by Paul Blades
The Queen resumed her manipulation of the slave girl’s hot sex. The girl trembled, breathing hard now,
“Watch her face, watch her face,” the Queen excitedly told her daughter. “Watch her while she comes!”
The Princess watched, mesmerized as little cries eked out of the French girl’s mouth, stifled not fully by the ball of leather within. Louder and louder the cries came as the girl came closer and closer to release. Finally, with a loud moan, the girl’s thighs and body began to shake. Her chest heaved, shaking her breasts. “Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!” she called out as the pulsing of her pussy subsumed her. Her sex dripped its pungent discharge over the Queens frantically rubbing hand. The Queen kept rubbing, past the panting girl’s climax.
“Again, little slave girl,” the Queen called to her, excitement in her voice. “Let it go! Come on! Again! Again!”
The French girl’s eyes rolled back as she felt her pussy tremble and contract, pulsing against the hand that tormented her. Alliyah’s eyes were wide with astonishment as she watched the grimace of passion on her face. Louder now, deep from within her throat, the enflamed girl moaned and groaned. “Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! Uhhhhhhhh!” she cried out.
Satisfied, the Queen ceased her manipulations. The French girl’s body sagged, causing her to lean against the Queen’s shoulder. Slowly, her cries subsided.
“Oh, mother,” the Princess whispered. “I never knew…”
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” the Queen replied. “But now you do. That little flower between your legs can bring you much pleasure, my darling, and it takes a woman’s touch to really bring it out. Men have no idea.”
“What do you mean, mother?” the Princess asked, shocked by her mother’s revelation.
“When she’s been broken in, after the men have had their way with her, I’ll bring her to you one night. She’ll caress you like I just did to her, and she’ll put her lips to your little flower and then you’ll know what it means to be a woman.”
“Oh, Mother, I, I…”
“Don’t worry, my sweet. You’re old enough now. You’re to be married soon. You should know what pleasure your body can bring you before you spread your legs on the marriage bed.”
The slave girl had recovered now from her orgasms. The Queen pulled her to her feet. The girl was dazed, overcome. She looked up at the stern, hard face of the Queen. She was grateful for the pleasure, but wary, fearful of what might come next.
“Ring for the guards,” the Queen instructed the Princess. “We’ve got to get her cleaned up and ready for the party.”
CHAPTER TEN
RUKIMO
All of the pathways of the resort were color-coded and the one to Rukimo’s lair, as I learned to call it, was lined with broad black stripes laid horizontally across the concrete walkway. This denoted a security area, out of bounds to all but those with the highest clearance. The pathway snaked away from the resort area and led to a small bricked building. The entrance was guarded by two black robed security men, their robes as black as their skin. They wore black leather security belts from which hung long, tapered batons. There was a small case attached which contained a pair of handcuffs. The baton served as an instrument of discipline, as a blow from one would cause immediate, sharp pain. They also carried a small electric charge, with enough of a jolt to temporarily stun the most recalcitrant subject.
It did not happen often, but many of the men who habituated Klitzman’s resort were tough, scabrous fellows. The resort was principally a paid-in club for men of wealth and power. Membership cost $500,000 a year, and visits were calculated at the rate of $10,000 per day. But it also served as a kind of R and R camp for many of Klitzman’s felonious servants. These men ranged from the cold blooded killers so useful in the nether world of international crime, to the dealers, thieves and general racketeers that kept the flow of money and women flowing to and from this island. Sometimes these men had disputes. And sometimes the fiercely visaged security men had to step in and prevent violence. Any guest asked to leave Klitzman’s resort due to misbehavior left it by way of a weighted body bag tossed off the end of a cabin cruiser.
The guards examined Anthony’s pass and allowed us entrance. The outside door to the building led to a solitary room with an elevator. Since there was no second floor to the building, it only led one way: down.
