Enslaved on an Alien World Ch 02
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Enslaved Chapter 21 free porn video
On the following morning, after Julia had attended to his toiletry needs, Quentin rang up Miss Judith on the house phone and asked for the girl to be taken back to her cell.
“I expect Jason or Ahmed, or maybe both, will be looking in there a little later on,” he said with a smile to the kneeling figure. He liked the way Julia gave a shudder. The dark lustrous eyes were on him wide and frantically pleading.
“M-Master... may I speak?” asked Julia in a low voice, rather to Quentin’s surprise. The girl was taking a risk, for slaves were not supposed to address their owner unless they were spoken to. She must be pretty desperate, he thought.
“Well?” Quentin kept his voice hard.
“Master... may I ask... h-have you yet decided? About tt- taking me with you?”
How delightful to have her begging him to remove her and incarcerate her as his permanent slave! Who would ever have once believed it? Nevertheless Quentin frowned.
“No, I have not, Julia,” he answered sharply. “And how dare you ask me such a question, Girl? I’ve a good mind to report the matter to Miss Judith. It’s sheer insolence...”
“Plee... eeease... no... M-Master...” Julia extended her arms imploringly. She had already broken one rule... so it was in for a penny, in for a pound.
“You admit it was insolent?”
“Yes... yes, Master... but... Master... I so much want to c-come with you... as your s-slave... and the slave of... of your f-future wife...”
“I am not interested in your feelings, Julia,” said Quentin severely. “Only your actions.” He strolled slowly across to the drawer, opened it, and took out the cane he had used the previous evening. “However, I’ll deal with the matter myself.
Bottom up, girl!”
Nose to carpet... nails clawing... curvaceous bottom thrusting... What a joy to whiplash the cane across that bottom just as hard as he could! What a joy to hear Julia squeal, to watch her squirm, yet keep her hindquarters high.
Again!
And again!
“I will not have insolence...”
Again!
“Aaahhh... I beg pardon... Master...”
And again!
“Aaaiiieeeee!”
The tops of the long white thighs were unmarked and Quentin laid the sixth and final stroke there, drawing a yelping cry of torment from his victim.
Quentin strolled back and replaced the cane whilst Julia remained, weal-striped bottom upthrust, white shoulders heaving. Painful as it had been, she had expected worse.
Also, she had not been reported to Miss Judith. Thus, in a slave’s world, she had something to be thankful for!
At that moment, there came a knock on the door and, on receiving permission, Jason entered.
“Ah...” smiled Quentin, “be so good as to take Julia away, Jason.”
“Yes, Sir...” The hulking negro smiled in return, showing a battery of gleaming white teeth. “Up with you, Missie.”
Julia stood a little unsteadily as a collar was put about her neck. Jason took the end of the chain attached to it.
From the look in his eyes, thought Quentin, his immediate intentions are fairly obvious. This was confirmed as Jason led Julia from the room.
“Come along, pretty one, I’ve got a treat in store for you,” he said.
Few men could have felt more contented than Quentin as the door closed behind his erstwhile mistress.
After a light breakfast, Quentin went a little early to the sundeck. He had his reasons... and was rewarded. For, as he had hoped there would be, down on the lower deck was a kneeling slave-girl, scrubbing and scrubbing.
It was a scene that took Quentin right back to his very first visit to the ‘Paradise’. Indeed, the very first morning when he had feasted his eyes upon a similar sight. Almost disbelievingly then; now he took it as a matter of course.
Quentin took up the pair of opera glasses from the table beside him and focussed them on the naked girl. Her swinging breasts and quivering bottom flesh came into close-up. So did the sheen of sweat on her back. She wore a silver chain and, Quentin guessed, was around twenty four or five. A well-made strong-looking girl. She would, he realised, be a relative newcomer to the ‘Paradise’. Deck scrubbing was one of the ways of ‘breaking in’ girls to the arduous regime. As
yet, noted Quentin, the girl’s flesh was unmarked so she would not have been long at her task nor would one of the overseers been around to give her a little stimulus with the leather thong.
Julia had scrubbed those decks, Quentin said to himself.
Day in, day out. Scrubbed till her arms and back were one whole burning ache. And then gone on scrubbing. Because her bottom burnt even more fierily due to the throbbing welts implanted by the leather.
A joyous thought!
Then Quentin heard a footstep behind him and lowered the glasses. It was Gunnar Svenson.
“Ah, good morning...” he said politely. He noted the Swede’s eyes fasten at once on the kneeling figure below.
“sleep well?”
“After I’d finished with that Danish piece... yes. Like a log,” smiled Gunnar. “What a body she’s got!”
He’s acclimatising already, thought Quentin.
“Yes... hasn’t
she,” he agreed.
“There’s not a bad one down there, either.” The opera glasses changed hands and Gunnar got a close-up of the sweating, nude figure.
“My God, they certainly put them though it here,” he murmured after a while.
“It’s the only way to re-mould their characters,” said Quentin dryly. He guessed that Gunnar would be imagined his own ‘Viking Goddess’ sweating her guts out in a similar fashion. As he had done with Julia.
The black clad figure of an overseer came strolling along the deck... and Quentin rather wished he still had the opera glasses. Still, Gunnar was on a first visit. He watched as the overseer unlooped the long leather thong from her belt.
The girl was still scrubbing, her efforts intensified. But no matter. The thong swung high and fell across her bottom.
The sound of it, and the accompanying gasping-cry came floating up to them. The girl threshed like a white eel on the deck and got two more strokes across her thighs.
“Christ,” said Gunnar, “she seemed to be working hard enough...”
“Not the point,” said Quentin. “That is just to encourage her to keep on working hard. She’ll have an hour or more to go yet. And it’s getting hotter by the minute.”
“I am beginning to see how it is they are made to submissively obedient” remarked Gunnar. He still had the glasses on the girl, who had now resumed scrubbing, with three long, broad welts across her white flesh.
“Even the most stubborn spirit can be broken,” Quentin assured him.
