"Oh,” Gregor pretended to be surprised. “In that case. Lick it up."
His imported leather shoe was on her neck. Whimpering, she stuck out her tongue.
"Leave her,” said Nikolai, “We have Mr. Gargone's party to celebrate."
"Oh, yes,” the man grinned. “How true."
Gregor grasped Mick by the upper arm, leading him through the crowd of mostly business types with a few young people in expensive designer jeans mixed in for good measure. Servers, like softsighs, were mingling among the group, in various states of undress, suggesting sexual availability. One was against the wall being screwed by a dildo held in the hands of an elderly man, while another, a short, robust blonde was being put over a table to receive a cock up her ass.
Whatever party it was they were going to, he didn't like the sounds of it. The two gangsters seemed way too calm, almost like a cat looks before it strikes its prey. Of course this is why he'd come and what he expected. Mick Gargone did not anticipate seeing another dawn, and if that sacrifice saved the people he loved, it would be worthwhile.
They took him into a VIP room, with paneled walls and thick carpeting. It was gangster chic, with gilded mirrors and gold fixtures. An Asian beauty, in high heels and a red kimono approached him immediately. She stood, hands at her sides, very feminine, waiting for Mick to sit in the straight back chair.
"Strip,” commanded Gregor, inducing the woman to instantly shed the robe. She was slender, her body richly marked with tattoos and rows of scars from what could only be various kinds of whips. Very slowly, sensuously, she slid her very long fingernails down her belly to the lips of her labia. Without taking her eyes off Mick, she pincered her own clitoris and began to squeeze. Her eyes lit, but she did not flinch from the obvious pain.
She had spread her legs, bending at the knee, her toes turned in. Mick understood better the purpose of the posture as Gregor went behind her with the cane. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and as he struck at the girl's exposed ass, it was clear he was not holding back.
"If she breaks her posture,” explained Nikolai, “or if she orgasms from the sensations she will be given to my security men for the night. Trust me, that is not a fate a girl seeks a second time."
Mick was transfixed by the picture of soft beauty, glowing, her lovely round, geisha's face sliding to a place of utter feminine acceptance even as her brutal Russian master continued to punish her mercilessly.
He was reminded of the old saying about the reed bending and not breaking. There was something ancient at work here, a culture of almost ritual surrender. Still, it was a very modern operation, the very pinnacle of ultra-sophisticated flesh peddling.
"Discipline is much easier to maintain in a female than in a male, don't you agree?” mused Nikolai, pouring two brandies from a bottle on top of the bar along the wall. “Her biology works against her in so many ways.” He handed Mick one of the glasses, toasting in Russian. “For example,” he continued. “The female is designed to please the male. She wants it, sexually; she needs it in her heart. Disappointment in pleasing him is perhaps the greatest persuader. She is also aroused by her own pain and easily controlled by her lusts. She has no resistance. Warm her up, idly, even carelessly, and she will crawl to you begging to betray her closest confidantes. Women are animals, Mr. Gargano, sex driven, manipulative animals. They respect one thing. Power."
Mick did not know if he would go nearly that far, but he did know the scene was turning him on fiercely. Under his pants, hopefully well hidden, a hard on raged, straining against the material for its freedom. Was this part of his punishment? Some cock teasing prior to execution?
"Your girl, Simone, she would have done well here, no?"
Mick tried to hold his temper. “I don't think so."
Nikolai laughed. The oriental had just taken a dozen very hard hits to her sweat slick ass. Snapping his fingers he allowed her to fall to her knees. Unsatisfied with this, Gregor pushed her to his belly with his ubiquitous shoe. A harsh command followed and the freshly beaten girl was crawling to Mick's feet to lick his shoes.
"Give her the bottoms,” said Nikolai, translating a comment in Russian from his brother. “She likes that best."
Mick tipped his heel back and immediately the girl's tongue began caressing the scuffed sole.
"Power,” reminded Nikolai. “That is what they respect. In its simplest, most obvious forms. The most high born, willful woman can be reduced like this. Keep the cane or the whip close by, or your bare hand and she will cringe in loyalty. Turn your back, she will stab you to the quick."
