Klitzman's Isle (The Klitzman Stories Book 1)

by Paul Blades

  The girl was frantic in her fear. The Prince was meanest when he was drunk, and he was clearly well into his cups. She had learned a smattering of English now from the girls in the harem. She knew what a slut was, that he was calling her a whore. She knew the word ‘whip’, too. As the Prince relaxed his grip on her face, she managed to eke out one of the phrases in English that she had been taught.

  “May I pleasure you cock, Master?”

  The Prince was surprised. He had never heard her speak except to beg him, mostly in French, to grant her surcease from his punishments. He laughed.

  “Yes, you can suck my cock, whore. That’s what you’re here for. But first I think we’ll have a little fun.”

  He spun the girl around and untied her hands. “Take off that rag,” he commanded her.

  Fatima caught the gist of his demand and quickly pulled off the golden, lace trimmed teddy that she had worn. When she had cast it on the floor, the Prince dragged her onto the bed. At first she thought that he was acceding to her request. If she could keep him sexually excited, maybe he would neglect to beat her. After a second orgasm, he might pass out. But she had misread her master’s intent.

  The Prince stepped over to a cabinet, one that Fatima knew very well. She knew what was in it because she had seen him draw from it the various instruments of her torture on many occasions. She watched with trepidation as she saw him draw three long lengths of soft, cotton rope from the cabinet and then return to the bed. She watched disconsolately as he tied a rope to each of her ankles. She was sitting on the bed, her legs splayed wide, her hands behind her for support. The Prince pushed her to her back and, grabbing her hands, secured them in front of her with one end of a rope. He drew the other end to the head of the bed and affixed it there, pulling the girl’s arms taut above her head.

  He leaned over her, rubbing his hand over her breasts and belly. He could feel her trembling. She should be frightened, he thought, as he stared into her widened eyes. “What should I whip, my little harlot?” he said. “Should I whip these lovely tits?” His face was close to hers; she could feel his whisky laden breath. His black eyes peered into hers as his hand found her soft mound between her legs. He pinched the twin lips together harshly.

  “Or should it be your precious quim?” He twisted the lips hard, causing Fatima to emit a groan of pain.

  She wished that she had the courage to defy him, to spit in his face. He could whip her until she died then, she wouldn’t care. But she loathed the pain that he inflicted. That they all had inflicted on her. It’s repetition during her training had broken her will to resist it. The fact that she had been forced to endure the unendurable had not hardened her, it had made her more afraid, less tolerant of pain. She hated to be lashed, but she knew that there were more severe forms of torture. And, she wanted to live. She had not given up all hope of the resumption of freedom. Someday, somehow, she would escape. She held on to this as intently as a shipwrecked sailor would hold on to the last bit of wreckage that kept him afloat.

  So rather than spit into this evil man’s face, the French girl retreated into herself. She closed her eyes and turned her head away from her tormentor. He could do what he wanted. She would endure; she would survive.

  The Prince was enraged by his victim’s passivity. He lashed out and slapped her across the breasts, violently and repeatedly. The French girl was startled by the vehemence of his reaction. The iron hands of the Prince insulted her flesh. Stinging pain coursed through her. She began to cry out, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” as her breasts were flung wildly back and forth as a result of the blows.

  ‘Crack! Crack! Crack!’ The repeated blows echoed throughout the room. ‘Crack! Crack! Crack!’ The Prince struck her tender breasts again and again with his open hand.

  “You cunt!” he yelled. “You don’t turn your face from me! You’ll take your punishment and like it, you whore!”

  ‘Crack! Crack! Crack!’

  The suffering girl had tried to twist her body away from the blows, but the Prince had sat himself on her thighs. With her hands tied above her, the poor girl’s breasts were easy targets for the Prince’s wrath.

  Something burst in the French girl. She lost all sense of where she was, of what she was. Her anger welled up in her like it never had before. “Ohhhhhhhh!” she cried out. “You pig, you fucking bastard!” she yelled in French. And then, in quite clear English, she yelled, “Fuck you! Fuck You!”

