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“Sure he’s a voyeur,” Matthew agreed. “Been doing it a lot of years if he’s telling even half the truth. So, we’ve given him something to excite his fantasies. What this is about is the six of us and what we want. We keep our heads, as well as our cocks into what we’re doing, we’re okay.”
“I’m sure we are,” Erik agreed—but just halfheartedly.
“So…” Jason looked nervous despite the rational explanation. “It’s my turn to watch downstairs. I’m getting some sandwiches, and I’ll see you in the morning.” Taking off for the kitchen, he found what he wanted.
After hearing the cellar door open and close, Matthew and Erik went upstairs to bed.
Chapter Eight
Laney wore white in contrast to the tawny brown of her complexion. Sandra was dressed in a cerulean blue that matched the blue of her eyes. And wearing metallic gold, Elise looked like a warm confection with the waves of her brown hair falling about her shoulders in a soft cascade.
The ball gowns were of an Eighteenth Century style, from the more decadent moments of that era—and with notable exceptions to accommodate the spirit of the present event. The ruffled sleeves of these fine dresses were off the shoulders, accenting the neckline, while the bodices plunged so low that the slaves’ breasts were fully exposed. All three looked more generously endowed than they naturally were with the corseted waists pushing their round orbs into fantastic cleavages. Poor Sandra looked as though she were about to give birth, her bosom seemed so enormous. In more concessions to the activity at hand, the broad skirts of these gowns were cut open in both the front and back for easy access to the private regions of the feminine form. As yet, however, the slits remained hidden inside the generous folds of the fabric, out of sight until the unveiling began. Though they were collarless, they wore high heels to accentuate their physical assets when they walked or stood.
Waiting in a tiny anteroom next to the estate house living room, their masters waited with them, Erik reading…
“The Public Presentation of the Slave—Chapter Six… The imperative requirement for presentation cannot be ignored in a slave’s training. Whether the formal presentation takes place before an audience of hundreds, a small soiree, or just one astute eye, it is the act of exposure that is paramount. A slave learns modesty, self-control, and humility in these events. She takes on her task with a resigned heart and in a spirit of goodwill, with the sole idea of pleasing her master and those he shares her with. She will remain, at all times, compliant, even eager to obey the acts required. Her eyes remain bowed, her lips open, her mind alert to the commands she hears.
For active inspections, she will pose as ordered and maintain her pose until her audience has been satisfied. A respectful slave will give homage to her master. She will breath containment but suggest her sexual sensibilities with a body readily willing to perform in ways that please anyone who takes her.
Inspecting masters and the audience do no favors being reticent or wavering in their scrutiny of a presented slave. The subject must learn to take any taunt, bear up under any humiliation of body and mind, and adjust to any circumstance in which they find themselves. However, after the stern training that I’ve outlined in this book, presentation should become, like so many things in a slave’s life, a natural state to which she easily conforms.
Erik leveled a killing eye at each slave to sear the message to her brain. They hardly had time to react, however, when they heard voices and the door to the vestibule opened. Seconds later, they were ushered into the living room. Lit with a hundred candles, the room glowed, even in the light of early evening. Music played on the old Victrola—some 1930’s Jazz that went right to the crotch with sound. Two dozen guests dressed like lordly gentlemen, with their gentle ladies on their arm, milled about the room, which had been freshly swept and dusted in preparation for the guests.
The trio stared in stunned silence as they walked into the sensuous room followed by their masters, who were nearly as surprised as the slaves when they saw the number of witnesses who had been summoned for this event. Their entrance hushed the crowd, while a soft and murmuring silence prevailed as Laney, Sandra and Elise stepped to the center. All eyes were on their revealing bodices, looks of admiration and even judgment appeared on the spectators’ faces. Baffled by the transformation of their sequestered island hideaway, each submissive trembled, numbed by fear. Their thighs went weak and their palms began to sweat, while their mouths became parched with sexual thirst. Elise nearly fainted, Sandra could hardly breathe, and Laney, in response to the eyes that focused on her proudly upturned breasts, stood more erectly, offering an unslave-like haughty expression in self-defense—until she remembered the words her husband had just read.
