'Sex Slave' published

I have published my latest effort. Hopefully Lulu won't completely end my writing hobby and my attempts to entertain. So if interested give this link a try.

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/chris-bellows/sex-slave/ebook/product-njwk22.html

The Lulu website upgrade continues to baffle me.

CB

'Sex Slave' Segment I

New story, Female/Male Dominant - female submissive

Enjoy 

CB

*****

Sex Slave

Copyright 2020

By Chris Bellows

An Unabashed Introduction 

The girl stands in silence, respectful silence. The woman lectures, her son listens, eyes glued, curiosity piqued, hoping the throbbing within his loose cotton shorts does not result in embarrassment.

“She’s here to serve us for the summer months, a gift from the Queen. Though she’ll live here she remains royal property. Therefore you will be careful in handling her, Kwame.”

Son Kwame nods, his mother smiling, well aware of the priapic reaction, despite the loose khaki covering the barometer of male sexual attraction.

“How’s she going to do anything... you know... with her hands like that?”

Kwame gestures towards the girl’s left hand, docilely hanging at her side just below her hip, as is her right hand. About the thumb is a heavily gauged loose ring of black iron. A chain is secured leading behind the girl’s back to where it connects to an identical ring about the right thumb. Kwame cannot understand what holds the loose rings in place... until he notes the tip of each thumb seems attached in some manner to the girl’s index finger, making the thumbs useless... other than as convenient loops.  

“Her duties here do not... will not... require the use of her hands, Kwame. And because the Queen has dictated that she is not to play with... ah... touch herself... you have new responsibilities in the house. You will feed and bathe her,” mother Jemila smirks.

She finds irony that there comes no objection, recalling a few years back when son Kwame was first deemed old enough to help out about the house. Assigned the simple task of twice weekly cleaning the kitchen floor, he protested the drudgery as if the twenty minute chore would materially truncate in his play time.

And now? He gawks, his continued silence suggesting agreement.

“And you’ll need to turn on the bidet for her. Obviously her toilet needs become sloppy. And do be gentle in drying her.”

The attention of young Kwame, eyes fixated on breasts of stone with curious small vertical posts of matching wrought iron thrust through the flesh, is diverted to the girl’s pubes. It is shorn... as is the girl’s entire body... head included... and thus prominently displayed are two more rings of wrought iron, the gruffness incongruous in being pressed through the meaty yet delicate flesh of the outer labia. A small padlock connects the two. 

“Wow, Mom... she’s...”

“Chaste, Kwame. That’s the term. She’s held in chastity by Royal decree. I have the key... but it is only to be used during exercise and punishment... which hopefully won’t be needed.”

“Then why...”

“Her hands are secured because girls have a little thing that they can play with... just like naughty boys have a bigger thing... even though vaginal penetration is inhibited.”

Mother Jemila smiles with her blunt explanation. One of the reasons... and there are several... she accepted the gift of the Queen... a woman whom she befriended at private school many, many years ago... was to bring anatomical awareness to son Kwame... having reached the age when indeed boys become naughty and play.

“Now, take her for a shower. She’ll speak with your permission. And you’ll note there are cables and clasps for her nose grommet. One above. One below.” 

Jemila steps forth, hands of deep mocha going to the bald head, the contrasting alabaster skin making her handling conspicuous. The girl knows to meekly tilt back her head as a dark thumb and index finger handles her nose, prodding to separate the nostrils, as if inspecting fruit. Kwame notes that within the nostrils there comes the glint of metal.

“Nose grommet. Girls like this respond best to bondage. Over the years it comes to enthrall.”

Jemila releases her modest grip, finally turning her attention to the girl.

“Would you feel better leashed? You may speak.”

“It may be best, Ma’am.”

“Yes, of course it would,” mother Jemila responding with a sardonic snort. “You will obey my son. And instruct him... how a women like you is to be bathed.”

Jemila steps to a table then returns to hand son Kwame a thin length of nylon, loop at one end, clasp at the other.