  The Prince saw red. He slapped her hard in the face, drawing blood from her lip. He slapped her again and again. “What did you say, you fucking cunt!” he yelled. “I’ll teach you to swear at me!”

  He jumped off of the girl and ran to the cabinet by the wall. Grabbing a leather gag, he ran back and jumped back onto the bed. The French girl was horrified at what she had done. She knew that she would suffer tonight as she had never suffered before. She begged him in French, “No, no, please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  The Prince could not see past his rage to observe her remorse for what she had done. He would not have cared if he did. He threw his leg over her and regained his perch atop her thighs.

  “You’re going to be sorry you ever said anything like that to me you cunt’” he growled at her.

  Fatima tried to shrink away from the enraged Prince. She whimpered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over again. She grimaced as he presented the long thick leather plug of the gag to her face. He grabbed her face, pressing hard with his vise-like grip.

  “Open you’re fucking mouth, you worthless slut!” he ordered. His eyes were wild with wrath; his face had turned red with his rage. “Open your fucking mouth!” he screamed.

  Reluctantly, Fatima opened her mouth. Tears were rolling down her face like a stream. His grip on her face was painful. As her lips parted, the Prince jammed the gag into her mouth. The end of the plug struck the back of her mouth painfully. He mashed the gag onto her face.

  “Those are the last words you’re ever going to speak, you cunt!” he told her as he pressed down with all of his weight. “You are going to wear this gag night and day until you die! The only time you’ll have it out will be when I want to shove my dick down your throat!”

  Fatima tried to shake her head, ‘no’, but the Prince’s fierce grip of her face held it still. He pulled her head up by her hair and fastened the straps of the gag behind her head. Satisfied that she was effectively silenced, the Prince swung his legs off of her and came around to the foot of the bed. He grabbed the rope affixed to one ankle and tossed it over the rail of the canopy on one side. He pulled on it harshly and Fatima’s left leg was yanked into the air. The girl watched him with terror as he tied off the end. He then did the same with her right leg.

  Fatima’s legs were splayed wide, exposing the plump hairless mound between them. Her ass was several inches in the air. Her hands were held taut above her. The only movement she could muster was to swing her hips from side to side, as she struggled, wild with fear.

  The Prince drew from his cabinet a long, thin switch made of hickory wood. It narrowed from the handle to its tip, which was perhaps a centimeter wide. He swished it through the air appreciatively. “This will do nicely,” he thought.

  He approached the sorrowful woman. She could see him between her legs, his face taut with cruel determination. He had beaten her many times before. But that had been for his amusement, the joy he felt in inflicting pain on a helpless victim. This time he was motivated by a specific desire to inflict pain as retribution, retribution for daring to protest his callous abuse.

  The Prince paused. The girl’s thighs were pale as cream, soft as silk. He had not beaten her there yet. Not the insides of the thighs. It was almost as if he had been saving it for a night like this. “Are you ready, cunt?” he called to the French girl. She pleaded desperately with her eyes. The Prince reared back his arm.

  ‘Swish. Crack!’ The first blow fell on Fatima’s right inner thigh, about four inches below the joining place of the thigh and th
e hip. A bright red line appeared where the switch had met the girl’s flesh. Fatima convulsed in pain. She bit hard down on the gag between her teeth, suppressing her scream.

  ‘Swish! Crack!’ The Prince, using his left hand had struck the inside of the French girl’s left thigh. Another angry red line appeared. Again the French girl’s body tensed as it absorbed the painful lash. Again she bit down on the gag with all of her might. When the third blow stuck, directly atop her proffered cunt, she could bear no more. She screamed wildly, her hips rocked. Her breasts danced on her chest as she writhed in pain. The sound of her scream was muffled by the leather plug in her mouth, but it could not suppress all of the high pitched wail.

  Rashan was pleased. He had struck gold. He brought the whip down three more times on the girl’s tender sex. Each time the French girl screamed louder and louder. Methodically, he worked his way up one thigh and down the other. Repeatedly the slender whip sliced into the girl’s skin. Fatima emitted a continuous, pitiful wail as she suffered again and again.

