You know the feeling that you get when the roller coaster gets just to the tippity
top? You look down into the abyss, the long steel bordered line of descending track, and
you get that empty, bone chilling feeling in your stomach that maybe you have made a
mistake? Or have you ever peered over the edge of a towering cliff imagining your body
twisting and turning in the air as it tumbled to its inevitable doom? Then you know how I
feel.
On the one hand, I’ve really got it dicked, if you’ll pardon the expression. I wake
up every morning and avail myself of the enthusiastic services of two beautiful, young,
and pleasurably compliant women. And then later, after my early morning run, and my
subservient ladies have lovingly washed and dried my body, I might wander down to the
nearest restaurant where I’ll breakfast al fresco in the not quite yet baking tropical
sun, served by enticing naked beauties fully available for a frolic in the sack, or a
beating if I have the inclination. Later, after I’ve digested, there’s always a handball
match, some golf, or a chance to watch while a seven foot tall, black giant administers
vicious strokes to a girl being corrected for some minor transgression or, perhaps, merely
for the enjoyment of the guests.
You get the idea. How could anyone complain? Well call me unappreciative, but to
really take a walk in my shoes you’d have to add the fact that at a moment’s notice I
could find myself strung up in the nearest cell having strips of my flesh slowly and
agonizingly pulled from my body, my excised manhood and balls turning feverishly in a
blender.
My name’s Harry. Harry Wiggins. And how I got myself into this predicament is a
long story. Suffice it to say that I made a few mistakes when I was a street enforcer for
an Atlantic City hood named Tony Bianco. I got sent up for a life bid on a Federal rap and
was looking at pulling my pud and getting prison haircuts for a long, long time. When I
got the chance to hit the streets, I took it.
The only problem was that my release was at the behest of an unnamed U.S.
Government security agency in the person of two colorless, taciturn guys named Bederson
and Mulitieri who came to see me one day in the Federal max in Atlanta. The deal was that
I was to let myself be recruited by a secret international criminal organization known
only as ‘k’ and, once I had gained their confidence, turn fink. The recruitment part went
all right. I had to do a job on a rat in the joint first and then, once I had made my
bones, an escape was arranged. I was flown to the headquarters of the gang, a small island
located somewhere off the coast of Western Africa.
Now, I had never heard of ‘k’ before. But, every criminal enterprise has its
cottage industries. I kind of expected to be working the streets, like I had been doing,
you know, collecting vig, icing the competition, zipping guys who needed it. To my
surprise, I was dropped in the middle of a Disneyland for dominants which went, among the
cognoscenti, by the name of Klitzman’s Isle.
To call it a resort would be like calling the B-1 bomber a plane. It really just
doesn’t say it. The place was staffed with an average of 200 hundred or more luscious
whores. And not the kind who take your dough and give you a quick fuck while chewing gum
and thinking about what an asshole you are. These lovelies had been torn from their prior
lives, undergone a thorough course of sexual subservience, learned the amount of pain that
can be applied to the human body without permanently marring it, and taught to keep their
delectable bodies ready and available for use at any time by anyone who wanted it, in any
way that they could imagine. You can’t get that kind of service at Club Med.
Now, I’m really not complaining. I’ve made my bed, so to speak, and I have to live
in it. But it does get nerve-wracking to imagine a doleful end for oneself every time one
of the upper managers of this reprehensible resort lets it be known that he wants to see
you. Is your cover blown?
This particular morning I had awoken, as I had many times over the last few weeks,
to the feeling of soft compliant lips nibbling at the tip of my hardened cock. In my dream
I was back in Atlantic City. My boss, Tony, had a funhouse for the use of his boys in the
north end of town and in my dream I was lying in a large soft bed in one of the upstairs
bedrooms. We used to take some of the showgirls there when Tony was getting ready to break
them in at one of his local whorehouses. They were always in need of cash, some white
powder or maybe an audition. Once Tony had his hooks in, he eventually got what he wanted
from them.
