ISLE D’ESCLAVES

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Helga looked up at the pair.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The commandant smiled, and Lauren knew she was reassured.

 

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

 

Lauren and Barbara nodded.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Lauren nodded.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And does it hurt?” asked Lucy.

 

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

 

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

 

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” she responded.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Next: Day 2.

                            ISLE D’ESCLAVES

 

 

Day Two – the fun begins.

 

LAUREN MICHELLE stepped from her chalet into the warmth of the Pacific sunshine and walked slowly across the compound to the stage set back from the dazzling blue pool. Lauren had been meticulous about appearing “comme il faut”, as the French would have it, for her first domination scene on the lovely Isle d’Esclaves.

 

On her head was a jaunty black leather stetson, to cover her burnished blonde hair and protect her beautiful complexion from the rigors of the harsh sun.

 

She had chosen a stunning black leather quarter-cup bra to hoist her superb 36-inch, D-cup breasts into even greater uplift, although at the age of 34 she barely needed such artificial support. But the bra added a dominating hauteur to her appearance, she thought.

 

She wore burnished black leather boots which came to just above her knee and were wide at the tops, pirate-style. They had high heels and made the German tarts’ boots pale into insignificance, she knew. Her pussy and buttocks were bare – she needed them bare for her first day’s play!

 

On her hands, Lauren had pulled tight-fitting black leather gloves, the ideal weapons to give some slut nigger a face slapping. In one leather-gloved hand she held the single-stranded lash, a gift from the management she had found on her bedspread on arrival in her chalet.

 

Lauren was suppressing a slight urge to urinate, which she knew would increase as her performance went on. It would be an important part of her display of dominance.

 

But it was Lauren’s trademark cigarette holder which announced the supreme signature to her bold, bossy appearance. An extremely expensive gold item by Cartier, it had diamonds encrusted at its extremity where she had inserted a long Sobranie cigarette. It remained unlit – Lauren no longer smoked, except on the rarest occasions, but it was there for the look of it. And it looked, she knew, sensational.

 

As Lauren walked over to the stage, she saw that a small group had gathered to witness her work. She approved – Lauren loved to show off to audience, not because she was, by nature, a show off, but because she knew she put on a fucking good performance.

 

Dominas Lucy and Fenella were in the audience, each holding leashes attached to collars around two nigger slaves, who knelt obediently by the dominas’ sides on the beautifully manicured lawn by the swimming pool and abutting the stage.

 

Also in attendance was camp commandant Helga, wearing her usual playsuit uniform, but also with a black leather Muir cap jauntily set on her head. By her side stood another playsuited staff member, the 50-year-old Mistress of Ceremonies, Patricia.

 

There was no sign of the two German bitches, but Lauren cared not one jot. It was their loss to be missing what the 34-year-old San Diego computer millionairess knew would be a tour de force of domination.

 

But standing in the audience – and Lauren knew it would be her gain – was the lovely Lady Barbara, clad in a gleaming black PVC bikini which allowed the side globes of her 38-inch breasts to spill either side of the narrow strips covering her nipples. Her bikini bottom was similarly scandalously brief.

 

Lauren stepped up onto the stage, her heart pounding with excitement. She looked down at her seven-strong audience – five dommes, two nigger slaves – and then heard a clip-clop of high heels. Climbing the steps to the stage was Domina Sarah, holding two leashes clipped to the throat chokers of slave 1 – the busty, pouting 18-year-old – and slave 10, the equally busty and equally pouting mother, aged 40. Their black skin gleamed in the glow of the morning sun.

 

Sarah, wearing only a little bikini bottom and calf-high black booties, unclipped the leashes from her charges and murmured: “Two slaves for your enjoyment, Mistress Lauren.” She then bowed slightly, backed away as if in awe at Lauren’s haughty appearance and walked from the stage to take up her place in the audience.

 

Lauren felt a frisson of excitement run from her pussy up to her nipples – they were erect, despite the lovely warm sun – and looked at her “playthings”. Both looked extremely apprehensive – as well they might. Neither had been dominated by this lovely, lissom blonde. It was going to be a new experience for them and, Lauren decided, a painful and humiliating one.

 

She picked up her single-stranded flogger and traced it across the nigger momma’s slightly heaving big breasts, flicked its tip across her nipples and asked: “So you’re the big momma, eh, bitch?”

 

The woman nodded: “Yes, mistress.”

 

Lauren struck at once. Her right-gloved hand – the left was holding the cigarette holder and the grip of the lash – flashed across the black bitch’s face, striking her left cheek and whipping her head across. Not a knock-out blow, Lauren realised, but a wake-up call, she knew.