So mesmerized by the room around them, the three moved unthinkingly into a small circle back to back, staring in wonder and embarrassment at their audience. All that Erik had said suddenly meant much more to them now—but it wasn’t time to remember, it was time to forget, to let the blanket of their submissive natures cover them and dictate their behavior.
“Stand still, your shoulders touching, and face forward,” the order came from a voice they were unused to as a voice of command—from Archibald Devane, who seemed as much a part of this gathering as the rest of the unfamiliar people. He’d made some changes in his appearance for the event, dressing in white linen pants and jacket, looking surprisingly youthful to his six houseguests who were more accustomed to a doddering old man. Certainly, the years had done nothing to take away the commanding tremor in his voice. If he’d been a master himself, he’d have been an impressive one with such remarkable qualities of power still his to command.
Obeying the order, the slaves pressed themselves backward, with their fancy, full-skirted dresses competing for space while they tried to come shoulder to shoulder in a tiny triangle.
“That’s quite enough,” Devane added when they were posed to please him.
“Thank you, Mr. Devane, for your assistance,” Erik stepped in, giving the man a nod. Old Archie retreated with a nod in return, while Erik moved on to address the company of island guests. As he gathered steam for his next remarks, Matthew and Jason took prominent positions in the room to define their purpose as masters of these initiate slaves. Those around them acknowledged their presence with respectful glances; they seemed familiar with the rites of Marquis Island as though they’d participated in them many times. They were, however, an interesting bunch. By their dress, attitude and behavior, they did nothing to give away their sexual inclinations. There were no collars, no leashes, no exposed body parts. There were no overt signs that they participated in sadomasochistic sex. Still, they were totally absorbed in the activity, almost looking like vultures ready to attack as Erik continued with his small speech. “You’ve come here for a presentation of slaves. You have them, yours to consider. They will not disappoint you.” He gave emphasis to the “not,” knowing that three sets of ears would hear him clearly and take to heart his warning.
For a few moments, the crowd was quiet, a few circled the slaves with somber, circumspect faces. And then one haughty female with short, spiked hair and dressed in a red-sequined sheath stepped forward and smacked Sandra’s tits on either side, as though the shocking sound were intended to awaken the sleeping guests. The woman waited as red imprints appeared on Sandra’s white skin. “She colors well. I’m sure her ass will redden as easily.” Taking a nipple between her thumb and the side of her forefinger, she squeezed, then twisted the little thing until the blonde slave squealed. “Keep your pain to yourself, slut,” the woman almost spit in Sandra’s face.
Moving on, she assaulted Laney next. “You’re the bitch of these three, I can see that. No way to slap the haughtiness off your face.” Laney remembered the reading…keeping her eyes lowered, her mouth parted, with every fiber of her soul breathing submission—not for this harpy, but for Erik who stood judgmentally to her right, still inside her peripheral vision. “Nice tits. Bet you have a fine ass, a fine brown ass that turns a rosy bronze when it’s whipped—which I’ll see before this presentation is over. I do asses, you know, I make them hot, and when I’m really nasty, I take the cane and make them bleed.” She turned looking at the masters. “Have they made you bleed, yet?” She snickered. “Perhaps not. It’s said that the female dominant is much crueler than the male. I’d suggest you believe that. Of course then, you’ll get to make a just comparison between master and mistress.” She nodded knowingly. “Yes, you’re the bitch I came here to conquer. Don’t forget. You call me ‘Mistress’ or I’ll slap your pretty face.?
? She had some vendetta to satisfy against women like Laney, that fact reeked from her like the smell of garlic from an Italian kitchen. Having said enough to set her hooks in Laney, her spite moved on, strolling to Elise.