Anyway, I was lying on my back and a tall full bosomed show girl was between my
legs. She wore one of those big, sparkly, feathered headdresses the showgirls wear, a pair
of fake diamond encrusted earrings that shot points of light out whenever she moved her
head, small pasties on the tips of her inviting breasts and a small silver thong. Her back
arched behind her gracefully and I could see her plump but firm pale white rear globes
bisected by a small strip of luminous silver fabric. She had glittering silver high heels
on her feet. I groaned each time that her firm lips descended the length of my steel hard
rod. Remarkably, the two foot high feathered headpiece stayed on her head as she bent over
my cock. As her head bobbed up and down, I could feel it tickling my chest.
Slowly, my consciousness emerged into reality. I looked down to see the brown
haired head of my slave girl, Carol, nestled between my thighs. She was short and thin
with broad hips and a long thick braid of silky brown hair that descended down her back.
Her doe like brown eyes looked up at me with obvious delight that she had finally gotten
my attention. I groaned with pleasure as her tight plump lips descended the length of my
sensitive pole. Lying next to me, her hand softly caressing my chest, was Mary, a black
haired beauty. Her delicious breasts were crushed against my side and she looked at me
wistfully as she caressed my pectorals.
Carol had been a gift to me from my demonic employer, Klitzman. He was a 350 pound
giant with gluttonous appetites for food, sex and cruelty, not necessarily in that order.
He had apparently lost interest in the meek Carol after whipping her back raw and
pillaring her with sexual abuse. It was when he ‘promoted’ me from an everyday supervisor
at the island to his ‘go to’ man. I was given the use of the finely appointed cottage in
which I now lived and the ownership of the badly bruised and damaged girl. I had nursed
her back to health and developed a fond affection for her over the last six weeks or so.
Mary, I had acquired at the same time. The difference was that she was not my
property but ‘on loan’ from the resort. My promotion entitled me to reserve the use of a
slave girl for as long as I wanted and I had chosen the dark haired girl partly because of
the delectable submissiveness she had exhibited when she was first delivered to my door
for the service of my pleasures and partly because I learned from her that she had been
kidnapped at the same time as Carol. I felt that Mary could help Carol regain some of her
equanimity regarding her status as sexual chattel, something very necessary if she were to
survive for any reasonable period on Klitzman’s Isle.
I had grown fond of the two slave girls. But that only presented me with another
intractable problem. While they were in my custody, I treated them fairly and with some
kindness. But how could I ever really protect them from the depredations of the other
supervisors and guests, especially those who ranked higher than me in the Klitzman
hierarchy? There was Klitzman, of course, and I assumed that whatever Klitzman gaveth he
could taketh away. And then there was Rukimo. Rukimo was a six foot seven inch mound of
black African muscle. He served as Klitzman’s main man when it came to the resort and, I
assumed, many other things. It was Rukimo who interrogated me when I first arrived,
evidently quelling any suspicions he might have had as to my bone fides. I was still
alive, wasn’t I?
And then there were the lesser lights, Thorndike and his sidekick known only as
Cholo. They were both cruel, conscienceless killers who also ran some of Klitzman’s
slaving operations. I had had a run in with Thorndike. He challenged me to a ‘friendly’
boxing match on my arrival. He kicked the shit out of me. But I got in a couple of good
shots, breaking his nose in the process and earning myself some respect on the island as
the only guy who ever caused him injury and lived. Both Thorndike and Cholo had well
earned reputations for their eagerness to visit extreme depredations on defenseless female
flesh, and the slave girls who learned of my lucky blow to Thorndike’s proboscis treated
me with especially pleasurable deference ever since.
And there were others. Anthony, for instance, who had served as my Virgil to this
hellish sadists’ haven on my arrival. I still didn’t know what his overall position was on
the island, but he had one of those cold death looks in his eyes and often made elliptical
comments about past deeds that left the impression that he was as capable of sociopathic
violence as any of the others.