At that point they were joined on the sundeck by Madame Vesta, who was accompanied by Miss Judith. The latter was introduced to Gunnar Svenson, who was obviously impressed by the powerful appearance of the tall, commanding blonde overseer.
“Refreshments first or when we return?” asked Madame Vesta.
“Er... when we return, I think,” answered Quentin, for both men.
“Well, then,” said Madam Vesta. “Miss Judith has just informed me that Miss Mara is holding one of her small drill classes. Afterwards, we might go and look at the Treadmill.
That’s a fairly recent innovation on the ship. There’ll be somebody on it, I suppose, Miss Judith?”
The blonde woman glanced at her wrist-watch. “Rebecca should just about be going on now,” she answered.
Quentin pricked up his ears. “Rebecca?” he queried. “I think I recall her. A Jewess, I think... and rather a hefty one, at that.”
“Correct,” nodded Madame Vesta. “Her Master, Otto Gerbon, ordered that she be put onto the Treadmill, twice a week for an hour at a time. Said it might help to keep her weight down.” A faint expression of sardonic amusement passed over Madame Vesta’s face. “Well, gentlemen... if you will follow me...” The owner of the ‘Paradise’ turned and led the way down from the sundeck. As on the previous evening, she was dressed all in black but her dress was now of a short length
and she wore a pair of lace-up leather boots. Miss Judith brought up the rear, in her customarily abbreviated leather garb. The partly made its way towards the stern of the vessel.
Before they arrived, all four could hear sharp words of command being given. Then they turned a corner and an intriguing sight met their eyes. Four naked girls were marching with the precision of guardsmen across the deck.
Each carried a pack upon her back and word a waist-nipping cincher-belt of red leather. They were shod with red leather boots with six-inch stiletto heels.
“About turn!”
The command came from the tall figure in command of the group. This was, the dusky-skinned Miss Mara; six feet of athletic womanhood. Well-muscled yet not mannish. She wore the same short skirt and bolero as Miss Judith, but hers were of white leather not black.
“Please be seated, Gentlemen,” invited Madame Vesta, indicating to four upright canvas chairs by the side of the square over which the girls were exercising.
Quentin and Gunnar happily accepted the invitation and feasted their eyes on the sights before them. The girls were all much the same in height and build for Miss Mara handpicked her various drill squads in order to maintain this kind of uniformity. Every slave-girl came under her orders
for one hour three times a week. It was all part of the ship’s discipline.
The four girls came marching towards the chairs, features tense and distressed, breast bouncing, thighs raising to the horizontal with each step. Two were dark-haired, one fairish, the others chestnut. Each had her hair pulled back into a pony-tail held by a red ribbon.
“About turn!”
The four girls performed a regulation ‘about turn’ manoeuvre right before the watchers, then marched away from them. Now they were favoured with the sight of four straight backs, loaded with packs, and four sets of swinging hips and joggling buttocks beneath. Two of the squad carried a long red welt across their flesh... evidence that Miss Mara’s thong had already been at work. It was of the ‘standard’ kind, like the one Miss Judith and all the other overseers carried.
“Those packs weigh fifty pounds,” said Miss Judith informatively.
“Jeesusss!” breathed Gunnar.
“No wonder they look a bit fatigued,” said Quentin. “How long have they been drilling?”
“Oh... no more than a quarter of an hour or so,” replied Miss Judith. “This is more of a warm-up period.”
“About turn!”
Back the four came... high-stepping, arms swinging to shoulder level. How deliciously those pairs of breasts swung and bounced. There was a kind of unison in their rhythm. The strain of carrying those heavy packs was evident and one could see the straps which held them cutting into soft flesh. And this, thought Quentin, was what Miss Judith merely called a ‘warm-up’!
“Halt!”
One.. two.. a stamp of the foot and four girls pulled up in line. Except that the one on the extreme left stumbled slightly. At once, with long-striding, feline grace, Miss Mara moved out on to the square. The thong swung.
Thwack!
It fell resoundingly across the errant girl’s bottom.
Gasping, mouth wide, eyes filled with pain, she staggered a step forward before quickly withdrawing back into line.
“Watch it Gina,” bellowed the coffee-skinned overseer.
Gina was the girl with the chestnut hair and her bottom already carried a swathe of pain.
“Do they keep at it for a whole hour?” asked Gunnar incredulously.
“No,” replied Miss Judith, “they have a five minutes break after half an hour. But you will note that the exercises get more strenuous as the time progresses.”
“About turn!”
The squad turned like one, so that the girls had their backs to the watchers.
“Legs astride... arms raised... bending and touching the toes... GO!”
The four girls straddled their limbs, raised their arms high and then bent over. They were, to say, the least, displaying themselves most provocatively. Miss Mara prowled behind them, strap swinging.
“Up!”
Up the four came together...
“Down!”
Down the four went together...
Thwack!
The strap rose and fell across a taut pair of nates and a yelping cry rose up to the skies.
“Keep your legs straight, Cynthia!” barked Miss Mara.
A couple of dozen times the girls bent, then rose, straining under the weight of their packs. Every now and then, Miss Mara’s thong thwacked across bare flesh as she gave some reprimand.
“Up! Attention! About turn!”
Now the four girls were facing the audience again. The look of distress on each face had intensified.
“Running on the spot! Begin!” bellowed Miss Mara. There was no let up.
With arms straight by their sides, the girls began to raise their thighs to the horizontal. Their movement had the precision of a chorus line. Fascinated, Quentin watched their heaving chests... not to mention the rolling, bouncing pairs of breasts... and saw the gaping mouths as they sucked
in air.
Thwack!
The girl with the chestnut hair got it again.
“legs higher, Gina,” bellowed Miss Mara.
Idly, Quentin wondered how Julia had taken to these exercises when she had first come aboard. She had never been much of a one for exercise. Rather lazy, in fact. Nor could one have said she enjoyed taking orders! Oh dear, oh dear, what a time Julia must have had.
“Halt!”
Panting, and now glistening with sweat, the four girls came to a halt. How long can they go on like this, wondered Quentin? There must be almost ten minutes before the break.
