Slave Island Page 3

  She had put on a black nylon nightie which was cut low enough to reveal the superb round gourds of her breasts, to show off the deep valley between them and their upper curves almost down to the pouting dusky coral nipple-buds. The garment clung lasciviously to her hips and thighs, kissed her belly with a snug ardor that would have been envied by any man who had ever seen her.. .and then cursed his evil star for having crossed his pathway with hers because she seemed so unobtainable.

  Thinking of Magala Khan, Marcia Chalmers had experienced the stirrings of lust in her furry cleft. She had lofted her nightie and slipped a soft hand down between her quivering thighs. As she lay there in the darkness, her eyes closed to conjure up her vision of that insolently haughty Hindu potentate, she felt a moist and quivering pulsation deep in the realm of her ardent young pussy.

  It was an urge she had often experienced and often relieved just the way she prepared to do it now. Clinching her hand and letting only her right forefinger stand out rigidly, she introduced that digit against the thick bush of her cunt and dallied languidly with herself, not yet touching the sensitive twitching lips of her sex.

  To see her now, with the sheets thrown back and her clinging black nylon nightie rolled up above her belly, to see that rigid finger daintily stirring in the thick dark-reddish curls which peaked her creamy thighs, was to desire to fuck her mercilessly until she panted that she had enough, and the to go on fucking her beyond her own endurance! Every man who had suffered the taunt of her prick-teasing behavior alternately cursed her and lusted for her. As she basked in the aura of thwarted passion, accepting it as her due, as would an empress.. .she did not know that she was fated to come at last to her Waterloo.

  She had had, at times, lesbian inclinations toward her beautiful and submissive maid, Jacqueline Wilson. She had the feeling that if she commanded Jacqueline to obey her, the maid would do anything to held her job. She herself had never tried it with girls, and, of course, she had never been fucked by a man. But that was not to say that Marcia Chalmers did not experience violent lusts, secret and dark turbulence which left her shaken by the knowledge of her own innate animalism; yet it was impossible for her, being as selfish and vain as she was, to conceive of giving herself to any man. She would take, she would never give. And that was what she meant to do one day with Jacqueline.

  The prospect now of having her lovely maid strip and blushingly come to her bed and do those things, which she had read and heard that women do with one another, made her still more feverish as she squirmed on her bed. Her maid was sleeping in the next room. Marcia's lips curled with scorn. What a meek and submissive little slut the girl was! She probably had never had a lover and wouldn't know what to do with one if she did: Unless she had dreamed about it, wetly and in ignorance of the act itself. It would be a good idea to break her in gradually. Perhaps when they got back to San Francisco-or better still, when they docked in Honolulu-she might try to seduce that little innocent. It would be so easy. She would summon Jacqueline when she was in the tub and order her maid to take off all her clothes, except maybe her stockings and garter-belt and pumps, and then wash her back and breasts. That would make Jacqueline kneel over the edge of the tub and the maid's lovely breasts would dangle there vulnerably. Then she would squeeze them painfully and force Jacqueline to kiss her, to put her tongue into her mouth. And after that there would be all sorts of delicious naughty little games.. .

  The prospect made her shudder with a flaming surge of excitement and anticipation. Her finger now delved through the curls to find the lips of her cunt. They were plump and pink and exquisitely sensitive to the touch. She grazed at them amorously, and then she arched her bottom as a wave of sensual fever rippled through her system. She felt her nipple buds grow hard as Hints, and she put her other hand up to caress one of them, and to feel it vibrate and throb under her lingering caress.

  If only she were in some metropolis of the Middle East, like Constantinople or Istanbul! There, she had read, there were reports of white-slave auctions and the smuggling of slaves to the auction block, destined for the harems of wealthy sheiks and Oriental rulers. It would be amusing to buy a young man and to train him to be her lust-slave; never to permit him intercourse with her cunt, but to grant him every audacious liberty of lips and tongue and fingers. A slave to whip, to spurn with her sharp high-heeled pumps. A slave who could become a living mattress for her, or even an ashtray. Or a table on which she could pose her breakfast dishes, with the penalty of a severe whipping if he dared to spill her coffee or to tumble a single dish or plate. Yes, she would like that. She would take and never give. To have someone kneeling at her feet and cringing from her would excite her to the utmost, as she knew.

