Slaves Of The Copper Coast

SLAVES OF THE COPPER COAST.

© Morris Kenyon


• When wealthy young broker James Baxter is sent to the tropical country of Kupro Marbordo, the Copper Coast, he is amazed to find that slavery is a well established custom there. Initially shocked, he soon finds himself owning a beautiful slave-girl – with all that implies regarding her discipline and training.
• WARNING! This book contains scenes of a sexual nature, graphic violence against women and strong language, It is not intended for the easily offended or persons under eighteen years. You have been warned, so if you read on, don’t blame me.
• The names, characters, places and events in this book are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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SLAVES OF THE COPPER COAST.


CHAPTER 1.

Of course, I had heard of Kupro Marbordo, the Copper Coast. A tropical country, famous for copper mines, marble quarries, beef cattle. And slaves. It is, I think, one of the very few countries now where that ‘peculiar institution’ still flourishes.
But that didn’t concern me. I worked at my uncle’s brokers house in the United Zones, up in the northern continent. Thousands of miles away from Kupro Marbordo. I knew we had interests in many cities and countries throughout the New World, but I never gave Kupro Marbordo much thought.
Until, one day a few weeks ago, my uncle called me into his office. As befitted a senior partner, his office was massive. Oak panelled with oil landscapes and portraits on the walls. A huge mahogany desk stood on a Neo-Assyrian carpet.
“James,” he said, “I want you to take over our brokerage down on Kupro Marbordo for a couple of years. Our current resident has retired and I need a man I can trust to take over. I know it’s only a backwater of a place at present, however, it has potential to expand. Between you and me, I think he let our interests slide. If you can build up our business there, it will stand you in good stead for promotion to a more important posting later. What do you think?”
Well, when a man as important as my uncle asks you to do something, what can you say? Of course I agreed on the spot.
So, a few weeks later, I found myself walking down the steamship’s gangway onto the quayside of Haveno Ananaso, Kupro Marbordo’s capital city. The name Haveno Ananaso means Port Pineapple. The sultry tropical heat washed over me. I’d have to buy myself some lightweight clothes. The docks were very busy with ships of all sizes loading and unloading. Didn’t see any pineapples, though.
I pushed through the crowds to the Customs House. A large, ornate building that dominated this part of the docks. Outside, a gang of labourers carried sacks of oranges over to one of the ships. I stopped, in astonishment at the sight. A man bumped into me, mumbled something about stupid tourists before heading past me into the shade of the Customs House verandah.
This crew must be slaves, then. The men, at least a dozen of them, were chained together by their necks. The chain was loose, giving them freedom to work but not to vanish into the hustle and bustle. A few had red marks across their deeply tanned, bare backs. All the men wore in the heat was a pair of denim shorts, a straw sun hat and boots.
A man in a white jacket, a wide brimmed hat, carrying a whip stood nearby and directed the men’s efforts. Occasionally, he tapped a man on the shoulder and gestured with his whip. All the direction he needed.
Now my eyes were opened, I saw another gang of slave labourers, also hard at work. However, I couldn’t stand and stare all afternoon. I made my way through to Customs, answered their questions about my stay. I tipped the bored official a few piastres, the local currency. Then my passport was stamped and I was through.
“Enjoy your stay. Do you want help with your bags, sir?” asked the official. I nodded.
The man gestured to a young man standing nearby. The man jumped to attention and picked up my trunk. Like the labourers outside, he wore denim shorts, boots but also a white t-shirt with the Customs logo printed on it. As he lifted the trunk, I saw a thin steel collar around his neck.
