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A World Of Slaves (Mark Andrews)


A World Of Slaves by Mark Andrews

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    • Average 3.0 from 1 ratings

Another of Mark Andrews’ ‘worldslide’ stories! The hero awakes in a world where slaves are a way of life. Follow the narrator as he explores the new regime in which he finds himself, as he ‘plays’ with his house slave, buys one at auction, watches as she goes through a rigorous and demanding training regime before using her as a pony girl! There are vicious staged fights and many other delights in this World of Slaves. And when he returns to his own time...

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 8 / 2011

No. words: 39000

Style: Male Dom - M/F, SciFi BDSM/Bondage

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt


Chapter 1

I have to admit it was all pretty bizarre.
First, the very idea of a fifth dimension, where other worlds can exist in the same time and place as Earth but quite remote from it – and almost totally unknown to its inhabitants.
But even more strange was that when I was transported to that planet, known to its people as Arret (yes, it’s Terra, the Latin for Earth – backwards), I found the similarities between it and my own planet extraordinary – and the differences, utterly fantastic.
I have first to admit that all my life – at least from puberty onwards – I have had a bent towards slavery. That is, once I realised how wonderful the fair sex were to me, I slowly developed a fetish for them as slaves – my slaves.
Why my libido formed itself thus I have no idea. Well, yes, I do. I liked girls. I liked them very much; but I found it almost impossible to talk to them and actually asking one of them out was an undertaking that struck sheer terror into my soul. Perhaps if I had forced myself to take the plunge, things might have been very different. As it was, I used to dream about them as my slaves – my naked slaves – who must do my exact bidding or face the whip to their beautiful breasts or the cane to their delectable bottoms.
As this theme developed, their punishments became stricter. They were always stripped naked for them and for some reason, I developed another fetish – they all had to be totally naked of hair on their bodies – especially their sex organs. I wanted them quite bare down there. I also had them confined in chains for long periods, sometimes in total darkness and silence but always naked.
With regard to actual sex, well it was something of a mystery to me. I had never actually experienced a woman so had little idea what to expect. In any case, my warped mind delighted in watching them trained – oh, I forgot to mention, my dream girls were all universally athletic rather than voluptuous. I liked smooth, clean-cut muscles, not soft curves.
I particularly liked to watch them sweat and strain at diabolically hard labour. A special delight was to sit under a shade, sipping a mint julep, while a team of naked female slaves hauled a plough through unbroken soil while their overseer lashed at their naked backs with his whip and another of their number steered the hand-plough along the furrow.
So you see, my mind was already twisted when it happened.
I should say that none of this was outwardly apparent. Not to my parents, teachers, university professors or indeed, to my friends. Yes, they thought I was ultra-shy when it came to girls, but they just teased me about it and then went on with their affairs. I was a good student and a very good athlete so they forgave me this one apparent peccadillo and of course I never mentioned it to a single soul.
My name is John Summers and I graduated from Oxford with an honours degree in law. I was then appointed to the staff of the Director of Public Prosecutions and began my career. And still I never let on to anyone about my fantasies. I had to let most of my sporting interests, particularly athletics, swimming and cricket, fall by the wayside for lack of time but I did continue to practise gymnastics, which didn’t take up as much time and which I really loved. This kept me fit and my body in peak condition – and at night, I continued to dream about my slavegirls, using my electric vibrator to bring me to wondrous climaxes, now imagining myself caning a girl’s curvaceous rear as I spat forth my load.