Gregor, still behind her, rubbed the tip of his pointed shoe between her crimson cheeks. “Up,” he ordered.
Without ceasing her licking, she raised her ass, allowing him to masturbate her with his shoe.
"This is how your Simone should be trained. You would like this, no?"
"No,” he lied.
Nikolai laughed. “Drink up, my friend,” he encouraged. “The fun has only begun."
Mick thought the liquor would do him good. He drained it and immediately, the tall Russian signaled for a tiny redhead in bra and panties to come and take it for refill. Nikolai spoke to her on the way and she sidled up to him, allowing him to run his hands up and down her body. There was no affection in the gesture, just a sign of ownership. The girl seemed to know this, as she stood perfectly still. Not even when he put his finger under the waistband and inside her pussy did she complain.
He sexed her for a couple of moments, working her up, then leaving her unfulfilled. With a harsh twist of her nipple, he sent her back to work. Mick noticed as she approached that her hip was tattooed. The design featured a single name, Karkhov, encircled by tiny roses in a circle.
It was a literal and potent symbol of just how owned she was.
"My friend, I am going to give you a chance to even the score tonight,” Nikolai announced. “Assuming, of course, you are still a gambling man?"
Gregor kicked at the side of the oriental girl, compelling her to crawl away, spurned, unwanted.
"If I weren't,” he smiled thinly, “I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in now."
"Well put.” Nikolai beamed, repeating the remark in Russian for the slower Gregor.
Gregor chuckled, a low and menacing sound which said, ‘make all the jokes you like, I'm still killing you. Tonight.'
"Gregor,” said his brother. “Bring the whore."
A young woman was fetched, pretty enough behind ruined, thick makeup, tousled blonde hair and a cheap halter top and ultra short cut offs. Her belly was pierced, the smooth, tanned skin moist with her own tears.
"Master, please,” she cried as Gregor threw her to his brother's feet. “I will try harder tomorrow."
"But this is the third time this week,” he said with deceptive paternal caring. “I am becoming concerned."
"I am behind, I know, but I haven't felt well. I've been so dizzy and sometimes I throw up blood and—"
"Is that a good excuse, goldie?” Mick could tell he was saying it as a slave name and not an endearment.
"N-no,” she checked herself. “I am sorry, master."
"You see,” lectured the Russian. “It is power. That is the way in all countries. In mine, especially. The czars, the commissars, now the presidents, there is no difference."
"The gun,” Gregor intervened, presenting his brother with a revolver, a simple thirty-eight.
"Yes,” said Nikolai. “The gun."
Mick could see where this was going. “Don't tell me,” he quipped, fighting the rising dread. “We're going to play Russian roulette?"
Nikolai grinned. “In a manner of speaking. Except that we have decided to make it more interesting. You see in this gun, the chambers are half filled. The whore here will get a shot at you. If she kills you, she goes free. If she draws an empty chamber, then you will be given the chance to fire at her. The game continues till one of you is dead."
The young prostitute clung to Nikolai's leg.
“Please, master I'll do better, I swear, I'll stay out twenty four seven, just give me one more chance. I'll be the best you have. Let me blow you, I'll show you."
Gregor pulled her to her feet by the hair.
"Take it,” Nikolai pushed the pistol grip against her chest.
She did so, petrified.
"Put them face to face,” ordered Nikolai. “Let them aim point blank at each other's heads so we can be sure the job isn't botched."
This won laughter from the several thugs in the room. Even Gargano had to acknowledge a certain humor in it, not to mention the high drama of the game. What they didn't know was that Mick had a little cheat in mind. A stacking of the deck, so to speak, that would insure the girl would win her freedom either way no matter who found the bullet first.
* * * *
Simone awoke coughing the foul gas out of her lungs. She wasn't sure it was still down there even, but that's where her mind and consciousness had last left her so that's where she picked up. The first thing she noticed in her new surroundings was the temperature. Not frigid, but cool and damp nonetheless. Like a root cellar. She pulled at her wrists. They were not under her control. Each had a shackle or handcuff on it attached to the back of the chair in which she was sitting.