He could only suppose that previous exercising had made them all excessively fit. And, of course, there was the incentive of avoiding Miss Mara’s swinging thong.
“Dumbells!”
The four girls scampered to the side of the figure and picked up the pairs of iron dumbells lying there.
“They weigh ten pounds each,” said Miss Judith.
“Arms stretching and bending,” announced Miss Mara when the four were in line again. “Upwards.. sideways.. and forwards. Begin!”
Up went the arms high.. and straight. Breasts lifted, muscles quivered. Then down again. Then sideways. The effort was obvious. Back again. Then forward.
Oh the strain! Back again.
“Repeat,” ordered Miss Mara.
Again...
And again...
And again...
And yet again...
And yet again...
Two of the girls began to sob with the effort. Once the blonde’s arm sagged as she stretched them out. It did not escape Miss Mara.
Thwack!
“Yyyaaaghh... aaahaaa!!!!”
“Keep your arms up, Liza!”
Again.. again.. again...
Quentin almost began to feel sorry for the sweating, straining creatures. He could imagine the agony of it... having to drive on muscles that kept repeating they had reached their limit.
“It’s the last five minutes of each half-hour session that really makes them suffer,” said Miss Judith. Her eyes were glinting sadistically. It was very obvious she liked to watch that suffering.
“Yes...” nodded Gunnar, “I can see that...”
All the girls were sobbing with exhaustion by then, and no matter how often Miss Mara barked her commands, and no matter how often her thong fell, not one of them could stretch and bend her arms to the overseer’s satisfaction.
Finally, Gina collapsed in a weeping heap upon the deck... there to receive stroke after stroke from the thong. But, painful as that must have been, the girl seemed past caring.
“Alright... we’ll have the break,” called Miss Mara... then strolled unconcernedly over to the group which had been watching her.
“Morning all,” she said, with a friendly smile. One could never have imagined she had just been
driving four young women to the very limits of their endurance.
“Good morning, Miss Mara,” said Madame Vesta formally.
“You seem to be as efficient as ever...”
“I try... I try...” smiled the half-cast, glancing back at the naked figures which sprawled on the square, breath rasping, breasts heaving.
Quentin and Gunnar were introduced and added their compliments. This tall powerful woman was somewhat frightening in appearance even to them. It made one wonder how the girls regarded her!
“Do you get many of them fainting, Miss Mara?” asked Quentin.
“Not too many,” she answered. “They shouldn’t because they have a ‘booster’ injection before they come on parade.
If they do, they’re sent on Report.”
“On Report?” Gunnar looked enquiring at Madame Vesta.
“Didn’t I tell you about that, Gunnar?” asked the blackclad figure. “On Report means having to attend the evening session in the punishment Room. That’s not something any of them look forward to!”
“That’s held every evening?”
“Well... every evening there is someone on Report, shall we say.”
“I see...” mused the Swede. He watched Miss Mara strolling back on to the square then saw her pick up a length of hose pipe.
“Up!” she shouted “and against the railings...” The four sprawling figures staggered up and over to the side of the ship. Miss Mara turned on the nozzle of the hose and a fierce jet of water thumped into the belly of one of the girls, almost bowling her over. Casually, Miss Mara turned the hose on each in turn and, despite its fierceness, each one seemed glad to receive it and eagerly lapped up what water they could out of the palms of their hands.
Dripping wet they were at last ordered back to the centre of the square.
“Now they have what we call ‘Saddle Strap’ put on them,” said Miss Judith. “It makes exercising considerably more painful!”
Miss Mara advanced, carrying four thin thongs of red leather.
“Legs astride!” she ordered.
At once, the girls straddled their limbs. Coming to the first, Miss Mara fastened the thong to a ring at the front of the cincher-belt. Then she pulled the thong down and under the girl... pulling it up again to fasten it to a another ring at the back of the cincher-belt. The thong was pulled very tight and the girl gasped out as it cut deep into her tenderest of flesh. Unhurriedly, Miss Mara treated the other three in the same way... before taking up her position at the side of the square.
“Now,” said Miss Judith, “they do all their exercises over again... but this time with the handicap of the Saddle Strap.”
“By the left... quick march!” bellowed Miss Mara.
And off the four wretched creatures went again. Arms swinging, legs raising.
But now they gasped and winced at almost every step... and the cruelty of this device known as Saddle Strap was very obvious.
Soon Miss Mara’s thong was falling with greater frequency.
Every time the girls turned away from their audience, their buttocks seemed to have taken on a redder and redder hue.
Now, too, swathes of red were appearing across the fronts of thighs.
To say the least, Miss Mara was relentless. Cruel and callous in her commands and comments.
The drill Sergeant personified... but in female form.
After a quarter of an hour’s marching, the girls were put to their bending and stretching exercises. Now even more agonising than before, of course. Quentin had to keep reminding himself that each of them was carrying a fifty-pound pack.
Incredible!
He wondered when the first one would drop.
But the threat of being on Report seemed to drive each one on and on... and on... and on.
“Seen enough?” asked Madame Vesta, glancing at her wrist watch.
“Er... yes... I think so,” nodded Quentin. When Madame Vesta hinted, or made a suggestion, it was best to go along with her.
“You’ll have got the general drift, anyway,” she said with a thin smile.
Thwack! thwack! Miss Mara was hard at work!
“Yes...” said Gunnar. “I must say, I did not realise you had such severe discipline here.”
“You approve, I hope,” said Madame Vesta, a shade sharply.
“Oh yes... oh yes, Indeed,” said Gunnar quickly. He spoke no more than the truth. The idea of his ‘Viking Goddess’ being on such a parade filled him with the greatest pleasure!
“Very well, let us go and inspect the treadmill,” said Madame Vesta. “Thank you Miss Mara!” she called as the four of them rose and began to move off. But Miss Mara was rather too preoccupied to answer.
Thwack... thwack... thwack... went her thong, as the party left the deck.
