by Paul Blades
KLITZMAN'S PARADISE
BOOK FOUR OF THE KLITZMAN STORIES
By
PAUL BLADES
Copyright©2010 Paul Blades
Dark Visions Publications
[email protected]
Cover Photo: (c) Can Stock Photo Inc./adamr
All characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious
CHAPTER ONE
ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE
You know the feeling that you get when the roller coaster gets just to the tippity top? You look down into the abyss, the long steel bordered line of descending track, and you get that empty, bone chilling feeling in your stomach that maybe you have made a mistake? Or have you ever peered over the edge of a towering cliff imagining your body twisting and turning in the air as it tumbled to its inevitable doom? Then you know how I feel.
On the one hand, I’ve really got it dicked, if you’ll pardon the expression. I wake up every morning and avail myself of the enthusiastic services of two beautiful, young, and pleasurably compliant women. And then later, after my early morning run, and my subservient ladies have lovingly washed and dried my body, I might wander down to the nearest restaurant where I’ll breakfast al fresco in the not quite yet baking tropical sun, served by enticing, naked beauties fully available for a frolic in the sack, or a beating if I have the inclination. Later, after I’ve digested, there’s always a handball match, some golf, or a chance to watch while a seven foot tall, black giant administers vicious strokes to a girl being corrected for some minor transgression or, perhaps, merely for the enjoyment of the guests.
You get the idea. How could anyone complain? Well call me unappreciative, but to really take a walk in my shoes you’d have to add the fact that at a moment’s notice I could find myself strung up in the nearest cell having strips of my flesh slowly and agonizingly pulled from my body, my excised manhood and balls turning feverishly in a blender.
My name’s Harry. Harry Wiggins. And how I got myself into this predicament is a long story. Suffice it to say that I made a few mistakes when I was a street enforcer for an Atlantic City hood named Tony Bianco. I got sent up for a life bid on a Federal rap and was looking at pulling my pud and getting prison haircuts for a long, long time. When I got the chance to hit the streets, I took it.
The only problem was that my release was at the behest of an unnamed U.S. Government security agency in the person of two colorless, taciturn guys named Bederson and Mulitieri who came to see me one day in the Federal max in Atlanta. The deal was that I was to let myself be recruited by a secret international criminal organization known only as ‘k’ and, once I had gained their confidence, turn fink. The recruitment part went all right. I had to do a job on a rat in the joint first and then, once I had made my bones, an escape was arranged. I was flown to the headquarters of the gang, a small island located somewhere off the coast of Western Africa.
Now, I had never heard of ‘k’ before. But, every criminal enterprise has its cottage industries. I kind of expected to be working the streets, like I had been doing, you know, collecting vig, icing the competition, zipping guys who needed it. To my surprise, I was dropped in the middle of a Disneyland for dominants which went, among the cognoscenti, by the name of Klitzman’s Isle.
To call it a resort would be like calling the B-1 bomber a plane. It really just doesn’t say it. The place was staffed with an average of 200 hundred or more luscious whores. And not the kind who take your dough and give you a quick fuck while chewing gum and thinking about what an asshole you are. These lovelies had been torn from their prior lives, undergone a thorough course of sexual subservience, learned the amount of pain that can be applied to the human body without permanently marring it, and taught to keep their delectable bodies ready and available for use at any time by anyone who wanted it, in any way that they could imagine. You can’t get that kind of service at Club Med.
Now, I’m really not complaining. I’ve made my bed, so to speak, and I have to live in it. But it does get nerve-wracking to imagine a doleful end for oneself every time one of the upper managers of this reprehensible resort lets it be known that he wants to see you. Is your cover blown?
