Another Day
on Dorado Cay
Alyx sat at the computer in
the library of the Slave Quarters, wasting time surfing while she waited for
Madam Elspeth to announce the evening’s assignments. If there were actually
going to be any assignments. It was the height of the hurricane season. Dorado
Cay had been lucky so far. There had been several large storms, but they had
all bypassed the island. Alyx could see on the weather websites that another
storm was moving in, and, while its track was passing well to the south, Dorado
Cay was going to catch the edge of it.
As was usually the case when there was bad weather, the members of the
club dropping in for their usual fun and games had been few and far between.
Like the other women in the Slave Quarters, Alyx was more than happy to see a
spell of bad weather.
The Slave Quarters. That’s
how all the women referred to it among themselves. Madam Elspeth frowned on
that usage, though she didn’t have a better name for the building. She simply
called it the dormitory, as if she were the house mother of a perverted college
sorority.
That was part of the cruel
mental game the Club played on them. Trying to get them to accept their
captivity as somehow normal, beneficial even; hey, they were housed in
comfortable, four star resort surroundings, fed the best of food and wine, both
in moderation, provided with entertainments and diversions, even not very subtly
encouraged to become intimate with their roommates. Lesbians of convenience, as
Mary Anne had once put it. Everything to make then accept their situation, to
make them happy little sex slaves.
And, to a surprising
extent, it worked. Well, maybe not all that surprising. The Club knew what it
was looking for when it went shopping for a new addition to its collection.
Women who’d become detached from their families. Women who weren’t going
anywhere. The abused and the drug abusers. Some were strays, snatched off the
street, like Alyx. Others, like Kris and Ellen, were sold out by scumbag
husbands or boyfriends. They were all
expendable, the disposable women who wouldn’t be missed. So it wasn’t hard to
convince them to accept the good things their captivity provided, because for
most of them it was better than what they had had or could look forward to.
In return, they merely had
to submit their bodies to the perverse pleasures of their owners.
But it’s not really a slave
quarters, Alyx thought cynically. They should put a sign over the door. The
Toybox. That’s what we are to them. Expensive, well maintained toys. Like their
Bentleys, their yachts, their airplanes, their polo ponies.
Or maybe The Stables, or
The Kennel, was a better description. The women were more like pampered pets,
most of the time, than slaves. And while the term was technically correct, it
was an unusual sort of slave quarters. In many respects it more like an up-scale
resort. Their meals were prepared by the
same chefs who served the wealthy members. They had the best wine, though
served in moderation. The Slave Quarters had a pool and a spa, and the same
masseurs and masseuses who served the members were available to their toys.
They had cable TV and movies on demand, books, magazines and even an internet
connection, though the later would allow the inmates to surf but not
communicate. Pampered they may have been, but they were still slaves, pets,
toys.
In return, several times a
week a woman could expect to be used to satisfy the perverted tastes of a
member or members of the club. Most of
the members were sadists of varying degree, some merely weird, others bordering
on vicious. True, as expensive assets, the women were never allowed to be
subjected to any activity that would cause serious injury, but that was little
comfort. Alyx had learned to tolerate
much, to play the game, as Madam Elspeth, the mistress of the house and a
former slave herself, frequently said. But while she might play the game, she
refused to accept that this was her fate. And she wanted off the island.
She happened to glance at
the date on the New York Times article she was reading, and was surprised. It
had been more than a year since she had gone down to the sleazy part of town in
search of someone to buy an underage girl
a bottle of booze, never suspecting he would kidnap her and sell her to
this pervert’s fantasy island.
Well, time flies when
you’re not having fun, she thought. The members of the Club were certainly
having fun; the women, not so much.
