White Slave

"So Sarah tells me you were at Trinity College?" I said.

"English Literature," Malcolm confirmed, taking a sip of the Gigondas. He had good taste in wine. It went beautifully with the peppered steak fillets we were eating

"After that I got a job with Lewis Perkins," he continued. "That's where we met."

He meant where he had met Sarah. I had just about kept in touch with her through Facebook since we had been at Cambridge together. That was how I knew that she was in publishing, and that she had married the managing director of the company she had also gone to work for, a year ago.

Malcolm grinned with pride, looking at me and then at Sarah. He had done well, reaching the top of the company he had joined, earning the salary that had got him this house, and marrying a beautiful English girl. Not bad for a Jamacian born lad who grew up on a housing estate in Brixton. He had every reason to be pleased with himself.

He sliced into his steak, carving off a bite sized chunk, and adding some of the sweet potato mash and a mange tout before raising his fork to his mouth.

"But you met Sarah at Cambridge, she tells me," he said.

"We were in the same year, studying History," I confirmed.

"So did you two...?" he asked, with a meaningful smile. "Not that it matters. I mean these things happen."

I shook my head ruefully.

"No," I said, glad to able to say it truthfully given the circumstances, even though it had always been one of my regrets that I had kept things at the level of friendship, and never tried to get Sarah into my bed.

"Just good friends," I added.

I glanced at Sarah. She still wore her hair long, apart from the fringe above her eyes. The straight black strands fell behind her back, framing her face, her milk white complexion contrasting with the darkness of her lashes and brows, her ski slope nose as cute as ever, her brightly glossed lips just as full and succulent.

The look she gave me in return was curious, somehow acknowledging that things could have been different, possibly might be still.

The table was large enough for six, immaculately laid, Malcolm and myself at either end, Sarah between us, exactly mid-way on one of the longer sides, crisply dressed in a white blouse and grey skirt, as if straight from the office, a solid silver choker collar around her neck, a decorative slave ring centred at the front, her back as straight as her hair.

We talked some more, Sarah and myself catching up on the ten years since we had last seen each other, Malcolm getting to know his wife's newly reconnected friend, while I got to know more about my friend's husband of two years.

It was the first and only time that at dinner in someone's home, I experienced table service, the food brought to us, and plates cleared away, by a girl in her early twenties, blonde hair tied up under a white maid's cap, wearing a black maid's uniform, the skirt short enough to reveal an inch of thigh above black stocking tops. No suspender straps. Self supporting.

Someone else, I guessed, had to be working in the kitchen, preparing the food, later sending out the chocolate mousse, and then the cheese platter with which we finished off the meal.

"You'll stay over, of course," Malcolm said.

I had not expected that. My instinctive response was that it would make life easier, saving me the fifty minute drive back to my London apartment and since it was a Friday evening, getting back the next morning would not be a problem. I still played the social niceties, saying that I did not want to impose, but giving in when Malcolm insisted that it would give us more time to get to know one another, and that I would enjoy the breakfast that their cook would provide in the morning.

After we had had coffee, Malcolm offered a tour of the house. I had already been impressed by the hallway with its central staircase that separated to either side half way up, returning back on itself to the landing above, and the large combined lounge and dining room where we were sitting, with its view of the lawns and the woodland beyond.

More red wine in hand, we toured the remainder of the ground floor, another large reception room, a book lined study, a billiards room, complete with green baized billiards table, a home cinema, gym, and to finish off a fully glazed swimming pool, complete with jacuzzi and sauna.

"You know," Malcolm said as we stood on the tiled surround to the pool, "one of the things I have learned is that if you are fortunate in life, you should enjoy it to the full, and share what you have acquired with those whose company you enjoy. Don't you think?"

I looked forward to being in Malcolm's position, and having so much to share. I may be comfortably off, but with what I guessed was ten years start on me, Malcolm had made his way up to the top one or two percent.

"I'm just impressed," I said, sidestepping his question about whether accumulated possessions ought to be shared.