This particular morning I had awoken, as I had many times over the last few weeks, to the feeling of soft compliant lips nibbling at the tip of my hardened cock. In my dream I was back in Atlantic City. My boss, Tony, had a funhouse for the use of his boys in the north end of town and in my dream I was lying in a large soft bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms. We used to take some of the showgirls there when Tony was getting ready to break them in at one of his local whorehouses. They were always in need of cash, some white powder or maybe an audition. Once Tony had his hooks in, he eventually got what he wanted from them.
Anyway, I was lying on my back and a tall, full bosomed show girl was between my legs. She wore one of those big, sparkly, feathered headdresses the showgirls wear, a pair of fake diamond encrusted earrings that shot points of light out whenever she moved her head, small pasties on the tips of her inviting breasts and a small silver thong. Her back arched behind her gracefully and I could see her plump but firm, pale white, rear globes bisected by a small strip of luminous silver fabric. She had glittering silver high heels on her feet. I groaned each time that her firm lips descended the length of my steel hard rod. Remarkably, the two foot high feathered headpiece stayed on her head as she bent over my cock. As her head bobbed up and down, I could feel it tickling my chest.
Slowly, my consciousness emerged into reality. I looked down to see the brown haired head of my slave girl, Carol, nestled between my thighs. She was short and thin with broad hips and a long thick braid of silky brown hair that descended down her back. Her doe like brown eyes looked up at me with obvious delight that she had finally gotten my attention. I groaned with pleasure as her tight plump lips descended the length of my sensitive pole. Lying next to me, her hand softly caressing my chest, was Mary, a black haired beauty. Her delicious breasts were crushed against my side and she looked at me wistfully as she caressed my pectorals.
Carol had been a gift to me from my demonic employer, Klitzman. He was a 350 pound giant with gluttonous appetites for food, sex and cruelty, not necessarily in that order. He had apparently lost interest in the meek Carol after whipping her back raw and pillaring her with sexual abuse. It was when he ‘promoted’ me from an everyday supervisor at the island to his ‘go to’ man. I was given the use of the finely appointed cottage in which I now lived and the ownership of the badly bruised and damaged girl. I had nursed her back to health and developed a fond affection for her over the last six weeks or so.
Mary, I had acquired at the same time. The difference was that she was not my property but ‘on loan’ from the resort. My promotion entitled me to reserve the use of a slave girl for as long as I wanted and I had chosen the dark haired girl partly because of the delectable submissiveness she had exhibited when she was first delivered to my door for the service of my pleasures and partly because I learned from her that she had been kidnapped at the same time as Carol. I felt that Mary could help Carol regain some of her equanimity regarding her status as sexual chattel, something very necessary if she were to survive for any reasonable period on Klitzman’s Isle.
I had grown fond of the two slave girls. But that only presented me with another intractable problem. While they were in my custody, I treated them fairly and with some kindness. But how could I ever really protect them from the depredations of the other supervisors and guests, especially those who ranked higher than me in the Klitzman hierarchy? There was Klitzman, of course, and I assumed that whatever Klitzman gaveth he could taketh away. And then
there was Rukimo. Rukimo was a six foot seven inch mound of black African muscle. He served as Klitzman’s main man when it came to the resort and, I assumed, many other things. It was Rukimo who interrogated me when I first arrived, evidently quelling any suspicions he might have had as to my bona fides. I was still alive, wasn’t I?
And then there were the lesser lights, Thorndike and his sidekick known only as Cholo. They were both cruel, conscienceless killers who also ran some of Klitzman’s slaving operations. I had had a run in with Thorndike. He challenged me to a ‘friendly’ boxing match on my arrival. He kicked the shit out of me. But I got in a couple of good shots, breaking his nose in the process and earning myself some respect on the island as the only guy who ever caused him injury and lived. Both Thorndike and Cholo had well earned reputations for their eagerness to visit extreme depredations on defenseless female flesh, and the slave girls who learned of my lucky blow to Thorndike’s proboscis treated me with especially pleasurable deference ever since.
