CHAPTER ONE

 

A series of uncontrolled sobs shook her ..

 

Quentin Osman was humming softly to himself, contentedly. It was the sound of a man well pleased with life. He began to murmur the words of the tune; at least his version:-

 

"Oh, what a beautiful morning;

Oh what a beautiful day;

I'm painting the cunt of my slave-girl;

And everything's going my way!"

 

Quentin's rather jowly, but well-tanned face slipped into a salacious grin. In his hand was a long, slim artist's brush, the tip of which was covered with bright pink lacquer...and this lacquer was being assiduously applied to the sex-lips of his latest acquisition, Simone Gerard. At that moment she was kneeling naked on a plank bunk with her hindquarters thrust up high and her long, tapering thighs spread wide. She was quivering faintly but incessantly. It was a sure sign, as Quentin was aware, of the incredible effort of will she was having to make in order to maintain this degradingly indecent and blatantly exposing posture. Quentin liked the thought of that. Simone would, of course, know the penalty for not maintaining this posture; a merciless thrashing. That was the reason, though every fibre of her being burned with shame and horror, why she managed to force herself to submit to this total indecency.

Quentin, who was seated on a low chair, leaned back a little and admired his work. The smooth, provocatively pouting sex lips were now delineated in blushing pink.

"Very nice," Quentin murmured to himself. "Would you like to see, slave?"

Simone knew an answer had to be given. The truth, or an expected answer? It was always a difficult decision and she could be punished if she got it wrong.

"Yes, Master," she croaked weakly, her nates producing a little quivering twitch as if expecting pain.

Quentin grinned lasciviously again. "Raise your head then, slave, and look in the mirror in front of you." At the same time he placed another mirror behind Simone's wide-spread thighs. The dark head of hair came up and Simone's features were reflected in the mirror before her. They were typical Gallic features... high cheekbones, straight nose, wide eyes, full-lipped mouth. But now those attractive features were distorted with horror, revulsion and abysmal shame. The liquid eyes brimmed with tears. One large tear ran down Simone's cheek and splashed on the boards on which she knelt. She shuddered...forced to gaze on her own total humiliation, reflected in the mirror which the grinning Quentin held up.

"There," he said, "very pretty, isn't it?" Simone uttered a gagging sort of sound but made no coherent answer. Instantly, Quentin picked up off the table at his side what looked like an oversized table-tennis bat. It was over half an inch thick, red vulcanised rubber on one side, black ebony wood on the other. The handle was a heavy spring connected to the bat which gave it considerable flexibility.

This instrument, known as the paddle, was used for minor infringements of discipline or disobedience. This now descended on Simone's right buttock cheek, hard. The sound of it was loud.

SSSPPPLLLAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT!

The sumptuous buttock cheek on which the paddle fell was immediately squashed and spread and, when the paddle came away, it left behind a bright red circle of burning pain. Simone uttered a gasp. Her head jerked and she uttered a gasping-yelp of pain as her bottom squirmed downwards.

"I asked you a question, slave. Answer it! And get that bottom up again!" The bottom came up, even if hesitantly and Quentin brought down the paddle again, this time on the opposite cheek.

"Y-yes, Master ..." whimpered Simone ... immediately after another gasping-yell of pain.

"Yes, it's very pretty. I am sure Hans, or maybe Cassim, will be pleased with my decorative work." The implication of that last remark was not lost on Simone. A low main escaped her and she shuddered violently, if briefly. Despair filled her tear-brimmed eyes and another large one splashed on the boards below.

Quentin put down the mirror and picked up his brush. Simone lowered her head again. "Keep your arse high!" snapped Quentin and at once, Simone thrust up another inch or so. Quentin nodded with satisfaction. This arrogant aristocrat was at last beginning to learn to make herself submit and obey. Repeated pain was teaching her.

Having put some more lacquer on his brush, Quentin gently parted the cunt lips so that the clitoris was exposed. Then he deftly covered it in pink lacquer, whilst Simone flinched and twitched. "Don't get too excited, slave," smiled Quentin, "not yet anyway. Now I'll finish you off with a little skin-softener."

Simone was completely depilated and Quentin carefully worked the cream into her soft white cunt flesh. "Want to make you as presentable as possible for those two young stallions, eh?"

Aware that this was a question, Simone answered quickly in the affirmative. She didn't want to feel the blaze of that cruel paddle again. The knowledge that, before long, she was going to be brutally ravaged again, added to her crushing despair. A short series of uncontrolled sobs shook her.

"Is something the matter, Simone?" enquired Quentin solicitously.

"N-no ... mmmff ... mmmfff ... M-Master," answered Simone. Oh, no; nothing was wrong, of course! She was naked and being degraded like an animal, worse than an animal.

"Well, stop that snivelling then," snapped Quentin, "Or you'll feel a cane across your backside."

Fully aware that this was no idle threat, Simone knew she would have to control her natural emotions...and her sobs. Somehow, she succeeded. The threat of the cane was always a potent one; it did not have to be actually applied in order to make her do things so disgusting...so revolting...so indecent...

Before...

Before her arrival in an unbelievable Hell on Earth.

Oh, that terrible cane! How often already, in her relatively brief term of servitude, it had broken her. The pure agony of its bite was beyond description. It was mind-bending. It was irresistible. It could make one do anything. One shrieked and shrieked, one would do anything...anything...if only it would stop falling. But it didn't stop. Simone could now no longer recall the number of times she had been thrashed over the threshold of bearable pain and into insensibility.