“Oh, my,” the woman nearly laughed. “Look at these, pint-sized titties, they’re so small,” she cooed like a sarcastic mother, then turned to her friends. “Perhaps she should be sent back for better boobs. There’s not enough to play with,” her expression turned mockingly disappointed. Elise’s face began brightening with a blush. “Embarrassed? You should be.” The bitch suddenly opened the sequined bodice of her dress and plucked her two tits from inside, showing Elise what generous meant. “You won’t attract much attention as a slave unless you have a little more than those tiny pebbles. Look at these!” Elise couldn’t help but see the tanned breasts, which looked as though they’d been cosmetically enlarged, they hardly jiggled like natural flesh. “If I’m really nice, I’ll let you plant your face between them and get a good whiff of a real slut.” Pushing her breasts back inside her dress, the woman whisked sassily around. “Anyone else?” she said to the audience with her lips broadening into a calculating smirk.
“Gina, you’re a miserable cow,” a male voice barked in answer, as a gangly though distinguished looking gentleman stepped forward. He waltzed around the three slaves without the scorn in his expression, though there was an adequate degree of judgment as he scrutinized the trio. “Lovely to look at, and reasonably subdued, but I have my doubts that slaves can be trained in such a short time. It takes breeding, months of careful, even painstaking attention to the attitudes, the postures, and the essence of submission. I find it almost laughable that you could possibly present these tarts as finished slaves.” He looked back to their masters who stared him down with expressions as arrogant. They really didn’t care what the man thought. He actually sounded like Barth himself, or at least very like the man who wrote the book on Female Slavery that had become their guide. The strolling master turned his gaze back to the slaves, staring right at Sandra’s breasts. “Then, too, this livestock hardly hurts the eye,” he sniggered. “And we’ve hardly seen it all.” Reaching to the side, someone handed him a small conductor’s baton, which he used to stir the slaves’ skirts, leaving the sensuous sound of rustling satin to electrify the air.
“I’d like to see their asses,” another man offered his opinion. This corpulent fellow moved quite swiftly to the forefront, carrying a spanking paddle in his hand. “The true test of slaves begins with their asses. How much pain they can take, how much punishment their skin will bear, the kind of cries they offer in reply.” Making his comments to the rest of the audience, he heard no complaint. “Good, then let’s see these slaves collared to present their asses.”
Matthew, Erik and Jason stepped forward, circling the three slim necks with brushed- gold collars, each equipped with an O-ring at the front. Snuggly fit, these first restraints of the night made each slave quake as their bodies quickened with both fear and desire. Once their privates were unveiled, the evidence of their arousal would be clearly seen, as the honey from their roused pussies began to trickle down their thighs.
“Matthew,” Erik turned to his friend. Having preplanned the scene, the masters knew that underneath the floor boards there were conveniently placed hooks to set their tethers. Moving between Elise and Sandra, Matthew knelt on the floor and pulled the hidden panel away.
“Turn around and bend over,” Erik commanded the three. Following orders, the trio balanced themselves carefully in their high heels and bent at the waist, finding their heads just brushing each other as they posed.
Matthew, who had devised this grim scheme, attached one end of a thick metal chain to one of the embedded hooks, and then drew the chain to the ring on Elise’s collar, fastening it securely in place. He repeated the procedure with Laney and Sandra, then pulled out of their circle.
“Place your hands on each other’s backs,” Erik finished the arrangement, giving the three at least some means of support as they drew strength from their sister slaves. The scheme was simple, but clever, and perhaps one of the most difficult bondage feats they’d been required to endure. Having finished, Erik stepped back into the crowd, nodding to the guests, “Please feel free to inspect our sluts.”
The assault was quick. Anonymous hands explored the slave’s broad skirts, finding the slits, which they opened wide to unveil three pairs of naked bottom cheeks. Sandra’s broad ones were like lush white sails, marred from previous corrections to her ass with a few tiny bruises under the skin, and several small red rashes. Laney’s behind had been worked with equal force, and showed the signs of it; though her bronze skin hid the worst of the battle scars where Sandra’s light complexion only made them stand out more clearly. Elise’s tight ass, with its small but fully rounded pillows of flesh, were surprisingly free of obvious damage, except for one small streak of red across the top of the left cheek. She was the first to create a stir with the crowd thinking that adequate punishment had been denied her.
