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Naked Cargo by Victor Bruno

EXTRACT FOR
Naked Cargo 
(Victor Bruno)


Naked Cargo

Chapter 1

 

Quentin Osman sat under the striped awning set up on the aft quarter deck.  It was cool and pleasant there, though he realised the heat was rising even if the time was only a little past eleven in the morning.  Dressed in a check sports shirt, lightweight blue trousers and sneakers, he lifted the tall glass of Bourbon at his side and sipped.  It was just to his liking.  Long, pale and ice-cold.  Quentin felt very pleased with life at that moment ... and sensed that, soon, he was going to be even more pleased.

He picked up a pair of opera glasses from the table and focused on the port deck.  This was something that he had been unable to resist doing in the last fifteen or twenty minutes he had spent under the awning.  The reason was not far to seek.  Although the deck was bone-white clean, a young woman was scrubbing it.  She was stark naked and wore a lightweight silver chain about her waist.  She was also depilated so that Quentin could observe her sexual charms unhindered.  The hindquarters, he thought, were most excellent and he wondered if the young woman would be aware she was under observation.  She scrubbed vigorously and ceaselessly.  With her body in close-up in the glasses, Quentin could see the sheen of sweat on hr back.  Remarkable, quite remarkable, that such a thing could be happening right before his eyes!

Quentin picked up his glass and drained his drink.  His pulse rate was definitely faster.  He felt in a dream-like state and, having only been aboard the ‘Paradise’ for some thirty six hours had not yet adjusted to the incredible mode of life which prevailed.  It was a world apart.  Unbelievable, yet real.  For one could not deny the evidence of one’s eyes.

Feeling just a shade self-conscious, he raised his arms and snapped his fingers.  From behind him a figure approached and deferentially curtsied.  Quentin turned his head and tried to look unruffled as he gazed upon the naked woman standing beside him.

“Master?” she queried respectfully.

“Another Bourbon,” said Quentin abruptly.

“Yes, Master.”

The woman picked up Quentin’s empty glass and disappeared.  She too wore a silver chain about her waist but, in addition, there were small silver rings through her nose, her nipples and her clitoris.  From these rings were suspended small green emeralds.  When he had first seen them, Quentin had looked upon them with utter amazement aware, nevertheless, they were potent symbols of the woman’s servitude.  She was a flame-haired Jewess with exceedingly white skin, her body being just a shade overblown for Quentin’s taste.  An excellent body all the same.  Good, big firm tits; a sumptuous bottom.  Her name, he knew, was Rebecca and he also knew that her owner happened to be aboard the ‘Paradise’ at the time.  The woman returned, breasts juddering slightly as she placed Quentin’s drink on the table.  Quentin managed a vague wave of dismissal.  He was only just getting used to doing such a thing.  For a moment, he had been tempted to place his hand on one of the white flanks.  On a buttock cheek, even.  But something had prevented him, even though he was aware that he was perfectly at liberty to do so.

Had not Madame Vesta informed him?

That formidable lady was the supreme arbiter aboard the ‘Paradise’.  She owned the ship and she organised the whole operation.  A close personal friend had given Quentin an introduction to her.  It was a great privilege.  And now that Quentin was safely aboard the ‘Paradise’, that privilege seemed all the greater.

What a wonderful world he had been introduced to!

A world of slave girls ... ruled inexorably by Madame Vesta and her numerous assistants.

Quentin Osman picked up his opera glasses, this time he focused them on the starboard deck.  Here another naked woman was scrubbing the deck.  On her knees, she was moving slowly towards him, her half-melon breasts swinging and joggling beneath her without cessation.  Her face, despairing, and mouth partially open, was half concealed by strands of long blonde hair.  She scrubbed relentlessly, her body also sheened with sweat.  What makes them toil in this fashion, Quentin asked himself?  It was quite remarkable.  He tried to imagine his Julia doing what these two women on the deck were doing at that moment and could not truly visualise it.  Julia ... naked ... depilated ... scrubbing on hands and knees?  It did not seem possible to Quentin that she could be made to do it.  Yet Madame Vesta had assured him that that would be the case.  Quentin felt the increased pounding of his heart.  Could it really be true?  What a wonderful idea it was!  That deceitful, arrogant, headstrong bitch reduced to this!  Marvellous ... oh unbelievably marvellous!  Though it might cost him a small fortune to have Julia abducted and put aboard the ‘Paradise’ he reckoned it would be worth every cent.

