David
Hodge jerked up from the straw-covered floor, his plump cheeks quivering. For
he, nerves taut, had been first to hear the door opening.
‘Christ
... oh Christ ... they’re coming ...’
The
words came like a long drawn-out series of sobs. Some instinct made him cover his genitals
with his hands. No ... no ... no ...
they couldn’t do that! Not
him! He’d rather die! Even in the mental agony of the moment, he
felt the absurdity of that thought. He
was going to die anyway. The pores of
his already sweating body seemed to open anew.
Ralph
Carter sat up more slowly. He said
nothing ... but his eyes spoke volumes.
It was tough to go this way. He
was only just into his thirties; not even half-way to his normal span. So little done so far. So much he might have been able to do. He felt sick, and weak in the bladder ... and
fought to concentrate on controlling himself.
‘Get
up!’
The
yellow-skinned figure in the doorway barked the command. He looked like something out of a Japanese
war film, except that he had no uniform - just a loin cloth.
Reluctantly,
and with difficulty, the three men staggered to their feet. Each had felt the end of a rifle butt on the
shins or in the belly too often to hesitate too long.
‘Out!’
They
went out, blinking into the bright sunshine.
None was actually making whimpering noises but each was whimpering
inside. With self-pity.
So
this was what it was like ...
The
end.
To
die alone in a small jungle township. To
die in agony with the world unknowing; the world uncaring. Yes ... it was difficult to put a brave face
on it when it same to the crunch.
If
you had asked any one of the three at that moment what he would do to get out
of the situation, he would readily have answered:
‘Anything
... anything ...’
David
Hodge, Ralph Carter and James Burrow didn’t know it but that, without being
asked, was what they were going to have to do!
***
Uncertain,
nervous, the three climbed up into the three-ton lorry which stood in the gaol
courtyard. That was a surprise in the
first place for each had expected to be carved up on the wooden ‘sacrificial
table’ which had been ceremoniously set up the day before.
‘Where
... where are we going?’ David Hodge’s
voice was no more than a whisper. He
yelled loudly as a rifle butt thumped down on his toes and then he began to
whimper softly.
‘Shut
up!’ snapped the guard. His features
looked angrily resentful, like an animal deprived of its prey.
The
three-tonner lumbered on over rough roads, bouncing the occupants about like
sacks of potatoes. No one spoke. James Burrow, never the strongest looking of
men, looked as if he was going to pass out at any moment. Ralph Carter, rugged and hefty, continued to
strive to hold on to his bowels.
It
was not until they had been tossed about in the back of the lorry for over an
hour that some faint flickerings of hope began to burgeon in all three. They looked at each other silently, but the
unspoken question was there in each of their minds.
If
they intend to finish us off in the way they said, why are they taking us all
this way?
***
Evening
had fallen when the lorry came to a slithering halt.
‘Out!’
The
tail-board fell and they tumbled down, weak-kneed, half falling. Terror gripped them all again.
This
was it ... this was it!
The
moment had come again!
Then
they were walking along a rickety jetty.
Water lapped gently below. There
was the heavenly fresh smell of sea air.
Greedily they drank it in after the suffocating stench of the cell they
had lain in for days that had seemed like weeks.
‘Jump.’
The
three men paused undecidedly on the end of the jetty. What was this? Death by drowning then? Better than by the knife though ...
Peering
down, they could observe the outlines of a small craft. A native sailing vessel of some sort. It rocked gently to and fro, like a peaceful
holiday launch alongside a summer pier.
But somehow it had an air of menace.
Ralph
Carter jumped first, cursing as his ankle twisted. The drop had been further than he had
imagined. The other two followed in
quick succession, urged on by the pounding end of the rifle butt.
They
lay there, cringing almost. Each heart
pounded. With dread ... but yet ... but
yet ... with a sort of exultation.
Could
it ... could it possibly be ... that they were being released?
