Chapter 5

 

 

The pair of them were let down immediately after the last stroke and Andrei was strung up in their place to hang there, upside down until late tomorrow morning when he too would suffer under Obb’s whip.

In the meantime, there was dinner and another fight. The dinner was as bad as every other meal had been with those guests I served always reaching out to finger my so naked flesh every time I came within reach — and there was no way we could avoid them. Jake watched us all with an eagle eye and if we even attempted to stay out of reach of his guests’ questing fingers, he would give us a jolt to our implants as well as a warning that we could easily join Andrei outside for the next punishment session.

But somehow we got through it and then had to stand behind the guest allocated to us and watch the evening fight.

This one was a boxing match on the triangle and was staged between a German girl against an English one. Both Greta and June were fine examples of female athleticism and beauty, the German girl being almost Amazonian in physique although June was no slouch either. I thought though, that Greta would beat the English girl for she seemed to have the edge on her in the physique department. I hadn’t bargained on the British bulldog spirit though, as I will describe now.

After the almost literally panting guests had been seated in their comfortable chairs around the ring, now without its posts and ropes, to give a clearer view of the proceedings and with the canvas floor of the stage now removed to reveal a circular turntable on which stood the triangle, the two fighters were brought in, both now wearing silk boxing shorts and capes over their muscular shoulders.

There was a murmur of excitement at this innovation for so far, none of us had been allowed even a rag around our middles to cover our nakedness but it wasn’t to last long. Once they reached the triangle, the one of the guards summarily tore off June’s cape to show off her lovely breasts and paraded her thus half naked around the edge of the ring, then put his fingers into the elastic waistband of her shorts and simply pulled. They had apparently been designed to fall apart at even a small tug and now the various parts wafted down to the floor, leaving her stark naked once more.

This procedure was then aped by Greta’s guard and the audience showed its appreciation for this small introduction to the fight by cheering Jake as he stood out in front and took a bow for his ingenuity.

Another guard placed a box beside the triangle and first June and then Greta had to use it to climb onto the sharp upper edge of the horrible instrument of pain. Can you imagine how painful it is to perch on such a thing?

As an example, try it with just a broomstick. Place it between two chairs and then sit on it, preferably naked below the waist. Bad, isn’t it? Now imagine if instead of the broomstick, you were perched on the sharp edge of a piece of plywood —t hat’s about as sharp as our triangle was and all of us had been trained in its use for although we had our own specialties, Jake wanted us all trained in each of the diabolical fighting techniques he had developed out of your usual wrestling, boxing, kick boxing, etc and so I was well aware of just how painful it was.

I watched in sympathy as the two girls were gloved with the near useless boxing items (useless for they were so thin as to give almost no protection at all) and then tried to get comfortable as their legs dangled down either side of the hateful thing.

You may wonder that we didn’t refuse to fight or at least didn’t put our all into them? The implants! Remember them? Jake watched us intently at all times. He delighted in this new enterprise of his but more than the salacious thrill he got from forcing us, his slaves, to practise at what was probably the most intense form of physical endeavour ever devised for human beings, he wanted money — the enormous sums he was getting from those bastards sitting down there in those so comfortable chairs around the ring and pleasing his customers was paramount in his mind while they were on his island.

He therefore had our numbers pre-programmed into two of the infernal controllers he had clipped to either side of his waist and all it took was the touch to either red button and she or he who had erred would be in for the most diabolical pain imaginable.

No wonder then that we all fought to the very best of our abilities. And then of course there were the other two incentives as well: the promise of a night in a guest bure with our partner for the successful fighter — and the threat of a day hanging upside down, naked, out on the compound, waiting for twenty strokes of Obb’s horrible whip. Oh yes, we all fought to the very best of our abilities, all right.

Now, as I stood behind my allocated guest, this time an Asian man, I stared up at the two girls perched on the triangle and who were now sizing each other up for her first attack.

They looked wonderful, I have to admit. Already they were in pain from the sharp edge of wood between their legs and that was obvious from the expression on their faces, but also, there was grit and determination written there. Greta got in the first punch, a right hook to June’s cheek and it was strong enough to daze the other girl for a second or two but she quickly reacted with a rain of blows to Greta’s face and breasts.

