by Jennifer Harrison
Author’s comment: this is result of a collaborative effort between me and mrhungry.
Victor Janes looked over Amanda’s latest request, but it was as he’d expected. She had basically set all the sliders to maximum, even the duration of the scenario, which ran from one hour up to four weeks. But it was immaterial – he knew what she wanted, or at least he knew what she needed. He just had to decide whether he was prepared to give it to her.
He thought back to the first time he had set eyes on Jasmina. He was 19, home on leave from Afghanistan, with 3 weeks R&R, at a club with his mates. She was a student, a couple of years older than him, out on the town with her girl friends. He was immediately struck by her black hair and dusky complexion, but he was captivated by her sense of humour, intelligence and vivacity. He spent the night on the dance floor with her, not wanting to risk letting any other guy near her, which she found hilarious, as he was such a terrible dancer. They laughed most of the evening, only some of the time at him, and by the end of the night, she was more than happy to invite him back to her flat for ‘coffee’.
She had promised to teach him a few things, and his education started early, as he tried to get heavy in the taxi.
“Easy, soldier boy,” she laughed, pushing him away, “you’ll get to fuck me anyway, so calm down, take it easy, no rush! If you do a good job, I might even let you do it more than once.”
At her flat, they actually did have coffee, and talked into the early hours about many things. When they finally moved into the bedroom, Janes asked her to tell him – in detail – exactly how he could make her night perfect.
When she had literally shown him the ropes and he’d recovered from his surprise, never having met a girl into bondage, he tied her down on the bed.
“Make it tight!” she instructed, “then do whatever you want to me, just make sure it lasts a while. Oh, and you’d better gag me, I’m a noisy bitch, and I don’t want to wake the neighbours.” She nodded her head towards a chest of drawers, which he found contained an impressive range of gags and other bondage gear.
“Some girls spend their money on handbags and shoes,” she said defensively when he gave her a questioning look, “I have other priorities.”
He chose a large ballgag, and decided to blindfold her as well, just so she wouldn’t know what was coming next. He managed to spend several hours tormenting her with his fingers, tongue, lips, teeth and, eventually, his cock, bringing her to quite a number of orgasms. At last, when he was exhausted and she was covered in sweat, he started to release her.
“Please don’t.” she pleaded, “leave me tied down, and just cuddle me.” He did as she asked, and they slept together like that until midday.
Over the next three weeks, they only left the tiny flat for food, as she taught him how to treat a true submissive. Lessons in how to apply ropes, belts, chains and gags were accompanied by instruction on how to use paddle, whip, flogger and cane. She told him how it was possible to make the right kind of girl – namely herself – climax with no other stimulation than a skilfully applied beating. He had refused at first, but she had threatened to deprive him of her body altogether unless he met this request.
It was not something he had enjoyed, or been proud of. He had suspended her from the ceiling, her toes inches from the floor, and gagged her as effectively as he could, packing her mouth with cloth and taping over her lips, to try and minimise the noise. He selected a flogger, which he hoped would not permanently mark her beautiful skin, and set about his gruesome task.
Her stifled screams were pitiful, and tears were soon streaming down her face, her skin reddening under his assault. He desperately wanted to stop, but she had begged him not to weaken, to know that, whatever she did or said once he started, she really needed him to finish the job. After what seemed like an eternity, he had noticed a change in her response – her screams were more lustful, somehow, than pitiful, her head was nodding, she was trying to turn her body to face him, opening her legs to encourage him to strike her swollen sex. At last, her whole body started to shudder, and she danced on the end of the rope, as the orgasm rolled through her until, at last, she hung limp and lifeless.
He took her down, removed the gag, and held her close to him, trying to comfort her as she wept.
“How the hell did you ever discover that that would make you cum?” he asked in wonder. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and gave him a wan smile.
“Until just then, I wasn’t sure. Thank you for proving it to me.”
By the time he returned to his unit, Janes was completely besotted with this exotic creature. Jasmina moved into his house and they spent all his leave time over the next two years together, inseparable.
