The Master of Westgate contains newly edited versions of my first
novel, Refugees, and the sequel, Refugees 2: Survivor, in a single
volume. It is primarily aimed at readers who are not familiar with these two
early works. Moreover, as Refugees
was banned by our largest e-book retailer during the Great Book Purge of 2014,
and has not been available there since, so I thought it was time to offer the
two books together in this economically priced edition and as a paperback. The
latter was made possible by my good friends at Fiction4All on the far side of
the Atlantic. I hope you will enjoy reading these stories as much as I did
writing them.
Commander James
Bondage
The War
started, as might have been expected, in the Mideast, when terrorists seized a
Pakistani missile base, and launched two nuclear warheads at Israel. From
there, it spread rapidly to Iran, to India, to the Soviet successor states who
had their own nuclear arsenals; and finally, to the rest of the world. After
the missiles stopped falling, the northeastern United States, like every other major
and most minor urban areas in the world, was reduced to an apparently
lifeless, radioactive charnel house. But as always, there were survivors, and
after the radiation levels had died enough to allow living creatures to breathe
without inhaling a lethal dose of radioactive calcium, the survivors returned and
started to rebuild. Soon, amid the wasteland there arose new little kingdoms,
duchies, counties and strongholds, and with them returned war. War with far
less deadly weapon, and on a much smaller scale, to be sure, but war still,
with corpses lying in the rubble of ravaged homes, captives enslaved and driven
away by the conqueror’s soldiers and the invariable flotsam of war, the refugees.
This is the story of three of those refugees.
The scout could hardly believe his luck. He
glanced again back over his shoulder at the three riders following him across
the bleak Waste to the stronghold, as if to reassure himself that they were not
hallucinations caused by over-exposure to radiation in the Waste.
All three wore travel-stained cloaks with the
hoods up, but the hoods could disguise neither the perfect features nor the
flawless complexions of the three blonde aristocratic women. The Master would
be pleased indeed with this find. The scout again silently tried to estimate
his probable bonus for bringing in these noblewomen.
The mother spoke. Her voice was melodious and
her accent cultured. “I must thank you again, and tell you how indebted my step-daughters
and I are to you, sir. It was our good fortune that you came upon us when you
did. Our food supplies were running low, and I did not know if we would have been
able to reach a safe haven before nightfall.”
The scout replied, “Running out of grub would
have been the least of your problems ma’am, if the Pilgrims of the Dust found
you before I did.”
One of the girls shivered. “Are the stories they
tell about the Pilgrims really true? Do they actually eat…?” She trailed off.
“If they catch you, they’ll rape, kill an’
eat you, in that order, if you’re lucky,” the scout agreed, nodding. “I’ve seen
what’s left of folks they caught. I’m a little surprised you got this far
without them findin’ you. You’re safe now, though.” He pointed a finger of his
rawhide glove. “There’s Westgate Stronghold up ahead.”
They were riding on a road that passed through
the ruins of what had once been a bedroom suburb of long-dead Philadelphia. Beyond
the burnt-out shells of identical split-level houses could be seen a brick
wall. The wall had been built to keep trespassers out of the expensive private pre-war
townhouse development of Westgate. Both Westgate and the neighboring
split-level town of Harrowgate had come through the war unscathed but uninhabited,
as the residents had been evacuated by the government in the final days before
the mushroom clouds began to sprout over southeastern Pennsylvania.
When the first cautious parties had returned
to scout the dead region, a leader of a war band and former cop named Doyle,
had seen the potential of the empty luxury development as a stronghold, and
brought his followers in to reclaim it.
Westgate had been converted into a small
walled city. The windows of the outer row of houses had been bricked up, and
the walls built up and widened to accommodate a walkway for the garrison. There
were four massive gates, each watched over squads of heavily armed soldiers
from atop the wall, with more waiting outside on the ground.
A burly man with a thick black beard hailed
the party. “I see you was in luck’s way, Johnstone, rescuin’ these three fine
ladies.” He leered at the women, smirking nastily. “I suppose the Master’ll want
to see ‘em right away.” He swung open the gate and waved them inside.
The mother hesitated. She sensed danger here,
and realized that she might be walking into a trap, if she entered this grim
fortress with her stepdaughters. But she realized too that she had no choice. She
had nowhere else to go, and she did not dare risk spending another night in the
Waste, at the mercy of roving bands of cannibalistic Pilgrims.
“Come along, girls,” she said, in her most
confident tone.
The heavy gate clanged shut behind them as
soon as they passed through. Other soldiers helped them dismount, and led their
horses away. Three soldiers joined the group as escorts, and the scout
Johnstone led them briskly through the winding streets. Most of the buildings
were modern townhouses like those along the outside wall. They passed through
an open market, noisy with buying and selling, bustling with livestock and redolent
with the delicious odors of food cooking on open fires.
