Enslaved on Vice Island

The sharp crack of splintering wood jolts me awake, ripping me from a dream I can't quite remember. My heart slams against my ribcage as I bolt upright in the narrow cruise ship bed, the thin sheets tangling around my legs. The room is a haze of shadows, the only light spilling from the hallway beyond my now-shattered cabin door. It swings wildly on its hinges, a jagged silhouette of destruction.

Figures flood in--three, maybe four--moving with brutal precision. They're clad head-to-toe in black, sleek tactical gear hugging their forms like a second skin. The dim glow catches the glint of batons dangling from their belts and the dull sheen of holstered guns. My breath hitches as I squint through the darkness, trying to make sense of the chaos. Their faces are half-hidden, the lower halves shrouded by some kind of metallic shielding that curves over their mouths and jaws, leaving only their eyes exposed: sharp, unyielding, and glinting with intent. Long hair swings behind them, tied back in tight ponytails, a strange contrast to the militaristic edge of their presence.

I'm frozen, shirtless and vulnerable, the cool ocean air seeping through the cracked porthole chilling my bare skin. The leader, taller, broader in the shoulders, steps forward, her boots thudding against the polished floor. Her eyes lock onto mine, piercing through the dark, and I swear I see a flicker of something--amusement? Hunger?--before she gestures sharply to the others. They fan out, silent and predatory, circling the room like they own it. Like they own me.

"Get up," she says, her voice low and muffled through the shield, but there's an edge to it that sends a shiver down my spine; one part fear, one part something I don't want to name yet. My mouth goes dry as I scramble to my feet, the adrenaline pumping hard, my mind racing with questions I don't dare ask. Who are they? What the hell is happening on this ship?

The air feels electric, heavy with unspoken tension, as her gloved hand hovers near the baton at her hip. She tilts her head, studying me, and I realize I'm not just a target--I'm a prize.

The leader's gloved hand clamps down on my wrist, yanking me forward before I can even process what's happening. Cold metal bites into my skin as cuffs snap shut, the click sharp in the night air. My arms are wrenched behind my back, and I stumble as they shove me out of the cabin, straight onto the deck. The sea breeze hits like a slap, chilling my bare chest, my feet stinging against the cold planks lining the ship's outer railing.

"Move!" one of them barks, her voice thick with a Russian accent, rough and commanding. They herd me forward, boots pounding, their presence suffocating. My head's a mess, catching flashes in the moonlight--other cabin doors along the deck splintering open, more black-clad figures spilling out. A grizzled guy, maybe fifty, staggers into view, only to get shoved back inside with a curt "Stay!"--his door slamming shut. Then a girl, early twenties, all wild hair and tight curves, gets dragged out a few cabins down, cuffed and pushed ahead. I don't know what's happening, why they're picking who they pick. My mind's too scrambled to connect dots.

Pain sears my calf as a baton cracks against it, forcing a grunt from my throat. "Keep moving!" the leader snaps, her ponytail whipping as she turns. I stumble toward the railing, the cuffs digging deeper, and then I see it--a massive black boat looming below, dwarfing anything I'd expect tethered to a cruise ship. It's a hulking, two-story beast, all sharp angles and dark metal plating, like a floating bunker. No windows, no curves--just a cold, imposing box rocking against the waves, its engine rumbling deep and menacing.

The leader leaps down first, landing on the deck with a heavy thud, then turns back to me. Her eyes glint through the shadows, locked on mine, and she smirks--just a flicker, but it's there. "In," she orders, her accent curling around the word like a threat. I hesitate, and a baton taps my thigh hard, urging me forward. No choice. I step over the railing, dropping onto the boat's frigid metal deck, the surface slick under my bare feet. The girl from the other cabin lands beside me, her breath hitching, and we're hustled forward, shoved toward a hatch that yawns open like a mouth. The night swallows us as they push us inside, the clang of the hatch sealing shut ringing in my ears.

The hatch groans as more bodies are shoved down into the metal box, until there's twenty of us crammed together--young guys and girls, all snatched from the cruise ship's deck. The air's thick with shaky breaths and the faint tang of sweat. A girl with wild hair presses close to my left, a broad-shouldered guy to my right, and a blonde in a thin nightgown stumbles in last, her eyes darting. The cold metal walls loom around us, no windows, just a dim hum from somewhere deep in the boat. The hatch slams shut, locking us in.