That,
by some miracle, the moment to die had not yet come?
Best
not to hope too much ...
For
it went against all reason that they should be given any clemency. They had been fighting a jungle war where the
law of the jungle prevailed amongst men as well as animals. It was a matter of kill or be killed. They had known it but, like most mercenary
adventurers, had dismissed from their minds the idea that it was they who would
be killed.
Darkness
had now fallen.
Should
they move? Make a run for it? Jump over the side? Perhaps that was what there were intended to
do? There must be a catch ...
What
then?
The
situation was resolved by a sharp female voice coming out of the darkness.
“Get
this shit down into the hold,” it said.
‘Yes
... yes ... missie ... at once, missie ...’
Several whining coolie voices together.
‘And
hose it down before you lock it up,’ said the voice. ‘It stinks.’
‘Yes,
missie .... yes ... right away, missie ...’
The
three men felt themselves gripped by innumerable pawing hands and were dragged
through a hatchway, down to the depths of the vessel.
Britannia
De Vere - known to her intimates, perhaps rather naturally, simply as Britt -
sat mulling over the philosophical niceties of the subject of power.
There
were so many forms of it and there was such a variety of them throughout the
world. Western politicians, for example,
loved power, even though it was often of a remote kind and exercised through
Parliaments or Chambers of Deputies. A
power, too which could be arbitrarily taken away at the ballot box. Black African despots loved power, too. More understandably for it was of a more
immediate kind. Many of them took a
personal pleasure in slaughtering their countrymen by the thousand ... not to
mention any possible rivals.
Then
there was the power of money. Arab oil
sheiks had that. As did international
financiers and some entrenched feudal landowners. Many such just seemed to love the power of having
money rather than actually making real use of it.
There
was the power of the parental tyrant ....
The
power of the blackmailer ...
So
many forms. Some on a grand scale; some
quite petty. Yet each satisfying in it’s
own way and degree. Yes ... love of
power seemed endemic in human nature.
Many suppressed that love, largely because they found they were not
capable of gaining power. Those who were
luckier, or desired it more, achieved it ... and fed on it. Hypocritically, many of these pretended they
didn’t really enjoy power at all. They were simply exercising the rights of a
superior human being for the benefit of those less worth. Custodians of an ordered society. Britt smiled.
How smug those British Victorians had been, with everyone knowing their
‘proper station’. Quite a clever system
really, she reflected. Then, except for
the very lowest ranks, everyone could exercise a degree of power right through
the scale.
Then,
of course, there was Britt’s kind of power.
For
her money, it was the most desirable and satisfying power of all.
Immediate
power ...
Close-contact
power ...
Instant
power ...
And,
above all, the power of the female over the male.
Britt
stretched luxuriously on the lounger on which she was relaxing, feeling the
tingling in her nerve ends. Just
thinking about her kind of power gave her the sensation. Where was the pleasure, she asked herself, in
exercising power by remote control? In
knowing that, by you actions, someone was doing something that you have wanted
or instigated ... but doing it thousands of miles away? Unseen, unheard, by you?
Enforced
actions had to be seen to be enjoyed.
So had suffering. That was
Britt’s view, and she had no qualms about it at all.
Like
Piggie was suffering at that moment. He
had been given the task of polishing every inch of brass on both the fore and
after decks of the yacht ... knowing he’d get a hiding if there was but one
single flaw in his work. It had been a
very hot afternoon, too. Yes ... very
wearisome for Piggie. At that moment,
Britt caught sight of him on his hands and knees up near the bows of the
vessel. Fat-bottomed bastard. There was still plenty of weight to come off
him yet ... and come off it would!
Of
course, it had been cool under the awning which had been rigged on the small
upper deck. Especially as Britt had
taken her ease without a stitch on.
Except her customary thigh-length boots, which were made of the softest,
thinnest leather. She rarely went
without those. They were symbols of her
power.