A few minutes’ walk brought them to a large
rambling building which had served as the development’s community center before
the War. The Great Hall had housed Westgate’s management offices, and was also
the site of the community center’s gymnasium/ theater. This was now the
reception area for the Master of the stronghold.
It was a very large room, with broad
skylights overhead to provide illumination in the daytime. There was a raised stage
at one end, and on it, seated in a high-backed wooden chair reading some papers,
was the Master of Westgate. He looked up when the three women and their escort
entered the hall.
The Master had short black hair, black eyes
and a face that might have been handsome, if the expression on it was not so
grim. He was dressed in a plain black jacket a colorless black shirt and black
trousers. His only visible symbol of rank was the silver medallion which hung
on a chain around his neck. The mother shuddered inwardly when she looked at
his face. One glance told her that this was a man who knew neither mercy nor
pity for weakness.
“What have you found on your travels,
Johnstone?” he asked. His baritone voice was uninflected, and his words clipped.
“More refugees from New Bristol, at a guess.”
“Yes sir,” replied the scout. “This is the
Countess Althea herself, Bristol’s wife, and these are her stepdaughters,
Kathryn and Samantha. Found ‘em wandering around in the Waste near Fairless
Hills.”
“And a good thing for them you did too, I should
think,” returned the Master. “You will be well rewarded for your find,
Johnstone. Go get yourself a drink, find a whore, and tell them to charge
everything to me. I’ll take care of your finder’s fee tomorrow. I’m sure you won’t
have any complaints about the bonus.”
The scout grinned, touched the brim of his
hat, said, “Thank you, Master,” and departed.
The Master turned his gaze to his three
guests. “Why so shy?” he asked. “Put down your hoods so I can see your faces.”
Althea and her stepdaughters lowered the
hoods of their cloaks. The Master’s eyes widened a little when he saw their
features revealed.
The Countess had pale rose skin, high
cheekbones, sky blue eyes, a strong, straight nose and full lips. Her hair was
long and golden blonde. The twin girls’ complexions were even paler, almost
translucent. They had snub noses, huge gray eyes and platinum blonde hair drawn
back in ponytails. The Master guessed that they were about eighteen years old.
They glanced around nervously, like rabbits in a trap.
Althea did not like the look of the Master.
Moreover, she had heard whispers about him and his monstrous appetites. One
time she had overheard her husband talking to her brother about the Master of
Westgate, but when she asked them to repeat the rumors, the Count had said that
they were not fit for her ears. She decided it would be safest to put up a bold
front.
“We have come here for temporary refuge,
until my husband the Count of New Bristol sends for us,” Althea said, her head
held imperiously high, looking the Master straight in the eye. “If you treat us
as befits our stations, you will be well compensated, and earn the gratitude of
the Count as well. This will be a token payment only.” She reached inside her
cloak, and pulled out a small leather purse which clinked as she held it out. “Molest
us in any way, however, and you will face the wrath of my husband and his great
army.”
The Master did not directly reply to this
speech, although his eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch.
“Billings,” he said, addressing one of the
soldiers standing behind the refugee noblewomen, “did you happen to see the mighty
Count of New Bristol recently?”
“You know I did sir,” the soldier replied. “At
least I saw his head. It was stuck on top a pole the army of the King of Jersey
was carryin’ back to Princeton with them, after the sack of New Bristol.”
“What are you saying?” shrieked the Countess.
“It’s a lie, it cannot be true!” She wept.
“And what did the great city of New Bristol
look like when the army was marching away?” the Master continued.
“Why, there wasn’t nothing left of it,” Billings
stolidly replied. “It was all burnt out, and the only living souls from New
Bristol I saw was some slaves the Jerseys had yoked up and were takin’ away
with ‘em.”
The girls ran to their stepmother, and the
three clutched each other, wailing after they heard this story.
“So, Countess, I do not think I hope for any
reward from a man lacking a head, nor on the other hand, will I lose any sleep
for fear of his wrath and his non-existent army,” the Master told the weeping widow.
He stood up. “It you three who should be in
fear for your lives,” he continued. He did not raise his voice, but the three
women cringed under its lash. His tone was now as cold as ice and as
threatening as a thunderstorm. “You come as homeless beggars into my city, and demand to be treated as ‘befits your
station’? And what high station do you think appropriate for one whose city is
nothing but ashes, whose army breathes dirt and whose inhabitants are all dead
or else slaves. You are utterly dependent
on my goodwill. You will not instruct
me in my own stronghold, noble bitch from a downfallen city. It may be that I
will grant you an opportunity to continue your useless life at little longer,
if I choose to offer you refuge in this place. Look at me!” His words made the forlorn,
weeping women start. They had been staring at the ground, and now they looked
up at the Master’s burning eyes.
