White Captives Part One

WHITE CAPTIVES
(Book One)

by

Peter Marriner









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Judith Deane briefly suspended her stowing of empty water tins under the deck of the ketch to stare towards the red glow that illuminated the northern horizon, dimming the stars. From the dinghy bumping alongside, her friend and fellow voyager Jill Gordon called up to her. “This is the last load of empties, Judith! The Woodruffes will be coming off next trip.”
“That looks like something big on fire to the north!” Judith commented. “Must be the offshore oil wells. Those Purifier people are really serious about returning to a pre-industrial economy!”
Jill peered across the deck in the same direction as Judith. “This sort of thing seems to breaking out all over the place. Just the possibility of a world-wide catastrophe seems to have started crazy wars everywhere. This is the time to really use those Peace weapons. They say there are bugs now that can eat every kind of military material. You know!” she said vaguely. “Viruses or nano-technology, or whatever they are.”
“Just as well we’re getting away from this place before the real trouble starts,” Judith said cheerfully. “We should be home by the time it strikes…”
“At least by then they’ll have other things to think about.” Jill said with more confidence. “No one will be fighting wars in the middle of a natural disaster.”
The two women returned to work silently, their thoughts privately occupied with the uncertain future, Judith passing the empty tins handed up from the dinghy to her sister Gillian Arnold in the fore hatch, whose children Alice and Tom were crouched to stow them in the narrow space below. Ashore, John Arnold and the two Woodruffes, Jessica and Richard, were stripping the island bird observatory which had been their home for a year, of its last usable resources. They finished the last stow and sprawled on the wooden deck, skimpily clad in the warm tropical night, grateful for the light breeze. The women talked in low voices of the political disruption on the mainland and the projected return home, careful to remain cheerful in the hearing of the younger pair. The ketch rolled gently in the Indian Ocean swell as the dinghy appeared for the last time out of the darkness.
“Come on people! Rouse yourselves!” John Arnold called briskly. “We want to be well away from the island before dawn in case the fighting spreads. The sooner we reach the mainland the sooner we fill up with water. We have a long voyage ahead and the less we see of the land the better. The high seas are the safest place, whatever happens!”
Scrambling to their feet they set about hoisting in the dinghy, heaving up the anchor and setting sail, recognising the truth of his words.

Chapter One

A little over two years later and not far to the southward the sun was newly risen on a palm fringed shore. Just the lightest of breezes ruffled the calm and empty expanse of the ocean, but a long, low swell broke gently in regular flurries of dazzling white upon a long sandy beach. Only the piled, sun-bleached debris along the high water mark and the battered appearance of the fringing palms gave any sign of wreck and tempest past.
Offshore, a single fishing boat crept over the swells, its half dozen round-bladed oars dipping irregularly, looking like a labouring beetle as it described a wide arc out to seaward.
At the edge of the sea a grizzled old man in a white gown followed the progress of the boat, shielding his eyes with one hand, his legs like black matchsticks below the short hem of the gown, his black bullet head loosely wrapped in a white cloth. The boat had turned parallel to the shore, dark figures crouching, paying out nets over the stern. The old man stumped along the water’s edge, keeping pace with the boat and examining its progress at intervals. At last he came to a halt and gave a long cry, cracked and wavering, answered by several voices from the boat.
As if on cue, there emerged through the fringe of coconut palms behind the beach, a double file of khaki-clad women with long bare legs flashing in unison as they marched, marking them as pale of skin. Their hair, blonde, brown, brunette and auburn in colour, was European too, flowing long and loose. They marched in disciplined unison, heads up, bosoms out-thrust, pale arms swinging, the double rank of bare legs exposed almost to the thigh by the shortness of the out-sized khaki shirts which were their only visible garment.
Crisp orders rang out from their escort, four stalwart black women, uniformed in crisply pressed khaki and polished leather, each of whom was carrying a long bamboo cane tucked under one arm. Keeping in step, the double file swung to form a line above the beach, clear of the piles of storm debris, halted obediently and faced front towards the sea. They stood to attention. The greenish-khaki shirts were several sizes too large for their female frames, hanging loosely just long enough to cover essentials, the slit sides of the shirt-tails exposing white thighs. The sleeves were rolled above slender feminine elbows, and the open collars wide around delicate collarbones and slim necks. Their long hair, evidently uncut but well tended, fell right down their backs restrained only by a leather band.
At the margin of the sea below, the old man, having given a brief glance at their first coming, had returned his attention to the boat which was now rolling in the swell as it turned back towards the shore.
Erect before the disciplined double rank of white women, one of their black guards barked another command. In a ripple of movement the whole formation relaxed their postures. In perfect unison they reached forward arms crossed, and taking their loose shirts under the arms with practiced fingers, whipped them up in one fluid motion and over their heads. By demonstration the shirts had been their only garment.
Stark naked, the double line dipped in one graceful simultaneous motion, breasts bouncing and bottoms swinging, folding the shirts with practiced economy of movements into a neat square pile at their feet. They straightened with a quick backward flip of cascading hair and a gradual subsidence of bobbing breasts, to come to attention once more, chins uplifted and hands by their sides. Their out-thrust nipples prodded the air in all colours from pink to deep russet and below their bellies between their thighs, luxuriant pubic bushes varying from black to light gingery flourished untrimmed. The black drill mistress surveyed the naked ranks with satisfaction and then a last command broke their ranks and sent the women flooding naked, down the beach towards the sea.
The boat was well inshore by now. A small boy was balancing in the bows, his ragged gown tucked up to fling a line to the old man who was wading into the surf to catch it. He passed the end to the first of the women splashing out to meet him and the rest of them tailed on behind her. They waded deep, their naked figures, smooth and rounded, pale golden skinned, hair floating loose, formed a startling contrast with the voluminous white gown and black stick-like knotted limbs of the old fisherman. He paid little heed, however, yelling furiously over his shoulder as he hauled on the rope.
The women hauled valiantly, their naked bodies soon wet and gleaming with spray, breasts swinging and bottoms bobbing. Some waded deeper than the old man who was presently almost surrounded by his naked female gang. The black women guards remained aloof, standing back with their canes tucked under their arms. As if freed of their restraint there was some chattering among their charges, though a squeal or two and the sound of a wet slap brought the guards advancing to the very edge of the swash. They hesitated there as if reluctant to wet their gleaming boots, but the white girls bent in earnest to the task without further urging, the old man waving his fist, half jesting, half in earnest as he co-ordinated their heaves.
Slowly the net became visible inshore as a long crescent of leaping silvery fish. The female team, all wet-skinned gleaming curves, began to trudge alongshore in the shallows, towing the net behind them and shepherded by the old man. The boat rowed parallel to them a little off shore until the two ends were united where the other had been secured to a stake in the sand. They began to haul in the bulging net until its splashing silvery burden was spilling onto the sand. The fishing boat was now surging through the surf towards the beach and the naked gang came flocking back, obedient to the hen-wife gestures of their black supervisors. They retreated up the beach to where they had left the neat row of folded garments with a sudden last minute rush to form their line again, this time with hands on heads. Three of the black women followed them, leaving the fourth busily engaged with the boat’s crew sorting and dividing up the catch.
The reason for the rush was made evident when their supervisors selected one of the white women for further attention. The unfortunate choice was directed by a pointing cane to step forward in front of the rest. A sharp order from the wielder of the cane and the white woman meekly bent forward to touch her toes, her blonde hair falling to obscure her face.
“Thwackkk! Thwackkk! Thwackkk!
The fishermen had straightened from their work to stare and grin as the sharp impacts of the cane carried down to them. The other white women stood quite motionless. At a sharp order the one who had been caned straightened, revealing a very tearful red face and then, clutching her bottom, meekly re-joined the others.
Work resumed at fish sorting, though from time to time a fisherman would straighten for a covert stare at the row of naked women who, without resuming their clothing, now squatted on the sand under the eye of their guards, quietly plaiting strips of palm fronds into the semblance of shallow baskets. Among them, squatting naked with the rest, eyes lowered and fingers busy, but conscious of the interest displayed by the men, were Judith Deane, Gillian Arnold, Jessica Woodruffe and Jill Gordon.
Shortage of water had forced upon the voyagers the unwelcome necessity of making a landfall on the continental shore. Calling at one of the ports was out of the question since Western craft were liable to be regarded as spies or arms smugglers and none of them knew what murderous faction might have come out on top in the local wars. Tom Arnold had an intimate knowledge of that coast and was confident that he could navigate them into one of the thinly inhabited swampy river deltas. They would take on fresh water there, un-noticed by authority. Had they carried out that plan exactly and no more, all would have been well. The backwaters were so peaceful, however, and the few fishermen they met were so unthreatening that the girls were encouraged to go ashore in a small hamlet to bargain for fresh fruit.
On the way back to the dinghy, Jill was lagging behind with an awkward armful, when she was seized by a man who had emerged from a roadside hut, scratching his chest and wearing only a skimpy pair of boxer shorts. He had shouted angrily at her in no language that she recognised and, getting no response, grabbed her by the shirt. Dragged towards the hut in the intimate clutches of a man whose hands were taking liberties with her flesh and whose skimpy garment displayed the signs of his sexual arousal, Jill resisted desperately, dropping the fruit in the process. She yelled for help to her friends who were then well ahead. The man had a strong grip upon her shirt and the only way to free herself was to wriggle out of it, slipping downwards and leaving it in his grasp. He staggered back, unbalanced, while Jill scrabbled away in the dust with her breasts escaping from her skimpy bra. Other men were now tumbling from the hut behind him in similar states of undress and Jill didn’t stop to argue.
The two other women, having started back to help, saw her fleeing towards them half naked with her finger-marked breasts bouncing, pursued by whooping men, and didn’t wait to discover the exact circumstances either.
Jessica was alone on deck watch with the yacht’s only weapon. She used it wildly but impressively, firing in the general direction of the pursuing mob who all dropped immediately into cover with yells of fury and alarm. The men rushed up from below and got the yacht under way as the three women tumbled into the dinghy and made it almost skim the water to safety.
‘Silhouette’ had reached the sea without interference, but two days later, becalmed with the coast just a blue smudge in the distance they were overhauled by an armed patrol boat and arrested on suspicion of being arms smugglers. Taken into port despite their protests, the details of their clash on the river came to light. The men they had the brush with turned out to have been a patrol of militia supporting the latest revolutionary coup.
They had probably been taking an illicit siesta when one of their number was attracted by the sight of Jill passing the door. Unfortunately two of the soldiers had been lightly wounded by Jessica’s wild firing and, to justify themselves, they had reported having fought a pitched battle with armed intruders.
The trial of the voyagers for illegal entry, arms smuggling and the wounding of two government soldiers took place before a Revolutionary tribunal in a fly-blown coastal town, half market, half fishing station. The judges were local inhabitants chosen from the supporters of the coup, ignorant and fanatical, the atmosphere one of hysteria and xenophobia. Jill and Jessica were sentenced to five years’ corrective labour, Judith and Gillian to two years each. The men received heavier sentences and were parted immediately from the women to be sent to a high security prison in the interior. The two teenagers were taken into the care of a State orphanage pending their deportation, while their mother and the other three women were sent to an island penal settlement offshore.
“It will be better for Europeans there,” a friendly local assured them. “The climate is easier on the island and only women and juveniles are imprisoned there working on the experimental farm.”
The prison regime had not been unusual at first, though strict enough to compel the stranded quartet to submit wholly to the loss of their liberty and to acquire the more appropriate habits of disciplined obedience to authority. Other white women prisoners were added to the prisoners from the yacht. The first were two from a group of stranded travellers who had tried to steal a boat from a fishing co-operative and then several female members of various international, charitable or media organisations, all accused of spying or helping dissidents and rebels.
As their numbers rose they formed a quite distinct group within the prison and kept apart from the main body of black female prisoners. They were housed within the solid stone bastions of an old Portuguese fort set atop a rocky headland overlooking the shark infested waters of the islands harbour. Though the thickness of its walls and the constant breeze off the sea made it cooler than the hutted prison camp on the landward side, it formed a prison within a prison. They were held singly in individual cells except for exercise and work periods and this isolation deprived the white women of any opportunity to develop mutual support to counter the dominance of their guards. What they learned from the succession of new arrivals was of increasing strife and chaos on the mainland that made escape seem more dangerous than submission to prison discipline. Few of the wardresses spoke other than their own local dialect and so the white prisoners were unhappily all the more dependant upon the prison’s Chief Matron, Saida known as the Lioness, as being the only one who was capable of understanding them.
The prisoners were glad of these distant work details. Humiliating though the conditions might be, it kept them for a while out of the reach of the dreaded Lioness.
She was a big black woman of a deep ebony colour with a quite terrifying majesty of manner and fierce tawny eyes. Her great bush of black raffia-like hair and thin arched nose hinted at Nilotic ancestry. She wore the same khaki uniform as her wardresses but with a style that suggested her severe outward composure concealed a streak of purely feminine vanity. Its cut enhanced her magnificent figure, her rump taut in the sheath of skirt, her thighs swelling powerfully under the crisp khaki. Her bosom seeming to defy gravity in the starched high-necked tunic. As she was a head taller than any other woman in the prison, she made an imposing and overwhelming figure.
Cross-legged on the sand, fingers busy, Judith recalled the process of learning this skill in the workroom in the early days. Rows of silently industrious women skimpily clad in thin grey cotton shifts, their flying fingers busy tucking and plaiting, all of them watching from under submissively downcast eyelashes, surreptitiously studying the Lioness’s unyielding black face as she dismisses her most recent victim and looks along the ranks, averting their eyes in case she is seeking another. Crimson-faced, the hapless delinquent whose cotton-clad seat has just sampled the cracking impact of the Chief Matron’s heavy ruler, stumbles back to her place. Not to sit, now too painful a position, but forced to kneel to her work.
Busily the others bend their heads over their task as Saida rises and paces like a Lioness indeed! She stalks among the prisoners, inspecting the work, surely aware of the tension that follows her, the frisson of fear that seizes whoever is by whenever she halts. There was not one of them by now who wouldn’t falter desperate excuses, make abject apologies, express fervent desire to make amends, rather than be the one to be singled out, marched to the front, while the others titter like weak minded idiots in sheer relief at being spared.
A sudden cry now from the wardress down on the beach alerted Judith and the prisoners all sprang up, hands brushing automatically the round splotches of drying sand from plump bottom cheeks. They filed down obediently to where their taskmistress now presided over a heap of silver fish. One by one they queued to have their shallow baskets heaped with the food. Suddenly one of those still waiting, cried out and pointed, slim white arm raised. Noise and activity stilled as the people on the beach and the men in the boat saw what she drew attention to.
A huge object, pale blue in colour, hung silently in the sky like a balloon a few hundred metres above the waves and seemingly a mile or two off-shore, as if it had just materialised out of nowhere. It grew rapidly larger and turned, resolving into an enormous torpedo shape.
Excited voices revived as the shock became identification of the shape and behaviour. A giant airship, its size verified by the row of cabin windows glittering in the sunlight on the long bulge beneath its belly. It was turning slowly broadside onto the shore. Along its vast side were revealed a long line of black oriental style ideograms, an enigma to its audience. Behind the bulge, four long tubes projected like rockets, swivelling and snorting brief puffs of white vapour as it manoeuvred with leisurely assurance to maintain its position. Figures and pale faces could be distinguished in the long gondola. The occupants, however, made no signals and seemed to be making a leisurely examination of the scene on the beach through binoculars.
At last the wardresses and the fishermen collected themselves and work resumed, now with a certain degree of nervous haste. There was a good deal of screaming and the cracking impact of canes as the uniformed black women endeavoured to round up and re-order their charges, some of whom had strayed up and down the beach in apparently aimless fashion during the excitement.
At length the squad was marshalled and counted in case any lay concealed among the heaps of sea wrack that lined the upper parts of the beach. Lifting the dripping baskets of fish aloft onto their heads in African fashion, they set off, not in quite the same order as they had arrived. They were quite naked now, arms raised to steady their burdens, lifted breasts thrusting pert nipples. Several bobbing pairs of round bottom cheeks now displayed the red imprint of the cane as they marched away through the tattered half-wrecked palm trees. The last of the white women, khaki-clad, carried in her basket the folded shirts of her naked sisters. Immediately beyond the palm-fringed beach, rocky cliffs rose steeply but in the direction they were headed a footpath climbed in zig-zag fashion towards the cliff top.
Behind them the great airship had lifted and turned away heading to follow the island coastline, leaving behind them the fishing boat rowing slowly in its wake and scrawled along the sand where the prisoners had been straying the trampled letters SOS HELP.
The procession of basket toting women surmounted the cliffs and joined a well-defined road that ran through cultivated fields towards the dark bulk of the old fortress on its headland. The flat plateau sloped gently down towards the harbour and, beneath the fortress walls were visible the reconstructed buildings of the modern prison, freshly white-washed and showing new thatch where tiles had been stripped off by the tsunami. The neat regularity of the fields, fenced with earth banks amid which occasional orchards and bio-fuel plantations, were just re-covering with fresh green shoots, was a relic of the experimental farm. Men and women were stooping at work in the fields, hardly bothering to look up as the long file of white porteresses passed them by.
The stooping field workers were, for the most part, occupants of these buildings no longer a prison but adapted as a resettlement village. Black women prisoners set free had found partners from among the mainly male refugees from the mainland. There being no attraction in returning, they had settled down contentedly under the rule of the Governess, their saviour and heroine. Assisted by her loyal and admiring staff, she had set about re-organising the island as an orderly queendom. The legacy of the experimental farm had been a wide range of stored seed and, particularly, salt tolerant types originally designed for the desert fringes, but useful in the aftermath of the sea wave.
Many of the survivors were fishermen who had been far out in deep ocean waters when the wave passed. The fishing was now particularly good with the sea stirred up and nutrients washed from the shore. The men who had manned the boat that morning had been from the settlement around the little boat harbour sheltered by the fortified headland.
The airship was visible again, now lying motionless off the harbour, having rounded the island cliffs. Where had it come from? Was there more just over the horizon? There were no more powered ships since the oil had all turned to dirt. If these people could fly, where had they come from? The file of laden women marched steadily towards the elucidation of these mysteries.
Among the workers in the fields the women roused most interest among a gang of boys working near the roadside who all stopped work to watch. With arms uplifted to the basket’s rim the women’s shirttails had inevitably lifted to reveal a little more than before. The boys whistled and hooted, the women affecting not to hear but quickening their pace instinctively. The boys were mere juveniles but, despite the large influx of male refugees and the large number of women prisoners and wardresses, there still remained an imbalance of females over males. Any virile male on the island might expect to find women vying for his attention. It had made even these younger boys from the juvenile side very cocky.
It had been one through one of these that Gillian had committed her first error.