  How could she know that very soon this hypothetical situation would be reversed and she would be the slave?

  But at the moment before the sudden terrifying shock of the vessel's foundering, Marcia Chalmers was aroused by these erotic images. She began now to tickle the rim of her cunt in a circular and lingering maneuver. She felt her pussypetals gradually open, like the petals of a flower to the warming sun. She delved deeper, till she touched the little nodule of her clitoris, which at once stiffened and sent a new and even stronger wave of desire through her creamy body.

  If she had only had the power of second sight or of ESP, she might have been able to project herself to Jacqueline Wilson's dreams. For at that very moment, her lovely and submissive maid was imagining herself seated upon a throne in a vast chamber along whose walls stood uniformed guards with swords and guns. There was a long red carpet from one end of the dais on which her throne was perched to the other end of the chamber. And there at the very end, on all fours, head bowed in submissiveness, was her mistress, Marcia Chalmers. Her mistress was naked except for silver bracelets on wrists and ankles which proclaimed her servitude. She leaned back on the throne, an amused smile on her red lips. Her eyes glittered and narrowed with anticipation and with vindictive eagerness. The score would be settled now. For all the abuse, the taunts, the vilifications, there would now be a reckoning. She was dressed in a gold brocaded gown, with a diamond tiara on her head, and a magnificent huge ruby ring whose stone was as big as a pigeon's egg, on the third finger of her left hand. In her right she held, not a sceptre, but a black leather dog-whip, plaited, with knots along the last two or three inches of the tip, and with a handle made of solid silver some six inches long, into which were encrusted amethysts (her birth-stone) and garnets (they had been her mother's favorite gem).

  Now she lifted the sceptre and at the long end of the runway, carpeted so thick that one could not hear the movement of Marcia Chalmers' bare knees and palms, her slave crawled to her slowly and humbly.

  Arriving before the throne, Marcia Chalmers was now, with a contemptuous wave of the sceptre, ordered to crawl up the seven carpeted steps to the throne itself. And when she had done this, she bowed her head while Jacqueline haughtily imposed the weight of her pump-shod right foot on the middle of the creamy back and spurned her, and then began to chide her for faulty service. "Slave, wicked slave," she hissed, "I've had reports that you sulk and grimace in your cell. That's not to be tolerated, do you hear? When you are in my service, remember that you must always have a smile on your face and tenderness in your eyes and gratefulness to show how happy you are that I have deigned to spare your worthless life. So you will be punished. Now you know what to do!"

  And in her dream the lovely submissive maid heard Marcia Chalmers whimperingly beg, "Mighty queen, I recognize my faults and I repent. I beg you humbly to punish me for my misconduct and my show of indifference in your service. I beg you to whip my big bottom."

  And in the dream Jacqueline Wilson smiled and then consciously extended a soft hand down towards her furry cunt and began to frig herself.

  At the very same time, mistress and maid attained their climax. And it was just upon this shattering instant when their bodies quaked in serious response that the terrible and unexpected cras
h of the ship upon the magnetic reef took place!

  Marcia Chalmers was almost thrown out of bed when the Anastasia foundered. She had the presence of mind to roll down her nightie, and to hurry into the next room where Jacqueline was sleeping. But the maid's dream of vengeance had been so exciting and absorbing that the lovely young woman still slept, lying on her side. But Marcia's intent eyes spied the telltale signs; Jacqueline's demure and modestly cut white cotton nightgown had fucked up over her hip, and one soft little hand was still buried in her curly thatch. A cruel little smile curved Marcia Chalmers' red lips. So that was the way it was! Well, decidedly now, when they got to Honolulu, she would make Jacqueline serve her in bed, and if she dared say no, she would threaten the maid with instant dismissal and no letter of recommendation, and would warn her that she knew only too well what a slut that girl was. Yes, Jacqueline Wilson would become her first true slave!

