girls of easy virtue, like this intendant of yours! I do not wish ever to see you again, Magala Khan! And I will return your present to you. Give it to someone like my maid, Jacqueline, if you please. She is worthy of you, but not I."
He just stared at her in silence for a long moment, a deadly hatred replacing the flame of desire in his dark eyes. Then, perfectly poised, he bowed and said blandly, "Forgive my impetuosity, Miss Chalmers. I did not mean to give you offense. In my country, the offer I made would be flattering and honorable. But I see that you have your own rules. Perhaps one day you and I shall meet again, and then I shall attempt to learn what game it is you play. I bid you goodnight."
* * *
It was a pity, Marcia Chalmers felt, that someone like that Hindu upstart couldn't be aboard the Anastasia. It would make this sea voyage-for that was all there was now between Guam, which they had just left, and Honolulu. And then five more days they would dock in San Francisco. Marcia Chalmers yearned for new conquests before returning to her natal city; once there, it would be the same old round of fawning bachelors, older men whose most polished technique could not hide their callow desire to make her their mistress. Was there nowhere some man who would be worthy of her wit and beauty and talent, who could match her, challenge for challenge, and make the game of offering herself until that final, supreme surrender, the most vital and exciting game of all? Thus far, in this long trip, only Magala Khan had been an opponent worthy of her virgin steel, and yet he had been like all the others, believing that by the magnetic maleness and his position in life and his noble station, he could win her to his bed. But her virginity was a prize destined for no one, at least not in the foreseeable future. And so her only amusement was to charm and to lure, like the siren she knew herself to be. There would be no point in flirting with the ships officers. The stolid, dull Captain Soprovnik was a peasant at best.
So it was with considerable pique that she turned on Jacqueline and repeated her order, this time with that peevishness so characteristic of her when she was not getting her own way.
"For heaven's sake, Jacqueline, do I have to tell you twice? Undress me, and get that green housecoat out. I may go back to the bar before it closes at midnight for a champagne cocktail. It's so sultry out, so oppressing hot and sticky that I know I shan't sleep a wink. Hurry, girl! I do declare, one would never have thought you had gone to college. You show yourself so stupid and all thumbs at times."
Jacqueline crimsoned and lowered her eyes at this unjust reprimand as she hurried to divest her beautiful, pampered mistress of the silver lame gown, and then the elegant lace-trimmed slip beneath.
In the deshabille of a pair of stepins flounced with white Alencon lace at the hems and at the bodice, Marcia Chalmers was breathtakingly desirable, and it was plain to see why men sought her carnal favors, even at the risk of being insulted and put to rout.
Her breasts, outlined by the cut of the bodice of this undergarment, were high-perched, narrowly spaced and arrogantly jutting, their aureoles small and of a dainty pink-coral tinting in whose midst appeared two dainty, crinkly little tidbits which were her nipples. The sleek flat belly with its shallow, wide navel it the midst, gave way to the bold dominance of the pelvic basin, where the dark red triangle of pubic curls fleeced the dainty pink lips of her virgin sex. Her thighs were elegantly rounded, not too full, and flawlessly proportioned; they merged into upstanding, tightly set buttocks whose undulatory mobility had more than once caught the enchanted stare of a passerby on the San Francisco streets. Her calves were sinuous, highly set, and her skin was that pale creamy tinting besprinkled with rosy white which is the mark of the true redhead.
She moved now, the stepins falling from her magnificent nakedness, into the shower, and Jacqueline dutifully followed her mistress, then handed her the housecoat and a pair of sandals.
"That's much better. I wonder why the ship has stopped. We aren't really moving, I can hardly feel anything," she said with a puzzled look. Then, cocking her head to one side as if listening, she shrugged. "Well, I daresay they know what they're doing. As for me, I wish this miserable trip was over. Not that there's anything back in San Francisco to look forward to. Maybe I'll go to New York." Then frowning at her lovely maid, she said, "But you'd better snap into it, Jacqueline, or I'll leave you behind. You're really a very stupid girl, you know. Just don't irritate me until we dock in San Francisco, or you may have to look for another job."
"Don't stay up late," she called. "Don't wait up for me. Maybe a good night's sleep will put you back into a more lively disposition tomorrow."
THE REEF
CHAPTER THREE
There had, actually, been an indirect warning to the Anastasia.
Captain Soprovnik had frowned as his first mate gave him the news of the signal just received by the radio operator, young Kenneth Fairway. Fairway, though only twenty-four, was an extremely dependable seaman, having started as a cabin boy when he was only fourteen. He had on more than one occasion managed to transmit and receive faint signals that had actually prevented a disaster to the Anastasia. But this piece of news was extremely puzzling.
"Fairway says the signal is more or less intermittent. Captain," Jonas Dunway, the lanky, nearly bald first mate remarked.
The jovial Yugoslavian frowned as he studied the transcription. "It appears to be not much more than electronic signals," he decided. "Are they very strong?"
"Yes, to the southeast. But the thing that puzzles Fairway is that no matter how we head eastward, they seem to follow us at the same strength."
Captain Soprovnik glanced at his watch. "We are catching up a little on our schedule, Dunway. I Don't see anything here to indicate alarm. In weather like this, all we have to fear is a typhoon, or perhaps some volcanic explosion in the ocean. There are no ships around for hundreds of miles, and the weather reports are favorable. Instruct the engineer full speed ahead. I haven't time to bother about a signal out of nowhere. There is no land on our chart until the Hawaiian Islands, and I am certain the signal does not come from there."
"Very good. Captain." The first mate smartly saluted and left the bridge.
It was past midnight now, and the night was oppressively still. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and even the stars in the sky seemed to be dull and lifeless. But then, it did not matter because the passengers were asleep in their staterooms. Only Captain Soprovnik on the bridge, maintaining a later watch than usual because the report from Fairway had stirred some subconscious presentiment, was as alert as ever, puffing at a fine Havana which he allowed himself only at this late shift of duty, where passengers would not be around to see or to censure.
But not all the passengers were asleep. Ivan Tenkovich, the steward on "A" Deck, could testify to that. And what infuriated him most was that he had just been given an insolent order by the occupants of Cabin D, who were none other than Madame Dorothea Petroff and the Princesses Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff. At midnight, these imperious ladies demanded strawberries and champagne!
He had been ready for sleep, for his shift actually ended at eleven at night; yet because he sorely needed every tip that so many of these wealthy passengers begrudged him, he had hastily got out of his narrow little bunk, donned his uniform and scurried down the passageway to the cabin. In his haste to serve, he had momentarily forgotten the identity of its occupants. But when he had been admitted, and when the disdainful and haughty Madame Petroff had regarded him through a lorgnette and frowned because his jacket was wrinkled, and remarked that he offended her sensitivities as she had given him the order for the strawberries and champagne, the blood had rushed to his temples and his mouth gaped in stupefaction.
These damned aristocrats had forgotten the Revolution and the purge of the boyars. They dared think themselves still safe in their smug little world while their serfs starved and were beaten and their wives were raped and tortured by the grand lords of Old Russia. So they wished strawberries and champagne at this late hour. Yes, it would be procured for Madame. He had bowed low. And then he had seen Olga and Tanya standing near the writing table, both in satin peignoirs, elegantly lovely. It had not been so long ago that they had stood in the barn of their father's estate and giggled at him when he had frenziedly pleaded that the Prince spare his wife and mother from the lash of the Cossacks. Six long years had now been telescoped into a terrible, unforgivable moment. But, God, how beautiful they had become now! They had been-what was it?-fourteen and sixteen years of age. Now they were young women, in the full bloom of their beauty. Olga, the older, was blond with hair like spun gold, an oval, insolent face, the aquiline nose and small ripe mouth of a charming young patrician coming into that delicious epoch where she first begins to know her powers over the opposite sex. Tanya, the younger by three years, was lithe, somewhat taller, with dark brown hair tightly drawn away from her forehead and coiffed into a prim bun at the back of her neck. She was aristocratic and insolent of features, with a curling upper lip and snub nose, whose delicate, thin nostrils quivered as her aunt had chided him for responding to their summons in such a slovenly uniform.
But he would have his vengeance, to pay them all back, yes, even Madame Petroff, because she too had been an acquiescent party to the inhuman crime the Prince, her older brother, had committed against his innocent wife and mother. The day after the savage and merciless flogging in the barn, he had been summoned into the luxuriously ornate salon by the Prince himself, and there harangued with his treason of having spoken out in favor of the Revolution. "I did not punish you yesterday, Tenkovich," the Prince had told him coldly, "because you wife and mother doubtless influenced you to this ingratitude and disloyalty to your Tsar and to me, your master. But I am merciful. I will not have you flogged as you deserve, you wretch. But you will forfeit your post in my household, and you will work in the fields with the rest of the peasants. And there, if you do not work well, you will taste the nagaiga. Now go and report to my overseer Mikhail Simlovich!"
Madame Dorothea Petroff, then in her early thirties, a buxom, pleasant-faced woman who wore jewels and the latest gown from Paris, had been in the salon and had inquired of her brother what crime this "poor man" had committed. The price had told her, and he had told her how he had punished Tenkovich by having his mother and wife put to the lash. And that preening, smug creature had dared to laugh softly and to say, "Well, perhaps he has learned his lesson, my dear brother." And then, addressing herself to him, with almost a sneer on her handsome face, she had added, "My brother says you are a good worker. Prove it to him and show your gratitude for the mercy he extends you."
And yet the spawn of that Prince Rubutsoff still lived, still thrived upon this earth, and with them their aunt who had laughed at the misery on his face that day.
He had gone to the kitchen where one of the under-chefs was drowsing, wakened the man, who berated him for it, and demanded the strawberries and champagne. At last they were procured, were placed upon a fine silver tray, and he moved back along the passageway to that fateful cabin.
Outside, in the immensity of the ocean, a dense fog had suddenly come up. The ship's engines were moving now at slower speed, and the ship's navigator was hastily verifying his charts as to their latitude and longitude. Having tried to go out of the way of the typhoon near Wake Island, the Anastasia had been going northward, and was now well off course.
Captain Soprovnik in the bridge lit his pipe and muttered a profane oath at the capriciousness of the weather. If this kept up, they might be late by half a day into Honolulu. And passengers like that Miss Chalmers would make his life miserable with the steamship company that owned the Anastasia. He knew the type only too well. What a tempting piece of femininity she was!
He stared disbelievingly at the compass. Though he had just given orders half an hour ago to steer northeast to correct the variants of the earlier position, there appeared to be no headway whatsoever. The Anastasia was heading south, despite all the mechanical efforts at its disposal.
The fog was thick, like a San Francisco evening fog which shrouds the city from the Bay Bridge to Twin Peaks. There was no way to take any kind of soundings and no land was visible, even through the strongest glasses. He fumed and pondered the possibility of sending a radiogram to the nearest ship to indicate that all was not well.
And at that moment the Anastasia shuddered from bow to stern and the powerful engines churned uselessly. "My God!" Captain Soprovnik gasped, "we've struck something! But it's impossible-we're in the mid-Pacific!"
It was not impossible at all. The Anastasia had been directed onto a magnetic reef. A reef cleverly fabricated by the as-yet-unknown genius who had made a barren little atoll into a forbidden and unknown Paradise on which reincarnated virtually all the delights and sensations of a civilization dedicated to sexual enslavement. The Anastasia had come upon the magnetic reef of . Now it was foundering, a great hole torn below the water-line. The clanging of the bells, and cries, and chaos would follow. And after that.. .the island would claim new victims, as it had so often in the past.
LIFEBOATS
CHAPTER FOUR
Most of the passengers of the Anastasia were sleeping when the steamship foundered on the magnetic reef. All the same, there were shrieks of terror and a feverish clamor as in many of the staterooms the lights went out, for the power generator had been temporarily put out of commission.
On the bridge of his ship. Captain Soprovnik could not believe what had happened to his vessel. Nevertheless he did not lose his poise and summoned his first mate, Jonas Dunway. "Go down to the engine room at once, Dunway, and ascertain the damage. Have the second mate sound general alarm and fire drill. Those bells will wake the passengers who are still asleep. How many boats do we have to cast off in the event this ship goes down?"
"You believe it is that serious, Captain?" the first mate gasped.
"It is always wise to be prepared for any contingency, Dunway. How many boats?"
"A dozen, sir. And of course all of the passengers have their life jackets in their staterooms."
"Very good. Get to work. I still for the life of me cannot understand what we have struck. I will contact the radio operator."
But young Kenneth Fairway, the radio operator, could report only intermittent signals which continued and which seemed as faint as when he had first reported them to the first mate.
In her stateroom, Marcia Chalmers had not been asleep at the time of the ship's foundering. She had gone to bed about eleven, exasperated by her frustrating experiences on the cruise.
She had been thinking about the swarthy, satanically handsome and dynamic Magala Khan. Her powers as a teaser had triumphed everywhere except with him.. . yet contemptuously she had felt that given time with him, she could reduce him to the helplessness that had taken hold of all the other would-be suitors. It was quite clear that he wanted to go to bed with her and to fuck her, just like any other man. The only thing was, he was more sophisticated, enormously rich, from all she heard, and extremely able to control his emotions and his thoughts. That was why he had made such an interesting challenge to her, one she had been sorry to neglect because of the schedule of sailing.
She had put on a black nylon nightie which was cut low enough to reveal the superb round gourds of her breasts, to show off the deep valley between them and their upper curves almost down to the pouting dusky coral nipple-buds. The garment clung lasciviously to her hips and thighs, kissed her belly with a snug ardor that would have been envied by any man who had ever seen her.. .and then cursed his evil star for having crossed his pathway with hers because she seemed so unobtainable.
Thinking of Magala Khan, Marcia Chalmers had experienced the stirrings of lust in her furry cleft. She had lofted her nightie and slipped a soft hand down between her quivering thighs. As she lay there in the darkness, her eyes closed to conjure up her vision of that insolently haughty Hindu potentate, she felt a moist and quivering pulsation deep in the realm of her ardent young pussy.
It was an urge she had often experienced and often relieved just the way she prepared to do it now. Clinching her hand and letting only her right forefinger stand out rigidly, she introduced that digit against the thick bush of her cunt and dallied languidly with herself, not yet touching the sensitive twitching lips of her sex.
To see her now, with the sheets thrown back and her clinging black nylon nightie rolled up above her belly, to see that rigid finger daintily stirring in the thick dark-reddish curls which peaked her creamy thighs, was to desire to fuck her mercilessly until she panted that she had enough, and the to go on fucking her beyond her own endurance! Every man who had suffered the taunt of her prick-teasing behavior alternately cursed her and lusted for her. As she basked in the aura of thwarted passion, accepting it as her due, as would an empress.. .she did not know that she was fated to come at last to her Waterloo.
She had had, at times, lesbian inclinations toward her beautiful and submissive maid, Jacqueline Wilson. She had the feeling that if she commanded Jacqueline to obey her, the maid would do anything to held her job. She herself had never tried it with girls, and, of course, she had never been fucked by a man. But that was not to say that Marcia Chalmers did not experience violent lusts, secret and dark turbulence which left her shaken by the knowledge of her own innate animalism; yet it was impossible for her, being as selfish and vain as she was, to conceive of giving herself to any man. She would take, she would never give. And that was what she meant to do one day with Jacqueline.
The prospect now of having her lovely maid strip and blushingly come to her bed and do those things, which she had read and heard that women do with one another, made her still more feverish as she squirmed on her bed. Her maid was sleeping in the next room. Marcia's lips curled with scorn. What a meek and submissive little slut the girl was! She probably had never had a lover and wouldn't know what to do with one if she did: Unless she had dreamed about it, wetly and in ignorance of the act itself. It would be a good idea to break her in gradually. Perhaps when they got back to San Francisco-or better still, when they docked in Honolulu-she might try to seduce that little innocent. It would be so easy. She would summon Jacqueline when she was in the tub and order her maid to take off all her clothes, except maybe her stockings and garter-belt and pumps, and then wash her back and breasts. That would make Jacqueline kneel over the edge of the tub and the maid's lovely breasts would dangle there vulnerably. Then she would squeeze them painfully and force Jacqueline to kiss her, to put her tongue into her mouth. And after that there would be all sorts of delicious naughty little games.. .
The prospect made her shudder with a flaming surge of excitement and anticipation. Her finger now delved through the curls to find the lips of her cunt. They were plump and pink and exquisitely sensitive to the touch. She grazed at them amorously, and then she arched her bottom as a wave of sensual fever rippled through her system. She felt her nipple buds grow hard as Hints, and she put her other hand up to caress one of them, and to feel it vibrate and throb under her lingering caress.
If only she were in some metropolis of the Middle East, like Constantinople or Istanbul! There, she had read, there were reports of white-slave auctions and the smuggling of slaves to the auction block, destined for the harems of wealthy sheiks and Oriental rulers. It would be amusing to buy a young man and to train him to be her lust-slave; never to permit him intercourse with her cunt, but to grant him every audacious liberty of lips and tongue and fingers. A slave to whip, to spurn with her sharp high-heeled pumps. A slave who could become a living mattress for her, or even an ashtray. Or a table on which she could pose her breakfast dishes, with the penalty of a severe whipping if he dared to spill her coffee or to tumble a single dish or plate. Yes, she would like that. She would take and never give. To have someone kneeling at her feet and cringing from her would excite her to the utmost, as she knew.
How could she know that very soon this hypothetical situation would be reversed and she would be the slave?
But at the moment before the sudden terrifying shock of the vessel's foundering, Marcia Chalmers was aroused by these erotic images. She began now to tickle the rim of her cunt in a circular and lingering maneuver. She felt her pussypetals gradually open, like the petals of a flower to the warming sun. She delved deeper, till she touched the little nodule of her clitoris, which at once stiffened and sent a new and even stronger wave of desire through her creamy body.
If she had only had the power of second sight or of ESP, she might have been able to project herself to Jacqueline Wilson's dreams. For at that very moment, her lovely and submissive maid was imagining herself seated upon a throne in a vast chamber along whose walls stood uniformed guards with swords and guns. There was a long red carpet from one end of the dais on which her throne was perched to the other end of the chamber. And there at the very end, on all fours, head bowed in submissiveness, was her mistress, Marcia Chalmers. Her mistress was naked except for silver bracelets on wrists and ankles which proclaimed her servitude. She leaned back on the throne, an amused smile on her red lips. Her eyes glittered and narrowed with anticipation and with vindictive eagerness. The score would be settled now. For all the abuse, the taunts, the vilifications, there would now be a reckoning. She was dressed in a gold brocaded gown, with a diamond tiara on her head, and a magnificent huge ruby ring whose stone was as big as a pigeon's egg, on the third finger of her left hand. In her right she held, not a sceptre, but a black leather dog-whip, plaited, with knots along the last two or three inches of the tip, and with a handle made of solid silver some six inches long, into which were encrusted amethysts (her birth-stone) and garnets (they had been her mother's favorite gem).
Now she lifted the sceptre and at the long end of the runway, carpeted so thick that one could not hear the movement of Marcia Chalmers' bare knees and palms, her slave crawled to her slowly and humbly.
Arriving before the throne, Marcia Chalmers was now, with a contemptuous wave of the sceptre, ordered to crawl up the seven carpeted steps to the throne itself. And when she had done this, she bowed her head while Jacqueline haughtily imposed the weight of her pump-shod right foot on the middle of the creamy back and spurned her, and then began to chide her for faulty service. "Slave, wicked slave," she hissed, "I've had reports that you sulk and grimace in your cell. That's not to be tolerated, do you hear? When you are in my service, remember that you must always have a smile on your face and tenderness in your eyes and gratefulness to show how happy you are that I have deigned to spare your worthless life. So you will be punished. Now you know what to do!"
And in her dream the lovely submissive maid heard Marcia Chalmers whimperingly beg, "Mighty queen, I recognize my faults and I repent. I beg you humbly to punish me for my misconduct and my show of indifference in your service. I beg you to whip my big bottom."
And in the dream Jacqueline Wilson smiled and then consciously extended a soft hand down towards her furry cunt and began to frig herself.
At the very same time, mistress and maid attained their climax. And it was just upon this shattering instant when their bodies quaked in serious response that the terrible and unexpected crash of the ship upon the magnetic reef took place!
Marcia Chalmers was almost thrown out of bed when the Anastasia foundered. She had the presence of mind to roll down her nightie, and to hurry into the next room where Jacqueline was sleeping. But the maid's dream of vengeance had been so exciting and absorbing that the lovely young woman still slept, lying on her side. But Marcia's intent eyes spied the telltale signs; Jacqueline's demure and modestly cut white cotton nightgown had fucked up over her hip, and one soft little hand was still buried in her curly thatch. A cruel little smile curved Marcia Chalmers' red lips. So that was the way it was! Well, decidedly now, when they got to Honolulu, she would make Jacqueline serve her in bed, and if she dared say no, she would threaten the maid with instant dismissal and no letter of recommendation, and would warn her that she knew only too well what a slut that girl was. Yes, Jacqueline Wilson would become her first true slave!
"Wake up, Jacqueline, wake up!" she cried, and slapped the girl's bare hip. Jacqueline, with a feline and sinuous movement, scrambled out of bed, blinking, still drowsy and her eyes blurred with sleep.
"What is it, Miss Chalmers?"
"Something's happened, I don't know what. There was a terrible crash a moment ago and we're not moving. You better help dress me quickly. And get my jewel case out of the drawer and bring it with you. We are going to go on deck and see what's happened."
