In Katango, a small country on the western coast of Africa, the sun had just begun to peek over the mountains surrounding the vast holdings of Benjamin Stoner. The redness of the dawn sky had dissipated and the native workers, housed in ramshackle huts beside the meandering Kenga River, were already in the fields. In Katango, as in all of tropical Africa, work in the fields was best done at early light. By noon, the unforgiving sun would beat down upon the workers and their white foremen. Cotton was Stoner’s crop here in the valley. On the mountainsides, he grew coffee or rather, his workers did. On the northern end of his 10, 000 square mile empire, his mines produced dull yellow gold ore. To the east were two small diamond mines. In the south, huge steel derricks pumped black gold. Cobalt, nickel and uranium also flowed from Stoner’s veritable duchy.
Stoner was a throwback to the great conquerors of Africa. He ruled his fiefdom with an iron hand and with little interference from the government in the capital. The government’s writ didn’t run here. So Stoner meted out justice as he saw fit to the 300 or so native villages within his domain. He had his own little army complete with helicopters and the equipage of a small Marine battalion. He used this army to enforce his will within the borders of his empire and to keep friendly the rulers in the capital city. During the last coup attempt there, Stoner’s men had held the balance of power and the streets ran red before they were done preserving the rule of Stoner’s select.
Stoner had not yet stirred. He was sleeping, naked, in his huge four-poster bed. At the foot of his bed was a small steel cage. This morning it held, not one, but two naked women, pressed in together, arms and legs tangled. No whores slept in Stoner’s bed and neither did his wives. Stoner’s whores were his wives and vice versa.
It was Stoner’s particular conceit that he should have on hand for his use only three female slaves at a time. He had converted to the local sect of Islam, which permitted him to have three wives. He used the pretext of a marriage to his three whores to assuage concerns of nosey international agencies that monitored the flow of aid into Katango. Under Katangonese law, wives were no more than slaves, totally subject to the whim of their husband, their master. By marrying his chattel, Stoner created a veneer of legitimacy to his ownership of their flesh.
The two women locked within the steel cage had been his victims the night before. Normally, he selected one of his ‘wives’ for sexual and physical abuse each night. But last night he had been unable to choose between the blond-haired French girl, Justine, a slender beauty whose oral skills had made her the ‘senior’ of his three wives for some time, and the chestnut haired Cheryl, a beauty in her own right.
As usual, after a macabre ‘family’ dinner, Stoner had retreated to his study to drink and take pleasure from his slaves. He had ordered Justine and Cheryl to remove their obscenely tailored dinner dresses, dresses cut to reveal their intimacies to good advantage, and to fuck each other while he watched. He tossed a thick, double headed marital aid on the floor and instructed them to make good use of it. Stoner’s wives were required to fondle themselves into lubrication whenever in his presence and so it was a simple matter for the women to sheath each end of the flexible dildo in the moist pussies. He watched as the women gently slid the device home, inching themselves closer and closer to each other, their thighs extended, their knees bent.
The women sighed as their cavities were filled. The dildo had two sets of straps that the women affixed around their waists to enable them to gain friction on the toy. Leaning back, their arms spread out behind them for support, they commenced to grind their hips in syncopation, fucking each other’s cunts. Stoner watched as the women’s heat began to build. They were forbidden to hold back their passion. Stoner’s native major domo, Jeremiah, trained his master’s slaves to the height of sexual responsiveness. The alternative was a session with the whip, an instrument that Jeremiah was a master at wielding.
While watching the passionate display of his two wives, Stoner beckoned his third wife, Mary, to rub his cock with her large, billowing breasts. An Irish lass with reddish brown hair, Mary had been Stoner’s prisoner the second longest. Her ample pulchritude had preserved her when Stoner had purchased Cheryl, forcing him to divest a wife. He had chosen a slight, flaxen haired American, Sarah, as the one to go. She was now serving as a whore in Stoner’s high class whorehouse in the capital, servicing nightly the cream of the Katango ruling class.
