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Britannia Rules (Victor Bruno)

Britannia Rules by Victor Bruno

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Fearless mercenaries reduced to quivering slaves! Locked in a cell in a foreign country, sentenced first to days and days of agonised suffering ... then to be cut without any kind of anaesthetic.

Oh yes, beautiful, autocratic Britannia’s intervention seems like a lifesaver!

Yet these once proud men are soon quaking in their bare feet before their lovely yet sadistic captors. On board the yacht ‘Trident’, where they have volunteered to serve, they are brutally taken into complete submission, labouring naked at all times to serve their mistresses in every degrading and bizarre way, (including sexually) ever fearing the wrath of their cruel Dominatrixes.

At times even the terrifying alternative seems like a better idea ...

Editorial: WARNING - contains strong scenes - not for the squeamish!

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 12 / 2017

No. words: 30000

Style: Fem Dom - F/M, Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Chapter 1

David Hodge jerked up from the straw-covered floor, his plump cheeks quivering. For he, nerves taut, had been first to hear the door opening.
‘Christ ... oh Christ ... they’re coming ...’
The words came like a long drawn-out series of sobs. Some instinct made him cover his genitals with his hands. No ... no ... no ... they couldn’t do that! Not him! He’d rather die! Even in the mental agony of the moment, he felt the absurdity of that thought. He was going to die anyway. The pores of his already sweating body seemed to open anew.
Ralph Carter sat up more slowly. He said nothing ... but his eyes spoke volumes. It was tough to go this way. He was only just into his thirties; not even half-way to his normal span. So little done so far. So much he might have been able to do. He felt sick, and weak in the bladder ... and fought to concentrate on controlling himself.
‘Get up!’
The yellow-skinned figure in the doorway barked the command. He looked like something out of a Japanese war film, except that he had no uniform - just a loin cloth.
Reluctantly, and with difficulty, the three men staggered to their feet. Each had felt the end of a rifle butt on the shins or in the belly too often to hesitate too long.
They went out, blinking into the bright sunshine. None was actually making whimpering noises but each was whimpering inside. With self-pity.
So this was what it was like ...
The end.
To die alone in a small jungle township. To die in agony with the world unknowing; the world uncaring. Yes ... it was difficult to put a brave face on it when it same to the crunch.
If you had asked any one of the three at that moment what he would do to get out of the situation, he would readily have answered:
‘Anything ... anything ...’
David Hodge, Ralph Carter and James Burrow didn’t know it but that, without being asked, was what they were going to have to do!
Uncertain, nervous, the three climbed up into the three-ton lorry which stood in the gaol courtyard. That was a surprise in the first place for each had expected to be carved up on the wooden ‘sacrificial table’ which had been ceremoniously set up the day before.
‘Where ... where are we going?’ David Hodge’s voice was no more than a whisper. He yelled loudly as a rifle butt thumped down on his toes and then he began to whimper softly.
‘Shut up!’ snapped the guard. His features looked angrily resentful, like an animal deprived of its prey.
The three-tonner lumbered on over rough roads, bouncing the occupants about like sacks of potatoes. No one spoke. James Burrow, never the strongest looking of men, looked as if he was going to pass out at any moment. Ralph Carter, rugged and hefty, continued to strive to hold on to his bowels.
It was not until they had been tossed about in the back of the lorry for over an hour that some faint flickerings of hope began to burgeon in all three. They looked at each other silently, but the unspoken question was there in each of their minds.
If they intend to finish us off in the way they said, why are they taking us all this way?
Evening had fallen when the lorry came to a slithering halt.
The tail-board fell and they tumbled down, weak-kneed, half falling. Terror gripped them all again.
This was it ... this was it!
The moment had come again!
Then they were walking along a rickety jetty. Water lapped gently below. There was the heavenly fresh smell of sea air. Greedily they drank it in after the suffocating stench of the cell they had lain in for days that had seemed like weeks.
The three men paused undecidedly on the end of the jetty. What was this? Death by drowning then? Better than by the knife though ...
Peering down, they could observe the outlines of a small craft. A native sailing vessel of some sort. It rocked gently to and fro, like a peaceful holiday launch alongside a summer pier. But somehow it had an air of menace.
Ralph Carter jumped first, cursing as his ankle twisted. The drop had been further than he had imagined. The other two followed in quick succession, urged on by the pounding end of the rifle butt.
They lay there, cringing almost. Each heart pounded. With dread ... but yet ... but yet ... with a sort of exultation.
Could it ... could it possibly be ... that they were being released?
That, by some miracle, the moment to die had not yet come?
Best not to hope too much ...
For it went against all reason that they should be given any clemency. They had been fighting a jungle war where the law of the jungle prevailed amongst men as well as animals. It was a matter of kill or be killed. They had known it but, like most mercenary adventurers, had dismissed from their minds the idea that it was they who would be killed.
Darkness had now fallen.
Should they move? Make a run for it? Jump over the side? Perhaps that was what there were intended to do? There must be a catch ...
What then?
The situation was resolved by a sharp female voice coming out of the darkness.
“Get this shit down into the hold,” it said.
‘Yes ... yes ... missie ... at once, missie ...’ Several whining coolie voices together.
‘And hose it down before you lock it up,’ said the voice. ‘It stinks.’
‘Yes, missie .... yes ... right away, missie ...’
The three men felt themselves gripped by innumerable pawing hands and were dragged through a hatchway, down to the depths of the vessel.

