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Spring Break Slaves 2: Reporting from Pirate Cay

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Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
Kelly felt butterflies in the pit of her stomach. This wasn’t usual that she was asked to participate in the games rather than supervise them. The request gave her the nagging sense that he knew about her screw-up with failing to vet Barb.
It’s those nagging senses that should never be ignored, Kelly. :rolleyes:
 

Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Once Kelly was gone, Barb took a shower and, afterwards, applied the cream Kelly had left for her to use. Its healing powers were amazing. Barb marveled at how the visible effects of the previous day’s caning had all but disappeared, and the pain was fast subsiding as well.

She also found that someone had left her a breakfast tray. After ravenously eating her fill, she stretched out on her bed and slept until early afternoon, noting when she woke that the breakfast tray had been removed and replaced with a lunch tray.

She was just polishing off the slice of dark chocolate cake provided as lunch dessert when Kelly let herself in.

“Hey Barb!” chirped Kelly breezily. “Hope you’ve had a nice rest.”

“I did.”

“Brought you some things to wear tonight,” continued Kelly, tossing a packet on the bed. “You do remember that he and his pals have planned a friendly competition for after dinner entertainment, right?”

“Yeah, I remember. Any information on exactly what kind of competition they have in mind?”

“I don’t know exactly what it will be, but I have been told it will be a contest that involves playing on teams. In fact, I understand that you and I, Barb, have been designated as one of the teams.

“Let me guess. That must mean that we’ll be going up against Tara and Delia.”

“About sums it up,” agreed Kelly. “They’ve provided outfits that they expect us to wear. Yours is in that packet.”

Barb opened it up and pulled out a pair of brand new white sneakers with black “V-markings” on the side.

“Holy Shit, Kelly! These are French-made Veja V-10s! Do you know how much they cost?”

“Upwards of $200, Barb. The boss doesn’t do anything halfway. Go ahead and try them on.”

“Later, I’m curious to see what else ... oh Geez! “ she exclaimed holding up a tiny black thong.

Rummaging further in the packaging produced a short black sleeveless, midriff-baring Adidas athletic tee and matching headband.

“What no sports bra or shorts?” sniffed Barb pawing through the scattered packaging.

“The boss enjoys ogling bouncing tits and quivering asses and thighs,” laughed Kelly, before adding seriously. “Look, I gotta go, Barb. You can rest here for the rest of the day. Your dinner will be delivered, but you’ll be expected to be outfitted and ready this evening when Robert comes by to collect you. The games are set to take place in the gym.”


***

At 8 PM, Barb was ready when Robert appeared to pick her up. She was wearing the designated outfit, and ready as she’d ever be to face the as yet unknown.

Without a word exchanged, Robert ushered her out of her room, down the corridor to the outdoors and across the lawn over to the gym. Inside she found everyone else there and waiting around the half basketball court at the far end of the building.

By then it had become pretty obvious in what kind of game she’d be competing. Kelly waved to her. She was wearing the same outfit as Barb. Delia and Tara stood together off to one side. They too were wearing outfits identical to Barb’s and Kelly’s except for the fact that their thongs, tees and headbands were white rather than black. Delia’s tee was too short to completely cover her big boobs, the lower portions of which were exposed below the hemline.

The boss and the Senator stood on the court, dressed in the black and white stripe-topped uniforms of game officials, with whistles dangling from cords around their necks. The Prime Minister, Big Fred, was also there, his considerable bulk parked on the third tier of the court-side spectator bleacher.

“Oh, good! Barb’s arrived. We can get started,” said the boss. ”Let’s have both teams out here on the court by me and the Senator, please.”

When they had gathered, he continued, “Now, am I right in assuming you girls all know how the game is played?”

Kelly nodded. Barb said she had often played with the boys in neighborhood pick-up games when she was young. Tara and Delia high-fived, crowing that Robert's daily exercise regime had them in top shape. Barb looked at Kelly, made a face and mouthed a silent “We can take 'em.”

“Okay, now that we’ve settled that,” continued the boss, ”It’s time for the coin toss.”

“Wait a minute!” cried Barb. “There’s no coin toss in basketball. The game begins with a jump ball!”

“Yes, but the coin toss is to determine “shirts or skins” replied the boss, pointing to the electronic score board mounted high over the basket backboard, which was labeled accordingly. “Heads says it’s Barb and Kelly who play topless, tails says it’s Tara and Delia!”

He flipped the coin and showed it around.

“Heads it is. Kelly and Barb, get those tops off!”

Barb looked at Kelly who nodded meaningfully. They both removed them to the sound of an air horn blast coming from Big Fred on the bleachers.

“Now, keep in mind,” continued the Boss, “We play the game by our rules here on Pirate Cay. Players who are fouled go to the free throw line. Technical fouls are dealt with by Robert over there.”

All eyes turned to Robert who could be found court-side leaning nonchalantly against a stout post, coiled whip in hand.

“What exactly constitutes a technical?” asked Barb.

“Knowing you, I expect you’ll be the first to find out,” laughed the Senator.

"One more point before we begin," added the boss solemnly. "There will be a penalty for the team that loses the game."

"And what will that be?" asked Barb.

"You'll find out when you lose."

Barb shot a questioning glance at Kelly, who simply shrugged in response.

“Alright, let the game begin. Jump ball between Kelly and Delia!” announced the boss.

Everyone took their positions. Kelly and Delia jumped for the ball with Delia deftly out-jumping Kelly and tapping it to Tara who scored with an easy lay up. The scoreboard immediately read “Shirts 2, Skins 0”. Big Fred blasted his air horn. They were underway.

Barb took the ball out of bounds and passed it in to Kelly past Delia's wildly waving arms and bouncing tits. Pivoting, Kelly fed it back to Barb with a bounce pass that Barb laid up to tie the score. Big Fred sounded his air horn.

Delia paused to cover up by pulling her top down before passing the ball inbounds to Tara, who made a move on the basket that drew an immediate foul from Barb. Going to the line, she sank a free throw, but rimmed out on the second one. Kelly got the rebound. The scoreboard clicked to "Shirts 3, Skins 2".

For the next dozen minutes, the lead seesawed back and forth, with both teams missing more baskets than they made. Delia eventually called for a time out, which was granted, with the score "Shirts 9, Skins 8". The Senator handed out towels to mop the sweat from the eyes of the players. It was both hot and humid in the gym and their bodies were sheened with sweat.

“Delia, you need to keep those melons of yours under control so you don’t get a technical,” quipped the Senator with a leer.

Kelly rolled her eyes at Barb, who grinned back.

“Back on the court!” called the boss, blowing his whistle. “Skins’ ball out of bounds.”

“I’m going for a three,” whispered Barb to Kelly. “Screen me.”

“Right.”

Barb passed the ball in bounds to Kelly, who shoveled it back to Barb who shot from the circle behind Kelly’s back and drained it! The scoreboard clicked to “Shirts 9, Skins 11”.

Several possessions later, with seconds left in the half and the score knotted at 15, Barb drove for the basket and the go ahead bucket. But the Senator whistled her for a traveling violation. Unwisely she reacted by arguing vehemently, and then made things worse by hotly calling him a “blind fuckhead.”

