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Slaves of the Copper Coast

By: Probus888



© Morris Kenyon 17th to 22nd April 2012.

When wealthy young broker James Baxter is sent to the tropical country of Kupro Marbordo, the Copper Coast, he is amazed to find that slavery is a well established custom there. Initially shocked, he soon finds himself owning a beautiful slave-girl -- with all that implies regarding her discipline and training.

WARNING! This book contains scenes of a sexual nature, graphic violence against women and strong language, It is not intended for the easily offended or persons under eighteen years. You have been warned, so if you read on, don't blame me.

The names, characters, places and events in this book are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

License Notes: Thank you for downloading this free e book. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be scanned, reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

*

SLAVES OF THE COPPER COAST.

CHAPTER 1.

Of course, I had heard of Kupro Marbordo, the Copper Coast. A tropical country, famous for copper mines, marble quarries, beef cattle. And slaves. It is, I think, one of the very few countries now where that 'peculiar institution' still flourishes.

But that didn't concern me. I worked at my uncle's brokers house in the United Zones, up in the northern continent. Thousands of miles away from Kupro Marbordo. I knew we had interests in many cities and countries throughout the New World, but I never gave Kupro Marbordo much thought.

Until, one day a few weeks ago, my uncle called me into his office. As befitted a senior partner, his office was massive. Oak panelled with oil landscapes and portraits on the walls. A huge mahogany desk stood on a Neo-Assyrian carpet.

"James," he said, "I want you to take over our brokerage down on Kupro Marbordo for a couple of years. Our current resident has retired and I need a man I can trust to take over. I know it's only a backwater of a place at present, however, it has potential to expand. Between you and me, I think he let our interests slide. If you can build up our business there, it will stand you in good stead for promotion to a more important posting later. What do you think?"

Well, when a man as important as my uncle asks you to do something, what can you say? Of course I agreed on the spot.

So, a few weeks later, I found myself walking down the steamship's gangway onto the quayside of Haveno Ananaso, Kupro Marbordo's capital city. The name Haveno Ananaso means Port Pineapple. The sultry tropical heat washed over me. I'd have to buy myself some lightweight clothes. The docks were very busy with ships of all sizes loading and unloading. Didn't see any pineapples, though.

I pushed through the crowds to the Customs House. A large, ornate building that dominated this part of the docks. Outside, a gang of labourers carried sacks of oranges over to one of the ships. I stopped, in astonishment at the sight. A man bumped into me, mumbled something about stupid tourists before heading past me into the shade of the Customs House verandah.

This crew must be slaves, then. The men, at least a dozen of them, were chained together by their necks. The chain was loose, giving them freedom to work but not to vanish into the hustle and bustle. A few had red marks across their deeply tanned, bare backs. All the men wore in the heat was a pair of denim shorts, a straw sun hat and boots.

A man in a white jacket, a wide brimmed hat, carrying a whip stood nearby and directed the men's efforts. Occasionally, he tapped a man on the shoulder and gestured with his whip. All the direction he needed.

Now my eyes were opened, I saw another gang of slave labourers, also hard at work. However, I couldn't stand and stare all afternoon. I made my way through to Customs, answered their questions about my stay. I tipped the bored official a few piastres, the local currency. Then my passport was stamped and I was through.

"Enjoy your stay. Do you want help with your bags, sir?" asked the official. I nodded.

The man gestured to a young man standing nearby. The man jumped to attention and picked up my trunk. Like the labourers outside, he wore denim shorts, boots but also a white t-shirt with the Customs logo printed on it. As he lifted the trunk, I saw a thin steel collar around his neck.

A second man, identically dressed, helped carry the rest of my bags. I followed them outside onto a main road running past the docks. Out of the shade, the heat crashed down on me again. A row of horse-drawn cabs waited. The two men, slaves, loaded my baggage onto the cab.

I thanked them both. I offered them a piastre each. They refused with horror.

"No, master," said one. "Slaves aren't allowed money. But thank you for offering." They ran back into the Customs House. Away from the crazy foreigner who might get them into trouble.

I glanced at my note book. My firm had already arranged accommodation for me. "Kresto Abrikoto," I said in my best accent. Apricot Ridge. It sounds a nice area of the capital. My pronunciation must have been all right as the driver understood.

He flicked his whip at the horse and it trotted off. Slowly, we left the busy city centre and climbed up a steep hill. The views from the heights to the city and then over the sea were spectacular. But even better, there was a cooling breeze.

After a few kilometres we passed a few peach and apricot orchards, then the driver pulled up outside a small villa. It was set in its own gardens. Pink and purple tropical flowers festooned the villa. What I saw under the blooms impressed me. 

It was whitewashed with green shutters under a red, pantiled roof. I paid off the cab driver as he helped me unload my baggage. He saluted me before flicking his whip and returning downhill.

I pushed open the gate, up the short path then knocked on the door. A moment later the door opened. A woman, several years older than me stood there in the dim light. She was maybe thirty with dark hair, chocolate brown eyes under arched brows, and a generous mouth.

She stepped back into the hall, I followed. As soon as I crossed the threshold, she did something which shocked me. She lifted her light blue dress over head then dropped it to the floor. She unhooked her breast band, dropping that onto her dress. Then she knelt before me, knees wide apart exposing her shaved sex, placed her hands behind the small of her back and looked down.

"Welcome, master," she said. Her voice low and quiet.

Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't but help look down. Any man would. Her hair was shoulder length and hid her face. She had large breasts with dark nipples and areola. Further down, I saw the swell of her hips and her smooth, shaved sex. She was a good looking woman. Then I noticed the thin steel collar around her neck. So she, too, was a slave.

I stooped and picked up her dress. It was still warm from her body.

"What are you doing? Get dressed," I told her.

She stood. "Do I displease you, master? I can be replaced, if you want."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I am your house slave, master, provided by the landlord as part of your rent. I'm here to do your cooking and cleaning. And to satisfy any other needs you may have, master."

"Well, firstly, get dressed."

She nodded and slipped her dress back on. It's too distracting talking to an attractive, but nude woman.

"Is there anyone else here?"

"No, master. Apart from the gardeners who come twice a week."

I glanced behind me to my baggage standing outside. 

"Let me bring that in and unpack for you, master," she said. "But first, let me make you a cool drink." She led me through the house to a patio area. A recliner overlooked a lush garden. Brightly coloured birds flitted between the shrubs and trees. Frogs croaked in the undergrowth. I took off my hat and jacket, then sat out in the shade. The woman brought me a glass of fresh lemonade.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Please, master, this slave's name is Beth." She said it like I might not approve. 

"That's a nice name."

"Thank you, master." She curtseyed, then backed into the house to fetch in and unpack my goods whilst I relaxed.

I could get used to this life, I thought. Then a wave of shame overwhelmed me. What right had I to take my ease in this beautiful garden whilst a woman literally slaved away in the house for me? I put down the half drunk glass.

I stood and returned to the house.

CHAPTER TWO.

Beth was in what I assumed would be my bedroom. Mosquito nets hung from their frame over the bed. She was brushing my clothes and hanging them in a dresser. I watched for a moment. She turned, saw me. Her eyes widened with shock and her hand flew to her throat.

"Master," she said, eyes downcast.

"I'm sorry, Beth. I should have offered to help. That trunk was heavy."

"That's all right, master. It's part of my duties. I'm here to serve you." 

I sensed that my presence was making her uncomfortable, so I returned to the garden and left her to it. Later, as the shadows started to stretch over the garden, Beth came out and knelt beside me.

"Would master wish for food now, or would you prefer a shower-bath first?"

I realised I was hungry. "Oh, something to eat, I think," I told her.

She stood, curtseyed, then brought out a tray containing a cheese tart, cold meats, new potatoes and a green salad. She set up a table by my recliner, then knelt again.

"Does master wish me to feed him?" she asked.

"Certainly not! No one's fed me since I was a baby. Go and have your own meal."

"Yes, master." I watched as she retreated back to the house. Her hips swung under her lightweight dress.

The food was delicious. When I finished, I tidied up the tray, then brought it back inside. I turned away from my bedroom and found the kitchen towards the rear of the villa. I pushed open the door. Beth jumped up from the kitchen table. She looked frightened.

"M... m... master," she stammered. I glanced around the white tiled kitchen. A range oven took up half of one wall, a ceramic butler sink and drainer under the window. Store cupboards opposite. A half open door to the larder and strings of herbs and onions hung from the ceiling.

"What's the matter, Beth?" I asked gently.

"I... I didn't expect to see you in here."

I looked at her meal. I dipped a finger into it then licked it. A bowl of porridge. Bland and almost tasteless. 

"What's that?"

"Slave food, master. It's very nutritious."

I nodded. I'd just enjoyed a well cooked meal whilst she had eaten slops.

"Would master like his shower-bath now?"

"No, finish your meal, Beth."

She nodded her thanks. Meanwhile, as she ate, I looked around the kitchen. It was clean and well equipped. But in one cupboard, I found something I'd never come across in a kitchen before. Hanging up on hooks was a selection of whips, paddles, canes. I noticed a brutally studded paddle. There were also chains, gags, irons, restraints a blindfold and other equipment I didn't recognise.

"What's all this, Beth," I asked quietly. I didn't want to terrify the woman by holding any of the instruments.

"I'm your house slave, master. I might displease you or you might need to correct any of my mistakes."

"What! By beating you?"

"Most masters find corporal punishment is very effective at training and disciplining slaves, master."

She spoke quietly, not lifting her eyes from the table. She was obviously terrified that I'd want to use them on her body. I shut the cupboard.

"I'm sure you won't do anything to upset me, Beth."

She'd finished eating by now.

"But I would like that shower-bath, now," I told her. Anything to take our minds off the contents of that horrible cupboard. She jumped up and almost ran into the bathroom. I followed a moment later. By the time I got there, the shower was running and Beth was naked again.

I didn't know what to do. My prudish northern upbringing in the United Zones rebelled against what this woman was offering. I was about to send her away but before I could do so, she stepped forward. She must have known the conflict going through my mind. 

Beth pulled off my jacket and hung it up. Then she unbuttoned my shirt and tugged it over my head. I stood before her. She leaned forward and kissed my chest. Her tongue flicked and licked my nipples. Then, before I could stop her, Beth knelt before me. She unbuckled my belt and in one easy motion pulled down my trousers and pants.

My penis twitched with expectation and desire. But another part told me this was wrong. The woman was a slave. She had to obey me. Yet she seemed to be doing this of her own will. I wasn't forcing her. Her lovely mouth was centimetres away from my cock. She looked up into my eyes, seeking permission from her master.

I made a noise in my throat. About to do the right thing and refuse. But she took it as an order, opened her mouth and licked my cock, working up and down my shaft. It sprang firm and erect at her touch. She swallowed it, letting her full lips work up and down my length until the pressure built up more than I could resist. I exploded inside her. Her throat worked as she swallowed my cum. She had been well trained.

"Let me clean you up now, master," she whispered. She stood, caught hold of my hand and led me into the shower-bath. The water was just right for the tropical evening. Not too hot and not too cool. She picked up a sponge, soaped it then rubbed it over me, starting with my face and only then working down my arms, chest and legs. Its rough but gentle texture made me hard again.

Beth took her time, rubbing the sponge all over until she turned me round and washed down my back and the backs of my legs. Eventually all that was left were my cock and balls. I watched her soap the sponge thoroughly and then Beth knelt under the spray. Without touching my cock with her hands, she washed my genitals with her sponge.

I was huge, more erect than I'd ever been in my life. My cock like a totem pole. I was bursting with passion and lust. I wanted this woman so much. But would it be right to just take her? I mean, she was a slave. As I understood it, she had no choice in the matter. But I didn't feel happy by just using her body for my own pleasure.

It was Beth who solved my dilemma. She turned away, braced her back against the tiled wall of the shower-bath. She spread her legs, her smooth sex fully spread, her fleshy labia open. She held my throbbing penis and then guided it into her wet hole.

I pressed against her warm, wet body and thrust up inside her. Slowly at first, then faster and harder. She gasped, arched her back off the tiles, her face upturned into the spray. I took her, couldn't hold back any longer. I came a second time inside her, my seed flooding up her cunt.

Beth gasped and clung onto me.

"Thank you, master. A slave has needs as well, you know."

I placed my finger on her lips, cutting her off. I dropped my finger to her chin, pushed up her face and kissed her. After a moment, she responded. She threw her arms around her neck and kissed me in return.

The shower-bath was running colder now. I broke away and stepped out into the bathroom. Beth followed. She picked up a fluffy white towel and dried me. If she paid particular attention to my manhood, well who can blame her? She draped a robe over my body, told me she'd clean the shower-bath and be out in a moment.

I was tired now, so I went to my bedroom and lay down. I left the shutters open to catch the cool night breeze but drew the mosquito curtains. A covered glass of lemonade had been left out for me. I picked up one of my books and read.

A few minutes later, Beth tapped on the door. She had quickly dried herself but was still naked. Naked except for that thin steel collar about her neck.

"Will master need me tonight?" she asked. I was tempted but exhausted.

"No, Beth. But give me an early morning call tomorrow," I told her. She bowed, her large breasts swinging beautifully, then closed the door. 

CHAPTER 3. 

I saw another side of slavery the following day.

Beth was good as her word. She gently shook me awake. It had rained during the night and the garden had that freshly washed feeling. Drops still trickled to the lawn. All the colours were bright and alive. Birds sang loudly. Beth laid out my breakfast on the table.

After I'd eaten, Beth gave me directions to the nearby train station. As I walked along, I thought what a fine place Kresto Abrikoto is to live. I passed many villas, many larger than mine. Most had apricot or peach trees in their grounds. There were also row houses and a small mansio behind its courtyard walls. The place shone in the early morning sun. I nodded to several people also on their way to the train station.

I passed a couple of blonde girls chatting as they walked. Maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. At first glance I thought they were equals, maybe heading onto a prep school. Then one flicked her hair, revealing her steel collar. Mistress and slave. And of course it was the slave carrying the bags and parasol to shade her mistress. But the girls seemed happy in each other's company.

I was to see them again, under less pleasant circumstances.

The train pulled into the station in a cloud of steam. It was a little suburban train, painted a bright green. It had a couple of smart carriages with comfortable seats, then a simpler carriage. Behind them, two open carriages covered with brightly painted awnings. These were full. Behind them all, a guard's van for goods and luggage. I noticed the two girls on the platform. The mistress took the first carriage, as did I, her slave squeezed into an open carriage.

The whistle blew and the train set off. It stopped at several more little stations before reaching Urbocentro, Haveno Ananaso's main station. Haveno Ananaso, the capital city of Kupro Marbordo, is small, only the size of a provincial city in the United Zones up north. But it is a busy, prosperous place.

I pushed my way out of Urbocentro station, down a busy thoroughfare lined with heavy baroque stone buildings to my broker's offices. In the distance I saw the sea glinting in the sun. As I walked I saw gangs of slaves, mostly male. Some watered and tended the plants in the numerous little parks and plazas. They seemed to be working hard.

One building stood out from the rest. It had thick, grey stone walls with barred windows. At first, I thought it was a prison especially as a sign saying 'Domo De Korekto' told me it was a House of Correction. However, I later found out that this was where slaves were trained or punished. 

Other slaves were shopping for their masters. As I approached my offices, a young brunette tripped and bumped into me. I grabbed her arm to stop her falling. I saw why she had tripped. A short length of chain, maybe only thirty centimetres, shackled her ankles, stopping her walking properly. She looked up at me with horror.

As soon as I released her arm, she fell to her knees and kissed my boots. "Please, please forgive this clumsy slave-girl, master. Please don't beat me," she cried between kisses. I was shocked and embarrassed. But underneath, a part of me enjoyed the experience. I looked down at her, her tongue darting in and out, kissing and licking my boots. I glanced around. No-one else took any notice except those who had to step around this scene.


Slaves of the Copper Coast Ch. 02



* On her eighteenth birthday, Rebecca daCastro's father buys her a very special present -- a slave-girl. Her very own slave-girl who will attend to her every need. Even better, it is one of her ex-school friends who has fallen on hard times. But will the two girls get on?

This story is set just after my earlier story, 'Slaves of the Copper Coast' and includes some of the same characters. However, it is a stand-alone story and you do not need to have read 'Slaves of the Copper Coast' to enjoy it.

* WARNING! This book contains scenes of a sexual nature, graphic violence against women and strong language, It is not intended for the easily offended or persons under eighteen years. You have been warned, so if you read on, don't blame me.

* The names, characters, places and events in this book are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

* License Notes: Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be scanned, reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

SLAVES OF THE COPPER COAST 2.

CHAPTER 1.

'It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young person in possession of sufficient funds must be in want of a slave-girl.'

Rebecca daCastro walked up from Kresto Abrikoto, or Apricot Ridge's, suburban train station running through the text of 'Pride and Punishment' in her head. She looked on as the little green train pulled away with a puff of steam as it headed to the next station down the line. The two rear carriages, little more than cattle trucks with canvas awnings slung over them, were still full of slaves.

She watched the slaves chatter under the hot tropical sun until the train vanished into a cutting.

Rebecca hurried to catch up with her friend, Alicia Bartro, who was walking up the hill closely followed by her slave-girl, Kyli. Their shadows were just starting to lengthen as the hot day shaded towards late afternoon.

At a glance, the two girls ahead were alike. Both were blonde and willowy. Their heads were close together as they talked almost as friends; owner and slave. For a moment, Rebecca was jealous of her friend. She'd love a slave-girl of her own rather than having to make do with one of her family's household slaves.

She carried on watching them until she caught up to the two young women. Closer, you could see the differences between them. Alicia had her hair in fashionable chignon whilst Kyli wore hers in a simple pony tail. Also, Alicia Bartro wore the smart grey uniform of the private school both she and Rebecca attended together with a straw hat. Despite the tropical heat, the uniform skirt came all the way down to Alicia's ankles. A most respectable length.

However, Kyli wore only a simple sleeveless shift dress that stopped at her knees, showing the girl's well-turned calves. Most immodest, thought Rebecca, but then slaves have no need or understanding of modesty unlike free people.

Another difference was that it was Kyli who carried a parasol shading her mistress from the sun's hot rays together with her mistress's heavy book bag and gym kit. But that's another thing, thought Rebecca. Slaves are no more than beasts of burden. It's not like they have the same feelings as free people. They like to be useful.

And it had been scientifically proved by Doctor Humboldt last year that slaves don't feel pain the same as free people. That's why you have to whip them so often. They'd covered that at school this morning. No wonder mother had ordered Cook to thrash her chamber maid, Luci, for the second time this week.

Rebecca caught up to her friend. With a sigh of relief, she swung her book bag down from her shoulder and handed it to Kyli for the slave-girl to carry as well. Rebecca was glad to be free of its dead weight bearing down on her shoulder. The breeze cooled her perspiration.

"What do you say?" Alicia said to Kyli.

"Sorry, miss. Thank you, miss," Kyli said quietly to Rebecca.

"I shouldn't have to keep reminding you," Alicia told her slave.

"No, miss."

But then Rebecca and Alicia fell to talking leaving Kyli to bring up the rear. And there was a lot to talk about. It was Rebecca's eighteenth birthday today and her parents were holding a party that evening for their family and friends. Rebecca was looking forward to it. Today she was an adult.

Soon, Alicia Bartro and Kyli turned off at their mansio. Alicia's family were easily the richest in Kresto Abrikoto and Alicia had owned a slave-girl for many years. With a little curtsey, Kyli returned Rebecca's book bag. Not for the first time, Rebecca wished she owned her very own slave-girl so she didn't have to carry the heavy bag in this sticky heat.

Rebecca walked on to her villa. Lush tropical flowers covered the building. She stepped up past the portico and into the cooler, wood panelled entrance hall. Rebecca paused with surprise as she saw her parents waiting for her.

"Happy birthday, Rebecca. Your eighteenth birthday present is waiting for you in the next room."

Rebecca was so excited. Her parents were wealthy and loved their only daughter so she expected something generous. "Oh, Daddy. What is it? Is it that ruby and diamond necklace I saw in de Graaf's jewellers? Or my own pony and buggy?"

Rebecca's father shook her head. He laughed. "A pony and buggy wouldn't fit inside the villa, would it? No, when I saw it, I knew you'd want it. Why don't we go in and see what's waiting for you."

Rebecca clapped her hands with excitement. Her mother and father looked at each other and smiled. After years of effort, Rebecca's father had recently been elected to the rank of Konsilanto or Councillor. He was now on the city council of Haveno Ananaso, Kupro Marbordo's capital. He'd worked so hard for this and now he wanted to celebrate his elevation - together with the increase in his earnings. Behind her parents, the family's slaves stood in a group and watched. They were all in on the secret. The only one who wasn't was Rebecca herself.

Their majordomo bowed. He was a dignified older male slave wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and grey shorts as well as his thin steel collar. He'd been with the family for years -- before Rebecca was even born. He opened the double doors to the daCastro's dining room. Rebecca ran in, her long skirts swishing as she passed. She couldn't wait to find out what her parents had bought her. Dim light filtered in through shuttered windows together with scents from their garden. She paused and looked about her.

