Outside, beyond the confines of the house, the waves crashed against the shoreline. To reach the island, as I learned later, you had to guide your boat carefully into the one harbor where access was possible. That was one reason why the island wound up in the hands of one man; it had been regarded as useless, uninhabitable, until he found the one place where a boat might safely moor. Then, using his own money, after buying the island from a speculator, he widened the access point just enough so that his own craft could slip ashore, guided by his own experienced hands. Now I myself was below the level of the sea beyond, down in a basement. It was hewn from the hard rock that composed the island. The weight of the house stood above me, around me, imprisoning me in its depths. And within this sanctuary from the sea, I stood stark naked. I flicked the whip I held against my aunt’s nude, agonized bottom. She ran with panting breaths upon the treadmill, shrieking at every mark I made upon her fanny. I painted her bottom a cruel red with the whip’s sharp tail. Beyond, bouncing on the bench where my boyfriend lay, could be seen the twin lovely white bottoms of Chrissy and Pauline. Chrissy’s faced me directly. Pauline’s could be seen with a glance at a cleverly placed mirror. Both women huffed and puffed as they used my boyfriend to bring themselves to orgasm. His tongue pierced Pauline deeply in her cunt. His penis, rock hard as the walls which enclosed us, thrust much more deeply into the cunny of Chrissy. Both women’s long hair bounced and tumbled on their shoulders and backs as they worked themselves into a frenzy upon my boyfriend’s jutting organ and tongue. I wanted to rescue Brad, he seemed so used by the women, as if he were just an object. I wanted to run over to where they were sitting on him, using him like some obscene bench, equipped for their pleasure, and use my whip on their fannies. But I could not. John, the man who bought and built this island, watched my every move. With his dark hands he regulated the tempo at which my aunt had to run. He adjusted the treadmill’s speed, making her run faster or slower. He called out to me to whip her when he felt I was dawdling. And if he felt I was whipping her too quickly, not giving her time to savor each stroke as I applied it, he commanded me to slow down. Steve watched his wife fuck my boyfriend. He frisked his long penis, hating seeing her pleasure herself on another man, and yet excited by it. Perhaps that’s why they’d chosen to come, to test themselves. To test their love for each other by participating in a party where everyone had to fuck everyone else. “Mmmmfff!” my aunt begged over the bit that was jammed into her mouth. I couldn’t make out what she was saying. John, however, apparently could, for he replied, “You will be permitted to get off the treadmill, white girl, when you have filled up this bag with pee.” A long plastic catheter ran from a bag lying on a table up between my aunt’s legs. It penetrated her urethra and trailed all the way up into her bladder. There, a small inflated bag of air kept it in place inside her bladder, while permitting an open-mouthed tube to receive her pee and communicate it down the long catheter into the receptacle bag on the table. It was a bag just like one wears after surgery, except my aunt had needed no surgery. John had thrust the bag up between her healthy young legs to add to her torture. I watched with horrified eyes as my aunt, her bottom flayed, suddenly released a stream of yellow urine down the clear plastic tube and deposited it on the table. It sloshed in the yellow bag lying on the table, rocked by the rhythym of her running legs. Rebecca looked down at the contents of her bladder, now displayed for all to see upon the table. Her bare bosoms jostled on her chest. Her flat tummy drew in with fright. Her ribs stuck out along her sides, looking succulent, as if she might be barbecued. We would eat her after her run, savoring the bits of flesh that clung to her well-cooked ribs. I shivered. I was a prisoner, and yet I was tasked with tormenting my aunt. I let the whip fly again, hurting her bottom, making her shriek. I was getting the hang of it. I could make the whip strike her fanny while avoiding her thighs, leaving them unmarked so we could enjoy their tanned beauty, even as I turned her poor bottom into a mass of red-ribboned welts. Her back, too I managed to avoid, concentrating solely on her ass. It was so soft, so