Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 29

XXIX

"Any woman out there"

We went upstairs to the main bedroom. The girl was clearly coming out of it. She was breathing in long, deep, happy sighs and she turned her head when we entered the room. Her eyes, no longer glassy, sparkled as they fixed on me, apparently hardly noticing Wendy. I walked to the foot of the bed and stood there with my legs somewhat apart and my arms folded as I tried to assume a pose suggesting a confidence and mastery I was far from feeling.

I looked at my acquisition. She was lying on her back with her legs somewhat apart; huge flows of spunk had oozed from her cunt and a pool of it, still wet and sticky, had gathered on the cover. Her vast brown breasts, although impressively firm and round, had settled a little to either side of her and through the gap between them my eyes met hers.

"Your name?" I demanded brusquely.

To this point her air had been one of utter post-coital relaxation but on being addressed in such a tone she made a visible effort to pull herself together and concentrate.

"Florence Oshodi," she replied.

"Florence Oshodi," I informed her solemnly, "I have captured you. You are my property, my slave. Do you understand?"

A tiny intake of breath was the only indication of the shock she must have felt. "I understand," she replied quietly and without the least suggestion of resistance.

"I am your master and you must address me as such," I said sternly.

"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master."

"Good," I said more kindly. "This lady," I indicated Wendy, "is my wife and you shall treat her with the greatest of respect, but she is not your mistress because you belong to me alone."

"Yes, Master."

"Hello, Florence," said Wendy pleasantly.

"Hello, madam," she respectfully replied.

"Florence," I told her, "give me an account of yourself."

So Florence told her story. She was Nigerian and her family had sent her to England to study, which she had been doing diligently but without much enthusiasm. For the last five or six years -- she was twenty now -- her life had been dominated by her breasts. Even in a tribe in which large breasts were usual and highly valued, the women in her family were famous for their magnificence; but she far exceeded everyone. Her bust had begun to sprout when she was only nine but the growth had been manageable to start with; from the age of thirteen, however, she had begun to explode. At first she had been delighted but as the growth accelerated first her parents, then Florence herself, had become concerned. Doctors, however, found nothing wrong or abnormal about her; they suggested that because her parents were first cousins the family's natural tendency to large breasts had been intensified. To comfort her, her parents told her it was the will of God to make her as she was and she believed this and accepted it.

By the time she was fifteen the constant male attention she attracted had become such a serious problem that her parents sent her -- at substantial personal financial sacrifice, for they were not wealthy -- to a girls' boarding school. In this academic and all-female environment, despite the envious gibes of her classmates, Florence had flourished. She won a scholarship that contributed to the cost of continuing her education and her parents, mistrustful of Nigerian universities, had sent her to England. As her breasts continued to expand she found herself pestered by male students but the problem eased when she found herself a boyfriend, since although he was not a violent person he was big and intimidating enough to ensure that she was left in relative peace. The breasts themselves had grown more slowly after she had passed eighteen and she hoped they had reached their final proportions. However, she recognised that they would always be a problem for her. She found her studies boring but applied herself with determination; she thought that maybe it had been the will of God to give her large breasts so that she would overcome her natural laziness and work hard and get a good job so she could pay to have them reduced.

She described our encounter in the bookshop. She had realised that a man was standing uncomfortably close and had moved away, but when she took a good look at him she realised he was the most attractive and desirable man she had ever seen and she could not stop herself from following him around the shop. When she saw he was getting ready to go panic overtook her and she had made her boyfriend angry by giving some feeble excuse for leaving. She had followed the wonderful man, taking care not to be seen, and had found herself in a distant suburb she had never visited before. She knew that what was happening was bizarre and unaccountable but she could not bear the thought of losing him. She thought that maybe this too was the will of God. (At this I felt highly uncomfortable, not to say extremely guilty.)

When the man had gone into his house she had no idea what to do next. She tried to tell herself this was ridiculous, she must leave, but it was no good. In the end she had to go and knock at the door. When he opened it, he seemed lovelier and sexier than ever. She had not expected him to lead her straight upstairs and get undressed but she knew that it was what she wanted more than anything so she had not resisted and then he had lain with her -- she actually used this quaint Biblical expression -- and it was like nothing she had ever known. As she lay on the bed afterwards bathed in pleasure and unable to move or speak she knew that it had all been meant to happen and she was his for ever.

"The will of God again?" suggested Wendy, rather unhelpfully I thought.

"Oh, madam, yes, yes! It must have been!"

I found this "will of God" idea profoundly disturbing. I am not a religious man, but if there was a God (which I doubted) I was certain He did not approve of my activities. But neither of the others seemed to share my qualms; Wendy's air was one of slightly amused interest while Florence seemed to have accepted the situation without question. She did not appear unintelligent but she was certainly unsophisticated and this quality had combined with her piety and my rash impulse to enslave her to generate an attitude of passivity and subordination on her part.

"Florence," I ordered, "when you feel strong enough to rise you shall clean yourself up [I pointed to our ensuite bathroom], get dressed and join us downstairs."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."

"Will you be missed from your lodgings if you stay here tonight?"

At this question a look of joy flashed across her face before she remembered her lowly station and averted her eyes humbly. "No, Master," she replied.

"Very good. So be it."

With that Wendy and I went downstairs for dinner, soon joined by Alicia, whom we updated about Florence and her enslavement. I said how much this "will of God" stuff had unsettled me, and they both tried to reassure me.

"I'll be your slave, too, if you want," Alicia offered eagerly.

Wendy more thoughtfully pointed out that if I wanted Florence as a slave and was happy with her that way, FUCK ensured that she would want it too. So the best thing for my happiness and hers was to stop worrying about it and enjoy her services. "Don't forget," she said, "that that girl up there may be a bit confused, even overwhelmed, by what's happened but she's also the happiest she's been in her young life. Fran's Law," she reminded me: "it's induced, but it's still real. She wouldn't want an antidote even if you had one."

"I remember our conversation," I answered. "But tell me this honestly, both of you. If, before FUCK had ever affected you, someone had explained what it does and asked whether you wanted it, what would you have said?"

Alicia merely looked confused, but Wendy replied decisively. "I'd have been appalled. I'd have wanted nothing to do with it."

"Well, then --" I began.

"But that's because," she interrupted, "no one could possibly have conveyed to me how it would make me feel. Words like 'happiness', 'contentment', 'fulfilment' just don't begin to do it justice. And I haven't even mentioned the sex, which is just -- oh, help me out here, Alicia dear, how would you describe it?"

Alicia did not reply. At the mention of the sex her eyes had lit up and a huge radiant smile had spread across her face. As Wendy and I looked at her she let out a long, slow, blissful sigh.

"There you have it," said Wendy; "my case rests. Very good, dear," she added to Alicia. "I couldn't have put it better myself." She turned back to me. "If I'd known all that, if I'd really understood what it would do for me, then yes, of course I'd have wanted it. There's no reason not to want it."

"Freedom?" I hazarded.

"I've still got my freedom," she asserted confidently. "No one's forcing me to be here. I could walk out that door if I wanted to."

"Maybe 'freedom' was the wrong word," I replied. "I think I meant 'free will'."

"I've got that too," she said. "I'm doing what I'm doing because I want to. If that's not free will, what is?"

She had me there. This was getting very deep.

"Listen, darling," she continued. "Any woman out there," she gestured vaguely at the outside world, "if she could somehow be brought really to understand how we girls of yours feel, what you've given us -- any woman out there," she repeated, "would go on her knees and beg for it."

This was a statement I was to remember later.