Slave Island

                                 ISLE D’ESCLAVES

 

 

Day One – the arrival. Lauren and Barbara learn the ropes.

 

LAUREN MICHELLE stretched out languidly on the long leather bench in the luxury speedster as the young woman who had met them at the dock steered the sleek 40-foot Silverton convertible out into the open sea.

 

Lauren had changed into a bright yellow PVC bikini on the way to the dock in Lady Barbara Kleinhold’s stretch limo soon after landing at Faa International Airport in Tahiti. The beautifully-breasted, long-legged, golden-haired San Diego computer millionairess sighed as she felt the warm Pacific sun working on her already superbly tanned body.

 

Beside her, also clad in a tiny, breast and buttock revealing bikini was Lady Barbara, reputedly the richest woman in the world. Lauren and Barbara – they had been on first name terms since meeting at a boring computer conference in Munich two years ago – had jetted into Tahihi from Hawaii aboard Lady B’s private Boeing 737.

 

Now they were about to enjoy the disgustingly lascivious delights of Isle d’Esclaves. Lauren had been told about the place by a millionairess from Sydney, Australia, and informed in a broad Aussie twang: “Darl, if ya like beating up on niggers, it’s the place for ya – and I’ll tell ya what, beating up on niggers is much better’n doing it to the fuckin’ Abos.” Australia certainly produced some colourful people, Lauren thought.

 

Lady B had called Lauren not long after the computer boss had spoken to the Aussie lady – the one who described herself as “Sydney’s most sadistic sheila” – and informed her about the island.

 

“It sounds just the place for you to experiment with the more dominating side of your nature,” suggested Lauren and the 34-year-old supermogul – Lauren’s age almost to the day - had agreed instantly, also insisting she pick up the tab. Lauren had protested that it was to be her treat, but Lady B had had her way – as she so often did in her business dealings, thought Lauren.

 

After they had cleared the land and the trees dotting the distant beaches looked like matchsticks, the woman at the wheel of the superbly-appointed yacht turned and smiled at them. Then, slowly, and deliberately, she pulled off her T-shirt – the one with the logo “My tits get harder than most guys dicks” – to reveal full, firm breasts which Lauren estimated at 38 inches at least. Not content with going topless, the youngster then pulled off her denim hot pants and revealed a cute, curvy ass to her passengers.

 

Lauren noted how her body, now only clad in short white sox and gleaming white Nike trainers, tensed and rippled as she gripped the steering wheel, her buttocks clenching and unclenching erotically as she rode the bucking machine through the slight swell.

 

“My name’s Lucy,” she informed them, “and I’m in my second year at Isle d’Esclaves. I’m only 20, but they call me ‘Lucy the Lash’ so I know how to wield a whip. Your first visit?”

 

“Yup,” said Lauren, staring admiringly at the nude girl in front of them. “I’m told it’s great fun.”

 

Lucy roared a girlish whoop of delight. “You can say that again – specially if you like dishing it out to big-busted niggers. Oops, sorry, I’ve been told not to say that to clients until I know how they feel about our black beauties.”

 

Lauren laughed back – she already liked this kid. “Not at all, fuck ‘em, fuckin’ niggers,” she said.”

 

“Oh great,” said Lucy, steering slightly around a big roller. “It’s just that sometimes our customers, while they like teasing and tormenting the nigger tarts, still seem to think they should be called ‘black’ women. Fucking stupid political correctness, if you ask me.”

 

“Agreed,” said Lauren, looking out to sea now, thinking that this subject had been flogged to death, and then smiling to herself at the awful pun. “How long to the island?” she asked.

 

“Another 40 minutes and you’ll see it dead ahead,” said Lucy. “Downstairs there’s a bottle of Krug on ice – why not go on down and help yourselves. I’ll tell you when the island’s in sight.”

 

Lady Barbara and Lauren went into the spacious lounge below and did as Lucy suggested. Krug was Lauren’s favorite tipple, but then the organisers at Isle d’Esclaves would have known that from the lengthy e-mail she had sent them.

 

Lauren was looking forward to the two weeks they were going to spend on the island. Then, just as she and Lady B drained the remnants of the Krug, Lucy poked her lovely little face below, revealing her severely short-cropped haircut, her breasts hanging superbly for their view, and announced: “Isle d’Esclaves dead ahead, ladies.”

