was at a premium as he was never allowed to get more than an hour at a time. By the fourth, or fifth day, the women stopped locking him in his coffin and wouldn’t put on his leg and wrist restraints. His friend would come nightly, giving him food and water to keep him alive; never uttering a word in English. Charles came to expect abuse as routine and the pain was transformed into something other than pleasurable, other than ache; he would leave his body in order to escape the sensations and a part of him died inside every day.

On day six, he was awakened with the sun and taken to a pond to bathe. The water was cold but it felt good. He was given lye soap and he washed his hair and body with the harsh smelling bar. It felt good to rid himself of the stink that oozed from his pores. Once finished, he was given a metal cup filled with oil to apply to his body. He did his best to rub it into every inch of his skin because he appreciated the luxury of the feel on his aching body. There was a pile of clothes for him to put on, pants, a shirt, and even shoes. He stood taller in his outfit, feeling superior to the handful of white men who were wearing their burlap frocks. Breakfast was plentiful. Fresh fruit, pancakes with syrup, eggs, bacon, toast, juice and coffee satisfied his appetite. He gorged himself so much he was afraid he would throw it all up.

By mid-morning, he was taken to the big house and led to the master bedroom. It was complete with all the Victorian drama of the period, a four-poster bed, a large fireplace, windows and a balcony that looked out over the property. He felt unworthy to sit on the furniture so he just stood, waiting for what he was sure was going to be an inspection or something by Mistress Emmanuelle.

“Have you enjoyed your stay thus far, Chuck,” she said, breezing into the room with melodramatic flair?

Charles couldn’t answer. He’s hated every second of the experience since he stepped on the boat but he was terrified that if he didn’t answer affirmatively he’d be subjected to harsh punishment more severe than anything he’d endured before. It was also the first time in days he’d heard his native tongue. His brain misfired and shut down. Emmanuelle took it in stride and continued on. “Take off your shirt, let me see your markings.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He unbuttoned his shirt and felt the first signs of arousal that he’d felt since leaving her office the day they were introduced. She circled his body; lightly brushing her fingers across the welts and bruises. Her touch was extremely gentle and Charles was falling victim to her manipulations. The only permanent mark that he’d received was the brand but the most painful torture he’d received was mental.

She unbuttoned his pants and inspected her mark. “Nice, it should heal really well. Remind me to get a picture of it before you leave.” She stroked his cock, producing an erection but Charles was determined to deny her the satisfaction of knowing he was mentally aroused. What she had done to him was in