"It's a fundamental principle," Malcolm said. "It's the way I was brought up. My parents taught me to share. They learned it in Jamaica, from their parents before them, going way back. Two hundred years ago my family didn't own a thing. We were owned. Anything people managed to acquire,, they shared. Even the women were shared. You could marry, but your wife was owned, and if the master wanted he could enjoy her, or offer her to his guests. Makes you think. Doesn't it?"

Sarah had walked with us as Malcolm had given me the tour. She was standing close, in black stilettos and stockings, the hem of her skirt just above her knees, her blouse no longer as crisp, the humidity in the poolroom softening the fabric so that the outline of her nipple stubs was just visible, even under her bra.

For a second time I took in the silver choker collar she was wearing. It was an inch wide, and was a close fit around her neck. Given that it was solid, I wondered how it was put on, or removed. The decorative ring fixed in front was also curious, the kind that would be used to fit a lead onto a larger breed of dog, but in silver, not canine steel.

She saw me glance at her, and her eyes went to the tiled floor.

I still had not answered Malcolm's question, and I was still taking in his own thinking, about what had been the norms two hundred years ago.

"I guess I've not had the same background to think of things that way," I said.

Malcolm laughed.

"I'm playing with you," he said. "That was then. This is now. But I'm not a poor kid from Brixton any more."

"No," I said. "That I can see."

"So," Malcolm said. "It's too early for bed. We could have another drink in the lounge and talk some more, or if you're brave enough, we could use the jacuzzi, which Sarah and I love to do to relax after a meal. What would you like?"

If a host makes clear what he and his wife like to do, it is only polite to go along with them.

"If you have some swimming shorts I could borrow,.." I said.

"No need," Malcolm smiled reassuringly. "We never bother. Not even with guests. I'll let Sarah show you which room you'll be in, and get you a robe. Come down when you're ready. Do you like a port?"

"Sounds good," I said, realising that I was committed with no way back.

"So," Sarah said as we went upstairs, using the right hand branch of the staircase to reach the landing, "what do you think of Malcolm?"

"He seems a nice guy," I said.

"He is," she said. "That little speech he made goes deeper than he pretends, but I guess you'll find that out soon enough. But he's an amazing guy, so don't judge him, please."

I gave her a look.

"Why would I judge him?" I asked.

She didn't answer. Instead she led me to the room I would be sleeping in, a king size bed facing the window, burgundy wall behind the bed, the other walls a soft cream, white bedlinen with burgundy pillows and a folded burgundy throw laid horizontally across the bed. Beyond the bed there was an en suite shower room, slate grey tiles, black towels, black robe.

"Someone has good taste," I said.

"Malcolm," she said. "He's a perfectionist. It's what got him where he is in the firm."

"I guess it might be why he married you," I said.

"I couldn't possibly comment," Sarah said. It was an in-joke from a comedy show we both knew from years before.

"You were quite a catch, you know," I said.

"You never tried."

"I didn't want to risk our friendship."

"Then I hope you won't judge me either," she said. "Not for anything. And remember, I love the guy."

What judging her had to do with anything, I had no idea, but she started backing out of the room before I could ask her what she meant.

"I'll see you in the jacuzzi," she said.

It might have been just an innocuous way of leaving me to change. It might have been more. We were going to see each other in the jacuzzi after all, without the modesty of swimwear.

I undressed slowly, thinking about the evening, how good it was catching up with Sarah after all this time, how smooth a host Malcolm was, wondering about the girl who served us in the short skirted maid's uniform, about Sarah's silver collar and ring, and about Malcolm's reference to his family's background in Jamaica, and his principle of sharing his possessions with his friends.

I undressed, putting my things on a chair, and went to the shower room for the robe. I was not unduly worried about joining them in the jacuzzi. I work out enough, and am in reasonable shape. I also have no hang ups about my size. No one has ever complained. The only issue was the social side, being the third wheel with a husband and wife. But all I had to do was play it cool, relax, and take myself to bed when the time was right.

Malcolm and Sarah were already in the jacuzzi, with the water gently bubbling at shoulder level. Malcolm clearly worked out too, his arm on the edge of the jacuzzi rippling with muscle under his jet black skin. Most West Indian guys I know are brown rather than black, but Malcolm was as black as they come, undiluted blood.