Mary pressed her breasts around Stoner’s rigid cock, pleasuring it. As its reddened head peaked above the mountains of her breasts, she sucked the tip with her flush and pouty Irish lips. Stoner moaned with delight as the hot mouth received his thrusts. He was waiting, holding himself back until the bucking females on the floor before him reached their own crises. He had made a little contest. The one who came last would be beaten. And God help them if they faked it. Jeremiah, who was closely watching his charges, would be the judge of the authenticity of their climaxes.
Justine and Cheryl thrust at each other in earnest. As co-wives, they shared the same daily torment and fear, and had tender sympathies for each other’s plight. But neither of them wanted to feel Stoner’s vicious lash tonight. And so they stared into each other’s eyes, assessing each other’s arousal, focusing their lusts on the thick, hard device, which plunged in and out of their moist slits.
Cheryl began to moan first, her passion building slowly. Her passionate sounds excited Justine’s lust, and the blond woman struggled to ignite the rising heat in her loins. Faster and faster the women rocked against each other on the floor. Their bodies shimmered with perspiration; their nipples were taut with excitement. Stoner’s heat was rising too as he watched the nubile bodies pound against each other, breasts jumping and swaying.
It was Justine, who crested first, arching her back, jamming as much as she could of the plastic phallus into her cunt. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she cried, as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her. Pleasure and relief, for she knew who had won and who had lost. Cheryl, the focus of most of Stoner’s recent brutalities, was just a few seconds behind her. She groaned with lust and fear as her pussy began to throb, a tingling spreading throughout her body. She cried out as her orgasm overcame her.
While the women moaned and gyrated in their pleasure, Stoner shot his hot, sticky discharge into Mary’s face. Mary presented it as a ready target as spurt after spurt of Stoner’s jism struck her eyes, her nose and her mouth. She held her mouth open so that she could absorb her lord’s cum. When Stoner had shot his load, he pushed Mary to the floor.
By now, Cheryl knew that it was useless to protest against her upcoming beating. Mercy was not one of Stoner’s qualities. She awaited instructions before daring to pull the plastic penis from her gently throbbing pussy. Justine looked at her with pity. Cheryl just bit her lip.
Stoner took a drink from his scotch glass and motioned to Jeremiah. “Send them to my room and string that dumb cunt up,” he said, pointing at Cheryl. “I want that one’s mouth ready for my cock,” he continued, indicating Justine. “And take Molly here up to the dormitory.”
Molly was his pet name for Mary. Stoner sometimes had trouble remembering their real names and so he often attached a sobriquet to them and used that. Mary was called Molly because of her Irish blood and thick reddish hair.
Justine and Cheryl took this as a sign that they should disengage, and they slid the thick device from their sexes. They both stood and waited for Jeremiah to lead them to Stoner’s bedroom. Rarely were the girls allowed to pass from one room to another in the mansion without an escort. And they were never, ever, permitted to open a closed door. This obviated the need for locks on the doors, for the girls would hardly hazard punishment by moving from room to room without permission. If the house were afire, they would experience intense conflict about whether to flee or not.
And if one of the involuntary inmates determined to flout the rule and seek an escape from Stoner’s cruel clutches, there was nowhere to go anyway. Any native within 100 miles would know where they came from and would turn them in in a minute. Their reward would be sure to be ample. There was always the jungle, but it doubtful that any of the otherwise pampered ladies would last more than a day there.
Stoner left Jeremiah to deal with his slaves. He walked out onto the veranda, holding his drink in his hand. The mansion stood on a hill in the middle of the residence compound. From the porch he could see the lights on in the soldiers’ barracks. Music and laughter could be heard drifting over the well manicured grass. A woman screamed; more laughter. Some native girls were getting a humping, he mused. Lying before the mansion was the huge lake that was fed by the Kenga River. The shimmering full moon created a spotlight on the water. Stoner could see the seaplane he used to import vital goods and fresh white slaves. The plane drifted silently, catching a glint of moonbeam on its smooth, white surface.
To the left of the mansion, further away, were the native huts. A faint jungle beat of drums could be heard, a nightly tribal ritual. There was no electrical service to the huts, and the sparkle of candlelight from the open windows of the numerous huts looked like a bed of shiny diamonds cast across the valley.