 

The pair eagerly clambered back on deck and were greeted by a densely green tropical island some 500 yards away. Lucy deftly drove the 40-foot speedboat-cum-launch up to a jetty, hurled a rope to another attractive, naked woman, and the boat was tied up.

 

“This is Fenella – we call her ‘Fenella the Flogger’,” Lucy informed her passengers. “She’ll take you up to meet the Camp Commandant. I’ll no doubt see a lot more of you later.”

 

The way Lucy said it, and the way she was peering at Lauren’s superbly-slung breasts in the PVC bikini bra, left the American woman in no doubt as to what she meant. Sounded interesting!

 

Fenella held out a strong hand and shook Lady B and Lauren’s hands in a firm grip. “Hi, I’m Fenella, I’m 25 and I’m one of the three dominatrixes here and we’ve all got nicknames,” she said in an upper-crust British accent. “They call me, as you’ve just heard, ‘Fenella the Flogger’, but it’s silly really, we’re all floggers! Come on and I’ll take you to the commandant.”

 

Fenella, a tall blonde with small but pert breasts and a lovely little boyish ass, then turned on her high heels – the only items on her body apart from a little riding crop in a belt which was slung seductively across her waist, and led the way along the jetty, up a shady, tree-lined path and then into a large clearing dominated by a swimming pool, a sort of stage and surrounded by four large chalets.

 

“This is the pool area, for cooling off whenever you like,” she said. “The stage is for special punishment sessions put on for your entertainment – and ours.” And she gave a wicked grin. “And there up on that frame is some entertainment going on already.”

 

Lauren’s gaze was suddenly directed to a sturdy metal-framed structure behind the stage. Hanging from straps in its upper corners, beneath a sort of crossbar hung a busty black bird. Her ankles were strapped to similar straps at the bottom corners of the frame. She was naked.

 

Standing behind her was another woman, wielding a heavy rubber cat o’ nine tails. “Hi, Sarah,” Fenella called out, “meet two new guests, Lauren and Lady B. Who’s this?”

 

Sarah stepped from behind the sweating, straining naked body and held out a hand to introduce herself. She was a big-breasted darkish lady – a touch of tar brush, Lauren thought, but not too much – wearing a bustier which revealed her large, heavy and dark brown breasts, her nipples thick and erect, her areolae glistening with sweat. Her shaved snatch was naked, and boots which came to knee height completed her ensemble.

 

“Hi,” she grinned at the newcomers. “I’m Sarah, I’m 25 and I’m originally from Windsor, Ontario. They call me ‘Sarah the Slavedriver. And this” – she turned to indicate her victim – “is slave 3, who’s getting a light touch up because she spilled some urine during a piss punishment this morning.”

 

“What’s a ‘light touch up’ as you call it?” asked Lady Barbara, her eyes glued to the suspended, straining nude nigger. And when she heard the reply, the Englishwoman gasped.

 

“Sixty strokes, and I’m only 20 strokes in, so I’d better get cracking,” laughed Sarah, who stepped back behind the naked slave girl and resumed her flogging.

 

Lauren and Lady B moved on behind Fenella, Lauren hearing the whistle of the cat and a shout of anguish from the nigger’s lips as they walked away. She would have liked to have watched the rest of the spectacle – it seemed a shame there was no audience for such a lovely punishment, but they had the commandant to meet.

 

Set behind the pool area were three more buildings. “Slaves quarters,” Fenella said, pointing to one, set deeper into the woods. “Dining room.” A sumptuous-looking room, with comfortable chairs and bar were visible.

 

Lauren pointed to a long, low brick affair, about three feet off the ground with what looked like outlet vents at regular intervals. “What’s that?” she asked Fenella.

 

“That’s the underground torture block,” said the English girl. “There’s six torture chambers in there, all mod cons. Air conditioned, very, very comfortable.”
 

Then she gave a sort of upper-class English laugh, a kind of whinny and snorted: “Well, comfortable that is if you’re a domina and not a slave, eh?”

 

Then she swept her hand around.  “Commandant’s office.” A smallish wooden chalet with a veranda stood before them. “Come on in, I’ll introduce you,” said Fenella.

 

In a spartan office, with only a telephone, a computer screen, a printer and a files locker, was an equally spartan and clean-looking desk. Behind it sat a striking-looking blonde, her hair dragged back in a smooth but severe ponytail.