“That’s a technical!” he bellowed. “Five lashes!”

Big Fred blew his air horn.

After which, Barb was escorted to the
post by the boss and Senator, where she was ordered to remove her thong and allow Robert to bind her wrists above her head to the post, just high enough to force her onto her tiptoes.

Big Fred blew his air horn again as everyone gathered around to watch as the muscular Robert delivered five evenly-spaced lashes to Barb’s backside, working his way down methodically from her shoulder blades to the crease between her butt and the tops of her thighs while she screamed and writhed about in response to each one.

When it was over and she was released. She twisted to examine ruefully the angry red lines left by the kiss of the whip. But as she bent to retrieve her thong, the Senator abruptly put his foot on it.

“Leave it,” he muttered crossly. “Moore, you’ll play the second half nude.”

After a brief respite, in which Kelly applied dollops of the doc’s soothing cream onto Barb’s back, and cautioned her to watch her mouth, play resumed.

Delia and Tara came out on a tear, sinking four baskets in a row, and running up the score to “Shirts 23 Skins 15”.

Calling a time out, Kelly and Barb huddled.

“Barb, you need to focus!” cried Kelly admonishingly. “You seem distracted. I don’t know what the boss has cooked up for the losing team, Barb, but I can assure you we don’t want to find out. Let’s go for one of your three-pointers, okay?”

“Right, screen me like you did before.”

It worked, and over the next several minutes Kelly and Barb succeeded in chipping away at their opponents lead ... helped at one point by a technical called on Delia for ‘trash talking’ that sent her to the whipping post for five.

By this time the clock showed only 32 seconds remaining, with Delia and Tara in possession and protecting a two point lead, 37-35.

“We need a steal and a three pointer to win,” advised Kelly. “If we get possession, Barb, you know what to do.”

“Right!”

And so it went. with Delia and Tara attempting to run out the clock by playing catch while Barb and Kelly lunged and jumped in an effort to get a last second steal ... and they did!

With 10 seconds to go Kelly knocked down a pass, got her hands on the ball and shoveled it to Barb standing all alone just inside the circle.

But as Barb pack pedaled into three point range, disaster struck. She backed straight into the Senator, causing him to nearly lose his balance in addition to stepping on his toes.

“Technical and game over!” he bellowed, hopping about holding one foot. “Moore gets five lashes for roughing the referee. Shirts win! Final score; 37-35.”

As the gym echoed to the crack of Robert’s whip, Barb’s anguished cries, and blasts of Big Fred’s air horn, the boss sidled up to Kelly, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said, “Tough luck Kelly. That Moore girl sure is a screw up, isn’t she? Too bad the two of you lost.

“And what’s the penalty? You never told me.”

“No, I kept it to myself until now, although it’s all been arranged through Big Fred. By losing tonight, you and Barb have earned yourselves an all-expenses-paid night at the Chez Providencia Penitentiary, keeping the inmates company. The boys there will be expecting you. Somehow I don’t expect the two of you will get much sleep, do you?”


“You bastard!”
 
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Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
Wow! I never would have dreamed or dared to place a basketball game as a competition in a sex and abuse story. Excellent realization!

She was just polishing off the slice of dark chocolate cake
Barb, maybe you should volunteer for some time in the gym under Robert's tutelage. Don't want that tight little to become flabby and large!
Delia’s tee was too short to completely cover her big boobs, the lower portions of which were exposed below the hemline.
My kind of uniform!
“Heads it is. Kelly and Barb, get those tops off!”
Did anyone check the coin for honesty?
Unwisely she reacted by arguing vehemently, and then made things worse by hotly calling him a “blind fuckhead.”
I find this behavior on Barb's part hard to credit.
 
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Fossy

Senator
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Once Kelly was gone, Barb took a shower and, afterwards, applied the cream Kelly had left for her to use. Its healing powers were amazing. Barb marveled at how the visible effects of the previous day’s caning had all but disappeared, and the pain was fast subsiding as well.

She also found that someone had left her a breakfast tray. After ravenously eating her fill, she stretched out on her bed and slept until early afternoon, noting when she woke that the breakfast tray had been removed and replaced with a lunch tray.

She was just polishing off the slice of dark chocolate cake provided as lunch dessert when Kelly let herself in.

“Hey Barb!” chirped Kelly breezily. “Hope you’ve had a nice rest.”

“I did.”

“Brought you some things to wear tonight,” continued Kelly, tossing a packet on the bed. “You do remember that he and his pals have planned a friendly competition for after dinner entertainment, right?”

“Yeah, I remember. Any information on exactly what kind of competition they have in mind?”

“I don’t know exactly what it will be, but I have been told it will be a contest that involves playing on teams. In fact, I understand that you and I, Barb, have been designated as one of the teams.

“Let me guess. That must mean that we’ll be going up against Tara and Delia.”

“About sums it up,” agreed Kelly. “They’ve provided outfits that they expect us to wear. Yours is in that packet.”

Barb opened it up and pulled out a pair of brand new white sneakers with black “V-markings” on the side.

“Holy Shit, Kelly! These are French-made Veja V-10s! Do you know how much they cost?”

“Upwards of $200, Barb. The boss doesn’t do anything halfway. Go ahead and try them on.”

“Later, I’m curious to see what else ... oh Geez! “ she exclaimed holding up a tiny black thong.

Rummaging further in the packaging produced a short black sleeveless, midriff-baring Adidas athletic tee and matching headband.

“What no sports bra or shorts?” sniffed Barb pawing through the scattered packaging.

“The boss enjoys ogling bouncing tits and quivering asses and thighs,” laughed Kelly, before adding seriously. “Look, I gotta go, Barb. You can rest here for the rest of the day. Your dinner will be delivered, but you’ll be expected to be outfitted and ready this evening when Robert comes by to collect you. The games are set to take place in the gym.”


***

At 8 PM, Barb was ready when Robert appeared to pick her up. She was wearing the designated outfit, and ready as she’d ever be to face the as yet unknown.

Without a word exchanged, Robert ushered her out of her room, down the corridor to the outdoors and across the lawn over to the gym. Inside she found everyone else there and waiting around the half basketball court at the far end of the building.

By then it had become pretty obvious in what kind of game she’d be competing. Kelly waved to her. She was wearing the same outfit as Barb. Delia and Tara stood together off to one side. They too were wearing outfits identical to Barb’s and Kelly’s except for the fact that their thongs, tees and headbands were white rather than black. Delia’s tee was too short to completely cover her big boobs, the lower portions of which were exposed below the hemline.

The boss and the Senator stood on the court, dressed in the black and white stripe-topped uniforms of game officials, with whistles dangling from cords around their necks. The Prime Minister, Big Fred, was also there, his considerable bulk parked on the third tier of the court-side spectator bleacher.

“Oh, good! Barb’s arrived. We can get started,” said the boss. ”Let’s have both teams out here on the court by me and the Senator, please.”

When they had gathered, he continued, “Now, am I right in assuming you girls all know how the game is played?”

