VOLUME TWO

 

CHAPTER ONE

Personal Narrative of Caroline Martin

 

Oh, my God, why have I been abandoned thus? What is going to become of me? I don't think that even hell itself can hold more horrors for me than what I have just experienced in this terrible castle-like prison which, Jason Vanwell has told me, is known as the Fortress of Ben Abar, in the heart of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. I know now that when I went sailing, someone overcame me, took me from behind as I was getting out of my little sailboat, chloroformed me, and after that I know nothing except waking to the horror of a dungeon cell and then the fatal meetings with that horrible woman who calls herself The Countess ... and with the man whom she calls my trainer, Jason Vanwell.

I know also now some rich man whose identity is unknown to me at this moment, has arranged all this by buying me, and that my kidnapping and transportation to this desolate spot on the earth is all premeditated. I'm not sure that I shall ever see my parents again or my beautiful London. All I can hope is that the master who buys me will have some decency left in him, some shred of elemental honour and sympathy to which I can appeal. And I shall appeal on my knees, my arms wrapped around his thighs, imploring him, praying to him as I would to the Creator Himself.

Oh, I have prayed to Him so many times already, my face bathed in tears, my body burning from the terrible whippings that awful woman and my t ... trainer have given me so liberally. But He had ignored me until now, and perhaps though it is blasphemy for me to say so, I should address myself to the one who conceived all this and who, when all this misery and suffering of mine are over, will be my master. For that is what the Countess says my owner will be ... a master who will have every right over me, whose every whim must be my law henceforth, and to whose sexual fantasies I must bend myself or face atrocious punishments.

But I do not think that anything could exceed in pain and shame for me what I have already been forced to endure here in this desolate and well guarded - again as Jason Vanwell tells me - impregnable place.

I have been whipped, I have been locked in the Cage of Silver all night long, I have had to kneel down and take a man's sex organ in my hand and name it with the most obscene terms my trainer has found to employ and repeat them until he is satisfied. I have even had to cup my breasts and clasp them against his sexual organ, like a living vice, and when I refused to commit that obscenity, I was whipped with a currying brush, the bristles of which made me think that the flesh of my buttocks had every strip of skin torn from them. And then, conquered by pain - for perhaps I am a wretched coward, and yet I have suffered so very much every day that I can recall here - I had to go to bed with my trainer and to do with my breasts what he commanded I do to his sexual organ. I cannot use the words he uses, for to do so would imply that even my mind and soul have become as servile and humble as my flesh. But because I am a coward, I bend myself to his will to escape unknown and even more atrocious chastisements. Will there never be an end to all this?

And the last torments which Jason Vanwell administered to me ... I wonder if there was anything which can surpass them to shame me and to terrorise me, and to torture my poor body. Never have I been so miserably conscious that I am an attractive young woman and that I am desirable to a male as now. I wish to God that I were ugly and old that I might escape this training, for that is what Jason Vanwell calls all my long weeks in this gloomy castle. I am to be trained to be the slave of the man who has bought me, that is the crux of it.

For finally after I had come out of the pain of the switch, and the currying brush, finally agreed to take his penis between my breasts and to masturbate him until he had his orgasm (and how odious that was for me, to feel his semen spurting in my very face); at the next session he wished me to use my mouth on his sexual organ. And when I refused to do it, he took me across his lap, and with a cotton tampon rubbed my anus with cologne water until I nearly fainted from the burning, searing pain. Well, again I lent myself to his will, but I fainted when he ejaculated into my mouth, and because I did that, I found myself in the office of the Countess, my hands and face pressed against the waxed floor and my bare buttocks offered up in the air in the most shamefully tender position, an attitude of servility which I had been taught to assume as a subjugated slave.

And then, the unforgettable depilation of my pubic hair and a whipping by the Countess on the hairless lips of my sex - how I wanted to die, how I begged for death, but I endured it. Words can't describe the merciless burning which tore through me, struck at the most intimate part of my woman's body. I promised I'd do anything, and I would again, if only to escape that infernal punishment.

Then how that odious man, Jason Vanwell, tricked me into intimating he would let me off that savage whipping in a place so tender that the mere thought of it nearly made me faint with agony, if I would ... if I would put my tongue into his anus. Well, I brought myself to even that bestiality, so much had pain conquered me. Then I discovered the next day that I had not won remission of that punishment at all. How I pleaded and wept - to no avail. I know that I fainted several times while the Countess used a multiple-thonged whip right between my legs. A week later, after all the care they gave me, Jason resumed my training, going so far as to put his Vaseline smeared finger into my anus and to press it back and forth while I had to kneel there and not show the slightest revulsion. And then finally the day I shall never forget, only two days ago, I believe, when he took me, possessing me without pity, giving me no pleasure in the ferocious brutality of his unleashed lust.