When he left the army, Janes set up a security firm, providing ex-servicemen, starting with himself and then expanding to include a lot of his colleagues, as bodyguards to corporations, rich businessmen and, eventually, celebrities. There were two key people he met during this period. One was Rebecca Hanson, better known as porn actress Becky the Bitch, who was worried about her safety, due to letters from a ‘fan’ / stalker. She had provided Janes with the contacts in the sex industry which were to become so useful. The other important contact was Ingrid Stummel.
Ingrid was at the height of her fame and beauty at that time, and needed personal security for London Fashion Week. She and Janes got on well, and she invited him to dinner at her exclusive Park Lane hotel. She had seemed annoyed when he had turned up with Jasmina, but she quickly decided she liked his girlfriend even more than him. They had gone to the ladies’ room together, and he had started to worry a little when they weren’t back in ten minutes. Then Ingrid had returned, her cheeks flushed, but with a smile on her face.
“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for dinner, Victor, something’s come up,” she said, a little breathlessly.
“Where’s Jasmina?” he asked, with some concern.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be back… presently. Enjoy your dinner.” And with that, she swept out. With little option, Janes ordered, and ate, a solitary meal.
Jasmina appeared two hours later, and Janes immediately noticed the long-sleeved blouse she was wearing over the backless evening dress. Her hair was tousled, her face red, and he could see she had been crying. But he could also see the giveaway post-orgasmic glow, and he questioned her about what had happened. It appeared Ingrid had wasted no time in establishing that Jasmina was very submissive, and ordered her to go to Ingrid’s room and strip. It turned out Ingrid was far more interested in bondage and domination than classifications of hetero, homo or bi. Those two hours had been filled with a lot of pain and pleasure, and it was obvious Jasmina had enjoyed every moment. Janes couldn’t really complain to Ingrid about her behaviour, as his girlfriend had gone along with it willingly, but he did ensure Jasmina had a very intense orgasm that night, through the liberal application of the whip.
It was Jasmina’s idea to transform the security business into ‘personal services’ for the rich and famous. It proved to be a great success, being safer, more profitable, and a lot more fun than guarding sweaty businessmen in Baghdad.
They had been together for five years when Janes finally popped the question. He was devastated when she turned him down, then astonished by her counter-proposal – that she become his slave. She had explained that she would be collared, naked, and obey him in all things at all times – her sole purpose in life would be to please him. But then she had described his responsibilities as her Master – he must make all the decisions for both of them, including her health and welfare, from important legal decisions to such seemingly trivial matters as when and where she went to the toilet. He could tell how desperately she wanted this deeper relationship, and he agreed with great pleasure.
There were quite a few legal issues. She signed over all her possessions to him, which included a significant inheritance from her parents, as well as her half of the burgeoning business. She removed herself from the electoral register, doctor’s roll and dentist’s list. Administratively and legally, she was a non-person. She cut up her credit cards, driver’s licence and passport, so she could no longer be identified. Janes was only to refer to her as ‘slave’, as this was now her only name. They devised a small ceremony, witnessed only by Ingrid, where she was fitted with a titanium collar, one which could not be removed. She was later surprised and delighted when her Master had her tattooed with the initials ‘VJ’ on her hip – his permanent mark on his slave.
They were blissfully happy as Master and slave for three years. Then, he received an urgent call from Ingrid – she had received threatening calls, and needed his protection and support immediately. He had flown to Germany that evening, and when he saw the distraught look on Ingrid’s face as she met him at the airport, he assumed it was due to her own concerns. He was wrong.
“There’s been a car accident… Jasmina… I’m so sorry, Victor,” she stammered. He had got the next flight back and gone straight to the hospital. She had, of course, no identification on her, and it had been blind luck that a neighbour had been at the scene and had recognised her. He had no idea why she had left the house, but a drunk driver had hit her on the pavement. She was in a coma, and the doctors could not say when or if she would come out of it.
He had spent the next two weeks at her bedside, sleeping in the chair and washing in the hospital bathroom. He held her hand and talked to her whenever he was awake, looking for any sign of response, but getting none. At last, the doctors had told him she was in a persistent vegetative state, and they were recommending the life support be switched off, but it was his decision.