Now the party made its way down into the lowest part of the ship. What used to be termed the bilges in former times. It was silent, rather dark and gloomy in the corridor they finally arrived at.. Not a pleasant place to be, brought, reflected Quentin. They came to a door which, on a plaque,
carried one simply word - TREADMILL. Simple but terrifying for anyone who was going to be put on it! Miss Judith unlocked the door and it swung open. She indicated that the two men should go in and, with eager anticipation, they complied.
It was not a very large room and the treadmill it housed (which was rather like a large water wheel) was not fully contained within it. It came down through the ceiling and disappeared into the floor, only a quarter of the circumference of the wheel being in the room at any one time. The steps of
this wheel-treadmill were something like eighteen inches in height and three feet wide.
Rebecca was on the treadmill and, naturally, she took the first attention of both men. She was in an erect position, arms aloft, wrists being held by manacles set in heavy crossbeam above. By placing one foot after another upon each step, she was moving the treadmill round. That it took some effort to turn the wheel was obvious. It was heavy and turned fairly slowly. Rebecca had to step high each time and press down firmly. Her buxom, white bottom swung judderingly from side
to side with each step and she grunted with the required effort.
Quentin remembered the fulsomeness of that bottom... and the splendid creamy-whiteness of the ample flesh. Yes, Rebecca was a big woman alright and he recalled her owner explaining that he liked his women that way. Fair enough.
Everyone to his own taste.
“There are thirty steps on the treadmill,” explained Miss Judith, as they all stood there gazing at the sweating, grunting figure. “If a slave puts her back into it, she can turn the wheel completely in thirty seconds. Two revolutions a minute. Or, if you prefer, one hundred and twenty in anhour.”
There was a ‘click’ and a little metal flap to one side of the wheel flipped over ‘81’, it read. To one side of the flap was a small dial which indicated ‘45’.
Miss Judith now pointed to these. “The flap records the number of turns,” she explained, “the dial, the time spent on the treadmill. The occupant, as we can see them. So she knew how she’s doing and what she’s still got to do.”
“Intriguing,” smiled Quentin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Judith, taking the thong from her belt.
“Rebecca, as you can no doubt calculate,” she went on,
“Should have achieved 90 turns by now. So she’s got something to make up in the last quarter...”
The thong thwacked across the big, swinging bottom and the sound was loud in that small room. So was Rebecca’s gasping bellow.
“Get moving you lazy cow!” snarled Miss Judith... and laid on the leather viciously again.
Rebecca’s bottom twisted and contorted violently with the pain and, for a few moments, her ever-climbing footsteps faltered. Then, as the woman grunted and groaned more loudly, the pace of them increased somewhat. The effort she had to make was evident by the quivering of the muscles of her thighs and calves. Her full-fleshed body was so drenched with sweat, one might have imagined she had just stepped out from under a shower.
“I reckon,” said Madame Vesta, “she loses three of four pounds after an hour on this.”
“What happens,” enquired Quentin, “if she does not fulfil the number of turns?”
Miss Judith pointed to a rod which hung on the wall alongside the indicators.
A potent inducement to effort! “I shall lay that good and hard across her fat arse,” she said.
“Ahh... I see...”
“She will get two strokes for every turn of the wheel she is short. So if she does only 110 turns, she gets twenty...”
Quentin wondered what it must be like to be on the treadmill... and to hear this kind of conversation going on!
No wonder Rebecca appeared to be making even greater efforts.
“...she has to complete the required number of turns, in any event,” Miss Judith was continuing. “She gets two strokes each time the wheel comes round and the flap clicks over.”
“Quite salutary,” remarked Madame Vesta soberly. She was obviously delighted by this new device for torment which she had had recently installed.
“Ugh.. agh.. ugh.. agh...” grunted the wretched woman straining every sinew.
The indicator passed 100... Fascinated, Quentin’s eyes devoured the plump bottom, swinging and juddering incessantly. What a fate for a woman!
‘Click’, 105 had been reached...
Quentin glanced at the dial. There was but five minutes to go. Rebecca had no chance of reaching her target. 15 turns in 5 minutes at the end of stint, was just not on. All the same, the groaning woman made a supreme effort. As the dial reached ‘60’ and the a bell rang, the flap registered
‘115’.
Five too few turns, so Rebecca had earned herself ten from the rod for her ‘failure’!
Her head hung, her shoulders heaved, her breath rasped stertorously. She was as near complete exhaustion as made no difference. Miss Judith moved forward and took down the rod.
It was three feet long, highly polished, and a little thicker than the one Quentin had used earlier on Julia.
“Right, slave” said Miss Judith, measuring the ample rump with the rod, “you will now complete the task your Master set for you!”
Somehow, Rebecca pulled herself up out of the depths of her exhaustion and set her trembling legs in motion again.
‘Click’.
116 had been reached...
Instantly, Miss Judith whiplashed the rod twice across Rebecca’s bottom... setting it writhing frantically as gasping screams filled the small room. For a moment, in her agony, the woman literally hung from her wrist manacles.
“Move it!” bellowed Miss Judith.
Somehow, only she knew how, Rebecca set the treadmill in motion again. Slowly... slowly it turned...
‘Click’.
117... had been reached...
And once more the rod bit viciously into the ample flesh. Three more times the performance was repeated. It was incredible that any woman in the state Rebecca was, could make such efforts. Yet she did... she did...
The over-riding factor was pain.
Yes... sheer pain was the driving force.
And, when at last it was all over, Miss Judith released the near-fainting woman from her manacles. The heavy body slumped to the floor, Rebecca sobbing piteously.
Then they simply left her there.
“I’ll have her taken back to her cell later,” said Miss Judith, as they sauntered out... the overseer carefully locking the door behind them.
To say the least, Quentin had been impressed by what he had seen that morning. Gunnar Svenson even more so!
“Has Julia ever been on the treadmill?” asked Quentin, when they had regained the pleasant warmth of the sundeck, where refreshments awaited.
“Not that I am aware of,” answered Madame Vesta, glancing at Miss Judith. The overseer shook her head. “Do you want her to?”
“Well...” said Quentin slowly, “it’s something to be considered, isn’t it? I’ll think the matter over... and let you know.”
“Just as you like,” said Madame Vesta, rather primly.
