Klitzman's Paradise (The Klitzman Stories)

by Paul Blades

  The cottages sat up on a hill overlooking the resort proper. There were twelve of them, all serving employees in the Klitzman hierarchy, and three larger mansions further up. Cholo and Thorndike shared one of those. The other two were reserved for bigwigs.

  I took my time wending my way down the hill and then took off along a track that ran around the outer perimeter of the resort buildings. It was a track not normally utilized by guests, but was, rather, used for transporting groups of slave girls back and forth from the various buildings and the slave dorms. As I loped around the pathway, a couple of coffles of naked slave girls passed in the other direction. All of the girls had their arms bound behind their backs and wore the wide leather shields over their faces that denoted the presence of thick wads of leather in their mouths. A chain led from the back of the collar of the leaders to the front of the slave girl behind her, etc. There was no need for an escort. Their destination was printed clearly on the large colored tags dangling from the collars of the leaders. The color denoted their destination. The tag had written on it the identity numbers of the slave girls in the coffle and the time of their departure from their duty stations. Heaven help the slave girls found elsewhere other than on a direct route to their next stop or who reported beyond the short period of time allotted for their arrival. And so, although tired out from an evening’s worth of fucking or abuse, they pranced along quickly in their red, high heeled shoes in carefully synchronized steps. Their breasts bobbed prettily as they hustled along, their worried eyes evidencing their determination to arrive on schedule.

  When I reached the half way mark around the resort proper, I cut directly through it on my way to the undulating hills of the well manicured nine hole golf course. I passed one of the gathering stations outside one of the three guests’ buildings. Slave girls released from their night’s responsibilities by the guests were required to report directly here, where their hands would be bound behind them and their gags applied. They would wait until a sufficient number had gathered to make up a coffle and be then sent on their way.

  As I passed, I noted a thin, brown haired beauty kneeling by the kiosk. She had long, silky, brown hair, long, lithe thighs and a pretty face. She was crying loudly while another slave girl, a short haired blonde with large breasts, held her arms around her comforting her. There was no need to guess the source of the brunette’s dismay, as she bore a plethora of angry red welts around her body. No doubt she had suffered a night of terror at the hands of one of the guests. The supervisor, dressed in the standard brown robe, paid her no mind as he bound her arms behind her and slipped the gag into her pouting mouth.

  Whether a slave girl suffered physical abuse was largely a matter of the whim of the guests, unless, of course, she displeased anyone. But sometimes a guest, or even a supervisor, would take an unusual interest in a particular girl and she might spend several days and nights of painful abuse at his hands just for fun. Guests rarely stayed more than a couple of weeks but the supervisors were sometimes there for much longer stints before being rotated back to the world to serve Klitzman in one of his many criminal conspiracies. A slave who fell afoul of a supervisor’s desire to inflict pain was unlucky indeed.

  I hoped for her sake that she had drawn a one nighter. But it was, really, no business of mine and I sped quickly past the kiosk and on my way. Once I reached the golf course and the small gravel trails that led along the specially designed holes, I was able to let it all out. I increased my pace and let my body fall into the steady rhythm of my feet. I was in terrific shape from the years of incarceration. There was nothing to do there but work, exercise and fantasize about getting out. Of course jogging around the lush green runways bordered by dense tropical trees to the sounds of birds and other denizens of the woods awakening to their day was a lot different from running fifty times around the interior of the exercise yard in Atlanta.

  The pounding of my feet on the gravel path and the rush of my blood in my ears was mesmerizing. It was the only part of the day that was wholly without tension or conflict for me. Listen, I wasn’t what you would call a good guy before I came to Klitzman’s little hell here. I had iced a few guys, some who needed it, some who, well, who knew? It was my job. And I had had no compunction about screwing the reluctant showgirls who were unhappily paying their debts to Tony with their cunts and their mouths back in A.C.

  But the whole concept of a reducing hundreds of beautiful young women to a harsh slavery was something else. I had yet to develop the thick skin I would need to persevere and prosper in Klitzman’s employ. Every time I saw one of the teary eyed, new slave girls gulping down a stranger’s meat while kneeling between his legs in the middle of one of the club’s open air restaurants or in one of the other public areas I felt a pang inside me.