A blinding white light snaps on overhead, flooding the room, and I flinch, squinting as everything sharpens--us, trapped, exposed. Two officers in black tactical gear stride in through a side doorway, guns in hand, their shielded faces blank as they take position by the entrance, ponytails swaying. Then two more follow, these ones carrying scissors that glint under the harsh light. My stomach twists as one of them--a wiry figure with cold, focused eyes--steps forward. "Hold still," she snaps, her Russian accent biting. "Move, and you'll get cut."

They move fast, efficient. The guy next to me grunts as they yank his shirt over his head, slicing through the collar with a sharp snip when it catches on his cuffs. The blonde gasps as her nightgown's shredded, the fabric pooling at her feet. I'm in nothing but boxers, barefoot and cuffed, and when one of them reaches me--a woman with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes--she doesn't hesitate. "Stand still," she orders, her voice low, and her gaze locks onto mine, unblinking. Her gloved hands grip my waistband, yanking my boxers down in one rough tug. The cool air hits my skin, and she tosses them onto a growing pile of torn clothes at the far end of the room--shredded shirts, shorts, underwear--all heaped like evidence.

The four officers finish their work and step aside, lining up along the wall, standing at attention, scissors and guns still in hand. The room's silent except for our uneven breathing, every one of us naked now, cuffed, vulnerable. Then the air shifts--tightens--as a new figure steps through the doorway.

She's tall, towering in a peaked officer's cap that crowns her jet-black hair, spilling sleek and straight down her back. Bright red lipstick stains her lips, bold against her pale skin, and her leather heeled boots click with every slow, deliberate step. Tight leather shorts hug her hips, creaking faintly as she moves, and her presence alone pulls us straighter, an unspoken command. She stops, eyes raking over us--twenty naked bodies lined up under the glaring light. Her gaze is slow, predatory, lingering as she paces forward, inspecting each of us. My skin burns under her stare, a mix of dread and something else I can't shake. She reaches the front, turns sharply, and stands there, silent, letting the weight of her authority settle like a noose.

The boat sways beneath us, a gentle rock that presses our naked bodies closer, skin brushing skin as the hum of the engine deepens. We're driving out to sea, the metal floor vibrating faintly under our bare feet, cuffs clinking as we shift. The pile of shredded clothes at the end of the room slides slightly with each tilt, a reminder of how exposed we are. The tall officer with the jet-black hair and red lips stands at the front, her leather boots planted firm, her presence pinning us in place under the stark white light.

She steps forward, her heels clicking, and her voice cuts through the air--crisp, British, every syllable dripping with authority. "You're probably wondering what you're doing here and where you're going. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret--you haven't been picked at random. You've been selected." Her eyes gleam as she moves, swift and deliberate, reaching for the blonde girl next to me. She grabs her breast, fingers pinching the nipple sharply, making the girl gasp. "Selected because of this," she says, her tone almost playful, but edged with steel.

She turns to the broad-shouldered guy on my right, her hand darting down to grip his cock, firm and unapologetic. He stiffens, a choked sound escaping him. "And this," she adds, smirking faintly. Then she's in front of me, her leather shorts creaking as she leans close. Her hand cups my face, smushing my cheeks, her touch cool and commanding. "And this," she purrs, planting a quick, teasing peck on my lips--soft, fleeting, but enough to make my pulse spike. She lingers a moment, her breath warm against my skin, then adds, "And, because we've profiled you through your searches, identifying perfect candidates for good, obedient sex slaves". Her expression hardens, all business again as she steps back.

She paces slowly, her voice rising. "You've been selected to be turned into submissive slaves--playthings for the rich and powerful. You'll be groomed--scrubbed, shaved, polished to perfection and assigned a master to serve. This isn't a punishment--it's a privilege, for those who can handle it." Her lips twitch, a shadow of a smile, as she scans us.

The boat rocks again, and she stops, turning sharply on her heel. "Enjoy your nap," she says, her tone clipped and final. "We'll be on the island at sunrise." With that, she strides out, her boots echoing, the four guards falling in behind her. The hatch slams shut, a heavy clang locking us in this metal cell, still cuffed, still naked. A faint hiss fills the air--gas seeping in from unseen vents. My head spins, vision blurring as the blonde next to me sags, her body slumping against mine. The guy on my right groans, dropping to his knees. I fight it, lungs burning, but the floor rushes up, cold and hard, and everything fades to black.

