Chapter 4

Upstairs in the sitting room, Peter Tourne poured himself and Starn a glass of brandy each. Starn’s expression was set, his manner cool and offhand. Tourne knew that by denying his friend the opportunity to make use of Alex Sanderson’s vulnerability he had infuriated him, and quite enjoyed the sense of power it gave him. He handed Starn the glass.

‘Gena is still waiting for you downstairs,’ he said, indicating the door. ‘Would you like me to call her up?’

Starn snorted. ‘If I’d wanted Gena I wouldn’t have bothered to come up here with you. What are you planning to do with Alex Sanderson once you’ve broken her?’

He shrugged. ‘You’re tired of Gena, already? I’m surprised I thought she was perfect for you. You want to sell her on? If you do I’m sure I can find a buyer. She’s a very beautiful young lady. She would command an excellent price.’ He knew it wasn’t what Starn meant at all, but enjoyed playing with him.

Starn stared into his brandy balloon.

Tourne continued, ‘Armande the Frenchman, Bene, Michael - they would all jump at the chance of owning one of my girls. Would you like me to make a few calls?’

‘No,’ snapped Starn. ‘It’s not that I’m tired of Gena you know it isn’t. It’s just that I thought, as we are friends, you would let me sample your new girl’s delights as well. Hell, that greasy slob of a driver of yours gets to have more fun than I do!’

Peter smiled. ‘What about this morning? You are so impatient, my friend. You haven’t lost the chance to have some fun with her again, it’s just that at the moment I feel she will respond more quickly if I alone teach her.’

Starn snorted derisively again. ‘You didn’t think that earlier when she was here with Gena.’

Peter wondered how he could possibly explain what he had seen in Alex’s demeanour that had changed his opinion about her fate. Alex hadn’t just been broken she had given herself over entirely to sensation and submission. It was an instinctive thing, part of her nature that Peter recognised as something of great value. Alex Sanderson wouldn’t just resign herself to being man’s slave; in time, when she came to terms with what she felt, she would learn to relish her new role.

‘Of course, Starn, you’re quite right. Eventually I will auction her,’ he said after a second or two. ‘Unless a bidder comes forward in the meantime with a sizeable offer. Just give her a little time more to settle in. In another day or two, when she understands what we expect of her, then of course you can have your fill. Don’t let’s fall out over one woman, for God’s sake - the world is full of them. Here, let me top your glass up.’

Starn seemed appeased. ‘An auction? Will you hold it here?’

Tourne shook his head. ‘To be honest Alex’s arrival at KaRoche has come as a total surprise to me. I haven’t had the time to give it a great deal of thought. It might be interesting to let her be sold off with Simon Bay’s surplus girls when the time comes. He’s staying on the island for the summer. He gave me a ring a week or so ago to say he had a rather good stable at the moment, and suggested I might be interested in taking a look. When Alex is ready we ought, perhaps, to take her over there.’

Starn grinned. ‘Simon has a good eye. Perhaps he might even buy your protégé for himself.’

Both men looked at each other knowingly. Simon Bay’s girls were famous. A slave master, unrivalled amongst his contemporaries, he was an entrepreneur and businessman who used his frequent business trips around the world to acquire girls from everywhere on earth. If Simon Bay bought Alex for his own use it would be the ultimate accolade.

Tourne smiled, aping nonchalance. ‘It would depend on what he offered. Now, are you going to call for Gena, or would you prefer another glass of brandy?’

Starn stood his glass on the bureau. ‘I’ll go and find her, and God help her if she doesn’t satisfy me. After the exhibition with your little artist friend, I need more than just a little light relief!’

Tourne grinned. ‘I’ve had Mario take Alex down to the cells, perhaps you’d like to take Gena to the Gallery room and make use of the facilities there? It never hurts to remind your slave who is in control.’

Starn nodded.

He watched his friend depart, wondering for a few seconds whether he should go and settle himself in the hidden room overlooking the gallery to observe what would undoubtedly be a fine performance by Gena and her master.

