Slave Island Read online

  Slave Island

  by Paul Little

  ### MB-0067 ###

  Masquerade Books, 1996

  Reprinted 1998

  By the time he was twenty-five, he had easily half a dozen mistresses installed throughout London, Paris, and Berlin, women who could give him every kind of love, from the abject submission of a cringing slave to the bold companionship of a tall blonde Lesbian who was a switch-hitter and who often arranged for him sessions at which two or three girls would be present. Together they would play out various scenes and games, and Lord Henry's perverse proclivities grew apace.

  Throughout his life, as a recurring motif, there was always the dream: to live in a civilization where sexual slavery was legal, and every form of erotic liberty and license was permitted.. . .

  CHAPTER ONE - THE VOYAGE

  The steamship Anastasia, bound from Hong Kong to San Francisco, with a stopover at the port of Honolulu, had cleared Guam two days ago. The captain, a bluff, jovial Yugoslavian named Mirko Soprovnik, received radio reports of a typhoon in the area of Wake Island, and, accordingly, instructed his chief navigator to set the course southward by twenty degrees towards the equator to avoid all risk. Since it was a pleasure cruise for the most part, Captain Soprovnik did not think that his passengers would express displeasure at being, at most, an extra day aboard his vessel.

  It was a warm calm July evening in the year 1924. From the dining saloon, ornate with a crystal chandelier and red velvet carpeting, there came the pleasant buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses and of silverware, against which one heard the discreet background of melodies played by a five-piece string ensemble.

  At the captain's table, Soprovnik, resplendent in his formal evening uniform with gold braid markings on both sleeves to designate six years of service as the master of the Anastasia, was lifting his champagne glass to toast the elegantly beautiful woman seated to his right. She was Marcia Chalmers, a wealthy heiress bound for her native city of San Francisco after a pleasure trip to Tokyo, Hong Kong and Ceylon in the company of her attractive but meekly deferential maid, Jacqueline Wilson.

  "A toast to beauty, Madame," the captain gallantly murmured, and Marcia Chalmers self-consciously smiled as she lifted her glass to acknowledge the tribute.

  "Thank you, Captain," she murmured with properly demure and downcast eyes. "Then you think we will not be too late in reaching San Francisco?"

  "Oh, no, Madame," he shook his head, "at most twenty-four hours. I assure you, this change of course was for the safety of our passengers. There are reports of a typhoon building up ahead of our original course, and the conditions may continue for at least forty-eight hours. We are heading south, but, if good weather prevails, there is no reason why our powerful engines cannot make up some of the lost time once we are out of Honolulu."

  Marcia Chalmers shrugged her beautifully rounded creamy shoulders, enticingly displayed by her silver lame" evening gown. "I think that is very wise, Captain," she agreed. "Another day on this delightful ship will not displease me in the least."

  Captain Soprovnik inclined his head. "Madame is most understanding and most kind," he replied, his dark eyes glinting as they swiftly contemplated the alluring valley of her full, firm, widely spaced breasts, which the bodice of her gown so provocatively revealed. Then, turning to his left, he politely inquired, "And you, Mr. Granville, I trust that this slight delay which we may incur will not be too greatly inconvenient to you."

  John Granville, a handsome brown-haired industrialist of forty-three, smilingly hastened to reassure the master of the Anastasia. "Not at all, Captain Soprovnik. My daughter Betty and I have no pressing business whatsoever. As you know, after my wife's untimely death in April, I felt it best to take Betty on a trip to the Orient so that both of us might try to forget our grief. She has been in an exclusive young ladies' finishing school for several years, and our sad bereavement has given us an opportunity to become acquainted with each other again." With this, he turned to his left to smile at this golden-haired daughter, who quickly smiled back at him and squeezed his hand, the while lowering her magnificent blue eyes as a vivid blush crimsoned her satiny cheeks.