Chapter 2

Britannia De Vere - known to her intimates, perhaps rather naturally, simply as Britt - sat mulling over the philosophical niceties of the subject of power.
There were so many forms of it and there was such a variety of them throughout the world. Western politicians, for example, loved power, even though it was often of a remote kind and exercised through Parliaments or Chambers of Deputies. A power, too which could be arbitrarily taken away at the ballot box. Black African despots loved power, too. More understandably for it was of a more immediate kind. Many of them took a personal pleasure in slaughtering their countrymen by the thousand ... not to mention any possible rivals.
Then there was the power of money. Arab oil sheiks had that. As did international financiers and some entrenched feudal landowners. Many such just seemed to love the power of having money rather than actually making real use of it.
There was the power of the parental tyrant ....
The power of the blackmailer ...
So many forms. Some on a grand scale; some quite petty. Yet each satisfying in it’s own way and degree. Yes ... love of power seemed endemic in human nature. Many suppressed that love, largely because they found they were not capable of gaining power. Those who were luckier, or desired it more, achieved it ... and fed on it. Hypocritically, many of these pretended they didn’t really enjoy power at all. They were simply exercising the rights of a superior human being for the benefit of those less worth. Custodians of an ordered society. Britt smiled. How smug those British Victorians had been, with everyone knowing their ‘proper station’. Quite a clever system really, she reflected. Then, except for the very lowest ranks, everyone could exercise a degree of power right through the scale.
Then, of course, there was Britt’s kind of power.
For her money, it was the most desirable and satisfying power of all.
Immediate power ...
Close-contact power ...
Instant power ...
And, above all, the power of the female over the male.
Britt stretched luxuriously on the lounger on which she was relaxing, feeling the tingling in her nerve ends. Just thinking about her kind of power gave her the sensation. Where was the pleasure, she asked herself, in exercising power by remote control? In knowing that, by you actions, someone was doing something that you have wanted or instigated ... but doing it thousands of miles away? Unseen, unheard, by you?
Enforced actions had to be seen to be enjoyed. So had suffering. That was Britt’s view, and she had no qualms about it at all.
Like Piggie was suffering at that moment. He had been given the task of polishing every inch of brass on both the fore and after decks of the yacht ... knowing he’d get a hiding if there was but one single flaw in his work. It had been a very hot afternoon, too. Yes ... very wearisome for Piggie. At that moment, Britt caught sight of him on his hands and knees up near the bows of the vessel. Fat-bottomed bastard. There was still plenty of weight to come off him yet ... and come off it would!
Of course, it had been cool under the awning which had been rigged on the small upper deck. Especially as Britt had taken her ease without a stitch on. Except her customary thigh-length boots, which were made of the softest, thinnest leather. She rarely went without those. They were symbols of her power.
Languidly, Britt stretched out one arm, pointed a long, slim finger and pressed a bell-push set in the panelling. She had begun to feel a little thirsty.
Perhaps a half a minute later, a slight-figured man came panting up the companion ladder. Reaching the upper deck, he bowed to waist level and then stood at attention ... deferential, servile. He was completely nude but for a black leather triangle which fitted closely and tightly over his genitals ... held there by a slim thong about his flanks and a tight-cutting under-thong cleaving between his nates. His fair hair had been shaven almost to the scalp and not a single body hair was to be seen.
‘You took your time, Polecat,’ said Britt, not moving her position and still gazing idly into the middle distance.
‘I ... I beg pardon, Ma’am,’ answered the man just referred to as Polecat. ‘I ... was at work ... in the galley, Ma’am ...’
‘Excuses ... excuses, Stinker. How many times to I have to tell you I don’t accept excuses?' enquired Britt evenly.
‘I humbly beg pardon for keeping you waiting, Ma’am,’ answered the man just referred to as Stinker.
Britt didn’t even look at him., Her eyes were still on the sweating figure of Piggie up by the bows.
‘Get me a jug of fresh orange juice,’ she ordered.
‘Yes, Ma’am ... at once, Ma’am ...’ The shaven-headed figure bowed to the waist again, turned, and made for the companion ladder.
Only then did Britt’s head turn slightly and the faintest of smiles crossed her lips as she noted the numerous broad pink-red welts encircling the figure’s rump. Obviously Hannah’s strap had recently been at work. Nothing unusual in that, needless to say. That girl was quite some task-mistress. One who loved her work. Britt closed her eyes and ran her hands up over the round firmness of her breasts, feeling the nipples stiffen fractionally. Yes ... like was very good.