The bitch, the bitch!  The overweening, insolent bitch!  Oh God, how superb to be the one to make her suffer to the full!  Quentin drank some more Bourbon to try and calm his nerves.  It wasn’t very successful.  Finishing the glass, he snapped his fingers again.  Rebecca appeared almost instantly.  Perhaps emboldened by alcohol, Quentin placed one hand lightly on a buttock cheek.  Rebecca remained silent and submissively still.

“Yes, Master?” she queried.

“I shall require another Bourbon ... in a moment.”  Rebecca remained; Quentin ran his hand up and down the soft, warm flesh.  Under normal circumstances, if he had done any such thing to a woman, she would have slapped his face and run screaming.  And he would have been charged with indecent assault.  As it was, Rebecca submitted, with seeming calm, to his fondling.

“I ... I am told your owner is aboard,” said Quentin as casually as he could.

“Yes, Master.”  The voice was controlled.  Quentin squeezed the lush buttock cheek.”

“Are you pleased?”

“Yes, Master,” responded Rebecca in that same controlled voice.  “As his slave, I am always pleased to be of service to him.  To ... to please him as he wishes.”

“I see,” said Quentin.  He squeezed the buttock cheek rather more firmly.  “And, has it always been like that?”

There was a pause before Rebecca answered.  “No, Master,” came the answer.

Quentin nodded in satisfaction.  “You were then, shall we say, trained to it?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Fetch me that drink.”

“Yes, Master.”  Rebecca moved away and, in moments it seemed, returned with another Bourbon.  I don’t want to get drunk, reflected Quentin as his sipped, but I do want to get relaxed.  This bizarre world, filled with slave girls, was still an amazing revelation to him and rather unnerving.  Also, he knew, Madame Vesta was going to ask him the positive question that day.  Was he, or was he not, going to send Julia to the ‘Paradise’?  With all it entailed?

Quentin, in fact, was almost 90% certain he would.

Wasn’t it exactly what such a cheating bitch deserved?

Yes ... yes ... it was!

Quentin glanced to the port deck.  The naked girl was still scrubbing unceasingly, but now another figure appeared.  This was a tall, broad-shouldered blonde garbed in lightweight black leather.  She wore a bolero, the shortest of short skirts, and a pair of very high-heeled calf-length boots.  On her waist belt was hooked a three-foot thong of black leather, something like three inches wide.  Quentin’s nerves tingled as he saw the woman unhook the thong and swing it at her side.  She advanced at an easy pace along the deck and passed the kneeling slave.  A few paces past the still scrubbing figure and the blonde turned.  The black thong swung high then cracked down across the slave’s buttocks.  A faint, wailing cry reached Quentin’s ears as the naked slave writhed down on to the deck.  A pink-red band had appeared across her twisting nates.  A few moments later and a second stroke fell in more or less the same area.  Another wailing cry, more writhing and kicking.  The tall blonde was pointing down to the deck at some point which the slave had already passed ... and obviously barking some order.  The girl scrambled around and began to scrub the deck where the blonde was pointing.  Quentin could only assume some part of the deck had been overlooked during the scrubbing.

A third stroke of the thong and then the slave slithered back to where she had been working.  Her arm began to move vigorously once more.  Three bands of a bright pink-red now encircled her juddering bottom.  Through his opera glasses Quentin gazed on them with sadistic relish.

Oh my God, he said to himself, one day this could be my Julia!