A second man, identically dressed, helped carry the rest of my bags. I followed them outside onto a main road running past the docks. Out of the shade, the heat crashed down on me again. A row of horse-drawn cabs waited. The two men, slaves, loaded my baggage onto the cab.
I thanked them both. I offered them a piastre each. They refused with horror.
“No, master,” said one. “Slaves aren’t allowed money. But thank you for offering.” They ran back into the Customs House. Away from the crazy foreigner who might get them into trouble.
I glanced at my note book. My firm had already arranged accommodation for me. “Kresto Abrikoto,” I said in my best accent. Apricot Ridge. It sounds a nice area of the capital. My pronunciation must have been all right as the driver understood.
He flicked his whip at the horse and it trotted off. Slowly, we left the busy city centre and climbed up a steep hill. The views from the heights to the city and then over the sea were spectacular. But even better, there was a cooling breeze.
After a few kilometres we passed a few peach and apricot orchards, then the driver pulled up outside a small villa. It was set in its own gardens. Pink and purple tropical flowers festooned the villa. What I saw under the blooms impressed me.
It was whitewashed with green shutters under a red, pantiled roof. I paid off the cab driver as he helped me unload my baggage. He saluted me before flicking his whip and returning downhill.
I pushed open the gate, up the short path then knocked on the door. A moment later the door opened. A woman, several years older than me stood there in the dim light. She was maybe thirty with dark hair, chocolate brown eyes under arched brows, and a generous mouth.
She stepped back into the hall, I followed. As soon as I crossed the threshold, she did something which shocked me. She lifted her light blue dress over head then dropped it to the floor. She unhooked her breast band, dropping that onto her dress. Then she knelt before me, knees wide apart exposing her shaved sex, placed her hands behind the small of her back and looked down.
“Welcome, master,” she said. Her voice low and quiet.
Despite my embarrassment, I couldn’t but help look down. Any man would. Her hair was shoulder length and hid her face. She had large breasts with dark nipples and areola. Further down, I saw the swell of her hips and her smooth, shaved sex. She was a good looking woman. Then I noticed the thin steel collar around her neck. So she, too, was a slave.
I stooped and picked up her dress. It was still warm from her body.
“What are you doing? Get dressed,” I told her.
She stood. “Do I displease you, master? I can be replaced, if you want.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I am your house slave, master, provided by the landlord as part of your rent. I’m here to do your cooking and cleaning. And to satisfy any other needs you may have, master.”
“Well, firstly, get dressed.”
She nodded and slipped her dress back on. It’s too distracting talking to an attractive, but nude woman.
“Is there anyone else here?”
“No, master. Apart from the gardeners who come twice a week.”
I glanced behind me to my baggage standing outside.
“Let me bring that in and unpack for you, master,” she said. “But first, let me make you a cool drink.” She led me through the house to a patio area. A recliner overlooked a lush garden. Brightly coloured birds flitted between the shrubs and trees. Frogs croaked in the undergrowth. I took off my hat and jacket, then sat out in the shade. The woman brought me a glass of fresh lemonade.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Please, master, this slave’s name is Beth.” She said it like I might not approve.
“That’s a nice name.”
“Thank you, master.” She curtseyed, then backed into the house to fetch in and unpack my goods whilst I relaxed.
I could get used to this life, I thought. Then a wave of shame overwhelmed me. What right had I to take my ease in this beautiful garden whilst a woman literally slaved away in the house for me? I put down the half drunk glass.
I stood and returned to the house.