On their large table laid for twenty dinner guests stood a display of fresh fruits. Wine glasses and silverware sparkled. It took up much of the room. A dresser took up most of one wall. Salvers and vases stood on its top. Paintings covered the walls. Landscapes of Old Iberia, her family's ancestral homeland, mixed with portraits of various ancestors. A baroque marble fireplace dominated another wall. At this time of year its grate was filled with cut flowers. Their fragrance scented the room.

Rebecca turned round and looked at her father.

"I can't see anything, Daddy," she said. Disappointment in her voice.

"Look by the fireplace," her mother called.

Rebecca walked around the table. No, she still couldn't see anything.

She pulled up short. Surprised and confused now. Kneeling by the fireplace was one of her school friends. The girl was wearing a simple sleeve-less dress.

"Amanda? What are you doing down there? Have you been invited to dinner?" She was surprised. Although Amanda went to her private school, their families didn't mix socially. Amanda's family was nowhere near as wealthy as the daCastros; the girl's father managed a department store in Haveno Ananaso or something.

Although thinking about it, she hadn't seen Amanda at school recently. There'd been a rumour that the girl's family had lost a lot of money when the Kupro Marbordo stock exchange took a nosedive over artificial fertilisers.

Rebecca didn't understand that sort of thing at all. She knew her father didn't gamble and he regarded stocks and shares with as much suspicion. He tended to invest in safer funds rather than higher risk ones. However, from gossip around the school, some of the other students' parents had lost money in the crash.

Rebecca held out her hands and drew up her school friend. Then she got the shock of her evening. A thin steel collar encircled her neck. Rebecca looked over her shoulder at her father. The man was trying hard not to laugh but he couldn't hold it back. He hooted with laughter like it was the best joke ever. Eventually, he calmed down enough to speak.

"Now you're eighteen, Becca, it's time you had your own personal slave-girl. The responsibility will do you good." He laughed again.

"Yes, it'll be your duty to train and discipline your very own slave-girl. She'll look after you, but it'll do you good to be in charge of another human being."

"But why Amanda, Daddy? She goes to school with me," said Rebecca.

"Not any more, Becca. Her father had to sell her to pay off his debts and when he approached me privately I knew she'd be perfect for you. Do you like her? Did I choose well?"

"Oh, Daddy, she's perfect. Thank you, thank you." With that, Rebecca dropped Amanda's hands, raced round the dining table and flew into her father's arms. She kissed him several times before breaking away.

"I hope she behaves herself and gets on all right here," Senhor daCastro said. "Of course, she's had some initial training at the Domo de Korekto but she will still need to be finished off and taught our ways. I thought you might like to do that."

He paused. "Oh, by the way she's not called 'Amanda' any more. Her slave name is 'Amna'."

Rebecca glanced over her shoulder at her father's words. At the mention of the Domo de Korekto, the House of Correction, she saw Amanda, or Amna as she should call her now, shudder. The Domo de Korekto was the house where slaves received their initial training. Rebecca had heard it was very painful and few slaves were willing to talk about it.

"Why don't you take your new slave-girl up to your room? She can help you prepare for your birthday banquet tonight, darling," said Senhora daCastro, her mother.

With that, Rebecca beckoned to Amna who followed her new mistress out of the dining room, into the vaulted hall then up the sweeping staircase to her bedroom. Once inside the privacy of her bedroom, Rebecca turned to Amna.

"What happened?"

There were tears in Amna's eyes now.

"Oh, Becca, it's like your father said. My Dad thought he could make a lot of money too quickly and as everyone was investing in those chlorate stocks, those horrible artificial fertilisers, but he didn't know the stock market that well and he lost all his money so he had to sell me to pay off some of his debts and now he's working as a humble clerk back at the department store and it's just horrible, Becca..." the words tumbled from the slave-girl's mouth.

"Stop. What did you just call me?" asked Rebecca.

Amna thought for a moment. "Oh, sorry. I should've said mistress. Sorry."

Rebecca grinned. "I'll let you off this once. But don't let it happen again."

"No miss, sorry miss," said Amna returning her grin.

"You can lay out my clothes for the banquet now, if you want," Rebecca said. "I'll wear that white dress." She pointed it out. It had been bought specially for her birthday.

Rebecca watched her new slave-girl lay out her clothes on her bed. Amna had a good body and had been much admired by the boys at school. Yet, as far as Rebecca knew, Amanda, as she was then, never encouraged their attentions. She'd never heard a whisper of scandal against Amanda.

The slave-girl stood one metre seventy in her bare feet. She was slim, only weighing about fifty five kilos, as far as Rebecca could tell. She had light honey-brown hair; pale arms and legs now as if she hadn't seen much sunshine for several weeks. Probably not if she'd just come from the Domo de Korekto.

Rebecca thought for a moment. This was her slave-girl. She owned her. Like she owned her handbag or hairbrush. She could do anything she wanted. She felt powerful yet also worried about her responsibilities. As Amna bustled about the bedroom, she decided to try out some of her authority over the young woman.

She'd seen most of their house slaves naked, of course. And she'd seen Amanda, as was, naked in the communal showers at their private school. But she'd not seen Amna as a naked slave.

"Amna, take off your dress. I want to have a look at my birthday present," she ordered.

Amna stopped laying out her mistress's clothes.

"Bec..., miss?" she said.

"You heard. Take off your clothes. I want to inspect you," she repeated.

Amna's mouth turned down. She hesitated.

"Hurry up, girl," Rebecca ordered. She took the same tone her mother used with her personal slave-girl, Luci. She intended to start off on the right footing with her slave-girl.

Slowly, Amna lifted up her sleeve-less dress over her head and dropped it to the floor next to her. She reached behind her and unhooked her breast band then dropped it onto her dress. She lowered her arms and stood with them by her sides. She looked at her new mistress with watering eyes, but with a hint of defiance in their grey depths.

Amna's breasts were small but pert with delightful well defined pink nipples. They stood proud from her areola.

"Put your hands on your head," Rebecca ordered. The slave-girl's breasts rose on her chest as the young woman did so.

She looked down at the girl's smooth belly focussing on the dark hollow of her belly button. Then even further down at the girl's freshly shaved mound. Totally hairless. Rebecca knew that slaves weren't allowed pubic hair. Most owners thought it was unsightly and unhygienic on their slaves. From what Rebecca saw, Amna seemed to have a neat, tight sex. The girl's legs were long and lean with firm muscles. Rebecca had glimpsed the girl naked before at school, but had never studied her body like this. She was pleased with what she saw.

"Turn around, Amna," she ordered.

The girl did as ordered. She had a strong, lean back. Standing as she was with her hands on her head, Rebecca saw the girl's ribs and backbone. She had a small, pert bottom that complemented her breasts perfectly. A slave-girl of this quality must have cost her father a lot of piastres.

Rebecca decided to use some more of her authority.

"Bend over and spread your buttocks, Amna. I want to inspect you more closely," she said.

The girl whimpered but obeyed. Her hands spread her cheeks to her mistress's gaze.

"Stand with your legs apart," Rebecca further ordered. She stepped closer and crouched down. First, she looked at Amna's puckered rosebud anus. It had also been shaved and looked perfectly clean. The girl's buttocks trembled as she felt her mistress's breath on them.

Looking slightly down, Rebecca studied Amna's tight, reddish labia. She caught a whiff of the girl's natural scent. Amna trembled.

"Keep still," Rebecca ordered. She reached out with one hand and separated the girl's vaginal lips.

"I said; keep still. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just checking out my property."

Amna sobbed with embarrassment. Another girl of her own age with her hand in her privates. It was horrible.

There was enough light coming in through the window to allow Rebecca to make a full inspection. She touched the girl's vaginal opening with her fingertip. Amna hissed; a sharp little sound. She expected to feel her mistress's finger penetrate her. But that never happened.

"Are you a virgin?" Rebecca asked.

"Yes, miss," whispered Amna.

"Good girl."

Rebecca lowered her hand. With one finger, she touched the other girl's clitoris. That most sensitive little button. She flicked Amna's clit. Slowly at first, then a little faster. The girl tried to keep quiet and still but couldn't quite manage it. Rebecca watched the little pink mound of flesh redden and enlarge underneath its hood.

"Do you masturbate, Amna?" Rebecca asked.

"Yes, miss. Sometimes I do," Amna confessed.

Rebecca took her hand away, leaving the girl trembling on the edge. She remembered something she'd overheard her mother say to Luci.

"In future, you will always ask my permission before touching yourself down there. Do you understand?"

"Yes, miss," Amna sobbed with a catch in her voice.

"Now stand up and finish off laying out my clothes," she said, turning away. She watched her naked slave-girl lay out the rest of her clothes. She watched the play of light and shadow cross the girl's lithe body. From her top drawer, the girl took out the lacy underwear Rebecca was going to wear tonight.

Rebecca made a decision. "I'm going to have a shower-bath now. You can undress me and wash me."

"Yes, miss," whispered Amna. Rebecca showed Amna her en-suite bathroom and how to operate the shower's controls. She turned around and waited for her slave-girl to undress her.

Amna unhooked Rebecca's lightweight linen dress then slipped it off over her shoulders and down over her arms and torso. It rested on Rebecca's hips but then with a wriggle it slid down to her ankles. Rebecca stepped out of her dress. She stood naked except for her lacy white brassiere and panties.

"Come on, girl," she said. With fumbling fingers, Amna unclipped Rebecca's brassiere and helped her shrug it off. Then she knelt behind her owner, slipped her fingers into the panties' waistband and lowered them down. The two girls were now naked together. Except that Amna still had her thin, steel slave collar around her neck.

They stepped under the spray. Amna picked up a sponge, lathered it and proceeded to wash her mistress, starting with Rebecca's face.

"Gently, girl. You're not scrubbing a floor, you know."

"Sorry, Bec... miss," Amna gently washed her mistress's hair and body.

Rebecca was as tall as Amna, but she had a slightly darker, tanned complexion. She had dark brown hair which flowed over her shoulders in loose curls. Now it was plastered to her back and neck with the shower spray. Working down, Amna saw she the other girl had larger, yet still firm, breasts and broader hips with more rounded buttocks.

Amna knelt, soaped the sponge and washed down Rebecca's legs. As she knelt, spray bounced off her back. Eventually, Amna stood.

"You've missed a bit, girl," Rebecca said.

"Miss?" Amna thought she'd cleaned all her mistress's body.

Rebecca spread her legs. Amna looked up into her mistress's dark brown eyes. She blinked as the water hit her face.

"Use your hands," Rebecca told her.

"Yes, miss," Amna whispered, her voice barely audible above the water. Amna soaped her hand then slipped it between Rebecca's legs. Unlike Amna, Rebecca had pubic hair. It was only considered unhygienic among slaves. Amna rubbed Rebecca's genitals, her slippery, soapy hand washing and cleaning her mistress as ordered. Amna glanced up as she washed. She saw Rebecca close her eyes and arch her back with pleasure.

Amna put more soap on her hand then using one finger only concentrated on Rebecca's clit. She felt heat between Rebecca's legs. She gently stroked that little piece of tender, sensitive flesh.




Slaves of the Copper Coast Ch. 02



Rebecca looked down. She was not embarrassed about being washed by another woman. In fact she was used to it as she sometimes borrowed Luci or one of the other female house slaves to do this for her. But it felt so much better now having her very own personal slave do this service. Especially as it was a girl she used to know at school. It added an extra layer to her pleasure.

The water started to run cooler. Rebecca shivered. She pushed away Amna's hand.

"You did very well. For a novice," she said.

"Thank you, miss," said Amna.

"You may now dry me and dress me. Before you clean the shower-bath," Rebecca said.

Carefully and gently, Amna dried her mistress with a towel, brushed her hair then helped her dress. She held out the brief lacy panties for her mistress to step into before drawing them up her legs. She adjusted the other girl's breasts in the skimpy bra. Despite herself, she liked the feel of Rebecca's large breasts. They felt so different from her own. Sexy too, in a way. She looked at Rebecca's dark nipples still showing through the lace.

"Stop staring, girl and get me dressed."

Next, she helped Rebecca on with her white party dress. It was off the shoulder, sleeveless, low cut and made the most of Rebecca's full breasts and curvy body. The white silk showed off Rebecca's tanned skin to perfection.

Finally, she found the shoes, knelt before Rebecca and placed them onto her mistress's feet. Amna remembered what she had been taught at the Domo de Korekto. She instinctively knew Rebecca would like this. Still naked, she prostrated herself before her mistress and kissed her feet. A gesture of total submission.

Rebecca let her slave-girl kiss her feet for a moment. It felt good, especially as she hadn't had to order her to do it. She thought Amna would make an excellent slave-girl after some training. She stooped down and helped Amna up.

"You're a good girl. I think we'll get on very well, don't you?"

"Yes, Bec... miss."

"You can dress now and follow me down after cleaning up here," Rebecca told her.

CHAPTER 2.

The banquet was a great success. The daCastros lived in a large villa on Kresto Abrikoto, an affluent suburb of Haveno Ananaso, the capital city of Kupro Marbordo. Most of the local gentry had been invited. Among them was the extremely wealthy and powerful Bartro family. They only attended because their daughter, Alicia, was one of Rebecca's closest friends.

All the same, Rebecca used to be jealous of Alicia as the other girl had Kyli, her own personal slave-girl for years now. But now Rebecca had caught up. She now owned her very own slave-girl, too. She couldn't wait to show off Amna to Alicia.

Rebecca stood in their hallway next to her mother and father and greeted their guests as they arrived. The hall had been filled with cut flowers and smelled gorgeous. As soon as the Bartros arrived, only fashionably late, Rebecca dragged Alicia to one side.

As she did so, Rebecca fought down a wave of jealousy. She knew she looked beautiful tonight. But Alicia looked stunning. She was tall and blonde with her hair dressed in the latest style. Her flawless skin was exquisitely made up. The other girl's green watered silk dress shimmered in the candlelight. Alicia was almost a year older than Rebecca and used that to pretend she was far more worldly-wise than Rebecca.

"You'll never guess," Rebecca whispered to Alicia. "Daddy bought me my very own slave-girl. Just like your Kyli. Isn't that wonderful."

Alicia turned to her friend and kissed her. "Yes that's great. I hear the price of slaves has really come down now after that dreadful stock market crash. Almost anyone can afford a slave now. My Daddy's thinking of buying me a companion for Kyli. I hope he buys me a male slave this time."

Rebecca frowned. "I don't think Senhor Bartro will do that," she sniffed.

"Oh, I don't know," trilled Alicia. "It would be fun to breed from Kyli. Have some little slave-babies."

Their majordomo rang the gong and all their guests filed into the dining room. As befitted their status, the Bartro family took pride of place. Rebecca found herself sitting between Senhor James Baxter, a wealthy young broker from the northern United Zones who had moved to Kupro Marbordo recently.

On her other hand sat Fernando, Senhor Bartro's younger son who was on leave from the army. During dinner the young man told her exciting stories about campaigning against bandits infesting the distant Montoj de Pino, the Pine Mountains on the edge of Kupro Marbordo beyond the cattle ranches.

It was obvious what her mother was after. She thought if she put her daughter between two handsome young men, who both happened to be wealthy and single, then sparks should fly. Unfortunately, her daughter was too taken up with enjoying the banquet and thinking about her new slave-girl to pay too much attention to the young men.

Despite its numerous courses, the feast passed too quickly. A gourmet mixture of tastes and mouth watering textures. Afterwards, as was customary, the ladies retired to the drawing room whilst the men remained in the dining room and drank port and smoked cigars. Senhora Bartro played a gentle tune on the piano. After a while, the men joined them.

"I hear you've been bought a slave-girl for your eighteenth," said Senhor Baxter. "Can we see her?"

"Oh yes," squealed Alicia. "Let's."

"Although he's only new to Kupro Marbordo, Senhor Baxter is quite the connoisseur of slave-girls," smiled Senhor Bartro. "How many do you own now?"

"Only the four," he replied with a grin. "But I keep them all busy."

Therefore the majordomo rang the gong and summoned Amna into the drawing room. The girl entered nervously. She dipped into a low curtsey, her eyes on the floor.

"Nice," whistled Senhor Baxter. "Must have cost a few piastres, Konsilanto."

Rebecca's father nodded. "She did. But I think Amna will be worth the investment. She comes from a good, respectable family and I didn't want my only daughter corrupted by some slutty slave-girl's lack of morals."

"I can understand that," Senhor Bartro added.

"Take off your clothes, Amna. Let our guests inspect you," Rebecca ordered.

"Please no, miss."

"Just do it," Rebecca said, mercilessly.

Once again, Amna stripped off her dress and breast band. She blushed, her glow obvious on her pale skin as the men and women looked her over as if she was a prize horse.

Some of the men stroked her sides, squeezed her breasts, tweaked her nipples, and looked in her mouth and eyes. Then came the ultimate humiliation.

"Let them see between your legs," Rebecca commanded.

Amna moaned. But she was a slave-girl. There was nothing she could do. She bent over with her legs apart.

"Wider, girl," ordered Senhor Baxter. "We can't see anything like that."

Reluctantly, Amna did as ordered. Senhor Baxter placed his hand between her shoulder blades, forcing Amna still lower. Gently, he spread her hairless, moist labia and scrutinised her tight vaginal opening.

"She's a virgin?" he said with astonishment.

"She is according to her papers from the Domo de Korekto," confirmed Konsilanto daCastro. "That's one of the reasons I bought her for Rebecca. Like I say, she comes from a good family and I didn't want a slave-girl with the morals of an alley-cat attending my daughter."

"Very wise," said Baxter. "May I?" he asked Rebecca, his eyebrow raised in question.

She nodded assent, even though she didn't know what Senhor Baxter intended. He spat on his fingertip then plunged it deep into Amna's anus. The poor slave-girl gasped and her body bucked at this violation but he held her in place. Baxter pushed his finger all the way in up to his third knuckle joint. He twisted his finger as he explored her tight bum hole. Amna whimpered with distress. Eventually, he pulled his finger out.

"I'd say she's an anal virgin, too. You got a good deal there, Konsilanto."

Senhor Baxter patted Amna's rump.

"You may stand now, girl." He held out his soiled finger. "You can clean me off now." He popped his finger into Amna's mouth. Gagging at the taste, at what she had to do, Amna licked and sucked the man's finger clean.

As she did so, Amna noticed Rebecca and her friend, Alicia Bartro whispering together. They kept glancing over at her. She couldn't hear their conversation except for Rebecca saying, "Shall we?" and Alicia nodding. Amna didn't like the two girls' expressions.

Eventually, Rebecca turned her gaze over to her naked slave-girl. "You can leave now, Amna. Wait for me in my bedroom."

Amna scooped up her clothes, curtseyed then fled from the scene of her humiliation. Laughter followed her exit.

Much later, Amna heard Rebecca come up the stairs. Immediately, she knelt on the floor to await her mistress. Rebecca yawned widely. "I'm tired. You can get me ready for bed then go to the female dormitory by the kitchen. I want to make an early start tomorrow so you can bring me my breakfast in bed tomorrow at eight. Understand?"

"Yes, miss," said Amna.

She helped her mistress undress, hung up her fine clothes, and then brushed Rebecca's hair until it shone.

"Well done, girl. You can go now but remember; wake me at eight sharp."





Slaves of the Copper Coast Ch. 02



"This isn't the way to the shops, misses," called out Kyli.

"That's right," said Rebecca. "We've got a couple of things to do before we go shopping."

Before too long, the girls stood outside the Domo de Korekto, a heavy grey stone building with narrow windows. In the distance, they heard the sound of a whip crack then a man's howl of agony. Amna shuddered. It hadn't been so long ago that she had received her painful initial slave training at the Domo de Korekto.

Rebecca knocked on the door.

"What are you doing, miss?" Amna said, concern and fear in her voice.

The heavy, studded door opened. The four girls walked into the grim entrance hall; Amna and Kyli clinging together for support.

A strong looking woman in her late forties stood before them. She had short cropped black hair.

Rebecca pointed out Amna. "Could you lock this slave-girl for me, please? She's a virgin and I want to keep her that way."

Kyli gasped in shock. She'd been locked herself and she hated it. Amna flung herself to her knees on the hard stone floor before her mistress.

"No, miss, please don't do this to me! Please, miss, I'm begging you. No, miss, no!"

Rebecca turned to her slave-girl.

"It's for your own good, Amna. This way I can decide for you when you lose your virginity. It's better this way rather than having you taken advantage of by any male slave that takes your fancy."

"I've had my Kyli locked for ages. She got over it quickly and likes it now, don't you," Alicia piped up.

"Yes, miss," said Kyli, looking at the floor.

Tears poured from Amna as she lay before her mistress and begged. However, Rebecca paid over the thirty piastres fee from her birthday cash and the large female Dom hauled Amna to her feet then led her away deeper into the Domo.

"Don't worry," the woman told her as she shut Amna in a cell with several other women. "Locking's getting to be fashionable amongst slave owners now." As if that would console the sobbing girl.

The women huddled together in the dark cell. Some whispered together whilst others cried. One by one they were taken out.

Eventually, the cell door swung open. The Dom stood there.

"Amna. Let's get you locked. C'mon, girl, let's have no trouble."

Her legs shaking with fear, Amna let the Dom hold her arm and lead her down a stone corridor and into a room at the far end. The room smelled strongly of disinfectant. It was brightly lit by numerous gas mantles, their light reflecting from the white tiled walls. In the centre of the room stood a marble topped table. Shackles hung from the table.

