White Slavers by Jack Norman

White Slavers

(Jack Norman)

White Slavers



Two women knelt, naked, hands clasped behind their necks. Their backs were ramrod straight, breasts thrust forward, stomachs taut, and knees spaced widely apart. A nude man, dark and handsome, knelt beside them, his heavy sex erect and glistening.

"Part of their daily routine," explained one of the two men watching through the glass. “This viewing room enables potential buyers to discreetly appraise our stock."

"Look, I'm not  -"

"That one, for example," the Host continued. "Twenty-five years old and married to a wealthy stockbroker. Once she displayed absolute outrage at any affront to her modesty. Observe."

A man clad in a strange livery of red jacket, black breeches, white stockings and patent leather shoes entered. They could not hear his order through the glass but, without demur, the woman rose to her feet and turned in one graceful movement. She hurried to kneel before the costumed man and began to unbutton his breeches. Taking his large, limp member, she caressed it expertly with her lips, quickly encouraging an erection. The other woman and the naked man remained immobile.

"I am not a potential buyer," the visitor insisted, nevertheless assessing the exquisite young woman who knelt before the glass. The hair was shaven from her body and she proudly displayed firm, perfectly formed breasts, badged with honey-coloured areolas and thrusting nipples. Her midriff was pleasingly taut and, below, the denuded lips of her cleft were enticingly parted.

Perhaps you would be more interested in the male?"


"Our prices are reasonable, considering that we have invested a lot of time and money in each of them. Perhaps you would care to make an offer?"

"I do not buy women - or men."

The visitor made little effort to conceal his contempt. Wealthy and handsome, he experienced little difficulty in obtaining the company of desirable women. Presently, the door in the training room opened once more and another naked woman entered. The visitor gasped.

"Unlike the other specimens, this one is not for open sale," the Host said, pausing before adding meaningfully, "yet."

"I don't understand  -"

"Your wife, I believe?"

"It can't be!"

Beyond the glass, the valet looked up from his pleasure and spoke. The newcomer moved to stand prettily in front of the glass, only inches away from the visitor, her husband. He scrutinised the delightful creature in disbelief. Always attractive, she was now incredibly beautiful. It was definitely his wife, alive, but the organisation had transformed her.

"Her breasts were rather inadequate: we have had them shaped and augmented. And her nose was less than perfect but we have corrected that. She was a little overweight, of course. We could probably achieve such results with any woman - anyone's wife."

"I will destroy you," the visitor hissed with venom, and two large men who had been standing quietly at the rear of the viewing room now moved forward threateningly. The visitor prudently controlled his rage.

"We have not achieved such perfection without pain, effort and expense," the Host continued. "See how vital and alive she is now? Your wife has become accomplished in the erotic arts. She greatly entertained one of our more demanding guests only last night."

In obedient and unquestioning response to a command, the woman slowly and deliberately began to caress her shaven slit.

"She has embraced her slavery as you can see. We freed her mind and released her from society's inhibitions. She, like all of our other acquisitions, can enjoy the punishments and discipline, because she is safe in the knowledge that we would never damage her. My rules do not allow maiming, breaking of the skin or burning, for example."

"You are insane."

"Shall we say half a million?"

"Quite mad!"

"We can simply sell her to someone else. Regrettably, not for half a million pounds, of course, but we would turn a profit."

The man watched, agonised, as his young wife lasciviously stroked her feminine intimacies. Was she aware that people watched? Probably. She undoubtedly knew of the two-way mirror. The delectable creature caressed her magnificent, firm breasts, teasing the pert nipples into protruding hardness. Her tongue flicked out salaciously as she gazed at her own reflection.

"This one has proved a problem, by the way," the Host said, indicating the woman who continued to expertly fellate the valet. "We miscalculated and her husband could not afford her. As for the other, his spouse does not want him. We shall sell them elsewhere, of course."

The visitor bit his lower lip and thought swiftly. "Why shouldn't I just go to the authorities?"

"What authorities?" the Host replied with a laugh. "I am the authority here. Anyway, you don't even know the location of our island - it is one among thousands in this part of the world. Oh yes, apart from the cinematic record of your wife's wantonness, we also graphically recorded your exploits last night... the woman you enjoyed was someone's wife, of course. Finally, numbered among our patrons are the most powerful and ruthless people in the world. They would not thank you for risking their exposure to criminal charges."

"This is extortion!"

The man's wife toyed with her engorged nipples and stroked the surrounding silky flesh as she feverishly worked herself with her other hand.

"As you can see," the Host said, "she is particularly fond of those magnificent breasts. Her only aim is pleasure and she is fully-trained to satisfy your every whim."

The woman tossed her head back and groaned in the throes of a climax. Her husband suddenly noticed that he himself now had an erection.

"We offer a comprehensive after-sales service. She can be subjected to periodic refresher training. The discipline here is corporal and she probably would not wish to return more often than necessary."

Spent now, shoulders relaxed, the woman stood obediently before the mirror and ran a hand through her dark mane.

"I need time to think," her husband said.

"There is no shortage of alternative buyers. We have an offer for your wife already as a matter of fact - from the guest who had her last night. He is not a kind man and her bondage would not be easy. Our patrons include a wide spectrum of wealthy connoisseurs: minor European royalty, wealthy business people, Arab oil-sheiks, owners of specialist, high-class brothels ... we will deal with anyone who has the money."