Chapter Two

The whereabouts of her children had preyed upon Gillian’s mind. She knew that if she got a letter to the friendly local who had advised them at the trial, he would try to find out for her. How to send a letter was the problem. The authorities’ paranoia forbade outside communication. The coastline of the island was patrolled by militia guards who came and went by ferry from their base on the mainland, mostly elderly men with ancient weapons and with no great impulse to diligence. One of them might carry a letter, but she was baffled as to how to contact them, knowing nothing of the language.
She thought then of the boys who worked close by, when the women were sent as a work gang to the experimental farm. They were teenaged delinquents, mostly offenders from the shantytowns of the capital and she knew some of them spoke English for they sometimes shouted ribald comments. She had her eye in particular upon one of the less alarming ones, a cheeky black youth. He regularly acted as water carrier for his gang and annoyed the supervising wardress by exercising his English as he passed the line of working women, politically incorrect as it was under the current revolutionary regime.
It was easy to contact the lad. Some distance past where they were working was a bamboo and palm leaf structure used as a hide by hunters after the wild fowl that frequented the irrigation reservoir. She pretended to go to the latrine and, ducking out of sight of the wardress, intercepted the youngster as he came past with the filled water can.
“You got no hope! Very risky for me!”
She had explained what she wanted of him, to find a militiaman who would carry a letter to the mainland. This reply so loftily dismissive collapsed her hopes. “You can’t do it then!” she said forlornly.
“Oh, I can fix OK!” He set down his can and surveyed her impudently up and down. “I know old man do this for me, easy!”
“Please! I suppose it’s dangerous for you, but I’ll give anything if you’ll do it!”
“You got nothing to give me!” he sneered. “Got no money, got no jewellery!” Her hopes fell again but he smirked. “You give me something better!”
She started and looked nervously at the grinning boy. Perhaps he wasn’t as harmless as she had thought.
“You want this bad? You please me and I fix!”
She had to decide quickly. She nodded dumbly. The boy gave her a leer of practised iniquity. “You bring me off. Quick! Down here!”
She had no chance for second thoughts, realising that he was now in a position of power. If he reported her, she would be punished and her hopes of getting a letter out would be ended too. She could only do what he demanded and then hope for the best.
They knelt on the beaten earth of the duck hide amid the dappled light from the gaps below the palm thatch and she fumbled with sweaty hands to undo the flies of his shorts to extract an already excited penis that grew as she struggled with it. She could hardly believe the size of the thing. Despite his youth, he had a man’s equipment all right. Her fist closed upon it gingerly and began to pump slowly.
“No!” the boy giggled. “Tits!” His hands shot out, seized the neck of her prison-issue blouse and, despite her horrified reaction, ripped it outwards and downwards before she could prevent it, bursting buttons on the way.
“Quiet!” His sharp hiss was so convincing that Gillian’s heart nearly stopped. She froze in terror of imminent discovery, with her blouse and bra around her ribs and her arms entangled.
“Quick!” She and the boy jostled intimately, his hands gripping her shoulders, firmly resisting her confused efforts either to rise from her knees or to sort out the tangle of her garments. He knelt close up against her, bouncing his huge cock on her bare breast. She realised that whatever she did it had to be fast, before either of them were missed and searched for. She feared his rage if his youthful lust was denied for he was jigging with excitement. He might say anything to get her into trouble. She had gone too far to go back. Forced to co-operate, she knelt erect and cupped her breasts as he slipped his dusky penis between their curves, until she had the thing enclosed in a tunnel of warm white flesh, only the mauve knob rearing clear.
Gillian was being clutched very firmly by the hair, gripped just above her ears. Lips curled back to display white teeth rivalled the whites of his eyes for visibility in the semi-darkness as her youthful exploiter looked down exultantly upon her. She hastily dropped her gaze, committed to pleasing him now without reserve. Flexing her shoulders she concentrated her mind upon keeping the stiff column in place between her breasts. Using her cupping hands she made the soft mammary flesh roll and surge around his rigidity, sliding up and down against the boyish thighs.
He and she jostled for the right rhythm, lifting and sinking in complementary unison, both panting and groaning.
“Shhh…!” Gillian checked and faltered, then the boy giggled, shaking his head and she groaned, having to set away again. She realised that stopping nervously to listen was only prolonging her ordeal. She tried to suppress any residual qualms and simply get it over with. She was bathed in sweat, her clothes sticking to her. Sweat dripped from her chin and made her breasts slippery. She peered at the dark face above, through the curtain of wet strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, but could make out only grinning teeth and two gleaming eyes. She could judge by the noise he was making, though, how far she was succeeding in the process of pleasing him.
His explosion caught her unawares nevertheless. Surging up from between her soft breasts the naked cock head spurted with every upward surge, shooting gouts of white cum, and being jerked to and fro by her wobbling breasts, gave her the semblance of a necklace of pearl-white droplets.
“Ahhh… Ohhh…” she wailed.
“Good… Good…!” the boy panted.
For a moment they clung together in the sweaty darkness. At last they let go by mutual decision and Gillian sank back against the creaking wall of the hide, flushed with shame. The youthful manipulator of her flesh was first to recover. “Come here with letter, tomorrow, time we all eat. I send old man.”
By the time Gillian had pulled herself together, reorganised her clothing and emerged on hands and knees into the fresh air, he was far down the path trotting with the water can balanced on his black bullet head.
She had to return twice more and repeat the performance before suspecting that the young devil was stringing her along. She lost her temper and gave him an ultimatum. Rather to her chagrin, it turned out that he already had it all arranged.
Another clandestine meeting. Easier managed this time. The elderly guard merely commandeered her by name from her work gang on the pretence that she had been sent for by the Governor. He escorted her no farther than the familiar duck blind.
The interview itself was not so easily managed. She had planned to keep her head this time and to make the ancient lecher give proof of delivery before he got any reward. But as soon as the hot darkness of the little hot enveloped them, a snag emerged. Her juvenile messenger had understood English, but this ancient warrior not a word and whatever the boy had told him, he now had only one thought in his head.
For an old man his grip was surprisingly strong. She sensed the sudden intensity of his excitement. Her nostrils were overwhelmed by the odour of masculinity, compounded of the scents of stale tobacco, wood smoke and sweat. His gnarled hands squeezed her thinly clad feminine curves with little grunting noises of appreciation. He took no notice of her attempts to control him, pulling her towards him and dragging her resisting hand to press it against the warm and ominous bulge in his uniform pants. Panting, Gillian resisted but his haste turned to impatience and his hands suddenly cruel on her flinching flesh made the position clear. Once begun, she was trapped into an inexorable sequence that she couldn’t control.
The guard hissed incomprehensible words, alternately threatening and cajoling, but clearly intent upon having his way. Gillian recognised the signs. She had better sell her co-operation before the buyer took it by force. She groped for his trouser flies and got a reaction from him of satisfied approval. She fumbled with the zip fastening, the man’s gnarled fingers over hers, assisting. Trying not to think too deeply of what she was doing, she dived her hand within, grappling with shifting male flesh that seemed to swell up into her hand. For an elderly man he was doing well. His cock stiffened before she could get it clear so that she had to lay hold of it with determination, struggling to get it out of the restricting cloth. The hot dark interior of the hut was full of the ancient warrior’s wheezing and grunting, his odour wafting over her, his hands grabbing and squeezing. Freed from restraint at last the thing in her hands rose almost erect.
Close up against him in the dark, she could make out little of what she was doing. She had to work by touch, establishing its length and girth with nervous half tentative fingers. It seemed astonishingly massive. A brief flicker of chagrin crossed her mind that such a veteran could produce anything that size. Her gingerliness probably excited the old man more than boldness would have done.
The gnarled hands that had been juggling her breasts suddenly shifted to catch her by the hair. He forced her head down, ducking low until she had her head in his belly and she was only inches above the rearing cock head.
Gillian jerked her head back, guessing what he intended to extort from her. But though she might quail she was helpless to evade it. He wheezed either encouragement or instructions, then, as Gillian still dithered, making tremulous sounds of dissent, his voice turned instantly to a snarl of fury. Terrified by the noise he was making, Gillian’s resistance collapsed. She let him thrust her downwards, clutching at his cock as the blunt knob poked her blindly in the face, hearing his grunt and cackle of approval as she put warm lips to it. She dare not start a row, inviting discovery at this late stage. She had to go through with it.
Her lips gingerly engulfed the velvety knob, but she felt his fingers in her hair jerk painfully tight, pulling her convulsively onto him and sending the stem diving between the small palisade of her teeth and sliding across her recoiling tongue. The old soldier wheezed and sniggered in high delight overhead, while Gillian gobbled and snuffled almost choked by the monstrous obstruction.
For a moment they clung together, both uttering strangled snorts, Gillian half choked and the old man enjoying her warm wetness. Then the militiaman began to drive his erection in and out while Gillian clung mutely to his trouser legs. She was helpless to evade the need to give him the service he expected. She recognised the impatience in his voice if she didn’t understand the words. She had to pay his price just as if she were a whore whose services he had purchased with cash.
Abandoning all reservations, she began to play her full part, recognising the basic truth that the better she performed the sooner it would be over. Conquering her revulsion she held nothing back, bringing tongue lips and fingers into play, gurgling and slobbering in noisy combination with the old soldier’s grunting and wheezing. At least he wouldn’t last long by the sound of it, she thought thankfully. She had paid excess postage on her letter, but she could relax in the knowledge of a job finished.

Chapter Three

Nervously, Gillian Arnold entered the Chief Matron’s presence. She performed the obligatory curtsy ‘Hold out short khaki prison skirt carefully with the fingertips, put one foot behind the other, bob respectfully.’ As always it had the effect of making her feel like a very small child and put her at a disadvantage from the start. Saida’s office was in one of the old bastions of the fort, a large cool stone chamber. It was lit by a low wide gunport barred with iron and open to the waft of the sea breeze, filled with the susurrus of the ocean on the rocks below, with the sunlight reflected off the water playing upon the stone vaulted ceiling. It was floored with neatly woven straw matting and several old green metal filing cabinets lined the inner wall behind its principle item of furniture, a large well polished mahogany desk.
Straightening from her curtsey Gillian’s face flamed instantly in shamed recognition and growing horror. She was face-to-face with the undersized youth she had suborned to carry her letter. He was standing to one side of the Chief Matron’s desk visibly wilting and overwhelmed by his situation, eyes almost rolling in his head with fear. On the otherwise empty desk, laid prominently in view and instantly recognisable was the letter itself.
The Lioness towered behind the desk in impeccably starched khaki and polished leather. She pointed silently with a commanding finger and, impelled by a push from the escorting wardress, Gillian scuttled forward to the position indicated, at the opposite side of the desk facing her messenger. Neither looked directly at one another, until a brief sharp enquiry from the Lioness made the boy lift his eyes. He croaked a reply, pointing a trembling finger directly at Gillian who blanched guiltily and put her hands instinctively behind her. It was clear that he had revealed all.
“A disgusting business!” Saida’s nostrils flared as she fixed her leonine gaze upon each of them in turn. She held them both mesmerised.
“You!” she addressed Gillian. “This is a serious offence you have led this child into! If this were to be reported higher it would go hard with you!” Before the wilting Gillian could frame any reply, Saida turned her fire upon the boy, who looked so terrified in response that it infected Gillian even without her understanding a word.
Satisfied with his reaction, the Lioness turned back to Gillian. “Your sentence was for two years’ remedial training. You would not be treated so leniently if you came before the court a second time!”
“Oooh … No …ooh!” Gillian let out a whimper, going weak at the knees at the very thought of all her folly being dragged out in public. Undoubtedly it would seem… The woman was right… “Ohhh … Please … No!” She saw her sentence lengthening out of sight.
“Very well!” The Chief Matron tucked her hands behind her and looked with a mixture of disgust and sternness from the snivelling black youth to the wilting white woman.
“Very well! I shall be merciful. I shall not let it go further. I propose to deal with both of you summarily myself. Do you understand?”
Gillian squirmed uneasily. “What am I to do … I mean … What does it mean...” but Saida, ignoring her mumbling, spoke rapidly to the boy. He faltered something in abject tones and the Lioness evidently took both as assenting.
“This white woman is a prisoner because she has offended against our people.” She addressed the boy in English. “And you assisted in her wickedness because she offered you sexual favours!” She rounded upon Gillian. “No doubt you enjoyed his juvenile efforts too! Disgusting behaviour! I said I would be merciful, but you are here for moral training after all and I would be remiss if I did not make sure that neither of you enjoy the memory.”
Pointing to the boy, she gave an order and as he went up on his toes and bent forward over the edge of the desk, eyes large and lips trembling, she eyed Gillian too, amplifying it in English. “Bend over the desk!”
Gillian moved as if impelled by the stabbing finger to follow the boy’s example, bending across the desk-top, hands flat upon its polished surface. She didn’t know what else she might do.
“Take each other’s hands!” Facing one another across the length of the desk the pair clutched one another’s outstretched hands. Neither met the other’s eyes. The edge of the desk was hard and level across the top of Gillian’s thighs. Their mutual grasp made it effectually impossible for one to withdraw without the other’s co-operation. She had been obliged to rise on her toes to reach the boy’s hands and she was conscious of he tight curve of her bottom. She cast a nervous glance at the Chief Matron.
“Hold him firmly!” Saida had stepped to the boy’s rear. Her black fingers reached to the boy’s waist and ripped his shorts back and down to his knees with one powerful sweep. Gillian, held transfixed by the Chief Matron’s eye, clung to the boy’s twisting fingers. She heard him yelp in dismay and Smackkk! Smackkk! Smackkk! Saida’s dusky pink palm rose and fell. The boy’s round face twisted, his eyes rolling and his teeth showing white. Gillian looked on as wide-eyed as he, appalled by the violence, ashamed of her participation, panicky at her own prospects.
Smackkk! Smackkk! Smackkk! Resounding hand spanks. The boy was yelping now and squirming wildly, grinding his loins into the desk edge.
Gillian could feel the resulting tremors through the surface beneath her belly. Her own bottom cheeks twitched and tautened in sympathy as the smacks repeated and multiplied. The boy she had allowed to dominate and manipulate her was now behaving in very childish fashion.
The advent of her own turn took her quite by surprise. While the Chief Matron was still in view, Gillian had assumed she was safe. Hands from behind that grasped her skirt at the hips disabused her, yanking up her short skirt up above her waist. She had reckoned without the wardress who had escorted her. .
“Ohhh … Nooo…!” Gillian would have wriggled off the desk but the boy was now clutching her fingers as firmly as she had his. The wardress shifted her hands quickly to Gillian’s prison issue knickers and, hooking into the waistband, whipped them down about her knees. Gillian yelped at her sudden exposure to a descending hand. She kicked out but too late, her knees banging the desk and one sandal flying off.
“Makes more noise than the boy!” Saida commented. “Take this one for me.” She changed places with her subordinate, picking up the loose sandal as she came around the desk. It also was prison issue, a big hard slab of leather with thin straps at toe and heel. “A big well padded arse like that deserves something more effective!”
Gillian squeaked as she felt its rough sand-papery sole lightly touch her bottom cheeks. It was impossible to maintain any dignity in such a position.
Thwackkk! She yelped. The hard sole stung like fury!
Thwackkk! Thwackkk! Thwackkk! The boy’s grip had tightened. The wardress opposite, her white teeth showing in a grin, was using her hand upon him just as Saida had done and keeping exact time with her superior. To her horror, Gillian found she could anticipate each impact to her own bottom by the rhythmic descent of the black arm opposite.
The boy was only getting a hand spanking. By comparison, Gillian was the recipient of far sterner measures. The hard sole of the sandal came down in carefully placed echoing whacks upon alternate bottom cheeks with a deliberate pause between each pair that gave her just enough time to draw breath and the impacted flesh of her bottom to reshape its curve, leaving a reddened impression of the sandal upon each summit.
Gillian used her recovered breath to squawk, seeing the hand opposite lift and poise for another and then to howl even more loudly as it descended and the sandal following it impacted painfully upon her own behind.
The black boy could make the same connection, his eyes following the Chief Matron’s arm as she dealt with his fellow delinquent. Since his spanking was a stage more advanced than hers, their voices made a duet despite the difference in mode of punishment. By such companionship in misery they weakened one another’s resolution and made bravado impossible. Flesh and leather, the impacts rang around the stone vaulting in counter-point to their howls.
The white female bottom showed every smack of the sandal. From their former pristine peaches and cream, Gillian’s curves swiftly turned a glowing scarlet as the red imprints multiplied and merged. Her face had turned an equivalent colour, while her tears sprinkled the polished desktop like rain. By contrast, the black buttocks showed the effects of the spanking largely by the vigour of its recipients squirming and the tenor of his howls. Gillian’s resolution had probably been the greater initially but the slipper was a lot harder than a female palm so that by the time the two prison officials finally tired there was little to judge between the reactions of the two culprits.
“Very well!” The Lioness lowered the slipper. Both black women were breathing hard and the wardress who had been switching palms frequently, now wiped her brow with a khaki handkerchief.
“Get up you two! Let go of one another, idiots!” The sobbing pair had difficulty in disentangling their fingers, black and white having gripped and twisted for so long.
“Get over there both of you and face the wall in the corner, while I write up my report. No! Just as you are! Never mind how you look! Get over there! So! Hands to the front! You! Lift your skirt higher! Look to the front!”
Tearfully and painfully, both woman and boy shuffled across the width of the floor, clumsily jostling one another to stand as they were directed, side by side, faces to the wall. Both had their hands clasped in front of them, Gillian holding her skirts up about her waist, the boy modestly endeavouring to conceal his genitals. Knickers and shorts alike were still left tangled about their respective ankles.
The Chief Matron seated herself behind her desk, pulled out a large black-bound book and began to write in leisurely fashion, a smile coming to her lips whenever her eyes strayed to the mis-matched pair in the corner.
Both were half-clad in prison grey. The women was a whole fair head taller, but the boy’s longer proportion of leg put their two bare bottoms more or less level, his tight and narrow, hers wide and rounded. A closer inspection might have revealed the marks left by the spanking on the male buttocks, but the woman’s rounded bottom blazed the evidence right across the room.
Still snivelling, Gillian wiped her tears with the back of one hand while holding her skirts up with the other, feeling the executioner’s eye still upon her. Her backside was so hot and throbbing that it actually made the exposure if not a pleasure, at least a relief. Cool sea air flowed from the old gun ports and around her trembling nakedness. It was a complete humiliation and childishly ridiculous, but she could testify to its effectiveness.
“Very well! Take the boy away!”
The wardress made the boy pull up his shorts and led him out, her fingers firmly gripping his ear. For a seeming age, but which was probably only a few minutes, Gillian stood painfully in the corner on her own. Then the wardress returned and Saida laid down her pen with a clatter and scraped back her chair.
“Very well! You may go!”
On tenterhooks all this time lest there be worse to come, Gillian dropped her skirts over her throbbing bottom. She turned in relief to flee, but having forgotten the position her knickers were in, promptly tripped over them. Saida waited while her victim struggled painfully upright, red-faced, wincing and gasping as she hauled the undergarments back into their proper position. Then she dropped a bombshell.
“You will report to me at this time every Friday for the next four weeks to be given the remainder of your punishment.”
The solid wooden door closed upon the scene of her downfall, as Gillian was escorted hobbling painfully back to her cell there to fall face down, sobbing into her hard mattress.
Word of Gillian’s punishment soon made its way among the white prisoners. Though they were kept solitary and forced to maintain silence while working or exercising under the eyes of their guards, whispers went from one to another during breaks or going to and fro. Deprived of sisterly solidarity, it had a subtle effect upon their attitude to their supervisors and the news only served to keep them in subjection.
Gillian herself dared not protest. The Chief Matron appeared to be a law unto herself in the Women’s prison. There was a Governor over the whole island too but the white women had seen him only in the distance, a white-clad male figure going in or out of the offices in company with the Lioness. In the circumstances, the idea of appealing to an unknown man was not immediately attractive to Gillian. That was how she had got into her plight after all. Would he even want to interfere with how the Chief Matron disciplined her charges?
Back to the same breeze-cooled office the next day.
“Remove your skirt. It will only get creased!” It seemed logical. Gillian’s own brain was numbed by apprehension. She unfastened the skirt, stooped and stepped out of it. Standing there in blouse and knickers she looked for somewhere to put it.
“Place it neatly on the hanger!” The Lioness indicated the door behind Gillian, where sure enough there was a wooden hanger on a brass hook. When she turned back she saw with some dismay that Saida had opened a drawer in her desk and was taking from it a large old-fashioned wooden backed hairbrush, which she placed on the desk top. Gillian had expected her to use the sandal again and so had exchanged her footwear with Judith, whose own pair were well-worn and thinner in the sole.
Carrying her chair round from behind the desk to its front, the Chief Matron planted it a foot or two in advance, seating herself composedly and regarding Gillian with a remorselessly critical eye.
“Next time you report to me, I do not expect you to be wearing knickers. You will not need them while you are here. However since I did not make it clear this time, you need only pull them down before you come over my lap!”
“Please … You … Like that…?”
“I certainly don’t intend to treat you as an adult! If you play games with little boys you can expect to be punished in that fashion! Come along! I haven’t much patience. There are other methods!”
Biting her lip, Gillian reluctantly tugged her knickers down over her hips and wriggled them to her knees. What the other methods might be she wasn’t sure but she knew better by now than to rouse the Lioness. Feeling the cool sea breeze again on her warm skin, she instinctively clapped her thighs tight.
“That will do! Come here!” Saida barked impatiently and Gillian hobbled forward, feeling ridiculous with her pants clinging about her knees, making her look knock-kneed.
“Not to that side!” The Chief Matron snorted in exasperation. “Always present yourself to the right hand!”
Gillian’s cheeks burned, but she was forced to make a shuffling detour back round to the other side.
“Place yourself over my lap!”
Gillian knelt awkwardly by the Lioness’s right thigh and slid gingerly forward across the khaki-clad lap, flattening out as she went until she lay right across it, face down, fingertips reaching forward to the straw matting, toes just touching. Most of her weight rested intimately upon the black woman’s warm strong thighs. Gillian felt as if her exposed bottom was twice the size it should be. She found her childish posture both humiliating and alarming at the same time and wriggled a little where she lay, wishing desperately that Saida would get started and let her get it over with. This was worse than being bent over the desk.
The hairbrush, when it came, made her wish she hadn’t been so eager. In between applying it the Chief Matron conducted an interrogation of her victim.
“How many times did you meet that boy?” Smackkk!
“Ahhh … Ohhh…”
“Do I have to repeat myself?” Smackkk!
“Th-three …please … I mean three times!” Gillian mumbled in confusion, head downwards, from level with Saida’s booted calf.
“Don’t mumble! How many times did he fuck you?” Smackkk!
“No… Ahhh… please… He didn’t… I didn’t…!” Smackkk!
“Don’t quibble with me!” Smackkk! “What did you do for him?” Smackkk!
“Please … I only … I …gave him … I massaged … his penis…”
Distastefully, “You wanked him. How many times did you wank him?” Smackkk!
“Ahhh … Ohhh … All three times…” Gillian sobbed.
“And that old man?” Smackkk! “What did you do with him?” Smackkk!
“I … I … My … in my … mouth…” Gillian groaned hysterically from below.
Smackkk! The hairbrush came down hard. “Aren’t you ashamed of all this?” Smackkk! “Yes? Smackkk! Speak up!
“Then I expect you to say so the next time you go over my knee!” Smackkk! Smackkk! Smackkk! Gillian tried to keep her teeth gritted, but her feet were giving little kicks and her fingers clawing at the floor. No pause for questions now. How many was she going to get? How many had she been given? She started to squirm forward away from the descending hairbrush across the Chief Matron’s lap but was sternly hauled sternly back into place. Saida held her firmly there under one strong arm, plying the hard-backed instrument with a merciless vigour. The regular cracking impact soon overwhelmed any chance of her victim’s being able to maintain a stoic silence. Tears blinded Gillian and she began making long sobbing responses to the repeated wallops.
“Please … Ahhh … Ohhh … Please … I’m … I’m s-sorry … for … ah … what … for what … I ah … did…!”
At last it seemed she had found the right key.
“I am very glad to hear it!” the Lioness said severely but with a note of approval. “I shall expect you to repeat that each time you report to me!”
Shortly, Gillian stood in the corner again, knickers around her knees and skirts hoist about her waist, unable to mute her sobs as the pain from her scarlet backside swelled and ebbed in waves. Her fingers wanted to soothe and caress but she knew that was forbidden. She was filled with shame and confusion but incapable of thinking of any remedy. Instead she repeated silently to herself, like a talisman, the little grovelling speech Saida had composed and impressed upon Gillian with the back of the hairbrush.
Her confusion was to worsen. At her next appearance before the Chief Matron, she followed her curtsey, with a halting repetition of the formula, red-faced but hopeful.
“You shall not escape punishment, of course.” The Lioness assured her. “I dare say you didn’t expect to do so, since you admit you deserve it. However in view of your recognition of your guilt, I shall not be harsh!”
Saying which, she put Gillian over her knee again and spanked her squirming victim with as much cool efficiency as before. From Gillian’s point of view this merciful treatment merely added an extra and unwelcome dimension to her punishment. In addition to the warmth and firmness of the black woman’s thighs moving slightly beneath Gillian’s body, she had added the very personal contact of a female hand in a place where it made an impression out of proportion to its impact.
“This will remind you not to debauch juveniles!” The Chief Matron’s voice was deep and husky. Gillian felt like a juvenile herself, rendered inescapably childish by this posture. The rhythm of what followed seemed slowly paced to the point of torment, giving her ample time to feel every lingering effect and to contemplate every nuance.
“You have been guilty of immorality!” Smack!
“And of immodesty!” Smack!
“You have made an attempt at deception!” Smack!
“And bribery!” Smack!
“Concealment!” Smack! “Conspiracy!” Smack!
Saida delivered the stinging reproofs with scorn and evident relish. Gillian wriggled desperately in her grip, seeking to distribute the slowly mounting pain. She desperately wanted to divert that smacking palm. Where to, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.
“You are a very wicked girl!” Smack! “Are you not?” Smack!
“Ah … Yes … yes…!” Gillian cried through her tears. Clutching at the Chief Matron’s booted calf as the nearest solidity, she tried to reduce her cries, feeling that she was revealing more than she intended. The hand-spanked rounds of her bottom burned with a fire that somehow descended into her belly and loins until it felt as if Saida’s lap was a red-hot griddle.
“A wicked, wicked girl!” Smack! Saida sounded short of breath, hissing through gritted teeth.
“Yes … Yes…” Gillian sobbed in shame and anxiety, not sure where this was going, conscious that she was alone with this overpowering woman. There had been no escorting wardress. Anything could happen with only her word against the Chief Matron’s. Physical resistance was beyond her capacity. She sprawled across the black woman’s lap in complete disorder, unable to stop herself arching her backside upward at the descending palm.
“Ohhh … Owww…” She was suddenly on the floor, abruptly decanted from the Lioness’s lap as the black woman stood up brushing down her crumpled skirt. “Get up!”
By the time Gillian had pulled herself painfully together and got to her feet, the Chief Matron was as controlled and as dispassionate as ever. Out of the desk drawer from where the hairbrush had come, she was taking a long boxwood metre rule.
“I don’t need to be told it hurts!” Saida remarked a few minutes later, while waiting for the victim to compose herself again. The pain of half a dozen resounding smacks with the boxwood rule with Gillian once more bent dutifully over the desk edge had caused a temporary collapse of the English woman’s control. “You are fortunate! Our white masters whipped us black folk until the blood came. Your white arse allows me to judge exactly how effective I have been!”
Gillian, preparing herself to receive two more for changing position, hardly agreed that she was fortunate except that the pain had put paid to any bizarre reactions!
The last and intended to be final session followed a similar course that was now almost a ritual.
In the interval Gillian had spent much of her leisure time re-living those bizarre reactions to her spanking. Somehow the intimacy of being treated like a naughty child had affected her view of her persecutor. She had weird dreams in which the Chief Matron appeared in the character of a hardhearted stepmother or a strict headmistress, to be won over by love. The cruel wheals across Gillian’s backside were a decider, however. It was impossible to believe that the Lioness could be won over to anything. She clearly possessed an iron will and enjoyed humiliating her victims. In the end it only left Gillian more confused.