The point is that I could really offer no protection to my enslaved female wards at
all, regardless of how much I treasured their loving and obsequious reverence to me. It
was true that I had provided them with a sort of safe harbor from callous use and
violence, but as sure as God made little green apples, some day they would have to face
the hazards of Klitzman’s Isle once more. Their only hope, and mine, was that somehow
before that day came I was able to give Bederson and Mulitieri the ammo they would need to
take down Klitzman’s criminal empire.
The trouble was, as if I didn’t have enough, that I had no idea of how I was
supposed to get in touch with my erstwhile undercover mentors. I had been told that I
would be contacted before Klitzman’s men sprung me from the can, but no dice. I was
spirited away to this island paradise without so much as a word from the two Feds. My only
hope now of learning how to communicate with them was through a slave girl named Lois. She
had been caught snooping around one of Klitzman’s secret jungle transit camps for
contraband along with a companion name Delia. They were promptly trussed up and stripped
and sent by cargo plane to Klitzman’s little resort. The camp was a layover point for me
on my way to Klitzman’s island. Their very presence there at the same time as me raised
some hackles but both Lois and Delia had endured painful debriefings without putting me in
the soup. Delia had ultimately confessed to being a DEA agent but denied knowing me. Lois
passed muster as a nosey reporter. But, one afternoon following her formal enslavement and
training, after I had given her a round fucking, she had whispered to me three bone
chilling words: “Bederson sent me.”
I had been contemplating forgetting all about my promise to fink on Klitzman and
his gang. After all, I was living the life of Riley, had poontang up the wazoo. What more
could a guy ask for? Why risk it all and chance miserable, painful death? But once I knew
that a slave girl on the island could put me in deep shit with just one word, all that
changed.
Ironically, I had saved her life when Thorndike wanted me to throw her to the
sharks one afternoon. I had balked at having that crime on my soul when I met my maker.
And now her very existence made mine precarious. I needed desperately to learn more from
her, or, alternatively, to figure out a way to silence her forever. But my activities on
the island were carefully monitored. I wasn’t sure that Rukimo had given up all suspicion
of me. If I was seen to get all buddy buddy with her, or was implicated in her untimely
demise, suspicions could turn into beliefs. I would need to figure out a way to get her
alone again without raising anyone’s hackles.
As Carol delivered exquisite pleasure to my rod, I pulled Mary closer to me and
took one of her teats into my mouth. My mind swooned with the delightful sensation of her
hardened button on my tongue and she moaned softly as I sucked on it gently. Mary’s moan
was muted by the leather gag that she wore, something I had ruled that she should wear at
all times when not necessary to eat or when servicing me or her sister slave with her
succulent red lips. There was no real reason for my cruel whimsy. When she had first been
brought to my cottage, she had talked out of turn and I had whipped her for it. But that
was weeks ago and the ‘gag rule’ had long outlasted any practical justification. I guess I
just enjoyed her pretty, pleading blue eyes as she stared up at me silently whenever I
came home. To her credit, she never complained to me about it, but suffered the indignity
of my arbitrary exercise of power over her with meek acceptance.
But now I wanted to taste of her voluptuous lips and I reached behind her head and
undid the strap that held her gag in place. The outside of the gag had a leather shield
over it and covered her face from the edge of her septum to the bottom of her chin. She
smiled with undisguised happiness when the plug was removed from her mouth and her lips
eagerly accepted mine as I pulled her head down. She slid her body over mine, her knees
planted on the bed on either side of my chest and leaned over, delving her tongue deeply
into my mouth. As her hot tongue danced around mine, I stroked her full round breasts,
pulling on her stiff nipples each time my hands finished a caress.