"Right," said the woman in a no nonsense voice. "Take your clothes off and lie down on the table."

"Please no," moaned Amna, more to herself than the woman. She knew there would be no mercy. Amna slipped off her dress and breast band then lay down on the table. The marble was so cold against her skin. She shuddered with fear and anticipation of the pain that was to come.

"Well done. Now spread your legs," she was told.

The Dom went around the table, shackling Amna to its hard unyielding surface. Her legs were pulled apart then spread wide, her arms shackled to the sides of the operating table and a thick strap went over her hips. Finally, the woman stood by Amna's head.

"Open your mouth," she said. As soon as Amna did so, a ball gag was forced in between her jaws.

"Mmmnngh," moaned Amna. Lastly, the woman covered Amna's eyes with a blindfold, plunging her into darkness. She lay bound helpless to the table, unable to prevent what was about to happen to her.

The door opened and Amna heard another woman entered the operating theatre.

"Shave her," the Dom ordered.

Amna heard a cupboard open then a basin filled with water. A woman crouched over her legs and covered her genitals with shaving foam. It tickled but there was nothing she could do about it. Then, although she was still smooth down there, she was shaved again. The razor sliding over her sensitive skin made a scratching sound. The woman slipped a couple of fingers into Amna's vulva, stretching her skin and making it easier to shave her.

Then Amna smelled the cold tang of rubbing alcohol. It stung on her freshly shaved skin as the woman rubbed her genitals with the alcohol, cleansing and disinfecting her. She hissed with the shock.

"She's ready now, ma'am," Amna heard the woman say as she stepped away from the table. Amna tried to brace herself against the agony to come but it was far worse than she expected. The Dom took one of her sensitive labial lips, pinched it and pulled it away from her body.

Suddenly, she felt an incredible stabbing pain through her labia and a stench of burned flesh. The Dom had pierced her with a thick red hot needle. Through her gag, Amna screamed. It came out muffled but Amna screamed and screamed as the intense pain coursed through her body. Her body tried to buck and escape from the pain but the straps held firm.

The Dom waited a moment for Amna to subside a little. Then she moved her fingers a little way down her labia. And pierced her again only a centimetre or so away from the first. Again, Amna screamed with pure animal pain. Her mind was filled with agony. And then the woman pierced her a third time.

The woman released the damaged, pierced labia. Then she took hold of the opposite love flap and pulled it away from Amna's body. Then she drilled through it another three times with that red hot needle, the heat cauterising the wounds. The agony got no easier and poor Amna screamed out her suffering through her gag. The stink of burned flesh was worse.

"There, there. Don't make such a fuss. We're almost done now," she said. But Amna wasn't capable of taking it in. She lay covered with perspiration on the cold marble table.

"Just fitting the rings now," the Dom said. Through each of the six holes drilled through Amna's damaged flesh the Dom fitted a small stainless steel ring. They felt alien and unwanted on her body. Finally, Amna felt the woman draw her sore labia together. Three little clicks followed as the opposite rings were locked together with three little padlocks. She felt their weight pulling on her hurting labia.

She had been locked.

Amna was allowed to rest for a few minutes. She heard cupboards being opened and closed as equipment was put away. Then her blindfold was removed. Light flooded her watering eyes, making her blink. She closed them, not wishing to see what had been done to her. The ball gag was unstrapped and pulled out of her mouth. She flexed her jaws, trying to work some feeling into them.

The two women unstrapped her from the table and helped her sit up. Amna was very careful not to let her damaged genitals touch the unyielding marble. The Dom handed her a small mirror. Amna slipped it between her legs. She cried again looking at those three hideous padlocks closing off her vagina. It hurt and it wasn't right. How could her mistress do such a horrible thing to her?

Carefully, Amna stepped down from the operating table. The Dom handed back her dress, then escorted Amna back to the holding cell. There was no way Amna could sit so she stood in a corner and cried.

"Esme?" the Dom called out. A tall, dark skinned woman stood up. In the gloom of the cell, the whites of her eyes showed her fear.

"Your new master wants you to have a designer vagina. Let's get those floppy flaps of yours tidied up, shall we?"

"No," screamed the woman. But she had no choice but to leave and follow the Dom down the corridor to the operating theatre.

Towards evening, the Dom took Amna back to reception. Rebecca and Alicia Bartro were both excited to see Amna's piercings. When her owner wasn't looking, Kyli flashed Amna a sympathetic glance.

"It's for your own good," Rebecca said again. She turned to the Dom. "Have you got a nice paddle I can use on her? We've got loads at home of course but I'd like my own paddle to use on her." She saw Amna's tearful face.

"It's only for if you're naughty," she smiled. Rebecca chose a smooth paddle maybe thirty centimetres long with holes drilled through it. She slashed it through the air, testing its action.

"Would you like to try it out on one of our slaves?" asked the Dom.

Rebecca thought. "We haven't got time but it looks the job."

She paid a few piastres for it then handed it to Amna to carry back to Urbocentro station. Amna held the paddle like it might bite her. She knew, just knew, that paddle would be walloping her bottom before too long.

The little train pulled into Kresto Abrikoto's suburban station and the four young women walked home. Birds sang in the orchards, but Amna couldn't appreciate their music. Instead Amna felt those padlocks pull on her sore labia with every step.

"I won't need you until bedtime," Rebecca told her. "See, I'm good to you by giving you the evening off."

"Thank you, miss," Amna managed to say.

Amna let herself into the kitchen. Cook was preparing dinner for the slaves. Unlike them, Cook was free. She was in her forties, a tall woman with short hair, now running to fat but still strong underneath.

"Please, may I stand for dinner tonight?" Amna asked. There was no-one else in the kitchen. Amna hoisted up her skirts and showed Cook her sore, tender, pierced sex. Cook hugged her close and kissed her.

"You poor girl. Of course you can stand until you're healed."

Amna thanked her then went to the slaves' outhouse. She lifted her skirt and squatted. She hadn't used the toilet since her locking but she could last out no longer. She pissed; her urine stinging her piercings. But worse, it didn't flow easily. Her pee dribbled out around those hateful padlocks then trickled down her thighs.

She held her head in her hands and cried. Was this going to be her future? Unable to pee properly, her urine trickling out and then not being able to keep herself clean? It wasn't right. She washed her hands and returned to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, the daCastro family's other slaves entered the warmth of the kitchen. Unlike Amna, they were laughing and joking after their day's work. Cook served their meal. As usual in Kupro Marbordo it was slave-porridge. Nutritious but bland. However, Cook added leftovers from the daCastro's meals together with garden herbs to make it far more palatable.

"Why's Amna standing?" asked Simon. He was one of the grooms based in the stables. Although not tall, he was muscular with broad shoulders. He had a shock of black hair and hazel eyes. "Has she had her sweet tushy paddled?" Senhora daCastro's maid, Luci, laughed.

"No she hasn't," snapped Cook.

Suddenly, without warning, Simon darted his hand up between Amna's legs. "She's been locked," he laughed. "Miss Rebecca's had her slutty little slave locked." There was laughter from around the table, especially from Luci and her friends.

Again, Amna burst into tears. His hand hurt her but the shame and embarrassment were far worse. Now everyone knew. How could Becca do this to her old school friend?

Cook slammed her spoon onto the table. "That will do. It's not Amna's fault she's been locked. It's her mistress's decision and we have to respect that but I won't have anyone making fun of Amna in my kitchen." Cook looked so fierce all the slaves fell silent.

After dinner the slaves pushed back their chairs. It was one of the few times of the day they had a chance to relax.

Cook opened a cupboard and took out a paddle. It was larger and heavier than the one Rebecca had bought earlier being sixty centimetres long. It also had holes drilled through it. Cook pointed to the end of the table with it.

"Simon. Take off your clothes and bend over," she ordered.

"Why, what've I done?"

"You've upset Amna and it's not the first time I've spoken to you about your attitude," Cook said.

Simon glanced around. He shrugged. Then he pulled off his t-shirt before dropping his denim shorts. His tanned muscular body looked good. Like the females, the male slaves were kept shaved as well. He tried to hide his cock and balls with his hands. He bent over with his legs together. All the slaves watched. It was rare for Cook to beat one of their number.

"Now it's your sweet tushy that's going to be paddled," Cook told him.

She took up position to his left. His trim buttocks clenched in anticipation of the pain. Cook rolled up her sleeve then CRACK! The paddle smashed onto his bottom. He jerked forward and his back arched. He gritted his teeth and made only a grunting noise.

He lowered his body. CRACK! The sound whip cracked around the kitchen. Several slaves winced. Cook drew back her arm. CRACK! This time Simon cried out in pain. His bum was now a mass of red where the paddle had hit him. CRACK! CRACK! Two blows close together broke the young man's resolve. He screamed out, his shrieks echoing around the kitchen. Cook smashed a last blow onto his tenderised buttocks. Simon howled again.

He lay still for a moment then stood. Cook pushed him back down. He whimpered.

"Amna's going to give you three now. You hurt her so she's going to hurt you." Cook handed Amna the paddle. Amna held it away from her body like it might turn on her. Cook guided Amna over. She saw the tender-hearted girl didn't want to hit Simon.

Slap. Amna did little more than pat Simon's bottom with the paddle. But falling on his bruised flesh it still hurt and he cried out a little. Smack. A little harder. His buttocks flexed and tensed with the pain.

"Remember how he hurt you," said Cook.

Slap! Not as hard as Cook but enough to make Simon genuinely cry out with pain. He rubbed his red and purple striped bottom. Some of the other slaves laughed at Simon. Cook took the paddle off Amna. Then she grabbed Simon's ear and yanked him upright. She dragged him over to the wall.

"Stand there with your nose touching the wall and think about how you've upset Amna," snapped Cook. "And you can be quiet, Luci, unless you want a taste of the paddle."

Luci and the others instantly fell silent.

CHAPTER 4.

Things improved between Rebecca and Amna over the next couple of weeks. Amna's piercings went from a flaming agony fading down to a dull ache then to a bad memory. It became easier to pee as she got used to being locked. Her mistress was at school during the week so Amna had plenty of time to herself. She soon made friends with some of the other slaves around Kresto Abrikoto.

To her surprise, when she had time, Amna found herself hanging around the daCastro's stables and talking to Simon. He apologised for upsetting her and he was so contrite that she forgave him. She liked watching his toned body as he oiled and polished the bridles and saddles. His muscles sliding beneath his skin as he worked bare chested in the stables and coach house.





Slaves of the Copper Coast Ch. 03



* Every so often, the ruling junta of Kupro Marbordo, the Copper Coast, sends the cavalry to sweep the distant, lawless Pine Mountains free of brigands. A great opportunity for Ensign Fernando Bartro to make a name for himself -- and maybe capture a slave-girl. But there are dangers ahead for the young officer. Will he make it through?

This story is set just after my earlier stories, 'Slaves of the Copper Coast 1 & 2'. However, it is a stand-alone story and you do not need to have read the previous stories to enjoy it.

* WARNING! This book contains scenes of a sexual nature, graphic violence against men and women and strong language, It is not intended for the easily offended or persons under eighteen years. You have been warned, so if you read on, don't blame me.

* The names, characters, places and events in this book are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

* License Notes: Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be scanned, reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

SLAVES OF THE COPPER COAST 3.

CHAPTER 1.

I don't suppose you know much of the history and geography of Kupro Marbordo, the Copper Coast, do you? No reason why you should as I don't suppose you're taught much about our little country in your schools up in the northern United Zones. The only thing most people know about Kupro Marbordo is that it's one of the few countries in the world where slavery, that peculiar institution, still thrives.

Despite its name, there's more to Kupro Marbordo than just its hot, tropical coast and copper mines. Our capital city, Haveno Ananaso or Port Pineapple as you might call it, is by the sea. Further south from Haveno Ananaso, the coast becomes a crocodile infested mangrove swamp. Good hunting if you don't mind snakes, leeches and mosquitoes.

Inland, near the coast, the land is fertile and there are plenty of small farms, market gardens and villages. However, the interior rises becoming drier and the farms give way to large cattle ranches. There are some very wealthy ranchers living in huge haciendas with their stock-men and vaqueros. And not forgetting their slaves of course.

Further inland again, the terrain becomes still higher and wilder until you reach the Montoj de Pino, the Pine Mountains. It's a dangerous place, the Montoj de Pino, and not just because of natural hazards. The mountains are infested with revolutionary rebel groups, cattle rustlers, brigands and bandits, wild mountain man who are a law unto themselves and runaway slaves. Some of these groups are abolitionists.

Would you credit that! Unbelievable! People who want to free our slaves! Everyone knows our society's economy needs slaves and, if they are freed, how will our slaves cope? Most of them are bone idle, lazy good-for-nothings and need someone standing by them to oversee every job.

However, I digress. Every so often the ruling junta based in Haveno Ananaso takes it into its head to send the army to sweep the Montoj de Pino in order to clear out the worst of these troublemakers.

And that's where I come in. Let me introduce myself. My name is Fernando Luis Bartro. My father is a very wealthy, well connected man; highly regarded in Haveno Ananaso society. He took me aside and recommended me to enlist in the army for a couple of terms. He said, and he knows what he's talking about, that having served would stand me in good stead if I later have political ambitions. But, as a young man, I also wanted a taste of some action and adventure before I settled down to make my own fortune in business or politics. So I was proud to join up.

After my training, I became Ensign of a cavalry section of twelve troopers. They were rough and ready men, but very tough. I wanted to prove myself to them instead of being known as a 'white handkerchief' as untested officers were called. Having ridden and hunted since childhood my horse riding and shooting skills were at least as good as theirs, but I'd never seen combat so they looked down on me.

So I was glad when the governing junta decided on one of their periodic sweeps through the Montoj de Pino. It was good to get away from wasting my life in barracks. The cavalry brigade my section belonged to was deployed to the southern Sierras and then dispersed in smaller units. The aim was to drive the brigands and abolitionists and the like northwards where they could be trapped and then either destroyed or captured. Some of those who are caught make good slaves eventually. After they've had their slave training at the Domo de Korekto, of course.

* * *

A few weeks later, my section detrained at a cattle town called Celanova at the foothills of the Montoj de Pino. We were to spend the night at the hacienda of a rancher who owned several thousand hectares. He had agreed to supply us and provide fodder for our horses.

As the men led our horses and pack burros down from the train, I looked around. Away from the humid, sticky coast the higher mountain air was much crisper and cleaner. Even despite Celanova's all pervading smell of cattle. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Vaqueros all wearing wide sombreros herded cattle onto wagons to be transported down to Haveno Ananaso's docks and then onto the United Zones with their never ending demand for beef.

I swung up into my saddle and then waved my wide brimmed bush hat in the air in a theatrical manner.

"Tally-ho!" I called like I was fox hunting.

We rode along the main street of Celanova in a well drilled group but I noticed my men looking longingly at the saloons and brothels which lined the thoroughfare. Outside the largest saloon, a group of slave-girls waved to us.

One of the girls was bent over the lap of a vaquero. The poor girl's bottom was bright red.

"Hey, horse-boys," the cow-poke called to us. He took his cheroot and stuck it right up her bum hole as if she was smoking it. The slave-girl squealed as the men laughed.

"Eyes front," I commanded. I didn't want the men getting carried away with the girls' charms. Soon we were out of the dusty town and riding along the trail to the hacienda. Tall grass waved over the savannah as we rode past.

We reached the hacienda by late afternoon. The rancher, Senhor Helder Balduini and some of his vaqueros rode out and escorted my troop in. Senhor Balduini was a tall, weather beaten man of about fifty-five. He had piercing blue eyes accustomed to gazing at the far horizon and a neatly trimmed greying beard and a hawk-like nose. He was dressed in denim work clothes, just like his herdsmen but you could tell by the way they deferred to him that he was their leader. He had the vaqueros' respect and I admit I wanted to be like him. He didn't say much until we reached his sprawling hacienda.

I was shocked. Stale smoke hung in the air and I saw the blackened ruins of a couple of outbuildings. Gaunt, black beams stood out against the blue sky. Closer, we passed a small grave yard and I noticed three freshly turned graves. Seeing my attention, Senhor Balduini dropped back and rode alongside me.

"We were attacked three days ago," he said. His voice was deep and rasping. "A large group of brigands led by Libereco. They must've known you were coming here. The scum killed two of my vaqueros and a male slave who was trying to put out the fires."

I'd heard of Libereco. The name means Freedom in our language. One of the most infamous brigand leaders in the Montoj de Pino. A noted abolitionist, too. Unusually, no-one had ever seen him so his true identity was unknown. There was a large reward of twelve thousand piastres on his head. Dead or alive. Sometimes I daydreamed about capturing him and claiming that reward - enough to buy a small villa in its own grounds or three or four well trained slave-girls.

We dismounted in the courtyard facing the hacienda. The vaqueros showed my men where the stables were and then took them over to their bunkhouse. Meanwhile, Senhor Balduini led me into his hacienda. It was a substantial, rambling building, extended several times over the decades. It was built with thick pine logs, stone and compacted rubble and then whitewashed. Small windows were inset to keep out the summer's heat and winter's cold. It had a red pantiled roof. To be honest, it looked like a small fortress built for defence, especially as a stockade fence surrounded it.

Inside, it seemed dimly lit after the bright day outside until my eyes adjusted to the gloom. We were greeted in the hallway by a group of people.

Senhor Balduini turned to one of his slave-girls.

"Mazi, show Ensign Bartro to his room. See to all his needs," he commanded. The summoned girl curtseyed low.

"Yes, master," she said in a quiet voice.

She took my backpack and I followed her down a corridor. At the end she opened the door for me. She curtseyed again as she did so. I watched the girl as she unpacked for me. Under her simple, sleeveless shift dress, I saw she was petite with small breasts and trim, toned arms and calves. She looked younger than her eighteen years because she had a spray of freckles across her cheeks and snub nose and wore her mousy hair in two bunches. I thought she was cute. She worked quickly and efficiently. When she finished, she bobbed into a curtsey again.

"Will that be all, master?" she enquired.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. But a glance at my pocket watch showed I didn't have time. I needed to check on the troop's horses and make sure my men were all right sharing the vaqueros' bunkhouse.

"Yes, just brush my uniform and then that's all, Mazi," I told her. She flashed me a look of gratitude.

I was having dinner with Senhor Balduini that evening so he could give me an update on the local situation. As well as Senhor Balduini there was a younger woman in her early thirties I took to be his second wife. Jumping ahead, this proved correct. Sadly, his first wife passed away years before and of his older family, one son was in agricultural college in Haveno Ananaso, another was in the army and his daughter had married another rancher many kilometres away.

However there was a pretty girl of about twelve who was the image of her mother, his second wife, and two boys of eight or nine. Senhor Balduini had invited his head vaquero and his close neighbours -- that meant any rancher under fifteen kilometres away.

We were waited on by their Cook and two slave-girls. Mazi and an oriental girl called Fila. I took her to be a Filipinho and wondered what had brought her all the way from those distant islands to this out of the way place.

The dinner was excellent. Roast beef (no surprises there), home grown vegetables and potatoes. The two small boys hung on my every word and sat there open eyed. I didn't overdo it; not with Senhor Balduini and his head vaquero listening and judging.

They told me more about the worsening brigand situation although they were sceptical we could do more than disrupt them unless we killed or captured Libereco himself.

Senhor Balduini noticed my side--arm and I showed him my pistol. He looked at the gun, puzzled.

"It's one of the new European

semi-automatics," I explained. "Its magazine holds sixteen bullets."

"You can load it on Sunday and shoot all week, si?" the head vaquero said.

"Something like that," I grinned as I took it back. "A bit of an improvement on the usual six-shooter revolvers."

This new style of gun had cost my father a lot of money but he thought it would give me an advantage if we came up against any brigands.

Ranchers work hard, and get up early. Long before customary back in Haveno Ananaso, our guests left and Senhor Balduini's family retired for the night.

"I noticed you looking at my slave-girls during dinner. There's not many women up in the mountains so I was wondering if you'd like company tonight," Senhor Balduini said.

"Thank you." I was grateful for his offer. "But they're both so pretty, it's hard to decide," I said.

Senhor Balduini smiled. "Nothing's too good for the officer in khaki. Why not take both?"

"Thank you," I said.

CHAPTER 2.

Senhor Balduini clapped his hands. The two slave-girls, Mazi and Fila curtseyed.

"Go with Ensign Bartro and obey him as you would me," he told them before turning to me.

"If you need to use them, you'll find a selection of implements in the dresser in your room."

We shook hands and then I followed the two slave-girls to my bedroom. I shut the door behind me and then lit two kerosene lamps. Under their white glare, the shadows retreated to the corners of my room. The room was decorated with wall hangings in earthy colours and a bearskin rug covered the floor.

I sat in the easy chair and extended my legs. I clapped my hands.

"C'mon, girls," I said. "Unless you need warming up first?"

They shook their heads. "No master, no master," they said. I was right about Fila as she had a Filipinho accent.

The two slave-girls drew their dresses over their heads and then unhooked their breast-bands. They stood naked before my gaze. Naked except for thin steel slave collars around their necks.

As I said, Mazi looked younger than her eighteen years. She was slim. Her hipbones stood out around the dark convexity of her navel. Her breasts were small and firm with pretty pink upturned nipples. She knew better than to cover herself and stood with her arms by her sides. But I knew she was ashamed because of the way she looked down at the floor.