* * *
In his stateroom, John Granville was not asleep. He had been lying in his bed smoking a cigarette and thinking of the future. He still mourned his beautiful dead wife. He had taken his lovely eighteen-year-old daughter along on this trip to the Orient to help them both forget their tragic bereavement. What would he do with Betty when they got back to San Francisco? Possibly put her in another private finishing school. And yet, then he would be lonelier than ever. A virile man who had many love affairs prior to his marriage and who had found in his beautiful wife all the fulfillment for which he had yearned, John Granville did not like to contemplate a content widower's future. Perhaps it would be a good idea to find another wife. No, he could not possibly hope to love her as he had Diane; and yet in a sense he still had Diane with him, for his daughter Betty was almost the living image of that golden-haired woman who had been so dear to him.
But his wife had been so much more than just a beautiful woman. She had been an impeccable hostess at his business functions, in public at the theater or a swanky restaurant, and at night when they were alone, a passionate and eagerly cooperative mistress who had never made him feel for a moment that he was taking her only because it was his marital right. Women like Diane were all too few in this complex world, he thought sadly as he puffed at his cigarette.
When the crash came, he leaped from his bed and went directly into his daughter's room. She lay sleeping, her lovely heart-shaped face smiling in her dreams. He bent tenderly and stroked her cheek, till her eyes fluttered open. "Daddy! What is it?" Her voice was still husky with sleep and it was a voice that haunted him for it, too, reminded him only too well of his beautiful, dead Diane.
"Wake up. I'm afraid something awful has happened, darling. There was a terrible crash just a moment ago. The ship may be in danger. You had better get dressed quickly, and we will go out on deck," he told her.
Back on the bridge, the news was disastrous. The first mate had reported that the port bulkhead of the steamer had been smashed in and that water was pouring into the hold so quickly that it was impossible to work the bilge pumps to any effectiveness. Also, the ship was beginning to list to one side. With this, and taking water quickly as it was, the Anastasia seemed doomed. The radio operator had come up to the bridge, pale and trembling, to reaffirm that the signals, those mysterious signals, were still going on, and yet no stronger than they had been at the outset. And when he had tried-and this was the terrifying and mysterious news of all-to send out an S.O.S., he had found that somehow his transmitting bands had been jammed by an inexplicable high-frequency sound.
"It is uncanny," the captain muttered to himself. And then he crossed himself, being a religious man. "We can put our trust in God and our own ingenuity. Dunway, have the rest of the crew help with the passengers. Get women and children to the lifeboats. The men will have to take their chances with their life-preservers and their rafts. Be calm. Impress upon the rest of the crew that we mustn't cause panic. Just listen to those women screaming beyond the bow!"
"Yes, sir," the first mate saluted and hurried down the narrow iron stairs to the main deck of the vessel. He opened the door and went down the corridor, wanting to find as many stewards as he could to help him in the task of wakening those who were still sleeping, of aiding those who were too frightened to move, or perhaps too old or sick.
Captain Soprovnik had trained his crew well. Within twenty minutes, all of the passengers were out on deck, and all women were safely led into the lifeboats. Some of the men showed themselves to be cowards, and the first mate had to club into unconsciousness a burly banker in his fifties who had yelled that he wasn't going to die and had tried to force himself into one of the lifeboats.
The listing of the vessel grew more and more pronounced. Orders were given to abandon the ship. John Granville watched Betty being lowered in a lifeboat with twenty-four other women and two seamen at the oars. She was crying, waving to him and calling out words he couldn't hear above the hubbub that was going on.
He was an excellent swimmer and had been an athlete in his youth. His only fear was of sharks, always plentiful in waters like these. With his lifebelt and his own stamina, he was reasonably sure that he could survive. Besides, if they had struck a reef, as now was the rumor, there must be land not far off. The fog had not yet lifted, and the night air was deceptively warm. He made his way to the rail near the bridge and watched. Straining his eyes through the murky darkness he could see nothing. Wait.. .wasn't there a tiny beam of light which seemed to move in a kind of circle off to the east? No, perhaps his senses were playing a trick on him. Poor Betty, what a terrible thing to happen right after her mother's death, he thought to himself.
And then he felt the ship shudder under him, and he knew that the moment had come. He said a silent prayer and took a deep breath and braced himself. He must remember, as the ship went down, to stand on the rail and propel himself as far out as he could in a long dive. There was the danger of being sucked down, and he must get clear of the ship at all costs.
PEASANT'S REVENGE
CHAPTER FIVE
True to the tradition of the sea, Captain Mirko Soprovnik had stayed on the bridge and gone down with the Anastasia.
His final thoughts had been a dejected "what a damnable waste! Now my beautiful red-haired Ljuba will have to learn how to fuck with somebody else who doesn't have nearly my king-sized prick and won't know what the little bitch really loves before she spreads her legs for poking-well, serves her right, the tramp, for putting horns on me with that lousy, sneaking journalist from Belgrade the last time I had leave!" He would not have been comforted to know that his mistress, a superbly buxom cabaret singer of about thirty, was at that very moment being fucked in a standing position against the cold marble of her bathroom by the hotel porter.. .
Before the ship took its final dive, though, everything was tumult and panic. Wealthy old capitalists brandished their wallets and hoarsely begged stewards to get them a place in a lifeboat. One couple was determined to stay together. A prim-looking schoolteacher, who wore her thick-lensed glasses and dowdy bun like a disguise, had found a young man-at that time a gigolo-who'd discreetly gratified all her desires. She had a spectacular and imaginative but sadly unappreciated sex drive. Her lover not only had a slim, ardent body, but an unfulfilled longing for the warmth and intelligence he found in her; and in short, they'd fallen in love. In desperation, the schoolteacher dressed him in one of her own outfits and smuggled him into line for a women-only lifeboat. The other women spotted him immediately but, swiftly sympathetic, said not a word. Indeed, when an officious purser questioned his presence, one dowager coolly and brutally kicked the purser in the nuts so hard that he crumpled, screaming, to the crowded deck, and was trampled. A few minutes later, in the final melee to get into the few remaining lifeboats, the purser's body was shoved overboard.. .
* * *
Ivan Tenkovich, the Russian steward who had brought strawberries and champagne for the Princesses Rubutsoff and Madame Petroff, knew exactly what he must do. A just God had delivered his enemies to him in answer to his prayers. Now he would have vengeance for the death of his wife and his mother, who had been murdered by these accursed aristocrats!
In order to carry out his plan, he saved the lives of the two beautiful young Princesses Rubutsoff as well as that of Madame Dorothea Petroff. He had angrily told them to forget about their jewels, for they would be no good to them if they drowned, and he had told them there was no time to dress. So, with the haughty matron clad only in a slip embroidered with Alencon lace and a velvet bathrobe and slippers, and beautiful Olga and Tanya wearing negligees with fur coats over them, he had led the trio out to the lower deck and commandeered one of the small lifeboats which had been overlooked by the frantic deck officers.
Ivan Tenkovich kept looking up at the dark sky, in which even the moon no longer shone because of the terrible fog, and his lips were moving in grateful prayer. It was all he could do to retain the polite and deferential mask he made of his face during his service aboard ship to these pampered and wealthy wretches. He well remembered how the peasants in the village bordering the lordly estate of the noble Prince Rubutsoff went starving for want of a few potatoes or a loaf of black bread. And these dogs would drink a quarter of a bottle of champagne and let it go flat, or nibble at a pate or a tasty filet of beef and leave most of it uneaten. It was sinful waste, and one day God would punish these malefactors. Yet now, in this terrible hour, the Jehovah of vengeance, as was known in the Old Testament, had delivered these three women into his hands!
So he acted masterfully with them, quieting their fears, assuring them that he was a good seaman as well as a steward, that he could row, that land was not far off, and that they should trust themselves to his care. He thus managed to quiet their mounting hysteria, for he had led them towards a hiding place under a stairway leading from the top deck to the second to get them out of the way not only of the frantic and screaming passengers who fought for survival, but also to make certain that no senior officer of the doomed ship might decide to take them under his wing and so deprive him, Ivan Tenkovich, of his rightful vengeance.
At last, when the ship had been listing dangerously, he saw that the forward side of the second deck was virtually deserted, and he led the women hastily to the concealed little lifeboat, adjusted the tackle and bade them get into it while he lowered them into the water. When they protested that they were afraid and asked how he could get them clear of the sinking vessel, his eyes narrowed and for once he betrayed the savage feelings uppermost in his bosom. "While you stand prattling here, ladies, you're going to die, sucked down into the propellers and torn to pieces! Get into that lifeboat this instant. I'm going to lower you into the water, and then I'm going to dive in and join you. It wouldn't be possible any other way. Hurry!"
So Dorothea Petroff and Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff, numb with terror, but recognizing a superior force, obeyed him. He lowered the boat into the water, released the grips by turning a lever, and then poised himself on the rail and dove straight down. A moment later, he had reached the little boat and the women helped pull him up.
Ah, what irony of fate! If they had known who he was and what he intended, they would have shoved him down into the water, taken the oar and caved in his skull.. .
Some of the men who could not find a place in lifeboats, bribe and threaten however much they did, leaped into the water, but were not so fortunate. The sinister black dorsal fins of sharks approached, and there were gurgling screams and then the ghastly splashing as the victim was dragged beneath the surface of the black water.
Ivan Tenkovich concentrated on his rowing. For the time being, he scarcely looked at his three captives for such they were. He was intent on making for the dim outline of what appeared to be a little atoll to the east. As the oars dipped deeply into the water and the little boat drew ever closer to the shore, he could see that it was actually land, and was more sizable than any known navigational charts had shown. He estimated it to be about a mile long and half a mile across. And some presentiment made him steer towards the western side.
For over an hour he rowed, till his hands were nearly blistered from the unaccustomed exercise. And at last the keel of the lifeboat scraped on the sand of what seemed to be a little beach cove, shrouded by huge towering palm trees which cut it off from the rest of the little island. There was a kind of little forest there, an excellent place to hide or to make camp for the night. He would be alone with Madame Petroff and with the two lovely princesses, who had looked on and giggled while his wife and mother shrieked and jerked helplessly under the lash of the Cossacks.
Near his feet, he saw a coil of thin but sturdy rope, and he pocketed it inside of his steward's jacket. Slowly, gradually, a plan of action was fomenting in his mind. He had not fucked a woman in over six months, and then he had to resort to a cheap whore in a crib in Sydney. She had been annoyingly boisterous, built like a huge Amazon of a woman, with a thick mane of long dark brown hair that fell to her hips. The power of her big, closely spaced breasts and her juttingly ripe haunches had whetted the fever in his long-denied prick. Yet she had mocked him as being a "little man with a little cock, and you Don't even penetrate the surface enough to work me up. Come on, little fellow, you will have to work harder at it to make Mona juice down!" Now he had hated her for so humiliating him!
But tonight, delivered into his hands were three tempting females who would be his prisoners. Behind those line of great palm trees, there in the hedges of tropical growth, he would show them whether or not he was a little man or whether his cock was too little to satisfy them. His lips began to tremble and to drool with anticipation as he quickened his rowing. The three woman huddled round him, commiserating with one another in their ordeal. It had not yet even begun!
"Alright, let's get out of the boat," he commanded roughly, "and help me tow it in onto the beach. We don't want it washing away with the tide. Get a move on!"
Now that they were safe, their attitude had changed a little from the frightened and cowering creatures they had been while he had saved them from the sinking Anastasia. Madame Petroff drew herself up to her imposing height and coldly remarked, "We are not used to menial labor, my man. Please remember your station."
"Oh, Madame, I do, I do," he grinned with feigned deference. "But we are on a desert island that isn't even on the mariner's charts, and we've got to save this boat just in case there's a chance that a rescue steamer answers the S.O.S. Now let's all work together so we can survive!"
"The man is right," Olga Rubutsoff observed in a high-pitched, clear voice. She was the older sister, now in her twenty-second year. She had golden hair that was shaped in a coronet braid around the top of her head to emphasize her aristocratic status as a princess of the blood. Her face was an insolent oval, with high-set cheekbones, a small disdainful mouth, intensely large, widely spaced dark blue eyes, and an aquiline nose whose delicately thin wings flared imperiously. It was evident that she was pampered and used to having her own way, and that her father had clearly doted upon her. Her sister Tanya was nineteen, perhaps an inch taller and thus about five feet, five inches in stature. Tanya had thick, luxurious, glossy dark-brown hair which was set in an imposing pile with a topknot at the back of her head to make her seem older. Yet her face was rounded, with a sweetness of expression that was belied only by the petulant curve of her ripe upper lip. Her mouth was generous and full, her nose was daintily snub, and her eyes were lustrous dark brown. Her voice was soft and husky. And her body, though she was younger than Olga, possessed even more appetizing features; for one thing, her hips were more spacious, and her thighs were more womanly in their fullness.
"Thank you, Your Highness," he replied, forcing back his latent sarcasm. "Now if all of you will take hold of the little boat with both your hands, I shall be at the head and tug the hardest, we shall easily do it. There, you see, it was nothing at all."
The lifeboat was now beached, and Ivan Tenkovich slid his right hand inside his steward's coat to make sure that the coil of rope was still there. He permitted himself a sudden little smile which gave his ferret-like face a particularly cruel and guileful expression. He was not taller than Olga, and Madame Petroff topped both sisters by a full inch and a half, and was far more buxom. She was a handsome woman, with a cynical expression that had replaced the pleasant and indolent look he had remembered from six years past. She would now be about thirty-eight, if he remembered correctly. She was black-haired, her hair styled in an elaborate pompadour. Her breasts were big and full, and they still looked firm through that scanty covering of hers which had been soaked by the lapping waves through which he had rowed. But her flesh was appetizing, and her skin, what he could see of it, was mouth-wateringly white. Oh, these aristocrats bathed in milk and then champagne, he well knew, while their serfs starved for want of a crust of bread! They slept on fine eiderdown mattresses while he was lucky to have a pallet of straw in the barn. And she had told his master that perhaps he had learned his lesson-a lesson that had cost him his beloved wife and mother. Well, he had not forgotten that lesson nor its cost. And Madame Dorothea Petroff would find that one before dawn broke. He would take her first, he would fuck her and strip her and shame and humble her before the two princesses, as a foretaste of their own fate.
"Now we had better make a kind of shelter for the night," he glibly suggested. "Let's go into that kind of forest and see what we can find. Perhaps there'll be a cave where we can put together some sort of shelter. From where we are, I do not think we have much to worry about the climate, except for severe windstorms and a great deal of rain."
"I'm exhausted," Madame Petroff sighed. "Can't we simply lie down here in the sand and go to sleep till the morning? Then there will be time enough to look for a place, and daylight enough to see it."
"We don't know who else may be on this island, Madame Petroff," he said unctuously. "There may be savages, even cannibals."
"Good heavens!" Olga haughtily exclaimed, "are you trying to frighten us, steward?"
"No, Your Highness. But it's always wise to expect the unexpected. It's a motto that has kept me alive these past six years. Come now, we can't stay here on the beach." He spoke now with such a final tone of authority that the three women were impressed. They followed him as he led the way.
The undergrowth was tropical, with plants, flowers of all descriptions, bushes and clinging liana through which he had to tear and push his way. About ten minutes later, however, he called out with joy, "I've found exactly what we want!"
It was a little clearing, a sandy hollow set at a lower level than the beach from which they had come. It was sheltered from prying eyes by the thick trunks of the lofty palm trees and by the hedges of lycopersica and many-petaled flowering anthurium.
"Oh, this is very nice," Tanya exclaimed. "It's a miracle that we're saved. And we really are grateful to you, steward. When we are rescued, I shall see that my father rewards you."
Ivan Tenkovich started, his eyes widening. "Your father, Your Highness?"
"Why, of course. The Prince Nicolai Rubutsoff."
"Is he still in Russia, Your Highness?" he innocently inquired.
"No, alas," Madame Petroff broke in with a great sigh of annoyance. "After that accursed revolution, we found it necessary to settle in Hong Kong. Fortunately, the Prince had been wise enough to convert some of his land and some of his possessions, so that we did not starve. But unfortunately, he has been reduced to becoming a tradesman, a far cry from his rightful estate."
The handsome matron sighed and shook her head. Ivan Tenkovich stared at her and it was as well that she could not read the savage emotion which he was able to mask on his deferentially attentive face.
"Well," he said at last, "that is the fortune of life and everything is in a state of flux. For example an hour or two ago, I was a steward on a vessel which was not too efficiently run and whose purser was a thief. You, Madame, and you, Highnesses," here he turned to smile at the two lovely sisters, "were honored passengers and no effort could be too much to assure your well being. Here, however, it is a different story. We are on a little island where, for all we know, no human being may have ever set foot before. There is probably food, like coconuts and certain edible fruits, but we have nothing to hunt with except a knife and there are no matches with which to make a fire. So it will be up to our own ingenuity and stamina to survive."
"Don't you think a rescue ship has heard of the disaster and may even now be coming to find us?" beautiful Tanya Rubutsoff anxiously queried.
"Who knows? One of the other stewards told me that the signal bands were jammed so that our message might not have got through at all. In that case, we shall have to put up with the fact that we shall have to remain here indefinitely. But now I think it would be better if we prepared to get some rest."
"See here, my man," Madame Petroff arrogantly ordered, "I must say that even if we all happen to share a common misfortune, there is still a difference in rank between us. I do not take kindly to being ordered about by a servant. It was not that way in the days of the Tsar."
"There is no Tsar in Russia today, Madame. And there are no servants anymore, if you will remember," he said with brutal candor.
"And now you are becoming offensive! I would like it much better. Steward, if you would make an attempt to go find whether there are actually people on this island and perhaps, if there is no one, to find us some food. The sea air has given me an appetite."
His lips curled with scorn. That bitch had just been eating strawberries and sipping champagne a little while ago, and now her belly was empty. Well, he would fill it for her.. .with nourishing spunk! Yes, the spunk of a serf whose wife and mother had been whipped to death, an event which had brought from this fat, pampered bitch only the complacent remark that "perhaps the man has learned his lesson."
"I differ with Madame," he coldly retorted, "it would be dangerous in the dark to be separated. And it is my opinion that there is no one else on this island. We had best stay here and get what rest we can. Tomorrow morning we can see where we are and then perhaps plan what to do."
"I am not given to issuing orders twice, Steward," Madame Petroff sneered, drawing herself up to her full height, not at all aware of how ludicrous it was for her to act like a wealthy aristocrat when she was on a tiny desert atoll clad only in a water-soaked slip and bathrobe.
"I understand how difficult it must be for you, Madame," he said ironically as he took out the clasp knife, then the coil of rope which he had concealed inside his coat, and calmly began to measure off a length. He cut it, then measured out another and cut that one, too. Then he dropped the remaining coil at his feet, picked up one of the cut lengths and advanced on the bewildered Princesses. "But with your permission or without it, Madame, I have pressing business that comes first."
With this, pocketing his knife, he seized Olga, and, before she could realize what he was doing, had bound her wrists tightly behind her back.
"How dare you touch me? You are tying me! You are a brute, a villain! Are you going to rob us?" Olga angrily cried.
"The man has gone insane," Madame Petroff cried with alarm as she moved towards him. "We must stop him before he kills us all!"
"Oh, I don't mean to kill any of you, so you needn't worry about that. Now for you, Princess Tanya!" He seized the younger girl and flung her down on the ground, rolling her over on her face, dragging her arms behind her back and swiftly knotted the other length of cord around her wrists, knotting it cruelly tight. This done, he took up the coil of rope and cut two shorter lengths, with which he fettered the ankles of each of his royal captives.
Madame Dorothea Petroff stood staring at him, her mouth gaping, suddenly paralyzed by fear. He inclined his head: "Are you beginning to recognize me, perhaps, Madame? Don't you remember about six years ago, you and your illustrious brother, the Prince Nicolai Rubutsoff, were sitting in an elegant salon and he told you of the crimes that a certain serf on his estate had committed?"
"My God-no, it's not possible-it cannot be!" she hoarsely ejaculated.
"It is I, Ivan Tenkovich. I will refresh your memory further. But I am sure that the charming Princesses could do that for you as well. They found it very amusing to watch two helpless, naked women bound to the rafters of the barn and whipped by Cossacks."
"Merciful God, help us all!" the matron gasped, her face pale with terror.
"Yes, Madame, He is merciful for He has delivered all of you into my hands. You who thought that I had learned such a good lesson and who urged me to justify your brother's mercy in sparing my life by working harder as his slave." He turned to confront the sobbing Tanya and the speechless, fuming Olga. "And you, you pampered, inhuman spawn of a merciless tyrant, you dared to laugh while my wife and mother were cringing under the whip! For six long years I have dreamed of my revenge, and now I have it. Yes indeed, He has been merciful-to me."
He took off his stewards' uniform, and then his undergarments and was naked in his shoes and socks. He glanced down at himself, and he saw that his prick was stiff and hard. Perhaps, as that whore in Sydney had said, he was a little man, but his cock was going to taste three blue-blooded cunts tonight and they would not mock him, not when he had become their lord of life or death on this forsaken atoll.
"Wait, Tenkovich," Madame Petroff was babbling, her lips trembling and sweat oozing from her forehead as she backed away, "Don't do anything you'll regret. I swear to you on the holy icon that I had nothing to do with your wife and mother. I was not even there when it happened. I have money and jewels-not the jewels on the ship, for most of them were paste. But back in Hong Kong, my brother and I will pay you well if you wont harm us and will help us get back to civilization."