Kelly nodded. Barb said she had often played with the boys in neighborhood pick-up games when she was young. Tara and Delia high-fived, crowing that Robert's daily exercise regime had them in top shape. Barb looked at Kelly, made a face and mouthed a silent “We can take 'em.”

“Okay, now that we’ve settled that,” continued the boss, ”It’s time for the coin toss.”

“Wait a minute!” cried Barb. “There’s no coin toss in basketball. The game begins with a jump ball!”

“Yes, but the coin toss is to determine “shirts or skins” replied the boss, pointing to the electronic score board mounted high over the basket backboard, which was labeled accordingly. “Heads says it’s Barb and Kelly who play topless, tails says it’s Tara and Delia!”

He flipped the coin and showed it around.

“Heads it is. Kelly and Barb, get those tops off!”

Barb looked at Kelly who nodded meaningfully. They both removed them to the sound of an air horn blast coming from Big Fred on the bleachers.

“Now, keep in mind,” continued the Boss, “We play the game by our rules here on Pirate Cay. Players who are fouled go to the free throw line. Technical fouls are dealt with by Robert over there.”

All eyes turned to Robert who could be found court-side leaning nonchalantly against a stout post, coiled whip in hand.

“What exactly constitutes a technical?” asked Barb.

“Knowing you, I expect you’ll be the first to find out,” laughed the Senator.

"One more point before we begin," added the boss solemnly. "There will be a penalty for the team that loses the game."

"And what will that be?" asked Barb.

"You'll find out when you lose."

Barb shot a questioning glance at Kelly, who simply shrugged in response.

“Alright, let the game begin. Jump ball between Kelly and Delia!” announced the boss.

Everyone took their positions. Kelly and Delia jumped for the ball with Delia deftly out-jumping Kelly and tapping it to Tara who scored with an easy lay up. The scoreboard immediately read “Shirts 2, Skins 0”. Big Fred blasted his air horn. They were underway.

Barb took the ball out of bounds and passed it in to Kelly past Delia's wildly waving arms and bouncing tits. Pivoting, Kelly fed it back to Barb with a bounce pass that Barb laid up to tie the score. Big Fred sounded his air horn.

Delia paused to cover up by pulling her top down before passing the ball inbounds to Tara, who made a move on the basket that drew an immediate foul from Barb. Going to the line, she sank a free throw, but rimmed out on the second one. Kelly got the rebound. The scoreboard clicked to "Shirts 3, Skins 2".

For the next dozen minutes, the lead seesawed back and forth, with both teams missing more baskets than they made. Delia eventually called for a time out, which was granted, with the score "Shirts 9, Skins 8". The Senator handed out towels to mop the sweat from the eyes of the players. It was both hot and humid in the gym and their bodies were sheened with sweat.

“Delia, you need to keep those melons of yours under control so you don’t get a technical,” quipped the Senator with a leer.

Kelly rolled her eyes at Barb, who grinned back.

“Back on the court!” called the boss, blowing his whistle. “Skins’ ball out of bounds.”

“I’m going for a three,” whispered Barb to Kelly. “Screen me.”

“Right.”

Barb passed the ball in bounds to Kelly, who shoveled it back to Barb who shot from the circle behind Kelly’s back and drained it! The scoreboard clicked to “Shirts 9, Skins 11”.

Several possessions later, with seconds left in the half and the score knotted at 15, Barb drove for the basket and the go ahead bucket. But the Senator whistled her for a traveling violation. Unwisely she reacted by arguing vehemently, and then made things worse by hotly calling him a “blind fuckhead.”

“That’s a technical!” he bellowed. “Five lashes!”

Big Fred blew his air horn.

After which, Barb was escorted to the
post by the boss and Senator, where she was ordered to remove her thong and allow Robert to bind her wrists above her head to the post, just high enough to force her onto her tiptoes.

Big Fred blew his air horn again as everyone gathered around to watch as the muscular Robert delivered five evenly-spaced lashes to Barb’s backside, working his way down methodically from her shoulder blades to the crease between her butt and the tops of her thighs while she screamed and writhed about in response to each one.

When it was over and she was released. She twisted to examine ruefully the angry red lines left by the miss of the whip. But as she bent to retrieve her thong, the Senator abruptly put his foot on it.

“Leave it,” he muttered crossly. “Moore, you’ll play the second half nude.”

After a brief respite, in which Kelly applied dollops of the doc’s soothing cream onto Barb’s back, and cautioned her to watch her mouth, play resumed.

Delia and Tara came out on a tear, sinking four baskets in a row, and running up the score to “Shirts 23 Skins 15”.

Calling a time out, Kelly and Barb huddled.

“Barb, you need to focus!” cried Kelly admonishingly. “You seem distracted. I don’t know what the boss has cooked up for the losing team, Barb, but I can assure you we don’t want to find out. Let’s go for one of your three-pointers, okay?”

“Right, screen me like you did before.”

It worked, and over the next several minutes Kelly and Barb succeeded in chipping away at their opponents lead ... helped at one point by a technical called on Delia for ‘trash talking’ that sent her to the whipping post for five.

By this time the clock showed only 32 seconds remaining, with Delia and Tara in possession and protecting a two point lead, 37-35.

“We need a steal and a three pointer to win,” advised Kelly. “If we get possession, Barb, you know what to do.”

“Right!”

And so it went. with Delia and Tara attempting to run out the clock by playing catch while Barb and Kelly lunged and jumped in an effort to get a last second steal ... and they did!

With 10 seconds to go Kelly knocked down a pass, got her hands on the ball and shoveled it to Barb standing all alone just inside the circle.

But as Barb pack pedaled into three point range, disaster struck. She backed straight into the Senator, causing him to nearly lose his balance in addition to stepping on his toes.

“Technical and game over!” he bellowed, hopping about holding one foot. “Moore gets five lashes for roughing the referee. Shirts win! Final score; 37-35.”

As the gym echoed to the crack of Robert’s whip, Barb’s anguished cries, and blasts of Big Fred’s air horn, the boss sidled up to Kelly, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said, “Tough luck Kelly. That Moore girl sure is a screw up, isn’t she? Too bad the two of you lost.

“And what’s the penalty? You never told me.”

“No, I kept it to myself until now, although it’s all been arranged through Big Fred. By losing tonight, you and Barb have earned yourselves an all-expenses-paid night at the Chez Providencia Penitentiary, keeping the inmates company. The boys there will be expecting you. Somehow I don’t expect the two of you will get much sleep, do you?”


“You bastard!”
Wow that was some chapter! Shirts v skins reminded me of my childhood days ... fortunately that's where the reminiscing comparison stops :) - although quite frankly replacing sin bins with 5 lashes might see more law abidance by sports teams!

Great piece ... and forced prison sex to follow. What more could we ask for!
 

windar

Teller of Tales
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Tara looked at Delia, then at the scoreboard, then back at Dee. “Did we just actually, like, win for a change?”

Dee looked at Tara, then at the scoreboard, where it read “Shirts 37, Skins 35”, then back at Tara. “Unless this is golf, yeah it looks like we did!”

“That’s right, Delia,” he said. “You and Tara did indeed win. And like many things here at Pirate Cay, there is a lesson in this. Your hard work with Robert has paid off.” Robert took a bow. “There is no substitute, in business or in life for preparation.