Feeling the weakness and helplessness within her, Simone knew she would do anything to avoid the cane. Or so she thought. But then, when more and more repulsive demands were made upon her, it seemed only natural to refuse them.

So she was caned again.

And again ...

And again ...

And again ...

All the same, Simone was fully aware that the depth of her submission were growing steadily deeper. Now, she could make herself do things which would have been inconceivable only a few weeks ago. Like kneeling as she was at that moment...her bottom thrust up to the limit, her thighs splayed wide...submitting to the paintbrush of this sadistic pervert who had abducted her from her yacht.

Oh, how long ago that seemed!

Kneeling there, both buttock cheeks burning painfully, Simone heard Quentin using the house phone.

"Miss Zelda?" She heard him enquire (she was the chief Overseer at the 'Maison Jaune'.)

"No, nothing's wrong. In fact, Simone is behaving herself rather well at the moment." Quentin glanced appreciatively at that upthrust bottom, so curvaceous, so lush.

"What I'd like you to do is to send either Hans or Cassim up to the playroom in my quarters. Both of them if they are available. If not, one could come half an hour after the other. That's right. Thank you, Zelda. 'Bye for now." Quentin put down the receiver and ran his hand lightly over the round, red splodge the paddle had recently produced. My God, that feels hot, he thought. No wonder that fairly harmless instrument made her gasp and yelp!

He was wearing his cool cotton kimono, as was his custom when in the playroom. It was yellow and covered with red dragons; he had nothing on underneath. Having seated himself in a low, comfortable armchair, he gazed contentedly at the delicious feminine secrets so openly displayed to him. I am making progress with this one, Quentin reflected. But there was still a long way to go before she was as Julia had now become. For Julia's obedience had become instant and absolute. She could scarcely descend further, while there were still fires of rebellion and resistance within Simone.

This pleased Quentin. For, one had to face it, a slave still under training was often more enjoyable than one fully trained. For example, one had more opportunities, with good reasons attached, to give her a good thrashing.

Quentin untied the yellow linen belt of his kimono. It swung open to reveal a very hairy belly and a rather too large paunch. It had been larger but was now gradually improving under a not too rigorous regime of exercise and dieting, organised by his lovely ex-slave wife Melissa. His stubby prick, notable for its girth rather than its length, was partially in erection.

"Slave," he said, "You may lower your arse. Now come and kneel down before me."

Simone relaxed a little for the first time for some while. Her hindquarters sank and swivelled her body around. What indecency was now being planned? she wondered despairingly. There was rarely any let-up in her degrading regime of servitude. On hands and knees she crawled towards Quentin, then knelt on the square flat cushion set on the floor in front of him. Then she knelt erect, broad back straight and with her hands placed on top of her head. Her thighs parted to an angle of about 45 degrees - this was the required posture when kneeling before one's Master, or Mistress, so Simone now adopted in automatically. It was better than being caned until you did adopt it, as had been the case in the early days.

Her fulsome breasts thrust out beautifully, sagging only marginally. The aureoles and rather large nipples were pale brown. The nipples had been pierced and through each hung a little gold ring. There was a further gold ring through her septum. Simple symbols of slavery...and Simone was constantly aware of them.

"Well, Simone," said Quentin with a faint smile, "I hope you enjoyed my decorative work. It has made your cunt look even prettier."

"Yes, M-Master," said Simone in a low hoarse voice.

"Speak up, girl, when you are addressing me. You should have learnt that by now!"

"Yes, Master." The voice was firmer, louder. She had been punished often enough when it was too weak. The fact that she had been derogatorily addressed as 'girl' did not escape Simone, though it no longer particularly concerned her. Nor, any longer, did the references to the most intimate parts of her body in the crudest possible terms. Cunt, for example; tits, arse, arsehole. They all had become commonplace and had to be accepted.

"I think," said Quentin, "I might while away a little time with some decorative work on your tits. Just the nipples, eh? Would you like that?"

"If my Master so wishes," replied Simone. The incessant, almost infinitesimal, trembling had returned to her body. She had just recalled what was to happen later. All this decoration was, supposedly, for the benefit of Hans and Cassim.

Of course it's as I wish," said Quentin rather sharply. "But would you like it?"

"Yes, Master," said Simone meekly. But oh, what is cost to be so meek and submissive! To sit there, stark naked and have to endure one humiliation after another!

"First of all," said Quentin, "I'll take off your rings." They were twisted apart, then slipped out. "And have a little feel around." He squeezed the lovely big orbs available to him. "These, Simone," said Quentin, "Are one of your greatest assets." It amused him to watch a large tear run down a cheek, hang momentarily from her chin, before falling neatly between the cleft of the breasts he was fondling. It seemed that Simone did not appreciate his compliment! Too bad!

Quentin continued to fondle at will. These days, Simone no longer protested or recoiled, as she once had done. She simply submitted to being mauled, though her two lovely globes rose and fell rather faster and her wide soft lips were often bitten. He felt the nipples firming and that, too, amused him. She could never check that natural reaction, however much she might have hated it.

"A little later on," said Quentin smoothly, "you, slave, are going to make use of these assets. Do you know how?"