Smith was sure of it, Cassie was the nastiest little bitch on the whole island and his fucking niece was only 19. How you got to think like she did, to act in the way she did with the various serfs around the place, beggared Smith's imagination. At 19 you are still growing up and learning to be a woman aren't you? You are still learning how to relate to others in society and men in particular. But then just the previous year, soon after her 18th birthday Cassie had got in with that fucking gang of black bastards in Birmingham and she had learned to fuck around for their pleasure. They had dressed her like a slut, taught her to put her cunt up to each stiff black cock and to treat the white boys on the patch as underlings. She used the fact that the 'white trash males' cowered just as soon as mention was made of a gun or a knife. She used it to taunt the white lads on the estate. Soon she had the poor bastards running errands for her, spending money on her fucking leather clothes, just so the smart arsed little bitch could get more black cock.
Then the little bitch had come to stay for a few weeks with Cheryl and himself. She wondered (innocently) whether Smith's wife had ever partied with black guys? No? Well, she could arrange that! She did, and how she did! She had a few of her 'friends' come down to Kent and that night, whilst they fucked Cassie and Cheryl side by side, turn and turn about, on the marriage bed, Smith had spent the night bent double, locked up beneath the stairs. In that tiny space, Smith had listened to the bed rhythmically creaking, the bed head banging out a passion against the wall above. In the otherwise quiet and polite suburban house Smith listened to Cassie climaxing, repeatedly on the stiff black cocks that rammed so brutally into her. Cheryl's huskier, older voice, the voice of a lovely thirty five year old woman was there too, groaning, moaning, begging as a black bastard took her. His wife had gone out in a ridiculously short, an appallingly provocative tight short black leather skirt. It was begging for trouble. There, there beneath the stairs, Smith imagined it hitched up high, his wife's legs up over a black thugs shoulders and the slimy black cock sliding in and out of her till she couldn't handle it any more and bucked back to feel his conquest all the deeper.
Of course Cassie's friends had soon taken one the house and Smith's life became hell. Black guys with big cocks unhinged the moral compass of white women. They prompted the sort of activity that made you doubt your sanity. One night, Cassie chained him outside the back of the house like a fucking dog and Cheryl watched without objection. She was in the arms of a black bastard called Amos. Any of the neighbours might have seen Smith kneeling there, all night, while the women went upstairs with their bottles of wine and the men with the fucking big dicks. It was after that night, after Smith ached from kneeling on the lawn for so fucking long that Cassie told him that the three of them were coming to Brownsea Island. There was this 'school', this Madam called Claire. She was going to teach Cheryl to be a proper bitch and build on what Cassie knew too. Smith was going to be brought along to learn some manners.
After the reception at the landing house, there came a sorting week. It was pretty intense. Smith and the other subdued white males were taken to one facility apart from their wives or relatives. Smith guessed what was happening elsewhere. The women were taking cock and learning to fuck to order, to discover their instincts. He and the others though were learning something rather more brutal. There was this bitch mistress called Bethany. the name, it was so demure, so sweet you'd think, but not a bit of it. The little slut was only in her mid twenties but she was pure acid. She would slap the men's faces without warning and they had to say 'thank you mistress'. There were some physically brooding, threatening black minders who enforced that. The elfin like little bitch must have been brought up the same way as Carrie. She must have hated men, well, white men. She was short tempered so she slapped often and then sometimes Smith watched as some of the guys lost their temper and swore back at her. Then the hidings were brutal and before the rest of them, shared as an example. As well as the discipline there was the profiling. The fucking psychologists seemed to know so much about Smith already. He guessed that the bitch Cassie had told them. She had told them for instance that Smith had bought clothes for his wife, that he had a sense of style and taste in fashion. Then the bastards had insisted that he try on some little black dresses. They were tight, they were short and they made Smith look ridiculous. He was made to wear stockings with them, seamed stockings for Christ's sake. Mistress Bethany came in and curtly told him that he was now going to be taught to wear makeup. Just a little soft petal pink lipstick to begin with, it was what Mistress Cassie preferred. That was the only time that the thugs had to get hold of Smith. He resisted, of course he did. Cursing that 'fucking bitch niece' he had tried to avoid the sensuously emerging pink lippy from the gold sheath and the thugs got hold of him and pushed his arm up his back until he sat still and let the bitch Bethany anoint his lips.
'Press your lips together, to seal the colour' the elfin slut ordered and Smith obeyed.
'You will always dress this way and wear make up in the house when you finish the school here' she ordered him. 'You will wear knickers and stockings, and perfect the makeup or else receive more slaps than you can possibly imagine.'