tender and lovely, the skin white where I had not struck it (hardly anyplace now). The bottom was the seat of a female’s beauty, I thought. While the back and the legs might go uncovered, the bottom remained covered always, except for a lover. Then it was revealed and, like the cunt, given over to the lover for his own private pleasure. Now, though, my poor aunt had been deprived of her privacy in that special place. Her cunt was visibly moist and John, guiding her steps, could peer at it between her running legs with abandon. And her bottom was at my mercy. I was no better off. I was nude, like my aunt. I wore a dog collar around my neck and, incongrously, a short bib also, with Tweety Bird on it. The bib though was too little to cover my bosoms, which hung freely beneath it, the perkiness of my nipples showing my excitment and easily seen by anyone. My tummy stretched between my breasts and my cunt, tight and scared. My legs stood slightly apart, showing my pussy. Behind me, my bottom huddled against the chill of the room, shivering with the prospect of being whipped by my aunt. John had promised that I would whip her, and then she would whip me. “Oooh! I have to go to the bathroom too!” I told John. My voice felt abject. I disliked having to tell him my needs, but I’d drank too much at dinner and now I could feel it sloshing around in my tummy whenever I swung the whip. I put my hand to my pussy. John looked past my aunt and regarded me. “There is no toilet down here,” he told me. “But I have a second bag,” he said. He lifted up an empty bag and showed it to me. “As soon as she’s finished, I’ll put you on the treadmill. I’ll thread the bag up between your legs and you can pee while you’re running, just like she is.” I trembled. I rubbed my cunt briskly with my fingers. “Oooooh! I don’t want to pee into that awful bag!” I told John. And I could hear Pauline’s voice, inside my head, in response, though in reality she was swooning at this moment upon my boyfriend’s face, and incapable of speech: “That’s the purpose of our party. To try new things, to challenge ourselves.” But I still didn’t want to wear a wicked bag, and have to pee in it. “Whip your aunt,” John ordered me. “Give her another stroke, or it’ll be worse for you when it’s your turn.” “Oh, noooo!” I cried. My voice was sorrowful. But I let the whip sing across my aunt’s fanny again, scoring her anew. She shouted, she ran with quick steps. She wanted to reach back and protect herself with her hands, but they were cruelly bound above her head with leather restraints. No other man, not even my boyfriend, could have put me in this predicament, I told myself. But John was black, huge, with a 12-inch-penis. He had rippling muscles and implacable dark eyes. What he commanded, he got. And in his case, he loved nothing more than finding white girls like me and my aunt and making us be his slaves. Technically, it was still just a party. We were celebrating ourselves and each other. We were here by choice. But in reality, there was no way to leave. Not without John’s permission. We were here for the duration, until he got bored with us. Only he could guide us back home on his boat. Only he could command with authority the dogs who roamed the island. We would do his bidding for several days yet, suffering or not, as he chose. He would judge our performance and punish or reward us according to how well we obeyed. “Whip harder!” Pauline called gleefully from across the room. She was in the throes of ecstacy now. She bounced on my boyfriend’s face and watched me with half-lidded eyes. Chrissy, her ass facing me, even deigned to give me orders. “Yes, harder!” Chrissy cried with delight. She shrieked as my boyfriend’s penis, thrusting up inside her, took her over the edge. They were wanton, Pauline and Chrissy. They were brazen with lust and loving every tortuous thing they could do to my poor boyfriend. They clutched at him with their legs. They worked their hips upon him as if he were some exercise machine, like the other machines down here, built to order, made to fuck. Steve, watching, loosed his sperm suddenly, spewing it into Pauline’s hair. She turned. She grabbed at his cock with her open mouth. She caught his big thing between her teeth, and sucked on him, biting him and making him wince. He groaned. My boyfriend, both women sitting on him, called out some obscene phrase. Then, with a shudder, he fired his sperm up into Chrissy’s womb. I couldn’t see it directly but