Then she snapped her fingers... and shapely young Marisa came running to serve them the drinks which had already been set for their enjoyment.
“I expect Jason or Ahmed, or maybe both, will be looking in there a little later on,” he said with a smile to the kneeling figure. He liked the way Julia gave a shudder. The dark lustrous eyes were on him wide and frantically pleading.
“M-Master... may I speak?” asked Julia in a low voice, rather to Quentin’s surprise. The girl was taking a risk, for slaves were not supposed to address their owner unless they were spoken to. She must be pretty desperate, he thought.
“Well?” Quentin kept his voice hard.
“Master... may I ask... h-have you yet decided? About tt- taking me with you?”
How delightful to have her begging him to remove her and incarcerate her as his permanent slave! Who would ever have once believed it? Nevertheless Quentin frowned.
“No, I have not, Julia,” he answered sharply. “And how dare you ask me such a question, Girl? I’ve a good mind to report the matter to Miss Judith. It’s sheer insolence...”
“Plee... eeease... no... M-Master...” Julia extended her arms imploringly. She had already broken one rule... so it was in for a penny, in for a pound.
“You admit it was insolent?”
“Yes... yes, Master... but... Master... I so much want to c-come with you... as your s-slave... and the slave of... of your f-future wife...”
“I am not interested in your feelings, Julia,” said Quentin severely. “Only your actions.” He strolled slowly across to the drawer, opened it, and took out the cane he had used the previous evening. “However, I’ll deal with the matter myself.
Bottom up, girl!”
Nose to carpet... nails clawing... curvaceous bottom thrusting... What a joy to whiplash the cane across that bottom just as hard as he could! What a joy to hear Julia squeal, to watch her squirm, yet keep her hindquarters high.
Again!
And again!
“I will not have insolence...”
Again!
“Aaahhh... I beg pardon... Master...”
And again!
“Aaaiiieeeee!”
The tops of the long white thighs were unmarked and Quentin laid the sixth and final stroke there, drawing a yelping cry of torment from his victim.
Quentin strolled back and replaced the cane whilst Julia remained, weal-striped bottom upthrust, white shoulders heaving. Painful as it had been, she had expected worse.
Also, she had not been reported to Miss Judith. Thus, in a slave’s world, she had something to be thankful for!
At that moment, there came a knock on the door and, on receiving permission, Jason entered.
“Ah...” smiled Quentin, “be so good as to take Julia away, Jason.”
“Yes, Sir...” The hulking negro smiled in return, showing a battery of gleaming white teeth. “Up with you, Missie.”
Julia stood a little unsteadily as a collar was put about her neck. Jason took the end of the chain attached to it.
From the look in his eyes, thought Quentin, his immediate intentions are fairly obvious. This was confirmed as Jason led Julia from the room.
“Come along, pretty one, I’ve got a treat in store for you,” he said.
Few men could have felt more contented than Quentin as the door closed behind his erstwhile mistress.
After a light breakfast, Quentin went a little early to the sundeck. He had his reasons... and was rewarded. For, as he had hoped there would be, down on the lower deck was a kneeling slave-girl, scrubbing and scrubbing.
It was a scene that took Quentin right back to his very first visit to the ‘Paradise’. Indeed, the very first morning when he had feasted his eyes upon a similar sight. Almost disbelievingly then; now he took it as a matter of course.
Quentin took up the pair of opera glasses from the table beside him and focussed them on the naked girl. Her swinging breasts and quivering bottom flesh came into close-up. So did the sheen of sweat on her back. She wore a silver chain and, Quentin guessed, was around twenty four or five. A well-made strong-looking girl. She would, he realised, be a relative newcomer to the ‘Paradise’. Deck scrubbing was one of the ways of ‘breaking in’ girls to the arduous regime. As
yet, noted Quentin, the girl’s flesh was unmarked so she would not have been long at her task nor would one of the overseers been around to give her a little stimulus with the leather thong.
Julia had scrubbed those decks, Quentin said to himself.
Day in, day out. Scrubbed till her arms and back were one whole burning ache. And then gone on scrubbing. Because her bottom burnt even more fierily due to the throbbing welts implanted by the leather.
A joyous thought!
Then Quentin heard a footstep behind him and lowered the glasses. It was Gunnar Svenson.
“Ah, good morning...” he said politely. He noted the Swede’s eyes fasten at once on the kneeling figure below.
“sleep well?”
“After I’d finished with that Danish piece... yes. Like a log,” smiled Gunnar. “What a body she’s got!”
He’s acclimatising already, thought Quentin.
“Yes... hasn’t
she,” he agreed.
“There’s not a bad one down there, either.” The opera glasses changed hands and Gunnar got a close-up of the sweating, nude figure.
“My God, they certainly put them though it here,” he murmured after a while.
“It’s the only way to re-mould their characters,” said Quentin dryly. He guessed that Gunnar would be imagined his own ‘Viking Goddess’ sweating her guts out in a similar fashion. As he had done with Julia.
The black clad figure of an overseer came strolling along the deck... and Quentin rather wished he still had the opera glasses. Still, Gunnar was on a first visit. He watched as the overseer unlooped the long leather thong from her belt.
The girl was still scrubbing, her efforts intensified. But no matter. The thong swung high and fell across her bottom.
The sound of it, and the accompanying gasping-cry came floating up to them. The girl threshed like a white eel on the deck and got two more strokes across her thighs.
“Christ,” said Gunnar, “she seemed to be working hard enough...”
“Not the point,” said Quentin. “That is just to encourage her to keep on working hard. She’ll have an hour or more to go yet. And it’s getting hotter by the minute.”
“I am beginning to see how it is they are made to submissively obedient” remarked Gunnar. He still had the glasses on the girl, who had now resumed scrubbing, with three long, broad welts across her white flesh.
“Even the most stubborn spirit can be broken,” Quentin assured him.
At that point they were joined on the sundeck by Madame Vesta, who was accompanied by Miss Judith. The latter was introduced to Gunnar Svenson, who was obviously impressed by the powerful appearance of the tall, commanding blonde overseer.