This last time was even worse.
Across the Chief Matron’s lap, like a naughty child having her bare bottom spanked, what Gillian most feared now re-occurred. At each descent of the matronly hand she felt a dreadful excitement. The smarting smack of the firm palm on her quivering flesh sent electric pulses down her thighs and excited tremors that ran through belly and loins until she blushed in shame, unable to repress her wriggles. Smack mounted upon smack, each one smarting anew but not quite enough to quell the excitement.
And then suddenly the spanking stopped. She could feel Saida’s firm thighs through the skirt. Gillian moaned half excited, half terrified, feeling something new was about to happen to her and knowing she was powerless to avert it. Pleas formed in her mind, rose almost to her lips.
She had slid half off the Chief Matron’s lap, head downwards until she was almost standing on her head, only held by the black woman’s quick grasp at the back of her blouse. The front of her blouse had come unbuttoned with her wriggles and her breasts flopped out like two white melons. She opened the eyes she had until then kept tight shut and froze. Through a cascade of her own hair she could see a pair of feet approach across the matting.
Large feet in shiny black polished shoes. Somehow she knew immediately they belonged to a man. Shock and shame abruptly killed off all her complicated desires. She heard a voice, most definitely a man’s! How long had he been there? Though the language was unintelligible to her, she could sense the thick trace of lust in his voice and the sullen note in the Chief Matron’s reply, that of a woman forced to restrain herself. Then, “Very well! You may go! That will do!”
Flustered and dizzy, bare-breasted and crimson cheeked, at both ends, Gillian found herself yanked upright in Saida’s iron grip and thrust towards the door, not having dared to look in the man’s direction. He exuded too much masculine presence as it was. She had only an impression of his burly white-clad figure and a black official briefcase before she was thrust outside. She had been saved, but saved from what and by whom. Had the man spared her or had his female deputy put her out of reach? That all this might go further to some higher official level and her recent painful humiliation go for nothing was her main fear.

Chapter Four

The exact nature of Gillian’s encounters with the Lioness was never entirely clear to the rest of the white prisoners, but they sensed the alteration in her attitude and became themselves more wary of offending their gaolers.
Meanwhile, having come upon the disciplinary display, wholly by accident, the owner of those polished shoes, the island’s Governor, found the memory of it a constant temptation. Dwelling upon its un­-exploited potential, he began to find excuses to involve himself in the operation of the women’s side of the prison, hitherto the exclusive preserve of his Chief Matron.
He was by training an academic, an American-trained agronomist, appointed to this post by a previous modernising regime, years before, mainly with an eye to effective organisation of the experimental farm on the island, to which the Women’s prison had merely been a peripheral supplier of labour. The official relationship between Governor and Chief Matron was unclear to the white prisoners, but they knew that Joanna, sent to sweep corridors near Saida’s office and hearing what she described as extraordinary noises, had tiptoed daringly down a side turning clutching her broom for alibi. She whispered of having caught a glimpse of the Governor with his trouser flies undone, bending the Lioness over a desk about to give the Chief Matron a table-ender.
The Governor’s authority had long been rendered nominal by this liaison. Now he used the excuse of Gillian’s misdemeanour to accuse his angry mistress of needing closer supervision and so to insist upon installing himself in his own office within the Women’s prison.
A large, balding man with a bush of white woolly hair over his ears, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, he sat at his hastily installed desk, very black against his spotless white uniform, fussing with unimportant papers. Under their cover he was surreptitiously studying the white woman who, according to his orders, had been brought along as a work detail by a wardress and set to scrubbing the floor of the long disused office.
He reflected upon the traditional saying. “If a leopard has a goat in its grip it will eat it. If a man has a woman in his grip he will fuck her.” He was still uncertain how much power he had, with the Chief Matron so sullen and uncooperative, but lust goaded him on. He reflected that it must be a long time since these white females had experienced any sex, remembering how randy he had found them in California, in his old student days.
At the moment, the quarry was facing away from him, kneeling in front of his desk vigorously wielding soap and scrubbing brush. By the nature of her employment she was working backwards, her bottom moving towards him. Her short prison skirt riding up over her hips and creasing about her narrow waist, with each backward shift, exposed more and more of her long smooth pale thighs, until finally a flash of bottom crease with a V of white knickers buried deep between the curves met his eyes. He swallowed and licked his lips.
Those generous curves were a definite incitement. From time to time her long blonde hair dangled in her way and she raised her head to flick it back with her free hand. It was the hair made him sure that he recognised her. One white bottom looked much like another, but he was quite confident that he had the one he wanted; this was the one he had seen being soundly spanked.
His brain whirled with plans and projections. Saida had only been forthcoming when she wanted something. He had to bargain for every favour, but here were women under his authority who were in no position to bargain.
At that moment the kneeling white girl, who was in fact not Gillian but her sister Judith, backed un­warily into his wastebasket. Her attention being entirely on the floor, her foot sent it flying, spilling its contents across the tiles. The girl scurried hastily on all fours to retrieve the spill and recover the basket. The governor sprang to his feet to intercept her.
“Clumsy wench!” he said in English.
The girl looked astonished, then smirked as if she found him comic.
“Stand up, ignorant woman!” He reverted to his own language angrily. She looked blank. She hadn’t even bothered to learn the language of her superiors! Indignantly he snatched the first suitable thing that met his hand, the big wooden desk ruler and then, reaching down, seized her by the neck of her shift with the other.
“I will soon teach you!” he barked in English. “Bend over that desk!”
“Sir...” she faltered, gesturing wildly with the dripping scrubbing brush in one hand and a crumpled ball of paper in the other. “Sir ... I ... Ohhh…” She was not smirking now, he observed with relish. The savagery of his reaction silenced her and his grip on her neck impelled her where he directed. Two steps and before she could make up her mind to resist, she was head foremost across the desk, hoist off her feet so that her bare toes sought vainly for leverage, hands still occupied and her hair spilling over her face, half concealing its expression of dismay and alarm.
His jerk at the neck of her khaki smock had ridden it up just that much further so as to present to the Governor’s lust-inflamed view two ample bottom rounds. The strained curves of her little white knickers making deep indentations across the soft flesh left much of their surface nakedly exposed and he noticed no trace of her recent spanking. Feeling the sudden exposure she clapped tight her thighs, the narrowed crotch of her knickers disappearing like a mere thong, into the hidden depths. Long forgotten memories of porn movies and girlie magazines from his student days returned to add vigour to the Governor’s response.
“I will teach you!” He found himself using the heavy ruler in his hands, almost mesmerised, smacking those trembling curves with exhilarating results. It fell upon them with a resounding crack and the plump flesh positively rebounded beneath the impact.
The woman first gasped then yelled, jerking in his grasp. He would make her appreciate his power! Sight and sound had stiffened his loins at once. The girl’s pale thighs had parted involuntarily with the shock of repeated smacks, exposing the white bulge of her knickers where the crotch overlay the desk edge. He knew what he really wanted to impress her with!
“No...! Oh ... No…!” she was pleading.
Recklessly his thumbs went to her hips, hooking into the soft flesh and under the waistband of her knickers.
Several things happened simultaneously, Judith began a squawk of alarm, jerking her head up, the governor found the cling of her underwear more resistant than he had expected, and the door banging open, Saida the Lioness strode through it.
“How dare you!” The Chief Matron sprang like the beast that was her namesake, and seized the wooden ruler from the Governor’s faltering grasp.
Crackkk! “I am sorry sir, that she has put you to such trouble!” Crackkk! Crackkk! The three swift hard strokes of the ruler spanned Judith’s thinly clad seat before she could grasp the situation had changed, three breath-taking strokes that rendered her incapable of coherent reply when she was yanked upright.
“Return to your cell at once! Quick march!” Saida thrust Judith, red faced and tearful, out of the office, the confused white girl retreating with her hands clapped tenderly to her seat.
The Governor’s lust only grew with denial. It maddened him that he couldn’t employ his theoretical mastery over these helpless women. The only thing that stood in his way was the Chief Matron and the thought of a forthcoming visit of inspection. The Purity Commission had been appointed under a regime he had little influence with. They were reputed to be puritanical and ultra Racist. He couldn’t afford to have his irregularities reported to the visiting sub-committee. On the other hand if the new regime were to remove him anyway, he would have missed even this chance.
Next time it really was Gillian he picked out, not her sister
“You are concerned for your children, eh? You will be given a second chance!” Perhaps this was going to a better deal, Gillian thought hopefully as she bent over the old desk that she had just been assiduously cleaning up for his use. Nervously she rested her elbows on the desktop her fingers gripping the beaded edge. She had been made to take her knickers down, squeaking only a timorously half-hearted protest as she felt him lift her skirt up so that the cool draught on her behind made her exposure more obvious. Clearly it was to be a repeat of her earlier encounter with prison discipline. She assumed the Governor had ordered that punishment and that he could add to it at will.
A hand patted her naked bottom, a large meaty, very masculine hand. She squirmed instinctively away from it a little, going up on her toes. To escape she would first have to thrust backwards against the hand, but escape wasn’t an option she paused to consider. Power and authority were on his side. She felt his fingers slide between her tightly clamped thighs and reflected desperately that all men were the same really. Suddenly, as if recalled to his intention, he began to spank her. Gillian began to panic. She didn’t want another thrashing. With a flash of desperation she relaxed her thighs again. He was a man and men generally wanted one thing. She was resigned to providing it was the only way. As his fingers lingered a moment, her thighs gaped wider and her rump thrust upward with a little moan of artifice. Would that divert him?
“So! Get up on the desk! Earn yourself another chance!”
The masculine hands boosted her like a rocket up onto all fours on the desk. Evidently he was intending to take her from behind. Well she could close her eyes and take refuge in fantasy. She was innocent this time. She couldn’t be blamed.
The desk was groaning and creaking under their combined weight. The man entered her and began to thrust. Gillian groaned as she was forced to brace herself.
“Big … eh? Big … cock eh?” He redoubled his efforts as if sensing her attempt to remain detached. He went into her again, twice as hard as before until breathless squeals began to emerge despite her efforts.
The Governor rumbled and grunted obscenities.
“I’ll have … you …” he panted. “I’ll have you all…! All … your … white cunts…!” Amid his pounding and thumping, Gillian remembered what she wanted.
“My children … I want … see … children … here…” she gasped.
“Yes … Yes…” The Governor panted irritably, thrusting more rapidly. Surely he was coming…? Surely …? Surely …?
With a splintering crash in a cloud of dust the woodwork gave way beneath them. With a shriek, Gillian was catapulted head forwards, her heels in the air, while behind her the Governor foundered with a roar into the dusty ruins of the worm-eaten desk, his vainly stabbing cock covered in sawdust. Alarmed voices rose outside and hastening feet in the corridor ended their encounter.

Next time Gillian saw the Governor he was passing through a passage where she was on her hands and knees cleaning a floor. She tried to delay him clutching at his trouser leg.
“Get back to your work! Unless you are all pleasing to me, you will get nothing!” The Governor hadn’t given up his plans to make use of the white woman, but he had to make sure that neither Saida nor her loyal wardresses could testify against him. He was confident that allegations brought by a prisoner on her own word could be safely discounted. Once the inspection was safely past he planned to get rid of the Chief Matron and replace her with someone more complaisant.
The white women prisoners were now in a state of alarm and dismay, Gillian demoralised and Judith indignant. The exact circumstances might be obscure but the lesson was clear enough. The Governor was a menace. They were helpless to resist his abuse of power without outside help. The wardresses seemed to be taking their cue from the Governor and resorting to the casual use of their little canes with evident growing enjoyment. The reaction of the Chief Matron, while seeming to put a good face on her loss of status, seemed to be to give her late consort rope enough to hang himself.
Heather, on a charge of insubordination, (resenting a wardress’s use of the cane) was handcuffed and marched to the Chief Matron’s office. She was obliged to wait for her interview with her handcuffed wrists lifted and looped over the horns of an old-fashioned ironwood hat stand. The Governor discovered her in this vulnerable posture, but got no further than to fondle her bottom before Heather managed to upset the hat stand with a crash that attracted the attention of a wardress. Several others found themselves in similar peril, which only ran short of rape due to their resistance and the man’s reluctance to risk an outcry.
Nevertheless it was clear to his victims that his reluctance was merely tactical, his plans for their future didn’t envisage its continuance and his failures only fanned the flames. Yet the prisoners had an ally. A note was passed to Judith by one of the most brutish of the wardresses. In a childishly ill-formed hand, written in pencil upon a half sheet torn from an exercise book she made out;
‘Boss man want you get child for fuck. You fuck for him no good. He want fuck all you.’
Judith guessed that perhaps it had been meant for her sister and given to her by mistake. She knew that the wardress spoke no English at all, so the note must have come from someone else. She decided not to pass it to Gillian, but she became a leader in the hasty whispered conferences upon means of ridding themselves of the danger. The brute now openly surveyed his charges with lustful anticipation. They could appeal to a higher authority but none of them could think of a way other of doing so safely. What if he intercepted the appeal or if the appeal was turned down and he was left in complete control?
The next note was notably more sophisticated. It read: ‘The Governor not should make trouble in women prison. We agree. We wish you help.’
It sounded as if organised opposition was growing behind the man’s back. Judith was spurred on by the hopefulness of her fellow prisoners. They had already addressed the possibility of their witness being disregarded. It was clear there must be testimony the Governor could not dismiss or overawe. Nothing would do but the complete removal of the man on a charge of serious misconduct.
The crucial note said: ‘Delegation from People’s Commission for Purity comes to inspect. Governor knows nothing. If they catch Governor with white woman he will be made to go from here.’
It seemed providential. Judith suspected the Chief Matron’s hand in the conspiracy, disguising her authorship by affecting a lack of English. She remembered the image so graphically described by the peeking Joanna, of lacy white briefs dangling round a booted ankle. Their owner though face down and otherwise invisible beyond the pumping black male buttocks, had almost certainly been Saida! Hell had no more fury than a woman scorned! So Judith fell in with the plan outlined in the final note.
‘You he most want,’ the note read. ‘Write note make him meet you for sex in hut near landing place in midday break. Wardress send you there when delegation come. We have friend will make sure delegation find you. These people very hateful to mixing of race.’
There were other, brief notices of postponement, but the plan remained the same. They were, all like the others carefully retrieved by the woman who delivered them. They served to induce a state of nervous excitement in Judith. She realised that she was only a pawn in another’s game. Obviously the timing would be tricky, but the postponements made her feel she was in the hands of plotters who knew what they were doing. She felt they had every reason to get it right for the prisoners’ own sakes. The only uncertainty she could see about it was whether the Governor could be lured to the rendezvous and that was to be her part. Even if things went wrong, Judith reasoned with a thrill of danger, she would only be risking what she might have to submit to eventually if nothing was done…

“It will have been a long time since you had sex!” the Governor leered and Judith demurely lowering her eyelashes, flicked a quick glance to where the rest of the gang and their attendant wardress were assiduously weeding at the other end of the field. Clearly no one was going to interfere. The Governor had a legitimate excuse to concern himself with the field work and had intercepted her as she was collecting an empty basket from the roadside. The thought of women deprived of sex evidently made the man horny. She could see the bulge that was forming in his pants.
“They say the fertility of your men has been ruined by pollution! Here we are free of pollution. We are real men!”
Looking up at him where he stood a couple of feet higher on the roadway in his clean whites, Judith shuffled her muddy feet, feeling like a sharecropper’s daughter singled out by the plantation owner. “Yes, sir!” She contrived to give him a good view as she bent forward to pick up the sack. The neck of her prison blouse was open low and her short skirt tight across her behind. “Real men!” she echoed.
“So you will meet me?”
“Meet … yes … meet you.” she nodded, eyes down. Her hoarse voiced reply probably sounded like lustful anticipation, the man was certainly in no state to make a rational assessment.
“You like me to fuck you?”
“Yes … to f-fuck th-that’s it…!” She busied herself folding the sack, looking towards the gang as if nervous of the wardress. “Tomorrow … At midday … In the tool shed!” Judith kept her face hidden as she turned to hurry back to the work place, but she could feel his eyes still following her and in a burst of confidence deliberately gave her rear a provocative waggle as she went. The wardress yelled at her and swiped with the cane as she passed, but without real effect. The other prisoners ostentatiously turned away. From the Governor’s distance it probably looked as if her randiness was a perfectly genuine impulse.

Chapter Five

“We haven’t met here to play romantic games like one of your western women’s novels.” The Prison Governor, growing impatient, was resolved to bring his equivocating conquest down to basics at last. “You think to conquer the big black man with your white beauty! I tell you! You will find my cock big enough to conquer you!” He waved an impatient hand towards the pile of sacks he had arranged in a corner of the little hut used as a tool shed. “Get undressed and let me see how you perform!” He had moved as if by insight, so as to cut off Judith’s escape route, bringing to an end any remaining hope she had of drawing things out.
Judith wriggled in his grasp. She had no way of counting the minutes she had wasted so far, but it was surely longer than had been planned. A flimsy construction of plaited leaves and woven saplings, the gang had carefully left the hut almost empty of tools, but the Governor had found plenty of the sacks towards which he was now edging Judith.
“I am the Governor!” he roared. “Not a love sick boy. And you are nothing but a damn convict bitch! You had better recognise quickly who is the master! Get those things off and get down there!” His impatient hand catching at the back of her skirt ripped a worn seam apart and yanked the skirt down around her knees. Realising that it would hamper her chances of escape, she let it slip and hopped clear. The Governor smartly shifted his grip however and inspired by his success with the skirt made as if to continue undressing her, while Judith simultaneously obstructed him, pretending to want to do it herself.
“Don’t … Not … Not like that…”
“Keep still!” the Governor panted. He had ripped her blouse open in front and then pulled it down to her elbows. Her shoulders and breasts glimmered white in the gloom of the hut. He got his hands upon her knickers next despite her eel-like wriggles, while she was struggling to disentangle her arms from the blouse. She panicked at the prospect of losing her knickers and kicked out wildly, abandoning any attempt to seem to be co-operating.
“Cease that! Be still!” the man snarled in vain. Panting filled the stifling interior of the hut, with an occasional clatter or thump as one or other of them kicked a mattock or knocked over a bucket.
“You white bitches! I’ll have any one of you I like! I’ll have the pick of you for a harem whether you want it or not!”
Judith now had a grip on a thick masculine ear and was twisting it fiercely, while the Governor with her squirming body tucked firmly under one arm was ripping at her clinging, sweat soaked garments like a man trying to undo an awkwardly shaped parcel. Her knickers defied his efforts to the last, clinging stubbornly to her curves. In the end he let go of the rest of her so as to use both hands to rip at the knickers.
At that moment, Judith was lying half across the man’s hip and thigh, temporarily subdued by a series of heavy-handed slaps. Drawing fresh breath she seized what might be her last chance with desperate vigour. She launched herself across the earth floor on hands and knees, sweat-slick skin slipping through his clutching hands. Raising her arms before her, elbows foremost, she hurled herself bodily at the wall and crashed right through the flimsy rotting palm leaves into the open air.
She bounced to her feet, looking right and left for the expected rescuers. Nothing else moved in the steamy noon heat. Behind her the rest of the shack was disintegrating as the furious Governor smashed his way out, breaking up the thin framework. She was stark naked and had no hope of his mercy.
Before her lay a field of plantains, an empty expanse of green tops. Unable to think of any better alternative, Judith plunged into the thick of the knee-high plants and set off at a run across the field. She ran between the rows, stumbling along a furrow with the mud squishing between her toes. She didn’t dare look round for she could hear the squelch of heavy feet coming behind her almost at her heels.
She thought she was doing well, her pursuer even dropping back. But for the moment he was merely pounding clumsily behind, fascinated by her slim shapeliness, her white skin suddenly revealed to the sunlight and the satin roundness of her rear bobbing along ahead of him. Then halfway across the field he suddenly recollected how he had been made a fool of and raised the stick he was carrying.
Judith was staggered by the great swinging thwack across her rump. She recovered, yelping, but heard the wheep of the stick again from the opposite direction. This time her yelp anticipated its descent, but the whack unbalanced her completely and with a despairing shriek she went down on her hands and knees in the furrow, hip deep amid the broad green leaves.
“Bitch! White bitch!”
She looked over her shoulder. Her pursuer stood over her stick lifted. The sting of the two stripes still throbbed across her bottom. She was at his mercy.
“You cock-teasing white bitch! I’ll have you now!”
She knew that she was trapped, and if she didn’t do something fast, in for a severe thrashing. She made little propitiatory mewing sounds and rolled over onto her elbows in the muddy furrow, parting her thighs in mute submission.
“You crafty white slut,” he sneered, mopping his face with a spotless white handkerchief. “That won’t help you! Get back as you were! You’re going to get what you deserve first!”
“You frightened me …I didn’t mean to run away…” she sobbed, pretending to be wholly intimidated, but taking her time in obeying, slowly rolling over and squirming onto her belly, hoping to delay him as long as possible.
“Lying, cock-teasing bitch! Get your bottom up in the air!” The Governor was puzzled as to what the white woman had hoped to gain. She had obviously meant to cheat him somehow. Never mind. He would beat it out of her when he had time.
Slowly and reluctantly, Judith obeyed his repeated, impatient objurgations. Crouching on hands and knees she thrust her muddy rump higher and higher in trembling anticipation of the descent of the stick. The Governor looked down at the nakedly feminine figure, blonde hair adrift, half-buried amid the leaves, her whiteness now disguised with black glutinous mud. Two round splotches decorated the summits of her rump where she had sat in it. Saliva wet his chin as he clutched his stick in one hand, his throbbing cock in the other. He looked quickly about him. They were nearly in mid-field but the landscape was still empty of figures in the noonday lull. A flock of egrets flapped un-alarmed along the field margin.
Beneath him, Judith whimpered. She heard the wheep of the stick as he brought it down. It fell with a wet smack splattering mud and sliced painfully across the summits of her behind. She squealed loudly. Her bottom shrank, cheeks clenching and unclenching as the stick swept down again and again and mud flew.
“Get it up again! Higher! Higher!” She had tried to burrow completely into the plantains, but was brutally checked before she was completely hidden, head and shoulders buried among the stems, but her white heart-shaped rump reared just level with the leafy tops. To any distant onlooker the Governor’s prodding actions with the cane would have seemed inexplicable.
Standing over her, the man paused again to wipe his face. He had forgotten the questions for which he had intended to extract answers. The woman’s bottom gleaming in the sunlight was split in two white rounds marked by vivid red wheals, the soft furrow between them diving deeply to where a dark furry bulge displayed a ragged red gash that glistened wetly provocative. He dropped his stick among the plants and, heedless of the effect upon his beautifully laundered whites, dropped to his knees between the plants, ripping at his fly buttons to free his now aching cock.
Judith’s view was limited to a few inches of mud in the furrow and the pallid plantain stalks on either side. She was breathless and her bottom was laced with fire, she had almost forgotten why she was out here in the first place. What almost entirely occupied her mind was the expected resumption of the thrashing.
Instead of the slashing stick, hard masculine hands seized her, spreading her throbbing bottom cheeks painfully apart. She moaned in protest, but only half-heartedly since the alternative was the thrashing. Disregarding it he held her steady and then sank his big cock knob into her. Judith greeted it with another groan and then a squeal as its full size became quite clear. She heard the grunt of satisfaction with her reaction as he drove in, hard and deep.
Each successive surge splayed Judith wider and drove her deeper, until her chin was buried in the mud and it oozed cold and wet between squashed breasts. Mercilessly the Governor probed her inch by inch to the depths, his white clad loins ramming into her bottom until he was nearly as muddy as she and both were lubricated by the ooze.
Disheartened squeals rose loudly from the white woman buried among the rustling plantains but the Governor was heedless of risk. Plans to utilise one or two of these female convicts as house servants ran through his head and excited him wildly. He drove into his vociferously protesting victim with such effect that it drove all else out entirely. At last, throwing his head back, he arched himself in one mighty thrust, bellowing like a bull and then let go. His semen burst its bonds and pumped deep within the woman’s warm clasp.
Judith gurgled in helpless protest, her humped body quivering with every recurring spurt, unwilling, but forced to be its recipient nevertheless.
The Governor was slow to recover his wits. He stood upright and buckled his pants before glancing about him. To his right the white egrets were feeding undisturbed. To his left a kite hawk circled lazily. Reassured he glanced over his shoulder and was instantly appalled.
From in front of the half wrecked hut, a row of people stood watching him and in animated discussion among themselves. .
Below him, Judith groaned and stirred. “Get down on your belly!” The Governor’s boot thrust brutally at her rump and Judith obediently flattened out before it. She was ignorant of events beyond the vicinity of the furrow and took it merely for a further refinement of humiliation. The Governor gestured hopefully, indicating that the visitors should proceed onwards to the prison without him. Stooping over Judith and using his belt and handkerchief he extemporised a collar and leash. Endeavouring to seem nonchalant, he gestured, more expressively he hoped, at the staring onlookers. They remained obstinately immobile. He gave up that attempt.
The only thing was to head for the opposite side of the field and trust that he would pass for a man inspecting the crop, with a dog on a leash.
“Crawl on hands and knees!” he hissed to Judith. “Go on, you cow! On hands and knees!”
Judith pushed obediently enough along the furrow, parting the dense growth of leaves before her and only visible he hoped, as an occasional flash of unidentifiable whiteness. The Governor lumbered slowly behind her in an agony of nervousness, trying to keep an eye on the people behind them without making it obvious. For a moment he thought they were content to remain there. Then to his horror, he saw that they split up and some going one way, some the other, began circling round the margins of the field.
“Faster!” the Governor snarled, aiming a kick at Judith’s slowly bobbing rear. He had lost his stick. He contemplated using the belt, but it would only have attracted more attention. He should have left the white bitch among the leaves, but could he have been sure that she stayed hidden? As they neared the edge of the field he thought there was still a chance, but at once some of the would-be interceptors broke into a trot to close the gap. In that instant he gave up hope.
He knew how the regime viewed miscegenation. What he had feared was now before him. The zealous meddlers were the visiting committee of the Purity Commission. He had been trapped! He wilted under their combined gaze as they lined the field margin. He was smeared with mud and green juices, his flies were undone and he was in company with a naked white woman upon all fours, pretending to be a dog.
“Get up, you bitch!” He levered the panting white woman to her feet and, with a sudden inspiration, threw his coat around her muddy nakedness. He would shift some of the blame by representing her as a wicked siren who had lured him from his duty. These people were nobodies, puffed up by their own importance as moral censors. That might divert them.
About ten minutes out, the Chief Matron was reflecting complacently, behind her mask of shocked horror, but even better timing as it turned out. The white female had got more than she bargained for, but that was nothing to what they all had coming to them once she was in power!