  Captain Mirko Soprovnik sighed and nodded sympathetically. "Yes, Mr. Granville, I can understand that. My own dear wife died a dozen years ago, and I have had my work to distract me from remembering my loss. But at least, Mr. Granville, you have your daughter to console you, whereas I was not blessed with children, alas."

  John Granville's virile features were shadowed as he glanced quickly back at Betty, and responded softly, "That is very true, Captain Soprovnik. Betty is indeed the living image of her beloved mother. So I am fortunate to be reunited with my daughter. But perhaps, if it had not been for my business travels, I might have been beside my wife, perhaps might even have prevented her death by seeing that she had expert medical attention at the time she contracted the rare disease that ended her life."

  "But you should not so reproach yourself, Mr. Granville," Captain Soprovnik sympathetically replied. "From what you have told me, there was no previous sign of illness."

  "That is true, Diane's health was always robust. She must have contracted the malady in Benares last summer when she accompanied me on one of my business trips." He uttered a long sigh. "It was a second honeymoon, and I shall never forgive myself for its tragic ending."

  * * *

  Ivan Tenkovich had gone out to the port side of "A" Deck for a moment's respite between his duties serving the first-class passengers. Standing at the rail, he looked gloomily out on the serene night. There was a full moon, but not a breath of air was stirring. The dark waters of the Pacific, save for the wake of the steamer, were unruffled. His thoughts were exactly the opposite.. .and with good reason.

  Ivan Tenkovich, short and wiry of stature, with short-cropped black hair, and the expressive eyes of a spaniel, had just had his past recalled to him by two beautiful young women, the sisters Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff, to whose cabin he was assigned. They were traveling with an aunt, Madame Dorothea Petroff, who acted as their duena, and they had embarked at Hong Kong. He had not at first recognized them, for seven years had elapsed since the last time he had seen them. And on that occasion, he had sworn an oath of vengeance against the entire Rubutsoff family.

  Ivan Tenkovich was thirty-five years old, and since the year 1918 had been a steward on the Anastasia. But prior to that, he had been a serf on the lordly estate of Prince Nicolai Rubutsoff, ten versts west of Moscow. Mother Russia had, even in those troubled, war-torn days been under the domination of the Tsar, and those of common and impoverished birth served their noble masters as virtual slaves.

  His face was contorted with the agonized memories of the last meeting so long ago. The war had been going badly for the Tsar and already the conspiracy to assassinate him and the royal family had been set into motion. He himself, Ivan Tenkovich, had spoken out against the oppression of the boyars, and an agent of the Revolutionaries had visited him one evening to enlist his support for the coming overthrow of the tyrants. But a young upstairs maid, Natalie Grikoff, wanting to curry favor with his master, had betrayed him to Prince Rubutsoff.

  And so the next morning, Cossack guards had seized him, his beautiful young wife Elisabeta, and his aged mother, and had taken them into the barn. There, bound to a post with his arms behind him, he had been forced to watch the terrible punishment visited upon his innocent wife and mother, while the Prince and his two teenaged daughters, Olga and Tanya, watched Tsarist justice being meted out.

  His mother and Elisabeta had been stripped naked, cords were fastened to their wrists and then tied to the rafters overhead until their naked shuddering bodies writhed in the air, their toes scarcely touching the ground. Then tw
o burly Cossacks, armed with nagaigas, had stationed themselves behind the victims, and at the Prince's signal had administered a savage flogging.

  Powerless to save them, he had implored the Prince for mercy, offering himself, willing to die if only his mother and Elisabeta would be spared. And Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff had giggled, finding his frenzied pleas a cause for merriment. Although both women survived their savage beating, neither one ever fully recovered from the devastating shame. His mother, already old and frail, fell ill and died soon afterward. His wife, who had been pregnant with their first child, miscarried and died soon after from a massive infection.

  But by then he had joined the Revolutionaries, and, quickly disillusioned, made his way across the border into Manchuria and thence to Hong Kong where he had signed on with the Anastasia, for their crew was short of help.