She had given him everything. Now, in some kind of twisted irony, she had given him the power of life and death over her as well. He gave his consent with tears running down his face, then staggered away, to sink into his grief.
Now, looking at Amanda's request on his monitor, he was sure of one thing - Amanda Beale wanted - needed - someone to control her in every way. The request for the longest term of submission was a sign that she wanted more than just the quick adrenaline rush of the weekend role-play. His pulse quickened as he understood that she would willingly submit to him as his slave. But could he accept that terrible responsibility again?
He pushed that thought aside, instead concentrating on finalising his plans for his forthcoming trip to St. Kitts & Nevis. Amanda's request would have to wait until the end of the month, and he'd have to contact her to let her know. This trip could not be rescheduled and he could work on the details of Amanda's request while he was away. He was sure she would understand that planning a four week event for her would take time to put together.
There he was, thinking of the Beale woman again! Damn it! He closed her e-mail, and opened the folder with his trip plans. Every year he joined a group of bondage aficionados for a two week holiday. The location changed from year to year, and the participants were somewhat fluid, but there was a core group that he had known for many years that always attended. It was the one break during the year that he looked forward to and would not miss. Those core members had known and liked, maybe even loved, Jasmina, and had dropped everything to be with him and support him at the funeral and beyond. They were his dearest friends.
Victor's heart ached as his thoughts turned once again to his lovely slave. He would never have a love like that again. But, somehow, the depression he usually felt at his remembrance of the loss of Jasmina seemed lessened, as images of Amanda flashed through his mind. Amanda, so open, so beautiful - even if she didn't think so – and so in need of being controlled. And such a delight to dominate! His mental images flashed to Amanda being ushered into the hotel room in Germany, remembering the panic he sensed in her. But she performed, yes, she did as she was told, and suffered...oh, she suffered for him. But even more than that – she revelled in her suffering.
Now, unexpectedly, Victor had to lean back in his chair to adjust his erection. The trade show! She was magnificent, walking through the crowd, brochures clipped to her nipples. He smiled at the thought of her discomfort, being in such a public arena, naked and bound. But she had done it, and done it well!
And then the bondage frame... well, he may have been a little hard on her, but he had to know. He just had to find out how far he could go with her, and he was sure now that he could have gone further. When Jasmina had asked to be beaten so hard that first time and had been forced to cum, she had been almost traumatised by the event, not wanting to be subjected to such abuse for a long time after that. Amanda, utterly unprepared for the assault he had inflicted on her, which had left her unconscious and marked for days afterwards, had just sent in a request for a four-week appointment, asking for more of the same!
Damn it! He pushed those thoughts aside once again. Still...two weeks in St. Kitts & Nevis, why not take Amanda? The remaining two weeks could be planned as they went. His friends would be happy that he had found another submissive, and they would absolutely love Amanda. Love to ‘play’ with her, that is.
- o O o -
Amanda felt that nervous excitement all over again, as she lined up to board the plane. She was once again travelling light – the same cotton dress, flat shoes and no luggage – but this time she was at Heathrow, and she was jetting off to the Caribbean! Visions of sun, sand and lots of sex filled her mind and, best of all, Janes was once more her companion. After his treatment of her the last time, in Germany, she had thought he disliked her, and expected him to be cold and distant, but when he met her in the terminal, he had seemed in a very good mood. Now her visions were full of him tying her up and taking her from behind!
She wasn’t too surprised that he had booked her in tourist class, while he was travelling business – just another little humiliation – but he had booked her a middle seat as well, to further discomfort her. It must surely have been chance that put her between a young man who couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and a very obese man who overflowed his seat, forcing her to lean invitingly over against the ogler, giving him a perfect view down her cleavage. The overweight man also smelled badly of BO, making the ten hour flight something of a trial.
When she disembarked, the heat hit her like a wall. She was glad that, a few days earlier, she had received an instruction from Janes to visit a hair stylist of his choosing and get her hair cut as short as possible, and dyed brown. She had thought it odd, but assumed it was a form of disguise, and was quite excited that she no longer required the wig. Now, she understood the practicalities too – with her hair off her neck, not covering her ears and hardly touching her forehead, she was only sweating profusely, as opposed to the beetroot red she would normally go. She wished she had sunglasses and a hat, like everyone else, and she had to squint in the bright sunlight as they transferred to the terminal.