Chapter Six

The Governor was suspended at once upon the authority of the visiting sub-committee, though he tried to bluff it out to the last, blaming the white woman’s trickery and incitement. The state of his clothing and the circumstances in which he had first been observed however, condemned him as at least an equal participant. Judith was whisked out of sight so fast that she left only a fleeting impression of naked shame upon the committee members. She spent the next twenty-four hours in solitary confinement, not knowing what was happening, but with an uneasy feeling that all wasn’t going according to plan.
Meanwhile an enquiry was convened into the conduct of the Governor. Intensive negotiations had gone on overnight between the Governor, the Chief Matron and the leading members of the sub-committee. At the enquiry the Governor admitted having sexual relations with the white woman prisoner, but blamed her for seducing him in order to win privileges. He exhibited Judith’s hand-written note inviting an assignation. A wardress confirmed having passed the note in ignorance of its contents at the white prisoner’s urging.
The Governor commended his Chief Matron for warning him of the white women’s immorality and Saida, giving evidence in her turn, exhibited the intercepted letter Gillian had written. She translated it for the committee member’s benefit without making it clear that two different prisoners were involved and elaborating upon her own position.
“I knew nothing of this later development, of course. I dealt with the earlier occurrence, a matter of attempting to smuggle out this letter by offering sexual favours to one of the male juveniles, as I thought quite successfully. Of course with the Governor involved, I could only warn him to be on his guard and ensure that, as far as possible, the white women were not left alone with him unsupervised. I could do no more. I had no proof that he had become their target. I could not risk an accusation of disloyalty to my superior, or even of conspiracy.
“These white women are experienced in manipulating men sexually from an early age and I suspect this was a concerted plot among themselves to exploit the Governor’s unfortunate infatuation. Remember, these are females who have been convicted of offences against the People. They will exploit any weakness. Traces of dissolute European attitudes still persist at high levels in our nation, that lead to men being easily misled by such creatures!”
The members of the Revolutionary sub-committee were only village level activists who understood little English and relied upon the Chief Matron’s translation. They were jittery with foreboding of disasters looming and mostly eager to get back to the mainland. The sub-committee thanked the Chief Matron for her assistance and congratulated her on the maintenance of prison discipline in difficult circumstances. “Clearly the former Governor was not fitted for this post. He will return with us to the mainland for re-assignment,” the chairman of the delegation announced. “Our sister here will be able to cope as Governess until further consideration.”
Saida bowed gravely and expressed her eagerness to serve the people.
“But what about his fellow offender?” one of the others asked.
“Merely a matter of prison discipline!” another delegate dismissed the matter, proposing that it be left to the new Governess. Others were more conscientious, though they felt that the white woman’s guilt was well established. As a consequence they made only the briefest examination of Judith’s part in the affair.
Saida acted as interpreter. “Did you write this note?” the Chief Matron translated the question to Judith with an expression of total neutrality.
“Well … yes … but…” Judith stammered in alarm and confusion. She began a long explanation, but halfway through it, an uplifted hand from the delegation chairman checked her impatiently.
The Lioness then gave a brief précis of what Judith had said, or so the hapless prisoner hoped, conscious now how much of a handicap she laboured under. She had no way of knowing whether her qualification of her reply had been accurately transmitted or not. She thought she recognised the word for yes featuring rather often.
Her judges conferred among themselves and then the chairman voiced a brief question, which Chief Matron translated as, “Were you fucked by the governor?”
Flushing visibly red before all these strangers, Judith stammered a qualified assent, not entirely convinced that the question had been accurately translated and hearing with even less confidence, the Lioness seemingly repeat the affirmative without any qualifications. It seemed to cause amusement and scorn in equal measure and Judith was relieved, if still uneasy, to be dismissed.
The sub-committee reassembled briefly after a good lunch to give their decision before they departed to board the launch for the mainland. During lunch they had congratulated Saida upon her promotion and agreed at her suggestion to recommend that a male Governor was a source of weakness. Someone raised the question of the penalty to be applied to the white woman for her part in the incident.
“What is the penalty prescribed for the woman’s offence?” the chairman enquired, wiping his mouth, naturally consulting the new Governess.
“I have consulted the Prison Code.” Saida replied. “Two offences are involved. Bribery of a prison officer, and Indecent and immoral behaviour; for both of which the maximum penalty is twelve strokes of the cane. Since the present case is so heinous, I suggest the maximum sentence is appropriate and that an example be made of her as a warning to the other prisoners!”
“The cane, eh?” the chairman murmured.
“Our Prison Code was drawn up under the former Colonial power,” Saida said evenly. “Some of its penal aspects have never been revised.”
“Doubly appropriate then!” The others agreed with him that it was indeed most appropriate. Some of their number even decided it was their duty to remain on the island a further day, to act as official observers and see that the punishment was correctly administered.

Chapter Seven

After a night in solitary confinement, Judith was marched mid morning to the former Governor’s office, now Saida’s, to be examined by the doctor who had come with the visitors. He was male and quite young. Judith felt particularly humiliated by the manner in which the investigation was conducted. She was made to take off her knickers, lift her skirts and bend over the big desk. She had seen out of the corner of her eye, however, the Lioness gesture significantly to the two wardresses. Guessing that the pair would enjoy quelling any rebellion, Judith managed to repress the urge to kick out as the man prodded and patted her bottom, taking too much of an evident pleasure in his work. At last the fellow turned away at last to wash his hands and nodded to the Governess.
“Doctor confirms that you are quite fit,” Saida told Judith and before their former wearer’s dismayed eyes folded up the little pair of white cotton knickers and tossed them into a drawer, banging it shut with a note of finality.
“My- my knickers. What are you doing…?” Judith clutched at the scant hem of her prison smock as if to ensure that it concealed her lately displayed nakedness.
“You will not want them afterwards, I assure you!” The Lioness had opened a large folio volume bound in battered red leather, stamped with a barely distinguishable crown. The two wardresses who had been rolling up their sleeves with ostentatious gusto took hold of Judith by the arms.
“Prisoner One five nine! For your offences under Rules fourteen and twenty-two, you have been sentenced to receive twenty-four strokes of the cane!” the black woman’s voice rang out with formal clarity.
“No! They can’t! They got it all wrong!” Judith found her breath coming short. She gave little angry gasps, prepared a frantic argument.
“Disrespect to the committee will incur further strokes to be added at my discretion,” Saida snapped, her nostrils flaring in a familiar danger sign. Judith spluttered incoherently for words but now in fear of making things worse.
“The wardresses will prepare you!” Saida closed the book with a slam that made Judith jump. Propelled by her escorts she was swung about and propelled out and a short way down the corridor, the two large and muscular black women chattering and giggling over her head as they went and Judith was very conscious that her naked bottom cheeks under the smock were contracting at every step. They only took her into a toilet, however, and made her bend forward over the bowl. One of them held her while the other produced a nasty looking rubber tube and an enormous syringe. Judith panicked at the sight of these implements, struggling and kicking, resisting their attempts to insert the dubious tube into her. They were bigger and tougher than she, but the pair didn’t persist. With a shrug, they shoved her back upright and marched her back once more to the Governess’ office.
The Lioness listened to her subordinate’s report without expression. “You are a foolish creature!” she said severely. “Disobedience and violence towards a wardress is also punishable by the cane. After you have received your official sentence of twenty-four strokes therefore, you will remain in place to await a further six at the hands of the wardress you resisted. I trust that the opportunity for reflection this will give you, will impress your folly upon you more thoroughly!”
At that moment the door opened to admit one of the male guards, an elderly but still stalwart black man in peaked cap and well pressed khaki uniform. Judith’s glance, immediately apprehending its purpose, flew at once to the long bamboo cane that he carried sloped over one shoulder. She was already staggered by the swiftness of her introduction to her fate. Her heart sank as her eyes flew from the man’s unconcerned expression to the impassive face of the Lioness.
“Prisoner One five nine! Precede the guard to the Punishment Hall.”
Judith’s mind was filled with fear and consternation as, led by a wardress, she was made to precede the man with the cane in the little procession that ensued. Only the prospect of adding even further to her penalty made her choke back a wild protest. It would have been bad enough if one of the wardresses had administered the beating, here in Saida’s office! Instead she was to be part of a ritual. No doubt it went back to Colonial times and had impressed itself painfully upon many a recalcitrant black convict. Now she was in their place and having the ritual focussed upon her was very successfully un-nerving.
It was a long twitchy walk, down corridors and up flights of steps. All the way she heard the booted feet of her nemesis treading heavily behind her. Every footstep was made in the knowledge that the hem of her skirt fluttering on the back of her thighs invited the brute’s attention to his ready-prepared target. It took her attention off the placing of her feet and she tripped and nearly fell on the last stair, so steep that she fancied she felt the man’s hot breath on her naked bottom and almost sprang into the Punishment Hall.
It was the prison gymnasium under a different title. A high bare whitewashed oblong space, it was lit by a row of high windows along one long side and a viewing gallery across one end. At that moment it held only one solitary item of furniture on a raised stage in the middle of the floor, a kind of wooden lectern.
Judith was instantly conscious of an audience, but she had little time for more than one appalled glance before she was hustled forward mounted up to the lectern-like structure and bent forward over it. It was only when she was head down in this position and they were no longer visible that she realised the row of figures seated close behind her in a row of comfortable chairs, were the dignitaries by whose judgement she was to be given this punishment.
“Please!” she shouted. “I didn’t do what you think!” But by that time she was muffled by her head-down posture and, when she tried to break free to make her pleas heard, she found that her wrists and ankles were held and being fastened with straps.
“Remember the penalty for insolence!” Saida hissed savagely. “If you are going to make a nuisance of yourself, I will have you gagged!” Judith subsided in sullen despair. She knew no way of making anyone else understand and clearly, by the fact of their presence, the dignitaries endorsed her treatment.
She was positioned with her belly on the sloping desk-like top with the upper ridge in her loins so that her bottom was fully curved and tautened, the highest part of her. Thick leather straps from the sides of the lectern front and rear, secured her wrists and ankles at full stretch, her toes barely touching the platform at each corner, her reaching finger tips well clear of the floor. With her legs held well apart and similarly secured at the knees, and as the last touch her khaki skirt pulled right up and securely pinned at her shoulders, she was exposed to view in a manner that left nothing to the imagination.
“Your friends will get a good view!” The newly promoted Governess bent to check the fastenings. “They will be in the front row. The lesson you are to get is as much for them as for you!”
The steady shuffle of feet had been at the edge of Judith’s hearing for some time. Prisoners, white and black, were filing in and being marshalled by the wardresses to form an audience, awed and apprehensive as they were chivvied into place, in front and around the sides, while above them in the raised seats the dignitaries looked on gravely. From her undignified and exposed position, Judith could only see the nearest prisoners out of the corner of her eye and of the dignitaries nothing at all was visible.
The Governess waited until the audience were marshalled in order, read a long and to Judith incomprehensible denunciation, then stepped back. “Punishment will begin!”
The man with the cane cast a leisurely glance about him, as if enjoying his prominent role and the attention of so many female eyes. He rolled up his sleeve, slowly baring the arm that was to wield the cane, positioned himself carefully and measured the thin bamboo across the white feminine rump elevated before him.
Judith tensed as she felt the tap of the cane, her bottom cheeks quivered and tightened. All thought of the shame of having such an audience to her humiliation fled from her brain as it focussed upon the brief hiss of the descending bamboo.
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! A yelp emerged from her, even through gritted teeth.
“Keep your bottom still!” Saida hissed in warning. “Mis-hits will not count!”
Despite her resolve, Judith had been unable to repress a violent wriggle as she felt the burning wheal the cane left behind. A single red stripe across the white curves of her bottom made it equally clear to the audience. Hissing with bottled up tension, Judith craned her neck, vainly trying to look over her shoulder. It gained her only the briefest glimpse of open mouths and rounded eyes among her audience before the impact of the second stroke obscured her vision with tears and jerked from her a wavering groan.
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! There was definitely masculine strength behind the resounding strokes.
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Judith whimpered desperately and set her teeth anew, the full curves of her red-traceried bottom quivering visibly in full view of the audience.
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! The effects were getting worse, each stroke outdoing its precursor. It was nothing like the sting of the ruler across taut knickers, all that she had by way of previous experience of physical punishment. She tossed her head to and fro, the only part of her free to move. Wheeeppp! Crack!!! Wheeppp! Crack!!! Writhing lips expressed cries she dared not fully voice, but reduced to agonised ah… ah…ing sounds in fear of added penalties. On either hand the nearest prisoners looked back at her as helplessly. They wore expressions of horror and fear, as her plight might be transmitted like a plague.
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Judith’s teeth were clenched on her cries in defiance of all her female instincts, like a schoolboy determined not to blubber, when the Lioness held up one hand to check the anticipated descent.
“Do you wish to express your contrition and beg for the chance to reform?”
Desperation was uppermost in Judith’s mind. She saw this only as further cruelty. She glared through her tears with a teeth-gritted hiss.
“This is an example,” Saida raised her voice, “of the sulky and obstinate nature of these white women! Recommence!”
Wheeeppp! Crack!!! Dimly, Judith felt she had made a mistake. Innumerable lines of fire burned across her bottom. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! She was given no time to rethink it. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! She definitely regretted her defiance. Wheeeppp!!! Her mouth began to open. Crackkk!!! The cane struck and she abandoned hardihood for a howl of pain. The beast had placed his stroke almost exactly on the line of his last. Judith wriggled her hips desperately from side to side in front of the man, her grinding belly adding its small contribution to the well-polished top of the lectern. Her vigorous reaction, amplified by her posture lifted her parted thighs a little, displaying her sexual attributes as if she was desperate for anything to divert his attention from thrashing her rump.
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Right into the crease between cheeks and thighs just stinging her exposed sex mound. Her unconscious attempt severely punished, she ground her well-furred mound hard into the timber with a shriek.
Wheeeppp! Crackkkk!!! Wheeeppp! Crack!!! Applied with unsparing muscular vigour to alternate bottom cheeks, the cane now elicited a throaty answering scream each time it cracked down. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! The hall was silent except for the sound of the rattan upon bare flesh and Judith’s uninhibited reaction. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! All Judith’s self-control was now gone, though she was still conscious of a sense of shame at her performance. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! She was now howling unreservedly before the whole assembly and the appalled witness of her friends. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!!
There was a pause. The Governess was speaking. Judith’s cries subsided into sobs though her discoloured and red-striped bottom cheeks still twitched in automatic terror at every unidentified sound. Suddenly it dawned upon her that it was over. She must have been given the whole twenty-four! Then, no! Twenty-four had only been the official punishment! She was to wait, in position, being given time to reflect, the terrible fact was that she had another six to come. That was what Saida was explaining.
Judith cried out in despair and panic. She was finding out why she had been taken to the toilet. She tried desperately to control herself, hoping they would come quickly.
But the delay lengthened and Saida droned on. Judith could hear the heavy breathing of the guard behind her. Standing back with shouldered cane, awaiting further orders, the man was admiring his handiwork. A white bottom displayed it so effectively. These white women were a randy lot, by all the tales of what used to happen when they cavorted at the beach resorts in the old days. This one’s thighs were parted enough so that her swollen sex was positively pouting at him. Discipline prevented any test of the extent of the victim’s demoralisation, but he guessed that she would be glad to earn a remission of sentence if only he could give her the opportunity.
“Please … I … I need…” Judith whimpered, hoping to draw the attention of a wardress, wanting to be allowed to close her thighs or at least to be granted some respite from what she knew would happen. The guard cursed under his breath, contemplating the whimpering, quivering woman-flesh, but he was under the observation of a hundred eyes. The convict audience was still formed up, the dignitaries still self-importantly alert.
The Lioness took in the white woman’s situation at a glance. Waving back an advancing wardress she signalled to the guard. He had done well; he might finish the job! “Six more!”
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Judith wailed in pain and fear.
Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Her body gave way like a water-skin hit by a stick. She felt the hot contents of her bladder squirting wetly down her thighs and visibly soaking the woodwork, while the repeatedly descending cane defeated all efforts at control. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!! Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!!
Suddenly there was an attempt to protest. A stir of emotion among the other white women watching in the ranks resulted in several voices crying out in frightened and indignant fashion. Judith was past attending to its results. The protestors were outnumbered by the wardresses and demoralised by the disapproval of the black prisoners between whom they were quickly subdued or intimidated, without troubling the last application of the cane. Wheeeppp! Crackkk!!!
The Governess stood meanwhile with folded arms like nemesis herself, fixing her tawny eyes upon each trouble-maker in turn until they quailed in dismay and foreboding.

