This volume represents a slight departure from
the normal Estancia story format. Rather than covering several girls, it
concentrates on just one - though given the nature of the Estancia, other girls
do crop up from time to time!
Penny Tilsdon is a young English girl who finds
herself an unwilling package dispatched to the Estancia. This is the story -
mostly in her own words - of her capture, initiation and training to the exact
requirements of the Estancia's owner and his guests. This volume covers events
during the earliest days of her new life.
Whilst most of this novel is written from the
viewpoint of the slave-girl Penny, in some cases (especially at the beginning
of her story, when she knew nothing of her fate) the reports of others have
been woven into the tale. These reports are taken from Penny's file held by Don
Garcia, with his permission. Now, if you will, please read on....
I am naked and
bound, exhausted and in pain. I lie sprawled on the hard floor of my Master's
bed-chamber, where I have fallen after being ejected from his bed. In a few
moments, an overseer will come and suspend me from a hook in the corner of the
room, and then I will be thrashed. I have no doubt that it will hurt, and that
I shall stay there all night and perhaps some of tomorrow as well,
contemplating the events that brought me this punishment!
displeased my Master. I and another girl were trying hard to provide all he
desired, when he asked something of me that was totally unexpected. Without
thought, I had stupidly failed to agree immediately! I hadn't exactly refused,
but the lack of instant, complete obedience is taken as such at the Estancia,
by my Master. He explained what would happen. I realised I had been stupid, and
hurriedly begged him to allow me to agree to his demands, desperately hoping he
might change his mind!
But he took
his revenge, even while accepting my submission. He explained that I would
still be punished, and that my companion would also suffer. Now this other girl
occupies all his attention.
She cries and
moans from the way she is bound, kneeling with her arms wrenched up over her
head and from several whip marks he has applied over her bottom. And from the
fact that he is screwing her anus.
I know how she
hurts, because I have occupied similar positions and been given similar
thrashings and uses. But mostly it hurts me to know that I have caused this
pain for her; my indecision has brought her extra agonies. For I love the girl
on the bed and my Master knows it. He has used the fact to get what he wants.
Not that he
would normally need to concern himself with what any slave-girl wishes or does
not wish. But he had to ensure I knew exactly what the result would be if I
failed to obey him absolutely.
And I had
given in - how desperately I had pleaded to serve him, to spare my sister in
bondage. But that first refusal was enough to cause this agony. Even though I
had begged, promised every possible service to him and anyone he cared to give
me to, and of course agreed without any reservation to his requirements, he
would teach me. Thus Raphaela - my dear, sweet but wayward soulmate - would
suffer. His use of her was just the start. She would be given, each and every
evening, to a different guest for their use. I would not see her until my task
was complete, except late each night, when she had finished giving pleasure to
these awful men, then she would be strung up in front of me and thrashed. My
Master said it would encourage me to write quickly and well.
you must think such practices are, in our modern, so-called civilised
world.† What I have described seems to
come from some awful episode of the Roman Empire! But none of this is out of
the ordinary for trained slave-girls of the Estancia. We girls are at the
service of any my Master wishes to give us to. We have to obey, or suffer
indescribable pain - and only to end up doing what we had wished to avoid in
any case. There is no escape, no appeal.
No, it was all
too normal treatment; but what was special was the relationship of myself and
Raphaela - to us, at least. I think many Estancia girls find themselves drawn
to another girl. We try hard to keep it secret, though it isn't very easy. Or
else, as with us, my Master uses it to make us suffer even more.
The thing I
was asked, that caused so much suffering, was this:
wishes me to tell you of my capture and training from the time I was first
spotted by one of his agents. All the things I have been made to do, and the
way I felt while they were happening. This is what caused my unease and
unwillingness; the thought of baring my soul to unknown men was worse even than
the baring of my body! But Raphaela will suffer for it, and the more I refuse,
the worse she will be treated. How cruel is my Master! He knows I would take
her place gladly if she were asked the question, and he knows that she will
gladly suffer for me. But to see her suffer, that I cannot stand. To avoid even
one minute of her sexual use, even one lash of the cat on her smooth, exquisite
skin, I will do anything ...