“Leash her... but be very careful. I think you can imagine the sensitivity there. She is property of the Queen,” mother Jemila reminds.

Kwame accepts the length, hands shaking in combined concern and delight. He thinks of the snooty Caucasian girls and women, tourists occasionally visiting the local village. And now he has one... on a leash.

He opens the clasp, reaches and easily finds the deeply set grommet. As he leads the girl away, there comes the sound of faint chiming. Jemila recalls the recent afternoon tea with her Highness... her gracious royal friend quite forthcoming when strained matrimonial matters were discussed over mint juleps.

New Story Coming

Look Saturday 7/25/20 for the beginning of a new story, Male/Female Dominant -  female submissive.

Not sure whether it is the Covid thing or folks just losing interest but my Lulu story sales have fallen off a cliff. Hope it is not their website 'upgrade' turning people off, but so far in July I have sold as many stories on Smashwords as on Lulu... and I have not published on Smashwords for 6 or 7 years! The stuff published there is old!

Any readers having trouble with Lulu? Please comment. I cannot believe so many readers have disappeared.

CB  

'Bred', Part V

Walking Jasmine

“I have not done this before. I hope I am not hurting you,” Lesley attempting casual conversation

in what to her is a bizarre setting.

Mia has disappeared. Accompanying Lesley and the leashed Jasmine to the steel exit door of the

dorm, the Asian woman bid adieu after suggesting the pair remain walking the beach and with

the island’s limited size they would in time circle back well before dark.

So barefooted, Lesley finds herself strolling the soft white sand, leaving her sandals at the cell

entrance, the leashed Jasmine to her right and half a step behind. Lesley realizes the girl is

heeling like a well trained dog. And as suggested she is most docile... most obedient.

Yet there is no reply. In the silence, Lesley reminds herself time and again... there is no one...

nobody to see her so dominating the hideous, fattened giantess... enormous breasts flopping,

labia fluttering about, bells chiming. The vanilla world is fifteen miles away, almost out of sight,

barely seen over the horizon... stow your concerns.

Quirt in left hand, Lesley becomes devilish. She has complete authority over the girl... use it, she

tells herself. The left arm crosses her front, wrist flicking to apply a most moderate stroke of the

quirt to the front of gelatinous thighs.

She instantly finds a degree shame in her action, but manages to speak firmly.

“Speak, Jasmine, you’ve been given permission,” more shame coming as the paroxysmal

reaction to the pain is felt... the leash momentarily tightening in Lesley’s grip.

“Yes, Ma’am... I mean no Ma’am, you’re not hurting me. You’re very kind and gentle,” the reply

ironic after a mild though stinging stroke.

“This island, Jasmine... what happened here... what is happening here... I find to be

disconcerting. I am told you are here of your own volition. It would comfort me to know that is

true.”

“I am. Miss Lamont... Miss Mia... have been very kind to me.”

“Caged, body modified, restrained at all times, impregnated... how can that be?” the exchange

coming as the duo slowly step through soft dry sand.

“It’s fulfilling... for the first time my life having purpose. And... well... I’m not doing... bad

things. I’m a bad girl... was a bad girl.”

Lesley guides toward the water, to the firmer wet sand, Jasmine’s gait awkward due to the bizarre

high heeled boots. With the setting of the sun, the breeze diminishes. Sure enough, her nose

detects feminine arousal. Looking to the stretched labia, her visual inspection no longer inhibited

in modesty, she notes streams of moisture. The girl finds arousal indeed. But due to what

element? As Mia explained, the sensual input is myriad.

The leash hand jostles then tugs to a stop. Becoming emboldened in the seclusion, Lesley turns,

the quirt hand going to the mons. The otherwise threatening thin strand of leather teasingly works

between the thighs to flip about... left labia to right... left to right... left to right. Jasmines sighs in

joy, the perverse touch welcomed. Perhaps more endorphins will loosen the girls tongue.

“You’ve been here a while Jasmine. Nipples... your cunny flesh... it must require time to so

modify.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know Ma’am. Time is meaningless to us. But many babies.”

