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All characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental THIS IS FICTION. IN REAL LIFE ALWAYS PRACTISE SAFE SEX

GOOD BREEDING By Katherine Forbes

Chapter One The Seaward estate. St Kelmo Island, West Indies. 1830 “I can never decide whether females suffer so beautifully because they are born to it or because we teach them so well.” Lady Isabelle Stuart looked at her husband, Sir Archibald, with a dry, fond smile. “Whichever it was, would it make one iota of difference when you are punishing one?” “Of course not. But it is the kind of thing one thinks of when one sees such perfection in whipped flesh.” She had to agree. Celia and Hugh Landon’s ponies were amongst the finest in the Caribbean. Tall, graceful and coal black they could be whipped more or less all day without showing any marks. Lady Isabelle and Sir Archibald were currently watching Hugh school a new team of four ponies. The slaves were arranged two to either side of the main shaft, the crossbar strapped tightly to the fronts of their belts, their arms neatly folded and tied behind them, forearm to wrist. It was a cumbersome arrangement with such a wide crossbar and the carriage took some handling. The girls’ dark skins shone in the sun as they sweated under the whips, their tossing heads waving their plumes prettily as, time and again, the driving team tried to get the four abreast slaves to time their trotting so as to keep in step as the reins were pulled to steer right or left. Hugh jogged beside the ponies and thrashed the outside pair’s legs with a cane to make them speed up while the driver pulled the other pair back and his whipman added to the woes of the outer pair by searing their backs with the driving whip. After three or four tries, the coach and four began to be able to describe reasonably tidy curves over the rich grass of the lawn in front of the house. Hugh came to stand beside them mopping his forehead. “They may not speak English but by God they understand the whip!” he said. He had bought the new team in Kingston a few weeks back and was training them up for the annual Rosebowl race meeting and gymkhana in a few months’ time. Lady Isabelle pulled her gaze away from the delightful spectacle of the harnessed slaves with their breasts bouncing and their buttocks quivering as they learned to high step in a trot and the whip snapped and hissed across their sweating bodies mercilessly. As yet they could barely keep in step when trotting in a straight line but she supposed Hugh knew what he was doing. It was the cane tapping against Hugh’s booted leg that was distracting her. She flicked her fan open and used it, but was uncomfortably aware that it wasn’t her face that felt hot. “Archie, we didn’t come just to gape at Hugh’s ponies,” she prompted. “Ah, no. Quite. I need to borrow a decent cane off you until I can get a replacement shipped out. I’m clean out of good rattan, just can’t get on with the local stuff.” “He broke his last one across Dorca’s back,” Lady Isabelle added. “The girl couldn’t work for a week afterwards!” “Now, now dear,” Archie admonished gently. “At the time I recall you had your entire fist in her cunt and a mouthful of her tit.”

“I’ll give you a couple to try out before you go and you can pay me back when it suits,” Hugh said easily. “Ah! Here comes Celia to take you for a spin.” Around from behind the house, its wheels clattering on the gravel, came another four in hand with Celia Landon, resplendent in a long skirt, tight hacking jacket and riding hat holding the reins. Beside her sat one of the slave drivers from the estate with the driving whip. Sir Archie and Lady Stuart inspected their ponies before they mounted, admiring the tight crupper straps and the long tails of real horsehair, the high breasts and buttocks and the wide, anxious eyes staring out from between the heavy blinkers. Lady Isabelle ran her hand over one quivering flank and stroked the bulging, ringed labia where the strap drove harshly along the slot of the sex. “I’m so glad that Jacaranda is back on a firm footing and we can start running ponies,” she said as her husband handed her up into a seat. Jacaranda was their plantation, one which had gone through a shaky patch and was only now recovering. Once they were settled Celia joyfully whooped and yelled as she shook the reins and her whipman thrashed the ponies into taking the strain and then slowly getting the carriage rumbling and rasping forwards. Immediately a refreshing breeze played over their faces. “Once young Adam gets here,” Archie said, “we’ll give him the use of the East house and I’m sure he’ll have a breeding and buying programme up in no time. I want Jacaranda’s name on the Rosebowl as soon as we can manage it.” “And you really trust him?” “Oh, yes. Knew his father. Whole family knows their livestock well. If Adam had stuck to the racecourses and kept away from the gaming tables he wouldn’t need to leave England now, but their loss is our gain. I think he’s really stumbled across something and he’s bringing it with him.” Lady Isabelle reserved judgement but nothing could really spoil her mood as she watched the fields go by with their teams of sweating black workers. Here and there a dark skinned figure hung from a branch or a whipping frame, either waiting for punishment or waiting to be taken down after it. Celia yelled again and a fresh flurry of whip strikes cracked onto straining flesh and sinew. She turned in her seat and smiled at them as the carriage accelerated. “It’s a grand life, is it not?” After a delightful half an hour, the carriage wheels scrunched to a halt in the stableyard and Lady Isabelle and Sir Archibald climbed down. The four slaves were gasping for breath around their bits, strings of saliva trailed down over their chins onto their breasts and mingled with the rivulets of sweat. Sir Archibald stroked some of the heaving and shaking mounds, sporting gold rings through the quivering nipples. His wife trailed her fingers along the soaking crevices of their cunts, making the six rings that each wore, tinkle and chime as she did so. “We shall have ours ringed as well,” she told Celia. “Gold on black is simply enchanting.” “They may not all be black, my dear,” Sir Archibald reminded her. Hugh and Celia specialised in training up and buying in pure bred African stock. Other estates preferred mixed race ponies, maintaining that they had greater endurance. Quadroons or Octroons – slaves with some white ancestry were considered excellent long distance hackers while Spanish and Mexican ‘breeds’ were fancied by some for more decorative events such as dressage. But the Seaward estate swore by its string of pure black thoroughbreds. They were tall, graceful creatures with skin so dark it was nearly true black. It was both their blessing and their curse that they didn’t show how much whip they had taken until they bled and it took a highly trained whipman to judge when the skin was about to lacerate and to transfer his attentions to elsewhere on their bodies.

While Sir Archibald talked breeding with Brad, the Seaward head groom, Celia and Lady Isabelle passed a happy time in the stalls. A new purchase was being ringed and given her daily beating by one of the ‘boys’ a tall, heavily built black man. The slave was spreadeagled on her back against a grid of stout timbers that was propped up against one wall of the tack room. Her nipples had already been dealt with and her cunt lips were resplendent with shiny new gold. At her navel a gold ‘S’ dangled – it was pointless branding such dark skin.. The boy gave Celia a quizzical look as he finished piercing her and stood back. “Of course, William, carry on,” she told him and both women enjoyed the frantic writhings and screams that followed as he took a crop to her breasts, stomach and thighs. “They all take thirty lashes a day as a matter of course,” Celia told Isabelle as the slave slumped, exhausted in the wake of her thrashing. William stepped forwards again and undid the lace at the top of his short, ragged trousers, his only garment, freeing an impressively thick cock. With no hesitation he rammed a hand between the slavegirl’s legs and worked his fingers for a while, forcing groans of a rather more sensual nature from her, then he leaned against her body and thrust up into her, his muscular buttocks hollowing with each thrust. Celia stepped forwards with her own crop and swung it hard against his bottom. “Go to it man!” she cried, striking him hard and repeatedly as he fucked the writhing slavegirl. “Fuck the little bitch hard! Don’t pet her!” Grabbing hold of the sides of the grid, William did his best, fetching cry after cry from the slavegirl as she was slammed against the wood and his cock speared up into her depths. By the time he ejaculated, Celia was flushed and out of breath and William’s buttocks, dark though they were, were clearly welted. “You can never whip them enough, Isabelle! Remember that and you’ll run a good stable!” she said triumphantly as the two strolled back out into the sun. In the library, back at the house, Hugh presented Archie with a choice of canes, all imported from the Eastern colonies. Lady Isabelle watched her husband’s strong arm flex as he swished one after the other. “Isabelle my dear, I need to test these out. I want to make sure I have the right one for when our guests arrive.” Isabelle and Celia exchanged rueful smiles, causing Hugh to frown and suggest that if Celia found a man wanting to be sure he had the right instrument of chastisement amusing, then he would damn well wipe the smile off her face. Ensuring the door was locked, the two men looked on as their women fussed and fumbled with their skirts until their arses were properly bared and they were both bent over with their hands on the seat of a chaise longue. Both women were in their late thirties and made a perfect picture of mature, healthy womanhood. Their thighs were firm fleshed and long above their garter-ribboned stockings, their buttocks were broad and pale – a welcome change for men who spent their days disciplining dark skinned bodies – but still tight and smooth. Snuggling close beneath the buttocks were two dusky-lipped pouches with their inner lips just peeking out shyly at the prospect of discipline from their lords and masters. Archie swung in the first stroke with an exceptionally long, slender length of cane. Isabelle let out a strange mewing noise that was familiar to those who punished her regularly but which always startled a first time flagellator. A thick line of pink appeared across the skin as Archie examined the rod and bent it speculatively between his hands. Hugh flicked two hard strokes across his wife’s arse and both men appreciated the sway and ripple of flesh in the wake. Celia yelped. “Try that one, Archie. It’s got a little more bite to it,” Hugh suggested. Archie took a few experimental swings, noticing Isabelle’s buttocks cringe and clench as she waited for the inevitable.

“Relax them my girl, or I’ll really lay into you!” he told her sternly and smiled at the alacrity with which the cheeks were allowed to resume their natural shape. Then he beat her with three hard, quick strikes. She nearly jerked upright and he turned to Hugh in delight. “That’s perfect! If I may borrow this one I would be most grateful.” Hugh Landon was quite happy and Sir Archibald cemented his acquaintance with this particular rod by carving ten deep stripes across the underswell of his wife’s buttocks. It was a long and bumpy ride home and he wanted her hot and willing from the discomfort at the end of it. Hugh kept his guest company out of good manners and beat Celia just as hard but his mind was on the Rosebowl and his newly bought slaves. As the pair drove away, Lady Isabelle looking flushed and sitting rather awkwardly, Celia waving with one hand and rubbing her rump with the other, he was already heading for the slave compounds.

Chapter Two “Now, my dear little Phyllis, tell me what your orders are one more time.” Phyllis repressed a sigh, flicked her tongue back from the long lick it was about to bestow upon her employer’s glorious cock and looked up at him. Adam Bestwood was a handsome man with a dark, neatly trimmed moustache and sideburns and a thick head of hair. His face was regular featured with dark eyes that were staring down at her fixedly. A slight smile was playing about his lips, as well it might, Phyllis thought smugly, she knew she was a superb fellatrice. “I am to keep a careful watch on Madam and am to report to you each night, sir,” she said in a singsong voice and ducked her head back to continue her fellation. His hand gripped in her hair, preventing her. “And?” he asked sternly. “And I am to take every opportunity to corrupt her in any way I can.” “Good girl.” He relaxed and she was able to go back to work. Fellating Mr Bestwood was no chore but a privilege. His cock was long and thick with a curve along its formidable length and a helm that could have been almost impossible for a girl to get into her mouth had it been as thick as it might have been, instead it was slightly longer and slenderer than usual – and Phyllis had seen plenty in her young life; it was one reason that Mr Bestwood had hired her as his wife’s maid – and as a result it made for a substantial mouthful but one that was full of interest for her tongue. On that particular morning, with the ship just a day away from landfall in the colonies of the West Indies at long last, it tasted quite rich, as water was getting scarce and its taste was further enhanced by Mrs Bestwood’s musk. Phyllis had not tasted her mistress’s cunny yet, although she harboured hopes, but she knew woman when she tasted it. Sensuously she let her lips slide forwards and down, feeling her mouth fill with the divinely soft skin over the steellike strength of her master’s erection. One hand crept into the tight confines of his breeches to cup and roll the amazingly big scrotal sac. Above her she heard him sigh in pleasure as the ship rolled slightly, its timbers creaking. His body shifted to adjust its balance. “Don’t be too long,” he hissed. Phyllis took her mouth away and smiled up at him; a servant for once entirely in charge, even if she was on her knees. “Don’t fret so, sir. Mrs Bestwood will be promenaded by Captain Lombard up on deck as usual until well after ten o’clock. What with this being our last day at sea and all, he won’t want to waste a second of Madam’s company.” Of course both of them knew that after ten o’clock, Captain Lombard would avail himself of the only other female on board, namely Phyllis. But she knew that a lot was riding on the next few weeks for her employer and she could feel his increasing nervousness. There was one certain cure for that condition in all men and this time she ducked her head farther down his shaft, rolling the foreskin back, feeling the first of his pubes tickle her nose as the helm came to rest against the back of her throat and she opened it for him in the ultimate female caress. She withdrew a little and plunged down again, the taste of Madam’s honeydew mixing with his rich earthiness and then she lifted her head one more time. Up above she heard her master whisper her name and as she plunged down again she was ready for the convulsive jerk of his body, the sudden swelling and pulsing in his magnificent tool and then her throat was filled time and time again by the thick spurts of his ejaculate. She swallowed quickly but not in any panic and was thus able to contain the outpouring with well-practised comfort. As the pulses faded she slowly lifted her head and flicked her tongue against the sensitive spot at

the base of the helm to encourage the last few drops from him. He jerked and groaned as the last traces of orgasm trembled through him. Phyllis took her time over cleaning him and gave every indication of reluctance to have him leave her mouth. She knew that was the surest way to guarantee that the man would want to return and with landfall imminent she was well aware that there would be more female competition around than Mrs Bestwood from now on. Holding onto the side of the narrow cot that Mr and Mrs Bestwood had shared for the length of the voyage, Phyllis pulled herself to her feet, brushed herself down and used her mistress’s small looking glass to pat her hair back into some semblance of good order and to ensure there were no traces of the master’s sperm on her chin. She could do nothing about the inevitable flush of excitement on her cheeks however, but as she had sucked Mr Bestwood’s cock nearly every day of the voyage, she doubted that Mrs Bestwood would notice anything unusual. Beside her in the cramped space, Adam Bestwood buttoned himself up and likewise tidied himself, she bobbed him an ironic little curtsy and let herself out of the cabin. He waited a few minutes before following. Up on the poop deck Phyllis found her mistress exactly where she had thought she would. Over by the starboard rail the captain was pointing out features of the shore that had hove into sight late the previous evening and now the whole ship was alive with the expectancy of making port by early evening. Mrs Bestwood was a rare beauty and Phyllis could quite understand the captain paying her every attention that propriety would allow. Those attentions that propriety wouldn’t allow he paid to Phyllis. As she approached the pair Mrs Bestwood laughed at something the captain had said and half turned towards Phyllis. As always the maid took pleasure in studying her mistress. She was uncommonly tall but not so much that she overtopped men. She had black hair that was always as shiny as a raven’s wing tied neatly at her nape, her face was wide at the brow above large dark eyes in which a man might drown – and Phyllis had seen a lot do so without Clara Bestwood even having been aware of them – her lips were well shaped and her mouth was generously wide above a pretty little chin and a graceful neck. Her shoulders were wide and her chest supported breasts that rode high and proud beneath her blouse, promising deep cushions of softness to the man lucky enough to bed her. Her hips flared gracefully out from her corseted waist and her long legs gave her skirts a swing as she walked that set Phyllis’s pulse racing, let alone any male onlookers. But Mr Bestwood’s problem lay in the fact that despite her sensual good looks and figure, Clara Bestwood had had a very sheltered upbringing and Phyllis knew from her employer that her skill between the sheets was as lacking as her looks were promising. “One may as well lie with a side of pork next to one in bed and expect it to give carnal satisfaction,” he had confided in Phyllis one night in London before they had set sail and when Clara had gone to Surrey to bid farewell to her mother. He had made up for lost time on Phyllis that night and she had burned and stung between her legs the next day. Something that no man had been able to achieve for a very long time. “Things are different on the plantations,” he had confided further during a break in their frantic lovemaking. “I want you to urge her gently towards the end we have discussed. Lose no opportunity to try and unlock the feelings I am certain she harbours beneath those magnificent breasts of hers.” Phyllis had looked down, pouting, at her own not inconsiderable assets and Mr Bestwood had immediately been contrite and attentive, bringing the pink nipples smartly to attention. “Tell me again what my reward will be for delivering such a prize,” she had asked archly. In reply Adam Bestwood had rolled on top of her and she felt his hardened manhood

