I live on a South Pacific island of stunning beauty, nearly 1,000 acres of wide, sandy beaches, tropical forests, lush mountains and luxury resort quality living structures, surrounded by crystal clear, azure blue waters. To many – in fact, to most – of its roughly 75 inhabitants, it is indeed a tropical paradise. I, however, am one of ten slaves on the island, all of us cuckolded husbands, men formerly of means. Now penniless and powerless, we are completely at the mercy of our wives and the man to whom they are in thrall – as well as to his circle of wealthy friends and his staff of employees. That man, the undisputed ruler of the island – which is legally and functionally its own sovereign nation – is the multi billionaire, Lance Lawton. Or, Master Lance (or simply “Master”), as he is known to me and my nine fellow slaves. To us, he is more than our master, he is a veritable demigod. And for us, far from being a paradise, the island is a beautiful prison, a place of almost unrelenting toil, discomfort, and humiliation. The landscape of a perpetual fever dream – or nightmare – of nearly constant sexual arousal and frustration, and not infrequent pain.

A cross between the character Kurtz from Apocalypse Now (played by Marlon Brando) and Elon Musk – but much better looking than either and more dangerous and depraved than both combined (yes, even more so than Musk – hard to believe, I know) – Master Lance is a unique individual. For those of you unfamiliar with Francis Ford Coppola’s brilliant film, let me use another comparison in an attempt to describe this singular man. Try to imagine a mix between a charismatic cult leader (think Jim Jones, David Koresh or Charles Manson) and a jet setting playboy (think Dan Blizerian without the beard, but with a similar physique and a far more attractive face). Although these days, Master spends most of his time on his island and less time flying around the world.

He inherited much of his vast wealth from his father, a notorious industrialist known for ruthlessly exploiting his employees, his fascist political leanings, his barely concealed ties to organized crime – and for his insatiable desire for sleeping with gorgeous women (single or married, it mattered not). Master Lance is a chip off the old block in most respects – the authoritarian attitude, the lust for power, the fondness for cruelty, the passion for sleeping with large numbers of beautiful women, etc. They differed in one key respect, however: whereas his father worked hard to amass his fortune, Master Lance – an only child – never worked a day in his life, outside of school. However, he was shrewd enough to allow his deceased father’s financial advisors to continue to manage his inherited fortune, over time turning tens of billions into multitudes of that (and still counting), thereby making Master Lance into one of the richest men in the world. Unlike many of his billionaire peers, however, he doesn’t have a philanthropic bone in his body. He also keeps a relatively low profile. “Shadowy,” “reclusive,” and “mysterious” are the adjectives most frequently used to describe him in the public domain.

His incredibly privileged upbringing consisted of being waited on hand and foot by maids, butlers and other servants; playing sports; working out in the private gyms of his parents’ many homes scattered throughout the world; playing with his rich friends; and seducing an endless series of beautiful girls and young women. He did graduate from Harvard, however. I can only think that he got in and graduated due to the influence of his father, who felt it was important that his son have the proper pedigree. It’s not that Master Lance isn’t intelligent. He is fiendishly so, but he is not fond of work. Why should he be? He inherited his fortune at the age of 25, when both of his parents perished in a helicopter crash in the fog in the hills above Sausalito. Fortunately for Master Lance, all of the wills, trusts and complex tax avoidance structures were already in place.

Another difference between Master Lance and his father is that the latter was indifferent to the marital status of his many lovers. Master, on the other hand, discovered early on that he derives special pleasure from stealing women away from other men – rivals, friends, employees, relatives, strangers, whoever. Over time, this evolved into a cuckolding fetish. But one very different than mine or that of my nine fellow cuckolded slaves on the island. Rather, Master developed an intense fetish for cuckolding and humiliating weaker males. Over time, that was no longer enough for him; he wanted to own these men like chattel and to routinely debase them in front of their wives. Or, as Master Lance calls it: foreplay.

And so here I am, writing these words on a small tablet of paper from the bottom bunk of a bed in the slave quarters where I and my nine enslaved compatriots sleep. In contrast to most of the other structures on the island, we have no electricity, so I use the early morning light – sunrise is at 6 am in March – filtering in through the windows of our bamboo constructed building to write in my journal. Simone gave it to me, an act of pity, and I keep it hidden in my mattress. Not that it probably would be a big deal if I was caught writing by Master or his staff; it’s not like what I’m writing has even the faintest chance of ever being published. I never have much time to write, as my work day begins at 7 am. With few exceptions, we work 15 to 16 hour days, seven days a week, so light by which to write is a precious commodity. Light, and time. And privacy. Even though it is only 6 am, it’s already approaching 85 degrees and is intensely humid. The nights are a little cooler, but still very humid (especially to someone who grew up Southern, CA and who for most of his life loved to sleep under covers in air conditioned rooms even when the AC wasn’t a necessity). Following a typical night of tossing and turning in my spartan bed, the sheer babydoll nighty and matching sheer nylon panties in which I am required to sleep are already damp with sweat.