Tara shook her head. That Barb had lost wasn’t that big a surprise, but that Kelly had lost and was going to pay a price was earth-shattering, within the realm of Pirate Cay, at least.

Nevertheless, the reality of their win sunk in when Robert dipped into his ever-present duffle bag and pulled out two pairs of handcuffs. “Hands behind your back!” he ordered as he approached Barb.

“Is that really necessary?” she complained.

“It’s a prison,” the Prime Minister said. “Even though you ladies are only staying for the night, it’s procedure. We have rules here in Providentia.” Barb rolled her eyes, but complied, as Robert snapped the cuffs on her wrists.

As he approached Kelly, she looked forlornly at her employer. “Wait, Robert,” he said. “First, she needs to be punished for her mouthing off. Give her a half dozen to go!” he ordered.

“No!” Kelly screamed. “You can’t! It’s not right. All these years, I’ve served you loyally! You bastard!” she cried, repeating herself.

“Might as well make it a dozen, Robert, to teach her a good lesson,” he said, looking completely impassive.

Robert took hold of Kelly’s arm and dragged her to the whipping post, chaining her arms over her head. He uncoiled his whip, took his aim and struck hard across her shoulder blades. “Owww!” Kelly shrieked. He struck again, a bit lower, evoking a howl of pain and outrage. Taking his time, he painted her back with a dozen angry stripes, leaving Kelly sobbing with pain and anguished shock at her new, seemingly diminished status in the world of Pirate Cay.

Finally, Robert freed her wrists from the post, only to pull them behind her and place the handcuffs on. “Alright, ladies, let’s go,” Big Fred announced, taking hold of Kelly’s arm, as Robert took hold of Barb’s. “My copter is waiting,” he said.

***


Later that night, Tara lay with him in in a tangle of sheets in his personal bed, in his personal bedroom, where none of the Companions, as least during her time on Pirate Cay had been. They had made love, and she felt justified in calling it that, unlike most of what went on between men and women at Pirate Cay.

He had been gentle, kissing her deeply for a long time, before moving slowly down to suckle on her breasts. “You’re beautiful, Tara,” he had whispered like a lover, before gently opening her legs and gazing at her vagina, the place he hoped would provide him an heir.

Slowly, he licked down her belly then traced around the opening. Tara gasped with pleasure. Then, he moved up to her clitoris, circling it teasingly with his tongue, as he inserted first one finger, then two inside her.

Tara felt her pleasure rising as he brought her closer to her release. The vision flashed across her mind of Barb and Kelly surrounded by a horde of horny inmates. Tara doubted the men there were taking the time to make sure they enjoyed themselves as he was doing with her.

She moaned as he reached his fingers up against that spot inside her, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through her whole body. Slowly, he let her come down from her peak, then slid up along her sweat glazed body until he entered her.

Moving deliberately, he slid all the way in, then almost all the way out, leaving only the tip inside her. “Do that again,” she had asked. He did.

He rocked back and forth, nuzzling her neck, whispering her name, telling her what a beautiful baby they would have, until he groaned and emptied himself into her collapsing on top of her, spent, at least for the moment.

Eventually, he rolled off onto his side, facing her. Tara rolled onto her side facing him, her hand on his ass, her hand on his. “I’m glad you and Delia got in shape and won that game,” he said. “I wouldn’t have let you service those prisoners,” he assured her.

“How would you have punished us if we’d lost?” she asked, curious.

“You wouldn’t have lost,” he said. “This is my island and I decide who wins and who loses.”

“You let Kelly lose,” Tara said.

“Yes,” he replied. She could sense he wasn’t going to explain himself, at least not right now.

“Did you know Barb at Pitcher?” he asked.

“Not well,” she replied. “We only were in one class together and Dee and I had moved out of the freshman dorm by the time she arrived.”

“What extracurriculars was she into?” he asked.

“I don’t know, really,” Tara replied. Then, not even sure why she said it, since she hadn’t intended to tell him, she added, “I remember seeing an article she wrote for the Pitcher Picture, you know, the campus newspaper? I don’t usually read it, but I was bored one day at lunch and someone had left it at the table. Something about the lousy cafeteria food.”

“So,” he chuckled, “Our Barbara Moore is a budding reporter?” Somehow, Tara sensed that this wasn’t news to him.

“Not really,” she added, trying to atone for having said something she hadn’t intended to. “She told me it was a class assignment.”

“Well, maybe I’ll ask her about it,” he said, kissing her deeply, his hand digging into Tara’s ass, as he pulled her towards him. “Up for more?” he asked.

Tara just smiled and reached down to stroke his rapidly hardening cock.
 

Fossy

Senator
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Tara looked at Delia, then at the scoreboard, then back at Dee. “Did we just actually, like, win for a change?”

Dee looked at Tara, then at the scoreboard, where it read “Shirts 37, Skins 35”, then back at Tara. “Unless this is golf, yeah it looks like we did!”

“That’s right, Delia,” he said. “You and Tara did indeed win. And like many things here at Pirate Cay, there is a lesson in this. Your hard work with Robert has paid off.” Robert took a bow. “There is no substitute, in business or in life for preparation.

Tara shook her head. That Barb had lost wasn’t that big a surprise, but that Kelly had lost and was going to pay a price was earth-shattering, within the realm of Pirate Cay, at least.

Nevertheless, the reality of their win sunk in when Robert dipped into his ever-present duffle bag and pulled out two pairs of handcuffs. “Hands behind your back!” he ordered as he approached Barb.

“Is that really necessary?” she complained.

“It’s a prison,” the Prime Minister said. “Even though you ladies are only staying for the night, it’s procedure. We have rules here in Providentia.” Barb rolled her eyes, but complied, as Robert snapped the cuffs on her wrists.

As he approached Kelly, she looked forlornly at her employer. “Wait, Robert,” he said. “First, she needs to be punished for her mouthing off. Give her a half dozen to go!” he ordered.

“No!” Kelly screamed. “You can’t! It’s not right. All these years, I’ve served you loyally! You bastard!” she cried, repeating herself.

“Might as well make it a dozen, Robert, to teach her a good lesson,” he said, looking completely impassive.

Robert took hold of Kelly’s arm and dragged her to the whipping post, chaining her arms over her head. He uncoiled his whip, took his aim and struck hard across her shoulder blades. “Owww!” Kelly shrieked. He struck again, a bit lower, evoking a howl of pain and outrage. Taking his time, he painted her back with a dozen angry stripes, leaving Kelly sobbing with pain and anguished shock at her new, seemingly diminished status in the world of Pirate Cay.

Finally, Robert freed her wrists from the post, only to pull them behind her and place the handcuffs on. “Alright, ladies, let’s go,” Big Fred announced, taking hold of Kelly’s arm, as Robert took hold of Barb’s. “My copter is waiting,” he said.

***


Later that night, Tara lay with him in in a tangle of sheets in his personal bed, in his personal bedroom, where none of the Companions, as least during her time on Pirate Cay had been. They had made love, and she felt justified in calling it that, unlike most of what went on between men and women at Pirate Cay.

