He had once been a man amongst men.
The past tense, however, was no longer anywhere near the consolation it had first been since she…
The pain of his descent as fresh now as it had been from the start, beaten eyes watered as the memory of what he had once been and was no longer stabbed him to the heart of where his manhood once resided yet again.
Just the same, as he waited in subdued silence, knees tender against the cool ceramic patio floor tiles, it was to this ever-diminishing consolation of “what had once been” that he returned in order to take his mind from the living nightmare to which he had been consigned and from which deliverance was no longer an option.
Right now, the young and decidedly unlovely German girl, the same girl upon whom he had used his superior age and charm to woo as his ticket to the wealth he had been singularly incapable of providing for himself, would be indulging herself in the luxury and calm of her secluded villa. One of them, anyway. A villa high upon the rocks overlooking the Mediterranean and the small fishing village of Cassis. The same village once made famous by the art of Signac and now no longer a village or, apart from its delicious blackcurrant syrup, particularly famous.
And, while she did that, he waited for her arrival a few days hence in yet another of her isolated villas – this one overlooking the Atlantic some fifty miles south of Dakar, the capital and largest city of Senegal in West Africa.
Being located on the Cap Vert peninsula makes Dakar the westernmost city on the African mainland and its position has made it an advantageous departure point for trans-Atlantic and European trade throughout its history.
An advantageous departure point Maurice Baxter would have liked to take advantage of now.
The utilising of it one he knew to be impossible.
To travel, after all, one needed money.
Not to mention clothes.
The functioning voice and other physical attributes he had once taken as no more than a matter of course would have made matters easier also.
So, instead, while his young wife was free to make full use of her money and the opportunities it provided; despite her unprepossessing features with their equine cheeks and large teeth, he, a handsome man in his forties, used to the attention beautiful women, was on his knees on a rarely visited African patio; overlooking the ocean in the company of the fearsome and devoted Anobi.
The nineteen-year-old hate-figure in question having being his wife’s Senegalese housekeeper from the tender age of twelve and a brute of a girl who had hated him with a passion from the very first moment she had laid eyes upon him. A housekeeper and brute of a girl, moreover, who was now in a position to vent her disapproval, safe in the knowledge her power was total and became secondary only when his owner was in residence.
And yet it was as his wife and not owner – or “Master”, as Anobi loved to so describe Ilse – that he thought of her.
To do otherwise, after all, was to acknowledge what she had done to him and the depths to which he had sank.
“Master Ilse arrive in a few days, Chien-Blanc,” reminded the monstrous young woman from the former French colony of Senegal; her copious if obviously feminine bulk a constant form of threat to him now he was so deep within the power ceded to her by “Ms Ilse”, as she liked to refer to her mistress when not describing her to him as “Master”.
The excitement in big Anobi’s less than cultured or articulate tone was not shared by the white man attached to her by a lead which ran from a heavy steel collar to the girl’s left-hand, the right holding an ice-cold tumbler of freshly squeezed grapefruit he could only envy given the tepid water she had poured into his bowl, liquid that was the only refreshment he was allowed other than that which he drank direct from…
Perched on his haunches, he forced his thoughts from the indignity to which the powerful young black girl – scarcely nineteen to his forty-three – had forced him and prayed she was not serious about the wife who was his no longer except on paper requesting he perform the same task for her.
As if divining his thoughts, Anobi set her glass down and reached out to stroke him behind the ear, knowing how much he shrank from her touch and was terrified to show it – unless he wished to be taken across her smooth and immense black thighs until he learned to better appreciate her control of him and the few scraps of affection she threw his way.
If she found anything incongruous in the picture of her, an uneducated and overweight young Senegalese girl of coal-black complexion, sitting at her ease with a handsome, naked, and far older white Englishman at her feet, both collared, leashed and, more incredibly, physically modified, there was no trace of it to be found in a face that was both well-defined, despite the corpulence below it, and ferocious in its aspect.
To an observer intruding upon the scene there would be absolutely no doubt as to who was the natural master of the other between young girl and older man.
This despite the obvious inequalities of intelligence and looks.
“You like that, my little Chien-Blanc?” she asked, fully aware he had not the vocal chords with which to answer and would be forced to respond in the way he had been taught.
A way that was yet one more nail in the coffin the young black girl and her only slightly older German employer and friend had made of his manhood.
Her hand continued to caress him behind the ear as he whined his acknowledgement as taught, going on all fours as she left his ear to tug him into position facing away from her via the collar.
“That is a good Chien-Blanc,” she cooed, the heavily inflected accent with which she spoke his native English only serving to make his descent all the more real and dispiriting.
“You learning to be what you always meant to be. Sooner you get it in head you no longer capable of being a man the sooner I have to stop punishing you and your petit-orgue-blanc.”
As ever when she made such a reference, she giggled.
A giggle that was neither girlish nor winning.
At least not to the object of its derision.
Her reference to the cock that, he knew, was in no way “petit” and no longer of any use to him except on those occasions when the sadistic African girl freed him of the plastic prison containing it and allowed him to hump her leg after the fashion of the animal he was intended to be, only served to bring a picture of his black handler to mind as she stood above him and smiled with satisfaction at the depths to which she and Ilse had reduced him.
He was slowly losing what remained of himself under the unrelenting treatment the girl was handing out with such obvious relish and it was hardly surprising that Anobi was aware of it too. Unwilling or not, he was becoming more and more servile and cur-like in his obedience. It could, they both knew, only be a matter of time before he lost what was left of his manhood completely.
Even if Ilse had informed him before she left for the Cassis villa that she wished him to always remember his former life, as:
“It will make the position of the animal you will always be for me all the more of a torture.”
In that, he had assured himself with bitterness, and on many occasions since her departure, he could find no argument with her.
“Ms Ilse be pleased with her Anobi when she get back and see what a well-behaved pet she now own,” he heard her say by way of confirming his suspicions. “Because if you be a naughty Chien-Blanc when she arrive and spoil it for me I going to ask her if she let me cut off your balls.”
The shudder that ran through Maurice Baxter was, understandably, all the more genuine and terrifying for having experienced the girl’s single-minded delight in correcting his behaviour and the knowledge that, despite her relatively tender years, she was not of a type to make idle threats.
The throaty chuckle that greeted his reaction and the young and proprietary hand that cupped his be-ringed scrotum told him she knew how much he feared her and just how pleasing she found the truism.
Not for the first time, and with as much futility as all the times before, Maurice Baxter, ladies’ man, lover of fine-wine and opera, went back over the events that had brought him to his current pass.
As he whined his appreciation, as taught, of the black hand that was gently massaging his scrotum, knowing all too well how that gentle massage could soon become a nightmare of sudden pain if he gave offense, he marvelled once again at how he had been taken from sophisticated, if alpha, male with a coterie of available women and a wealthy and not too unattractive younger wife, with homes in the affluent Home Counties of England, Africa, Germany and France, to be set down in a secluded villa on the South Coast of France to lead the life of a…