'Cheryl won't understand this...she won't like it' objected Smith, hating the image that came back at him from the mirror.
The little bitch slapped him. She slapped him sharply.
'You don't ever use a mistress's name, do you understand?'
Smith's cheek smarted like hell. He nodded.
'In any case, ' bitch Bethany continued, 'you are assigned to Mistress Cassie's household. Her lover, Tarquin has a place up in Roehampton where you will go to live.'
Smith stared. His jaw dropped and he stared wide eyed at the little cow with her eye shadow brush now poised in hand, ready for application.
Tarquin....fucking Cassie? Smith's mind whirled like a lock searching combinations for release. The little bitch before him guessed it all.
'Tarquin is here on the alpha male programme, he met Cassie once before at a party and they are so compatible. Mistress Claire checked their profiles and she wants them to take you on for the new severe press initiative. I'm afraid that the regime up in Roehampton will be unrelenting Smith.'
'My niece, she requested this, Mistress' Smith said. It was pretty near insolence, pretty near a slapping sin, but he hoped that by calling her mistress that he might escape that.
'Close your eyes so that I can apply the eye shadow' said the bitch Bethany. 'You will always wear this shade of blue, raven blue, to match your young mistress's lovely dark hair,' his trainer ordered. Smith closed his eyes and did his best not to weep. He closed his eyes, feeling the grip of his minders dirty great big hand on his arm up his back. He felt the brush start to stroke his eyelids, and then the little bitch said. 'Yes, Carrie wanted you as their chamber maid, she has persuaded that someone else should be assigned to Mistress Cheryl. She is going to live in Normandy with her lover, Jean-Paul. I think he comes from the Ivory Coast.'
It felt to Smith like someone had tied a belt tight around the middle of his stomach. He felt the gastric reflux in his throat, he had the urge to retch.
'There, look in the mirror. Notice how the shadow is a little darker towards the corners and lighter over the arch of your lid, that is how you must arrange it' said the bitch.
Smith stared into the mirror. He looked like a fucking freak! He looked like something out of the rocky horror show!
'The more you please your young mistress the more tolerable your life will be' Bitch Bethany said, watching her trainee grimace. 'Tarquin is ruthless Smith. People have accidents, getting their feet stuck in blocks of concrete, on boats, on the Thames. Do you understand? The home is refined, smart, and you will learn to be discreet, malleable, supportive.'
Smith nodded, his head screaming no, but his heart sunk down to the bottom of his gut. The thug released his arm. He checked his face with the aching hand that had been bent back high up between his shoulder blades.
'Now, run along with Brewster here to attend your young mistress in her chambers. I will have report of how you did, and decide whether you need then to report to Mistress Claire's office.'
That shook Smith. It shook him to the quick. He'd heard about trips to that office. Sometimes men never returned. Sometimes it was rumoured that they might get buried beneath a grapevine some place. He started to beg, silently with his lips. Please, please. The thought of his fucking niece inspecting him this way! The thought of her lording it over him! The terrible penalty if he didn't comply.
'Do as you're told Smith. Cassie is your mistress now. Do as she tells you' said Mistress Bethany. It was spoken so calmly.
Brewster led the way through the corridors, along the passage way in a building that looked like a priory but probably functioned like a brothel. The walls were hung with expensive tapestries and drapes. It was a continuous festival of Bacchus on the walls. Smith thought of running, but how far did you get in high heels before Brewster laid hands on you and marched you immediately to the Head Bitch Mistress's office? They went up a spiral staircase, Smith awkwardly, and along another long corridor until they reached the surprisingly large and sumptuous quarters of his young bitch niece. Brewster knocked on the heavy oak door and Cassie admitted them in, dressed in a close fitting black leather dress. She was expensively adorned in jewellery, a Gucci necklace and a fucking gold Rolex on her wrist. Where did they find these fucking rich beau's for them? Smith eyed her suspiciously, sure that the little cow would laugh at him. But in fact, in fact, she seemed cautious, nervous. This was after all, a transition, a trial for her too. If Smith cut up rough, if he was provoked beyond discipline prematurely, then what might Mistress Claire think?
His fucking niece nodded to Brewster and Smith was forced down onto his knees. Brewster asked whether mistress wanted Smith controlled with a neck tourniquet and the slut said yes, softly, quietly, 'it might be best'. The tourniquet consisted of a thick strap of rubber, with a hole inserted through one end so that it could be twisted tighter. The thing was wrapped around Smith's neck, his body shaking as it was fitted.