the lewd woman called out to all of us that Brad was fucking her. “Oooh! He’s giving it to me! He’s sperming me!” Chrissy’s high-pitched voice cried with frantic delight. Pauline, hearing it, jammed her crotch down more fully on Brad’s face. It was as if she, seeing her friend getting spermed between her legs by Brad’s cock, expected him to perform the same jetting feat with his tongue. In the event it was Steve who spermed her, filling her mouth with his seed as my boyfriend’s tongue wedged deeply into her cunt. “Oh! I have to pee!” I said insistently to John. I rubbed my fleecy cunt harder. I did have to go, but I wanted to cum too, and I hoped I could use the cover of needing to pee to masturbate myself to my own orgasm. My aunt, her arms strung up above her head, ran with a frantic motion. I supposed she too wished she could frig herself, make herself cum, in unison with the others. John, casually stroking his cock, suddenly spurted cum all over my aunt’s belly. “Ahhh, that’s better,” John remarked to himself. My aunt looked down at herself and the mess he’d made. “What’s the matter, bitch? Don’t you like having a black man’s sperm on you?” John asked. He laughed. “I should have made you get off the treadmill and pumped it up between your legs.” “We don’t want any nigger’s sperm,” I told John. He glared at me. “You’ll get more than a cuntfull of sperm from me, little girl,” he said. “I’m too young. And your penis is too big, nigger,” I said to him. It was true, too. I was only 13 and he was, like, over 20, too old for me even to count. I could count the numbers, of course, any girl could do that, but I had no idea what it was really like to be that old. Fourteen seemed a long ways off to me. I wouldn’t be that age until December. Twenty, or however much over 20 John was, seemed an impossible age to understand. It didn’t stop him from glaring at me, though, knowing I was still little and probably couldn’t take him up between my legs even if I’d wanted to. “Just wait, bitch,” John said to me. He finished rubbing himself and spurting his sperm all over my aunt’s belly. White stuff dripped down between her legs and drooled off her crotch, as if she herself were a man, but it was all John’s sperm that now dripped down between her running legs on to the moving treadmill. “Ahhh,” Chrissy said, across the room, receiving the last thrusts of my boyfriend’s cock. Pauline sighed with delight. “God, that felt good,” Steve admitted. He pumped himself into Pauline’s lips, savoring the chance to rid himself of his load of sperm. We’d played for so long. At last some of us were getting what we’d cum for. Except me, of course, and my poor aunt, running on the treadmill. I rubbed my slit with increasing urgency. I had to pee, but I needed something else too. I wasn’t sure how I’d get it now, with all three men having just spent themselves, but it didn’t stop me from trying anyway. “You’re just a big, black nigger!” I told John. I looked at him with a frankness that spoke volumes. I didn’t just want to tease anymore. I wanted to be taken. I was desperate for him to jump on me and grab me and do to me what my boyfriend had just been forced to do to Pauline and Chrissy. “That’s it!” John swore. He let go of his cock and grabbed the slender catheter that ran up between my aunt’s legs. He turned off the treadmill. My aunt gasped and clung to the bar over her head. The treadmill slowed, stopped. My aunt panted with relief. As I watched, mesmeraized, John carefully removed the catheter from my aunt’s body. He pinched it off with a plastic clip so that her pee, collected in the bag on the table, wouldn’t run out onto the floor. Then he stood up. He unfastened my aunt’s hands. With a whoosh of relief my aunt collapsed over the front of the treadmill, where the controls for it lay. The treadmill started again, by accident, but it trundled along at a slow speed, and she walked on it, breathing deep and hard as her body recovered from its exertion. “EEEEEk!” I yelled. John, checking that my aunt was okay, turned to me. “No! I’m sorry!” I cried. He darted at me. I swung my whip at him, but it was like trying to defend yourself with a whip against a charging rhinosaurus. The whip bit his shoulder. He ignored it. A moment later he’d scooped me up off the floor and was glaring into my eyes as I wiggled in his arms. Like a dolt, I dropped the whip, leaving myself defenseless. “Now I have you, white girl,” John said to me. “Oook! I’m very, very sorry I