With the two energetic mouths servicing me, my lusts began to boil. Carol was in no
hurry to precipitate my crisis. I could feel her well trained tongue tease the underside
of my cock’s head. Her hand had taken possession of my scrotal sac and manipulated my
sensitive stones gently, driving an aching pleasure right through me. Mary’s hips gently
gyrated as she pressed her own needy sex against my belly. I slipped my hands down her
sides and under her thighs and pulled her forwards, until her knees were astride my head
and her soaked pussy was presented to my lips.
The aroma of Mary’s arousal was intoxicating to me. I pulled her steaming nether
lips to my mouth and dragged my tongue along the damp length of the denuded slit between
them. Mary groaned with pleasure. Her face and hands were against the bed’s ornately
carved headboard above me and the sound of her passion echoed off of the hard teakwood
surface. My hands were circled under her lean, tender thighs and I forced her pussy hard
against my mouth as I drove my tongue deeply inside her. The taste of her arousal, sweet
and sour, with its pungent musk, electrified me. I could feel my balls tighten and the
immanency of my orgasm as Carol’s mouth continued to delight me. I wanted Mary to come
too, and I began to probe her hardened clit with my tongue, rolling it over the little
nubbin, circling it and pressing it down.
Carol must have sensed my purpose, for as soon as Mary began a staccato series of
almost anguished whimpers, her body shuddering with each hard convulsion of her cunt, she
intensified her attentions to my tool. A flash of light went off in my head as my cock
exploded. I groaned my pleasure into Mary’s hot, moist crevasse as each throb of my cock
sent a powerful jolt of ecstasy through me. I could feel my seed flowing out in spurts as
Carol’s tongue and lips encouraged me, her head bobbing up and down, her lips firmly
gripping my shaft.
Mary, once her tumult had subsided, quickly climbed off of me. I raised my head
slightly from my pillow to see Carol, still kneeling dutifully between my outstretched
thighs, grinning almost wickedly at me, her lips clamped together tightly, a gleam in her
eye. Mary shuffled over to her and joined her in an embrace. Carol opened her lips and
showed me the product of my loins that still lay pooled in her mouth. Mary took Carol’s
chin in her hand and turned her face towards her. The lips of the two pretty slave girls
met and I watched, enthralled, as Carol passed a share of my spending to her sister slave.
I could see Mary’s mouth work greedily, her hands pressing Carols’ body firmly into her
own. Her large breasts crushed Carol’s more modest ones.
The scene of the two of them engaged in a passionate embrace made my now limp cock
to stir. Although the sight of the delectable lasses sharing my come was titillating, to
say the least, it had not been my idea. More than once, as they had simultaneously given
oral adoration to my tool, they had struggled over the right to take my discharge. Carol
had thought of it first and her solution seemed equitable enough. And so, now, each time
that I sent a flood of my spewm into one of their mouths, they shared it with their
housemate, taking the opportunity to administer passionate kisses to one another.
The curvaceous and appealing young women eventually broke their embrace. They
turned and smiled at me expectantly, Mary licking her lips in satisfaction. It was time
for my run and so I jumped out of bed, deposited a night’s worth of liquid wastes in the
toilet and dressed. When I emerged from the bathroom, my slave girls were kneeling
obediently in the living room, their hands outstretched on their knees, palms up, their
backs arched and their comely breasts enticingly presented.
Slave girls, even ones as obedient and accepting of their roles as Mary and Carol,
were not to be left to their own devices, and so I chained their ankles to rings in the
floor. They slept, when not kept in my bed for the night, in a little alcove in the
bedroom. The chains had timers on them which released the clasps at the preset time,
allowing the girls to serve as my libidinous alarm clock. Mary had brought her gag out
from the bedroom with her and dutifully handed it up to me. With a slight look of sorrow
in her eyes, she spread her pretty lips and accepted its insertion. Carol, helpfully,
connected the straps behind her head.
I headed out the door of my cottage. Although still early morning, about 6:45, the
temperature was well into the eighties and the air heavy with humidity. But it as much
better than midday when the temperatures could soar. I stepped carefully down the steps
from the front porch of my cottage and, after several minutes of stretching, began my
run.