The tall blonde made her way along the deck and mounted the companion way to where Quentin sat under his awning.  She gave him a generous wide-mouthed smile.  He began to rise.  “No, please don’t get up.”  Quentin resumed his seat.  “Rebecca, a glass of iced mineral water.”

“Yes, Miss ....”

The blonde seated herself in a chair alongside Quentin and was almost immediately served.  Quentin’s gaze lingered on the big white bottom as Rebecca bent.  It was quite unmarked but he supposed that it must, quite often, have been marked like that of the woman on the deck.

“You are, I believe, Mr Osman?”

“That’s right,” said Quentin.  “Quentin Osman.”

“I am Miss Judith,” said the blonde.  “One of Madame Vesta’s senior overseers.”

“Ah ... I am pleased to meet you,” replied Quentin, trying to sound as if such a statement was something perfectly natural to him.

“I understand you may be sending a young lady to us?”

“That is correct, Miss Judith,” nodded Quentin.  “I am considering it most seriously.”

“If she has offended you in any way,” said Miss Judith, “I am sure this is just the place for her.  Has she?”

Quentin found himself colouring.  “More than offended,” he said vehemently.  “She has cheated me ... financially and sexually.  She has wilfully denied me.  She has made a fool of me.  She is an arrogant self-willed bitch!”  He saw Miss Judith smiling at the venom of his words,

“She seems ideal for the ‘Paradise’,” she said.  “The more arrogant, the more self-willed, the better!”

“And you have no trouble with such a woman?” enquired Quentin naively.

Miss Judith laughed lightly.  “No trouble at all, I assure you, Mr Osman.”  Miss Judith pointed to the figure on the deck across whose buttocks she had so recently laid her strap.  “See that girl down there,” she said, “she belongs to a German Baron.  Name of Nerine.  She was very hoity-toity when she arrived aboard just about a month ago.  Look at her now.  Straining every sinew.  In mortal dread that I might go back and give her another taste of my strap.  Believe me, Mr Osman, pain is a wonderful persuader.”

“Yes ... yes ... so it seems ...”  Quentin more or less mumbled.  It was so difficult to adjust to such extraordinary situations.  Madame Vesta, and this Miss Judith, took it all so naturally.  Yet, in truth, it was all quite unnatural.  Thrilling, though.  Very thrilling!  “You mean ... well ... if I sent my Julia here ... she ... I mean ... would be treated just like ... well ... that girl on the deck?”

“Just like that, Mr Osman,” smiled Miss Judith.  “Or worse.”

“Worse?”

Miss Judith laughed again.  “You do not imagine, Mr Osman, do you, that my strap across a girl’s backside is the worst that can happen to her aboard the ‘Paradise’?”

Quentin hesitated.  “Well ... I don’t know.  I mean, I haven’t been aboard long.”

“No, that’s true.  But let me tell you that the strap is about the least severe form of punishment a girl can receive here.”

“Really?”  Quentin was truly surprised.

“Oh yes, really, Mr Osman.  There are canes, birches, martinets, whips.  They all hurt a good deal more than my strap.  You will be aware of this if you attend one of our Punishment Sessions.

“Punishment Sessions?”

“Yes,” nodded Miss Judith.  “One is held every evening at seven pm.  Any girl who has failed in hr duties, been disobedient and so on, will be taken there and punished accordingly.  Madame Vesta normally adjudicates but, if she is not available, Miss Kaufman, her deputy makes the decisions.”

“I see ...” said Quentin musingly.  Looking down to the port deck, he noticed that the scrubbing slave girl had slumped down.  Perhaps she has fainted, he thought.  It would not have been surprising.

He saw Miss Judith glancing at him.  “Does it worry you that your Julia will be treated in this fashion ... caned, birched, whipped and the like?”

“N-no ... no ...” replied Quentin almost too hastily.  He was beginning to realise just how much he wanted such things to happen.  “It will do her good.  Teach her some manners.  Teach her not to be such a first class bitch.”