Languidly,
Britt stretched out one arm, pointed a long, slim finger and pressed a
bell-push set in the panelling. She had
begun to feel a little thirsty.
Perhaps
a half a minute later, a slight-figured man came panting up the companion
ladder. Reaching the upper deck, he
bowed to waist level and then stood at attention ... deferential, servile. He was completely nude but for a black
leather triangle which fitted closely and tightly over his genitals ... held
there by a slim thong about his flanks and a tight-cutting under-thong cleaving
between his nates. His fair hair had
been shaven almost to the scalp and not a single body hair was to be seen.
‘You
took your time, Polecat,’ said Britt, not moving her position and still gazing
idly into the middle distance.
‘I
... I beg pardon, Ma’am,’ answered the man just referred to as Polecat. ‘I ... was at work ... in the galley, Ma’am
...’
‘Excuses ... excuses, Stinker. How many times to I have to tell you I don’t
accept excuses?' enquired Britt evenly.
‘I
humbly beg pardon for keeping you waiting, Ma’am,’ answered the man just
referred to as Stinker.
Britt
didn’t even look at him., Her eyes were
still on the sweating figure of Piggie up by the bows.
‘Get
me a jug of fresh orange juice,’ she ordered.
‘Yes,
Ma’am ... at once, Ma’am ...’ The
shaven-headed figure bowed to the waist again, turned, and made for the
companion ladder.
Only
then did Britt’s head turn slightly and the faintest of smiles crossed her lips as she noted the
numerous broad pink-red welts encircling the figure’s rump. Obviously Hannah’s strap had recently been at
work. Nothing unusual in that, needless
to say. That girl was quite some
task-mistress. One who loved her work. Britt closed her eyes and ran her hands up
over the round firmness of her breasts, feeling the nipples stiffen
fractionally. Yes ... like was very
good.
Meanwhile
Polecat, or Stinker, or simply sometimes Stink, as he was wont to be called,
was scurrying back to the galley. To
keep the Captain waiting, to incur her wrath in the slightest, could scarcely
have been less desirable. He must hurry
... hurry.
Yet
there was still the duties Miss Hannah had assigned him. For the moment, perforce, they would have to
wait. But not for too long. Oh no ... not for too long. Oh God, try as one might, it was not truly
possible to satisfy all the demands made upon one. Yet one must go on trying.
With
a feverish haste, yet with care, Polecat filled a jug with fresh orange juice,
tossed in the ice, set the jug with glasses on a tray. Was there anything he had forgotten? A serviette perhaps? Yes, he’d better add that. Oh God, he’d nearly forgotten the packet of
straws! Quickly he added them to the
tray before having a final check. He
must not take too long, yet everything must be right. Hurry.
Hurry!
Polecat,
alias Stinker, alias Stink, picked up the tray and set out for the galley door
Miss
Hannah Hales came through that door at that precise moment and Polecat almost dropped the tray. He had, to put it at its mildest, the very
greatest respect for this young woman.
‘What
you up to, Stink?’
The
magnificently made female figure confronted him. Skin the colour of milky coffee, a touch of
the Negroid in arrogant features, dark eyes flashing and dangerous. Miss Hannah wore only the shortest of
skirts. Pleated white leather. And calf-length white leather boots. Around her waist, as ever, was buckled the
white leather belt from which dangled and jangled a multitude of keys. Also, fastened to one side, was a broad
leathern thong attached to its short wooden handle. Her symbol of authority.
‘The
Captain asked for orange juice, Highness ...’
‘Uh-hu. Then you’d better take it quick, eh Stink?’
‘Yes
... yes, Highness ...’ Oh God, what it
was to be at the mercy of such a woman!
A woman who scarcely ever concerned herself to distinguish between the
possible and the impossible.
‘Cos
there’s still a lot of work to do here, eh Stink?’
‘Yes
...H-Highness.’
‘Git
movin’ then.’