“Refreshments first or when we return?” asked Madame Vesta.
“Er... when we return, I think,” answered Quentin, for both men.
“Well, then,” said Madam Vesta. “Miss Judith has just informed me that Miss Mara is holding one of her small drill classes. Afterwards, we might go and look at the Treadmill.
That’s a fairly recent innovation on the ship. There’ll be somebody on it, I suppose, Miss Judith?”
The blonde woman glanced at her wrist-watch. “Rebecca should just about be going on now,” she answered.
Quentin pricked up his ears. “Rebecca?” he queried. “I think I recall her. A Jewess, I think... and rather a hefty one, at that.”
“Correct,” nodded Madame Vesta. “Her Master, Otto Gerbon, ordered that she be put onto the Treadmill, twice a week for an hour at a time. Said it might help to keep her weight down.” A faint expression of sardonic amusement passed over Madame Vesta’s face. “Well, gentlemen... if you will follow me...” The owner of the ‘Paradise’ turned and led the way down from the sundeck. As on the previous evening, she was dressed all in black but her dress was now of a short length
and she wore a pair of lace-up leather boots. Miss Judith brought up the rear, in her customarily abbreviated leather garb. The partly made its way towards the stern of the vessel.
Before they arrived, all four could hear sharp words of command being given. Then they turned a corner and an intriguing sight met their eyes. Four naked girls were marching with the precision of guardsmen across the deck.
Each carried a pack upon her back and word a waist-nipping cincher-belt of red leather. They were shod with red leather boots with six-inch stiletto heels.
“About turn!”
The command came from the tall figure in command of the group. This was, the dusky-skinned Miss Mara; six feet of athletic womanhood. Well-muscled yet not mannish. She wore the same short skirt and bolero as Miss Judith, but hers were of white leather not black.
“Please be seated, Gentlemen,” invited Madame Vesta, indicating to four upright canvas chairs by the side of the square over which the girls were exercising.
Quentin and Gunnar happily accepted the invitation and feasted their eyes on the sights before them. The girls were all much the same in height and build for Miss Mara handpicked her various drill squads in order to maintain this kind of uniformity. Every slave-girl came under her orders
for one hour three times a week. It was all part of the ship’s discipline.
The four girls came marching towards the chairs, features tense and distressed, breast bouncing, thighs raising to the horizontal with each step. Two were dark-haired, one fairish, the others chestnut. Each had her hair pulled back into a pony-tail held by a red ribbon.
“About turn!”
The four girls performed a regulation ‘about turn’ manoeuvre right before the watchers, then marched away from them. Now they were favoured with the sight of four straight backs, loaded with packs, and four sets of swinging hips and joggling buttocks beneath. Two of the squad carried a long red welt across their flesh... evidence that Miss Mara’s thong had already been at work. It was of the ‘standard’ kind, like the one Miss Judith and all the other overseers carried.
“Those packs weigh fifty pounds,” said Miss Judith informatively.
“Jeesusss!” breathed Gunnar.
“No wonder they look a bit fatigued,” said Quentin. “How long have they been drilling?”
“Oh... no more than a quarter of an hour or so,” replied Miss Judith. “This is more of a warm-up period.”
“About turn!”
Back the four came... high-stepping, arms swinging to shoulder level. How deliciously those pairs of breasts swung and bounced. There was a kind of unison in their rhythm. The strain of carrying those heavy packs was evident and one could see the straps which held them cutting into soft flesh. And this, thought Quentin, was what Miss Judith merely called a ‘warm-up’!
“Halt!”
One.. two.. a stamp of the foot and four girls pulled up in line. Except that the one on the extreme left stumbled slightly. At once, with long-striding, feline grace, Miss Mara moved out on to the square. The thong swung.
Thwack!
It fell resoundingly across the errant girl’s bottom.
Gasping, mouth wide, eyes filled with pain, she staggered a step forward before quickly withdrawing back into line.
“Watch it Gina,” bellowed the coffee-skinned overseer.
Gina was the girl with the chestnut hair and her bottom already carried a swathe of pain.
“Do they keep at it for a whole hour?” asked Gunnar incredulously.
“No,” replied Miss Judith, “they have a five minutes break after half an hour. But you will note that the exercises get more strenuous as the time progresses.”
“About turn!”
The squad turned like one, so that the girls had their backs to the watchers.
“Legs astride... arms raised... bending and touching the toes... GO!”
The four girls straddled their limbs, raised their arms high and then bent over. They were, to say, the least, displaying themselves most provocatively. Miss Mara prowled behind them, strap swinging.
“Up!”
Up the four came together...
“Down!”
Down the four went together...
Thwack!
The strap rose and fell across a taut pair of nates and a yelping cry rose up to the skies.
“Keep your legs straight, Cynthia!” barked Miss Mara.
A couple of dozen times the girls bent, then rose, straining under the weight of their packs. Every now and then, Miss Mara’s thong thwacked across bare flesh as she gave some reprimand.
“Up! Attention! About turn!”
Now the four girls were facing the audience again. The look of distress on each face had intensified.
“Running on the spot! Begin!” bellowed Miss Mara. There was no let up.
With arms straight by their sides, the girls began to raise their thighs to the horizontal. Their movement had the precision of a chorus line. Fascinated, Quentin watched their heaving chests... not to mention the rolling, bouncing pairs of breasts... and saw the gaping mouths as they sucked
in air.
Thwack!
The girl with the chestnut hair got it again.
“legs higher, Gina,” bellowed Miss Mara.
Idly, Quentin wondered how Julia had taken to these exercises when she had first come aboard. She had never been much of a one for exercise. Rather lazy, in fact. Nor could one have said she enjoyed taking orders! Oh dear, oh dear, what a time Julia must have had.
“Halt!”
Panting, and now glistening with sweat, the four girls came to a halt. How long can they go on like this, wondered Quentin? There must be almost ten minutes before the break.
He could only suppose that previous exercising had made them all excessively fit. And, of course, there was the incentive of avoiding Miss Mara’s swinging thong.
“Dumbells!”
The four girls scampered to the side of the figure and picked up the pairs of iron dumbells lying there.