“Everyone in this stronghold works for his or
her keep, I cannot afford to feed useless aristocrats here.” The Master stared
down at them, like a wolf considering its prey. “If you wish to have my
protection, you will earn it by working for your living, as does everyone else.
If you are unwilling, you will be stripped naked and thrown out the main gate, for
the Pilgrims to take for their larder.”
Althea gasped. “I had heard the master of
Westgate was a heartless monster, but I did not think that even he would cast
helpless girls out into the night to be eaten by cannibals.”
“I said nothing about your stepdaughters, bitch.
They can make their own decisions.” He looked at the girls, who shrank under
his gaze. “Right now, the only question is whether you will be here to look
after them. Now, will you swear yourself to be my servant for so long as I wish
to have you, or shall I have you ejected from my stronghold?”
The Countess’s graceful neck bowed in defeat.
“You have the advantage of me, sir; you can do what you wish with us. I will
agree to serve you, and in return I ask only that you find mercy in your heart
for my girls.”
“This is not a negotiation,” the Master
replied harshly. “I will ask you for the last time. Will you serve me, unreservedly
and without conditions, or not?”
A tear dripped from Althea’s lip to the floor
as she said in a barely audible voice, “Yes sir, I will serve you.”
“And you two,” the Master said, turning to
look down at the frightened twins. “Do you both agree to serve me as well?”
They looked at their stepmother for guidance.
She hesitated, and then nodded her head slowly.
“Yes, we agree,” the girls chorused.
“Then that’s settled,” the Master said. “Now,
Countess Althea lately of New Bristol, my first command is that you strip down,
so that we all can see your noble tits and ass.”
Althea had half-expected some order of this
sort, but the suddenness and crudeness of it shocked her into an angry response.
“How dare you give me such an outrageous order?” She shouted. “I agreed to be a
servant, not to…”
Her speech was cut short as one of the soldiers
who had escorted the women in from the main gate, responded to a gesture by the
Master. He seized the Countess from behind, and crammed a wad of cloth into her
mouth, stifling her. Before she could react to this indignity, she found that
her wrists had been tied together behind her back. An instant later, a band of tape
was slapped over her mouth, keeping the cloth wad contained. Then, she was
dragged forward to the base of the stage, and thrown face-down over a metal
folding chair. The twins, who had been held by other soldiers while their
mother was being gagged and bound, could only look on helplessly.
The Master came down from the stage to stand
over the writhing Althea.
“Bring me a paddle,” he ordered, speaking to
someone Althea could not see from her head-down position. She heard the sound
of feet running on the wooden floor, and then heard the Master say, “Thank you.”
He planted the sole of his boot on the small
of Althea’s back, then pulled on the rope that was tied around her wrists, until
the Countess felt as if her shoulders were about to be dislocated. She tried to
scream, to ask him to stop, to release her, but she could produce only meaningless
muffled noises: “Ehhh! Urrrr!”
The Master had a reason for pulling on the
rope. The pressure on her arms and shoulders forced the Countess to arch her
back and thus raise her buttocks into an ideal position for punishment. “You
are off to a poor start as a servant,” he said, and swung the paddle down to
smack her helpless rear end.
The paddle had been carved from the heart of
an oak tree, and was an inch thick. It was not unlike similar instruments that
have been used on the bottoms of naughty schoolchildren for generations, and
was capable of producing a painfully sore ass, but not of causing any permanent
damage.
Countess Althea was from the high nobility,
and had consequently never been so much as spanked as a child, nor had any experience
whatever in being punished. To her, each blow of the wooden paddle felt as if
fire was being applied to her bottomcheeks. The Master seemed to know exactly
how long the pain of a blow from the paddle lingered; at the moment the throbbing
began to fade, he would strike again. The beating went on for ten minutes,
although to Althea it seemed to last a lifetime.
When he was satisfied with the correction, the
Master paused, paddle upraised. “Are you ready to obey me yet, Countess Bitch?”
He asked.
She nodded vigorously, dislodging tears to
fall and plop to the ground.
“Then listen very carefully to my
instructions,” he said. “As soon as I take the gag out, you will apologize for
your insolence and disobedience, and thank me for correcting you. After that,
you will follow my order, and strip naked. Do you understand?”
The Countess nodded again.
The Master removed his boot, seized a handful
of golden hair and pulled Althea upright. He ripped away the tape, took the
sodden cloth from her mouth, untied her hands and stood back, staring down menacingly
at her, the paddle still in hand.