  "Wake up, Jacqueline, wake up!" she cried, and slapped the girl's bare hip. Jacqueline, with a feline and sinuous movement, scrambled out of bed, blinking, still drowsy and her eyes blurred with sleep.

  "What is it, Miss Chalmers?"

  "Something's happened, I don't know what. There was a terrible crash a moment ago and we're not moving. You better help dress me quickly. And get my jewel case out of the drawer and bring it with you. We are going to go on deck and see what's happened."

  * * *

  In his stateroom, John Granville was not asleep. He had been lying in his bed smoking a cigarette and thinking of the future. He still mourned his beautiful dead wife. He had taken his lovely eighteen-year-old daughter along on this trip to the Orient to help them both forget their tragic bereavement. What would he do with Betty when they got back to San Francisco? Possibly put her in another private finishing school. And yet, then he would be lonelier than ever. A virile man who had many love affairs prior to his marriage and who had found in his beautiful wife all the fulfillment for which he had yearned, John Granville did not like to contemplate a content widower's future. Perhaps it would be a good idea to find another wife. No, he could not possibly hope to love her as he had Diane; and yet in a sense he still had Diane with him, for his daughter Betty was almost the living image of that golden-haired woman who had been so dear to him.

  But his wife had been so much more than just a beautiful woman. She had been an impeccable hostess at his business functions, in public at the theater or a swanky restaurant, and at night when they were alone, a passionate and eagerly cooperative mistress who had never made him feel for a moment that he was taking her only because it was his marital right. Women like Diane were all too few in this complex world, he thought sadly as he puffed at his cigarette.

  When the crash came, he leaped from his bed and went directly into his daughter's room. She lay sleeping, her lovely heart-shaped face smiling in her dreams. He bent tenderly and stroked her cheek, till her eyes fluttered open. "Daddy! What is it?" Her voice was still husky with sleep and it was a voice that haunted him for it, too, reminded him only too well of his beautiful, dead Diane.

  "Wake up. I'm afraid something awful has happened, darling. There was a terrible crash just a moment ago. The ship may be in danger. You had better get dressed quickly, and we will go out on deck," he told her.

  Back on the bridge, the news was disastrous. The first mate had reported that the port bulkhead of the steamer had been smashed in and that water was pouring into the hold so quickly that it was impossible to work the bilge pumps to any effectiveness. Also, the ship was beginning to list to one side. With this, and taking water quickly as it was, the Anastasia seemed doomed. The radio operator had come up to the bridge, pale and trembling, to reaffirm that the signals, those mysterious signals, were still going on, and yet no stronger than they had been at the outset. And when he had tried-and this was the terrifying and mysterious news of all-to send out an S.O.S., he had found that somehow his transmitting bands had been jammed by an inexplicable high-frequency sound.

  "It is uncanny," the captain muttered to himself. And then he crossed himself, being a religious man. "We can put our trust in God and our own ingenuity. Dunway, have the rest of the crew help with the passengers. Get women and children to the lifeboats. The men will have to take their chances with their life-preservers and their rafts. Be calm. Impress upon the rest of the crew that we mustn't cause panic. Just listen to those women screaming beyond the bow!"

  "Yes, sir," the first mate saluted and hurried down the narrow iron stairs to the main deck of the vessel. He opened the door and went down the corridor, wanting to find as many stewards as he could to help him in the task of wakening those who were still sleeping, of aiding those who were too frightened to move, or perhaps too old or sick.

  Captain Soprovnik had trained his crew well. Within twenty minutes, all of the passengers were out on deck, and all women were safely led into the lifeboats. Some of the men showed themselves to be cowards, and the first mate had to club into unconsciousness a burly banker in his fifties who had yelled that he wasn't going to die and had tried to force himself into one of the lifeboats.