CHAPTER TWO.

Beth was in what I assumed would be my bedroom. Mosquito nets hung from their frame over the bed. She was brushing my clothes and hanging them in a dresser. I watched for a moment. She turned, saw me. Her eyes widened with shock and her hand flew to her throat.
“Master,” she said, eyes downcast.
“I’m sorry, Beth. I should have offered to help. That trunk was heavy.”
“That’s all right, master. It’s part of my duties. I’m here to serve you.”
I sensed that my presence was making her uncomfortable, so I returned to the garden and left her to it. Later, as the shadows started to stretch over the garden, Beth came out and knelt beside me.
“Would master wish for food now, or would you prefer a shower-bath first?”
I realised I was hungry. “Oh, something to eat, I think,” I told her.
She stood, curtseyed, then brought out a tray containing a cheese tart, cold meats, new potatoes and a green salad. She set up a table by my recliner, then knelt again.
“Does master wish me to feed him?” she asked.
“Certainly not! No one’s fed me since I was a baby. Go and have your own meal.”
“Yes, master.” I watched as she retreated back to the house. Her hips swung under her lightweight dress.
The food was delicious. When I finished, I tidied up the tray, then brought it back inside. I turned away from my bedroom and found the kitchen towards the rear of the villa. I pushed open the door. Beth jumped up from the kitchen table. She looked frightened.
“M… m… master,” she stammered. I glanced around the white tiled kitchen. A range oven took up half of one wall, a ceramic butler sink and drainer under the window. Store cupboards opposite. A half open door to the larder and strings of herbs and onions hung from the ceiling.
“What’s the matter, Beth?” I asked gently.
“I… I didn’t expect to see you in here.”
I looked at her meal. I dipped a finger into it then licked it. A bowl of porridge. Bland and almost tasteless.
“What’s that?”
“Slave food, master. It’s very nutritious.”
I nodded. I’d just enjoyed a well cooked meal whilst she had eaten slops.
“Would master like his shower-bath now?”
“No, finish your meal, Beth.”
She nodded her thanks. Meanwhile, as she ate, I looked around the kitchen. It was clean and well equipped. But in one cupboard, I found something I’d never come across in a kitchen before. Hanging up on hooks was a selection of whips, paddles, canes. I noticed a brutally studded paddle. There were also chains, gags, irons, restraints a blindfold and other equipment I didn’t recognise.
“What’s all this, Beth,” I asked quietly. I didn’t want to terrify the woman by holding any of the instruments.
“I’m your house slave, master. I might displease you or you might need to correct any of my mistakes.”
“What! By beating you?”
“Most masters find corporal punishment is very effective at training and disciplining slaves, master.”
She spoke quietly, not lifting her eyes from the table. She was obviously terrified that I’d want to use them on her body. I shut the cupboard.
“I’m sure you won’t do anything to upset me, Beth.”
She’d finished eating by now.
“But I would like that shower-bath, now,” I told her. Anything to take our minds off the contents of that horrible cupboard. She jumped up and almost ran into the bathroom. I followed a moment later. By the time I got there, the shower was running and Beth was naked again.
I didn’t know what to do. My prudish northern upbringing in the United Zones rebelled against what this woman was offering. I was about to send her away but before I could do so, she stepped forward. She must have known the conflict going through my mind.
Beth pulled off my jacket and hung it up. Then she unbuttoned my shirt and tugged it over my head. I stood before her. She leaned forward and kissed my chest. Her tongue flicked and licked my nipples. Then, before I could stop her, Beth knelt before me. She unbuckled my belt and in one easy motion pulled down my trousers and pants.
My penis twitched with expectation and desire. But another part told me this was wrong. The woman was a slave. She had to obey me. Yet she seemed to be doing this of her own will. I wasn’t forcing her. Her lovely mouth was centimetres away from my cock. She looked up into my eyes, seeking permission from her master.
I made a noise in my throat. About to do the right thing and refuse. But she took it as an order, opened her mouth and licked my cock, working up and down my shaft. It sprang firm and erect at her touch. She swallowed it, letting her full lips work up and down my length until the pressure built up more than I could resist. I exploded inside her. Her throat worked as she swallowed my cum. She had been well trained.
“Let me clean you up now, master,” she whispered. She stood, caught hold of my hand and led me into the shower-bath. The water was just right for the tropical evening. Not too hot and not too cool. She picked up a sponge, soaped it then rubbed it over me, starting with my face and only then working down my arms, chest and legs. Its rough but gentle texture made me hard again.
Beth took her time, rubbing the sponge all over until she turned me round and washed down my back and the backs of my legs. Eventually all that was left were my cock and balls. I watched her soap the sponge thoroughly and then Beth knelt under the spray. Without touching my cock with her hands, she washed my genitals with her sponge.
I was huge, more erect than I’d ever been in my life. My cock like a totem pole. I was bursting with passion and lust. I wanted this woman so much. But would it be right to just take her? I mean, she was a slave. As I understood it, she had no choice in the matter. But I didn’t feel happy by just using her body for my own pleasure.
It was Beth who solved my dilemma. She turned away, braced her back against the tiled wall of the shower-bath. She spread her legs, her smooth sex fully spread, her fleshy labia open. She held my throbbing penis and then guided it into her wet hole.
I pressed against her warm, wet body and thrust up inside her. Slowly at first, then faster and harder. She gasped, arched her back off the tiles, her face upturned into the spray. I took her, couldn’t hold back any longer. I came a second time inside her, my seed flooding up her cunt.
Beth gasped and clung onto me.
“Thank you, master. A slave has needs as well, you know.”
I placed my finger on her lips, cutting her off. I dropped my finger to her chin, pushed up her face and kissed her. After a moment, she responded. She threw her arms around her neck and kissed me in return.
The shower-bath was running colder now. I broke away and stepped out into the bathroom. Beth followed. She picked up a fluffy white towel and dried me. If she paid particular attention to my manhood, well who can blame her? She draped a robe over my body, told me she’d clean the shower-bath and be out in a moment.
I was tired now, so I went to my bedroom and lay down. I left the shutters open to catch the cool night breeze but drew the mosquito curtains. A covered glass of lemonade had been left out for me. I picked up one of my books and read.
A few minutes later, Beth tapped on the door. She had quickly dried herself but was still naked. Naked except for that thin steel collar about her neck.
“Will master need me tonight?” she asked. I was tempted but exhausted.
“No, Beth. But give me an early morning call tomorrow,” I told her. She bowed, her large breasts swinging beautifully, then closed the door.