And then it was on for young and old. I won’t attempt to describe the fight blow by blow. I am sure you can imagine how horrible it was — unless you are into naked girls boxing on a sharp triangle, that is? Suffice to say each gave as good as she was able — and absorbed terrible punishment in the process. Their lithe bodies twisted and contorted as they perched up there, turning slowly round and round so each guests got a new view of their bodies during the course of the fight.

Breasts were bruised and battered, shuddering horribly as a fist slammed into them. So did belly muscles and, for that matter, the rest of their splendid bodies. But neither gave an inch, both determined to win and not to let the other get the upper hand.

Yes, there was blood of course. June’s nose was bleeding and so were both their groins, the evidence visible down both sides of the wooden triangle between their thighs which were also half covered in the carmine fluid.

Jake declared June the winner but I doubt if a real referee could have called it. Not that that mattered, of course. He had decided that muscular Greta was going to be flogged alongside the beautiful Andrei on the morrow and that was that.

 

We were auctioned once more and this time I was ecstatic to find that Ukanda had bought Peter and me as his sex partners for the night. At last we would discover if my suspicions were correct or if I was mistaken and we were indeed destined for years of slavery to Jake and after that, God knows what?

Once we were in the room and he had us in his shower, soaping him down he told us it was true, he was a Nigerian police officer sent to suss out Jake’s operation. It seemed that the men who had kidnapped Mambo and his wife from Lagos in Nigeria hadn’t been as careful as they might and they had been quietly arrested and persuaded under the threat of life in jail for kidnapping, to reveal their principal. Enquiries through Interpol had revealed that Jake was wanted in a number of countries for human rights abuses.

I listened to all of this with mounting excitement but I also marvelled at his beautiful body. Now that we had him naked in the shower, both Peter and I had to soap him down of course. This was usually part of a guest’s requirements and on this occasion, unlike the disgusting Idi Amin look-alike, I relished the task, notwithstanding the fact that my husband was standing right beside me and doing the same. In any other circumstances, I know I would have stayed faithful to Peter, but in those we were both now placed it was quite impossible and we had agreed between us that we might as well enjoy what we could for not to seemed utterly ridiculous to both of us, given that we would be punished anyway if we didn’t give our masters a good time.

Ukanda would have been in his early thirties, I guessed and he had kept his body in tip-top condition with squash and swimming but I won’t describe it. You are no doubt by now getting tired of my superlative descriptions of the various men and women and slaveboys and girls we came into contact with?

Anyway, suffice to say it was no chore to soap him down and that pleasure was added to by his news. Of course we wanted to know when we would be freed but he said that would depend on how soon his department could get a task force organised to do the job. We told him how terrible it was for us and please, please, please make it soon.

Of course we had to have sex with him — or rather I did. He wasn’t into male to male sex and so Peter had to stand there and watch as he made love to me. Why? Because we had discovered there were hidden cameras in each bure. Jake was nothing if he wasn’t careful and (apart from his prurient interest in what happened in the bures between his guests and us slaves) he wanted to keep an eye on us anyway. In Ukanda’s case, I guessed he would be watching the man he half suspected very carefully indeed.

All this I told him while we were in the shower and he smiled ruefully down at me as he agreed that he had better therefore comply.

He was a great lover. He told me he wasn’t married but had had a number of girlfriends, none of whom had turned out to be the right girl and so, apart from the fact that I was having an adulterous relationship with another man — and in full view of my husband — I went to it as hard as I could, remembering everything that Jake had taught me and bring Ukanda slowly up to a crescendo of lust and sexual pleasure, drop him back down again — and then build it up all over again, over and over again until finally bringing him to s stupendous climax.

We went and had another shower and in it, he told me if I wasn’t married already, he would ask me for my hand there and then.

“That was the greatest thing I have ever felt in my life,” he said and I grinned happily at him, but then I looked worriedly over his shoulder to Peter who was soaping his back.

He grinned back at me. “Don’t worry about it, Anne,” he said. “I know you love me…”

We were collected soon after that but we didn’t speak of it again. There was no way we were going to risk Jake finding out about Ukanda. God knows what he would have done to us — all of us if he thought he was under suspicion. Our death would be the least of it. I suspected his rage would be so great he would make sure every single one of us suffered a most horrible death, slow and long-drawn-out and given his so sophisticated surveillance devices, we thought it best to say absolutely nothing and to try and hide our exuberance that now at last, perhaps something might be done.