Sarah had tied her hair up in a bun so as not to get it wet her slender shoulders above the water level, the silver collar still in place around her slender, milk white neck. Both of them were holding glasses, and a bottle was resting on the moulded shelf along with a third glass.

The bubbles from the water jets made the surface impenetrable, Malcolm's body discernible in continually changing outline, Sarah's barely differentiated from the white of the moulded plastic seats and flooring.

They get to see me first, I thought, as I slipped off my robe and hung it on a wall hook alongside two others that were already there. I walked to the Jacuzzi, stepping into the water, using a seat as a step to ease myself in, and then sitting on it, facing Malcolm, Sarah on my right, our bare legs touching at the knee.

The water was perfect, sufficiently above body temperature to register as more than warm, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable or to turn white skin pink. Sarah's skin was white.

Once he had poured some port and passed me the glass, we talked for a bit about travel. I had just come back from Kenya. They were recently returned from Thailand. They had been to most places I said that I had visited, and I had been to those they mentioned, all except Jamaica. I like lazing on a beach, or on a sun bed. They preferred sight-seeing to the beach. Malcolm was not that keen on the sun, and Sarah did not tan. Besides, he liked the contrast in their skins.

Their visits to Jamaica, I guessed, had been about visiting the place Malcolm's parents had been from.

"Yes and no," Malcolm said. "There's also a swinger's resort we like to go to. Hedonism. Have you been?"

The guy had said that he liked to share what he had, but I still swallowed as I took in what he had just said.

"No," I said.

"You should," Malcolm said. "I think you would be popular. Single guys are welcome."

I guessed that the comment about popularity might have been a compliment about my size, but I ignored it.

Malcolm could have reached for the bottle himself to top up his and Sarah's glass, but instead he asked Sarah to do it, even thought she was on the far side of the Jacuzzi. She had to stand and lean over between us, waist deep, her perfect breasts clear of the water for the first time.

It was a form of boasting, showing off to his guest, letting him see how perfect his wife's breasts were, her body, but then he had good reason to be proud of how she looked. Her slender frame belied breasts that were generous, with wide pink areoles that pushed outwards, as if swollen by her hormonal drives, tipped with pencil thick nipples that explained the outlines I had noticed earlier beneath her blouse.

But he was not just showing off her body. He was displaying what he had had done to enhance those already incredible breasts. Both nipples had been pierced. Steel bar bells had been set through the sensitive pink stubs, the balls each half the diameter of the nipple stubs.

"Don't judge him," Sarah had said. She had also asked me not to judge her either.

"You know how slaves were prevented from escaping," Malcolm said. "The standard system was steel collars that could not be removed. They would be chained to a post at night. Some owners would do it differently. They had their slaves pierced. Rings. That way they could be put on a leash, or tied up, without the weight of a collar. They used to experiment with piercing different parts of the body. Nowadays people do it for the aesthetic effect. Times change."

Sarah was offering me some port, facing me, looking me in the eyes, telling me that she was fine.

We must have lazed in the jacuzzi for an hour before Malcolm suggested it might be time to shower and get to bed.

He flipped a switch that was protected from water by a rubber cover. The jacuzzi calmed. Malcolm asked Sarah if she would fetch some towels and obediently, she got up and climbed past me to walk, dripping, to a bench adjacent to our robe hooks, and took some towels from a basket there.

There was no way that Sarah could have climbed out of the jacuzzi from where she was sitting without giving me a close up view of her hairless mons and her protruding labia, pink brown lips that hung between her milk white inner thighs, sweet and succulent and with a steel ring the same size and thickness as the silver ring fixed to her collar, set through the protruding flesh, the piercing positioned that the postion of the ring between her labia rested close to, if not right against, her clitoris.

"Owners experimented with piercing different parts of the body," Malcolm had said, when talking about owners and slaves and how they might be secured.

I wondered if Malcolm ever led his wife by a leash.

Sarah handed around the towels one at a time, mine first. I climbed out, drying myself, retrieving my robe and slipping it on. Malcolm climbed out after me, his length no different to my own, circumcised, jet black, even the head. This was what he used to fuck her.