 

“I have a name, you fucking piece of nigger shit,” she snapped, but although it was a snap it was not a shout – a fact that made it all the more menacing. “To you it’s ‘Mistress Lauren’. Now what is it, nigger?”

 

Despite her dark, black looks, the slave blanched and gulped: “Mistress Lauren, mistress.”

 

“Look, bitch,” said Lauren, slapping a backhand across the nigger’s left cheek, “we’ve got an audience, they want to hear what you have to fucking say. Louder, speak up!”

 

“Mistress Lauren, mistress,” the 40-year-old yelled.

 

“That’s better, you bitch, you’ll get a reward if you obey like that,” said Lauren, quietly, but still hugely menacingly. “Now, tell me nigger bitch, who’s this whore by your side, eh? Speak up, let everyone hear.”

 

“She’s my daughter, Mistress Lauren,” said the big, black momma.

 

“No, no, no fucking no,” said Lauren, enunciating the words slowly, deliberately, calmly and – of course – menacingly. “She’s not your daughter, she’s your fucking nigger slut daughter.”

 

Then Lauren walked behind the 40-year-old nude and pushed her around until the back of her firm, large body was facing the audience.

 

“Bend over, clasping your hands on your knees, nigger slut,” Lauren snapped, and the big black bird obeyed, presenting Lauren and the audience with an unencumbered view of lush but firm buttock cheeks – for a 40-year-old she was in excellent shape – a dark cleft of anus and thick pussy lips. The fact that the momma had spread her feet about a yard apart accentuated her position of total submission.

 

“On your knees, child,” said Lauren, in a voice which hissed at a pitch just above a whisper. Instinctively the 18-year-old knew where she should position herself – directly behind her black momma’s bottom.

 

“Now lick your momma’s anus, lick it lovingly, lick it with devotion, lick it as if you love it – now do it!” Again Lauren’s command was spoken softly, but clearly. Again she put a frisson of menace in the command.

 

The teenaged trollop opened her mouth and a thick, pink tongue began to lave at her momma’s asshole. Checking that the bitch had started off satisfactorily, Lauren walked in front of the half-bending 40-year-old.

 

“Now, nigger bitch,” said Lauren, calmly to her mature slave, “just what’s going on back there, at your anus, eh?”

 

“It’s being licked, Mistress Lauren,” she replied, in a semi-shout.

 

“Precisely, so what does that make the licker, you fucking nigger slut, you?” demanded Lauren, all sweetness and light.

 

“It makes her a fucking nigger slut daughter, Mistress Lauren,” the nigger momma yelled.

 

“Fucking right,” said Lauren. “So why didn’t you save us all a fucking load of time by not telling us that in the first place?”

 

“Sorry, Mistress Lauren, I’ll do better next time,” came the 40-year-old’s reply.

 

“Fucking oath you will!” Lauren screamed, the scream, coming as it did after all her calm and collected commands, sent a shock through both the nigger bitch and the audience.

 

Lauren felt a sort of ripple run through that audience, and then a cry of “Bravo” came from Helga’s lips. Lauren felt a warm glow of extreme satisfaction – praise from the camp commandant, no less.

 

Lauren looked down into the momma’s big brown, pleading eyes. “And what do we do to people who waste our time when we’re in a domme scenario?” asked Lauren, back to her “sweetness and light” tone, now, and deliberately using the royal “we”.

 

“You punish them, Mistress Lauren,” said the black bitch, breathing heavily now as her anus was rimmed by her teenage daughter.

 

“Getting hot, are we?” sneered Lauren, realising the woman was becoming excited.

 

“Yes, Mistress Lauren,” the 40-year-old shouted, and although it was a shout, a tremor of excitement filled with fear and loathing was also mixed up in the timbre of her voice.

 

“Move down to her smelly cunt and piss flaps, you little nigger whorelette,” shouted Lauren to the teenager, and the girl obeyed. The mother gave a few grunts, she was wet down there and the daughter was lapping at her copious juices.

 

Soon the black momma was pushing her pussy back against her daughter’s face and Lauren realised, that despite the extreme humiliation of the situation, momma was getting aroused.

 

With a crisp call of “Stop, slut, get up” Lauren brought the proceedings to a halt. Then she addressed the 40-year-old: “Stand up, hands behind your head, turn and face the audience, now!”

 

The busty bitch complied, presenting a fine picture of naked obedience, her breasts, big and nipple-hard, heaving, her quim glistening from the oral attentions of her daughter.