once again demand entry, her body had surrendered instantly and as he had speared deeply into her he had whispered, “You know you will get everything you desire.” He had made a considerable down payment on that promise that very night. But now, as the West Indies drew close, she knew that the real work was about to begin. “Ah, Phyllis!” the captain greeted her, “come and view our destination for a moment.” She passed a pleasant interlude watching the mountainous coast drift past while the captain regaled them with tales of the piratical past, making Clara cover her mouth in shocked horror at his recounting of boarding parties and executions and hand to hand fights. “Of course that is all in the past now and our merchants can ply their trades in safety,” he concluded and once again Phyllis was grateful for the fact that they had been able to get passage on a general freighter and not a slave ship. She knew from growing up around the docks in Bristol how the vessels in the employ of those particular merchants reeked. “And now, Madam,” the captain said, making a bow towards Mrs Bestwood. “If I may, I must take my leave and request that your charming maid accompanies me to aid me in the final compilation of manifests and bills of lading and all the clutter of seafaring that need not concern you, my dear Mrs Bestwood, but which Mr Bestwood has been kind enough to volunteer her for.” The captain offered her his arm and led her below to his cabin where the wake of the ship left rippling patterns of light across the ceiling and Phyllis was sodomised across the chart table. It was a well-rehearsed routine; he stripped to the waist and she to her corset and stockings before stooping to lick and kiss his flaccid member, sticking out from his unbuttoned breeches. Captain Lombard was a well-preserved man of some sixty years and Phyllis didn’t find her time with him too irksome and in any case he paid well and promptly – something that she had learned to value in men far above mere looks. Using her hand to stroke him as well she nursed him towards full erection and felt his hand stroke her hindquarters where they swelled out invitingly from beneath the restriction of her corset. “Gad! I should have liked to ply a riding whip across those beauties,” he said, giving each buttock a hefty smack. Phyllis chuckled and let her breath caress the rapidly hardening penis, sending it throbbing into full erection instantly. She was well accustomed to the sting of discipline and had learned to associate it with the punisher desiring release straight afterwards. As a result her cunny always moistened and her breasts swelled with lust when she was beaten, but unfortunately the intimate nature of below decks dwelling militated against that activity and so neither her employer nor the captain had been able to do more than deliver the occasional spank. Bending the rigid prick downwards slightly, Phyllis knelt and wiped the head over the swells of her breasts until he groaned with need. Only then did she rise and bend across the table, carefully sweeping the charts aside first. She felt his hand plunge into her honeypot and scoop a good handful of her thick secretions out to use as lubricant around her tightly puckered anus and then he was urgently pushing against her. She relaxed into the pressure and felt herself ease open as the head thrust in and presently she was experiencing all the conflicting sensations of sodomy. However, a prolonged and final promenade with Clara Bestwood had had a bad effect on the captain and no sooner was he able to move in and out in comfort than she felt him begin to fountain his come deep into her insides, easing his passage still further but depriving her of the friction she so enjoyed. He slammed his pelvis against her several time and then she felt him begin to soften and wilt quickly, sliding out of her and leaving her bereft, her anus puckering closed once more in its wake. The captain tossed a handful of coins onto the table as she hurriedly donned her dress again. Two men, two loads of hot spunk and hardly an ounce of pleasure for herself. She was

desperate to get back to her own little cupboard of a cabin and use her hands to accomplish what neither man had. She could feel cooling sperm oozing down the backs of her thighs in any case and needed a towel. “You have a fine body, Phyllis,” the captain told her as she scooped up her coins. “On the plantations you know, a serving woman with an arse and tits like yours, whatever her colour will inevitably find herself the object of male desires. And some of those might be quite extreme.” “Yes captain, thank you!” she panted as she slipped out of his cabin, ran a few feet down the companionway and slipped into her own cabin, having to press herself against her cot to close the door, but fumbling her skirts up as soon as she had managed it. Thank God the growing heat in the last two weeks of the voyage had made underwear uncomfortable and unhealthy. In only a few seconds her hand was fumbling in the sweaty and slimy heat of her groin, her fingers diving upwards to stir her sodden cunt into eagerly awaited action while her thumb rubbed viciously hard at her clitoris, she bared her teeth in a grimace of urgency as she rasped and frigged herself to an orgasm that was purely a functional one, one that would do until something better came along. As she slumped against the cabin wall she smiled at the memory of the captain’s warning. “Male desires……..quite extreme.” Oh yes. She was counting on it, and so was Adam Bestwood. She closed her eyes as her breathing steadied and confused images of Clara Bestwood’s face, cruelly sneering slave drivers and Mr Bestwood’s cock swam through her mind interlaced with visions of riding whips and the cruel stockwhips she had seen slave drivers carry in Bristol.

Chapter Three On the quayside Adam introduced Clara and Phyllis to Sir Archibald and Lady Stuart. Archie was an old friend – a man in his late fifties who had been driven into the colonies by the same problems that Adam was suffering from; gambling debts. He had prospered out here and when creditors began hounding Adam, it was to Archie he had turned and had been offered a post on the Jacaranda estate. Archie was a tall, spare man with white hair and his wife was considerably younger than him and quite a beauty in her own right. Adam kissed the hand he was offered and looked deep into the green eyes that appraised him with unusual openness and almost blatant speculation. “I’ve heard a great deal about you,” she said with a smile and Adam glanced across at Archie who laughed. “I’ve told her you’re a swordsman of great renown,” he said. “And they’re always welcome out here in the colonies,” his wife added, giving him a smile that left him in no doubt that everything that Archie had told him about the way women were treated out here was perfectly true. With Phyllis following behind in the second coach with all the luggage, they set off for the estate and Adam watched his beautiful young wife taking in every detail of the scenery as they passed. It was colourful and chaotic with a dozen languages being spoken and shouted around a harbour that smelled of tar and fish and spices. People dressed in ragged but brightly coloured clothes, some of the black women even had their arms bare he noticed. A month later, Clara was slowly beginning to come to terms with everything. She had been deeply shocked at the lack of clothing on some of the slaves but had at the same time been unable to look away from some of the superbly muscled male specimens she had seen with just short white trousers and sun hats on as they laboured in the fields. Sir Archibald’s house was magnificent and Lady Isabelle had been more than kind, her servants had washed all their clothes and she and Phyllis had been free to walk around the magnificent grounds, admiring all the strange plants and trees they had no names for. On that particular morning Lady Isabelle had provided the lightest muslin that modesty would allow and slowly she was adjusting to the lack of underwear as she walked and was learning to take some pleasure in the feel of air circulating beneath her skirts. She now no longer felt a wave of horror at the blatant way the negro women wore their sleeves short, or the way their skirts sometimes left an ankle and occasionally even a calf on display. She and Phyllis had frequently been taken on drives by Alex Sweeney, Archie’s senior overseer and they had become partly inured to seeing the slaves flogged, once or twice they had seen a female hung up by her wrists. However, Alex had driven on to spare their blushes when their clothes had been torn off preparatory to the whip being plied. Her darling Adam and Sir Archibald were frequently away at the East house, getting everything set up for them to move there shortly and that night they were due back. At dinner the conversation ranged freely around subjects associated with sugar planting and harvesting and some issues involved with ‘breeding’, Clara assumed that horses were being talked about and lost interest until Lady Isabelle rose and suggested they withdraw. Phyllis accompanied them as they sat before the open windows that overlooked the lawns, the curtains moving gently in the light breeze. Lady Isabelle seemed a little ill at ease as she sat beside the faithful Dorca, who was bent over her embroidery. Eventually she rose and fetched something from down beside the grandfather clock that stood over behind Sir Archibald’s chair. She laid it on the table as she returned and Clara saw it was a long, wicked looking length of cane.

She stared at it in horror. “Clara, my dear,” her hostess began. “Has Adam ever…….punished you in any way?” Clara protested vigorously that Adam was a perfect gentleman and would never hurt her. “Archie is a gentleman too, but you have to understand that out here in the colonies, my dear, we women need to be handled rather more sternly than at home. There are, after all rather more temptations around….” Clara found her mind treacherously replaying moments when she had seen male slaves’ muscles rippling as they cut and stripped the cane, the way the sweat had glistened on the powerful swells of pectoral sinew, the deep, strong chests and sturdy thighs. She blushed and Lady Isabelle smiled. “Ah! I see you understand. Now, while Archie and Adam have been away, it appears I have allowed the house to become a little less clean and tidy than Archie would like. And so he has decided that I am to be caned tonight.” Everything seemed to go very quiet. Clara stared at her aghast. “What? Sir Archibald beats you?” “Regularly. In here and very hard.” Clara jumped up. “Then I must go! I cannot be party to such a despicable deed!” “But Mr Bestwood has expressed a desire that you stay, Ma’am,” Phyllis said quietly. “He said I was to tell you that he would be greatly displeased if you were to disobey him in this.” “You took a vow to obey him, Clara,” Lady Isabelle reminded her. “Archie knows that I can take a caning however hard he dishes it out. I’m sure Adam will be much gentler with you.” “He will not get the chance, Lady Stuart! I assure you of that!” Clara blustered but sat down nonetheless. The door opened and Archie and Adam entered, bringing with them the familiar male odours of brandy and cigars. In fact Sir Archibald was carrying a decanter and seemed in high good humour. “Come on, girl. I want your arse bared and ready for the cane as soon as may be! When a man’s been away, he needs to make sure his wife’s not carrying anyone else’s marks,” he laughed uproariously and Adam smiled over at Clara, where she sat with her heart thundering and a tumult of butterflies in her stomach. He came over to her and stood behind her chair as the scene unfolded. With a mysterious little smile playing about her pretty lips, Lady Isabelle reached down and began to furl her skirts up. Without needing to be told, Dorca, the handsome half-cast maid stood and began to help her. Before Clara’s scandalised gaze, Lady Isabelle’s stockinged calves, knees and then thighs came into view and when her stocking tops appeared, Clara could stand it no longer and leapt to her feet. But before she could say a word she felt Adam’s hand grip around her bicep with painful force. “You will stay and watch, Clara, or you will pack your bags for England and sail tomorrow. Alone.” He spoke quietly but with a vehemence that turned her blood to ice. When she looked at him it was to find his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that somehow terrified her and at the same time released a warm flood into her belly – something she had never experienced before. Slowly she sat down, still staring at this handsome stranger who used to be her gentle and kind Adam. “We’ll start with a dozen,” Sir Archie was saying and turning her eyes back to the room, Clara saw that Lady Isabelle was bent over the back of an exquisite Queen Anne chair and was holding onto the seat, her knuckles white. Clara was sitting directly behind her and could see, for the first time, another woman’s sex, pouting from beneath the firm buttocks and fleeced with thick, dark hair. The skirts of her evening gown were bunched in a froth of lace and satin

at her back and Dorca stood beside her, still placid and unmoved. Clara glanced at Phyllis and was astonished to see her still calmly embroidering. She looked up and saw Clara’s gaze on her. “My father favoured birches on my mother and used his belt on us children,” she said. Before Clara could respond the room echoed to a loud Crack! She jumped and looked back to Lady Isabelle’s bottom. The cane was being flexed in Sir Archibald’s hands and across the pale expanse of buttock a thick line was appearing in front of her very eyes. She was taken by surprise by the second lash and so was watching as the cane sliced into her hostess’s flesh, cutting deeply and then springing away, leaving the flesh to ripple back and Lady Isabelle to fidget from foot to foot as she fought to absorb what must have been the most atrocious stinging imaginable. A third and a fourth lash were laid on in quick succession, fetching high pitched mews from Lady Stuart and almost forcing her to rise. Dorca reached out and steadied her, making sure her skirts stayed raised. Sir Archibald laid the cane carelessly across his wife’s back and poured himself a brandy while the lines carved in the smooth flesh matured into the classic rough edged, double lines left by a good flexible cane. He smiled over at the dumbstruck Clara. “Y’see, out here, we men are often away from home and it’s good for the women to know that even so, we care enough about them to keep them on the straight and narrow,” he told her. She felt Adam’s hand on her shoulder. “In time you’ll understand that a woman is born to pain at the hands of her masters,” he said. Clara looked up at him and saw he was still staring hard at her. “Well put, Adam. Mustn’t keep Isabelle waiting,” Sir Archibald concurred. Silently the room witnessed the remaining strokes of punishment. Lady Isabelle mewed and squirmed her way to a dozen strokes, the thick red lines striping her from coccyx to nearly the junction of buttock and thigh. After the twelfth stroke she was visibly trembling and her cries came out in a strange warble. “Adam? Would you do me the honour? I think a further half dozen should remind her of her duty.” Clara watched in dismay as, without any hesitation, her husband took the cane, swished it in the air a couple of times with complete ease and strolled over to the trembling hindquarters, where he laid the shaft across them. He turned to Clara to make sure she was watching. “To apply these strokes with anything less than my full force would be an insult to a generous host,” he said and struck before Lady Isabelle could take in the import of his words. Clara clearly saw the shaft sink deeper into the softness than at any time before and Lady Isabelle shrieked. “Oh good shot, sir!” Sir Archibald cried, quite unmoved by his wife’s agony. The second, third and fourth strokes followed quickly and Dorca had to hold her mistress down as the cane hammered into the lower slopes of the buttocks. “They’ll remind her they’re there for weeks, every time she sits down,” Sir Archibald chuckled. The fifth and sixth strokes were delivered with just as much force and then the room was silent but for Lady Isabelle’s sobbing. Clara watched Adam flex his arm and return the cane to Sir Archibald and suddenly she recalled one of the first times she had seen him. He had been riding and she had looked up as he had reined in by her and her mother, effortlessly he had controlled the huge, sweating beast and she had noticed the calm strength of his hands and the riding whip he held and occasionally flicked at his mount with. At the time it had filled her with strange feelings and now those feelings returned as she watched the men discuss the marks

their cruelty had left on the woman in front of them, discussing the tracks and prodding the inflamed flesh. Eventually Lady Isabelle was allowed to straighten up and smooth her skirts down. Her pretty face was streaked with tears and Dorca dabbed at her with a handkerchief. “I fear that I may be out of practice, Archie. You must tell Mr Bestwood that I am not normally so noisy,” she said with a wan smile. “They were hard strokes Madam,” Adam said, bowing gallantly. “And splendidly taken.” Clara sat, bewildered and seething with a strange disquiet at the memories of seeing another woman’s sex for the first time and seeing a woman’s body react to pain. She slept very little that night and was grateful that her husband didn’t summon her to his bed. Phyllis gave full tongue to her ecstasy as her second orgasm shattered her and her employer’s cock ploughed her to a frothing, seething mass of sensation without thought. Then at last he came inside her and they both lay satiated. Eventually he bent to kiss her breast and lay back beside her. “She was not as horrified as she was trying to make out,” he said. “No, I think you may be right that breeding will out. We’ll find out tomorrow, sir,” she replied. “Good girl. Now, if you want another ride, you’ll need to pay your respects to Mr Cock horse……” He smiled into the dark as the sheet rustled beside him and he felt her breath caress his stomach as she made her way down his body. Then he sighed in pure bliss as he felt her soft lips and tongue begin to beckon his slumbering member back into life and presently he could feel her sharp little teeth just graze his helm teasingly as she slid him in and out of her mouth and he pulsed into full erection. She slid back up his body and knelt astride him, pushing the sheet off them both. Then she reached down between her legs and held him while she slid her quim down his length and then set about going for a proper ride. He reached up and pinched her nipples sharply, making her cry out and accelerate her jigging up and down, then he twisted them hard and she sighed happily and began to orgasm. Tomorrow she had an appointment in the Torture Garden, he thought, and would find scant pleasure there so she might as well be allowed an orgasm now. “Harder Archie!” Lady Isabelle urged. The window onto the upper terrace from their bedroom was open and the moon shone in brightly making the candle whose wax he was dripping onto Dorca’s cunt burn palely even at that late hour. He reached down and pulled the girl’s clitoral hood back as hard as he could then took aim with the candle held a little closer to her and let some drips go. They landed square on the target and Dorca arched up off the bed on which she was spreadeagled on her back and to which she was fastened at wrists and ankles. Isabelle was squatting over the girl’s chest and holding her face up, grinding it against her own clitoris. “Lick me deeper Dorca, you filthy little whore, or I’ll have the whip taken to you every day for a week. Aaaah!” It was not an idle threat and seemed to do the trick as Isabelle began to thrust herself harder and harder against her maid’s mouth. Sir Archibald doused the candle by thrusting it up into the hot swamp of Dorca’s recently fucked cunt and grasping his wife’s head, turned her to face his rigidly erect cock. She immediately opened her mouth for him and the trio sped towards their individual climaxes. Isabelle came first, crying out around the thick shaft that filled her mouth and encouraging her husband to ram into her violently one last time and half drown her in thick splashes of his come. As the couple began to relax in the after-

spasms, the flood of juices that Isabelle released into Dorca’s mouth must have tipped her into orgasm too for a brief series of clenches and jerks from the sleek, dark body under them announced that she too had found her release. Lady Isabelle lay back, her head between Dorca’s spread legs and her husband lowered himself to lie beside her, yawning as he did so. He had whipped and fucked both women and had earned his sleep. Besides, the next day was going to be a busy one. Sleepily they arranged their pillows and pulled a light sheet over them but left Dorca tethered beneath them and between them. Sir Archibald rested his cheek on one soft thigh and let his fingers play with the fuzz of wet pubic hair at the slave’s crotch, picking wax out of it and feeling her wince. His wife rolled onto her side to face him, her fingernails trailing up and down the inside of the slave’s other thigh “Clara is a real beauty, Archie,” Isabelle murmured. “I can’t wait to see her under the whip.” “Nor I, my dear,” he assured her. “But tomorrow will tell us much of what we need to know.” They kissed goodnight and composed themselves for sleep, leaving Dorca tied for the night. One of them was bound to need one end or the other of her body before morning. At the far end of the corridor and unaware of the goings on around her, Clara Bestwood eventually slept lightly, her mind filled with vague longings and the memory of the strength of her husband’s grip on her arm.

