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Naked Cargo by Victor Bruno

EXTRACT FOR
Naked Cargo 
(Victor Bruno)


Naked Cargo

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 atall, 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!