  And now Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff had been delivered into his hands-yet how could he avenge his wife and mother even now? To kill them here on board -yes, that could be done even if it cost him his own life. But it was not enough. They should be made to suffer, those patrician, pampered creatures who had relished the martyrdom of the two women most beloved in all the world to him.

  Gnashing his teeth with frustrated rage, Ivan Tenkovich prayed for a miracle that would deliver up Olga and Tanya Rubutsoff into his hands, so that he might mete out to them suffering and shame such as his mother and Elisabeta had known before their deaths. But the sea was calm, the sky was clear and the moon shone brightly upon the Anastasia. Perhaps the age of miracles was past. Or, perhaps, his prayer to the demon of vengeance would yet be answered.

  CHAPTER TWO - THE HEIRESS

  Marcia Chalmers frowned as she entered her stateroom. The long ocean voyage had begun to bore her. At least in the exotic cities she had visited there had been a coterie of distinguished men to flatter and fawn on her. In Ceylon, there had been that dashing British major.. .what was his name? Oh, yes. Major Brandon Fortescue. A most interesting man, with quite a good deal more culture than one would have expected to find in an officer who had spent upwards of forty years in the army. He could talk convincingly of the arts and literatures, and he could turn a pretty compliment. He was a bachelor, but of course everyone knew that he slept with his two pretty Burmese housemaids. They had had only four days in Ceylon, and Marcia found herself wishing that the itinerary of the cruise might have been extended for an additional week. It would have been very interesting to pit herself against the impregnable bachelorhood of Major Fortescue. She had flirted with him coyly that last night at the Officers' Club, even going so far as to pretend to brush her leg against his under the table. He had flushed and apologized, and she had regarded him with the most innocent look out of her large, widely-spaced dark brown eyes. She could tell that he desired her. But then, every man did. Yet here on the Anastasia there were so few men worthy of the game. Perhaps that John Granville, the American widower with that simpering, golden-haired daughter of his, might be fair prey to her flirtations-if only he were alone!

  "Jacqueline," she called feverishly, "come undress me. And then I want you to give me a facial massage. I have the most fearful headache this evening. All of a sudden, it's so sultry and still outside."

  "Yes, Miss Chalmers." Jacqueline Wilson meekly approached, her eyes downcast. She was twenty-three, of medium height with a round heart-shaped face that boasted adorably wistful dark blue eyes, a demure little Grecian nose, and a soft, bold, tremulous mouth. Her dark brown hair was coiffured in a prim oval-shaped bun at the back of her head, with a tiny fringe of curls all along the top of her smooth forehead. She had been Marcia's personal maid for eighteen months, and had long since regretted having been selected for the post. When her parents died in a fire caused by a gas explosion in their San Francisco apartment building, she had found herself destitute. A kindly employment counselor, touched by the girl's brooding grief, had suggested that although it was quite evident that her schooling and breeding had fitted her for others things, she had never done office work of any kind and her majoring in drama at college was not the password to a lucrative position in the City of the Golden Gate. Realizing the practical wisdom of this evaluation, Jacqueline had listlessly agreed to offer herself in domestic service, and Miss Lind at the agency had two weeks later glowingly announced to her that an ideal position was at last available.

  Marcia Chalmers was the only child of Philip and Gloria Chalmers, who had died when their daughter was only fifteen. She had been brought up by an elderly aunt who pampered her a great deal. Since she was an heiress in her own right, Marcia's life had been unruffled by adversity. Her aunt had spent ten thousand dollars on her niece's debut (held at the Mark Hopkins Hotel), sent her to a finishing school in Zurich, given her several trips to Paris and New York, and now this lengthy Oriental cruise. Many would say that Jacqueline Wilson was indeed fortunate in working for a beautiful young woman who was heiress to one of the largest fortunes in San Francisco, and to be able to attend her young mistress on all her glamorous travels. But only a single week had passed before Jacqueline Wilson knew all she wanted to know about Marcia Chalmers. The latter was vain, narcissistic, and doted on what she called "flirtations" which were nothing more nor less than the shrewd and calculated enticement of the male to declare his passion for her, a passion which would be as luckless as he in hoping to fulfill the erotic dreams of making Marcia Chalmers fall in love with him.