“They weigh ten pounds each,” said Miss Judith.
“Arms stretching and bending,” announced Miss Mara when the four were in line again. “Upwards.. sideways.. and forwards. Begin!”
Up went the arms high.. and straight. Breasts lifted, muscles quivered. Then down again. Then sideways. The effort was obvious. Back again. Then forward.
Oh the strain! Back again.
“Repeat,” ordered Miss Mara.
Again...
And again...
And again...
And yet again...
And yet again...
Two of the girls began to sob with the effort. Once the blonde’s arm sagged as she stretched them out. It did not escape Miss Mara.
Thwack!
“Yyyaaaghh... aaahaaa!!!!”
“Keep your arms up, Liza!”
Again.. again.. again...
Quentin almost began to feel sorry for the sweating, straining creatures. He could imagine the agony of it... having to drive on muscles that kept repeating they had reached their limit.
“It’s the last five minutes of each half-hour session that really makes them suffer,” said Miss Judith. Her eyes were glinting sadistically. It was very obvious she liked to watch that suffering.
“Yes...” nodded Gunnar, “I can see that...”
All the girls were sobbing with exhaustion by then, and no matter how often Miss Mara barked her commands, and no matter how often her thong fell, not one of them could stretch and bend her arms to the overseer’s satisfaction.
Finally, Gina collapsed in a weeping heap upon the deck... there to receive stroke after stroke from the thong. But, painful as that must have been, the girl seemed past caring.
“Alright... we’ll have the break,” called Miss Mara... then strolled unconcernedly over to the group which had been watching her.
“Morning all,” she said, with a friendly smile. One could never have imagined she had just been
driving four young women to the very limits of their endurance.
“Good morning, Miss Mara,” said Madame Vesta formally.
“You seem to be as efficient as ever...”
“I try... I try...” smiled the half-cast, glancing back at the naked figures which sprawled on the square, breath rasping, breasts heaving.
Quentin and Gunnar were introduced and added their compliments. This tall powerful woman was somewhat frightening in appearance even to them. It made one wonder how the girls regarded her!
“Do you get many of them fainting, Miss Mara?” asked Quentin.
“Not too many,” she answered. “They shouldn’t because they have a ‘booster’ injection before they come on parade.
If they do, they’re sent on Report.”
“On Report?” Gunnar looked enquiring at Madame Vesta.
“Didn’t I tell you about that, Gunnar?” asked the blackclad figure. “On Report means having to attend the evening session in the punishment Room. That’s not something any of them look forward to!”
“That’s held every evening?”
“Well... every evening there is someone on Report, shall we say.”
“I see...” mused the Swede. He watched Miss Mara strolling back on to the square then saw her pick up a length of hose pipe.
“Up!” she shouted “and against the railings...” The four sprawling figures staggered up and over to the side of the ship. Miss Mara turned on the nozzle of the hose and a fierce jet of water thumped into the belly of one of the girls, almost bowling her over. Casually, Miss Mara turned the hose on each in turn and, despite its fierceness, each one seemed glad to receive it and eagerly lapped up what water they could out of the palms of their hands.
Dripping wet they were at last ordered back to the centre of the square.
“Now they have what we call ‘Saddle Strap’ put on them,” said Miss Judith. “It makes exercising considerably more painful!”
Miss Mara advanced, carrying four thin thongs of red leather.
“Legs astride!” she ordered.
At once, the girls straddled their limbs. Coming to the first, Miss Mara fastened the thong to a ring at the front of the cincher-belt. Then she pulled the thong down and under the girl... pulling it up again to fasten it to a another ring at the back of the cincher-belt. The thong was pulled very tight and the girl gasped out as it cut deep into her tenderest of flesh. Unhurriedly, Miss Mara treated the other three in the same way... before taking up her position at the side of the square.
“Now,” said Miss Judith, “they do all their exercises over again... but this time with the handicap of the Saddle Strap.”
“By the left... quick march!” bellowed Miss Mara.
And off the four wretched creatures went again. Arms swinging, legs raising.
But now they gasped and winced at almost every step... and the cruelty of this device known as Saddle Strap was very obvious.
Soon Miss Mara’s thong was falling with greater frequency.
Every time the girls turned away from their audience, their buttocks seemed to have taken on a redder and redder hue.
Now, too, swathes of red were appearing across the fronts of thighs.
To say the least, Miss Mara was relentless. Cruel and callous in her commands and comments.
The drill Sergeant personified... but in female form.
After a quarter of an hour’s marching, the girls were put to their bending and stretching exercises. Now even more agonising than before, of course. Quentin had to keep reminding himself that each of them was carrying a fifty-pound pack.
Incredible!
He wondered when the first one would drop.
But the threat of being on Report seemed to drive each one on and on... and on... and on.
“Seen enough?” asked Madame Vesta, glancing at her wrist watch.
“Er... yes... I think so,” nodded Quentin. When Madame Vesta hinted, or made a suggestion, it was best to go along with her.
“You’ll have got the general drift, anyway,” she said with a thin smile.
Thwack! thwack! Miss Mara was hard at work!
“Yes...” said Gunnar. “I must say, I did not realise you had such severe discipline here.”
“You approve, I hope,” said Madame Vesta, a shade sharply.
“Oh yes... oh yes, Indeed,” said Gunnar quickly. He spoke no more than the truth. The idea of his ‘Viking Goddess’ being on such a parade filled him with the greatest pleasure!
“Very well, let us go and inspect the treadmill,” said Madame Vesta. “Thank you Miss Mara!” she called as the four of them rose and began to move off. But Miss Mara was rather too preoccupied to answer.
Thwack... thwack... thwack... went her thong, as the party left the deck.
Now the party made its way down into the lowest part of the ship. What used to be termed the bilges in former times. It was silent, rather dark and gloomy in the corridor they finally arrived at.. Not a pleasant place to be, brought, reflected Quentin. They came to a door which, on a plaque,
carried one simply word - TREADMILL. Simple but terrifying for anyone who was going to be put on it! Miss Judith unlocked the door and it swung open. She indicated that the two men should go in and, with eager anticipation, they complied.