CHAPTER 3.

I saw another side of slavery the following day.
Beth was good as her word. She gently shook me awake. It had rained during the night and the garden had that freshly washed feeling. Drops still trickled to the lawn. All the colours were bright and alive. Birds sang loudly. Beth laid out my breakfast on the table.
After I’d eaten, Beth gave me directions to the nearby train station. As I walked along, I thought what a fine place Kresto Abrikoto is to live. I passed many villas, many larger than mine. Most had apricot or peach trees in their grounds. There were also row houses and a small mansio behind its courtyard walls. The place shone in the early morning sun. I nodded to several people also on their way to the train station.
I passed a couple of blonde girls chatting as they walked. Maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. At first glance I thought they were equals, maybe heading onto a prep school. Then one flicked her hair, revealing her steel collar. Mistress and slave. And of course it was the slave carrying the bags and parasol to shade her mistress. But the girls seemed happy in each other’s company.
I was to see them again, under less pleasant circumstances.
The train pulled into the station in a cloud of steam. It was a little suburban train, painted a bright green. It had a couple of smart carriages with comfortable seats, then a simpler carriage. Behind them, two open carriages covered with brightly painted awnings. These were full. Behind them all, a guard’s van for goods and luggage. I noticed the two girls on the platform. The mistress took the first carriage, as did I, her slave squeezed into an open carriage.
The whistle blew and the train set off. It stopped at several more little stations before reaching Urbocentro, Haveno Ananaso’s main station. Haveno Ananaso, the capital city of Kupro Marbordo, is small, only the size of a provincial city in the United Zones up north. But it is a busy, prosperous place.
I pushed my way out of Urbocentro station, down a busy thoroughfare lined with heavy baroque stone buildings to my broker’s offices. In the distance I saw the sea glinting in the sun. As I walked I saw gangs of slaves, mostly male. Some watered and tended the plants in the numerous little parks and plazas. They seemed to be working hard.
One building stood out from the rest. It had thick, grey stone walls with barred windows. At first, I thought it was a prison especially as a sign saying ‘Domo De Korekto’ told me it was a House of Correction. However, I later found out that this was where slaves were trained or punished.
Other slaves were shopping for their masters. As I approached my offices, a young brunette tripped and bumped into me. I grabbed her arm to stop her falling. I saw why she had tripped. A short length of chain, maybe only thirty centimetres, shackled her ankles, stopping her walking properly. She looked up at me with horror.
As soon as I released her arm, she fell to her knees and kissed my boots. “Please, please forgive this clumsy slave-girl, master. Please don’t beat me,” she cried between kisses. I was shocked and embarrassed. But underneath, a part of me enjoyed the experience. I looked down at her, her tongue darting in and out, kissing and licking my boots. I glanced around. No-one else took any notice except those who had to step around this scene.
“Take yer belt to ‘er. Leather ‘er, mister. Teach ‘er a lesson,” said a butcher’s boy walking past. Instead, I raised her to her feet.
“You can stop that, girl,” I said. “My boots are clean enough. But take more care in future.”
“Yes master, oh, thank you master,” she said. I watched her totter down the road, the chain interfering with her movement. I hoped she wouldn’t fall again. The next master might not be so lenient.
I walked up a short flight of stairs and into the building housing our offices. The reception foyer was dark and cool after the glare outside. I saw a signboard showing our offices were on the fourth floor. I strolled up to the reception desk to announce myself.
As I came closer, I saw this girl was also a slave. She wore that steel collar. As I leaned over the desk, I saw she had been chained by the ankle to the desk. Enough length to move about but not to leave the desk area. She smiled up at me, politely. Her dark hair was piled up on top in a loose bun. I also noticed she had not been permitted a breast-band. Her nipples were prominent under her tunic dress.
