Duty bound, p.1
Duty Bound, page 1
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This edition published
The right of Francine Whittaker to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyright and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-907475-67-2
All characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental
THIS IS FICTION. IN REAL LIFE ALWAYS PRACTISE SAFE SEX
Also by Francine Whittaker in Silver Moon.
The Connoisseur
Amber in Chains
Slave Path I
Slave Path II (The Journey Continues)
Slave Path III (Into the Chasm)
The Whipmaster
Pleasure Control
Bridled and Bound
Duty Bound
Bad Blood (with Sean O’Kane)
Punishment Bound (Silver Mink)
Mistress Blackheart (Silver Mistress)
Lady Nightshade (Silver Mistress)
Copyright Francine Whittaker 2011. All rights reserved.
DUTY BOUND
By
Francine Whittaker
Story based on an original idea by Master M, with thanks
Prologue, African Republic of Blawanya
Hidden away in a desolate part of the country where tourists and foreign dignitaries were nothing more than rumours, an old truck, jam packed with a new shipment of slaves destined for the mine, threw up a thick dust cloud as it rattled past the whitewashed, adobe bungalow. Somewhere close by, a scavenging dog yapped as someone kicked it away from the rubbish dump. And a black girl screamed as the single tail of a guard’s whip wrapped around her ankles and brought her down, bringing an abrupt end to her long, barefoot journey and valiant bid for freedom as she sobbed into the dirt.
Inside the low building, the mosquito screens and the lack of air outside combined to produce the oppressive heat of the bare, cement-floored room. The overhead fan turned ineffectually. The young black slave that Dr. Adair Dowling treated as his own kept the room tidy and it was as clean as the dusty conditions allowed. More basic than the other rooms of his fine living quarters, it was the one he preferred to do business in and was similar in size to rooms the poorly paid male mine workers themselves shared, usually nine or ten men to a room in which they had to wash and sleep. But women at the mine had an even worse deal.
In accordance with the Republic’s doctrine that declared all women inferior to even the poorest, most lowly of men, the females at the Thomassentown mine were slaves rather than paid workers and owed their existence entirely to the mine owner’s generosity to his male workforce in providing on-site and unpaid whores. But with an eye to getting good value from them, once they were considered too old to be desirable, the owner put them to good use in the mine’s shanty town as serving women in the bars and cheap eating houses. Treated with less compassion than the scavenging dogs, the slaves were all housed together in a series of cages.
For Blawanya was a major producer of quality diamonds, those of the best quality coming from the Thomassentown mine. The preferred excavation method employed at the mine produced deep and dangerous underground tunnels. In addition, the site also included high security areas where the ore was refined.
There was also a highly profitable – and as yet undetected – smuggling operation.
At first, the two Englishmen who were obliged to do business together, ignored the pretty girl with the close-cropped hair and aubergine-coloured skin as if she were nothing more than a shadow as she entered the room. Wearing the brown collar that marked her out as the property of the mine rather than an individual, she carried a wooden tray on which were placed two iced glasses of beer, the only drink that could satisfy a man’s thirst in the exhausting heat. Going directly to the doctor, she bent toward him and proffered the tray.
As always at the regular meetings between the two men, Adair Dowling was seated with his back to the light putting his companion, seated on a similar couch opposite, at a disadvantage, having to squint to look at him. It was an odd relationship between them because although they were not friends, their dependence upon each was clearly evident to both. For it was the pilot’s regular flights in the old aeroplane that brought in the medicines and bandages for Dr. Dowling’s clinic. But both men knew even greater importance was attached to the illicit cargo that Roy, the blond haired pilot took with him on his return flights, for the world had an insatiable appetite for diamonds.
The world also had an insatiable appetite for cruelty. Adair Dowling was no exception. Before taking the glass from the girl’s tray he slipped his hand inside the baggy neckline of her coarse, thin shift and sought out the little screw on the top of the square, medical grade stainless steel, vice-shaped clamp that already held her nipple captive. He tightened it further, forcing the upper bar down harder against the trapped morsel and listening for her sharp intake of breath. Her pain duly registered, he did the same to the other nipple. He smiled as she once again gasped in pain, then still without speaking to her, withdrew his hand and helped himself to one of the glasses.
The slave’s big, dark brown eyes widened. Knowing better than to serve her Master’s guest without a direct order to do so, she stood awaiting instructions, the darkness of her skin emphasised by the off-white shade of her shift. Officially known by the number tattooed on her upper arm and stencilled onto her brown leather collar, with cruel humour Dowling had named her Freedom, which was clearly designed to emphasise her lack of free will. If she ever had a name of her own, Dowling had never known it and assumed it was probably long forgotten.