“How many?” Lesley recalling Mia mentioning that for the most part a girl drops one child per

year.

“I don’t know... don’t recall. But you can count... the marks... I am branded after each. I can’t

see... the neck restraint... on my right buttock... high... the last one at the middle.”

Yes, the brands, Lesley recalls, momentarily stepping back to view the massive hillock and again

count.

Seven... seven parallel markings. Presumably seven years.

“So you’ve been here while my fiance, nephew Tom, spent school breaks here... while in

college?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Lesley finds the reply to be not too upsetting. As both Mia and Tom have suggested... she needs

to acclimate. And she finds that she is doing so. Oddly, in learning more and more, the level of

discomfort begins to dissipate... even finding the notion of branding a girl’s buttocks...

permanent marks... to be logical given the environment of thorough dominion over those to be

bred.

How else would a girl’s production be known?

The fertility, the many pregnancies, dropping children as would fruit from a tree, brings gloom to

a woman destined to be barren. Is the girl fortunate? Lesley has not divulged her secret to her

betrothed... her mind reeling with the mention of a woman’s endometrium... the need for both

thickness and resiliency in bearing children.

Hers has been deemed insufficient... a pregnancy resulting in possible internal hemorrhaging and

death. Diagnosed months ago, before Tom proposed marriage, she had not the resolve to divulge

her possible engagement-ending condition. And now?

And now there is envy... Jasmine able to deliver offspring as would a rabbit.

“Did he milk you? Did you let down for him?”

Lesley realizes the questions frighten, Jasmine aware that they are engaged... that such an

intimate undertaking between a man and woman could be... would be... deemed troublesome.

Normally deemed troublesome, she corrects herself... at another place. And little has yet to be

found normal on Shelter Island.

“Yes, Ma’am... it’s... well... it has to be done.”

“That machine... the tubing... the cylinders... the tank... near the entrance... it’s used for milking...

milking you?”

Jasmine awkwardly nods, neck restraint holding fast her head, careful to not strain her nostril

ring.

“So Tom used that... on you?” Lesley already made aware of the reply.

“Well yes... at first... but he was... well... very kind... and when he...”

Jasmine becomes tight lipped, concern growing, renewed awareness of the relationship apparent.

“The machine... at first... then...” Lesley encouraging completion of the thought.

“Well it can be harsh... it suckles and suckles and suckles... endlessly. And there’s no... guess

you’d say compassion... no exchange of... intimacy. You don’t realize how good... it feels... to

give up for someone... nurture... pretend you’re nurturing... in response to their touch.”

Lesley is both appalled and saddened. Many nights of lovemaking coming to mind... lover Tom

so wondrous... his foreplay exquisite... his nuzzling of her breasts sublime... the massage of her

mammary glands so knowing... so accomplished... so thorough. She never told him of the mild

orgasms she experienced... even before the torrid coupling left first base.

And now comes to the forefront what apparently are many years of training... summer after

summer of milking a girl!

A pensive Lesley turns, cruelly snapping the leash to bring unwarranted pain and a muffled

howl... tempted to also lash buttocks appearing to welcome punishing strokes.

There’s so much... so many questions... so much concern... entangling her need to eventually

disclose... the inability to safely bear children.

The walk continues in silence, leashed naked beast, firm hand leading. Breaking her thoughts, on

occasion Lesley peers back, the jiggling breasts, tingling bells, wet labia flipping about. Yes,

Lesley’s concerns transform, outside world no longer given credence. Instead there comes

jealousy... realizing the past intimacy between fiancé Tom and the grotesque yet enviously

fecund woman at the end of her leash.

But should not that console? Lesley asks herself. It is not she branded, anally impaled, forced to

strut about bald, hairless with intimate pink flesh altered at another woman’s behest.

Still there follow thoughts of revenge... but against whom? The interaction bringing distress

occurred before the two had met... likely before Tom even attained the age of majority.

Yet, keeping a secret. There should be rebuke. But is she not also keeping a secret?

