by Paul Blades
KLITZMAN’S ISLE
A Novel of Bondage and Submission
Paul Blades
Copyright © 2006 Paul Blades
Cover@AlexMax/Canstockphoto.
978-1-937335-12-0ISBN-13
Dark Visions Publications
[email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the publisher.
Other books by Paul Blades:
Klitzman’s Isle
Klitzman’s Empire
Klitzman’s Paradise
Slaver’s Dozen- A Tale of Klitzman’s Isle
Klitzman’s Pawn Parts One and Two
Klitzman’s Predators, Books 1 & 2
The Taking of Cheryl Part One
The Taking of Cheryl Part Two: Slaver’s Bait
Comfort Girl No. 4
Sacrifice to the Emerald God
The Blue Cantina: Anna’s Surrender
The Blue Cantina: Down the Dark Ladder
The Warlord’s Concubine, Books 1, 2, 3 and 4
Dreams and Desires, Books 1 and 2
Becoming Ghaniyah
Carmella Condemned
Carmella’s Fate
Convict’s Captive, Books 1, 2, 3 and 4
Holding on by One Hand
The Maddy Saga, Books I through XI
The Seduction of Morningstar Bridges
Mistress of the Mortal Realm
Three by Blades
CHAPTER ONE
THE FRENCH GIRL
A beautiful, pale skinned, slender young woman is lying unconscious on a round, carpeted dais in the middle of a large, dimly lit room. A light shines directly above her, spotlighting her recumbent form. But for leather bracelets around her ankles and wrists and a steel collar around her throat, she is naked. She has long, shapely legs, delicate round hips. Her hair is long, straight and black. She is slumped over on her side, her legs scissored, the right over the left. A dark patch of hair peeks from between her thighs. The plush lips of her sex can just be seen through the abundant thatch.
Standing in a broad semi-circle around the young girl are three men. The man in the middle is a heavy set, well-muscled black man. He is tall, standing about 6’4”. His hair is close cropped. His face is broad, thick lips, a large flat nose. He is wearing a reddish brown robe of light cotton with dark red piping. It wraps around his fit middle, tied by a yellow cord. The robe descends to just below his knees, which are bare, along with the rest of his legs and feet. The robe has short half sleeves, which flare out.
Standing on either side of him are two similarly outfitted men. The one on the right is Caucasian, perhaps Latino. His hair is brown, and is drawn into a short ponytail. His face sports several days of growth, probably designed to hide the four-inch long scar along his right cheek, as it partially does. He is not as tall as the man in the middle, standing about 5’11”
The man on the left is slender and tall, almost 6”2”. His slightness of build hides a tightly compacted frame. The muscles on his arms are well toned. As he stands, his poise and natural grace are apparent. His hair is blond, cut almost to the scalp. He has no facial hair.
The men look admiringly on the supine form of the girl. Their visages bespeak a firm sense of purpose. A faint odor of burning coals fills the room.
As the girl begins to stir, the black man signals to the man on his right. Nodding, the Latino steps up to the dais. A slender chain descends from the ceiling. He quickly clasps the girl’s wrists to the chain and steps away. The tall, blond man has stepped over to the wall and started a winch that will pull the chain upwards. He stops the machine just as the girl’s hands rise slightly above her body.
A groan emanates from the shapely young prisoner. Her eyes blink open. She is still groggy and takes a few moments to absorb the strange scene. She is unsure whether what she is seeing is real or a terrible dream. Suddenly she realizes that what she is seeing and feeling is not a dream. She is naked, her wrists are chained. Three brooding men are standing over her, watching.
There is a moment when the girl is so surprised at her surroundings that she stares blankly at the men. She moves to join her legs together and cover her breasts with her hands. Recovering from the initial shock, she speaks. She is speaking French. The men don’t speak French but the gist of what she is saying is not lost on them. Certainly she is expressing her fear and shock at her unexpected surroundings. Yesterday, she had been at a cocktail party. She had worn her black, strapless dress and matching high heels. She had been told that it would be an exclusive party. She knew no one there except the young Italian boy who had brought her. She had a drink. She felt dizzy. He led her to a bedroom. She had lain down. And now this.
The black man, obviously in charge, motions the tall man to raise the chain. The tall man restarts the winch, which begins to pull the girl’s arms up over her head. Seeing her hands rising, the girl frantically tries to pull back on the chain. But the chain is strong and the winch that is winding it is sturdy, able to withstand the strongest paroxysms of fear and desperation that a young female can exert.
The rising chain forces the girl, first to her knees and then to her feet. She continues to fight its inexorable rise, but to no avail. She is speaking loudly, panic in her voice. Her eyes dart about the dimly lit room. The poor lighting hides its full contents from her. The spotlight that shines down on her further obscures her view. Dimly, in the background, she can vaguely make out a large, obesely fat man sitting in a brown leather armchair. He is smoking a cigar. His face is hidden.
The thin man rejoins the others when the still struggling girl has been pulled to her full height, her toes barely reaching the floor.