 

“This is Lauren and Lady Barbara, ma’am,” said Fenella, in a deferential tone. “This is Madam Helga, the Camp Commandant.”

 

Then Fenella moved swiftly out of the office and Helga stood to greet her guests. She was a stunning sight. Helga was wearing what Lauren and Lady B would come to recognise as her daily uniform – it was a black latex playsuit, open at the front.

 

The open-breasted nature of the garment revealed a pair of large, firm breasts – 40 inches at least, Lauren thought, certainly bigger than her suckable 36s, and Lady B’s even bigger 38s.

 

At Helga’s pussy the playsuit was again open-fronted and the gap revealed a totally shaved pussy, with heavy labia lips protruding from her pussy. Her feet were clad in hugely polished black boots which came half-way up her strong, muscular thighs.

 

“Hi, I’m the commandant, but call me Helga – only the dominas call me ‘ma’am’,” she said, indicating that Lauren and Barbara takes seats in front of her desk. “Good flight?”

 

“Terrific,” said Lady B. “My personal Boeing did it in just over four hours – apparently we got a tail wind from Honolulu.”

 

“Well you certainly look in much better shape than our two other guests,” said Helga. “They jetted in all the way from Frankfurt – they’re both German businesswomen  - and they are, not to put too fine a word on it, fucked and sleeping it off.”

Helga spoke with a slight German accent, Lauren assumed she’d left her mother country years ago. As if sensing her thoughts, the busty German continued: “I’m 38 and for 10 years I worked as a senior dominatrix in a New York dungeon. Then, when one of my customers decided to buy this lovely island and turn it into a commercial proposition, she persuaded me to take charge.”

 

She stepped to a refrigerator in the corner of the office and poured some cool water into two glasses and handed them to her guests.

 

“Remember,” she said, “it’s fucking hot here, you must keep up your fluid intake. Our slaves must too, but their fluid intake is nowhere near as pleasant.” She laughed heartily at her sadistic little joke.

 

“Now,” she said, in a more businesslike tone, “some ground rules before I get one of my staff to show you to your chalet.”

 

Helga resumed her seat and while Lauren and Barbara sipped on the refreshing water, reeled off a list of “do’s” and “don’ts” for their stay.

 

“Right, now we have 10 slaves here. They are, as I believe you’re aware, black girls and they are very highly paid for their services. They are strong, healthy fit – and submissive.

 

“Now being submissive they are into humiliation – both physical, it goes without saying, and also verbal. Which means, if it pleases you, you may refer to them as ‘niggers’.”

 

Helga looked up at the pair.

 

“Fine by me, Helga,” said Lauren, “and Lady B has no problems with it, either.”

 

“Great,” said Helga, “only it’s just that some of our guests get intense pleasure from flogging the slaves, forcing them to drink their urine, slapping them silly, making them lick their dominating pussies for hours on end, but seem to be bothered by being told they can refer to them as ‘niggers’. Some people are strange.”

 

Lauren grinned. “Believe me, Helga, it’s no problem.”

 

The commandant smiled, and Lauren knew she was reassured.

 

“Now, as to floggings – nothing too severe. We don’t like broken flesh,” said the busty German. “Stripes, bruises, sure, but we try not to break the flesh, it can sometimes take a while to heal in this climate.”

 

Lauren and Barbara nodded.

 

Helga moved on. “Urine is fine – these black bitches lap it up, some of them more than others, you’ll find out which ones are into the piss,” said the commandant. “But no – and I mean absolutely no faeces. Shit here is a strict no-no. Understood?”

 

Lauren nodded. “Shit disgusts me,” she said, firmly.

 

“Excellent,” said the commandant, nodding her head in appreciation, making her massive breasts bobble like large melons. Lauren wondered idly how they would look under torture, then snapped herself back to what the German uberbitch was saying.

 

“We also use electro-torture here,” she announced. Lauren was fine with that, but glanced at Lady B, who looked, frankly, shocked. Just wait till she gets the controller in her hand for an hour or so, thought Lauren, with an inward smile, she’ll fucking love it!

 

“It’s not high-powered stuff, it just provides nice little jolts, but the niggers bounce around like they’ve been electrocuted,” laughed Helga. “Some of them are fuckin’ great actresses. Only no more than an hour’s electro torture at a time. Oh, well, an hour and a half, tops. Then they must get a four hour break.”

