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Turning his attention toward his friends, Erik circled the trio of women one more time. “You made your choice, we’ve made ours,” he said, making it clear to everyone what would happen next. As this thought lingered on, the slaves quaked with excitement. This was no game anymore, not some torrid and impossible sexual scene with a beginning and a decided end. It was not a series of rites induced merely by the unnatural climate at the curious island. Just as it had been repeated to them several times: they would not, could not, forget their stay on Marquis Island, no matter how they may try to deny its impact on their lives. It was clear that those prophetic voices were right as the experience would be no easy memory to lose with its imprint permanently altering their flesh.
The main door of the library opened, with Darius and Essex entering the room with Christian Barth as Archibald Devane following closely behind. Devane only entered nominally, remaining near the door while the other two moved into the center of the room.
“Gentlemen,” Erik nodded to their guests. “We’ve prepared our slaves; they are yours.”
As Erik stepped back, Darius stepped forward with an air of authority radiating from his formidable form. Sure in his purpose and his next steps, the rugged man let his eyes come to rest on each slave as he methodically appraised the trio.
Each shuddered, feeling surprisingly embarrassed to be nude before his imperious eyes. Perhaps it was his knowledge of them, having produced such a profound intimacy that caused their chagrin. They felt more naked now; for he seemed to have unclothed their souls as much as their bodies were bared. He could see beyond the surface to the secret truth inside each beating heart.
“Stand,” he ordered them.
They rose, barefoot now, peering upwards into Essex and Darius’ faces while the pair loomed down on them. Feeling so dwarfed by their supreme bearing, it almost seemed natural that the three should drop to their knees in an act of respect. Yet, without such a command given, they remained on their feet with their faces blushing with misplaced modesty.
As they went eye to eye with Darius, Sandra remembered her night under his control, soon finding a bit of her female juice was trickling down her thigh in reply to the vivid remembrance. Elise was truly fearful of the man. She’d bonded with Essex, who remained just out of sight. She would have preferred that master’s gaze to this devilish one. Laney was smitten by the bold man in the black clothes. She viewed him as an older version of her husband, and her immediate desire was to be fucked by his savage instincts. Her body boiled with desire as Darius’ eyes assaulted her, and he allowed a fleeting moment of lust to pass between them. If Laney were not mistaken, she was as much an object of his desire, as he was hers. But such a thought could be dangerous to a slave owned by another master.
“Essex,” he turned to his friend. “The shed is ready?”
“Indeed is it.”
“Very good,” he said as he moved to the door, “Bring them on leashes and put them to the floor when we reach the chamber.”
***
Beyond the estate house with its grand façades and tropical architecture, near a path toward the beach, there is a stone hut with an ancient padlocked door. Looking like an abandoned storage shed, the aging, though still sturdy structure, remained ignored by the newest guests on Marquis Island. They’d passed it several times on their way to sun themselves on the sand. Grasses growing three feet high skimmed its surface, blowing like gentle waves of grain in the brisk ocean breeze. Loneliness caressed its wind-polished stones, while a curious mind could imagine a thousand scenarios for its probable use—but likely, none that rightly guessed the building’s actual function.
Stepping into the tropical air, the three slaves quaked nervously, while they let the mild day allay their fears, at least for the few minutes it took to reach the hut.
&nbs
p; With the key to the padlock in his fist, Essex led the way along the sandy beach path. The masters followed, hiking briskly while towing their leashed slaves so fast the three naked women had to struggle to keep up. Then, as if he were prodding them all with a poker—which he was not—Darius brought up the rear.
As Essex unlocked the hefty hasp on the aging hut, the door creaked open slowly, revealing nothing but black and something glowing strangely beyond. A gust of heat from inside almost pushed them back, while the smell of something burning singed their nostrils. The slaves’ fear magnified.
“On the floor,” Erik barked before they could adjust their eyes to the odd room.
Crouched at the masters’ feet, the submissives remained poised, with their heads down and almost touching the packed dirt. They sensed some ritual about the proceedings, which seemed like a bizarre formality in these crude surroundings. Whatever the plan, however, its shocking implications took what physical arousal that was already abundant in their bodies and raised its force to alarming degrees. Trembling, they waited for the men to take their places. And as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they could peek enough to see a three-foot high stone structure beside them. Its upper stones glowed red, suggesting this was some kind of furnace with its fire stoked and phosphorescent embers in the pit above. In front of the them was an apparatus that looked very much like a torture rack, though smaller, with its spaces more confined and its use likely limited. Considering the purpose of this rite, it seemed reasonable to assume that each one of them would be strapped down to the device in order to be marked.
There was nothing in this scene that did not strain their desire to limits beyond which they believed possible. Sandra’s thoughts, voiced hours ago as they waited wonderingly for their masters, came back to them with the significant truth: they didn’t want to know what happened next. The truth could cause them peril when they only wanted to accept.
Standing behind them, their masters waited; curiously calm as the scene unfolded. Their intrepid journey on Marquis Island was coming to an end. A fact that settled well with them. If their slaves were somewhat drained of strength, living on raw desire and little more, the three men mimicked that predicament, realizing that this game—what had started as an innocent wager and magnified to something far beyond that—needed its finish now. The end they chose seemed fitting, permanent proof of what they’d done these two weeks. It didn’t faze them that in their right minds, at home in New York, the whole fantastical drama would seem absurd—especially this last unalterable act. Time can alter memories, but nothing could alter these physical remnants of their tropical vacation. It took some trust to let this scheme unfold, but these masters were too enamored with the promised results to allow any fear to rule.
Standing beside the furnace, Essex peered into the smoldering embers—his face glowed like the devil. And Darius, the acknowledged master of the occasion, stood over the three women wearing his dominance like a crown of supremacy. If Christian Barth were in the room, no one seemed to care. Though he’d been the original author of the play, he was now as unnecessary as the costumes the slaves had packed away that afternoon in the hefty steamer trunks.
Still unsure what awaited them, the trio waited expectantly. They could guess the kind of markings that their masters had agreed upon, but until the words were actually spoken, they didn’t dare think that the men they loved could be this daring and arbitrary with their untarnished bodies.
“The masters on Marquis Island,” Darius began to speak the shocking truth, “have chosen to mark their chattel on their flanks, using fired pokers to brand their initials permanently into their chattel’s flesh. With this act, they strip away any notion that the events occurring in this place have been some inconsequential game. The die has been cast. May these marks signal the beginning of extraordinary lives beyond this island.”
Grabbing for a cane that was leaning against the wall of the hut beside him, Darius addressed the chattel specifically, tapping the long rod on their thighs. “Look at me,” he said. The three slowly pulled out of their crouch and leaned back against their heels, peering up at Darius’ steely eyes. As their anticipation increased, desire leapt on desire, and leapt on with such tingling excitement that they could hardly take a breath. Such desire brewed the liquid in their crotches and made their bodies itchy with apprehension and arousal.
“Grey’s chattel present yourself,” the master called the woman from her stupor, rapping the side of Sandra’s thigh.
Not knowing exactly what to do, she guessed accurately by rising to her feet.
“On the rack,” he said.
She moved forward. Having a better look at the rough structure before her, she determined where to place her feet and how she should lay her body over the wooden bars. But with every nerve in her body quivering so nervously that she could hardly move, that was little comfort for the scared slave.
It took another sharp rap of Darius’ cane to get her started. Then as she mounted the rack, Jason moved in to strap her down. There was a bar for her feet six inches off the ground, and above that, a network of wooden slats to secure her torso—all fitted with straps to hold her tightly in place; then a second bar for her to grasp in front with more straps at her wrists to make sure she couldn’t suddenly bolt away.