Master Lance likes to be surrounded by several beautiful, scantily clad women at once. “Lance’s harem” is how the ten wives on the island proudly refer to themselves. In contrast to harems of olden days in the Middle East, however, the members of his harem are all willing participants. Or, at least they are at first. One could argue that Master’s magnetic personality erodes their free will over time. Of course, Master Lance could have ten beautiful single women on the island (or a hundred, if he so wished), but where would be the fun in that for an inveterate sadist such as he?

You may assume that all of the wives that comprise his harem are young beauties in their late teens or early twenties. That would be incorrect. Master likes diversity among the women he beds and the men he owns. The wives range in age from 21 to 52, all of them breathtakingly beautiful and sexy. All spend meaningful time in the island’s well equipped gym. Working out there is not required of them, but there is a healthy – well, in truth, not always healthy, in fact often quite catty and ruthless, but always spirited – competition among them to gain, and keep, the attention of Master Luke and his wealthy playboy friends. We enslaved cuckold husbands range in age from 25 to 59. Master Luke was born in and spent the majority of his formative years in the United States, so perhaps it is not surprising that three of the couples are American, including me and my wife, Simone. One is Japanese, one Indian, one British, one Brazilian, one Czech, one a Swedish woman married to a French man and one a particularly stunning, light skinned Ethiopian woman married to an older German man. You may think of us collectively as Master Lance’s DEI program in action. Just without the equity. Or the inclusion. At least for the husbands. And when I say “husbands,” I’m really talking about a historical relationship to the women with whom we came to the island. We cuckolded males forfeited all our conjugal rights, all of rights as citizens of other countries, all of our rights of any kind whatsoever when we set foot on the island. Master Lance’s attorneys saw to that. And his highly trained security forces ensure that remains the case.

My name is – or was, at least – Steven Kemp. Nowadays, it is variously “boy,” “maid,” “slave,” “serf,” “lackey,” “peon,” or, most of the time, simply “Suzette.” I have different responsibilities, but my primary role is serving as one of the three sissy maids on the island. I am 36 years old. Simone is 28. Master Lance is 31, and his rich buddies range in age from 28 to 35. The latter group numbers 6 to 8 at any given time. Master Lance likes to have more wives on the island than virile young men, this to keep the wives on their toes; there is usually at least one who ’s left out when they pair up for sex or for the almost nightly social events on the island. Although several of Lance’s rich friends – or, perhaps more accurately, members of his entourage – will sometimes sleep with or date two of the wives at once. Indeed, sometimes Master Lance will personally monopolize three or even four wives for the evening, leaving two or three of his buddies the odd men out. He likes to keep everyone on their toes – we cuckold husbands sometimes quite literally, in punishment or stress positions, standing in the corner or against a wall as our backsides are thrashed (or in the aftermath of a thrashing). The social dynamics of the island are fascinating to observe, especially to a former strategy consultant such as myself, one who focused on organizational design.

Please allow me to share a bit about how Simone and I came to be here. Nine months ago, we lived in the hills of La Jolla, California in a $3.5 million home with panoramic views of the Pacific ocean in the distance. Well, at least I still have views of the Pacific…

An only child, I grew up middle class in the greater Los Angeles area. After graduating magna cum laude with a BS in Sociology from UCLA, I moved to Illinois to obtain my MBA from the Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern University. I summer interned at a top tier management consulting firm in Chicago and then accepted an offer to join the firm full time as an Associate back in Los Angeles. I was promoted quickly, rising to Partner after only seven years. As I said, my primary focus was on assisting companies optimize their organizational design structure. I was very successful and did quite well financially. Three years ago, I felt sufficiently confident to hang out my own shingle as an independent consultant, and continued to do well up until the time Simone and I made the fateful decision to come here.