“That’s very true,” said Miss Judith, rather smugly.  “I am rather looking forward to meeting this young lady.  She seems worthy of taming.”

“Will you be dealing with her then?” asked Quentin.

“Amongst others,” said Miss Judith.  “Madame Vesta has half a dozen female Overseers and four male Trainers.”

“Four males, eh?” Quentin found himself rather pleased by that.  Julia would not take at all kindly to being ordered about, or handled, by any male!

“Yes,” said Miss Judith.  “Two of them are Negroes, one is a Turk, the other a German.”

Quentin was even more pleased by this piece of news for he was aware that Julia had a natural aversion to coloureds.

“Most interesting,” he said.  He saw the long-legged blonde arise from her chair.  She really was most attractive.

“It looks,” she said, “as if Nerine needs a little stimulating.” Quentin could only suppose that Nerine was the slave girl slumped on the deck.  He watched as Miss Judith unhooked the belt at her waist as she strode down the deck.  He found his nerve ends tingling with pleasure again.

On arrival at the recumbent figure, Miss Judith realised that the girl had not actually fainted but was merely exhausted.  She laid her strap viciously across the upturned buttocks, evoking a shriek which Quentin, in the distance clearly heard.

“You slack bitch ... get on with your work!” bellowed Miss Judith.  Again the strap cracked down.  Again the girl shrieked in torment.  Making some superhuman effort, she began to scrub the deck feebly.  “I think we’ll have you doing it the hard way,” said Miss Judith.  She took the scrubbing brush from Nerine’s feeble grasp, yanked up her head by pulling on the dark brown locks.  She saw the girl’s petrified face, wet with tears, slack with exhaustion.  That was how Miss Judith liked to see them; when she really put the pressure on.  “Open wide,” she ordered.  Conditioned to obedience, the girl opened her mouth ... and found the wooden handle of the brush shoved crosswise into it.  From the ends of the brush hung two straps and these were now buckled at the back of her head.  “Get your snout into that bucket and get scrubbing again,” rasped Miss Judith.

Ccrraaccckkk!

Ccrraaccckkk!

Twice more the strap fell across Nerine’s twisting bottom.  Convulsed with pain, she plunged her head into the sudsy water in the bucket.  Her head came up again; she was snorting and choking.  Down went the brush to the deck and she began to jerk it back and forth.  Miss Judith looked down with smug satisfaction.  She hoped the newcomer, Mr Osman, was impressed.

He was!

“If you haven’t finished with this deck in a quarter of an hour, my girl,” Miss Judith was saying, “I’ll have you on Punishment Detail tonight and see to it you get a really good caning!”

Groaning, Nerine’s head plunged back into the bucket; groaning she began to scrub almost frenziedly.  With a friendly wave to Quentin, under the awning, Miss Judith went down the companion way to a lower deck.

“She’s a tough one that,” said a male voice at Quentin’s side, making him start slightly.  Then he noticed that the slave girl, Rebecca, was on hands and knees at the man’s feet, nose pressed to the deck, hindquarters raised high.  “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Gustav Heine.”

“Er ... how do you do ...”  Quentin took the extended hand.  “Quentin Osman,” he said.

“You will have made the acquaintance of Rebecca,” said the man, who was Jewish in appearance.

“Yes ... yes ... that’s true ...”

“It so happens, she belongs to me.  You may kneel up, Rebecca.”  The white fleshed woman did so, tossing back her flame red hair.  She clasped her hands at the back of her neck which lifted her half-melon breasts higher.  “Good tits, eh, Mr Osman?”

Quentin found himself slightly embarrassed by the question and was annoyed with himself.  Why under the circumstances, should he feel embarrassed?

“Yes ... excellent,” he responded.

“Not a bad arse on her either,” said Gustav Heine.  “Show Mr Osman your arse, Rebecca ... NICELY.”