And there were others. Anthony, for instance, who had served as my Virgil to this hellish sadists’ haven on my arrival. I still didn’t know what his overall position was on the island, but he had one of those cold death looks in his eyes and often made elliptical comments about past deeds that left the impression that he was as capable of sociopathic violence as any of the others.
The point is that I could really offer no protection to my enslaved female wards at all, regardless of how much I treasured their loving and obsequious reverence to me. It was true that I had provided them with a sort of safe harbor from callous use and violence, but as sure as God made little green apples, some day they would have to face the hazards of Klitzman’s Isle once more. Their only hope, and mine, was that somehow before that day came I was able to give Bederson and Mulitieri the ammo they would need to take down Klitzman’s criminal empire.
The trouble was, as if I didn’t have enough, that I had no idea of how I was supposed to get in touch with my erstwhile undercover mentors. I had been told that I would be contacted before Klitzman’s men sprung me from the can, but no dice. I was spirited away to this island paradise without so much as a word from the two Feds. My only hope now of learning how to communicate with them was through a slave girl named Lois. She had been caught snooping around one of Klitzman’s secret jungle transit camps for contraband along with a companion name Delia. They were promptly trussed up and stripped and sent by cargo plane to Klitzman’s little resort.
The camp was a layover point for me on my way to Klitzman’s island. Their very presence there at the same time as me raised some hackles but both Lois and Delia had endured painful debriefings without putting me in the soup. Delia had ultimately confessed to being a DEA agent but denied knowing me. Lois passed muster as a nosey reporter. But, one afternoon following her formal enslavement and training, after I had given her a round fucking, she had whispered to me three bone chilling words: “Bederson sent me.”
I had been contemplating forgetting all about my promise to fink on Klitzman and his gang. After all, I was living the life of Riley, had poontang up the wazoo. What more could a guy ask for? Why risk it all and chance miserable, painful death? But once I knew that a slave girl on the island could put me in deep shit with just one word, all that changed.
Ironically, I had saved her life when Thorndike wanted me to throw her to the sharks one afternoon. I had balked at having that crime on my soul when I met my maker. And now her very existence made mine precarious. I needed desperately to learn more from her, or, alternatively, to figure out a way to silence her forever. But my activities on the island were carefully monitored. I wasn’t sure that Rukimo had given up all suspicion of me. If I was seen to get all buddy buddy with her, or was implicated in her untimely demise, suspicions could turn into beliefs. I would need to figure out a way to get her alone again without raising anyone’s hackles.
As Carol delivered exquisite pleasure to my rod, I pulled Mary closer to me and took one of her teats into my mouth. My mind swooned with the delightful sensation of her hardened button on my tongue and she moaned softly as I sucked on it gently. Mary’s moan was muted by the leather gag that she wore, something I had ruled that she should wear at all times when not necessary to eat or when servicing me or her sister slave with her succulent red lips.
There was no real reason for my cruel whimsy. When she had first been brought to my cottage, she had talked out of turn and I had whipped her for it. But that was weeks ago and the ‘gag rule’ had long outlasted any practical justification. I guess I just enjoyed her pretty, pleading blue eyes as she stared up at me silently whenever I came home. To her credit, she never complained to me about it, but suffered the indignity of my arbitrary exercise of power over her with meek acceptance.
But now I wanted to taste of her voluptuous lips and I reached behind her head and undid the strap that held her gag in place. The outside of the gag had a leather shield over it and covered her face from the edge of her septum to the bottom of her chin. She smiled with undisguised happiness when the plug was removed from her mouth and her lips eagerly accepted mine as I pulled her head down. She slid her body over mine, her knees planted on the bed on either side of my chest and leaned over, delving her tongue deeply into my mouth. As her hot tongue danced around mine, I stroked her full round breasts, pulling on her stiff nipples each time my hands finished a caress.