Chapter Eight

The Sub-committee departed, satisfied. A minor impudence, Saida had assured them referring to the stir. Easily dealt with.
Early next morning, the corridor outside the prison administration office was where the ex­-rebels learnt what that meant in practice. They now understood the extent of the new Governess’s authority over them. Evidently sanctioned by the authority of the departed committee, she might order each and every one of them to the block and publicly flogged there. For what offences they could not be sure of, but undoubtedly they included wilful rebellion.
Awaiting the Governess’s displeasure, fear effectively subduing indignation, a queue of the erstwhile protestors lined the corridor in state of humiliating dishabille. Summoned one by one into the guardroom in their best prison dress, under the eyes of menacingly large-limbed wardresses they were made to remove skirt and knickers. Sent in this state to join the queue, they stood like a row of naughty children, bare bottom cheeks peeping below the loose shirt-tails, enjoined to silence by a stern supervisor, thighs self consciously together, fingers nervously tugging at fluttering hems.
The corridor in question was little more than an enclosed veranda, what passed for an outer wall was composed of bamboo sunblinds. Since all the doors and windows stood wide to catch any passing breeze, the apprehensive remainder waiting their turn could not but hear every detail of what befell their precursors; and anticipate their own experience being broadcast likewise to the ears of every passer by.
Saida’s voice came with particular clarity.
“Prisoner One seven three (That was Caroline Webster). For unruly behaviour and insolence, you will be given six strokes of the cane. The purpose of your sentence is to produce in you a proper attitude of shame. You are therefore required to admit your fault!”
“P-please ma’am ... I was unruly and ... and … insolent … and I d-deserve my p-punishment!”
Caroline’s low voice was indeed full of shame, but the first two to be processed had been given double doses for being slow to conform to the required submission.
“Very well!” Saida’s rich contralto voice sounded gracious. Chair legs grated briefly on the floor. “Bend over!”
Wheeeppp-Crackkk!!! “Ohhhooo…!”
Wheeeppp-Crackkk!!! “Ohhhowww…!”
The vicious sound of bamboo descending upon tender female flesh produced a quivering shudder down the waiting line, white hands fluttered nervously towards twitching backsides. The sound was repeated four more well-spaced repetitions
“The purpose of this punishment is also to oblige you take note of your errors. You will therefore apologise for troubling me and thank me for your punishment.” Ears pricked nervously outside. This was a new requirement to remember! There were two more resounding cracks before Caroline could adjust her thoughts.
“Please ma’am... I’m sorry to have ... to have been ... unruly … and ... and insolent...” she groaned, head downwards with Saida prompting her word by word impassively, tapping her upturned bottom smartly with the cane.
“And ... And thank you ma’am ... for ... for punishing me!”
The others listening, feverishly memorised what they would have to say. It was preferable to learning it at the wrong end of the Lioness’s cane. They were coming to realise they had no alternative. There was no way of escape and giving way to defiance or even indignation would only make it worse for them.
So each in turn advanced to execution with faltering steps. As each was swiftly dealt with, she was lined up with her precursors against the wall furthest from the door, noses to the white-plastered wall and holding their short hems lifted high, so that each successive arrival, taking in the Governess and her cane, also saw its results prominently displayed.
Complaining of tedium, Saida made the last two demoralised delinquents, Clare Brooke and Diana Harley, apply the cane to one another. The wretched women, threatened with a double penalty and not daring to show one another mercy, laid the cane upon one another’s backside, probably harder than Saida’s tiring arm would have done.

That had been the last time outside government had impinged upon the prisoner’s lives, for the full Catastrophe was rushing upon them. The new Governess acted wisely and promptly when it came.
While the earth shook and the skies darkened, the island’s inhabitants were evacuated into the old fortress high above the sea. The juvenile delinquents, black women prisoners, the guards and wardresses and their families, even the visiting fishermen crowded in. The white prisoners were herded into one cell to make room for the refugees and their food supplies and bundles of possessions, many of which, needing fuel or power, or relying upon plastic components, were destined in the end to be junked. They crammed into the empty cells and camped in the corridors. Children ran up and down with the usual adaptability of the young, peering into the white women’s cell and giggling.
But soon, even the very rock the fortress was built into was trembling, shaken to its roots. There were storms of wind and salty rain, which carried away many of the lighter structures and flooded the courtyards. There was darkness all through what should have been daylight hours. The first Tsunami, the biggest to hit the island, registered as a more than usually vigorous quake. One of the bastions split suddenly from top to bottom amid a deafening roar.
Afterwards while conditions became more rationally acceptable, the results of salt deposit, climatic change and the more puzzling corruption of fuel and plastics and modern weapons affected the sea-girt island as elsewhere. These effects had to be overcome by human energy and discipline, which the Governess was supremely qualified to apply.
The widespread failure of communications deepened with time rather than improved. Starvation and plague removed the ability of the surviving centres of population to organise a recovery. Other smaller, but technically advanced, groups attempted to assume leadership, only to be overwhelmed or to mysteriously disappear in their turn. At last all that was known by the islanders of events elsewhere was what passed by word of mouth, the accounts of the experiences of refugees arriving from the mainland. The arrival of the airship was startling evidence that there were groups that still had the power to affect their lives. In what way they could only guess wildly.

Chapter Nine

Unusually, Saida the Lioness, Governess and effective ruler of the island was not at the fort gateway where she was accustomed to watch the procession of white-skinned fish carriers return with their burdens. She was inside standing at the foot of the steps and had a man with her. He was a newcomer, but no haggard half- starved refugee, rather a tall stout man, very black, in a skullcap and spotless white gown.
The Governess’s attitude gave no hint of any difficulty with her visitor. She stood erect in smartly pressed khaki with buttons and belt buckle gleaming, her skirt taut over straddled thighs, her black boots polished. Her confident stance reminded Judith of her racehorse-owning grandfather surveying his string of highly bred highly trained animals, confident in his mastery of their performance. The prisoners too, were accustomed to being paraded for her inspection and even that of newcomers to the island. Nevertheless a little thrill of excitement ran through them all as they made the obvious guess of a connection with the airship. A visitor from ‘Outside’!
“Halt! Down baskets! Attention!” The eighteen women straightening automatically as ordered, legs together, heads up, breasts outthrust, nervously eyed the stranger, conscious of his scrutiny and thankful that they had been allowed to resume their skimpy costume before they reached the gate. None dared voice an appeal. They could have few illusions as to the state of the world ‘Outside’. Yet some hope still lingered of a rescue. Anxiously they awaited the visitor’s reaction.
“Curtsey to the visitor!” The line dipped raggedly, conscious of how much the shortness of their shirts revealed when lifted at the hem.
“Upon all fours!” Saida barked, unshipping the cane from her wrist. With an almost audible tremor of dismay the double line sank, each onto hands and knees, each facing her basket. Saida gestured, inviting the visitor to follow her, walking along behind the line of kneeling women. From this vantage point a row of bare white bottom cheeks was visible beneath the tails of their shirts.
“Lift it up!” The cane tapped the nearest rump and its owner slowly thrust her rear upwards until her splayed thighs were vertical with her creamy white bottom reared in the air so that the loose shirt tail slid inexorably downwards to her waist.
The Governess shot a glance at her visitor. “Like apes, are they not?”
“Um … Hairy you mean?” the man said with a chuckle. “All colours and sorts too!” And indeed the pubic bushes, in their current posture peeping between the legs of all the women, were of all shades from black through ginger to one or two quite blonde.
“Identify yourself!” Saida commanded.
“One five nine, Judith, Ma’am!” The voice of the woman before them was rather muffled by her head down position.
“Sentenced by a People’s court to two years corrective labour. Convicted of sexual bribery, immorality and indecency, and sentenced to a public flogging.” The Governess poked the ridiculously postured woman. “How many strokes of the cane did you get, One five nine?”
“Twenty-four, Ma’am... and six extra, Ma’am.”
“They are young women sexually experienced, you see!” the black woman remarked to her companion. “And you know how randy and immoral white women naturally are!”
She addressed the woman again. “Did the cane cure you, One five nine?”
“Oh yes, Ma’am!” Saida’s victims dared do no more than give the responses expected of them. The penalty for speaking out of turn was to wear a wooden gag for twenty-four hours.
“They were sent here to learn humility,” the Governess commented as she moved on to the next.
“Two zero seven, Susan, Ma’am!”
Exposure this time, revealed a tattooed line of flowing script crowning one of her pale bottom cheeks.
“Picked up at sea by our fishermen from the wreck of a ship. She had been pirated from a refugee yacht. The tattoo was to signify that she belonged to the ship’s crew.”
“One zero three, Angela, Ma’am!” This one sported half a dozen red ridged wheals across her bared bottom, evidently only recently applied.
“Please, ma’am,” the woman nervously offered an explanation, in answer to Saida’s prompting. “I was caned for kissing One nine three, Gemma, and putting my fingers where they shouldn’t have gone, Ma’am.”
“Disgusting!” the Governess said. “I should have doubled it! We are very vigilant against such lewd behaviour,” she said to her companion, moving on.
“One seven three, Caroline, Ma’am!”
“When did you get those two cane wheals, One seven three?”
“Please Ma’am, this morning, Ma’am. For lingering on the beach, Ma’am.” The woman’s voice revealed some confusion. She had been one of the SOS message writers and was uncertain of the consequences.
Saida’s cane swept down with a crack. One seven three Caroline, yelped and her bottom jerked, but she kept her pose. A message had been delivered which wasn’t lost upon any others who didn’t know what to make of the visitor in the scheme of things. The dominant pair moved on.
“One three zero, Gemma, Ma’am!”
“This one was sent here for stealing a canoe.”
“Two zero seven, Joanne, Ma’am!”
“Wife of a deposed government minister.”
“Two two eight, Diane, Ma’am!”
“That one was found aboard a drifting ship.”
“One six two, Stephanie, Ma’am!”
“This one you see is still growing out.” The Governess prodded with the woman intimately with her cane. “She was depilated in Arab style by her original captor, but to have their hairiness so displayed reminds us that the whites are closer to the apes than we Africans.” She looked at the man again. “You are aroused by them? Perhaps you would like to have one?”
A little irritably he declined, guessing that had been the reason for the row of blatantly postured rosy slots glistening before him, the hint of a bribe.
“White women are no novelty to me. In places that I have visited you could buy them for a bowl of rice or a loaf of bread.”
“Well, it would probably have given them ideas anyway!” the Governess smiled and refastened her cane.
“Attention!” she barked. “Rise!”
The white women rose with evident relief, red faced. But their ordeal was not yet over. The Governess summoned some of the crowd of giggling black women who, with numerous children, were clustered by the gate. They ran forward to take up the baskets of fish and carry them away.
“The smell of fish lingers,” she observed. She spoke to two of the black women who drew forward a black rubber hose. The whites were made to remove their shirts and resume their all fours position, this time stark naked, in which hapless posture they were hosed down with a surprisingly strong clear jet of water. The two black women allowed some of the children to direct the hose and the black imps shouted with glee as they played the hose over backs, bottoms and long-tressed heads, while the whites received their drenching with docile relief.
“Do you have a pump to get the water up here?” the visitor frowned.
“Our home-made water wheel,” Saida smiled. “Come inside and presently you will see.”
They climbed back up the stone steps and turned up a narrow stairway in the thickness of the wall. The wheel-room was in one of the circular corner bastions. The door opened onto a narrow wooden platform alongside a large wooden treadmill wheel, trundling and dripping in a deep pit. Its turning axle worked the plunging metal rods of a pump somewhere below, which gushed a steady stream of water into a great cistern. The motive power was a white-skinned woman fastened by a harness to the framework of the wheel. Her wrists were fastened above her head and she leant forward from the waist, a leather belt holding her over a round wooden bar, so that only her legs were free, working steadily at walking pace, non stop as the wooden rungs passed beneath her.
She was a woman of mature figure with some grey in her long dark hair. Heavy breasts swung slightly elongated, bouncing rhythmically as she laboured. Her pose made a prominent feature of the generous curves of her bottom, noticeably a different colour to the rest of her and seamed with fine reddish lines.
“This is Two zero four, Emily.” Saida said. “Once of Cornell University; a full Professor. She was one of the women found aboard a drifting derelict by fishermen. There are many such who hoped to find safety from the Catastrophe on the sea. The fishermen only rescue the females, of course, and usually they have been thoroughly raped by the time they come ashore. They serve as a warning to others, not to think there is any safety in escape off the island.”
“Two zero four aspired to be a leader of the younger women. As you see, I cured that. She is sometimes relieved by one of the others who are to be punished. It is one they hate; like being converted into a part of a machine.” The woman on the treadmill gave no sign of having heard. She padded steadily, her big bottom bobbing in time with her stride. She seemed to be watching the progress of a dangling weight on the wall opposite her, as it very slowly descended against a white painted scale.
The sound of gushing water in the courtyard below had ceased. “The hose uses a great deal of water very quickly,” the Governess commented as the weight increased its rate of descent. “Wait until the weight reaches the red mark.”
As it came down almost to the red, the pace of the woman’s legs faltered and for a moment she halted. The weight responded instantly, it hung and then seemed to reverse a little. With a desperate expression, the woman threw herself into motion again, this time with a rush. The weight hit the red mark and simultaneously a bamboo cane flicked out behind the bending woman and caught her a smart crack across the rump. The woman Emily only squeaked, though the rod, springing away, left a new and distinct bright red stripe on her behind.
“Of course she doesn’t feel it as another would, her backside is quite leathery. The other women are really sometimes quite comical in their efforts to avoid the effects.”
The woman on the treadmill had sagged, panting, over her crossbar, but still keeping her eyes upon the scale. “Get on with it!” Saida reached out and spanked her hard. With a slight groan the other began to push her feet down once more, until in a few seconds an arching jet of water began suddenly to descend from above, splashing over the head and body of the power-provider. Almost simultaneously the cane flicked out again, smacking noisily on wet and labouring bottom rounds.
“Very well!” Saida yelled above the splashing of the water.
Thankfully the white woman ceased her tread, dripping wet from head to toes, but not quite wholly able to rest, for every few seconds she advanced just another step or two.
“She has to keep the pressure up!” the Governess explained. “If she stops, then the water runs back and the cane gives her a reminder. If the level of the tank falls too far, the same thing happens. If she overfills the tank, then as you saw, she gets the cane again and a douche of cold water into the bargain. Though sometimes she will do that deliberately, taking a stroke of the cane for the sake of a cool shower.”
“I wondered how my employers would take it,” the visitor said, smiling. “But woman-powered devices are perfectly within their principles. They object only to the use of unnatural power.” He mopped his face in the damp heat of the little chamber.
“My office will be cooler, if only by the effect of the sea breeze and refreshment is available there.” The Governess led the way back to her own private quarters.

Chapter Ten

“Come!” The familiar contralto voice responding impatiently to her knock created a nervous tremor that blanked off part of Alice Arnold’s brain and made her knees wobble before she stepped within the Governess’s sitting room, to which that lady and her guest had retired. It had been so from the very beginning.
It was many painful months ago that Alice had first entered this room, meekly following the Governess when, in a leisure moment, Saida had decided to inspect her latest acquisition. For a week or so after her arrival on the island, Alice had languished in solitary confinement, fed irregularly and terrified by the battering winds and shuddering walls, the wails and screams of the refugees and the other prisoners. Saida and her staff had been too busy to spare any time for the latest arrival. She had been filed away for later attention. Then that moment had come.
“Face me and stand still!”
Alice had obeyed, terrified by the fierce look of this woman whom she knew to wield absolute power over her. Tall, she carried herself with authority. Her uniform was crisply starched, boots polished, and buttons gleaming. She looked athletic enough to be fit for an Olympic pentathlete. In front of her, Alice felt slight and young, her fair hair cropped short, wearing the thin well-worn prison smock she had been given. Her knees felt weak. She put her hands behind her, her cheeks burning and eyes downcast. She had seen and taken heed of the whippy-looking bamboo cane that dangled from the black woman’s wrist. She already knew from the wardresses what an effect it could have.
As if reading the young girl’s thoughts, the uniformed woman slipped the thong free from her wrist and tapped the cane on the palm of her other hand.
“You see this? You will feel it too, if you aren’t quick to obey me! You understand?” Alice nodded wide-eyed. She did indeed.
“Very well. Hands on your head!” the Governess gestured.
Nervously, Alice had done as she was told. The short smock, which was all that she had been given, lifted with the action of her arms and the cool breeze from the open shutters, caressing her bare thighs made her tremble. The cane reached out and lifted the hem of the smock this way and that. Alice remained rigid, trying to keep her thighs together and not daring to drop her arms.
“Turn around!”
Again the cane lifted the hem of her smock, this time right up above her bottom.
“Have you ever been caned Alice?”
“No…” Thwackkk!
“No, ma’am!”
“No, ma’am!” Alice whimpered obediently, starting to take hands off her head to rub her smarting bottom and then after catching Saida’s eye, not daring to.
She had been taken then by the Governess, pattering barefoot behind the commanding figure, along stone passages and up curving stairs to emerge from a stone arched doorway at the top of a long flight of steps that descended into a walled exercise yard.
“Here you see some of your elders who have preceded you here. One or two you will recognise I think. Take heed of their discipline.”
In the yard below, a formation of women in four rows of four, white-skinned like herself, lay flat on their backs with their legs vertically up in the air. All of them quite naked, they lay motionless, like a set of nude plastic dolls fallen or toppled in that position. The only movement came from a black woman in the uniform of a wardress strolling between the upraised legs with a long bamboo cane. She gave a crisp order and the dolls suddenly came to simultaneous life, the lifted legs closing knees together and straightened toes pointing straight upwards.
Another order. The pale bodies began to squirm and rear, behinds lifting off the floor, torsos following thrust up by the leverage of arms and elbows, palms pressed flat on the ground. They reared until all the bodies were almost vertical, propped up on head and shoulders. Erect but upside down, their breasts flopped ludicrously the wrong way, pale undersides abnormally exposed. Untrimmed hair spilled about their heads, black, brown, blonde or chestnut.
Yet another order and the legs split apart, thighs trembling a little as they fell into wide and all-revealing Vs, obscenely displaying the proofs of femininity widely agape.
The uniformed instructress prowled the ranks with her cane.
“Two four one!” Thwackkk! She used the cane with the speed of a striking snake, the bamboo making an impact with a meaty smack on one pair of upturned bottom-cheeks. The woman who received it yelped shrilly, her legs waving wildly as she tried to recover quick enough to avoid another one.
A wave of titters greeted her efforts and drew the girl’s attention to their origin in a little crowd of onlookers to one side of the yard, black women and children, hanging about an open gateway.
“In-Out!” the instructress chanted. “In-Out!” The sixteen pairs of split legs drew together, then slowly parted again, and repeated the motion over and over. Perhaps it was the effect of the thrusting posture, but Alice noticed that all seemed generously endowed with pubic bushes, though the colours were not as variegated as the rest of their hair. From there, the legs went on to bicycling motions, driven relentlessly by their instructress who prowled to and fro on the lookout for laggards. At length she allowed her charges to come upright on their feet, but only to set them touching toes, going up and down, breasts swinging and hair flying and bouncing in wild disorder. She dealt out cracks of the cane liberally as they went down, Alice wincing each time, along with each of the recipients.
The humiliation of her seniors in the way the trainee servant girl was then witnessing had first begun soon after Saida’s assumption of power when one morning the white prisoners were paraded for exercise as usual.
The gymnasium was the main hall of the citadel, the very place where Judith had been so publicly flogged, a suitable warning in itself. Standing to attention under the eye of their instructress they awaited the Governess’s inspection. They made a tattered array by now for no new supplies had come through from the mainland for months and the prisoners had the lowest priority. Their uniforms were becoming ragged and threadbare.
When at length the Governess emerged under the viewing balcony she was accompanied by two wardresses, each carrying a little pile of folded khaki. Saida took her stance before the parade, the wardresses depositing their burdens by her side. A little frisson ran through the prisoner’s ranks, quelled by a sharp order. They hoped these would be some part of the hoped-for new uniforms.
As was her custom, Saida herself was smartly arrayed in khaki shirt and skirt, crisply starched and carefully pressed by the diligent hands of her white charges. Gleaming black boots, assiduously polished by the same unfortunates, enhanced her stature, while ominously a plaited leather quirt, the subject of recent application of oil by trembling white fingers, dangled loosely from her wrist.
The Governess nodded to the Instructress, a big ugly girl only recently a prisoner herself, now promoted to wardress.
“Begin the exercise!”
“Running in place! Begin!”
The already familiar routine of exercise proceeded and soon the women were forced to turn their attention away from the pile of garments. They were formed in three lines of six, widely spaced, each one out of even whispering distance of her neighbours, and as the Instructress strove to display her efficiency and vigour to the Governess they soon had other things to occupy them.
“Higher! Get knees higher!”
“Hup! Hup! Hup!”
“One two! One two!”
They began to pant and gasp, breasts bouncing like melons in a bag straining at the worn-out khaki blouses. Long ponytails tied neatly back with ribbon bobbed vigorously, brown black, blonde and russet.
“Higher! Higher! Get knees high!”
Their armpits backs and bellies began to show dark patches of sweat. All their attention was focussed upon showing eager obedience.
Crackkk! A shrill cry! That was the Instructress using her cane upon one of their number. That was the penalty for failure to impress.
“Legs astride! Arms high! Bending and touching toes - Go!”
The eighteen white prisoners straddled their legs apart as wide as their skirts would allow, raised their arms aloft and then swung down to bend right over, while the Instructress, big and ugly, prowled behind one after another, bamboo cane at the ready.
“Up!” All the squad rose together.
“Down!” The whole eighteen bobbed as one, bottoms coming uppermost.
“Up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Down!”
Faces grew red with exertion, blouses pulled loose, sliding up to expose bare midriff. The seats of skirts strained tightly.
“Up! Down!” Thwackkk! A yelp echoed to the vault. “Keep those legs straight One nine one!” That was Lindsey Stephen, her skirt had split at the hip.
“Careless sluts!” The Lioness strode forward among the motionless ranks. “If this is the way you treat Government property, you don’t deserve new uniforms! I shan’t ignore such carelessness!” She stalked the panting lines with a presence that made each of them quake as she passed. Stranded in the head downwards posture, her charges were in a position completely bereft of dignity and dared not rise out of it, never mind answer back. She gestured again at the Instructress to continue.
“Flat on your backs! Push those legs up! Right up! Bicycle!” The white females were soon all flat on their backs on the floor pushing their bodies upwards, supporting their hips with their hands. Their skirts fell back around their waists exposing plain white prison-issue knickers as they cycled their legs in the air. As worn-out as the rest of their uniform the white cotton was so thin as to be almost transparent, showing a hint of pink skin.
After a few minutes of this, Saida herself intervened, directing them in performing a scissoring motion, opening and closing their legs; a exercise until then new to them.
“Legs wide! Then together! Wide! Together! One! Two! One! Two!” After a few minutes of this several pairs of legs were wavering and Judith’s knickers had split their crotch, gaping every time she spread her legs.
“Get your legs wide! Wider!” Crackkk! A yelp and a ripping sound as the impact of the cane split threadbare cotton right across the seat. “Stop!” Saida sprang forward. “I will not have this damage! In future you will strip for exercise and resume your uniforms afterwards! To attention!”
They scrambled upwards with a gasp combined of relief and apprehension, facing a new threat, but without the opportunity to seek for one another’s support, not daring to resist. They remembered the fate of their earlier protest. Saida the Lioness was stalking among them, eyeing each trembling female in turn.
“At the command ‘Strip one!’ you will remove your uniforms starting with the blouse and setting it neatly folded at your feet!” She slapped the little whip noisily against her booted leg as she went from one to another, a noise that made their bottom cheeks clench instinctively and weakened their knees.
“Ready! Strip one!”
The helpless white women began slowly to unbutton their blouses, recognising a certain logic in the situation but reluctant to submit to the humiliation. Their terrifying gaoler still stalked among them, however, and after ripping Amanda Smith’s blouse from her back, buttons popping and flying in all directions, speeding their fingers considerably. A ruined garment they feared might not be replaced.
“At the command ‘Strip two!’ you will remove your uniform skirt, fold and set it neatly on top of the blouse!”
“Ready! Strip two!” The women, isolated and in fear that either Saida or the Instructress might be looming up behind them, unfastened their skirts and dropped them about their ankles.
“Neatly! Neatly!” Thwackkk! Coming down upon thin and well-worn cotton, the whip sliced Heather Thompson’s knickers as well as her flesh, opening a long sliver of bare skin with a red stripe neatly down its middle. Sobbing with pain, Heather folded and straightened her shed skirt, seeking refuge in normal female functions, while the others hastily revised their own ideas of neatness.
“At the command ‘Strip three!’ you will undo your bra and set that down too!” It had begun to dawn upon the flushed and tremulous prisoners that if they were to protest it must be now. But a protest would undoubtedly be mutiny. The first to move would earn herself more than a public flogging.
“Ready! Strip three!” Practised fingers reached back to bra fastenings, surreptitious glances sliding sideways, seeking but not finding support for resistance. Almost before the idea sank in, every prisoner was bare breasted, eighteen nervously jiggling pairs of creamy white tits, cool air prickling nipples of every shade from pink to russet.
“Now you are like bush women,” Saida chuckled richly. “White bush women!” She prowled up and down the three lines, slapping her leather quirt rhythmically against her boot, a sound that in the sudden silence struck hopeless chill into the hearts of her charges.
“Very well. At the command ‘Strip four!’ you will remove that last rag and then stand to attention. You will be fast and decisive because the last one to stand naked will get my whip across her arse!”
“Ready! Strip four!”
A brief second of hesitation, fingers reaching and fumbling indecisively. Then Crackkk! Crackkk! Crackkk! interspersed with shrieks of pain. Saida hadn’t waited for a rebel, she was making an example at random.
Alexandra Boyd, the tallest and most dignified of the women prisoners, was writhing in the Lioness’s grip, held by the hair with its convenient ponytail. Her bare breast were bouncing and swinging inelegantly as she was held helplessly across the black woman’s out-thrust thigh. Alexandra, abandoning dignity, squealed out her intention to demonstrate compliance while the Lioness, disregarding her assertions, alternately dealt out fierce blows and ripped the flimsy fabric down Alexandra’s thighs.
With their companion’s shrieks in their ears, the other women had all wriggled out of their knickers even before Saida thrust her sobbing victim back into her place, similarly stripped. They saw the Governess straighten, whip in hand and, as one woman, quickly stepping out of the crumpled twists of white cotton at their ankles, they added them to the growing pile of material at their feet as if fearing to be caught in possession.
“Attention!”
The Governess let her leonine gaze sweep across the wide-eyed prisoners, nakedly paraded before her, white skins looking all the more naked for the sunburned effect of necks, forearms and legs.
“Hands upon heads!” She walked along the ranks examining the intimacies now fully displayed. “I will have no conceited notions of modesty. You were sent here to be re-educated. That is, taught to accept your changed status. No longer privileged white ladies enjoying the fruits of colonial exploitation of our people, you are convicted female felons who must learn to be humble before the black people who are your superiors.” She gave them a last sweeping glance.
“Instructress, continue the exercise!”
“Legs astride! Arms raised! Bending and touching toes! Go!”
Eighteen pairs of thighs parted wide, this time with no skirts to restrict them. Eighteen pairs of white arms were raised, breasts up-lifting sharp-nippled. Eighteen bare bottoms were prominently displayed as they dipped again to touch their toes. Several pairs already sported red lines and three gruesome whip wheals in one case, where Alexandra whimpered as her bottom flesh was stretched by her efforts.
Up! Down! Up! Down! Suddenly the ranks lost poise and rhythm as some of the women bending to touch their toes, sighted from between their legs in that revealing pose, a black boy of some ten or eleven years of age who had entered the hall. Perhaps on an errand to the Governess, he had slowed almost to a halt as he passed behind them, gawping open-mouthed.
Crackkk! Crackkk! Crackkk!
Responding squeals. “Do you think yourselves too good for the eyes of black people? You will learn not to be so modest!”
The prisoners, bobbing up and down, hastily resumed, quivered but dared not falter again. Humiliating as their position was, it would be more so to be thrashed in front of the boy.
“Up!” All came erect together, breasts jiggling, daylight between their legs, pubic bushes prominent below white bellies, faces flushed, eyes seeking anxiously for onlookers.
“Down!” Down they all went, eighteen pairs of breasts swung and bounced, eighteen sets of bottom cheeks turned uppermost, eighteen pairs of ponytails spilled downwards almost to sweep the dust.
Crackkk! The admonishing cane sounded smartly un-deadened by skirt or knickers. “Keep your knees straight, Two two one!”
Over and over the white bodies bent and straightened, strained and stretched, split and bobbed. Mouths began to gasp, breasts to heave, sweat to run down the most intimate bodily channels. Periodically the cane smacked wetly on sweat slicked flesh as the Instructress caught one slower or slacker than the rest. The Governess stood watching. When at last the Instructress allowed the squad to rest, she summoned her aides and indicated the prisoner’s discarded garments. “Remove those rags and burn them!”
The sixteen naked white women were paraded exhausted and panting, apathetically watching as their old uniforms were burnt before their eyes. Afterwards they discovered with a shock that the neat pile of fresh khaki consisted of sixteen pairs of men’s sized army issue shirts and nothing more.
“We must keep those tender white skins from the sun,” Saida pronounced while a wardress handed out one each. “Full dress uniforms will be prepared eventually, but they will only be issued for special occasions. These will be your ordinary working uniforms.”
“Attention! Dismiss! You may dress!”
As they went out, each was obliged to make the usual curtsey to the Governess and in this way were made immediately aware of how much care had to be employed in picking up the edges of the shirt-tails or the curtsey if they were not to reveal their entire lack of underwear.
That had all been a long time ago.

