Gary de Silva, himself Jewish, was sensitive to anyone or anything Semitic. He had never really noticed the Jewish features of Mr Hutch’s young slave, Miss Esther, until that evening. As a prelude to the demonstration that Hutch had organised for de Silva and several other gentlemen, the girl had been placed in isolation for six hours, confined to a small cage and kept in the warm, silent darkness of the boiler room deep in the oldest parts of the Bathhouse. When she was brought up and the whole cage placed on a low table in the training rooms, she looked lank and dishevelled, and de Silva couldn’t help but think of images of the Israelites in Egypt and tales of maidens from those ancient days. She had distinct, Hebrew features which were suddenly unmistakeable. Her olive skin, her thick sexual lips, her dark curly hair, her fine aquiline nose, her cheek bones, her jaw-line, her sleepy eyes; all of these were Jewish characteristics that de Silva had hardly noticed in the past. Now, as she lay curled up naked in the bottom of her cage, subdued from her time in isolation, it was plain; the girl was an Eastern European Jewess and was possessed of a typically aloof and strange beauty. Hutch, the Slavetrainer, regarded her as exceptional. The Jewish psyche, he claimed, was in some instances capable of extra dimensions of surrender.
De Silva, dressed in business suit and tie, observed her carefully and felt a particular right to leer over the shapes of her body and to lust for its’ enjoyment. The other gentlemen assembled, also formally dressed, watched her too. They were all impressed with the Slavetrainer’s work. He had evidently taken a poor, miserable waif from the streets of Budapest and shaped her into an odalisque of distinction. She was increasingly the slave of choice when he wanted to demonstrate either the finer - or the cruder - aspects of the odalisque’s craft. Her perfume was sultry, hot, spicy. Its’ subtle chemistry began stirring the blood of all the men as soon as she was brought into the room. There was nobility in her eroticism. She was proud of her slavery. She stayed quiet, gazing at her audience with her large dark eyes.
“The slave,” Hutch explained, “has been in a low sensory environment for several hours. Silence. Darkness. Alone. A few hours is very effective. Even one hour will do. Without stimulation the whole mind and sensorium change.”
Dr Hampton, who was there accompanied by his young offsider Aden Carrow, asked some questions about safety, and Adam Hishem – one of the administrators of the Bathhouse – wanted to know what matters filled the slave’s mind during her time in the boiler room. The Trainer replied with details of his safety regime, and an account of the processes of mental simplification. He invited his guests to stand up and walk around the cage in order to observe the slave’s nakedness better, and explained that, for this exercise, it was best to leave the slave’s mind undirected. De Silva and Carrow wandered around behind the cage and the Slavetrainer motioned to the slave to part her legs and expose more of her mool for them. Her cunt-lips were dark, with carefully trimmed dark pubic hair, but when she moved her left thigh a flash of tender, moist pinkness opened up between them which the two gentlemen gazed into and admired. “Sometimes it is important to stop the mind from rambling,” Hutch said, “but sometimes, rambling is what we want.”
“But with only internal stimulation?” said Mr Hashim.
“Yes,” said the Slavetrainer. “Or rather with as little stimulation as possible.”
“What is to stop her falling asleep?” asked Dr Hampton.
The Trainer looked over at his apprentice, Nick Draper, and admitted with a smile, “Yes. Sometimes it is necessary to prod her.” Draper had the duty of going down to the boiler room every half hour or so to make sure Miss Esther remained awake. She had, nevertheless, been rendered weary and empty, mentally drifting and will-less, more or less half-asleep. She was ready for the exercise.
* * * * *
At length, the Trainer took her from the cage and displayed her body to the guests. There was a set routine of slave positions. He took her through them. As an added delight, Mr Hashim’s slave, Miss Zeka – who stood to one side and remained inconspicuous throughout - attended to drinks. For the occasion, the resourceful Dr Hampton had supplied a bottle of very fine, very rare, aged Scotch. Gary da Silva supplied fine cigars.
In turn, each of the gentlemen praised aspects of the slave’s beauty and noted her poise and elegance. She was small-boned, delicate. Her breasts were small and pointy. De Silva noted how she held up her chin as she moved, and in the process accentuated the profile line of her nose, and once again he thought how Jewish she looked this particular evening. He liked it. The naked body of the young Jewess filled his eyes and excited him. The Trainer commanded her with the word “Beau” at which she bent over and displayed her private parts to the appreciative men, putting her pink wet sex on display. As she bent over it was as if her whole persona was subsumed by the display of her pussy. It was as if, by her gesture, she had become cunt – just cunt – for them. It was very good, the way she did it. All the gentlemen were left sitting there suddenly confronted by her delicious behind. She was quite lovely. But wild. There was something exotic about her. Her pussy was shapely, petite. At the same time her pink hole looked tasty, like a strange fruit. Her skin looked silky, smooth. The gentlemen ran their eyes over her, down her thighs to the delicate shapes at the backs of her knees.