The cottages sat up on a hill overlooking the resort proper. There were twelve of
them, all serving employees in the Klitzman hierarchy, and three larger mansions further
up. Cholo and Thorndike shared one of those. The other two were reserved for bigwigs.
I took my time wending my way down the hill and then took off along a track that
ran around the outer perimeter of the resort buildings. It was a track not normally
utilized by guests, but was, rather, used for transporting groups of slave girls back and
forth from the various buildings and the slave dorms. As I loped around the pathway, a
couple of coffles of naked slave girls passed in the other direction. All of the girls had
their arms bound behind their backs and wore the wide leather shields over their faces
that denoted the presence of thick wads of leather in their mouths. A chain led from the
back of the collar of the leaders to the front of the slave girl behind her, etc. There
was no need for an escort. Their destination was printed clearly on the large colored tags
dangling from the collars of the leaders. The color denoted their destination. The tag had
written on it the identity numbers of the slave girls in the coffle and the time of their
departure from their duty stations. Heaven help the slave girls found elsewhere other than
on a direct route to their next stop or who reported beyond the short period of time
allotted for their arrival. And so, although tired out from an evening’s worth of fucking
or abuse, they pranced along quickly in their red, high heeled shoes in carefully
synchronized steps. Their breasts bobbed prettily as they hustled along, their worried
eyes evidencing their determination to arrive on schedule.
When I reached the half way mark around the resort proper, I cut directly through
it on my way to the undulating hills of the well manicured nine hole golf course. I passed
one of the gathering stations outside one of the three guests’ buildings. Slave girls
released from their night’s responsibilities by the guests were required to report
directly here, where their hands would be bound behind them and their gags applied. They
would wait until a sufficient number had gathered to make up a coffle and be then sent on
their way.
As I passed, I noted a thin brown haired beauty kneeling by the kiosk. She had
long, silky, brown hair, long, lithe thighs and a pretty face. She was crying loudly while
another slave girl, a short haired blonde with large breasts, held her arms around her
comforting her. There was no need to guess the source of the brunette’s dismay, as she
bore a plethora of angry red welts around her body. No doubt she had suffered a night of
terror at the hands of one of the guests. The supervisor, dressed in the standard brown
robe, paid her no mind as he bound her arms behind her and slipped the gag into her
pouting mouth. Whether a slave girl suffered physical abuse was largely a matter of the
whim of the guests, unless, of course, she displeased anyone. But sometimes a guest, or
even a supervisor, would take an unusual interest in a particular girl and she might spend
several days and nights of painful abuse at his hands just for fun. Guests rarely stayed
more than a couple of weeks but the supervisors were sometimes there for much longer
stints before being rotated back to the world to serve Klitzman in one of his many
criminal conspiracies. A slave who fell afoul of a supervisor’s desire to inflict pain was
unlucky indeed.
I hoped for her sake that she had drawn a one nighter. But it was, really, no
business of mine and I sped quickly past the kiosk and on my way. Once I reached the golf
course and the small gravel trails that led along the specially designed holes, I was able
to let it all out. I increased my pace and let my body fall into the steady rhythm of my
feet. I was in terrific shape from the years of incarceration. There was nothing to do
there but work, exercise and fantasize about getting out. Of course jogging around the
lush green runways bordered by dense tropical trees to the sounds of birds and other
denizens of the woods awakening to their day was a lot different from running fifty times
around the interior of the exercise yard in Atlanta.
The pounding of my feet on the gravel path and the rush of my blood in my ears was
mesmerizing. It was the only part of the day that was wholly without tension or conflict
for me. Listen, I wasn’t what you would call a good guy before I came to Klitzman’s little
hell here. I had iced a few guys, some who needed it, some who, well, who knew? It was my
job. And I had had no compunction about screwing the reluctant showgirls who were
unhappily paying their debts to Tony with their cunts and their mouths back in A.C.