Chapter Four At breakfast the next morning, Clara was surprised by her hostess’s good colour and bright disposition, in spite of a certain stiffness about her movements. Sir Archibald and Adam excused themselves on the grounds of work straight after breakfast was finished and Lady Isabelle offered Clara a spin in a Surrey. Clara was delighted and eager for a chance to talk further about the previous night’s events, she waited patiently at the front of the house while Lady Isabelle fetched the trap. In the stableyard, Alex handed Lady Isabelle up into the driver’s seat beneath the Surrey’s tasselled canopy. “Have you done as Sir Archibald asked?” she asked him. “Aye,” he growled. “I’ve selected Flora. She’s a lash-hungry little trollop that’ll dance at a rope’s end all day if there’s a white man’s cock to be had.” He made no apology for his blunt words. He and Lady Isabelle were well accustomed to working the mating sheds. “Good, see to it you’re whipping her at the tree where the tracks fork down by Shaw’s Meadow. And don’t bother to ask permission if you want to tup the whore while we’re there.” Alex grinned lazily. “I won’t My Lady,” he said and turned away to attend to his orders. Clara savoured the breeze in her face as the pony trotted easily along the baked earth tracks of the estate, its hooves kicking up the brown dust. Lady Isabelle had brushed aside Clara’s apologies for her gaucheness the night before. “To be honest, my dear, I do think Archie was a little too eager to indulge himself. I did try and tell him that you might find our ways difficult to adapt to. But, bless him, he is very proud of me and wanted to show me off. I suppose a wife must be glad of that at least!” she had said. Clara blushed furiously but managed to mutter something about her looking very comely and the two women lapsed into companionable silence while the pony trotted on and the harness jingled. They took a route that had them pass several fields and once or twice Lady Isabelle reined in to talk to the overseers. But eventually they turned a fairly sharp bend and saw a tree beside a fork in the track. From one branch a lithe, brown female body hung by its wrists. Alex Sweeney stood behind the slavegirl and was whipping her. As the girl’s feet could just touch the ground she was constantly twisting, bending, hopping and flinching under a steady barrage of lashes. Alex was stripped to the waist. Up until now, Clara and Phyllis had been driven away from the sights of naked slaveflesh being disciplined. But this girl, her skin a relatively pale coffee colour was stark naked and Lady Isabelle reined in, clearly intent on watching. After such a recent reconciliation with her hostess, Clara felt she had no choice but to make no protest. Both players in the scene were concentrating solely on what the other was doing so there was very little noise apart from the swish and slap of the whip and the scuffling of the girl’s feet as she reacted to and tried to avoid the lash. Occasionally Alex would fool her and she would ship a heavy strike across her breasts, hollowing her chest as her breasts flattened against it and letting out a breathless shriek. At first Clara didn’t know where to look but Lady Isabelle seemed so unconcerned that she too began to relax and watch a little more closely. The flagellator and his victim continued in a kind of dance, he always seeking a new, more vulnerable target, she always trying to protect herself as best she could. But steadily her hide began to mark more and more plainly and her shrieks became more frequent. Suddenly Alex saw an opening and swung the whip up

between her parted legs. She lifted one thigh and tried to cross it over the over, jerking down on her wrists and letting out a strange throaty growl. Alex whipped her back and made her straighten up, then as she twisted, got her between her spread legs again. And again she growled. Clara found she was biting her fist in horror and fascination. Alex’s shoulders and chest were muscular, his stomach flat and rippled with sinew. She watched how his body worked as he plied the lash on the helpless girl. She had almost given up trying to dodge the lash and now stood with her legs apart, braced to take the lash wherever he chose to lay it on, twisting and flinching only in the wake of an especially telling strike. Clara squeaked as she saw the braided leather snap up between her legs again and, as the girl now had her back to her audience, they were able to see how the length, carved up between the buttocks and the end thudded into the lower back. There was something terribly compelling about the spectacle. The girl’s body had a strange sort of beauty as it spun and the man seemed so arrogantly sure of what he was doing that it never occurred to Clara to wonder what the girl had done to earn such a thrashing. It was enough that he was whipping her. And that she was being whipped. Then suddenly the whip dropped from Alex’s hand and he strode forwards, unbuttoning his breeches as he did so and picking the girl’s thighs up as he reached her. She wrapped her legs around him and Clara hid her face as she realised what she was seeing. “Look, Clara,” Lady Isabelle told her. “This is the sort of thing we have to put up with even when our men are away. Is it any wonder we need keeping in line?” Clara risked a look and saw Alex’s body jerk as he pushed that huge arrogant thing that men had and which Adam insisted on putting inside her far too often for her liking, into the flogged girl. And what was truly remarkable was that the girl was moving against him in a most licentious way, even as her whip striped body hung by its wrists from the branch above her. Lady Isabelle, touched the pony with her driving whip and urged it forwards. Neither Alex nor the slavegirl paid them any heed but as the track was about to take them out of sight, Clara turned to look back and saw Alex had stepped back and was tucking himself away before stooping to retrieve the whip. She told Lady Isabelle in a horrified whisper. “I wouldn’t be surprised. He’ll probably whip her most of the morning. He’s very good isn’t he? And isn’t she a pretty little thing?” Clara sat back in stunned silence, aware only that despite the canopy above her, she felt very hot. “Every big house on the island has a Torture Garden,” Sir Archibald told Phyllis as he led her and Dorca along a track. “It’s frequently too hot to discipline women indoors, so we indulge ourselves outdoors as well. The slaves who made mine have all been sold and apart from Isabelle and myself, only Dorca knows where it is and has a key.” They had long since lost sight of the house and were walking between shrubberies of high, brightly flowering hedges, the women’s skirts swishing in the grass. From the trees raucous birdsong poured into the air and the sky was its usual cloudless blue. Abruptly Sir Archibald turned left and led them into a sort of tunnel that led off at right angles. It was scarcely three feet wide and was stone flagged between the high bushes. Several yards further along, they came to a door set in a high stone wall. Sir Archibald unlocked it and ushered the two women through. Phyllis Latham had grown up in the poorer parts of Bristol and had been forced to earn her living by prostitution on many occasions. She had met Adam Bestwood in a seedy club that had catered for gentlemen with very particular tastes as regards women. He had delivered a rather impressively vicious beating and had followed it up with one of the most amazing fucks she had ever had. As she had spent most of her life on the receiving end of male dominance she

had long since learned to take her pleasure where she could. Two spells in a debtors’ prison had also underlined for her the close proximity of the lash and the cock in the male psyche. But what met her astonished gaze in the Torture Garden was a complete revelation. The place was stone paved throughout and walled in totally. Against the walls in places, roses had been trained to climb and spread. But apart from those only whipping posts and frames sprouted from the ground. And of these there were plenty. “The roses make a fine spectacle when a slave is tied against them for whipping. I have seen the whitest of blooms transformed into deepest carmine from the blood.” Sir Archibald told her, standing very close behind her as if he was concerned that she might try and bolt. Phyllis’s first reaction was indeed one of fright but then she felt the familiar stirrings in her belly and realised the sexual potential of what she was looking at. There were X crosses, plain, tall stakes and Y shaped ones. There were ones with wooden phalluses sticking out from them. There were gibbets for hanging girls by their wrists from to deliver full body whippings. There were various sorts of stocks to take head and wrists, wrists and ankles and just the breasts. There were rectangular frames for full, four limb suspensions – either head up or down and there were benches and trestles galore, some with wickedly sharp tines designed to torment the softer areas of the female anatomy. Proudly, Sir Archibald showed her round and pointed out the padded shackles for wrist and ankle suspension – Phyllis had to admit that suspension was something she had not undergone before. Along the wall opposite the small gate was what in any other grand house might have been an orangery, a long glass-panelled room. But in this place it fulfilled the function of an indoor dungeon to ensure that no entertainment need be curtailed by inconvenient rain. Here were stored the rather more slow and refined tortures, the wooden pony, the rack and, strangely a large barrel laid horizontal to the floor and supported by rests at either end. But most importantly there were mahogany cases with glass fronts on the wall and these contained the implements essential to disciplining female slaves, whips, crops, paddles and tawses hung next to canes and chains. There were cuffs and manacles and hooks; strange screw clamps that Phyllis had not come across before and the familiar spurs and rakes to torment whip-tenderised flesh. “At weekend parties we have hooded slaves and wives mounted on every single item,” Sir Archibald told Phyllis proudly. “But regrettably today we have to attend to business. However, I do look forward to being able to entertain you in more leisurely fashion at some time in the future. Now, if you would care to undress, we’ll get started.” Phyllis began to unbutton her blouse, her pulse racing as she did so. All of a sudden Adam Bestwood’s promised rewards seemed a rather long way away. Presently she was alone with an experienced sadist who even now was selecting an implement with which to beat her. And never had she come across such a range of implements. It was Dorca who came to her rescue. Smiling, she came to help her undress and her calmness made Phyllis’s momentary fears subside. As she shrugged her blouse off and began to try and reach behind her to unlace her corset, she became aware that Dorca had also taken her blouse off and wasn’t wearing a corset. The half cast girl’s breasts were almost as big and full as Phyllis’s own, crowned with umber areolas and dark red nipples. Again she favoured Phyllis with a smile and came to help her finish her undressing. Sir Archibald gazed on approvingly as she eventually stood naked before him, hands behind her back with Dorca partially supporting her. “You are a most delightful woman, Mistress Latham. Big breasted and buttocked to be sure, but shapely withal. I’ll warrant you can stand an hour or two under the whip,” he said. “And I’m rather afraid a prolonged flogging is in order now. Adam says, and I concur, that wherever the lovely Clara looks on your body, she should find traces of my cruelty.” He came

close to her and held her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “But if he had not said so, then when I saw you naked, I should most certainly have made it up!” Phyllis laughed and held her arms up for Dorca to tie her wrists together and they trooped back out into the garden, Sir Archibald holding a coiled stock whip in one hand. She was not in the least surprised that he selected a gibbet, if an all over flogging was needed then it was ideal. Dorca let down the chain a little and tied her wrists to the last link and then hauled it up so that she could just stand on tip toe. While she was doing that Phyllis watched Sir Archibald strip off his shirt to reveal a wiry but well toned torso with a mat of greying hair at the chest. He stood with his hands on his hips, the whip trailing down one thigh in his dazzlingly white breeches and sunhat. She couldn’t help her eyes being drawn to the hard ridge of his erection pressing against the front as she was pulled up ready for the lash. He seemed to her to be the epitome of arrogant manhood, concerned only with taking his pleasure from the nearest female. Before he began the beating however he came forward and Phyllis was able to look down at her chest as his hard fingers clawed into her soft breast flesh and then trailed down her body to comb through the thick pubic thatch at her groin, she tried to part her legs as far as her suspension would allow and was rewarded by the feeling of hard male fingers rasping her clitoris and finding their way inevitably into her interior. He watched her with calm disinterest as he worked her until she had to succumb to the waves of pleasure and her head fell back. Only then did he take his hand out and begin the flogging. He started with the fronts of her thighs and the bitter stinging made Phyllis hop and twist desperately trying to cross one in front of the other. He made no attempt to shift his aim and she was left to decide for herself whether to continue trying to dodge the whip or just to resign herself to standing and taking it. For the first minutes she couldn’t help herself and danced like a dervish, letting her back and bottom take what she couldn’t bear to let her breasts and belly take. But in time she began to tire and the sweat ran off her in torrents until she came to rest with her head lolling forwards between her upraised arms and her feet dragging on the stones; a ferocious ache in her wrists and her skin on fire. Blearily she blinked her eyes clear of stinging sweat and tears and saw Dorca, naked now and with her back towards her, kneeling before Sir Archibald who was thrusting his pelvis hard into her face. His hands were clenched tightly in her hair and he was clearly making no allowances for any problem she might have with taking him in her mouth. Brutally hard he rammed into her, time and again and Phyllis could practically feel the way the hard shaft would be filling her to bursting point, making her want to gag as it hit the back of her throat but making her so proud that a man would want to take his pleasure in her body. Phyllis tried to slide one stinging thigh against the other and get some relief for her empty and desperate cunt as she watched Sir Archibald freeze into stillness as his climax erupted into Dorca’s mouth. She heard the girl bubble and splutter as he emptied his balls into her and then both relaxed, she swallowing and recovering her breath, he looking at Phyllis with cold calculation. “I am afraid that Adam wants you unmolested during or after the flogging. He says he wants you hot, so I’m sorry my dear, there will only be the whip for you,” he told her pushing Dorca to one side and taking up the lash once more. He stood behind her this time and belaboured her back and buttocks until Phyllis was almost numb from the sheer intensity of the pain but seething at her belly. Dorca stood naked in front of her and at Sir Archibald’s instructions, parted her legs and played with herself while the beating went on. At last she gave vent to screams of frustration as well as pain but the beating didn’t stop until she could feel the hot wet streams of blood trickling down the backs of her thighs. Sir Archibald came round from behind her and had Dorca go onto all fours on the stones. He knelt behind her and sank himself into her cunt for just long enough to lubricate his

cock and then he pulled out and re-positioned himself at her anal entrance. Phyllis looked on in bitter jealousy as she watched Dorca’s body tense as it felt the blunt-headed invader imperiously push her sphincter open and begin to slide into her narrow channel. She watched as the dark skinned girl’s back humped slightly as she bore down, making every effort to comply with the ravishing of her forbidden parts. It took a scant few minutes for the experienced body to fully surrender and allow Sir Archibald to move forward and back freely and Phyllis moaned in her misery as she watched the shiny shaft slip easily in and out between the smooth skinned buttocks. The final chapter of the beating was devoted to her breasts and here Sir Archibald used a heavy, many-tailed whip to batter and bruise them rather than cut them. But the pounding of mingled excitement and agony at her nipples meant that she shrieked at even the lightest touch in its wake. She had to lean heavily on Dorca as the trio walked back to the house. She went to her room and didn’t come down for lunch. However, she did read the note that Dorca had slipped to her on the way back – and smiled.

Chapter Five After the mid day meal the house was quiet and shaded until the worst of the heat had passed and Clara tiptoed along the rugs of the corridor outside her room to timidly rap at Phyllis’s door. She needed to talk to her maid and companion urgently. Ever since witnessing Lady Stuart’s caning and the slavegirl being flogged that morning, Clara had been in turmoil. She just couldn’t be as outraged as she thought she ought to be, there had been something darkly attractive about the cruelty and it was something to do with the nature of the gently vulnerable female body on which it was visited. Everything about it should have screamed its obscenity and blasphemy at her, but it didn’t. Clara Bestwood was terribly afraid that she had been excited by it. Phyllis’s voice softly bade her enter and she did so to find her friend and employee sitting at her simple dressing table dressed only in her lightest shift. She was dabbing at herself with a cloth soaked in cold water from the washhand stand beside her. As soon as Clara burst into the cool twilight of the curtained room she began to relate her morning’s adventures in a breathless whisper as she crossed to Phyllis. But once she was there she stopped aghast. Phyllis was dabbing water on a horrific array of welts, and bruises. As she watched, the girl lifted one shoulder of her thin garment and pushed her cloth down onto her breast, where she gently rubbed it to and fro. Clara looked on in fascinated horror, down from above and behind, noting the broad swell of Phyllis’s breast and the way the whip marks seemed to follow every curve and hollow of a woman’s body. She fell silent and Phyllis looked up at her. “You were saying, Ma’am?” “Who did that to you?” she quavered. “Sir Archibald, Ma’am,” Phyllis replied calmly. “He spent most of the morning punishing me. I believe it was to mark the arrival on the island of another female.” Clara put her hand over her mouth as Phyllis stood up and pulled the shoulders of her shift down to reveal both breasts. She looked down proudly. “I think he did rather a good job,” she said, proudly stroking the cloth over both nipples and shivering with pleasure as they erected. Clara just shook her head mutely in disbelief, tears making her eyes bright. Phyllis reached out and drew her in, holding her tight. “Until a man has enjoyed everything he may do to you, every act he can perform upon your body for his pleasure, you are not truly a woman.” “I…..I had no idea. Is…..is that what Adam wants from me? He wants to whip me?” “He wants to be free to do everything he wants to you.” Phyllis could feel her mistress’s body shaking with sobs but she made no attempt to pull clear. She smiled to herself. It was working out very satisfactorily. “I don’t understand!” Clara wailed. “I open myself for him when he wants me to!” “And do you welcome his touch?” “I do my duty!” Phyllis sighed. “Ma’am……Clara. Pretend that you are Mr Adam and that I am you. Now touch me as though I were your wife.” Phyllis hardly dared breathe as she watched Clara’s hand reach out towards her breast, then, trembling, touch it. “Oh, yes!” Phyllis breathed. “That’s so good. Touch my nipple and squeeze it a little.” From between artfully lowered lashes, Phyllis watched Clara’s expression as she touched another woman’s body for what was surely the first time. She moaned in pained delight as the bruised nubbin was squashed. “Oh! Oh! Yes! Now the other!”