Meanwhile Polecat, or Stinker, or simply sometimes Stink, as he was wont to be called, was scurrying back to the galley. To keep the Captain waiting, to incur her wrath in the slightest, could scarcely have been less desirable. He must hurry ... hurry.
Yet there was still the duties Miss Hannah had assigned him. For the moment, perforce, they would have to wait. But not for too long. Oh no ... not for too long. Oh God, try as one might, it was not truly possible to satisfy all the demands made upon one. Yet one must go on trying.
With a feverish haste, yet with care, Polecat filled a jug with fresh orange juice, tossed in the ice, set the jug with glasses on a tray. Was there anything he had forgotten? A serviette perhaps? Yes, he’d better add that. Oh God, he’d nearly forgotten the packet of straws! Quickly he added them to the tray before having a final check. He must not take too long, yet everything must be right. Hurry. Hurry!
Polecat, alias Stinker, alias Stink, picked up the tray and set out for the galley door
Miss Hannah Hales came through that door at that precise moment and Polecat almost dropped the tray. He had, to put it at its mildest, the very greatest respect for this young woman.
‘What you up to, Stink?’
The magnificently made female figure confronted him. Skin the colour of milky coffee, a touch of the Negroid in arrogant features, dark eyes flashing and dangerous. Miss Hannah wore only the shortest of skirts. Pleated white leather. And calf-length white leather boots. Around her waist, as ever, was buckled the white leather belt from which dangled and jangled a multitude of keys. Also, fastened to one side, was a broad leathern thong attached to its short wooden handle. Her symbol of authority.
‘The Captain asked for orange juice, Highness ...’
‘Uh-hu. Then you’d better take it quick, eh Stink?’
‘Yes ... yes, Highness ...’ Oh God, what it was to be at the mercy of such a woman! A woman who scarcely ever concerned herself to distinguish between the possible and the impossible.
‘Cos there’s still a lot of work to do here, eh Stink?’
‘Yes ...H-Highness.’
‘Git movin’ then.’
Polecat bowed his head and left the galley. A scurry along the deck. Then up the companion ladder again. More difficult this time with a tray to carry. The Captain still reclined nakedly at her east. Happy and confident in her power. A bow to the waist again before placing the tray on a side-table. The position of attention.
‘Pour it, you stupid bastard!’
‘Yes ... yes ... I beg pardon, Ma’am ...’
Nervous fingers held the jug and poured the ice-tinkling contents into a glass.
A wait. Again at attention. How long will one have to remain there? When time is of such urgency. Oh God, has she forgotten me? Still so much to do in the galley.
‘Get below, Polecat.’
‘Yes, Ma’am ...’
The servile bow; the turn; the departure. Relief for dismissal, yet trepidation for tasks still to be performed for Miss Hannah. No ... not Miss Hannah. It seems that the Captain has decided that Miss Hannah is of royal blood and, henceforth must be addressed and treated with the appropriate respect.
That half-caste Negress bitch! A Princess! Oh my God ... No ... no ... no ... one must not think like that. Never ... never! She is her Highness. You are her slave. Remember it well, slave, or you will suffer.
Polecat returned panting back to the galley. An evening meal had yet to be prepared and, as the poet said, time waits for no man.
For no man.
Polecat wondered if he could still be so described.
Piggie does not think it is possible that he can lift his hand off the deck and place it on the brass rail which shimmers in the heat haze before him. There are several yards of that rail still to be polished to gleaming perfection. Several yards of three rails set one above the other. That is all he has to do before his task is complete.
Yet he is done. Dead beat.
His head swims. Oh this accursed heat! He is as dehydrated as if he has wandered all day in a desert. Or so it seems. In fact he has worked for two solid hours during maximum temperatures ... conscious all the time of the easy-lounging presence of the Captain up on the sundeck. Naked under her awning. The knowledge churns up his guts. Churns them with hate and terror ... yet also with lust.
That superb, long, lithe body ...
Oh God!
Pig sobs with self-pity. How can this existence be endured? He just can’t go on.
But then Pig remembers Miss Hannah’s supple rod. And Miss Hannah’s strong right arm. Stronger than most men. Who would have thought one would have to submit to being thrashed by a coloured woman? Pig remembers ... and makes himself lift his hands off the deck.
He starts to polish the brass again.
Horse is having it easy that day. Well, relatively easy, perhaps one should say. A spell in the wheelhouse. Not as arduous as some jobs, naturally, but not always exactly a picnic. For you see, when you’re put in the wheelhouse aboard The Trident (an appropriate name for Britannia de Vere’s yacht, is it not?) you are also put in a form of pillory.