He was disappointed that Starn was so easily distracted from the exquisite blonde. Originally Gena had come here to work as a secretary, but he’d known the second he’d laid eyes on her beauty that her obvious talents would be wasted behind a desk - over a desk would be a different matter! He sipped his brandy, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts drift back to that most enjoyable morning when he first had the pleasure...

At Gena’s interview, after their preliminary discussions, and as she handed Peter Tourne a letter of recommendation from her previous employer, he ‘accidentally’ nudged a sheaf of papers off the corner of his desk and onto the floor. Gena instantly and elegantly dropped to all fours to retrieve them. As she gathered them back into a neat pile, Tourne stood up and moved around his desk. At once Gena’s instinctive reaction was to look up at him. When their eyes met, she blushed, aware that something other than a simple interview was taking place. As her colour deepened and she began get to her feet he lifted a hand.

‘I think,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that you should stay exactly where you are.’

The blonde girl swallowed hard. ‘Stay?’ she murmured innocently. ‘Here?’

He nodded. ‘You understand precisely what I mean...’ Peter took another sip and allowed his brandy and his memories to warm him...

He picked up a pair of scissors from his desk and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, cut along the back of Gena’s blouse, through her bra strap, down through her pencil slim skirt and flimsy white panties, tearing away the fabric as he worked, ruining her expensive little interview costume. While he worked, Gena stayed perfectly still, her pale body trembling as the cold blades brushed her skin.

Finally, naked except for her sandals, she crouched amongst the ruins of her clothes. She looked exquisite, a pale creamy-skinned Madonna, cowering, subdued awaiting whatever her superior had in store for her. For a few seconds they were both still - master and slave awaiting each other’s pleasure.

When Gena finally looked up to him her dark eyes were bright with fear and anticipation. She remained crouched on all fours, her heavy breasts swaying like liquid silk, breathes coming in short frantic bursts as she waited for his next move.

Surveying her, Tourne knew that beneath the thin veneer of sophistication Gena was still a peasant at heart - her hips were curvaceous and broad, her breasts, now pert and full, would one day be pendulous and heavy. Between her pale thighs was a thatch of glistening black hair, at odds with her bleached blonde curls. She might well have a clutch of diplomas from secretarial college, but her body betrayed the fact that she was born to serve. He indicated she should stand.

Gena clambered to her feet without a word, pushing off the last remnants of her clothes. Tourne ran his hand over her haunches, assessing her body as he would a good horse. She turned instinctively under his fingertips, moving obediently to his unspoken commands. He brushed his fingers over her back and shoulders, letting his hand linger on the curve of her waist.

Already, despite her ripeness, her figure showed signs that it would thicken. For a few years she would serve her master faithfully and later, when she had lost the peach moist richness that suffused her body now, she had the hips to become a breeder, producing a whole new generation of submissive slave girls. He lifted a hand to cup her breasts, fingers working over the pert nipples. She shivered but said nothing. He knew then that Gena was an excellent find. She was naturally quiet and still - an attribute that many men favoured. Her natural demeanour was meek but sensual. She was the ideal submissive companion.

‘Would you like to work for me?’ Tourne asked, letting a single finger trail down towards her soft, rounded belly.

Perhaps afraid to speak, Gena nodded. He could detect the pulse in her throat fluttering like the wings of a tiny bird. Amongst the trappings of his expensively furnished office her nakedness seemed extreme. Her pale creamy skin was a stunning contrast to the backdrop of dark corporate grey and silver.

‘To be honest, I’m not sure you’re suitable. My business clients are sophisticates, where you are barely one step away from the vineyard.’ He caught hold of one shapely breast, twisting the nipple savagely. He felt her flinch. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier back down on the farm, barefoot, with some country boy sniffing around you, and a baby sucking on your tits?’ He watched her face for a reaction. Her eyes flashed but still she didn’t speak. He smiled triumphantly. Walking confidently around her his fingers continued to trace a careful pattern of intimate exploration.

Finally he plucked a long flexible cane from amongst a Japanese arrangement that graced a side table by his desk. He flexed it thoughtfully, eyes never leaving hers. Still Gena did not bolt or cry out.

