by Paul Blades
I tried to push myself off of the ring floor. A heard the voice count “eight” and then the bell rang. I had made it.
Jake jumped in the ring and helped me into my corner. He squeezed cold water from a sponge over my head. Anthony came over.
“Harry, we can end this now, you know,” he said as he leaned close to me. I shook my head. Jake gave me a mouthful of water. As I sat there, I knew what I had to do. I had just spent the last few years working out on weights at every chance I got. I was a strong as a horse. Maybe I wasn’t fleet of foot, or well versed in the sweet science, but if I hit a guy, he would feel it. I had just one chance.
When the bell rang to start the third and final round, Thorndike was still shucking and jiving with Cholo. I jumped from my stool and made a beeline for him. I was on him before he knew it, just as he turned towards me. My right arm was already swinging in a wide arc. I connected just under his left ear. The blow stunned him and he stumbled to his right. I landed a fierce left jab right on his nose and heard the bone crack. I followed with a right uppercut that made his knees buckle, and he fell to the mat.
The crowd was on its feet roaring. I stepped away while Anthony started the ten count. When he got to six, Thorndike’s eyes opened. He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet on the count of nine. Anthony looked him over and then signaled that the fight could recommence.
Thorndike’s smile had left him. He danced towards me with rage in his eyes. The crowd was still yelling and screaming. I decided to stand my ground. Thorndike let loose with everything he had. I kept trying to close with him, but each time I stepped forwards, he stepped away, but not before landing a jolting blow to my face. I could see blood streaming down his face from his obviously broken nose.
The rest of the round lasted an eternity. I don’t know how I continued standing. My eyes were so blurry that I could hardly see my enraged opponent. I absorbed punch after punch. And then it was all over. The bell rang signaling the end of the round and the fight. Thorndike walked back to his corner. I kept just standing there, not having the strength to step back to my corner. Jake hurried over and guided me to my stool.
I could hear men yelling and shouting and then take up a chant, “Harry, Harry, Harry….” I wondered why they were shouting my name. I don’t think I even realized that I had been in a fight my mind was so far gone. Jake pulled me to my feet and brought me to the center of the ring. He raised my arms and the men cheered. Thorndike came over and threw a big hug around me and the cheering became almost deafening. That’s all I remember because, at that moment, I passed out.
CHAPTER FOUR
HARRY GOES TO WORK
I awoke after the fight lying in a large bed with a bag of ice on my face. My trunks and other clothes had been stripped from me. My head felt like a hundred horses had stampeded across it. I tried to raise my arm to remove the bag of ice, but my arm was so sore that I gave it up. I heard a woman’s voice.
“Master, are you awake?”
On a second effort I was able to push the ice bag aside. I could see that I was in my own room. The voice had come from a diminutive blond girl kneeling at my side. She had very short hair, about two inches long, and a dainty face. Her accent sounded British. Her breasts were small, but firm, and rode high on her chest. In spite of my abused flesh, the little boy downstairs perked up.
My face was as cold as a witch’s tit. I tried to rub some circulation into it, but it was so sore that I ceased my feeble efforts at once. “Boy, that Thorndike really kicked the crap out of me,” I thought.
“If it pleases the master, Master Anthony ordered me to let him know when you awoke. May I run and send word to him?” the girl asked, her voice sweet and obsequious. I just waived my hand at her and closed my eyes.
When I awoke again, Anthony was standing over me. “Nice fight,” he said. “If it had lasted any longer I would have had to dump you in the bay.”
I just groaned in response.
“Well, in spite of your miserable performance, you seem to be the local hero. Nobody’s ever floored Thorndike before. And nobody ever broke his nose. There’s a long line of guys who want to buy you drinks. My advice is to stay off the sauce until your head clears. The doc says it might take a couple of days.”
I waived at him and grunted. Anthony said his goodbye’s and left.
