CHAPTER ONE

 

Slave Barbara Thornton strolled happily along the cliff top path, enjoying the Sunday afternoon warmth and the sights, sounds and smells of the ocean below.

She was quite a sight. Nineteen years of age and drop dead gorgeous, she had jet black hair which reached to some six inches below her bare shoulders and obscured from the back, though not the front, the black leather collar she wore which proclaimed her slavery.

Her body was sensationally proportioned, a fact well advertised by the incredibly small black two-piece outfit she wore, an outfit which would have been barely legal on many beaches. The amount of cleavage the bra revealed was generous in the extreme, it pushed her breasts together and out so that their already naturally superb shape was enhanced even more. The thong she wore, as black as the bra and her hair, covered not one inch of her smooth, creamy buttocks, whilst at the front curly strands of dark pubic hair escaped from both sides of the tiny triangle of cloth, which was so tight that the bulge of her mons puberis was crystal clear. Her elegant legs did not need stockings and her bare feet padded sensuously along the path.

And yet, despite the fact that the sight she presented would have stirred the loins of any red-blooded man, she had a demure demeanour which even after a year on this island reflected her character.

Her latest master was demanding and strict - weren't they all? - and for twenty-three hours every day she slaved for him. However, he allowed her an hour off to herself each evening or, like now, on a Sunday afternoon. This time had become very precious to her and she loved nothing better than to walk up here, listening to the waves crashing on the rocks below and the seagulls, smelling the delightfully clean air tinged with the salty tang of the sea and luxuriating in the feel of the powerful sun on her largely bare body. Occasionally her master would give her two hours as a treat, in which case she could traverse the entire coastline of this island paradise. It was indeed glorious: the sea breeze kept the temperature down as it caressed her skin, making her feel more alive than she had ever been. Her uniform ensured that almost all of her flesh was exposed, far more so than she would ever have dared at home and she had to admit that there were benefits. There was also one drawback in that she had developed a marked ghost bikini, so that when she was nude the small areas of her breasts and mound of Venus which were not normally bared to the sun stood out vividly against the rest of her tanned skin. It was island policy to make all the normal slave girls develop such ghost bikinis, so that they felt even more exposed than usual when naked. Barbara could confirm that this all worked only too well.

"Well, hello."

The languid male voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned to see a stranger lounging on a seat, admiring the sea view. Instantly, an almost imperceptible change came over Barbara; her head lowered slightly, the eyes dropped, her arms moved away from her front in a manner which was not quite casual enough to be entirely natural, but sufficiently automatic to be deeply ingrained.

"Hello, master," she said in a voice which was friendly but submissive at the same time. All men were master.

"And what's your name, gorgeous?"

Despite the fact that she was wearing an incredibly brazen outfit, a marked shyness came over the girl. "Slave Barbara Thornton, master," she introduced herself quietly.

"Get your bra off."

He was so casual that he might have been asking the time. Demure shyness or not, however, the girl did not hesitate. Her hands moved immediately behind her back and unclipped the catch of her bra. Her breasts almost burst free as the cups sprang away from her body. Her blush deepened slightly but noticeably. Her firm young bosoms were magnificent. The pronounced ghost bikini, a small amount of creamy pale skin around her nipples and the outer curves of her boobs, emphasised her near complete nudity. She stood still, arms away from her body, shoulders pulled back, allowing him a full view.

"Not bad, not bad at all," he mused. "Come and get over my lap, girl."

Once again the black-haired beauty did not hesitate. She draped herself over his legs, bare bottom thrusting vulnerably up and placed her soft feminine hands, palms down, on the ground. As her head lowered itself, the black curly hair fell down, obscuring her lovely face; but a keen observer before that point would have noticed that she showed no sign of rebellion, or of irritation that her precious hour had been interrupted. It was as if she believed, without reservation, that his amusement was far more important than her leisure. The two emotions which could be seen on her face were a slight further reddening of embarrassment and an equally slight trace of concerned anticipation.

Slapp!

His hard and firm hand made meaty contact with her soft round bottom. He was not gentle, but there was only the tiniest of movements from the girl in reaction.

Slapp!

Slapp! Slapp! Slapp! Slapp!

A perceptible set of handprints now showed on her upthrust bottom. Barbara writhed as stinging slap after stinging slap descended upon her abused cheeks, her face burning at the same time with the humiliation of his casual use of her and her craven acceptance of it. Each searing stroke emphasised the message: he would do with her as he liked: she had made no sound or slightest protest over her treatment.

He pulled her to her feet and she stood before him once more. Her hands remained at her sides, neither covering her exposed mammaries nor rubbing her assaulted and stinging rear.

The man regarded her for a moment, then said, "I think I fancy you, slave."

"Thank you, master." Her voice was still demure, but also slightly husky now. The rather back-handed compliment clearly did not faze her, nor did the fact that his meaning was entirely clear: he wished to have sex with her. However, whilst by island law he was quite entitled to put her over his knee and spank her, as he had just done, he could not have intercourse with her unless he had a sex consent form signed by her master. Her own wishes either way in the matter were totally irrelevant.

"What did you say your name was?" he asked.

"Slave Barbara Thornton, master." She had been born Barbara Stein: she had gained the precursor "Slave" when she first arrived on the island, and her surname, by island convention, was that of her current owner. She had first been Slave Barbara Whitehouse, which had lasted for five months, then Slave Barbara Guest for three months and since then her family name, or ownership name as it was termed, had been Thornton. The name Barbara was unique: only one slave of that name was allowed on the island. Had there already been a slave Barbara among the eighty or so girls here when she arrived, she would have been made to use her middle name or some other.

"Do you think Mister Thornton would grant me access?" It was such a bizarrely normal question and yet he was talking about fucking her.

"I don't know, master," she replied honestly. "Sometimes he does, sometimes not." If he did say yes, the first she was likely to know about it was when this man arrived at their house to enjoy her, or when she was summoned by her master and ordered to visit this man. She thought of it as "their" house because, until she was swapped or sold, it was her home.

"I might contact him sometime," the man said. He would find the address and phone number easily: a register of slaves was kept at the town hall. "In the meantime, let's see the full view."

Immediately the girl pushed her thumbs into the waist-string of the thong and pushed it three-quarters of the way down her velvety thighs, revealing a thickly thatched young delta surrounded by a small margin of ghost bikini line. Her cheeks reddened just slightly more. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, then made a gesture of dismissal. Barbara pulled the thong back up and bent down to pick up the bra from the floor. As she re-donned it, she said politely, "thank you, master," before resuming her walk.

He did not bother to reply. She was not surprised: Barbara was well used to such treatment.