Fila, meanwhile, was maybe a couple of years older. About my age. She was about the same height as Mazi. Like most Filipinhos, she had dark black hair, dark oval eyes and a small nose and chin. I thought her features were delicate and fragile. Looking down, she also had smallish boobs but with brown nipples and well defined areola. If she had a fault, and to me she didn't, it was that her legs were rather short. Her eyes met my gaze until she dropped them.

I was pleased to see that, in common with our slaves back in the capital, they were both clean shaved. Pubic hair is most unhygienic on slaves, don't you agree?

I wriggled my feet in my boots. I was going to enjoy myself tonight.

"Hurry up, girls," I said.

They took the hint. The two girls dropped to their knees and pulled off my riding boots and socks. Then they knelt before me and kissed my sweaty feet. Their mouths and tongues licked and kissed and sucked on my toes and feet. Neither dared to kiss higher than my ankles. Neither risked glancing up as they concentrated on their task. Making them give you a good foot kissing is a good way to demonstrate your superiority to a slave-girl. And they were good at it. I enjoyed the sensations travelling up from my feet to my brain.

Eventually, after a good few minutes, I told them to stand up. They did so. I didn't tell the two girls to do this but as they stood before me, their hands sought each other and they stood there on the bearskin holding hands. It was a cute gesture.

A thought came to me.

"You two are good friends aren't you?" I asked. They nodded. If these were the only two girls for kilometres around; if their only company was their master's family and the vaqueros then it couldn't be otherwise. They were probably confined to the hacienda and grounds so they must have been lonely for female company.

I was wrong about that, by the way, as a few of the vaqueros were married and lived in separate quarters near the bunkhouse. However, I was correct about Fila and Mazi being best friends.

I pointed to the bed. "Maybe you two would like to show me how much you like each other?" The two girls glanced at each other and Fila nodded. A little smile appeared on her face, brightening up her expression.

"Make love," I commanded. Fila led Mazi over to the bed.

"Come on," I heard Fila whisper. "It'll be like the little comfort cuddles we have in our room."

They lay down together and kissed, their lips finding each other's. The two women looked deep into each other's eyes. Fila hugged Mazi close, and a moment later Mazi's arms encircled her friend. They lay together side by side, kissing with more passion. Their small breasts pressed up against the other's body. They kissed and kissed until Fila moved her arm down Mazi's side and pushed it in between them. The girl's hand moved still lower, seeking and then finding Mazi's hot, sweet sex.

Mazi gasped as Fila's fingers went to work, caressing, stroking then probing and exploring her sweet slit. Meanwhile, Mazi carried on hugging and holding Fila. As if she was frightened of letting go, of losing her friend.

"C'mon, Mazi. You can do better than that. Eat out Fila's pussy," I commanded.

Mazi shot a terrified glance my way. The two girls broke apart and then Mazi scooted down the bed. Fila lay back and spread her legs wide. With one hand, she slid her fingers between her legs and opened her passion flaps, ready for Mazi's attention.

Fila made a kiss with her mouth.

Mazi glanced over her shoulder at me, but saw nothing in my face. Slowly, she buried her head between Fila's leg. I heard her tongue go to work and a minute later, heard little sucking and slurping sounds. I stood up and crossed over to the bed.

"Raise your bottom, Mazi," I demanded.

The young woman did so. I brought one of the kerosene lamps over to the bed and put it on a small table nearby. Mazi's behind and sex were illuminated, lit up for my inspection. She had rounded hips, more fleshy than Fila's rather flat bottom. However, her smooth, hairless sex looked neat and tight. I traced her vaginal lips with my fingertips. The girl shuddered, her bottom trembled with my gentle strokes. But she knew enough to keep her mouth firmly on Fila's cunt. I ran my fingers over her sex and then worked down. I spread her clit hood and gently, very gently touched her sensitive little button. Mazi gasped as I teased her clitoris with my index fingertip.

"Keep working on Fila's pussy. You haven't finished yet," I told her.

Further up the bed, I heard Fila make low moans.

Keeping my index finger on Mazi's clit, I used my middle finger to explore around the girl's vaginal opening. It wasn't as wet as I'd hoped so I carried on rubbing and stroking her tender little clit for a while longer.

"Swap round, girls. Sixty-nine each other," I told them.

Mazi seemed glad to get her cunt out of my reach. She lay on the back and opened her legs a fraction. Meanwhile, Fila got up on her hands and knees and crawled around the bed until she was on top this time. Fila lowered her sex onto Mazi's face and then ducked her head until it was between Mazi's thighs.

"Open your legs properly, Mazi. I shouldn't have to tell you that," I said. Mazi spread her legs a little wider, but not enough to satisfy me. I grabbed her ankles and dragged them further apart. The girl squealed in protest but left them where they were.

From the far end of the bed, I heard Mazi go to work on Fila's lowered cunt. Good.

From my vantage point at the end of the bed I watched as Fila licked and sucked and kissed Mazi's sex. Fila had short, black hair which didn't hide much of my view. She had the harder position, her head bent down at an uncomfortable angle for her tongue to reach into Mazi's sex. But she made good work. Her tongue darted in an out, licking swirling, caressing in between the folds of Mazi's young, tight sex. Fila pressed lower and kissed and kissed Mazi's cunt. I watched her oh so gently nibble on Mazi's clit.




Slaves of the Copper Coast Ch. 03



I felt myself growing rock hard in my trousers as these two pretty young women worked on each other at my command. I walked up the bed to see how Mazi was getting on. Her tongue was working away but merely probing in and out of Fila's vagina. She noticed me watching her and put a little more effort in, and circled Fila's labial lips instead.

I clapped my hands. "Stop," I snapped. "This isn't good enough."

Fila stopped and looked up. Her lips and chin were damp with her own saliva and Mazi's juices. She looked frightened. Mazi pushed herself up and looked around Fila's trim body at me.

"Get up, girls. Now."

The two girls disentangled themselves and then swung down from the bed, their small breasts trembling with the movement. They stood by the bed. Fila's hand gripped Mazi's. I looked at the two young women. They both seemed very young and vulnerable but they were slaves and needed to learn how to follow instructions.

"Fila. You're doing very well, you're making every effort to fulfil my orders. I've nothing to complain of about your attitude." A look of relief crossed the Filipinho girl's face, followed by a look of worry as she realised I was unhappy with her friend.

"But you, Mazi. You're not making much effort are you? You're just doing the minimum I ask. And that's not good enough." I paused. "I think you need some encouragement." I walked to the easy chair I was sitting in earlier and turned it around so its back was now facing the room. Mazi's face paled.

"Bend over that chair," I said.

Instead, Mazi flung herself to the bearskin before me. She clasped my knees.

"No, please no, no master," she begged. I grabbed one of her bunches and hauled her to her feet and then dragged her to the chair before flinging her over the back of it. She started crying. I turned to Fila.

"Fetch me a paddle from the dresser," I said. I used a gentle tone as I didn't want Fila to think she was in any trouble. I thought for a moment. It was late at night; everyone else was probably asleep and I didn't want to disturb Senhor Balduini or his family. That wouldn't have been fair after their hospitality. "You'd better bring a ball gag as well, Fila."

"Please no, master. Please; mercy, master," whined Mazi.

Fila returned with the implements. She knelt before me, still naked of course, and offered them up. I looked down, at the play of light on her olive skin, at her dark nipples and breasts. I picked up the paddle. And flung it across the room. It clattered into a corner.

"Not that one. It's little more than a hairbrush. Fetch me a proper one," I said angrily. I realise Fila is friends with Mazi but if I ask for a paddle, I want a proper one. I took the ball gag as Fila returned to the dresser. I stood over Mazi. I grabbed her bunches and lifted up her head. She was crying hard now. Tears were streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry if I've annoyed you, master. But please don't hit me, please, please, kind master."

For a moment I was tempted to let her off. She looked so small and young and vulnerable bent over a chair crying her eyes out. But if I did that, the girl would lose all respect for me. And I wasn't having that.

I shook my head. "Open your mouth," I said. She shook her head. Her bunches swayed from side to side as she did so. I pinched her nostrils closed. She had to breathe and she'd used up so much oxygen in her body with all that crying. She opened her mouth and I pushed in the ball gag, forcing her jaws apart. I then buckled it behind her head. Not easy with her shaking her head so forcefully, but the girl was no match for my strength.

"You're just making it worse, Mazi," I told her. "I was going to be lenient at first as you only needed a little reminder but unfortunately, I shall have to be more severe now."

"Mmmghff," said Mazi around her gag.

I turned round. Fila was kneeling behind me, holding up another paddle. Much better. It was at least sixty centimetres long, about six centimetres broad with holes drilled through it to speed air flow. It was made of stiffened leather. I lifted the paddle and swished it through the air a few times. Excellent.

"Get hold of Mazi's ankles and keep her legs apart," I instructed Fila. The oriental girl shuffled forwards on her knees and did so. She lowered her back, keeping out of the way of my blows. I took up position to Mazi's left (I'm right handed) and then rested the paddle upon Mazi's bottom. I rubbed her buttocks with the paddle, letting her skin get used to the feel and texture of the stiff leather. Even through her gag I heard muffled protests. I knew I'd be hearing a lot more from Mazi shortly. Her buttocks quivered with terrible anticipation.

I raised my right arm. Horse riding and military exercises have made me strong. I paused at the top of my swing. Then CRAAACKK!! The paddle smashed down onto Mazi's buttocks.

"Mmmfaaargh," she cried out, the gag muffling her shriek of agony. Her body jerked forward. She might have toppled off the easy chair if Fila wasn't gripping her ankles. I raised my arm again. WHHAACKK! Another blow slammed down right across her agonized butt cheeks. Another broad line of fire joined the first. Mazi gave out another dulled scream. Her body lurched forward.

Still crouched by Mazi's ankles, keeping the girl's legs spread, Fila looked up, her oval eyes pleading. "Please, master," she said quietly.

In response, I raised my arm again. And brought the stiff leather paddle down full force a third time. SPPLAATT! Another blocked scream rang out around my bedroom. It was a good idea I'd remembered to gag Mazi or I'd have woken up the whole household.

I laid the paddle down.

"Bring the light over here," I told Fila. I wanted to inspect Mazi. She wasn't my slave; she belonged to Senhor Balduini's family and I didn't want to prevent her from fulfilling her duties tomorrow. Fila got up from her place by Mazi's ankles and curtseyed. She fetched the kerosene lamp.

"Hold it there," I said.

I looked at Mazi's bottom. Three thick red lines overlay each other covering most of her cute ass. Purple edging lined them. I'd been most careful and none of my blows had hit her smooth sex. However, there was no way she'd sit comfortably for a day or so. I separated her bum cheeks and looked up her ass at her tight, puckered anus. Mazi squirmed under my brief inspection. I stepped back and then slapped her bum. She squealed around her ball gag.

"You can stand now," I told her. Mazi straightened up. She rubbed her buttocks. Tears filled her eyes and overran down her cheeks pooling in the straps of her gag until I unbuckled it. She flexed her jaws.

"What do you say, girl?" I asked.

She collected her thoughts for a moment and then, gingerly, knelt before me. She lowered herself, her small boobs brushing the floor and kissed my feet.

"Thank you, master. Thank you for correcting my mistakes," she said around her kisses.

That was a stock response but it would do. I guessed she wasn't sure why she'd been beaten -- for not making love with sufficient enthusiasm but just going through the motions. I can't stand slaves who think the bare minimum is acceptable.

I turned to Fila. She curtseyed. I pointed to the chair.

"Bend over," I told her.

With a little sob, Fila did so. Her flattish, oriental buttocks in contrast to Mazi's more Euro nates.

"Please, master. May this slave-girl ask why she is to be punished?" she asked.

She said it so nicely, I decided to be lenient with her.

"Because when I asked you to fetch a paddle, you brought something resembling a hair brush. Not good enough," I said.

Fila slumped over the chair. Without being told, she raised her buttocks and spread her ankles.

I lifted up the stiff leather paddle and introduced it to her skin by rubbing it over her bottom. Fila shivered.

"Please, master," she sobbed. I knew she wanted to get her punishment over with. I drew back my arm, held it at the top of its arc and then whipped it down.

CCRRAACCKK! Fila bit her lips and made a muffled shriek. Only then I remembered I'd forgotten to gag her but she tried to make as little noise as possible. What a good girl, I thought, thinking about all the sleepers in the hacienda. I dropped the paddle and scooped Fila up. I turned her around and held her close. Her tiny titties pressed against my chest. Her nipples were like two little stones. I hugged her close before dropping one arm down the small of her back and rubbing her bottom for her.

After a few minutes, I thought that these two slave-girls had recovered enough. I decided not to give Fila any further punishment. Not screaming loudly forgave her as far as I was concerned. I carried Fila over to the bed.

"All fours," I told her. "You, too, Mazi."

The two girls got into position, their beautiful, if bruised arses spread open to my view. Their tight little sexes underneath. I unbuttoned my fly and stepped out of my trousers and then hung my pants and shirt over the back of the easy chair. Freed from my trousers, my cock sprang up like a flagpole. All right, I may be exaggerating my size a little but you get the idea.

I knelt behind them on the bed.

"Sshh," whispered Fila to Mazi under her breath, so low I barely heard it. I pressed my hand to Mazi's cunt and then spread open her labia. I fingered her narrow vaginal opening. She was so young, only eighteen, and it was obvious she hadn't been overused. Mazi whimpered, a mixture of fear and expectation.

I shuffled forwards on my knees and guided my flagpole past her lips and into her opening. It was a tight fit. I pressed onwards, deeper and deeper. I leaned forwards and grabbed her small titties. I fingered them, kneaded them feeling her nipples stiffen under my attention. Then I rammed my pole all the way in.

Mazi squealed and jerked forwards. I took a tighter hold on her breasts, keeping her in place. Then I took her. Took her hard. I rammed in and out, all the way to the base of my pole. As I slammed into her body, I felt the heat from her bruised buttocks against my lower abdomen. To be honest, it felt good, nice and warming. She was such a tight fit and I was so desperate that I came very quickly. My seed spunked right into her cunt up to her cervix.

Despite my arms, Mazi collapsed forward on the bed. I withdrew feeling spent. But I wanted to take Fila as well. I let Mazi lay on the bed. Knowing she wasn't needed any further, she curled up in a ball, her arms wrapped around her stomach. I think I heard a few muted sobs. Until I slapped her bottom a couple of times. Then she shut up.

I knelt back on my haunches. My flagpole wasn't at attention any more. I turned to Fila. I rubbed my cock up and down her bottom crease, my bell end dipping into the little puckered crater of her anus. But I didn't want to take her anally. Don't ask me why but I wasn't in the mood so I didn't force my stiffening rod up her arse hole. Tempting though it was.

My staff was almost ready. I moved it lower and with my left hand, I spread the Filipinho's hot, damp pussy lips. She moaned slightly and pushed her bottom towards me encouragingly. Not that I needed any extra incentive.

I dipped my finger into her love tunnel. It was hot and damp, if not quite as tight as Mazi's young cunt. I took my finger and sniffed the love juices coating it. Then I plunged my now wood hard cock deep into Fila's cunt. She gasped as the sensations from her cunt flooded her groin.

As with Mazi, I took Fila good and hard. I should have taken them the other way around as Mazi was definitely tighter but I still enjoyed myself. All too soon I came a second time and the last of my seed poured into Fila's cunt. I pulled out, my cock only semi stiff now.

I patted Fila's spread rump.

"Hold it all in, girl. I don't want your cunt leaking all over the bed," I told Fila.

She made the only response possible. "No master," she said. I watched as she clenched her pelvic floor muscles.

I was tired now, but I still had the two slave-girls on my bed.

I pointed to the bearskin rug on the floor. "You two can sleep on that tonight," I told them. "I want an early start tomorrow, so make sure you bring me my breakfast in bed by six o'clock."

The two girls swung down from the bed and crossed to the bearskin. That's better. It's hard to sleep in a strange bed. And much harder when you have two paddled slave-girls wriggling around to get comfortable as you're trying to sleep.

So the rug was the best place for them.

CHAPTER 3.

Fila was prompt with my breakfast the following morning and she served it so beautifully. Cold roast beef, bacon, biscuit and greens. There was too much of it so I treated the slave-girls to what I couldn't manage. I popped the last of the food into their mouths as they knelt naked before me. It tasted better than the bland but nutritious slave-gruel most slaves get to eat in Kupro Marbordo and they thanked me most prettily. I finished the coffee, stood them up and kissed them good-bye and then stepped out into the hacienda's courtyard.

The sun was already flooding the savannah with light and in the distance I saw the peaks of the Montoj de Pino. They glowed pink in the dawn's light. It was a beautiful sight. This high up the warmth had not yet come and my breath steamed in the early chill. As a rancher, Senhor Helder Balduini was already up and about and he crossed the courtyard as soon as he saw me. He wore a serape against the chill over his denim work clothes.

"Were Fila and Mazi to your satisfaction, Ensign?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"Certainly, and thank you for sharing them with me, Senhor," I said. "Fila is a very good slave-girl, very accommodating and I think Mazi only needs a little more discipline to be as good."

"I'll see that she gets it," Senhor Balduini said, swishing his riding crop through the air. "Now, onto other matters. I'll lend you a couple of my vaqueros as guides and scouts. Since that raid, they've been thirsting for revenge. They all volunteered to go but I can only spare two."

Even back in coastal Haveno Ananaso, the vendettas of the vaqueros was legendary. Those brigands had made a big mistake by killing a couple of their friends. I thanked the rancher and then checked up on my cavalry troop.

The dozen men had assembled in the pasture by the barn. They looked ready for business in their khaki uniforms, wide-brimmed bush hats and riding boots. They were all armed with imported Albion made Lea-Anfeld carbines and sabres. Senhor Balduini's vaqueros wore earth coloured serapes and sombreros and wide fringed chaps. One had a scatter gun, the other an old Martinho rifle.

With a cheery wave to everyone from the hacienda who had turned out to watch us we rode off towards the Montoj de Pino in the west. Senhor Balduini's two young sons ran alongside us cheering us on for a kilometre before turning back. As we crossed the savannah I spotted in the distance other small groups of riders also making their way west. Other squadrons of cavalry also on this big sweep to clear out the mountains. I thought one group must be my friend, Lieutenant Aicolina's troop.

We stopped for the night at a small hamlet clustered around a whitewashed adobe taverna. Fields of alfalfa and beans waved in the breeze. It was the last gasp of civilization before the mountains. The villagers weren't particularly welcoming. They were probably worried about having to feed or billet us so I had the men camp in a meadow a couple of hundred metres out.

That evening myself, Corporal Estevez and one of Senhor Balduini's vaqueros walked into the hamlet. One of the houses served as a small saloon and we had a few shots of tequila - the local fire-water. None of the locals spoke to us. On our way out I saw a poster on the side of the adobe taverna advertising an abolitionist meeting. The picture of the speaker made him look like a lunatic with wild staring eyes and a hedge-like beard. Typical abolitionist.

Don't get me wrong, Kupro Marbordo is a tolerant country and it is not illegal to belong to an abolitionist organisation. But I ask you, abolition of slavery? Ridiculous. Yes, I know you in the northern United Zones abolished slavery over forty years ago but I ask you was that a wise move?

I was thinking of my own personal slave-girl my father bought me a few years ago when I turned eighteen. Bibi is a good girl, plump, but rather dim witted. All she wants to do is sit and gossip with her friends. I've had to deal with her laziness many times.

You can usually find my Bibi sitting chatting in our kitchen. If she's not there, she's either making out with one of our grooms or gardeners in an outhouse or shed or else she's hiding out of the way dodging her duties, and eating a stolen fruit.

At first, I spoke to her or gave her a hand spanking but when that didn't work I used the cane or paddle on her rounded arse. She cried and promised to improve but it didn't last. Lately, I flogged her in front of all our other slaves. After she recovered from her whipping she was good as gold for a few weeks but as the pain faded from her tiny mind, she's gone back to her usual slothful ways.

I ask you, what would a girl like Bibi do with freedom? She needs someone standing over her all the time just to keep her working. She's a great lay, though.

However, I wondered about the abolitionist meeting and thought these villagers had more to do with the brigands up in the high mountains than they let on. After I returned to camp, I posted guards and fell asleep under the crystal clear stars of the mountains.

Beyond the village, the land gradually rose and the following day we were soon in the foothills of the mountains. I saw that firewood wouldn't be a problem as we passed a number of acacias, mesquite and creosote bushes. We passed a stand of brittle-brush, their blossom blazing yellow.

Away from the cattle ranch, the air smelled so crisp and clean. It's hard to describe but for someone like me from a humid, tropical city it felt so invigorating and refreshing. However, as the sun climbed higher it soon became very hot.

Heat beat up from the rocks and it felt like we were crossing a frying pan. We camped for the night in a shallow hollow between the hills. There was a little spring surrounded by cottonwoods. I posted sentries but we saw no-one although we heard coyotes howling nearby. After the day's heat the night was very cold.

The next day, we were up in the Montoj de Pino properly. Senhor Balduini's vaqueros came into their own as I think we'd soon have lost our way on the mountain tracks without them. The mountains were thick with the giant ponderosa pines from which they get their name. Against the clear blue skies, the snow capped summits stood out brilliantly. Although we were hundreds of kilometres from the coast it was a beautiful part of Kupro Marbordo.