“Tonight,” said Mr Hutch, “I’d like to demonstrate an excellent example of letting go. We have control.” The slave stood back into First Position. “And we have letting go.” He stood up, went over and gently held the slave’s right hand, and explained further by way of the puppet analogy. “Sometimes, the puppeteer lets go of the string,” he said. “Sometimes we let the slave go uncontrolled.” What he meant by this was not a wilful independence, but rather a flowing spontaneity. A subdued compliance and dutiful slave positions are only half of the art. “What I strive for in a slave – in Miss Esther,” Hutch went on, “is an instant insanity. On command, a slave is a wild thing, a wild creature. Her civilized demeanour, we know, is a veneer over an ocean of lust.”
Aden Carrow sat up at this. He liked that idea. He sensed the exotic aura around Miss Esther. He could sense that ocean of lust inside. As he looked over the slave’s body again his cock stiffened in his trousers. De Silva was interested too. Kosher cunt. “I want the effect,” said the Slavetrainer, “of a subterranean river. Suddenly it bursts to the surface.” He explained again the importance of first quietening the slave and how essential is the prelude of a drifting isolation. “Even for an hour. But six hours is best.” After six hours, the slave has few thoughts, no imaginings, slowed expectations.
* * *
The nature of the exercise was this: the slave was seated on a stool before her admirers, and was given permission to masturbate. At the same time, Mr Hutch commanded that she “speak dirty to us, Mademoiselle”, that she open her throat and engage her tongue and unleash for them a veritable torrent of the most outrageous filth of which her vocabulary was capable. The slave nodded. Did she understand her orders? She did. “Speak to us, Mademoiselle. Reveal to us the most debauched obscenities nesting in your heart!”
The most debauched obscenities nesting in her heart? What perversities had the Slavetrainer programmed into the girl? What sort of outrages lurked within that beautiful young sexual form? The Trainer’s plan became obvious. First he rendered the slave empty headed. Now, suddenly – for the entertainment of his guests – he wanted the girl to turn on a river of uninterrupted, never-ending, spontaneous verbal filth. First, silence. Then, suddenly, blithering obscenities.
The slave began. She knew what to do. It was not by any means the first time she had been given this command, but it was the first time she had done it before an audience of gentlemen. She ignored this fact. Single-mindedness came naturally to her. She moved into the groove. Dr Hampton and Mr Hashim, who were Slavekeepers themselves, took a professional interest in this turn of events, while the others, including Gary da Silva, looked on with an outsider’s fascination. The Jewess started stroking her own breasts and inner thighs, then introduced her fingers into the pink centre between her dark vulva, as she began mumbling and ranting half-formed sentences replete with expletives. Within a few minutes she was transformed. Aden Carrow sat forward, intrigued. He had never seen a woman doing such a thing. A young man in the grip of fantasy, he started staring indelicately, almost gorping, getting hot under the collar, growing erect and flustered. He swallowed. Goodness, what a thing to behold! He was very glad Dr Hampton had invited him along. Miss Esther closed her eyes. All the rules that restricted her speech as a slavegirl were gone. Her breath was heavy. With her heavy breaths she blurted out words and phrases attesting to her urge to be “fucked”, to be thrashed with “cock”, to have a thousand men revel in her “cunt” fucking and fucking and fucking. Then she gasped a deeper breath and blurted out more of the same. She fingered her pussy. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” she seethed. Within minutes she was demented.
All of the gentlemen had the expectation that this burst of passion would soon subside, but instead Miss Esther hunched her shoulders, reshaped her body as her fingering grew faster, and continued into a stream of talk littered with the most obscene words she could muster. She wanted men to “fuck the shit out of me” and to “nail me” with their gorgeous “smelly, cum dripping dicks” over and over and over. Mr Da Silva took it in his stride, but young Mr Carrow almost blushed. The girl was suddenly like a demonness, possessed. All her sweetness was gone. She hastened. Her true nature was revealed. She masturbated wildly, rubbing her fingers in a rush around her clitoris. She held up her chin. Her free hand clutched at her tits. She panted. The stream of dirty talk – crazy talk - poured from her mouth with spontaneous fluidity. Mr Carrow glanced across at Miss Zeka, who watched from her corner without any reaction at all.
* * * * *
After more than a few minutes the slave was debasing herself, making a show of it, before the various gentlemen. She was on the edge of her stool and where her feet touched the floor she was now taut and perched on her toes. She started heaving, and as her fingers searched deeper in between her legs, Mr Hutch suddenly, abruptly, gave her the command to stop. She stopped immediately.
“So the important thing,” said the Slavetrainer, “is to first create the space, then to fill it.” He was directing his comments largely to his apprentice, who took appropriate notice. Hutch clapped his hands twice and the slave moved temporarily to second position, the position called lelune. She was panting, disoriented, but she fell into the position perfectly, and sat with discipline, even as her brazen slave heart pounded. Then her Trainer gave her additional instructions.
“I know there are a limited number of cuss words, Mademoiselle,” he said. “But you are too repetitive. You will find new things to say. Also, as you hunch yourself over, I think several of my guests were not able to see your mool to full effect. You will sit up. Oui?”
The slave answered meekly, “Oui.”