And it had been months
since she’d last seen the Benthams, on that day when their little beach picnic
and S&M session with Alyx had been interrupted by the news that Greg
Bentham’s multi-billionaire father had passed away. Shortly after that episode, in what she
thought of as a stroke of sheer brilliance, Alyx had concocted her plan to get
off Dorado Cay. But the plan revolved around what seemed to be Sonja Bentham’s
fascination with her. The failure of the Benthams to visit Dorado Cay since
then was the most frustrating thing of all, because everything depended on her
being able to talk to Greg and Sonja, which would never happen unless they came
and ordered a session with her. She knew that all she could do was wait, but
patience was never one of Alyx’s virtues.
She surreptitiously checked
the library to see if she was alone. She
was. She typed “Bentham, Gregory” in the
search box and pressed enter. A long list of entries scrolled up the screen.
She glanced quickly to see if there was anything new, anything that could help
her refine her plan. Nothing. She clicked the back button and did several more
searches on other members whose names she’d learned, then spent some time on
other topics. She didn’t want anyone to notice the interest she was taking in
the Benthams and start to wonder why.
The Internet connection
from the Slave Quarters was monitored, she knew. The Slave Quarters was like
something out of “1984.” Every room had surveillance cameras and microphones.
As did the most of the other buildings where sessions took place, and even some
of the open spaces. The people who ran Dorado Cay had an obsessive concern with
security. She couldn’t take any chances. She’d already met the retired New York
Police Department detective the Club retained and didn’t want to ever have him
question her again.
The other women kidded her
about the amount of time she spent in front of the computer. She didn’t mind,
because it was her connection to the outside world. It gave her some sense,
however small, that she had at least a little control over her future. But
finally she had had enough for the day, logged off, and pushed her chair
back. Patience, she reminded herself,
she needed to learn patience.
She walked out into the
lounge area, to see if there was anyone who wanted to go for a walk. A half
dozen women were clustered around the slider that opened on to the pool area.
“What’s going on?” Alyx
asked.
“They’ve brought in a new
girl,” Zoe replied. “They’re doing the video now.”
“A replacement for
Cassandra, I guess,” Jenna added. “Took them long enough to find one.”
Month’s ago, Cassandra had
led Alyx and her roommate, Kris, in an escape attempt. It had failed. All three
of them had been subjected to severe public torture as punishment and as an
object lesson to the rest. Cassandra, as
the leader, had received the roughest treatment. Then Cassandra had
disappeared. The official story was that she had been sold to a Colombian
brothel. But rumors had made the rounds that she’d been flown out over the
ocean and thrown from the airplane.
Alyx joined the group at
the slider and looked out. The Slave
Quarters was a U shaped building, comprised of two bedroom wings connected by
the dining and common areas, and centered on a patio and swimming pool. The vine covered wall that ran between the
two arms of the U was frequently used as a backdrop for making videos of the
girls.
The girl, naked, had been
placed in the usual position. Miranda was operating the video camera while
Madam Elspeth, the supervisor of the captive women, directed the girl in
assuming different poses. The video would be available on line to the members
of the club to help them choose subjects for their fun and games. Both Miranda and Madam Elspeth were former
slaves who had been promoted to “management.”
“She looks young,” Mary
Anne observed, “the poor little thing.”
“Screw the poor little
thing!” Claire said with mock vehemence. “Another girl in the lineup, that much
less work for the rest of us. Better to let the pervs entertain themselves with
her ass than mine.”
Alyx took a closer look.
The girl was short and slender, with ash blonde hair and a small but very
nicely developed bust. Alyx was surprised to notice that both the girl’s
nipples were pierced, each with a small chrome barbell. That was odd. One of
the peculiarities of the Club’s management was that they didn’t allow any of
the women to be pierced. The rumors that wafted through the Slave Quarters held
that certain members frequently requested that one woman or another have her
nipples pierced or her labia pierced, but the board of directors always rejected
the request. The reason was always the same. Given the sort of play the women
were subjected to, the risk of accidental damage was too great. Good
businessmen all, the board always kept foremost in their minds the preservation
of valuable club property.
“When are they doing the
coming out party?” Ellen asked, joining the group.
“It’s tonight,” Claire
replied.
