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Part 6
In case you're thinking that Jeff Sanborn's experience is not typical of Trent Hamilton's clients, or that Trent does not always provide and stand by a guarantee of satisfaction with his merchandise, I've got a file cabinet full of signed printouts and affidavits to prove that it is. There are thousands of documents attesting to his scrupulous business and personal integrity, including testimonials from hundreds of private owners, dozens of restaurants and caterers, every major international auction house and all the top name meat packers.
Nevertheless, there are certain contenders for appointment to the President's Advisory Council who would lead you to believe Trent Hamilton treats his females inhumanely. They hope that by circulating certain rumors they can sufficiently smudge his reputation to jeopardize his appointment and improve their own prospects. This is a foolish strategy because not only do the facts reveal that the truth is the opposite of the rumors, but these men lay their own household practices open to a public scrutiny that will not be complimentary.
To put these rumors where they belong — in the trash can — I will offer my own observations of his household and an incident that reveals the true nature of the man. First of all, let it be known that my visits to the Trent Hamilton Estate, including the recent banquet featuring and honoring his original First Wife Amanda, had been rare and brief. I had never had an extended opportunity to observe how the Estate is set up and run. This account is of a visit specifically intended to enlighten me as to how one organizes a vast household such as the one over which Trent presides. Like most men, I had always contented myself with a much more modest household — four or five wives at a time — but I had been thinking of expanding. Furthermore, I had no great experience with the meat markets since up till then I had been able to sell off most of my daughters as brides. But Trent, with his large output of calves, has extensive experience in both areas and I thought it would be wise to see how an expert works them.
Personally, I'm willing to take a loss on my girls because it pains me to put them on the auction block as meat. Not that I'm a vegetarian — I enjoy girl meat as much as the next man — it's just that I'd rather see them enjoy a few more years of life. At the same time I agree with Trent that selling them to an unknown owner might well be condemning them to a fate worse than the slaughterhouse, because many men fail to distinguish between the need for good discipline and a taste for sadism. Like Trent, I understand that the function of the human female in today's world is to provide meat and produce calves along with the occasional son. I also understand that good order requires they be kept in their place and under control. But I also fully agree that there is no excuse to treat females badly just because one can.
I arrived at the Hamilton Estate on a Thursday and was met by Trent himself. He welcomed me warmly and introduced me to his new First Wife, Robin. Trent was in a hurry to leave because he was tending to the details surrounding an auction coming up the following Saturday in which several of his girls would be put up for bid, but he assured me that if his wives and girls failed to answer any questions satisfactorily, he'd do so at the auction.
Robin is a delightful female, a tawny Mediterranean beauty with the kind of body that's hard to look away from, that makes you want to run your hands over it just to make sure it's real. Her eyes are so dark they're almost black and draw you in mercilessly. Hers is the kind of beauty that makes a man forget who's boss and start asking for what is already his to demand, just for the joy of seeing her light up with pleasure. She's maddeningly desirable and bubbles with seemingly inexhaustible energy. On this day she was wrapped in a white and gold sarong, her bare arms adorned with the red and gold “slave” bracelet of the Household Enforcer, a job Trent automatically assigns to his First Wives. She's also surprisingly well spoken given that she's only had the normal female education: basic reading, hygiene, sex, cooking, birthing, child tending and household chores. At twenty-nine she's a bit old for a wife, especially one with less-than-stellar production stats. I asked her about that.
“It's true,” she admitted, rather shame-faced. “Master Trent added me to his pride thirteen years ago and I've only provided six babies in all that time.” Then she brightened: “But the first one was a son! And Master Trent is the father! Most wives never give their owner a son! I'm pretty sure he's been patient with me because of that. And I think I may be pregnant again, although I haven't had the test. It may be just wishful thinking.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I'll bet you're happy about that.”
“Happy? That's putting it mildly. I was getting really scared there. Master Trent's very kind, but how long can a man like him put up with an unproductive wife? Even if I am his First Wife now.”