‘Are you still a virgin?’ he asked. It would not be unusual for a Greek girl of her age to be unbroken. Country people had always valued virginity as a prize to be held on to until marriage. Blushing, Gena shook her head. It was obvious that even though she was no longer a virgin, she wasn’t experienced either.

‘Who?’ asked Tourne relishing her discomfort.

Gena’s colour intensified, but significantly she didn’t refuse this complete stranger an answer to such an intimate question. ‘My cousin, Giuseppe. Last summer we...’ the words dried up as he moved closer to her. ‘We only did it the once,’ she stammered.

His expression remained impassive. ‘Your cousin? You country girls are all the same. How do I know you aren’t lying? How do I know you haven’t fucked every man you’ve laid eyes on with those big tits, that arse - how many hands have played around in that wet little cunt of yours? How many cocks have you sucked dry? Or do you prefer it when they fuck you? Or do you prefer other girls?’

Gena’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Mr Tourne,’ she began to protest in astonishment.

‘You’re no better than a whore!’ he snapped. ‘And then you come to my office, pretending to be respectable so that you can get a job with my company! What were you thinking of?’

Gena stared at him open-mouthed, too shocked to speak.

Peter Tourne indicated his desk. It was a huge single slab of black marble supported on trestles.

‘Bend over,’ he said. ‘Let me show you how we used to treat the peasant whores on my father’s estate.’

A tiny bead of perspiration broke out on Gena’s upper lip. The smell of her reluctance and fear were as tangible as her perfume. She didn’t move, but he could see her anxiously pondering the distance to the desk, as if she had already taken each step. He lifted his hands in a gesture of dismissal, and as he did so Gena walked slowly towards the austere piece of furniture as though she was taking her last few steps to the guillotine. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the middle distance as she submissively draped herself across the icy marble.

He heard her gasp as the cold stone sucked the heat from her body.

‘Open your legs,’ he directed. ‘Let me see the sweet little honey pot that attracts all those other men.’

Gena complied without a word, revealing the merest glimpse of her quim beneath the shapely contours of her bottom. The muscles in her buttocks were rigid in expectation of what he had in store for her. He stepped behind her and, catching hold of her hips, pulled her off the table a little so that more of the glorious moist pit was exposed and accessible.

First, he thought, he would administer a good sound beating and then, before the pain and humiliation had faded, before the red glow left her flesh, he would slide inside her. She was so mouth-wateringly ripe - there was part of him that adored her peasant fullness and natural subordination.

Stepping away he lifted the cane and brought it down with a resounding crack across her backside. She screamed out in a mixture of surprise and pain, bending into a contorted arc before slumping back onto the black marble. Her breasts spread beneath her, as pale and full as the harvest moon. Back swung the cane and exploded again. She squealed and arched up towards him, but not so violently this time. He hit her again, striking over and over until the rounded orbs of her backside were raw with a tapestry of welts.

Between Gena’s thighs he could see her quim was flushed crimson, the moisture clinging like gossamer to the lips of her sex. Stepping closer he undid his flies and guided his raging shaft deep inside her. She squealed again and struggled unconvincingly to unseat him.

As she twisted round he locked his fingers in her hair and jerked her back up towards him, his other hand scooping up one of her ample breasts, fingers nipping and twisting her cold, erect nipples.

Gena shrieked madly, writhing under him like a frightened animal, but still he held on, riding her, pulling her back onto his cock again and again, grinding his pelvis against the soft expanse of her glowing arse.

‘Please,’ she sobbed. ‘Please no, I am good girl, Mr Tourne. I am not a whore. Please, please don’t do this to me. I am good girl.’ But while her mouth said one thing her body told Peter Tourne something totally different. Her quim tightened around him like a clenched fist, pulling him deeper, her hips instinctively pressing against him, driving him towards the point where even his inscrutable exterior threatened to crack and display some emotion.

Gena gasped and sobbed, tears streaming down her face. He took her hand and urged it down to her sex, guiding her fingers to seek out the bud of her own clitoris.