I was less successful on the personal front. Besides being super focused on my career (which required frequent travel), I was exceedingly shy around women, especially beautiful ones. To be honest, I was hopelessly intimidated by beautiful women, but like most men, was drawn to them. Perhaps I was drawn to them more than most men, more than I had any right to be. I had no interest in settling for marrying an average looking woman, i.e., someone in my own league. Although I have been told that I have an attractive face, albeit with somewhat delicate features for a man, I am of somewhat small stature, about 5’ 7” and small boned. More discouragingly – and I suspect the main source of my profound lack of confidence and extreme awkwardness around the women I desired – I am under endowed: just four inches fully erect with small girth and a small scrotum. I knew this from looking at other guys in the high school locker room and from my first girlfriend in college, who giggled the first and only time she saw my cock and put me squarely into the dreaded friendzone on the spot. I’m ashamed to say that I remained a virgin until age 23, and only slept with two women before marrying Simone three years ago. I don’t have the medical condition known as micropenis, and I certainly have healthy levels of testosterone – hell, I was horny all the time, it seemed, and spent hours edging myself and masturbating – but I knew that I was meaningfully smaller than average and doubted my ability to please a woman through vaginal intercourse.

These insecurities were only confirmed and magnified by my experiences with my first serious girlfriend, Cara, when I was 24. A lovely girl of Irish descent, with long brown hair and a dimpled smile, she and I had tons in common, including a shared love of alternative and punk rock and offbeat films. She also giggled when she first saw my cock, but had sex with me anyhow. I certainly didn’t share with her that it was only my second time having sex with a woman. I kept slipping out of her, resulting in still more giggles, but I suspected also in a wholly underwhelming experience for her. The next time we met after we had intercourse, she confirmed my suspicions when she handed me a present: a how-to hook on cunnilingus. I know most women love good oral sex, but I interpreted this gift as a not too subtle message about my (literal and figurative) shortcomings as a lover. Indeed, for the three months our relationship lasted, we only tried vaginal sex on two more occasions, with similar disappointing results. One of the times, I had too much performance anxiety to come myself and had trouble staying hard; the second time, I ejaculated prematurely, leaving her totally unsatisfied. She then urged me to go down on her, so my first creampie was my own. I was disgusted, but I was in love with Cara and wanted badly to please her (little could I have imagined at the time how many infinitely more disgusting creampies made by other men were to be part of my future).

After that, sex for us was limited to me going down on her and her bringing me off various ways. The first time, she gave me a blowjob. I loved it (it’s the only one I’ve ever had), but she wasn’t fond of giving oral sex. The times after that, we tried a handjob and footjob. When she saw how hard I got and how much I came with the latter, that became the preferred method. I had always admired pretty feet before then, but I trace my now serious foot fetish to those times with Cara. Sitting on the bed, she would have me lie on the floor at her feet and press her lovely bare toes against my cock, using her other foot to knead my balls until I exploded. This usually didn’t take long, but she found ways to prolong things by teasing me, including lightly touching the tip of my cock with one foot while bringing the other up to my mouth or nose. I would inhale gently at first, and more intently as she increased the pressure on my cock, until I came. I usually went down on her first, but one time (sadly, towards the end of our relationship) she brought me off first while wearing a short skirt with sheer black stockings. The feeling of her nylon encased foot rubbing against my cock and the fragrant scent of her slightly damp stockings pressed up against my nose and mouth – a commingled odor of nylon, sweat and leather (she had been wearing boots all day) – drove me wild. I began sucking her toes through the nylon, unasked but with abandon. I guess I don’t have to tell you the genesis of my nylon fetish. Subsequently, I went down her like a starving animal, giving her clearly the best orgasm of our brief time together.

Two weeks later, she dumped me. I was devastated. She met another guy, taller, athletic, better looking, better in other areas as well undoubtedly. Length, girth, stamina, confidence…The list was likely endless. Of course, she didn’t tell me these were the reasons why she dumped me for him. She simply said she felt a special chemistry with him, something lacking with us. But she hoped to keep me “as a friend.” Some of the unintentionally cruelest words in the English language. I tried, but was completely incapable of remaining friends with Cara. The pain of rejection was too acute, the thoughts about what could have been too haunting. I was overwhelmed with jealousy. I kept pathetically trying to convince her that she had made a mistake, only annoying her. At one point, I got so desperate that I wrote her a long letter, proposing to her that we get married and promising her a future of financial comfort (she had dumped me for a bartender, so I knew I had an advantage there, at least). That pushed her away still further. She deeply (and justifiably) resented the suggestion that she could be bought. My desperate, moronic letter ended even the possibility of friendship between us.

When we were both invited to the wedding of a mutual friend several months later, after I saw her from a distance with her new man, towering above her, I couldn’t handle it. I left the wedding abruptly (later telling the bride that I had come down with a 24-hour stomach bug), went home and cried myself to sleep. I took the next week off from work and barely left my condo. I entered a prolonged state of depression that eventually led to me going on antidepressants. I never saw Cara again. Unrequited love is a terrible thing.