Then, oh fuck, his bitch niece moved before Smith and turning three quarters, she hitched the back hem of her dress up and presented the perfect orb of her bottom inches before his face. Brewster nudged the back of Smith's head. He was to lick the bitch's arse. With every sinew of his body beckoning him to cut and run Smith did the opposite. He licked the left cheek of her fucking arse. Her skin was perfect, tight, young, smooth and scented with her body. She had been coupling with them, Tarquin, perhaps others too at this stage in her schooling.
'Breathe in' ordered Brewster, 'smell what your mistress is scented of. Learn to remember it, to welcome it.' The fucker had a deep base voice. You knew, you did, that he had done this before. Other men had been brought to chambers and made to kneel. Smith's bitch niece grew in confidence. Smiling at Brewster, thanking him for his quietly insistent help, she moved about and looking back and down she watched Smith lick her other buttock.
'I wanted this, I asked Claire to allow it' she said slowly, feeling the sweep of Smith's tongue over her skin. 'I despise you, all your prim and proper judging of my life, all those emails that you sent about me to my parents. But it doesn't matter now does it, I am going to own you'.
The little bitch pulled her left buttock slightly to one side. Her fingers manicured, the expensive watch, chic on her wrist. Her botty hole beckoned, peach around the edge, dark within, a plug of semen peeping out. Brewster tightened the tourniquet and Smith licked. He licked where he didn't want to....ever. His nasty little bitch niece sighed. Rubbing her rear against is face she mewed....
'That's better Smith...lick it clean.'
The more Smith licked the more oozed out. Mistress Cassie fucked the way that the black man wanted.
'Cheryl doesn't want to see your again, but if you do as Tarquin and I tell you, I will let you send her letters in France' the bitch niece said.
She turned and looked down at Smith, his pink blush lips now smeared with semen. He looked as though he had eaten a soft white ice cream. She wanted to laugh, but she didn't. He had a response to make.
'Thank you mistress' Smith mumbled, with the barest tweak of the tourniquet.
'Now....you must lick my cunt, very gently, very reverently, do you think that you can learn to do that Smith?' she asked, glancing at Brewster and then back to him. A tweak of the tourniquet suggested that he could.
'Yes mistress' he said hoarsely.
[Candidly, sissification isn't a personal turn on, I wouldn't want a man serving me that way. But the island is a place of so many dark art disciplines, so many tastes, so I hope that this works for some of you. The readership is all! I've started a few possible storylines now, those that can interweave through the next novel, 'The Island of Intimacy'. It will be enjoyable as a stand alone novel, but for those of you who appreciate the deeper, incremental pleasures and discoveries, it all started in 'The Intimacy of Three'. (Amazon download and print). BW Lutheran Maid. ]
Then the little bitch had come to stay for a few weeks with Cheryl and himself. She wondered (innocently) whether Smith's wife had ever partied with black guys? No? Well, she could arrange that! She did, and how she did! She had a few of her 'friends' come down to Kent and that night, whilst they fucked Cassie and Cheryl side by side, turn and turn about, on the marriage bed, Smith had spent the night bent double, locked up beneath the stairs. In that tiny space, Smith had listened to the bed rhythmically creaking, the bed head banging out a passion against the wall above. In the otherwise quiet and polite suburban house Smith listened to Cassie climaxing, repeatedly on the stiff black cocks that rammed so brutally into her. Cheryl's huskier, older voice, the voice of a lovely thirty five year old woman was there too, groaning, moaning, begging as a black bastard took her. His wife had gone out in a ridiculously short, an appallingly provocative tight short black leather skirt. It was begging for trouble. There, there beneath the stairs, Smith imagined it hitched up high, his wife's legs up over a black thugs shoulders and the slimy black cock sliding in and out of her till she couldn't handle it any more and bucked back to feel his conquest all the deeper.
Of course Cassie's friends had soon taken one the house and Smith's life became hell. Black guys with big cocks unhinged the moral compass of white women. They prompted the sort of activity that made you doubt your sanity. One night, Cassie chained him outside the back of the house like a fucking dog and Cheryl watched without objection. She was in the arms of a black bastard called Amos. Any of the neighbours might have seen Smith kneeling there, all night, while the women went upstairs with their bottles of wine and the men with the fucking big dicks. It was after that night, after Smith ached from kneeling on the lawn for so fucking long that Cassie told him that the three of them were coming to Brownsea Island. There was this 'school', this Madam called Claire. She was going to teach Cheryl to be a proper bitch and build on what Cassie knew too. Smith was going to be brought along to learn some manners.