The next morning we were again auctioned as ponies and had to trot those disgusting reptiles around the various paths on the island and had to watch as the two losers were ritually whipped but then at last it was all over and they were gone, back in the seaplane to wherever they had crawled from…

 

Jake gave us the rest of the day off. Miracle of miracles. For the first time we were free to rest in our cages while the four winners were allowed the day and night in four of the bures with their partners and with the sex blocker switched off the four implants. I wasn’t one of them and neither was Peter so we missed out but still it was pleasant just to lie there in the hay and idly finger each other’s bodies (as long as our fingers didn’t stray too close to our respective sexual organs) and whisper sweet nothings to each other.

We didn’t discuss Ukanda’s news. We didn’t even mention his name for we had decided that to do so might arouse Jake’s suspicions once more and we wanted to be very sure he was safely back in his Lagos police department or perhaps the cover he had built up to satisfy Jake’s investigations of each of his clients. I had wondered how the Nigerian had covered this for I didn’t think it would be easy to fake a cover as a multi-millionaire too easily. Still, apparently his department had organised it well enough to fool our master and anyway, I was too excited about our forthcoming deliverance to worry too much about such a detail.

The little interlude was pleasant but it was of course too short. The next day we were back into our training — with a vengeance — and then it was time for the next performance.

It wasn’t a week after the first, after all. For all his eagerness to build on the small fortune he had made from the first of these, he was ultra-careful about who he would allow on the island and already, we knew at least, that his system was not fool-proof for Ukanda’s department had broken through it the very first time. Perhaps that was just pure luck or perhaps the Nigerian police were very bright boys; whatever the reason, it proved to us he was vulnerable and we just hoped against hope that it would be only a few more days before helicopters or something arrived to set us free and arrest Jake, Obb and all the others.

Alas, it wasn’t to be. Nothing happened over the next few days or even weeks and as each day passed, our spirits drooped. But we still had to give our all, both physically and mentally to our training and other lessons, including the sex sessions with Jake and after a couple of weeks, I had come to the conclusion that Ukanda had been a fake; that he had just been toying with us and it was all not going to happen and slowly I knuckled down again to be a good slave.

 

The next showing had me competing in a kick boxing fight. I won it as it happened but it also saw one of the boys castrated — with Obb’s whip. I will tell the story as it happened.

Peter and I were both fair hands at kick boxing before we were kidnapped but Jake’s trainers improved both our skills and of course we now spent hours every day honing those skills rather than the hour or so a week we had had time for before. As a result, after the couple of months we spent at this daily training, I guess we might well have been pretty near Olympic quality, if not actually at that level.

But also remember that the rules of the game were not being observed in our fights. Jake’s patrons wanted blood and guts! He didn’t worry two hoots for the Marquess of Queensbury’s rules or their equivalent in the martial arts. Indeed, if we broke the rules, his guests applauded all the more. This only meant of course, that we kick boxers had to be ultra careful for no holds were now barred and serious injury could result if we didn’t stay on our guard for the whole fight.

I will say that in our sport, Jake didn’t mix the genders. We girls fought against each other and the boys were the same since to have limited the boys with, say the hook up their rectum and the left thumb locked to it, would have resulted in a wildly imbalanced bout.

I was pitted against Sarakit, a Thai girl who was really very good at our sport. I suppose that Thailand being the home of kick boxing, it stands to reason that she might well be but then, against that, Thai women do not usually take it up and I guessed there wouldn’t be too many of her countrywomen for her to fight and train with. Nevertheless, she had worked hard to teach herself the skills and then trained her body to perform as this so demanding sport required.

I had watched her at training and admired just how supple she was — she was quite able to kick her legs up vertically — and even keep them there for long seconds, a skill I hastily tried to acquire for I was sure we would be fighting each other at some stage and if I couldn’t emulate her in this she would have the advantage of me.

Accordingly, I was as nervous as all hell when Jake told us we would be fighting that first afternoon but with Peter’s help, I used the techniques we had studied together to psych myself up into a frame of mind that would conduce to me winning the match.

We faced up to each other wearing the almost useless gloves that Jake favoured, but otherwise stark naked of course, our slim bodies a feast for the prurient eyes of the next lot of twenty millionaires who had paid Jake dearly for the privilege of a three day visit to his island.

And then it was on. We circled each other, each watching the other’s eyes without even a flicker if we could help it for during that flicker, the other might make her move and in kick boxing, they are lightning fast, possibly with the fists but more likely, the feet, one or both of them for we are experts at leaping into the air and making a double kick whilst still high up above the floor.