However, we never forgot why we were there or the ever present possibility of danger. I detached a couple of men to act as skirmishers; to act as a vanguard against ambush. The vaqueros had a keen nose for danger and spotted the remains of a camp site only a few days old.

"Brigands," the man spat.

The next couple of days were the same. If it hadn't been for the ever present threat of danger, it would have been a very pleasant trek through beautiful mountain scenery. All the fresh air and crystal clear views you could want. The sort of thing rich people pay good money to enjoy. A few times we crossed the trails of other squadrons like ourselves also hunting the brigands.

Then one late afternoon, my lead scout spotted two men silhouetted on a mountain ridge on the other side of a valley. A stream ran through the valley bottom. Those two men must have been good marksmen. They fired at us and bullets churned up the earth only a few metres away from where we stood.




Slaves of the Copper Coast Ch. 03



Immediately, my men spurred their horses in hot pursuit and cantered down hill and then up the opposite mountain slope. Senhor Balduini's vaqueros in the lead. The two marksmen vanished from sight down the opposite slope.

"Wait up, men," I shouted but they took no notice. Their blood was up after several boring days in the saddle with not a sniff of any brigands. I loosened my Lea-Anfeld carbine in its scabbard and followed suit. It was exhilarating cantering down to the valley floor, splashing through the stream, and back up and I soon caught up with my troop.

It doesn't look good for an officer to hang back.

We breasted the summit. I looked down into the opposite valley with horror. There wasn't just the two brigands we'd been chasing. There were lots of them; at least thirty. All mounted and all armed with a variety of firearms. They outnumbered my little troop of a dozen or so riders. I turned to Corporal Estevez.

"Sound the retreat! Now, man!" I shouted.

Corporal Estevez put the bugle to his lips and blew the first few notes of the retreat. But then a fusillade of bullets from the waiting brigands cut him off. The sound echoed from the mountain walls. Corporal Estevez made a strange choking sound and toppled from his saddle. That was all the rest of the troop needed. With one mind, they wheeled their horses around and rode as quickly as they could downhill, back the way we'd come. I saw another man throw his arms up in the air and crash from his horse, rolling in the dust.

The brigands spurred their horses after us. I jerked on my reins, turning my horse's head around and cantered after my men.

The brigands followed, bullets chasing us, seeking their marks. But it is very hard to hit a moving object when you are riding yourself and I saw no further casualties. But we hurried down hill. The brigands knew these mountains better than us and were gaining on us. I spurred my horse onward.

And then disaster struck me. I don't know what happened. Maybe my horse missed its footing on a patch of scree or loose rocks, or maybe its hoof struck a boulder. It could have been anything. It fell forwards in a bad fall. Instinctively, I pulled my boots out of the stirrups and rolled off my horse as I didn't want it crushing me in any fall, maybe breaking my leg. I threw my arms out but my head struck a rock and my world exploded in stars, fading to red and deep black.

CHAPTER 4.

I came to hours later. It was dark and a camp fire was blazing nearby. I groaned and tried to sit up but my arms and legs wouldn't move. I licked my parched lips.

"Corporal Estevez? Is that you? Where are we?" I croaked. A man pulled a burning branch from the fire and came up to me.

"He's fine; he's come to," the man said.

The man crouched by me. His brand flared up. I recoiled with terror. He wasn't a trooper from my squadron. He was a brigand. He was bearded with a scar on his forehead. He wore a torn, filthy denim shirt. He stood up and then kicked me hard in the ribs. I rolled away from his boot and only then realised that my ankles were bound and my hands tightly tied behind me. The man kicked me again.

"Stop that!" a voice from round by the fire commanded. "Libereco doesn't want the officer damaged." The man scowled at me and spat. His spittle hit my cheek. But he returned to the fireside.

Another man stood. He was slimmer, younger with a trimmed beard. He wore a stolen cavalry tunic and denim jeans. He knelt and checked my bonds. When he was satisfied they were secure he ran a length of rope from my ankles and tied me to a nearby tree stump.

"Please, water," I asked. My throat felt like a desert.

"The officer wants water," the man called back to his friends around the camp fire. They laughed.

"He wants water, I'll give him water," one of the men shouted. There was more laughter.

"Go on, Slasher," I heard.

Another man stood and walked over to me. He looked on with contempt as I tried to sit up. He lifted his leg, placed his foot on my chest and forced me back down. Then, an evil grin on his face, he unbuttoned his fly and pulled out his cock.

"No!" I shouted.

He unleashed his stream and pissed all over my face and neck and upper body before aiming his piss back into my face. The warm liquid flowed over me to be soaked up by the dusty ground.

"Enjoy your drink, horse-boy," he said as I choked and gasped.

"He still looks thirsty," another man said. He too left the brigands' camp fire and had his veiny cock in his hands by the time he reached me. Again, he pissed all over my face. I ducked keeping my mouth closed, trying to avoid the stream but as I was tied up I was too slow.

A third got up afterwards but he pissed all over my crotch, making it look like I'd wet myself. I choked with rage.

"Bastards," I spat. They laughed.

Then the first, bearded man got up. The man who'd kicked me originally. He fumbled with his belt.

"Hey, you hungry, son? Want something to eat? How'd you like a chocolate sausage?"

"No! No!"

The man kicked me again. "Okay then. Nothing to eat. But soon you'll be beggin' for that old choc sausage."

The man kicked me again but obviously didn't want to upset Libereco because after that he rejoined his friends.

I lay on the damp soil, my wet clothes sticking to me. In the chill mountain air, I soon became very cold. The humiliation and degradation was far worse than the pain from my head injury.

However, I dropped into a thin fitful sleep. I woke just as the night sky was just shading into grey. I heard the clip-clop of horse shoes on the rocks. My heart leaped with joy. The cavalry. My men had come for me. I was rescued.

But immediately after my heart sank into my boots. One of the brigands whistled and his challenge was met with an answering whistle. The sleeping brigands struggled to their feet around the camp fire's embers. One threw another couple of branches on and as the sparks whirled up I saw several more horsemen enter the camp together with some women on foot. I guessed they'd been sent away if the ambush had gone wrong but were now back.

"Report, please, Anselmo," one of the new horsemen demanded.

The young man who'd saved me from a kicking off of Slasher stood and sketched a rough salute.

"Your plan worked perfectly, Libereco. We lured them in, killed at least two cavalry and injured one. And we captured their Ensign. He's over there," Anselmo pointed in my direction.

Two of the horsemen swung down and handed their reins to a nearby brigand.

Libereco. The most notorious brigand of the southern Sierras of the Montoj de Pino. The one I'd dreamed of capturing. Yet the one whose captive I now was.

The two new brigands walked over to me. I tried to struggle upright.

The first, and I assumed Libereco was a pure Angolan. He was tall but not extremely tall, standing about one metre eighty five, I guessed. He was powerful and heavily muscled. Despite the dawn's cold he wore only a vest to show off his dark skinned arms and chest. His hair had been shaved to little more than stubble. Two bullet belts crossed his chest. The man gave off an impression of strength and control. Yes, I could easily believe he was Libereco.

But it was his companion who took my eye. Not as tall as the Angolan, she was still tall for a woman at about one metre seventy-five. A man's khaki shirt strained over a pair of full, firm breasts. The cold had perked up her nipples and I saw their outline under the shirt. She wore khaki riding jodhpurs which emphasised her thighs and hips. I looked up from her bodily charms. She was what you in the United Zones might call a quadroon.

She had caramel skin, full generous lips made for kissing, hazel eyes that sparkled with intelligence and curly brown hair that fell way past her shoulders to her full breasts. Even in my distress I thought she was beautiful and I wanted her.

"What do you want to do with him?" asked the young man, Anselmo.

"We'll ransom him off later," said the big Angolan; Libereco.

"After making good use of him," said the woman. I didn't like the sound of that. I opened my mouth to speak but one of the brigands clumped me on the ear, knocking me over.

"Will you stay for breakfast, Chibuzo?" said the beautiful woman turning to face the Angolan. Chibuzo, I thought, that must be Libereco's real name. I stored the information away in my mind.

"No, I want to be long gone before their cavalry come back," he said. He had an Angolan accent but spoke our language excellently. The man and woman kissed and I felt jealousy and resentment stir in my chest.

About half of the men saddled up and rode out with Chibuzo or Libereco. As the sky lightened and the distant snowy peaks turned pink in the dawn light I saw there were still about fifteen male brigands and seven or eight women left in the camp. Far too many to tackle on my own even if I wasn't tied up.

Later, I discovered that some of the brigands were runaway slaves, some were peons forced off their land, a few were dedicated abolitionists whilst others simply thought a life of banditry was easier than working for a living. But whatever their reasons, we had to stamp them out.

This gang ate and one of the older women kindly offered me a flat-bread and a mug of water. But then, I was slung over the back of a burro like a parcel, my hands and feet were tied underneath the poor beast's belly and we set off deeper into the mountains. They blindfolded me so I had no idea where we were going.

I was in agony as we jolted along the path. The journey was never ending and my position rapidly became intolerable. I cried out for them to let me sit normally.

"Silence," the beautiful quadroon woman said.

I shut up but couldn't control the cramps or agony flooding my system. I moaned with pain. This was a mistake. She jammed a ball gag between my lips forcing my jaws apart and then buckled it behind my head. Fresh pain for me to deal with.

We halted in the shade for a siesta during the hottest part of the afternoon. Then they cut me down and I curled up in a ball, groaning with agony. The gag was pulled out. I flexed my jaws with relief and they poured some water down my throat, relieving my thirst but then the cramps hit my stomach.

"Please no more," I begged. But all that happened was they pinched my nostrils shut until I opened my mouth to breathe and then the ball gag was forced back in. And then the nightmare trek continued until the sun slid down the sky and the thin mountain air quickly lost its heat.

I was cut down from my pack burro and crashed onto a patch of turf. I was glad to stop moving but the pain in my limbs and back, having been forced into an unnatural posture for so long was intense.

I heard a clank of chains and I felt the cold metal around my ankle. Then a woman took off my blindfold and ball gag. As my blinking eyes adjusted to light again, I saw I was chained to a dead tree. Looking around I saw we were in a little, steep sided box canyon. The shadows were already climbing the ochre sides of the valley. There must have been a spring nearby as there was grass and cottonwoods nearby as well as some tamarisk and even a couple of willows.

Near my dead tree, there were some tents and a couple of lean-to huts. This must be one of the brigand camps. In the distance I spotted a sentry posted at the entrance to the box canyon. He was sitting under a rocky overhang, his rifle across his knee. Even in my weakened state I thought that was lax security.

A couple of women boiled up a beef stew. From another rustled steer, I thought. One woman brought me a bowl and I thanked her but she didn't speak. They left me alone for a while as the sky above the canyon turned from blue, to dark blue to indigo and the stars appeared like ice crystals high above.

Then they came for me. Two men left the camp fire and whilst one covered me with a revolver the other unchained me. He hauled me over to the camp fire and thrust me forward. There were ten men and almost as many women around the fire. Most of them were sitting on pine logs or boulders in a rough circle around the fire. Apart from a few sentries, this must be the whole of this gang, I thought.

Some of the brigands shuffled around. Then I saw her again. The beautiful but cruel woman from earlier, the one who'd jammed that horrible gag between my jaws.

She stepped over a boulder. She was even more striking than before, if that was possible. Her curly brown hair was loose and cascaded down her shoulders. She wore a yellow crop top which showed off her trim midriff to perfection. I spotted a glint of gold from her belly button - an unusual touch in a free woman. She wore a cut down denim skirt that fell to her knees - again shorter than any free woman would wear in Haveno Ananaso, Kupro Marbordo's capital city where I live. I wondered if maybe she wears it shorter for freedom of movement riding in the mountains.

In turn, she looked me up and down then she looked deep into my eyes, her hazel eyes searching my blue ones. A challenge; a test of wills. I felt the full force of her personality. The other brigands had all fallen silent and watched the two of us. I knew now that she was the chief of this gang of brigands. But she had the weight of power of the whole camp behind her and it was me who dropped my gaze first.

A little smile played on her full lips.

"What is your name?" she asked.

I had nothing to hide. "Fernando Bartro," I said proudly.

The woman nodded. "Bartro?" She paused for thought. "I've heard of that name. Didn't your father recently become a Sinjoro, or Knight?"

I nodded. "That's right. He's a rich man and there'll be a big ransom paid for me."

There were whoops and cheers from the assembled brigands.

"Do you own any slaves, Fernando?" she asked.

What could I say? "My family owns some. Domestic ones and gardeners at our mansio in Haveno Ananaso and domestic and field hand slaves at our haciendas in the country. I don't know exactly how many."

"What about you personally?"

"Only the one. My father bought her for me on my eighteenth."

"Do you ever beat her?"

I thought about my own personal slave-girl, Bibi. Like I say, she's a good girl but bone-idle. Sometimes she's more trouble than she's worth. And I also thought about Senhor Balduini's slave-girl, Mazi.

"Only when she's naughty. Or to encourage her as she's so lazy," I admitted.

That response didn't go down very well. there were angry growls and hisses. Too late, I'd forgotten a lot of brigands were runaways or abolitionists.

"I hardly ever have to hit her though. She's a good girl," I backtracked.

"Have you ever wondered what your slave-girl thinks? What she has to endure serving someone like you?" the woman said, angrily.

I can't say I'd ever noticed Bibi thinking. Hiding yes; thinking no.

"Well, not really. She likes serving my family and I. She's very happy," I said.

"I doubt that." And then she said something that chilled me far more than the cold night had done.

"Let's see if we can show you what it's like for those poor unfortunates who find themselves as slaves. Take off your clothes."

CHAPTER 5.

The brigands, male and female leaned forward. Two of the largest men raised themselves off their log and stood over me.

I looked about but there was no mercy on any of their faces. In the flickering red firelight they looked like demons. I hooked my fingers through my buttons and slowly took off my khaki shirt. I dropped it behind me. I'm fit and strong and a lifetime of riding and outdoor pursuits have given me a good physique. Some of the women whistled. I unbuttoned my fly and then dropped my cavalry trousers and stepped out of them. I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Everything," the woman insisted.

"No! You can't mean..." I protested.

"Now you'll find out how your poor slave-girl feels, stripped naked in front of strangers."

There was harsh laughter from the brigands.

I shook my head.

Suddenly, one of the women behind me darted up and tugged down my under-shorts. They lay in a little pool around my feet. I was exposed to view. Immediately I covered my privates with my hands. There was more laughter.

I looked up, blushing with shame and embarrassment.

"I'm not a slave! I'm a free man! The son of a Sinjoro!" I cried out.

"That can be changed," the woman said. She nodded to the two men standing next to me. They grabbed my arms and dragged them up behind my back. I thought they'd wrench my arms out of their sockets it was so painful. My penis was fully exposed.

Then a woman approached. She carried a short length of chain and a padlock. I thrashed my head from side to side but she draped the chain around my neck. One of the men hit the side of my head and I was stunned for a moment, unmoving. That was all the opportunity the woman needed. She padlocked the chain around my neck and then passed the key over to her leader.

The two men stepped away from my sides. I tore at the chain but it was on too tight for me to lift over my head. I stood, glaring at the woman.

"I gave you an order to undress, slave, which you refused to obey. That's a very serious offence and must be punished."

"I'm a prisoner, not a slave and I will not be a slave!"

"Silence!" Her voice whip-cracked around the little box canyon, echoing off the rocky sides.

"I will not be spoken to like that by a slave. Now I must punish you more severely."

She turned to some of her people. "Bend him over that log and stake him out."

They dragged me over to the felled trunk and threw me over its surface. The bark dug into the tender skin over my stomach. Several of the men held me down. Others grabbed my arms and they were chained together. One brought a mallet from out of a hut. I screamed in panic. I thought they were going to smash my brains out. Instead, they put a tent peg through the chain links and hammered the peg into the ground before me so I couldn't move my arms.

They chained my legs and also staked that chain out. I was sprawled over the trunk, my arms staked before me, my legs staked out behind me and with my bottom in the air. I wriggled but apart from a few centimetres of leeway I was immobile.

"You can't do this! I am a free man!" I shouted.

The woman spoke from behind me. "Gag him. I don't want this slave's shouts attracting any cavalry scouts."

A young man, Anselmo, approached with a ball gag. I shut up and clenched my jaws shut. No way. But they had all the power and I was totally defenceless. He pinched off my nostrils until I had no choice but to breathe, and then the horrible gag was forced into my mouth and buckled behind my head.

"A very disobedient slave, Libereco, I would recommend you give him a beating to remember. Like his family probably beats their poor slaves," Anselmo said.

Even in my terror Anselmo's words penetrated my brain. Could this woman be Libereco, not Chibuzo the Angolan brigand leader? Was that possible? Nobody had ever thought the most notorious brigand of the southern Sierras could be a woman. If I could capture and escape with her I'd be a rich man -- and be promoted and appear in all the newspapers. But I had other things to deal with first.

"Are you ready for punishment, slave?" the woman, Libereco asked.

I ignored her. I was too busy thinking about Libereco and I was determined to give her no satisfaction by responding.

"Yes, a very stubborn, disobedient slave," she said. "And an ex-slave owner. Needs some punishment."

I heard a harsh, loud whip-crack behind me. My whole body flinched. From the pain that was to come. The woman walked around the tree trunk and showed me what she was going to be used. It was one of the worst whips used on slaves in Kupro Marbordo. It was a two metre long black-snake whip, its thongs braided together to make one long lash. My eyes bugged out with terror. Only the most expert owners or Doms use such a whip as it is too easy to permanently damage or cripple a slave with this. Even in Kupro Marbordo, this type of whip is rarely used on slaves.




Slaves of the Copper Coast



"Take yer belt to 'er. Leather 'er, mister. Teach 'er a lesson," said a butcher's boy walking past. Instead, I raised her to her feet. 

"You can stop that, girl," I said. "My boots are clean enough. But take more care in future."

"Yes master, oh, thank you master," she said. I watched her totter down the road, the chain interfering with her movement. I hoped she wouldn't fall again. The next master might not be so lenient.

I walked up a short flight of stairs and into the building housing our offices. The reception foyer was dark and cool after the glare outside. I saw a signboard showing our offices were on the fourth floor. I strolled up to the reception desk to announce myself.

As I came closer, I saw this girl was also a slave. She wore that steel collar. As I leaned over the desk, I saw she had been chained by the ankle to the desk. Enough length to move about but not to leave the desk area. She smiled up at me, politely. Her dark hair was piled up on top in a loose bun. I also noticed she had not been permitted a breast-band. Her nipples were prominent under her tunic dress.

The slave-girl directed me to the lifts and phoned ahead. Up on the fourth floor, I was greeted by an elderly man, maybe in his early sixties. He had neatly waved grey hair a thin moustache and a dark linen suit teamed with a red cravat. He shook my hand warmly.

"You must be James Baxter," he said. He had a strong voice. A man used to commanding respect. "Pleased to meet you. I am Ricardo Zeza, the manager here. It's good to meet someone from head office." He shook my hand again. "How are you finding things here in Kupro Marbordo? A bit different from the United Zones, I imagine."

Senhor Zeza showed me into my office. Small but with a great view over a park leading to a marina. I had a large, heavily carved old-fashioned desk. Behind it was a bookcase filled with impressive looking volumes. On my desk was a telephone. A teleprinter stood near the door and a small, black grate fireplace took up the opposite wall.

I won't bore you with the details of my job. Basically, on behalf of my firm, I traded the products of Kupro Marbordo; copper, marble, timber, beef, corn etc. to make a profit. Buy low, sell high. Simple, or as difficult, as that.

Jumping ahead a little, I wasn't there long before discovering I could make far more profit than my predecessor. The man had obviously been coasting his last few years before retirement. My duties weren't arduous and I made a good salary. What I aimed for was my bonus. And to please my uncle. I didn't want to stay in this tropical backwater for ever. My aim was to return to the action and big money in the United Zones.

Anyway, late afternoon after siesta, one of my colleagues, Patricia Madeira, asked me to call round her office. Her secretary was a short, slightly plump, pretty slave-girl with brown eyes under arched brows. She had large breasts also unfettered by a breast-band. They swung freely as she moved.

The slave-girl timidly knocked on Patricia's door. A curt command to enter followed. The slave-girl pushed open the door, curtseyed and showed me in.

"Fetch us some lemonade, Tima," Patricia Madeira ordered without looking up. The girl curtseyed again, then left.

Only then, did Patricia stand. She was a tall, statuesque woman with honey-blonde hair, cool grey eyes and a firm bosom. Nicely made-up. I figured she kept herself in shape, possibly at a female gymnasium. We shook hands, she had sharply manicured nails with plenty of jewelled rings. Patricia gestured for me to sit by her desk.

We talked for a while. Patricia's job was to do with imports. Mostly industrial equipment for Kupro Marbordo's rail-roads as well as agricultural machinery. Stuff this country couldn't make for itself. She also had a well-appointed office although I had the better view.

She was an intelligent woman, but after a while the conversation flagged. There's only so much you can say about engineering tools.