"Where we are now, Madame, gold is as cheap as the sand on this beach. And there are pebbles just as valuable as your jewels. You cannot tempt me that way, Madame. And gold and jewels, even if we were back in Hong Kong, would not begin to repay me by a thousandth part for the lives of my mother and my wife. I prefer to take my payment in my own way. And I will begin with you, so that Olga and Tanya here may profit from the lesson. You see," he added with a cruel smile as again he inclined his head in mock deference to the frightened matron, "we are back to lessons again. Only this time, Madame, it is I who shall give you a little switching which may make you comprehend, in some infinitesimal degree, the hellish agony my poor mother and wife had to endure before death granted them a final mercy, a mercy that not even your brother would accord. Then we shall see. Now, Madame, since you have no other clothes to wear on this atoll, may I respectfully suggest that you remove your slip and your bathrobe. I want you naked when I fuck you!"
"No! I'd rather die! To be touched by a filthy serf!" Madame Petroff gasped, as she recoiled towards a huge palm tree. "You should have been whipped to death along with your rebellious family, you vile dog!"
His face twisted with bestial rage and then he fell upon her. She tried to fend off his assault by striking at him with her fists, but with a mocking laugh, he plunged his left hand in her thick pompadour and wrenched it brutally. With a shriek, Dorothea Petroff went down to her knees, and he bent her head back and viciously slapped her back and forth across the face, his eyes glittering with malice. "Are you going to strip yourself, Madame? Or shall I cut your garments off bit by bit with this knife?"
The knife flashed in his right hand as he menaced her with it. He had taken it from the inner pocket of his coat after he had undressed. He brought the point of it against her throat, and the woman gurgled, nearly fainting with her terror, her eyes enormous as they fixed on him.. .and on the rigid, dark-veined structure of his swollen prick.
"Don't hurt her! Please don't hurt Aunt Dorothea!" Tanya sobbed, trying to drag herself towards the terrible scene, bound though she was. "When we're rescued, you'll be hanged, you vicious, degenerate animal!" Olga panted, jerking at her wrists to no avail.
"Perhaps," Ivan Tenkovich continued as he kept the point of the knife pressed against the hollow of Dorothea Petroff's pulsing soft throat, "you would prefer death? No, that would be too easy. Well then, instead of killing you if you do not obey me, I will mar your beauty. I will cut my initials on your left breast and on your right buttocks if you don't this moment agree to get up and take off your slip and bathrobe and then let me fuck you. You have your choice. I mean what I say!" He touched the knife just a little, and the point pricked her finely-grained skin.
"Only your cunt, Madame Petroff, at the moment. Well, what is it to be?" Again he pressed on the knife, and a tiny trickle of blood rivuleted down her bare skin.
"Stop! I'll do it-oh merciful God, don't kill me! I can't bear pain!" she shrieked, clasping her hands in prayer to him.
He moved back, keeping the knife ready. "Do what I told you, then, you aristocratic bitch!" he flung at her.
Sobbing, she staggered to her feet, her hands still clasped in prayer, tears running down her cheeks: "Please, Tenkovich, have mercy on me, I'm only a helpless woman, don't dishonor me, don't dishonor yourself! Revenge like this wont bring them back, and I swear before God I had nothing to do with it!"
"I am going to count to five, Madame Petroff. If by then you arent naked, you'll have my initials on your fat teat and the cheek of your ass," he said as obscenely as he could, spitting the words at her. "One.. . two.. .three.. . "
With a scream of terror, Dorothea Petroff fumbled with the belt of the bathrobe and loosened it, then fairly tore away the buttons and jerked it off her body. Now she was clad only in a white slip, elegantly lace trimmed, and her slippers. The velvet bathrobe lay at her feet. It would, he thought amusedly, make an ideal mattress for the fucking he was going to give this big-titted aristocratic whore.
But now her fingers tremblingly halted at the shoulder straps of her slip. Her eyes blinded with tears, she whimpered, "Oh, will nothing turn you from this horrible deed?"
"Only your refusal to obey me. Then I shall cut my initial in your flesh, after which you shall be fucked anyway. Together with a little extra punishment for arguing with your master."
"Master?" Olga Rubutsoff cried, aghast, "You are a heartless, horrible fiend, and I swear that I will denounce you to the authorities and watch you hang from the gallows!"
"And I, Your Highness," he turned to her, his stiff prick bobbing between his wiry, hairy thighs, "also promise you that if you do not keep your mouth shut, I will cut off the cunt hair of your aunt and stuff your mouth with it as a gag!" At this scurrilous threat, Olga Rubutsoff uttered a stifled gasp and her face turned an indignant red as she regarded him, her magnificent breasts rising and failing in a turbulence that betrayed her indignation and her mounting terror.
He turned back to the cowering and sobbing matron now. "I am waiting, Dorothea." The use of her first name slashed her like a whip, making her realize perhaps even more than any of the other threats how swiftly her status had been reversed upon this isolated speck of land in the vast Pacific. He took a step towards her, his knife held out on a straight line towards her throat. With a wailing cry, Dorothea Petroff ripped the shoulder straps and tugged the expensive, exquisitely feminine garment down to flutter about her ankles. She was naked except for slippers.
The fog had lifted by now. Through the palm trees, the diffused rays of the moon shone down, tinting Dorothea Petroff's pale white skin with ghostly silver, burnishing it with lights and shadows that made her even more licentiously desirable to the naked steward who had once been a serf on her brother's estate.
"That's better, Dorothea," he chuckled lewdly. His eyes detailed her ripe, shuddering body. She had flung one arm over her panting breasts, and her other hand clenched against the thick furry triangle of her cunt.
"But there's no need for false modesty here. The air is warm, the trees around us hide us from prying eyes, and I am naked too, as you see. Take your hands away at once."
She began to whimper now, as the approaching and abhorrent act grew upon her consciousness, filled her with revulsion. He strolled over to a hedge, and tore off a switch, prickly and scratchy, about three feet long. Transferring the knife to his left hand, he moved towards her and suddenly slashed the improvised switch across her shielding hand. With a scream of pain, Dorothea Petroff drew it away and exposed the thick bush of her voluptuous cunt.
He licked his lips as he went on studying her nakedness. Her eyes closed, her arms at his sides, shaken by fitful tremors, she was crying softly now. Behind him.
Tanya, too, was weeping as a young girl or a child might weep, heartbroken. Only Olga was silent and she stared in horror and thwarted rage at the barbaric scene before her.
Dorothea Petroff's breasts were placed high on her milky chest, magnificent, ripe melons, set closely together, firm and without sag despite her mature age. The aureoles were wide and of a brownish-orange hue, and in their centers, with every breath she took, the ripely formed, dark-coral-tinted crinkly buds of her nipples vibrated and shook. Her belly was delightfully plump, a cushion whereon a man might rest himself in the act of fornicating. It was dimpled by a wide and shallow niche. From her lower abdomen, the black foliage of her cunt began to grow, thickening as it reached the mount of Venus which it entirely covered, and then descended along the cleft that led to her anus.
Her thighs were plump and round and beautifully proportioned, with fine satiny white skin. Perhaps they were a trifle too short for perfection, and her calves were somewhat too large and full for perfect beauty. But the appetizing juiciness of her flesh made him shudder with pent-up lust. He felt his prick tilt upwards and throb angrily as it demanded satisfaction deep in that hairy-covered channelway which was now his rightful domain.. .as was all the rest of her luscious, ripe nakedness.
"Turn around now," he directed. Burying her face in her hands, Dorothea Petroff obeyed, bowing her head and sobbing aloud in her woe and shame. The spacious, ripely rounded bottom cheeks were tightly set, so that the sinuous, shadowy grove which led to her anus was hardly visible; moreover, her besieged modesty had made her tighten the muscles of her bottom so as to hide all she could the most intimate and secret parts of her being.
"Now there's a backside to switch, and even the Cossacks would enjoy striking that fine white skin, Dorothea," he joked as he grazed her naked posterior with his long switch. She squirmed and groaned and sobbed, glancing back over her shoulder with a pleading look.
"All right, turn around and spread that imagine and expensive bathrobe of yours on the ground. We're going to fuck on it, you and I. Be quick about it. My cock is almost bursting to get into that hairy slit between your plump thighs, my fine aristocratic bitch!" he commanded.
Dorothea weepingly turned and slowly stooped to the discarded robe, and tugged at it until it was extended to its full length and width upon the ground.
"Now lie down on it and spread your legs, woman," he growled. "Your master is going to honor you by sticking his cock into that fat twat of yours! As I have no doubt your fine brother must have done many times to the wives and daughters of his serfs. Oh, I will admit that my former master did not molest my wife and mother, which is something to his credit, at any rate. And for all I know, he may have fucked you, Dorothea. The aristocracy can do anything, you know. Why, even brothers and sisters back in the days of ancient Egypt were married and fucked so they could bring forth royal heirs to sit upon the throne as Pharoah!"
"You despicable monster," Olga gasped, "may God strike you dead, if there is any justice in this world at all!"
"Take care, Olga, you are about to condemn your aunt to catching a cold in her cunt, for she will be minus the hair I cut off to use as a gag in your insolent mouth!" he mocked the older Princess Rubutsoff. Then he turned back to the groaning naked matron who was reluctantly sitting down on the bathrobe and slowly leaning back and offering herself. "Well, you see now? It's amazing how quickly one can learn when one has to! Spread your legs wider than that, you fat cow! I want to see that cunt of yours, all of it, the thick bush that still hides the way from my swollen prick. Good! And now, Your Highness," he looked back over his shoulder at the two horrified young women, "watch very carefully. Your turn isn't far off. And if you hope to exist at all comfortably on this atoll, you must know that the only way to escape with an unwhipped bottom is to obey me promptly when I give an order. Reflect on that while I fuck your aunt!"
So saying, he knelt down between poor Dorothea Petroff's trembling, gaping thighs. Once again, he had the knife in his left hand, and pricked her belly and then the valley between those luscious panting breast of her.
Her eyes fixed on that glistening knife with poignant terror: "Oh please put that dreadful knife away! Don't cut me, Don't hurt me with it! I-I'll obey you, but for God's sake, put it away!"
"I am going to test your newly found submission, Dorothea. There, you see the knife is buried in the sand, out of your reach. And now, let me hear you beg me to fuck you. Let me hear how a former aristocrat humbly asks a former serf on her brother's estate to stick his prick into her fat twat!"
One hand over her eyes, sobbing dolefully, her face turning from side to side, her other hand scrabbling against the ground, Dorothea Petroff whimpered, "D-don't h-hurt me, and-and I won't resist.. . oh, I beg of you, at least.. .out of decency.. .yes, yes can't we.. . couldn't we-won't you-not before my nieces? I-I swear I won't resist, please, Tenkovich, not in front of them!"
"Yes, exactly in front of them. I want them to watch. They watched my mother and wife die, naked, twisting and turning under the Cossack lash and they laughed, thinking it was great sport!"
"They were only girls then, children, how could they know?" Dorothea Petroff sobbingly began.
"They knew well enough, those whelps of a damned aristocrat! When they were babies, they drank it in with their mother's milk, that the nobility ruled the earth and that the poor serfs had no right to feelings or hopes or justice!" he interrupted savagely. "Let me hear another word about decency, and I will mark your body for life with my knife! Now then, beg me to fuck you!"
So saying, he put his left thumb and forefinger to her right nipple and took hold of it and slowly pinched, staring at her with narrowed, burning eyes. A maddened shriek tore from her throat as she flung back her head and clasped at his wrist with both her hands. "Eeyowwweeeouuuarrr!! Oh have mercy, yes, yes, f-f-fuck me, anything, but don't hurt me, I can't bear it! Oh God, oh God, have pity on me!"
"Now there's a command, Madame Petroff," he chuckled sadistically, "which I shall have no trouble in obeying. Very well. I am going to fuck your aristocratic cunt. Pay attention, Olga and Tanya, and try to learn all you can of what you must do to please me if you Don't want to be sorry for it later on!"
He had flung the switch down near the buried clasp-knife. Now he lowered himself towards her, the tip of his swollen ramrod brushing against the thick black curls that covered her palpitating cunt. Dorothea Petroff stared at him fascinatedly, as a wounded bird contemplates a serpent moving ever closer to it, seeing the rooting instrument of her degradation at the doorway to her intimate love-center. Her palms were flat upon the ground, and violent shuddering tremors ran up and down her naked body. His hands came down hard on her wrists as he pressed himself forward. She stiffened, feeling his stiff hot tool thrust between the plump outer labia of her cunt, and then twisted her face to one side and closed her eyes as he fell upon her full length, imbedding his prick to the balls inside her snug warm twat.
DOROTHEA
CHAPTER SIX
A simultaneous shriek of horror came from both Tanya and Olga Rubutsoff as they saw the man who had saved their lives stretch himself naked over their aunt, and, brutally pinning her wrists with both hands and thrusting her arms out in cross, thrust his prick into her bushy cunthole. Lovely Tanya turned her face to one side and closed her eyes so as to be spared this obscene spectacle, but Olga stared, her mouth gaping, her eyes wild with the shadow of horrified fascination.
The pale, diffused rays of moonlight penetrated the palm tree-shrouded setting, illuminating the naked buttocks of the ravisher as well as the opulent milky flesh of the assaulted matron beneath him.
"Well now, Dorothea," Ivan Tenkovich hoarsely growled, "what do you think of me now? Do you think I have learned my lesson? Am I fucking you nicely, Madame Petroff? Your cunt is surprisingly tight for a woman of your age. Can it be that your husband did not service you regularly enough, or were you unable to find enough lovers on your estate to do the job? There-and there-do you feel me inside of you, Madame." At each phrase, he arched himself, his prick-tip emerging just to the quivering entryway of her twat, then sank down violently, hilting himself to the balls which banged against the squirming base of her sumptuous behind.
Her face turned to one side, her eyes closed, her teeth bared in a rictus of loathing and despair, Dorothea Petroff tried to remain passive under her rapist's vengeful digs. But suddenly, certain now of conquest, the steward of the Anastasia released her wrists, slid his left forefinger under her, and a moment later
Dorothea Petroff uttered a horrified and indignant scream. "Ohh, don't do that to me! It's disgusting, it's vile! Take me and finish with it, don't shame me like this in front of my nieces!"
Turning his head and with a mocking expression on his lust-flushed face, Ivan Tenkovich chuckled, "I hope you two young sluts are studying what we are doing, Dorothea and I. It is highly important that you learn your trade on this island. You see, I have just put my finger into your aunt's asshole, and it is very sensitive for her, considering the way she is wriggling, like a big fish stuck at the end of a harpoon. You will find that this is very stimulating and it will make you move about under a man when he fucks you. Remember that well, my charming Princesses; from this moment on, your lives will be dedicated to only one thing, serving your master and pleasing him in all things!"
With this turning back to his naked, groaning victim, the steward drove his prick to the balls with a violent shove and at the same time synchronized the gouging of his finger inside her narrow, clenching rectum.
She tried to raise her head, an expression of agonized abhorrence and suffering mingled on her haughty features; her eyes were staring and glazed with tears, and her nostrils flickered convulsively. She grabbed at his shoulders with her jeweled fingers, trying to push him off her, but to no avail. "No! Oh my god! Take it out of me-at least do that mercy-aahhh, you're hurting me there-please, please!"
"Where is your haughty tone now, Dorothea? I see that you have learned you arent ordering a serf about any longer. That's very good as a start. I shall teach you new humilities, never fear. And now let me see if I can't make you come. Ah, it's been a long time since that fat little pussy of yours has had a man inside of it, isn't it? There, now you shall have my other finger on your clitty, maybe that will make you wriggle and fuck me well!" he exulted.
His right hand now disappeared between their bodies, and Dorothea Petroff, absolutely wild with shame at the frantic and secret knowledge that her body was beginning to quiver and respond to this detested violator, again uttered a plaintive scream, again raised her head, staring at her nieces, tears running down her cheeks, while her fingers clawed at his neck and shoulders in a futile effort to disengage herself from his odious constraint.
"Oh, God-please, take your fingers out of me-I can't bear it-it's intolerable-it's inhuman, oh, what shame in front of my own nieces! Ahh! Stop it, I implore you, I beseech you, oh, have me, have me since you must, but not this humiliation, not this shame!"
His only reply was to quicken the frigging of his right forefinger against her slowly stiffening pink nodule of delight, that dainty morsel snugly concealed with the cowl of pink pussy-flesh which was the apex of her most intimate emotions. And at the same time, he plunged his other forefinger back and forth inside her rectum so that she was triply besieged by the most devastating carnal tribulations.
The violence of his fucking, for all her attempts to remain stoic and silent, forced sobbing groans from the luxuriously opulent naked woman. She continued to claw and shove at him vainly with her ring-adorned, beautifully manicured fingers, and her head turned from side to side, her eyes wild as she felt the savage perforations of his cock deep in her crevice. And yet, the worst of all for Dorothea Petroff was the atrocious knowledge that his fingers were drawing her closer to the same response that she would have given her own husband or to an adored lover, and this left her pitifully distraught. "Aaahhh!! ! Oh, don't, I beg of you! You're hurting me-oh merciful God, I want to die, it's too shameful, too horrible! Please stop, at least take your fingers out of me, oohh, aahh, I can't bear it, oh please, please, have mercy!"
Tanya was completely dissolved in tears as she steadfastly hid her face so as not to have to look at the violation of her beautiful, naked aunt. But Olga watched with shadowed eyes, trembling lips, flaring nostrils, as if unable to believe what was taking place before her eyes.
"Now, Dorothea," he hoarsely shouted as his own furious passions reached their turbulent climax, "now you're going to feel in that haughty cunt of yours what a serf's sperm feels like! Get ready, you fat cow, I'm going to flood your twat!" And with a last vengeful thrust, flattening her as he crushed his chest down over her panting breasts, his finger wriggling about in the clenching canal of her rectum, his other finger twirling her stiffened clitoris, he shuddered violently as the explosive spasm burst within him. Dorothea Petroff uttered a woebegone sobbing cry: "Ugh! It's bursting into me, oh, the shame of it, to make me pregnant from such a horrible beast-ohh, dear God, it's intolerable!"
He drew out of her cunt and staggered to his feet, gloatingly and triumphantly staring down at her heaving and sprawled nakedness. The thick tufts of her pussy-hair were matted with glistening spunk, and the insides of her milky thighs jerked and twitched convulsively, telltale evidence that she was near her own climax despite all of her abhorrence.
But if she thought that she had expiated her heart-lessness of the past by being fucked, poor Dorothea Petroff was in for an atrocious disillusionment.
He bent down, twisted his fingers in her disheveled hair, and yanked. Shrieking, her hands trying to grasp at his to free herself from that agonizing traction on her tender scalp, she rose to her feet, tears flowing down her cheeks. He dragged her thus to a nearby palm tree, and ordered her to embrace it with her arms and to press her belly and breasts and cunt against its rough surface. This done, he took the rest of the coil of rope and wound it around her waist and then under her armpits and round the tree, knotting it snuggly. Then he looked about for a suitable instrument with which to flog her. The prickly, scratchy limb which he had earlier discarded would serve admirably; he stooped to retrieve it.
"Now then, you arrogant, haughty bitch, you inhuman aristocrat, you guzzler of champagne and strawberries," he mocked the sobbing woman, "for the switching that I promised you. It will not be quite so brutal as that which the Cossacks bestowed upon my wife and mother. But I hope that you will try your utmost to remember the lesson. Because, when I have finished, I am going to give you an order. And if you don't carry it out at once and without the slightest show of repugnance, Dorothea, what I shall give you now will be like a lover's caress, I promise you."
With this, raising the switch high in the air, he slashed it down straight across her hips. The naked matron uttered a scream, penetrating and poignant, trying to grind herself against the coarse, scratchy trunk of the palm tree to which she was fixed. She turned her head and her eyes, swollen with tears, fixed on him in a pathetic appeal to which he was utterly deaf. All he could see was the fiery streak that marred the milky perfection of her naked skin.
"Filthy coward!" Olga raged, jerking with all her might at her bonds. "Oh yes, you're quite a hero, Ivan Tenkovich! What harm did my aunt do you? Only a coward would try to gain his revenge from women. It was my father who had your wife and mother punished, so why do you not have the courage to face him?"
He stopped and walked back to her, then viciously kicked her in the hip as he stood looking down at her. Olga groaned and winced, but set her teeth against her lower lip almost to the blood to keep from crying out as she glared back at him mutinously.
"Your turn is coming, Princess Olga," he sneered. "You are already adding to it. Be careful you don't add too much, or you won't be able to pay the reckoning. The fact is, all of you are here now with me. And if the Prince, damn his soul to eternal hell, were here with you, I would kill him with my bare hands! What do you, a pampered aristocrat who has had everything her own way since the day she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, know about suffering and justice?" With that he returned to the sobbing Dorothea Petroff who had turned her contorted face to look back at him. When she saw him raise the switch slowly, grinning like a fiend in his gleeful anticipation, she uttered a scream and pressed herself frantically against the tree, trying to hide herself. The switch hissed down and slashed over the base of her buttocks, so that the entire spacious posterior seemed to be framed by two angry red weals. A scream of torment was torn from her by that new stroke, and her body quivered and jerked against the rope that coiled around her and forced her to embrace the rough bark of the palm tree.
Then, with the mastery of a true flagellant, Ivan Tenkovich began to whip the naked woman. He would lay two or three cuts horizontally over both globes of her buttocks, descending form the tops of her hips; then after a pause while he watched her squirm and twist, and drank in her sobs and cries, he whistled the switch across the base of her behind and on upwards a few times. Then after still another pause, and this was the most torturous of all for Dorothea Petroff to endure, he would apply the with vertically, crisscrossing with the angry darkening welts already imprinted on her fine milky skin, and patterning her ample, jutting naked asscheeks with violated-looking striata. Her screams were deafening now, and her babbled pleas for mercy were almost incoherent.