“But he ‘put up with' his original First Wife for quite a long time, didn't he?”
“Oh yes! Amanda was a member of his original pride and he kept her right up to almost her fiftieth birthday. Isn't that something? We ate her in a big celebration right here at the Estate last month”
“I know. I was there, too.”
“Oh, that's right! That's where I've seen you before. It was beautiful, wasn't it? All the wives cried. I hope he does that for me when it's my time.”
“You said Master Trent is the father of your son, as though that were unusual. Why?”
“Because it is. Master Trent doesn't service all his wives, you know. My God, there's over two hundred of us! And he doesn't want to. Many of his new wives are his own calves because it's a lot cheaper to take brides from his own household than buy them, but of course he can't have sex with them. So he has them serviced by guests or paid studs.”
“He pays studs?”
She burst out in a high, tinkling laugh that made me think of rainbows. “No, no!
The studs pay Master Trent! Most of them are young boys who aren't old enough to own a pride, or older men who can only afford two or three wives and want some variety. They're all screened, of course, so the pride's not exposed to any diseases.”
“How about the wives who aren't his own offspring? Do they only have sex with Master Trent?”
“Oh no! When a wife is pregnant, Master will offer us to any guest or business associate who shows an interest. He's generous that way. Of course, that's only during our first six or seven months of pregnancy. When we're really big, we're forbidden any sex at all until we drop the calf. That's to protect it from damage.”
“How many sons has this household produced?”
“Forty-four, so far.”
“Where are they kept? I've seen a lot of girls running around doing various things, but I don't see any boys.”
“The boys' sector is on the other side of the Estate. We move them over there as soon as they're weaned and no longer suckling. We don't raise them with the females, of course.”
“Of course not. How long do their mothers stay with them?”
“For a year, or until the mother's eight months into her next pregnancy. But we break the connection very gradually. The mother's absences get longer a day at a time until the child hardly notices she hasn't come back at all.”
At that point the door opened and a girl slouched up to Robin with obvious reluctance. She had long blond hair and was dressed in the short blue smock worn by the calves in Trent's household to distinguish them from the wives who wear anything but blue smocks.
“And who are you?” Robin asked.
“I'm Petal, ma'am,” the girl answered, her voice barely audible.
“Well! It's about time. You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Can't you tell time?”
“Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry.”
“Why are you late, Petal?” Robin's chin was up and her tone was severe. The girl was clearly terrorized by her.
“I was scared, ma'am.”
“Well, you have reason to be. More so now than before. Get down on your knees and lock your hands behind your neck.” The girl dropped down instantly, putting her hands behind her neck and intertwining the fingers. “Keep your eyes on the floor and don't you dare twitch until I order you to move!”
“Yes, ma'am.” The girl was trembling now.
Robin turned back to me, her face wiped clean of any semblance of her normal effervescence. “I am also the Household Enforcer. Did you know that?”
“Yes, Master Trent mentioned it.”
She winked at me, but kept her face straight. “This calf has been very, very bad and must now be punished.” She turned back to the trembling girl. “Petal, tell our guest what you did!”
“I hit Mistress Peanut and yelled at her, sir.”
“That's one of the wives,” Robin explained to me in an aside. “You did a great deal more than that, didn't you, Petal?”
The girl nodded miserably.
“Speak up! Or would you like to have a bolt put through your tongue?”
“No! Please don't! I mean, yes, ma'am, I did!” she blubbered, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks.
“Well? What else did you do? Say it!”
“I . . . I called her names.”
“What names, Petal? Tell us what you called one of Master Trent's wives!”
The girl began sobbing openly, her blond tresses hanging like a curtain around her bowed head. “I called her a bitch and a fat cow.”
“What else, Petal? There was more, wasn't there?”
“Yes, ma'am.” With a great effort she said, “I called her an ugly, cunt-faced cum bucket.”
“And that wasn't all you did, was it, Petal?”
“No, ma'am.” Her voice was only a squeak now as she was forced to add up her transgressions. “I scratched her and tore her dress off. But I didn't mean to! It was an accident.”