But the whole concept of a reducing hundreds of beautiful young women to a harsh
slavery was something else. I had yet to develop the thick skin I would need to persevere
and prosper in Klitzman’s employ. Every time I saw one of the teary eyed, new slave girls
gulping down a stranger’s meat while kneeling between his legs in the middle of one of the
club’s open air restaurants or in one of the other public areas I felt a pang inside me.
At night, when the elegant beauties who worked as bargirls in the nightclub that I managed
lined up for nightly inspection, their luscious bodies amply displayed in their scanty and
revealing attire, their faces properly and expertly decorated, the false smiles of their
profession displayed on their nervous faces, I experienced a underlying feeling of pity
for them. Even after a round of impassioned fucking between myself and my special slave
girls, Mary and Carol, their squeals and laughter still echoing through my little cottage,
my heart became heavy. What was I doing here? Was my freedom worth the loss of humanity
experienced by these women, plucked from their youthful lives from all over the world? But
they would all be here anyway, wouldn’t they? I had not enslaved hem. If they didn’t suck
my cock, they would be sucking somebody else’s. And at least I had some conscience and
rarely abused any of them severely, not without cause.
But here in the verdant playground, surrounded by the lush jungle, my thoughts
could wander away from my troubles. All I could think of was the sensations of my body as
I placed foot before foot, demanding more and more from my lungs. By the time I reached
the ninth green, my mind was relaxed, my soul cleansed for one more day. But even as I
stepped back into the circle of buildings that served the resort, I could feel my mood
darken, my corruption leaking back.
I approached the entranceway to the vast underground slave dormitory and training
facility. Its entrance was a little hut built around the large elevator that took the
girls up and down from their real life purgatory. Just as I came near, the elevator must
have opened up, for a bevy of freshly painted and obedient girls emerged from the hut.
Gagged and bound, they spread out quickly along the many paths, their tags hanging around
their necks, their tall bright red heels clicking on the dull red brick walkway. I
stopped, running in place while the twenty or so girls emptied out of the hut, their hair
springing up and down behind them as they rushed urgently to their posts. Most of them
were headed to the restaurants where the guests would soon be arriving to have their
breakfast. Others would be going to the lounges where guests and supervisors could mix and
play cards or pool, or other places. One of the buildings was devoted to sports and horse
betting and those places often got rowdy with one group of guests rooting for one side and
another group for the other. Slave girls who served there were often used as whipping
posts for unsuccessful wagerers.
About twenty yards down the pathway from where I was running in place, a guest had
stopped one of the girls. He had apparently been out running as well and was dressed in
light blue shorts befitting his status. I wore brown running shorts as befitted mine. He
looked about forty, was well trimmed and had a dark thatch of curly, black hair on his
head. His body was tanned and lean. He dripped money, authority, class. But if he had such
class, why would he be here, I asked myself as I watched him inspect the unhappy slave
girl.
The girl had shoulder length auburn hair and breasts that stood up firm and proud
on her chest. Her eyes conveyed her unhappiness at the man’s delay of her as she would
have no opportunity to excuse her tardiness for her arrival at her work station. But the
man was oblivious to her dismay. He slowly and carefully took stock of her firm breasts,
stroking and pinching them to satisfy his almost cold curiosity. He ran his hands over her
hips and, forcing her to turn around, bent her over to appreciate the charms of her tight
but plump derriere. As I resumed my trot, I saw him pull from her collar a red ribbon. The
serving girls all wore red ribbons on their collars with their slave numbers printed on
it. Later, after her shift of work was done, she would be set aside so that the man who
had taken her ribbon could claim her for the evening, or for an hour or so. The man was
getting an early start on the day and had stationed himself at the entrance to the slave
dormitory so that he could get the pick of the crop. Satisfied, the well toned man gave
the girl a sharp slap on her ass and sent her on her way. She dashed off immediately,
balancing herself carefully on her high heels as she broke into a trot in an attempt to
make up for lost time. I silently wished her luck as I made my way back to my cottage.