Finally he lowered the switch right between the base of her behind, pressing the tip up against the most intimate groove of all, which led to the mysterious ambery channel of her rectum. He demanded in a thick shuddering voice, "are you now disposed to obey my every order, Dorothea? If I free you, will you carry it out without the slightest show of rebellion or distaste? Speak quickly, for I have only half begun with your whipping!"
"Ohh-aah-aii-I-I can't stand-any-anymore.. .oh my God, have m-mercy on me, I beg-beg of you.. . yes.. .anything.. .only in the name of mercy, put down that horrible switch.. .I'm raw and it burns and I'm going to faint.. .ohhh!"
"We'll soon see, bitch," he chuckled. Taking his knife, he cut her loose, and Dorothea Petroff crumpled onto her knees, her hands at once rushing to her stripped and aching bottom, while she sobbed heartrendingly, her face drowned in tears, congested with agony and shame. He watched the way her big ripe breasts pantingly rose and fell, jiggling in all their luscious milky ripeness. Then his eyes studied the two young sisters, seeing how Tanya wept convulsively, with her face still obstinately turned away from this terrifying spectacle; and proud Olga who watched with quivering nostrils and parted lips.. .as if she were excited in a perverse way for the suffering for her own aunt. A flaming hatred against her rose in him; yes, he well remembered how this vapid, haughty little girl, just out of puberty, had tittered and giggled and whispered to little Tanya while the Cossacks had plied their leather thongs over the jerking and twisting naked bodies dangling from the rafters of that barn on that unforgettable afternoon. He ground his teeth with implacable fury, swearing to himself to make Olga Rubutsoff know the full degradation which he intended, savoring in advance his conquest of her. She would be last, the very last. First there would be Tanya.. .but not until Madame Petroff had acknowledged her fealty to him. Yes, the old order had changed, yielding to the new: now this aristocratic matron would beg to take orders from a lowly serf!
"Very good, Dorothea," he mockingly applauded. "Now let me test this newly found obedience. Do you see my prick?" He pointed to its limp, greasied, and dwindled form between his hairy, wiry thighs, the switch still in his right hand. "Answer me! When a master speaks to his slave, she answers at once or she is flogged! I do not think things have changed that much; I seem to recall that on your brother's estate, the knout and the nagaiga were inflicted for the same reason. Speak!"
"I.. .I.. .see-see it," the woman faintly managed, a wave of scarlet flooding her tear-stained face.
Both Tanya and Olga uttered a shriek of incredulous horror. Without a word, he went to Dorothea and twisting his left hand in her hair once more, lashed her twice across those big shuddering milky breasts, drawing the most inhumanly strident screams for mercy as she jerked and twisted, her body swaying and weaving in the most lascivious manner.
"You are thick-witted, Madame. Let me tell you a last time. Whenever you address me, it will be with the title of 'Master,' and failure to do this will cost your fine white skin dearly, as it just has. Now, answer my question again!"
"Y-yes, I.. .I see it, m-m-Master," Dorothea Petroff finally pronounced, shuddering with revulsion.
"Well, then, bitch, you must see that it is sticky from its work in that fat, tight, neglected cunt of yours. You must clean it and prepare me for your nieces. Come here to me, put your arms around me, and with your lips take my cock into your mouth and suck it lovingly, and rub your tongue nimbly over all of it."
"You degenerate, you horrible, inhuman animal!" Olga stormed, "Oh, if my father were only here! If I were only free and had a weapon, I would kill you myself!"
But this time he ignored the older beauty. "I am waiting, Dorothea," he said with a greedy smile, standing with his legs astride, his left forefinger pointing to his sticky prick, the terrible switch still brandished in his right hand. "And a master does not tolerate that a slave take her own time to carry out an order that he has given her. At once, bitch, or back to the tree you shall go, and this time you shall have your whipping on your titties and on your fat cunt!"
Dorothea Petroff, groaning and sobbing, desperately hurried on her knees towards him. The two sisters gasped simultaneously, unable to believe the testimony of their eyes. Their haughty, beautiful aunt actually crawling on her knees to that horrible little man, meekly bowing her head at his filthy language which sullied and offended them both as it certainly must her.
"Don't tell me that at your age you've never sucked a man off, Dorothea?" he taunted the sobbing, trembling woman, who was now wringing her hands in despair at the prospect of carrying out so vile an order.
"No, oh God, never! I have never done that for any man! Oh ask me anything else, in the name of reason-but don't humiliate me so before my nieces!"
ISLAND MASTER
CHAPTER SEVEN
The presentiment which had made Ivan Tenkovich row his three victims to the western side of the little atoll had been wiser than he knew. For at the very moment that this former Russian serf was about to compel the weeping and ravaged Madame Dorothea Petroff to suck and lick his cock, about half a mile to the east a most unusual scene was taking place. Had ' the vengeful steward of the Anastasia followed the suggestion of the three unfortunate women who had fallen into his hands and gone on to explore this uncharted little speck of land in the middle of the vast Pacific, he would have believed himself either attacked by fever or suffering from the illusion of a mirage.
Just beyond the large grove of palm trees was a kind of valley, almost jungle-like in the primitive abandon of its flowers such as lycopersica and flowering pimalia, and many wild varieties of hibiscus. There were clumps of exotic bushes and plants defying description, many of them unique to this isolated atoll. But about three hundred yards from this valley there was a steep incline about fifteen feet high and just over that little I hill, one saw the incongruous spectacle of a rambling J white building, spreading for nearly the size of a city block, one story high, made of polished ersite. To the left, as you faced it from the hilltop, there was a curious kind of cupola atop a small rectangular building that was no larger than an average cottage. It was from that cupola, actually a highly developed and remarkable scientific electronic laboratory, that the deceptive signals had been transmitted which had made the steamer run upon the magnetic reef!
No! No genie of an ancient lamp had appeared to convey those two buildings and all their marble out of nowhere down upon this Godforsaken little speck of Pacific. It had been due mainly to the genius, the perverse and singular genius of a man who called himself Lord Henry Philbrock.
Lord Henry Philbrock was fifty years of age, tall, wiry, with sparse graying hair that had once been black. His face was sardonic with mercilessly cold blue eyes, a hawk-like nose, and the thin ascetic lips which marked the sadist. Fifteen years ago he had held a high post with the foreign office in London. His father had left him an enormous legacy, derived mainly through realty rentals on buildings which the former had owned in the very slums of London.. .thousands of pounds had come into the hands of Lord Henry Philbrock through his father's greed and the exploitation of the poor. But since the son had even fewer moral scruples than the father, he'd suffered no guilt in accepting that legacy.
Lord Philbrock had, from the beginning, been a passionate cocksmith. He celebrated his eighteenth birthday by seducing his younger siblings' governess, quietly crawling into her bed late at nigh, after she had gone to sleep and his parents left for the opera, and commencing to titillate promising areas of her supine form.
She was a beautiful German blonde whose husband had deserted her, and when she found that a virile young man had entered her room, crawled into bed with her, and was now gently assailing the mossy gates of her cunny, it had taken all her will power to continue to feign sleep.Finally, she could stand it no more: "About an inch further down, young man," she said; "and, I think, just a trifle slower.. .ah! Excellent!"
This initial success had given Lord Henry Philbrock the impetus he needed to pursue his chase of every seductive and desirable female who came within his broadening horizon. At the age of nineteen, thanks to his wealth and his father's indulgence (his mother was a society-minded woman who really did not care for either husband or son so long as she had money for jewels and furs and fine clothes and entertainment), he had a bachelor apartment a few miles from the family mansion in which he had installed a magnificently beautiful thirty-year-old divorcee as his mistress. She, being as perverse as he, taught him what he had not already practiced but which he had assuredly read about, for even at that age, Lord Philbrock had devoured every erotic book that he could order from the bookstalls of Paris, London, Berlin, Budapest and Vienna. And since she was herself an incipient masochist, she taught him the voluptuous use of the whip, a practice for which he had the greatest aptitude because he wholeheartedly believed in the precept of Nietzsche: "When thou goest unto woman, take thy whip."
By the time he was twenty-five, he had half a dozen mistresses installed throughout London, Paris, and Berlin, women who could give him every kind of love, from the enthusiastic cringing of his favorite submissive to his partnership with a tall, blonde, masterful bisexual, who arranged sessions for him at which two or three other women would be present so that he could fuck one while the others indulged in lesbian antics, culminating in a bondage scene involving the whipping and fucking of one of the women, who would dress in decidedly lesbian and affect to not care at all for men-at first. Such scenes were facilitated via liberal amounts of that universal lubricant, money. And Lord Henry Philbrock's perverse proclivities grew apace.
Throughout his life, as a kind of recurring motif, there was always the dream of living in a civilization where sexual slavery was legal and every form of erotic liberty and license was permitted.
At thirty, he fell desperately in love for probably the first time in his life, with a magnificent beauty by the name of Madeleine DuCours. She was twenty-seven, with jet black hair and strikingly animated, intelligent features, conversed in several languages, and was beautifully dressed. She was also exquisitely passionate. But she would permit him everything except fucking; she had even gone so far as to French him once on an impulsive and capricious dare in a private box at the opera in Covent Garden. The box was dimly lighted, and Madeleine had crouched between his knees with his overcoat flung over her to hide her from other spectators, while she unbuttoned his trousers, drew out his cock, and feverishly sucked it until he spurted into her mouth.
She had maddened him with her beauty and her erotic imagination, and she had also told him that she was a virgin. Finally he proposed marriage.
During his courtship of the dark beauty, he had been engaged in a secret financial coup which had as its aim the devaluation of the British pound. If the coup went off, he stood to make several millions. But the coup failed. Instead, he found himself disgraced and in exile and very nearly in danger of prison.
And the traitor, or rather the traitress, who had betrayed him to the Minister of Finance was none other than Madeleine DuCours herself!
One July evening she had come to one of his luxurious bachelor apartments after dinner and the theater, allowed him to undress her down to brassiere and open-legged panties, which showed off the base of her mouth-wateringly curved oval bottom-cheeks. His hands were busy kneading her voluptuous and cream ass while he prodded her furry crotch through the thin stuff of her panties with his bulging prick, which her own slim hand had drawn out of its hiding place.
She had teased him about being so serious of late and accused him of having something on his mind which did not concern her. In a momentary lapse of good judgment, he had boasted about his plan. And the next day he found himself summoned before a tribunal, threatened with prison if he did not reveal the exact details of the coup, and warned that after investigation had been made, he might well be charged for conspiracy against the crown.
Having bribed a trustworthy aide in the office of the Ministry of Finance, he learned that it had been Madeleine who had informed upon him, and, to his horror, that she was none other than the mistress of the Minister of Finance himself and far from being a virgin.
This treachery on the part of a woman he had trusted and loved completely destroyed what might be called nominal reason. He could think only of revenge. He knew that he would be imprisoned and disgraced, so he made arrangements to transfer his money to a Swiss bank. The day before he was to be formally charged, he disappeared from London, and so did Madeleine DuCours. And from that day forth, fifteen years ago, no one had ever heard of him or Madeleine again.
He had her abducted by a faithful butler named Edgar Lomes, who shared his master's penchants for cunt and for the whip. Indeed, for his excellent service, Edgar was often allowed to engage a pretty young serving maid from the country over whom he was given every right, like a feudal master. And occasionally, when Lord Henry Philbrock was bored, he would allow Edgar to take the unhappy girl down into the cellar of his mansion, which had been outfitted with every kind of flagellatory and torture apparatus known, where the girl would find herself blindfolded and stripped and bound to a sawhorse or to a St. Andrews cross and whipped mercilessly almost to the blood before she was fucked or buggered. Thereupon he would take over and conclude the session by having the girl yield her mouth and cunt and asshole to the delights of his tirelessly virile prick.
Lord Henry Philbrock and his servant, Edgar Lomes, after visiting Geneva to make certain that the transfer of funds had been successfully completed, had chartered a little merchant ship on which Madeleine, confined in a large packing crate, was an unwilling passenger. They sailed to Cairo; and there, in a house owned by the infamous Marquis du Teatre, Madeleine DuCours expiated her treachery.
Suspended by her wrists from ropes fixed to a metal ring set in the ceiling of a cellar dungeon, stripped naked and blindfolded, Madeleine was thrashed, then "squared and cubed": double-holed by both men twice, so that each had taken the measure of her cunt and asshole with his stalwart prick.
Then the Marquis had her bound to a curious sofa and buggered her, while his son Theodoric, his fingers twisting her disheveled black tresses, forced her to suck him off three times, on pain of frightful tortures. Claiming afterward that she had been awkward and inattentive, Theodoric had servants re-position her on the sofa, then sucked her until she screamed for mercy.
After that she was turned over to the Marquis's precocious daughter Marie-Chantal, who forced the agonized young woman to participate in a downhill bicycle race with herself and her favorite maid-slave, one in which the bicycle seats had been replaced by oversized, padded, leather-covered dildos. When Madeleine not only lost the race, but slightly damaged her derailleur mechanism, she was whipped and made to gamahuche the other two women.
After a week of such atonement for her treachery, Madeleine was sold at a stiff discount to an elderly Egyptian antique dealer, whose first act as her master was to clip her elegant long fingernails and set her to stripping and refinishing antique furniture.
Thus the first step in Lord Henry Philbrock's incredible career of merciless despotism had been completed. He and Edgar sailed the day after on a long extended trip to the Hawaiian Islands, the Philippines, and Japan. He had purchased outright a former charter vessel on which he proposed to transport laborers and materials to build a kind of palace of lust, for such it certainly was. It would have a subterranean arena where exciting tableaux could be enacted, tailored to the particular penchants of his guests. It took him nearly ten years to complete his mission, and during this time he visited such exotic lands as Hungary, Finland, Ceylon, Persia, Manitoba, Malta, Malaysia, and the Piedmont, meeting men and women there of great affluence who shared his penchants for enforced servitude.
He had found this little atoll during one of his cruises on the steamer he had purchased, and had marked it as the site for . And for the past several years, known only to the initiates who were his friends, it flourished as a little, unique world in which there were only masters (or mistresses) and slaves. On occasion, vessels off their course were drawn on to this magnetic reef by just such electronic signals as had been sent out to trap the Anastasia. These ships disappeared without a trace, and rescue ships who plowed the ocean seeking survivors never found any. The captive passengers and crew who displayed the proper tastes and aptitudes were given over for "training" by the masters and the mistresses of this incredible little society); those who were sufficiently wealthy or unattractive were released back into their own civilization after a ransom (nominal or substantial, respectively) had been paid, Lord Henry Philbrock had his renegade neurologist, a New Zealander named Dr. Porthy, give them an injection which destroyed their recent memories, so that they could never betray the location of .Those who refused the injection were remanded to Dr. Porthy's experimental programs until they relented. So far, none had held out for long.
In one of the magnificently furnished suites of apartments in this building which Ivan Tenkovich had not yet seen, Elvire de St. Cyr was witnessing the punishment of a new slave.
She was splendidly beautiful, silver-haired, svelte, with superb quince-shaped breasts, long gloriously-proportioned legs, and the soft pink skin of a baby. Her face was an exquisite oval, with soft tremulous mouth, delicate aquiline nose, and gray-blue eyes. She was twenty-nine, and she was one of the mistress of , and had been so for the past three years.
She was still a virgin to the male; her own uncle, a newspaper publisher in Paris, had attempted to rape her when she was his ward. Four years later, ingeniously, she had poisoned him and escaped punishment for that crime. Fabulously wealthy, an only child whose parents had died while she was not yet out of puberty, Elvire de St. Cyr had met Lord Henry Philbrock through a mutual acquaintance in Paris, and he had offered her the opportunity to share the realm of with him and several others, where she would be free to indulge her lust for her own sex, train beautiful slaves to decorate the palace, and entertain the distinguished female guests who would be invited there on occasion.
But if Elvire de St. Cyr was a sadist, she was also exquisitely imaginative. Often Lord Henry Philbrock consulted with her in planning gala spectacles for his distinguished guests, who arrived on their private yachts at his invitation. At least once a month elaborate pageants were given, or new slaves were debuted who had been acquired exactly as the survivors of the Anastasia were, "saved" from the vast ocean and the deadly sharks that infested the waters around the atoll. Indeed, sharks were at all times the sinister and silent guardians of .They patrolled Lord Phil-brock's perimeter for him so efficiently that his consciousness was entirely untroubled by those souls so unsympathetic as to prefer death as shark-sushi to a life of whipping, fucking, and costume construction.
At times, the silver-haired Elvire trained slaves to become pony girls, in frantically imaginative costumes. The girl she was now having punished was, in fact, a newcomer cast upon the shores of this forsaken atoll and who had been consigned to her for the express purpose of becoming a pony girl who would serve the magnificent and voluptuous dominatress, Marjorie Sayers. She had rebelled, and had been handed over to the exquisite Lesbian from Paris.
In a kind of boudoir complete with a chaise lounge and whose walls were completely mirrored from ceiling to floor, the captive stood with her arms in cross, bound by each wrist with a silken cord that connected with a metal ring set into each opposite wall. The silken cord was deceptively fragile-looking; not even Lord Henry Philbrock himself, exerting all his strength, could snap it. It was one of the products of the brain of a modest and mildly mannered little engineer named Bernard Kagan, an exile from Berlin and a friend of the ruler of . As a reward for this little man's many remarkable inventions that had been devised for the sole purpose of gratifying the lusts of the rulers of the atoll, Kagan himself had the title of master and had a luxuriously furnished suite in this very same buildings.
The captive was blindfolded, and her ears were filled with wax so that the suspense of not seeing or hearing what was going to happen to her would stimulate her nervous system to the utmost. Elvire particularly savored this form of punishment because it procured for her the most thrilling of lesbian delights. "When a girl has been punished in this way," she would tell Marjorie Saycrs, "she suddenly becomes the most expert gamahucher one could wish for. She hastens with the most commendable alacrity to do everything and more that you could require. No, a simple whipping is not enough to punish a slave; I wish there to be drama and terror and fear, for it stirs the vital juices and makes a girl's pussy-cream flow more copiously, which of course means that mine will flow the better also!"
The captive's ankles were spread widely apart and it was seen that silken cords tied to each big and each little toe, and the two strands binding each foot in turn fixed to a metal ring set in the luxuriously carpeted floor. The carpeting was at least two inches thick, and it was sumptuous to the tread, and silent as well. But these rings had been set into the floor below and emerged just under the carpeting pile, projected upwards by little metal pegs. Thus she was presented with her legs straddled a full yard wide to give access to her most intimate anatomy.
She was really superb, and Elvire, who was clad in only a black satin negligee and high heel pumps, reclined on the chaise lounge, one aristocratic, tapering hand caressing the back of her neck as her narrowed eyes contemplated the naked penitent.
Her name was Hester Brown, and she was an Australian who had been one of the survivors rescued from a freighter which had been drawn to the magnetic reef about three weeks ago. All of the crew had drowned except two strapping deck hands and the six passengers who had paid for the cruise from Melbourne to San Francisco. Hester Brown had been one of those and the other female survivor (since there were two couples on this cruise) was even now awaiting her own punishment for rebellion in the dungeon of Magala Khan. Their husbands had gone down with the freighter. As for the two seamen, they had been offered a post as trainers by Lord Henry Philbrock himself and had readily accepted; the alternative was death.
Hester Brown was twenty-eight, in the full flower of her womanliness. She had been married for three years to a sheepherder whose estate was about forty miles northwest of Melbourne. She had not been especially happy with him, for she had come from Sydney where there was gaiety and night life and the trappings of a metropolitan city to a bleak farm where the only profits were those made from the wool of sheep which she detested. Moreover, her husband had been a taciturn man about ten years older than herself, and in bed he fucked her as if she were simply a sheep. She could not find any better analogy because he was so impersonal and brutally swift about the affair. Hester, on the contrary, was warm-blooded and ardent, even though she had been a chaste virgin until her wedding night. She thought she had fallen in love with Mortimer Brown when she had bumped into him in a crowded Sydney department store and he had bought her tea and cakes and told her of the loneliness of the hills and the howling of the dingo dogs and the fact that he had been an orphan back in Surrey and had gone to work at the age of fifteen for a farmer whose uncle in Australia had suddenly died and left him land and money. There he had made his own fortune as the foreman of this employer's property, and he had been given a piece of land all his own and enough money to buy a ram and a ewe to start his flock.
They had taken the cruise because Mortimer Brown had just sold the wool of his herd for a fabulous price, wool bringing a particularly high price this season. And Hester had hoped that perhaps the cruise would improve their marriage and particularly their bedtime fucking arrangement. She had hoped that in the proximity of the seamen and the cordiality of the crew, her silent and morose husband might unbend and start to enjoy life a little, now that he was wealthy.
And suddenly the freighter had crashed upon the reef; there had been terror and hysteria and she had been in the water and someone had dragged her to shore and then she had fainted and known nothing until she had opened her eyes to see the imperious face of Marjorie Sayers bending over her. And then she had learned that she was a slave and subject to whip and torture and even death in the event of disobedience.
But to overcome the conventional habits of her past life had been difficult, even though she was by no means a prim and modest woman. Secretly, she longed to be fucked. She had even, aboard the freighter, flirted a little with the two seamen who worked on deck, because she recognized their tremendous virility, and also because they had been kind and genial towards her.
And then suddenly she had found herself a slave of a lesbian despot who, the very first morning of her servitude, had ordered her to strip naked, kneel at her feet, kiss them, and then slowly undress her and gamahuche her. Hester Brown had indignantly refused.