After the reception at the landing house, there came a sorting week. It was pretty intense. Smith and the other subdued white males were taken to one facility apart from their wives or relatives. Smith guessed what was happening elsewhere. The women were taking cock and learning to fuck to order, to discover their instincts. He and the others though were learning something rather more brutal. There was this bitch mistress called Bethany. the name, it was so demure, so sweet you'd think, but not a bit of it. The little slut was only in her mid twenties but she was pure acid. She would slap the men's faces without warning and they had to say 'thank you mistress'. There were some physically brooding, threatening black minders who enforced that. The elfin like little bitch must have been brought up the same way as Carrie. She must have hated men, well, white men. She was short tempered so she slapped often and then sometimes Smith watched as some of the guys lost their temper and swore back at her. Then the hidings were brutal and before the rest of them, shared as an example. As well as the discipline there was the profiling. The fucking psychologists seemed to know so much about Smith already. He guessed that the bitch Cassie had told them. She had told them for instance that Smith had bought clothes for his wife, that he had a sense of style and taste in fashion. Then the bastards had insisted that he try on some little black dresses. They were tight, they were short and they made Smith look ridiculous. He was made to wear stockings with them, seamed stockings for Christ's sake. Mistress Bethany came in and curtly told him that he was now going to be taught to wear makeup. Just a little soft petal pink lipstick to begin with, it was what Mistress Cassie preferred. That was the only time that the thugs had to get hold of Smith. He resisted, of course he did. Cursing that 'fucking bitch niece' he had tried to avoid the sensuously emerging pink lippy from the gold sheath and the thugs got hold of him and pushed his arm up his back until he sat still and let the bitch Bethany anoint his lips.
'Press your lips together, to seal the colour' the elfin slut ordered and Smith obeyed.
'You will always dress this way and wear make up in the house when you finish the school here' she ordered him. 'You will wear knickers and stockings, and perfect the makeup or else receive more slaps than you can possibly imagine.'
'Cheryl won't understand this...she won't like it' objected Smith, hating the image that came back at him from the mirror.
The little bitch slapped him. She slapped him sharply.
'You don't ever use a mistress's name, do you understand?'
Smith's cheek smarted like hell. He nodded.
'In any case, ' bitch Bethany continued, 'you are assigned to Mistress Cassie's household. Her lover, Tarquin has a place up in Roehampton where you will go to live.'
Smith stared. His jaw dropped and he stared wide eyed at the little cow with her eye shadow brush now poised in hand, ready for application.
Tarquin....fucking Cassie? Smith's mind whirled like a lock searching combinations for release. The little bitch before him guessed it all.
'Tarquin is here on the alpha male programme, he met Cassie once before at a party and they are so compatible. Mistress Claire checked their profiles and she wants them to take you on for the new severe press initiative. I'm afraid that the regime up in Roehampton will be unrelenting Smith.'
'My niece, she requested this, Mistress' Smith said. It was pretty near insolence, pretty near a slapping sin, but he hoped that by calling her mistress that he might escape that.
'Close your eyes so that I can apply the eye shadow' said the bitch Bethany. 'You will always wear this shade of blue, raven blue, to match your young mistress's lovely dark hair,' his trainer ordered. Smith closed his eyes and did his best not to weep. He closed his eyes, feeling the grip of his minders dirty great big hand on his arm up his back. He felt the brush start to stroke his eyelids, and then the little bitch said. 'Yes, Carrie wanted you as their chamber maid, she has persuaded that someone else should be assigned to Mistress Cheryl. She is going to live in Normandy with her lover, Jean-Paul. I think he comes from the Ivory Coast.'
It felt to Smith like someone had tied a belt tight around the middle of his stomach. He felt the gastric reflux in his throat, he had the urge to retch.
'There, look in the mirror. Notice how the shadow is a little darker towards the corners and lighter over the arch of your lid, that is how you must arrange it' said the bitch.
Smith stared into the mirror. He looked like a fucking freak! He looked like something out of the rocky horror show!
'The more you please your young mistress the more tolerable your life will be' Bitch Bethany said, watching her trainee grimace. 'Tarquin is ruthless Smith. People have accidents, getting their feet stuck in blocks of concrete, on boats, on the Thames. Do you understand? The home is refined, smart, and you will learn to be discreet, malleable, supportive.'
Smith nodded, his head screaming no, but his heart sunk down to the bottom of his gut. The thug released his arm. He checked his face with the aching hand that had been bent back high up between his shoulder blades.
'Now, run along with Brewster here to attend your young mistress in her chambers. I will have report of how you did, and decide whether you need then to report to Mistress Claire's office.'