The elevator rumbled to a halt and the shiny metal door slid open. We exited into a brightly lit corridor. The floor was covered with a thick red carpet and the cinderblock walls were painted white. A guard sat behind a large desk on which sat a series of television screens linked to security cameras mounted throughout the resort. Various scenes flickered on each of the screens, the combination of which constituted a sweep of the public areas of the resort.
The guard let us pass and we stopped by the first door on the left. Anthony pressed an intercom and the door buzzed open.
The room that we entered was a stark contrast to the institution-like ambiance of the hallway we had just left. It was a large, spacious room, wood paneled, a thick, oriental rug underfoot. A large, heavy desk dominated the room, dark oak, with ornate clubbed feet. Behind it sat a huge mass of a man, as black as coal, his neck thick and muscled. He was grinning widely as we entered.
“Harry Wiggins,” he said in a deep, melodious voice, “I’m happy to make your acquaintance.”
He rose from a plush leather chair and stepped around the desk. He wore a reddish brown robe like mine and Anthony’s, but with bright red piping on its seams. He extended a meaty paw and fastened it on my hand with a vise-like grip. He stood at least a foot taller than me and his bulk blocked out all that was behind him.
“My pleasure, I’m sure,” I responded, trying not to wince at the pressure on my hand.
“We have heard so much about you, Harry. I believe that you will fit in well around here.”
“I hope so,” I responded. I felt like I was at a Shriner’s convention and I had just met the Grand Poobah.
“I’ve been waiting anxiously to meet you,” Rukimo continued. “Let me order you some tea and we can sit and chat for a while.”
The grizzly bear sized man pressed an intercom on his desk and spat out a command in what I took to be native African. A short noise of affirmation sounded back. Rukimo smiled and pointed to two large leather couches set in the corner of the room. In front of them was a large, square teak coffee table.
“Sit, Harry. We have much to discuss.”
Anthony nodded at Rukimo and left the room. I was wary to be alone with the boss. Although no one had contacted me, and God knew if anyone ever would, I was still here under false pretenses. I had agreed to stool on Klitzman. If Rukimo had any inkling that I was bent, I would disappear forever in about three seconds flat.
As I sat on the couch, I took the opportunity to take a closer look around Rukimo’s private domain. Lining the wall opposite the couch where I sat was a series of six small cells, recessed into the wall. They were about three feet high and had heavy steel bars. Two of them were inhabited by naked, leather helmeted women. Their arms were fastened to leather belts around their waists. They were both on their knees, bent over, their bodies filling the small capacity of the cells.
In the corner of the room, arms locked behind her and dangling from a chain, was a frail looking, young Asian girl. She wore a leather gag in her mouth, but, unlike the women in the cages, her eyes were uncovered. She was standing on her toes, forced into that posture by the chain that pulled her arms up behind her. She had a forlorn, pained expression on her face. Her long, shiny black hair reached almost down to her waist, and framed her face as she held her head up to see what new demon had entered her life. I heard a muffled sob as she lowered her gaze to the floor, causing her hair to draw about her face like a shroud. I could see the evidence of a recent lashing on her inviting flesh, bright red stripes that crisscrossed her thighs.
“So, Harry,” Rukimo began, “how was the trip?”
“Well, aside from the fine accomm
odations, it wasn’t too bad.”
“Oh,” Rukimo laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, “you met Morianos. Not the most gracious of hosts. But he does a good day’s work. These fine specimens, for example.”
Rukimo motioned towards the two bound and caged women.
“You mean these are the broads that came on the plane with me?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” Rukimo answered. “We’re going to have a little party with them shortly. I want to know more of why they were skulking around our little way station.”
“Morianos said they were reporters.”
“Perhaps,” Rukimo replied. “On the other hand, being a reporter, or seeming to be one, is a good cover for other things. Our facility in the Brazilian jungle is supposed to be secret. If these two could find it, then it may be time to shut it down.”