It is a pillory which keeps you crouching, pinions the limbs, yet just allows sufficient freedom to the hands to control the steering and driving equipment. For it does not pinion at the wrists but just below the biceps. Horse has good biceps. He is the huskiest member of Captain Britannia’s crew. The most handsome as well. No doubt that is why he so frequently catches the attention of Carmel Divine, the Captain’s 19-year-old niece.
An eight-hour spell in the wheelhouse is back-aching enough ... and it is not improved by that young lady’s presence!
‘How’s it going, Horse? Keeping us nicely on course?’
The heart of the man referred to as Horse sinks as he hears that familiar voice and the click of high heels coming up on to the bridge. He has still an hour of navigational duty to go.
‘Yes, Miss ...’
One has to be prompt, respectful, seamanlike. Whatever one’s feelings, however much one’s muscles are aching.
‘Good ... good. We don’t want any errors, do we? Running on to a reef or anything. I mean, I doubt if anyone would have time to get you out of that contraption before the boat sank.’
Carmel giggles. Oh yes, a very funny joke. The scent of her fills Horse’s nostrils as she stands close. Provocatively close. My God, that ripe young body would drive any man mad ... let alone one who had been deprived for months. Those breasts! So bouncingly big. That bottom! Equally so. She simply oozed sex from every pore like he and the others oozed sweat.
‘How long to go, Horse?’
‘About another hour, Miss.’
‘Mmm ... not too bad. Expect you’ll be glad to straighten up though.’
‘Yes, Miss ...’ Deference, deference ... complete humility. Essential.
‘Still ... let’s see if we can make the time pass a little more quickly, eh?’
The man called Horse shuddered slightly and gritted his teeth. Oh God, if only he could have been left alone for that final hour of duty. It would have seemed an age, but now it would be a torment.
‘What are you steering, Horse?’
‘Forty-nine degrees, Miss.’
The voluptuous figure of young Miss Divine came partially into the view of the man called Horse. A see-through white blouse through which those big breasts were bursting. A cascade of blonde hair fell over the compass box.
‘Looks more like fifty degrees to me, Horse.’
‘It ... it’s a very fine limit. Miss ...’
The blonde cascade rose; a small firm palm smacked across Horse’s right cheek. Then knuckles, coming back-hand, crunched into his left cheek.
‘Don’t answer back!’
It hurt ... but one got used to getting hurt. To some extent one got used, anyway.
‘I ... I’m sorry, Miss.’
Carmel, now right before him, smiled winsomely, blue eyes sly and cruel. She undid two buttons of her blouse and the ample contents spread forth.
‘I expect you’d like to play with my tits, Horse?’
It was not possible to avoid gazing at the succulent fulsomeness. Those big, strong nipples, such a rosy pink.
‘If... if Miss wanted me to ...’
There was the mounting heat in the loins; the painful pressure on the leather restrainer. It was all beginning again.
‘Answer my question.’
‘Yes ... yes, Miss ...’
Carmel Divine smiled even more winsomely.
‘Are you on course, Horse?’
The eyes of the man called Horse darted back to the compass. Jesus ... five degrees off! Quickly he adjusted the wheel. Sweat prickled his flesh.
‘You deserve the rod across your backside for that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss ...’ One had to agree. However unjust, however absurd.
‘You’ll get it if you slip up again. Keep your mind on your job.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘I expect you’d like to suck my nipples, too.’
Poor Horse couldn’t see the compass. His whole vision was filled by two delicious white melons thrusting close.
‘I ... I can’t see the compass, Miss.’
The knuckles came again. This time on both cheeks. Girlish blows, but enough to make you blink back tears.
‘Answer my question!’
‘Yes, Miss ... oh yes ... M-Miss ...’
A complacent grin. ‘Well, you’re not going to ...’
‘I understand, Miss.’
‘You’d better.’
Carmel glanced at the compass. By some sort of miracle, Horse had kept The Trident on course. Then the lush vision disappeared from view. Horse’s flesh prickled with sweat again. Long ago he had given up anticipating relief from taunting or torment. Anticipating release. Just as one did that, matters merely seemed to become worse. Best to try and shut one’s mind and endure. Foolish to hope too much. His eyes were fixed grimly to the compass needle. Christ, how his back and arms ached!
‘I think we’ll have this off.’
The girlish voice had merriment in it. Happiness. Cruel happiness. Horse just managed to stop himself groaning as he felt fingers unfastening the thongs of the restrainer. One must not groan at such attentions.
‘Thank you, Miss,’ he said.
The restrainer came away and, the pressure relieved, an organ already straining for erection filled and stiffened.
‘My, my,’ said Carmel, as if amazed, ‘what’s all this? Got excited looking at my breasts, did you, Horse?’

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