Carol and Mary were waiting for me expectantly where I had left them. Carol smiled
when she saw me. Mary’s eyes brightened. It was time for my shower and they would get to
wash me and, if I permitted it, pay oral obeisance to my rigid member. Today, I had an
appointment with Anthony at 8 o’clock and so I wanted to shower quickly and be on my way.
I announced this to the dismay of my pets but brightened their outlook by decreeing that
since Carol had not had a chance to cum that morning that Mary could do her that favor
while I took my shower. I went to the cabinet in the living room and withdrew a large
shiny black dildo attached to a leather harness. I presented it to Mary and she eagerly
strapped it around her waist. Carol, grinning lustfully in anticipation of her upcoming
delight, leaned back onto the floor, spreading her legs widely, stroking the narrow strip
between her hairless nether lips, commencing the lubrication of her gash. As I entered the
bathroom, Mary knelt between Carol’s outstretched legs, gently caressing her tender
thighs, the thick black faux penis jutting out proudly from her loins.
When I emerged from my shower, I could hear Carol’s frantic moans coming from the
other room. Drying myself off, I stepped into the living room. Mary’s delectable ass was
pumping furiously between Carol’s thighs. The brunette’s arms were around Mary’s
shoulders, pinning their breasts together, her fingers digging deeply into Mary’s flesh.
He face was turned to the side and I could see her misty eyes and her lusty lips as she
continued to moan loudly and deeply. Her legs were wrapped around Mary’s, pulling the
thick, black ebonite shaft that she wielded deep into her pussy.
“Ohhhhhh, yeah! Oh yeah! Ohhhhhhhh!” Carol exclaimed as her orgasm over came her.
My one eyed soldier began to stand at attention as I viewed the lascivious scene. Mary’s
buttocks were tauntingly enticing as they rose and fell with her thrusts. I rubbed my
stiffening cock almost unconsciously as I watched the two girls fuck. Mary began to groan
too as the pressure of the dildo against her clit sent her into her own convulsions.
I was tempted to join the two enticing slave girls; Mary’s small puckered rear
aperture presented an almost irresistible target. My cock wanted to get wet and warm. But
you learned on the island to exercise discipline over the expenditure of your male
essence. There would be plenty of alluring slave girls to fuck today and I might regret
expending myself too early in the morning. I had gotten into the habit of coming at least
five or six times a day, sometimes more, but I wasn’t Hercules, or Johnny Wad for that
matter. And so I tore myself away from the engaged and engaging couple and went into the
bedroom to put on a fresh brown robe and some sandals. When I came back, the girls were
resting in each others arms. Carol was kissing Mary’s face, that part left unexposed by
the shield gag that she still wore, and Mary was hugging her tightly.
“All right, ladies,” I announced. “Break it up. I’ve got to get going.”
The slave girls rolled apart, their eyes beaming with gratitude. Carol looked at me
sheepishly. “May I kiss Mary, master?” she asked, timidly. Slave girls, even ones as
liberally handled as mine, needed permission for everything. In another context, with
another master, Carol could have been whipped for her effrontery at speaking without
permission. I consented to the request and Carol quickly removed Mary’s gag. The two girls
kissed lovingly for about twenty seconds. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Don’t get started all
over again. I have a meeting I need to get to.” The girls broke apart, their eyes soft and
satisfied. “Thank you, master,” Carol said, smiling. Mary turned and smiled at me too. She
hesitated and, seeing the permissive look on my face, spoke as well.
“Thank you master,” she said. Her voice, while halting, was soft and sultry. I bet
that I hadn’t heard her speak more than a hundred words since I had kept her to live with
me. I wondered idly whether I should relax my rule of silence as far as she was concerned.
If I had known what would happen later, well, I don’t know what I would have done
differently. But, her timid, loving voice, her tender smile and grateful eyes as she
thanked me, haunted me for a long, long time.
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