Circling of the island nearly completed, Lesley finds herself much more emboldened. There is a

sense of pride... of empowerment. She is in charge... in charge of a woman fiancé Tom touched.

Such a contrivance... assuaging the ache of a woman’s lactating breasts.

Perhaps she will whip the girl to whimsically send her message of annoyance. In not expecting

child, Mia has hinted that harshness may be meted.

Dorm building in sight, veering from the wet to the softer dry sand, the procession slows, the

high boots bringing caution, to tumble with hands and wrists bound perilous.

“Miss Lesley... if I have disturbed... perhaps it is best I try to otherwise please. I will lick... in

contrition... seeking your forgiveness. The fifth sense,” Jasmine so humble in reminding.

Yes, to have her taste me... that amazing tongue, the girl’s head so eager to slip under Mia’s short

and loose skirt.

Perhaps it is a first step... concerning revenge. And perhaps she will indeed learn to use the

milking machine... have it suckle and suckle and suckle... the elongated strips of nipple flesh

turning to untouchable rawness.

Is it she that is now aroused... the anger dissipating?

'Bred', Part IV

With Jasmine

Mia unlocks the cell door. A languishing Jasmine stirs, once again her plumped body slowly struggling to dismount the low stool and crawl forth. Mia beckons in holding up the oddly shaped boots. Jasmine knows she is to be walked.

“She’s a little sluggish after a nice long milking. She expressed nicely for me,” Mia explaining the lassitude. “Depletes much energy... letting down in abundance. But she’ll perk up for you.”

Out the cell door, Jasmine moves to Mia, the prodigious tongue protruding to lick her hands. Mia smiles, giving a signal and Jasmine knows to further bend her right knee, calve rising to present her curled foot. As Mia slips the boot in place, Lesley notes the shape perfectly aligns, the curvature of the interior arch matching that of the foot.

“Custom made from molds. Quite expensive... but will last almost a lifetime,” Mia explains in tying in place.

Booted right foot returned to the concrete, as the left foot lifts, Lesley inquires.

“What happened... to her feet?”

“Gloria Lamont had me engage in an ancient Chinese custom. As added security, to assure the girls could not wander off, we performed foot binding... reshaping the foot by binding such that the toes are pressed to the heel. Over time... along with a little help from some taps with a wooden stick, the feet reshape.... such that only with special footwear can a girl stand and walk”

Lesley is horrified! It dawns that with hands locked into the thumbless mittens, the boots cannot be donned without assistance... apparently most times withheld.

“Okay Jasmine, to the wall, I want you upright... slowly... practice keeping your balance until I finish readying you for a nice evening walk. And you have permission to speak to Miss Lesley.”

The readying goes deftly. As Jasmine places her covered hands on the wall, using for balance as she rights herself at the waist then props up on right boot than left, Lesley realizes for the first time the plumped, naked and hairless girl is not only of great girth but tall. As she stands, boots essentially placing her on her toes, her bald head rises well above that of Lesley. At five foot nine, Lesley approximates Jasmine’s natural height at six foot... possibly more. The restrictive neck collar, forcing Jasmine to maintain perfect posture, head and face up, augments the presentation. Jasmine is a giantess... a captured beast.

Steadying herself, finding her legs, Jasmine knows to carefully slip her hands from the wall, support no longer needed, arms lowering. Mia guides her wrists back behind her, gently but firmly pressing to bend at the elbow, then pushes upwards using a short strap of leather to connect together the mittens and secure the hands to the back of the steel neck collar.

Next comes the anal hook. Lesley finds herself blushing as the shaft is introduced to the gluteal cleft and the smooth hemispherical tip finds its way past an evidently tight sphincter with a quick but convincing push. Next, another short strap of leather connects the loop at the top end to the bent elbows.

Testing, satisfied that Jasmine is well trussed, Mia next grasps the leash and hands it to Lesley. Jasmine knows to turn and face her master, smiling demurely as Mia reaches for the small bells.