 

“Now for the pain,” said Lauren grimly and she stepped off to one side, allowing the hushed audience a perfect view of what was about to occur, and swept her lash in a swift upward arc against the momma’s minge.

 

The woman let out a sob, then Lauren struck again, another swift stroke. The top five inches of the lash caressed the nigger’s quim, making a splatting noise as it hit home against the moist flesh. A murmur ran through the assembled throng, this was lash-wielding at its very finest!

 

Again Lauren brought her flogger into sharp contact with the woman’s pulsating pussy, again the nigger bitch winced. Then Lauren halted and turned to the audience.

 

“Now ladies,” she said, as if she was addressing a mundae meeting of her board, “just in case you regard me as a merciless flogger, without any thought for my slut slave number 10 here, let me show you how wrong you are.”

 

Then she looked at the nigger’s daughter. “Time to pleasure your momma, again, slut,” said Lauren, “and don’t look all fucking pouty at me, bitch, because I know you adore doing it. Now, on your knees and bring her off! And quickly.”

 

In a flash, the busty brown beauty was on her knees in front of her momma’s swarthy brown quim, her tongue darting along the 40-year-old’s sex trench. The effect of pliant tongue on flogged flesh was, of course, excruciating for the recipient of the licking. The black momma started to moan and groan. Lauren relished in her pain.

 

Then, gradually, the girl’s oral adoration worked her mother up into a higher plane, and the pain was left behind, the pleasure started to arrive and the nigger momma began to graunch her pussy and hips in astonishingly erotic gyrations on the girl’s face.

 

Realising that her slave was now starting to enjoy her daughter’s oral attentions, Lauren stepped forward, quickly, and slashed the young bitch across her black back. “Stop, you stupid nigger, you’ve taken far too fucking long,” she snapped and as the daughter stood, the mother looked as if she was going to weep at the thought of being denied her orgasm.

 

“Well, it’s obvious that your fucking whore of a daughter is completely fucking useless with her mouth,” snapped Lauren. “Let’s see if you’re any better, you filthy old slut – on your knees and start to pleasure me. And be careful – if you’re no good, I have ways of dealing with you.”

 

The nigger bitch knelt in front of Lauren’s stunning pussy, placed her hands on the white woman’s gloriously-shaped buttocks and was about to perform cunnilingus, when the lissom domina kneed her hard and pushed her back.

 

“Never – and I mean never – place your filthy nigger hands on my ass unless I give you specific instructions, you harlot,” Lauren shouted. “Kneel on your fucking hands, see if that keeps ‘em under control. Now, get to work.”

 

Once more the black bitch knelt and placed her face close to the sweet-smelling feminine aroma which poured from Lauren’s quim. But before she could begin, Lauren announced: “And be aware that if I’m not happy with your technique, the piss will flow.”

 

Lauren then paused to let that warning sink in. Once more the nigger’s mouth was about to begin worshipping Lauren’s temple and the 34-year-old issued another warning: “And if I piss, you’d better not spill a fucking drop. Now, get to work, slut!”

 

At last slave 10 was allowed to start licking and laving at Lauren’s moistness. For a minute or more, she allowed the sweating black bitch to enjoy her lovely labia lips, cunt and clit, then the ever-increasing urge to urinate overwhelmed her.

 

“Be careful, bitch, be very, very careful, because you are the fucking worst pussy licker it has ever been my misfortune to stand over,” she said, rocking slightly on the woman’s working mouth because she was, in fact, very, very good with her mouth and tongue.

 

Then, just as the sweating, panting slave was desperately trying to please the lovely white woman, Lauren roared out: “Mouth open, drink, and don’t dare spill a drop!”

 

The slave obeyed and Lauren’s thick, strong gusher of piss exploded into the nigger’s mouth and down her throat. With great gulps she attempted to chug the strong, dark yellow torrent down, but to no avail. The inevitable happened – a thin stream of urine flowed over from her panting mouth and dribbled down her chin, onto her heaving right breast, then ran in a slim rivulet down her belly.

 

“Spillage!” called Madam Helga, who had moved to the front of the stage for a closer look, as had all the other dominas, but still Lauren’s bladder was emptying, and although the gusher had now faded to a dribble, the nigger bitch was now failing completely to contain the surge of piss, which was pouring from her overflowing mouth all over her chin, down her breasts and sliding smoothly down her chest and belly to fade away from sight over her large, well-muscled thighs.

