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Captain Benedict – master Benedict to slaves – didn’t need a reason to hurt his slaves. That was one of the first things he told every new slave he got. He didn’t need a reason. He simply hurt them because he wanted to. Pain wasn’t a punishment nor was a lack of it a reward, it simply was because he willed it to be so.
Captain Benedict was a respected member of the gentry, a decorated officer and a dutiful husband and father. He was the master to nearly fifty slaves – some bed slaves some workers and some somewhere in between – both on his vast estate upstate, his neat townhouse near the military base as well as the factory that had been in family for generations. He was a rich man, a fair man and a fair master – he was upright and honest, and he didn’t play mind games with his slaves any more than he did with his peers – all things he took pride in.
At fifty-three Captain Benedict was still in excellent shape, barely any softness had made appearance around his midsection. He had kept a full head of hair even if the dark strands were more grey than brown these days. He was tall, imposing man with a strong jaw and heavy brow. His eyes were dark and their gaze stern. There were some lines around his eyes, but they were not from smiling.
His wife, a good and sensible woman from a respectable family, kept both the townhouse and the estate in shape, commanding the staff with ease. During their twenty-eight years of marriage, she had given him four children and not disappointed him once. Everything about her from her perfect mignon bun to her sensible and elegant clothes, to the manicured tips of her fingers formed a picture of a perfect society housewife.
His children, all grown now, were dutiful, successful and productive members of society. His oldest son worked at the family factory, steadily making his way up to a leadership position - Captain Benedict didn’t believe in giving leadership to those who hadn’t proven themselves fit for it - and was in the process of courting a girl from a suitable family. His second son had chosen a career in military, like his father, and at twenty-seven held a respectable rank of lieutenant commander. His youngest son was studying to become a lawyer, a good and sensible career path. His only daughter had married into another respectable family right after completing her bachelor’s degree in history - a respectable field of study for a woman who was going to become a wife and a mother, not a member of the workforce - and was expecting her first child. Captain Benedict very much looked forward to the birth of his first grandchild.
On the first day of his leave when Captain Bennet arrived at the estate, he was received by his wife in the entrance hall. She was accompanied by a higher ranking houseslave, who kept her eyes firmly on the ground as he stopped in font of them.
“Husband,” she greeted him, both her face and her voice perfectly neutral. “Letty has prepared your room, and the kitchen is making roast beef for dinner. Will you be eating in your rooms or join me in the dining room?”
“Wife. I hope you’ve been well.” They hadn’t seen each other in month, not since she had instated the new maid in the town house. She preferred the estate and the gardens, and he had to stay in the city when he wasn’t on a leave. It was an arrangement that suited them both.
“I will eat in my room,” he continued without waiting for her response. It had not been a question and they both knew it. “And,” he looked at the houseslave, Letty, standing behind his wife’s shoulder. She curtsied when his attention turned to her, her face still downturned, “sent Missy to my room.”
“Yes, master Benedict,” Letty said quietly, her face barely moving. She curtsied again. Letty was an older slave. She had been a wedding gift from his father-in-law. She was a whip thin woman somewhere between fifty and seventy. It was hard to tell with the way the hard life of a slave had worn her down, making her, like most slaves, appear older than they truly were.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast,” he told his wife before making his way up the grand staircase – a waste of space really, but some ancestor of his had had a grandiose taste and getting rid of it now would be more trouble than it was worth – and to his room. It was more of a suite, really, with separate sitting and sleeping areas and a bathroom.
The room was clean and aired out. The bed had been made with clean linens and there was a a newly filled carafe of whiskey at the side table. Not a speck of dust anywhere. As was expected.
He was just done showering and choosing into his idea of leisure wear – slacks and a sweater – when there was a knock on the door.
“Yes, come in.”
The door opened slightly, and the person came in. She was a young woman, dressed in simple robe. Her dark curls cascaded over her shoulder in waves as she ducked her head down, hiding her delicate face with its large expressive eyes and generous mouth with plump lips. It was Missy, one of his favourite bed slaves.
“Welcome home, master Benedict,” she murmured. Nothing about her countenance betrayed a hint of nervousness. She was excellently trained indeed. “You send for me?”
“Yes,” he said, sitting at the table. He pulled the chair back slightly. “I’m still waiting for my dinner so for now just come here and kneel between my feet.”
Missy obeyed instantly, making her way across the room and slotting underneath the table. She kneeled between his legs and turned her face upwards, towards his, expectant.
He raised his hand and slapped her across the face. Her head snapped back with the strength of the hit, but outside of a small whimper that escaped her lips she didn’t react.
“Thank you, master Benedict,” Missy murmured after he was done, turning her face up again. She wasn’t looking him in the eye, she wouldn’t dare, but simply making her face as available as she could.
He gave her a few more slaps, his muscles relaxing as her breath came out in little whines and her skin turned red, and her lips – already plump – turned red and swollen with the abuse. Her cheeks were bright red, the skin hot to touch.
With one hand he held her face, digging his fingers into the bruised flesh of her cheeks and with other, his opened his zipper and pulled his cock out. Just like everything else about him, it too was respectable size but nothing ridiculous. Her teary eyes watched him work and she opened her mouth when he pulled her head closer to his crotch. He pushed his still mostly soft cock into her mouth and sighted as the wet heat enveloped him.