Gary de Silva had no complaints. He was certainly happy with her display. He noticed how her breast was pounding and then how her nipples had hardened. The Trainer knew her best. She was probably very close to cumming. De Silva saw he in profile again. Her distinctly Jewish beauty. The knowledge that she was a young Jewess thrilled him at that moment. The violation of Jewish womanhood thrilled him. He thought of every sour, guilt-laden, domineering Jewish mother, including his own. He felt a bond of identity with the girl. He loved the fact she was, as some would have it, completely ruined.
For his part, Aden Carrow was enthralled. He was impressed at how the Trainer had her in his control. How, he wondered, had the girl possibly managed to stop so suddenly on command? There was a pause as the Trainer reiterated several points and then spoke freely about Miss Esther’s particular skills and limitations. “What happens when you let go of the strings?” he asked. “Will your puppet know what to do?” Command and control must be matched with real fire, real passion, a spontaneous lusting.
Finally, Hutch directed the slave to resume her position on the stool, to begin masturbating again, and to unleash once more that river of obscene speech that had been flowing out of her. She quickly found the groove again. She closed her eyes. In a low, frantic voice, she begged and blurted her hungers and desires. She crooned about her love of cock. She wanted to be impaled. She wanted to be fucked again and again. She spat it out. “Fucked! Fucked! Fucked!” Her fingers delved back into the juicy heat of her pussy. She spread her legs wider than before so that all of the gentlemen could see.
Soon, though, the full cruelty of the Slavetrainer’s intentions emerged. The slave started heaving again. He commanded her to stop. He corrected her imperfections. Then he commanded her to start again. The slavegirl lurched from one state to another. It took a toll. Her mouth grew fluid with saliva. She spat and slurred, frothing. She frothed, “Fuck me, sirs. Fuck this fucking cunt…” fucking, fucking, fucking. Her climax was denied. The Trainer directed her to bring herself to the edge, then he commanded her to desist. Her shoulders collapsed. All the air deflated from her lungs. A deep out-breath of anguish. Her fingers and hands and wrists were starting to tremble. Naked, the slavegirl shivered. Her fingers were dripping wet. Her hair fell with abandon.
Dr Hampton sipped his scotch. He watched the slave’s face. “You could,” he observed, “push the poor girl to exhaustion…”
“You could,” Mr Hutch agreed.
“She’s splendid!” Aden Carrow enthused.
“You can see my difficulty, though, can’t you Hampton?” Hutch continued. “It is spontaneity that I’m after. Perfect spontaneity.” He remained disappointed every time the slave fumbled for words or paused or lost the train of her ranting. “An unbroken stream. That’s what I’m after.” He explained that every blip, every pause, was caused – in his professional estimation - by the slave girl’s wretched ego. “I want her selfless,” he said. He wanted her to be a tap. On. Off. A gushing stream of obscenities upon command.
Dr Hampton thought it was an admirable objective, but as a physician he was giving increased regard to the slave’s deteriorating sense of cohesion. He leant forward. Her eyes her wild, her pupils dilated wide. “Yes,” he said, “the ego is no doubt the author of all our inhibitions.” Then he advised that the “poor girl” seemed to be almost hyperventilating.
The Slavetrainer ordered her to step down. He sent her to Third Position to rest.
Carrow and de Silva looked at each other.
“You deny her the final solace then?” asked Carrow with some consternation.
“Later,” Mr Hutch assured him.
Carrow was relieved to realise that the evening’s entertainment had only just begun.
Nick Draper, the apprentice, was especially interested. From watching the display, he understood an important point more fully. “It seems to me,” he said, “that there is a deliberate, programmed correlation between her mool and her mouth.” He looked at Hutch as if to say, “Am I right?”
“There is,” said the Trainer.
That was the key. The flood of filth could just as easily be done sitting still and frigid. But no. The talking had to accompany the masturbation. Nick Draper was right. He understood “programmed correlations”. Dr Hampton understood something of it too. The others were just beginning to understand. It was a feature of Hutch’s technique. No action stands alone. Every act calls up another. Every poke is a push, as he would say.
Gary de Silva felt a pang of pity for the slave. He watched her panting in Third Position. What Hutch was demanding seemed impossible. The Trainer had been playing with her, surely. She had emerged from the boiler room subdued, sullen. Then suddenly, the Trainer provoked her into frenzy. Slugged. Smacked. She seemed shocked. De Silva noticed how her hands started to tremble. Her dismay accentuated her Jewish features again, though, and the guest enjoyed that private thrill once more. Why had he never realised that a girl with a name like Esther might be Jewish? Esther. Of course. Just before the Trainer commanded her into Third Position – the position of slavish abeyance, face down – de Silva caught her dark, Hebraic gaze. He couldn’t see into her soul. Instead, he saw the ‘emptiness’ to which Mr Hutch had referred. The ‘poor girl’ had emptied herself, an empty vessel. She was desperately trying to do so. Empty and ready to be filled with whatever words and phrases and dark thoughts, demonic, squeaking, hissing, begging, frothing hungers might satisfy the men put over her.
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