I got mine in first and it was indeed a kick, although a single one — to the side of her head. It was a good first ploy and had her head ringing — for I could see it in her dazed expression but she soon recovered and now she came at me with both fists flying, my head and breasts and belly coming in for a dozen or more powerful punches which I was hard put to defend myself against, let alone counter-attack.

But I did respond as soon as she had run out of steam, getting in a few punches to her breasts and belly, and then one almighty bash to the same side of her head as I had first kicked her.

That had her down but she was on her feet in a trice and now she was angry, a very dangerous way to be for a fighter. One thing you have to do is to stay on top of your emotions right through the match. Losing one’s cool means you lose control and when I saw the glint of anger in her eye, I thought that perhaps I might now have the edge, especially if she didn’t quickly regain control.

Of course, all the way leading up to the bout and through it, in the back of my mind at least, was the thought of a real night of love-making with Peter after three months of virtual celibacy, at least from him; and on the other side of the coin, the threat of being strung up like a side of beef, there to hang naked and in utter humiliation for nearly twenty-four hours until I would then have to face Obb and his terrible whip. It was certainly one hell of a motivation to win but I didn’t let it take over my thoughts. The two possibilities were always in the back of my mind but foremost was the fight itself.

I watched Sarakit like a hawk, forgetting my own aches and pains, forgetting the gallows or the satin-sheeted bed in the bure; the centre of my mind on the fight and winning to the exclusion of all else.

I won’t go on about the various kicks and punches we both scored — except to say I won by a knock-out, my last kick, after nearly an hour of wary pacing, the occasional kick and the many punches we both traded taking their toll, actually laying her out on her back on the canvas and Jake declared me the winner.

I was of course elated at my win and could now look forward to a night of real loving with Peter in one of the bures after the guests went home. Sarakit and I were taken to Dr Sing’s clinic and our largely superficial cuts and bruises attended to and there she came to, after being unconscious for about twenty minutes.

I felt terribly sorry for her for she was a lovely girl, her svelte figure a model’s dream and her velvet skin as smooth as the proverbial peaches and cream — or perhaps burnished copper. She had beautiful black, almond-shaped eyes and her face was that of a doll — not right then, of course, for it was bruised in a couple of places. Her breasts were smallish, as are those of many of her race, but perfectly formed and wonderfully upstanding, crowned with slightly darker areoles and tiny nipples that even I, who have no sexual leanings towards girls, ached to finger and even to kiss.

Once the doctor had attended to her and ensured her brain was okay, the guards took her away and of course we all followed, to watch as she was strung up by her ankles to hang upside down for the rest of that afternoon and night, and all the next day, awaiting her terrible punishment just because she had not been good enough to win her fight.

I pictured in my mind the almost naked Obb wielding his terrible bull whip against that so lovely flesh and I shuddered. It was bad enough watching the boys whipped but when a teenage girl had to suffer the appalling pain it was doubly bad.

But as I stood there, watching them hoist her up by her heels, I couldn’t but think ahead to my own night of love once the guests had all gone home and I think my eyes actually misted over as I imagined our bodies together properly for the first time in over three months.

I was excused my waitress service and attending the night fight later that night although Peter had to do his bit and we were both excused the sex auction and so I could snuggle up to him (carefully) in the cage while others had to do their bit for Jake’s growing nest egg.

The next morning we were made to line up to be auctioned as ponies though and once more I had to suffer the indignity and pain of the horrible dildos in my rectum and vagina, the whip laid on to my straining back and bottom and of course the ribald comments of my own rider as well as the leers of those we passed going the other way.

Lunch over, we then had to attend and wait on the guests during the third bout of that second performance. This time it was been Greta’s husband, Hans, a handsome blond German boy, and Jumba, who was Kesho’s man.

The bout started ordinarily enough, but then, quite stupidly, Hans had an attack of conscience or something and stood still, refusing to fight, loudly proclaiming in his broad German accent that this whole scene was morally obscene and he wasn’t going to have any further part in it.

Jake gave him a punishment shock and then a dose of the potentially lethal one but even after that, he refused to go on with the fight. I was astonished for I thought he had the edge on Jumba anyway and would probably have won. As it was, Jake declared the Nigerian boy the winner by default and ordered his guards to seize Hans and drag him out to the gallows.