“Right. How old are you, Petal?”
“Sixteen, ma'am.”
“And do you know when you are scheduled for auction?”
“Next year?”
“Well, it was next year, Petal, to give your little boobs a chance to fill out more. But that's changed now. Master Trent has placed you on the list for this weekend. Which is too bad for you, because most of the buyers will be from the meat packers. You know you deserve a good caning, too, for what you've done, don't you Petal?”
“Yes . . . ma'am.” The girl was utterly stricken. Calves know from the age of three how many years they have, and as they approach their scheduled auction date and their probable end, they come to cherish every day. Petal had just been stripped of her last precious twelve months of life and now Robin was hinting at severe corporal punishment as well.
“Of course you do,” Robin was saying. “Well, the good news is, I can modify that part of your punishment so that we don't bruise your meat. Would you like that, Petal?”
She was wracked with sobs again but managed to say, “Yes, ma'am.”
“Stand up, Petal, and take off your smock.”
The girl scrambled clumsily to her feet and quickly stripped to the nude (Trent's calves wear nothing under their smocks) while Robin walked to a filing cabinet and withdrew from the top drawer a leather belt about an inch and a half wide. Petal saw what she had in her hand and squeezed her eyes shut.
Robin spoke slowly and menacingly. “Put your hands behind your neck again, Petal. I am going to deliver twenty blows with this belt and you are to count off each one, thank me, and ask for another until we have reached twenty. If you are unwilling to do that, I will have electrodes attached to your tits and cunt and do it that way. Which do you prefer, Petal?”
Her sobs were at once filled with despair and relief. “Please punish me with the belt, Mistress Robin.”
“Very well. We shall begin.”
What followed was an amazing display of discipline. Robin, in her role as Household Enforcer, seemed to spare nothing in the blows she delivered to the unfortunate Petal, who screamed and whimpered with every stroke, but who diligently caught her breath and thanked Robin for each painful blow and tearfully asked for the next. Whatever the electronic discipline Robin had threatened her with must be terrible for Petal to have willingly endured such pain in its place. She was lathered in sweat and her bottom and the backs of her thighs were on fire from the effects of the belt by the time it ended.
“Now, Petal,” Robin said smoothly, “what do you think we should do next with such a bad girl?”
Petal struggled to bring herself sufficiently under control to answer the question. After several attempts, she finally managed, “Mistress Amanda would have put me in the cage, ma'am, until it was time for the auction.”
“Ah, yes,” Savanna said, slipping me a playful glance, then narrowing her eyes at the girl. “But Mistress Amanda is no longer with us, is she? We ate her a few weeks ago, didn't we? You weren't at the Celebration Dinner, of course — that was for the senior wives — but Master Trent made sure there was enough soup from the leftovers so everyone could honor Mistress Amanda by sharing her body. You did partake of her soup, did you not, Petal?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good. So, what do you think is the proper way to deal with a girl who calls one of Master Trent's wives a fat, ugly, cunt-faced, cum-bucket cow, scratches her face and rips off her clothes?”
The girl broke down into a series of pathetic wails, crying out, “Please, ma'am, I didn't mean it! Please! I'll do anything you want! Please! Please! I'm so sorry! Please! I'll apologize and do whatever she'd like to make her happy, to make up for it. Please!”
“Very well,” Robin said. “Follow me. And keep your hands behind your neck.”
We left the room and headed down a hall to a door leading to the main exercise yard and gardens where a cross lay on the ground next to a sunken concrete socket it was obviously designed to fit into. One look at the cross was enough to make Petal turn pale. Three rather intimidating females stood near the cross glaring at the girl. They were tall (close to six feet, I'd guess), in their twenties or thirties, firmly muscled and wearing the uniform of the Household Security Guards: tight red T-shirt, very brief white shorts and red, calf-high boots with three-inch heels. Trent has a staff of eighteen guards, chosen from among the tallest and strongest members of his pride. He brings in studs to breed them and rotates their pregnancies so that no more than three of them are out of service at any time. He generally sends them to auction when they're in their mid thirties while their meat, though no longer prime, will still bring a decent price.