 

With an impatient shove, Lauren kneed the panting black bitch from her presence and snapped to the daughter: “Over here, whore, and clean my pussy, you little cunt.”

 

The 18-year-old was soon at Lauren’s minge, her mouth working on the blonde’s piss flaps and pussy, laving and licking until Lauren was satisfied. “Stay on your knees, cunt,” she hissed and moved to the front of the stage.

 

“Thank-you, ladies, that concludes the first part of my performance. But I must seek your guidance on the nigger bitch’s total and complete failure to swallow all my urine. What punishment does this usually entail? Madam Helga, perhaps you could enlighten us?”

 

Helga moved from the front of the stage to the steps and walked up them, then stepped beside Lauren at stage front. “First, before we decide on the sentence for slave 10, I’d like to thank the lovely Lauren for her wonderful display of dominance here this morning,” said the commandant.

 

Lauren, who always knew she was good, was nonetheless delighted to be approved of by an audience of such devilish dominas. She waved her gloved hand, the cigarette holder hand, in a signal of triumph above her head and grinned broadly at the clapping crowd.

 

“Now, as to the punishment,” said Helga, when the applause had died down. “”What did we give slave 3 for that spillage yesterday, Mistress of Ceremonies?”

 

“A mild touch up, Madam Commandant,” said Patricia, “which is, of course, 60 strokes in the flogging frame to be delivered in no more than 15 minutes.”

 

There was a look of contemplation on Helga’s face. “And your recommendation?” she asked. “I didn’t see slave 3’s infraction, you did and you saw this one.

 

Patricia pondered, drawing out slave 10’s agony, Lauren realised. Then she spoke:  “I don’t think slave 3’s was nearly as bad a breach of urine-drinking rules as slave 10’s.”

 

“So your recommendation, Madam Patricia?”

 

The MC again pondered. The nigger woman looked down at her, her big brown eyes almost pleading. Then Patricia spoke: “I recommend a hard touch up – 100 strokes.”

 

The 40-year-old sank to her knees and pressed her face against the camp commandant’s booted calf: “Mercy, pretty please, Madam Commandant, mercy, it was my first time at Mistress Lauren’s pussy, I wasn’t expecting such a strong surge. Mercy, Madam, mercy!”

 

But Helga wasn’t listening. She turned to Lauren. “I take it you want to carry out the punishment?” she inquired.

 

“It would be my pleasure,” said Lauren, “but not immediately. I think we can leave it an hour or so. I have other things in mind for these two. May I carry on?”

 

Helga grinned a sadistic grin and nodded in agreement with her guest. “By all means, please, continue, I’m intrigued.”

 

Lauren stepped to center stage again and waved her cigarette holder hand to the audience. “Now we’ll move over to the flogging frame, if you’d all like to gather around that.”

 

The audience moved until it was in front of the flogging frame and Lauren stepped from the stage, followed by the 40-year-old black momma and her teenage daughter.

Indicating the steel-framed flogging apparatus, its poles and crossbar shiny in the strong sun, Lauren commanded the teenie slut: “Get your fucking momma strapped up in that, bitch – and make it tight, I want to see her muscles straining in the bondage.”

 

After the 18-year-old had strapped her momma severely into the frame, the 40-year-old straining on tiptoe under the stringency of the suspending straps above her head, Lauren moved around the naked victim, tracing her single-stranded lash across the nigger’s gleaming flesh.

 

“One hundred strokes,” mused Lauren, almost as if speaking to herself, but acutely aware that her slave was waiting on every word, along with her interested audience. “I don’t think this little thing will do for such a punishment, you do, nigger?” she said, pointing her cigarette-holdered Sobranie almost into the bitch’s eye, the lash dangling from the same hand.

 

“No, Mistress Lauren,” said the mature nigger, in a strong voice.

 

“What do you suggest, eh bitch? Possibly the rubber cat o’ nine tails? That more the way to go, eh you fucking piss-spilling slut?”

 

“Yes, Mistress Lauren, much more efficacious,” said the nigger.

 

Lauren regarded her with amusement. “Efficacious?” she sneered. “Effi-fucking-casious? What kind of crap is that? You trying to impress me, nigger?”

 

“No, Mistress Lauren, no, certainly not, Mistress Lauren,” stammered the bondaged black bitch.

 

“Right, well remember your fucking place, bitch. Slaves use words like ‘effective’, you dumb bitch, and don’t forget it,” said Lauren. “Even ‘painful’ – painful I’d accept, but not fucking efficacious.”