I don't think anything more can happen to me now. All I can pray is that this training will end so that I may be sent to the master who bought me. With him, I shall try every way I know to soften him and get him to understand that I am not just an ordinary girl kidnapped out of a poor neighbourhood, but Caroline Martin, whose parents are prominent in London and who are rich and can pay ransom for me. And if I have to give him my body to get his sympathy, well, I'll do that too. I will do anything in the world to escape from the hell to which I have been so unjustly brought.

 

CHAPTER TWO

General Narrative

 

The extremely efficacious methods of the white slave organisation known as 'Rio 9' in not only arranging for the abduction of beautiful young girls and women throughout the world, but also in subjecting them to the most comprehensive erotic training in order to turn them into submissive houris capable of providing every unusual and perverse sexual pleasure to their ultimate purchasers, were now brought to bear upon the beautiful London patrician, Caroline Martin.

Having already completed what was known as the preliminary stage, this superb young woman had now been conquered enough by fear and the pain of judiciously applied floggings, to realise that her only hope of escaping the most agonising torment was by complete submission to the desires of the Countess and her trainer, Jason Vanwell. Both these astute dominators of slaves, thoroughly experienced in their hugely profitable enterprise, had concurred that after the supreme indignity which Caroline Martin had endured ... that of being fucked by Jason in front of the Countess ... a period of seeming reprieve should be granted to her in order that she might have ample time to reflect over the incredible alteration of her destiny.

And it was not until the afternoon of the second day following that little play-acting farce in which she had been dressed as a soubrette and instructed to act and obey like the maid of a sophisticated modern couple (which roles, naturally, the Countess and Jason performed with authority) she found herself once more summoned before the svelte dominatress.

During those two days and nights, Caroline had been left naked in her dungeon, her wrists fixed into metal gyves set into the wall, and her ankles corded with rawhide thongs, which in turn were knotted around a set of similar gyves set into the base of the wall, thus compelling her to kneel facing the door of her cell and presenting the magnificent vistas of her tits and her cunt to the admiring and greedy eyes of Jason, who personally brought in her meals three times a day and, seating himself on a footstool beside the shuddering and agonised young woman, fed her by hand with a spoon, from time to time passing his other hand over her quivering bosom and belly and her thighs and bottom, but all this without a word as to what her fate was to be.

At night, to be sure, he entered and loosened her manacles, only to conduct her to the low couch where she was to sleep and then to fix a thick leather collar around her neck, which itself conveyed a steel chain sealed into the stone wall.

One can imagine the counting suspense and apprehension of this pampered young woman who until Basil Rothberg had expressed a passionate desire to see this haughty socialite brought down from her pedestal and humbled, had never known so much as a harsh word or even a playful corrective slap. Now in the space of these long weeks which comprised the preliminary stage of the 'training', she had, she believed, endured the most shameful and degrading ordeals which it was possible for a female to experience. Made to strip naked, sentenced to the lash whenever it pleased the Countess and the savage Jason, compelled by the latter to learn the lexicon of lust and to acquire the most obscene vocabulary as well as to perform orally and lingually on his penis and anus, and then carnally taken like a whore in front of the enigmatic and exotically beautiful dominatress who called herself the Countess, it was not surprising that Caroline believed herself to have fallen to the lowest level of human depravity. And being left alone for this forty eight hour 'pause', between the stages of her training was precisely the psychological weapon which these two gifted practioners of the subjugation felt certain would engulf her impressionable mind with a fatalistic resignation in that very belief that nothing more terrible could happen to her.

Each time Jason Vanwell entered her cell, therefore, Caroline started, her eyes wide and appealing, filled with tears, her bosom agitatedly rising and falling, in the vain hope that he would communicate to her some vital news, perhaps the news that at last she was to be sent to the master who had bought her, to the man who had so heartlessly ordained that she be kidnapped from England and brought to this desolate and grim castle. Yet so well had the lesson of humility been inculcated within her hitherto indomitably proud spirit, that she was able to refrain from speaking to him, from asking him a single question, though hundreds of them surged to her lips each time she saw him come into the dungeon where she was being held prisoner. Only by dint of tearful, agonizingly supplicating looks did she convey to Jason her intolerable despair and her yearning to understand at least what was to happen to her. And to all this he responded with silence, a grinning silence in which he took full advantage of her shameful fettered kneeling posture by fondling her to his heart's content.

At about four o'clock of that second afternoon, Jason again without a word to the naked captive, unfastened her shackles and then peremptorily commanded, "You are to kneel down, clasp your hands behind your back and follow me to the office of the Countess, Caroline."

A groan of consternation was torn from the young woman: "Ohhhh!" and she slowly knelt down, wincing as the hard flagstones of the dungeon floor bruised her tender bare knees, and then fixed her trainer with an imploring expression which made him almost smile despite himself.

"You wish to speak?" he asked, turning back to her from the door which he was about to open.

"Y ... yes, m ... master. Am ... am I to be punished again, ... m ... master?"