"Where is that useless girl? Sorry about this." Patricia stood, opened the door to her outer office. But no-one was there. Several minutes later, there was a knock and the slave-girl, Tima, returned carrying a silver tray on which stood a jug of lemonade with two glasses. She smiled at me.

"Where have you been, girl?" snapped Patricia.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I had to wait whilst chef..."

"I am not interested in your excuses. I told you to fetch refreshments ages ago and only now do you bother to show up with that silly grin plastered on your face. I am..."

"Please, ma'am I'm sorry it..."

"And now you have the audacity to interrupt me. I am extremely dissatisfied. I had to punish you last week but you obviously have not learned your lesson..."

"No, please, ma'am..."

"And you keep interrupting. A very bad habit. Report to the cellar and I will discipline you shortly."

Tima's face blanched. She put the tray down on the desk then ran to the door. Collecting herself, she remembered her curtsey before leaving.

Patricia turned to me. "Only way to deal with slaves. Otherwise, if you let them, they walk all over you. Well, no-one's walking over me." She poured us both a glass of lemonade. It was very refreshing. Worth the wait in my opinion, but maybe Patricia had a point.

We finished our glass. "Come on. Let's get this unpleasant task over with. You are new here so I will show you how we deal with lazy slave-girls at this office."

We took the lift down to the reception foyer and then down a flight of concrete stairs to a basement corridor lit by gas lamps. At the far end was an iron-bound door. Patricia stood aside to let me hold it open for her.

I stepped into an outpost of hell.

CHAPTER 4.

I couldn't take it all in at once but after several visits I knew it well enough. The cellar was a large room with a concrete floor and whitewashed walls. A barred window at one end let in dim light which was supplemented by more gas lamps. It smelled of sweat, disinfectant and fear.

A number of chains, hooks and rings hung from the arched ceiling. One wall had a rack containing an extensive collection of whips, lashes, canes, paddles. One of the side walls was covered by small cages. In one of the cages crouched a naked man. He had no room to move. He moaned as we entered. The floor was dominated by various wooden posts, frames and things I had no idea what they were for.

Suddenly Tima ran forward. She threw herself at Patricia's feet and covered her shoes with kisses. In between kisses, she begged for mercy.

"Get up girl. These shoes cost a lot of money. And I was merciful last time but you didn't learn your lesson, did you?"

"Yes, yes, yes," whimpered poor Tima.

"No. Now I shall have to be more severe. Take off your dress and stand over there." Patricia pointed to one of the rings.

Sobbing, Tima slipped off her blue tunic dress and stood where directed. She crossed her arms over her breasts. I saw a few old bruises on her rounded buttocks. From her previous beating?

"Will you fetch me those chains from over there?" Patricia asked.

Despite my reservations, I nodded and brought them over. Patricia directed me as I first chained Tima's wrists together. Then I chained her ankles to a notched metal stick about forty centimetres apart so that Tima could not close her legs. Tima shivered as the cold metal touched her flesh.

Patricia next had me lower one of the hooks from the ceiling. She hooked Tima's wrist chain to it then asked me to winch the hook back up again. At this point, poor Tima was stretched in mid air, her arms pointing up to the ceiling, her legs forced apart by the metal stick. She was completely defenceless.

Patricia and I slowly walked around the strung-up slave-girl. I watched her back muscles working under her skin, preparing for her imminent beating. Her buttocks clenched. Patricia led me around. I couldn't help staring at her large breasts with their large, pink areola. Her pierced nipples pointed up to the ceiling.

I avoided looking at her face. I didn't want to see the mute appeal in her brown eyes. Instead, I looked down. At the swell of her rounded belly, at her shaved pussy exposed to my gaze. Patricia stopped before Tima. She took hold of the slave-girl's chin and forced her to look at her mistress.

Then, without warning, Patricia darted a hand in between Tima's legs. She felt up between Tima's labia, none too gently judging from the girl's moans. Her sharp manicured nails groping and pinching. Jewelled rings scratching the slave-girl's sensitive skin. 

With a cry of triumph, Patricia caught hold of something up there. She tugged and pulled out a tampon. She threw the blood spotted object to the floor before Tima.

That explained how slave-girls coped if they were forbidden wearing panties. At least I never came across a slave-girl wearing them during my time in Kupro Marbordo.

"Look at that, you dirty bitch," snapped Patricia, forcing the slave-girl's head down to look at the tampon. "That's why you were so long, wasn't it?"

Tima nodded. Tears of fear and humiliation leaked from her eyes.

"You never even asked my permission to use the toilet, did you?"

"No, ma'am. But it just came on. It was an emergency."

"And I bet you never washed your hands afterwards, did you, dirty bitch? I know what you slaves are like."

"Yes! Yes! Yes! I did!" Tima cried out.

"I doubt that. You've had us drinking dirty lemonade, haven't you?"

"No, ma'am." Tima shook her head wildly.

Patricia looked down. "My hand's filthy now after touching that... thing. Clean me off." She held up her left hand to Tima's mouth. Eagerly, hoping to minimise her punishment, Tima licked and kissed Patricia's hand.

After a minute or so, Patricia took her hand away. She dried it on the girl's breasts. They wobbled delightfully. "That will do for now, you disgusting creature. Now it's time to chastise you." She walked over to the wall rack and spent a moment choosing a whip. Tima slumped forward.

"Please, ask her for mercy, master," she begged. I said nothing.

Patricia returned with a cat o' nine tails. I noticed that the thongs were made of broad leather without knots. I was glad because I didn't want to see the girl's back ripped to bloody shreds. But I guessed it would still hurt.

Patricia slung the cat over her shoulder and took a firm grip. Moved her legs for a better stance.

"Are you ready, girl?"

No response. Tima just hung in her chains, waiting for the pain.

"I asked if you were ready?"

"Yes, ma'am," Tima whispered.

Patricia swung the cat through the air. It slashed down on Tima's shoulders with a crack. The slave-girl threw herself forward in her chains. She cried out once. Patricia drew the whip back. I saw red marks across the girl's back.

Patricia swung again, just a little lower, mostly overlapping with the first blow. The whip hissed through the air and smacked against Tima's back. The slave-girl lurched forward again and cried out. A little louder this time.

"I'm not chastising you hard enough, am I girl?" snapped Patricia. "I'll need to lay them on a little harder if you're to learn your lesson."

Tima sobbed something but I didn't catch what she said. Once again, Patricia drew the whip back, took up position then lashed the whip down across Tima's back. Another whip-crack of sound echoed round the cellar. More red marks appeared, crossing and covering the earlier blows.

Patricia was obviously angry. Probably expecting more howling and begging from the slave-girl. She laid on with a fury now. The blows falling rapidly and relentlessly across the girl's back. I watched the slave-girl's muscles jump and twitch beneath the blows.

After several more strikes, Patricia got the reaction she was looking for. As if a dam burst, Tima started howling and shrieking. In between blows, as Patricia readied her cat o' nine tails, Tima begged for mercy. But all she got was more punishment.

The lashes worked down her back; one blow, extra painful, curled around her waist and the lash-straps hit the girl's stomach. She gasped with pure agony. The lashes then slammed into the slave-girl's bottom. Patricia concentrated on lashing her buttocks until they were a mass of red. I could hardly tell one stripe from another, there were so many. 

After a while, Tima's legs couldn't support her. The poor slave-girl hung in her chains, head to the floor. She'd stopped begging and screaming and just mutely accepted the repeated blows. Trying to escape in her mind from the pain inflicted on her torso. 

I was impressed with Patricia's strength. The woman was obviously fit and strong. I suspected she played tennis or some other sports. But eventually, even Patricia's anger, and strength, were used up. One last blow and then she stopped. She returned the cat o' nine tails to its rack.

"That's how I deal with lazy slaves at this firm, Senhor Baxter," she told me. "I give them plenty of encouragement to promptly attend their duties. Sadly, sometimes leniency doesn't work. But I'm not cruel."

Patricia walked round to face Tima. She lifted Tima's chin, forcing her head up.

"Look at me, girl," she said to the slumped slave-girl. Tima opened her eyes and looked dully at her mistress. "After your much needed punishment, would you like some refreshments?"

Tima slowly nodded and groaned a "yes" so Patricia walked over to a telephone in one corner of the cellar. With all the equipment in the chamber it's no surprise I hadn't noticed it earlier. Patricia spoke into it. Then she crossed to where I was standing and chatted for a few minutes. About a yachting gala or something. After what I had just witnessed, I had trouble following her conversation.

There was a knock on the heavy cellar door and another frightened looking slave-girl appeared. Obviously terrified of falling foul of Patricia's anger. She quickly approached us, knelt and offered up a tray holding that jug of lemonade with a glass. There must have been almost a litre of juice left.

"That useless bitch there needs refreshing. Make sure she drinks all that lemonade," ordered Patricia.

"Yes, ma'am," whispered the girl. She hurriedly stood, poured the juice and held the glass up to Tima's lips.

"Drink it all, bitch," commanded Patricia. "All of that juice touched by your filthy, unwashed hands."

Tima sipped at first. All she could manage. But after all that screaming her throat must have been parched. She drank. A little spilled out of her mouth, dribbled down her chin and onto her large breasts. A drop formed on the tip of her nipple. Eventually, she drank it all. Patricia dismissed the server.

"Feel better now, bitch?"

"Yes, ma'am, thank you," murmured Tima.

"I'm going back to work now, but I'll check on you before I leave." She grabbed Tima's hair and pulled the girl's head up. "But if I find you've wet yourself like an animal, then I shall punish you again. More severely."

Without waiting for a response, she dropped Tima's head, gestured to me and led me out of the cellar. I didn't say much as I returned to the far more pleasant world of our offices.

Not surprisingly, I had difficulty concentrating on my work that afternoon. Senhor Zeza wasn't at his desk but I decided to leave early anyway. On my out, I nodded to the receptionist. Then I recalled poor Tima still down in the punishment cellar. I walked down the concrete steps and pushed open the heavy door.

Tima was still hanging up in chains. She looked up at me as she heard my footsteps approach.

"Please master," she moaned, "please help me. I can't take another beating." I looked down. She'd pissed herself. The inside of her left thigh was wet and a puddle of urine lay beneath her, reaching almost to the discarded tampon.

"Your mistress told you not to wet yourself," I told her. "Perhaps you should have thought of that." I was trying to show solidarity with Tima's mistress. Even if I didn't feel much like it.

"Please, I couldn't help it. Oh, please, please master..."

Well, I wasn't there to clean up a dirty slave-girl's piss. But I didn't really want Patricia to beat her again. Then I remembered the telephone in the corner. I called up for a slave to come down to the cellar.

The slave-girl who appeared also looked frightened. But she'd brought a bucket with a cloth. I pointed to a faucet in the corner.

"Clean this girl up, " I ordered. "If Miss Madeira asks then tell her what I ordered. But if she doesn't ask, then no need to say anything. Understand?"

The slave-girl curtseyed and got to work. I left. If I was quick enough, I could catch the next train back to Kresto Abrikoto.

CHAPTER 5.

I sat out after dinner in my own little garden back home. The evening was cooler and I watched the sky turn from blue to indigo. The stars were coming out, far above the troubles of this world. I called for Beth to come out.

She hurried out, lifted off her dress and knelt, naked, by my side. She shivered slightly as the cool evening air caressed her skin, goosebumps forming, making her dark nipples stand up in two hard points.

"Keep still," I told her. "I want to talk to you."

"Yes, master," she said submissively.

I told her about what I had witnessed in the punishment cellar. I asked what she thought. Beth weighed up her words. Not wanting to get herself into trouble.

"She must have deserved her beating, master," she said at last. "Our owners have to keep us slaves under control and chastise us if we do anything wrong. It's for our own good."

"Don't you think that beating was too severe?"

"It's not for me to say, master. And I've seen far worse beatings than that."

"Would you want me to beat you, Beth? Whip you or cane you?"

Beth hesitated. "If master thinks I need discipline, then he must punish me as he sees fit. But I wouldn't enjoy it. It hurts."

"Well, if you continue being a good girl then I won't have to, will I?"

"No, master." She looked down at the ground.

A question came to my mind. "How do people become slaves here in Kupro Marbordo?"

She felt on safer ground here. "In a number of ways, master. Some are prisoners of war, some are criminals sentenced by the courts to slavery, others get into debt and the children of slaves are born into it, of course. And a few poor people choose it because at least they get food and shelter."

"How did you become a slave-girl, Beth?" 

"My parents were farmers, master. Up on the highlands away from the coast. But the rains didn't come one year. They borrowed money to keep going so they got into debt with a big cattle rancher who owned thousands of hectares. My parents had to sell me and my sister."

"What happened to your family after that?"

"I don't know master. They lived hundreds of kilometres away and I've never heard anything since." There were tears now at those memories.

I felt sorry for Beth then. I picked her up and held her tight. Her body shook. I took her back inside and had her run us both a shower-bath to warm us up.

***

Things carried on as normal for the next couple of weeks. My duties at the office were easy and well paid. I joined Haveno Ananaso's Chamber of Commerce and a Business Club and made some good contacts. One weekend, Ricardo Zeza took me sailing out on the Maro de Moruo. Cod Sea in other words. We never caught any cod but I still enjoyed the sun and fresh air.

A couple of days after my talk with Beth, she told me that I had an invitation to dine at the mansio I passed every morning and evening on my way to or from Kresto Abrikoto's little suburban train station. I said I'd go. It would be good to meet Senhor Bartro and some of the neighbours.

That evening, cravat neatly tied, I walked up the mansio's driveway. Past a carriage house and stables where some male slaves were polishing a coach. I rang the doorbell to be greeted by an incredibly beautiful young slave-girl. She was quite tall, with dark coffee coloured skin, curly black hair and a wide generous mouth made for laughter. She wore a spotless, white tunic dress which contrasted well with her complexion. She curtseyed low then led me inside.




Slaves of the Copper Coast



The hallway was almost as large as my little villa. It was floored with black and white tiles. A huge double staircase swept up to a minstrels gallery above. Marble statues stood on their plinths and vases of fresh flowers made a delightful scent. She led me past and into a dining room where she announced me.

Senhor Bartro, his family and other guests stood and greeted me. I recognised some of the men from my Business Club. Their table would not have fitted into my whole villa let alone my dining room. They were of all ages from late teens up to one elderly lady who would not see eighty again.

But what they all had in common was that patina of sophistication and assurance that only wealth can give. Like they had no problems that could not be sorted without the application of money. Maybe I was like that, too.

My host shook my hand. I had seen Senhor Bartro about Kresto Abrikoto. But not at the train station. He was rich enough to drive in his own coach. He was tall, nearly one point nine metres, I guessed. About sixty years old with a neat van Dyke beard, yet he had the physique of a younger man. He was slim and had not let himself become an old man.

His wife was attractive, too, in a faded way. He explained that his sons were with the army fighting revolutionaries and bandits up in the Montoj de Pino, or Pine Mountains, beyond the cattle ranches. But I noticed his daughter. She was one of the two blonde girls I'd often seen walking to and from the train station.

The meal was exquisite. One of the best meals I'd eaten. Good conversation as well. I won't bore you with the details as you weren't there. But it was enhanced by my host's slave-girls. They all wore neat, white, sleeveless tunic dresses, shorter than most others I'd seen. Showed their pretty legs to perfection. They curtseyed deferentially as they served the courses and waited on us. You could tell they'd all been well trained.

But to my mind, the pretty girl who'd originally showed me in was the best of the lot. 

Afterwards, the women withdrew whilst the men sat and drank brandy and some smoked cigars. Some talked business and were interested in what I did at the brokers.

During a lull in the conversation, my host asked how I found my villa and Beth. I explained that I was very happy with both. His next question shocked me. But, this being Kupro Marbordo, maybe it shouldn't have.

"Have you beaten her yet?" Bartro's voice a cultured drawl.

"Why no," I said. "She's very good. Why should I?"

"You're new here. Didn't your slave tell you it is usual for a new master to provide an initial beating to his slaves? It keeps them on their toes; they know where they stand and that their master is no soft touch."

"No. She never said anything like that."

"You've a lot to learn, young man," he chuckled. "Guess we'll have to help your education if you're to take a full part of Kupro Marbordo's society."

I was about to explain that I'd seen a slave-girl flogged at work when he rang a bell. He murmured something to the slave-girl, who curtseyed low and left.

"I noticed you looking at Laia during dinner. She's a good girl but a little discipline helps keep her on the straight and narrow."

Apart from two deep in conversation by the French windows leading into the gardens, the other men adjusted their chairs to watch.

A minute later, there was a knock on the door. The dusky slave-girl, Laia, entered. She curtseyed very low to her master. She was carrying a wooden paddle and worry creased her pretty face. Senhor Bartro pointed to me.

"Senhor Baxter has expressed a desire to learn how to discipline slaves."

CHAPTER 6.

"Yes, master," her soft voice little more than a whisper.

She crossed the room to me, blushing under the gaze of the men around the table. She knelt before me and offered up the paddle. I took the instrument. It was wooden, maybe sixty centimetres long with holes drilled through it. Even I knew that the holes cut resistance to let the paddle travel faster through the air.

I didn't feel much like beating a slave-girl who had done nothing wrong. But I found myself standing and I slashed the paddle through the air. It made a satisfying swish. I looked around Senhor Bartro's other guests. They were watching. One or two with a sneer as if they thought this foreigner wouldn't be able to manage. If I was to keep my place in Haveno Ananaso's polite society, I would have to go through with this task.

"Take off your dress and let me look at you," I said.

With a little moan, Laia did as ordered. Her nude body was so appealing. As I said, she was quite tall. She had full breasts with well defined nipples. You could hang your hat on them. Looking down, I looked at the dimple of her belly button above the swell of her hips leading your eye down to her neat pussy. And she had great legs, long and toned.

I reached out and felt her breasts. Silky smooth skin trembling under my touch. But she wasn't here for me to admire.

"Now turn and bend over."

She did so. She clamped her legs together to protect her sweet sex from my blows. All the same, her bum was beautifully presented to view. Two demi-globes of firm flesh.

"Lower, girl," I said. She bent still lower, her breasts hanging perfectly. In the now quiet room, I heard her breathing as she sucked in air. I felt the fear coming off her. I tapped her bottom with my paddle. She flinched at its touch. I figured she didn't get beaten much, certainly I saw no old bruises on her body. I tapped her bum again. No one spoke.

Then I brought the paddle down. Hard. It swished through the air. Crack! It smacked against both cheeks. Laia shrieked and jumped forward. I smiled. Despite what Senhor Bartro said earlier about the importance of disciplining slaves, I reckoned he was probably a bit of a soft touch himself.

"Where do you think you're going girl? I haven't finished yet," I barked.

Laia shuffled back, turned and bent again. Nowhere near low enough.

"Lower, girl. Resume your original position."

She did so, her body trembling with fear and stress. I saw her bum had a nice red glow under her dark coffee skin. Once again, I tapped the bottom presented to me. Then slammed the paddle down again. Exactly where I'd hit her before. Laia screamed and jerked upright. But didn't move away. This girl was a quick learner.

I decided to be a little gentler on her. After all, she'd done nothing wrong and didn't deserve to be beaten. With my left hand, I gripped the back of her neck through her curly hair, forcing her down and back into position. Her body was warm and trembling beneath my hand.

Then I slapped her again with the paddle, not as hard but it still made a resounding crack. Two more blows in quick succession followed. Crack! Crack! She sobbed and cried out. Tried to rise but using my strength I was able to keep Laia in her correct position.

Lastly, I patted her bottom with the paddle. She shuddered under its touch. I glanced down. Tears poured down her face and dropped onto Bartro's expensive rug. I pulled away the paddle. I felt her brace herself against the expected blow. But instead I gently rubbed it over her bruised bottom. She didn't know what to make of this.

Then I pulled the paddle away then brought it crashing down across both cheeks with all my strength. And I am quite fit and strong. My gym sees to that. She screamed as red agony flamed up from her abused bum, up through her nerves and hit her brain.

I released my hold.

"What do you say?" I demanded.

She couldn't speak for a moment. Just cried.

"Oh... oh... ow... Thank you, master. Thank you." Tears trickled down her face. I returned the paddle to her. She looked at the instrument of her suffering with horror.

"You may go now, Laia," Senhor Bartro told her. She picked up her clothes, curtseyed then limped out.

"You did very well, Senhor Baxter. You took to it like a duck to water. Not every foreigner, especially those from the United Zones, is capable of dealing with slavery. But I think you will enjoy your time in Kupro Marbordo."

The other men congratulated me as well.

"But don't be too lenient with Beth. And by the way, I'd advise you to buy your own personal slave-girl as well. A house slave is all very well, but it's not the same as owning your very own slave. And you can always sell her back when you go back to the United Zones."

I nodded at Senhor Bartro's advice.

"Shall we rejoin the ladies?" someone said. With that we picked up our glasses and entered the drawing room. There I got another shock. My second of that evening.

The women were sitting around on various couches and ottomans. The windows were opened to the cool night breeze but even so it felt warm. His wife was playing the piano. A soft, complex tune. I looked about for Senhor Bartro's blonde daughter. I had only exchanged a few words with her during dinner as she sat at the other end of the long table.

"I heard you punishing one of the girls, dear. Which one?" said his wife.

"Sorry," he grinned. "That Laia is noisy, isn't she? No, Senhor Baxter here was showing us how effective he is at disciplining slave-girls."