 

“What about face slapping?” asked Lauren, moving to one of her favorite domme games.

 

Helga grinned: “Sure, no problemo, Lauren. Only not too prolonged. Hey, you’re a pro, pardon the expression, I’m sure I can trust you.”

 

“Other games we play are harnessing their big buck nigger bodies up to pony carts and make ‘em haul their asses around the many lovely leafy tracks we have here,” said Helga. “Make ‘em sweat – but remember, it’s hot here, always take enough piss bottles to keep their liquid intake up!”

 

And this time Lauren and Lady B chimed in with their own laughter to accompany Helga’s guttural guffaws.

 

“We’ve also imported, at great cost, a brand new orgasm denial machine from Switzerland – the Swiss are so good at things like that, the darlings. Great fun to be had there, but at the moment we’re road testing it. Should be ready to roll in a day or two.”

 

Helga glanced at a cheat sheet, then looked up at them again. “Right, now the ladies – or should I say sluts – are numbered one to 10. They’re available from 8 in the morning until 8 at night. The number 1 goes to the youngest – she’s 18, and the oldest is 40, and that’s her mom.

 

“That, as you will no doubt be aware, allows for some lovely mom-daughter torture scenarios, eh Lauren?”

 

Lauren nodded. It most certainly did, in fact she was running one through her mind as Helga spoke. A woman and daughter punishment session, when both were subbies was high on the scale of Lauren’s “wish list” when she knew she would be visiting Isle d’Esclaves.

 

“I look forward to putting the pair of them through their paces,” she informed Helga.

 

“I may even watch,” said the commandant, with an evil grin.

 

“Right, now the other slutbitches are 2 – she’s 20, 3 and 4 are 25. Then there’s 5, she’s 26 and number 6, she’s 30. Seven and 8 are 35. Which just leaves 9, who’s 39 and then there’s the nigger momma who is, as I’ve said, 40.”

 

Helga looked at the couple, large-breasted, PVC-bikinied and sweating slightly in the warmth. “Any questions?”

“If the urge, er, takes us,” said Lady B, “like during the night, can we make use of one for sexual purposes?”

 

Helga nodded. “Sure, but it’s best if you arrange it with Patricia, she’s our Mistress of Ceremonies, or Karla, she’s my second-in-command, beforehand. That way the slave can be delivered to your chalet at 8pm – that’s when their official day ends.”

 

Lauren had a question. “What if, say hypothetically, one of the staff – I’m talking about the dominas – fancies us. Can we, er, make use of them in a loving, non-aggressive way?”

 

Helga grinned. “You came over from the main island with Lucy, eh?”

 

Lauren nodded.

 

Helga grinned again. “So the little minx has her cap set at you. There’s only one rule here. If you fancy her and she fancies you, go for it. If the domina – or even Karla, Patricia, or me, we’re all available – says ‘no’ then it’s no. That domme is off limits. Otherwise, it’s no holds barred.”

 

Lauren nodded. “Sounds wonderful, Helga. Now, you mention Karla and Patricia. When do we meet them?”

 

“Right now,” said the commandant, pressing a buzzer beneath her desk and in marched two more dominating-looking women.

 

“Right, this is Karla, my 2-i-c,” said Helga, indicating a tall, dark-haired woman, with heavy breasts and a somewhat hairy pussy. Lauren could tell that Karla’s breasts were heavy because they were thrust into a black leather quarter-cup bra and the only other item of clothing – if it could be graced with the name – was a shiny black leather suspender belt on her lush hips which held up black seamed stockings. She wore high heels and a warm smile.

 

“Hi, I’m Karla,” she announced to the pair of newcomers. “I’m 35 and I worked with Helga for a year in her New York dungeon she’s no doubt told you about. Pleased to meet you – oh, I’m English, by the way.”

 

As if you couldn’t tell, though Lauren, the dark-haired beauty’s accent was even posher than Fenella’s.

 

“And this is Patricia, our Mistress of Ceremonies,” said Helga. “She organises public floggings, punishment games, things to spice up your idle afternoons when you’ve run out of ideas – that’s if you ever run out of ideas,” said Helga, imparting a particularly long look at Lauren.

