Pam-Ann by Lindsey Brooks

and nether
lips. Pam found the task humiliating enough without daring even to
think how the result must make her look to everyone else.
    Christine lined them up and gave
each girl a careful scrutiny. She had been a slave for over twenty
years, yet she was dressed almost identically to the rest, the only
difference being a thin, blue band decorating the hem of her scanty
white loincloth and the little cane she carried, a symbol of her
limited rights to beat her charges. Pam guessed she was in her late
thirties, still pretty, though her breasts and belly were probably
less firm than they had once been. How had the woman stood it for
so long? She would never be able to do the same without going mad.
Pam gulped. Unless she was already mad and lying sedated in a
hospital somewhere. She had to get away, had to find that blackness
somewhere out over the ocean.
    Her first duty in the saloon was
to serve dinner. Relieved though she was to discover she had not
been assigned to the table where Persephone Peake sat beside the
Commodore, she was also acutely aware of the blonde’s gaze
following her as she carried dishes back and forth. As the meal
ended, Jerry Morgan and the band arrived, followed by the bosun and
his mate and an anxious-looking slave girl. The grinning MC did not
go into detail about the girl’s offence when he exercised his
sarcastic wit to increase her humiliation and fear as she was
strapped to the caning frame.
    Pam tried and failed to shut out
the swish of the cane and crack of it striking the girl’s buttocks
as the bosun laid on a dozen strokes. Wincing, she leaned over to
take a breadbasket from a table and a hand closed over her right
breast. It buzzed uncomfortably in the firm grip. She looked to her
right. Mrs. Harcourt, the woman who had examined her bottom earlier
in the day looked back, eyes bright.
    “Are you juicing, dear?”
    A hand slid between Pam’s thighs
before she could even think of closing them and two large fingers
pushed inside her. Alarmingly, her sex quivered as she looked left
and saw the woman’s husband.
    “Yes, she is.” His thumb found
her upright bud. “And she’s standing to attention.” They both
laughed. “Shall we have her, my dear?”
    “I think so,” his wife replied,
“but I’d like to see the Zulu girls perform first.”
    Mr. Harcourt summoned a white
jacketed crewman. “We’d like use of this one. Suite Twenty
Two.”
    The steward wrote on a card he
carried, produced a red grease-pencil from his pocket, and when
Mrs. Harcourt released Pam’s tit and she rose upright, he wrote
‘twenty-two’ on her shoulder. “Stay. I’ll arrange a relief,” he
told her.
    “Kneel,” Mrs. Harcourt ordered,
and Pam sank to the floor between the couple, scarcely able to
believe the little flow of moisture that accompanied the removal of
the man’s fingers from her sex. Was the influence of Persephone’s
Venus Dust ever going to wear off?
    The audience applauded when the
caned girl was hauled upright and led away to a man sitting at one
of the tables. Pam had overheard another girl say that caned slaves
were often used by passengers immediately after their punishment.
Worryingly, the Harcourts had clapped as enthusiastically as the
rest and with the same flush of excitement on their faces. They did
the same when six of the Zulu stokers mounted the stage, their
lithe, muscular bodies rippling and gleaming with oil under the
lights. In vivid contrast to their brown skins each carried two
large, white rubber dildos. They had not been performing their
earthy and provocative dance for long before revealing that the
phalluses were not merely symbolic.
    Pam had never seen anything like
the show they put on, first filling their glistening pink pussies
with one dildo, then presenting their shiny, firm
buttocks to the audience and working the other deep between them.
She did not like girls. That was the truth, Pam forcefully reminded
herself, guilty, ashamed and astonished by her