It was not a very large room and the treadmill it housed (which was rather like a large water wheel) was not fully contained within it. It came down through the ceiling and disappeared into the floor, only a quarter of the circumference of the wheel being in the room at any one time. The steps of
this wheel-treadmill were something like eighteen inches in height and three feet wide.
Rebecca was on the treadmill and, naturally, she took the first attention of both men. She was in an erect position, arms aloft, wrists being held by manacles set in heavy crossbeam above. By placing one foot after another upon each step, she was moving the treadmill round. That it took some effort to turn the wheel was obvious. It was heavy and turned fairly slowly. Rebecca had to step high each time and press down firmly. Her buxom, white bottom swung judderingly from side
to side with each step and she grunted with the required effort.
Quentin remembered the fulsomeness of that bottom... and the splendid creamy-whiteness of the ample flesh. Yes, Rebecca was a big woman alright and he recalled her owner explaining that he liked his women that way. Fair enough.
Everyone to his own taste.
“There are thirty steps on the treadmill,” explained Miss Judith, as they all stood there gazing at the sweating, grunting figure. “If a slave puts her back into it, she can turn the wheel completely in thirty seconds. Two revolutions a minute. Or, if you prefer, one hundred and twenty in anhour.”
There was a ‘click’ and a little metal flap to one side of the wheel flipped over ‘81’, it read. To one side of the flap was a small dial which indicated ‘45’.
Miss Judith now pointed to these. “The flap records the number of turns,” she explained, “the dial, the time spent on the treadmill. The occupant, as we can see them. So she knew how she’s doing and what she’s still got to do.”
“Intriguing,” smiled Quentin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Judith, taking the thong from her belt.
“Rebecca, as you can no doubt calculate,” she went on,
“Should have achieved 90 turns by now. So she’s got something to make up in the last quarter...”
The thong thwacked across the big, swinging bottom and the sound was loud in that small room. So was Rebecca’s gasping bellow.
“Get moving you lazy cow!” snarled Miss Judith... and laid on the leather viciously again.
Rebecca’s bottom twisted and contorted violently with the pain and, for a few moments, her ever-climbing footsteps faltered. Then, as the woman grunted and groaned more loudly, the pace of them increased somewhat. The effort she had to make was evident by the quivering of the muscles of her thighs and calves. Her full-fleshed body was so drenched with sweat, one might have imagined she had just stepped out from under a shower.
“I reckon,” said Madame Vesta, “she loses three of four pounds after an hour on this.”
“What happens,” enquired Quentin, “if she does not fulfil the number of turns?”
Miss Judith pointed to a rod which hung on the wall alongside the indicators.
A potent inducement to effort! “I shall lay that good and hard across her fat arse,” she said.
“Ahh... I see...”
“She will get two strokes for every turn of the wheel she is short. So if she does only 110 turns, she gets twenty...”
Quentin wondered what it must be like to be on the treadmill... and to hear this kind of conversation going on!
No wonder Rebecca appeared to be making even greater efforts.
“...she has to complete the required number of turns, in any event,” Miss Judith was continuing. “She gets two strokes each time the wheel comes round and the flap clicks over.”
“Quite salutary,” remarked Madame Vesta soberly. She was obviously delighted by this new device for torment which she had had recently installed.
“Ugh.. agh.. ugh.. agh...” grunted the wretched woman straining every sinew.
The indicator passed 100... Fascinated, Quentin’s eyes devoured the plump bottom, swinging and juddering incessantly. What a fate for a woman!
‘Click’, 105 had been reached...
Quentin glanced at the dial. There was but five minutes to go. Rebecca had no chance of reaching her target. 15 turns in 5 minutes at the end of stint, was just not on. All the same, the groaning woman made a supreme effort. As the dial reached ‘60’ and the a bell rang, the flap registered
‘115’.
Five too few turns, so Rebecca had earned herself ten from the rod for her ‘failure’!
Her head hung, her shoulders heaved, her breath rasped stertorously. She was as near complete exhaustion as made no difference. Miss Judith moved forward and took down the rod.
It was three feet long, highly polished, and a little thicker than the one Quentin had used earlier on Julia.
“Right, slave” said Miss Judith, measuring the ample rump with the rod, “you will now complete the task your Master set for you!”
Somehow, Rebecca pulled herself up out of the depths of her exhaustion and set her trembling legs in motion again.
‘Click’.
116 had been reached...
Instantly, Miss Judith whiplashed the rod twice across Rebecca’s bottom... setting it writhing frantically as gasping screams filled the small room. For a moment, in her agony, the woman literally hung from her wrist manacles.
“Move it!” bellowed Miss Judith.
Somehow, only she knew how, Rebecca set the treadmill in motion again. Slowly... slowly it turned...
‘Click’.
117... had been reached...
And once more the rod bit viciously into the ample flesh. Three more times the performance was repeated. It was incredible that any woman in the state Rebecca was, could make such efforts. Yet she did... she did...
The over-riding factor was pain.
Yes... sheer pain was the driving force.
And, when at last it was all over, Miss Judith released the near-fainting woman from her manacles. The heavy body slumped to the floor, Rebecca sobbing piteously.
Then they simply left her there.
“I’ll have her taken back to her cell later,” said Miss Judith, as they sauntered out... the overseer carefully locking the door behind them.
To say the least, Quentin had been impressed by what he had seen that morning. Gunnar Svenson even more so!
“Has Julia ever been on the treadmill?” asked Quentin, when they had regained the pleasant warmth of the sundeck, where refreshments awaited.
“Not that I am aware of,” answered Madame Vesta, glancing at Miss Judith. The overseer shook her head. “Do you want her to?”
“Well...” said Quentin slowly, “it’s something to be considered, isn’t it? I’ll think the matter over... and let you know.”
“Just as you like,” said Madame Vesta, rather primly.
Then she snapped her fingers... and shapely young Marisa came running to serve them the drinks which had already been set for their enjoyment.
Jayla
- 01.01.2021
- 27
- 0