 

“Hi folks,” said Patricia, in a heavy Stateside-accent. “Please to make your acquaintance. Anything you folks want don’t hesitate to ask – any special slave, any special fuckin’ service, I’m your gal.”

 

“Patricia’s our veteran,” said Helga, looking proudly at the tallish, fair-haired mature woman.

 

“She means I’m the fuckin’ oldest,” laughed Patricia, her naked breasts wobbling in her open-fronted black leather playsuit, her nipples erect, despite the heat. “I’m 50-years-old, but I can swing a flogger with the best of the young uns,” she told Lauren and Lady B.

 

“She is also the most experienced,” said the commandant. “Tell ‘em Patricia.”

 

The blue-eyed beauty grinned and Lauren noticed that her face was quite wrinkled, but her naked, semi-shaved pussy peeping from the open crotch of her playsuit looked eminently lickable.

 

“I’ve been into domination since I was a gal in high school,” she said. “Mind you, my first 10 years was boys and men – even old men, the filthy old fuckers. But gradually I woke up and realised that beating the crap out of women had it all over the men. Specially’s if they’re niggers, know what I mean?” And she winked an evil, lecherous wink at Lauren and Lady B.

 

“Right, now Patricia, why don’t you take Lauren and Lady Barbara here on a tour of inspection. I’m sure they’d like to see the slaves’ quarters and the underground torture area. OK?”

 

“Be my pleasure, Helga,” said the American domme, leading the way to the door. “Follow me folks, I’ll show you where we keep the black bitches at night.”

 

The playsuited 50-year-old took Lauren and Lady B to the 10-cell block set deeper into the woods, well away from the eating quarters, kitchens and the commandant’s office.

 

They walked down the row of cells – five to a row, the cells backing onto each other – and Lauren and Lady B saw extremely spartan cells, cots with plastic mattresses, straw on the floor, piss pots by the side of the cots.

 

All the cells were empty until they reached Cell 5. “Ah, here’s Cell 5 and, as we’re sticklers for conformity here, this here’s slave 5.”

 

Lauren and Lady B looked into the cell and saw, curled up on the bed a naked black girl – her bronzed body was covered in a light sheen, as if she had been undergoing some strenuous work-out.

 

“On your feet, nigger,” Patricia barked, and the girl leapt to her feet and stood to attention by her bed, her hands down by her sides.

 

Lauren looked at the nude with pleasure. She had a shock of frizzy nigger hair, flashing brown eyes, a large cock-sucking mouth, heavy, pendulous breasts, a shaved minge and strong thighs. Around her throat was a black leather choker and depending from it a brass number – the number 5.

 

“Why ya sweating, nigger?” barked Patricia, sounding like a parade ground drill sergeant.

 

“I’ve been pulling a pony cart for Domina Fenella, mistress,” said the black girl, with a surprisingly cultured voice, thought Lauren.

 

“On your knees, nigger,” snapped Patricia and the black bird knelt in obedience.

 

Patricia walked over to the slave’s piss pot. “That your piss, nigger?” she snapped.

 

“Yes, mistress,” said the well-spoken slave.

 

From a basin set on one wall opposite the cot, Patricia picked up a sponge, dipped it in the bowl and soaked it. Then she walked in front of slave 5 and wiped the urine-saturated sponge all over semi-shaved minge, thoroughly dampening the area.

 

“Lick me, nigger,” ordered Patricia and the 26-year-old lifted her face to the 50-year-old’s pussy and began to lick and lave at her sex. After several minutes, Patricia pushed her away, then threw her the sponge. “Dip it in the piss again, bitch,” she commanded.

 

The nigger did as she was told and crawled back in front of the domina. “Now anoint my fucking tits, nigger,” said Patricia.

 

Slave 5 did so. “Now fucking lick me,” came Patricia’s next command. The slave lowered her mouth to Patricia’s gleaming breasts and licked away, her pink tongue working assiduously at removing all vestiges of urine from the American’s heavy breasts.

 

“Thanks, number 5,” laughed Patricia. “Make sure you keep that pot full of piss now, I may be back.”

 

And with a chuckle Patricia led the two new guests out into the glaring sun and across to the underground torture chamber.

 

“Let’s see what fun and games are going on down here,” she said, swinging open a large metal door leading to a flight of concrete steps going underground. The visitors followed her.