The slave-girl directed me to the lifts and phoned ahead. Up on the fourth floor, I was greeted by an elderly man, maybe in his early sixties. He had neatly waved grey hair a thin moustache and a dark linen suit teamed with a red cravat. He shook my hand warmly.
“You must be James Baxter,” he said. He had a strong voice. A man used to commanding respect. “Pleased to meet you. I am Ricardo Zeza, the manager here. It’s good to meet someone from head office.” He shook my hand again. “How are you finding things here in Kupro Marbordo? A bit different from the United Zones, I imagine.”
Senhor Zeza showed me into my office. Small but with a great view over a park leading to a marina. I had a large, heavily carved old-fashioned desk. Behind it was a bookcase filled with impressive looking volumes. On my desk was a telephone. A teleprinter stood near the door and a small, black grate fireplace took up the opposite wall.
I won’t bore you with the details of my job. Basically, on behalf of my firm, I traded the products of Kupro Marbordo; copper, marble, timber, beef, corn etc. to make a profit. Buy low, sell high. Simple, or as difficult, as that.
Jumping ahead a little, I wasn’t there long before discovering I could make far more profit than my predecessor. The man had obviously been coasting his last few years before retirement. My duties weren’t arduous and I made a good salary. What I aimed for was my bonus. And to please my uncle. I didn’t want to stay in this tropical backwater for ever. My aim was to return to the action and big money in the United Zones.
Anyway, late afternoon after siesta, one of my colleagues, Patricia Madeira, asked me to call round her office. Her secretary was a short, slightly plump, pretty slave-girl with brown eyes under arched brows. She had large breasts also unfettered by a breast-band. They swung freely as she moved.
The slave-girl timidly knocked on Patricia’s door. A curt command to enter followed. The slave-girl pushed open the door, curtseyed and showed me in.
“Fetch us some lemonade, Tima,” Patricia Madeira ordered without looking up. The girl curtseyed again, then left.
Only then, did Patricia stand. She was a tall, statuesque woman with honey-blonde hair, cool grey eyes and a firm bosom. Nicely made-up. I figured she kept herself in shape, possibly at a female gymnasium. We shook hands, she had sharply manicured nails with plenty of jewelled rings. Patricia gestured for me to sit by her desk.
We talked for a while. Patricia’s job was to do with imports. Mostly industrial equipment for Kupro Marbordo’s rail-roads as well as agricultural machinery. Stuff this country couldn’t make for itself. She also had a well-appointed office although I had the better view.
She was an intelligent woman, but after a while the conversation flagged. There’s only so much you can say about engineering tools.
“Where is that useless girl? Sorry about this.” Patricia stood, opened the door to her outer office. But no-one was there. Several minutes later, there was a knock and the slave-girl, Tima, returned carrying a silver tray on which stood a jug of lemonade with two glasses. She smiled at me.
“Where have you been, girl?” snapped Patricia.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I had to wait whilst chef…”
“I am not interested in your excuses. I told you to fetch refreshments ages ago and only now do you bother to show up with that silly grin plastered on your face. I am…”
“Please, ma’am I’m sorry it…”
“And now you have the audacity to interrupt me. I am extremely dissatisfied. I had to punish you last week but you obviously have not learned your lesson…”
“No, please, ma’am…”
“And you keep interrupting. A very bad habit. Report to the cellar and I will discipline you shortly.”
Tima’s face blanched. She put the tray down on the desk then ran to the door. Collecting herself, she remembered her curtsey before leaving.
Patricia turned to me. “Only way to deal with slaves. Otherwise, if you let them, they walk all over you. Well, no-one’s walking over me.” She poured us both a glass of lemonade. It was very refreshing. Worth the wait in my opinion, but maybe Patricia had a point.
We finished our glass. “Come on. Let’s get this unpleasant task over with. You are new here so I will show you how we deal with lazy slave-girls at this office.”
We took the lift down to the reception foyer and then down a flight of concrete stairs to a basement corridor lit by gas lamps. At the far end was an iron-bound door. Patricia stood aside to let me hold it open for her.
I stepped into an outpost of hell.

