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I look back to see that Luana is reacting to Lady Constance’s mild rebuke. She turns and walks holding the leash downward thus forcing the nose and mouth of the burdened male beast to be very close to her well-rounded buttocks. With every labored breath he will be inhaling the fragrance of her feminine arousal.
Our ponies are sweating profusely and Lady Constance’s whip begins to make a startling cracking sound when it crisply strokes the wet flesh. The ponies appear to jump and react more to the sound than the pain but the results are a very fast steady pace with no relent. We turn left off the main road, build speed then bear to the right. The windmill is perched on a nearby hill and the beautiful domineering ruler of this island paradise again builds speed, in order to properly negotiate the steep incline to the tall structure and connecting buildings. Our human equines find a second wind, fully realizing that as challenging as the task is, a well-deserved rest will soon follow Lady Constance’s added torment in encouraging that we arrive at full gallop.
“I insist on speed, coordination and tumescence. There is nothing more impressive then well lathered stallions pumping away at a quick pace and displaying good stiff erections.”
The final 50 yards is on level ground. Our ponies rebuild speed and we come frighteningly close to a massive black woman standing next to a large cinder block building before Lady Constance pulls on the scrotal cords and brings the chariot to an abrupt halt.
“Good afternoon, Lady Constance. You’re working them quite nicely on this fine hot sunny afternoon.”
I am introduced to Salina, the supervisor of the power plant. She is taller than Jasmine and carries more weight, though she is not obese. And her powerful frame appears to be equally strong if not stronger. But her figure is not sculpted as with Jasmine. Rather, her strength seems to have originated from years of toil, and I am about to learn to what end all her toil has been put.
In her hand is an ominous cane, described by accomplished disciplinarians as the most painful instrument of correction. And behind her, languishing in the heat of the tropics, are three scruffy males. They are sans clothing and on their shoulders lie massive blocks of metal, which entrap their necks and wrists. I assume these are the metal yokes to which Lady Constance referred and ordered for the young Danish sex offender. The thick metal serves to immobilize the head and the wrists are likewise secured some two feet right and left of the head. The ends of the metal yokes are secured to vertical metal poles, forcing the three to stand on their toes. The heat has taken its toll as the young males have evidently been forced to stand for quite some time judging from the abundant perspiration.
“Trouble, Salina?”
“Not really, Ma’am. I’m just giving these three the opportunity to volunteer for more time on the generator. When the sun heats the metal yoke the notion of spending a few hours working the machinery is not so objectionable.”
As Salina speaks I examine the helpless trio. All are banded about the frenulum and by now I have learned enough to discern that the banding is tight. Their scrotums have been stretched further than any I have seen, hanging as low as their knees. Stripes and welts can be seen everywhere on their naked flesh. Apparently Salina’s accuracy with the cane is of little concern. The sun is indeed heating the thick metal blocks perched on their shoulders. One lad is doing a bit of a dance, careful not to lift both feet and leave himself suspended solely by his neck and wrists.
“Perhaps a brief tour of the plant for the good Doctor, Salina.”
Salina nods and ushers us toward the building. The windmill is built directly over head and the propeller is slowly turning in the light but consistent tropical wind. A rotating shaft, turned by the propeller, runs from a gear box high above down through the roof of the building. It is huge, the size of a telephone pole. We enter through very wide double doors and I am surprised to see that the interior is much larger than expected. A ramp leads us downward, thus what appears to be a low building is actually recessed into the ground and has a high interior ceiling.
“My great grandfather was very concerned with hurricanes. The low profile of the exterior minimizes potential wind damage. In three major storms over the past seventy odd years the building has remained untouched and power has never been lost to the island. It makes us very self sufficient.”
Lady Constance talks, but my attention is drawn to Salina. Her loose sarong folds over at the front and when she walks a curious leather garment can be detected underneath the silk, just below her abdomen.
We proceed down the ramp into an open chamber. As my eyes become accustomed to the relatively dark room I notice the change in temperature. Because the floor is set some five to six feet below ground level, it is much cooler than outdoors. But then the array of machinery comes into focus and I am awed. The building houses massive electrical generators. I count six. Four are turning by way of various smaller shafts connected to the large shaft emanating from the windmill. A fifth stands at rest and a sixth is being turned manually. The generators are spaced widely apart and the reason is apparent. The sixth generator has metal poles jutting out eight to ten feet from the cylindrical core. It resembles a capstan seen on old sailing ships and used to weigh the anchor. Connected to three of the poles is a metal yoke and secured within each is of course one of Lady Constance’s naked male beasts. The young males are walking in circles, pushing the metal poles, which in turn rotates the generator.
“We still generate some power manually, for nostalgia and amusement more than any other reason. When the winds slacken at night I enjoy reading with the knowledge that my subservient males are laboring to provide the electricity for my light. And of course should the wind mill malfunction we can easily convert the other generators back to manual operation.”
The coy smile on Lady Constance’s face unmasks her enthusiasm for the dreary, monotonous efforts exerted by her young charges.
We approach the three worn males. Each has a number branded onto the right buttock. Salina reaches out and applies a sharp stroke of her cane to one set of numbers. A stifled yelp results, along with a renewed effort as the leg muscles noticeably strain to push.
“They require constant monitoring. But the cane is quite the incentive.”
With her comment, Salina taps the huge scrotal sac of a second beast with the tip of the cane. He understands the warning and immediately begins to strain along with his cohort.
“The capstans were originally located outdoors on top of the building with turning shafts penetrating the roof and connecting to the generators. My great grandmother found the hot sun to be an effective way to add to the slow torment. But that configuration required an enormous number of males, which had to be constantly watered. Thus, my grandmother moved the capstans indoors.
“I remember as a little girl, my mother would bring me here and we’d sit in the observation deck and watch for what seemed like hours,” offers Lady Constance. “Those were special times, so it’s difficult for me just to eliminate the manual generation entirely.”
I look back toward the entrance. There, leading from the main floor is a set of steps terminating at a rather decorative platform above. It reminds me of a balcony box at an opera house. An old but well kept stuffed chair affords a seated observer a comfortable and unimpeded view of the building’s laborers. I can envision the regal Baroness sitting with her daughter, the future ruler of Constancia, instilling the family’s female dominant traits at a very young age.
After a time, Salina leads us to an adjoining room. There, kneeling in two rows are a dozen males, all in yokes, which are resting between two short posts. Most are asleep. A few have cords attached to the bottom of the scrotums pulling them downward where the ends are secured to eye hooks in the floor. Stretching seems to be a ubiquitous process on Constancia.
A young girl, naked in conformity to what seems to be the standard code of dress, spoons mush into the mouth of one wizened male bearing the brand number 10. At her feet is a bucket of water with a ladle. Apparently finished, she moves to the mid-section of the next semi-conscious, kneeling male. She reaches under his stomach, whispers something, and a puddle begins to form on the floor. The excretion slowly flows to collecting troughs along the wall.
“Bladder control,” is Salina’s simple comment as the girl moves to the male’s front and provides him with a good view of her charms. He lifts his head as much as the constraining metal bar allows and attempts to lick her sex. The girl draws back and laughs. Then she holds a ladle of water just out of reach of his parched mouth.
“My daughter is learning well. Is she not, Lady Constance?”
The omnipotent Lady just smiles.
It is not a pleasant room. It smells of sweat and bodily excretions. Salina notices my reaction.
“They’re hosed down once a week. Hygiene is not important here. Their function is to rotate the generator, sleep and eat. But I do amuse them from time to time.”