With the two energetic mouths servicing me, my lusts began to boil. Carol was in no hurry to precipitate my crisis. I could feel her well trained tongue tease the underside of my cock’s head. Her hand had taken possession of my scrotal sac and manipulated my sensitive stones gently, driving an aching pleasure right through me. Mary’s hips gently gyrated as she pressed her own needy sex against my belly. I slipped my hands down her sides and under her thighs and pulled her forwards, until her knees were astride my head and her soaked pussy was presented to my lips.
The aroma of Mary’s arousal was intoxicating to me. I pulled her steaming nether lips to my mouth and dragged my tongue along the damp length of the denuded slit between them. Mary groaned with pleasure. Her face and hands were against the bed’s ornately carved headboard above me and the sound of her passion echoed off of the hard teakwood surface. My hands were circled under her lean, tender thighs and I forced her pussy hard against my mouth as I drove my tongue deeply inside her. The taste of her arousal, sweet and sour, with its pungent musk, electrified me. I could feel my balls tighten and the immanency of my orgasm as Carol’s mouth continued to delight me. I wanted Mary to come too, and I began to probe her hardened clit with my tongue, rolling it over the little nubbin, circling it and pressing it down.
Carol must have sensed my purpose, for as soon as Mary began a staccato series of almost anguished whimpers, her body shuddering with each hard convulsion of her cunt, she intensified her attentions to my tool. A flash of light went off in my head as my cock exploded. I groaned my pleasure into Mary’s hot, moist crevasse as each throb of my cock sent a powerful jolt of ecstasy through me. I could feel my seed flowing out in spurts as Carol’s tongue and lips encouraged me, her head bobbing up and down, her lips firmly gripping my shaft.
Mary, once her tumult had subsided, quickly climbed off of me. I raised my head slightly from my pillow to see Carol, still kneeling dutifully between my outstretched thighs, grinning almost wickedly at me, her lips clamped together tightly, a gleam in her eye. Mary shuffled over to her and joined her in an embrace. Carol opened her lips and showed me the product of my loins that still lay pooled in her mouth. Mary took Carol’s chin in her hand and turned her face towards her. The lips of the two pretty slave girls met and I watched, enthralled, as Carol passed a share of my spending to her sister slave. I could see Mary’s mouth work greedily, her hands pressing Carols’ body firmly into her own. Her large breasts crushed Carol’s more modest ones.
The scene of the two of them engaged in a passionate embrace made my now limp cock to stir. Although the sight of the delectab
le lasses sharing my come was titillating, to say the least, it had not been my idea. More than once, as they had simultaneously given oral adoration to my tool, they had struggled over the right to take my discharge. Carol had thought of it first and her solution seemed equitable enough. And so, now, each time that I sent a flood of my spewm into one of their mouths, they shared it with their housemate, taking the opportunity to administer passionate kisses to one another.
The curvaceous and appealing young women eventually broke their embrace. They turned and smiled at me expectantly, Mary licking her lips in satisfaction. It was time for my run and so I jumped out of bed, deposited a night’s worth of liquid wastes in the toilet and dressed. When I emerged from the bathroom, my slave girls were kneeling obediently in the living room, their hands outstretched on their knees, palms up, their backs arched and their comely breasts enticingly presented.
Slave girls, even ones as obedient and accepting of their roles as Mary and Carol, were not to be left to their own devices, and so I chained their ankles to rings in the floor. They slept, when not kept in my bed for the night, in a little alcove in the bedroom. The chains had timers on them which released the clasps at the preset time, allowing the girls to serve as my libidinous alarm clock. Mary had brought her gag out from the bedroom with her and dutifully handed it up to me. With a slight look of sorrow in her eyes, she spread her pretty lips and accepted its insertion. Carol, helpfully, connected the straps behind her head.
I headed out the door of my cottage. Although still early morning, about 6:45, the temperature was well into the eighties and the air heavy with humidity. But it as much better than midday when the temperatures could soar. I stepped carefully down the steps from the front porch of my cottage and, after several minutes of stretching, began my run.