I basically stayed holed up in my room for the next two days. The little girl who attended me proved quite adept as coaxing exquisite oral pleasure from my prick. It was all I could stand, since every other muscle in my body ached. Later, I learned that the girl considered it quite an honor to suck the cock of a hero. Better than some old, fat stockbroker, I guess.
When I finally emerged from my room, on the third morning after the fight, I was an instant celebrity. “Hey, Harry,” “Hi, Harry,” “How ya doing, champ?” was all I heard. I hoped that the glory would be short-lived since I certainly didn’t want to provoke Thorndike into demanding a rematch.
I sat down to breakfast and a doe eyed young female delivered coffee to me unasked. She rubbed her thigh against mine as she poured the life giving substance into my cup. I looked up at her. She had large, brown eyes, a pale, narrow face. Her breasts were invitingly plump, with large, reddish brown nipples at their ends. “My name is Tracy, master,” she said, unbidden.
“Thank you, Tracey,” I replied. It is funny how persons reduced to subservience are often thought of as blind and dumb. Like the servants of a Roman household, the female slaves of Klitzman’s resort silently took in everything that was said in their presence. Although they were generally forbidden any communication with each other, they apparently had a grapevine as efficient as any prison’s. News of my ‘success’ over Thorndike had spread among the servile females by way of overhearing the hero worship of the guests and other supervisors. Thorndike, while one of the apples of Klitzman’s eye, was almost universally despised by the slave girls for his coldness and cruelty. They were, of course, not free to express this sentiment. However, as one of the girls later told me, the indentured women silently and secretly rejoiced at seeing him wearing a bandage across his smashed schnozz, and his blackened eyes.
As I drank my coffee, Anthony joined me. I had ordered an omelet and when it came, Anthony duplicated my order. “Harry,” he said, “it’s time you went to work.”
“Oh, yeah,” I replied. “Who’s getting iced?”
Anthony laughed. “Nobody yet,” he said. “I mean to get to work around the resort. You’re a supervisor; you’ve got to supervise.”
“Supervise what?’ I asked.
“The girls, you schmoe. Keep them in line, make sure the guests aren’t killing them, stuff like that. You’ll be assigned a post, one of the lounges or a nightclub, and you’ll keep an eye on things. Nothing too hard, no heavy lifting.”
“Is that what you guys sprung me for, to baby sit a bunch of rich punks and some whores?”
“Obviously not, Harry. But we don’t want you getting too bored and the work needs to be done. Everybody pitches in.”
“What about Thorndike and Cholo?” I asked. “What do they do?”
“They do whatever they want, Harry,” Anthony responded with some sternness in his voice. “When you earn your bones around here, maybe you’ll get to loaf as much as you want too.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’m not an ungrateful son of a bitch, just an irascible one.”
Anthony laughed. “Tonight, at around eight, report to the New York Lounge. It’s a kind of jazz club with prurient entertainment. You’ll work until two when the club shuts down. Just keep an eye out, stay sober and enjoy the evening. Make some friends.”
“Friends?” I responded. “What kind of friends?”
“Harry, you may have to have contact with some of these guys on the outside when you’re on assignment. It would help for them to know who you are in advance. Make nice and make friends.”
And so I began my employment in Klitzman’s se
rvice. Some of the more refined and beautiful women were selected to serve in the lounges. These were rather sophisticated bar and cocktail areas located near the guest residences. The slaves who served here were outfitted in the most comely and enticing outfits that could be devised. The whole idea was to create a fantasy of a cocktail lounge or bar back in the outside world where the guests could ‘score’, even if they couldn't back there. The girls were instructed to do what they could to play this out. The guests were requested not to use the girls in the public areas, but were encouraged to caress and be caressed by them there. The girls could be taken from the public areas to special private rooms or, at the end of the night, could be brought back to the guest quarters where they could be treated like any other slave.