Adair glanced across at Roy, a slightly younger man than himself. “You have the stones?”
Roy screwed up his eyes in an attempt to see more clearly. “Safely stowed on the plane and ready for the off first thing in the morning.” Laughing, he patted the breast pocket of his thin polo shirt and continued. “Plus my commission!”
Adair was clearly infuriated at the man’s lax attitude and poor observance of the security guidelines. His features grew darker as he tried to contain his anger. As usual when displeased, he took it out on Freedom. Addressing her for the first time, he commanded, “Stop snivelling, bitch!”
She dropped her gaze to the tray before her and with a quivering lip she quietened. Nothing but fear of reprisal and obedience to the man who fed, sheltered and abused her, deterred her from loosening the screws. And that was something he cold-heartedly exploited.
“Shut up, or I’ll tighten them even more!” Raising his glass of ice cold beer to his lips, he used his free hand to slap the mutely subservient, black girl’s tight little arse and send her on her way.
As he watched her pad barefoot across the uncovered cement floor, he could not help smiling at the memory of the fresh, angry welts across her shoulders, partly obscured by the loose-weave of her simple shift. But clearly visible stripes adorning the backs of her thighs were a joy to behold and, swallowing the welcome liquid, he kept his gaze riveted to his own handiwork. As she bent and offered the remaining glass to his guest, he wrinkled his high, sun-tanned forehead. His tone was brusque as he demanded angrily, “You’ve left them unattended? Suppose someone finds them? What if the guards search the plane?”
“They won’t!” Roy answered equally brusquely, adding, “They never do. As an Aid worker, I’m considered trustworthy.”
Freedom offered Roy a tempting view down her baggy-necked shift as she leaned forward to serve his drink. Taking it as an invitation to sample her pendulous, dark skinned breasts, he made a grab for them with one hand while reaching for the beer with his other one. Holding his cold glass to his face to cool himself, the fingers of his other hand squeezed her soft, pliable and clamped breast as it dangled invitingly before him.
From England’s Home Counties, Roy could have passed as almost anything from a builder to a London cabby or used car salesman, though his passport identified him as an aid worker for NBAF, a small but internationally respected organisation based in the Netherlands. The same charity also provided the clothing, footwear and blankets that were delivered to the mine less frequently on an old truck. But although the Europeans who donated the aid believed it was being used in the poorest regions of Blawanya to treat the sick, like the goods on the trucks most of the medicines Roy flew in for Dr Dowling’s clinic were sold on the black market, leaving only the most basic medical supplies for a place where most ailments were caused either by accidents or over-work in the mine. Or from excessive discipline sessions for the slaves. The soothing ointments were a blessing after fifty lashes!
Having received no commands to the contrary, she did not pull away or
“By all means tighten the screws,” Adair offered generously.
“Okay, thanks.” As his host had done before him Roy tightened them, first one then the other, pausing to listen for her pained gasp. “Neat little contraptions,” he said, admiring the square clamps whose horizontal bars squeezed her nipples almost flat. Then turning his gaze back to his host, silhouetted against the brightness of an African afternoon, as he mauled the girl roughly he addressed Adair’s concerns at last. “Relax, Doc. If anyone was going to find the diamonds and discover our real business here, they’d have done so by now.” Taking a long slug of imported beer, he squeezed her breast as though trying to liquidise a juicy plum. Holding his beer and squeezing her breast at the same time he angled his head until his mouth was level with its pendulous fullness. Then, moving his hand to cup the clamp with its tortured morsel of flesh in his palm, simultaneously he pressed it back into her breast while closing his teeth on its sweet upper swell.
She had to stifle her gasp of pain-loaded shock in case her master misconstrued it as a protest. But she could not help dropping her tray, and flinched as the wood clattered onto the floor, aware of her Master’s displeasure at her clumsiness.
The doctor’s rebuke was swift, his tone dripping with scorn. “By God you’ve earned a lashing this time, you stupid bitch! It’s a session on the post in the garden for you!”
CHAPTER ONE
The Kent coast, England
Before she even saw him, Rusty felt his presence the way you can often register the arrival of charismatic men. Or a dark sense of foreboding warns of some momentous event that will shape your life. So it was with Rusty the day she first met the urbane Charles Hilton.
She was standing beside one of the Cessnas, outside the hangar at the Saxon Hill Airfield, with her back toward the tall stranger when she felt his approach. Despite the prickles of discomfort she felt with his eyes upon her, she resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder as, with a clipboard in her hand, she signed the paperwork concerning the progress of one of the flying school’s pupils.