That had cost her a flogging with a three-thonged leather martinet while she had been bound to a saw horse with adjustable legs and arms so as to distend the cheeks of her plump and deliciously ripe creamy behind. The tips of the leather lashes striking that tender, intimate furrow had caused her great suffering. But she had still refused to gamahuche Marjorie Sayers, whom she stigmatized as "icky."
The beautiful imperatrix, whose two daughters, Velma and Marguerite, followed in their mother's sadistic and lesbian footsteps, had bided her time. She had recognized in Hester Brown the potential of a superb lust slave, who must be awakened to realize how creditably she could serve. So she had made the young woman bathe and dress her, apply her make-up, serve her meals, for two days. Then again she had commanded that Hester gamahuche her. When again the beautiful widow had blushingly but angrily refused. Marjorie Sayers had her stretched out on a teakwood table, her arms and legs spread-eagled and corded to rings set in the table. She had been placed on her back with a bolster under her behind, a bolster made of scratchy wood whose splinters pierced and prickled that sumptuous bare bottom in the most excruciatingly painful way. And then Velma and Marguerite had been turned loose on her.
Velma had golden blonde hair set in a long pageboy whose curls descended past her shoulder blades. Marguerite, pert, saucy, her black hair set in short bob, and slim and svelte like her mother, Marjorie, was as sadistic and precocious as her older sister, and in some ways ever more fiendishly inventive. Lord Henry Philbrock had more than once laughingly observed to Marguerite's mother that if the girl were not endowed with the rank of an apprentice mistress herself, he himself would have been delighted to take her on as his own personal slave. She was fierce and proud, cunning and cruel.
It was she, indeed, who had recommended the particular punishment for poor Hester Brown. She had taken a pair of manicure tweezers and calmly and deliberately pulled out every one of Hester's dark brown pussy curls. Velma meanwhile, had taken a long egret plume and caressed Hester's tits, concentrating on the nipples until they became dark and swollen with exacerbation. So the combination of pain and voluptuous titillation had made poor Hester Brown almost faint under the double assault upon her nerves. But she had still not agreed to do what Marjorie Sayers demanded.
At the end of her first week, she had been brought into the arena and found, to her horror, that she was to be pitted against the other survivor among the passengers, Jane Wallace, the wife of the other drowned husband aboard the freighter. Jane Wallace was twenty-four, with wheat-colored hair set in an imposing bun at the top of her head. She had been cool, formal and rather distant throughout the trip, much to Hester's dismay. She was a switch-hitter, and not even her own husband had known that. Both young women had been stripped naked and given dog whips made of black leather, whose tapering ends terminated in cruel little knots.
Lord Henry Philbrock, presiding at this spectacle, had decreed that the two young women were to engage in a duel of the whip, and that she who first cried for mercy would be fucked by three slaves, which he had specially trained.
The abhorrence and terror which Hester Brown had experienced at this decree had given strength and cunning to her arm, though she had never before in her life wielded the whip. And she had managed to flog Jane Wallace to her knees, striping her back and breasts and bottom with furious empurpling welts from her whip until Jane had screamed for mercy.
She had been taken from the arena, her wrists handcuffed behind her, and made to kneel in front of
Marjorie Sayers in the latter's box while she watched the fate reserved for the vanquished blonde.
Jane Wallace had been seized by the two seamen, Tom and Sam, the survivors of the doomed freighter, now executioners and torturers for the ruler of . They had dragged the sobbing, pleading naked widow to a curious apparatus that Lord Henry Philbrock himself had designed with the help of Bernard Kagan. It was not much more than a kind of low rectangular tabouret at one end of which was a kind of soldered metal clamp which fixed around Jane Wallace's neck. At the lower sides of this tabouret were spring-lock metal rings that fixed around the captive wrists. But at the front of the table there was a kind of Y-shaped arch that projected up the waist and consequently the loins of the prisoner. Then from the rear feet of the tabouret ran two short planks, at the end of each of which was another adjustable metal bracelet; these fitted around the hollows of the prisoner's knees. When Jane Wallace had been fixed into that singular apparatus, she found herself with her head bowed down and her bottom arching up lewdly, and her legs spread sufficiently so that the pink gape of her cunt-hole was shameless and wantonly exposed.
Each of the deck hands had led in a sex-starved slave. These poor men had been tortured for over a year, allowed to watch some of the sexual depravity that took place on the island, but never allowed to participate. As an added measure the men had been closely watched during that time and tied up at night so that they had never been able to give themselves relief by masturbating or touching themselves in any way.
Jane Wallace, shrieking and pleading, begging to be put to death, crying out against the atrocious pain of violation by the sex-starved lunatics, had had to endure a fucking from each of them. Three times, long, bony, bright red pricks dug into her quaking quim almost faster than the eye could watch as the men glued themselves to this gift, this "bride's" loins so unshakably that it was necessary to douse them with a pail of cold water before they could be broken loose.
Jane Wallace, shocked by the trauma of the furious rape, had managed to escape in the dead of that same night and had flung herself into the ocean. A shark had espied her and ended her suffering for all time.. .
But Hester Brown, though having vanquished this unhappy rival, was not exempt in the last from her duties to the imperatrix Marjorie Sayers.
So the latter had once again commanded that the young widow gamahuche her and lick her anus; and when for the third time Hester Brown had refused, the dominatress had decided to turn her into a pony girl for a spectacle which was scheduled for the very next night after our saga begins upon . . .a spectacle at which would attend several important guests of Lord Henry Philbrock and at which, as we shall see, there would be a reunion of the most surprising and terrifying kind!
Marjorie Sayers had had preparations to make for this gala event, so she had asked her dear friend Elvire, whose bed she had shared on many a night, to devise a sufficient punishment for poor Hester Brown.
It was this punishment that Velma and Marguerite were now inflicting on the captive. Hester Brown was about five feet six inches in height, with jet-black hair, a soft creamy skin, a heart-shaped face with dark blue eyes, a winsome, full, sweet mouth, dainty snub nose. But her body was lush and it was no wonder that Elvire and Marjorie lusted for her. Her buttocks were spacious and round and firm, upstandingly posed, with a thin cleft between them which was now widely and obscenely spraddled because of the position of her ankles. Her breasts were twin melons-Crenshawsclosely-spaced, high-set, and crowned with dark brownish-coral buds in wide pale-pink aureoles.
Velma, kneeling between the captive's thighs, her hands gripping the sides of those beautiful, widely straddled naked legs, was in the act of gamahuching Hester, while Marguerite, behind the sobbing and groaning young woman, was alternately pricking the inner curves of her bottom as well as her asshole with a long darning needle made of whalebone and applying, with her right hand, a deft, quick lash from a little whip.
The silver-haired Elvire put the tip of her dainty, soft pink tongue in the corner of her mouth, leaning forward absorbedly as she watched the blindfolded and deafened naked slave subjected to this double punishment, which so artfully combined pain and voluptuous pleasure. She had not only slept with Marjorie Sayers but with both Velma and Marguerite, though as a dom-inatress herself she much preferred to take the initiative and to be the aggressor; these two young girls were, like their mother, inflamed dominatresses and therefore it was only by a tacit agreement to bed together without seeking to take the upper hand that they and Elvire de St. Cyr were able to have pleasure.
Velma Sayers was of medium height, and wore only a long tunic made of fine red silk, which covered her from her shoulders to mid-thigh, and sandals with high heels. She was naked otherwise. Her breasts were remarkably large and full as compared with the unfortunate Hester Brown's; they were widely spaced, and the nipples were extremely well developed, undoubtedly because of the lesbian games that Velma had been enjoying. Her bottom was succulent, with upstandingly rounded cheeks set very tightly together, and her thighs were womanly in their roundness and firmness, with sleek, gradually curving calves that completed a most mouthwatering ensemble of young femininity. To go with her golden hair, Velma had delightful magnolia-tinted skin. Most of the inhabitants of -that is, those who were not slaves or workers-shunned the sometimes intolerably blazing sun and remained in their apartments to retain the exquisite satiny complexion that so enhanced their feminine charms.
Marguerite Sayers was svelte, with nervously sinuous calves and thighs, and soft, small but deliciously quince-shaped breasts. Her jet black hair was coiffed in helmet style to give her oval-shaped face a still more piquant mien. Her skin was a warm olive and at a young age she was already an accomplished torturess and lesbian sadist-as many an unhappy female captive of could well attest.
Hester Brown jerked forward now with a sobbing cry as Marguerite Sayers, lifting the little black leather whip in her right hand, delivered a downward-flicking cut that made the ends of the oiled and supple leather thongs bite viciously into the shadowy groove that separated Hester's quivering bottom-cheeks. But this lunge did not avert the lash in the least, for Marguerite, with a childish giggle, moved forward and delivered a second stroke inflicted exactly like the first, while at the same time her older sister, digging her finger into poor Hester's thighs, plunged her tongue deeply into the naked captive's twat and found the clitty and then began to rub at it lasciviously.
"Ohhhh!! Dear God, I cant stand it, I cant stand it! It hurts-oooh, please don't do that to me! Eyaaa-rrrhhh!! Oh, the whip, the whip, how it hurts my poor flesh! Ooohhh, what are you doing to me there, oh, have mercy, I cant do such things, I'd rather die, Don't torture me like this-Eowwww!! ! " This last prolonged cry was torn from the writhing naked widow as Marguerite lowered her little whip and then flicked it right up against the base of the buttocks so that the tips of the lash nipped and bit venomously, one of them gliding into the fold that led to Hester's sensitive asshole. Her mad lunges and twists excited Velma now, for she felt the captive's pussy mashing and rubbing against her nose and mouth. Holding on tenaciously to Hester's quaking thighs, the golden-haired daughter of the dominatress began to tongue-suck the captive with long deep digs, just as a man might plunge his prick into that warm tingling chasm.
At last Elvire could bear no more. She clapped her hands, and the two sisters reluctantly ceased their sport. Languorously rising from the chaise lounge, the silver-haired Lesbian approached the sobbing and squirming Hester. She put out her aristocratically long tapering hands and gently stroked those magnificent breasts, the paths of her dainty thumbs soothing the pouting dusky nipplebuds. Hester started convulsively at first, fearing a new assault of pain. But, as the beautiful Parisian dominatress lingeringly continued to stroke and tweak her nipples with one hand while she glided her right down the beautifully sculptured goblet of Hester's belly, titillating the navel, and thence to the thick dark curls of Hester's cunt, the victim began to shiver and sigh with unmistakable tumescence. Long twitching spasms rippled her spraddled naked prize, from knees to crotch; gradually the tangled and thick ringlets of her pussy fur seemed to part until one could see the plump soft pink lips of that delicious snatch, gaping and faintly moist as proof that Hester Brown was ready for pleasure. But not, alas, her own!
Now Elvire's slim hands wandered gently over the inflamed and splotched cheeks of Hester's trembling bottom as if alleviating the angry marks left by that cruel little whip. Gradually, too, dainty fingertips edged along the intimate amber cleft which led to both Hester's pleasure orifices, and now at last her right forefinger prodded the dainty, crinkly rosette of Hester Brown's still virgin asshole, while her left forefinger crept down to enter that moist open cunt and attack the clitty which had begun to emerge from its protective hiding place and throbbed erect like a miniature male cock.
Groans and gasps and whimpering sighs escaped the shuddering, tractioned captive.
At Elvire's nod, Velma deftly plucked out the wax stopples from Hester's ears. Then in a caressing voice, Elvire murmured, "Poor darling, they've been torturing you, haven't they?"
"Ohh.. .why-yes.. .oh, what are you doing to me? Please-please save me from these horrible people! My husband's dead, I want to die too!"
"Did you love him so much, then?" Elvire insidiously demanded. Now her forefinger had pried just inside the lips of Hester's bumhole, and the naked captive squirmed uneasily and jerked, with a startled gasp of shame. "Aaah! oh, don't do that to me, I beg of you. Oh no, i-it wasn't that, I didn't love him, but at least he could have saved me and protected me from these awful people, from this dreadful place!"
"You find it so dreadful, then?"
"It-it's incredible-here on this tiny little island which nobody knows anything about, to find a building like this, and all these things and the furniture and the expensive utensils and draperies-what is this place, where am I?"
"Didnt your mistress, Marjorie Sayers, tell you?"
"She-she said it was called . But what is it and how did it come about?"
"It does not concern you, my dear darling. But your mistress is quite angry with you because you won't obey her. Now, you have been sent to me for punishment, but I feel sorry for you. If you are a very sweet girl and do exactly what I tell you to, I will ask Marjorie to let me have you as my slave. Would you like that?"
"Oh," Hester Brown sobbed as she kept involuntarily squirming to try to get Elvire's finger out of her asshole (the Lesbian had playfully inserted the tip of her forefinger just past the sphincter muscles and was gently edging it back and forth), "if you'll only help me, help me get back to Australia! I have relative there, they have money, I'd pay you well!"
"I have no need of money here, slave," Elvire said coldly, at once removing both forefingers, only to apply them and her thumbs to the nipples of Hester's pointing breasts. "I prefer to live here rather than anywhere else in the world because I can enjoy myself without restrictions. But if you were sensible and would obey me, I could be gentle to you and teach you many delights which no man could ever teach you, lovely Hester. You have such beautiful breasts, and such a magnificent bottom. And your adorable sweet little cunt, it fairly makes me moisten in mine to see it pouting now, so sweetly open to me! Would you like to be my slave?"
"Oh, oh, not a slave, not in this day and age-it's impossible!"
"You think so? But everyone who sets foot upon this island becomes a slave or is punished, as you will be, and most cruelly, by Marjorie. She does not have my patience, darling. Here, kiss me. Let me show you how tender it can be between us if you are a good sweet obedient girl."
And, casting off her negligee, the tall, lithe silver-haired Lesbian was breathtakingly naked. The two Sayers sisters stared at her greedily.
Elvire approached the blindfolded captive until at last her cunt pressed against the furry-thatched nook of the blindfolded widow; but Elvire's cunt had not a hair about it, and was as pink and soft as that of a child-save that it was voluptuously ripe-lipped and the clitoris was extraordinarily long, more than an inch where fully erect. And it was erect now, roused by the sight of Hester's squirming and the sound of her cries under the whip of Marguerite and the gamahuching of lovely golden-haired Velma.
Her slim hands gripping the cheeks of Hester's bottom, Elvire now began to girlfuck her victim, with a slow and insistent rotary movement of her loins which rubbed her naked pussy against the furry thicket that partly concealed Hester's delicious, gaping cunt. And at first, lulled by this lascivious little game that helped to diminish the suffering caused by the lash and by the prickling of the whalebone needled inflicted by Marguerite, Hester Brown at last became aware that what Elvire was proposing of her was in essence no less shameful than what Marjorie Sayers had already demanded from her.
"Oh no! I cant, I won't, I don't want to be caressed by a woman! Have you no decency? Untie me, don't shame me like this! It's filthy, it's disgusting!"
Elvire's lovely face darkened with fury. To flatly reject was the most atrocious error that poor Hester Brown could have committed with this narcissistic Lesbian. For she so prided herself on the beauty of her body and on the fantasies of her erotic imagination that a rebuff by anyone, and particularly a captive slave, infuriated her.
"So," she hissed as she instantly stepped back from the shuddering naked body of the victim, "you think it is disgusting and filthy, do you? You were to be a pony-girl for Marjorie, I believe? I have something better in store for you! Velma, Marguerite, my darlings, do we still have that dildo which I ordered last winter and which Lord Henry trained me to use so cleverly."
"Oh yes!" Velma exclaimed.
"Good! Call Dick and Nelson and have them get the table ready. Then they can bind this insolent bitch to it and let 'a man' enjoy her. We will see then if she still considers the love of Elvire de St. Cyr so loathsome!"
And half an hour later, two men entered the suite of the passionate Parisian Lesbian, untied the sobbing and pleading and still blindfolded Hester Brown, and, one of the men grasping her by the wrists and the other by ankles, trundled her off like a sack of potatoes to the arena of .
It was a remarkable piece of construction, prepared specifically to the ideas of Lord Henry Philbrock himself. In the center of the right wing of this huge incredible building, an arena that would be comparable to the hockey arena of any modern major American city, had been constructed. But it differed in that it had comfortable loges, magnificently upholstered in soft velvet, with ample room between each loge and each row. It could seat several hundred guests, though at most it had never quartered more than thirty or forty. The arena itself was set off from the loges by thick glass panels which rose from its floor to the ceiling.. .a precaution necessary because wild beasts were let loose upon slaves sentenced to frightful doom in this modern Coliseum whose ferocious orgies would have made even Nero blink with envious admiration. And it had, much as Nero's own arena had in the days of antiquity, realistic settings, such as heavy-trunked trees to whose branches captives could be bound in the mostingenious postures), even a little hill which was absolutely authentic to the last degree, and on whose crest terrified captives would clamber when pursued by wolves or tigers or cackling deadly baboons. There were also grim apparatuses set here and there throughout the arena; crosses of teakwood, stakes, even an old-fashioned pillory with a small platform and short stairway ascending to it. For when Lord Henry Philbrock entertained his regal and affluent guests from all over the world, no detail was spared and no expense either, to reproduce the most excitingly lustful spectacles devised by the mind of man!
All was in readiness now. Dick and Nelson were two sturdy, brutish-looking escaped convicts from San Francisco, originally sentenced to be hanged for murder and rape. By a miracle of fate they had been saved from execution by Lord Henry Philbrock and brought to and were now his most faithful servants. They were also his executioners and torturers on many an occasion.
The "machine" was simply a kind of table, with extremely heavy and square legs, from whose center a square panel had been removed, and another one at the front end. Hester was placed upon this table on her back, with her head and arms lowered downwards from that center cutout and her wrists tied to the back legs of the table. Her waist fitted into the front end of this device, and her legs were bound to table's front legs. But since there was an elevation just before the removable section of the front of this table, her loins were projected upwards so that her cunt gaped up and out. Even if she had not been blindfolded, she could not have seen what awaited her.
Applause greeted Elvire's arrival, a huge dildo strapped to her waist and carried by the two girls accompanying her. Wearing only a jock strap and sandals, Dick was a powerfully built, hairy chested man of about thirty-five, with bulging muscles and thews, piggish little eyes and a cool, ripe red mouth. He had worked, under Lord Henry's supervision, many of these special orgies; he had really found his trade, for he could indulge all of his vile lusts, cruelty, and murderous skill.
Elvire, wearing glistening black leather boots that rose high on her long svelte thighs, and a red satin tunic which was sleeveless and had very narrow straps and descended just below her cunt, stood behind the wide-open girl, a riding crop in her right hand that was gloved with black leather of the same suppleness and glossiness as the boots.
Although Dick would have liked to have helped with the coming entertainment, Elvire waved him away and called to the two girls. Marguerite grabbed Hester's bottom-cheeks and held them apart, while Velma guided the monstrous dildo worn by Elvire. As the thick, foot-long monstrosity began to slowly penetrate the unsuspecting girl a piercing scream, clamorous and agonized and almost inhuman, tore from the naked young widow as she frenziedly tried to break the bonds holding her wrists or to twist her loins away from the hideous projectile.
Slowly and mercilessly it disappeared into her vaginal sheath. And then the Lesbian began to fuck her with those grotesque and gigantic perorations characteristic of the copulation between the male and female, an act that the Lesbian herself found disgusting.
Hester's mad screams continued; her breasts rising wildly with every breath, her body jerking and squirming. And then suddenly she was silent, her head slumped to one side. Velma at once took a bucked of water and doused the tortured woman. She stirred only slightly. Elvire pulled free, the penis she wore inching its way out. Velma again tried to rouse the unfortunate woman with no success. She shook her head. "I'm afraid we'll have no more sport from her this eve, Miss Elvire."
The beautiful Lesbian shrugged, her face cold and forbidding. "She'll have plenty of time to get used to my sweet caress or suffer the same treatment again. I'm sure she will be reasonable in the future." Then, whisking her riding crop in the air and slapping it against her booted calf, she strolled out of the arena.
SHORE
CHAPTER EIGHT
John Granville had, like the Russian steward, leaped far out into the water from the listing deck of the Anastasia, in order to avoid being sucked down under the ship when it sank, as it threatened to do at any moment. He had seen his beautiful golden-haired daughter Betty rowed off to safety in one of the lifeboats in the company of other women and girls, many of whom were hysterical. The boats were large, and two sailors were assigned to each, to pull heavy oars and to strike out for the welcome shore and the nearest beach.
John Granville, thought as he plunged into the water, which was pleasantly warm, that there was a very good chance he might die. The Pacific was shark-infested and he was not a particularly strong swimmer, though he could hold his own in a pool in San Francisco. But it looked to be well over a mile to the vague outline of land which briefly showed itself through the fog. His only worry was his daughter. She was coming to an age where she would be attractive to men.
* * *
In the same boat in which Betty Granville sat, Marcia Chalmers and her maid Jacqueline Wilson huddled together. Marcia had time enough to take her jewel case and her handbag, which also contained her book of traveler's checks. She had put a fur coat over her nightie and thrust her feet into slippers. Her lovely maid still wore the white cotton nightgown and a cloth coat and sandals. It was a dreadful shame about all the beautiful dresses and luggage, but of course the steamship company would have to pay her back. She was very angry. She had looked forward to being in Honolulu, and perhaps making more conquests. She had heard in Hong Kong that by the time she got to the Islands, a very glamorous English Lord would be vacationing there. Lord Philip Wilmarding, a member of the old British aristocracy and a handsome bachelor in his mid-forties.
She glanced at Jacqueline, and smiled mockingly. She was remembering how she had caught her maid finger-frigging her soft pussy in her sleep at the time the vessel had hit the reef. She was going to remind her maid about that naughtiness quite a good deal in the future, and maybe Jacqueline would serve her with more diligence.