 

The door behind them clanged shut and their way was lit by a series of naked lights set in the high roof. It was stifling hot and Lauren felt the perspiration starting to pour off her. Noticing this, Patricia told them: “Sorry ‘bout the heat in this here corridor, but the torture chambers have aircon.”

 

They walked past several heavy metal doors, until the fourth chamber. Above the door was a red light. “That means it’s occupied,” Patricia informed them, pressing her mouth to an intercom by the door and calling out: “Cooee, anyone home?”

 

A crackly voice answered: “Hi Pat, what’s up?”

 

“I’ve got Lauren and Lady B with me, we’re on a tour of inspection,” said Patricia. “OK if we come on in?”

 

The response was a click from the door and Patricia pulled it open and ushered her guests into the thankfully cool chamber.

 

Inside, Lauren saw that the crackly voice belonged to Lucy – but it was a far different Lucy from the young woman who had driven them over to the island from Papeete.

 

Lucy’s big, firm young breasts were slung upwards in mouth-watering uplift by a black leather open-breasted bra. Between her mounds, a narrow strip of leather rose and spread out into a sort of choker which went around the 20-year-old’s neck. Set into the top of the collar around her neck were chrome letters spelling out the word “Boss”.

 

The only other item of clothing Lucy wore was a pair of gleaming black leather boots, with high heels for added hauteur, which came half-way up her luscious thighs. A small sprout of pubic hair was on her mons, below it Lauren could clearly make out her thick, full labia lips.

 

Squatting by Lucy was a strong-thighed, naked bitch, in a sort of baseball catcher’s crouch, her arms held up, her fists bunched before her. Lauren saw from her collar and number that she was number 9, and her photographic memory informed her: “Slave 9, 39-years-old.” Lauren prided herself on her brilliant, instant recall.

 

Lauren looked closer and saw that the nigger’s nipples were clamped with cruel alligator-toothed clamps, and from each clamp was a short length of wire and dangling from the wire lead weights, about the size of a golf ball. Similar clamps were on the nigger’s piss flaps, similar lead weights dangled below her pussy, almost grazing the floor.

 

“Hi Lauren, hi Lady B,” said Lucy, who was holding a many-thonged heavy rubber flogger in one hand and draping it across the mature nigger’s bare back. “I’m just letting bitch here play the bunny hop game for a while – wanna show our guests the game, nigger bitch?” she asked.

 

The nigger nodded: “Yes, please, Miss Lucy.”

 

Lucy swept the flogger across her victim’s back and when the blow hit home, the nigger did a little bunny hop. The weights swayed and the slave’s face contorted into a grimace. The flogger fell again, another hop, another grimace.

 

“Tell our guests what it feels like, slut,” said Lucy.

 

“Every time I bunny hop, the lead weights jerk on my titties and piss flaps, mistresses,” she intoned, in a level voice.

 

“And does it hurt?” asked Lucy.

 

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” replied the naked nigger.

 

“And do you like it?” Lucy pressed her.

 

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” she responded.

 

“Liar!” laughed Lucy and she swept the flogger across the nigger’s back once more. The obligatory bunny hop followed.

 

Then Patricia got in on the fun. “I see the nigger’s back is covered in sweat, Lucy,” she said. “Do you think she’s thirsty?’

 

“Let’s ask her,” said the 20-year-old domina with a mischievous smile. “Well, nigger bitch, are you thirsty?”

 

“Yes, Miss Lucy, very thirsty,” said the slave.

 

“Well that won’t do,” said Lucy, in a mock caring voice. “Let’s get you a drink. Perhaps one of you ladies might care to do the honours – Lady B, would you be so kind?”

 

Lauren noticed that Barbara leapt at the invitation. “I’d love to,” said the world’s richest woman.

 

Then Lucy added: “The drinks dispensers are over by that wall – I don’t think you’ll have much difficulty spotting which is the slaves’ and which is the dominas’.”

Lauren looked and saw there would be no difficulty whatsoever. One dispenser was full of dark, yellow urine – the colour of a rich chardonnay – the other, clear, cool water.

 

As Lady B filled a plastic beaker for the slave, Lauren raised a point which had been occupying her mind for a while.

 

“Patricia,” she asked, “I know that the slaves get golden showers from the dominas and Helga, Karla and you, and they have to drink from your pussies and so on.”

 

Patricia nodded. “So where does all this urine come from?” asked Lauren.