‘Touch yourself,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘Let me show you what it is that all those men want from you.’ As he spoke he pressed her fingertips hard against the engorged ridge. She mewled in astonishment, almost convulsing as crystal circles of pleasure formed in her belly, bucking and roaring as he began to circle the little nub, pushing her fingers to and fro until finally her head fell back onto his shoulder and he could feel her fingers moving of their own accord.

With Gena’s pleasure building, Tourne began to move in earnest, dragging her back hard, tightening his grip on her hair, his free hand returning to weigh and knead her full breasts. She was moaning and breathing hard, struggling to pleasure them both. He felt the first intoxicating ripples of her quim tightening around his erection as orgasm overtook her, and knew then he was lost too.

An incandescent wave flooded through him, driving away all reason as he plunged into her again and again, on and on until he felt he was drowning in a sea of pure pleasure.

When, finally, Peter Tourne slumped onto her back, his body utterly drained, he opened his eyes and smiled.

Beside Gena’s tousled, sweat-soaked hair, was the letter of recommendation that she’d handed to him only a short time before. One sentence in the main paragraph caught his eye - it read: I have always found Gena to be an extremely willing and able young woman.

Peter slid out of her and adjusted his trousers. What a shrewd judge of character Gena’s previous employer had been.

Now, standing alone in the villa, he wondered whether to go and watch Starn re-enact that first conquest. It might be interesting, but it would never be as magical as that first time when Gena had not known what to expect. He decided, on balance, to refill his glass - after all, he had Alex Sanderson to think about now.

Downstairs in the prison cell behind the gallery, Alex huddled into a foetal ball, trying to block out the sounds of Gena and Starn in the room beyond. Even through the thick walls she could hear Gena’s impassioned cries and Starn encouraging her on and on as he laid on the whip. The blonde’s voice seemed to echo from every surface.

Alex closed her eyes, pressed her fingers to her ears, and struggled to fill her mind with the images of the mural she intended to paint on the wall overlooking the pool in Peter Tourne’s garden. How likely was it now that she would ever have the chance to fill the cool shadowy space with pictures? However tempting the lessons Peter Tourne had to teach, she was afraid to think of what might happen if she abandoned herself to this madness. If the chance presented itself she would try to escape, even if it meant abandoning her possessions at the villa. Surely someone would help her? Perhaps the old housekeeper, who’d tried to warn her off in the first place, could be persuaded to help her break free.

As Alex tried to settle more comfortably on the thin mattress every muscle in her body ached. It seemed there wasn’t a part of her that Peter Tourne or Starn, Gena or Mario had not touched, kissed, beaten or bitten.

Finally, as the light darkened in the cell, Alex slipped into an uneasy sleep, her mind suffused with images of passion and pain. Again and again in her dreams she was torn between the desire to stay and the desire to escape. As she raced through the feverish dreamscape Peter Tourne thwarted her at every turn, and waited for her with a vicious whip in hand.

The sound of footsteps brought Alex back to consciousness with a start. The cell was now grey with early morning light. She felt cold and stiff. When she heard the key turn in her cell door her immediate reaction was to curl back into a ball in case it was Mario coming back for more. The door swung open slowly to reveal the wrinkled features of the housekeeper bearing a breakfast tray. The contents were meagre; a tin jug of water and two bread rolls and an apple, but to Alex they looked like a feast. The woman set the tray on the floor and then eyed Alex thoughtfully, her eyes moving over the girl’s nakedness. Her expression was not unsympathetic, and Alex knew she had to take a chance.

‘Will you help me?’ she pleaded quietly.

The old woman shrugged. ‘Is too late for help now. He already work the magic on you.’

Alex felt a ripple of fear run through her as the old woman continued. ‘You should go when first I tell you about Mr Tourne. You not listen then, why I listen now?’

Alex struggled to her feet, regretting it instantly as her body groaned in complaint.

The old woman nervously backed away through the open cell door. ‘If you give me trouble,’ she said, ‘I leave you to Mario - and he not always here. He forget to feed you. He very bad man.’