CHAPTER 1 Ė LONDON
LONDON: VICTORIA COACH STATION
hated these early morning shifts. Getting up at such a horrendous hour was bad
enough, but the mind-numbing boredom of it all - not to mention the dull grey
surroundings and the dull grey people - was almost more than he could take.
the money really worth it, he wondered for the zillionth time?
coaches had pulled in during the last few minutes. Forlorn, shivering, silent
and untidy, their human contents were gathered around the hinged luggage
compartments along the side of each coach. Drivers delved inside and delivered
up - none too gently - the usual assortment of cheap suitcases, backpacks,
bulging bin-liners and supermarket plastic bags. Flotsam and jetsam, passengers
and luggage, washed ashore at Victoria Coach Station on a cold dreary morning,
overnight from Aberdeen or Aberdare, Todmorden or Timbuctoo, for all Henshaw
knew or cared.
though, his whole morning brightened. As if by magic, the crowd dispersed to
leave one figure with rucksack standing alone, looking down at an 'A to Z' of
London. Maybe, thought Henshaw; looks right, and feels right as well!
Manchester coach, he reckoned. Now, if only she is on her own ...
had turned aside from the act of departure. A rather gangly youth, nervous.
Henshaw relaxed, knew he was okay. Not the boyfriend. Seat-sharer most likely,
out of his depth - wanting to help, wanting not to look too eager. Wanting to
get to know his fellow passenger as intimately as possible! No chance though,
Henshaw had seen this same scene over and over; the girl would deal with him.
With her looks, she would be used to it.
finished his coffee and left the cafe which had been his scouting post all
these mornings. Nobody noticed anything odd; maybe he left a bit earlier than
usual, but Henshaw was a regular to the counter staff. And he walked right past
the girl, off towards the local London bus stops.
right past, because again the Gods smiled on him. Another woman, a cleaner by
the looks of her, was helping the girl find her destination. He overheard the
directions to Trafalgar Square.
was around the corner and pulling out his mobile phone. It was a good job
country girls were predictable! At this time of the morning there wasn't much
to do but a little sightseeing. Perhaps the girl was an art lover, and wanted
to see where the National Gallery was. It was one of about six different places
they usually headed for.
offered up its usual musical accompaniment as he pressed the buttons for
another London number. After a couple of rings, he was through; 'Hello? John
Danner here - is Ms. Verity available?'
There was a
pause. Whoever was on the other end seemed to know who 'John Danner' was and
evinced no surprise that he should be calling at this early hour. 'Ah, Ms.
Verity - Danner speaking. I have a meeting with Mr. Nelson in a quarter of an
hour; hopefully we will have good news in due course. I shall let you know the
outcome as soon as possible; for now though, goodbye.'
Most of it was
code, of course. In twenty minutes he expected to meet Cathy - Ms. Verity - on
the south side of Trafalgar Square - Mr. Nelson being situated on top of his
Column. They had similar codes for most common landmarks in London, and
fallback codes for other eventualities. Henshaw had also conveyed - 'good news'
- the fact that they had a live one, someone who should fit the client's
LONDON: TRAFALGAR SQUARE
the 'target' even before Henshaw briefed her. Good, she thought; this one
really does look as though she might be the right material. There were a few
people around, but only one girl who fitted the target parameters. They didn't
come up all that often; a lot looked okay to start with, but few were ideal.
This one looked ideal. Even so, she kept away until the contact with Henshaw.
It only took a
few moments to hand over, and Henshaw's work was done. A nice bonus in it for
him, too, if the fish ended up hooked. He disappeared sharpish; the work wasn't
dangerous, but the client briefing drummed into them that links from stage to
stage must be minimised, and he wasn't needed for the rest of the operation. In
fact, no more males were involved until the actual shipment - it made for a
less conspicuous exercise.