Two of the men step forward. The lithe, young woman tries to shy away from them. As they reach for her ankles she tries to kick at them, to push them away. But the men are practiced and they easily imprison her ankles in their hands. Besides, with her body extended so, her toes just able to scrape along the carpeted surface of the dais, she is unable to obtain any purchase to add force to her flailing legs. The men quickly pull her ankles apart and affix them to chains on the sides of the dais. She is now fully suspended, her body forming an inverted ‘y’. When they are done, the two men step back and observe the now helpless form of the frail, but well shaped, female before them.
The men now can more fully take in her splendorous features. Her face is long and narrow, with a delicate, slightly upturned nose. The lines of her jaw are graceful and her eyes, somewhat wide apart, are a luxurious green. The breasts, while small, stand out firmly from her body, topped by long, dark, thick nipples. Her belly is taut, her hips curvaceous. The muscles of the legs, which strain to fight their confinement, are thin, but well toned. The hairy bush at the center of the girl’s legs does not hide the now wide open sex. Although young, barely 19, the girl has no baby fat around her waist. Someone has made an excellent choice.
The man in the middle, the heavy set black man, now moves forward to the girl, stepping up on the dais. He runs his hand down her naked hip, feeling the soft and supple skin. He stares into her eyes as he fondles her breasts with both hands. The girl has stopped her futile struggle and is silent. This man frightens her. He has the look of a brutal, ruthless man, one who would enjoy hurting her. But he must also have the answer to why she is here, how she got here, what is to become of her. He does, but he says nothing to her.
The Latino steps up and hands the black man a tasseled whip. The girl sees it and, knowing that it is fo
r her, renews her pleas. The words mean nothing to the black man. Although he cannot understand them he knows what is being said because he has heard it many times before in many languages. He rubs the whip tantalizingly along the girl’s breasts, stomach and thighs.
Her words are now understandable since they are almost universal. “No! No! No!” she cries. She sees that she is about to be whipped. She does not know why, but she hopes that her pleas can dissuade this menacing madman from inflicting harm on her. But the man will not be deterred. He stands back, leaving ample room to swing the whip and exert the strength of his thickly muscled arm.
“Whack!” The whip strikes the girl across her stomach. It leaves angry red welts. The girl gasps. Before she has the chance to scream, another blow descends. This one strikes the inside of her right thigh. The strands of the whip reach almost fully around her leg, leaving a semicircular trail. She now has time to react and utters a high pitched squeal, almost a screech. A third blow strikes her breasts, which causes the girl to scream in pain.
The man is insensitive to her wailing complaints as he continues his pummeling of her flesh. He strikes the inner portion of the left thigh, the stomach and breasts again. He is moving around her as he swings the whip. The two other men are standing back, enjoying the spectacle. A blow to the girl’s divide increases the pitch of her complaints dramatically. The man moves to her back and repeats his exertions there. The girl is crying now, her sobs interspersed with wails and screams as each blow falls.
Finally, the whipping is done. Her body is crisscrossed with the evidence of her suffering. The black man hands off the whip to the Latino and nods to the tall blonde man. He quietly steps over to the shadows and returns with a rod of iron. He holds it with heavy gloves. Its tip is a fiery red. It is a branding iron. The Latino returns and releases the ankles of the still sobbing girl. She does not see the branding iron behind her and has no idea what new cruelty is in store. She expects to be raped, and she will be shortly. But she cannot conceive of being branded. She does not know that she has become property. And property must be marked.
The Latino approaches the girl and presses his body against hers. His chest mashes her small breasts against her body. She can feel his stiff member beneath his robe, smell the man’s sweat. But this is not yet part of the sexual assault that she is soon to experience. This is something else.
Locking his legs around the girl, the Latino holds her tight. She is immobilized; her ass juts out as the Latino presses his loins against hers. The tall man acts immediately as he sees the young woman secure and perfectly posed. With a sure hand, he pushes the red end of the rod against the girl’s skin, near the top of the right buttock, towards the side near the hip. The girl stiffens and screams at the unanticipated, excruciating pain. The brand is held there for three seconds and then removed. It has left a deep gouge in the girl’s flesh. She has fainted.
The black man takes a small dollop of ointment, tinged in red. He rubs it across the fiery wound. The ointment will disinfect and promote the healing of the blistered flesh. The dye will seep into the raw skin and color it. He steps back. The girl is limp in her chains, muttering some prayer or plea, lowly. The Latino joins the others behind her. As they pull off their robes, in preparation for this female’s first sexual use as a slave, they pause to admire the tall man’s handiwork. There, burned permanently and indelibly into the girl’s flesh is a bright red, three inch high, cursive “k”.
CHAPTER TWO
WE MEET HARRY
Let me introduce myself. My name is Harry Wiggins. I am a man of various talents, most of them illegal. I started out my adult life as a petty thief, car burglaries and the like, all free lance stuff. It wasn’t long before I had graduated to second storey jobs and a few small holdups. After a short spell at Vacaville State Penitentiary, I was “adopted” by an operator called Tony Bianco. He had a little thing going in Atlantic City: gambling, a bit of prostitution, loan sharking and some of the other cottage industries of organized crime.