Glancing back over her shoulder at the burly and nearly bald seaman who was pulling the oars, she called, "How much longer until we get to the island?"
"With any luck. Miss, I'd say about an hour. It's a choppy sea. And this boat is jammed full of people, you know."
"Well, Jacqueline," she said blithely to her maid, "It will be something interesting to talk to people about when we get back to San Francisco, wont it?"
"Yes, Miss Chalmers,"
"You are such a little innocent, aren't you?" she murmured, unable to refrain from displaying her secret hold over her demure maid. "Only I happen to know that you are really a very thorough-going little sinner. Don't look at me like that, with those big, innocent eyes, my dear. Do you know what you were doing when I woke you up to tell you the boat had foundered? You were tickling yourself between your legs, that's what you were doing! If I'd known you had such a nasty little streak, I don't think I would have hired you to begin with. You Don't always please me, you know."
"I-I'm awfully sorry, Miss Chalmers. But-what you've just said-Oh, that isnt true!"
"And now you're calling me a liar," Marcia Chalmers sharply rejoined. "I know what I saw you doing. You needn't bother to deny it. You'd just better take good care of me from now on. By the time we get back to San Francisco, you could be without a job and references. Just you remember that, my girl!"
It was, indeed, a good hour before the boat came into the cove, but on the other side than that where Ivan Tenkovich had landed with his trio of captives. The woman and girls got out of the boat and thankfully stumbled up on to the beach. The two seamen dragged the life boat up high along the sand, so the water wouldn't pull it back out to sea. One of them took out a pack of cigarettes, and he and his companion lit one apiece and exhaled a sigh of satisfaction as they sank down, exhausted on the sand at last.
Suddenly there was a sound of footsteps behind them. Marcia Chalmers turned and uttered a cry of disbelief. Coming out of a clump of palm trees were two Black men, naked except for jock straps and sandals, each holding a revolver, while behind them was Lord Henry Philbrock himself, the ruler of .
"I bid you welcome," he said in his deep, suave tones, but his eyes were appraising rather than friendly. "This is a privately owned island, and all of you are trespassers here, of course."
"Trespassers!" Marcia Chalmers burst into a mocking laugh. "Our ship over there is smashed against a reef. We certainly didnt ask to come here. Where are we?"
"This is miss, and it is not on any mariner's chart. But you are still trespassers. Tom, Sam, have the women line up in one file, the younger girls in another. As for you-" he gestured at the seamen with his revolver, "step forward smartly, because I want to talk to you. And I warn you to pay close attention to what I have to say."
"See here," one of these men protested, "you have no right to order us around like this."
"Don't you understand what I have told you? Our boat hit something and went down, and we're the only survivors," put in the other.
"Is that all of you?"
"There were two more boats, which ought to be arriving at any minute."
"That's fine. We'll have a warm reception for them. But in the meantime, the name of the island should give you the clue for which you are searching. All those who come here are regarded as slaves. Now go back to the others, and be quick about it!"
"Who are you?" demanded Marcia Chalmers.
"My name is Lord Henry Philbrock, and I think that you had better go willingly with Tom and Sam, because they can be quite persuasive when people don't obey them."
Dismissing her, he turned to the two men who had pulled the oars in the lifeboat. "As for you two, you have a choice since you cant ransom yourselves. Either you will join my service-and there would be many advantages, which I will discuss with you later-or else you will die. It's as simple as that."
"Are you some kind of nut or something?" the man to whom Marcia Chalmers had spoken laughingly asked.
Lord Henry Philbrock eyed him coldly, then raising his revolver, he pulled the trigger. The man dropped with a bullet in his heart. A simultaneous shriek of horror burst from the beautiful prisoners, who had been herded by Tom and Sam into the two lines as their master had demanded.
"And now what is your opinion?" the ruler of coldly demanded of the other seaman.
"I want to live," the man said hoarsely.
"A wise decision. All right then, you can be of great help to me.
"You will address me henceforth as Lord Philbrock. And be sure not to forget that, or I'll have you given the cat-o-nine-tails."
The seaman flushed and stammered the required formula. Lord Henry Philbrock smiled. "Very good. Tell me what you know about these girls and women."
The man, in his late thirties, with a peaked face and shifting eyes, glanced at the body of his dead comrade and shuddered. Then the ruler of drew him off to one side; he began to talk feverishly, gesturing towards several of the incredulous and stupefied women drawn up in ranks. There were about twenty-five women in all, and Betty Granville was trying her best to quiet some of her more hysterical companions. Lord Philbrock glanced at her from time to time and he talked to the seaman.
"And that one?" he murmured.
Eager to curry favor with his new master, the man whispered, "She's very rich, and they come from San Francisco. I'm pretty sure her father was drowned. Fact is, I saw him leap off the rail just before the Anastasia went down. She's a beauty, isn't she? Want me to cut her out and bring her to your room, Lord Philbrock?"
"I think not. You're serving me very faithfully, but you're a traitor and a scoundrel, giving me all this information without bothering to try to protect the passengers entrusted to your care. I'd have more respect for you if you'd refused to tell me anything, which is your maritime right. So I shall no longer need your services, I'm afraid." And, leveling the revolver, the ruler of pulled the trigger. With a cry of agony and complete surprise, the seaman crumpled to the sand. The two henchmen picked up the lifeless body and carried it to the water, where, teaming their efforts, they hurled it as far out as they could. Betty Granville uttered a cry. The sinister black fin of a shark had come in terribly close to this little beach, and now the body of the murdered seaman was dragged down forever.
By now the sobbing, trembling, terrified survivors had been lined up as Lord Henry Philbrock had commanded. Twelve of the younger women, including Betty, stood facing thirteen more mature women.
The two men returned and one stood behind each file of captives. Lord Henry Philbrock now introduced himself and tersely declared: "Perhaps the deaths of the seamen have convinced you that I am in complete control of this island. You need not look for rescue, because we have a magnetic reef that attracts ships like yours, and radio jamming devices that prevent calls from here being received by any nearby ship. You are therefore all my slaves, and as long as you live here, you needn't expect anything other than that life. It will be easier for all of you if you make up your minds to accept this and not to rebel. Here on a slave has no rights whatsoever save what his master or mistress decides to grant. Now follow my men and don't try to escape or you'll feed the sharks-or survive and be drastically punished. You'll sleep tonight, and then tomorrow after breakfast you will begin your new life."
THE PRINCESSES
CHAPTER NINE
Dorothea Petroff lay face-downwards on the sand, weeping hysterically, her body shuddering with nausea. She had finally been persuaded, but not until after a dozen hard cuts of the switch across her big, ripe breasts, to suck and lick Ivan Tenkovich's prick. And then he had given her another dozen, warning her to swallow every drop of his spunk. Then, as was expected, the excitement of feeling her trembling mouth and tongue on his swollen ramrod had made him burst inside of her mouth and nearly strangle her gullet with the abundance of his spunk. Finished with her for the time being, he took two pieces of cord and bound her ankles together, drawing them back toward her waist, and then her wrists, which he connected to her ankles; he knew that he had nothing to fear, that she could not attempt to escape, for the knots were solid.
Then he turned to the two beautiful Princesses Rubutsoff, greedily appraising them. Tanya was really juicy, and in some ways more sexually desirable to him than her older sister Olga. Yet the venomous hatred that flashed from Olga's eyes and the contemptuous curl of her quivering lips, the rise and fall of her magnificent breasts, whetted his lust in some ways even more than Tanya. To make this patrician whore crawl to his feet, lick them, then lick upward from ankle to calf to knee, and then to thigh, and finally to be forced. Her Royal Highness, to lick and suck and kiss his prick-that would be supreme revenge. For her hatred and loathing of him would only give him greater joy when the moment for fucking her and degrading her was at hand.
He thought he had a way to kill both birds with one stone and enjoy them both. He had never felt so manly, so virile as now. It was as if he had been reborn. Yes, he would begin with Tanya. Still naked, his cock limp and greasy, he strode to the two girls, bent and plunged his left hand into Tanya's luxuriant dark brown hair. Then, thinking better of the idea, he began to unfasten the topknot into which her hair was coiffed, so that it escaped down her lovely shoulders and back. Then gathering a fistful of the silken tresses, he jerked her to her feet.
"Dirty dog, traitorous scum," Olga ragingly exclaimed. "Let my sister alone! She was only thirteen when it all happened, Tenkovich. How can you blame her for my father's justice?"
"Because both of you dared to laugh! And if she was thirteen, then you were sixteen, and already playing the great lady, flirting with those officers who visited just a week before! Oh, I remember you, Princess Olga, playing the siren with those damned executioners of the accursed Tsar!" The fury in him made his voice tremble. "Get along now, you little bitch. Maybe your sister is older, but I like the shape of your tits and your juicy ass a lot more! Come along, Your Highness, we're going to play house. The serf and the great lady. Princess Tanya."
Brutally, he dragged the screaming girl, bound hand and foot already, off towards where Dorothea Petroff still lay, half fainting and exhausted from her brutal ordeal. He rolled her over onto her back with a motion of his toe.
"Oh, merciful God," Tanya screamed, twisting away as he squatted down and began to fondle her panting breasts with greedy hands through the water-soaked silk of the scanty attire that covered her virginal nakedness. "Oh, dear Olga, help me! I'm afraid!"
"And not without reason, you little slut." He slapped her face viciously again and again, while his other hand brutally thrust between her thighs, pressing the thin, wet fabric which hid her cunt from him, deep inside so that Tanya could feel the pressure of his fingertips far inside that maiden nook.
"Perhaps you are beginning to feel just a little Your Highness, of what my wife and mother felt when they were tied to the rafter in the barn, while the soldiers whipped them. Oh, I am going to fuck you-how I am going to fuck you now! And if I don't like the way you fuck, Your Highness, we'll try it over again and there'll be a good switching on your titties and on that naughty little cunt of yours to make you warmer when a man, a real man, decides to put his prick into you."
Frenzied, Tanya Rubutsoff twisted, trying to escape. He laughed aloud into the silence of the night, the dusky night silence here on this abandoned atoll. Near him still lay the body of poor Dorothea Petroff, naked, ravaged and abused. Just a little farther away, Olga awaited her turn. She had managed to sit up now, and was struggling to break the bonds that held her wrists. He began to tear at Tanya's frail garments, and the lovely bare flesh began to appear at his sides, on her long, lovely thighs, then her waist and the bare belly marked by a wide, shallow navel-dimple. He ripped away only a little fragment of her scanty garments at a time, to prolong the terrifying suspense for the unhappy girl. He felt his prick growing to a new hardness and vigor that enchanted him with his own powers. If only that whore in Sydney could see him now, she wouldn't make disparaging remarks about his being a little man with a little cock!
"I think, Tanya," he said hoarsely, "that I'm going to start your lesson by letting you suck and lick my prick until it's ready for that sweet cunt of yours. And then you're going to ask me, very, very, humbly, very nicely.
'Dear Ivan Tenkovich, I beg you humbly to grant me the honor of fucking my unworthy cunt with your mighty prick, and thus reward your worthless little slave, Princess Tanya-that's what you're going to say, my little beauty, and you'd better remember every word or you'll feel the switch on your little behind and on your titties, and yes, on that spot of yours between your legs. I'm wondering still whether it's virgin, Tanya.. .the way you aristocrats live, I wouldn't be surprised to find you're as wide as a canal there. I remember a family who didn't live many versts from your father, Your Highness. They were all exchanging one another and fucking away like minks. That's aristocrats for you, and that's why we had a revolution."
He loved the sound of his own voice, and he felt himself the supreme master of the world as he saw Tanya's face turn hopelessly from side to side, bathed in tears, the sensitive nostrils quivering, and saw the magnificent lines of her bubbies turbulently rise and fall in her abhorrence of him. He was sure she was virgin without making the test, but for certain he was going to shame the little bitch in front of her aunt and her sister by poking his finger against her cherry, and he would do the same with Olga.
"Yes," he continued gloatingly, "even if you have fucked, I don't think Your Highness has ever really had a prick in your mouth. That's a rather vulgar object. Aristocrats are shocked by vulgarity. So your first lesson in playing house, little Tanya, is going to be in how to French your master."
"You filthy wretch, take me instead of her!" Olga suddenly burst out. "I swear I'll be her substitute, Tenkovich!"
He rose to his feet. The offer was really exciting, and of course, after he had taken Olga, he could always tie her up again and proceed to fuck and bugger Tanya.
It was all very sweet. All of this was his vengeance, his rightful due. But just then, seemingly out of nowhere, two massive men emerged into the clearing, and with them was a supercilious man in shorts and sandals, with a revolver in hand-Lord Henry Philbrock.
"A moment, my good man," the last-named suavely interposed, aiming his revolver at the steward's heart. "These women are my slaves, not yours. This is , and everything on it is mine."
"No one shall cheat me of my vengeance! You Don't know what they've done to me-they and their damned family! No, I wont be cheated, I won't, I-" Ivan was screaming beside himself. He leaped forward. A shot rang out. He stopped dead, his eyes rolling, fixing on Olga, then back to Tanya. Then he fell forward, lifeless. He had what vengeance was due him.
But the two women he had brought to would not be neglected by their new master.
JOHN GRANVILLE
CHAPTER TEN
John Granville had abandoned his life raft and instead taken the life preserver, which he had put around his middle, believing that he would have a far better chance of survival if he tried to make the distant shore than if he sat in a rubber raft and waited for a ship to pick him up. He still couldn't understand how such a catastrophe had occurred, but the main thing was to stay alive. Fortune was with him because the sharks, which took a merciless toll on many of the screaming survivors in the water, were apparently wary of this threshing creature who made his way beyond them without fear. So at last he dragged himself up on the sandy cove opposite from where the Russian steward had brought his three intended victims; and he arrived there nearly an hour after Betty and the other captives from the first life boat had been led back to the cyclopean, almost unbelievably immense building where the rulers of were housed, and where chambers were devised for the indescribably lustful, despotic, titillating exploitation of their slaves, who also lived there and did things.
No sooner had he got to his feet and looked around for any sight of the others from the Anastasia when two men emerged from the clump of palm trees beyond him with Lord Henry Philbrock at the head.
"There is no one else with you?" Philbrock demanded. Then he took a step or two forward, frowning, put his free hand to his forehead and frowned still more. "The devil take me, but I seem to recognize you! Now how is it possible that we have met?"
John Granville took a deep breath and stared at his interlocutor. "You look familiar to me too, but I'll be damned if I can place you," he ruefully admitted.
"It was years ago, of that I'm sure," Philbrock went on as if he were reminiscing aloud. "And I'm almost sure it was in San Francisco-wait a minute! Do you remember an Englishman about a dozen years ago down at the wharf inquiring about chartering a ship? As I recall, you were bound for the Orient yourself and your sailing had been delayed, and we stopped and exchanged a few words. And then I gave you an excellent Indian cheroot and we got to talking."
"Yes, by God, I do! Ah, you've changed a little. I remember that cheroot, though," John Granville grinned. "It was strong and good, and I haven't had another one like it since."
Lord Henry Philbrock turned to his two retainers and smilingly nodded. "No need to worry about this one, Sam, Tom. You go after the others who may yet land here. We've taken three boatloads already of women and girls."
"Thank God, Betty is safe!" John Granville said with a sigh of relief.
"Betty? Your wife?"
"My daughter. My wife. Diane, died three months ago. We were on the Anastasia so that both of us could try to forget our loss. And then this."
"I grieve with you for your wife. And your name-the deuce, but my memory is really slipping. However, you must forgive me, it's been a most energetic night," Lord Henry Philbrock smiled.
"I am John Granville."
"And I, Lord Henry Philbrock," said the other, extending his hand which John Granville warmly shook. "I regret that I've inconvenienced you, then. But of course I had no way of knowing who would be on that ship."
"You inconvenienced me? I don't quite understand," the perplexed San Franciscan parried.
"Come along with me and we'll go back to my quarters. Granville, I can promise you all the cheroots you can smoke, and, of course, you're my guest. A lucky thing I recognized you, though."
"This is more and more mysterious. What in heaven's name are you doing on a godforsaken little island like this, and why do you say that you inconvenienced me?"
They had ascended the slope of the little hill, and the ruler of pointed ahead to the outline of that incredible building, then turned back to Granville. "Look and see for yourself. It's not quite so forsaken as you might believe, although God has nothing to do with it."
"Good Lord! It's immense-how could you ever have transported all the materials here?"
"By a chartered ship, which I later purchased. By many trips, by the help of others who share with me the dream of sexual mastery and slavery. All those who were saved from the shipwreck by landing here are, of course, my subjects now, and will be divided among the other masters and mistresses by stipulated auction or lottery."
"But-but do you mean to tell me that you actually think you can keep people against their will and enslave them? That's not possible in this century!"
"You will see you are quite wrong, once I have made you comfortable in my private chambers. And, of course, your Betty will be reunited with you. But the rest are certainly my slaves. That is why this is called . And I will tell you frankly that if I had not been satisfied with your explanation about yourself, or if I thought you had no money to ransom yourself, you would at this moment be dead, food for the sharks that populate our waters and are better policemen than any human we could hire," Lord Philbrock rejoined with a mocking little laugh.
And as he and his retainers accompanied John Granville back to the unbelievable edifice that appeared beyond the crest of that hill on this flyspeck in the vast Pacific, the master of this feudal domain quickly explained how it had all come about.
John Granville was given an ornately furnished chamber and Philbrock asked, "Shall I send a slave to you to share your bed?"
John Granville hesitated. The death of his beautiful wife Diane had robbed him of an incomparable bed partner. In view of his miraculous escape from death, he had a sudden zest for life; and that was why, flushing slightly, he nodded.
"You shall have two girls to bathe you and refresh you, and one who is accomplished in the art of fucking. Enjoy my hospitality as my honored guest, John Granville. I shall not disturb you until late in the afternoon, for you will need your rest."
"And my daughter?"
"No harm will come to her. You have my word on it. However, I must tell you that although I was the founder of this island paradise, it was really erected through the great aid of my dear friend Magala Khan, who furnished men from his province in India to aid in the arduous work of building this magnificent realm, constructing the remarkable arena I know you will enjoy as a connoisseur of exciting sport. Also there is a beautiful woman from Paris, Elvire de St. Cyr, as well as Marjorie Sayers, who hold sway equal to the other two of us."
"So has four sovereigns, then?" John Granville smiled.
"In a sense, yes. It would not be fair to make this domain for the sole pleasure of men; and we must always remember that, though woman was the vehicle whereby sin entered into this world, it was through a woman that the redemption of this world was made flesh. And of course, not everyone with whom one wishes to associate is heterosexual, eh?" He winked.
"But there is a fifth authority here: Herr Bernard Kagan, our inventor. He, too, is an exile, like myself. His own government discredited him and tried to rob him of a valuable invention. They would have imprisoned him on a false charge of negligently manufacturing obscene bicycles equipped with dangerously defective derailleur mechanisms, had I not aided him with the help of some of my German contacts. Thus it is that he, in reality, casts the deciding vote if the other four of us can't come to agreement on the disposition of one slave or another.
"Herr Kagan is a very great genius," Lord Philbrock said, as his face took on a much more serious appearance. "The nation which controls magnetism," he intoned solemnly, "will control the universe.
"But enough now of talk. All the survivors of the Anastasia are safely housed for the rest of the night, so relax and enjoy your stay with me."
And with this Lord Henry Philbrock shook hands again and went down the corridor to find his own quarters. John Granville turned wonderingly back to his own room. There was a salon such as one would have for receiving guests. Then an enormous bedroom, the walls and ceiling completely mirrored, and an imposing double bed, large enough so that four people could sleep comfortable.. .and fuck as easily! A bathroom of black and white marble with a sunken tub, and a solid ivory bench on which one might stretch for a massage or rub-down. To find such luxuries here, which would rival those of villas owned by millionaires or the most lavish international hotels, was almost unthinkable. And in such a place as this, which had no other name save that which Lord Philbrock had given it: .
His musings were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door, and he opened it quickly, then stepped back with widening eyes. Two charming young girls had entered and now knelt before him and bowed their heads in unison. They wore only diaphanous tunics, which extended from the valley of their breasts down just past their cunts, and they were naked under those tunics, wearing only sandals. One was black-haired, slim, with saucy and impertinent features, and a small ripe mouth that spoke of her expertness in Frenching. Her companion was auburn-haired, with a sultry, pouting and sensual face, surprisingly large upstanding breasts set closely together, and a voluptuous backside that would rouse the passions of a flagellant or ass-fucker to the highest pitch. Her skin was creamy with rosy flecks, whereas the brunette's was the color of pale milk.
"May we undress and bathe you, master?" the auburn-haired girl humbly requested in a husky provocative tone that set John Granville's pulse to throbbing. He could only nod and stare admiringly.
Swiftly they both undressed him, and then each took him by a hand and led him to the bath where they made him lie down upon the ivory bench. While the auburn-haired girl ran the water and tested the temperature by kicking off her sandals and dipping one dainty bare foot into the tub, the brunette took a vial of greenish liquid, and, kneeling down beside him, began to rub his body from head to foot. She was an artist with her long slim fingers, and her delicate touch made his prick stiffen from the very first. By the time she had neared his inner thighs with her sensitive fingertips, he was in violent erection, and the tip of his cock was puckering violently with the urge to spurt.