He towelled himself dry, and slipped on his own robe, tying it loosely.

"Leave yours," Malcolm said, as Sarah went to get her robe, and she froze.

There was nothing unpleasant in his tone , nothing remotely threatening, but it had not been a suggestion. Their relationship was transparent. He only had to speak, and she complied.

As if she had intended it all along, Sarah unfroze, and came back to collect the bottle and the glasses, using a metal tray that had been sitting on a small table nearby.

There can be few situations more submissive than being with two men, both naked beneath their robes, while you are not only naked, but are collared and pierced, and holding a tray that occupies your hands and leaves you vulnerable.

We walked from the pool room back into the main house. Sarah put the tray on a hall table, presumably knowing that it would be tidied away in the morning. We went upstairs, Malcolm and Sarah leading the way, and said our goodnights on the landing. They went to the right. I went to the left, glancing behind at Sarah's slender back and deliciously curved buttocks, and went inside my room.

The shower was hot and hard. I towelled myself dry. Only then did I think to draw the curtains. I put the burgundy comforter, which I did not need, onto a chair, turned on a bedside lamp, turned off the main room lights, and climbed into the bed.

I got out my phone, checking it for messages or emails. Nothing but spam. Nobody sends anything important on a Friday night. I checked the news. A few items caught my attention. Twenty minutes later, I turned off the screen, and then the bedside light, and lay in the pitch black thinking about the evening. It was not exactly the catch up dinner that I had expected.

I never go to sleep that quickly. I was still awake when the bedroom door opened.

It was just for an instant. Just long enough for her whiteness to be lit by the landing lights before she closed the door behind her. I heard her bare feet soft on the carpet as she came to the bed, easing down the duvet, reaching for my cock as she climbed beside me.

"If the master wanted, he could offer her to his guests," Malcolm had said, while Sarah had asked me not to judge him, or her.

I was woken by a text the next morning.

"Swim before breakfast?"

The number was not one that I had saved, so it had to be from Malcolm. I had saved Sarah's when we had been messaging each other on Facebook.

I eased myself out of bed. A swim before breakfast sounded fine. I drew the curtains and the sun streamed in.

I still did not have any swimming shorts, but I guessed that the dress code would be the same as the night before. This would be different, however. The night before, I was just their guest, a friend, and nothing more. Now I had fucked the guy's wife.

Just remembering caused a reaction in my cock. It thickened. I needed to put my robe, and not think too much about what had happened or I would get hard.

I went downstairs and through to the pool room. I had been right about the sun. It was blazing through the glass roof. Malcolm and Sarah were already in the pool, swimming lengths side by side. I had been right about the dress code too. Muscular, jet black buttocks flashed wet, alongside other, more rounded, pure white buttocks.

Sarah was wearing a swimming cap, tight, white rubber, designed to keep her hair dry. It made her head seem bald, as if her hair had been shaved, so close was its colour to the white of her body.

I hung my robe on one of the hooks and walked back to the poolside. This was the deep end, deep enough to dive, but they were swimming towards me, and I waited. Malcolm stopped, holding the rim of the tiling. Sarah dipped under the water, turning, feet touching the wall and pushing her into another length, surfacing three metres down. She could swim.

Malcolm gave me a smile.

"I hope you had a good sleep" he said.

He was looking me in the eye, apart from the moment when he glanced at my cock, its thickness still more obvious than I would have preferred. I guess it was only natural that he would be interested in a cock that had been deep inside his wife's cunt.

There is sharing and sharing. Malcolm believed in serious sharing. I always travel in hope, and carry a couple of condoms in a pocket of my wallet. I had asked Sarah to give me a moment, in between her sucking my cock and my entering her. She had just moved on top of me, and angled my cock to her entrance.

"He likes it when someone comes inside me," she had explained.

She was so slick and so wet and so beautifully ready that I realised that Malcolm must have already fucked her, and had sent her to me with his come still in her cunt, but by then I did not care. Besides, the way she was riding me, it would not be long before I would be sending her back to him with a load of my own come still added to what was left of his.