He had been gentle, kissing her deeply for a long time, before moving slowly down to suckle on her breasts. “You’re beautiful, Tara,” he had whispered like a lover, before gently opening her legs and gazing at her vagina, the place he hoped would provide him an heir.

Slowly, he licked down her belly then traced around the opening. Tara gasped with pleasure. Then, he moved up to her clitoris, circling it teasingly with his tongue, as he inserted first one finger, then two inside her.

Tara felt her pleasure rising as he brought her closer to her release. The vision flashed across her mind of Barb and Kelly surrounded by a horde of horny inmates. Tara doubted the men there were taking the time to make sure they enjoyed themselves as he was doing with her.

She moaned as he reached his fingers up against that spot inside her, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through her whole body. Slowly, he let her come down from her peak, then slid up along her sweat glazed body until he entered her.

Moving deliberately, he slid all the way in, then almost all the way out, leaving only the tip inside her. “Do that again,” she had asked. He did.

He rocked back and forth, nuzzling her neck, whispering her name, telling her what a beautiful baby they would have, until he groaned and emptied himself into her collapsing on top of her, spent, at least for the moment.

Eventually, he rolled off onto his side, facing her. Tara rolled onto her side facing him, her hand on his ass, her hand on his. “I’m glad you and Delia got in shape and won that game,” he said. “I wouldn’t have let you service those prisoners,” he assured her.

“How would you have punished us if we’d lost?” she asked, curious.

“You wouldn’t have lost,” he said. “This is my island and I decide who wins and who loses.”

“You let Kelly lose,” Tara said.

“Yes,” he replied. She could sense he wasn’t going to explain himself, at least not right now.

“Did you know Barb at Pitcher?” he asked.

“Not well,” she replied. “We only were in one class together and Dee and I had moved out of the freshman dorm by the time she arrived.”

“What extracurriculars was she into?” he asked.

“I don’t know, really,” Tara replied. Then, not even sure why she said it, since she hadn’t intended to tell him, she added, “I remember seeing an article she wrote for the Pitcher Picture, you know, the campus newspaper? I don’t usually read it, but I was bored one day at lunch and someone had left it at the table. Something about the lousy cafeteria food.”

“So,” he chuckled, “Our Barbara Moore is a budding reporter?” Somehow, Tara sensed that this wasn’t news to him.

“Not really,” she added, trying to atone for having said something she hadn’t intended to. “She told me it was a class assignment.”

“Well, maybe I’ll ask her about it,” he said, kissing her deeply, his hand digging into Tara’s ass, as he pulled her towards him. “Up for more?” he asked.

Tara just smiled and reached down to stroke his rapidly hardening cock.
Lashes administered so now it's straight off to the prison for the losing team - splendid!

"... My copter is waiting,” he said ..." - As opposed to his 'chopper, clearly :)

And now we have the prison to look forward to :)
 

twonines

Senator
Exciting stuff, Windar, I didn`t think the boss would send the girls to be mauled by a bunch of convicts ,particularly before he and Big Fred had had their turn with Barb, Kelly was a different matter.
This should prove to be a suitably dangerous and humiliating experience for them, with Barb softened up to answer his questions about her activities at Pitcher, when they return.
Of course, there is still the, surprise visitor to come yet, (no pun intended) although we can probably guess his identity.
 

Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rolando Chewitt, Warden of Providencia’s men’s high security prison, sat hunched over his battered steel desk, staring with a perplexed expression at the flimsy teletype sheet he held in his large hands. He was baffled by the message, having yet to make sense of what it said no matter how many times he re-read it.

The message had come directly from the Prime Minister’s office and had arrived late the previous day over the prison’s antiquated teletype. Located on a rocky islet off the coast of Providencia’s main island, no one had seen fit to upgrade the institution’s communication infrastructure since the 1950’s. And housed, as it was, deep within the massive stone walls of an old Spanish fortress, cell phone signals within the prison walls were even out of the question. The prison was meant by the government to be the place where the worst of the worst were sent to rot. Access was possible only by helicopter or boat; neglect ensured that the place’s drain on the national budget be minimal.

Chewitt opened a desk drawer, removed a half-empty bottle of golden-colored liquid, and took a long swig. Then he picked up the teletype flimsy yet again, belched loudly, and began to read:

‘URGENT: FOR THE ATTENTION OF WARDEN CHEWITT.

THE PM’S OFFICE ALERTS YOU HEREIN TO A SPECIAL TOP SECRET CONSIGNMENT TO ARRIVE BY HELICOPTER TOMORROW EVENING. CONSIGNMENT TO CONSIST OF TWO FEMALES. NATIONALITY: AMERICAN. DURATION OF CONFINEMENT: OVERNIGHT. FURTHER DETAILS FORTHCOMING AT TIME OF ARRIVAL.

How very strange. Why was he being messaged by the PM’s office rather than the Corrections Ministry? Why two American females, and why for only one night? And why the hush-hush secrecy? None of it made sense.

“Well, I’ve not much longer to wait,” he growled out loud to himself irritably as he glanced at the clock on the peeling gray-painted wall across from his desk, which told him it was a little after 10 pm. Rocking back in his chair he reached again for the bottle.

Chewitt was a middle-aged functionary of considerable girth, with a broad doleful face, accented by a flamboyant dark mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth and was all the more eye-catching when seen in contrast with his shaved skull. He had risen through the ranks to his present position largely due to a keen ability to sense impending trouble and maneuver himself into a position in which he could avoid blame. This, to him, appeared to be one of those occasions. He knew that he’d have to tread carefully, which meant divining exactly what his superiors had in mind.

At around quarter to eleven the intercom on his desk buzzed. The night watch wanted him to know of the approach of a chopper. Slapping his service hat on his head, he rose to leave his office and head for the helipad that had been erected over the old fortress’ north battlements.

The blinking running lights of the chopper came into view at about the same time as he arrived. The machine with the Providencia national seal painted on its side swept in low, hovered momentarily over the illuminated pad, then set down, landing with a bump and a lurch.

Ducking beneath the still spinning blades, Chewitt advanced on the open side-hatch in which a crew member had appeared.

“Warden Chewitt?” the crewman shouted over the whir of the blades.

Chewitt nodded.

“They’re inside. Wait a sec while I get them.”

After vanishing briefly, the crewman reappeared with two women in tow, both of whom he maneuvered toward the opening in the helicopter’s side. They were bound at the wrists behind their backs. One at a time he manhandled them through the hatchway and lowered them to the helipad.

The first was a young, brown-haired thing, wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of white sneakers. She looked both innocent and scared as she peered warily at Chewitt, who was looking her over, up and down, his gaze taking in an exquisitely perfect pair of breasts and perky nipples, and coming to rest on the trimmed vertical strip of hair adorning her mons pubis.

The second female appeared to be ten years or so older and equally stunning. She was also a brunette, although of a lighter shade than the younger girl. She wore the exact same pair of white sneakers along with a black thong, but was topless. Her breasts were larger but not remarkably so. They were both lookers.