My head throbs as I come to, the world swimming back into focus. I'm sprawled on a plush velvet cushion, the fabric soft against my naked skin, but there's a new weight--a thin silver collar snug around my neck, warm from my own heat. The cuffs are gone, my wrists raw but free, and the air's thick with jasmine and salt, carried on an ocean breeze that rustles the sheer black and red fabrics draping the open-air pavilion. Towering palms sway beyond the columns, and the distant crash of waves hums under everything. Around me, the others stir--twenty bodies scattered on similar cushions, groaning as they wake, their own collars glinting in the filtered sunlight.

The girl from the boat is next to me, and I can't help but notice her now--stunning, with a body that's all smooth curves and dangerous allure. Her wild hair tumbles over her shoulders, framing perfect breasts I try not to stare at, full and firm, her nipples hardening in the cool air. She shifts, sitting up, and her breath catches, her eyes wide and green, locked on the same confusion I feel. My face burns, and I force my gaze away, but it's a losing battle. I swallow hard, then mutter, "Hi, I'm Nick." She blinks, turning those green eyes on me, and whispers back, "Hey, I'm Valery--do you know what the hell's going on?".

before I can answer, the sound of footsteps echo, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the haze. A woman steps from the shadows between the columns--not in tactical gear, but dressed like a nurse, if you can call it that. Her short pencil skirt hugs her hips, barely covering her thighs, and her tight white blouse strains against her chest, her tits practically spilling out, the top buttons undone to a scandalous degree. I can't believe how skimpy she is, all curves and confidence, a remote dangling casually from one manicured hand, a coiled leash in the other. Her lips--painted a deep crimson--curl as she spots me and the girl.

She strides over, heels clicking on the polished stone mosaic, and clips the leash to my collar with a swift snap. The metal bites, cold and unyielding, and she hooks the girl's collar next, giving it a tug that makes her stumble. "Up, slaves," she says, her voice crisp with a faint Russian edge. "Come with me."

"No," I blurt, the word out before I can stop it, defiance flaring. Her eyes narrow, and she doesn't hesitate--her thumb flicks the remote, and a jolt of electricity rips through my collar, sharp and searing. I gasp, knees buckling, and she yanks the leash again. "Now," she snaps, no room for argument. The girl whimpers, and we scramble to our feet, soles slapping the stone as she drags us down a hallway branching off the pavilion.

The walls shift from open air to sleek, sterile white tile, the air growing cooler, sharper, clinical. We're pulled into a stark room--gleaming metal, harsh light, 2 steel tables in the center with trays of wax strips, a humming laser device, and razors lined up like surgical tools. At the back wall, another woman waits, her nurse's cap tilted jauntily. White rubber straps crisscross her body, barely covering her tits and pussy, clinging tight to her skin, and surgical gloves snap over her hands. She grips a hose, water dripping from its nozzle, and gestures us toward the wall with a bored flick of her wrist.

"Line up, slaves," the first nurse orders, unclipping the leash but keeping it in hand. "Against the wall. You'll be hosed down first, then waxed and lasered--crotch, legs, everything. Smooth as silk when we're done." Valery presses close to me as we shuffle to the wall, her perfect breasts brushing my arm, and I grit my teeth, pulse racing. The second nurse steps forward, hose in hand, and without warning, a jet of icy water slams into us. I gasp, the cold biting into my skin, and Valery yelps beside me, her body tensing as the stream hits her too.

The nurse tosses us each a bar of soap, the rough chunk skidding across the wet tile. "Clean yourselves," she barks, her rubber straps glistening as she watches. My hands fumble with the soap, slicking it over my chest and legs, the chill making every move clumsy. Valery's doing the same, her breath shaky, and I catch a glimpse of suds sliding down her curves before I force my eyes away. The hose blasts us again, rinsing the soap in a freezing torrent, and the nurse laughs--sharp, mocking. "You probably expected something warm? Well, that's a pleasure enjoyed only by guests, not slaves."

We're left dripping, shivering, and she tosses us thin towels--barely enough to dry off. My skin's prickling as we're yanked toward separate surgical tables. The first nurse, her pencil skirt riding up as she moves, comes to me. I've never felt like such an object--her hands clamp my wrists and ankles into restraints, the metal cold and unyielding. "We're always to be perfectly clean for our masters," she says, her voice clipped, inspecting me like I'm livestock. "We wouldn't want to disappoint them, now would we?"