So I worked for Tony for a few years. The pay was good and the side benefits were terrific. I had a free pass at his local whorehouse and I got some trim there just about every day. And there were the showgirls. Well, they didn’t work unless Tony said so. Usually he took the best of them, but even the girls in the second row were dishes. Being nice to me and the other boys was a precondition to working.
From time to time Tony would send a girl up to our clubhouse at the north end of town for a little weekend party. What they didn’t know was that they would be the featured attraction at a gangbang. We saw lots of those girls later at the whorehouse. Sending them to us was Tony’s way of breaking them in.
Every good thing has to come to an end. I got nabbed after doing this guy, an ex-fighter with soup for brains named Jimmy Tiger, who had screwed up a fix on a fight. He was supposed to get the local fighter to take a dive. He didn’t and Tony sent me looking for him. Right after I put a bullet between his eyes, the Feds came storming in. How was I to know the guy was wired? Too bad the Feds weren’t a little bit quicker. They would have saved me and Jimmy a lot of trouble.
Seven months later, Tony, me, and a few of the boys, were all standing before a Federal judge being sentenced on a racketeering beef. Tony got 25 years, the other boys got 10 years apiece. Because of the homicide, I got life.
Life in the Federal system meant life. I was not a happy camper. Tony told me he’d take care of me, but that lasted about fifteen minutes, since he was sent to a medium facility in Oklahoma and I was sent to Atlanta, a max. Boy, had I graduated.
I had done about thirty months of my life bid when a bull told me I had a visitor. I was working in the laundry and was very happy to escape the steaming heat for a while. As he led me from the laundry, I realized that we’re not heading for the regular visiting rooms, but to an office in the Administration wing. I shuffled down the hall, a chain link belt around my wrists and shackles on my feet. When we reached the door to a small conference room, the guard opened the door and let me in.
There were two men in the room, both dressed in grey, shiny suits. The one was tall, with short blond hair, a heavy build, about 35 years old. The other was medium height and had scruffy brown hair. He was slender, his face was kind of pushed together, his nose sharp and pointy. He was a little older, pushing 45. They were both obviously cops. “Sit down, Harry,” the tall one said. He motioned to the guard. “You can take the cuffs off, we can handle him.”
The guard eyed the plainclothes dick sullenly. He didn’t like being ordered around by pointy-toed Washington types. But he did what the guy said and left the room.
A pack of cigarettes and my old Zippo lighter were tossed on the table. “Have a smoke, Harry.” The tall guy said. He seemed to be the spokesperson.
It was kind of a kick to see my old lighter again. I had lost it when I got arrested. I tooled up a smoke and fingered the lighter gently. My former life. These guys were smart. This was a good way to start off, getting me to think about the outside. Whatever they wanted, I figured that it might mean a ticket out of here.
“Thanks,” I said nonchalantly.
“Harry, I’m Agent Bederson and this is Agent Mulattieri. We’ve come all the way from Washington to see you.”
“I’m real honored,” I said.
“Yeah, I suppose you would be, Harry. After all, you’re doing a life stretch and haven’t had a single visitor for almost three years. I guess Tony hasn’t come through for you, has he?”
“Well, he’s busy,” I retorted. I took a deep drag off of the smoke. I was hoping they’d let me keep the pack.
“You might say so.” The big guy walked around the table and put his foot on the side rung of my chair. His right hand was in his pants pocket and his other hand was on the table. He was almost leaning over me. “Did you know that he’s at the minimum in Jarvis, Texas? Nah, you probably didn’t. Last I heard he was even getting laid on Sundays. Seems he bought himself a hooker and had her marry him so
that he could get conjugal visits. They say she’s quite a number.”
“That’s good for Tony,” I said. “He was always a lucky guy.” My cigarette was almost finished and I looked around for someplace to put it out. I had been flicking the ashes into my hand. Last thing I wanted was some bull getting on my case for dirtying up his conference room.
The little guy pulled an old Sucrets tin out of his pocket and dropped it in front of me. I popped it open with one hand, tossed in the ashes and stubbed out the butt.
“You know,” I said, “I’m really happy to get the news about Tony, but something tells me that that’s not what you came here to talk to me about.”
“Ah, Harry, they were right about you. You’re smart. Real smart. And that was a neat shot when you put the Tiger away, right between the eyes. Like you’d been doing it all of your life.”
“Yeah,” was all I replied.
“Well Harry it just so happens that agent Mulattieri and I have come to make your day. We’re going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” Bederson chuckled at his Godfather reference, all too appropriate in my case.
“You see,” he continued, “we need a guy like you. We need a guy with a certain cachet. A tough guy with some brains. And that’s you Harry.” Bederson stepped away from my chair and took a seat across from me.
“You ever hear of a guy named Klitzman, Harry?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I answered.
“Well let me say that if there were such a thing as a criminal mastermind, this guy Klitzman is it. He runs a criminal enterprise that is international in scope. He trades in just about every form of contraband you can think of and he’s got a hold on some very highly placed people.” Mulattieri had taken a seat at the table and was scrutinizing me intently.