Hopping down to the pad behind the women, the crewman gave them each a shove towards Chewitt. By then the Warden had been joined by a pair of his uniformed subordinates, both of whom leaped forward to take the female prisoners firmly in hand. Having completed the ‘hand-off’ the crewman withdrew a clipboard from under his arm, rifled through some loose pages, found the one he was looking for, ripped it free and handed it to Chewitt.

“Your orders.” he said, in a clipped tone loud enough to hear over the rotors, before saluting briskly and running for the hatch. Moments later the chopper lifted off and thundered away into the night. Chewitt watched it go before turning to his charges.

“Take these two directly to my office,” he said curtly.

On his way there, Chewitt paused in the men’s room to take a leak, his bladder signaling that the half bottle of cheap rum, recently consumed, was coming through.

When he reached his office several minutes later, he found his subordinates had backed their charges up against the paint-peeling wall, directly beneath the clock. The older of the two was silent but the younger one had become quite agitated and was hurling fusillades of verbal abuse at his men.

“Shut her up!” Chewitt ordered. His man responded by slapping Barb hard across the face, and when that had no effect, by planting a fist in her belly with sufficient force to knock the wind out of her. Doubled over, she sunk to the floor gasping for air, followed by a cascade of loosened peeling paint chips.

Kelly knelt down beside her to cradle Barb’s head tenderly against her chest.

Chewitt took his seat behind his desk. Flattening the sheet containing his orders against its surface, he peered at the handwritten text, signed at the bottom by none other than his Excellency, the Prime Minister.

It identified the prisoners, simply as Barbara and Kelly. It stated that their brief incarceration of a single night was punishment for an unstated crime; and was to consist of forcing the two women to perform sexual services to a select group of the prison’s most hardened and depraved criminal inmates. Finally, it stipulated that both women should be extracted from their plight after a period of several hours and made ready for a predawn helicopter pick up. Secrecy was paramount. There was to be no official record of what happened; no word of any kind was ever to get out, although graphic photos of the women’s condition after servicing the convicts were requested.

Chewitt read it over twice more, set it down, and sighed. He had no idea what this was all about, but his duty was clear. Whatever the PM wants was as good as law in Providencia. Still, this was strangely beyond anything he’d ever experienced as a career officer. Why the secrecy? What crime had these women committed? And why here? His prison was not an institution for women. Nothing about this made any sense. Never mind. Do your job.

Pushing back his chair, Chewitt stood and issued instructions to his men, “We’re taking these two down to the ‘max’ cells. Don’t ask questions. This is hush-hush. Just get them on their feet and follow me.

Dragged brusquely to their feet, Barb and Kelly were shoved from Chewitt’s office out into and down a hallway at the end of which they were hustled into an antiquated lift, barely large enough to accommodate five people.

“Where the fuck are you taking us?” cried Barb indignantly.

“Shut up!” snapped the guard who had previously punched her, choosing this time to administer, due to close quarters, a sharp elbow jab into her side.

“Owww!” she gasped.

The lift descended and then stopped with a jolt. The door opened to admit a blast of cold fetid air. They were deep in the bowels of the old fortress.

Chewitt led them past a row of cells. Convicts gathered at the bars to see them pass, illuminated in the harsh light of the bare light bulbs strung along the vaulted stone ceiling of the passageway. The two naked women (or nearly naked in Kelly’s case) elicited from behind the cell bars a raucous chorus of catcalls, whistles, and obscene gestures.

At the end of the passageway they came to a larger ‘holding cell’. Chewitt led his little procession inside, and issued orders to his subordinates to affix lengths of chain already hanging from the ceiling to the cuffs that held Kelly and Barb’s arms behind their backs ... an arrangement that placed them each in a bent-over ‘strappado-like’ position, with the toes of their sneakers barely able to touch the floor. Then he personally removed Kelly’s black thong, rendering them both helpless and naked.

“Go get Mannie, Big Juan, Mad Carl, and Braccus and bring them in here,” he ordered, knowing them to be the most hardened and dangerous convicts in the prison.

While his subordinates rushed to comply, Chewitt approached Barb and Kelly. He paused before them for a moment to admire the provocative way in which their breasts dangled and swayed as they strained against the awkward bondage that held them in place. He felt his groin stiffen.

But, his real purpose, with his subordinates temporarily away, was to get answers to the questions nagging at his mind.

Grabbing both women by the hair and jerking their heads back, he stooped to their level, his face not far from theirs, and said, “Okay, this is your one and only chance to tell me what this is all about. I need answers. Why are you here? What did you do to be sent here? Who is behind this?”

There was a brief silence, and then Barb spoke. “Let go of my hair, first. It hurts! ... Thank you, that’s better. We’re captives, you might say ... captives of the wealthy man who owns Pirate Cay. Do you know of whom I speak?”

He nodded.

“Well, that bastard ...” she continued breathlessly “keeps women, like us, on his island ... against their will ... as sex slaves ... forced to perform on demand ... to do the most despicable things for the perverted pleasures of him and his rich and powerful friends ... including, by the way, your Prime Minister! Poor performance is punished, often in ingeniously brutal and humiliating ways. That’s why we’re here. This is a punishment they dreamed up for us.”

“She speaks the truth?” Chewitt demanded of Kelly, jerking her head back by her hair.

A long silent moment ensued before Kelly replied with a simple “yes.”

Chewitt released her hair and as Kelly’s head slumped down he cast his eyes over her back, noting the whip marks up and down its length. They were quite noticeable in the harsh light of the bare ceiling bulb. And Barb had them too.

“Who had you whipped?” he asked. “... that crowd over on Pirate Cay?”

It was Barb who answered, “Yes, whippings and canings are all part of the fun and games there.”

By that time Chewitt’s subordinates had returned with the requested fearsome foursome in tow ... all very large and muscular men. The looks on the convicts’ faces as they caught sight of their naked prey, trussed up and defenseless before them, was just plain scary, as were the enormous, rapidly expanding bulges under their prison dungarees.

“Shit! We’re not going to survive this!” cried Barb, spinning about crazily as her toes scrabbled against the floor as though to flee.

Backing away, Chewitt looked thoughtfully at Barb and Kelly ... at the fear in their eyes as the women tracked the convicts, who had by then begun to swagger about them in a tightening circle, the shackles on the convicts’ ankles banging and rattling as they bantered among themselves and reached out to grab at or smack randomly at bits of tit and ass.

And then suddenly, Chewitt made a rash decision ... inexplicable perhaps given the possible repercussions ... but made all the same.

“Get them out of here!” he bellowed to his subordinates. “I’ve changed my mind. Return these louts to their cells.”

A minor scuffle ensued, but the baton and stun-gun wielding officers were quick to assert control, shepherding the disappointedly protesting convicts away.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” breathed Kelly as soon as they convicts were gone, “What made you decide to save us from them?”

“I’m not sure,” mused Chewitt. “My conscience, perhaps. This just wasn’t right, nor is what you told me about Pirate Cay. But regrettably I can do nothing about the latter, whereas here in this prison I am in control and I’ve decided to put a stop to this.

“We’re eternally grateful to you,” piped up Barb. “Now can you please free us from hanging here like this?”