 

Patricia grinned. “Simple – we’ve got a lady bartender, three ladies serving in the bar and waiting on table. Then there’s our wonderful chef and her four assistants, four ladies who clean the chalets and wash the sheets – oh, and two security women who you’ll see patrolling the grounds from time to time in golf buggies. That makes, er let me see ....”

 

“That’s 15 all up,” said Lauren, who had been doing the sum in her head as Patricia spoke.

 

“Exactly,” said Patricia, “and their piss is all bottled, chilled and ready to go every day. It’s been slightly de-salinated and it’s totally sterile. It’s just that it tastes awful.”

 

By now, Lady B was standing in front of the nude nigger with a plastic beaker containing perhaps 12 fluid ounces of piss.

 

“On your feet,” snapped Lucy, and the black bird obeyed.

 

Lady B handed her the plastic container and ordered: “Just a small sip to start with, 9.” Lauren was impressed.

 

The nigger sipped. “Now another,” said Lady B. The black bitch sipped again. “Now a gulp,” said Lady B. A gulp. “Now drain it.” The nigger drained the contents.

 

Lady B accepted the beaker back from the slave and inquired: “Was that nice, nigger?” Lauren was even more impressed.

 

“Yes, thank-you, mistress, very nice,” said slave 9 in a low voice.

 

“Good,” said Lady B, “in which case I’ll get you a refill.”

 

Lauren was hugely impressed. Her friend was definitely getting into the swing of things on the Isle d’Esclaves!

 

Lady B fetched the slave woman another beaker of piss and instructed her on how to drink it, then took the beaker and threw it unerringly into a wastepaper basket.

 

“Right, slave,” snapped Lucy, “back into position.” Down swept the flogger and slave 9 resumed her bunny hopping routine.

 

“OK, team,” said Patricia, “we’ll leave Lucy to her devious devices, now I’ll show you to your chalets.”

 

Lauren, who would have liked to stay to witness some more of the nigger’s punishment, reluctantly left the chamber, but not before running a hand gently across Lucy’s lush, naked bum. Lucy looked at her and winked slowly. Yes, thought Lauren, we’re going to get along famously.

 

 Back outside in the blinding sun, Patricia led them first to Lauren’s chalet. “I’ll run you along to yours in a moment, Lady B,” she said, “but they’re all identical.”

Patricia pointed out a spacious en suite with a shower – large enough for two, possibly three, thought Lauren – a large bath, a basin, toilet and a bidet. Trust the French, she thought.

 

In the bedroom, Lauren saw her small overnight case had been left on a stretcher. On the bed, arranged from left to right, lay a rubber cat o’ nine tails, a riding crop, a single-stranded lash and a thicker paddle, which looked perfect for pussy punishment, Lauren thought. Arranged on the pillow was a strap-on dildo device.

 

“The fridge is fully stocked and, of course, complimentary,” said Patricia, who then indicated a large flat-screen television set.

 

“On the shelf you’ll find a collection of about 100 DVDs,” said Patricia. “Most of them are femdom of nigger slaves – a surprise that, eh?” They all laughed. “The others are femdom with white slut bitches and a few have male slaves. They don’t get much airtime in this place.” More laughs.

 

“And on the telly,” said Patricia, bending over and flicking a switch, “we have remote cameras in each of the torture chambers.” The screen showed an empty but superbly equipped TC1 – obviously Torture Chamber 1, Lauren realised.

 

“Now, where did we find Lucy?” asked the Mistress of Ceremonies.

 

“Chamber four,” said Lady B, keen to see what was happening in that dungeon now.

 

“Right,” said Patricia, flicking the remote controller to channel 4.

 

Up on the screen came a crystal-clear view of Lucy, feet spread wide with slave 9 on her knees in front of the young white girl’s pussy.

 

“Sound is perfect, listen,” said Patricia, and she turned up the volume.

 

“Oh yes, slut, lick that anus, lick it!” Lucy was saying to her nigger bitch. “Now my cunt, yes, now my clit – yes, yes.”

 

Lucy’s voice rang out in the chalet, and then Lauren looked in the corner of the screen and saw a little information panel. It read “TC4, Domina Lucy, slave 9.” Impressive.