That shook Smith. It shook him to the quick. He'd heard about trips to that office. Sometimes men never returned. Sometimes it was rumoured that they might get buried beneath a grapevine some place. He started to beg, silently with his lips. Please, please. The thought of his fucking niece inspecting him this way! The thought of her lording it over him! The terrible penalty if he didn't comply.
'Do as you're told Smith. Cassie is your mistress now. Do as she tells you' said Mistress Bethany. It was spoken so calmly.
Brewster led the way through the corridors, along the passage way in a building that looked like a priory but probably functioned like a brothel. The walls were hung with expensive tapestries and drapes. It was a continuous festival of Bacchus on the walls. Smith thought of running, but how far did you get in high heels before Brewster laid hands on you and marched you immediately to the Head Bitch Mistress's office? They went up a spiral staircase, Smith awkwardly, and along another long corridor until they reached the surprisingly large and sumptuous quarters of his young bitch niece. Brewster knocked on the heavy oak door and Cassie admitted them in, dressed in a close fitting black leather dress. She was expensively adorned in jewellery, a Gucci necklace and a fucking gold Rolex on her wrist. Where did they find these fucking rich beau's for them? Smith eyed her suspiciously, sure that the little cow would laugh at him. But in fact, in fact, she seemed cautious, nervous. This was after all, a transition, a trial for her too. If Smith cut up rough, if he was provoked beyond discipline prematurely, then what might Mistress Claire think?
His fucking niece nodded to Brewster and Smith was forced down onto his knees. Brewster asked whether mistress wanted Smith controlled with a neck tourniquet and the slut said yes, softly, quietly, 'it might be best'. The tourniquet consisted of a thick strap of rubber, with a hole inserted through one end so that it could be twisted tighter. The thing was wrapped around Smith's neck, his body shaking as it was fitted.
Then, oh fuck, his bitch niece moved before Smith and turning three quarters, she hitched the back hem of her dress up and presented the perfect orb of her bottom inches before his face. Brewster nudged the back of Smith's head. He was to lick the bitch's arse. With every sinew of his body beckoning him to cut and run Smith did the opposite. He licked the left cheek of her fucking arse. Her skin was perfect, tight, young, smooth and scented with her body. She had been coupling with them, Tarquin, perhaps others too at this stage in her schooling.
'Breathe in' ordered Brewster, 'smell what your mistress is scented of. Learn to remember it, to welcome it.' The fucker had a deep base voice. You knew, you did, that he had done this before. Other men had been brought to chambers and made to kneel. Smith's bitch niece grew in confidence. Smiling at Brewster, thanking him for his quietly insistent help, she moved about and looking back and down she watched Smith lick her other buttock.
'I wanted this, I asked Claire to allow it' she said slowly, feeling the sweep of Smith's tongue over her skin. 'I despise you, all your prim and proper judging of my life, all those emails that you sent about me to my parents. But it doesn't matter now does it, I am going to own you'.
The little bitch pulled her left buttock slightly to one side. Her fingers manicured, the expensive watch, chic on her wrist. Her botty hole beckoned, peach around the edge, dark within, a plug of semen peeping out. Brewster tightened the tourniquet and Smith licked. He licked where he didn't want to....ever. His nasty little bitch niece sighed. Rubbing her rear against is face she mewed....
'That's better Smith...lick it clean.'
The more Smith licked the more oozed out. Mistress Cassie fucked the way that the black man wanted.
'Cheryl doesn't want to see your again, but if you do as Tarquin and I tell you, I will let you send her letters in France' the bitch niece said.
She turned and looked down at Smith, his pink blush lips now smeared with semen. He looked as though he had eaten a soft white ice cream. She wanted to laugh, but she didn't. He had a response to make.
'Thank you mistress' Smith mumbled, with the barest tweak of the tourniquet.
'Now....you must lick my cunt, very gently, very reverently, do you think that you can learn to do that Smith?' she asked, glancing at Brewster and then back to him. A tweak of the tourniquet suggested that he could.
'Yes mistress' he said hoarsely.
[Candidly, sissification isn't a personal turn on, I wouldn't want a man serving me that way. But the island is a place of so many dark art disciplines, so many tastes, so I hope that this works for some of you. The readership is all! I've started a few possible storylines now, those that can interweave through the next novel, 'The Island of Intimacy'. It will be enjoyable as a stand alone novel, but for those of you who appreciate the deeper, incremental pleasures and discoveries, it all started in 'The Intimacy of Three'. (Amazon download and print). BW Lutheran Maid. ]