At first Clara winced each time Phyllis registered pain but slowly she became more bold, her soft hands stroking and exploring the lush mounds of Phyllis’s breasts, sharp little nails trailing along the welts that criss crossed them. “Do you welcome his touch like I welcomed yours?” Phyllis said at length. Clara shook her head. “You must. And now, are you ready to look fully at how a man may use a woman?” Phyllis let her shift fall to the floor and Clara gasped at the savage traces of the whip inscribed on the flesh. “Now touch me as Phyllis……..Clara. Be as curious as you want, use your fingers to ask questions of my body. Find out what it is to be a real woman and then go to your husband.” In the hushed twilight Clara reached out again and touched Phyllis’s stomach where a darkening bruise from the whip had sloped down across towards her right hip. Gently the cool fingers traced its path and Phyllis didn’t have to feign the moan of pleasure as she felt them move lower, lower and then brush the pubes. “He even whipped you there?” Clara whispered, tracing a livid crater from the whip’s tip at her mons. “He whipped me there especially!” Phyllis corrected. “And it feels better than you can imagine when he puts his cock where the lash has been.” “Doesn’t it hurt terribly?” Clara’s breath stroked Phyllis’s cheek as she moved closer, both women looking down Phyllis’s scarred body. “More than terribly at first, but then we women can cope with pain.” Clara was wearing only a light blouse and Phyllis could feel her breasts pressing against hers, she could see them rise and fall, see the shadow of the cleavage. God, she was beautiful! She could feel Clara’s cheek against hers and slowly, ever so slowly, as if she was taming the most man-shy of wild animals, Phyllis let her head go forward until it rested on her mistress’s shoulder, for a moment there was reluctance and then Clara rested her head on Phyllis’s shoulder in return. Phyllis pressed her lips to the cool and fragranced skin. Clara responded in kind. “I understand so little my dear Phyllis,” she whispered. “Don’t try to understand. Just feel and be free. Now kiss me and take me as Adam would want to take you.” The words were hardly out of her mouth before Clara’s lips were pressed against hers, demanding and urgent. Phyllis parted her lips and returned the kiss. Clara moaned in pleasure and to Phyllis’s amazement her fingers began to flutter and fumble at her blouse buttons. In a few moments the women stood, naked breast to naked breast, Clara’s hands were roaming across Phyllis’s body now, whimpers of excitement and sympathy escaping her as she discovered new hurts inflicted on her. Inevitably the exploring hands came at last to rest at Phyllis’s crotch as her own hands were exploring her mistress’s graceful, satin smooth back. “Take me!” Phyllis whispered and felt the small fingers sink between her plump lips, pass briefly over the clitoris and then hook upwards into the vagina. Clara broke the long kiss and pulled her head back. “You’re so wet!” she said. “I’m naked,” Phyllis countered with a smile. Clara giggled and began unbuttoning her skirt, her breasts swinging as she worked. Phyllis helped her step out of it and admired the long, shapely legs, then, shy all over again, their bodies pressed together, the scents of lavender water and female musk turning the cool room into an oven of irresistible lust. Phyllis bent her head to bite and suck at Clara’s nipples and she groaned. Slowly they made their way to Phyllis’s bed and there, with her legs spread wide apart, Phyllis lay while Clara kissed and licked her way around her body, even sampling the flooding

quim until she was told to turn over and Clara gasped at the sight of the cuts to her buttocks and thighs. Phyllis grinned into the twilight as she propped herself up on her elbows and felt cool lips and tongue on the damaged flesh, the reserves of a lifetime peeling away as Clara plunged into the carnal delights of sinking her face between the cushions of buttock flesh and questing with her tongue at what lay beneath. It was with something of a wrench that Phyllis pulled her attention back to the task in hand and wriggled around to haul Clara up the bed, lie her on her back and in her turn explore the body sharing her bed. The breasts were as full and as proudly curved up from the chest as she had seen when dressing and undressing her mistress, but here and now to have them sweetly surrendered to her hands, the nipples swelling harder and longer than she had ever imagined they could, was bliss. And then there was the prominent pubic bone she had seen so often but never from this close up, and the peeled back clitoral hood, revealing a sizeable nub of pure engorged excitement, Phyllis buried her face in her mistress’s cunt and breathed in the scent before she stuck out her tongue and prepared to take Clara Bestwood to the moon and back. She waited until the woman was chewing her knuckles to keep her noise down before she wriggled around and planted her own cunt over her face. Eager hands gripped her hips and pulled her down, the tongue spearing up into her fearlessly. Slowly the lovers inched their way upwards until Clara broke with a series of gasps and cries of mingled fear and ecstasy, her body thrust up under Phyllis, the pubic thatch grinding at her face and bucking dementedly when she chewed lightly at the clitoris. For Phyllis there were small spasms but Clara dropped away before they could amount to anything. But that could wait; the main job was done. Phyllis sat up and turned to face the head of the bed. Clara still lay with her breasts heaving, her face a mask of glistening vaginal discharge and sweat over an expression of disbelieving wonder. “I never…..I never……is that what pleasure is? I never……!” “Shush, Ma’am,” Clara said, kissing her breast before moving up to kiss her lips. “That’s the reward we reap for being women! Be what your husband wants and you’ll be amazed at how many of those your body – and he - can give you.” Half an hour later, when he had woken and was dousing his face in cold water, Adam Bestwood looked round as someone entered his room without knocking. It was his wife – but not as he had ever seen her. She was corseted and in high-heeled slippers with only the sheerest of wraps about her. She advanced with a sway of her hips into the room and let the wrap slip from her shoulders. She had never been so confidently seductive. She had never been at ease with her nudity, even for his eyes alone, but now she was reaching behind her and unlacing the corset. Phyllis had played her part to perfection, he realised. But even he had not realised what torrents of sexuality had built up behind the dam of Clara’s repression. She flung the boned garment aside and stood, straight and proud, hands on hips, breasts heaving as she breathed deeply. “What would you have me do, husband?” His mind reeled at the sudden reality of all the possibilities he had planned for over the months. He had never seen her so beautiful and graceful, stripes of brilliant light from outside strayed through gaps in the curtains and one slashed across her chest. She ignored it and altered her stance to open her legs slightly. Something she would never have dreamed of doing before this day. “Come here and undress me,” he ordered, his voice thick with sudden urgency.

Phyllis washed quickly and shrugged on a light muslin gown before stealing down the stairs and out of the back door into the bright sun of the afternoon. She had to pause to let her eyes adjust for a moment before she set off for the Torture Garden. Dorca had handed her a note, scrawled in an untutored hand on the way back from her flogging. It had suggested that Sir Archibald didn’t know everything that went on and if she was in need of relief she should go to the garden in mid afternoon. The door was only on the latch and Phyllis stepped through eagerly. Once inside it was immediately plain that whatever was happening it was going on in the orangery. The unmistakable sounds of a whip echoed out from it and Phyllis trotted forwards to see what she was missing. Alex Sweeney was delivering an exquisite breast beating to the sleek, sweating form of Dorca. She stood under a rectangular frame with two nooses hanging from the crossbeam. Each noose was drawn tight around one of Dorca’s breasts and her hands had been tied together behind her back. The ropes had been shortened enough so that the slave was pulled onto tiptoe and her back was arched as she sought to lessen the tension on the breast roots. Her legs were slightly parted as well and Phyllis immediately spotted a more copious flow of fluid on the insides of the thighs than mere sweat would account for. Her body gleamed and shone superbly as she twisted and grunted at the lashes from the riding crop as they smacked across the drum tight skin. She stood and watched in sheer delight for a moment until Alex Sweeney turned, clearly aware that she had been there for a while. “Get your gown off Mistress Latham, if ye please. I’ll need a fuck any minute now and Dorca tells me you’re in need of one as well.” Phyllis blew Dorca a kiss and made haste to strip as the overseer went back to work on the brutalised orbs. The torture of Dorca’s tits went on for a further half an hour before Phyllis discovered that Alex’s cock was extremely satisfactory and she sampled it while bent over across a whipping trestle. Then, while Dorca’s poor tits and stomach took another pounding she knelt down and licked the pungent discharge from her cunt, holding her steady to face the whip and her tongue, until she cried out in orgasm and Alex redoubled the force of the final blows, fetching some blood from the nipple vents. Naked apart from her high-heeled slippers, Clara Bestwood stood in the centre of her husband’s bedroom floor. She was still tousled and flushed from his bed but he had dressed. The curtains were pulled back and sunlight flooded the room. She was watching him with bright eager eyes, fresh from another of her newly discovered peaks of pleasure, the trails from her husband’s emission glistened on her thighs but she stood with her legs apart and her hands behind her back, her breasts proudly thrust forward. A coffle of slaves was being taken out to the fields from one of the compounds. The line wound along the bottom of the garden, in full view of the house. “They might be able to see you if they look up, Clara,” Adam told her as he lounged against the frame of the French windows that led out onto the upper terrace. “Do you want them to?” she asked. “I’m not the one who’s stark naked. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.” “Then it doesn’t to me either.” He lit a cigar and blew a cloud of smoke into the bright air. “Masturbate, Clara,” he said softly. He turned to see her slow, sly smile as she brought her hands around to the front, cupped and caressed her breasts, pulled the nipples into their full, impressive erection – something even he hadn’t seen before that day – and then slid them down to her groin.

“Have Phyllis trim that jungle down there,” he said as he watched the long fingers of one hand curl under her body and disappear up inside her while the others began a hard rubbing at her clitoris. Adam went around to stand behind his wife and admire her figure, the thighs and legs were long and powerful – of course he had always known that, but now they were available to his plans and the possibilities were endless – her buttocks were high, tight, prominent and wide, her back was graceful, rising from the broad swell of her hips to a slender waist and then widening to the superb shoulders and graceful neck. Her dark hair was coming undone and tresses fell down from her usual bun at the nape of her neck. She began to moan and her movements took on a shuddering intensity as her climax neared. Adam could see her hands working more and more feverishly so he went to stand in front of her again and watch her face soften and melt into ecstasy as she sampled another orgasm. She had nearly driven him to despair by her inability to climax with him. He had lain with enough women to know that the fault wasn’t his and he knew about her strict upbringing. It was meeting Phyllis that had hatched the idea of using another woman to unlock her, but then his researches had taken a surprising turn just as his fortunes worsened and it had become imperative that Phyllis succeed. And she had in spectacular fashion. Clara had ridden his cock like a woman possessed, and had been puppy-like in her desire to please. Amateurish, certainly, but promising. However, he felt he would probably always prefer Phyllis’s more louche behaviour in bed over Clara’s impassioned desire to please him. But pretty soon that would not present a problem and everyone would be happy. Clara gave a final groan and tottered sideways a few steps then sighed and relaxed, smiling hopefully at him, her large eyes shining with devotion. He beckoned to her and took her in his arms, listening to her whispered declarations of love for him with nothing but smug pleasure and running his hands up and down her back. “I shall do with you whatever gives me pleasure from now on, Clara. If it pleases me to whip you, you shall be whipped. If it pleases me to share you with another man, you will be shared.” She made no protest, just a soft moan of pleasure into his shoulder. “You will not spend a night in bed alone from now on. If I do not require you, or if I have no plans for you, you will summon Phyllis.” She looked up at him in sudden dismay. “Yes, you silly goose!” he chided her gently. “I know all about it. I planned it, just as I will continue to plan what happens to you.” She relaxed back into his arms. “Tonight you will be caned after dinner,” he added. Sir Archibald and Lady Stuart were of the opinion that Clara’s buttocks and thighs were among the finest on the island. They were displayed over the back of the same chair as Lady Stuart usually bent over and although she proved rather too noisy for the company’s taste and her snivelling a little less than attractive, she received her first ever dozen with promising willingness, and the display of welts on her tight young flesh was so exquisite that Adam had her stay where she was for the rest of the evening

Chapter Six “Now you’re properly settled in, Clara,” Lady Isabelle said a week later. “We could do with your help in the mating shed tomorrow. Dorca and Phyllis will be there as well but many hands make light work and it can be a long morning in there.” They were strolling across the South lawn, listening to the singing coming from a field where the slaves were working. “Of course, I’d be delighted to help. It sounds…….interesting.” Isabelle looked at her young guest. She had bloomed over the past few days but there was still a long way to go before Adam could be sure she would manifest her true destiny. “Oh it is that!” She put her arm through Clara’s and leant closer. “Now that you are truly one of us, how do you and that handsome husband of yours fare in the bedroom? Has he beaten you since the caning?” Clara blushed furiously. The memory of having to hitch up her skirts and bare herself to hosts and servants alike was still a powerful one and caused a stirring in her loins as she recalled abandoning her modesty and dignity in the face of her husband’s pleasure. She had squealed and wept and wriggled under the cane but when he told her to remain bent over so that everyone could admire her, she nearly fainted from sheer pleasure. She had been taken to his bed every night since then and Phyllis had had to soothe her back and bottom with cool compresses after several beatings with a belt. But in the wake of the thrashings he was tireless and she had learned to open her mouth and her bottom to a man. The rush of submissive excitement she had experienced the first time she knelt before Adam and took him into her mouth was something she would never forget. Neither would she ever forget the feeling of the thick splashes of sperm spilling into her mouth and throat, choking and hot, tasting foul but all the better because of it. Secretly she felt it was quite right that a man’s spend should taste horrible to a woman, it only accentuated the fact that she was submitting to improper use of her body for his pleasure. But however great her enthusiasm for taking him in her mouth, she still needed practice and every evening before dinner, she knelt before him and allowed him to penetrate as deep into her throat as she could take him until he ejaculated. Affording Adam use of her bottom was proving more of a problem. Buggery usually took place after a good, prolonged thrashing and although the pain rendered her totally compliant she just couldn’t seem to relax enough to allow him comfortable passage. As a result Phyllis was using siesta time to ram leather covered wooden phalluses into her backside, daily, to stretch the sphincter muscles and the rectum itself. Clara was living for the day when Adam could thrash her as hard as he wanted, secure in the knowledge that when he required her tightest and most secret channel, it would open easily for him. She knew she existed in a shadowy limbo in between those times that her husband took his pleasure with her or commanded her in whatever form. “He does beat me, thank you Lady Isabelle, most agreeably and thoroughly. I believe I am the happiest woman alive, although I do know I have a lot to learn. For example I have felt the cane, the crop, the belt and of course the hand but as yet I have to feel a proper whip.” “We are to go to a garden party next weekend, my dear, and I expect that will be put to rights there.” Clara raised her eyebrows. A garden party seemed an unlikely event at which a girl might expect to be whipped, but then they did do things differently out here…… The mating shed was a windowless barn set well apart from both the house and the slave compounds. At each end there were lean-to sheds. As the women approached it, Lady Isabelle outlined what they were about and its importance for the estate.

“When the girls catch they are sent into the hills to birth and nurse and the offspring are reared there while the mothers return to work. But only the best stock is used in the mating shed and it is considered an honour among the slaves. The females are kept in one shed for a complete menstrual cycle and until they are at their most fecund while the males are kept in a separate shed for the same length of time. As they are normally at it like knives in the slave compounds, they find this a wearisome trial and are more than ready to copulate on demand. Both sexes are kept strictly shackled so that no masturbation is possible. Today, girls, it will be our task to ensure that we encourage the maximum amount of sperm into vaginas that are open and receptive. Clara, Phyllis, if you are in any doubt about what you should be doing at any time, merely ask myself or Dorca for help. I need hardly add that a successful mating is important to the estate’s well being.” So saying she led her little troop into the shady and dusty interior of the shed where Alex was waiting for them. “Good day, ladies,” he said. “We’ve a load of sullen and none-too-pleased stallions for ye today, but don’t worry, we’ll truss ‘em up weel for you.” He turned on his heel and left. Phyllis and Clara exchanged nervous glances but Dorca took Phyllis’s arm and Lady Isabelle took Clara’s. Over at one end of the shed was a screen, similar to the ones they were used to seeing in England where they kept out draughts. Behind this one they found a dressing table with a ewer of fresh water and a bowl on it and two chaise longues. “Now come on girls!” Isabelle encouraged them. “Down to stockings and corsets. That usually gets ‘em good and hard. But in case it don’t, use a crop. A couple of good swishes with a crop will get you a handsome stand every time!” She grinned at her audience and with girlish giggles they fell to disrobing. Clara felt a different sort of excitement as she unbuttoned her blouse. Curiosity – she still didn’t really understand what she was going to be doing - mixed with the excitement of what Isabelle’s last remarks implied. It appeared that she was about to be required to do to a male what she had only just begun to get used to having done to her. She was fast becoming proud of the way the sight of her body made Adam hard almost instantly and she had on several occasions spotted a tight bulge in Sir Archibald’s breeches when she had been around. Now she was to deliberately use her body to excite a male – but she was secure in the knowledge that it was her host’s and her husband’s will that she do so. Soon four flushed and excited women stood behind the screens and Clara thought they made a very handsome gathering, the corsets mounded their breasts up to perfection, hers, she noted smugly, especially so, closely followed by Phyllis’s, then Dorca’s coffee gold ones, now unmarked and pure once more, and then Lady Isabelle’s shapely, neat ones. Isabelle sauntered – and Clara noted how the deliberately seductive way she walked made the most of her buttocks – over to a chest and withdrew four riding crops and four gloves, which she handed to everyone. “The glove goes on the left hand,” she told them. “You’ll be amazed at how much more spunk you can get out of them with a couple of squeezes and a few strokes with one of these beauties.” Clara slipped hers on and then gazed in horror at it. The satin glove’s palm was covered in sharp little steel studs, sharp enough to cause havoc in the male genitals. Phyllis laughed in pure delight as she pulled hers on and then, cunt naked but with spectacularly constricted waists, swelling hips and breasts the four women waited until Alex had finished wheeling in the first batch of males from one door into the barn. They listened as mysterious metallic clinks issued from over the screen and there were grunts of effort from the men with Alex. “All set for ye!” Alex called and then the door was slammed shut and the only light came from windows set high up in the walls. With Lady Isabelle leading the way the four white women stepped out, ready to begin the mating.