And then it happened.
I woke up in my own bed in my own flat in Hampstead but I knew straight away that something was wrong. I couldn’t define it – until, a few minutes later, this stark naked girl walked in holding a tray containing my early morning tea and toast.
I stared at her in amazement. She was quite beautiful – at least to my eyes. I suppose to a normal male, she might have appeared a trifle horsy. By that I mean she wasn’t a classical beauty, but her clean face and flawless skin immediately struck a chord in me. So did her body. It was everything I had dreamed of for all those years: not overly muscular, but with a physique that showed off each of her muscles (and not forgetting that alabaster-like, flawless skin that glowed with good health) to perfection.
Her breasts were not large (I hate melon-like breasts) but they were perfect in shape, projecting like perfect half-orbs with tiny, coral-pink nipples that surmounted equally small areolae.
Her sex was almost flat – another of my fetishes. It was of course perfectly hairless and boasted almost invisible labia. It really was just a slit down at the junction of her beautifully shaped thighs.
As she turned around, I glimpsed her bottom cheeks. Again, here I don’t like the shape and size usually preferred by men in a girl’s bottom. I always imagine my slaves to have narrow, rather muscular cheeks that thrust out like a boy’s and are indented with prominent hollows at the sides. This implies they are strong and, combined with her thighs, will render her capable of powerful sex. Yes, I know I was a virgin, but even a virgin can dream…
I also noted that she didn’t have a hair on her body. Not one! She was quite naked from the top of her head to her toes, looking a little like a store dummy but I think it made her even more splendid so far as I was concerned. I knew instantly that she was a slave. How, I don’t know. But inasmuch as she personified everything I had ever dreamed up about a slave, I knew she just had to be one.
I desperately wanted to reach out and touch her fabulous body; to delight in the fine musculature and to investigate the narrow gash between her legs but my lawyer’s training told me to be patient. I sat up in bed and took the tray from her then began to munch the toast while she busied herself around my bedroom, picking up things and fetching my clean underclothes and all the rest of my clothes for the day ahead.
As I watched her nakedness moving around the room, my cock at full mast under my bedclothes, a small part of my mind thought of my day. I was assisting in the trial of a woman charged with stealing. This was no petty crime, however, but a major case of fraud and we hoped for a severe sentence for her.
The woman, Elizabeth Charing, was a young executive in Bartlett’s Bank and she had, over the last year, siphoned off over three million pounds. She was good. There was no doubt about it. She might have got away with it but for an astute underling who sensed rather than knew something was wrong with the accounts.
But my mind was brought back to the present with a bang when I noticed a mark, or rather a series of them on the naked girl’s left cheek. I hadn’t noticed them earlier for my mind was still reeling from her appearance in my room. So far, I hadn’t said a word to her, not wanting to break the spell for I was sure that this had to be an extension of my dreams. Now, though, as I slowly came to realise it was no dream and that this magnificent creature really was in my room, in the flesh – literally – I was able to examine her various parts in more detail and as I stared at her bouncy rear, I noticed the marks.
No, they were letters! N, O, R and A, and as I stared at them in fascination, I realised they were indented into her flesh. She had been branded with a red-hot iron!
My cock immediately erupted, spurting forth a load bigger than anything I had ever experienced before and it went on and on – quite without me even touching it. Branding a beautiful girl was, in my dreams, about the epitome of my notions of slavery.
I would dream of the sizzling of her smooth flesh; of her terrible screams as the iron burned its way through her skin and into the muscle itself. And then, still in my dreams, I would sit back and contemplate the sobbing girl until I tired of it and gestured for my slave overseer to take her away.
But this girl really had been branded! The letters were about an inch high and were perfectly formed in the Times-New Roman style. They were fine and clear without the slightest fault in the cleanness of the lines. I realised immediately she had been branded with her slave name.
“Nora,” I called.
“Yes, master,” she said, her voice surprisingly well-educated and she now turned and smiled down at me.
“How long have you been my slave?” I asked, aware it would sound like a strange question to her, but I needed to know what was going on before I ventured out into this strange new world. At that stage, I wasn’t thinking of that term literally. But I knew deep down that something very odd was afoot. I knew, for example, that I would never have dared to enslave a girl myself, not even with her consent and the brand on her left cheek indicated to me that she was a true slave and not just a part-time dilettante.
She looked confused for a moment but then quickly responded. I guessed a slave was expected to answer questions without delay. “Three months, master,” she said, smiling in puzzlement at me.
“And prior to that?” The reason for this question was that she was clearly young. I guessed she couldn’t be more than eighteen years old and I wanted to know how she had become a slave at that age.
Again there was that brief look of confusion. Obviously I must have known her background, but then she probably reasoned I was leading up to something for I saw fear register itself on her lovely face. “I was made a slave for repeated traffic offences, master,” she said haltingly, as if not sure what I wanted to hear.
“Of course,” I said, then beckoned her to come close.
I reached up and fondled her breasts for a few moments, (at which she leaned forward to facilitate my caresses) delighting in their firmness but also noting the wondrous softness of the underlying mammary organs. Remember, I had never touched a girl in an intimate manner before this. Dreamt of it, yes, but actually touched, no. My cock, which hadn’t even gone down a whisker after the massive ejaculation, was again straining at the bedclothes and I knew if I didn’t desist, it would soon spurt again. I was astonished at this for usually, I couldn’t even get it up again after my hand job, let alone perform a second ejaculation. I was to find out however that my sexuality would be undergoing a huge turnaround there.


Reviews

See my review of Slaves of the Deep South 3 out of 5 (Drayman)

Author Information

a prolific BDSM writer who lives on the Gold Coast of Australia. His books have been delighting Olympia Press customers for many years.

 

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