“Tonight? With the way the
weather is? They won’t have a big turn out.”
The coming out parties,
when a new acquisition was presented to the Club members, was a big event,
bringing a large audience. It was always followed by impromptu sessions. With
two hundred or more aroused members and only two dozen slave girls to go round,
a coming out party turned into work out that the women did not look forward to.
“Guess one or more of the
Richie Riches can’t wait to get his hands on little blondie,” Kris said,
joining the group. “Assignments are posted on the board. Lucky me, I get to
serve drinks. Alyx, you’re on standby.”
“Well, a small turn out,
that many fewer pricks to go around.”
Amanda’s
Coming Out
At six o’clock Kris
reported to the front door, dressed as ordered in only flip-flops and the usual
diaphanous cloak the women wore while being escorted to sessions that required
little or no costume. Mary Anne, Elise,
Zoe and Sarah were already there.
Miranda was taking their light, filmy cloaks and handing them more
substantial ones.
“You might need these on
the way back. It looks like the weather
is going to get nasty tonight.”
“Where’s the guest of
honor?” Kris asked. She didn’t see
Amanda waiting.
“Erik took her a few
minutes ago,” Mary Anne replied. “Or
maybe she took him. I swear, it looked like a guy taking his pet terrier for a
walk, the way she was straining at the leash.
There’s something wrong with that girl.”
Kyle and Jarod arrived to
escort them. The weather forecasts were proving true. The wind was rising and
gray clouds were gathering as they left the Slave Quarters and hurried along
the gravel pathway to Main Building. They women entered by the service entrance
and were taken around through the kitchens to a service hall just off the
banquet room. They hung up their cloaks, kicked off their flip-flops and waited
while Kyle went to confirm their arrival.
After a minute or two, Kyle
returned. “Zoe. Congratulations. You get
to be the opening act.”
Zoe looked at the other
women. “Lucky me. I bet they want to whip my ass for appetizers.”
“Well, it is a very
whippable ass,” Mary Anne said, giving her a pat on the rump. It was a standing
joke among the women, the sort of gallows humor they resorted to, that Zoe,
small on top and plump but shapely on the bottom was a dream girl for the
perverts who loved to see butt fat jiggle beneath a whip.
Kyle led Zoe away by the
service hallway. Henry, the barman, came in. He glanced at the clock.
“Ladies, it’s showtime,” he
said.
They each picked up a tray
and filed out the kitchen door, into the banquet room. It was three-quarters
full and more members were still coming in. Kris glanced around as she headed
for her assigned tables. She remembered to check her posture. Whenever they
were on a serving assignment Madam Elspeth was very hard on anyone who slouched
or otherwise acted in less than a seductive manner.
How strange, she thought.
This was like one of those weird dreams where you were naked and everyone else
was dressed, except that this wasn’t a weird dream. She was actually completely
nude, carrying a serving tray in a room with probably a hundred clothed people.
And what was more disturbing, she’d gotten to where she hadn’t noticed it at
first.
Of course, she wasn’t the
only nude. The other women serving drinks were also nude. And at the end of the
room a portable stage had been erected, with a turntable built into the top.
Zoe was standing on it, her legs spread and ankles strapped to the table, her
wrists fastened to cuffs hanging from the ceiling. She was turning slowly,
spotlights trained on her, giving the audience a 360 degree view. An older,
conservatively dressed woman was standing off to one side, a flogger in her
hand. As Zoe turned her ass to the audience the woman gave her a stroke with
it.
It obviously was a
lightweight flogger, with soft leather falls. The woman was putting her arm
into it, and Zoe’s rump was rippling with the impact, but Kris noticed that it
was leaving no marks, no welts. Zoe’s rear was barely even getting red.
Zoe, for her part, was
playing it up for all it was worth, squealing and yelping. When the flogger
landed, she jerked away, twisting her body, pulling at her restraints. You’d
think she was really hurting up there. And the way she was moving her ass, half
the men in the room must have wood already. What an actress, Kris thought. And
then, turning back towards the bar, she thought when did I become an expert on
being a sex slave.