“It is important... for the psyche... that a girl always feel under control... owned,” Mia lectures, hands working quickly to hook a high pitched chime to each nipple ring, then stooping, flicking about the ungainly strips of labial flesh to attach a pair to the labia rings as well. “With every step Jasmine will feel the anal insertion, hear the bells, and feel such grazing her nicely stretched pink parts.”

Lesley notes the look on Jasmine’s face... it is a pleasant look... one of agreeable surrender. Then Mia pauses in her explanation, hands right and left going to the enormous breasts, fingers flicking the nipples to bring forth sonorous chiming. Lesley then notes the pink has turned to crimson, announcing to all that the glands have recently been suckled... and suckled. Indeed the girl grimaces though Mia’s touch is slight.

“So, understand the sensual input. She will see your guiding leash hand, feel the anal penetration, hear the many bells... and with a few steps smell the fragrance of her own arousal. Other than the day Jasmine arrived on Shelter Island, she has not been vaginally cleansed. No douching... we like a girl to smell natural. With her response to your controlling hand... that will become evident as her cunny becomes wetter and wetter and she brings herself into a nice sexual froth.”

With the proximity, for the first time Lesley notes indeed that within the confines of the cinder block structure, the air is filling with the scent of feminine arousal.

“And you may ask about the fifth sense... taste. Well... that is very limited... being fed from a gastric tube. But what she is permitted to taste... it’s... well... guess that’s best discussed at another time. Perhaps afterwards. When you return just remove the tethers then slip off the boots. She’ll crawl into her cage for you. I’ll be back later to cuff and bind her for the night.”

There comes a pause, Lesley speechless in once again being overwhelmed.

“It’s your task to clip in place the leash, Lesley. It’s symbolic... and it’s best to establish your governance quickly. Never ever let it go free. If you need to rest, make sure it is well tied off. She must always feel captive... sense the surrender and capitulation. Though keep in mind that in being deeply set into the cartilage of the septum the nostril ring will not tear away but the agony of a strong tug can be excruciating. So she will be most obedient for you. But if direction is not followed use this,” Mia stepping away and returning with a short whip. “It’s a quirt. Since Jasmine is not expecting... use it freely."

'Bred' Published (I think)

I have published (attempted to) the referenced story on Lulu.

25,000 words $4.32. 

Well, at least the story is listed in my completed 'Projects'. However, as all things are going recently with Lulu and their disastrous upgrade, I cannot find the story for sale.

So, I have no link to post, and if and when the story is offered I will so inform.

Meanwhile I will post another segment or two here on the blog.

But this makeover/upgrade is painful. Had to resubmit tax form W-9, which Lulu has had on file for some 12 years. And to make a simple cover (as you readers are aware, I don't spend time alluring with photos but with words) I had to type up a page on the word processor, print out and then scan in as a jpeg file.   

The story is quite quirky and as I try to differentiate in my story lines... this one is indeed different.

So enjoy... if you can find it.

Addendum...

Think I found a link... try...

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/chris-bellows/bred/ebook/product-mz9zdg.html

'Bred', Part III

Late Afternoon With Mia

The trio sit. Iced tea with lemon refreshes. Lesley finds the climate warm yet tolerable. The breezes of the tradewinds bring steady cool when sitting under the shade of a thatched roof and tall palms. 

“How long have you been here, Mia?” Lesley politely commencing conversation.

“Many years. I would take a guess at ten. With the weather so consistent... sunny and warm, sunny and warm, sunny and warm... the years slip by... no freezing winters... no blazing summers to mark the seasons.”

“So you’re not native to the area... having been through cold winters?” Lesley digging.

“I am not. From San Francisco... and spent a few years in Boston. Snow, rain, ice... I don’t miss it.”

“Boston. I went to school in Boston... Northeastern. You?”

“Ah... Harvard,” Mia humbly divulges, not seeming to boast. “Graduate school... and some post graduate work.”

The lofty academic credentials bring a moment of silence, Mia’s extensive educational background not expected.

“Aunt Gloria was fortunate in engaging her,” Tom stepping into the breach. “Not many with her resume willing to work in such... isolation.”

