by Paul Blades
THE KLITZMAN STORIES
VOL. VII
KLITZMAN’S PREDATORS
BOOK ONE
By
PAUL BLADES
Copyright 2011@Paul Blades
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
PART ONE: PALIBA
CHAPTER ONE
A NECESSARY ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT
You know me. It’s Harry, Harry Wiggins. For those who don’t, well, suffice it to say that I’m 38, about 6’½”, broad shouldered and have a face that used to scare my mother. I’m a fugitive from a life sentence at the Federal Penitentiary in Atlanta. I’m an undercover agent for some secret US governmental organization that I don’t even know the name of. I’m a slaver, an enforcer, a saloon keeper, Mrs. Wiggins’ not so favorite son and, when all is said and done, really a nice guy at heart. See, that was easy.
In my last missive, I described how my employer, who goes by the name of Klitzman, may he rot some day in the deepest regions of hell, sent me on a mission to the remotest part of eastern Pakistan to bring back a priceless, jade statuette. Klitzman is a 350 pound, evil glutton who runs this bizzaro island resort for the wicked and depraved off the coast of West Africa. He’s got his hand in just about every illicit pie you can think of around the globe. My ticket out of prison was a promise to go undercover to take him down.
If I had known the amount of depravity it would require me to witness and take part in, well, I probably would have done the same thing as I did. I mean, where else can you get your cock sucked four or five times every day by the most beautiful, subservient, well practiced female mouths you can think of? Not to mention the great meals, the, mostly balmy weather and the company of the world’s richest and most depraved men in the world. We even have a nine hole golf course. And except for the depraved men part, you can’t get any of those things in prison.
It had been some weeks since I had returned from the Hindu Kush. It had not taken long for me to get back into the swing of things. I had left not knowing if I would ever see my personal slave girl, Carol again. She had been taken away when I committed the faux pas of assaulting an honored guest. Based on my success, she was gifted back to me not too worse for wear. The problem was I had inadvertently obtained ownership of two more, both of whom I had promised to free and who I never intended to be brought back to Klitzman’s Isle with me. Annie, a delectable, diminutive, blond American had been kidnapped while on vacation in Nepal and was serving as a whore in a Chinese village deep in the Hindu Kush. Pritha was of Indian extraction and I had purchased her way out of slavery while on our trek to get the dingus. Both were now my personal property.
Pritha had accepted her new fate with equanimity; her conditions of embondment had been quite severe before I liberated her. Being on Klitzman’s Isle was actually a step up for her. But little Annie was pissed as hell. Even her training in Rukimo’s dungeon didn’t knock the rebellion out of her, at least as it pertained to me. I had her serving in the jazz club that I managed on the island. Her principal duties were as a waitress, but not her primary one. Like the other waitresses, who served naked, she was subject to the use of the patrons as the whim struck them. She had had no problem with that, or, at least had resigned herself to it. But when it came to taking orders from me or submitting to my pleasures, she was as ornery as a rattlesnake.
Well, I couldn’t let that go on. I had my reputation to maintain amongst Klitzman’s staff, for one thing. If they felt I was letting a slave girl get the better of me, my stock would go way down. And I had a bevy of girls to manage, the lounge girls, ones who as a result of their especial beauty and poise were allowed to dress up and pretend they were guests at my club, as well as the other waitresses.
One night, about two weeks after she had emerged from her training, everything came to a head. One of the attractions of the club was a stage where two women were continuously engaged in Sapphic pleasures with one another. It amused the guests and drove their libidos, not that they needed much driving. The girls worked in twenty minute shifts and then went back to waitressing. They would be replaced by two more on a rotating basis.
One of the girls who was due to take the next shift was taken downstairs to the private rooms by a guest. I told Annie to replace her. She had had a shift a little while before. When I gave her the order, her eyes lit up with fire and she told me, “No way! I was just up there an hour ago!”
I was dumbfounded. A couple of the other girls heard her outburst. I had to do something.
It was one of my cardinal rules not to discipline a slave girl when angry. So I held my temper. I took hold of her wrists and clipped her slave bracelets together. I had the bartender give me a slave gag and I ordered her to open her mouth. She must have realized that she had pushed me too far and she started to apologize. Tears were forming in her eyes. It was way too late for tears. I ordered her to open her mouth and I slid the mouth filling gag home, buckling it behind her head. I then dragged her downstairs and fastened her to a hook in my office. She was sobbing by then, knowing that a cruel punishment awaited her.
I left her there until the club closed, about 3 a.m. Normally, all the working girls, those who had not been taken back to his room by a guest, would line up and be chained in a coffle to return to their abodes. The bartender and I gagged and bound their hands behind them. I told the bartender to bring them outside and have them wait for me there.
When I came for Annie, she began to plead and beg from behind her gag for mercy. I ignored her entreaties. Taking a long, thin whip from the wall, I dragged her sobbing form back upstairs and took her outside. Along the way, I grabbed a length of rope.