  The wrathful nobleman paused to admire his handiwork. Fatima’s thighs and pussy were a latticework of red lines. In places, small drops of blood oozed from her wounds. Fatima’s wailing slowed as the continuous application of the whip had ceased. She looked up, hopeful that the Prince’s bloodlust had been sated. She saw from his eyes that it had not.

  “I think we can move on, cunt,” the Prince spat out at her. “How about those pretty tits? Are you ready for some more? I haven’t even started yet!” he exclaimed.

  He moved to the side of the bed where he had an unobstructed view of his next target. Fatima’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, her body trying to recover the energy she had expended during her paroxysms of pain. The movement of her chest caused her pale white mounds to shiver invitingly. The Prince leaned over the terrified girl. He rested his lash on the bed. “What a pretty pair of tits,” he said tauntingly. “So inviting.” He placed his hands atop them, squeezing them gently.

  Fatima was revolted by his touch, but hoping against hope that she could use the currency of her body to deter this madman, she repressed her reaction. The Prince leaned over and placed his lips on a nipple, sucking on it, enjoying its hardness. He placed his lips, then, on the other, reveling in its tactile surface. He looked up, into Fatima’s desperately hopeful eyes. “Pretty little titties,” he said in a child-like voice. He squeezed them again, harder this time until he saw the girl wince. “I’m going to whip these pretty little titties until they bleed.”

  He rose from the bed. His cock was rampant, his lust enraged. He grabbed the bottle of scotch from the credenza and drank directly from it, hungrily. He wiped his lips with his arm and glared at his captive. Wordlessly, he picked up the hickory reed and positioned himself alongside the girl. She closed her eyes and winced, a fruitless effort to gird herself for the blow.

  ‘Swish! Crack!’ The reed struck across the tops of Fatima’s breasts. She moaned loudly with pain. It was if a terrible beast had ripped its claw across her tender globes. A telltale line of red appeared. As before, the Prince methodically inflicted blow after blow onto his targets. He crossed to the other side of the bed to achieve parity between the injuries to the breasts. Fatima rocked and shook, screaming woefully into her gag. Finally, after the twin, pale mounds had been crisscrossed with over a dozen angry lines of red, the Prince’s ire was partially sated, enough, that is, for his lust to rise to preeminence. Fatima sobbed and sobbed, tears streaming down her face. She cursed herself for being born.

  The Prince threw down the lash and crawled onto the bed. His object was the cruelly distended mouth that had offended him. He tore off the gag and slapped the girl’s face twice. “You’re going to take my cock down your throat, whore. If you so much as nick my cock, I’ll have you flayed alive. Do you know what that means, slut?” he asked her. Fatima stared at him, her brow furled, waiting to hear what could possibly be worse than the merciless beating she had just received.

  The Prince’s voice grew ominous. “They cut the skin off of your flesh, bit by bit, while you watch. They say it’s like having your soul torn apart. My great grandfather used to do that to infidels and traitors and once in a while, to disobedient slave girls.”

  Although she understood few of his words, Fatima had no trouble imagining the Prince making good the terrible threat conveyed by his voice. She knew that there were worse things than being beaten. She had witnessed some of them while a prisoner on Klitzman’s island. She would not gamble. She would suck his cock with all of her considerable skill. He could fuck her any which way he pleased. All she knew was that, for the most part, while he was fucking her, he would not be beating her.

  Placing his knees on either side of Fatima’s head, resting his buttocks on her fiery breasts, he presented his swollen cock to her lips. She parted them readily. Slowly, he plunged inside of her mouth, relishing the hotness inside. Fatima closed her lips around her invader. She licked its tip with her tongue. But it was not the caress of her tongue that the Prince sought. He pressed his cock inexorably deeper and deeper until it breached the entry to her throat.

  The girl was well trained at receiving a man’s rigid tool down her throat. She let it glide past the entrance and deep within. She expected the Prince to begin to pump his cock inside and out, allowing her, on each backwards thrust, to exchange carbon dioxide for oxygen. But the Prince, once he had reached the extreme of penetration, held himself there. It was not long before the girl began to gag and choke. She tugged madly at her bound wrists wanting desperately to push him off of her. Loud, choking sounds emanated from her throat.