called you a nigger, sir,” I said to him in all honesty. He glanced at my bare bosoms, wobbling like stiff-nippled jello on my chest. “Chloe, I’m going to set you down on the floor and I’m going to put a catheter up between your legs, just like I did to your aunt,” John said to me. His voice was surprisingly gently. I felt the steel of his muscled arms cradling me and suddenly wanted very much to comply. “Yes, sir,” I said. I shivered. “Must you whip me too?” “A little,” John said, again amazing me with how gentle his voice was. “But just on your bottom.” “Okay,” I said. My assent came out all lispy, as if this was, in fact, what I’d been waiting for, but was too scared to admit to myself. John set me down on my bare feet. Openly he admired my small, nude 13-year-old body. “I really do have to go to the bathroom,” I told him, wiggling my hips. “I know,” John said. “Let me get the catheter and run it up between your legs and then you can pee all you want.” He drew me over to the treadmill. My aunt stepped down off it. Her face was flushed. Her bottom was even redder than her face and she clutched at it ruefully. She gazed at me, accusingly, but too weary to say anything. I gulped. I averted my eyes from hers. John reached over to the table where a fresh bag waited and picked up the coil of a catheter that was attached to it. He unravelled the tubing. Then he greased the end of it with lubricant and, turning to me, cradled me where I stood with an arm placed around my hips. I felt wanted, needed. I put a finger in my mouth and contemplated the catheter. Its tip was shiny with oil. “Now I must put this up you,” John told me. Our eyes met. I smiled, slightly. I sucked hard on my finger. He pushed the catheter up between my legs. “Ooohh! It hoits!” I cried. “Shhhh, it just feels uncomfortable,” John told me. Then, wickedly, he drew the end of the catheter back out of me. “I’d love to fuck your pee hole with this,” he said. “Oh, don’t!” I gasped. “Yes, I’ll put it in and out,” John said. “Watch. I can make you pee in the bag the minute I slide the catheter up and breach your bladder. And, when I pull the cath back down, the spincter at the base of your bladder will close, automatically. Unless you will yourself to keep peeing, of course, or can’t bring yourself to stop.” “EEEchchch!” I said, gritting my teeth, for already he was introducing the catheter into me again, sliding its lubed tip up, my aunt giggling now, watching me from behind, savoring the sight of my white bare huddling ass cheeks, soon to be whipped by her own hand. Up, up, up went the catheter, sliding up between my legs like some narrow male penis. At last I felt the wicked thing poke into my bladder. My pee immediately began racing from my bladder down the tubing, along its length and into the bag on the table. John pulled the catheter down. I fought to restrain myself and my pee stopped. “Yes. Now up again,” John said. But instead he pulled the catheter down. He removed it from me. Impulsively he kissed my pussy with his lips. His big, broad-lipped mouth sucked upon the lips of my slit with animal relish. “God, you have such a small, tight little hole,” John murmured. I could control myself no more. John’s tickling lips sent me over the edge. The pee I’d fought so hard to retain suddenly burst from between my legs. “Oh! I’m peeing on you!” I confessed in a frantic voice to John. He hardly needed to hear me say it. My yellow urine spouted out onto his face, drenching him. I thrust my fingers between my legs, trying to stop it, yet in the end spreading my cunt with relief so I could pee it all out on his face, reluctant though I was to do so. “I’m sorry, nigger,” I said to him. Then, gasping, I added, “Ooops! I didn’t mean to call you a nigger.” John froze between my legs. It was like, he hated what I was doing to him, and he was shocked, but at the same time he was also perversely delighted. He let my pee run down over his swarthy, handsome features. For a moment his lips held firm to my cunt. Then he began kissing me again, even as I peed all over his big black face. You can imagine the sight of it: my white, thin, 13-year-old legs, forcibly separated by his big black head, and me wetting all over his slave-like face. John stood up. As he stood, strangely, he kissed my bare belly. One kiss, as if to thank me for what I’d done to him, before he had to re-assume his role of Master, and punish me for it. He rose like a giant over me and he looked down upon me. I lifted my eyes guiltily. “Chloe, I’m going to have to punish you for what you just did to me,” John said to me in his amazingly gentle voice. “Oh, please don’t,” I begged. “I can’t let you tell all your friends that you peed on me,” John said. “Oh, I won’t! Anyways all my friends are in America!” I said. “It’s a long ways from France to America!” John shook his head ‘no.’ “You’ll tell your girlfriends, sooner or later, what you did to me. A white girl, to a black man,” John said. “And they’ll all laugh, unless-- unless you’re forced to tell them how the story ended.” “It doesn’t need to have an ending, does it?” I gasped. He put his big, rough hand down between my legs and rubbed my pussy. “Yes it does,” John said. “Yes it does.” He turned to his wife. She was detatching herself from my boyfriend’s tongue. She rose from the bench where he lay prostrate, on his back. Chrissy, having satisfied herself on his erection, got up off it. Both women walked away from Brad, leaving him to collect his thoughts and to regain his composure. Brad lay unmoving. His penis, once stiff, gradually declined in size until it lay used and spent between his legs, no harder than a dishrag. “Come on, we’ll take her upstairs. We have to go pee,” Pauline said to her husband. “Give her and and her aunt over to the white slave boys,” John said. “Tie them side by side in a bed and let the two slave boys with the emeralds in their dicks mount them and take them however they please for the night.” He looked at my aunt’s bottom. “And she’ll need someone to tend to her ass, also. In the morning, I’ll see to Chloe’s hiney. She will be punished for peeing in my face, and calling me a nigger.” “Yes, honey,” Pauline said to her husband. “Oh, don’t be too hard on her!” Chrissy said. “She was messy at dinner, and she called my husband a nigger time and again,” Pauline said. “In the morning we will entertain ourselves with her punishment.” “Oh, and we’re going to carry each other’s children. Don’t forget!” Chrissy said. She looked at John’s penis. “Yes,” Pauline agreed. “We shall do that also. Skip taking your pill in the morning, when you get up. Come, I’ll show you and your husband to your bedroom.” She looked at my boyfriend, lying upon the bench. “Unless, that is, you prefer spending the night with him.” “Oh, he was wonderful,” Chrissy said. “But I’d like to fall asleep in the arms of my husband.” “Very well. Come, then,” Pauline said. Together, both women took hold of my aunt. They tutted over the state of her bottom, pitying her in a pityless way, and walked her toward the steps. Chrissy grabbed my hand and pulled me along with them. “Oh, I don’t want to go! I want to cum!” I said. I frisked my crotch with my hand. I was quite eager for it now, though I hated admitting it to myself. “You shall be taken care of upstairs,” Pauline said. “I want him!” I said, pointing to her husband. “I want to be fucked my him!” I don’t know why I said it. Did the challenge of being fucked by a big black man, with his 12-inch penis, tempt me beyond the limits of my good sense? I don’t know. But I do know one thing-- threatened with punishment that seemed absolutely certain to befall me, I didn’t call him a nigger anymore. Upstairs, the two white slave boys were made to fuck me and my aunt until we screamed for them to stop. The next morning, as the sun rose, I was bathed and prepared. I was offered breakfast on a silver tray, by my bedside, but I declined. My aunt was escorted to another room so that I couldn’t turn to her for solace as I was readied for my punishment. The slave boys who had used me so remorselessly during the night were the ones who made me ready for my ordeal. They wore emerald jewels in their cocks once more, their faces were subdued. They put my makeup on. They brushed my hair. They painted, with delicate grace, my fingernails and my toenails. During the night the twin slave boys had lorded themselves over me. They were the Masters of my bed. Fucking me, fucking my aunt. Now they were submissive once more. But, despite their gentle, coaxing hands, they were firm with me. When I tried to speak, they ordered me to be quiet. They made it clear I’d be gagged if I couldn’t keep my mouth shut on my own. When I tried to move, without their permission, they told me they had full authority to whip me themselves, right here in my bedroom, if I couldn’t find it in myself to obey. I was very obedient, once they showed me the many-thonged whip John had given them, to