Chapter 3: Farewell to the Ladybird

Brigitte rarely refers to me by my name. She invariably addresses me as ‘slave’. Denying me a name is part of her regime of dominance and submission. It’s a lifestyle which has taken on a new lease of life for her now that her husband, Jules has returned and his obvious attraction to me is plain for all to see. Although I’m compelled to participate in the power-play between husband and wife, I nevertheless enjoy our perverted games. Outwardly Jules is in control of the plantation, but there can’t be anybody working here who doesn’t see through the sham. Brigitte is the real source of power and even the overseers continue to take their orders from her.

As for me, Brigitte has me continue with light duties inside the house, although her definition of ‘light’ is open to question. Ever since Jules returned to La Coccinelle I’ve spent most nights in Brigitte’s bedroom. Occasionally I get to sleep in her bed, but otherwise I’m made to sleep on a thin mattress on the floor with my ankle shackled to the frame of her bed. My indoctrination into the art of sapphic pleasures is rapid and thorough. I begin to feel deprived for not previously experiencing some of the delights Brigitte teaches me. Her training makes my previous efforts at bringing a woman to an orgasm seem crude and amateurish.

Jules rarely ventures into Brigitte’s room, and then only by invitation. Those occasions are usually the time when we play some of Brigitte’s more kinky games. Given a free choice, Jules would ram his cock into any and all of my three holes. But only my mouth is open territory for him, and only when Brigitte is with us. I’m becoming an expert at deep throating his cock while Brigitte goes to work on my cunt and clit. She seems fascinated by my swollen belly and more than once she massages my belly until the baby kicks. But those moments of tenderness are short lived and the sterner and more demanding Brigitte soon resumes control.

Throughout this short period of my life I surrender my body and soul to my Mistress. I learn to control my orgasms so that I never come without obtaining her permission. It’s not an easy thing to do, but Brigitte insists that I learn to obey her commands without any thought for my own pleasure. Time and time again she reinforces the doctrine that I only exist to please her. Brigitte never thanks me for my participation in satisfying her sometimes perverted demands. She’s my Mistress in the fullest sense of the word.

Drinking her piss and rubbing Jules’ semen into my hair are only two of Brigitte’s more outlandish demands. Jules fares no better, having to perform like a circus animal for Brigitte’s entertainment. I never see him fuck his wife in all the time we are together, although I know Brigitte allows him to fuck some of the other slave women. Despite the unequal relationship, our ménage-à-trois seems to satisfy each of our sexual desires. Jules must be content with his life because the law is on his side. He could throw Brigitte out of the house on the flimsiest of pretexts and there would be nothing she could do about it. But Jules doesn’t object and so his and my lives continue on as Brigitte’s devoted slaves.

The contractions which signal the imminent arrival of my baby begin while Jules’ cock is rammed down my throat. It’s late at night so most people are fast asleep. Brigitte notices my situation, but insists that Jules spills his load down my throat before allowing me to prepare for the birth. Task done, Jules is sent from the room with instructions to wake two of the slave women who have some experience at midwifery. I’m moved to a spare room at the other end of the house so as not to disturb Brigitte’s sleep should the birth prove to be prolonged.

I’ve no idea how long the birth process should normally take. The soothing words of the midwives do nothing to enlighten me on that subject. Nevertheless I deliver a healthy baby boy around nine o’clock the next morning. As soon as the baby and I are cleaned up we receive a visit from Mistress Brigitte. She ignores me and examines my baby like a doting mother. I feel a twinge of jealousy, but I recall our agreement. I have no means of supporting a child on my own, and I certainly don’t want my child to have the kind of childhood I endured. An unmarried mother is universally despised and shamed wherever you go and that hatred often extends to the child.

“You will sign a document renouncing all claims to this boy,” says Brigitte. “As we agreed months ago, Jules and I will adopt him into our family as our own child. In exchange you will be given your manumission papers.”