“Don’t suck,” he told her.
He got to sit a few minutes in peace, sipping his whisky and watching drool spill out of the corner of Missy’s mouth as she tried not to move any part of it, not even to swallow. It was a pleasant sight and an arousing one.
Then there was a knock on the door and finally his food arrived. A young slave boy wheeled a cart into the room and set the plates and the cutlery in front of him. With a quick bow he left, leaving Captain Benedict to enjoy the excellently prepared meat. His cooks were some of the best in his opinion, certainly much better than what most gentry families and military officers employed. He was firmly of the opinion that one should use one’s money to turn the necessities of life into luxuries, instead of buying ten different luxury sports cars like his wife’s younger bother with his ridiculous collection.
As he ate his cock was slowly growing hard in Missy’s mouth. Her eyes were shut, her breathing even and deep as she focused on fallowing his order and staying still.
He ate his dinner leisurely, wiping the last of the gravy with the sauteed vegetables before finally setting the fork and knife down.
With his hands free he could tug Missy’s head closer, pushing her nose into his stomach and his cock deeper into her mouth. Her throat spasmed around his cock as she was startled by the sudden movement.
He kept a tight hold on her hair as he started to move her back and forth on his cock. Tears slid down from her eyes, joining the drool already on her face.
After a while he was fully hard, pleasure burning through his body as he pushed into her throat again and again. But he didn’t want to come yet.
He pulled out, letting his cock smack against Missy’s cheek. It left behind a wet smear. Missy stayed still, her mouth hanging open. Waiting for her next instructions. He pushed his fingers into her mouth. Pinched her tongue and pulled it out. She whimpered wetly but otherwise didn’t react.
“Thak you Missy, that was satisfactory. Get on the bed now. On all fours, ass towards the door.” He let go of her so that she could scamper up and fallow his commands.
“And take the robe off before you get to the bed. You can leave it on the floor.”
She settled on to the bed, face down, ass up as he preferred, her generous backside on full offer. He would take advantage of that.
To start he selected a wooden paddle. It made a satisfying thwack as it connected with Missy’s ass cheeks. Her breath hitched and muscles flexed but otherwise she stayed still, only murmuring a quiet thank you, Master Benedict.
And so they continued, her ass turning steadily redder as he continued to spank it with the paddle. Her voice was watery as she thanked him after each hit.
Eventually he moved from the paddle to a cane. It left deep, bruised lines into Missy bright red skin, making her cry quietly even as she continued to thank him. Well trained, she knew that a punishment for not doing what he wanted would be far worse than anything he’d inflict on her here.
He set the cane aside and ran his hand over her ass. The skin was hot to touch. He smiled slightly when he saw her cunt had gotten wet. It had taken him some years to train her to find pleasure in pain but it had been worth it. The insides of her thighs glistened in the low lights of the bedroom. Tempting, but he wasn’t done with her quite yet.
The switch was a bendy piece of plastic, thin and sharp enough to break skin open if one used too much force. It left thin, raised welts on Missy’s already bruised skin. Her body shook with each hit, her thank yous coming out in sobs.
There was nothing quite like pain to make him relax. A piece of time having someone totally at his mercy, crying under his touch and yet taking it so beautifully.
Missy’s cunt clenched and throbbed between her spread legs, the hairless skin glistening, her cuntlips plumped and flushed, totally unprotected.
She screeched as the switch connected with her cunt. He waited, and, when she failed to say it coughed slightly. Punishment would take effort so it would be better if she corrected her lapse herself.
“Missy,” he said warningly. Last chance.
“Thank you, Master Benedict,” she whispered.
And he continued. Her cuntlips were turning purple and swelling with the hits. The switch whistled through the air again and again as he laid into her.
Finally, when she was sobbing breathlessly and her skin was starting to break open, he set the tool down, pulled his cock out and pushed into her cunt.
It was scorching hot and clenched around him frantically. She let out a pained moan as he started a brisk place, his hip slamming into her sore skin again and again.
He stared down at where his cock disappeared between her brutalised cuntlips again and again. There was a reddish tint to her wetness, blood mixing in from where her skin had opened. Her pained cries spurred him on but he kept the steady pace as long as he could, before his body finally took over, hips slamming against her erratically the last few times before he came in her.
He pulled out and a trickle of come fallowed, the white spilling out from between her bruised and swollen folds. She was shaking visibly and sniffling but she held the pose, knowing better than to move without his permission.
He left her there when he went to shower. Just because he could, because the thought of her having to stay there, unable to do anything and not knowing when he would return, pleased him.
She was still there when he returned, quiet now. He patted her on the ass fondly, making her flinch, and said, “You can go now. Try not drip on my carpets or I’ll make you clean it up.”
She got out of the bed, one hand awkwardly between her legs to stop any fluids from dripping and started her slow and painful way out of his room and towards the slave quarters in the basement. She had to bent down to pick up her robe and that gave him an excellent view of the mess he’d made out of her bottom half. He eyed it appreciatively. It would take some time to heal and art was always best when using a clean canvas. Oh well, he had other bed slaves too that he could use. Though none of them were Missy, he thought fondly, as he watched her curtsy at the door, one hand still between her shaky legs. Sweet Missy. There was so much he could do while letting her ass and cunt heal. Perhaps he’d do something with her tits next.