"No, of course not," I mutter, half-confused, half-dreading another shock from the collar. She doesn't respond, just grabs the laser device. It hums to life, and the sting hits--sharp, precise, searing through the hair on my chest, then lower. When she gets to my crotch, it's surreal--her gloved hands maneuvering my penis and balls with clinical detachment, lifting, shifting, lasering every inch bare. I clench my jaw, fighting the heat pooling despite the cold, the strangeness of being handled so intimately yet so impersonally. She doesn't care--smooths me from head to toe, leaving only the hair on my head intact, my skin raw and hypersensitive.

Valery's done too, her table beside mine, and we're both unstrapped, still naked, still collared. A guard--tall, silent, in black--grabs us, dragging us down a narrow hall lined with small doors. He shoves us into a cell together, the door slamming shut. It's tiny--just a thick mat on the floor, a toilet in the corner, no blankets, no comfort. The air's damp, the walls stark, and Valery's pressed close again, her bare skin against mine as we sink onto the mat, the reality of it all settling in.

The cell's cramped, the thick mat barely softening the cold floor beneath us. Valery's pressed close, her bare skin brushing mine, and the silence stretches until I can't take it anymore. "Why us?" I mutter, half to myself. "Why'd they pick us for this?"

She turns her head, green eyes glinting in the dim light, and smirks. "Isn't it obvious?"

I blink, confused. "Uh, no? What's obvious?"

She rolls her eyes, shifting so her perfect breasts sway slightly--damn it, I'm trying not to look. "One, we're attractive," she says, matter-of-fact. "And two, I'll bet you anything everyone here's a sub. These fucking assholes know we'll do what they want 'cause we're built for it. Tell me you haven't had fantasies about worshipping some domme's ass or something."

My face goes hot, a flush creeping up my neck, and I stammer, "W-what?" She's so blunt it catches me off guard, but then it hits me--she's right. Those late-night searches, the tabs I'd close in a panic... shit. "Jesus," I say, voice cracking as I spiral, "you think that's what this is? Some weird fucking Illuminati Island sort of shit?! Like Eyes Wide Shut kinda shit?!" I flail a little, hands waving, picturing tabloid headlines and secret lairs, and it's so over-the-top I almost laugh at myself.

Valery just ignores it, unfazed, waiting me out. I take a breath, calming down, and slump back against the wall. "Well," I say, quieter now, "at least we can be partners here, right? Tell each other what we find out as we go." She nods, and I glance down at my freshly lasered skin, still tingling. "Gosh, I've never felt so smooth before."

"Me too," she chirps, her grin wicked and bright, a flash of teeth that promises trouble. My pussy's like entirely hairless now." Her voice is casual, but there's a spark in it, and I feel a jolt--half shock, half something else. My eyes flick to her, then away, and I shift, trying to hide the growing erection I can't quite control. She catches it, of course--those piercing green eyes miss nothing--and a giggle bubbles from her throat, low and syrupy, dripping with tease. "You wanna feel it?" she purrs, easing closer, her breath a warm whisper against my skin, mischief soaking every word. "Come on, slide your hand up my leg--don't be shy." She extends one with a languid stretch, offering it like a gift, and I'm mesmerized by her perfect little foot--dainty toes curling just so--and the pale, shapely sweep of her leg, smooth as polished marble under the dim light. My fingers tremble as they graze her ankle, the contact electric, her skin flawless, begging to be explored.

"Keep going," she coaxes, her voice a velvet prod, soft but insistent, urging me up the sleek curve of her calf, then down the tender slope of her thigh. My cock surges, rock-hard now, no hiding the bulge, and as I near her cunt, she parts her legs wider--a slow, deliberate bloom. A faint, intoxicating whiff of her sex curls into me, warm and musky, and her grin sharpens, eyes smoldering with raw invitation.

"Go on," she breathes, barely a whisper, daring me. My finger brushes one soft lip--fuck, I've never felt a pussy this smooth, like satin under my touch--and I graze it, sliding down, finding slick wetness that pulls a groan from my chest. I'm ablaze, lost to it, and I press further, slipping my finger into her warm, yielding heat. A soft, sweet moan spills from her lips, her head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut in surrender. I work her slow at first, then deeper, harder, my other hand curling around her neck, feeling her pulse race as her breaths hitch, moans swelling louder, richer. Her right foot glides up my throbbing cock, a teasing stroke that unravels me completely, feeling her toes sliding my smooth cock--until the door's latch grinds open with a brutal, metallic screech, shattering the spell.