Then I got my shock. I spotted Bartro's daughter reclining on a divan. But her feet were resting on the back of a naked slave-girl. She was using the same blonde I'd seen walking and chatting with her several times as a footrest.

Perhaps I should have expected that. After all, slaves must attend their masters' and mistresses' every whim. And if you need to rest your feet, why not? But what shocked me was not that her slave-girl was curled up under her mistress's feet.

Her genitals were in full view of anyone entering the room. No privacy for that girl. I saw glints of metal from the slave-girl's labia. I crossed the room to the Senhor Bartro's daughter and reintroduced myself. The young lady made room for me on her divan.

At first we talked about the weather and such like until I steered the conversation around to her footrest.

"I couldn't help noticing that your slave-girl seems to have some metal-work on her... ahem... privates," I said.

"Oh yes," said the girl brightly. "Mummy and I thought it's best to keep Kyli locked."

"Locked?" I said. Confused.

"Otherwise a slut like Kyli would just sleep with any passing male slave. No, Mummy and I will decide for her when she loses her virginity. It's for her own good." The girl swung her legs off Kyli's back.

"Show the master, Kyli," she ordered. Kyli stood, her knees popping. She turned, bent over with her legs apart and exposed her hairless vulva to my gaze. Her labia had been pierced with six rings, three on each side. The rings were joined together with three small padlocks. There was enough space to allow urine to flow but nothing could penetrate the girl's vagina.

"But..." I said.

"It's awfully inconvenient, especially when she's having her period and it's like she's running up to me every few minutes to be unlocked, isn't it Kyli?"

"Yes, miss," whispered Kyli. "I'm sorry to put you to any trouble."

"That's all right. I don't really mind. It's for your own good, after all. Now, get back in position."

"Yes, miss." Kyli knelt back down beneath her mistress's feet. I found it strange how women here in Kupro Marbordo could discuss menstruation with a virtual stranger. So different from the more repressed society up in the United Zones.

I stayed a little longer, but when the other guests started to leave I thanked my host and walked back to my little villa further up the hill. I was deep in thought as I let myself in.

Beth pushed open the door from the kitchen and stepped into the hall. Even in the dim light from the solitary gas lamp turned down low I could tell she'd been sleeping. Her eyes were puffy and her dark hair all mussed up. She dipped a little curtsey then took my jacket.

"Did you have a good evening, master?" she asked, her voice scratchy.

"Yes I did, thank you, Beth. I learned a few things tonight. A word, please. In the kitchen." Her eyes widened at my tone. She held the kitchen door open for me. I saw the dim embers in the range oven, a chair pushed back from the table. She'd been using a stack of cloths on the table as a pillow as she waited on my return.

I lit a gas lamp. The sudden glare making us both screw up our eyes.

"You know I'm not from Kupro Marbordo. I don't know all your customs. Why didn't you tell me about initial beatings?"

Beth's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened with shock.

"I'm sorry, master. I just thought you knew but had decided not to beat me. Please forgive me."

"Not good enough. Take off your dress and bend over that table." I crossed to the cupboard and selected a paddle. Similar to the one I'd used on Laia earlier. I heard a rustle of clothing behind me. By the time I turned round, Beth was naked and bent over the table. Her pert bottom facing me.

"Spread your legs. Wider." I told her. Slowly, she opened her legs, widening her bottom. In the shadows, I glimpsed the fleshy lips of her cunt. I sliced the paddle several times through the air, testing its action. Fast and smooth. The air rushed through the paddle's holes with a hissing sound.

Beth's body shook. She waited for the pain to come. I walked round her body and took up position. I lifted the paddle, chose a spot, then patted her bottom with my paddle. She trembled. I raised my paddle again then patted her bottom with it a second time.

"There you are, Beth. Your initial beating has been completed."

"Master?"

"You're a good girl, Beth. You've looked after me very well so far. You don't deserve to be beaten."

"Thank you, master," she said.

"You may stand up now," I told her.

She stood, then threw herself to the floor before me. She covered my boots with her kisses.

"Oh, master, you're the best master a slave-girl could have."

After a couple of minutes of this, I stooped and lifted her up. Beth stood before me, her eyes downcast, her dark hair hiding her face.

"It's late now, Beth, and we're both tired. Wake me up in the morning." 

She offered to help me undress but on this occasion I refused.

CHAPTER 7.

Later that week I was back in my broker's office in Haveno Ananaso. On my way to the train station, I'd seen Senhor Bartro's daughter with her slave-girl, Kyli, and they seemed best of friends. Most strange. I couldn't really understand it.

I was standing over the teleprinter in my room, watching a string of prices spool out of it. Not the results I was looking for. There was a knock and my secretary showed Patricia into my office. The woman was excited. Her grey eyes flashing rather than cool. She showed me a copy of the Haveno Ananaso Times, Kupro Marbordo's main newspaper.

"What do you think," she asked. I read through the article. It was about chlorates, a new development in artificial fertilisers, that were promised as the next thing that would transform the region's agriculture.

"I'm not sure," I said. "I haven't invested any of the firm's money into them." For some reason I had big doubts about chlorates. If something looked too good to be true then it probably was.

"This country needs to modernise so I'm getting in on the ground floor. Look at the prices. Those shares can only go through the roof. I'll make lots of money. You should do the same," she said, walking round the room.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"Don't leave it too long. I've taken out a loan with my bank so I can buy more shares. In a few months, I'll make a fortune. I can buy my own house, buy a slave or two..."

I didn't envy any slave owned by Patricia Madeira. That woman had a vicious streak. Of course it's necessary to discipline slaves but no need to be cruel to them. They have no choice other to obey.

Patricia talked some more about chlorates and the vast amount of money she was about to make. It just seemed too unsafe to me and I didn't want to expose my money to that level of risk.

"How's that slave-girl you disciplined the other day, what's-her-name, Tima?" I asked to stop her talking about the marvellous future with chlorates.

"Oh, she's back at work now. I had to give that lazy bitch a few days off."

I nodded. I was glad that Tima had recovered.

Later that day, I passed the archive room. I saw Tima, Patricia's secretary, filing some documents away. I stepped into the room. She hadn't heard me.

"Tima," I said. The poor girl jumped with fright. Papers scattered to the floor. She turned around and knelt. Fear in her brown eyes. I was sorry to see the short, slightly plump, pretty slave-girl look so frightened.

"How are you?" I asked.

"F... f... fine, master."

I doubted that.

"Have you recovered from your punishment now?"

"Yes, master," but there were tears in her eyes.

"Show me, Tima," I ordered.

Slowly, she tugged off her tunic dress. She covered her large breasts with her arm. I made her drop her arm and stand before me. Her breasts were covered in little bruises and fingernail marks. Someone, and I think I knew who, had cruelly tortured those two luscious globes of flesh. I sucked in air with a hiss.

"Turn around, Tima," I said. Her back and bottom were red raw. I told her to bend over. Gently, I touched her sex and labia. She cried out. Her fleshy lips were red. Not with passion but with pain.

"Why does Miss Madeira hate you so, Tima?"

"I don't know, master. I try to be good and work hard but she just takes it out on me. She just hates me and I don't know why. It's not fair, master."

I held Tima in my arms for a while as she sobbed. Then, letting her go, I looked into her pretty face.

"Maybe I'll ask Senhor Zeza if I can get you reallocated," I said.

"Oh, if you could, but she'll never let me go. She just loves hurting me."

The archive room's door swung open again. Patricia Madeira stood framed in the doorway. She was holding a short cane which she flexed in her hands.

"Look at my papers all over the floor! Stop flaunting yourself and get back to work immediately. Unless you need another session in the cellar."

Tima flung her tunic dress back over her head, then stooped, picking up the dropped papers. I got a great view of her breasts as she bent. But as I made my way past Patricia, I asked her to go easy; it was my fault that Tima had stopped working. I don't know if it did any good. Probably not from the cries that followed my exit.

***

Now I must tell you about something that does me no credit at all. 

A couple of weeks later, I was in a foul mood. Some of my investments on behalf of my firm hadn't done as well as I expected. No, I'll tell the truth. They did disastrously. I bought far too many shares in marble mines. Just as marble fell out of fashion in the United Zones. People preferred granite for their stonework. All on some designer's say-so. I should have bought more cattle. The United Zones army wanted more beef for that never ending Angolan War.

My mistakes and I own up to them. I was worried I wouldn't receive this quarter's bonus. And I was relying on that money. What made it worse is that those chlorate stocks were climbing high. Just as Patricia said they would. 

She'd taken out a second bank loan on the back of the first. I advised her not to put all her eggs in one basket but it was like the woman was in the grip of a fever. She wouldn't listen to my warnings. All she could think of was cashing in at the top of the market and making her fortune. A risky strategy.

After one too many visit from her, I slipped out of my office. I left the teleprinter in the corner to chatter out its string of bad news. I caught the little train back up to Kresto Abrikoto. Worse, the train broke down and I had to wait ages on one of the earlier stations for a replacement to be organised. It rained. One of those heavy afternoon showers we sometimes get.




Slaves of the Copper Coast



I was cold, wet and in a very bad mood when I reached my villa. My temper as dark as the overcast clouds above. I let myself in, called out for Beth but she didn't appear. I flung off my soaked jacket and looked round the house for her. Most unusual.

I stood in the kitchen. The stove was unlit so there was no warmth. I couldn't find any refreshments neither. Worried, I pushed open the door to Beth's room next to the larder. I realised I'd never seen where she slept. Maybe she was ill, I thought, as I walked in.

The room was clean and simply furnished. It had whitewashed walls. A bunk-bed took up one wall. I saw that she slept on the lower as the top was unmade. A dresser with a wash bowl and ewer under the barred window. A small mirror. By the wash bowl on the dresser, a few old magazines. A covered bucket for her toilet. A spare dress hung from the back of the door. But no Beth.

I was annoyed now. No fire, no refreshments. I sat at the kitchen table and waited. And waited. The rain pattered down on the pantiled roof, slowly easing off. Eventually, the key turned in the kitchen back door. Like all slaves, Beth is forbidden to use the main, front door.

Beth pushed open the door and walked in. She looked startled to see me sitting there.

"Sorry I'm late. I was waiting for the rain to stop," she said. She had a little spray of flowers behind one ear and was carrying a covered basket. She brushed some droplets off her dress.

"Where have you been?" I asked, careful to keep my voice neutral.

"Over at Senhor Bartro's mansio. Their cook is one of my best friends."

I pushed my chair back and stood. "Not good enough, girl," I thundered. Beth looked up at my tone, her chocolate brown eyes widening.

"First, you're late. Second you didn't curtsey on entering and third you haven't called me 'master'..."

"I'm sorry, master," Beth said dropping to her knees.

"Too late, girl. Senhor Bartro and my friends at the Business Club are right. I've been far too lax with you and look where it's got me. A total lack of respect. But that's something I'm going to cure. Right now."

CHAPTER 8.

"Please, master, I didn't mean any..."

"Stop interrupting. Take off your clothes and bend over." I pointed to the kitchen table. With a little moan, Beth pulled off her dress, dropped it to the floor then unhooked her breast-band and dropped that too."

"Not like that. Fold them up neatly on that chair." I watched her naked body as she moved, the play of light over her large yet firm breasts, the swell of her stomach with the dark concavity of her belly-button. I looked down.

"No. Don't bend yet. Come here," I commanded. She slowly walked up to me. I pushed my hand between her legs, felt her hot, damp slit. And the stubble on either side. I took my hand away.

"When did you last shave, girl?"

"Please, master, I've been busy and I forgot. Maybe the weekend?"

"Plenty of time to visit friends but no time to keep yourself tidy for your master? It looks like I shall have to be severe instead of lenient with you, Beth."

"Oh, master, please forgive me. It won't happen again."

"No it won't, Beth. Because I shall teach you a lesson you won't forget in a hurry. Now, bend over that table."

Beth looked up at me. Realised that any further talk from her would make her punishment even worse. She bent over the wooden table and spread her legs. I looked at her exposed cunt.

"Stay there and do not move," I said.

I crossed to that cupboard that had so horrified me before. I was so angry that now it didn't. I looked at all the punishment implements inside. There was a heavy whip but I discarded that. I'm not an expert and I didn't want to permanently damage Beth. Yet a light cane seemed insufficient for her errors. Whilst I thought, I pulled out four short ropes. I returned with them to the table.

I knelt and bound Beth's ankles to the table legs. Then I walked round the table, caught her arms, pulled them down and tied them, too, to the opposite table legs. She was immobile, bound to the heavy table. Beth looked up at me with mute appeal. She knew she was in big trouble.

I lifted her chin. "Do I need to gag you as well?" I asked. Quieter now. She shook her head. She probably knew that she would need all her breath to cope with the punishment she was expecting.

"If you change your mind, let me know," I told her. She shook her head again.

I returned to the cupboard. Whilst tying her up I had made my decision. Something that would hurt but with no risk of damage. I took down a wooden paddle from its hook. I flexed it. It was maybe eighty to ninety centimetres long, fairly thin with plenty of holes drilled through it. And it had a nice, comfortable handle. I tested it on my palm. It stung, even when quite gently used. Ideal.

I walked back to the table, chopping it through the air. Beth craned her head over her shoulder, trying to see what was going on behind her. What would be used upon her defenceless bottom.

"Eyes front," I snapped. I stood behind her.

"I won't ask you to count the strokes, Beth. I'm not sure that you'll soon be capable of that."

She whimpered and wriggled her bottom. But it was no use. Tied down as she was, there would be no escape until I chose to release her.

As usual, I patted her bottom with my paddle. Let her skin get used to the texture of the wood. Enjoyed watching the quivers running through her flesh. Then I took the paddle away.

Brought it down. Hard. There was a loud crack followed a split second later by a howl of pure animal agony. Beth screamed, the sound echoing round the kitchen. I brought my arm back and again a crack immediately followed by another scream. If possible even louder than her first.

Two wide red stripes formed across her bottom. Only two -- the first of many, I thought. I gave her a moment to recover, then smashed the paddle straight across her arse. Roughly where the first two blows had landed. She screamed again, her neck extended all her tendons and muscles showing with the force of her shriek.

Again, I held the paddle away from my body so I could put my strength behind the next blow. I walloped it down, the crack echoing around the kitchen. If I thought she was screaming loudly before, that was nothing compared with the noise she was making now. Her whole body jerked forward, only the ropes around her wrists and ankles holding her in place.

I gave her a moment to recover a little.

"Are you sure you don't want that gag, Beth?" I asked.

She shook her head. At least, I think she was shaking her head.

I dealt the next three blows very quickly with no time between them. No time to recover her mind. Just one long blast of agony. One long animal-like howl. That would teach her some respect. I smacked down a few more blows, enjoying her cries and wriggles as she tried, in vain, to move her beaten bottom out of harms way.

Then I decided to inspect her bottom. I didn't want to damage her. After all, she belonged to my landlord, not me. I laid the paddle down beside her. I turned up the gas mantle, then returned to Beth. Her bottom was red, sore. I saw stripes where the edges of the paddle had caught her flesh. But nothing that wouldn't quickly heal. I crouched, separated her cheeks and looked up her cleft. At her rosy, little bum hole.

My paddle hadn't, of course, hit anything down there and I had avoided her genitals. Satisfied with my check, I lifted my paddle again.

"What was that, girl?" I asked. Beth had muttered something although I hadn't caught what she said.

"Please, no more. I've learned my lesson," she said just a little louder.

"No you haven't," I told her. "Once again, you forgot to show respect. You didn't call me 'master'."

Beth sobbed. "Master, master, please, master."

I swished the paddle through the air again. Took up my position. Smashed it down as hard as I could across those defenceless cheeks. She jerked forward and screamed loudly. That girl badly needed this beating.

Again and again and again I struck her. I laid on hard. But eventually, I noticed that her screams had subsided and her bottom wasn't moving very much. She had obviously retreated into a place inside of herself like an animal hiding in its lair. If I carried on much longer, it would be merely like tenderising a piece of meat.

And I didn't want to be cruel to the poor slave-girl. She didn't deserve that as she had served me well over the last couple of months or so. I hoped she had learned that much needed lesson as I didn't want to have to beat her like that again for a long while. Anyway, my arm was getting tired.

I laid the paddle down. Beth was slumped limply over the table, her head down facing the quarry tiled floor. I crossed to the butler sink and filled a pail with water. She took no notice, like she still hadn't realised the beating had stopped. That she was still dealing with the pain flooding her body.

I poured the cold water over her head and upper body, the water washing through her hair and puddling on the floor, channelling away between the tiles. Beth gasped with the cold shock and raised her head sufficiently to look at me before slumping forward again.

Call me foolish, but only then did I realise that beating her had made me hard. My cock throbbed painfully against my constricting trousers. A real blue-steeler boner I'd heard it called. And it wouldn't be denied. I grabbed Beth's wet hair and raised her head again. Her brown eyes sought mine.

"Where do you keep the olive oil, girl?" I asked.

She didn't seem to understand the strangeness of my question. So I repeated it.

"In that cupboard over there, master," she said. At least she was respectful now. An improvement.

I fetched the small jug of oil then walked behind her. I freed my cock and it sprang erect. It was massive, although I say so myself. I unstopped the bottle then trickled the oil down the cleft of her red raw bum. The golden coloured oil slipped down, collecting in the puckered hollow of her anus.

With my middle finger, I worked the oil into her anus, slipping it in deeper and deeper as I worked. Beth gasped with the cold shock of the invasion. I poured a fresh trickle direct onto her bum hole. Some dripped lower until her labia also glistened with oil.

A moment later, I worked my index finger in as well to join my middle finger. I opened them slightly, working and stretched and relaxing her tight anus. But I couldn't hold back any longer. I pulled my fingers out, then positioned the tip of my throbbing, veiny cock against her sphincter.

Then I shoved it in with one deep, hard thrust. Beth gasped. I leaned forward and slid my hands under her body, cupping her squashed boobs. My fingers caught her proud nipples and I teased and tweaked them.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you girl?" I asked. Again, she gasped.

Then I rammed up and into her, my cock sliding in and out. The olive oil lubing my shaft, helping it glide in and out of her tight chute. I pulled on her nipples, couldn't last out at this rate, then I exploded like a volcano deep inside of her. My cum far up her rectum. I panted with spent lust as I collapsed over her back and lay sprawled on top of her body. I played with her nipples as my cock shrank to normal and I waited for her anus to expel me.

Then I stood, walked around to her front. I lifted her head by her hair again.

"Wake up, girl." I showed her my soiled penis. "Clean me off."

"Yes, master," she whispered. I pushed my cock into her mouth. Automatically, her tongue licked me; up and down my shaft and the head of my penis. She gulped, working saliva into her mouth and swallowed. Washing me clean. But I'd had enough for one night. 

It was late and a wave of sympathy washed over me for my poor, beaten slave-girl. She'd taken all I'd done to her and come out the other side. To leave her like that would be cruel. Sure, Patricia would have thought of fresh torments but I wasn't like that. I just hoped Beth had learned her lesson. She was basically a good girl. Just needed a little reminder.

I buttoned up and untied her. Beth raised her head but then lowered it again. She just lay across the kitchen table. I scooped the girl up then carried her into her little bedroom. I laid her face down on her bed then covered her with a single sheet. No way was that girl sleeping on her back for a week or more. I kissed her cheek then quietly closed the door behind me.

After that exercise, I was starving. I looked in the basket Beth had brought home. I found half a cold chicken and ham pie. I wolfed it down before having a wash and going to bed.

I slept like a log.

CHAPTER 9.

I'm not a brutal master. The following day, I was up before Beth but I didn't make an issue of it. Instead I caught an earlier train into Haveno Ananaso's main Urbocentro station. I breakfasted at my Businessmen's Club.

At work, I had to put up with Patricia gloating about how well her chlorate shares were doing. Up four per cent overnight. I started having second thoughts. I mean, I'm an expert but I'm not infallible and I could be wrong. Maybe I was making the wrong call on this issue. But my gut instinct was to avoid them. Once again, I warned Patricia against having all her eggs in one basket. But it was like talking to the wall.

But the good news was that my uncle in head office in the United Zones had approved my bonus. The money had been wired through to my bank here in Haveno Ananaso. I knew I'd have to work hard next quarter to make up any losses and earn my next bonus. I scanned my teleprinter hoping for any clues to market forecasts. Anything other than those chlorates.

I was in a much better mood as I returned home to Kresto Abrikoto. I'd bought a new pair of sandals for Beth. Something to cheer her up. As I walked up my driveway, Beth flung open the front door. The deepest possible curtsey -- but not without a little wince.

As soon as I stepped into my hallway and sat down, she helped me off with my boots then knelt and kissed my feet. Her tongue lapping and licking, working its way between my toes, kissing my soles. I let her do that for a few minutes before stopping her.

She was delighted with her new sandals and wanted to kiss my feet all over again. This was far more like it. Instead I raised her up.

"Would master like a shower-bath now?" she asked. "Or I've laid out dinner in the garden. If that's acceptable, master." Yes, far more like it.

"Shower," I told her. She led me into the bathroom, stripped off her dress then took off my clothes. She knelt again and kissed the tip of my cock. It twitched in anticipation.

"Stand up, Beth. Then bend over." The woman gasped with horror. Surely I wasn't going to beat her again. Not when she'd done nothing wrong. "I want to inspect your bottom."