Cathy took the
time to phone her current data back to base. May as well get the background
search - and the cover-up - under way. She glanced at the girl, way across the
square. The target was eating and looking about with dumb joy.
was elated. Finally, she had made it to London! No more rural backwater for
her, slowly suffocating to death in the depths of Cheshire. Looking around, she
was glad that her first intention of going just as far as Manchester had been
ditched for the greater expense of getting here. Not that Manchester was bad,
but there must be more chance here; modelling, advertising, the television -
who knew what she might achieve, before going home in triumph in a few months
or so?† Of course, she would take some
temporary job - hairdressing, secretarial or whatever - to make a little cash
for her bed and board. Tired and still a little stiff from the long coach trip,
she tucked into the last of her filled rolls.
down next to her. She turned quickly, but breathed out, relieved. It was
another girl - or young woman, really, maybe twenty five or so. She had been
worried it was that boy from the coach who had followed her, or some tramp or
opened her own bag and took out a sandwich and a small flask, and began her own
early breakfast. In a moment or two, she had offered her flask to Penny.
London? Well, itís nice at this time of day, but it soon gets choked with
traffic ... Oh, by the way, my name's Cathy...'
get the target off the streets. No visible target equals no possible sightings
for later recall. Minimise the risk, always. Cathy knew the lessons well.
Close up, she
was certain this Penny was a live one. Henshaw and Cathy - and others - had
received extensive training in evaluation. How to tell, for example, the likely
physical form of a girl even when dressed in several layers of outerwear. How
to spot girls with padding, falsies, girls who had health problems, girls who
had weight problems. Penny had none of these 'strike outs' that would have
spared her being a target any longer. Instead, she was pretty, fit, and had two
very sizeable and desirable assets. Just perfect.
difficult to get her to Mrs. Franchetti. A helping hand, a kindly face, and the
offer of free digs was enough. Off they went on the tube out west, against the
prevailing traffic of city-bound commuters.
was in Acton, an anonymous old house in an anonymous side street somewhere off
the Chiswick High Road, and handy for the bus, the tube, the railway, the roads
- if anywhere in London was handy for the roads, that is.
task was to keep her hidden. Not too difficult, since Penny wanted it that way
too. Tilsdon Pater and Mater would be phoning the local constabulary about now,
on discovering their little Penny had flown the coop.
Two days was
all Cathy needed. A few hours this evening would suffice to check Penny's
suitability without her even knowing. A day or so to make the arrangements and
see to laying a false trail, and Penny would cease to exist as far as the world
at large was concerned - not that most of the world was concerned very much.
Missing people were commonplace here.
As for Penny
herself, and her reasons, it had all spilled out when they were in the
Franchetti front parlour, a mug of decaff each for Cathy and Penny half-finished
on the table. The frustrations, the boredom, the decision to do something about
it. Cathy encouraged the story from the girl, both for herself and the hidden
tape recorder. When Cathy said she was a junior member of a production team in
one of the local TV companies - an outright lie, of course - the story speeded
up as Penny's hopes of impending stardom grew. Cathy promised that she would
ask around and get Penny some sort of job in the studios. Nothing fancy for the
first week or two, just enough to get a handle on how production worked. You'll
soon be spotted, Penny. They're desperate for pretty young girls with talent
and ambition. Cathy carefully failed to say exactly who was desperate, or why.
Then she eased into the routine to keep Penny out of sight. Made it sound as if
she had just thought of it on the spur of the moment.
dash, dear ... don't forget, lie low, no sightseeing just yet, or even
shopping. Mrs. Franchetti will find you some things, and I've left you a stack
of glossies to look at, so just get cosy! Oh, and don't forget that letter! Not
too long, mind; just enough to let your Mum and Dad know you're safe and well.
No hints about where you are; give it to Mrs. Franchetti when itís finished and
we can do the rest, I think. Say, I'm going to Cardiff tomorrow to scout out a
film location; I'll post it out there.'
excited, not concerned or suspicious at all. It all seemed like great fun, a
bit like a TV thriller. Maybe she would star in one soon!
continued; 'Stay indoors 'til we get you a job; I'll find a wig from the studio
and this weekend we'll make you up so your own Mum won't recognise you! See you