Klitzman's Empire (The Klitzman Stories Book 2)

by Paul Blades

  She looked at her nubile, shapely body in the mirror and cursed herself for it. She cursed herself for falling victim to Jimmy’s deceit and treachery, for letting the scar faced man arouse her lusts despite her revulsion at his penetration of her loins, and she cursed herself for abjectly sucking his cock, abasing herself to avoid pain.

  But as she looked at the whip between her breasts and dreaded the return of the huge African, she knew that she would obey these men, suck them, fuck them, do anything they wanted in order to avoid the excruciating blows of their whips. The scar faced man had said her life would improve if she accepted her fate. Her eyes glued to the instrument of her prospective torment that hung menacingly between her breasts, she prayed that he was right.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HARRY MEETS THE BOSS

  When we reached the above ground, I expected to head towards Rukimo’s place, but we walked down a different path. Rukimo was walking with a slight spring in his step. He looked over at me. “You know, Harry,” he said. “You’ve filled a big gap in this place.”

  “What do you mean,” I asked.

  “I mean that we need men like you. Men we can trust. There aren’t too many of them around.”

  “I’ll do whatever I’m told,” I said. “Except throw women to sharks,” I added jokingly.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “As I told you, I was glad that you didn’t.”

  “So where are we going?” I asked him.

  “To meet your boss,” he replied, smiling.

  A hollow formed in my stomach. My hands began to sweat. Either this was a great opportunity, or this was the end of the road. I would guess that Klitzman would probably want to take a personal role in crushing a rat in his organization. “Cool,” I said.

  We walked silently the rest of the way. We were passed through the gate to the huge fence that surrounded his compound. When we approached the two arched wooden doors, I noticed the carved figures on it. It looked like a display right out of Hieronymus Bosch. Except there was a lot more fucking and nobody was being dragged away by devils. There were men and women in every form of copulation known to man. The level of detail was amazing, as if the people of the resort had served as actual models for the figures.

  Rukimo knocked and the doors swung open. We were greeted by one of the ubiquitous black giants. We passed him and were escorted along the green marble floors down the hall. We entered a room on the left. It was a large dining room. There was a long dining table right out of Citizen Kane. At one end sat the only diner, an exquisitely fat man. He was wearing a large ruby red robe, which had tiny golden stripes running down it. He had thick, matted, black hair and had a head as big as a watermelon. It matched his superbly huge body. He was already eating. There were two or three plates already empty. He was sucking on a lobster claw when he saw us.

  “Harry,” he said effusively. “So good to meet you!”

  “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Klitzman,” I said, holding out my hand. He ignored it.

  “Sit down, eat!” he practically yelled at me. He rang a bell and two demure, lovely, young ladies, naked but for a 10” wide belt of black lace across their hips rushed in. They were carrying trays jammed with plates of food. There was sliced sirloin, a whole reddish fish, probably a snapper, bowls of creamy vegetables, a sliced pork loin covered with bright green spices. I saw what looked like lobster Newburg, in my mind a great way to ruin a lobster. But there were fresh oysters, what looked like sliced eel, a plate of Cornish game hens, and much more. I sat down opposite Rukimo, on Klitzman’s right. I took one of the Cornish hens off of the plate and some broccoli in a hollandaise sauce. Rukimo took steak.

  As I was loading my plate up with food, one of the guards dragged a tall, black haired slave girl to a chain that descended between two columns at the end of the room. She wore a dismally unhappy look on her face. When he had affixed her hands above her to the chain, the black guard pulled out a long, leather switch and began to belabor her body with it. The girl was gagged and her cries and screams emerged as muffled moans. This, and the sound of the whip striking her flesh, served as the background music to our meal.