Rukimo’s speculation was interrupted by the entry of a black robed guard carrying a small tray. On it was a small teapot and two cups. He set them down before us wordlessly and then left.
Rukimo poured out two cups of the steaming tea. It was a dark, heavy blend, aromatic. It went down well.
“I’m sure you have questions, Harry,” Rukimo continued. “Do you know why we selected you?”
“I supposed it had something to do with my skills with a .45,” I answered.
“Ha, ha,” Rukimo chuckled. “Yes, Harry. You proved your ruthlessness to us in the prison, but we knew of your reputation. Mr. Bianco spoke very highly of you.”
So Tony had come through after all. “Maybe I could forget all about my deal with the Feds,” I thought to myself.
“I don’t suppose you have any jobs lined up for me yet, Mr. Rukimo,” I said. Politeness was second nature in a world where people held the power of life or death over you.
“Just call me Rukimo, Harry. We don’t stand on ceremony here. And no, we don’t have anything lined up for you. For a while, you can relax and enjoy the amenities of our club. You’ve got a lot of time to make up for. Mr. Klitzman and I have a couple of ideas of where you can fit in to our operations, but we haven’t come up with anything definite yet.” Rukimo paused, taking a long sip of his tea.
It was weird to be sitting there, maybe twenty feet below ground, chit chatting like two genteel businessmen, sipping our tea, while three bound and naked women awaited our pleasure. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them while Rukimo spoke. My eyes darted over to the delicious flesh so often that Rukimo must have thought I had developed a tic. I was still lustful from the entertainment I had witnessed.
Rukimo continued his outline of my new role. “While you’re here, Harry, you’ll act as a supervisor. We want you to get used to dealing with our lifestyle. And I’ll be frank, Harry, we want to know if you’ve got what it takes to deal with women as slaves. Once you go on the outside, you may get involved with some of our flesh peddling ventures and we can’t afford to make any accommodation to the squeamish.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Rukimo,” I interjected. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’m grateful for being sprung, and I know how to show gratitude.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, Harry. Now, if you’ve finished your tea, you can come along and observe while we introduce these two slaves to their new lives.”
Rukimo pressed an intercom button on a small table next to the couch and barked out a command. A few moments later, two black robed guards entered the room. Rukimo and I rose as the guards unlocked the cages. The two women were dragged out and pulled to their feet. Two other guards entered the room pushing what looked like hand trucks. I could hear muffled squeals from the women as they were manhandled by the guards. Their bodies sagged as their knees, cramped for who knew how long, failed to support them. The two women were quickly mounted on the hand trucks, their bodies belted in. A belt that ran under their arms and just above their breasts held them in a standing position. Rukimo and I followed as the women were wheeled from the room.
We went down the red carpeted hallway to a locked steel door. The door was opened after the pressing of a buzzer, by a guard on the other side. The door led to another long hallway. Cells lined the hallway, small ten by ten cells. Most of them were occupied by naked, leather helmeted women, either shackled to a cot or dangling from a chain affixed to the ceiling. I counted ten cells on each side.
“These are all slaves in training,” Rukimo explained as we walked down the hall. “This is a rest period. The ones standing are being punished. Try standing stretched out on your toes for a couple of hours. It’s a most effective torture.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. From what I could see, all of the women were delightful in form. Their faces were obscured by the hoods that they wore, but their other charms were plain to see.
“The hoods not only block out all light,” Rukimo continued as we proceeded down the hall, “but they block out all sound too. There are small battery powered speakers near the ears that transmit a stream of static. This way, the subjects are kept in total isolation when not actively training. It helps demonstrate their total helplessness and vulnerability. And the sensory deprivation makes them more malleable.”
It wasn’t hard to imagine what fear and desperation could be inculcated in a young helpless victim by cutting them off from almost all sensation. I was beginning to understand why Rukimo wanted to be assured that his employees harbored no sentimentality.