“I …I am s-sorry that I was dis- disobedient,”
the chastised noblewoman stuttered, barely able to force the humiliating words
out. “Please forgive me, sir.”
“Go on,” growled the Master.
“Er… thank you for correcting me,” she said,
then lowered her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept.
“Now, will you obey me?” The Master asked, in
a dangerously calm tone.
“Yes, yes, right away,” Althea answered, fumbling
with the buttons of her blouse. She removed this garment, then slid her riding
breeches and stepped clear of them. After that she hesitated, trembling, clad
only in her underclothes.
“What are you waiting for?” the Master growled.
“Get on with it,”
“My apologies, sir,” she said, fumbling with
her brassiere, “but I have never been seen naked by any man but my husband
before.” She unhooked the bra, and dropped it to the ground, then slipped her
thumbs under the elastic waist of her panties, and with obvious reluctance,
very slowly slid them down to her ankles. After she finished, she stood in a half-crouch,
pathetically covering herself with one hand over her breasts and the other
guarding her genitals.
“You will stand properly,” snapped the
Master. “Place both hands behind your head, and stand straight, with your shoulders
back and your feet well apart.”
The despairing Althea complied. The position
demanded by the Master displayed her magnificent body to its full advantage.
Her perfectly formed breasts with their delicate coral nipples now jutted at an
improbable angle from her chest, and made it plain that she did not need the
support of the brassiere. Her waist was as slim as that of a teenager. The lips
of her sex were slightly parted, undisguised by the few golden strands of
curling hair on her mound. Her buttocks were round and firm, her legs long and smoothly
muscled. No one in the hall had ever before seen such a beautiful woman. An
awed silence fell in tribute to her physical perfection.
The Master broke the spell. “Turn around,
slowly,” he ordered. Her movements were as graceful as her body was beautiful.
The Master’s lips curled a little at the corners in what might have been a
smile. He was well pleased by how easily a simple paddling had brought this proud
blueblood to heel.
“Now kneel down there, and remain silent.” He
pointed to a place on the floor. “The proper position for a slave to kneel is
back on your haunches, knees spread, chest out and hands holding your ankles.
Remember it.”
Althea obeyed without protest. She could not
imagine a more humiliating position, or a more vulnerable one, if the Master
chose to strike her again. The paddling had made a profound impression on the
Countess. She was now prepared to follow commands that would have been
unthinkable only a few minutes before, to avoid being paddled again. She assumed
the obscene pose and waited for the Master’s next order.
“Now you two, tell me your names again,” the
Master said, turning to face the trembling twins.
“I’m Kathryn, sir,” said one, and the other
said simply “Samantha, sir.”
“Strip down like the Countess, Kathryn and
Samantha, and be quick about it,” said the Master.
Althea stirred. “Please, sir, they…” she
began hesitantly in a low voice, only a little louder than a whisper.
The Master turned on her. “If you say another
word, I will give you a whipping that will make that paddling seem like a
birthday present. After that, you will watch me give your whelps the same
treatment.”
The Countess subsided, averting her eyes away
from her stepdaughters’ distress.
“Now,” said the Master returning his
attention to the girls.
The girls stripped nervously, pulling their
garments off with jerky movements. When they finished, they took up the “proper”
position without further direction from the Master. Each wore a gold chain
around her neck from which depended an ornate letter made of precious metal and
inlaid with glittering stones. Katherine’s was a yellow gold “K” inlaid with
diamonds; while Samantha’s “S” was made of platinum set with emeralds.
“At least those will let me tell you apart,” said
the Master. “I was considering having your initial tattooed on your foreheads.”
The Master approached the girls. When his
face came close to Kathryn’s, she shut her eyes and turned her head to the side.
But when he did the same with Samantha, the nude girl met his gaze back boldly,
even provocatively.
The girls were identical twins, eighteen
years and a few months old, daughters of the Count of New Bristol’s first wife,
who was long deceased. Although they were not related to Althea by blood, they
were remarkably similar in some ways, the most important of which was their
beauty.
Their breasts were already larger than those
of the Countess, but they were no less firm. Their nipples were a bit longer,
and a little lighter in color than Althea’s. Their skins were almost
transparent; the Master could see the blue lines of veins where they rose near
the surface of their breasts and thighs. Their hair, caught up in long pony
tails, was even blonder than their stepmother’s; verging on platinum. Their
buttocks and legs were more muscular than the Countess’, although no less
shapely, and the Master speculated that they could probably tolerate more whip
than she. In short, both Kathryn and Samantha would have made excellent models
for an artist working on the theme of Goddess of Youth.
After he had looked his fill, the Master
motioned to his men. “Have them cleaned up and prepared for their duties,” he
ordered. The soldiers bound the hands of the three nude women, and led them
away.