When we got outside, all the bound and gagged slave girls were waiting. I took the rope and, after attaching it to Annie’s bound hands, fastened it to the sign that overhung the door to the lounge. Annie was only about 5’4” and I was able to draw her up until she was on her toes.
I told all the other slave girls to kneel and, when they were all settled, turned my attention to Annie.
She had a delectable body, round hips, beautiful, full breasts. Her blond hair hung down below her shoulders. Her body was glistening with sweat from her fear. She looked at me with eyes agape. They were starry blue and, in her state, piteous to behold. I almost felt guilty about what I had to do. But I knew that it was ultimately in her best interests and in the best interests of all the girls who worked for me. Whatever punishment I was about to inflict would be mild compared to what another supervisor or one of the tall, brawny African security guards would mete out if she or any of the other girls had committed a similar offense in their presence.
I had gotten a reputation as a softie when it came to the slave girls. I rarely beat one for pleasure and I tried to assuage their unfortunate circumstances by acts of kindness when I could. They had to understand, however, that I was a master, after all, like all of the others and was due instant, unquestioning obedience.
Annie began to moan with unhappiness as I swished the instrument of punishment through the air a few times for dramatic effect. It was long and thin and would produce a fiery wound. I turned to the kneeling women. “This is what happens to a slave who is disobedient or who questions an order,” I said.
I turned back to my victim. She pulled fruitlessly at her bound hands and was dancing back and forth frantically on the toes of her three inch high, bright red high heels. I heard her moan, “…eeeeeeeeease!” through her
gagged lips. And then I let her have it.
The first blow struck her across her plump, rear mounds. It made a sharp slapping noise as it landed. Annie’s body went rigid and she emitted an agonized scream. I struck her again cross the back of her thighs. “Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” she screamed. Her gag could not suppress her frantic ejaculations.
The way I had affixed her to the overhead sign there was plenty of room for me to walk around her. She tried to turn her back to me, but the play on her hands only allowed her to turn so far. I laid a blow across her breasts. A bright line of red appeared. “Aiieeeeeeeeeeeee!” she screamed again.
Tears were flowing like a river down her face. I just kept walking around her and striking her flesh as it became available to me. I delivered a blow across her taut, tender belly, across the front of her thighs, her back and then her breasts again, her rear. She screamed and danced and pulled frantically at her bound wrists.
From time to time I looked back at the other slave girls. The gags they wore had a front piece that covered their faces from their chins to just under their noses, so I could not see their frowns of dismay. But I could see their horror in their eyes. They had never seen me deliver pain like this before. Usually, when I had the need to discipline a girl, I took her down to the basement of the club and whipped her there where she could receive her due in privacy. I very rarely marked them and gave them just enough to make my point. There was rarely a need for a repeat lesson. This was a beating of a wholly different nature.
I stopped after about fifteen or so blows. Annie’s body was criss-crossed by bright red lines. She was moaning and crying uncontrollably. I was not done with her though.
I told my bartender, Pete, to go back in the club and bring me back one of the two inch round canes. When Annie heard me give my order, a whole new round of sobs and pleas emerged from her stifled mouth.
“…eeeease, ah-er! …eeeease, ah-er! …ooooooo!” she cried out. But no ‘please, master’ was going to get her out of this.
Pete brought me back the cane and I gave him the whip to hold. While the whip produced a terrible burning sensation when it struck, the cane was a whole different animal. It dug deep down into muscle and flesh when it landed. It caused a kind of body wracking, sickening pain. I rarely used it. But tonight was an exception.
Annie’s swaying, beauteous form was highlighted by the spotlight from the sign. A circle of light was cast down around her, like she was a star upon a stage. I heard one of the other slave girls sobbing quietly behind me. Annie moaned, “ooooooooooohhhhh!” as she looked back at me. “…eeeeeeease,” she mumbled plaintively.
I struck. When the cane struck her right thigh, she collapsed. It made a dull, thumping sound when it landed. She uttered a long, low moan of pain. I quickly struck her other thigh. And then her rump. And then her belly. And then the front of her thighs. I reserved the worst blow for last. I reared my hand back and landed one right across her heavy, red laced breasts. She gave out a deep groan and her body collapsed.
I let her hang there for a few minutes. She swayed and moaned, tears dripping to the sidewalk under her feet. I wanted the other girls to get a good look at her. Although the rule of silence was in force at all times for slave girls, word did get around among them somehow. I knew that the ones present would get word out to the others. I wanted them all to know that Harry was not to be trifled with.
When I untied Annie’s dainty hands from the sign, she collapsed to the ground. I gave her a moment and then, prodding her with the cane, ordered her to her knees. She looked up at me, misery on her face. But she did what she was told. I loosened her hands and then fastened them behind her. I removed her gag. She was still sobbing and the sounds of her dismay now became fully audible.
All of the males at the resort wore a standardized robe of various colors. Supervisors like me wore a reddish brown robe, guests, blue. The native security guards wore black ones. I tapped Annie on the side of her face with the cane and opened my robe. My cock was as hard as a steel pole. It was what whipping a slave girl normally did to me. Annie’s head was bowed down. Her sobs were subsiding.