“Reason for visit?” the immigration official asked her.
“Pleasure,” she replied with a smile, wishing she could add, “and being tormented and fucked by all sorts of people!”
She was feeling pretty jetlagged and disgusting by the time she met up with Janes and they got in a taxi, and her thoughts were on hotel, shower, bed. Of course, there might be other things, like sex and bondage, thrown into that mix, but she wouldn’t mind that.
The first inkling things might not match her idyllic beach holiday idea was when she realised the taxi was heading away from the coast, going into the rural, occasionally forested, interior. The car drew up at an imposing set of iron gates across the track they had turned down, and sturdy fencing ran into the distance on either side. Amanda looked out of the window, and saw a large sign board, with the words “The Sugar Plantation” on it, under which had been attached a temporary sign saying “Closed to the Public” and two dates, one today and one two weeks hence. She looked around at Janes, her face a picture of wonder, confusion and excitement, but he maintained his silence. She had a million questions, but instinctively knew she shouldn’t ask them – he would tell her if he felt she needed to know. The smile on her face could have been misconstrued as happiness over her surroundings, but it was in fact her delight at the possibility of being controlled, at not being told where they were going or what she was going to be doing. Her fate was in someone else's hands, and the excited smile widened as she thought about her vulnerability and her submission.
The gates swung open, and the taxi drove along the driveway, through fields on either side, until before them appeared a classic plantation house, all white wood and verandas on both floors, with an imposing set of banistered steps leading to the front door. As they got out, Amanda again felt the oppressive heat, despite the fact it must have been nearly five in the afternoon.
“Take my bags,” he ordered, and she obediently picked up the suit bag and took the handle of the roller case.
“Fifty weeks of the year, this is a theme park museum,” Janes explained as he led her towards the steps, “showing tourists how real slaves and plantation owners lived and worked in the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, farming cane to supply the British addiction to sugar. For these two weeks, I and a group of like-minded people bring our own slaves here, to teach them just how lucky they are to be living in the 21st century.”
As she struggled up the steps with the bags, Amanda’s mind was in a whirl. He had brought her here – as his slave! Maybe he didn’t despise her, didn’t think she was just a rich loser. Okay, so maybe he thought she was a worthless nothing, but he thought enough of her to bring her here, which must mean something? Maybe here she would be taught how to satisfy him, trained to really be his slave. The thought was intoxicating!
By the time she had lugged the bags into the cool of the main hall, she was sweating profusely. She looked at the tiled expanse of the hall, the high ceiling, the wide staircase, and was impressed – the house must be at least two hundred years old, but was kept in perfect condition.
“Leave the bags there, I’ll take them from here,” Janes ordered, “you need to go through that door there.” Amanda started to walk towards the indicated door, but looked back and saw that Janes wasn’t following. Nervously, she opened the door and went into the room.
The room itself was very plain – white walls, wood floor, no windows – but it contained over a dozen women, fourteen to be precise. They were a varied group – mainly white Caucasian, but also a couple of Latina, three Indian, two Asian, and one black woman. There were two groups, and the differentiation between them was very clear and quite bizarre. Half a dozen of the women were in the middle of the room, looking frightened and jittery, much like Amanda was feeling, whispering and glancing around at the others, who were lined up along one wall, with resigned looks on their faces. But the really obvious difference was that the group in the middle were wearing flat shoes and thin cotton dresses very similar to the one Amanda wore, while the women against the wall were naked.
Before Amanda had an opportunity to find out what was going on, the door she had entered through opened and a man in jodhpurs, riding boots and a white shirt entered. At his belt hung a coiled whip, a flogger, a cane and a crop. He shut the door behind him.
“Okay, cunts!” he said in a loud, very pronounced southern American drawl. “You stupid bitches (he indicated the group in the middle) must be the fresh meat! Get over against the wall with the old lags, and get naked!” He took out the whip and cracked it expertly, sending the frightened women scurrying as they pulled off their dresses and kicked away their shoes. Amanda noticed the ‘old lags’ had their hands behind their heads, chests thrust out and eyes on the floor, so she adopted the same pose.
