Chapter 1
I have to admit it was all pretty bizarre.
First, the very idea of a fifth dimension, where other worlds can exist in the same
time and place as Earth but quite remote from it – and almost totally unknown to its
inhabitants.
But even more strange was that when I was transported to that planet, known to its
people as Arret (yes, it’s Terra, the Latin for Earth – backwards), I found the
similarities between it and my own planet extraordinary – and the differences, utterly
fantastic.
I have first to admit that all my life – at least from puberty onwards – I have had a
bent towards slavery. That is, once I realised how wonderful the fair sex were to me, I
slowly developed a fetish for them as slaves – my slaves.
Why my libido formed itself thus I have no idea. Well, yes, I do. I liked girls. I
liked them very much; but I found it almost impossible to talk to them and actually asking
one of them out was an undertaking that struck sheer terror into my soul. Perhaps if I
had forced myself to take the plunge, things might have been very different. As it was, I
used to dream about them as my slaves – my naked slaves – who must do my exact bidding or
face the whip to their beautiful breasts or the cane to their delectable bottoms.
As this theme developed, their punishments became stricter. They were always stripped
naked for them and for some reason, I developed another fetish – they all had to be
totally naked of hair on their bodies – especially their sex organs. I wanted them quite
bare down there. I also had them confined in chains for long periods, sometimes in total
darkness and silence but always naked.
With regard to actual sex, well it was something of a mystery to me. I had never
actually experienced a woman so had little idea what to expect. In any case, my warped
mind delighted in watching them trained – oh, I forgot to mention, my dream girls were all
universally athletic rather than voluptuous. I liked smooth, clean-cut muscles, not soft
curves.
I particularly liked to watch them sweat and strain at diabolically hard labour. A
special delight was to sit under a shade, sipping a mint julep, while a team of naked
female slaves hauled a plough through unbroken soil while their overseer lashed at their
naked backs with his whip and another of their number steered the hand-plough along the
furrow.
So you see, my mind was already twisted when it happened.
I should say that none of this was outwardly apparent. Not to my parents, teachers,
university professors or indeed, to my friends. Yes, they thought I was ultra-shy when it
came to girls, but they just teased me about it and then went on with their affairs. I
was a good student and a very good athlete so they forgave me this one apparent peccadillo
and of course I never mentioned it to a single soul.
My name is John Summers and I graduated from Oxford with an honours degree in law. I
was then appointed to the staff of the Director of Public Prosecutions and began my
career. And still I never let on to anyone about my fantasies. I had to let most of my
sporting interests, particularly athletics, swimming and cricket, fall by the wayside for
lack of time but I did continue to practise gymnastics, which didn’t take up as much time
and which I really loved. This kept me fit and my body in peak condition – and at night,
I continued to dream about my slavegirls, using my electric vibrator to bring me to
wondrous climaxes, now imagining myself caning a girl’s curvaceous rear as I spat forth my
load.
And then it happened.
I woke up in my own bed in my own flat in Hampstead but I knew straight away that
something was wrong. I couldn’t define it – until, a few minutes later, this stark naked
girl walked in holding a tray containing my early morning tea and toast.
I stared at her in amazement. She was quite beautiful – at least to my eyes. I
suppose to a normal male, she might have appeared a trifle horsy. By that I mean she
wasn’t a classical beauty, but her clean face and flawless skin immediately struck a chord
in me. So did her body. It was everything I had dreamed of for all those years: not
overly muscular, but with a physique that showed off each of her muscles (and not
forgetting that alabaster-like, flawless skin that glowed with good health) to
perfection.
Her breasts were not large (I hate melon-like breasts) but they were perfect in shape,
projecting like perfect half-orbs with tiny, coral-pink nipples that surmounted equally
small areolae.
Her sex was almost flat – another of my fetishes. It was of course perfectly hairless
and boasted almost invisible labia. It really was just a slit down at the junction of her
beautifully shaped thighs.
As she turned around, I glimpsed her bottom cheeks. Again, here I don’t like the
shape and size usually preferred by men in a girl’s bottom. I always imagine my slaves to
have narrow, rather muscular cheeks that thrust out like a boy’s and are indented with
prominent hollows at the sides. This implies they are strong and, combined with her
thighs, will render her capable of powerful sex. Yes, I know I was a virgin, but even a
virgin can dream…
I also noted that she didn’t have a hair on her body. Not one! She was quite naked
from the top of her head to her toes, looking a little like a store dummy but I think it
made her even more splendid so far as I was concerned. I knew instantly that she was a
slave. How, I don’t know. But inasmuch as she personified everything I had ever dreamed
up about a slave, I knew she just had to be one.