Alex stared at her. ‘I won’t give you any trouble,’ she whispered. ‘But please, you have to help me. If you go to my room and find my telephone book, look for Laurence Russell’s number. Please ring him. He’s my friend. He’ll come and get me. There’s money there, take it all...’ as she spoke she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the woman’s attention was drawn back into the corridor outside the cell.

There was a tirade of words in Greek and then the cell door slammed shut. Alex stiffened as she recognised Mario’s voice drowning out the old lady’s mumbled protests. In amongst the foreign words she recognised a few English ones - perhaps Mario was adding them for her benefit.

‘Not open door!’ the driver bellowed at the old woman ‘She is mine. Understand? I look after her you not interfere. No one to see her except me. She is mine!’

His words made Alex shudder - if she couldn’t speak to the housekeeper and persuade her to help she might never get away. Perhaps, though, she had already said enough. If the old woman rang Laurence she stood a chance of escaping.

While Mario continued to berate the housekeeper outside the cell, Alex, despite the handcuffs, hastily grabbed the apple from the tray and thrust it under the thin mattress. She then took a mouthful of the cool clear water straight from the jug, in case Mario decided to punish her by taking her breakfast away.

Seconds later the cell door slammed open and Mario stood framed in the opening, his face contorted with fury. He strode across the cell and, without warning, hit her hard across the face with his open hand. The power and surprise of the blow made her stagger backwards. Unable to steady herself because of the cumbersome handcuffs, she toppled over onto the floor, banging her head on the corner of the bed as she did.

‘You not talk to her!’ Mario roared.

Alex’s head span, though through the swirling confusion she could see the brute bearing down upon her. For one awful moment she thought he was going to kick her and tensed up, curling into a tight ball, waiting for the blow. Instead he stooped over, grabbed her hair, and yanked her back onto her feet.

‘You make me angry!’ he spat, throwing her down onto the mattress.Despite his fury his eyes moved hungrily across her naked body. She sensed that for him anger and desire were emotions that were always dangerously close to the surface of a very thin line.

He glanced back at the ruined contents of the tray - the bread was crushed on the stone floor, and the water jug lay in its own puddle.

‘You hungry?’ he said thickly.

Alex nodded. Perhaps he wasn’t such a monster after all.

Grinning, Mario clambered up onto the platform and knelt astride her. She stared up at him in horror as he unzipped his fly, trying to make some kind of contact with the cruel mind behind the bright flashing eyes. She could smell the rank odour of his masculinity even before he pulled out his cock.

‘Eat this then,’ he snorted grimly, flexing his hips as he thrust his engorged shaft into her mouth it was pointless to try and fight him. Struggling to control the feelings of nausea Alex began to suck, her mind revolted and ashamed as Mario grunted with satisfaction, his fingers seeking out her breasts, his body moving rhythmically against her face. Alex prayed that while Mario was busy abusing her, the old woman had gone to the guest cabin. Mario snorted as the pleasure overwhelmed him, and he pulled her closer. She could feel the tension building in his body and braced herself for his orgasm. Seconds later her mouth was flooded by a wave of thick semen. Alex gagged. She tried to spit his seed out but he clamped her jaw shut tight around him so that she had no option but to swallow.

He closed his eyes and slouched with his chin on his chest, and his whole body in a state of total relaxation. He remained kneeling over Alex with his hands on his thighs, and his shrinking cock being soothed by the natural fluttering of her tongue. She looked up at his bulk and wondered when he would leave her in peace. His cock felt like a slug in her mouth.

At last he slipped from between her lips. He lifted his considerable weight from her aching breasts and clambered off the platform. He grinned down at her. ‘I bring you coffee now,’ he said, waving towards the discarded tray. ‘Hot coffee and more breakfast. You just remember not to speak to old woman - you are mine. I look after you now.’

Alex sniffed miserably, her mouth still thick with the taste of his semen. Glancing up at her gaoler’s face she hoped she’d already said enough to the housekeeper. Mario left the cell, slammed the door shut behind him, and turned the key in the lock. Alex stared into the gloom and waited for him to return.