It’s the first time since Iago and Felipe left here months ago that the subject of my freedom has been mentioned. To be honest, the combination of my advancing pregnancy and our erotic ménage-à-trois had pushed the issue to the back of my mind for a while. But now I’ve had my baby, I’m once again thinking about my future. Of course Brigitte could simply take my child as her own and leave me enslaved on La Coccinelle. Having me sign a paper allowing the adoption is an unnecessary formality in my current situation. If Brigitte decided to renege on her promise to free me then there would be nothing I could do about it other than try to escape. But Brigitte is keeping her word, and granting me my freedom.

I’m allowed a few days to rest and recover before being escorted to the gates of the plantation. There are other new mothers at La Coccinelle, so I’m not required to provide milk for my child. I’m allowed a quick farewell to my boy, whose name I’m never to learn. Brigitte insists on having the right to name my child, and I’ve no means of stopping her from doing so. With nothing more than the rough cotton dress I’m wearing and my manumission papers in my hand, I set off on the walk to the nearest town.

A cynical person could claim that being left in the middle of nowhere with only the dress on my back is a recipe for ensuring that I don’t live to tell my tale. But my childhood years living on the streets of London have taught me the knack of begging and thieving without getting caught. The small village I pass through probably never finds out what hit them. Suitably clothed and fed, and with a few coins in my new bag, I continue on my journey towards Saint Pierre. It’s the largest town on Martinique and is affectionately known as the Paris of the Caribbean.

I decide to wait until morning before entering Saint Pierre. Iago mentioned that the island is now garrisoned by the English and I don’t want to blunder into a patrol in the dark. I sweet talk a farmer into allowing me to sleep in his outhouse overnight. Maurice demands the usual fee for my accommodation, and for the first time in months I enjoyed a man’s cock reaming my arse. Fortunately Maurice’s cock isn’t too large as my arsehole has contracted from lack of use as a sex hole.

“Have you recently given birth?” asks Maurice the next morning when he notices my swollen tits are leaking milk.

“Yeah,” I reply, dreading him asking the whereabouts of my baby.

Fortunately Maurice is only interested in the fact that my tits are full of milk. He fetches a bowl and proceeds to milk me like a cow. I could object to his assault on my body, but his actions at least ease the discomfort of my swollen tits.

“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, pointing to the bowl of my milk.

“None of your business,” replies Maurice with a sly wink.

I could raise a fuss but I’m still not fully adjusted to no longer being a slave. The effect of spending eight months of only doing what you are told without any say in the matter takes time to wear off. I collect my few belongings and leave Maurice to his unusual bounty.

Maurice’s farm is located on a hill overlooking Saint Pierre. Consequently I get a good look at the activity in Saint Pierre harbour as I walk down the road. I can see two English warships anchored off-shore. Small boats are ferrying supplies out to the ships. I’m still wanted by the English Admiralty on charges of piracy so I decide to delay my arrival in Saint Pierre until the ships leave. Unfortunately, these islands are one of the regular haunts of the Zafiro, so there’s more than a remote chance that someone will recognise me. It’s possible that enough time had passed for the wanted posters to be removed, but I can’t be sure. The persistence of the English Navy in hunting me down seems ridiculous to my mind.

Not far from the farm is a small inn which seems to be a regular watering hole for the locals. I decide to ask if there are any jobs going in the neighbourhood.

“There’s no work for women around here,” says the innkeeper when I ask about any jobs. “Not unless you want to spread your legs. With a body like yours you could probably earn enough to get by.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the patrons at the bar. A couple of the men offer to buy me a drink in exchange for some company, and I see no harm in accepting their offer. My few coins need to be saved for a meal. It gives me an opportunity to catch up on what is going on around the place and events further afield. No reliable news ever reaches the ears of the slaves at La Coccinelle. I’m not sure that the news I’m hearing here is all that reliable either but it’s better than nothing.