We all followed of course but my heart was heavy for I saw the gleam in Jake’s eye and I knew something terrible was going to happen to the handsome German boy.

Once they had him strung up in the gallows, Obb appeared in his usual attire, the spiked leather codpiece that clipped over his enormous genitals but otherwise naked to show off his spectacular body and I shuddered as I saw the almost fanatical glint in his eyes. This was not going to be any normal twenty-stroke whipping, I now knew.

It wasn’t

Jake explained what was going to happen: “This scum refused to fight,” he began. “He was given two opportunities to resume the bout but obstinately refused to go on with it. He is therefore going to be punished. Bring his woman forward…”

The guard near Greta brought her up close to his employer who now smiled sourly at her. “I have decided to punish your man in a way that he will never ever forget…” He didn’t take his eyes off her for one moment but now address his lieutenant. “Obb, I wish you to castrate the swine.”

Greta screamed and her hand came up to her mouth, her eyes rounded in horror at the words. The rest of us slaves murmured in fear and abomination — and came in for a global shock to our genitals to warn us to remain still, while the guests also murmured, but this time in delight that they were going to witness one of the most terrible things a man could do to another.

Hans screamed as he heard his fate, of course, but Jake, his men and his guests merely drank in his misery. God, they were dreadful men, every single one of them!

Obb now strolled around to face the front of the dangling boy and cracked his whip in the air — twice, and at each sharp report, poor Hans screamed and his hands went up to clutch at his still intact scrotal sac before letting them fall back towards the grass below him.

It was all high drama, of course, if utterly dreadful for us slaves and particularly Greta and her man who was now facing the loss of his testes at the hand of Obb’s horrible whip.

Despite being shocked a couple of times, Greta could not stand still and in the end they had to lock her to the upright next to her man, her hands being raised up above her head and behind the pole, her thumbs being cuffed together there so that she was now even closer and would see the tip of the whip as it did its grisly work.

And then Obb began in earnest.

Once more, despite my hatred of the man, my eyes couldn’t help but look at his splendid body, its burnished copper skin that was as smooth and blemish free as Sarakit’s, his beautifully defined muscles and the way they rippled and corded all the time — and of course the whip in his hand.

I watched, again almost in slow motion, as he drew the whip back towards him, flicked it forward and then snapped it back again. As always, it was precise down to the last millimetre and it opened up his scrotum right down the centre line where the tiny fold of skin called the perineum that starts right in front of the anus and leads forward to the scrotal sac, continuing on under it.

The skin opened like a ripe tomato and now we could see the two gonads, greyish-white in colour and attached to his body by various tubes, the purpose of which I had no idea, as they fell out of the now useless scrotum.

Hans screamed of course and once more his hands went up, now trying to stuff them back into the scrotal sac — quite unsuccessfully of course.

Obb waited. He could wait all day if necessary for there was almost no blood at this stage but eventually it took a shock to the boy’s penile root to force him to lower his hands — and then Obb struck again, this time attacking the right testicle, flicking it away, at which poor Hans really howled — nd howled — and howled.

His screams were blood-curdling and I felt sick as I stood there, powerless to do anything to help the poor boy and just as sorry for his girl as she stood within inches of his naked, upside down body, watching as Hans’ manhood was destroyed at Jake’s orders.

The other gonad was flicked off next. It really was as simple as that. Obb’s magnificent body seemed just to flick the whip — and then its tail landed in exactly the right spot, taking off first one testicle and then the other.

But still he wasn’t finished. Hans was nigh on unconscious by now, his screams having abated to a hoarse growl since his voice-box had virtually given out after minutes of constant screaming.

But then there was one last stroke — and the boy’s penis — or most of it anyway, went the same way as his testes, sliced off as if by a hot knife through butter. Hans did indeed faint now — and so did Greta, who had been shrieking as loudly as her man during the dreadful operations Obb had just perpetrated on the hapless boy.

He was bleeding copiously now and Dr Sing moved in to stanch the flow and supervise his being carried to his clinic. They also took Greta and although she was returned to her cage the next day, we didn’t see Hans for a week or so. When we did, it was to stare at his newly empty groin. All he had left there now was a tiny, navel-like opening where his penis had formerly poked out of his groin. Apparently it functioned perfectly well as a urinary waste device but of course sex was now out of the question for him.

He and Greta left us about a week later and we never discovered their destination for Jake kept no records and, in the end, obstinately refused to reveal it.