"May your humble slave make a suggestion, master?" the brunette now timidly inquired; her voice was sweet and clear and shy, like that of a girl who had been well trained-as indeed she and all those like her who served the five reigning powers of this island and their honored guests had been. The lash and many other even more painful ordeals had taught these charming slave girls the most pronounced docility, conquered their aversions. And their nationalities and backgrounds might well have read like a global catalog; the auburn-haired girl, who was named Irene, had been born in Syria, while the brunette, whose name was Claire, had been born in New York City. Both of them had come to by the agency of the magnetic reef, and one day would go elsewhere at the whim of their owners if there was profit or advantage to be gained from their disposal.
"By all means, my pretty one," John Granville said hoarsely.
"Lord Philbrock is going to send you a very beautiful girl to share your bed, master," Claire went on, "but seeing how excited you are and how big your mighty cock is at this very moment, in my humble opinion, you would have much enjoyment from her if you would permit Irene or me to suck you off. You see master, the first time a man fits his cock into the pussy of a girl, he cannot always control himself. But if the excessive spunk is drained off first before he fucks, then he can go on for a long while and really have his pleasure."
"A capital idea, you sweet creature! And since you suggested it, you may carry out the idea at once," John Granville laughingly agreed.
Pillowing his head on his arms, and closing his eyes, he surrendered himself to the blandishments of this delicious brunette. She bent over him from the left, her fingertips stroking his belly and his hip and thigh, and the soft moist edges of her lips just brushed the tip of his prong. He ground his teeth at the sudden fiery wave of lust shooting through his prick and balls from that delicious caress.
The auburn-haired Irene was not idle, either. Quickly she knelt beside his head, and bowing hers, began to suck and to lick each of his paps in turn with the tip of her dainty pink tongue. The erotic stimulation of having two such lovely and practically naked girls "prepare" him for his fucking partner made John Granville savagely virile. It seemed to him that his prick had never been so hard nor so swollen with spunk, because he was finally forgetting his long-enforced abstinence after Diane's death.
Therefore it did not take long before, with a cry, he felt himself explode and all his gism shoot into Claire s soft mouth. Expertly she swallowed every drop, and then licked his cock clean.
"The bath is ready now, master," she said as soon as she had finished her amorous task.
They led him down the stairs into the tub, doffing their tunics and entering the water with him. While Irene soaped him, Claire rinsed, fondling his armpits with her soft fingertips, till he was not only marvelously relaxed but also aroused again.
Once again he lay down upon the ivory bench while they patted and dried him with huge Turkish towels. Then Claire anointed his body with more of that curious greenish liquid which made his nerves tingle and his flesh twitch. And then bowing their heads in obeisance, they silently left the room.
Naked and at his ease, completely relaxed and the nightmarish ordeal of the shipwreck almost forgotten, John Granville returned to the bedroom, and there found a breathtakingly beautiful slave awaiting him, she having entered when Claire and Irene had left his chambers.
She was tall and willowy, with light brown hair that fell in thick curls almost to the small of her back, and was naked except for a wispy loincloth made of black silk and a brassiere of black net which covered only the lower halves of her high-set, uptilting, ripe, quince-shaped breasts. She was perhaps twenty-nine, and her body was sinuous and enticing, her face oval with fine high cheekbones and eyes that were slightly almond-shaped. She knelt before him and bowed her head to the floor, then murmured, "I am your slave, master. My name is Iris."
He felt his prick surge back to life with all its savage, pent-up lust at the sight of this intoxicatingly lovely young siren. He bent to her and drew her to her feet and pulled her to him, then crushed his mouth against her. Her lips were soft and thin, yet moist and feverishly mobile. Her delicate tongue thrust between his lips in that kiss, and he was shaken to his very marrow by the suppleness and allure of her almost naked body. From it there emanated the scent of frangipani and also the cloying odor of musk.
"Where are you from, lovely Iris?"
"From the Dutch East Indies, master. My father was Dutch, my mother Indonesian. I please you, yes?"
"Very much. And this is only the beginning."
"Will my master give me permission to be naked with him, that I may do his bidding in bed? I am very talented, not only in fucking, but also in buggering. But if my master would prefer, my mouth and my titties can love his cock and bring him pleasure," the girl murmured. She had a charmingly soft voice with just a touch of husky accent that he found fascinating. And when he felt the swollen tip of his prick prodding through that frail silk loincloth against her soft cunt, he knew that he must have relief from the torturing abstinence which had been imposed upon him since his wife's death.
Instantly she removed the bra, letting it flutter to the floor, and the proud turrets of her breasts thrust out, the nipples dusky coral, voluptuously developed and already stiff with erotic ardor. Then, reaching her hands behind her so that the tips of her titties brushed his naked chest, Iris loosened the loincloth which fell at her ankles and she was divinely naked.
He gasped as he stared at her. Her cunt had been depilated, so that it was a soft pink fig at the apex of her sleek, long, beautifully-muscled legs. The admiration on his face gave Iris a warm glow, though assuredly she had lain with many a man-and with Marjorie Sayers and Elvire de St. Cyr as well. But the open, uncomplicated admiration and desire he had for her was neither sadistic nor degrading, simply that of a passionate mature man who coveted-with all his prick and balls and spunk-the lovely, lithe youth of a charming female, and this she recognized.
Her arms wound around him and her soft pink-lipped cunt nudged the tip of his throbbing sphere. He groaned at the sweet friction and his groan was muffled in her soft clinging lips, as her tongue renewed its assault within his mouth. Her slim long fingers gently pinched and stroked his bottom, one of her fingers insinuating itself along the crease between the cheeks of his behind and pressing his asshole, sending waves of savage yearning through him.
"How does my master wish to fuck me? Or would he rather have me kneel and open my bottom for him?" Iris whispered.
"I'd rather fuck you, sweet little devil," he panted hoarsely. "Let's go to bed!"
Promptly she stretched herself out on the huge bed, her thighs wide, holding out her arms to him. He knelt between those lovely long legs, and she put one hand to the tip of his cock and guided it into her citadel. He sank down upon her, sheathing his sword in a single thrust, and groaned aloud at the exquisite clamping of her vaginal walls against his rigid ramrod. Young though she was, Iris was magnificent, a true artist when it came to fucking, just as the other two slaves had told him: it seemed to him that the muscles in the walls of her soft humid sheath clamped and ground and clenched his delving prick as if to coax out every drop of spunk at the very base of his balls.
He recognized also the wisdom of Claire's charming suggestion in ridding himself of the first brunt of his gism. For now, deep inside of her, he could feel and taste to the utmost the lingering bliss of her cuntwall-kisses without being prematurely forced to give up his essence. And slowly he withdrew, and then as slowly pressed back home to the balls, until suddenly Iris wound her long legs over his bottom, arching up her cunt so that she might receive at the most exquisitely frictioning angle the shock of his digging prick. Hugging him with her lovely arms, she fused her mouth to his.
Now he quickened himself, feeling her body trembling and vibrating like a dynamo, and knew that her climax would not be far off. He thrust his tongue between her eagerly yielding lips, felt her own return, and suddenly his body was shuddering with such rapture as he had not known since he and beautiful Diane had fucked in those happy days before her tragic and unexpected death.
The smell of the frangipani and of the musk mingled now with the delicate and subtle perfume of Iris's naked flesh and of her cunt-juices and of all that distillation that was her femininity.
Slowly and inexorably he felt his sap rise up within him, and then, with a cry, he could hold it no longer. Pumping and jerking and thrusting himself, he was abetted by Iris's eager weavings and buckings, until suddenly they rolled over and over as the shattering spasm seized them both.
For a time, all was silent; then Iris said something in a language he did not recognize.
"I beg your pardon, my dear?" he asked.
"I said, 'five minutes of splendor,' my beloved master," she said, raising herself up on one elbow. She reached out to him and lightly ran a finger down his hipbone and the inside of his thigh, and to his surprise he found himself shivering pleasantly. "Would my master care to sample with me some.. .more complex and extended pleasures?"
Her husky voice deepened slightly. "I promise you.. .I am the most delicious of teachers."
MAID AND MISTRESS
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was twenty-four hours after the disaster to the Anastasia.
In the subterranean vaults, ingeniously constructed under this remarkable building in the atoll's very center, there was more than an arena to delight the rulers of and those honored guests whose penchant it was to enjoy the ecstatic suffering of captives subjugated by pain and shame and sexual conquest to the most docile degree of submission. There were numerous dungeons, torture chambers, "exercise rooms," as well as a large salon where erotic movies could be shown, furnished with low divans so that those who watched could imitate the protagonists on the film with their own imaginative coupling.
In one of these dungeons, Magala Khan and his beautiful Sathana had come to amuse themselves with their two new slaves, the haughty heiress, Marcia Chalmers, and her beautiful maid Jacqueline Wilson.
At the order of the Hindu potentate, the two young women had been led in by the retainers, Tom and Sam. They had been given excellent clothing, as sophisticated as any they might find in the shops of Paris or San Francisco. This was done so the the poise and confidence this attire would usually give them could be more cruelly taken from them when they found themselves about to confront their master and mistress.
At the order of Magala, Marcia had been led in front of a heavy wooden stake set into the floor of the dungeon, her arms bound behind her to the stake, with a light cord circling her calves. Jacqueline, at Sathana's orders, had been placed against a St. Andrew's cross made of solid teakwood, with spring-locking metal rings that passed around her ankles and wrists.
Magala Khan moved forward and removed Marcia Chalmers' blindfold, while Sathana did the same for Jacqueline. The patrician redhead uttered a horrified cry as she recognized the handsome and virile Hindu.
"My God! Where am I? Certainly we aren't back in Hong Kong?"
"How stupid you are, Marcia," he mocked her in a deep, resonant voice. "You know better than that. Last night you were shipwrecked and brought here to this island, where I am one of the rulers. You are right, we did meet in Hong Kong, and you refused my gift. Also, perhaps, you may recall that I told you we would meet again, but this time we will play a different game than the one you had thought then to play with me."
"What game is that?"
"Simply that you are my slave. I believe you were conscious during the presentation in the assembly hall. Just as your maid, Jacqueline, is the property of my beautiful attendant, Sathana. Now, my dear Sathana, it is time to inspect our new slaves."
"I agree," Sathana said, softly.
The two therefore untied Marcia Chalmers from her stake, only to lead her to the center of the dungeon from which there dangled a trapeze bar and a pair of metal gyves affixed to a solid chain. These gyves were now affixed to her wrists, and Sathana moved to the wall a pressed a button. Instantly the trapeze bar rose, and Marcia found herself standing on tiptoe.
Then the beautiful Eurasian returned to aid her lover in stripping off every stitch of Marcia s clothing, until she was as naked as the day she was born, and those beautiful breasts pantingly rose and fell. For the first time a man could behold the thick, dark-reddish foliage of her virgin cunthole.
With a shriek, she tried desperately to clench her thighs together to hide the intimate treasure, and she flung back her head until her coppery-red hair danced in its long pageboy against her shoulder blades.
Sathana, an expert at this kind of preparation, deftly unhooked the tabs of the garterbelt, rolled down the stockings, and then removed the garterbelt itself. And now all was in readiness for the subjugation of haughty Marcia Chalmers, demivierge, prick-teaser, who now at twenty-five neared the final hour of her vaunted virginity.
"Bring the little coffer, my dear," Magala Khan suggested. The beautiful Eurasian inclined her head in a sign of deference to her lover and lord, and walked to a tabouret beside the wall where a little coffer reposed. She brought it back and handed it to Magala Khan, who opened the lid and showed the content to the horrified Marcia. Inside were scores of infinitely tiny, sharp, hair-fine pins, whose heads were colored green.
"In my county, Marcia," he said ironically, as he showed her one of the pins, "it is the custom of the ruling Raj to award a decoration to some foreigner who has achieved success in his country, or who has performed for the state some act of loyalty or the like. No woman has ever slapped me, save you, so you shall have the decoration now. The emblem of my house is the falcon, the bird of prey who soars high into the sky and swoops down upon the unsuspecting rabbit or squirrel, or even a young deer."
And with this, standing to her right, and cupping her breast in his left hand, Magala Khan lifted up that lovely globe and calmly pressed the sharp pin straight into the flesh of the aureole, and on, until the pin was embedded up to its head in her tender bubbie.
"Aiieeeooowww! Oh, stop-Oh my God, the pain, the pain!" she screamed, straining at her bound wrists until the trapeze-bar squeaked in protest.
"My lord," Sathana softly interposed, "this white bitch is likely to kick a bit as this delightful decoration proceeds. Would it not be better for me to bind her ankles well apart, so that if my lord likes, the design may be carried down upon her haughty belly and even lower?"
"A capital idea, my dear. You think of everything."
Magala Khan chuckled. Handing Sathana back the coffer, he turned to a small wooden chest standing nearby, opened and took out several lengths of hemp. These he carefully affixed around each of Marcia's ankles, fastening the free end of each to a metal ring in the floor, so that she not only found herself tractioned firmly, but with her legs spread almost more than a yard wide, exposing her cunthole in the most obscene way imaginable. Then, without a word, Sathana once more proffered the coffer. He leisurely dipped his right hand into it and took out another pin, holding it up before her glazing eyes before driving into place. Her shrieks were endless and deafening. She twisted and kicked trying to hurl herself this way or that, babbling pleas alternating with curses, and even sometimes humble supplications for mercy, and her body was dripping sweat as he slowly lingeringly pursued his sadistic task.
Soon one aureole was complete circled with pins of varying colored heads, framing the plump, darkening coral bud of her nipple. Then he passed to the other aureole, and now her eyes rolled in their sockets and her cries became raucous.
Sathana brought a silver flask containing a cordial brewed from the leaves of a rare South American shrub, which was at once a strong stimulant, and also soothed the jangled nerves of pain: the perfect combination of effects in these circumstances.
Then Magala Khan went back to work. On her belly, using only the color-headed pins, he designed a falcon poised in the air to strike his prey. By this time she was almost fainting, the exquisite little stabs of those tiny pins was unspeakable torture. As he continued to drive them in up to the head, her nerves were exacerbated almost to hysteria. Sathana mocked her: "And this is a courageous woman with whom my master wished to sleep, whom he actually asked to fuck? She is like a child-although most of them are better trained than that!"
"The box is still full of pins, yes?" he assured the screaming redhead, whose twisting gyrations were becoming livelier and more abandoned as the cordial took effect. "I think I shall perhaps emblazon my falcon on each of your inner thighs, and then on each of your tempting bottom-cheeks. I have a great sentimental attachment to my falcon, you see."
"No, my lord. You know how dearly you wished to flog that latter place," Sathana put in.
"My dear, you are so right," he chuckled. Then she whispered into his ear and his eyes widened.
"By Lord Buddha, you always hit upon the idea that most makes my prick burst! Prepare the other trapeze then, and we will inspect your new slave's charms," he ordered, and it was the turn of poor Jacqueline Wilson. She still had on her blindfold and was fully clothed. She had heard her former mistress's shrieks and pleas, and she had shook uncontrollably in fear. She was tied in her turn to the stake and the blindfold was removed.
"Oh my God-Oh, how horrible!" she gasped, and then covered her face with her hands. Sathana deftly touched her fingers here and there on the silver cape, on the artfully concealed little hooks and fasteners holding the silver cape; it fell, and she was divinely naked, her cunt hair was crisp, thick, but evidently cut with scissors so that it framed her lips and did not reveal them. And thereby the soft, beguiling pink lips of her cunt were all the more exciting and enticing.
Magala Khan now doffed his robe, and Marcia Chalmers' tear-blurred eyes gazed with incredulous horror on the mighty prick that stood out from his hairy loins.
"Come now, Jacqueline," Sathana ordered, "if you don't want your breasts and belly and legs decorated like your former mistress, you'll help me now," and, fear overcoming shame, the former maid was soon stripped naked, blushing scarlet before this Eurasian beauty whose nakedness secretly troubled the beautiful brunette. And now that Jacqueline was naked, it was observed that although she might not have the spectacular appeal of Marcia, she was beautiful and fuckable in her own right.
She was about an inch shorter than her mistress and her breasts were softer, as round and as lovely, but her curves were more both more pronounced and more promisingly and resiliently well-muscled than Marcia's leaner but still elegant form. Her legs were delicious, perhaps a little plumper than Marcia's, as were her calves. Her warm skin, the adorable crinkly heads of her nipples, the soft thatch of her brown pussycurls, and the exquisitely defined modeling of her muscles, made her altogether a tasty morsel.
Sathana now went to the wall and pushed another button, lowering the second trapeze bar next to the one where, moaning hysterically, the naked Marcia hung. She and Magala Khan then, despite Jacqueline's fearful pleas, locked the dangling cuffs around her wrists, hoisted her up until she, too, was on tiptoe, and then spread apart her legs and fixed her ankles with cords, tying the free ends again into a set of metal rings in the floor. And then Sathana, with a leather strap with buckled ends, wound this belt around the waists of the two young women and bound it tightly. Instantly Marcia's screams were redoubled, for the pressure of her maid's body against her intensified the pain of the pins in her body. In her turn, Jacqueline felt the soft, insidious friction of Marcia Chalmers' cunthole.
"Now that is the proper way to reunite maid and mistress, my lord," Sathana snickered, as she picked up a three-pronged leather martinet, gleaming and polished, its thongs fixed to a gleaming teakwood handle. In her right hand she held another whip, a leather dog-whip.
Slowly and masterfully, the Hindu potentate and his Eurasian consort whipped the two shrieking naked women. The trapeze bars creaked in protest as they twisted and struggled under the biting kisses of the lash. Marcia was babbling, near the breaking point, for the pins were torturing her nervous system unspeakably. But Jacqueline had begun to feel the secret throbbing of pussy-lust; now as a sort of assuagement, each time Sathana's whip cracked over her bare ass, the lovely brunette rubbed herself furiously against her former mistress's cunthole. By the time twenty lashes had been laid on, Jacqueline was twisting and writhing in heat, while pleading that no more be laid on. Five more lashes, and her body shook with tumult as she gave herself up to pleasurable release.
At once the flogging ceased. Jacqueline was freed. Sathana whispered to her, "You will go kneel in that corner on your palms. When I have finished assisting my lord, I will take you into my bed. If you don't gamahuche me and lick my asshole lovingly, slave, we'll come back to this dungeon alone, and I'll show you other delightful ways to teach a girl obedience. You understand?"
"Oh, yes, mistress," Jacqueline plaintively sobbed. Released, she bowed her head and kissed the feet of the beautiful Eurasian woman.
Once she had gone to the corner and faced the wall in that demeaning pose, Magala Khan and his mistress confronted the half-conscious Marcia. Sathana had exchanged her whip for a short curry-brush and Magala Khan had taken what looked like a wooden ping-pong paddle, and he tapped Marcia's clenching, shrinking bare bottom-cheeks menacingly. Now the sound of the paddle cracked wickedly against flesh, followed by piercing screams and Sathana, her left hand cupping one of Marcia's heaving breasts, began to rub the bristles of the brush right into the redhead's virgin cunt.
"Stop! Eeeeee! I'll do anything in the world if you'll only stop. You're killing me!" the redhead shrieked.
"You're finally learning sense. Now then, Marcia, if I have the whipping stopped, will you obey me?" He came around to face her, cupping her chin in his left hand, letting her see the paddle in his right.
"Ooooh, y-y-yes-oh, have pity. I can't stand any more-Oh God, have pity!" she sobbed.
"Then ask me to fuck you," he commanded and he reached forward and pinched her nipple cruelly, then lightly slapped the center of her bubbie with the swift motion of his left hand. She flung herself backward madly, her body shaking like a bag of old clothes, her wrists jerking as she tried to break them loose from the gyves which held her tightly on tiptoe. Again the brush ground against her cunt, then a third time and a fourth. Finally Marcia Chalmers, broken, sobbing, babbling, crying for mercy, no longer the haughty lady, found herself mouthing the formula that Magala Khan desired: "Please, Master, I beg you humbly to honor my cunt with your great big prick."
"And so I shall," he chuckled. Sathana now bent down and flicked her tongue over the girl's gaping cunt. A sobbing groan was heard, as the captive's head tilted back, then down, her breasts heaving, her eyes closed.
"Don't grant her such kindness, my dear one," the Magala Khan objected. "She deserves to be dry-fucked-and dry-buggered, too."
So saying, he stepped up to her, his hands sinking into her fiery, swollen asscheeks, and pressed the swollen head of his prick against the gaping pink lips of Marcia's cunt.
Now the realization of what was to happen to her made her stiffen and try one time to close her thighs against his inroads. With a mocking laugh he thrust himself forward, felt her hymen break, and gloried in her bellow of agony.
Then his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs pressing against the circle of those devilish pins still embedded in her sensitive flesh. Her eyes rolled and bulged as she felt that mighty prick dig into her.
"Eeeeeyyyahhh! Oh, take it out, take it out! It's too big-it'll kill me! Oh, I'm going to die!"
Pitilessly he thrust it past her hymen and on into her matrix. She felt as if she were stretched out and cut in two by the thrust of that great prick. Strapping on a dildo, Sathana now approached the weeping Jacqueline Wilson. She, too, squeezed the young women's wounded naked bottom, threatening Jacqueline with unspeakable torments if Jacqueline did not obey.
And then as a finale, the two young women were tied high in the air between horizontal uprights, their arms drawn back behind their heads, tied in a curious living hammock.. .and Jacqueline Wilson was bound with a leg and thigh against Marcia's thigh, her cunthole coming exactly down over Marcia's mouth, while her own sobbing lips confronted her former mistress's quim. And before the night was done, the whip had compelled both women to sixty-nine each other. And then Marcia Chalmers knew the pain and the degradation of being browned; forced under the lash and the threat of new pins forming another design on the two cheeks which divided the two halves of her bare bottom, she was obliged to lick and suck her master's cock to prepare it for her own asshole.