As a lounge supervisor, my duties would be to see to it that the girls treated the guests right, to resolve any disputes between guests over girls, to make sure that the guests didn’t maim or harm the girls. They were valuable commodities and no one was allowed to incapacitate a girl without good cause, or without paying for it in advance.
Supervising the lounge was pretty light duty and I was normally engaged in nothing more strenuous than introducing slave girls to guests, calling the slave master for more girls if the place got busy or chatting with the guests about the particular charms of particular girls. There was usually a nice crowd in the New York Lounge, attracted by the ambiance and the piano playing slave with the golden voice who entertained most nights, or the little tableaus performed by various writhing slave girls on the stage in the middle of the room. These girls would establish the mood by performing on each other under the muted spotlights. Maybe it wasn't what you'd find in your neighborhood watering hole, but it was a good way to get a conversation going.
It happened that on the third night that I had duty in the lounge, Freda, a light skinned, 23 year old, German girl, about 5'6”, with large, milky white breasts, a slender torso with long, lovely legs, was sitting at the bar and talking to an English type, about 55, paunchy, but in not too bad shape. From his voice I detected Saville Row and a public school. He sounded like one of the ritzy types you hear in British films. Not a regular Joe at all. Probably was here on mommy’s money.
Freda was wearing a black dress which reached down almost to the floor. It set off her short, blonde curly hair, done up in a wave, and her pale, alabaster skin beautifully. The blouse of the dress was cut so as to follow the outline of her breasts, just below the nipples. It was cut open at the waist in the middle of the front and back so that, sitting on the stool at the bar, the dress fell away exposing her open thighs. She was wearing a golden collar and bracelets rather than the regular leather ones. This was in accordance with the ambiance of the lounge and the idea that the girls there were a step above the girls who served in other capacities. They were functional nonetheless.
The Englishman, dressed in his blue robe, was sitting on her right and was facing her, his right hand between her thighs. His left hand was caressing her neck. They were both laughing. He was drinking whiskey, neat. She, of course, was drinking fruit juice.
Suddenly, the Englishman leapt away from the bar and stood up. Freda had knocked over her drink and it had spilled on him. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said plaintively. “Please forgive me. I'll help wipe it up.” She grabbed a bar towel and started wiping his groin. The guy pushed her away from himself and slapped her, hard, so that she fell to the floor.
“You bitch,” he yelled, “you did that on purpose!” He turned to me. I was sitting at a table in the corner, minding my own business and watching two long legged beauties mouth each other’s cunts on the stage. A light jazz number was playing over the music system. I didn’t appreciate the interruption.
“I want you to punish this bitch!” the Englishman demanded. “She poured that drink all over me. She needs to be taught a lesson!”
Well, there was no way out of it. I had to do something. There were a number of other guests in the bar and I didn’t want to lose face in front of them. Besides, it was my job. “Now, sir,” I suggested to him, “perhaps it was an accident.”
“No, I know it was no accident,” he shot back at me angrily. “She must be punished. Now! I demand it!” he yelled. His face was turning beet red.
The girl was cringing on the floor next to the Englishman. She looked at me in fear. “Kneel” I ordered. She rose to her knees. “The swan,” I ordered. I had learned some of the standard commands for the slaves over the last several days. She leaned over with her head to the floor, her wrists crossed behind her back, raised from her body, like a swan's wings. I quickly reached over and clipped her wrists together. I then grabbed a hood from the bartender and ordered the girl to rise back to her former position. I slipped the hood over her head and wedged the attached gag into place. Her eyes, as they disappeared under the hood, were wet with tears, and she was trembling with fear. I took a leash from my pocket and affixed it to her collar.
Now, I fully believed that the drink had been spilled by accident. But what was the difference, really? This guest could take her back to his room and pound the ever loving shit out of her if he wanted. So what if she didn’t do it on purpose? A guest wanted her beaten and I had to do it.
“Do you wish to be present sir?”I asked the calming blue blood.
“Yes, of course.”he said.