  At night, when the elegant beauties who worked as bargirls in the nightclub that I managed lined up for nightly inspection, their luscious bodies amply displayed in their scanty and revealing attire, their faces properly and expertly decorated, the false smiles of their profession displayed on their nervous faces, I experienced a underlying feeling of pity for them.

  Even after a round of impassioned fucking between myself and my special slave girls, Mary and Carol, their squeals and laughter still echoing through my little cottage, my heart became heavy. What was I doing here? Was my freedom worth the loss of humanity experienced by these women, plucked from their youthful lives from all over the world? But they would all be here anyway, wouldn’t they? I had not enslaved them. If they didn’t suck my cock, they would be sucking somebody else’s. And at least I had some conscience and rarely abused any of them severely, not without cause.

  But here in the verdant playground, surrounded by the lush jungle, my thoughts could wander away from my troubles. All I could think of was the sensations of my body as I placed foot before foot, demanding more and more from my lungs. By the time I reached the ninth green, my mind was relaxed, my soul cleansed for one more day. But even as I stepped back into the circle of buildings that served the resort, I could feel my mood darken, my corruption leaking back.

  I approached the entranceway to the vast underground slave dormitory and training facility. Its entrance was a little hut built around the large elevator that took the girls up and down from their real life purgatory. Just as I came near, the elevator must have opened up, for a bevy of freshly painted and obedient girls emerged from the hut. Gagged and bound, they spread out quickly along the many paths, their tags hanging around their necks, their tall, bright red heels clicking on the dull red brick walkway. I stopped, running in place, while the twenty or so girls emptied out of the hut, their hair springing up and down behind them as they rushed urgently to their posts.

  Most of them were headed to the restaurants where the guests would soon be arriving to have their breakfast. Others would be going to the lounges where guests and supervisors could mix and play cards or pool, or other places. One of the buildings was devoted to sports and horse betting and those places often got rowdy with one group of guests rooting for one side and another group for the other. Slave girls who served there were often used as whipping posts for unsuccessful wagerers.

  About twenty yards down the pathway from where I was running in place, a guest had stopped one of the girls. He had apparently been out running as well and was dressed in light blue shorts befitting his status. I wore brown running shorts as befitted mine. He looked about forty, was well trimmed and had a dark thatch of curly, black hair on his head. His body was tanned and lean. He dripped money, authority, class. But if he had such class, why would he be here, I asked myself as I watched him inspect the unhappy slave girl.

  The girl had shoulder length auburn hair and breasts that stood up firm and proud on her chest. Her eyes conveyed her unhappiness at the man’s delay of her as she would have no opportunity to excuse her tardiness for her arrival at her work station. But the man was oblivious to her dismay. He slowly and carefully took stock of her firm breasts, stroking and pinchin
g them to satisfy his almost cold curiosity. He ran his hands over her hips and, forcing her to turn around, bent her over to appreciate the charms of her tight but plump derriere. As I resumed my trot, I saw him pull from her collar a red ribbon. The serving girls all wore red ribbons on their collars with their slave numbers printed on it. Later, after her shift of work was done, she would be set aside so that the man who had taken her ribbon could claim her for the evening, or for an hour or so.

  The man was getting an early start on the day and had stationed himself at the entrance to the slave dormitory so that he could get the pick of the crop. Satisfied, the well toned man gave the girl a sharp slap on her ass and sent her on her way. She dashed off immediately, balancing herself carefully on her high heels as she broke into a trot in an attempt to make up for lost time. I silently wished her luck as I made my way back to my cottage.

  Carol and Mary were waiting for me expectantly where I had left them. Carol smiled when she saw me. Mary’s eyes brightened. It was time for my shower and they would get to wash me and, if I permitted it, pay oral obeisance to my rigid member. Today, I had an appointment with Anthony at 8 o’clock and so I wanted to shower quickly and be on my way. I announced this to the dismay of my pets but brightened their outlook by decreeing that since Carol had not had a chance to come that morning that Mary could do her that favor while I took my shower.