 

Patricia flicked the screen off and smiled at Lady B: “Now, let’s show you your pad, Lady B.” And the pair left Lauren to her own devices. She stepped swiftly to the TV and flicked the on button. Up came Lucy, sobbing and shrieking to an extremely noisy orgasm on her slave’s mouth. Just you wait, my girl, just you wait, thought Lauren.

 

Several minutes later, Patricia popped her head into the chalet  and saw Lauren, lolling in an easy chair, her hand thrust into her crotch, her fingers playing with her pussy as she watched Lucy bunny hopping the nude nigger around Torture Chamber 4.

 

“Oh, hi, Lauren,” said Partricia, “hope I’m not interrupting. But we eat dinner here around 7pm. Drinks hour starts at 6 – I’ve told Lady B we’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

 

All of which gave Lauren time to enjoy a long, leisurely bath, soaking the strenuous effects of the flight, the bouncy boat ride and the thrilling tour of inspection away and leaving her relaxed, thirsty and hungry.

 

Just past 6pm she and Lady B, now both wearing metallic bikini bras and smart denim hotpants and high heels, walked into the bar and were served champagne cocktails by an extremely pretty blonde, wearing only a PVC bikini and high heels. She was about 20, Lauren thought, and gorgeous. This island sure has its possibilities, she realised.

 

Helga, still wearing her trademark playsuit, walked in with two hard-faced blondes, both in their late 50s, Lauren estimated. They were introduced to the two mega-rich women by Helga as “the Braun sisters from Frankfurt”. The women did not bother to shake hands, merely bowed slightly and nodded.

 

“They don’t speak much English,” Helga said in a stage whisper to Lauren and Lady B. “I’ll entertain them over dinner. I think you’ll find they keep themselves pretty much to themselves.”

 

Which suits me just fine, thought Lauren. She didn’t like the look of them, not even their faux leather bras and bikini bottoms and cheap-looking boots. They had obviously scrimped and saved every penny – or frank – for this trip, she thought. Well, fuck ‘em. They were on the top of Lauren’s list of people she most wanted to meet least.

 

Patricia and Karla joined Lauren and Lady B for dinner – a superb meal of some local fish in a lovely, almost chocolatey-sauce. The vegetables and the salad were fresh, which was perfect and the champagne was Krug Blanc de Blancs, which, for Lauren, made it even more perfect than perfect.

 

Around 7.45, the two German women made their excuses and retired, which allowed Helga to join the foursome.

 

“Oh fuck, they’re hard work,” she sighed, sipping on a foaming glass of beer, her favorite drink. “I’m going to call ‘em ‘The Fucking Frankfurt Frauleins’. Talk about boring. All they wanted to know was how we prevent the niggers from getting their periods.”

 

At around 8pm, over cognacs and coffee, Lauren stretched and yawned, without even realising she was so tired. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” she said, “but I think even that four-hour flight has caught up with me.”

 

“And the sea breezes on the run to the island,” smiled Karla.

 

“Now breakfast is from 7am, so we can make a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed start to the day,” said Patricia. “And is there any special request you’d like to start off your first day proper?”

 

She had asked it as a general question, but to Lauren’s mind there was no doubt it was directed at her, not Lady B, who was obviously the tyro domme.

 

Lauren smiled. “I’d love to start with slaves 1 and 10. Possibly up on the stage where I can attract an audience, perhaps?”

 

Helga and Patricia both grinned at each other. “Snap!” they both said and burst into laughter.

 

Lauren looked from one to the other, then Helga spoke: “Sorry Lauren, but Patricia and I both knew you’d go for the pair of them together. We’re really looking forward to your debut performance for us.”

 

Dropping her napkin on her plate and leaving her cognac half finished, Lauren stood: “Well, in that case I’d better get my beauty sleep. Can’t go disappointing an eager audience, can we?”

 

Lauren returned in the still darkness to her chalet, stripped nude and fell between the cool satin sheets. The aircon whirred quietly in the background. There was so much to think about, 10 nigger slaves, Lucy’s lush little body, that pretty little blonde barmaid, so much – but she was so tired.

 

Soon she was drifting off to sleep, but her final thoughts were of Lucy’s lubricious pussy pressing onto her mouth and the lovely little barmaid, lying naked over a whipping bench. Her hand strayed towards her pussy, but before it could come into contact with her labia, Lauren had fallen asleep.

 

Next: Day 2.