I desperately wanted to reach out and touch her fabulous body; to delight in the fine
musculature and to investigate the narrow gash between her legs but my lawyer’s training
told me to be patient. I sat up in bed and took the tray from her then began to munch the
toast while she busied herself around my bedroom, picking up things and fetching my clean
underclothes and all the rest of my clothes for the day ahead.
As I watched her nakedness moving around the room, my cock at full mast under my
bedclothes, a small part of my mind thought of my day. I was assisting in the trial of a
woman charged with stealing. This was no petty crime, however, but a major case of fraud
and we hoped for a severe sentence for her.
The woman, Elizabeth Charing, was a young executive in Bartlett’s Bank and she had,
over the last year, siphoned off over three million pounds. She was good. There was no
doubt about it. She might have got away with it but for an astute underling who sensed
rather than knew something was wrong with the accounts.
But my mind was brought back to the present with a bang when I noticed a mark, or
rather a series of them on the naked girl’s left cheek. I hadn’t noticed them earlier for
my mind was still reeling from her appearance in my room. So far, I hadn’t said a word to
her, not wanting to break the spell for I was sure that this had to be an extension of my
dreams. Now, though, as I slowly came to realise it was no dream and that this
magnificent creature really was in my room, in the flesh – literally – I was able to
examine her various parts in more detail and as I stared at her bouncy rear, I noticed the
marks.
No, they were letters! N, O, R and A, and as I stared at them in fascination, I
realised they were indented into her flesh. She had been branded with a red-hot iron!
My cock immediately erupted, spurting forth a load bigger than anything I had ever
experienced before and it went on and on – quite without me even touching it. Branding a
beautiful girl was, in my dreams, about the epitome of my notions of slavery.
I would dream of the sizzling of her smooth flesh; of her terrible screams as the iron
burned its way through her skin and into the muscle itself. And then, still in my dreams,
I would sit back and contemplate the sobbing girl until I tired of it and gestured for my
slave overseer to take her away.
But this girl really had been branded! The letters were about an inch high and were
perfectly formed in the Times-New Roman style. They were fine and clear without the
slightest fault in the cleanness of the lines. I realised immediately she had been
branded with her slave name.
“Nora,” I called.
“Yes, master,” she said, her voice surprisingly well-educated and she now turned and
smiled down at me.
“How long have you been my slave?” I asked, aware it would sound like a strange
question to her, but I needed to know what was going on before I ventured out into this
strange new world. At that stage, I wasn’t thinking of that term literally. But I knew
deep down that something very odd was afoot. I knew, for example, that I would never have
dared to enslave a girl myself, not even with her consent and the brand on her left cheek
indicated to me that she was a true slave and not just a part-time dilettante.
She looked confused for a moment but then quickly responded. I guessed a slave was
expected to answer questions without delay. “Three months, master,” she said, smiling in
puzzlement at me.
“And prior to that?” The reason for this question was that she was clearly young. I
guessed she couldn’t be more than eighteen years old and I wanted to know how she had
become a slave at that age.
Again there was that brief look of confusion. Obviously I must have known her
background, but then she probably reasoned I was leading up to something for I saw fear
register itself on her lovely face. “I was made a slave for repeated traffic offences,
master,” she said haltingly, as if not sure what I wanted to hear.
“Of course,” I said, then beckoned her to come close.
I reached up and fondled her breasts for a few moments, (at which she leaned forward
to facilitate my caresses) delighting in their firmness but also noting the wondrous
softness of the underlying mammary organs. Remember, I had never touched a girl in an
intimate manner before this. Dreamt of it, yes, but actually touched, no. My cock, which
hadn’t even gone down a whisker after the massive ejaculation, was again straining at the
bedclothes and I knew if I didn’t desist, it would soon spurt again. I was astonished at
this for usually, I couldn’t even get it up again after my hand job, let alone perform a
second ejaculation. I was to find out however that my sexuality would be undergoing a
huge turnaround there.
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