Read Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl for Free Online Page B

remembering their real names and so he often attached a sobriquet to them and used that. Mary was called Molly because of her Irish blood and thick reddish hair.
    Justine and Cheryl took this as a sign that they should disengage, and they slid the thick device from their sexes. They both stood and waited for Jeremiah to lead them to Stoner’s bedroom. Rarely were the girls allowed to pass from one room to another in the mansion without an escort. And they were never, ever, permitted to open a closed door. This obviated the need for locks on the doors, for the girls would hardly hazard punishment by moving from room to room without permission. If the house were afire, they would experience intense conflict about whether to flee or not.
    And if one of the involuntary inmates determined to flout the rule and seek an escape from Stoner’s cruel clutches, there was nowhere to go anyway. Any native within 100 miles would know where they came from and would turn them in in a minute. Their reward would be sure to be ample. There was always the jungle, but it doubtful that any of the otherwise pampered ladies would last more than a day there.
    Stoner left Jeremiah to deal with his slaves. He walked out onto the veranda, holding his drink in his hand. The mansion stood on a hill in the middle of the residence compound. From the porch he could see the lights on in the soldiers’ barracks. Music and laughter could be heard drifting over the well manicured grass. A woman screamed; more laughter. Some native girls were getting a humping, he mused. Lying before the mansion was the huge lake that was fed by the Kenga River. The shimmering full moon created a spotlight on the water. Stoner could see the seaplane he used to import vital goods and fresh white slaves. The plane drifted silently, catching a glint of moonbeam on its smooth, white surface.
    To the left of the mansion, further away, were the native huts. A faint jungle beat of drums could be heard, a nightly tribal ritual. There was no electrical service to the huts, and the sparkle of candlelight from the open windows of the numerous huts looked like a bed of shiny diamonds cast across the valley.
    Stoner loved Africa, not the Africa of wild, untamed jungles and vast savannahs. He cared little for the cackles of the rainforest birds, the bright colorful splashes of flowers, the unspoiled vistas. His loved his Africa, the Africa of white masters and servile natives. He loved to wrestle wealth from its soil, watch while acres of forest were cleared to serve his industrial machine.
    Stoner took another gulp from his glass. All that he could see was his and more. Here he ruled. For 10,000 square miles, no human could challenge his will. Tomorrow, he would enforce his will. The celebration evident in the barracks was in anticipation of the havoc he would wreak in the morrow. Good times would be had by all.
    Finishing his drink, Stoner stumbled back into the house. He was nearing his limit for the night. He had some fucking to do before he slept, and that cunt Cheryl was due a whipping. It would not do to promise a whipping and not give it.
    When Stoner entered his bedroom he saw that his wives had been well prepared. Cheryl was fastened to a chain, hands aloft. She grimaced visibly when she saw him. “Good,” he thought. He enjoyed her fear. Of all of his wives, he enjoyed tormenting her the most. She had a simple elegance that cried out for blows. She had a noble visage, high cheeks and a delicate line to her jaw. Her eyes were soft, almost unfocused. Her breasts were not large, like Mary’s, but much more than a handful. Long, thick teats were set upon silver dollar sized, dark red aureoles. Her hips were curvaceous with a gentle slope to her loins. Her thighs were sculpted and long. He would beat her breasts tonight, he thought.
    Justine lay on the bed, perpendicular to the mattress. Her head lay just over the edge, tilted down. Her legs were spread wide, tied off to the bed’s