 

“Right nigger,” said Lauren, now addressing the slave’s daughter. “Get that miserable fat ass of yours up to my chalet, on the bed you’ll find a cat o’nine tails on the bed. Fetch it here and hurry.”

 

The nigger girl ran towards the chalets, then realised she had no idea which was Lauren’s. “Mistress Lauren,” she yelled, “which chalet?”

 

“Check the one behind you, cunt,” roared Lauren and the black bird dived into the chalet and emerged carrying the cat with its heavy rubber thongs.

 

“No, no, no,” snapped Lauren, a trio of words which brought the teenager to halt. “Handle in your mouth, on all fours and crawl to me, you simple-minded fucking bitch. And be quick about it.”

 

The girl crawled as quickly as she could across the lawn, her breasts and ass wobbling delightfully as she made progress towards Lauren.

 

When she had halted obediently in front of the blonde domina, the girl raised her face and Lauren bent to take the cat. Moving to the slave in the suspension frame, she then made the black bitch open her mouth, then thrust the handle into it. “And make sure you don’t fucking drop it or I’ll be even more pissed off than I am now,” she informed the naked slave.

 

When the woman had the cat’s grip firmly between her teeth, Lauren told the teenie slut: “On your knees and eat your nigger momma’s pussy, bitch. Let’s see if you can do a better job this time.”

 

Lauren walked over to one side and watched with interest as the youngster worked on her momma’s quim. It took her only a few minutes to get the 40-year-old writhing and wriggling. Soon, thought Lauren, the inevitable will occur, and then she heard the older woman starting to make noises which sounded like “mmmmffff”, thanks to her whip handle gag.

 

“That’s enough,” said Lauren, as she looked at the sweat pouring off the again denied slave. “Over to me, try and improve your fucking tongue technique – and don’t forget, if I’m not satisfied it’s piss time and any spillage earns you a place up in that flogging frame after your momma, bitch.”

 

The teen knelt in front of Lauren’s bare pussy and resumed oral adoration, this time on a beautifully aromatic, wet, white pussy.

 

After a couple of minutes, Lauren felt her juices starting to run and warned the bitch: “Incoming, slave slut!” And then a blast of urine spurted down the black girl’s throat, then another, and a final short blast. This, Lauren was careful to spray deliberately onto the poor bitch’s cheek.

 

“Spillage,” shouted the camp commandant, who had stepped forward to get a close-up view of proceedings.

 

“Oh dear, slut,” said Lauren, as the girl was cleaning her piss-stained pussy, “sorry, but it looks like you’re in for a flogging after your poor old momma.” Only Lauren didn’t sound sorry in the least.

 

Helga smiled at Lauren. “Well, rules are rules, Lauren, my dear, so I’m afraid the little nigger is in for a flogging after that whore of a mother. What do you say, Patricia? Mild, or light?”

 

“What’s the difference?” asked Lauren.

 

“Mild is 60 strokes, within 15 minutes, light is 40 strokes, to be delivered in 10 minutes at the most.”

 

Partricia stepped in front of the naked momma and looked down at the slave’s piss-stained daughter. “Light is the most I can recommend,” she said, “it really was the most slight of spillages.”

 

Helga turned to Lauren: “So I suppose you’ll want to inflict those, as well, eh Lauren?”

 

Lauren grinned. “I have a plan in mind,” she informed the camp commandant, “but first I think I should deal with the momma bitch. Agreed?”

 

Helga and Patricia stood back and gave a semi-bow. “Be my guest,” she grinned, and she and her Mistress of Ceremonies stepped back into the audience.

 

Lauren moved to the flogging frame and removed the cat from the nigger’s mouth. “Now,” she addressed her helpless victim, “just to prove I’m not a totally heartless bitch, I’m going to be kind to you.”

 

The nigger’s eyes flashed. As an experienced slave she knew full well that this did not bode well. “I’m going to give you some pleasure during the flogging to take your mind off the pain,” said Lauren.

 

“Nigger bitch,” and she was talking to the girl. “When I’m flogging your momma’s front, you’ll lick her anus. When I’m flogging her back and great big fat ass, you lick her pussy. I’m going to start with 20 strokes on her front, so get to work behind her bum – and part her cheeks, slut.”

 

As the teenager went work, slobbering at her mother’s ass, Lauren asked: “Sorry, Madam Commandant, but what’s the time frame for a 100-stroker?”

 

“No time limit,” Helga informed her, “but no more than five strokes a minute.”