Chapter Eleven

It was with glasses and sweat-beaded glass jug on a silver tray Alice entered the roof pavilion to which Saida had summoned her. “I need a house girl,” the black woman had said when she had taken Alice back to her office and finished her inspection. “I shall train you.”
She found the Governess and her visitor seated at ease in long cane chairs in the cool shade of the veranda. He was a long-limbed man, very black, wearing a skullcap and a long, spotlessly white gown. Before them upon a glass topped table was scattered with maps and papers.
“Only Alice, my house girl,” Saida reassured the visitor who had made an instinctive gesture towards the maps. “She understands no language but English and has no contact beyond the gates.” The man nodded, his equanimity restored.
Ferried ashore by the local fishermen, he was obviously not a refugee and the Governess had immediately made the correct connection with the mysterious airship. She treated him accordingly as an envoy. He had addressed her first in Swahili and then in English and, finding her English adequate, switched easily back and forth.
Sinking back into his chair he examined the newcomer with detachment as she pattered forward barefoot, bobbing a sort of curtsey to his hostess and setting down the drinks on the table between them, carefully filled the two glasses from the jug. The girl he saw was young, white and almost completely naked. Her sole covering was a G-string not much more than a shoelace, except where it supported a tiny triangular scrap of leather just big enough to conceal her pudenda. Two spots of red on her cheeks and a sideways glance with a flash of blue eyes under lowered lashes were her only acknowledgement of the stranger’s presence.
“My boots, girl!” The Governess extended one leg outwards in her servant’s direction.
There was plenty of room for the natural mode of approach but the girl didn’t seem to consider it. Instead she swung about, turning her back on her mistress and straddling the out-stretched leg, crouched and gripped the boot with two white hands. This way she pushed rather than pulled, bent over with her round bottom in the air. She thrust it seemed in vain at first, her bottom bobbing, the tautened leather thong biting deep into the soft flesh of her hips and almost disappearing between the cheeks. The calf length boots were tight fitting and the angle of attack awkward.
“No vigour in these white sluts!” The Governess eyed him, amused. “They need constant direction!” She lifted her other booted foot, placing the toe deliberately between the curves of Alice’s bottom cheeks. The white girl’s face flamed, but she braced herself without attempting to evade the gritty boot toe lodged just upon the bud of her anus, the triangle of boot toe spreading soft flesh apart.
Saida’s leg straightened inexorably. Alice hissed, the sound growing almost into a squeal, but she clung dutifully to the woman’s boot. Saida grunted. Alice was bent into a curve by the thrust up her behind. The teenager made no attempt to save herself as the boot shot off. She went tumbling forward, almost head over heels, still clutching the boot to her breast.
“The other one!” Blonde hair escaping from its complicated knot, youthfully pointed breasts jiggling, Alice scrambled back to deal with the second boot being waggled impatiently by her mistress. She used exactly the same technique, though this time her mistress had only bare toes to provide the impulse. Under colour of settling herself, Saida took her time inserting them in the youthful bottom cleft.
“Don’t wriggle so, you stupid girl!” The black woman snatched up a small cane from the table and added a smart crack across the bobbing bottom that gave added impetus to the jerk.
Alice picked herself up of the matting and gathered up the two boots, panting and breathless.
“Bring a plate of fruit, girl!” Bobbing obediently, the girl disappeared indoors.
“So the tsunami which devastated the mainland shores gave you less trouble here!” The visitor resumed their conversation, making a broad gesture over the map. “You are by far the best organised survivor community in this area.”
“We had plenty of warning to evacuate the lower parts.” Saida looked thoughtfully at the map. “The sea rose quite gently, almost submerging the island, but hardly breaking at all. The island rises very steeply from the ocean deeps.”
He nodded. “Evacuation only made things worse in most other parts of the world. It put an extra strain upon the survivors. The salt deposits from the flood and from the rains caused disaster to agriculture everywhere. Even where the land was irrigated from deep-water sources and so recovered more quickly, the food was quickly exhausted by the hordes of starving refugees. Only in places remote from population centres could the farmers survive and keep enough seed to plant in the next season. The disruption to the climate even ruined many of those attempts.”
As if in response to his assertion, the young slave girl Alice reappeared, this time with a brass tray loaded with a selection of neatly cut pieces of fruit, which she laid between them in a hastily cleared space. Bending so, her pert young breasts cherry tipped jiggled at the visitor’s eye level. She was slender and nubile, if barely so.
“How old is Alice?” he smiled, aware of Saida’s scrutiny.
“Fifteen. The daughter of one of our female convicts. Sent to a state orphanage with her young brother when their parents were sentenced. Her mother is a troublesome slut. The former Governor ruined himself over her. He had the two brats sent here. Some plan to use them to win the mother’s co-operation. Under the old law I became their legal guardian. The boy is out there somewhere. They tell me he endeavours to darken his exposed parts to blend in. Which reminds me, I must make arrangements to have him neutered before he gets among the women.”
The visitor nodded approvingly. “This human sterility will last a few years yet according to our calculations, but it’s as well not to leave these things to chance. We disapprove of the preservation of redundant races. But what happened to your ex-chief? Did he get his wish?”
“It was his downfall. He was posted elsewhere to remove him from temptation. But he left us a useful legacy. We too had trouble with salt.” Saida had noted his surprise at the fresh fruit. “The deep cisterns were nearly full and when the salt rains began we blocked the inlets so that it remained pure. The prison also functioned as an experimental farm and the former director was developing salt- resistant plants for use in the campaign against desertification. Though he left the island before the Catastrophe, there was a stock of seed remaining and the sea proved so enormously productive after the upheaval as to see us through.”
“A fortunate series of circumstances and well judged responses!” the visitor complimented her. “You should reflect deeply upon that fact!”
The Governess nodded. Marked out by fate had been his pitch. She had been one of the chosen. It seemed to be a religious fanatic’s notion, but he said that his masters had different identities and ideologies in different places, the soldiers of Khali, the servants of Gaia, the Hands of God, and many others, even some who purported to be directed by extra-terrestrial supervisors, some aware of their greater purpose, some only useful tools, but united in the aim of return the world to a simpler past; then his own masters the Hidden empire. Accepting their aim and with their assistance she could become a regional overlord and make her own little world to her own rules! Subject to continuing to follow their precepts of course.
“No cities or towns survive and we would have it remain so. But many families, individuals and small groups survive as chance dictated. People who found hidden stores overlooked by looters, animal food easily scavenged or even preyed upon other humans. Here and there larger groups survive as on this island and all these need to be organised, kept an eye upon, given reliable leaders who will see that don’t fall into the old erroneous ways. You are like a Queen to the people here. With our backing you could be an Empress on the mainland.”
Saida’s eyes glittered. The idea of a larger stage upon which to exercise power appealed to her. “These weapons you will provide. Are they proof against the bugs? Do your employers have a cure?” she asked the question suspiciously. Who knew where the bugs came from?
“No. What is done is done! But we have means of working round them. The weapons fire darts and are dependent upon gas cylinders, which only we can supply. You will not find refills in any abandoned armoury. Though you might manufacture your own poison darts, they will not be so efficient. In return, as long as we supply you, we will expect you to destroy all the machinery that you come across and more particularly, to destroy those who have the knowledge of how to re-create such machines.”
The house-girl advanced bobbing nervously. Saida turned in her chair. “Yes, what is it?”
The white girl seemed to sink into the floor, but she was only going on her knees before her mistress.
“Please ma’am. Please may I p-piss?” She made the request with a red face in a tone of desperation. The Governess fished out of the neck of her uniform shirt a tiny key on a gold chain. Directing her forefinger at the girl she described a half circle with it in the air.
The crouching teenager obeyed the finger, turning herself about as Saida reached forward to insert the key and turn it. The visitor gazed curiously at the girl’s backside turned towards him where she knelt. The leather thong of the G-string ran invisible between her bottom cheeks, which he noticed, displayed a faint criss cross of faded wheals. Where it emerged as a thin string it was fastened to the two similar strings spanning her hips, in a trio of brass rings inter-connected by a tiny brass padlock. The three rings fell easily apart leaving red lines where the strings had clung, but the triangular leather patch remained obstinately in place strings dangling. He wondered at it for a second, but then the girl ducked forward, parting her thighs and thrusting up her rump. Bending her head, she reached between her legs to gather the dangling strings in her small fist and give them a jerk. The fist came up holding the leather triangle and attached to it several inches of black dildo, still glistening with her secretions.
An audible hiss of relief escaped the girl’s lips and she sprang up, poised to flee. Her mistress checked her sharply. “There is a visitor present!” Flustered, the girl turned with the flicker of a grimace and, keeping her blue eyes lowered, curtseyed dutifully to him and only then, bolted. He swallowed hard on the piece of fruit he had been chewing.
“A pretty girl of her kind,” he observed. “Do you keep her like that all the time?”
The Governess looked severe. “There is an excess of women on the island and the men are consequently used to having their way. I keep her locked up to prevent temptation. White is an ugly colour, but novelty always wins attention. Sexual relations with the prisoners are illegal.”
“There are no laws in force now,” the man reminded her.
“I say what laws shall be kept here,” Saida declared. She looked towards the door through which the house-girl had departed, then at her visitor. “What kind of ideology are we expected to adopt to gain your master’s sponsorship?”
“What you please,” he said smiling. “As you say, the laws are yours to make. There are several traditions that we sponsor or co-operate with. The only unifying principal is a determination to take this opportunity to return to pre-industrial simplicity and thus make a new start. Our alliances are merely of those of convenience wherever it will prevent a resumption of the false path of science and industrialism. Provided that you don’t attempt to rise above the level of rural simplicity, nor employ anything more elaborate than a water wheel or ox-cart, you may rule unhindered by whatever rules you wish. You might make laws for a whole country.”
“But what use would it be? Will there be such a country in future to make laws for?” Saida’s caution snapped at last. “We have had no babies born here since the Catastrophe, nor heard of any on the mainland, not even to whites!”
“That is the most powerful weapon we have to give you; we can restore that fertility to those whom we approve of and with our guidance you can convey this blessing to those who follow you. As time goes on it will be restored without need for intervention, but you will be accepted by then.”
The white slave-girl returned her G-string in hand. With it back in place and re-locked she seemed reassured, as if somehow she was less naked.
“You are an effective trainer,” the visitor commented, licking fruit juice from his fingers. “Your little troupe below would be very effective as a circus act. My employers as you call them, have a taste for that sort of thing. A weakness even. Sometimes our vessel comes across survivors from beyond the tropics, fleeing the ice and snow. It is not in our interests that they be allowed to stray where they will. If you can use the females here, we can be sure they are safely bestowed.”
Saida nodded, preoccupied, she still had a startled look, pondering the potent effect of being able to promise a posterity to all her followers.
“If fertility is restored to the world, then will it not get out of your hands eventually? You cannot patrol forever, surely.”
The man shook his head. “No need. The effect was designed to reoccur wherever humans congregate again in large groups. The out-break point is a population of about one thousand, more or less. Ensure that your people live in small, dispersed villages and all will continue to be well.”

Later, as Saida was escorting him to the canoe which would return him to the airship, they paused at the head of the steps that led down the cliff to the boat harbour. “What would have happened,” she asked, “if you had simply disappeared on your mission, dropped overboard somewhere between the airship and the shore?”
Smiling, he looked up searching the sky and then pointed.
“A sea bird?” She watched it circling, stiff winged, high above and looked at him quizzically. “Not just a bird?”
“My employers like to keep track of their representatives for several reasons.” he said, grinning. “Their methods of control were quite crude at first. Now as the world settles more to their requirements they are more subtle.”
“Once fertility is restored with your help,” Saida asked, “why should these local leaders remain loyal?” She was expecting dire warnings of powerful retribution.
He took a moment to assure himself that no one remained within hearing. “Long life,” he said simply. “We have the means to prolong life, too. The world could not have sustained it before. Even now it cannot be for common use, but to be a loyal executive is to be one of the chosen. To be one of the chosen is to live beyond the common span.”
Saida went so far as to bow. “I would very much like to meet these superiors of yours and make them welcome. I hope to satisfy their requirements.”