  I went to the cabinet in the living room and withdrew a large, shiny, black dildo attached to a leather harness. I presented it to Mary and she eagerly strapped it around her waist. Carol, grinning lustfully in anticipation of her upcoming delight, leaned back onto the floor, spreading her legs widely, stroking the narrow strip between her hairless nether lips, commencing the lubrication of her gash. As I entered the bathroom, Mary knelt between Carol’s outstretched legs, gently caressing her tender thighs, the thick black faux penis jutting out proudly from her loins.

  When I emerged from my shower, I could hear Carol’s frantic moans coming from the other room. Drying myself off, I stepped into the living room. Mary’s delectable ass was pumping furiously between Carol’s thighs. The brunette’s arms were around Mary’s shoulders, pinning their breasts together, her fingers digging deeply into Mary’s flesh. Her face was turned to the side and I could see her misty eyes and her lusty lips as she continued to moan loudly and deeply. Her legs were wrapped around Mary’s, pulling the thick, black ebonite shaft that she wielded deep into her pussy.

  “Ohhhhhh, yeah! Oh yeah! Ohhhhhhhh!” Carol exclaimed as her orgasm over came her. My one eyed soldier began to stand at attention as I viewed the lascivious scene. Mary’s buttocks were tauntingly enticing as they rose and fell with her thrusts. I rubbed my stiffening cock almost unconsciously as I watched the two girls fuck. Mary began to groan too as the pressure of the dildo against her clit sent her into her own convulsions.

  I was tempted to join the two enticing slave girls; Mary’s small puckered rear aperture presented an almost irresistible target. My cock wanted to get wet and warm. But you learned on the island to exercise discipline over the expenditure of your male essence. There would be plenty of alluring slave girls to fuck today and I might regret expending myself too early in the morning. I had gotten into the habit of coming at least five or six times a day, sometimes more, but I wasn’t Hercules, or Johnny Wad for that matter. And so I tore myself away from the engaged and engaging couple and went into the bedroom to put on a fresh brown robe and some sandals. When I came back, the girls were resting in each other's arms. Carol was kissing Mary’s face, that part left unexposed by the shield gag that she still wore, and Mary was hugging her tightly.

  “All right, ladies,” I announced. “Break it up. I’ve got to get going.”

  The slave girls rolled apart, their eyes beaming with gratitude. Carol looked at me sheepishly. “May I kiss Mary, master?” she asked, timidly. Slave girls, even ones as liberally handled as mine, needed permission for everything. In another context, with another master, Carol could have been whipped for her effrontery at speaking without permission. I consented to the request and Carol quickly removed Mary’s gag. The two girls kissed lovingly for about twenty seconds. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Don’t get started all over again. I have a meeting I need to get to.” The girls broke apart, their eyes soft and satisfied. “Thank you, master,” Carol said, smiling. Mary turned and smiled at me too. She hesitated and, seeing the permissive look on my face, spoke as well.

  “Thank you master,” she said. Her voice, while halting, was soft and sultry. I bet that I hadn’t heard her speak more than a hundred words since I had kept her to live with me. I wondered idly whether I should relax my rule of silence as far as she was concerned. If I had known what would happen later, well, I don’t know what I would have done differently. But, her timid, loving voice, her tender smile and grateful eyes as she thanked me, haunted me for a long, long time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE STUFF THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

  The concert had been a smashing success. The members of Day-Glo Dreams, a sort of retro psychedelic, minimalist, hard metal blues band were relaxing in their dressing room. Max Jammer, the lead singer, was downing the dregs of a bottle of champagne as the drummer and the lead guitarist snorted up lines of pure white dust from the table. Jon Pennington, their manager, whom the band had nicknamed ‘the Creeper’ because of his thick wire rimmed glasses, his pale white skin and almost emaciated facial features, stood waiting patiently as Max let the now flat, semi-sweet alcohol dribble down his throat.

  “Max,” he said as the singer tossed the heavy green bottle against the wall, where it landed with a loud ‘clunk’, pressing a large indentation into the wall, “the plane’s all set to go. We’ve got an hour before it takes off. You’ve got to get out of here.”