  The fact was that she was a demivierge. Marcia Chalmers was twenty-four, with coppery-red hair styled in a thick long pageboy whose curls rested between her shoulder blades. Her face was a sensitive oval, almost classic until one saw the imperious upper lip, the contemptuous insolence that showed in her gaze, and heard the petulant tone of her clear, naturally sweet and high voice.

  Even as early as finishing school, Marcia Chalmers set herself with gusto to the sport of enflaming the lust of men. In high school, as a sophomore of fourteen, she had caused the expulsion and disgrace of a hapless fifteen-year-old boy, charging that he had behaved indecently towards her. She had allowed him to carry home her books and then inveigled him into a vacant lot behind a billboard, where she had asked him if he wished to kiss her. When he had blushingly acknowledged that he did, Marcia Chalmers feigned an eager anticipation for his embrace. But no sooner had he put his arm around her shoulders and tried to brush his lips against her cheek than she had started to scream for help and had cried out that he was going to ravish her. By way of dramatizing herself, she had cleverly torn her dress and petticoat. Her testimony was accepted and the boy was expelled from school, and then nearly sent to a juvenile home. It was only fear that she had gone too far, in this first testing of her powers against the world of male adversaries, which had led her to withdraw her charges.

  And thereafter, wherever she moved in social circles, wherever she traveled, there were incidents and episodes. Major Brandon Fortescue had luckily escaped with nothing more than a mild disappointment in his desire for her.

  For Marcia Chalmers was definitely charming from almost any viewpoint. About the same height as her maid, she possessed a magnificent and voluptuous opulence of figure. Her breasts were widely spaced, high-set young cantaloupes, succulent and firm and in need of no brassiere. Her belly was slim and lissome, widely and shallowly dimpled, her buttocks were rounded and mouth-wateringly curved, and her magnificent thighs seemed to bespeak a paradise of amorous gratification for the fortunate man who would penetrate between them. Of course, no man ever had.

  Two weeks ago, during the stopover at Hong Kong, the pampered heiress had chanced to meet, at the most fashionable restaurant in that exotic city, a distinguished, magnetic and handsome Hindu named Magala Khan who, it was rumored, was a prince of the blood and enormously wealthy, from one of the provinces in Ghulistan. He was at the table next to Marcia's, which she occupied with her maid, Jacqueline Wilson, who always cut the figure of a poor relation opposite the patrician redhead and who was invariably made to feel precisely that
lowly status. Magala Khan was in the company of a strikingly beautiful young woman who appeared to be Eurasian, and who wore a caste mark in the middle of her high-arching forehead, as well as two men who were obviously bodyguards and each of whom wore the crest of his royal household, the symbol of a blue scimitar atop the replica of a pennon in black, with a red falcon riding it.

  He was a man of about thirty-five or forty, Marcia Chalmers had judged, although she could not be quite certain. His brown skin, his sturdy body which towered fully six feet, his strong white teeth, and beard that showed no gray hairs, all attested to youthfulness, as did his speech, which was remarkably cultured. He was fluent in her own tongue as well as in French, Italian, and even Chinese-she had heard him address one of the Chinese waiters in a dialect which seemed to have delighted the man. She preened herself in the fact that this blue-blooded Hindu ruler had noticed her beauty and had wished to make her acquaintance, for one of his bodyguards had come to her table and, deferentially bowing his turbaned head before her, had communicated the wish of his master to have her and her companion enjoy champagne at his master's table.

  He did not introduce the Eurasian beauty to Marcia, save as "my intendant," which puzzled the snobbish redhead till, that night in their suite at the hotel, Jacqueline told her the word, from the French, meant stewardess or major-domo. But through the conversation, however, Marcia Chalmers was able to observe the often mocking and painfully inimical looks the Eurasian beauty sent her across the table.