“Fine,” said Lauren, tracing the rubber fronds of the cat over the nude’s big breasts, belly and pudenda. “Count ‘em out for me, nigger slut,” she told the woman hanging before her, “I don’t see why I have to do all the fucking work.”

 

Then she drew the cat back and flailed it through the air where it made a splatting sound as the nine tails were impeded in their forward progress by the nigger’s big breasts. “One, thank-you Mistress Lauren,” came the floggee’s cry.

 

The next stroke cut across her belly. The third, flashed up into her pussy, eliciting a squeal before she panted out: “Three, thank-you, Mistress Lauren.”

 

Lauren continued her slow journey around the naked victim’s perspiring flesh. Breasts, shoulders, belly, thighs, pudenda, all were targets as she cut a leisurely path through the first 20 strokes, while the teenager worked diligently at her momma’s ass.

 

As she worked, Lauren was vaguely aware of the sound of camera shutters being clicked by members of her audience, but thought no more of it. She was too intent on making her nigger bitch suffer, although even Lauren was faintly impressed by the nigger’s strong count as she underwent the flailing of the rubber thongs.

 

Finally, the 20th blow rained down, and Lauren walked behind her slave. The teenie moved in front of her moma and knelt to begin work on the woman’s pussy, as Lauren’s arm swung efficiently through the air to land blow after blow on the victim’s shoulder blades, buttocks and backs of her thighs.

 

Then Lauren resumed the fully-frontal flogging, while the teen worked once more on the ass, then it was 20 more for the back. The final 20 strokes were delivered in slow, measured batches of 10 on the front, 10 on the back, before Lauren was done. By the time she was done, needless to say, the nigger bitch’s shouts had increased, as had the red streak marks decorating her full, well-built body.

 

“Let her down, bitch,” said Lauren, as the teenager pulled her sex-stained mouth from her mother’s pulsing pussy.

 

Lauren watched, hands on hips, finger tapping her trademark cigarette holder as the big naked nigger was freed by her daughter.

 

“Now, nigger bitch,” said Lauren, addressing the 40-year-old, “get the little whore up there – and make her body stretch, I want to see those muscles strain.”

 

This took a while, but after Lauren ran a gloved hand along the straining, stretching slave’s young figure, she pronounced herself satisfied with the stringency of the bondage inflicted by mother on daughter.

 

With a casual flick of the wrist, Lauren threw the cat o’ nine tails to the mother. “I’m getting fucking tired, bitch,” she announced, “you do the job. And if you fucking stint, the stroke will be repeated and repeated until I think you’ve got it right.”

 

Slave 10 looked at Lauren in almost disbelief when she realised what she was being asked to do. She glanced across to the camp commandant, who nodded her head once, tersely.

 

“Start with her lovely young back, bitch,” said Lauren, and the woman walked behind her daughter. Bringing her arm back, the momma dragged an expertly applied stroke across the girl’s back.

 

“One, thank-you, Mistress Lauren,” the girl cried.

 

“Hold on one moment,” said Lauren, advancing towards the suspended slave, “hold on one fucking moment.” She stood grimly right in front of the girl’s wide-eyed face.

 

Lauren, her holder in her right hand now, slapped her left hand across the slave’s left cheek, then her right. “Do you see me fucking flogging you, you dumb cunt?” she barked at the girl.

 

“No, no, Mistress Lauren,” said the slave.

 

“Well let’s get it fucking right then, shall we?” asked Lauren, in the tone of someone desperately trying to make herself understood. “The correct call is ‘One stroke, thank-you, mummy mistress’, isn’t it?”

 

The girl nodded her head slowly. Lauren stepped back. “Sorry, slave 10, we’ll have to start from the beginning. From the top!”

 

And the cat flashed down expertly again across the teeny’s back. “One, thank-you, mummy mistress,” sobbed the girl.

 

“That’s better, that’s better,” said Lauren soothingly, and watched carefully as the mother flogged her daughter, noting to her immense satisfaction that not once did the more mature woman stint in her application of the strokes.

 

After the 40th stroke had fallen, the mother was allowed to kiss her daughter on her pussy, then release her from her bonds. The camp commandant walked up to both women, patted each of them on the shoulder – a rather friendly approach, Lauren thought – and then called Sarah over.

 

“Leash them and take them back to their cells,” she instructed. “Light lunches and plenty of water. They’re both excused further duties until 4pm.”

 

Then, with a satisfied rub of her hands, Helga announced: “Lauren, superb, well done. Now, after watching all that hard work, I think it’s time for a well-deserved lunch.”