We reached the end of the hallway and entered a large dimly lit room. It had a dais in the middle, elevated from the floor be a couple of feet. The hand trucks were brought vertical and the women presented for view. I wondered how long these two had been held in isolation. I guessed that it was, for the most part, ever since they had arrived. Their minds had to be rife with confusion and fear.
Rukimo paused before the two displayed women. He turned to me. “Well, Harry, who should we start with?”
It was hard to tell which one was which. The hoods deprived the women of all personality. From what I remembered, the one who had hung by her wrists all night when I was at Morianos’ had been a little taller, more developed. But the women were slumped in their confinements so that was not much help. But it really didn’t matter which one I picked. I knew that this was my first test from Rukimo. I was being asked which of the two women would be the first to be subjected to a tortuous interrogation. If I flinched at choosing, Rukimo would begin to have doubts as to my suitability for his uses. I pointed to the one at my left.
Rukimo nodded to the guards and the woman who I had selected was loosened from her confinements and dragged up to the dais. Her hands were released from the belt and attached to a chain that hung from the ceiling. The chain was shortened by the operation of a winch and shortly the woman was dangling on her toes.
There were several easy chairs spread across the room and two were brought over to the front of the dais. Rukimo sat in one and motioned me to sit in the other. The second woman was released from her hand truck and brought over to Rukimo. I could see that she was trembling. After such a long period of time confined and inactive, the suddenness of her transport from Rukimo’s office to here had to be a disconcerting experience. The woman’s breasts swayed gently as she was presented to Rukimo. Long brown hair descended from the leather helmet. Her hands strained at the belt that circled her waist. Sweat glistened on her chest, the product of her fear. She was right to be afraid.
Rukimo pulled the woman onto his lap. Her pale flesh was a stark contrast to his black skin. His right hand ran over her breasts and then between her legs. She still wore her brown bush. One of the guards unlocked the hood and pulled it from her head. It was the reporter, the one Morianos had fucked and abused. Her hair was matted from its confinement in the leather hood. Her face was flush, her eyes wild with terror. The gag was still in her mouth. She looked up at her friend, hooded, naked and suspended by her arms. She took in the faces of the large black guards in the room, remorseless, frightening faces. They all seemed to be anticipating the next developments with relish. When the reporter turned her h
ead to see on whose lap she sat, she grimaced. Rukimo was smiling at her, a determined, cruel smile.
“Welcome to Africa,” he intoned. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
The girl’s eyes began to tear. She knew from Rukimo’s smiling face and his solid grip on her body that something terrible was going to happen to her very soon.
“I believe that you’ve met my friend Harry,” Rukimo teased. His left arm was around her waist, holding her still on his lap. The girl looked at me briefly. Her eyes were glistening with tears, her face ashen. I could see the goose bumps on her tender, soft skin. Her nipples were stiff. The beauteous orbs on her chest rocked gently as she struggled to calm her panicked breath.
The girl’s attention was drawn back to her captor as Rukimo’s right hand stroked the inside of her thighs. “You and I are going to have a little chat, darling. But first, we have a little entertainment. Your friend is going to do a little dance for us.”
Rukimo motioned to one of the guards who stepped up on the dais. He held a long, leather encased cane. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was going to do with it.
The girl on Rukimo’s lap began to whine and struggle. Rukimo had buried his hand between her thighs and he must have squeezed her pussy lips hard because she stiffened and moaned. Rukimo spoke to her softly.
“My dear, you mustn’t squirm. It’s very distracting. Besides, I want you to enjoy the show.”
Rukimo nodded to the guard holding the cane. The heavyset, well muscled guard reared his arm back and struck the dangling woman across her back. There was a loud ‘crack!’ and a muffled moan escaped from the woman’s gag. Her whole body cringed, as the pain from the unexpected blow reverberated through her. Another and another blow fell across her back. Each kiss of the cane on the poor woman’s body permeated the otherwise silent room with the unmistakable sound of leather striking flesh.