After that, terrified of being hurt again, I entered a three year period during which my only sex was masturbation, usually lying on my stomach for hours at a time in front my laptop, looking at porn or reading increasingly kinky erotica while grinding my cock into my hardwood floor. I became quite adept at prolonging my pleasure, by lifting my pelvis up off the floor as I was about to ejaculate. When reading erotic stories, my thoughts inevitably reverted to Cara and her lovely feet. Stories of submissive men groveling at the feet of beautiful women became prominent in my masturbatory sessions. Longingly recalling the feeling of her nylon-clad toes moving against my cock, I decided my best alternative to replicate that feeling in my solo sex sessions was to wear nylons myself as I humped the floor. So I ordered several pairs of tights, pantyhose and nylon panties on-line, and they quickly became my standard jack-off attire. Wearing tights and panties made me feel deliciously submissive. It wasn’t just the emasculation of it, wallowing in how pathetic I had become, it was also the tactile feeling of the nylon fabric against my skin that made me feel so submissive. It’s not that I associated femininity with weakness. Rather, I associated emasculation with weakness; I was clearly less than a real man. Inevitably, I started reading stories about sissies on on-line sites such as Literotica and Fictionmania, always gravitating towards the ones involving female domination and foot worship. Especially stories about submitting to ex-girlfriends or ex-wives, to the woman or women who spurned you.

No, I didn’t become a full-on transvestite, but often I would sleep in a pair of panties or tights, the sensual feeling of the nylon against my skin fueling my submissive dreams. I sleep that way today on the island, but even my most outlandish dreams of submission back then did not remotely approach my present day reality. If Cara was the source of my foot fetish and my nylon fetish, her leaving me for another guy was also unquestionably the source of my cuckold fetish. The cuckold fiction on these erotic websites was plentiful, often a key dimension of the stories involving female domination, foot worship and sissification. I was most drawn to the cuckold stories featuring extreme humiliation and emasculation of the cuckolded husbands or boyfriends, the bulls in these stories frequently playing a prominent role. I would envision myself, Cara and the man she dumped me for in the roles of the characters of many of the stories I read, the two of them subjecting me to unspeakable, yet exquisite humiliation. My personal experience was consistent with much of the psychology I’ve read about the cuckold fetish. It is often sparked by the trauma of a beloved woman’s rejection: one eroticizes the rejection as a coping mechanism. And it sort of grows from there, sometimes uncontrollably and dangerously. As in my case. Thanks, Cara. You really did a number on me.

At one point, still in the early stages of the development of my cuckold fetish, I actually seriously contemplated calling her and begging for forgiveness for the letter in which I asked her to marry me for financial gain, telling her I was completely unworthy of marrying her as I was less than a real man. I would ask her if I could make up for my thoughtlessness and stupidity by simply paying for her and my replacement to go out to expensive dinners, sporting events, go on vacations together, etc. Perhaps I could even make myself useful by cleaning her apartment or running errands for her — or even doing chores for him (while she looked on, intrigued, amused, contemptuous). It was the least I could do to make up for my behavior, I would explain to her; I would ask nothing in return. Fortunately, I never followed through with this absurd fantasy. Or was it fortunate? Who knows, maybe she would have said yes and my life would have taken a different turn, one without Simone. Stranger things have happened. The thought of performing chores for the man she dumped me for seemed so profoundly humiliating to me at the time. When I consider my life today on the island, it now seems almost quaint by comparison.

Instead of following through on my silly idea, I continued to masturbate and fantasize, requiring ever more extreme stories of emasculation, humiliation and abuse to get me off. The cuckold fetish is sort of like a drug in that respect, at least for some. Certainly for me. I was an addict. It can be as, or more, dangerous as other types of addictions, as I am living proof.

Eventually, I decided that the masturbatory fantasies were not enough. I visited a couple of dominatrixes, but found the experience wanting. With their leather attire and dungeon props, it seemed phony; I felt more silly than aroused. I needed a relationship that was more authentic and less transactional. I needed a wife. When it comes to dating and sex, you can find a lot of unconventional, highly specialized services in Los Angeles if you look hard enough and have money to spend. I was able to find a female match maker who specializes in hooking up financially well off men with beautiful women who wanted to marry into money. By definition, these men were incapable of attracting such women in bars, through mainstream dating sites or in other traditional ways. I actually discovered this woman on one of the local cuckold forums. One of the users, a quite kinky and submissive individual to judge by his frequent postings, identified his wife (or hotwife, as she is known in the cuckold subculture) through this match maker a couple of years ago, and was a very satisfied customer (the exorbitant fee notwithstanding).