 

In the dining room, Lauren occupied pride of place with Helga and Patricia, with Lady B also in attendance. The Frankfurt frauleins, Lauren noticed with a certain smugness, were seated alone at a distant table.

 

As they lunched, both Fenella and Sarah came up with photos they’d downloaded from their digital cameras of Lauren at work. She signed each colour print with a flourish: Mistress Lauren, and the date.

 

“A veritable tour de force, my dear,” said Helga, chugging down her second tankard of draught lager during lunch. “I’d offer you a job here as a permanent staffer, but I fear we couldn’t afford you.”

 

After lunch, Lauren celebrated her “coup” for her first domme session of the holiday by secretly smoking a Sobranie. She had insisted to Lady B that she’d sworn off the habit, but this once she felt a celebratory puff was acceptable.

 

Later that afternoon, Lauren lay naked by the pool, her body being massaged by slave 6, who had been recommended to her by Patricia. Soon the aches from the morning’s whip-wielding had vanished and Lauren swan some 20 lengths of the pool, cleaving through the water in a superb freestyle, as slave 6 massaged Lady B.

 

After climbing from the pool, her body glistening with droplets of water, another naked slave towelled her down. As this was being done, along came the lovely Lucy, wearing a tiny little bikini which seemed to consist of several strategically-placed strings. Those in the upper garment – it was hardly a bra, and it was hardly a garment, thought Lauren – actually revealed more nipple than it covered.

 

The 20-year-old whispered in Lauren’s ear. “I’m going down to the Silverton. I’ll wait for 20 minutes.” And her pert, naked buttocks wiggled seductively as she made her way down the leafy lane to the berthing jetty.

 

Pulling on her shady stetson, Lauren leaned over to Lady B, whispered “I’m off for a walk” and slipped her feet into some flip flops and made her way down to the jetty. By the time she had reached the Silverton, she was perspiring lightly all over her firm, nude body.

 

Stepping onto the craft, she jumped into the rear deck, then peered into the below deck lounge. There, lying back on a leather couch, her back and head propped by cushions lay Lucy – like Lauren, stark naked.

 

“Well fancy, look at what you come across during siesta,” said Lauren, as she moved swiftly into the lounge, turned to close the door behind her, and almost dived onto the 20-year-old’s big breasted body.

 

Their mouths locked in a passionate kiss, then Lucy pulled away.

 

“Fuck,” she said, “fuck you were hot out there this morning. Where did you learn that?”

 

Lauren grinned. “Was I that good?” she said, her tongue nuzzling over Lucy’s lush, lickable boobs, bringing her lovely young nipples to instant hard-ons.

 

“Good?” said Lucy, in practised astonishment. “It was so fucking good it should have been made into a video and used as a training film for dominas. Good doesn’t go half way there, Lauren, you superdomme, you.”

 

But Lauren wasn’t really listening, she knew she was good, she loved the flattery, but what she craved now most of all was a lovely young white pussy beneath her mouth.

 

She slid down Lucy’s hot young body and pressed her mouth against her mons, licking over the prickly little swathe of close-trimmed pubic hair, then lowering her lips to the girl’s gushing cunt.

 

The powerful aroma of ripe young pussy invaded Lauren’s nostrils, sending a shudder through her body as she revelled in Lucy’s lovely tanned, brown thighs wrapping around her head. She licked keenly, eager not to spill a drop of the youngster’s flood of passion, tasting every drop of succulent, creamy froth.

 

“Oh fuck,” Lucy moaned, as she lay back and thrust her pussy up against Lauren’s tongue and lips. “You dominate like a demon and you suck like an angel,” she informed her lover, as the older woman continued her licking and laving at the moist, aromatic pudenda.

 

Soon the short-haired, firm-busted and wet-pussied little minx could control her desires not one second longer, and with a grunting, heaving, shouting “Yaaaaargh” she came noisily and wantonly on Lauren’s fast-moving mouth.

 

Lauren felt her heart smashing against her rib cage. So much fucking excitement in one day – first the domination, then going down on such a sweet-smelling pussy! But now it was time for her to get her rocks off – and climbing swiftly onto the couch, she planted her knees firmly on either side of the lovely little domina’s head and lowered her minge firmly onto her mouth.

 

“Shit, you’re so wet,” exclaimed the English bird, as her mouth started fluttering its sexy way around Lauren’s cunt, labia and clit. She paid no attention to the older woman’s anus, a fact that did nothing to upset Lauren as she came with one of the quickest climaxes of her life on Lucy’s face.