  “This is what your mouth is for, you fucking useless cunt!” the Prince yelled. “Will you swear at me again?”

  Frantically, Fatima tried to convey a negative response by a shake of her head.

  “You will take what I give you and like it, right, whore?”

  Again, Fatima tried furtively to convey her acquiescence.

  Seeing that his whore was about to suffocate, the Prince withdrew his rod sufficient for her to regain her breath. He then plunged in again, this time pumping furiously. The French girl gasped for air at each opportunity as the Prince drove himself to his orgasm. His belly slammed against her face again and again as he thrust brutally into her mouth. Finally, she felt him stiffen and heard a long, angry groan. He pumped his hot seed down her throat. She received it gratefully, knowing that her ordeal would soon end. When he had gasped his last, he slowly withdrew his softening tool.

  The girl could see that the Prince had exhausted his forces. He stood up from the bed, practically teetering. “Soon, soon,” she prayed. “Let him pass out soon!”

  He took another long pull from the bottle. When he placed it back on the credenza, it tumbled over, spilling its amber liquid. The Prince either did not notice, or did not care. There was one more thing he had to do. He stumbled over to the cabinet and withdrew a thick, heavy riding crop. He paused between the girl’s splayed and uplifted thighs. “Tomorrow, you’re going to remember this,” he said.

  Without further warning, the Prince slammed the riding crop down on the sole of Fatima’s foot. Ungagged now, the bound girl howled in pain. She had never felt anything like this brutal insult to the muscles of her foot. The crop came down again on her other foot. She howled again, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Please stop! Please stop! Please!”

  Disregarding the girl’s soulful entireties, the Prince slammed he crop again and again on the bottom of her feet. Each time, she jerked her hips and knees and arched her back, unable to endure the pain. She begged him plaintively to stop. The cruel Prince ignored her entreaties, and landed blow after solid blow on the soles of the poor girl’s feet. When he stopped, the Prince, sweating and near to swooning in his drunkenness, crept over to the side of the bed. He placed his lips close to Fatima’s ear. Tears were streaming down her face, her lips cemented into a fierce grimace. “Tomorrow,” he said, whispering, “I’m going to make you stand all day on those feet.
You don’t know what agony is yet, bitch.”

  Fatima spent the night hogtied and gagged at the foot of Rashan’s bed, her feet throbbing and aching with pain. In the morning, when Ngomo came to collect her, the Prince gave specific orders that she was to remain in his room until further orders. He instructed the slave master that, after she was fed and groomed, she was to spend the day standing, affixed to the chain that ran to the ceiling in the middle of the room. He then left to pursue his pleasures elsewhere.

  The day had been a long and agonizing one for the French girl. Her feet were bruised and swollen where she had been beaten the night before by that demon, Rashan. It was exquisite torture to stand on them. She moaned and cried all day. Ngomo gave her some succor from her ordeal by releasing her for short periods and icing down her soles. He knew that he was risking the Prince’s wrath, but he could not allow the girl to suffer so. When he reaffixed Fatima to the chain, her pulled her arms taut over her head so that she could rest some of her weight on her wrists.

  In the late afternoon, two servants came in carrying a large steel cage. Its bottom was lined with padding. They were followed by the Prince. Fatima was hanging lifelessly at the chain. The pain from her feet absorbed her whole being. The Prince grabbed her by the cheeks and pointed her face at the cage. “Your new home, cunt. I hope you enjoy it.”

  He nodded to the servants, who released Fatima and dragged her slouched form over to the cage. The Prince ordered her to get in. Morosely, not caring whether she lived or died, the slave girl complied. She was, as the Prince had promised, still gagged, and had been so all day except when Ngomo came in to feed her and give her liquids to drink.

  From this day on, Fatima never left the Prince’s room. She fucked him listlessly, accepted his insults and violence. She would no longer scream in pain, but merely moaned, a piteous, low guttural moan, when the Prince wantonly beat her.