  Klitzman took a moment to appreciate the young girl’s suffering and then recommenced our conversation. “We’re proud of you, Harry,” Klitzman said. The serving girls had assumed kneeling positions to either side of the giant, holding the trays up so that he could access them, their faces masks of anxiety. “Never waste a good piece of ass if you don’t have to, that’s my motto,” he said jocularly. He began chewing on what looked like a veal chop. My understanding was that he was referring to Lois. Just when I was getting an appetite.

  “Thank you, Mr. Klitzman,” I said, unsure of where this was going. Would I ever be able to live here without fear as my companion? I thought. “It just didn’t seem right,” I said uncertainly.

  “Not at all, Harry,” Klitzman replied, his mouth dribbling food on his chest. “Rukimo here says that you’re tops.”

  I detected a Midwestern twang in Klitzman’s voice. Could he be from St. Louis, or Nebraska? That would be too much. But something told me that he was putting on a show for me. He probably spoke in a hundred different accents.

  Another slave girl emerged with a bottle of white wine, a dry, Italian Soave. I nodded my head and she poured me a glass. The girl with the red wine, a California Merlot, was right behind her.

  We spent about an hour bullshitting. About halfway through the guard stopped beating the tall, black haired slave and her outcries were reduced to low, disconsolate moans. I told Klitzman some of my war stories and he advised me on stocks and bonds (how to steal them) women (what they were good for) and food. I guessed that he was an expert of sorts on all three subjects. My mind kept drifting back to the slave girl, Joanna, and how I so easily contributed to her subjugation. It wasn’t the first time I had seen a newly recruited girl, but it reminded me that all of the pretty young women I had used so blithely over the last few weeks had faced the same moment of truth that that young girl had faced today; that they were trapped in a nightmare of servitude with no hope of redemption, that their lives had been changed unutterably, and that they must mold themselves into the instruments of their masters’ desires or suffer the insufferable.

  When Rukimo and I had finished eating, I couldn’t say that Klitzman ever finished while I was there, he suggested that we go into his common room, as he called it. I watched him push himself to his feet. He may have been a big tub of lard, but he had rock hard arms, well-muscled. His hands were as big as my shoes. “I would hate to have them around my neck,” I thought.

  As I watched him waddle ahead of us, a slave girl ran up towing a little cage on wheels. Klitzman, smiling, grabbed the rope that led to it and began to pull it along behind him. In the cage, squeezed into a space that looked two sizes too small for her was a pale, young girl with long, brown hair. It was gathered in a braid down her back, laying atop her bound hands. Her face was obscured by a large leather mask the covered her mouth and chin. The only way I could describe her face would be that it looked gloomy, as if a thousand miserable days lay behind and in front of her.

  We entered his common room and I saw six or seven beautiful young women, all wearing the wide black lace belt, kneeling, their heads touching the floor, their hands palm upwards on their backs. They did not move an inch as we entered. Klitzman plopped himself down on a semi-circular couch. Two of the women, apparently responding to a signal I didn’t see, fell into each other’s arms and began to kiss passionately. A third imposed herself between Klitzman’s mighty thighs and, freeing his cock, placed her lips firmly around it. Most, if not all, of the women had marks of violence on their bodies, including the girl in the tiny cage, whose back looked like someone had taken a cat-o-nine tails to it.

  Klitzman’s eyes rolled back as he enjoyed the slave girl’s expert application of her mouth to his organ. His hand brushed her head slightly. Gaining composure, he looked up at me and Rukimo. Two guards had brought
out overstuffed easy chairs for us to sit in. We took our seats and a slave girl rolled over a cart with various brandies and after dinner drinks on it. I chose a fifty year old brandy. Rukimo abstained.

  Klitzman looked over at me. “You want a blowjob, Harry?” he asked. I noted a trace of the Bronx in his accent now. “Who is this guy?” I thought.

  I declined respectfully. I had not yet developed the skill of listening intently to every word someone who had the power of life or death said to me while having my cock sucked. The girls did look appealing, though.