 

Sitting back on the couch, Lauren, for all her stern, strictness still a lady, apologised: “I’m so sorry, Lucy, I came so fucking fast. I put it down to all the excitement of this morning’s little game.”

 

Lucy laughed. “That ‘little game’ as you so sweetly call it, lasted bloody near three hours,” she said. “And it was one of the most exciting three hours of my life. I was as wet down there as a winter’s week in Manchester.” It was, thought Lauren, some sort of English weather “joke”.

 

Later, as they wound their way, arm-in-arm, back up the path Lucy told Lauren that she’d not hog her all to herself. “The other two dominas want you like crazy,” said the little English bird, “and I know the CC and the MC want you.”

 

“How?” asked Lauren, nibbling on the shorter woman’s ear as they emerged by the pool, Lauren still nude save for her flip-flops, Lucy in her scandalous “bikini”.

 

“Oh, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse,” said Lucy mysteriously. Lauren didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. She had a mouth-watering body.

 

Back in her chalet, Lauren pulled on a brief little PVC bikini, same style different color from the previous day’s, and strolled over to the camp commandant’s office.

 

Inside, she found Patricia with her brown legs up over a naked black bitch’s shoulders. The slave was licking away at the Mistress of Ceremonies’ minge. Behind her stood the camp commandant, idly flicking a riding crop across the slave’s shoulder blades.

 

“Oh, hi, Lauren, how’s the star of the show?” asked Helga, with a broad grin.

 

“Fine,” said Lauren, ignoring the compliment. “I just wanted to ask Patricia here if she could organise me a slave for my chalet tonight.”

 

Helga grinned again. “Oh, don’t tell me, Lauren, you’ve taken a shine – pardon my pun – to the little 18-year-old?”

 

“To the contrary,” said Lauren, coolly. “I want her mother tonight.”

 

“Her mother?” said Helga, raising an eyebrow. “Big backside, Lauren.”

 

“All the more flesh for the paddle to come into contact with,” said Lauren. “Organise her, please, Patricia.”

 

Patricia looked up from the slave servicing her pussy and asked: “May I ask why? She’s almost as fucking old as me?”

 

“If you must know,” said Lauren, possibly slightly more coolly than she intended, “because she’s got a fucking good technique at cunnilingus.” And then she turned on her heel and left. As she shut the door behind her, she heard Helga bringing the crop down on the slave’s back again.

 

After a long, luxurious bath, Lucy dressed in a Jitois jumpsuit, displaying plenty of her stunning cleavage, and in the bar again found herself the centre of attention. Helga and Karla were both all over her, and Patricia, wearing a sleek, shiny PVC gown which revealed her organ-stop nipples through the material wasn’t far behind.

 

The three dominas were delegated to entertain the Frankfurt frauleins, but judging from the quiet aura of gloom which emitted from that table, conversation was heavy work.

 

Lady B, Lauren noticed, was deep in conversation with the lovely blonde barmaid and well before dinner was over the pair had left the dining area, hand-in-hand. Lauren smiled to herself. She wondered if her friend would take the dominant role. Something told her she might.

 

This evening, Lauren refused cognac or coffee, and retired before 8pm – Helga and Patricia smiling knowingly as the lovely Californian departed.

 

Outside her chalet, Lauren found slave 10, kneeling naked on the steps outside. She brushed past her, opened the door, snapped “Inside, nigger” and let the woman crawl in. The nigger sat, kneeling on the floor, as Lauren stripped off in the en suite and then marched back to the bedroom.

 

Climbing up onto the bed, Lauren called out: “Up here and eat me, nigger bitch. And slowly – I want a long, slow orgasm. Failure and you’ll find yourself in a torture chamber with me all fucking night.”

 

Whether such a punishment was permitted or not, Lauren frankly didn’t know. She doubted they would refuse her request, after all, Lady B was paying good money for their fortnight.

 

The 40-year-old was as good as Lauren had thought she would be from her morning’s performance. She brought Lauren slowly, slowly, slowly, to a shuddering, staggering orgasm after some 20 minutes of brilliant tongue devotion, then licked her down to earth before working her up all over again and bringing her to climax after, possibly, 15 minutes this time.

 

Lauren then thrust out a foot, catching the nigger pussy-licker firmly on a full breast. “Sleep on the floor,” snapped Lauren, and the woman obediently removed herself and curled up on the carpet.

 

Back home in San Diego, Lauren may have been an equal opportunities employer, but here on the Isle d’Esclaves she was fucked if she was going to share her bed with a nigger!

 

 Next: Day 3.