It was a folding chair, the metal kind. Her ankles were also cuffed, back behind her somehow. This served to open her legs, which she did not like at all. When she went to open her mouth, she tasted rubber. A round ball of some kind was stuffed between her teeth and buckled around the back of her neck.
"Don't fight it,” advised a young woman standing over her. “You've been put there by the masters and you won't get up till they want you to."
Who are you? Simone asked with her eyes.
The naked teenager, just a little on the plump side with huge, hanging breasts and a dog collar on her neck was studying her. “Between you and me, I don't think you're anything special. Once the novelty of whipping and fucking you wears off, they'll see you're just another cunt like me."
Simone shook her head, desperate to convey with garbled cries how much she did not want this and how she would do anything to get free.
The girl snorted. “You're a brat, you know that? You'll get cut down to size real fast. And just so you know..."
Simone recoiled at the touch of the switchblade. It was real and sharp against her cheek.
"There are things that'll happen the masters won't know about. You best remember that. You're my bitch, too, not just theirs."
The older woman whimpered for mercy.
"I don't give a fuck about the others,” she declared. “But if you make a move on my master, I will kill you."
Tears danced down Simone's shuddering cheeks. She was in hell; she had died and now she was in hell.
"Does this kinky stuff make you wet?” The nude teen wanted to know.
Sim had no power to resist, no way even to close her legs as the greedy young fingers slipped up inside, around the edge of the panties.
"Oh, yea. You're a little fucking slut, all right. Nice and juicy.” The girl gave her no option but to writhe. It was humiliating to come like this, chained in a stranger's basement, tormented by a mere girl, but Simone could not hold it back. In fact there was this part of her craving and needing the very treatment being imposed.
"Like I said,” she licked her fingers clean afterwards. “You're my bitch. Behind my master and the others, you're my slave. You do what I tell you or, trust me, I'll find ways to make you hurt they've never even thought of, and all without leaving a mark on your pretty skin."
Message received, nodded Simone. Loud and clear.
But where were these others she'd been talking about? These masters. Her memory was awfully foggy. There'd been that strange encounter with Samuel Martin in the elevator. Oh, god, yes, the man had turned vicious. He'd tried to grab her. Then the other one had come up to help him. Jenkins, that creep from sales. He'd made her go to Samuel's car. She had to kiss him, and that part wasn't half bad. He tasted pretty good, his lips and his face with that little beard growth, his tortured eyes.
And then the van came. The janitor, the one from her own building, grabbing her and Jenkins catching up, too. The both of them, forcing her inside and then the metal door slamming shut, locking her in darkness. The chloroform, sickly and thick as it continued to pervade her lungs. And finally complete, choking darkness. The womb swallowing her shut. Only to rebirth her here.
In someone's basement with ... my god, look at it all ... chains and whips on the wall and was that a medieval rack in the corner?
"You've seen enough,” decided the young woman. “You're supposed to have this on, but I wanted us to get to know each other, up close and personal."
The blindfold slipped over her eyes. It was a good one, the kind with a stitched flap at the bottom to keep you from being able to see under the lower edge. She shook her head again and this time a long line of drool dropped free from her chin and splashed somewhere below on her body. Her tits maybe or her lap. Damn, but she was overheated and spacey right now. Horny, juicing and ... helpless.
So how many of these masters were there? And exactly what did they want, aside from the obvious? Were they planning to kill her afterward? It didn't make any sense. They were guys from work. Ordinary men she passed in the hall. What would lead them to do this? In one way it should comfort her that they weren't unknown psychos. On the other hand, something had seriously come unglued in the lot of them to go from the usual office crap of ogling and masturbating over her, or even the occasional incident of sexual harassment to ... this.