“Mmmm ... not so fast. My orders were to force you to perform sexual services for my most hardened criminals. I’ve defied those orders, but I also know that when they come back to collect you at dawn, they’ll be expecting some proof that I carried them out. So, here is what I propose. Rather than suffer the extreme ravages and physical harm that our worst criminal inmates would undoubtedly inflict, perhaps you’ll agree to submit to a much more conventional and gentle session with me and my subordinates.”

“Can we be taken down and freed first?” queried Barb.

“Sorry, ‘fraid not. The ‘proof’ that I’ll hand over will be some digital photos ... photos of the two of you dangling here, looking exhausted and subdued, with juices running from your mouths and cunts. That will be convincing. We won’t tell them the convicts were not involved.”

*************

With dawn breaking on the eastern horizon the chopper pilot gunned the engine, a crewman, with a thumb drive full of digital images clutched in his hand, scrambled up into the machine’s side hatch.

The chopper lifted away from the pad, and Chewitt and his subordinates waved perfunctorily before turning away.

“Think we’ve seen the last of them, sir?” said one of Chewitt's men as they re-entered the prison.

“Most likely. Our little secret, no matter what, right men?”

“For sure! But I’ll never ever forget how the younger little bitch could suck!” beamed one of his men. “Performed like a pro!”

“And they were both what I’d call a super great fuck!” added the other.


“And a little bondage never hurts, either!”
 
Last edited:

Fossy

Senator
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rolando Chewitt, Warden of Providencia’s men’s high security prison, sat hunched over his battered steel desk, staring with a perplexed expression at the flimsy teletype sheet he held in his large hands. He was baffled by the message, having yet to make sense of what it said no matter how many times he re-read it.

The message had come directly from the Prime Minister’s office and had arrived late the previous day over the prison’s antiquated teletype. Located on a rocky islet off the coast of Providencia’s main island, no one had seen fit to upgrade the institution’s communication infrastructure since the 1950’s. And housed, as it was, deep within the massive stone walls of an old Spanish fortress, cell phone signals within the prison walls were even out of the question. The prison was meant by the government to be the place where the worst of the worst were sent to rot. Access was possible only by helicopter or boat; neglect ensured that the place’s drain on the national budget be minimal.

Chewitt opened a desk drawer, removed a half-empty bottle of golden-colored liquid, and took a long swig. Then he picked up the teletype flimsy yet again, belched loudly, and began to read:

‘URGENT: FOR THE ATTENTION OF WARDEN CHEWITT.

THE PM’S OFFICE ALERTS YOU HEREIN TO A SPECIAL TOP SECRET CONSIGNMENT TO ARRIVE BY HELICOPTER TOMORROW EVENING. CONSIGNMENT TO CONSIST OF TWO FEMALES. NATIONALITY: AMERICAN. DURATION OF CONFINEMENT: OVERNIGHT. FURTHER DETAILS FORTHCOMING AT TIME OF ARRIVAL.

How very strange. Why was he being messaged by the PM’s office rather than the Corrections Ministry? Why two American females, and why for only one night? And why the hush-hush secrecy? None of it made sense.

“Well, I’ve not much longer to wait,” he growled out loud to himself irritably as he glanced at the clock on the peeling gray-painted wall across from his desk, which told him it was a little after 10 pm. Rocking back in his chair he reached again for the bottle.

Chewitt was a middle-aged functionary of considerable girth, with a broad doleful face, accented by a flamboyant dark mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth and was all the more eye-catching when seen in contrast with his shaved skull. He had risen through the ranks to his present position largely due to a keen ability to sense impending trouble and maneuver himself into a position in which he could avoid blame. This, to him, appeared to be one of those occasions. He knew that he’d have to tread carefully, which meant divining exactly what his superiors had in mind.

At around quarter to eleven the intercom on his desk buzzed. The night watch wanted him to know of the approach of a chopper. Slapping his service hat on his head, he rose to leave his office and head for the helipad that had been erected over the old fortress’ north battlements.

The blinking running lights of the chopper came into view at about the same time as he arrived. The machine with the Providencia national seal painted on its side swept in low, hovered momentarily over the illuminated pad, then set down, landing with a bump and a lurch.

Ducking beneath the still spinning blades, Chewitt advanced on the open side-hatch in which a crew member had appeared.

“Warden Chewitt?” the crewman shouted over the whir of the blades.

Chewitt nodded.

“They’re inside. Wait a sec while I get them.”

After vanishing briefly, the crewman reappeared with two women in tow, both of whom he maneuvered toward the opening in the helicopter’s side. They were bound at the wrists behind their backs. One at a time he manhandled them through the hatchway and lowered them to the helipad.

The first was a young, brown-haired thing, wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of white sneakers. She looked both innocent and scared as she peered warily at Chewitt, who was looking her over, up and down, his gaze taking in an exquisitely perfect pair of breasts and perky nipples, and coming to rest on the trimmed vertical strip of hair adorning her mons pubis.

The second female appeared to be ten years or so older and equally stunning. She was also a brunette, although of a lighter shade than the younger girl. She wore the exact same pair of white sneakers along with a black thong, but was topless. Her breasts were larger but not remarkably so. They were both lookers.

Hopping down to the pad behind the women, the crewman gave them each a shove towards Chewitt. By then the Warden had been joined by a pair of his uniformed subordinates, both of whom leaped forward to take the female prisoners firmly in hand. Having completed the ‘hand-off’ the crewman withdrew a clipboard from under his arm, rifled through some loose pages, found the one he was looking for, ripped it free and handed it to Chewitt.

“Your orders.” he said, in a clipped tone loud enough to hear over the rotors, before saluting briskly and running for the hatch. Moments later the chopper lifted off and thundered away into the night. Chewitt watched it go before turning to his charges.

“Take these two directly to my office,” he said curtly.

On his way there, Chewitt paused in the men’s room to take a leak, his bladder signaling that the half bottle of cheap rum, recently consumed, was coming through.

When he reached his office several minutes later, he found his subordinates had backed their charges up against the paint-peeling wall, directly beneath the clock. The older of the two was silent but the younger one had become quite agitated and was hurling fusillades of verbal abuse at his men.

“Shut her up!” Chewitt ordered. His man responded by slapping Barb hard across the face, and when that had no effect, by planting a fist in her belly with sufficient force to knock the wind out of her. Doubled over, she sunk to the floor gasping for air, followed by a cascade of loosened peeling paint chips.

Kelly knelt down beside her to cradle Barb’s head tenderly against her chest.

Chewitt took his seat behind his desk. Flattening the sheet containing his orders against its surface, he peered at the handwritten text, signed at the bottom by none other than his Excellency, the Prime Minister.

It identified the prisoners, simply as Barbara and Kelly. It stated that their brief incarceration of a single night was punishment for an unstated crime; and was to consist of forcing the two women to perform sexual services to a select group of the prison’s most hardened and depraved criminal inmates. Finally, it stipulated that both women should be extracted from their plight after a period of several hours and made ready for a predawn helicopter pick up. Secrecy was paramount. There was to be no official record of what happened; no word of any kind was ever to get out, although graphic photos of the women’s condition after servicing the convicts were requested.