“Now then,” Robin said to Petal in an menacingly friendly voice, “lie down on the cross and stretch your arms out along the crossbeam.”
“Please, mistress . . .” Petal started to say. But Robin's narrowed eyes made it clear to her that she must either cooperate or face even worse consequences, although I couldn't imagine what. Weeping in fear, the girl knelt down, rolled to her back and stretched herself out along the cross.
Deft hands swiftly lashed her wrists down tightly near the ends of the crossbeam and to ring bolts that would keep them from sliding inward. A thin rectangular metal bar, which they referred to as a “sword,” was inserted edge upward between her legs into a slot in the post she was lying on, about an inch below her crotch, and bolted into place. It was no more than a quarter inch wide with sharp edges.
The tall guard strolled to the foot of the cross where the other two guards had seized Petal's ankles and bent her legs to a forty-five degree angle. They planted the soles of her feet on opposite sides of the post, opening up her legs and exposing her sex obscenely. The tall guard then proceeded to lash each foot and ankle tightly to the post and to another set of ring bolts, securing her in that lewd position.
The tall guard then returned to her right hand. She picked up a hammer and a couple of nails — not large, probably about ten or twelve penny — and placed the point of a nail in the palm of Petal's right hand. The girl's expression was sheer terror as the guard raised the hammer and drove the nail through her hand into the wood. She let out a yelp of pain and another for each of the five hammer blows it took to drive it into place. Then the guard moved to her left hand and repeated the nailing.
“That's awful!” I remarked to Robin.
“It's not as bad as it looks. Master Trent specifically required it to make sure she's in lots of pain during her ordeal. The nails won't be holding her weight, so they won't tear her hands up. They'll just hurt terribly when she pulls herself up off the sword. By tomorrow the wounds will be infected and then they'll really hurt! You'll notice we didn't put any nails through her feet. Master wants her to be able to walk normally on the auction stage.”
The three guards then lifted the cross, inserted the base of it into the top of the concrete socket and began righting it toward vertical. Petal let out a long howl of pain as her weight bore down on the edge of the so-called sword. When the cross was nearly perpendicular to the ground, the bottom of the post suddenly slipped fully into the socket, dropping the cross and the girl about three feet. She screamed as the sword bit into her vulva, drawing blood.
Robin cringed. “I don't think she'll be wanting to go home as anyone's bride now. Her pussy and hands are gonna be badly mauled by the time she's taken down.”
“When will that be?” I asked.
“Saturday morning, when she goes to auction.”
“My God! She's going to be up there two and a half days?”
“You bet!”
“Are you sure this won't kill her?”
“Shit, I hope not. I'll lose my job. Or worse. Master Trent ordered this and expects me to know how to do it without ruining her market value.”
“Robin, crucifixion was used for centuries as a particularly cruel way of executing people. They died!”
“Yeah, but Amanda showed me how to do it without killing the subject. In the olden days the prisoners hung from the nails, but Petal's hanging mostly from the ropes. The nails are for show and to make her suffer more as punishment. When Petal lifts herself off the sword to relieve the pain in her pussy, most of her weight will be supported by the ropes around her wrists and ankles. The nails are just to provide pain even when she's holding herself up off the sword. We're also going to be feeding her and giving her water, to keep her healthy. What killed people crucified in the olden days was hanging from their wrists with their arms stretched out wide. It's hard to breathe that way. You have to keep pushing yourself up, which is extremely painful with nails in your hands and feet. And in those days they whipped your back to shreds first which made scraping up and down on the post even more painful. Eventually you're too tired and dehydrated to keep it up, so you just hang there and suffocate. But Petal here is riding the sword most of the time so she shouldn't suffocate. Don't worry; my guards will keep their eye on her. If it looks like she can't make it, we'll take her down. There are other unpleasant ways to spend your last hours.”
“The meat packers won't mind that her vaginal lips are mangled?”