Polecat
bowed his head and left the galley. A
scurry along the deck. Then up the
companion ladder again. More difficult
this time with a tray to carry. The
Captain still reclined nakedly at her east.
Happy and confident in her power.
A bow to the waist again before placing the tray on a side-table. The position of attention.
‘Pour
it, you stupid bastard!’
‘Yes
... yes ... I beg pardon, Ma’am ...’
Nervous
fingers held the jug and poured the ice-tinkling contents into a glass.
A
wait. Again at attention. How long will one have to remain there? When time is of such urgency. Oh God, has she forgotten me? Still so much to do in the galley.
‘Get
below, Polecat.’
‘Yes,
Ma’am ...’
The
servile bow; the turn; the departure.
Relief for dismissal, yet trepidation for tasks still to be performed
for Miss Hannah. No ... not Miss Hannah. It seems that the Captain has decided that
Miss Hannah is of royal blood and, henceforth must be addressed and treated
with the appropriate respect.
That
half-caste Negress bitch! A
Princess! Oh my God ... No ... no ... no
... one must not think like that. Never
... never! She is her
Highness. You are her slave. Remember it well, slave, or you will suffer.
Polecat
returned panting back to the galley. An
evening meal had yet to be prepared and, as the poet said, time waits for no
man.
For
no man.
Polecat
wondered if he could still be so described.
***
Piggie
does not think it is possible that he can lift his hand off the deck and place
it on the brass rail which shimmers in the heat haze before him. There are several yards of that rail still to
be polished to gleaming perfection.
Several yards of three rails set one above the other. That is all he has to do before his task is
complete.
Yet
he is done. Dead beat.
His
head swims. Oh this accursed heat! He is as dehydrated as if he has wandered all
day in a desert. Or so it seems. In fact he has worked for two solid hours
during maximum temperatures ... conscious all the time of the easy-lounging
presence of the Captain up on the sundeck.
Naked under her awning. The
knowledge churns up his guts. Churns
them with hate and terror ... yet also with lust.
That
superb, long, lithe body ...
Oh
God!
Pig
sobs with self-pity. How can this
existence be endured? He just can’t go
on.
But
then Pig remembers Miss Hannah’s supple rod.
And Miss Hannah’s strong right arm.
Stronger than most men. Who would
have thought one would have to submit to being thrashed by a coloured
woman? Pig remembers ... and makes
himself lift his hands off the deck.
He
starts to polish the brass again.
***
Horse
is having it easy that day. Well,
relatively easy, perhaps one should say.
A spell in the wheelhouse. Not as
arduous as some jobs, naturally, but not always exactly a picnic. For you see, when you’re put in the
wheelhouse aboard The Trident (an appropriate name for Britannia de
Vere’s yacht, is it not?) you are also
put in a form of pillory.
It
is a pillory which keeps you crouching, pinions the limbs, yet just allows
sufficient freedom to the hands to control the steering and driving
equipment. For it does not pinion at the
wrists but just below the biceps. Horse
has good biceps. He is the huskiest
member of Captain Britannia’s crew. The
most handsome as well. No doubt that is
why he so frequently catches the attention of Carmel Divine, the Captain’s
19-year-old niece.
An
eight-hour spell in the wheelhouse is back-aching enough ... and it is not
improved by that young lady’s presence!
‘How’s
it going, Horse? Keeping us nicely on
course?’
The
heart of the man referred to as Horse sinks as he hears that familiar voice and
the click of high heels coming up on to the bridge. He has still an hour of navigational duty to
go.
‘Yes,
Miss ...’
One
has to be prompt, respectful, seamanlike.
Whatever one’s feelings, however much one’s muscles are aching.
‘Good
... good. We don’t want any errors, do
we? Running on to a reef or anything. I mean, I doubt if anyone would have time to
get you out of that contraption before the boat sank.’