enforce my compliance. I let them make me up like a doll and dress me in provacative clothes. Then, after offering me breakfast once more, they took me downstairs. “She refuses to eat, Master,” the slaves said to John, who was eating downstairs at the dining table. He wore purple robes, like a king. Pauline and Chrissy and Brad and Steve sat with him. My aunt, it was said, was lying face down in a room of her own, her bottom recovering from the whipping I’d given her. “She is frightened, that’s all,” Pauline said to her husband. “I don’t want to be--” “QUIET, Chloe! You will speak when I order it, and not when I don’t,” John told me. I shivered. I glanced down at myself. I was dressed all in white. My hair was pulled into twin pigtails, each tied with a pretty white bow. I wore a small white tank top. It left my shoulders bare, as well as my arms. It just covered the swell of my tits. My flat belly was bare, but I wore white stockings. They were made of elastic and clung to my legs. There were ribbons sewn into them, at the top of each of my thighs, so that they could be pulled tight, to keep them from falling down. Above each snugly-tied ribbon, banding my leg, was a decorative frill of lace. I loved the stockings, but I wished they’d given me something more substantial to wear with them. Instead, I had only white high-heels, fastened to my feet with thin straps, and white panties. The panties were narrow in back and I had to reach behind myself and pull them out of my ass crack to keep my behind properly covered. ‘Keep them on, if you can,’ one of the two slave boys had told me, upstairs in my bedroom. ‘Your punishment will hurt less if you can manage to keep on your underwear.’ I asked for a dress. They told me none had been authorized. “Ah, she is a pretty slave girl, is she not?” John asked his guests at the table. They all nodded. I looked at Brad for salvation but he gazed from me down to his plate. It was heaped with eggs and toast. He speared his food and avoided my pleading eyes. “How are your bottoms, young men, since I strapped you last night?” “Fine, sir,” one of the two slave boys answered. “We look forward to more instruction from Your Highness.” “Very good,” John said. “You will leave Chloe here with me now. Go upstairs and attend to her aunt. She will need your sperm on her bottom so it can heal properly.” “We put lotion on it last night, sir, between fucking her and her neice,” one of the slave boys answered. “Yes. Very good,” John said. “But when you fucked her last night, did you not pump your seed up between her legs?” “Of course, sir,” a slave boy answered. “And her bottom too,” the other one said. “But we refrained from taking Chloe that way, knowing you would wish to have her that way yourself.” I froze, where I was standing, and felt my tummy churn. John was going to fuck me up the ass? How could he? I wasn’t even big enough to take his penis the normal way! “Very good,” John said. He put a mouthful of food in his mouth and chewed it slowly. The two slave boys waiting until he spoke again. “Now, white boys, I want you two slaves of mine to go upstairs and sperm the bottom of Chloe’s aunt. Oil and lotion and cream are fine, but what a young woman really needs smeared all over her ass is male sperm. Both of you will cum all over her ass for her, do you understand? Not once, not even twice. Three times, at least. Sperm her, boys! Do your duty! I want Rebecca’s ass to be covered with so much sperm it looks like an iced cake! Spend yourselves on her with the same abandon you pumped yourselves into her last night.” “Yes, sir!” both slave boys said. They saluted John. There was a wicked gleam in their eyes. They left the room, jauntily, rubbing their wickedly displayed penises, and I knew now why they’d both agreed to be slaves of a black man, who had a taste for whipping their heinies. They endured the punishment, because the pleasure was the most any randy young boy could hope for. “Oh, please sir, I didn’t mean to be so bad last night,” I said to John. I sank to my knees. “Put your hand in your panties,” John told me. “I want them wet. Wet with your own juices. Then we will go outside for your punishment.” “Ooooh!” I cried. I put a finger in my mouth. I sucked it hard. With my other hand, I slipped a finger into my panties. I began frigging myself. I didn’t want to, but what could I do? “I promise to obey everything you say from now on, sir!” I told John. “Indeed. You most certainly will,” John answered.