  “Okay, Harry,” Klitzman said. “Maybe later. There’s plenty of that around!” He started laughing almost uncontrollably. His laugh was like a squeaky door, grating to the ears, but mesmerizing all the same. I smiled to show I appreciated his humor.

  I sensed he was getting down to business. I took a swig of my brandy.

  “Harry,” Klitzman opened, the girl still working assiduously on his tool, “I need a guy to be my, let’s call it, my major domo. I guy who I can count on to get things done, to not mess them up. I need a guy who I can send on errands who will do what he’s told and always bring back the gold. You know what I mean, Harry?”

  “Sure,” I responded. I looked over at Rukimo. He had remained silent during most of the meal and did not speak up now.

  “I think that you’re the guy, Harry. Will you do that for me?”

  “Sure,” I answered again. My repartee was becoming woefully abysmal.

  “I knew that I could count on you.”

  “Does that mean I have to give up the club?” I asked. I had gotten to like playing Rick in Casablanca. I even had a favorite song, Autumn Leaves. I had nicknamed the piano player ‘Sam’. She was a graceful, talented singer, with a doleful look and a beautiful, supple body. When I wanted to hear it I would tell her to ‘Play it again, Sam’. She would smile, the only time I saw her do that, and wing her hands over the keys to produce the sound of leaves being blown across a grassy lawn. If no one had asked for her by the end of the night, I would get her a drink (something strictly verboten) and listen to her play just for me. She also gave a heck of a blow job.

  “No, no, no, Harry. You can keep your saloon,” Klitzman said. I’ll just need you from time to time. Okay?”

  “As I said, Mr. Klitzman,” I answered. “Anything for you.”

  I saw that Klitzman was reaching a pinnacle of passion as a result of the efforts of the young woman between his knees. I saw his face turn almost beet red. His huge hands grabbed the head of the girl sucking his cock as if to crush it between them. His eyes rolled back and he let out a series of loud grunts. When he was finished, he looked back at me, a little glassy eyed. The girl kept working his joint.

  “Fine, Harry, fine,” Klitzman said. I thought I detected a bit of the outback in his accent. I wondered whether he was a clown or merely insane.

  “And I have a present for you, two, really,” he told me, smiling. I noticed for the first time several gold teeth in his mouth..

  “That’s great, Mr. Klitzman,” I responded. “What could it be?” I thought. “Golf clubs?”

  “Getting tired of that little old room you’re in Harry?” Klitzman asked.

  “Well, it is a little small, but I’m not complaining. It’s bigger than a jail cell.”

  Klitzman let out a loud guffaw. I almost jumped from my seat.

  “A jail cell,’ he said. “Ha, ha, ha, ha,” he laughed. “That’s funny. A jail cell!” He paused to catch his breath. I looked sideways. The women who had fallen into each other’s arms when we sat down were still at it. They were folded over each other in a very spirited ‘69’. I could actually see a little puddle dripping from the loins of the one whose ass was pointed in my direction. She was moaning her orgasm into the other girl’s snatch as her legs twitched and shook. The girl on top gave a high pitched sigh and she began to shiver, her own crisis triggered.

  “Well, you’ll have something bigger than ten jail cells now, Harry,” he told me as I looked back at the master criminal. “I’m assigning you one of the private cottages.”

  I was impressed. I had heard about them, but never seen them. Anything had to be better than my little room.

  “And, as they say on television,” Klitzman said, his voice imitating a game show announcer’s, “there’s more!”

  He motioned for one of the guards to come over. He still had the rope connected to the poor girl in the cage in his hand. He handed it to the tall black man.

  “This is Carol, Harry. She’s yours.”

  “Mine?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yes, yours. She’ll take care of your cottage and your other needs. You can keep her as long as you want. And I’ll let you pick another one. You can’t have too many cunts around, can you Harry?” he asked mirthfully.

  “I don’t believe you can, Mr. Klitzman. That is unless you’re married to one of them.”