Clara’s attention was immediately riveted on the male bodies. As one who was only just becoming properly acquainted with them, the four bodies before her now took her breath away. The naked forms were tied in taut X shapes on wooden frames which hung vertically from the ceiling on leather straps and were anchored to rings in the floor in the same fashion about six inches above it. Each body was supported by five or six vertical struts behind it, keeping the body rigid. The bonds were of thick leather and as her eyes took in the superb, ebony skinned musculature, she was glad of it. Each man’s head was encased in a leather hood that had eye holes and nostril holes only. The mouth, as Lady Isabelle pointed out to her and Phyllis was plugged by a huge stopple. The uprights, against which the males’ backs were tied, curved forwards gently so that the groins were thrust forwards. Apart from ties at ankles and wrists, Alex Sweeney had ensured that the powerful thighs were bound as were the biceps and the waist. At the groins dangled the ladies’ first targets; the thick but limp penises hung over the ripe balls in between the impressively thick and strong thighs, but as the male slaves’ eyes took in the feast of white womanhood sashaying towards them, Clara was delighted to see the one in front of her begin to stir and lift itself away from the body, seeming to strain towards her. She had never witnessed an erecting penis in such blatant surroundings and found it more thrilling than she could have believed. “Steady now, girls!” Isabelle called. “We may need to cool them down a bit. Clara, go round behind yours, he’s going to boil over if you’re not careful!” She wasn’t sure what Isabelle meant by that but did as she was told and saw that from behind the tight buttocks protruded from between the uprights and even a novice such as she could see what was needed. With great daring she swung her crop across her slave’s bottom and saw the strong body arch against its restraints, she sliced into the hard lumps of gristle again and noticed how the shaft of the crop sprang back strongly. The male buttocks were indeed very different from the female she concluded. Next to her Phyllis was discovering the same thing. “Blimey, Ma’am!” she laughed as she let a third lash fly, “I hope my arse ain’t so hard!” The shed echoed to a few more minutes’ lashing and then Isabelle called them round to the front again. The penises were now thoroughly uninterested and the men writhed on the grids. “Good, that’s cooled them off, now we can bring ‘em back on at a steady pace!” Isabelle stood in front of her slave and began a gentle to and fro slapping with the keeper on her crop, knocking the penis from side to side. At the same time she carefully let her free hand play through her pubes and rub at her clitoris, while she parted her legs widely. Clara watched entranced as the penis performed its magic again and the scrotum beneath tightened and crinkled in a way her tongue and fingers were just getting used to. She turned and copied her hostess’s actions, squealing in delight as her slave throbbed into erection even as she knocked his cock from side to side with increasing roughness. It didn’t seem to discourage it however and it increased in size and thickness in front of her delighted gaze until it attained a vein throbbing and ribbed hardness, as well as a size that had her licking her lips. “Clara and Dorca, keep ‘em up and hard while we fetch the bitches!” Clara watched as Phyllis and Isabelle went to a door in the side of the shed and knocked on it, immediately standing aside. The door opened and a strange trolley was pushed in, a bit like a coster monger’s barrow but Dorca called her attention back to her own job before she could take in much more. “Use the glove, Madam. But don’t pull the foreskin back,” she was told softly and watched as Dorca worked the glove along one shaft squeezing it tight and then wrenching the studded glove back and forth. The slave managed a strained gasp from inside his hood but

incredibly the cock actually seemed to benefit from the torment and seemed to swell to an even bigger size. Clara turned to attend to her responsibilities. She furled her hand around the hot shaft in front of her and was delighted to find that her fingers couldn’t encompass the girth of the thing. She smiled at how the head seemed to be trying to squeeze out of its protective hood, the slit grinning invitingly at her. Beneath her fingers she felt the ribbed steel of the shaft itself under the soft skin and revelled in having no mercy; some instinct told her that chances like this would not come often on the island. She exerted every ounce of her strength in squeezing and then slid her hand up and back down. A muffled bellow of protest burst from under the hood and the gleaming body strained every muscle to follow her hand and alleviate the agony; an agony which in no way diminished the rigidity of the erection. Clara moved to the next slave and this time started by cupping the heavy ball sac and then squeezing that before moving to the shaft itself. Again the pain didn’t seem in any way to diminish the body’s eagerness to copulate. She and Dorca stood back to admire the line of proud, upwardly curved phalluses jutting out towards their destinations. Phyllis and Isabelle were returning by then, pushing two, two-wheeled trolleys towards the males. They left them some four feet in front of the males and went back for two more. Clara could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Each trolley bore a female who was trussed up on its top. She had been made to kneel up and then bend forwards and push her hands back between her thighs. Her wrists had then been tied to her ankles, leaving her naked bottom pushed up into the air. Each of her thighs had then been strapped to a thick dowling rod which reared up from the surface of the trolley, making it impossible for her to lower herself backwards. Her head was fully encased – apart from nostril holes - in a leather hood and rested on the trolley just by where the handles protruded to allow it to be manoeuvred. Two metal legs, just a little shorter than the height of the trolley’s wheels, kept it stable when at rest. From where Clara stood, the whole arrangement meant that four beautifully presented but helpless cunts faced four beautifully erect but helpless cocks. “Right, girls!” Isabelle called. “Let’s get these cunts nice and wet. Fingers in and stir ‘em up!” As Clara stepped up to her assigned female she admired the wonderfully prominent curves of the black woman’s buttocks and noticed that the pink sexflesh stood out brightly from the chocolate skinned surroundings, it looked exotic and enticing but once her fingers encountered the familiar female slipperiness, so like Phyllis’s cunt, she mused, she felt quite at home. Although the windows in the shed were high and dusty, there was considerably more light than she was used to when fingering Phyllis and she thoroughly enjoyed flexing her fingers and stretching the vagina, watching how the membranes flexed and seeing how wide she could make it go. It was almost a surprise when she realised that it was also flooding with juice and plainly ready for mating. “Wheel them right up close now!” Lady Isabelle called. “Get ‘em about six inches away and then Dorca and I will help you the rest of the way.” Grunting with effort, Clara managed to shove her trolley forwards until the male’s cock reared up above the buttock cleft of the female. Dorca did the same with hers and then came to help Clara. “Take the cock, Madam, grip it tight and aim it down slightly as I wheel this one in. It often helps if you hold the cunt open as well.” Clara went to stand by the straining male body, the hips visibly trying to pump as the female approached. Once again she gripped the thick shaft tightly and dug the spikes in but this time she bent it down slightly as well and used the thumb and forefinger of her free hand to hold open the nearing cunt. Dorca gripped the trolley’s handles and pushed hard, Clara kept her

eyes fixed on the conjunction before her and was entranced to see how the smooth helm that stroked her fingers on its way in, sank with liquid smoothness into the vagina, leaving only an inch or two of cock still outside. The tethered male body went into a frenzy of tiny thrusts as it felt the vagina gently enclose it and Clara could see the female trying to clench every muscle she could bring to bear on it. “This one next, Madam!” Dorca called and Clara tore her gaze away and went to help a second docking. Unfortunately her aim wasn’t quite as good on this one and she allowed the cock’s thick helm to touch against the anus, then she had a struggle, given the bodies’ closeness to bend it enough to make it slide down the perineum and into the cunt. The rasping of her glove on the shaft plus the contact with the female’s body proved too much and before she could sink it home the penis erupted. Again, it was something she had never seen so clearly and was entranced by the thick, milky spend spurting up the female’s back. “Get it in, Clara!” Lady Isabelle shouted, breaking the spell and Clara suddenly remembered her purpose and rammed it into the waiting vagina. “Still might be enough to catch. Now let’s milk ‘em girls!” she went on and immediately the four women used their gloves to squeeze the scrotums and mercilessly milk the cock shafts until each male had arched rigidly in his bonds and roared at his climax. Clara’s mistake was finished first of course but she gave him a particularly hard time, trying to coax every last drop out of him to compensate. With everything accomplished the females were wheeled apart a little way and Isabelle declared that ‘perks’ were in order. The semi tumescent cocks were still slicked with sperm and cunt juice and the four women took wipes of the liquid and licked it off their fingers, comparing notes on the various flavours as they made their way back behind the screens and waited for Alex to clear the floor for the next couplings. Clara took two hard cuts of the crop as she bent over the arm of the chaise longue for having let a male ‘boil over’ and was more careful in the ensuing sessions. By the end of the third session, all four women were becoming highly flustered and Clara was conscious of her thighs moving wetly against each other as she gave yet another scrotum a hard squeeze and listened for the agonised groan followed by the stiffening of the whole body and the roar of release. But at last they were able to relax as they listened to Alex and his men taking the final batch away. Isabelle told them the females would be left tied as they were for some time to give the sperm as much opportunity as possible to fertilise them. All four of the women were hot after handling so much flesh, and particularly the impressively hard and black cock shafts. Their breasts heaved noticeably over their corsets, Clara could feel sweat trickling down inside hers on either side and she watched a droplet slide down Isabelle’s cleavage as she looked around at them and smiled. “Now, I think we’ve earned a little relaxation,” she said. “So I suggest we make the beast with two backs without the men for once! Clara, I’ll take you. Dorca, look after Phyllis will you?” With sighs of relief and delight they set about loosening their stays and Clara was soon settling herself on the chaise longue with Lady Isabelle’s lithe body beneath her – a contrast to Phyllis’s more plump form – her legs were spread wide and Clara licked her lips as she contemplated the neatly trimmed pubic fuzz that Dorca had ensured they all sported now and the liverish coloured inner lips, blooming in expectation of her mouth’s caresses. For a moment, just before she felt Isabelle’s breath fan her inner thighs as she settled herself over her hostess’s mouth, Clara reflected that although she might still have a long way to travel in this strange society, she had come a fair distance already. But the heady scent and taste of Isabelle’s eager cunt drove all such thoughts away and the tongue lapping at her own wide open entrance made her dive into the moment and forget herself.

Chapter Seven They drove up to Seaward for the garden party the following Saturday. Adam and Clara sat opposite Isabelle and Archie in the landau and Dorca and Phyllis followed on in the dog cart. They arrived early in the afternoon and were ushered towards a remote part of the grounds by a beautifully turned out flunkey who then left them and as Clara held Adam’s arm he outlined what was in store for her. Having explained about the phenomena of the Torture Gardens, he then indicated a small bag that Sir Archibald was carrying. “There are the collars and leashes that all women need at such gatherings. But do not upset yourself Clara, I feel you are quite ready now to face whatever men may desire of you.” In truth Clara did not feel in the slightest upset. Mention of whipping posts and erotic, sexual torture did no more than ignite the fires at her loins that Adam himself was so frequently the beneficiary of nowadays. She felt a moistness between her thighs as she walked farther and farther from the house until at last they turned a corner in the paved path they had been following and stood in front of a small wooden door in a stone wall. “And you say that Lady Isabelle and Sir Archibald have one of these?” she enquired as they waited for their knock to be answered. Adam confirmed it. “Then why have I not seen it yet?” “Patience, Clara,” he scolded gently. “On our return I will take you there.” The door was opened by a half cast servant who could have been Dorca’s sister and once the party was inside, the women straightaway set about getting down to corsets and stockings. It had almost become second nature to Clara now and she was hardly aware of being half naked any more. But as this was a hot afternoon, they were allowed to retain parasols, and to Clara this lent a strange air to proceedings. The women paraded and chatted on their men’s arms as if fully clothed and held their parasols aloft, exchanging small talk about their various households while their menfolk exchanged small talk about the range and variety of breasts, buttocks, legs and cunts on offer. None of the men exhibited any qualms about blatantly handling the women and Clara found she was frequently the recipient of interested fondling. Its sheer casualness was intensely erotic to her. Apart from the amount of naked female flesh on view the fact that each woman had a broad leather collar about her neck and from this a leash ran to her master’s hand, would have told a casual observer that more was afoot than mere social intercourse. Clara couldn’t take her eyes off the loop of leather that Adam kept so loosely wound round his hand. The admiring male comments about her length of leg and the way her breasts mounded up so invitingly in the quarter cups of her corset, passed her by. What she was waiting for in mingled fear and excitement was the moment when he would hand it to another man and she would have to go with a complete stranger and have done to her whatever he wanted. As she and Phyllis had struggled out of their clothes they had both taken in the range of frames and posts dotted around the garden. Phyllis had seemed quite excited, Dorca had been calm and Isabelle had seemed almost ecstatic. Adam and Archie strolled through the throng, courteously handing their women glasses of cool fruit juice from the stone pantries back at the house and now and again Clara and Isabelle’s eyes met. Isabelle made it clear she was itching to get started. But at last a man in the centre of the garden banged on a table for quiet and Adam told Clara it was their host. “Gentlemen!” Hugh Landon boomed. “Thank you for gracing our humble dwelling today, I won’t keep you from the main business of the day, just recap on a few rules for any newcomers amongst us. There are no restrictions on the use of any woman present. Please be amenable to sharing any woman you are using and if blood is drawn please try to find her

owner and get permission before carrying on any torture. That’s all! I now declare the garden party open and would ask you to gather round for my good friend Doctor Osgood’s demonstration to whet your appetite!” Adam took closer hold of Clara’s leash and pushed forwards until they saw a bespectacled man standing before a leather covered phallus which was mounted on top of a pole stuck into the grass. At the front of the pole and just below the phallus a narrow wooden platform stuck out and Clara noticed it had some rather odd stains on it. “Hugh has asked me to illustrate the importance of our work in disciplining the females amongst us and I shall be most happy to do so with the help of these,” he gestured to a nearby table where an oilskin bag had been unrolled and an array of gleaming steel tools was visible. Clara swallowed nervously, they looked like a nightmarish cross between medical implements and a torturer’s tool kit. “And with the help of my serving maid, Jessica.” Here he gestured to a pretty blonde girl standing behind the pole. “She knows very well what’s in store for her but at my command she will mount the pole and impale herself on the dildo, ready for the procedure.” He clicked his fingers and with an expression of reckless excitement and nervousness, Jessica came forwards, stood on tip toe and manoeuvred herself until her cunt was directly above the blunt head of the phallus. Clara was thrilled at the blatant way she reached down between her thighs and spread her own, clean shaven lips before sinking down onto the prong. She had to stop and raise herself a couple of times before she achieved smooth penetration and was able to settle herself, still on tip toe but with some latitude for movement. Hugh stepped forwards and anchored her feet to iron rings set in the turf, leaving her spread legged but able to lift and lower herself a little. The doctor approached her with a pair of long, slender pliers and while Hugh tied the girl’s hands to the ring at the back of her collar, she peered eagerly down at what the doctor was doing. Clara watched spellbound as he laid a sharply pointed steel nail down on the platform and reached between Jessica’s legs with the pliers. He got a firm grip on a thick pinch of labial flesh and pulled it until it was stretched out on the wood. Jessica whimpered softly and Clara bit her lip as she watched the doctor pick up the nail and in one quick movement puncture the labium and pin it to the wood. Then he picked up a shiny steel hammer and tapped the head of the nail hard, two or three times. Clara pressed a hand to her groin and joined in the chorus of female squeals. Adam turned and smiled at her then turned back and Clara found her eyes irresistibly drawn to the same procedure repeated on the girl’s other labial lip. Again the hammer came down, ringing steel on steel and the soft female flesh was pinned immovably. The crowd was quiet enough this time to hear Jessica’s whimper as she was pierced for a second time. Her raised arms had lifted her breasts almost clear of her corset and Clara could see the deep red of the hardened nipples as the girl looked down at herself with breathless wonder. “Now, I must point out that the nails holding her are tapered towards their points and therefore if she should try and rise against them, she will cause herself quite considerable pain. Nevertheless she will do so.” They all watched as Jessica braced herself and Hugh stepped forwards to stand behind her bottom, holding a riding whip. Her tip toe pose made her buttocks jut out magnificently and the crowd waited eagerly. Abruptly he struck her and Clara saw the shaft sink deep into the finely prominent buttock mounds and Jessica jerked forwards helplessly. Immediately her eyes widened as she absorbed the pain in her labia but Hugh was already swinging another lash in and in the wake of this one a ripple of amusement spread through the onlookers as they clearly saw Jessica’s hips tilt forwards and her legs straighten a little to move the dildo inside her, stretching the labia against the pinning nails. As the third lash cracked across her bottom, her eyes closed and a secretive smile spread across her lips. This time the jerk in the pelvis was

more pronounced and as Hugh withheld the next lash, she began to masturbate slowly and deliberately, despite the visible stretching of her tortured lips. “If female sexuality is so wild and wanton that it will not be denied even at the price of the pain this slut is now experiencing – and will feed off it in fact.” Hugh swung in a further bottom juddering lash and Jessica gasped but continued to work herself on the dildo. “Then it is a force that must be kept under close control and only allowed its rein under strict supervision; on occasions like this,” the doctor told them. Hugh gave the increasingly urgent girl another two lashes and she began to wail and really work her pelvis, increasing the pain and thus the excitement by another notch. “But let us add a finishing touch to this wench’s torment and then we can all set about our afternoon’s work!” the doctor declared and reached for his kit again. This time his hand came back holding a thin but wickedly long needle. Jessica saw it and made an incoherent gurgling noise as she continued to rise and fall and swivel her hips. Hugh stood back for a moment and the doctor calmly passed the needle clean through the clitoris from side to side. Jessica continued to look down as she was pierced again and the gleaming steel emerged from her tender flesh. If anything she began to torture herself with greater energy than before. Hugh began to beat her in earnest and the crowd began to break up. As Jessica’s demented cries of orgasm began to ring out; it happened. Clara saw the loop of her leash passed to a tall, thin man with a thick black moustache. Adam took the leash of a slender brunette in return and the two parted. Without a backward glance Adam abandoned her and she felt a shock of excitement pass through her as though her clitoris had been pierced as clinically as Jessica’s. She was to serve a strange man and would have no say in what was done to her. She saw Isabelle being led away and blowing her a kiss, she returned it and then hurried off to keep up with the man’s rapid pace. Jessica’s torment had clearly affected everyone else as profoundly as it had affected Clara and the man she was with was in a hurry. He stopped by a large barrel which had been turned on its side and was supported by two rests. Iron rings with leather straps attached stuck out of the turf not far away. “Your breasts need flogging, Mrs Bestwood,” he said brusquely. “I’ll have your corset off please and stretch you on the barrel.” Clara’s heart thumped as she reached around and began the laborious job of unlacing herself, her fingers fumbled with nervous excitement – Adam had never whipped her breasts. At last she was able to pull herself free of the constricting but comforting whalebone and taffeta garment and suddenly her breasts felt very vulnerable as they swung free before her and before the man who was intent on flogging them. She could see the light of vicious excitement in his eyes as he reached out to stroke and cup them, to weigh them and to doubtless assess how they would bounce and swing under the lash; the lash that Adam had clearly wanted her to suffer. With that thought, Clara’s mind settled and she thrust them forward proudly, offering them up to whatever sacrifice he required of her. In a few moments her ankles were spread and shackled to the rings in the turf and her body was bent backwards over the curve of sun-warmed wood. Her arms were raised above and behind her head and her wrists tied to rings mounted in the far side of the barrel. The pose both stretched and presented her breasts to perfection, as well as leaving her stomach, thighs and crotch easily available too. The man was obviously aware of this as well, he stood before Clara running the heavy leather tails of a whip through his fingers as he chose his targets. She also knew from the way he had stroked her trembling flesh with the tails that they contained small but noticeable weights at their tips. She watched his arm draw back before her nerve failed and she screwed her eyes tight shut and twisted her face away. A solid thump hit her chest and she felt the weights slam into her ribs beside her breasts. But her breasts themselves! They exploded into shards of red agony