I pulled Freda from the floor with the leash and led her to the stairway leading to the playrooms beneath the lounge. I guided her carefully down the stairs. The third room was empty and so I led her in. The Englishman followed.
I undid the leash and her wrists. “Undress,” I commanded. She promptly slipped out of her dress and, although still blinded by the hood, folded it neatly on the floor beside her. The girls were taught to be careful with their clothes. She left her high heels on.
“Crossbow,” I ordered. She placed her hands behind her head, elbows out. Her pale, white breasts rose on her chest enticingly. Her torso was long and in an hourglass shape. Her belly was flat and tight, leading to her hairless slit below.
I looked at the Englishman. His was looking at the girl with expectant lust. He wanted her whipped, but didn’t have the balls to do it himself. He probably spilled the drink and blamed it on her. His breathing was heavy. I pressed the intercom. “A bottle of whiskey please, and two glasses.” I needed a drink if he didn't. I had never whipped a girl, although I had witnessed it. I was queasy about it, but the difference was that I didn’t want her whipped, he did. I could hardly see what would make me want to whip a girl even though I could not deny the lustful pleasure I obtained by watching a lovely lass twist and turn in her chains as blow after blow landed on her delectable form. But up to now, I had only watched.
While we waited for the whiskey I looked at the girl trembling in front of us, naked, gagged and hooded. Her collar glinted in the soft light of the room. Her breasts trembled as her body shook nervously and her nipples, colored a pale pink, were stiff with fear. I could see a sheen of sweat beginning to form on her body. On the wall behind her were several whips and a riding crop. The room had a queen size bed with rings in the wall and ceiling above the bed. The ceiling was about ten feet high so the rings could be reached easily from the bed. A chain also drooped to the floor in the middle of the room next to where the girl stood. The Englishman sat in a stuffed chair to the right of the girl.
After the whiskey arrived, delivered by one of the slave waitresses, I poured a small glass for myself and the Englishman and shot mine back. I realized that this could be some kind of test. I mean, the Englishman was earnest enough in his desire to see the girl abused. But I knew that most of the guest areas, and probably the supervisors’ areas as well, were bugged and secretly taped. I had seen a couple of the videos. If I let this girl off lightly, my ‘fitness’ to be a hard, cold, callous servant of Klitzman’s worldwide conspiracy could be called into question. Not to mention the fact that I had just been relieved of suspicion the other day. Refusing to punish a slave girl, who wa
s, after all, considered less than fully human, might engender doubts about my loyalty all over again. One slip and I could be dancing with sharks. There was nothing else to do.
I got up from my chair and approached the girl. I don't know if she had gathered hope from the few moments of silence, but, if she had, she lost it very soon. First I removed the hood and gag and then walked around her slowly. She was beautiful. Her skin was smooth and silky. She knew that speech and movement were forbidden and so meekly followed me with her eyes as I passed behind her. I caressed her ass with my hand. She jumped slightly. She would be jumping for real soon.
I attached the slave girl’s wrists before her and, after gathering the end of the chain up off of the floor, connected it to her wrists. I pulled the chain taut and anchored it on the wall. The girl was lifted slightly off of her feet, her toes barely scraping the floor. She swayed slightly as she struggled for a firm footing. Her eyes were closed tight. Her lips remained parted in accordance with the rules of the island. Slaves were to remain literally open at all times.
I decided to make her talk a little bit, to draw out the tension. If I was putting on a show for the limey, I might as well give him his money’s worth.
“Have you been given a name slave?” I asked her. I already knew her name, but this was for show.
“Y-yes, master”she replied, her voice trembling.
“What is it?”
“Freda, master,”she answered.
“I take from you your name, slave. From today, you are to be returned for retraining. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master,” she said, despair in her voice. Ordering retraining was harsh, especially for a lounge girl. It took many months, even years to work up to being a lounge girl, although for most girls, if they didn't make it out of the general slave pool in a year at the island, they rarely did.