  Klitzman broke out into a huge belly laugh. “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” His whole stomach shifted as if there had been a seismic event. Even the girl between his legs was put off of her stroke.

  There was some small talk and we finally rose to leave. He ignored my open hand again and waived us off. As we were going, I heard Klitzman order one of the girls to be strung up and beaten. I pulled my little caged girl along as fast as was respectful and left.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MY NEW HOME

  Rukimo said that he would take me to my cottage. I walked with him, wheeling my little prisoner along. I really didn’t like unnecessary cruelty, but it wouldn’t hurt for some of the slave staff see me being hard ass. And wheeling a helpless, forlorn looking girl around in a cage almost as small as a shoebox was, in my mind, pretty hard core. Especially when the saw her raw back. They didn’t have to know that I didn’t put it there.

  We ascended the stairs that led up to the private cottages. The little cage shuddered its way up the stairs behind us. Rukimo showed me my new pass that gave me access. There were a number of cottages and we had to walk a while to find mine. It was the one the farthest from the resort compound. It sat exactly on the corner of the plateau with a view of the ocean on both sides. You could see Africa. It was an astounding sight. “Maybe I’m over the hump after all,” I thought as I perused the cottage and its amenities. Rukimo had left after he saw me inside. I was like a kid at a toy store. I flicked the T.V. on and off; I checked out the bar. There was a killer sound system. The bed was huge and like laying on a cloud.

  Then I remembered that I had brought a guest. I had almost forgotten the young girl in the cage. I cursed myself and went out to the living room. She was right where I left her, as if she could have been anywhere else.

  I opened the cage and I gently pried her out. She groaned as her limbs were allowed to stretch. She bowed her head to me, touching her forehead to the floor.

  ‘None of that,” I said. “Let’s get you straightened out first.” I undid her bound arms. She whined as she pulled them forwards. I wondered how long they had been fastened behind her. I accidentally placed my hand on her back and she stiffened and took in a deep breath. It was red and raw and undoubtedly extremely painful.

  “Sorry!” I said as I removed my hand. Sorry? Some slaver I made.

  When the girl had extended her body across the floor, I removed her gag. As I pulled it out I saw a tear roll down her cheek. “Thank you master,” she said in a whisper.

  I wondered why Klitzman had given me such damaged goods. Was there some message there? Was this another test? Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to let this poor girl suffer more than I had too. I stood up to get the phone. It was strictly an inside line. No outside calls, for obvious reasons. I got an operator and asked for the infirmary. A male voice came on. I told him who I was and that I wanted an antiseptic ointment and some Percocet sent to my cottage right away. “Never mind what it’s for,” I said, responding to an impertinent inquiry.

  The medicine arrived about fifteen minutes later. There was actually a
guy on a bicycle. Too bad I didn’t have anything to tip him with. When I turned back into the living room, the girl was kneeling, her forehead to the floor, her hands resting on her ragged back.

  I disregarded her disobedience and went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. “Kneel up,” I told the apparently still terrorized girl. “Open your mouth,” I instructed her.

  The girl, Carol, cautiously parted her lips. She looked at me expectantly, as if I had ordered her to service my cock. Instead, I placed one of the Percocets on her tongue and handed her the glass of water. “Swallow this,” I ordered her.

  I didn’t know what kind of abuse this slave girl had suffered, or for how long. But she had apparently not suffered an act of human kindness for some time. Tears started to flow from her eyes as if I had asked her to swallow cyanide. She held the glass uncertainly in her trembling hand. I could tell that she was measuring in her head the course of least resistance. Which way would she experience more pain, by obeying or disobeying. It only took a moment for the paradigms that had been established for her to resolve themselves. Clearly, if I wanted her to swallow the pill, she would swallow it sooner or later, without a whipping, or with one and worse.

  When she had downed the pill, I made her open her mouth wide to make sure it had gone down, she grimaced, expecting abuse.

  “It’s a Percocet,” I told her. “For the pain.”