behind her eyelids as the nipples took their first taste of leather. She made a breathless gasp as the pain sank deep inside her and then the second lash arrived, this time it hit the undercurves and she felt the main weight of them lift almost off her chest as heavy lashes slammed them upwards. Then he whipped the tops, and then he cut straight across the nipples. Clara’s eyes bulged in their sockets, her screams tore at her throat and still he lashed her. Then suddenly he stopped. She gaped at him stupidly for a second and then craned her head up to survey the damage, she was amazed to see that riding proudly on top of her heaving ribs, the soft mounds of her breasts still quivered and shook and the nipples stood out as hard and as long as ever they had over the few weeks of her awakening. Her torturer came forwards and sank one hand hard into her left breast and then her right, his fingers were hard claws in the burning flesh but the lust in his eyes seemed to run straight down her body and lodge between her shamelessly opened thighs. He pulled and rolled her nipples. Clara yelped and wished he would fuck her. It was the first time she had even thought the word and as the whipping began again, she savoured the rough baseness of it and how well it suited what she wanted this man to do to her. She didn’t want love; she wanted a good length of hard, thick, cock rammed inside her. She didn’t get it however until he had whipped her breasts into scarlet mounds of pulsing agony and her stomach into a stinging expanse of pain, her thighs and crotch into a lake of molten lust. She had nearly jerked upright, despite her bonds, when the lashes had first fallen there but they had almost instantly catapulted her beyond pain as such and into a strange region where pain, lust, excitement and submission to Adam’s will seemed to melt her. At last, the man stood over her, eclipsing the sun and bent slightly as he fiddled with his buttons. Clara was nearly screaming with impatience by the time he shuffled forward an inch or two and she felt him at last lodge between her burning, throbbing and fluttering lips. He smiled down at her, a sneering unpleasant smile and thrust into her, effortlessly sending her cascading up into a mind shattering orgasm in the wake of her flogging. When she came down he was still pounding into her and all she could do was hang there and groan in answer to each thrust until she felt him pause at full penetration then make short, sharp jerks as he sent thick, sticky streams of spunk into her. She collapsed when he released her and as he did himself up he curtly told her to go over to the ‘Pool’, then he left without looking back. Clara struggled to her feet and examined her battered body with some pride before she set off for the area where any woman not being led on her leash was required to wait until she was picked once again. Limping through the garden she watched in fascination as all around her women were subjected to every single sort of male inventive cruelty. She saw a blonde girl lying on her back along a whipping trestle having diamond tipped needles pushed into her breasts as, with her flung back head, she fellated any man who wanted her and between her spread legs she played host to another eager queue. Her owner, or temporary one, was bending over her and joking with friends as he plunged more and more needles into the quivering, shaking hillocks until the girl glittered and shone in the bright sun. He stood back for a while and the assembled men laughed knowingly as their colleagues, buried to the balls in her, gripped her breasts as they used her and pressed the needles farther in. The girl’s body bucked and twisted between them but her pelvis tipped and swung in feverish excitement. Clara watched quietly, entranced by the girl’s lascivious and impassioned display. Her torture was not over by a long way, once there was a pause in the queue of men wanting her, her owner or temporary master had her prop herself up on her elbows and watch as he slid the cloth on which the needles were laid, further down her body. Her legs were spread either side of the bench’s top at one end and a dark stain of her own juices and sperm from innumerable men had spread between them.

The man picked up one of the glittering needles and twirled it, making the head sparkle. The girl watched him with large eyes, her heaving breasts glittering like a jeweller’s display. Clara had seen that expression before, it was curiosity, fear, anticipation and excitement. The girl didn’t care what he intended, just so long as he did it to her. He picked out a pinch of labial flesh and pierced her, taking his time about pushing the needle home and then out the other side. Clara nearly fainted with excitement and horror and then almost laughed as she registered the fact that the point of the needle faced away from the entrance to her vagina. A second needle followed quickly and it became clear that she was to be made a veritable pincushion of but would still be available for a safe and comfortable fuck. A long sigh of resigned pleasure escaped the girl and she lay back down to resume giving service. Clara tip toed away, her crotch oozing cold sperm and hot juice in equal quantities. And then she saw the hostess, Celia Landon being mounted by her husband on what he was calling ‘the tit trolley’. Celia was a big woman with a wealth of pale breast flesh swinging in front of her as she knelt up on the trolley, her nipples bright red against the white skin, brown areolas visibly swollen by lust. The trolley was almost identical to the ones the female slaves had been tied down to for mating. It was two wheeled, had metal struts to prop it up at rest and it had long handles to push it by. The crucial difference was that this trolley was equipped with two distinct wooden circles covered in thin metal spikes. Immediately Clara realised that another piercing was to take place and she stopped again. Celia looked far from happy as she looked down at what awaited her but her husband landed a stinging blow with a riding whip across the trembling expanse of buttock facing him. “Get on with it, Celia, old gel! Or I’ll damn well flog you round the fields tomorrow!” Groaning, Celia bent forwards and tucked her arms down between her thighs, pushing her breasts together and squeezing them up, ripe and ready for the spikes. With a rising cheer – from some of the female onlookers, Clara noticed – the crowd watched her bend down until her breasts cushioned out on either side of her chest. Clara could clearly see where some of the spikes were sticking up into the flesh. She grimaced as she slowly pressed her weight down until her tits were fully impaled. Hugh stepped forwards and tied her wrists to her ankles and then tied her thighs to the dowling poles, so that like the slaves, she couldn’t kneel back and take any of the weight off her tortured teats. Her groan became a steady keening as the spikes remorselessly drove into her. Hugh stepped back and unfurled a long stock whip. The crowd edged back quickly as they took in its length. He swung it up above his head and swept it forwards bringing the heavy lash down across his wife’s back. She couldn’t help jerking up in shock at the impact and that in turn made settling back onto her bed of nails an entirely new torture. Ten times Hugh whipped her broad back, ten times she jerked up and screamed as she sank back down. Clara watched in rapt attention, her hands occasionally stroking her own throbbing teats. After ten devastating lashes, Hugh relented and coiled up the stock whip but picked up a twenty tailed whip instead and stuck the handle in Celia’s capacious cunt. “If I may suggest, gentlemen, you’ll find she sucks cock like the very devil in this position and if you use her arse cleft as a sights, you can flog her cunt while she does it.” One man immediately stepped forwards and took up a place between the handles, then he grabbed them, lifted and began to push the trolley away. It jumped and thumped across the grass and Celia howled until he stopped, took out his cock and pushed it into her mouth before pushing her over to wherever he wanted to use her. Her screams subsided into cock-muffled gurgles and Clara realised that there simply wasn’t any cruelty or humiliation an island woman wouldn’t welcome with all her heart as long as there was the prospect of getting plenty of male attention.

Back at the Pool, she found a group of women tending to one another in a variety of ways. Cool water was available for splashing on welts and washing out overheated vaginas and most were taking full advantage. Some however were stretched out on the grass and were making the beast with two backs. Clara saw Isabelle’s familiar thighs wrapped round the shoulders of another woman she didn’t know and once she had doused her own sore breasts and crotch, she too lay on the grass and revelled in its cool touch. But not for long. A man came and took up her leash. That time he wanted to flog her back and did so harder than Adam had done to date. But he came to watch and Clara was almost tipped into orgasm when, as she spun and danced at the end of a rope, she spotted his dear face, alight with pleasure and humour as he talked to a friend. But what really fired her delight was the brunette kneeling in front of him, clearly engaged on delivering an eager fellation. He wasn’t even touching the girl, his hands were gesticulating as he talked, the girl a mere adjunct to the pleasure he was taking in a friend’s company and the sight of his wife, naked and in public, being flogged raw. Clara was ecstatic at the thought that he was denying himself nothing while she suffered. After that time there a brief dalliance with Phyllis back at the Pool. Then came a man who wanted to stretch her on a rack and then climb aboard to fuck her. Unfortunately he forgot to release her when he had finished and it was only Dorca passing by half an hour later who let her up. Another man took her leash immediately and had her bend over one of the wrought iron tables the men sat around and used the drizzling outflow from her sorely tested cunt to lubricate her back passage before he took her there. Clara couldn’t help groaning as what felt like a tree trunk was forced into her and she experienced the contrary urge to defecate even as a shaft was pushing upwards. It took a few minutes before she had relaxed enough to give comfortable service but as she suffered and was buggered conversation never faltered for a second, being mainly about crops and the prices being obtained for sugar and cotton. Isabelle was straddling the lap of the man opposite Clara and levering herself up and down the dusky red shaft of his erection, carefully holding him just inside her before sliding her body slowly and sensuously down again. With something of a shock, Clara realised that he was inside her back passage and they were both being sodomised. Immediately she shook off the feelings of discomfort she still got in her inexperienced rectum and tried to remember what Phyllis had taught her; clench when he’s withdrawing, relax on the inward stroke. Make him feel welcome. She tried and was delighted when, just for a second her sodomiser paused in his long inward push to comment that; “Bestwood’s done damn well with this’un. From what I heard she was as cold as a witch’s tit, but she’s got a hell of an arse on her now!” The others were unwilling to take his word for it and one after another they sampled her backside until Clara was numb and burning all at the same time. And she could feel a cold puddle of come under the fronts of her thighs.

Chapter Eight It took nearly a week before she could walk without discomfort from her various hurts. Her only consolation was that neither Dorca, Isabelle nor Phyllis had fared any better. They were confined to walking gingerly near the house and retiring to their own or each others’ rooms to lift their skirts and dab on cool water, or shrug off blouses and stroke sponges over scored breasts. To Clara it seemed that the men knew exactly how to control their females. After such a devastating outbreak as the Torture Garden party that satisfied every fantasy a girl could possibly have, it was as if a thunderstorm had cleared the air. She had thought that the Jacaranda estate was calm and tranquil before the party but in relation to the sense of deep calm and contentment that now seemed to pervade the place, it had been a madhouse. The women were quite content to drift quietly about, worrying about their bodies, and to spend hours discussing only how they had been made use of, how well the men concerned were endowed, how many lashes each of them had taken etc.etc.. For once gossip was off the menu. And every recollection of every torment was couched in glowing terms of love and respect. Clara’s adoration of Adam for abandoning her and allowing her to lust after every man who had used her while he himself had demonstrated such complete mastery, knew no bounds and she ached for those nights when he would banish her to her room and take Phyllis to his bed, displaying the utter freedom with which he was able to treat her. She would lie awake in the warm darkness and masturbate at the thought of how completely she had prostrated herself at the feet of her master. And with what utter ease he pressed his heel to her neck. On one blissful night she was allowed to kneel at the bottom of his bed and masturbate while he buggered Phyllis in front of her, then he watched her lick his come out of her own maidservant’s arse. Once all the weals from the garden party had faded, she spent an afternoon in Sir Archibald’s own Torture Garden. Adam hung her up by her ankles and flogged her between her legs for a long time before whipping her back till the blood flowed. About three weeks after the garden party, Adam and Archie announced that they had to attend an auction on one of the other islands. They would be gone for some days as Adam was looking to buy the first of the Jacaranda pony slaves. In the meantime they wanted Isabelle and Clara to go up to stay with George and Anne Presteign at Greenlawns. It was common practice on the island for men to send their women to another man when they were away. An overseer could perfectly well run a plantation for a few days and it kept the girls out of mischief. Adam kissed Clara farewell at the front of the house and told her that soon after his return they would be able to move into their new home. After breakfast the next morning, Alex Sweeney brought horses round to the front of the house. Clara hadn’t ridden for a while and was looking forward to it, but Isabelle had been a bit quiet. One look at the saddles and Alex’s grinning face, told her why. Of course both women were to ride side-saddle but just behind the pommel that they would hook their knees around were dildos. And in Clara’s case it was a double one. “Sorry, my dear,” Isabelle told her. “I was under threat of real punishment if I told you. Adam wants you to ride a double. Alex will have oiled them at least but I’m afraid we’re going to be a sore couple of girls by the time we get to Greenlawns….and that will just be the start of it!” She should have known that the men would spare them nothing. Alex stood smiling happily on the opposite side of the horse as Clara swung herself up and suddenly realised that

she would have to lift her skirts and feel about underneath herself in a most unladylike fashion with the overseer’s gloating face just a few inches away. Sighing in mock resignation but inwardly churning hotly at the thought that somewhere Adam was aboard ship and would possibly at some time of the day wonder how she coped with the humiliation he was heaping on her, or there again he might not even do that, she stood with one foot in the stirrup and began to fetch her skirts up. Isabelle made no move to help and Alex just stood, waiting for the peep show to begin. At last she got her petticoats up to her hip and was able to grope about underneath her. Alex proffered a hand and held her skirts up out of the way, feasting his eyes on the sight of her long thighs and the full lipped cunny nestling at their tops. She eventually found the slick shafts which speared up from the saddle close together and carefully lowered herself. It took her a couple of goes and Alex peering under her skirts advising her to shift a little left or an inch to the right before she felt both shafts nosing at her entrances and she was able to hook her knee round the pommel before carefully lowering herself. It was her first double penetration and it felt as if someone was reaching a fist right up into her stomach. “Slide up and down a few times,” Isabelle advised. “Once you’ve lubricated it’s a bit easier.” She tried it and Alex peered back under her skirts to ensure that she was properly impaled before he let them fall and helped Isabelle onto her prong. “Don’t trot until you’re well and truly wet!” Isabelle warned her and to Clara that seemed good advice indeed. Slowly they walked their steeds down the long drive and Clara soon realised it was going to be a very long day. Every move the horse made wrenched and pulled the shafts from side to side, forwards and back. Clara thought she might be sick at first, but slowly her cunt adapted and she found that if she relaxed her torso and went with the motions instead of fighting them, then the feeling of having both channels filled and the septum between them rubbed from both sides, was not unpleasant. Far from it. As they turned out of the gates and headed uphill, she even smiled across at Isabelle who sighed. “It’s along way yet my girl,” she said. They walked the horses for nearly an hour before Isabelle broke the companionable silence. “Come on, let’s have a trot. We may as well get started.” And without explaining herself, she kicked her horse into a trot, rising gracefully into it off her saddle. Clara did the same and collapsed back into a walk after only few yards, hanging onto her reins and panting for breath. Isabelle wheeled around and came back. “Sorry, m’dear. That’s what they want for you. Every time you try and trot, you’ll come. And if you canter, you’ll take the top of your head off, believe me.” “Very well,” Clara panted. “We’ll walk the whole way.” “Sorry again. George has been told when to expect us and there’ll be hell itself to pay if we’re late.” Clara laughed softly. “Aren’t men the most wonderful beasts!” She gazed up breathlessly at Isabelle, a lock of hair falling over one eye. Isabelle nodded thoughtfully to herself as Clara straightened up and took the reins again. She kicked her horse and grimaced as she got into the rhythm of the trot and tried not to come too soon. “That’s our girl!” Isabelle muttered and spurred after her friend. Two miles later Clara fell off. She collapsed again after a further mile and rolled on the grass clutching herself between her legs. “Can’t do it!” she panted. “Can’t come any more!”