Graduate school, post graduate work, some ten years on the island, the information places Mia in an age range of late thirties to early forties, Lesley calculates. Many years of life remaining... and in Lesley’s mind stuck nowhere... an idyllic nowhere, yes... but the deep blue of the ocean horizon and thick verdant tropical vegetation must wear at some point.

“So no boredom? As beautiful as it is, there must not be much to do here.”

“The girls... I’m sure you’re well aware in visiting the dorm... were many. Much care needed. At any given time eight or nine gestating... a scheduled delivery once per month... and there were the inseminations, and of course the fertilizations... my... ah specialty.”

A wide mouthed Lesley looks to fiancé Tom, another shocking disclosure.

“Inseminations?” voice wavering.

“Yes, Mia’s specialty,” Tom again breaking a pause of silence. “Aunt Gloria had money, yes. But keeping the facility here going... you can imagine the expense of bringing in food and supplies... would have been a financial burden without the breeding program. It was... lucrative.”

Stunned again, Lesley sits back in her chair, not able to conjure another word. In the distance she hears the steady hum of the island’s electric generator, Tom having explained the source of power when she inquired about the many canisters of propane. The boat was laden. If Tom spied an open spot, he took on board another canister.

Finally she finds words.    

“So impregnating women can be lucrative?”

Tom and Mia exchange glances. Yes, Tom spent much time here she concludes, able to communicate with the woman wordlessly.

“Let’s say you have a man... and a woman... married... and they very much want to have a child... children. But there are complications... possible danger... in bringing a child to term. Well... Mia... given the right facility... can make that happen.”

“The right facility... and the right amount of money?” Lesley cynically adds.

“Yes.” 

“How much?” Lesley’s cynicism swelling.

Tom looks to Mia. She takes a sip of tea, seeming to be reaching within for resolve.

“The last half dozen... $100,000 each. But there were... guess you’d say... pro bono inseminations.”

“Free?”

“Yes. When it was deemed convenient. The island is technically under the governance of Moriana... a small chain of Pacific islands which comprise a sovereign nation. So, there were occasions when we’d breed a child for a ranking government official... and in return Tom’s Aunt Gloria... and the island... received little unwanted attention.”

“Breed... as in cattle?”

“Gloria’s term. Used so often here... it just slips out,” a sheepish Mia explains.

Lesley becomes unexpectedly pensive, Tom expecting somewhat of a rage in learning more of Aunt Gloria and the island’s praxes.

“So the girls... kept naked and caged...”

“There’s... term it a certain environment... certain psychological underpinnings to be instilled... in keeping a girl consistently pregnant. It can be mentally burdensome as you... as a woman... can imagine. Aunt Gloria developed a regimen to best deal with that,” Mia now gushing with background information.

“Consistently?”

“Once per year.”

“For how long? How many?” Lesley gasps in both fright and concern.

“Depends on the girl... and her uterus... the endometrium. We’ve had a girl drop up to ten... other’s a half dozen.”

Drop like cattle! The beings in the so term dormitory are talked about like cattle!

Though again shocked, words of reproval don’t come. With the mention of the word ‘endometrium’, Lesley lapses into guilty silence. Though she is learning of the secrets of Shelter Island... she has some of her own.

“It’s time for Jasmine to let down for me,” Mia interrupting her thoughts. “You should join me. Tom enjoyed milking a girl during his summers,” Mia deciding to deflect Lesley’s apparent scorn by implicating the girl’s fiancé in what she considers aberrant undertakings. “And he disliked using the machine.”

Mia smiles sardonically and shifts about to rise from her chaise lounge chair. In so doing, Lesley notes her short pleated skirt flips up. The lithe woman is without undergarments, briefly flashing her mons.

Assured relative coolness? Or other reasons? Lesley’s concerns expand, expressing such more forthrightly with Mia’s departure.

“So no machine, Tom?” the words uttered with disgust. “This is all rather overwhelming. The activities here are criminal... were criminal... but the Jasmine girl... woman... remains caged.”

“Not criminal in Moriana. And I’m arranging for Jasmine’s... departure.”