“Not really. There's not a lot of demand for cunt lips these days. They just adjust for it in their bids. It will definitely discourage bids from bride seekers, though, except maybe some old fart who can't get it up any more and just wants a pretty new wife on the cheap to give him head. But Petal's not all that pretty, so Master Trent didn't expect any bride bids anyway.”
I looked over at Petal. Once in place, the cross was not very tall. The girl's feet only cleared the ground by a couple of feet so she could easily be given water. She was straining to hold herself up off the of the cruel edge of the metal bar. Blood was trickling down her arms and sides from the open gashes in her hands. More blood coursed down the inside of her splayed open thighs and calves from the slice in her vulva, eventually dripping off her toes. She was grinding her teeth, scrunching her eyes and whimpering with the effort to hold herself up, but her arms and legs were trembling and she was having great difficulty exhaling. Finally she gave up and let herself drop down on the sword again, crying out pitifully at what must have been a terrible stab of pain.
“She's really suffering,” I noted.
Robin shrugged. “Could be a lot worse. I could have had her scourged like in the olden days, and used a cross with rough, splintery wood to slide up and down on. The meat packers don't care about skin all that much. There's plenty of good quality girl hide on the market. She got off easy. She'll be okay.”
“You've done this a lot, then?”
“Not really. Amanda crucified three girls and I helped with the last one. This is the first time I've done it on my own. The thing is, most of the females here behave themselves. Or at least they don't do anything that can't be punished with a simple whipping or a week in a cage. It's mostly the sixteen year old calves that get themselves in major trouble.”
“Why?”
“I think deep down they want to be listed for auction faster.”
“They want to be turned into meat?”
“Not really, but there's always the chance someone will buy them as a bride. Being a bride is every girl's dream. So they do something that will end the suspense.”
“But if she draws a punishment like this that leaves her maimed, she's no longer bride material. Why would she take that chance?”
“I'm afraid some girls, like Petal, don't think it through that far. That's why Master Trent told me to crucify her out here where everyone can see, as a lesson to the others.”
“Did you cause trouble so you'd be sent to auction early?”
She touched my nose flirtatiously with a delicate index finger. “No, gentle sir. I was always a good little girl. I was raised to be a bride and was purchased privately by Master Trent on my twelfth birthday.”
“He bedded you at twelve?” I was a bit shocked.
“No, Master Curt.” She cradled my face with both her hands. Her coquettish wiles were having an effect in my southern region that I knew must be vulgarly noticeable. She didn't look down but rubbed against me to confirm it, then smiled in coy triumph. “I was raised in the Trusiani household and displayed to Master Trent when I was first blooming at twelve. He bought me on the spot.” She ran a feathery finger around my lips and down my throat. She knew full well what she was doing to me. “He had me finish my training here and took me as a bride the day I turned sixteen.”
“Took you formally, you mean.”
“Took me the way a man takes a woman,” she said, patting my bulge to clarify the issue.
“Do you mean to imply he didn't once . . . uh . . . jump the gun during those four intervening years?”
She touched my lips with her finger as if I'd said something naughty. “I'm not merely implying, good sir. I'm telling you straight out that Master Trent made sure I remained a virgin right up to the day it was legal to take me as a wife. He is a most honorable man. It drove me crazy.”
“I'll bet.”
“He wanted me, too. I could tell from his eyes whenever he looked at me. I used to be very beautiful, you know,” she said softly, sliding her right hand under the top of her sarong to touch the nipple hidden there.
“Used to be?!” I croaked.
Just then the girl on the cross next to us let out a wail and began begging Robin to take her down, tearfully offering to shower her with specific bawdy personal services for as long as she wanted, until she was hauled off to auction.
Robin turned to the girl and patted her cheek. “Now, now, dear. The time for licking my cunt has come and gone. You just stay here and entertain the girls who come to watch you ride the sword while I show this sexy gentleman where Master Trent's pride is quartered.” She looked into my eyes and wet her lips. “And anything else he'd like to see.”
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