Even from the back and despite the oil-spattered khaki dungarees she was wearing, her impressively feminine curves made it impossible to mistake her for one of the airfield’s men. In addition, her long, fiery red hair was barely contained by the baseball cap under which she had piled it and wispy strands fluttered in the breeze.
There was a knot in her stomach as he drew level with her.
He did not turn to look at her as he walked past on his way inside the hangar. His shocking words were directed at her nevertheless and the raw lust in his tone snagged at some primeval longing inside her.
“I’ll make a real woman of you. I’ll unlock the eroticism inside you that you never knew existed.”
While her youthful features still made her look like jail bait, at twenty-four Rusty was very much a woman, with an impressively long list of lovers behind her that proved she was no innocent. She didn’t need help from the likes of him, thank you very much! she told herself as, seething, she fought to hold her tongue. The school could ill afford to offend a prospective pupil and so she held her temper under control and made none of her usual cutting remarks. Instead she glared at his impeccably-suited back as he made for the cubby-hole in the corner of the hangar that they used for an office, where Rusty’s brother and the other two owners were gathered for a meeting.
Not wanting to appear too interested in the stranger, she slipped her pen in her top pocket and tidied her hair before she ambled inside. Still aiming for an unconcerned attitude, she stopped beside the mechanic they called Gibbo, who was working on one of the planes the Saxon Hill Aerobatics Team used for their displays.
“Who was that?” she asked casually.
Pausing in his work, Gibbo’s eyes took in her natural sexiness as he used an oily hand to smooth his black, razor-cut hair. “He’s some big bod from Charisma ……a director or something.”
“And apparently he’s loaded!” one of the other men said as he made his way past them and toward an old biplane on the other side of the cavernous hangar.
Instantly recognising the name of the cosmetics company, she did not know the name of its successful managing director, and tried for a bored tone as she probed Gibbo. “What’s a man like him doing here? Does he want flying lessons?”
“I’m surprised your brother didn’t mention it, Rust. He’s come to discuss a sponsorship deal.”
“For the aerobatics team or the wingwalkers?” Being a member of both teams that performed regularly during the summer months at airshows from the south coast to the Midlands, she knew just how important a deal could be.
“Both, I think. You’d better go and talk to your brother and the other guys afterwards.”
It was not until he was leaving that she saw the Charisma man again. She was standing outside again, looking at her watch and wondering at three thirty what had happened to her two thirty pupil, when the man came walking toward her as he left the hangar. She looked up when he stopped alongside her, and immediately tagged him as being in his early forties. The intense look in his eyes coupled with the command in his husky voice took her breath away.
“My card,” he announced, taking the liberty of popping it inside the open neck of her dungarees where it lodged snugly beside a soft, generous breast in her bra. With a sneer twisting his handsome, moisturiser-and-cologne-treated features, and looking at her with eyes that were the same shade as sticky toffee, he named a pub about two miles further inland. “I have business in the area this afternoon. I’ll wait until six thirty at The Will-o’-the-wisp. Be there!”
Without another word he walked away. She opened her mouth to deliver the lippy retort that sprang to mind, but speech evaded her. She swivelled round just as he disappeared around the corner of the hangar. Following quickly, she watched him stride through the car park toward a sleek, four door saloon in Fountain Blue, with blacked out windows. As he approached it, a man walked around from the driver’s seat and opened the rear door for him. With an odd, leaden heaviness in the pit of her stomach, she watched the car drive away down the cracked tarmac road that had once been the perimeter track and now led to the airfield’s entrance.
With trembling fingers, she withdrew the card. Staring down at it she was surprised by its lack of contract details. Just his name, HILTON printed in black in a bold font, with no indication whether it was his first or last name. She told herself it was intrigue that persuaded her to keep the appointment rather than a rare act of compliance since she was not a girl who took kindly to being ordered around.
After a lesson with her late-arriving pupil, and no further lessons booked that day since the evenings were not yet light, she dashed home and changed into jeans, a white cotton T-shirt and black leather jacket. She pulled on her motorcycle boots and eventually arrived at The Will-o’-the-wisp with minutes to spare.
She drew alongside his car on her black, orange and white Honda Fireblade motorbike and removed her matching helmet and shook her feral red hair loose. With ease which came with routine she dismounted. Not wanting to appear too eager she paced leisurely across the car park, pushing the pub door open with confidence.
Standing inside the doorway and raking her fingers through the impressive length of her hair, she soon spotted him sitting on one of the tapestry upholstered seats behind a table at the back, by the window where he had a good view of the car park. Trying to squash the unfamiliar nervousness gnawing at her insides, she glanced around to see if there was anyone she knew who was present. Although she could not account for it, she was relieved to discover all the customers that evening were strangers to her.