Stoner loved Africa, not the Africa of wild, untamed jungles and vast savannahs. He cared little for the cackles of the rainforest birds, the bright colorful splashes of flowers, the unspoiled vistas. His loved his Africa, the Africa of white masters and servile natives. He loved to wrestle wealth from its soil, watch while acres of forest were cleared to serve his industrial machine.
Stoner took another gulp from his glass. All that he could see was his and more. Here he ruled. For 10, 000 square miles, no human could challenge his will. Tomorrow, he would enforce his will. The celebration evident in the barracks was in anticipation of the havoc he would wreak in the morrow. Good times would be had by all.
Finishing his drink, Stoner stumbled back into the house. He was nearing his limit for the night. He had some fucking to do before he slept, and that cunt Cheryl was due a whipping. It would not do to promise a whipping and not give it.
When Stoner entered his bedroom he saw that his wives had been well prepared. Cheryl was fastened to a chain, hands aloft. She grimaced visibly when she saw him. “Good,” he thought. He enjoyed her fear. Of all of his wives, he enjoyed tormenting her the most. She had a simple elegance that cried out for blows. She had a noble visage, high cheeks and a delicate line to her jaw. Her eyes were soft, almost unfocused. Her breasts were not large, like Mary’s, but much more than a handful. Long, thick teats were set upon silver dollar sized, dark red aureoles. Her hips were curvaceous with a gentle slope to her loins. Her thighs were sculpted and long. He would beat her breasts tonight, he thought.
Justine lay on the bed, perpendicular to the mattress. Her head lay just over the edge, tilted down. Her legs were spread wide, tied off to the bed’s upper frame with long, leather thongs, her ass raised up off the mattress. Cheryl was positioned in the direction of her feet. Cheryl had a clear view of Justine’s delicate little hairless lips. There was a mirror on the wall just opposite Justine’s head, and from where she lay, she could view her sister slave upside down, patiently awaiting her abuse.
Stoner walked slowly up to Cheryl. She averted her eyes from his in fear. He placed his hands on her breasts, caressing them gently. He knew that her breasts were especially sensitive and that his efforts would soon produce a growing heat in her loins. He stroked the nipples, watching them harden, pinching them lightly. Cheryl shifted her weight nervously. She pressed her legs together, squeezing the little lips of her cunt. She hated herself for her nearly automatic lustful response to the handling of her prominent mounds.
Stoner leaned over and took one of her nipples in his mouth. He sucked on it gently, swirling his tongue around its tip. He was teasing her, delivering a tantalizing preliminary to the main event. He reached down and sought her moistening slit. Obediently, Cheryl spread her legs. Stoner did not abide reluctance in his whores and considered their intimate parts his and his alone. Their bearers had no right to them superior to his own.
Forcing his fingers inside the dilating hole, he spread her moistness over the tender folds of her cunt. He flicked his fingers over the little nub at the apex. His efforts garnished a moan from the helpless girl. Cheryl could never get wholly inured to being used as Stoner’s whore. She obeyed him, succumbed to his desires, actively abetted her own degradation. But she despised her abaseness. She yearned for the courage to protest, to spit in the cruel man’s face. But she feared the merciless beating that would ensue more than she regretted her failure to act.
Justine watched the enfolding tableaux in the mirror on the wall. She knew that Stoner would use her mouth ruthlessly. Her spread legs invited penetration. Her hands had been fastened to her sides by a broad cloth belt. She would be unable to fend off Stoner’s assault. She knew that Cheryl’s promised beating did not preclude Stoner administering the whip to her flesh. When the ruthless man became enflamed with lust, anything could happen. She had been Stoner’s prisoner for almost two years. She had seen her predecessors and those that came after mercilessly tormented by him many times. She, herself, had suffered from his tortures. Watching him take his pleasure with Cheryl’s body, she knew that her turn would come.
Cheryl was now reaching towards a crescendo of lust. Stoner had switched tits and sucked hard, pulling at her nipple with his teeth. She ground her hips into the man’s rough hand, her movements involuntary, a product of forced desire. Stoner released her teat and looked into her face. He smiled, congratulating himself on his ability to render this slave a prisoner of her own lusts.