“To where? What’s she going to do?”

“It is problematic. Aunt Gloria sent them... the girls no longer able to breed... to the main island then arranged for a flight out. That’s all I know. I’ll be going through her files, trying to learn more. But you should be with Mia more... learn more about...”

“The depravity.”

“Well... then walk Jasmine. Let her explain some things.”

“On a leash...” Lesley cynically suggests.

“Always,” Tom shrugs. “It’s island protocol.”

“Couldn’t help noticing Mia’s garb... the lack of it,” Lesley’s tone accusatory.

Tom snickers. “I don’t think there’s a problem there. I have you. And trust me, she finds no attraction in me. Think about all this. There’s not been much penis here over the years... only the guys coming on monthly visits with the supply boat... and she has been very happy without.”

Lesley calms herself to nod in understanding, recalling Jasmine’s attempt to get under Mia’s short skirt at feeding time. The decline was notably subtle... the rebuke less than sharp. 

Iced tea consumed, Lesley places down her glass. She needs to tell Tom something... desperately. But when? Each time the tranquility of the island inures calm conversation, more concerns arise involving caged girls, an eccentric aunt, the level of fiancé Tom’s participation, and the mysterious Mia... advanced study at Harvard resulting in an extended sabbatical in the middle of nowhere.

“There’s no offspring here,” Lesley tacitly utilizing a breeding term, “why is Jasmine being milked?” deciding on bluntness.   

“Two reasons. The lactate is in demand thus more cash flow. The numerous biological mothers aren’t expressing. And well... Aunt Gloria’s program... ah... once a girl is put on a schedule... you know... regularly letting down... it’s sort of... needed.”

Lesley recall’s Mia’s mention of ‘pharmaceuticals’... in the feeding bag.

“So she can’t go without?”

“They ache... the glands,” Tom glumly explains.

“So during summer break, you helped the girls... with the aching,” Lesley more taunting than inquiring.

Tom nods agreement... “it was instructional... for a guy in college.”

Lesley decides to end the inquisition. Within, she senses a degree of comfort, learning that fiancé Tom has secrets. It will make hers easy for him to accept.

To be With Jasmine

Dinner, Lesley decides not to engage in further cross examination... of neither Mia nor fiance Tom. Mia prepares simply, light fare, not much heated or cooked to be desirous in the heat. The conversation strays away from the island, Aunt Gloria and the curious activities. In the silence of consuming, Lesley gives much thought to what she has learned and discovered... but also ruminates on the many things unknown.

Why would the girls... at times up to a dozen... tolerate such treatment of their own volition?

Both Tom and Mia have encouraged her to walk Jasmine... even permitting the girl to speak... an otherwise apparent verboten activity. Should she? 

The degradation comes to mind... her self image in guiding a being at the end of a length of leather. But then she realizes... it is only she that will ever see... she and the naked, hairless and plumped Jasmine. There will be no retribution in abetting the apparent wickedness of the island’s culture.

Arrested by the Morian authorities? It’s a relative impossibility.

In finishing, Lesley helps clear the table. Cleaning dishes with Mia, the subject matter returns.

“It is a nice evening for a walk,” Lesley casually commenting.

“Yes, the sun is so much less intense. And one must be aware... there is peril in exposing delicate pink flesh to ultra violet rays.”

Mia smiles. With her reference to the abundance of stretched nipple and labial flesh apparent, she looks directly into Lesley’s eyes, reading her mind.

“You’ll feel empowered, Lesley. You’re not of our ilk... of that I am aware. But do indulge. No one makes judgements here on Shelter Island. And whereas you’re naturally coming to quick conclusions, overall things are for the best... doing what we do here... what we’ve done here. There are those who have needs... needs that require attention... very exacting and firm attention. And there are those like Gloria Lamont who graciously offer it. That and fulfilling the needs of couples wanting children.”

Dishes cleaned and stowed. Mia silently steps out of the kitchen... to the front door... walking toward the low concrete structure of the dorm. She does not need to look back. She knows Lesley follows.