Beth turned and bent. Her bottom was red, but bruises were forming now. It looked incredibly sore and painful. As it should be. I spread her buttock cheeks. I traced my finger down her cleft, circling the puckered skin of her anus, then lower, still lower. She had shaved her sex and oiled it so it was soft and smooth. Her labia majora were completely hairless. My hand slipped lower and stroked her clitoris. I teased that most sensitive little button until she shuddered before letting her stand up.

"Good girl. I think you've learned your lesson." She nodded.

We showered together, washing away any lingering resentments and anger along with the day's grime. She squealed as I pushed her up against the wall, her sore bottom hitting the tiles. I came inside her tight pussy with passion. Then I let her wash herself clean.

Beth had cooked a spicy chicken with sweetcorn for my dinner and I enjoyed it out in the garden. The evening was cooler now. Whilst I ate, she knelt naked by my side. She could eat later. Then the door bell rang. Waiting for my permission, she threw her dress over her head then ran for the door.

She returned a few minutes later. Knelt again. "It was one of Senhor Bartro's slaves, master. Inviting you over to their mansio. Senhor Bartro has some business he wishes to discuss, master."

I nodded. "Tell him I will be along shortly." She bowed then scooted off.

That was why, later that evening, I found myself sitting in Senhor Bartro's drawing room. Senhora Bartro was sewing by the window; their daughter was reading a book. She was using her slave-girl, Kyli, as a footstool. Kyli was naked, facing away from her mistress. One of her mistress's bare feet was resting on her bottom, her other foot idly toying with Kyli's genital piercings. Kyli's bottom twitched.

"Keep still, can't you, Kyli? Don't make me tell you again."

"No, mistress."

Senhor Bartro introduced me then offered me refreshments. After some general talk about the Angolan War, the distinguished man got down to business.

"I've decided to get into chlorates. Looks like there's some good money to be made there. If they take off, they'll transform agriculture in this country," Bartro said.

I gave him my warning about not over-exposing himself to risk. Unlike Patricia Madeira he understood. "I never invest more than I can afford to lose. It's like gambling at the casino in a way. Don't bet if you can't afford to smile when you lose."

I agreed but asked what I could do for him.

"I understand you've received a very handsome bonus." I nodded. Non-committal. "So I wondered if you've given any further thought to what I mentioned earlier? I thought you might like to buy a slave. Your own personal slave-girl, not your landlord's house slave."

He sensed my hesitation. "You can always sell her on when you leave Kupro Marbordo. I know you're interested in Laia and, to be honest, I'm getting a little fed up with her."

I sipped my brandy and looked over the brim at him. That didn't sound so great.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with her. But I usually get bored after a couple of years and fancy a change. I thought I could invest the sale money in chlorates and then buy a really first rate, top-notch slave after I cash in my investments. Would you like to look her over?"

I nodded again. Senhor Bartro rang the bell and a large, heavy-set male slave, probably a gardener, led Laia in. The man bowed then left.

Laia stood trembling. All she knew was that I was the man who had beaten her for no reason. She must have thought I was here to hurt her again.

"Take off your clothes, Laia. Senhor Baxter wants to inspect you," Senhor Bartro said. His voice firm. Laia dis-robed and slipped off her breast-band. Her dark, curly hair fell about her shoulders and her eyes were downcast.

I still had some of my northern, United Zones inhibitions left. I felt uncomfortable about inspecting a naked slave-girl under the gaze of Senhor Bartro's wife and daughter. But I shouldn't have worried. I stood and put down my crystal brandy glass.

I didn't think Senhor Bartro would sell me a dud. He had far too much status in Haveno Ananaso society. However, I still wanted to check Laia out. You wouldn't buy a coach or carriage without looking at it first, would you?

Senhor Bartro's daughter's picked up a light cane and swatted her footstool on the head. "Close your eyes, Kyli. There's nothing for you to see here. And keep still, can't you?"

I started at Laia's head. I felt her skull. No old scars or contusions. I pulled her lobes and looked into her ears before staring into her eyes. They were deep brown and intelligent.

"Put out your tongue," I commanded. It looked healthy. 

I counted her teeth, which were in perfect condition. Working down, I told her to rotate her neck. I felt her arm muscles. She was a tall girl and her muscles showed she was quite strong. I ran my finger tips down her spine. Nice and straight.

I fondled her breasts, Checked for any unwanted lumps or bumps. Would have rejected her if I'd found any. I tweaked her dark brown nipples, which immediately responded under my touch. I stroked her belly, dipped a fingernail into her belly-button. She shuddered.




Slaves of the Copper Coast



Then I crouched before her. I caught a hint of her musky natural scent. I ran my hand down her flanks and calves.

"Open your legs," I told her. Another whiff of her natural scent. I stroked the inside of her thighs. She had good strong legs. Runner's legs we would have called them up in the United Zones. I was impressed so far. I looked up. Senhora Bartro was engrossed in her sewing. We could have been on the dark side of the moon for all she cared.

His daughter glanced up from her book. She was not bothered at all that I was intimately examining another member of her gender in the same room.

"Now turn around. Bend and spread." I might as well get this over with, although I'd already made up my mind to buy. The only embarrassed one was myself. And possibly Laia. The slave-girl did as commanded. I rested one hand on her back to keep her in position.

I slipped my index finger in between her labia, found her vagina then slipped it in. Maybe I nicked her with my fingernail as she jerked away. Her moist love tunnel was nice and tight. Even tighter than Beth's. Obviously, this slave-girl had not been overused.

Only one thing left. And it was staring me in the face. So to speak. I withdrew my finger from her vagina then, as it was slippery from the girl's own love juices I plunged it into her anus. The slave-girl flinched and sucked in a gasp of air. Again, a nice tight hole. I fingered her for a moment but I was satisfied. I pulled it out.

"Stand up and clean my finger," I said, slipping my soiled finger into her mouth. Her tongue found work to do.

"How much do you want for her?" I asked.

"Well, I'd be giving her away if I accepted less than five thousand piastres," he said, pretending to think.

I laughed. "I follow the slave prices in the Haveno Ananaso Times. I'd be paying over the odds if I paid more than three thousand."

I won't weary you with our haggling. Eventually, we agreed on three thousand, seven hundred and fifty piastres. I got a bargain. I think I only got such a good price because Senhor Bartro liked me. Maybe I reminded him of his sons away fighting bandits up in the Montoj de Pino. He told me that she came with full medical certificates which he would send on later.

Senhor Bartro said I could take Laia away with me now. I could send a cheque to his office in Urbocentro tomorrow. Tired now, we shook hands on the deal. I tied Laia's hands behind her with a length of rope, another to her collar then led her home. 

Neither of us spoke on the short walk back.

CHAPTER 10.

Poor Beth was still up. She opened the door and looked surprised when she saw Laia standing there behind me. So surprised she forgot to kneel for me. But I was in a good mood so I forgave her.

"My new slave-girl. Laia," I told Beth. "Make up a bed for her, then go to sleep yourself. Tomorrow, you can show Laia her duties. If she misbehaves, you are in charge and you have my permission to discipline her. Understand?"

Beth nodded. "Yes, master," she took Laia into the kitchen and shortly after both girls got me ready for bed.

Next day, I sent a slave-girl with my personal cheque over to Senhor Bartro's offices and she picked up Laia's certificates. As Senhor Bartro promised, she was healthy and had suffered from no serious illnesses.

I walked over to Patricia Madeira's office. A different slave-girl, I didn't know her name, was acting as her secretary. The girl showed me in and I sat down.

"Where's Tima?" I asked. Patricia had piled up her honey-blonde hair into a loose chignon. Her blouse showed a couple of centimetres of her firm bosom. She looked sexy. Her grey eyes looked up.

"Oh, that stupid bitch still hasn't learned her lesson. I've sent her down to the cellar. I haven't got time to discipline her myself just now so she'll have to stay there a while." She rubbed a hand over her forehead. She looked harassed with her workload. Her new secretary was unsure of all her duties but I noticed she hadn't been beaten for any failures.

"Where's your jewellery?" I said, puzzled. Patricia always wore several rings and a beautifully worked gold necklace.

"Oh, I pawned them."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Yes, I pawned them today for a few weeks to raise more money for chlorates. I'll cash in my shares then redeem my jewellery and make a tidy profit, too," she grinned.

"Is that wise?"

"Chlorates can only rise. It says so here." She showed me the article in the Haveno Ananaso Times. I glanced at it and shrugged. Maybe it was me making a mistake by not investing but I warned her again. Wasted my breath.

I left her office. It was almost siesta time so I walked down to the punishment cellar before heading out to a local bistro for lunch. A few slaves were in the cellar. A male was spread-eagled over a frame, his back whipped raw.

Tima was hanging by her wrists from a crossbar. Her arms were spread wide and she was slumped forward, the whole weight of her body taken by her wrists and her toes. I watched muscles jump and twitch in her arms and thighs. She must have been hanging there for ages.

She'd lost weight. When I first met her, she was slightly plump but now I could see her ribs. She still had large breasts, hanging free from her body as she leaned forward. I'd asked Senhor Zeza if the slave-girl could be transferred to me but apparently Patricia had refused that request.

As I walked closer I saw that weighted nipple clamps had been attached, pulling on her breasts. The pain in those sensitive nipples pulled out of shape must be intolerable. I lifted her head. The girl opened her brown eyes and looked up at me. They were dull and apathetic. 

Maybe I'm too tender hearted by interfering in a slave-girl's punishment. I ungagged her and fetched her a beaker of water. She sipped and drank, some of the water trickling down her chin. I dried it off. Tima licked her lips.

"Thank you, master. Thank you so much."

"What have you done this time, Tima? Why is Miss Madeira punishing you this time?"

"I don't know, master. She didn't say. Just sent me down here to wait for her, master."

She burst into tears and I gave her a few minutes to recover.

"Oh, I can't go on any longer, master. I'm going to go to the Domo de Korekto and ask to be put out of my misery," she cried.

This was very serious. And very sad. Tima didn't deserve this. Perhaps I should explain. There is a very sensible aspect to slavery in Kupro Marbordo. As well as training and disciplining slaves for those owners who can't do it, the Domo offers a service to the slaves themselves.

If any slave finds life intolerable under a cruel owner, they can go to the Domo de Korekto and ask to be killed. Or when they become too old or infirm to serve. I don't know how the Domo does it, but I understand it is quick and humane. Obviously, it is up to the slave owners not to take things too far because otherwise they will lose a very valuable piece of property. It's far better to sell a slave onto another owner.

As you can understand, I was upset to hear Tima speak of seeking the Domo de Korekto.

"No, don't do that. Not yet. Try and last out a little longer and I'll see what I can do," I told the poor, abused slave-girl.

She nodded as I replaced the gag. I hope I convinced her.

***

As usual, I took my dinner out in my garden, enjoying the evening cool. Over the walls I heard the evening sounds of Kresto Abrikoto; children playing, birds singing and the wind sighing through the fruit trees. I glanced down. Two naked females knelt by my side, dark hair cascading down their backs, their knees spread wide, their sweet sexes displayed to my view.

Despite the slight chill, both were still. They know that I don't like them fidgeting and shivering as I eat. It's very distracting. Beth had prepared a bowl of strawberries for my dessert. I was in a good mood.

"Open wide," I told them. Beth opened her mouth but Laia merely spread her knees even wider. I popped a strawberry into Beth's mouth. After a diet of bland slave porridge, the taste overwhelmed her. Tears came into her eyes as she sucked and chewed on the sweet fruit.

Laia opened her mouth and I let her have a strawberry as well. She'd appreciate it all the more after what was about to happen to her. Dinner finished, I pushed my chair away from the table.

"It's getting cold, isn't it girls?" I asked.

A chorus of 'yes, masters' followed.

"Time for a warm-up, I think. Laia. It's time for your initial beating."

Laia flung herself at my feet, begging. Her dark, curly hair covering my boots. "I had one at Senhor Bartro's master, I'm a good girl, you don't need to hit me any more. Please, please, please..."

I cut off her pleas. I wasn't going to make the same mistake a second time. I lifted her up gently. It was best to get it over with.

"If you're as good a girl as you say you are, then I won't have to beat you much, will I?"

She shook her head but couldn't stop crying. There was a T-shaped post in the garden with a couple of rings set in it. I led Laia over to the post whilst Beth fetched the punishment equipment I'd selected earlier.

Laia was too upset as I shackled her arms to the crossbar. It felt heartless doing this but I had to administer an initial beating. Otherwise she would lose all respect for her owner. There's no need to take up too much of your time describing Laia's beating.

Suffice it to say, I had a good warm-up and so did Laia. Using a cat o' nine tails with broad leather straps, I flogged her back, working down from her shoulders to the small of her back. She howled with pain, drowning out the sound of the playing children. 

I thought about asking Beth to fetch a gag but decided against it. After all, my evening meal has sometimes been disturbed by the sounds of my neighbours flogging their slaves.

Then I worked on her buttocks using that flexible wooden paddle that Beth knew so well. It had the same effect on Laia as it had earlier on Beth. Laia shrieked and twisted in her chains in a vain attempt to escape from my blows. It got so bad that I ordered Beth to hold Laia round her waist to keep her still. I beat her a few extra times to make up for the inconvenience so it would have been better for Laia if she'd kept still, wouldn't it?

I have to say that Laia wet herself during this part of her beating. A stream of her golden urine poured down her legs as she writhed in agony. However, as we were out in the garden, I didn't make an issue of it as I would have done if we were indoors.

Finally, I took a light, thin whippy cane and worked down her legs, from her upper thighs down to her calves. I did each leg in turn. Each blow producing a thin red line that marked her dark, coffee coloured skin. I think this must have really hurt as she kept lifting her legs and shrieked to the skies with each blow.

I don't think she will forget her initial beating in a hurry. Now she will serve me properly as she will be desperate to avoid another beating like that. That's the point of an initial beating. Not cruelty but keeping slaves on the straight and narrow for the time that you own them.

Unfortunately, I now had two slave-girls who couldn't sleep on their backs for a while.

CHAPTER 11. 

I try to be a good master to Beth and Laia and look after their needs. That weekend or the next, I forget which now, I walked into the kitchen. Not a part of my villa I enter very often. But you have to check up from time to time that they are keeping it clean and tidy.

Through the window, I saw Beth out in the garden. She was picking herbs or something. Heard her singing to herself, which told me she was happy. A pang of conscience hit me about Tima but what could I do? Her treatment was up to Patricia. And Senhor Zeza as overall manager, I suppose.

As I was checking the kitchen, which was spotlessly neat, I decided to check on the slave-girls' bedroom. No need to knock. I pushed open the door and came across Laia. Her dress was up around her waist and she was squatting over their toilet-bucket making little feminine grunting sounds.

She blushed when I entered and didn't know what to do. Whether to stand and kneel in submission or carry on.

"Stand up," I told her. She did so, her dress dropping and covering her thighs. I glanced into the bucket. It was empty of solids.

"Are you having trouble?" I asked. "When did you last open your bowels?"

Laia blushed even more furiously. "No, master, no troubles. But I haven't been for a day. It's alright, though..."

Perhaps I've been neglecting my slave-girls' health. "I'll decide that," I said. "Follow me."

We returned to the kitchen and I called Beth in from the garden. She curtseyed low. Her face worried.

"This girl is having trouble with her bowels. Give her an enema."

"Oh, no, master. You don't need..." said Laia.

"Silence. Take off your dress then lie on the kitchen table on your left side and draw your knees up," I ordered. I then stepped back to allow Beth to do the necessary. Laia did as asked. She looked worried and vulnerable but I need to look after her health.

Beth opened the cupboard containing the punishment equipment and took out some tubes and a bag. I watched as she boiled a kettle, prepared some soft soap, let the water cool and filled the bag with over a litre of warm, soapy water.

She stood on a chair and hung the full bag from a hook on the ceiling then attached the tube. Taking the olive oil, she lifted Laia's right buttock. With her middle finger, she lubricated Laia's anus then slipped the tube into the girl's anus. Laia jerked forward a little with the invasion.

"Ssh, ssh, its alright," Beth whispered to the girl.

"A bit deeper, I think," I said. Beth worked the tube past Laia's tight sphincter and up into her bottom. Then she released a clamp on the tube to allow the warm, soapy water up into her rectum. Beth clamped it off after a while.

I watched Laia tense up and relax as the water entered her body.

I walked round the table and looked into Laia's dark eyes. I rested a hand on her bare shoulder.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, thank you, master. It's a bit odd... a bit uncomfortable, though," she said quietly.

"It's for your own good. And it won't last long," I reassured her. "Maybe some more water now, Beth?"

Beth nodded, released the clamp and let more soapy water flood up into Laia's bottom.

"Not much more left, master," said Beth.

"Good. Hold it all in now, Laia," I said. "We don't want to make a mess in our kitchen, do we?"

"No, master. Aaaah," she gasped as Beth released still more warm water. I watched her work. Then I took something from that cupboard as Beth paused for a minute to let the water work its way through Laia's system before unclamping the tube and letting the last of the water pass.

Beth leaned over Laia, then gently pulled the tube out of Laia's rectum. I handed Beth what I had taken from the cupboard. It was a thick butt-plug. The biggest we had.

"Insert this. I don't want everything to flood out before it's had time to work."

Beth nodded. She picked up the jar of olive oil.

"Don't lubricate it. I don't want it slipping out of her bum," I told her. Beth didn't say anything. She rested a hand on Laia's hip then worked the thick butt-plug into Laia's anus. She whispered soothingly to the prone girl. Laia screwed up her eyes and her body jumped forward on the table with the invasion stretching her sphincter. It was probably a little sore.

"It's in, master," Beth told me.

"You can come down off the table now," I said to Laia. I held out my hand and helped her down. She stood there, looking a little uncomfortable. The wide butt-plug keeping her cheeks apart. She rubbed her belly wonderingly.

"Lie on the floor instead. Your enema's not going to work if you just stand there, is it?" I pointed to a space out of the way. "You don't want a second, do you?" She shook her head, then lay down as directed.

Beth was at the sink washing out the tube.

"Prepare a second enema," I told her.

"Does master need one?" she asked over her shoulder.

"No. You do."

"But master, I had a poo earlier this morning!"

"Well, it will still clean you out, won't it? Do you good. Prepare it."

Beth washed the tube, refilled the bag with the still warm water from the kettle. She looked up at me appealingly but, like I say, it would do her good.

She took off her dress, folded it up neatly on a chair then climbed up onto the table and drew up her knees. I'd watched carefully as Beth administered Laia's enema so I knew what to do. I lubricated her tight little hole then pushed the tube up deep into her rectum. As with Laia, Beth gasped and moved forward. I released some of the warm water and watched it pour down the tube and up into her bottom.

"Please, master, can I go now?" asked Laia from the floor.

"Not yet. Give it more time to work, girl."

She groaned and clutched her belly.

I waited a little while, then released more water into Beth's rectum. I leaned over her body and massaged her stomach for a while. It seemed to help. Finally, I emptied the rest of the bag into her body.

Carefully, I pulled out the tube and pushed up another butt-plug into Beth's clean rosy hole. She squirmed as the unoiled plug penetrated her anus. It wasn't as thick as Laia's but it would do the job.

"Please, master, it's hurting, I can't hold out much longer," called up Laia.

"Don't be impatient, girl. That plug will hold it in for you." Don't these girls know anything?

I helped Beth down from the table and directed her to lie down next to Laia. She curled up on the floor. The two naked girls looked up at me as I walked around the kitchen timing them with my pocket watch.

When I judged they'd held the liquid in long enough I told Beth to stand up. She could use her bucket now. Beth hauled herself to her feet then ran into her bedroom. Even through the closed door I heard abdominal sounds as she emptied herself into the bucket.

"What about me, master! You did me first!" cried Laia.

"But you needed your enema more than Beth did. Just think of the release you'll feel in a few minutes."

Laia sobbed, drew her knees up tighter to her chest and rocked back and forth with distress on the tiled floor. A few minutes later, Beth came out of their bedroom. She looked pale and weak.

"What do you say?" I asked.

"Thank you for taking care of us, master."

I nodded. "You may use the toilet-bucket now, Laia," I said. Laia climbed to her feet then waddled to their room. No way could she run with that amount of dirty water inside her. And a thick butt-plug wedging her cheeks apart. She made it.

I had no wish to hear or smell any more so I left the kitchen and took my copy of the Haveno Ananaso Times into my sunny garden.

CHAPTER 12.

And then the world fell apart. Not my world, or even the world much beyond Kupro Marbordo. But everyone who had invested too heavily in those chlorates found their world collapsing all around them.

Of course some speculators, those with inside knowledge, sold at the top of the market. They made fortunes but at the cost of their good names. Not that I supposed they cared too much. With enough money behind you, you can insulate yourself from the world's opinion.

Some of my friends at the Chamber of Commerce and the Business Club lost a lot of money. A couple even had to resign. One was seen boarding a steamship and was never seen again. But the one I knew whose world really disintegrated was one Patricia Madeira. 

That Monday morning Beth placed the day's copy of the Haveno Ananaso Times on my table as I ate my breakfast. As usual I turned first to the sports pages. But the front page grabbed my full attention. Shares in chlorates had crashed. They were worth less than a quarter of what they were on Friday.