Chapter Twelve

The tropical dusk had fallen and flaring torches illuminated the fortress courtyard. The visiting strangers brought by the airship which rested offshore, looming large over the small harbour, had been feasted on the best the island could offer and were now seated on a row of chairs on either side of the entrance steps. Around the walls squatted the rest of the island’s inhabitants, young and old, male and female eager to see how their visitors were entertained. It might have been the visit of an explorer’s ship to some newly discovered atoll.
“Now for your amusement,” the Governess announced, standing before them like a ring mistress introducing a circus act. “My tame white women will give a demonstration of how their kind used to excite their men.”
The visitors nodded but their blank yellow-brown faces remained enigmatic as the black negotiator translated her words.
The Governess had got together with the drill mistress. She had been the mistress of a European businessman of depraved habits. When he had abandoned her, she had turned whore and then night-club dancer. She had been convicted of murdering a rival and sent to the island originally as a convict. Under her direction the prisoners had been set to producing a new costume. The components were largely obtained from the yellow men in the airship by way of trade in exchange for food and sewn up by the prisoners themselves in the prison workroom.
Musicians struck up a throbbing, wailing rhythm. The sixteen white women marched forward, arms swinging in military style and formed up in a double line. They were fully clad in uniforms of light khaki as smart as those of the wardresses, the skirt narrow and mid calf length. Only the sheer black stockings and high-heeled sandals struck a less prim note. Their long hair was caught back from the face by a leather strap and then allowed to stream down their backs. In the centre of the open space they halted.
“One!”
Mechanically they went into their routine, well trained, following the rhythm of the music.
The blouse had brass buttons down the front. Four buttons were undone, one by one, the blouse was shrugged off one bare shoulder and then the other, held together at the breast for a count of three, then let go. The blouse slid down white arms to briefly disclose white breasts jiggling softly in black lace brassieres as the women thrust their chests forward. Their right hands across the chest caught the sliding blouse and whisked it round to the front, dangled from red-nailed fingers. Sixteen white arms extended at the same moment to drop the garments vertically to their feet.
“Two!”
Both hands shot behind them and paused in the small of their backs. There had been a shortage of zippers. Quick female fingers plucked out a neat bow and the demure skirt fell apart at the rump, slithering down curved hips. Fingers flicked in unison right then left and the skirts slid, crumpling about sixteen pairs of ankles. One step back, two steps in time to the thud of the drum and a quick flick of the toe threw the garment clear and left the women on display in black bra and knickers with a scarlet garter belt, its long tapes down white thighs supporting the black tops of the stockings.
“Three!”
Manipulating the stockings was a more complicated affair. Along the double row, the women extended right legs, toes pointed. Their owners bent straight over stretching slim white arms forward and downward to unclip the stocking top, rolling it swiftly on down the leg. Bending heads cascaded hair like silken curtains over shoulders and breasts as the stocking slid clear together with the sandal.
Back upright then, a full toss of the head sent all the varied waves of hair back into place. For a moment each woman had one leg black, the other white; then they bent swiftly again to repeat the movement and unpeel the second stocking.
For the white women tension eased in one aspect at least. The tricky bit had been passed without a serious slip. Tension of a different sort replaced it. Their instructress had bullied them unmercifully for weeks. “You white sluts! You’ve become careless with nothing but a shirt to wear! I’ll teach you how a female can interest an audience in her!” They had not been fully dressed for a very long time and it revived instincts long suppressed. The business of removing it again for the mere amusement of an audience of men was bringing up all kinds of unwelcome feelings.
The garter belt on four was easy, its removal revealing nothing not on view already. They steadied at that, all keeping exact time as sixteen arms extended to drop the lacy scrap from finger and thumb onto the growing pile.
“Five!”
Now they came to what might be expected to excite a male audience. The bra came first. They reached back with white arms to unclip the fastenings. The musical accompaniment gave the cue and the timing. The bra loosed, one hand held it to the breasts while the other slid the straps from each shoulder in turn. The line of women bowed slightly as they had been taught, ensuring that their breasts hung freely within the curve of concealing hand and forearm. A crescendo in the music gave the signal and their sixteen forearms swept clear, dropping the black bra to one side as the women straightened. Sixteen pairs of white breasts bounced naked into view, aureoles darkly reddened with nipples prodding sharply as the women made little simultaneous dance steps.
Applause from the audience, licked lips and reddening faces among the prancing performers as they felt the horrid effect of what was required of them. To act so lasciviously before a randy male audience never failed to arouse an unwilling excitement. This was the point at which most of them had been thrashed at one time or another. They had all got past that now. Naked but for their knickers, the sixteen women turned and wriggled in unison like so many erotic mannequins.
Sixteen pairs of feminine thumbs slid into the hip-bands of their knickers, sixteen pairs of hips squirmed slowly in time to the wailing flutes, white bellies revolving as the performers slowly thrust downwards, strutting in a little circle to display the emerging bottom cheeks bared to view. They poised motionless for a second, looking back over their shoulders at the audience but carefully unfocussed, with the roll of lacy fabric stretched in a bar across the tops of their thighs. Coming round to face the silent men they all thrust downwards simultaneously, the limp lace descending instantly to the ground, the line of females bending almost double contrived to still obscure what they had uncovered.
For three drum beats they all posed so, then with a crash of percussion they shot upright in a wave of naked white female bodies, twirling round with long hair flicking out, arms up-curved and pelvises thrusting, legs wide, everything briefly revealed before they turned, melding their lines into a single one, naked bodies closely packed, one behind the other, hands on hips and torso arched, nipples poking the shoulder blades in front and bottoms thrust backward to be cupped by the loins of the one to the rear. Like a wriggling white caterpillar the jogging line disappeared this way, back the way they had come.
Afterwards the Governess took her guests upon a tour of the fortress and then, at their invitation, across the harbour to dine and drink in the Airship. Meanwhile the rest of the audience poured out onto the beaten earth before the prison gate.
As darkness fell, a circle of fires illuminated this wide expanse of hard trodden earth between the main gate and the clustered huts of the village. The whole population of the island now filled this irregular space which constituted the village meeting place, in holiday mood to drink and shriek and dance, excited by the visitors’ presence and the free show. The music of flutes and drums was supplemented by the rhythmic slapping of dusky palms. All were jogging and prancing, the women in gaudy wraps newly acquired from the visitors by way of trade, the men more uniformly clad, clutching long sticks in imitation of spears. Children capered around the edges of the crowd in excited emulation. The half- grown boys, former delinquents, swaggered among the men. Old crones jogged as ardently as any while grizzled elders, spindle-shanked old men added their palms to the beating rhythm with solemn enthusiasm.
Out of the confused melee a double line would suddenly form, one of men opposite one of women. The women clutched fronds of green palm or other leaves, the men brandishing their sticks to the mock alarm of the women. The lines surged forward and back in a thudding rhythm of stamping feet, the men grunting, the women ululating. They closed the last few feet in a rush of excitement, the men yelling ferociously as if in passion and fury, only to leap in the air grinning as the women spun about, shrieking in mock terror.
Soft darkness swiftly closed in upon the fire lit expanse, leaving only a few vague shapes of hut roofs and palm fronds outlined against the stars. The dancers were a medley of people thrown together by brutal chance. Ex-prisoners and guards, refugees and fishermen, but their initial stiffness soon dissolved in the enthusiasm of the dance.
The oldest dancers and the very young began to drop out of the dance, reverting to the status of spectators. The rhythm and power of the music intensified with a corresponding rise in the energy and abandon of the sweating dancers. The musicians encouraged the mood, egging on the crowd with repeated refrains taken up by the spectators.
A stir and giggle on the fringes of the scene announced the arrival of participants more reluctant. The white women were still in the state to which they had been reduced by their strip show. Urged on by their wardresses, themselves out of uniform but still potently equipped with their canes, the prisoners were formed in the same wriggling caterpillar line, naked bodies moving intimately in contact one behind the other.
Hitherto under the regime of the Lioness, the slave women had been strictly kept from any action that might result in sexual release. Regularly exposed under humiliating circumstances and mercilessly disciplined in public, they had found the strain of watching male eyes particularly destabilising. Having feared, half-expected, to be made to submit at last to the sexual use of the visiting strangers, they were still in a state of nervous arousal. Conspicuous in their white skinned nakedness among the brightly dressed black dancers, although almost inured by now to the public exhibition of their shame, proximity to so many staring strangers made them reluctant to dissolve their line. Mercilessly driven by their giggling escorts, the naked line shuffled and stamped with mechanical obedience in a wobbling caterpillar procession through the throng of laughing, shrieking, black villagers.
Instinctively the white women conformed to the rhythm of the music and therefore, whether they like it or not, to the pattern of the other dancers. Their naked bodies rubbed and brushed against those of their neighbours’ front and back until they began to twist and wriggle quite involuntarily. As if the tension had grown too much for them, they turned and fell apart into individuality, becoming a mere straggle of isolated white bodies dancing between the black lines male and female, which closed in before and behind them.
The naked whites faced men and women in turn, the helpless butt of each. The men approached with leaps and yells, prodding with their sticks at vulnerable flesh. The women coming in when the men fell back used their palm fronds with shrewdly aimed flicks. The white women shied from each in turn with increasing yelps and squeals.
The steps and actions of the dance were not difficult to pick up, though as it went on and on, it forced another relaxation of inhibitions from the hapless white novitiates. The short jerky stamping steps culminating in a brain-stunning thump of the heels, made necessary an undulating thrust of the hips that exactly simulated the action of sexual intercourse. The chant that went with it, a series of short syllabic sounds uttered with a grunting expiry of breath, compelled shallow and rapid breathing to keep pace. Together they brought further light headedness, so that as time passed the line of white women were quickly reduced to a state of dazed acquiescence in what was happening to them.
The dance settled to a steady rhythm. Participants began to drop in or out of the performance, knowing from experience that dancing would go on for hours yet. The drummers changed and re-changed without the beat faltering for an instant. Earthenware jars inscribed on their sides with oriental characters were being passed from hand to hand among the crowd. The dancers swigged from the jars and passed them on between steps, not missing a beat. They were thrust upon the white women, too. Their bodies were running with sweat and they had already drunk eagerly of whatever came to hand, mostly local beer. The stuff in the jar was whisky or something close. It was fiery stuff and after such long abstention went immediately to their heads.
On into the tropical night, hour after hour the dance went on, never ending. By now the relays of drummers had achieved an element of control over the dancers. The dazed white women followed the rhythm with slavish obedience. The wardresses had long since tired of their charges and, shedding their uniforms, had melted into the general crowd, drinking and dancing themselves. No longer a coherent group, its members having sagged away to recover and been driven back and compelled to continue, they had been broken up in this irregular fashion into ones and twos.
With knowing glances shot from beneath brows dripping with sweat, the expert drummers set out to induce the dancing women to respond like zombies as if they were wired to the beat. Frenetic male dancers began to work their way in among the most glassy-eyed of the women, bending close as they danced to whisper into a female ear, first one side then the other.
In these celebrations the local people had been accustomed to see participants dance themselves into a state of self-hypnosis, carried away by the uninhibited output of energy, the unrelenting over-breathing and the dizzy thudding of their heels on hard ground. It wasn’t the custom to allow their women to reach this state, since the dangerous trance-like condition created a kind of sexual suggestibility that could temporarily over-ride social conditioning and tribal taboos. Now and then, as one or other of the local females showed the danger signs, her friends or relatives would intervene to remove her from the dance. So suggestible were they by that point that no more than a gentle pressure was needed.
It might be that their tipsy guards felt that the conspicuousness of white skins would keep them from straying very far, but no one thought to intervene on behalf of the white women.
By now the captives would have made a savage and indecent spectacle themselves, had any sober eye been present. Forced by the unrelenting rhythm of the drum into a state resembling sexual possession, they threw themselves into the most grotesque and lewdest style of dancing, eyes wide and unfocused, or half closed and heavy lidded. Heels thud-thudding in little puffs of dust produced an endless jerk and pump of the pelvis that had become an invitation. Breasts bounced heavily, long hair clung in damp tendrils about face and shoulders. Everything was laid wide, mouths, loins, hands lifted palms outermost as if in demonstration of defencelessness.
Judith was dancing alone, having lost touch with all her companions. Feeling herself drowning in the waves of sound, unable to rescue herself, tossed this way and that, possessed by the dance, she had forgotten all her anger and humiliation and become indifferent to her fate. Some little part of her mind still registered alarm, yet languor seemed to possess her and paralysed her will. Escape was an abstract idea to which her limbs had simply failed to respond. Dancing ever more wildly to the dictate of the drums, she seemed to lose contact with the ground. Though she still stamped and danced it was as if upon a layer of cotton wool, the drums alone seemed to support her, keeping her upright, keeping her dancing. The fire-lit crowd of dancers about her had dissolved in a red mist. It grew deeper, until she danced in it as if disembodied, she felt rather than heard, the rhythm of the drums repeated in her pounding veins. Voices whispered in her ear like messages from her own brain. The words didn’t really register but the meaning was clear, drawing her forward. Still dancing like an automaton, it was as if an aisle had opened in the red mist, down which she danced.
Then suddenly without knowing how or why she was there, she was before the open doorway of one of the huts and a naked black man held her by the wrist, leading her forward. Teeth gleaming in his black face, he gestured vividly towards the interior of the hut. Excitement suffused her for no reason that she could remember.
The collapse of a log behind her blazed up the fire and sent red reflections that highlighted the rippling muscularity of his body, slab-chested, broad shouldered, and narrow hipped. Judith drank in his masculinity with widened eyes as if it satisfied a nagging ache, her breath coming in quick tumultuous gasps. Below his flat belly the sudden firelight showed the prodding length and thickness of his half-erected penis. She recognised the reason for her excitement unashamedly and followed his commanding gesture without a qualm, ducking under the low lintel into the darkness of the hut with absolute certainty of purpose, her mind still filled with the lingering image of overwhelming masculinity.
Hands caught her in the dark, large masculine hands expecting docility, guiding her down, blinded by the darkness, onto a hard packed, clean-swept earth floor.
“Fuck … me … Ohhh … fuck …me …” she moaned breathlessly. The ripe smell of male arousal was mingled with wood smoke and the tang of cow dung. It almost overwhelmed her and she wriggled excitedly out of his immediate grasp only to roll upon her back on the floor. The hot dark interior of the hut throbbed with the insistent drumming, hardly diminished by distance. Flickers of red light from cracks and gaps in the wattle walls served to pick out the man’s looming bulk as Judith’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. She spread her thighs wide, her arms lifted eagerly to the impending mass. This was what she had wanted! The thought blossomed in her swimming brain like a brilliant light. Why had she delayed? This was what she wanted. To be penetrated, to be opened up, to surrender herself to a man!
The hut reverberated with the man’s rumbling chuckle as he noted her invitation. Unwitting victim of self-hypnosis by a process more laborious but more insidious than any drug, tomorrow she might remember nothing of this, reverting to her normal self, but for this night Judith’s mind adapted to whatever notion her captor willed. She would be insatiable for him, eager to be his prey. Soft hands confirmed it, tugging at his muscle-corded arms and he allowed her to pull him down to her.
Guiding his cock one handed, he entered her. Judith writhed ecstatically as its swollen knob parted the lips of her slit like a hot wedge and then closed softly about its bulk so that they clung for an instant, soft feminine flesh exciting his stiff maleness. Desperate not to lose it, she made little encouraging excited whimpers, feeling his size and hardness about to pin her like a butterfly spread-eagled on a board. He grunted in satisfaction, reacting to her slow writhing by thrusting slowly deeper. He was as big as Judith had anticipated. She groaned in delight, lifting her bottom off the floor to meet his thrust, straining to get him to sink into her, her mind elated by the very thought of size and stiffness.
Hot, tight, creamily smooth, her reaction excited her black partner, ensuring in turn that his swollen member filled her all the more tightly. Long wavering gasps responded to his solid rhythmic surges as he sank into her, inch by inch. Judith’s voice rose higher and shriller as his black cock sank deeper, until at last the pink lips of her slot met the base of his cock and they came tight belly to belly in a joint lather of sweat and lust. She was clinging to the man now, arms about him, sharp nails digging into his shoulder blades, gripping tight while he fucked her. Glassy-eyed, she amplified her encouragement, words coming to her as if plucked out of the air.
“Yes …! Want it … Yes …! Love it … Lord … Master … Black man … Black man’s … cock …”
He built rapidly into the deep hard strokes. His enormous member filled and distended her channel with an effect that sent electric tremors through her entire body. At each deep entry she felt him hard up inside her. At each rippling withdrawal he pulled right back out to the bulbous end. Their intermingled cries and groans were equally frantic. More than once their joint thrusts became so wild that his whole length came out. Then Judith squealed in alarm and he cursed, laughing though, sure she would not escape him. The pair of them grappled panting and gasping, until they re-connected and he started again. The second time it happened, Judith lifted her legs and wrapped them firmly about his thrusting rump, determined to keep possession of him.
Within the tangle of black and white limbs, their bodies grew slippery with sweat, a lubricant between them, bellies and thighs slithering and smacking wetly. Eventually it spread further and Judith’s back and bottom were squirming in a slippery film of mud on the earthen floor. Big horny hands slid down under her muddy bottom rounds, assisting her to lift to his stroke.
Judith felt as if she would burst.
But it was rather her partner who burst.
He slammed hard into her and this time remained deep. He bellowed like a bull deep in his throat as the orgasm struck him. Judith gasped in dismay, clasping his member with every muscle as the oncoming bursts pumped into her in short thick rushes. This was what she had invited of course … What she had intended … Yet she was aware … it was not enough!
The man on top of her wallowed heavily, shuddering, coming to a stop. Then panting and gasping he levered himself clear and rolled off her onto his back, satiated and without a further care.
For a minute or two Judith sprawled panting on her back and feeling at a loss. She had performed faithfully, satisfied her partner. She deserved to be fucked properly, didn’t she? Tearfully, she rolled over and crawled on all fours over to her black stallion. Her eyes were used to the poor light now. With regret, she saw his huge cock dangling half collapsed against his thigh. She took it in one small white fist, feeling it react a little and its owner grunt complacently. It was still too limp to do her job, though. She tried to think for herself. Yes … She wanted more of it … more cock … needed more …! Encourage him. That was it!
The vision she had first seen in the firelight filled her dazed mind, which seemed only to have room for one idea at a time. The massive stallion thing she remembered was what was needed, not this snake-like object cupped in her palm.
She caressed it tentatively, crooning her desire while the amused black man, interest reviving, encouraged her with deep grunts. Sprawled across his legs she grew more and more excited by her idea. Encourage it … Stroke it … Kiss it … That was it! She lifted it. Her head bowed over it. Her mouth shaped an oval to kiss the rounded, dusky cone. Her tongue tip emerged, delicately touching here and there and finding the little slot in the end, probed into salty stickiness. Beyond the screen of her fallen hair the man snorted jerkily. Uncontrollable urges made Judith tremble in haste. Her tongue went further and further. She encouraged the burgeoning cock with both hands. She treated it like an ice cream cone, licking this way and that. Her tongue rounded the knob and over the wrinkle of foreskin, curling round the black knobbly barrel still slick with her own juices, until she reached its root and her cheek was laid against his belly. Ideas like whispered instructions started in her mind, inspiring her to further lasciviousness. Her soft hand slid down to caress his balls, nails sharp against the loose folds, soft palm hefting their weight. The solid black pillar of masculine flesh reared through her fingers and lifting her head she fixed her eyes upon its glossy crown paler than the rest.
Something impelled Judith to open her lips and then lean forward to engulf it. She would treat it like a lollipop. It filled her mouth more like a golf ball, but a warm and living ball that grew of its own accord and almost gagged her. Saliva ran down her chin. She snorted and gurgled wildly but made no attempt to draw back. She engulfed it inch by inch until it reached the back of her throat. She closed her lips firmly upon its thickness and began to suck, swirling her tongue around the irregular shape, her head going up and down. At the top of each rise she paused, holding the cock steady in her hand enough to take a deep breath and run her tongue around the rim before beginning to suck him again. By now the black man’s eyes were rolling and he was grunting and quivering. She was writhing as much as he, her knees planted wide apart on the floor and her rear end up-thrust and gyrating in excited circles.
She wailed in protest when the big hands suddenly plucked her from her position, before realising his intention. Hoisted over his loins, her wail turned into a squeal of anticipation. Now she would get what she wanted! Reaching down between her thighs, she grasped the throbbing pillar of male flesh. Two fingers and her thumb encircled the knob, directing it to its desired target as she squatted above him. She was too frantic to be skilful, but the warm, firm clasp of his big hands on her hips steadied and calmed her. She shuddered in delight as she felt the bulbous summit part her fleshy lips and push into an orifice gone suddenly wet and melting.
Standing up solidly to her descending weight, it was slowly driven up into her, with every inch under her control. Both of them were making noises now, the man deep in his chest, Judith shriller, almost squealing. Suddenly she felt her pubic bush meet his belly. She was all the way down and filled to bursting point. Throwing back her head, quivering in triumph, she clawed damp hair out of her eyes and squatted panting for a moment, filled with hard black cock.
The need for sensation drove her on. She had to have friction to stoke the fires. Slowly she began to rise, thrusting with splayed fingers at black thighs as solid as tree roots. The action tightened her grip upon his intrusion and made the withdrawal a delight of sensation to both. She rose, gasping in ecstasy, until she was almost vacated, with only the fat acorn shape still trapped within clinging slot-lips. Hardly pausing then, she sank back swallowing up the great black truncheon with a cry until she straddled the man’s loins. Eagerly she began to go up and down upon him, faster and faster until she was riding him as if for dear life.
Each now urged the other on, giving vent to noisy lust. Careless of her superimposed weight, Judith’s black partner humped upwards using all his powerful muscles. Judith was thrown up and down like a girl on a pony and rode hard in response, breasts bouncing, long hair sweeping about her shoulders. She used all her muscles to enhance the effect of his penetration, twisting and swivelling with mouth agape and eyes closed.
“Uhhh … So … So … Good …! Ahhh … Keep … Keep … Ahhh …!” she gasped wildly. The monster she was impaled upon dizzied her into incoherence. She felt as if she was riding for the winning post and it was only a dozen strokes away.
“Ahhh … eee … ahhh …!”
Just as she slackened rein, gaping and groaning in mid orgasm, the man beneath her rose with a volcanic roar, hurled her onto her back and rolling over on top, reversed their positions instantly.
Dazzled by her orgasm, she was forced to respond nevertheless, out of a sense of self-preservation and in no time began to find desire renewed in her, matching his bellows with gasping squeals of her own. Her knees lifted, pulled back and her ankles met and crossed tightly above his driving butt.
Once more they failed to coincide. The black man, reaching his limit, expended himself in a series of ecstatic thrusts that deprived Judith of all breath to protest when he rolled abruptly off her, this time kicking her away when she tried immediately to resume.
Frustrated and bewildered, Judith crawled in circles round the floor on hands and knees while the man drank copiously from the contents of an earthenware pitcher. The scanty furnishings of the hut included a low string-sprung bed upon which he cast himself heavily. Stumbling upon the pitcher herself, Judith drank eagerly and deeply, spilling some of it down her front. It was the local beer, yeasty but cool. It refreshed and further stimulated her.
She considered her kidnapper with impatience, his lolling, slackened cock with greed. She had tried to satisfy herself using her own fingers but somehow that didn’t seem to work, she was subject to hypnotic suggestions that had sunk deep and been specific. She heard him starting to snore. Suddenly the sight of such inertia maddened her. Flying at the comatose brute she shook him awake again. He turned over, grunting and slapped at her as if she had been a persisting mosquito. She shrank back momentarily, but lust overcame her fear and she flew at him, pummelling him angrily with small fists.
A bigger fist seized her wrists and another one her hair, shaking her hard as she continued to struggle. The man rose with a sudden spurt of angry energy, swinging his legs down from the bed and Judith found herself yanked across his lap, bottom upward. She shrieked in outraged protest. This wasn’t the reaction she had intended to arouse. Then humiliatingly, he began to spank her as if she were a delinquent child. The flat of his hand, as big as a paddle, came down hard across her squirming bottom. Judith shrieked harder, bucking against the restraining arm that pinned her across muscular thighs. The multiplying smacks raised a hot stinging pain that at least seemed to sink deep enough to counter the hot itch between her legs. She threshed wildly, without wholly knowing whether she did it from pain or excitement. Something was suddenly evident, prodding upwards from the hard male thighs and nudging at the base of her belly.
A couple more smacks and excitement was definitely gaining the edge. It engendered a ready submissiveness that given a clear head she might remember with shame. Right now she was only seeing the punishment as a harbinger of pleasure. Not that it wasn’t painful too, for the black man’s palm was hard and effective, even if the spanking became progressively less serious. Judith encouraged him unblushingly with breathless squeals, but her hand-spanked bottom squirmed more eloquently still, her thighs opening and closing, provocatively squeezing the summit of his rising cock.
She reached her second orgasm right there, wallowing across the black man’s lap, alternately grinding her pelvis down on his cock and squealing under the impact of his hand. By that time he was only play spanking her and before she had finished squalling her ecstasy, he was heaving her bodily off his lap and onto the bed. He set her down upon hands and knees this time, climbing up to kneel behind her. The bed creaked and twanged, its diamond web of ropes sagging so that Judith had to dig in with fingers and toes to keep herself steady.
Her shapely bottom was presented to her partner, the redness imparted by his hand not so obvious in the near darkness. Her long tapering thighs were parted wide and her back hollowed, making clear the offer of her openings to his use. Her anus was a dark ring that expanded and then tightened as she pushed back, the vulva bulged like an over-ripe fruit with its ragged split glistening red, tufted with light hairs below. His thick black forefinger prodded both in turn while Judith whimpered with renewed eagerness. The man closed with all this ripeness, directing his resurgent cock and parting the scalloped edges of the vulva with it. He paused with its knob buried in velvety warmth and Judith groaned in anticipation, open-mouthed, trembling from head to toe so that the bed lashings quivered.
He thrust slowly. She was slick from his prior use and he slid in easily. She gave a gasping wail but was forced to wait upon him patiently. She set herself to exert every muscle that would serve to increase her tightness for him. She took the grunt of appreciation that she heard as a personal triumph. He pulled out so slowly however that for a moment she feared he meant to leave her. Then just as she panicked, he rammed back in, forcing a squeal in place of a protest. His big hands steadied her, cupping her bottom, awakening a resurgence of pain. It made her wriggle and squeal, but that too served to excite him further.
In this leisurely style the islander began to fuck his lust crazed Englishwoman once again. Little gasps and groans came from her as she did her best at every thrust to trap his thickening organ lest it escape. The pace increased almost imperceptibly, keeping Judith incoherent and building her exquisitely slowly, stroke by stroke, towards a jelly-quivering climax. Impaled by the steadily reaming cock she mewled and wailed in uninhibited orgasm, clinging to the bed with curled fingers and toes, feeling as if her insides had melted.
The man had his own timetable, though. He kept on pounding faster and faster into her. The bed shuddered and creaked beneath them. For long minutes Judith responded only feebly out of duty and fear of being spanked again, then the relentless build up re-commenced. She recovered and passed swiftly from one orgasm into the build-up to another, but then the man reached his firing point too soon, overlapping her once more and leaving her gasping and unsatisfied all over again.
Once again she tried to prevent his retiring from her, clinging to him and alternately pleading and protesting.
His response was to throw her out. Literally! She was seized by one arm and one leg and pitched bodily through the hut door. Sprawled sobbing disconsolately in the dirt, she heard him guffaw as he retreated within and dragged the door shut behind him.
The hut was set back a little from the rest of the village and the edge of the bush loomed like a black wall close behind it, the tall palms casting fingers of shadow. Rolling over with an angry sob, Judith sensed that someone was near at hand. The moon was bright but the shadows were confusing. A dark shape, only identifiable as human by the whites of the eyes, stared at her from the edge of the bush. At a hiss of words two figures detached themselves more substantially from the shadows by the hut wall and closed in upon her.
“A white!” Judith was seized by the arms as she struggled to rise to her knees, her white body gleaming like marble in the moonlight. “Come! Give you good fucking!” She dithered, looking back towards the tight closed hut, torn between the masculinity left behind and the sexual incitement of these unknown night wanderers.
“Come!” Her hand was guided to a live penis of such promising proportions that she put up little further resistance.
“Good fucking!” youthful voices insisted. They half led, half shoved her, one with a firm grip on her long hair. Confused and still tearful, but compliant to a stronger will she went with them through a tunnel of bushes in the dark, over a fence, half hoist, half thrust by eager hands, and then across some kind of lawn dappled with moonlight. The side of a building loomed up with gravel underfoot, a black square turned out to be an open window, with a low sill easily negotiated.
“Good fucking!” They repeated the promise like grooms soothing a nervous mare. Somehow she had acquired a sort of halter, a rope noose around her neck, by which she was jerked inexorably forward, following her escorts in scrambling over the sill.
Pushed and groped by many hands in what to her at first, was pitch darkness, Judith crouched trembling, nostrils flared, catching the thick reek all about her of the body odours of young males. The darkness only gradually resolved into half-seen structures and a shifting crowd of shadowy figures.
“A white!” she heard repeated with glee and the only words she understood, as a number of youthful voices argued and giggled over her. What she had blundered into she hardly knew but their tone of voice, evidently gloating over her acquisition, re-invigorated her excitement. She was on all fours, with a floor of polished wooden boards under her hands and knees and fastened by the neck to some unseen fixture. It was an unnecessary precaution. She accepted whatever arrangements of her body they desired and submitted herself co-operatively to the first comer.
The excited voices made a bewildering background accompaniment to the fucking, criticising, questioning and goading one another. Judith understood only that these youthfully vigorous bodies were well able to fill her need. The cocks that now thrust into her from behind, one after another, were smaller than the one she had followed from the dance, but they were in seemingly endless supply. Inexperience might lead to them giving her short fast fucks, but there was always another waiting to take over, slipping easily into the squelching wet orifice, well lubricated by his precursors. Growing practice made Judith skilful at getting the most out of them.
Though her zombie-like state was beginning to be shot with moments of lucidity, she still retained a trace of its self-delusion. Shame and horror might teeter on the verge of emergence, but she still managed to persuade herself that she had made a rational choice in following this way of satisfying her needs. Her new possessors took her in bewildering succession, one after another, with hardly an interval between them and hardly a dip in the level of her excitement.
She achieved an orgasm that quite shattered her and then, just as her responses began to falter in consequence, there came a respite. There was a new flurry of arrivals and a lot of youthful sniggering. A thinning of the press of bodies revealed that Judith had a colleague. Another pale-skinned figure, glimmering in the dim light from the window, moved up to kneel almost hip-to-hip alongside her, as if their captors intended to make a contest of their performance.
There was work enough for two. Intoxicated by the lascivious masculinity that submerged them, the two women panted from orgasm to orgasm. They were worked through by the whole queue and then, by furious tonguing and sucking, brought some of the first-comers back up to scratch to begin again. Bodies eddied about them, going and coming almost invisibly in the dark, among them one showing paler than the rest mingled in the action, one more male cock unidentifiable among the rest.