  Max’s face was still flushed from his manic exertions onstage, his long blond hair all wild and tangles, his shirt drenched with the sweat of his performance. He looked up at the manager. Max’s features were, up close, haggard and drawn. He had deep set, piercing blue eyes, a long, bony nose and thick, rubbery lips. In the topsy turvy world of pop music, Max was considered as an icon of sexual power. During the concert, fifteen girls had to be hurled off the stage, and by the end of the night, it was littered with the multicolored panties and thongs of enthralled young female rockers, and bras, tops, condoms and wads of paper on which were written names, phone numbers and promises of sexual delights.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I get a blow job,” Max stated languidly in his deep, graveled voice. “My willywacker is as stiff as a board and it needs a hot, wet place right now.”

  Deke and Slaughter, the guitarist and drummer respectively, giggled their agreement with their leader’s demand. “Come on, Creeper!” Deke shouted, white dust lingering at the edge of his nostrils. “Bring on the pussy! We know you’ve got some picked out!”

  The dressing room was littered with the effluvia of the band’s preconcert warm up, dirty towels and t-shirts, empty and smashed bottles of beer, and a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s whose contents had spilled out to soak into the shopworn rug. Usually, the room would be jammed with groupies, roadies and other hangers on, but Creeper had cleared it in the hopes of getting the band on the plane quickly. This was the last stop on a fifteen city European tour and it was time for the band’s and his vacation.

  “I’ve got some girls,” Creeper said, his voice thin and reedy, almost a whine. “But we’ve got to get going. They’re in the limo now.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Max exclaimed, his lips breaking into his trademark smile. He jumped to his feet. He was still wearing the torn and ragged, tie dyed orange, yellow, red and blue, sleeveless t-shirt and the tight shiny leather pants he had worn during the concert. “Let’s get the fuck out of here and get some trim, boys!” he ordered.

  Deke and Slaughter nodded eagerly and Creeper opened the door to the dressing room. The hallway was jammed with people, all cheering and screaming as the band eme
rged. Twenty five sold out concerts in six weeks in fifteen cities had brought along with it a long trail of camp followers. Tough, heavy shouldered security men forced their way through the tightly packed throng so that the band could exit. Two rows of London Metropolitan officers held the crowd of screaming, frantic young women back outside so that the band and its manager could hustle out of the door and into the waiting limo. They got in, slammed the door and the sleek black limo pulled from the curb.

  Daphne, Miriam and Roxanne, three excited, young miniskirted girls, had been waiting anxiously in the limo for an hour. They had been ecstatic when the creepy looking little man had propositioned them earlier. Well, enticed was more the word. Daphne and Roxanne wore tight, bright colored Day-Glo Dreams t-shirts that came down just below their ample, braless breasts. Miriam was wearing a halter top of black spandex that outlined her large, perfect breasts blatantly and sported her commitment to the band in the form of two shiny Day-Glo Dreams earrings. The taut, youthful bellies of the three girls were exposed from just below their breasts down to their lower bellies and their skirts were more like mere strips of cloth.

  The girls squealed with delight as the objects of their lusts piled into the limos. They all shared a flat in the south of London and worked together at the toothpaste factory, packing crates, testing the firmness of the tops of toothpaste tubes as they came off of the production line, servicing the machine’s needs for tops, empty tubes and cardboard boxes.

  Although young, blond headed Miriam and Daphne were eighteen and Roxanne, who had long, straight black hair, had just turned nineteen, they were not schoolgirls. They had bought their concert tickets months ago and had fantasized together many times about what they would do to the bodies of the pop idols if they ever got the chance. When the manager had approached them earlier, just before the concert started, they had been, at first, incredulous. But when he brought them backstage and let them watch the concert from the wings, their confidence in his promise to have them “meet” the band grew. It was a dream come true and all of them knew exactly what the opportunity to “meet” the band meant. They hugged and whispered to each other during the concert wondering which one of them the sex god known as Max would select. Deke and Slaughter were okay, but each of them relished the opportunity to get her lips around the legendary cock of the band leader.