Carmel
giggles. Oh yes, a very funny joke. The scent of her fills Horse’s nostrils as
she stands close. Provocatively close. My God, that ripe young body would drive any
man mad ... let alone one who had been deprived for months. Those breasts! So bouncingly big. That bottom!
Equally so. She simply oozed sex
from every pore like he and the others oozed sweat.
‘How
long to go, Horse?’
‘About
another hour, Miss.’
‘Mmm
... not too bad. Expect you’ll be glad
to straighten up though.’
‘Yes,
Miss ...’ Deference, deference ... complete humility. Essential.
‘Still
... let’s see if we can make the time pass a little more quickly, eh?’
The
man called Horse shuddered slightly and gritted his teeth. Oh God, if only he could have been left alone
for that final hour of duty. It would
have seemed an age, but now it would be a torment.
‘What
are you steering, Horse?’
‘Forty-nine
degrees, Miss.’
The
voluptuous figure of young Miss Divine came partially into the view of the man
called Horse. A see-through white blouse
through which those big breasts were bursting.
A cascade of blonde hair fell over the compass box.
‘Looks
more like fifty degrees to me, Horse.’
‘It
... it’s a very fine limit. Miss ...’
The
blonde cascade rose; a small firm palm smacked across Horse’s right cheek. Then knuckles, coming back-hand, crunched
into his left cheek.
‘Don’t
answer back!’
It
hurt ... but one got used to getting hurt.
To some extent one got used, anyway.
‘I
... I’m sorry, Miss.’
Carmel,
now right before him, smiled winsomely, blue eyes sly and cruel. She undid two buttons of her blouse and the
ample contents spread forth.
‘I
expect you’d like to play with my tits, Horse?’
It
was not possible to avoid gazing at the succulent fulsomeness. Those big, strong nipples, such a rosy pink.
‘If...
if Miss wanted me to ...’
There
was the mounting heat in the loins; the painful pressure on the leather
restrainer. It was all beginning again.
‘Answer
my question.’
‘Yes
... yes, Miss ...’
Carmel
Divine smiled even more winsomely.
‘Are
you on course, Horse?’
The
eyes of the man called Horse darted back to the compass. Jesus ... five degrees off! Quickly he adjusted the wheel. Sweat prickled his flesh.
‘You
deserve the rod across your backside for that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,
Miss ...’ One had to agree. However unjust, however absurd.
‘You’ll
get it if you slip up again. Keep your
mind on your job.’
‘Yes,
Miss.’
‘I
expect you’d like to suck my nipples, too.’
Poor
Horse couldn’t see the compass. His
whole vision was filled by two delicious white melons thrusting close.
‘I
... I can’t see the compass, Miss.’
The
knuckles came again. This time on both
cheeks. Girlish blows, but enough to
make you blink back tears.
‘Answer
my question!’
‘Yes,
Miss ... oh yes ... M-Miss ...’
A
complacent grin. ‘Well, you’re not going
to ...’
‘I
understand, Miss.’
‘You’d
better.’
Carmel
glanced at the compass. By some sort of
miracle, Horse had kept The Trident on course. Then the lush vision disappeared from
view. Horse’s flesh prickled with sweat
again. Long ago he had given up
anticipating relief from taunting or torment.
Anticipating release. Just as one
did that, matters merely seemed to become worse. Best to try and shut one’s mind and
endure. Foolish to hope too much. His eyes were fixed grimly to the compass
needle. Christ, how his back and arms
ached!
‘I
think we’ll have this off.’
The
girlish voice had merriment in it.
Happiness. Cruel happiness. Horse just managed to stop himself groaning
as he felt fingers unfastening the thongs of the restrainer. One must not groan at such attentions.
‘Thank
you, Miss,’ he said.
The
restrainer came away and, the pressure relieved, an organ already straining for
erection filled and stiffened.
‘My,
my,’ said Carmel, as if amazed, ‘what’s all this? Got excited looking at my breasts, did you,
Horse?’