Isabelle hauled herself off her own prong and joined Clara. “Let’s take our time.” She looked up at the sky, “I’d say we’ve got about an hour or so yet and it’s only a half mile.” The two women hiked their long skirts up and let the cool afternoon air circulate around their abused nether regions. “I have to warn you that George Presteign is one of the cruellest men on the islands and the reason we’re being lent to him is to give Anne a bit of a rest. We all try to rally round and support her. George is a real satyr, I’ve been on the receiving end of a rogering that went on for three hours non-stop. And Anne has to live with him! But once you’ve survived a visit to dear old George, you’ll be an Island woman proper.” “If that’s what Adam wants, then I’m game,” Clara said and hauled herself groaning back onto her saddle. Gingerly she let herself down and they set off once more at a sedate walk, a rest had helped Clara get herself under control somewhat and they arrived at Greenlawns in reasonably good order, although Anne had to wait until Clara had finished one final orgasm before she could dismount and be introduced. Fortunately she had a bucket of cold well water and a thick cloth handy so both women could put one foot on the mounting block, reach up and under with the cloths and cool themselves down. Anne Presteign was a slender woman with rather spare good looks but she was warm and kind, despite – as Clara was to find out – being almost constantly kept welted. As the women talked, Clara became aware that every now and then a faint but piercing scream would come from somewhere behind the magnificent house. She mentioned it to Anne. “It’s coming from the branding shed; new stock just arrived, we’ll stroll round and meet George shall we?” As they rounded the house she became aware of what she took to be the smell of supper cooking. “Riding – let alone being forced to come nearly constantly! – does take it out of one, Anne and it smells as though your cook is preparing a wonderful meal.” The other two women exchanged meaningful glances. “I’m afraid that is not a meal that is cooking……” Another shrill scream came from a wooden shack standing a few score yards beyond the stableyard. Smoke was coming from its chimney stack. “That is the branding shed,” Anne went on once the scream had faded away. “George always insists on doing the females himself. He says it doesn’t matter how dark skinned they are, it’s knowing the brand is there that’s important. He’s very conscientious you know. Do you want to go and watch the last few being done?” Clara suddenly made the connection between the smell of cooking and the mention of branding……and the screams. She swallowed and stopped in her tracks. “I think Adam would want you to,” Isabelle prompted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he and George arranged it.” Merely at the mention of Adam’s name, Clara was aware of her thighs becoming slick once again and her stinging vulva seemed to take on an erotic charge that went beyond mere soreness. She squared her shoulders. “Very well, I’m sure it will be most educational,” she said. “Oh yes,” Anne said. “It will be that most certainly.” Inside the shed it was as hot as Hades and at first seemed just as hellish. A man, stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat was tending a brazier of white hot coals, before him was a black female body spread out in X suspension inside a rectangular frame. Clara immediately noted with envy the proud jut of the buttocks now facing the man. He didn’t look up as they entered, merely knocked the clinker off the branding iron he was heating in the brazier, turned and pressed it hard against the buttock. The slave shrieked and twisted in her bonds but the man calmly kept the iron to her. The shriek died away and a flickering stream

of gold arched out from her loins as she fainted. Clara’s nose was filled with the reek of roasted flesh and fresh urine as she watched the man pull the iron away, replace it in the brazier, throw a jug of water over the branded buttock and yell; “Next!” Between the ridges of blistered flesh, Clara could see that a letter ‘G’ irrevocably adorned the black girl’s bottom. Then he turned towards them as two black men entered and took the inert slave down. He had a pleasant face, nothing monstrous about it, Clara thought. In fact he looked quite kind, his chest was matted in dark hair and his muscles corded as he moved. Mentally Clara licked her lips and remembered her thoughts at the Torture Garden; there was nothing an island woman wouldn’t do if there was cock in the offing. George Presteign approached his wife and put out a hand to blatantly cup her breast as he kissed her. “I’ll need our guests tonight,” he whispered. “There have been some real beauties to brand today!” “George! Really,” Anne scolded fondly. “Have some manners!” “To hell with manners, girl! I’ll have the doxies instead!” he roared with laughter and turned to the guests. “Isabelle! Good to see you! Archie keeping you well beaten and that cunny of yours nice and tight?” “The answer to the first is ‘yes’. The answer to the second you will doubtless discover for yourself later on,” Isabelle said throatily. George didn’t reply except to reach out and grip her breast as well. For a moment, Clara saw their eyes lock and a sort of challenge seemed to pass between them. But then George was moving towards her. “And this is the lovely Clara, is it, by Jove?” He gripped her chin between thumb and forefinger and Clara could feel his steely strength in his fingers. He pushed her back a little, into the light from the doorway. “By God, she is a beauty isn’t she?” he murmured. “Archie told me you’d ridden a double up here, girl.” Clara nodded. “Then show me.” There was no mistaking his meaning and for the umpteenth time that day she began to gather her skirts up. It was all very flattering but why oh why would nothing else do for men but that they must fiddle with their women all the time? she wondered as George squatted down in front of her. “A fine pair of legs, naturally well sinewed and a good shape to boot,” he murmured almost to himself as she gathered armfuls of rustling petticoats up and parted her legs. “They’ve felt the whip alright…….” Clara felt his hard fingers trace the lingering marks of her various recent floggings and shivered as they neared her cunt. “Ah! Yes, Adam’s orders fully carried out. That is one very sore little cunny, I’ll be bound!” In spite of his words he had absolutely no compunction about sticking two of his thick, calloused fingers straight up into it. Clara gasped and winced at the abrupt penetration but was immediately aware that he had had no problem in getting into her. He stood up and put his face close to hers. “Sore but still eager. That’s good.” She leaned back against the door jamb while he sampled her cunt some more before being disturbed by the two black men dragging the next new slave in through the door on the other side of the shed. Each man had hold of an arm but she was screaming in some strange language and putting up quite a fight. George grinned at them as he withdrew his fingers and wiped them on his breeches.

“Work calls, girls! Anne, take them for a spin as we planned and I’ll see you at the house later. You’ll oblige me by wearing the black and gold for dinner.” He turned and plunged back into the dim interior. “We thought it might be pleasant to take a turn around the estate on such a fine afternoon. And a carriage will be a welcome relief for you both!” Anne said with a smile as they left the shed and heard another shriek behind them. “Come this way.” She led them a little further from the house and they found themselves in another yard, standing in the middle of which were three Surreys, lightweight, two wheeled traps and between each carriage’s shafts stood a human pony. Clara stopped and stared in disbelief. Even after her months on the island, nothing could have prepared her for the sight of naked slavegirls in full pony harness. They stood patiently in the sun, their wrists shackled to the shafts of their carriages. One was pure black, her skin oiled and shining in the bright sun, the other two looked as though they might be Hispanic/Indian half breeds. As she watched one champed softly on her bit and the black pony shifted her weight onto one leg, cocking her graceful hips as she rested one leg. Clara started as she felt a touch on her arm. It was Anne Presteign. “Are they not beautiful? Come and take a closer look, George and I are very proud of our stable, we won a rosette at the Rosebowl meeting last year you know.” Gently but firmly, Clara was propelled forwards. She had to admit that the three ponies were indeed beautiful as she neared them. They simply exuded sex, cruelty, submission and all those things she had come to love about the island. From the crowns of their heads, where the straps of their bridles met, two peacock feathers nodded in the slight breeze. One strap ran back to the nape of the neck while two others descended the cheeks and ended in large steel rings to which a leather covered bit was attached. Running from the backs of the rings were more straps which had buckles on them, allowing the bridle to be tightly fitted so that the bit sat snugly at the back of the mouth. These straps ran round the back of the head and met the vertical one at the nape. Where all three joined, there was a hole to allow, in the case of the Hispanic slaves, a thick black pony tail to trail prettily onto the upper back. Each girl’s neck was encased in a thick, black leather collar with large silver rings at back and front. The ponies’ breasts were oddly, but very attractively displayed, Clara thought. Another narrow leather strap ran round the back of each slave and was buckled tight, but at the front it swept under the breasts and widened just a little so that each breast was lifted up enough to give it a most appealing forward thrust. The whole contrivance was steadied by two thin straps running up from one point between the breasts and over the shoulders to join the strap across the back. As Clara walked around to stand in front of one pony she saw that their nipples were pierced and tiny bells had been attached to the rings and the same arrangement was repeated at the navel. But it was at the groin area that Clara got an erotic shock to her belly quite as powerful as taking a whip strike there. Each cunt was split by a slender leather strap that ran between the lips. It was dragged up hard against the pubic bone making the lips very prominent and pushing them against the thighs. They were also pierced and ringed, Clara noted with a shiver of excitement. Just above the labial cleft the strap divided into two and curved gracefully up to each hip where each was buckled tight to another strap that ran – Anne tugged on the slave’s rein so that she turned slightly and Clara could see – down into the buttock crease and from the anus a tail of real horsehair curved proudly out and down. And carved into the silk smooth flesh of the right buttock was the italicised G brand for Greenlawns. “Magnificent aren’t they?” Anne asked. Clara could only nod; her corset suddenly felt suffocatingly tight.

Anne tapped the back of the pony’s thigh with her hand. “Show your hoof, Misty,” she ordered and the slave raised a foot behind her. Clara saw she had pretty little slippers of soft leather on with slender wedge heels and under the ball of the foot was a delicate, dainty iron horseshoe. “They’re plugged front and rear, like you were today. The two straps down her arse join under the tail to keep it raised. The strapping under the breasts is to raise them for the whip,” Anne told her calmly. “You’ll note the guards on the forearms and upper arms.” Clara did note the leather worked with the italicised G again. “They’re to take the lash when you whip their breasts or crotch from behind. George and I think the bruises on the arms look unsightly.” Clara felt her heart pound as she surveyed the strapped and harnessed, pierced and branded vision before her. It felt to her as if everything she had experienced up to that moment on the island had been leading up to this. Everything about the slave was perfect, including her pearly white teeth clenched round the bit. “Tell me more about them. Please!” Clara whispered. “Well, this one’s name is Misty. She’s not born and bred Greenlawns stock…..Jim, have you got Misty’s pedigree, I can never remember,” Anne replied. A chubby black man in a straw hat came out from a nearby building and joined the group. “We bought her last year Ma’am, she’s by Mr Landon’s Jim outta Mr Howton’s Juanita from over on the East coast,” he growled in a voice that contrasted strangely with his sunny countenance, and moved on to stand in front of the second Hispanic looking pony slave. “This here’s Sadie, she’s bought in from the mainland and her paperwork says she’s by Macgregor’s Benny from Richmond way outta Mary who was owned by the Samuels family from that ways too.” “Thanks Jim. I can never remember the hacking ponies, but this last one’s a racer and Greenlawns born and bred.” They had moved to stand in front of the black slave, where Anne had Clara note that the hacking ponies, used for prolonged jaunts around the estate were solidly built around the thighs and quite deep chested for endurance. The black girl was an entirely different beast. She was taller and slimmer, her sinews longer and less pronounced than the other two. “We only keep two for hacking,” Anne explained. “So we thought we’d treat Clara to a real spin. This is Greenlawns Pride, she’s by Big Paul who works in our Hillside plantation in the north of the estate, out of Daphne who’s about to produce again any day now. Daphne’s a wonder, she’s produced no less than five fillies and they’ve all fetched good prices. George says he wouldn’t mind seeing what he could get out of her himself! This one actually won the two mile at the Rosebowl meet last year. Climb aboard, Clara and I’ll give you a quick driving lesson.” Dazed, dazzled and feeling very restless and hot in her constricting clothes next to the naked slaves, Clara watched as Anne jerked the reins down and made the black girl kneel down, lowering the shaft for her to step across and settle herself before she stood up again. Clara found she was sitting on a level with the pony’s waist and when Anne handed her the driving whip, it was plain that the back and buttocks were perfectly placed to take the stiff length of cord coming off the whippy shaft. “For today, just whip the bits you can see,” Anne suggested. “Tomorrow you can practise getting at the tits and cunt.” For the first time since the mating shed, Clara found herself in possession of a whip and expected to use it. She studied the gleaming, chocolate brown skin of the back presented to her by Greenlawns Pride – the slave didn’t even have a proper name! Somehow that made Clara

melt and moisten – and the desire to carve some stripes on the anonymous body was irresistible. She gathered the reins in one hand, jerking back slightly and watching as the pony’s head came up in response. It was immediately clear that a pony slave was far more responsive than an ordinary pony and by keeping the reins tight, Clara was able to instruct her to stay just where she was. Once that had been established, Clara worked the whipcord back and forth across the dark and polished skin of the back and buttocks, getting the feel for the range, the weight of the lash and the stiffness of the cord. She managed eight or ten clean sweeps, keeping the cord from tangling with either the arms or the reins which would have lessened the impact of the blows. Greenlawns Pride was obviously a thoroughbred and only stamped one foot at the ninth lash to diffuse the pain. Disappointingly however, her skin showed no trace whatever of the lash but Anne and Isabelle applauded. “Excellent! Good clean strikes straightaway! I’m most impressed my dear!” Anne clicked her tongue and whipped her pony up, Isabelle followed and then Clara slackened off the reins and laid two hard lashes across her pony’s quivering bottom. Immediately she leaned forwards and the trap began to rumble after the others. Clara nearly laughed aloud with sheer delight as she struck out again, lashing the deliciously wobbling buttocks and sending the pony into an exaggerated trot, the knees lifting abnormally high; a far more decorative and showy step than the more prosaic one of the hacking ponies. Clara surged ahead before she fully realised what was happening and was about to rein back when Anne called after her to; ‘Run on, girl! Stop and wait for us at the ford!” Clara was only too happy to comply and shouting encouragement while she tried a few breast shots and got them on target, she propelled Greenlawns Pride into a full run. It was simply the most exhilarating experience of her life. The Surrey rumbled and shook behind the flying heels of the pony. Little puffs of dust rose as her feet pounded the dry earth and at last, as Clara worked the whip tirelessly across her and around her, her skin did begin to show dark red lines where she had been flogged. It came as a real disappointment when the track began to slope downwards and she had to rein the girl in and then at the bottom under the shade of several large trees there was a ford. Clara hauled back on the reins until the pony’s head was angled sharply up and her feet were skidding as she fought against the trap’s momentum but it was too late and the ensemble splashed into the water before it came to a halt. A sheet of refreshingly icy water was thrown up over Clara and even the pony audibly gasped as her legs churned up a froth that drenched her to her breasts. Once stopped, the pony just stood, chest heaving, sweat and water dripping off her. Clara unbuttoned her boots and holding her skirts up yet again, waded into the stream to turn the pony and lead her back to the shore, where Anne and Isabelle found her a few minutes later. “Superbly driven!” Anne enthused. “You’ve got a real feel for a thoroughbred pony. You’re a natural Clara!” Anne showed her how to hobble a pony and then the three women sat and cooled their feet in the water until it was time to cross the ford and complete the tour of Greenlawns. By the time they returned the sweaty and dusty ponies to Jim, it was beginning to get dark and they hurried back to the house for dinner.

Chapter Nine “We’re dining in the back dining room, girls,” Anne explained as Amanda, Anne’s buxom black maid, laid plates of bread and cheese before them in the kitchen on their return. Clara was dismayed at what she perceived to be a social insult but Isabelle explained. “George has a certain routine he likes to follow with new guests. We will not be dining with him in any conventional sense, so we eat now, then wash and change.” After a hurried snack, the women scurried upstairs to change into fresh underwear. Clara’s pulse started racing when Anne told them not to bother with gowns. They came back down the main stairs in a shared female state of high expectation, fear and excitement. Even Anne was affected by being so nearly naked with two other women. Clara had been deeply shocked but then even more deeply excited to find that Anne had the elegant G brand on her backside too, apart from the yellowing bruises and speckles from a recent caning. “All George’s women are branded,” she explained as Clara ran her fingers along the trench seared in the flesh. “Hurts like the very devil for weeks but then after a month you can’t believe you ever lived without your master’s stamp on you. And it makes getting a thrashing from him even better, you just feel so ‘owned’.” The back dining room turned out to be a plain room with a plain table, a bench either side of it and a carver at one end, in front of which a place setting had been laid. The benches were unusually low, Clara noted. Isabelle surveyed the room with uneasy familiarity as she got Anne to adjust some of the lacings to her grey satin with gold embroidery corset. Anne was wearing a stunning black and gold one that scarcely covered her areolas. “Have the men sent the usual permits?” Isabelle asked. “I’m afraid so. There that should do you!” Anne tucked Isabelle’s laces away tidily and went to a bureau. She lowered the lid and took out a couple of letters, Clara couldn’t help seeing the coiled whips lying there amid piles of canes, crops and paddles. Anne held a letter out for her to see. Her heart leapt as she saw Adam’s bold scrawl. Dear George, I entrust my beautiful Clara to your good care and would consider it a great favour if you would carry on her instructions concerning the good governance of the female. I will endorse any measure you see fit to employ in order to further her education and in addition I am perfectly happy for you to blood her once a day if you feel it necessary or desirable. Yours most faithfully, Her hand shook as she handed it back. Adam wanted her to be made to bleed while he wasn’t even present to witness it! What greater testimony could she seek than that he cared enough to ask for her to be beaten so severely and was so assured in his mastery of her that he didn’t bother to turn up and watch. She felt her naked loins heat and moisten as the day moved towards its close and she was as surely under Adam’s control as she had been when she had mounted her ‘double’. “As Isabelle knows, Clara,” Anne broke into her seething thoughts and turmoil of anticipation. “I will be handing out the punishment over dinner. But I don’t doubt I will be made to pay for it later!” She had them sit opposite each other at the table and straightaway, Clara could see that the low benches meant their breasts were at the height of the table top.