“I am Master Leonard,” the man said loudly as he surveyed the women, walking along the line of naked, quivering figures, “and I will be processing you today.”
He suddenly stepped forward, grabbed one of the Indian women by the hair, and pulled her out of the line, forcing her down onto her knees.
“Don’t you dare fucking look me in the face, you piece of shit!” he bellowed at her, slapping her on the back of the head hard enough to knock her to the ground.
“Treat your superiors with respect!” he shouted, now addressing them all. “Who are your superiors? Anyone wearing fucking clothes is your superior! The lowest tramp in the gutter is your superior! Because you are not people, you’re property! That’s why you’re naked, you own nothing! How could property own clothes? You get what you’re given by your owners, and you’d better be fucking grateful!”
He walked across the room to a large steamer trunk, and opened it.
“Form a line and come and get the gifts your benevolent Masters and Mistresses have provided.” As they queued up, Amanda peered around to see what was happening. The first woman, a dark-haired white woman with a great body, stepped up. The man took a heavy iron collar from the trunk, and put it around her neck, fastening it in place with a huge padlock. There was a heavy iron chain hanging from the collar which almost reached to the floor. Matching manacles joined by a short length of chain were locked around her wrists, then a similar set joined her ankles. Fully kitted out, she shuffled back to her position against the wall, and the next woman was ‘processed’.
Slave chains! Amanda had fantasised about just this scenario for so long! The familiar thrill of fear and excitement ran through her body, giving her goosebumps, as she waited for her turn. When it arrived, she was amazed at how heavy the iron was once it was all on her, making her stoop a little under the weight. The chain between her ankles was so short she was forced to shuffle along, bowed, like a little old lady.
“Assume the position!” Master Leonard shouted, and they all put their hands behind their heads, chests thrust forward, legs as far apart as the chain would allow. He picked up a pot of paint with a brush in it, and walked down the line, daubing on each woman’s stomach with black paint. When he got to her, Amanda realised he was painting a number, 13 in her case, as big as possible between her breasts and her thighs. He skipped the black woman, but came back for her with a pot of white paint.
“You worthless whores don’t have names here, only numbers,” the man went on, “if any of you is caught using a name, you will spend the rest of your time here in the hole. Believe me when I say, you do not want to spend time in the hole! Now, other rules! You will not speak in the presence of a superior unless you are asked a question which requires an answer. Do you understand?”
There was a murmur of response and a general nodding of heads. The Master, suddenly looking angry, took the crop from his belt and swung it at the nearest woman, who happened to be Amanda, causing her to squeal and cringe as the blow caught her across the breast.
“I asked you a fucking question, you dumbass bitches! Now answer me properly!”
“Yes, Master!” they chorused loudly, as Amanda recovered her composure and her position.
“Number 1, step forward!” The young woman shuffled in front of the man, keeping her hands on her head. He addressed them all as he took out the cane.
“You will be punished while you are here, because you are stupid, or lazy, or one of the owners just decides he wants to punish you. Number 1! I am going to punish you!”
“Thank you, Master,” she responded quietly.
“That’s the right response. If you are being punished, you deserve to be punished! No-one gives a flying fuck what you think!” He swiped the cane across number 1’s breasts, and she cried out in evident pain.
“Thank you, Master,” she said when she had recovered herself.
“The only time you can speak without being asked to, is when thanking your Master or Mistress for punishing your sorry ass. Do you understand?”
“Numbers 4, 7, 11 and 12 – step forward and kneel!” The selected women all looked terrified as they shuffled forward and sank to their knees.
“Number 1,” Leonard said in an exasperated tone, “show them how it’s done.” The woman managed to stoop, put the chain between her wrists under her feet and over her buttocks so her arms were behind her, and kneel down, all in one graceful movement. Once there, she sat on her heels, splayed her knees to expose her sex, thrust out her breasts, head back and eyes down. The others scrambled to assume the same position before they were punished.