  The listing of the vessel grew more and more pronounced. Orders were given to abandon the ship. John Granville watched Betty being lowered in a lifeboat with twenty-four other women and two seamen at the oars. She was crying, waving to him and calling out words he couldn't hear above the hubbub that was going on.

  He was an excellent swimmer and had been an athlete in his youth. His only fear was of sharks, always plentiful in waters like these. With his lifebelt and his own stamina, he was reasonably sure that he could survive. Besides, if they had struck a reef, as now was the rumor, there must be land not far off. The fog had not yet lifted, and the night air was deceptively warm. He made his way to the rail near the bridge and watched. Straining his eyes through the murky darkness he could see nothing. Wait.. .wasn't there a tiny beam of light which seemed to move in a kind of circle off to the east? No, perhaps his senses were playing a trick on him. Poor Betty, what a terrible thing to happen right after her mother's death, he thought to himself.

  And then he felt the ship shudder under him, and he knew that the moment had come. He said a silent prayer and took a deep breath and braced himself. He must remember, as the ship went down, to stand on the rail and propel himself as far out as he could in a long dive. There was the danger of being sucked down, and he must get clear of the ship at all costs.

  CHAPTER FIVE - PEASANT'S REVENGE

  True to the tradition of the sea, Captain Mirko Soprovnik had stayed on the bridge and gone down with the Anastasia.

  His final thoughts had been a dejected "what a damnable waste! Now my beautiful red-haired Ljuba will have to learn how to fuck with somebody else who doesn't have nearly my king-sized prick and won't know what the little bitch really loves before she spreads her legs for poking-well, serves her right, the tramp, for putting horns on me with that lousy, sneaking journalist from Belgrade the last time I had leave!" He would not have been comforted to know that his mistress, a superbly buxom cabaret singer of about thirty, was at that very moment being fucked in a standing position against the cold marble of her bathroom by the hotel porter.. .

  Before the ship took its final dive, though, everything was tumult and panic. Wealthy old capitalists brandished their wallets and hoarsely begged stewards to get them a place in a lifeboat. One couple was determined to stay together. A prim-looking schoolteacher, who wore her thick-lensed glasses and dowdy bun like a disguise, had found a young man-at that time a gigolo-who'd discreetly gratified all her desires. She had a spectacular and imaginative but sadly unappreciated sex drive. Her lover not only had a slim, ardent body, but an unfulfilled longing for the warmth and intelligence he found in her; and in short, they'd fallen in love. In desperation, the schoolteacher dressed him in one of her own outfits and smuggled him into line for a women-only lifeboat. The other women spotted him immediately but, swiftly sympathetic, said not a word. Indeed, when an officious purser
questioned his presence, one dowager coolly and brutally kicked the purser in the nuts so hard that he crumpled, screaming, to the crowded deck, and was trampled. A few minutes later, in the final melee to get into the few remaining lifeboats, the purser's body was shoved overboard.. .

  * * *

  Ivan Tenkovich, the Russian steward who had brought strawberries and champagne for the Princesses Rubutsoff and Madame Petroff, knew exactly what he must do. A just God had delivered his enemies to him in answer to his prayers. Now he would have vengeance for the death of his wife and his mother, who had been murdered by these accursed aristocrats!

  In order to carry out his plan, he saved the lives of the two beautiful young Princesses Rubutsoff as well as that of Madame Dorothea Petroff. He had angrily told them to forget about their jewels, for they would be no good to them if they drowned, and he had told them there was no time to dress. So, with the haughty matron clad only in a slip embroidered with Alencon lace and a velvet bathrobe and slippers, and beautiful Olga and Tanya wearing negligees with fur coats over them, he had led the trio out to the lower deck and commandeered one of the small lifeboats which had been overlooked by the frantic deck officers.