In this position, released from the hammock of suspension, she was turned over a low teakwood stool. A rope was tied around her tresses and pulled forward, dragging her head down to the floor, lofting her derriere into the air. Magala Khan spread the cheeks apart with his fingers, and pressed his hard cock against the virgin rosette. Marcia Chalmers shrieked for mercy: "Oh, Oh, not there, for dear God's sake! Fuck me again, all you want, but not there, I beg you!"
"You see," he said, turning to his mistress, who handed him an elegant little jar of lubricating ointment, "it always works. In all the world there is no better way to subjugate a haughty, pampered slut than what we have here on . "
With this, ruthlessly spreading poor Marcia's bottom-cheeks, Magala Khan set the great head of his prick against the shrinking, fearful little asshole's shrinking, fearful little asshole. Slowly, despite her wild cries and hysterical moans for mercy, he buried himself in her asshole almost to the balls.
UNHOLY UNION
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two weeks had passed since John Granville and his beautiful daughter, Betty, had survived the wreck of the Anastasia and become guests of Lord Philbrock. The handsome San Francisco widower had enjoyed during this time the life of a sybarite with three beautiful handmaidens to do his bidding and to attend to his erotic needs. Irene and Claire, as well as the beautiful Iris had come to his bed at night, as passionate as he, for he had recovered his virility as, delighting in their beauty without especially favoring any one, he summoned each in turn to fuck or bugger or to have them French him.
Yet he was not blind to the terrible dangers of life on this desolate atoll, for all its luxuries and incredible license to orgiastic freedom. Magala Khan often, at the formal banquets that he and Betty attended, had stared greedily at his beautiful golden-haired daughter, in a way that John Granville could not mistake. His friendship with Lord Henry Philbrock was miraculously lucky and he knew that he was on a kind of probation, that Betty could easily be taken from him by force and he himself easily fed to the sharks.
He therefore cultivated the friendship of Elvire St. Cyr, and Marjorie Sayers and her daughters Velma and Marguerite. Also, he saw to it that beautiful Sathana received her share of compliments, and he found her a fascinating woman, versed not only in language but also in the arts and philosophy.
Betty was voluptuously beautiful. Somehow on this tropical isle, her latent womanhood had begun to flower, and she wore a black satin sleeveless dress whose skirt clung to mid-thigh, gauzy, gunmetal opera-length stockings fixed by a narrow black satin elastic garter belt, the wispiest of panties, matching bra, and high-heeled pumps.
Her golden hair was lovely. It fell in a luxurious, long pageboy, which stressed her femininity. There was nothing perverse about her, but nonetheless, Elvire and Marguerite coveted her openly with their darting glances, a fact which John Granville knew well.
He and Lord Henry Philbrock had had a private and very personal discussion in the latter's library only last night. There was one of the worlds' greatest libraries of erotic books from virtually every civilized nation of the earth, with illustrations that detailed fucking, buggering, lesbianism, and all the evils that passionate and imaginative men and women had dreamt of, the Nirvana, the kind of paradise that was always promised through the eons for the faithful and the industrious.. .but somehow was only achieved by Lord Henry Philbrock and the denizens of .
"I've have good reports on you, Granville," Lord Philbrock said. The owner and master of had greeted him clad only in a luxurious velvet dressing gown and sandals. On each side of him knelt an enchantingly beautiful young woman, neither much more than twenty. One was a honey-haired, petite, winsome creature, wearing oversize horn-rimmed spectacles, which gave her a paradoxically frivolous and charming look which was no distraction from her distracting beauty. She had lovely, high-set thighs, sleek calves, and round, orange-like breasts, and an even saucier bottom which was upstandingly rounded. Her skin was a baby pink, and it was very visible because she wore a kind of harem attire, a gauzy bolero jacket of net and flimsy pantaloons from waist to ankles, while her bare feet were thrust into thong sandals.
The other girl was black-haired, slim and tall, with a bubbling, girlish allure to her body. Her breasts were small but beautifully firm and closely spaced, her waist very slim, and her bottom mannishly compact. With short, bobbed hair, she looked disturbingly like a young tragedian, one of those boy-girls whom the ancient Greeks adored in switch-hitting roles. But there was nothing boyish about her cunt, as John Granville found out.
Because, as they talked, Lord Philbrock had been letting the dainty, bespectacled blonde girl open the folds of his robe, and, while kneeling on her palms, lick and suck his cock. Then suddenly, saying curtly to John Granville, "Excuse me for a moment," the wiry Englishman seized the other girl by the hair, flung her down on her back and pressed his stiff cock to the balls into her cunthole. At once her long, slim legs wrapped over his bottom, and she hugged herself to him, arching up her loins to accept his masculine and capable prick.
He fucked her solidly and vigorously, and then withdrew leaving her panting and whimpering, with his cock hard as a rock, not having had his own climax. Then he had the bespectacled blonde slave slip his robe back on, kneel down and kiss his feet, and then remain at his side awaiting further orders, before he resumed the conversation.
"As I was about to say, Granville, I've had good reports about you. There were only one or two dissenting voices. My little inventor, Bernard Kagan, is uneasy about you. He feels it is unwise to take into our inner circles one who may well go back to what even I myself used to call civilization. It would be easy for you to threaten us."
"Not exactly, Lord Henry," Granville readily rejoined, with a disarming smile. "Aren't you forgetting that when you do sell your slaves off to the market in the Far or Middle East, your gifted doctor gives them a kind of serum which destroys their memory of what happens here?"
Lord Philbrock scowled and took a step closer to the handsome widower.
"Where the devil did you learn that?"
"From Velma," Granville innocently replied. "Last night Velma saw fit to pay Betty a visit and tried to make lesbian love with my daughter. My daughter was wise enough not to respond to her advances, but in trying to win her affections, Velma was somewhat indiscreet. Have no fear. I have not the slightest intention of returning to civilization."
"But you will. Your wealth, your company, your enterprises."
"They can be transferred and settled easily enough by cabled directives to some of my associates," Granville replied. "Remember, now that my wife is dead and I went on this cruise because of her death, to forget her if I could, I've come to the conclusion that I have enough money to last me the rest of my life. Living here is like the realization of a dream. If you trust me, as I must trust you, I see no reason why we should not be friends."
"Spoken like a man of practical wisdom," Lord Philbrock smiled. "But let me give you one piece of advice. As I've told you before, Magala Khan is in a sense my partner, and I owe more to him than that implies. Without his help, without his financing at the outset. would never have been. So when he expresses a wish, I respect it, and I find it difficult to cross him. He is an implacable enemy."
"Well?"
"He has asked me for your daughter as a slave," came the astonishing reply. John Granville was sick at heart, but he dared not show his feelings.
"You are silent, Granville." Lord Henry glanced down irritably at the blonde and then snarled at her, "Clumsy one, I gave you a signal to kiss my toes, and you have gone beyond your authority. You will tell my overseer, Tom, this evening before bedtime to take you to the Dungeon of Atonement, and give you fifteen lashes on your breasts and ten in between your legs with the silken whip. Then you may tell him that it is my order that he bugger you, and you will thereafter clean his cock with your lips and tongue. Do you understand, Judith?"
With tears in her eyes, with trembling lips, the lovely girl nodded, then went back to licking his toes as dutifully as if he had not already sentenced this terrible ordeal on her young and nubile body.
Philbrock stared more intently into the eyes of John Granville, searching for a flicker of weakness, that would signal his downfall. But Granville remained composed and calm, and though his heart screamed in agony even as he spoke the words, he smiled and said, "Yes, let it be so. I'm sure Betty will find Khan a deserving master."
"It will be the culmination," Lord Henry continued, "of the pageant I am about to hold tomorrow night for our honored guests. There is the Emir Sikander Bey of Kaffiristan, who comes here every year to buy a half-dozen slaves for his household. There is the Right Honorable Lady Florence Aston, of London, from which I am still exiled. She, on the other hand, is a member of the House of Commons and a lesbian. She buys a slave or two from me, from time to time, and takes them home to London to be her bedfellows and servants. And there are others. You and Betty will be in a loge of honor, and from it, before the games begin, I will announce Betty's enslavement. Are we agreed?"
John Granville held out his hand, and the master of Slave Island grasped it firmly, his eyes gleaming with a cruel irony.
KAGAN'S DESIRE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They had gathered in the loges of the great arena, and lovely, almost-naked servitors were hurrying up and down the aisles to carry intoxicating beverages, snacks, and complimentary magazines to the guests. Lord Henry Philbrock announced, speaking into a microphone concealed in the arm of his chair in the loge and connected to a loud speaker system that could boom throughout the arena, "My dear friends, the scene you will see is that of the punishment of two women who had dared to refuse Bernard Kagan's command to gamahuche each other while he watched, and then to kneel side by side, turning their bowed heads so that they might kiss while he buggered each in turn.
At this the servants led in each captive in her turn; the older first, named Flora Grange, a Canadian who, with her young charge, had embarked on a cruise from Vancouver to Tokyo eight months ago, and on the journey back fallen into the hands of the rulers of , thanks to Kagan's ingeniously devised magnetic reef.
She was about five feet eight, willowy, thirty-six, but stunningly handsome; her closely cropped dark brown hair, her alert features, insolent mouth, cold gray-green eyes and aquiline nose suggested the dominatress; and indeed she was. For she coveted Kitty Carlton-a girl of nineteen, and a charming, saucy-faced, coppery-haired beauty-with an unnatural lust. Ironically, at the very moment their steamer had struck the fatal reef, she had crept into her stateroom bent on girlfucking and teaching Kit to gamahuche and engage in a sixty-nine. She had feared rebuff-but what she did not know, and did not learn, ironically, till she was the slave of Kagan along with Kitty, was that she shared the same lesbian penchants. That was why both had indignantly and abhorrently refused to let the little wizened German bugger them.
Now, before this assembled crowd, Kagan's fantasy would be carried out. Having each been taught the painful reward of refusal (by means of repeated whippings) Flora Grange was forced to nestle herself on top of her young friend and lick her cunny. Kitty was directed to lick and suck her pussy, which hung suspended over her mouth.
The first taste of the slippery cunt shocked the poor girl and she tried to turn her head away. Anticipating this reaction, Kagan brought a whip down hard upon Flora's bottom-cheeks. The reaction was just what the cruel little German expected. She jerked her hips down tightly onto Kitt's mouth and ground her cunny hard, seeking some kind of relief from the burning of her backside. To Kagan's great delight neither of his two slaves needed any further prompting. The two women-licked and sucked each other with a passion, obviously enjoying the pleasure that they had so steadfastly refused earlier.
Kagan, watching the scene intently, yanked Flora off Kitty as soon as he saw the squirming and heard the labored breathing that told him their climaxes were fast approaching. He didn't mean for the women to achieve that ultimate pleasure with each other-at least not at first.
The little German called softly to the younger girl, directing her to stand in front of him, her back and her firm, perky backside facing him. She was then forced to kneel on hands and knees in the dirt at his feet. Flora aunt soon joined her, so close together that their hips and shoulders touched. Kagan reveled in the spectacular view that was arrayed in front of him. The two women, crouched in the dirt in front of him, trembling and painfully aware of the audience that surrounded them. Their matched set of asscheeks quivered with trepidation as they guessed what was to be their fate. To Kagan it looked as if there was one strange creature in front of him-a creature with four delightfully rounded bottom-cheeks, like a row of giant toe-tips.
Kitty, unable to bear the suspense, glanced furtively over her shoulder and so saw Kagan unveiling his long, thin love-pole. It sprang from a mass of curly hair and jerked and bobbed as if trying to reach the belly above.
Kitty shrieked in terror and Kagan's prick throbbed in response, anxious to make the acquaintance of the frightened girl and prove, once and for all, that her fears were well-founded and her virtue utterly lost.
The excited inventor crouched behind Kitty, and, without further hesitation, shoved his long rod into her virgin backside. She screamed in shock and pain and Flora almost rose, attempting to come to the young girl's aid.
Kagan reached out one hand and slapped her buttocks, shouting for her to remain still. By then he had completed his entry into Kitty's tightly clenched butt-hole and he began a surprisingly gentle in-and-out motion. As soon as it seemed apparent that the girl had become acclimated to the strange sensation of being plugged in so confining a space, Kagan pulled all the way out and mercilessly shoved his prick all the way into the bottom-hole of the girl's companion.
Another piercing scream rent the air in the arena. This time Kitty tried to come to the aid of her friend and was similarly rewarded with a stinging slap on her naked backside. "Stay put, girl," Kagan rasped. "I'll tell you when I want you to move. In fact, you may now kiss your new girlfriend. I want to watch the two of you French kissing while I bugger each of you. I want to see lots of moving lips and darting tongues, mind!"
Rather than being disgusted by such a command, Kitty and Flora found solace in each other's lips and tongues and they were even able to pretend that the assault being wreaked upon their backsides was just a part of their own passionate tonguing.
Kagan, delighted by the obvious pleasure the two women were taking in his command, continued to bugger first one and then the other until he jerked free of the clenching anal canal that encased him and spewed his cream over the quivering backsides of both women.
The audience roared its approval while the two women, startled out of their sensuous dream-like state, stared about them in wonderment.
RESCUE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"I had two more events planned for this evening," Lord Henry grumbled, "but I defer to the will of my good friends. John and Betty Granville, come kneel before me in the aisle, join hands and repeat these vows after me!"
The handsome industrialist knelt down, holding his daughter's hand tightly. Betty smiled trustingly at her father as Lord Henry began to intone the ritual. "Do you, John Granville agree to release your daughter Betty into servitude? Will you allow her to be fucked, buggered, mouth fucked, however and whenever her master pleases, in accordance with our law that no pleasure shall be forbidden those in power?"
"I will," John Granville said clearly.
"And you, Betty Granville, do you take Magala Khan as your proper master from this moment forth, to suck, lick asshole, French-kiss, fuck, and be buggered by, so that aught he shall wish for his pleasure you will perform, with no mental reservations of any kind?"
"I do," came Betty's clear sweet voice.
"I then pronounce you a slave under the laws of , " Lord Henry proclaimed. "Take her to Magala Khan, her new master, and present her to him for the appropriate ritual of ownership."
"Come, darling." John Granville took her by the hand and helped her rise from the loge, then led her through the arena and to the left, where the towering platform rose above thirteen sinister steps.
"We've got to go through with it," he whispered on their way up. "Do you see how Magala Khan devours you with his eyes? He will not be gentle. But you must trust me, dear. It is the only way."
"Of course I will-Gee, it's almost fun, sort of," Betty said, trying for a chipper tone of voice.
"That's my brave darling.. .come, let's climb," he murmured. Upward they went, stopping just short of the structure's ceiling. There, in the wide pavilion atop the steps, was an elegantly appointed bed.
Nearby stood Magala Khan, his skin anointed with fragrant oils so that each muscle stood out, gleaming and taut, before the eyes of the the panting audience. He was utterly naked except for a thin silk cord tied around his trim waist.
Khan looked dispassionately at John Granville, who was still clutching Betty's hand."Release her to me now," he commanded.
Granville stepped back and released her; then, after bowing slightly, turned his back on the proceedings, stuck his hands in his pockets, and began to softly whistle "Banks of the Wabash."
"Let's have him strip her naked right off," Velma called.
"My friend has made a request," Philbrock called thorough the microphone.
"Why, then, I will honor it," said Khan.
Taking Betty's garment in both hands, he stripped it from her in one fluid motion, then scooped her up into his arms and laid her on the bed. He stretched out beside her, grabbed her luscious bottom with one hand, and set his mouth to hers. Betty, her long lashes fluttering, her eyes closed, wrapped her arms around him. After a moment of this paradise he drew back, feasting his eyes on her fine young breasts, and on the thick dark-golden fleece covering her virgin mount.
For weeks, he had watched as Betty walked about on , beholden to no one but her father. Khan, so used to complete and total mastery over all he surveyed, had felt his senses enflamed by the sight of the lovely, freely-questing young woman. His hunger had sprung up as never before, and his eyes were oddly bright as he gazed down at her.
Pressing her knees widely apart, the better to admire the tender, glistening folds of her virginal cunt, he bent forward and placed the head of his throbbing, straining member just inside her lips, then gently moved it up and down, repeatedly, feeling the pleasure surge within him as it slid across her increasingly moist sex. Betty was now writhing and moaning, and made little bucking movements with her hips.
"Oh master," she gasped, "do with me what you will! I give myself entirely into the service of your pleasure! Oh, please, please, do what you will with me, nowT
Suddenly there came a rumbling sound, and entire structure swayed.
"An earthquake! It's an earthquake!" John Granville shouted to his daughter as he swiftly ran over to seize her arm. Magala Khan, his eyes tightly closed in bliss, seemed not to notice this interruption. Neither, really, did Betty. The rumbling grew apace. it's an earthquake, I tell you!" he continued, still shaking Betty's arm, "and a bad one, too! I distinctly saw the earth move!"
He had at last succeeded in getting Betty's attention. Her eyes flew open. "Already?" she asked, in evident confusion.
The rumbling grew still louder, and the pavilion and its staircase tilted, then re-balanced itself. There were cries of terror from the loges, they could see Lord Henry Philbrock on his feet giving orders, while Elvire tried to quiet the panic of those around her.
The pavilion swayed again, more violently this time. John Granville took advantage of the confusion to forcibly pull Betty out from under Magala Khan, aided in this by Khan's overall slipperiness.
"My God, it's an earthquake, Betty!" Granville yelled. "This island is volcanic. It was created in an eruption, and it will end in one. We've got to get to the ocean and find a raft, a boat, anything!"
Hastily they descended the thirteen steps, just as a jagged crack appeared in the ceiling. Betty, naked save for her sandals, held tightly to his hand as he raced for the nearest exit. All was confusion, save only for the sound of Philbrock shouting orders over the roar of the earthquake and the crowd. Betty managed to snatch up a standard-issue red silk tunic from a pile of them as she ran past it.
Granville and his daughter found themselves at last in the hallway of the huge building. Chandeliers were swaying, and there was the crash of breaking breakables, and human cries and screams, all around them.
"This way," he panted, as he led her through an open doorway and into what turned out to be the apartment of Marjorie Sayers. There, in the exotic velvet-draped salon, he found an open casement window looking out to the hill beyond. "Hurry, darling!" he shouted as he led her to the window, stooping to pick up a heavy velvet dressing-gown from the floor.
They were barely out of the building when another terrifying rumble sounded and the ground swayed under their feet. The radio tower collapsed with a shattering crash. Betty, with Marjorie Sayers' dressing gown thrown about her shoulders, was running beside him like a young gazelle. "Don't look back! . . .I think the harbor for the yachts is off this way," he gasped.
After running through a thick clump of palm trees, they reached the hidden cove. Sure enough, a dozen yachts were anchored there, butting gently against each other in the suddenly-choppy water like a pen full of nervous cattle. "We'll take the nearest one and pray I can start it. honey," he told her. "Come, we can wade out a bit, then swim the last few strokes to the boat!"
A few moments later they clambered aboard a small but luckily high-powered yacht, the luxurious property of a nightclub owner in Manila who bought slaves for the exclusive brothel he owned and had journeyed to buy three new girls.
"Yes, I can start it-thank God!" John Granville shouted from where he was hot-wiring its engine. The machinery began to purr. "Heave up the anchor and cast off, Betty," he called. The golden-haired girl was already tugging at the rope over the stern.
"There! Now here we go, bound for Honolulu," she cried.
The yacht gathered speed, turning eastward from the cove.
"Look," Betty cried, aghast.
John turned. There was a haze over the atoll, and the tallest points of its buildings, which should have been visible, could no longer be seen. Then the broad surface of the ocean seemed to heave upwards.. . impossibly high.. .as though its entire surface were swiftly tilting up to stand on end. He stared, his mouth hanging open. The moment seemed to go on forever. Then Betty screamed, and time ran forward again.
"Tsunami!" he yelled. "A tidal wave! Betty, for the love of God, hold on tight!"
The huge wave carried the yacht upward, it seemed, to somewhere around the orbit of the moon, and then they slid down again, hanging on for dear life as wave after lesser wave crashed around them.
Betty took it all like a trooper, but later, when the worst of it was past, a fit of crying overtook her. "Oh, Daddy, Daddy," she gasped, burying her tear-stained face against his chest. "It-it's dreadful-like a horrible nightmare-all those people, the cruel ones and the helpless ones both-and the buildings and-and -everything!-How? And why?"
"Why the earthquake, you mean?" he asked. "The Pacific has them; it's just that simple. Almighty God, Who frequently lets sparrows fall, doesn't unleash volcanic activity just to punish the wicked, either."
"No," she said. "I mean, I understand that. But why was it there at all?"
John Granville shook his head as he kept the boat on course. "Ambition and lust, the two most powerful motives in the world, created it. A perfect world, where the strong could rule the weak. And yet, in a sense, we're going back to such a world."
"Daddy?"
He looked down compassionately into her lovely blue eyes.
"We don't ever dare tell anyone about it, do we?" Betty asked, almost in a whisper.
For the last time he looked back. He saw nothing.. Then he turned back to Betty and replied, "No, darling. At least, not everyone, not the ones who wouldn't understand, or the ones who would be inspired to try to imitate it. But it was real, it happened, even though it was like a strange and terrible dream from which we're awakening.. . .Speaking of which, why don't you go below and get some rest?"
She kissed him on the cheek, then, and went down the ladder. But when she reached her cabin, she stood a long moment, seeming to stare at something on the far horizon. Her soft hand stroked her cunt, where he, Magala Khan, had possessed.. .had almost possessed her. True, they might or might not tell. But she knew that she would never, never forget.. .