Several more members of the
audience took their turn. The MC, an older man who looked and sounded a bit
like Ed McMahon, was choosing all women, mostly older, for some reason of his
own. Perhaps because they seemed to take a wicked delight in laying the flogger
on Zoe with theatrical flourishes. One of them caught Zoe by surprise, catching
her across her small breasts with the flogger. The yelp that elicited was real,
though Kris suspected it was more from surprise than pain. The audience
applauded.
The woman gave Zoe a few
more swats to the rump, then left the stage. The turntable stopped, with Zoe
facing the audience. The MC stepped forward and to her right.
“And that, ladies and
gentlemen, is one of my favorite girls, Zoe. Let’s give her a big hand.” Kyle
came up to lead Zoe off the stage. As they left, Eric led Amanda into the
spotlights.
“And now for the main
event,” the MC said, his voice enthusiastic like a TV pitchman selling organic
stain remover. “Give a hearty welcome to the newest addition to our little
dollhouse, Amanda.”
Kris had started for the
bar to pick up her next orders. She glanced at the stage. Eric was removing he
collar from Amanda. Her hands were free. Her right hand was raised and was
giving the crowd a cute little wave. Kris looked at one of the big screens
giving a close up view. The girl actually had a shy, coquettish smile on her
face.
“Doesn’t she realize where
she is and what’s happening,” Kris thought.
As always during the coming
outs, Amanda had been dressed in a classic strapless “little black dress.” When Kris returned from
the bar with her tray of drinks, the MC had rolled down the top of the dress,
exposing Amanda’s breasts. She was much better endowed that it appeared with
the dress restraining her. Her breasts were small, but stood out away from her
chest, hanging slightly, as if she were hiding two ripe tangerines beneath the
pale white skin. Kris wondered briefly if it was all natural. The large, pale
brown nipples pointed slightly upwards, slightly outwards. Kris was surprised
to see that each was pierced by a small chrome barbell.
The MC had moved to stand
behind Amanda. He was waxing lyrical about the breasts. He reached around her
to cup each globe in one of his hands. He squeezed and fondled them, pulling on
the nipples. Amanda stood there, arms at her side. She still smiled.
“Aren’t these just the most
lovely boobies you’ve ever seen? I could play with them all night. But we must
move on.”
The MC moved his hands to
her arms, then down to her wrists. A thin chain with a pair of wrist cuffs had
begun to descend from overhead. The MC grasped Amanda’s wrist and raised her
arms over her head. He fastened a cuff around each wrists. She was surprisingly
obliging, holding the free arm up after he released it to work with the cuff.
Kris remembered how terrified she’d been at her coming out.
When he’d fastened both
wrists, he stepped to the side and faced the audience. “Now, who wants to be
the first to show Amanda what we do with cute little boobies on Dorado Cay?” A
number of hands shot up. The MC scanned the crowd. “Ah, Mrs. Breitbach! Doro!
Of course! Come on up, Doro.”
A middle aged dyed blonde
woman, of medium height and more than medium bust line, made her way to the
stage. She took a position to Amanda’s left, opposite the MC, who handed her a
riding crop.
Mrs. Breitbach felt up
Amanda’s left breast, then cupped it in her hand. She brought the tip of the
riding crop down sharply on the top of the breast. She twisted the little globe
so that the nipple was pointed upwards, then brought the crop down twice on the
little nubbin. Amanda quivered and jerked with each blow, emitting whiney
little sounds.
“Yes, they’re quite
lovely,” Mrs. Breitbach said with a distinctly nasal tone. She released that
breast and then treated the other to the same procedure. She stepped out in
front of Amanda and off to the side and applied a series of slow, studied
blows, alternating left and right.
Elise passed Kris,
returning from the bar with a full tray. “That bitch did me one night,” she
whispered. “We could be here all night or until that girl’s boobies fall off if
they don’t stop her.”