An attractive, middle aged woman with a trace of a foreign accent that I found hard to place, the match maker interviewed me – she didn’t take on just any client – over an expensive lunch (paid for by me, naturally) at an oceanfront restaurant in Malibu. Her name was Elissa. I was careful to behave as a perfect gentleman, holding the door open for her, pulling out her chair, etc. Over the course of our meal, she asked me many probing questions, among them how I would feel about marrying a woman who might not always be faithful to me.

“You see, my female clients are very beautiful women, accustomed to a lot of attention from men. And, in many cases, from other women as well. Often, my male clients are not enough for them, even after they are married,” she explained matter of factly.

Under no illusions about the types of women I was likely to meet through such a service (counting on it, in fact), I told her that I would have no problem with it whatsoever. Elissa smiled at me knowingly. I’m sure her male client base was replete with men with cuckold fetishes.

She then asked me if I would expect my future wife to sign a prenup. “Of course, not,” I replied.

“Excellent. I would not represent you if you had answered in the affirmative. And none of my female clients would agree to sign one.”

Following were additional questions about my net worth, annual income, monthly cash flow, and real assets (all of which would require documentation). Thirty-three years old at the time, I had already built a net worth of nearly $9 million (I was consistently earning a seven figure income as a Partner at my firm and invested my money wisely). More importantly, I had excellent future earnings potential, and as an only child, stood to inherit my parents’ estate (probably an additional $4 million or so) when my mother eventually passed (my father had died at an early age two years prior).

We then spent some time discussing the physical and personality traits I was seeking in a wife. I explained to her that beauty was non negotiable for me, but that I was pretty open minded in terms of ethnicity, hair color and so forth.

“What about body type? Don’t hold back. This is almost always very important to my male clients, whether they are willing to admit it or not,” Elissa said.

“Well…I like slender, curvy women. Buxom, but not too buxom. But the most important thing…” Embarrassed, I hesitated.

“Don’t be shy, Steven.”

“I like women with long legs and…”

“Yes, out with it.”

“Pretty feet…and…pretty toes,” I said, lowering my voice to close to a whisper. I glanced around me to see if any other diners were listening, but fortunately the tables were well spaced.

“Very good. You are a leg man. And a foot man.” She winked at me with a somewhat devilish smile, adding, “Or, a footboy, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” I replied, feeling myself blush.

“I think we understand each other,” she smiled. “And what about personality? Is high maintenance okay?”

“Of course.”

“What about fickle?”

“Yes. Fine, I mean.”

“Headstrong?”

“Fine.”

“What about bitchy? Some of my female clients can be quite bitchy at times?”

“Bitchy, at times, is fine too. Just not always.”

“Of course, not always. My clients are charming, beguiling women. When they choose to be, that is. Bitchy often goes hand with the other two ‘Bs’, bossy and bratty. I assume you have no objection to the other Bs as well?”

“That is correct.”

“I thought so. Given your education, field of work and level of success, you are clearly very intelligent. Is it important that your future wife also be highly intelligent?”

“Highly intelligent, no. But certainly not a total airhead.”

“Steven. I don’t represent airheads. It’s a question of degree.”

“Of course, I apologize. I need someone who is a decent conversationalist. I’d prefer a college graduate, but I don’t care about pedigree so much. I want someone who can hold her own, who doesn’t suffer fools.”

“What about common interests? How important is that to you?”

“Somewhat, I guess, but not especially. I want someone who enjoys the finer things in life – good food, travel, expensive clothes. Those sorts of things.”

“Steven, all of my female clients enjoy the finer things in life. That’s sort of the whole point, isn’t it?,” she said, winking at me again.

“Yes, of course,” I said, feeling foolish.

“I think I may have just the young woman in mind for you, assuming you qualify, of course. She’s only 25, but she knows what she wants.,” Elissa said, as we shook hands at the conclusion of lunch.

Elissa was a pro, I’ll give her that. Simone was the woman she had in mind, and the first prospect she introduced to me to after I was fully vetted. Elissa’s fees were paid for solely by her male clientele. She guaranteed three introductions for a $100,000 non-refundable retainer. Should an introduction result in marriage, an additional $200,000 success fee was due. If the couple divorced within the first year of marriage, she would make three new introductions; if the divorce happened after the first year, the man was out of luck. Because I was spending so much money, I felt obligated to meet with a second woman, but I knew Simone was the one from our first meeting.

Life is a series of choices, at least until you find yourself in a position where you have none – such as where I find myself today on this island. And if you no longer have the ability to choose, if that has been taken from you, you may rightly ask yourself: am I really still living? But when I met Simone a little over three years ago, I was very much alive. I chose her, and, more remarkably, she chose me. What a fateful decision that was.

Let me tell you about her, my supervixen, my siren, the reason I am here.