It was the major venue on the island - a cavernous, circular area in the main block of the complex. They called the large room Big Hall. It was lavishly furnished, with every concession to fashionable and opulent design themes. Around the open, central dance floor, elegant wealthy people dined on the offerings of expert chefs. An orchestra played discreet music while guests drank fine wines and made sophisticated small talk.

Three women glided around the large room as if clad in expensive designer gowns. And a man, too. His naked cock erect and bobbing with each step. Leashed by fine chains affixed to their red collars, they were each led by a liveried valet. Guests watched appraisingly, comparing notes and exchanging comments.

The visitor, seated at a table towards the rear of the room, was again accompanied by two burly guards. He watched, clearly agonised. One of the women was his wife! A valet led her, placid and obedient, from one table to the next. She knelt on all fours as a man in Arab dress hefted her large, pendent breasts. Then someone parted her buttocks and she jerked as a finger invaded the exposed rear orifice.

Despite these indignities, she cooperated totally and without protest. A middle-aged, hard-faced woman cruelly pinched her inner thigh, and then sharply slapped her taut stomach. Someone forced her mouth widely open. She stood erect and passive as a large, bearded man ran practised hands over her breasts, down her flanks, and then stood behind her, repeating the thorough appraisal. The naked woman meekly allowed him to lift each ankle and run his palm over the soles her feet.

The valet tugged the leash and this beautiful, elegant woman progressed to the next table, smiling dutifully. There, a crone-like woman, expensively gowned and bejewelled, thrust two fingers deeply into the chattel's vagina. People at the table smiled when the painted hag commented on the cloying wetness she found there. Guards had warned the visitor to be silent. Several times he seemed about to jump to his feet but each time the valets restrained him. He watched grim-faced as his wife submitted to the degrading examinations.

"Enough," the visitor eventually said. "I will pay her price."


Carlos Fernandez, sitting alongside the Host, smiled with satisfaction.

"Congratulations," he said in his clipped Spanish accent. "Have you given any thought to the proposition I made regarding my own dear wife?"

The Host did not answer from some moments. Then he said: "Senor Fernandez, you are one of our most valued patrons, you have stocked your estate in Andalucia with purchases made here. You wife participates in their discipline?"

"Serita is a cruel bitch, Fernandez smiled, "but I would like experts to teach her."

"Very well. I will invite her to join our training team here. You must understand that you cannot hold me responsible for her fidelity. It is a sensuous island, as you are aware."

Fernandez laughed. "Our relationship has cooled to one of sexual indifference. There is one thing, though - Serita must not know that I have arranged this for her."

The Host inclined his head in agreement. "I will contact her without delay. As it happens, there will be fresh acquisitions for her to practise on, senor."

It was true for, even as he spoke, the Host's white slave network was busily acquiring new stock.


In London, on a cold morning in early summer, Sally Clark stepped from her apartment. She was clad in running shoes, tiny shorts and a tight white vest that she particularly liked because it moulded so nicely against her ample breasts.

On that day, like any other, she set off to jog through the park, taking the same route and, as always, never speaking to a soul. Man-made hillocks and mown grass, thoughtfully planted shrubberies, metal bridges... she knew every twist and contour.

There were few people in the park at that time in the morning. An occasional workman taking a short-cut to one of the few remaining factories glanced up as she jogged past. Sometimes there would be a whistle of appreciation. There was some pleasure in that and, knowing herself appraised, she would suck in her gut, almost involuntarily accentuating her figure. Sally was an attractive young woman and, when skimpily clad in tight vest and running shorts, her charms were apparent enough.

Sally had lived alone ever since arriving in London after problems at home. Everything went well at first. She found a small but comfortable flat, albeit at an exorbitant rental. She even landed a job in the office of a solicitors' practice and commenced work, subject to satisfactory references. Then things began to go wrong. She never knew what her referees had written but, within weeks, the senior partner summoned her to his office... not quite what they wanted, best to part company now. As he spoke, the distinguished, steely-haired man had twisted a curiously styled, iron signet ring on his finger.

It proved almost impossible to find another job. Sally's money was dwindling fast and her rent was in arrears. Then, quite unexpectedly, she met the urbane senior solicitor, her ex-boss, near her apartment block. He seemed quite concerned about her welfare and gave her a business card, advising that she contact the person named. She did so and now, two months later, found herself working for an escort agency.

At least, that was what it was politely called. Like all of the other girls at the agency, Sally discovered that it was easy to supplement the meagre pay by offering extra services. Many assignments ended in bed in some hotel room. She told herself that it was not prostitution, exactly. And always, but always, Sally rose in the early hours and returned to her own apartment, determined to keep some semblance of normality in her life.

On this particular day, workmen seemed to be repairing the track again. They had parked a large yellow van on the grass and deep muddy tracks showed where it had been driven from the nearby roadway. Its rear-doors were open, with a metal ramp at the rear for unloading and loading from the tailgate. Two men clad in blue donkey-jackets leaned on spades some yards from the van, in the very centre of the path.

Accustomed to frank stares and lewd comments from workmen, Sally jogged past but stared straight ahead and ran onto the muddy grass to skirt the two men. However, this was not just another dull morning. She had scarcely passed the workmen when they grabbed her arms, a man on either side. Without giving her chance to break stride, before she could even scream, they ran her up the ramp and into the van. Before she really knew what was happening the men applied a fetid pad to her face, and she lost consciousness almost immediately.

Sally Clark was on her way to the Bond-Age Club.