I have to fight, she thought. I have to use everything I have and I have to survive. If not for me, than for Mick, because he was in trouble. That much she could sense. Maybe even worse trouble than she herself. She'd promised not to get involved, but what if she could save him still? Wasn't that worth breaking her promise?
For a split second it occurred to her not to fight these men but to give in, so they'd be done with her quicker. Did she have it in her to submit to this repulsive assortment of males? And there had to be at least one more than the three, because someone was driving that van.
Yes, she thought at last. I will fight. For me. And for Mick.
* * * *
"Mister, I don't want to do this,” cried the little blonde, who could easily be Mick's daughter.
"It's okay.” He smiled up at her from his chair. “You can handle it. You're strong enough. It'll be all right."
The prostitute was standing over him. She'd drawn the right to shoot first, though she was far too distraught to follow through.
Finding a courage and a calmness he'd never thought he had in his life, Mick Gargone helped her lift her fragile hands so she could hold the barrel of the gun against his forehead. “It's all right,” he repeated, his own thumb over her index finger on the trigger.
She whimpered, closing her eyes and recoiling. Setting the gun off seemed to last forever. The tiniest motions, sweaty skin over metal, a tiny clit hook of a trigger being pushed back to oblivion.
Both of them drew a common gasp as the gun clicked, but did not fire. No bullet that time. A fifty-fifty chance. With each round, those odds would decrease, as one of them hurtled toward certain death.
"You are spared, Mr. Gargone, for now. Give him the gun, whore, and get on your knees."
Leave it to Nikolai to add to the entertainment by having the girl suck his cock as he pointed the gun at her head. She was trembling and tearful, her body like a rag doll. He lent her his strength, repeating his earlier injunctive.
It would be all right. Without coming right out and saying it, he made it clear as he could with his eyes. It will not be you dying today, goldie, but me.
He was surprised at how easily he maintained his erection through this process. The overall sexual charge of the club seemed to be overcoming in him the natural terror of the moment. Or did the gun and the terror itself add to the thrill?
"Wait until you come,”
the Russian offered generously. “Let her swallow you and the bullet at the same time. Assuming you draw a full chamber."
Mick put the gun to the side of her head, pressing her soft, golden hair. It must have look quite beautiful when it was clean, he thought. What was her story, anyway? Was she a runaway, from some horrible, abusive house? A foster child, maybe, or a homeless street urchin picked up by the Karkhov's for their evil sex empire?
If only he could guarantee her freedom as well as her life. Tomorrow she might be back in this same position. Mick would have no second life to offer in that case. The girl was a good cocksucker. Like Nikolai said, power put women in positions of exquisite and exacting service. And damned if that didn't get him off, too. Having Simone the way he had, with her acknowledging his control over her, throwing herself at him as a sacrifice.
There'd been that between them all along, he supposed, as boss and employee. The game, the play, the sizzling mix of work and sex. He really loved her, though. That was just the kind of thing a man saw at a time like this, in the last moments of his life, whether or not he is holding a gun to a girl's head whom he is supposed to kill, and whether or not that girl is sucking his shaft like there's no tomorrow.
No tomorrow. Mick laughed. His own private joke. He never should have married the wife he did. Never should have made a lot of those choices. He didn't belong in the old man's business, either. He should have told the man, politely to piss off when he wanted to start training him two years ago, because if Johnny Gargano hadn't accepted his son up to then, for what he really was inside, then he sure as hell wasn't going to accept him as a pale imitation of himself in the job of CEO in waiting.
When it came right down to it, Mick's father hated him because he was going to outlive him, and his father had hated him for the same reason. In compensation, they'd all tried to manipulate the hell out of everyone around them and leave a legacy of undying pain. But that never worked, and in the end it came down, as it always does, to your own choices, your own life and your own death.
Fucking up or not fucking up, or at least choosing your own unique fuck ups. Mick grunted as the sperm poured out of him and the girl dutifully swallowed. At the last possible second, making sure it was too late for the Karkhov's to do anything to stop him, he pulled the gun away from her head and put it to his own, smartly pulling the trigger.
Stealing Simone Page 9