The man walked behind the kneeling women and pulled a knife from his belt. In each case, he held the woman’s pony tail and cut through it, leaving them shorn.
“Trust me, you’ll thank me later, when the sun is beating down,” he said once he’d finished. He told them to get back against the wall, and then moved back to address them all.
“Your only reasons for being here on God’s green Earth are to work, and to serve your superiors. You will NOT pleasure yourself or each other – sex is for the benefit of your superiors, not for you! Anyone even suspected of diddling will be VERY severely punished! Now, I’ll take you to the slave quarters, and you can get some rest – work starts tomorrow.”
He clipped the chain from one girl’s collar to the back of the next girl’s collar, forming a chain gang, then led them through the hall and out into the still bright sunshine. As Amanda looked back towards the house, she saw people on the veranda, looking down at the line of naked slaves as they trudged past. There was a mix of men and women, all casually dressed, all with drinks in hand, eyeing the women carefully, assessing them. Her heart leapt when she caught sight of Janes, then sank a little when she saw the tall, attractive woman he was deep in conversation with. Somehow, it made her feel just a little bit more worthless – maybe she was only here as his ‘minimum entry fee’, no entry without a slave, the quality of the slave didn’t matter.
She only realised what she had been doing when the cane smacked against her thigh, making her squeal with surprise and pain.
“Eyes front, you dumb cunt!” Master Leonard shouted as he hit her again, hard across the buttocks.
“Thank you, Master!” Amanda managed to blurt out, fixing her gaze firmly on the buttocks of the woman in front, and hoping Janes hadn’t seen her infraction and her punishment. She knew she had to do better!
The slave quarters lay a little way from the plantation house, and were a stark contrast. It was a ramshackle wooden structure with a poorly maintained straw roof, no windows, and the only thing which looked less than a century old was the chain and padlock on the door.
The Master unlocked the door and ushered them inside. Despite the cooling of the afternoon, the dark interior of the single room was stiflingly hot and airless, making all the women instantly break out in a sweat. The floor was dirt, with a thin covering of dirty straw. There were straw-filled palliasses strewn around, a row of three empty buckets on one side of the room and three filled with water on the other.
“Latrine buckets,” Master Leonard said, pointing to the empty ones, “water, someone will bring you food later. Settle down and get some rest, fuckwits, you’re gonna need all your strength tomorrow.”
He pulled the door shut behind him, plunging them into darkness, and Amanda heard the chain being put back and locked in place. She slumped down onto one of the rough mattresses and, pretty quickly, the jetlag took over and she slept.
- o O o -
Amanda was woken a couple of hours later by the sound of the door being unlocked and a flashlight flicking around the hut.
“Grub’s up!” a female voice with a British accent said, and the woman put a bucket down in the middle of the room, before withdrawing and locking them in the pitch black once again. Something smelled good, and Amanda realised how hungry she was, having been too excited to eat much on the plane. She crawled over to the bucket and found she wasn’t the first there, as she bumped up against another naked body. She squeezed in and, with no utensils or plates, she dipped her hand in. The bucket was half full of what she quickly worked out were slops, scrapings from the plates of the Masters, lukewarm leftovers from the kitchen, all mixed together. As she brought her hand to her mouth, she tasted vegetables, meat, fish and apple pie. It was weird, but she was so hungry, she ate it greedily. Soon the women were jostling for access to the bucket, and the food was quickly gone.
Amanda crawled back to her mattress, still hungry. As she drifted back to sleep, she thought about how they were being treated here, and realised that real slaves, as opposed to middle-class women playing at being sex slaves, were considered subhuman, animals, and beasts of burden. She thought about the slave owners, up in the big house, enjoying fine food and fine wine. She thought about Janes, laughing with that gorgeous woman, imagining him taking her to his room and slowly undressing her, then making love to her…
She suddenly snapped out of it when she realised her fingers were in her wet pussy! She so wanted to cum, but she also wanted to be a good slave, she wanted to impress Him with how well she could fulfil that role for Him, now, and for the rest of her life. She pulled her hand away and tried to go back to sleep.
End of part 6
Copyright© 2012 by Jennifer Harrison. All rights reserved.