“Tits out, girls!” Anne called cheerfully as she came behind Clara and buckled a thick collar about her neck. Clara scooped her heavy breasts out of their cups, the nipples sending tingling spears of excitement through her as she touched them. “Lay them out properly. Stroke them up from the crease underneath so that they lie on the tabletop in full display.” Clara watched Isabelle and did the same, glancing down proudly at the quivering, vulnerable softness of her pale breasts. Once Anne was satisfied, she took Clara’s wrists and tied them to the ring at the back of the collar and then treated Isabelle the same way. “I am afraid that I shall not be able to spare you anything. George knows perfectly well when a stroke is pulled,” Anne told them as they heard George’s heavy tread coming down the hall. He entered and tugged at the bell pull, as he took his seat in the carver, Amanda bustled in and served him a cold collation with a bottle of red wine and then left, quite unperturbed at the arrangements. Anne went to the bureau and lowered the lid again then stood beside it. “Carve me some breast from the bird on the left,” George growled at last, once he had slaked his thirst and taken his first mouthfuls. With a lurch in her stomach, Clara realised she was sitting on George’s left. And indeed Anne approached holding a short length of cane much thinner than any Clara had seen. She laid it across the trembling mounds of her breasts. Clara bit her lip. “How many slices, master?” Anne asked. “Six,” George said, sitting back and grinning. Anne told Clara to turn her face towards George, that way her head wouldn’t get in the way of the strikes and also it meant that George could savour every ounce of the agony being inflicted on her. Clara felt the wind of the cane’s passage against her cheek before an appalling burst of pain blossomed within her breasts. The wretched shaft had carved into her almost to the wood of the table before rebounding. She couldn’t restrain the scream and couldn’t help the instinctive dive forwards to shield her poor teats from further torture. But even as she puffed her breath in and out to try and diffuse the pain, in her mind’s eye she saw Adam looking disappointed that she had denied his friend the pleasure he had wanted him to take in her suffering. She sat back up and blinked away the tears. Anne bent over and stroked her breasts back into full display. Then struck her again, and again. By the time the final stroke was due, she could no longer see George’s face, there was just another blur in her tears. But somehow she held on till the final cut had been laid and dared to look down. To her amazement her beautiful tits weren’t a horrid bloody mess but an intensely erotic picture of tortured femininity. The cane had left thin, vivid lines across her with speckles of blood gathered in places under the skin. It was the worst and best tit torture she had endured so far and she looked proudly across at Isabelle. George ordered ten cuts from the haunch from her and she rose and bent over the table, bringing her face close to Clara’s injured breasts, her breath was cooling balm to the fires still raging in the flesh. It was decided that the whip would be best on Isabelle’s rather coltish thighs. And she duly took a heavy ten. Anne might herself be slightly built but the force of her blows was in stark contrast to her build. Isabelle stifled her moans by burying her face in Clara’s breasts and licking and kissing them in between lashes. George got up and took a closer look at the damage so far inflicted. “This one,” he said standing behind Clara. “Rump. And make it rare!” Clara’s heart thumped as Anne helped her stand up and then lie along the bench, spreading her legs wide on either side of the seat so that George could clearly see the plump

lipped purse between them, now with its lips blooming like an exotic flower. Rare? Oh God! It was to be to the blood! For the first time, at the hands of a man other than her beloved Adam, Clara took a beating that had the blood flowing down her thighs and dripping onto the floor. Anne was merciless and sliced into her rippling buttocks with a crop, time after time until the object was achieved. She screamed and wriggled and tried to rise but all in vain. Snot and saliva puddled on the bench beneath her face and by the time it was done, she was wrung out and utterly limp. Her breath came in heaving sobs and the pain in her bottom was worse than anything she could have imagined. It was only when Anne tapped her on the back and showed her the bloodied cane that she smiled proudly through her tears and with help sat up to watch Isabelle being ‘kebabed’ A long, slender steel needle was passed slowly through each breast. The sight was unbearably erotic and George took a break from eating to fuck both women as they bent over the table. It was the first glimpse Clara had of his remarkable staying power. He ploughed her most enjoyably, the rough weave of his trousers playing havoc with her lacerated buttocks as she came under him. But he did not spend himself. He waited until she had quietened and then moved round to do the same to Isabelle, whose orgasm was deafening as he stuffed her from behind while twirling the needles in her breasts. With that accomplished, he stood back, ordered Anne to her knees and let her take his spend in her mouth. Fortunately that seemed to slake his appetites for a while and no more beatings were handed out. Instead, once he had cleaned his plate and emptied his bottle, George graciously allowed them to repair themselves and then they were to attend him in the South lounge. Clara’s bleeding had stopped but the damage was fascinating to her, deep scarlet patches adorned bright pink slashes and the whole was swollen and rough. It was a terrible sight and she loved it - and she had to be dragged away from mirrors. Anne removed Isabelle’s needles and Clara nearly came just from watching the steel sliding free of the flesh. In the lounge, Anne ran flesh rakes and spurs over the whip-seared skin while Isabelle and Clara entertained George by performing an enthusiastic sixty nine for him. The following evening saw Anne driving jewel headed pins into Clara’s nipple vents, making her look as though she had flashing and sparkling peaks to her breasts. It didn’t hurt as much as the caning and she enjoyed watching blood being drawn from Isabelle’s back down in a cellar after dinner. But upstairs, the three women were permitted into each others’ beds in any combination they liked while George enjoyed a final couple of brandies. He found them holding Anne down and whipping her cunt for a few moments then licking it until she was nearly coming and then resuming the whipping. He stripped off and Clara was offered a highly satisfactory mouthful of hard cock while she sat on Anne’s face but again he didn’t spend. He sodomised Isabelle using the lubricant of Clara’s saliva and then lay on Anne to fuck her. “Go to one of your rooms and wait for me,” he ordered the other two and as they hurried out they heard Anne begin to moan and cry out as her whipped cunny began to take another type of pounding. It was half an hour later that, as they lay panting and happy in the aftermath of orgasm, Clara and Isabelle saw the naked George Presteign enter Isabelle’s room with the imperious rod of his manhood sticking out and up from his flat, muscular belly. It was Isabelle who got the mouthful that time and Clara was relegated back down to her crotch. He did at least spend that time, Clara heard Isabelle bubbling and spluttering as her mouth was flooded with his sperm. But to her amazement his cock never really softened much. It took just a few moments playing with Clara’s breasts and tweaking the still-stinging nipples to have it back up and hard as new. This time he started with her bottom hole and George tested her sorely. It was some time before he could move smoothly into and out of her as she tried to remember Phyllis’ instructions about

gripping and relaxing. As she knelt with her bum in the air and George shagging it energetically, above her she could hear Isabelle having her breasts played with. Isabelle was kneeling, thighs spread above the back of Clara’s head and her hair was matted with come and cunt juice when George finally pulled clear of her and set about fucking Isabelle instead. And when he had done that, he returned to Anne’s bed. On the morning of the third, and their final day, none of the women could walk without hurting and mostly they stayed in their rooms while Amanda fetched bowl after bowl of cool water. In the evening George hung Clara up by her breasts and whipped her until she was hoarse from screaming, they were almost purple with constriction and so tight she thought they would burst. The vents of the nipples did indeed shed some blood under the combined assault of lash and constriction but Anne said it was perfectly normal and nothing to worry about, so the whipping continued. Clara came down at the end of it dizzy and exalted, agonised and orgasmic. They returned home the day after and rode their saddles – prongs and all – like good island women should. Clara was relaxed and proud despite the incessant stinging at her crotch and the constant drizzle of cunt juice seeping down her thighs. She felt utterly at home now; she adored her husband’s cruelty, she adored the pony slaves, she adored the way that island women only existed to please their men; she had even decided that if Adam wanted her branded she would not object. A week later he and Sir Archibald took Isabelle, Clara and Phyllis to their new home. The East house was a dignified, four square sort of house that was grand without being showy. Behind it were two stableyards and to Clara’s squeals of delight they found the first two Jacaranda ponies stabled there. One was black and one was pure Indian. “I’ve great hopes of her in the three mile. They say the Indians from the mainland interior have immense lung capacity,” Adam said as the group paused at her stall. The other was a pure African beauty, tall and dignified despite her bondage. “This one is strictly for dressage,” Adam told them. “She’s too tall for hacking and hasn’t got the stamina for racing. But she’s obedient and very responsive to the whip. Besides once she’s pierced she’ll look even more stunning. Clara had to agree, the gold at her nipples and labia would contrast perfectly with her purple-black skin. A tall black man was introduced as head groom, Rufus, Adam said with a grin, was a big enough stallion to cope with a whole yardful of ponies. The ladies tried to blush and examine his trousers at the same time. Rufus laughed. “I’m countin’ on you providin’ just that thing Massa!” he said. They returned to the main house that night but Adam and Clara went back early the next day and Adam led her straight to the pony stableyard. “Clara,” he said. “I want to talk to you and the best place is behind a pony on a fine day like this. Rufus is preparing Andes Queen for us, she’s the Indian we saw yesterday.” A few seconds later Rufus led their mount out and Clara got a good look at the tack. The main difference between what Clara had seen previously and what she was now looking at were the blinkers, Adam was convinced ponies ran better in them and had had them made specially. He made Clara bend down and look at the pubis, just above where the straps divided to go over her hips.

“She’ll be branded with a J just there in a day or two, after she’s been pierced,” he told her and Clara thought it would look splendid. The pony made a very decent job of pulling the two of them and soon they were bowling past the plantations at the foot of the hills and Adam was talking while Clara listened in growing astonishment to the extraordinary history he had unearthed. “Your mother was always very protective of you and I believe she thought she had good reason to be. You see your father wasn’t the Reverend Young who you remember and who you called ‘father’, I believe you were conceived somewhere very different and that your mother fled and was taken in by him. They married but she was always afraid her past would catch up with you. “From the first time I saw your mother, I was sure I had seen her somewhere before. It was a feeling that wouldn’t leave me and eventually I found a locket in the possession of one of my fellow racing enthusiasts. You see Clara, racing women as ponies has been a sport in Europe for a long time but only the very rich can afford it.” Adam reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a locket which Clara opened with trembling fingers. Inside was a portrait of a woman fitted with a bridle and bit just like the one who was pulling their trap. But Clara recognised the big, dark eyes and Italian colouring. It was her mother. “I investigated further using every contact I had and eventually learned that a pony slave called ‘Verona’s Dream’ had gone missing some eighteen years since. She was a champion of some renown and was owned by none other than His Grace the Duke of Loughmore. I believe that ‘Verona’s Dream’ was your mother, he sired you on her and for whatever reason she fled.” Clara couldn’t find any words, she just stared, not sure she understood all the implications. “I needed proof though,” Adam went on. “So I spent some weeks last summer, you recall my being away, looking out midwives around the area your mother always maintained she came from and sure enough I found one who recalled your mother being delivered of a daughter out of wedlock. To make sure I brought her to watch your house for a day or two and she swore on the bible that it was your mother. But still I needed more to be certain, and here I must crave your pardon, Clara. One day while everyone was out I went to your parents’ house and very swiftly went through some of your mother’s drawers and chests. I found a bridle and bit made for a pony slave. She mustn’t have been able to quite shake off her past. Perhaps that was why she was so protective of you. “In short, my love, I believe you are by the Duke of Loughmore out of ‘Verona’s Dream’ one of the fastest ponies of her generation.” Clara looked at the sweating, flexing back before her, naked and whip scored. Her eyes took in the rippling buttocks as Adam carelessly swished another stinging lash across them. Then she pressed her thighs together as she considered the twin plugs shifting inside the pony as she ran and was flogged. Was that where she belonged? Not driving or riding but pulling, racing, sprinting at the end of a whip lash, harnessed and naked; as much animal as human. “It is what you were born for, Clara,” Adam whispered, reading her thoughts. “The Duke of Loughmore is a man fabled for his endurance and virility as well as his deep understanding of female discipline. Even now, in his eighties, he runs one of the best pony stables in England and is said to have three of them before breakfast each morning. Add that to ‘Verona’s Dream’ and you have a pedigree beyond compare! Clara, my love, you belong in harness.” Clara felt her heart pound. It was outrageous, exciting, humiliating and she would surely live every day under her owner’s whip. She wanted it. “Would I be stabled every day, or would I live in the house sometimes?”

“No, you would be a full time pony. The only time you would see a bed would be when a paying guest wanted you in the guest wing.” Prostituted as well for her husband’s benefit. Better and better. “But sometimes, Clara,” Adam put his hand high up on her thigh and nearly made her faint with pleasure. “Perhaps when you’ve won Archie some big race or other and helped rebuild my fortune and Jacaranda’s as well, I’ll have Rufus bring you up by the back stairs and take you, naked, chained and whipped to my bed. At other times I might take a hand in your training and drive you, or maybe stay to see Rufus beat you at the whipping post for slacking.” She rested her head on his shoulder, entranced at the vision of utter slavery he painted. “But who would warm your bed while I am stabled?” She knew quite well but wanted to hear him say it. “Phyllis of course. At least for the moment. Who knows what other women I might want to bed? I might have you take myself and one or other of my mistresses for a spin one day.” Clara shivered in horrified anticipation. Adam reined ‘Andes Queen’ in and turned for home. Back at the stables, as they clattered to a halt, he required her to make the final decision. “I feel that I am what you think I am. And I do so want to be whatever you want me to be. Poor Mother! She was quite right to shelter me. Now I have experienced a life of wanton debauchery, I want to experience everything a man may do to a woman. Even making her less than a woman. A beast of burden. Yes, enslave me, Adam! But tell me first, what name will you race me under?” “’Jacaranda Fancy’,” Adam told her promptly. Clara rolled the name round her tongue a couple of times. At last she nodded. “I like it,” she said at last and then laughed. “Clara Bestwood is no more. ‘Jacaranda Fancy’ is born!” Adam embraced her and handed her down as Rufus came to meet them. Adam pointed towards a row of gabled windows above the stalls. “When I need you to earn your keep off the racing track, that’s where you’ll do it. They will pay according to what they want to do to you. That way at least during the worst of your sufferings you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are keeping Jacaranda on a sound financial footing. Now, you will accept Rufus’ absolute authority in my stead and you know how to do that now, I believe.” Clara knew quite well and holding her skirts up, dropped to her knees before the big black man. The cock that was freed from the ragged trousers was nothing remarkable in its detumescent state and Clara set about the gentle licking and stroking that she had learned so well since her arrival. Gradually it began to jerk and throb towards erection, she felt it harden to her tongue. It grew thicker and longer, pushing her head back as it threatened to overwhelm her throat’s ability to take it. And suddenly she wasn’t so sure her jaws could contain it. With a muffled scream she jerked her head back and gazed in awe at the size of the thing in front of her – and still it filled and hardened until the polished purple of the dome was nearly half the size of her face. She could hear the men laughing and defiantly she grasped the giant shaft in one dainty hand, unable to encircle it, then stretched her mouth until she was sure she would dislocate her jaw, furled her lips over her teeth and tried again. There was another moment of panic as she encountered the full extent of the helm but then he was in and all she could do was feel the way her tongue was flattened to the floor of her mouth and the slightest of backwards and forwards nods was all she could manage. However, being in such a constricted space, must have stimulated the man pleasantly enough for suddenly she felt his hand on the back of her head and her eyes widened in fright as she considered what the monster’s ejaculation might be

like. In the event she was perfectly right to be apprehensive, the thick, hot spurts had nowhere to go and reduced her to helpless choking and spluttering as the mess jetted up her nostrils. But at last he was done with her and she was able to sit back on her heels and get her breath. Only then did she realise that she, a fully dressed Englishwoman, was kneeling before a slave on a plantation and swallowing his come. Back in the house and up in his bedroom, Adam fitted her into her bridle and bit, revealing a little addition to the ensemble. It was what he called a ‘split bit’ and all the Jacaranda ponies would run in them, he told her. He maintained that the more pain a pony was in the better she performed. The split bit was a devilish contraption and Clara fell in love with it the instant it gouged into her tongue. It consisted of two flat metal plates about an inch wide. The pony’s tongue was pushed between them until it protruded on the far side and then the plates were screwed together at the back of her mouth. Each plate was coated with sharpened spikes and even over the havoc created by the double penetration of her rectum and vagina, Clara could feel the descant of sharp pain at her mouth. It would make her instantly responsive to the rein, she realised and much prettier to watch as her big eyes, albeit half hidden by the blinkers, would be bright with tears. Fully harnessed, Jacaranda Fancy was led downstairs to find a gathering of all those who had helped with her training up to this point. In the brightly lit but seldom used ballroom, Adam handed her leash over to Phyllis and she was led round, preening and stamping as hands roved all over her and admiring comments were made about her. Sir Archibald came up to her at one point and stroked her thighs. “We will work you so hard you will want to die before you take to a track, my dear. But I am certain that Adam is right. Once you have won, you will have started to live. Good breeding will out.” It was dark when Phyllis led her out to the stables but Rufus was waiting for her with a whip. “Now then Fancy,” he whispered as her leash was handed over. “Let’s see if you really do have blue blood.” When Doctor Osgood came a few weeks later to pierce her and affix her rings, it was Adam himself who held the incandescent iron forged into the letter J to his wife’s flesh and branded her. From then on, whoever took her would know that what they were enjoying was no more than property.

POSTSCRIPT Understandably enough, the people of the island I have called St Kelmo are not keen to recall or celebrate their colonial past, therefore it was difficult to do much research. However I do believe I have identified Jacaranda, it stands beside what is quite a main road now and is a rather rundown hotel. At the rear are extensive gardens, now on the verge of disappearing under forest and at the back of these are ruins that I suppose to be the old East house. After a three day stay and much poking around, my Master and myself made a fascinating and conclusive discovery. Buried in overgrown shrubbery beside a dilapidated gazebo, we found a small stone plinth about three feet high. On the top of this was the most exquisitely cast bronze figurine depicting a ponygirl. She is poised on one foot, in the act of running flat out, her other leg bent up under her in an athletic posture as she is bringing it forward for her next stride. Her hands are clenched around the shafts of the racing trap she is pulling, although the sculptor stopped with just depicting the wood she was actually holding. Her thick hair is blowing in a pony tail behind her – her actual tail is gracefully swinging behind her flying legs and - this I adored – her tongue is depicted firmly clamped between the plates of the devilish split bits so popular on the pony racing circuits of the day. Alas, bronze does not lend itself to depicting the driver’s whip which must surely have been plied vigorously to induce such a headlong dash for the line, but the sculptor has left us some testament in the form of grooves criss crossing the well toned flesh. Overall her figure matches the tall, big breasted beauty of the early portraits I had seen of Clara Bestwood. And at her pubic mound was a depiction of a letter ‘J’ branded into her flesh. She was a delight, but the icing on the cake was the inscription on the plinth which read – and you may be sure we made copious notes! “Jacaranda Fancy, winner of the Rosebowl meeting sprint; 1831, 1832, 1833, 1834. Winner of the Rosebowl two mile handicap, 1832, 1835, 1836. Winner of the Rosebowl three mile handicap; 1833, 1834, 1837. Winner of the inter-island challenge cup; 1832, 1833, 1834, 1835, 1836, 1837.” Winner of four ‘best in show’ rosettes and ‘placed’ more often than there is space to record here fully.” I had followed a long trail to find Clara Bestwood and to document her part in the extraordinary events surrounding that extraordinary man, the ninth Duke of Loughmore, but here at last I felt I had found her. I had intended to see if I could locate her final resting place as there are no records of her ever having returned to England. But, as my Master said, such a remarkable tribute to such a gifted pony must surely represent her spiritual home. We left her there, and I trust that there she is still; poised, graceful, athletic and beautiful. As far as one can tell, Adam Bestwood did return to these shores as an old man, wealthy and reclusive. But he seems to have lived out the few days left to him, alone, apart from a maid he engaged at Southampton. One can only assume he had his memories to keep him company. K.F. Nottinghamshire, England, 2006 THE END