“Kneel up and take my cock in your mouth, slave!” I ordered her in the sternest voice I could manage. My voice had normally a grating quality to it and I often communicated more harshness in my commands to the slave girls than I intended. This must have sounded to the poor girl like the word of God.
She snapped her head up and crawled the few feet that separated us. She knelt up and took my prick between her lips. The moist heat of her mouth sent a tremor of pleasure through my body. She began to work it in earnest, massaging my glans with her tongue, driving her lips down its length and back again. She was blubbering with dismay but managed to not let it interfere with her obligation.
I looked at the other slave girls. Their eyes were fixated on the tableau before them. The significance of the demanded act of subservience was not lost on them. Despite the agony I had inflicted on her, she was still obligated to give me pleasure. My domination of her was complete. I could do with her as I wished. Or any of them.
Annie continued at her task with relish. She daren’t disappoint me after the beating I just gave her. When I felt my blood begin to rise, I took hold of the hair on the back of her head and took charge. I pulled and pushed her head rapidly on my cock, piercing her throat on each downward stroke. She let out a series of agonized ‘ga’s’ each time my cock sunk home. I felt my need come upon me. When I felt my cock begin to pulse and dance, I held her head down fast on my loins. She gurgled and moaned while I pumped my spume directly into her belly.
I made sure that I was fully finished before I released her. She drew in a loud gasp of desperately needed air and fell to the ground sobbing. I fastened my robe and turned to the other slaves. “Line up!” I commanded them.
Frantically, all the girls leapt to their feet and assembled into two lines, one for the lounge girls and one for the waitresses. The lounge girls had their own dormitory. The waitresses would go to the common one. When they were all lined up, Pete and I connected their collars with chains so that they formed two coffles. I hung around the neck of the lead girls a tag giving their destination and the amount of time they would have to get there. I made it especially short so that they would have to run, not an easy thing to do on high heels.
Unhappy, frightened eyes looked out at me. “Go!” I yelled loudly. They took off, the lounge girls in one direction, the waitresses in another. I watched them scurry away, their steps carefully timed with each others’, their bright red shoes clip clopping on the macadam pathway, almost machine like. They all knew that they would be whipped if they did not make it back to their dormitories within the time allotted.
I looked down at the sobbing, blond haired slave girl. “Up!” I told her.
She rose to her feet unsteadily. Pete dashed into the bar and returned with a leash. I could see from his face that he was impressed with my demonstration.
I hooked the leash to Annie’s collar and gave it a tug. I was taking her back to my cottage. Her night was not yet over.
CHAPTER TWO
DOWN PALIBA WAY
After her lesson in deportment, Annie’s attitude vastly improved. I still detected an itsy bitsy resentment from her on occasion as she stared up at me from her knees, my cock in her mouth. I could live with it. To a large extent, she was entitled.
I was able to spend about six weeks of relative bliss after my return before I was summoned to Klitzman’s mansion and provided with new instructions. The big fat guy was, as usual, sitting on his massive couch in his reception room, feasting from a tray of goodies with one hand while the other buried itself in a slave girl’s conch.
If it had been up to me, I would have kept things as they were. I had let Pritha be Carol’s new companion and the two of them conspired daily on how to delight my senses. I loved to watch them together, the dark brown skin of Pritha’s contrasted with Carol’s pale covering. From time to time I would sadden as I r
emembered the unfortunate Mary who had been taken from me and sold to a vicious Cambodian colonel hip deep in the heroin trade. He had once treated her brutally and vowed to come back and buy her. She was only on loan to me. Little did I know that I was merely her caretaker until the Cambodian guy took possession of her. I was sure that she was experiencing hell at his hands. I hadn’t forgotten about it and, in fact, had vowed to find some way to free her.
But it was not to be. I had to earn my bones again and again with this guy. In his strangely accented voice, Klitzman told me that he wanted me to learn the inside part of the slaving business. He ordered me to fly to this Caribbean island where I would hook up with one of Klitzman’s main guys. From there, I would return to the States and bone up on my new trade.
When I returned to my cottage to break the bad news to the girls, I cursed myself. Despite my ultimate inner revulsion at the whole prospect of female slavery, ok, well, maybe not the whole prospect, I found myself getting deeper and deeper into it as I went along. My government contact, who I knew only as Agent Bederson, had told me to hang on, learn as much as I could. That it would all be valuable some day when it was time to take Klitzman down. He had said that somehow Klitzman had his tendrils deep in our government and we needed to find out who his inside men were so that they could be isolated and punished. Any crimes I committed while on my mission would be forgiven, he said. I hoped to god it was true.
So, I made arrangements for some relatively light duty for my two favorites, Pritha and Carol, while I was gone and turned the running of the club over to Pete. Two days later, I was winging my way back to the Western Hemisphere.
I knew that in many ways, this was another test. Go on the outside, follow orders, don't talk to nobody. I knew also that I'd be so closely watched that Klitzman would be able to give me a fart count when I came back. No chance to contact anyone by phone or face to face. Even dropping a letter in a mail box would be risky.