CHAPTER 4.

I couldn’t take it all in at once but after several visits I knew it well enough. The cellar was a large room with a concrete floor and whitewashed walls. A barred window at one end let in dim light which was supplemented by more gas lamps. It smelled of sweat, disinfectant and fear.
A number of chains, hooks and rings hung from the arched ceiling. One wall had a rack containing an extensive collection of whips, lashes, canes, paddles. One of the side walls was covered by small cages. In one of the cages crouched a naked man. He had no room to move. He moaned as we entered. The floor was dominated by various wooden posts, frames and things I had no idea what they were for.
Suddenly Tima ran forward. She threw herself at Patricia’s feet and covered her shoes with kisses. In between kisses, she begged for mercy.
“Get up girl. These shoes cost a lot of money. And I was merciful last time but you didn’t learn your lesson, did you?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” whimpered poor Tima.
“No. Now I shall have to be more severe. Take off your dress and stand over there.” Patricia pointed to one of the rings.
Sobbing, Tima slipped off her blue tunic dress and stood where directed. She crossed her arms over her breasts. I saw a few old bruises on her rounded buttocks. From her previous beating?
“Will you fetch me those chains from over there?” Patricia asked.
Despite my reservations, I nodded and brought them over. Patricia directed me as I first chained Tima’s wrists together. Then I chained her ankles to a notched metal stick about forty centimetres apart so that Tima could not close her legs. Tima shivered as the cold metal touched her flesh.
Patricia next had me lower one of the hooks from the ceiling. She hooked Tima’s wrist chain to it then asked me to winch the hook back up again. At this point, poor Tima was stretched in mid air, her arms pointing up to the ceiling, her legs forced apart by the metal stick. She was completely defenceless.
Patricia and I slowly walked around the strung-up slave-girl. I watched her back muscles working under her skin, preparing for her imminent beating. Her buttocks clenched. Patricia led me around. I couldn’t help staring at her large breasts with their large, pink areola. Her pierced nipples pointed up to the ceiling.
I avoided looking at her face. I didn’t want to see the mute appeal in her brown eyes. Instead, I looked down. At the swell of her rounded belly, at her shaved pussy exposed to my gaze. Patricia stopped before Tima. She took hold of the slave-girl’s chin and forced her to look at her mistress.
Then, without warning, Patricia darted a hand in between Tima’s legs.