In the morning a search was made by grumbling, slow moving, wardresses, whom even the Lioness couldn’t speed to their duty.
The first to have succumbed, Judith, was the first to be recovered. She was found together with her sister Gillian, both too stiff and exhausted to move and both still tied by the neck to the uprights of a bunk in a dormitory of the juvenile reformatory, surrounded by innocently snoring inmates.
The rest of the prisoners had been similarly plucked as they came ripe, one by one, drawn out of the dance and led into the darkness to be used by whoever claimed them while the effects of the self-hypnosis lasted.
Lisa had been escorted as far as the fishing village by a solicitous group of young fishermen who settled on the beach alongside their boats and passed her from one to another throughout the night. She was discovered inside, within the home of one of the young men, still being humped, having been shaken awake at dawn and made to go back into action between his muscular thighs, while his ancient grandmother cooked breakfast for them outside the hut.
Gemma and Claire, the two youngest and juiciest of the prisoners, were taken in hand by the elderly expert who supervised the beach fishing. The widower did such a good job of arousal that the pair soon out-reached their mentor and, becoming too importunate, were ejected from his bed and eventually from his hut. Blundering about in the warm darkness of the bush they accidentally collided and rolled, clutching one another head to tail, among the piles that supported the raised floor. There, out of sight if not out of hearing, they remained until retrieved at daylight by the wardresses in a state of mutual exhaustion.
Jenny had been sneaked away by one of the wardresses, the ugly drill mistress whose iron will and unrelenting cane so ruled the demoralised white prisoners. She was no lesbian, however. Her interest in claiming Jenny was simply to use the white woman to attract village men to accompany her back to her quarters. The drill mistress’s idea had been that she would take the man while Jenny acted as a dummy third. The first man called in a friend, however, and then both men took it in turns to fuck both the drill mistress and Jenny too. Though ugly enough to need the enticement, the drill mistress was still jealous of the men’s preference and thrashed Jenny several times during the ensuing night of sex, when she felt that her white lure’s urgent soliciting of the men was making her too much of a rival. When the men flagged between sessions, the drill mistress had Jenny perform lesbian acts upon her as an appetiser.
An exhaustive search eventually rounded up all but one, Amanda, who had last been seen being carried in the darkness over the shoulder of an unidentified man.
She recovered consciousness after dawn in a dank wooden crib smelling strongly of fish, with her mind a blank as to how she got there. Trying to rise, she found herself lurching this way and that. She was lying under folds of stiff canvas among the bottom timbers of a boat, which was rising and falling in a seaway. Struggling towards the light, she crawled out from beneath a salt-impregnated sail into hot sunlight amid swooping shadows to find that she was aboard a fishing boat under sail, far out on the ocean under a cloudless sky. She squinted into the light where a row of dark hunched shapes like vultures stood out against the blue. It was a row of men perched along the high side of the boat, their grinning white teeth and rolling eyes in dark faces expressing their appreciation of their unusual catch. Still with a lingering effect of the night within her, she felt a strange mixture of excitement and shame as she saw the lust she had aroused in the crew.

Two days later the same craft touched briefly upon an island beach and then, propelled by raggedly splashing oars, backed out into the open sea and hoisted sail again. Left behind on the sand, a naked pale skinned female figure, tangle haired and crawling on all fours, dragged herself clear of the waves.
By then the wrath of the Governess at the denouement of the dance-night abandonment had been made plain.
“You shameless white sluts, left unconfined, are clearly liable to lead our black men into disorder and debauchery!” the Lioness informed the wilting and blear-eyed slaves when finally rounded up and paraded before her. “Unattached black women are non-existent on this island and the numbers of male recruits for the army will swell the numbers of unattached men. There will be men among them base enough to resort to such as you and so make themselves easy meat for cunning sluts to work upon! I intend to control their future access to you and put a stopper in your works when they are not in service.”
The stopper part was a hardwood truncheon, two fingers thick and the length of a female forearm. The smoothly rounded head was inserted in the vagina to a finger’s depth at which point a hole pierced the shaft. A brass wire riveted to the back of a stout leather waist belt, then ran down between the bottom cheeks, passed through the hole drilled in the rod and up over the belly where it was fastened to the waist belt and secured by a padlock. Withdrawal of the pole was impossible and the taut wire made even buggery difficult, while the projecting pole, which waggled in full view under the scanty skirts of a uniform shirt, reminded every passing male of their status.
The control of access was preceded by a lesson in the penalties for promiscuous indiscipline. Judith was the first of those who had gone astray in the night, to be given her public whipping.
Two short thick wooden posts about waist high, each with a cross piece, had been set up in the bare space before the fortress gate, about afoot apart. Across the top of one, like a T, its stout crosspiece had a hollow cut in the centre and large staples hammered into the extremities. The stapled crosspiece of the other was fastened at ankle level. Unplugged and stripped naked before the crowd, the unfortunate culprit standing before the rear post had her ankles drawn far apart until she could barely touch the earth with her toes and fastened to the lower set of staples. She was made to bend forward to the other post until her torso was horizontal and her arms out-stretched for the wrists to be fastened at each end of the cross bar. In this way her belly was now resting firmly upon the top of the rear post with her body level and bottom elevated.
With her chin resting in the central hollow, Judith had a good view of most of the crowd and they of her. Most of the inhabitants of the settlement seemed to be present, of all ages and both sexes, as well as a lot of men from the new training camp. Public whippings were a new thing and the spectacle seemed to be being treated as an entertainment. She was conscious of the continuous murmur of comment. She didn’t even have the obscurity of falling hair to hide behind, for Saida herself had deprived her of that shelter, drawing Judith’s abundant tresses back from her hot cheeks and tying them back with a piece of leather.
All Judith’s senses were preternaturally heightened. Booted feet tramped purposefully and then there was a thump and rustle as the guards came to attention. From behind her, Saida’s voice rose clearly, reading something in the local language, punctuated by ooohs and aaahs from the crowd; then in English for the enlightenment of the trembling prisoners and most of all, Judith herself. “Twenty lashes!”
Time seemed to stand still for Judith. Sweat from her naked body was making damp trickles on the woodwork of the whipping post. Her limbs were held taut by the straps trembled with tension, muscles protesting. Half consciously her ears had been monitoring the buzz of the crowd who could see more than she. When they suddenly hushed she caught the hint at once. Gasping with fear she tensed herself every nerve quivering to detect the hiss of the descending whip.
Swishhh! She convulsed in terror, convulsing with a shriek against the unyielding timber.
Nothing happened. It had been nothing but a testing sweep of the whip in empty air, never touching her. But she found herself suddenly emptying her bladder against the post, all down the woodwork between her legs. Quivering with shame, she heard the laughter spread as those who could see passed on the news to others. She drew a sobbing breath, filling her lungs to scream at her tormentors begging to be put out of this agony of waiting.
She had her wish even before the words were formulated and instantly regretted even having wished it. Shock as much as pain produced the first resounding howl, then the pain following to drive out further restraint. The lash had struck across the full width of her behind, drawing a line at first numbed, then melting into a red-hot stripe, and then spreading, throbbing and burning in a wider swathe.
Nineteen more to come! She could envisage exactly how they would burn and throb, far worse than the cane. She realised that she was probably going to survive them but that was hardly consolation with nineteen still to go. Dreadful anticipation had given place to the horror of experience.
The second stroke fell a fraction below the first, so that Judith felt every inch afresh and with twin wheals doubled the pain. This time her breath was too short to even howl properly.
The third fell while she was still gasping and writhing from the first two, so that she twisted a little under it and it sliced from hip to mid thigh, crossing the other two and removing what breath she had recovered.
She nearly fainted, but a delay in the delivery of the next allowed her to breathe again. The fourth seemed worse than its precursors and her recovered breath restored her ability to howl. She ground her naked belly against the solidity of the wooden post as the fourth wheal blended indistinguishably into what was now a throbbing generalised torment. She tried fruitlessly to heave herself up far enough to slip off the post, bottom flexing madly, fingers clawing at the straps, thighs and calves straining to close together for protection. The next blow seemed to follow her motion, whipping upwards under the rounds of her bottom, giving her an impetus she couldn’t have achieved on her own, and almost lifting her off the post after all.
Six! Seven! Eight! The strokes that followed were regularly spaced but carelessly aimed, doubling their effect wherever they crossed the earlier wheals. Judith gasped with straining lungs after each stroke, having expended it in a shriek and having to start again before the next, writhing with unrestrained vigour, heedless of the spectacle she was presenting to the men behind her in the crowd.
At length one stroke, more wildly placed than before, struck her high up across the back over the ribs and virtually silenced her. It was immediately followed by a correction which fell low instead, crossing the tops of her hitherto untouched thighs with an effect like two red hot garters and so galvanising her that she tried again to close her thighs against the restricting straps. This and the succeeding two or three she could only greet with animal sounds as she tried to recover her wind, but falling as they did upon a body as wet with sweat as if she had come fresh from her bath, they made plenty of noise on their own.
An unexpected pause gave Judith time to catch up, as if half the effect had not yet bitten home. She had lost count of how many strokes she had received but she was painfully conscious that it hadn’t been anywhere near twenty.
It was a long pause. Then, “The remainder of your punishment is suspended for the time being!” Saida’s voice penetrated to Judith’s distracted mind. “Whether it will be resumed depends upon how well you perform your future duties.” The Governess stepped back evidently contented with the expression of fervent relief that mixed with anguished apprehension upon Judith’s face.
“Replace her with the next one!”

Chapter Thirteen

The plans for the army of invasion that Saida had concerted with the representatives of the Hidden Empire were put into practice. Recruits were sought among both the islanders and the fishing communities formed by survivors on the mainland coast, drilled and trained with the aid of instructors supplied by the yellow folk from their headquarters somewhere out in the ocean beyond the horizon. Extra recruits were forthcoming as a result of their aerial voyages of investigation further afield, single male survivors lured by the prospect of acquiring fertile females for themselves from among the prospective conquests. Controlled access turned out to mean Saida’s mode of keeping her male recruits satisfied.
Judith led the way from Reception, the man stumping heavily behind her, his flip-flops slapping the stone floor. The long passage was lined along one side by the doors of the cells, each one with its inspection hatch and stout bolts, and illuminated only by light from behind them and the squares of light from the inspection hatches on either hand. From the knob on each hatch-slide depended a square of cardboard, about half showing white, the others dark. Sounds came from those with the card turned to the dark side, grunting and gasping, from one, Annabel’s, a feminine squeal and a responding masculine bellow from another.
Judith halted before the door to her own cell where the card hung white in token of vacancy and then stood to one side, mutely indicating the huge lock.
The man was huge and very black, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He held up the large key he was carrying with its dangling wooden tablet marked Judith and a number, One five nine, matching the card. He leered at Judith lustfully and inserted the key in the lock with a demonstrative shove. She was going to get his key in her lock, was no doubt what he meant.
Down the corridor a door opened and Gillian emerged, coming towards Judith, looking flustered and anxious. She was as naked as her sister, her hair tumbled over her shoulders and breasts, and padding barefoot.
“He wants more beer,” she whispered as she passed Judith, who made a face in commiseration before turning the card and hastily following her customer inside. The more a man drank, the more difficult it made their task. Gillian and she were operating separately this time. All too often those men who knew they were sisters seemed impelled to combine with a buddy to engage both of them together.
Judith’s cell held the minimum of furniture required for its function, a larger bed, a water pitcher and cup, the oil lamp on its bracket, a receptacle for waste products under the bed. Only two functions were practised here. Sleep and sex. The man she had led here expected the latter.
“Let me see what you can do, white whore!” he said.
“I’m not really a whore!” Judith protested wearily. She had been chosen by one of those few who spoke English. She guessed that he was a newcomer to the island and she still hoped vaguely for sympathy. But climbing onto the bed and settling herself upon knees and elbows with more realistic expectations, she parted her thighs and offered herself for rear entry. Like all those who had been recently whipped the painful effects of lying on her back made her prefer to be taken from behind and most of the men seemed to readily take the cue.
“You have had a good training then!” His cock was standing out straight, its heaviness almost overcoming its erection. “I hear you white women are really hot stuff when you want to be.”
Judith groaned. “They force us to take you. We are whipped if we don’t give you pleasure.”
“Then you had better perform well for me, white woman, or you’ll earn yourself another whipping,” he said unsympathetically.
She felt him enter her sliding easily in her well-lubricated channel and then, remembering what he had said, dutifully used her abdominal muscles upon his intrusion. He grunted pleasurably to her shame, but she could only continue as she had begun, feeling him pulsing within her. He began ploughing hard into her and she had to clutch the sides of the bed to steady herself against his muscular thrusts as she was forced to accommodate every inch.
“Make it good, white cunt!” he said through gritted teeth. With reluctant obedience she thrust backwards, squeezing him as hard as she could. The bed creaked loudly enough to be heard all the way to Reception. Judith panted and squealed almost as loudly. She had found that it impressed and flattered most of the brutes. The man shafting her was big but not that big, her efforts paid off though insofar as he reached the fast strokes very quickly and was soon bellowing with delight as he spurted into her.
“You are too good a fuck to be an amateur!” he laughed, after he had pulled off her and sat back, lighting up a thin brown cigar. “We still have time for another. You can restore me to stiffness with your mouth this time.”
“I’ve never done that sort of thing!” Judith lied hopefully.
“Then you will learn a new skill. Get down on your knees here!” Seated on the bunk-side he jabbed a finger downwards between his feet. His greasy cock flopped limply from his shorts, gleaming with the product of her own passage.
Judith knew she had no choice but to continue her degrading progression. The stones of the floor were hard under her knees as she shuffled between his spread thighs and took his limp cock in soft fingertips to put her lips to its wet and sticky tip. It grew under her touch spreading her lips and pushing upwards in no time through the reluctant parting of her teeth. It took longer to stiffen it properly and she had to engulf its length completely, pushing her lips down until his pubic hair brushed her nose and then running her tongue back up the sensitive underside of its barrel.
“Good enough.” He jerked her off him. “Get up on the bed!” He made her kneel up on the bed upon all fours and took her from behind this time, doggy fashion. It took him much longer to reach orgasm of course and Judith in the confusion of her need to participate, ended by exciting herself past the point of control. She let herself go, hoping that he would be flattered, but she had misjudged his reaction.
“You really are a hot little bitch after all! That’s what you white ladies are really like, isn’t it? I should give you a good spanking for trying to fool me.”
She was returned to Reception with a reddened bottom, the man giving her backside a last slap as a parting gesture and exchanging jocular banter with the bored ex-wardress who sat at the supervisor’s desk in front of a pile of used tickets and a coiled black whip, before he swaggered out into the night.
Half a dozen fellow slaves were in waiting in Reception, not yet taken up, or returned like Gillian and Judith herself after being used for quickies. They knelt mutely upon all fours in a naked row, lined up on a raised platform, in the patch of light afforded by two hanging oil lamps, ready for the inspection and choice of newly arriving customers. The bell that the wardress rang brought a black girl sauntering in to conduct Judith to the shower and oversee her in cleaning out the traces of her previous user and preparing herself for her next customer.
There were about twenty slave women available for service on any one night, while there were hundreds of men eager to make use of them. A hundred wooden tickets for this Army brothel were distributed each day, given out with the men’s rations, each valid for one hour with an inmate.
Shepherded by the girl, Judith returned to Reception, taking up her position alongside the others upon the platform, her key dangling conspicuously from the hook on the front of her collar. Just as she did so, another man came through the door, bringing with him the usual strong waft of tobacco, alcohol and wood smoke to mingle with the scent of perfumed soap.
At the gesture of their black supervisor, the rank of waiting white women lifted their heads, sliding a nervously assessing look at the newcomer, before moistening their lips and then spreading their knees wide, thrusting up their rumps with backs hollowed. A fat man in a long striped gown draped over a bulging belly, he dangled a whole sheaf of tickets over the desk. Any soldier might save up tickets or buy them from his comrades for small sums in order to have the right to an all night session. But this time after some argument, the wardress rose and, coming round the desk, pointed out Judith and then Gillian. The fat man picked up both their keys and then returned one to the black woman. It was the first intimation that he was alone and intended to take both sisters together, spending his tickets upon an hour’s session with the pair.
In Judith’s cell, the two sisters lost no time in working upon the purchaser of their services, for by now they knew an appearance of willingness at least allowed them some measure of control. Most of the men were content to have a woman offer herself to them, but they were nervous that this one might expect something special and order them a whipping if he wasn’t satisfied. They hoped to pre-empt anything he had in mind by a display of ardour.
In the event it seemed he hadn’t expected such a reception and with both of them working in combination eager to save their skins, he had easily been carried away. He was soon recumbent on the bed like a stranded black whale with the girls like two white mermaids crouched over him.
Judith was straddling his thick torso, lowering herself until her breasts dangled over his face. She gave a little gasp as she felt big teeth grip one nipple sharply, stretching the little nub as she failed to repress a little upward jerk. She dipped hastily lower, allowing the round heaviness of her breast to bulge down into everted lips allowing him to suckle her like a giant baby. She had found this was a technique that worked with Orientals and it was better than having to kiss him.
A visiting party from the Airship was the worst news, since they seemed uneasy to be upon their own. They preferred rather to take a number of the slave women communally, reserving one of the old offices furnished as a bar room and bringing their own supply of booze looted from some forgotten far-off store. They expected their whores to be dressed up too as they had first seen them displayed, and to act as serving girls until they were required as whores. She and Gillian had been made to perform a 69 for the first time upon a table top at one of these orgies.
A quick glance over Judith’s shoulder from where there came a steady slurping sound checked that Gillian had her head well down between the man’s thighs, sucking hard on his cock. Judith lowered herself further until her breasts almost smothered the man, feeling his teeth take a mouthful of her flesh. Her belly rested on the man’s chest, straddling his ribcage and she wriggled her soft weight gently against him, feeling the wobble of his fat belly rising against her bottom.
“He’s not even a soldier!” Gillian had hissed resentfully, following him on the way along the corridor, though both were well aware that to show resentment was to risk a whipping. Tickets were sometimes sold or traded by the soldiery to non-combatants and probably this fat man was a clerk or paper shuffler, but they both well knew that it was ridiculous to have preferences in their situation.
Smack! The man was ready for the next step and Judith rose at the peremptory slap, her breasts wet and tooth marked and, together with her sister, scrambled off the bed. The man swung round ponderously and heaved himself up grunting, his penis worked by Gillian’s lips and tongue to rigidity.
This time it was Judith’s turn to go first. She knelt on the hard stone floor with her head and shoulders on the bed, lifting her backside high and spreading her thighs so that he could enter her more easily from behind. She felt him buffet her bottom with his belly and braced herself as his cock knob nudged and thrust. Gillian had made sure that he was well lubricated with saliva and he went in easily. Judith concentrated her muscles on his sliding shaft. Her sister, she knew, would be on her knees behind the man, helping it on with intimate caresses.
They changed over then, working swiftly together. This time Gillian mounted him while Judith worked to assist. The man took longer, but they were successful in bringing him off just before the Supervisor banged on the door, notifying the man that his time was up.
Sometimes on a quiet night the soldiers were allowed to take longer than the time prescribed, but this time when Judith and Gillian were returned to the waiting bench they were the only available women and a man was already hovering eagerly to make his choice.
He grunted pleasurably as he circled round behind the sisters, carefully examining the pouting sexual clefts thrust out for his delectation. He fingered them one after another, spreading the fleshy lips and thrusting his fingers into their crevices, parting their lifted bottom cheeks to prod the crinkled anal buds with his thumb. By the time he made up his mind, they were both shifting so restlessly that the supervisor’s hand closed upon her whip. Then hearing two more, noisily conversing men arriving, he hastily settled his choice upon Judith, whose nipples he was pinching at that moment.
The night was only half over, but doors had been banging and keys grinding in locks steadily at intervals for the past hour. Almost all the doors along the corridor now carried the black square of occupation, sign that the white captives whose number it had borne was busy within, providing for the sexual release of some black would-be warrior. Returned at intervals by their satisfied users, they could only wait passively to find out how many more they would have to take before dawn released them from this degrading labour.
As the island rapidly became an armed camp and its harbour filled with a fleet of fishing boats turned invasion transports, the unfortunate white captives, though destined to labour as porters, came to look forward to the invasion almost as much as the black followers of Saida the Lioness, the Great Black Queen.

To be continued …