Chewitt read it over twice more, set it down, and sighed. He had no idea what this was all about, but his duty was clear. Whatever the PM wants was as good as law in Providencia. Still, this was strangely beyond anything he’d ever experienced as a career officer. Why the secrecy? What crime had these women committed? And why here? His prison was not an institution for women. Nothing about this made any sense. Never mind. Do your job.

Pushing back his chair, Chewitt stood and issued instructions to his men, “We’re taking these two down to the ‘max’ cells. Don’t ask questions. This is hush-hush. Just get them on their feet and follow me.

Dragged brusquely to their feet, Barb and Kelly were shoved from Chewitt’s office out into and down a hallway at the end of which they were hustled into an antiquated lift, barely large enough to accommodate five people.

“Where the fuck are you taking us?” cried Barb indignantly.

“Shut up!” snapped the guard who had previously punched her, choosing this time to administer, due to close quarters, a sharp elbow jab into her side.

“Owww!” she gasped.

The lift descended and then stopped with a jolt. The door opened to admit a blast of cold fetid air. They were deep in the bowels of the old fortress.

Chewitt led them past a row of cells. Convicts gathered at the bars to see them pass, illuminated in the harsh light of the bare light bulbs strung along the vaulted stone ceiling of the passageway. The two naked women (or nearly naked in Kelly’s case) elicited from behind the cell bars a raucous chorus of catcalls, whistles, and obscene gestures.

At the end of the passageway they came to a larger ‘holding cell’. Chewitt led his little procession inside, and issued orders to his subordinates to affix lengths of chain already hanging from the ceiling to the cuffs that held Kelly and Barb’s arms behind their backs ... an arrangement that placed them each in a bent-over ‘strappado-like’ position, with the toes of their sneakers barely able to touch the floor. Then he personally removed Kelly’s black thong, rendering them both helpless and naked.

“Go get Mannie, Big Juan, Mad Carl, and Braccus and bring them in here,” he ordered, knowing them to be the most hardened and dangerous convicts in the prison.

While his subordinates rushed to comply, Chewitt approached Barb and Kelly. He paused before them for a moment to admire the provocative way in which their breasts dangled and swayed as they strained against the awkward bondage that held them in place. He felt his groin stiffen.

But, his real purpose, with his subordinates temporarily away, was to get answers to the questions nagging at his mind.

Grabbing both women by the hair and jerking their heads back, he stooped to their level, his face not far from theirs, and said, “Okay, this is your one and only chance to tell me what this is all about. I need answers. Why are you here? What did you do to be sent here? Who is behind this?”

There was a brief silence, and then Barb spoke. “Let go of my hair, first. It hurts! ... Thank you, that’s better. We’re captives, you might say ... captives of the wealthy man who owns Pirate Cay. Do you know of whom I speak?”

He nodded.

“Well, that bastard ...” she continued breathlessly “keeps women, like us, on his island ... against their will ... as sex slaves ... forced to perform on demand ... to do the most despicable things for the perverted pleasures of him and his rich and powerful friends ... including, by the way, your Prime Minister! Poor performance is punished, often in ingeniously brutal and humiliating ways. That’s why we’re here. This is a punishment they dreamed up for us.”

“She speaks the truth?” Chewitt demanded of Kelly, jerking her head back by her hair.

A long silent moment ensued before Kelly replied with a simple “yes.”

Chewitt released her hair and as Kelly’s head slumped down he cast his eyes over her back, noting the whip marks up and down its length. They were quite noticeable in the harsh light of the bare ceiling bulb. And Barb had them too.

“Who had you whipped?” he asked. “... that crowd over on Pirate Cay?”

It was Barb who answered, “Yes, whippings and canings are all part of the fun and games there.”

By that time Chewitt’s subordinates had returned with the requested fearsome foursome in tow ... all very large and muscular men. The looks on the convicts’ faces as they caught sight of their naked prey, trussed up and defenseless before them, was just plain scary, as were the enormous, rapidly expanding bulges under their prison dungarees.

“Shit! We’re not going to survive this!” cried Barb, spinning about crazily as her toes scrabbled against the floor as though to flee.

Backing away, Chewitt looked thoughtfully at Barb and Kelly ... at the fear in their eyes as the women tracked the convicts, who had by then begun to swagger about them in a tightening circle, the shackles on the convicts’ ankles banging and rattling as they bantered among themselves and reached out to grab at or smack randomly at bits of tits and ass.

And then suddenly, Chewitt made a rash decision ... inexplicable perhaps given the possible repercussions ... but made all the same.

“Get them out of here!” he bellowed to his subordinates. “I’ve changed my mind. Return these louts to their cells.”

A minor scuffle ensued, but the baton and stun-gun wielding officers were quick to assert control, shepherding the disappointingly protesting convicts away.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” breathed Kelly as soon as they convicts were gone, “What made you decide to save us from them?”

“I’m not sure,” mused Chewitt. “My conscience, perhaps. This just wasn’t right, nor is what you told me about Pirate Cay. But regrettably I can do nothing about the latter, whereas here in this prison I am in control and I’ve decided to put a stop to this.

“We’re eternally grateful to you,” piped up Barb. “Now can you please free us from hanging here like this?”

“Mmmm ... not so fast. My orders were to force you to perform sexual services for my most hardened criminals. I’ve defied those orders, but I also know that when they come back to collect you at dawn, they’ll be expecting some proof that I carried them out. So, here is what I propose. Rather than suffer the extreme ravages and physical harm that our worst criminal inmates would undoubtedly inflict, perhaps you’ll agree to submit to a much more conventional and gentle session with me and my subordinates.”

“Can we be taken down and freed first?” queried Barb.

“Sorry, ‘fraid not. The ‘proof’ that I’ll hand over will be some digital photos ... photos of the two of you dangling here, looking exhausted and subdued, with juices running from your mouths and cunts. That will be convincing. We won’t tell them the convicts were not involved.”

*************

With dawn breaking on the eastern horizon the chopper pilot gunned the engine, a crewman, with a thumb drive full of digital images clutched in his hand, scrambled up into the machine’s side hatch.

The chopper lifted away from the pad, and Chewitt and his subordinates waved perfunctorily before turning away.

“Think we’ve seen the last of them, sir?” said one of Chewitt's men as they re-entered the prison.

“Most likely. Our little secret, no matter what, right men?”

“For sure! But I’ll never ever forget how the younger little bitch could suck!” beamed one of his men. “Performed like a pro!”

“And they were both what I’d call a super great fuck!” added the other.


“And a little bondage never hurts, either!”
Wonderful episode! Method in the Warden's madness for sure! As for young Barb, she has clearly learned very quick how fellate her way around a man's erection ... Excellent!
 

windar

Teller of Tales
Wonderful stuff, Barb, and an unexpected twist, as well. Barb an expert fellatrix, that cane must have worked miracles!
Wonderful episode! Method in the Warden's madness for sure! As for young Barb, she has clearly learned very quick how fellate her way around a man's erection ... Excellent!
She a proud product of Pitcher College!!!:D They're known for being quick studies!
 
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