Dalila, her name meant ‘gentleness of soul’, was thereafter Stoner’s almost constant companion. He led her around, naked on a leash, while on his visits and inspections. He proffered the use of her mouth to his managers and overseers matter-of-factly, and often used it or her cunt, if he was in the mood, casually throughout the course of the day.
At night, at dinner, she would be chained to his chair, her own dinner presented in a wooden bowl. In his bedroom, he would order her, by obscene gesture, encouraged by the whip if necessary, to suck on his wives’ pussies while they fellated him or while he fucked her ass. She would spend the night jammed into the cage with one of the white women every night, their hot flesh pressed firmly together. She had no words for them and they had none for her.
Dalila’s milk still ran, as Stoner suckled at her breasts several times daily. She was mortified to have these white women, who were treated almost as shamefully as she, watch as this grown man drank from her body. She was also shamed that she permitted the white man to bring her to pleasure, for there were times, as Stoner callously drilled his cock into her wet slash, that her own lusts were sated. And she was ashamed to admit that the soft white bodies of the white women, as she caressed them with her tongue or was pressed up against them in her cage, made her loins burn.
On several occasions, Stoner ordered his white women to make love to her after dinner in the drawing room, reveling in the sharp contrast between the black and white flesh. She hesitatingly accepted their tongues in her mouth, their fingers on her sex. She had often played at sex with her girlfriends when they were younger, and the delicate softness of female flesh, the aroma of their arousal, was not new to her. At times, she would close her eyes and imagine herself back in her village, a young girl, kissing and fondling her best friend.
It was the whipping she could not stand. Stoner whipped her when she failed to understand an order, when she was slow carrying it out, or when the whim came over him. He had the servants beat her while he ploughed one or another of the orifices of his white slaves.
Cheryl and the other wives felt great sympathy for Dalila, although they did not even know her name. She seemed so young and frightened. Only once, when Stoner was away for a day, did she spend any time in the wives’ dormitory. Jeremiah had brought her there and, at first, the poor girl trembled with fear that the white women would beat her. When Mary took her in her arms and kissed her, the girl broke down into tears. The women spent the afternoon comforting her. Late in the day, Jeremiah took her away, down to the Discipline Room to beat her and to fuck her.
A few days after the raid on the village, the trucks carrying the remainder of Stoner’s booty arrived. Coffled in strings of twelve, the women were pulled from the trucks and hosed down. A large fire was kept burning into the night, heating the branding irons, as one after the other, the women were marked as Stoner’s property. There was much crying and protesting from the women, but they had been taught obedience while prisoners on their four day trek, and there were no incidents of rebellion. By late afternoon and into the evening, Stoner’s helicopters were ferrying the first groups to their new homes, the many workers’ brothels around Stoner’s mines. A few would be sent to service the lonely men who toiled in Stoner’s cotton fields or to the workers on the hillside coffee plantation. By noon the day after their arrival, they were all gone.
It was about two weeks after the raid that Jeremiah came into the wives’ dormitory to announce that, “All sluts must make themselves clean!” He instructed them to be particularly meticulous in their makeup. They were to wear their dinner dresses and to make up the lips of their pussies.
The wives frantically followed Jeremiah’s instructions. It was clear that something unusual was to happen, but they could not fathom what. Justine helped Mary and Cheryl line their labia with bright red lipstick. Cheryl did hers. They sat dressed and waiting for a long time, well into the afternoon. Jeremiah checked them several times, each time telling them, “No fucking. No fucking!”
Jeremiah checked them again before he brought them downstairs, ensuring that they had properly made themselves pretty for their master’s benefit. He had them kneel in the entrance hall, as usual, but delayed their self ministrations for the purpose of readying their cunts for their master’s pleasure.
Faintly at first, then louder and louder, came the sound of a large helicopter. The women could see the backwash of the props through the glass of the main doorway as it landed, blowing dust and leaves around in great swirls. This was the signal for the women to start massaging their pussies for presentation to their owner and lord. They heard heavy steps on the veranda and then Stoner and another man, dressed in a khaki army uniform and a red beret entered the room. Stoner had his new slave, Dalila, in tow. The second man was huge, almost ape-like. He skin was a dark brown and he had a round, regal face. There were two rows of medals on his chest and he carried a long swagger stick with what looked like hair from a lion’s mane on one end. He wore tall, black paratrooper’s boots and a pistol on his hip.
His eyes widened as he saw the three white women in their obscene dresses. All of their breasts were exposed and the front of the dresses had been cut away to show their now glistening intimacies.
Stoner spoke to the women, “Ladies, I present to you His Honor Upenyu Uzoma, President of the People’s Republic of Katango.”
The fact that they were being held in bondage in the Republic of Katango was something that had somehow been learned by Stoner’s wives at some time during his fifteen year reign. It had been handed down from group to group as individual wives were sent to the capital to spend the rest of their days as whores and new ones were added. And so Cheryl knew that they were in some place called Katango. She had often cursed her geographical ignorance. Somehow it would have been better to have at least an approximation of where on the globe she now resided.
None of the women had had the pleasure of actually meeting someone from the government of this strange land and the presence of the President was quite a surprise. However, whatever his business was here with Stoner, his presence did not bode well for Stoner’s sluts if measured by the lustful glances he took of their exposed bodies.
“What a lovely picture,” he said in a deep baritone voice. “Good enough to eat!” he exclaimed.
“And you probably would, too,” Cheryl thought to herself. The man took his time to stroke their breasts, fingering the tips of their nipples, caressing their faces.
Stoner continued the introductions. “The blonde is Justine, a French slut. She is extremely skilled with her mouth. The middle one is Mary, an Irish cunt. You can see her main assets on her chest. I’ve often taken pleasure between her fat tits. And the last is Cheryl, an American. She is undoubtedly the most passionate of the bunch. If you massage her tits, she will rock you like a hyena in rut.”
President Uzoma laughed heartily. “Aptly put, my friend, aptly put.”
Stoner led the huge man into the house. The wives followed the men into the drawing room where the men were served cold drinks. The women knelt in an arc around them. Dalila knelt by Stoner’s side.
“Stoner,” Uzoma said, “I am grateful for your hospitality. Here’s to a continuation of our warm friendship.” Uzoma lifted his glass and clinked it against Stoner’s.
“Thank you Mr. President,” Stoner replied. “We have much to talk about, but after dinner. My chefs have made up some special courses for you.”
The small talk continued for about forty minutes. Jeremiah entered and announced dinner.
Uzoma, unlike Stoner, was a true gourmand. He reveled in the fine white wine served with delicate goat’s cheese and prawns. He found delicious the plump, grilled kupaka fish, covered with a delightful sauce made from ginger, cayenne powder, curry and coconut milk. He swooned at the large, fresh oysters, flown in that morning from east Africa. He consumed, amid groans of delight, a hearty share of a rack of lamb grilled with garlic and paprika. And there were many other delights. The Preside
nt ate with gusto, joking with Stoner, quaffing his best red wine. He proffered mouthfuls of food to the half naked women who sat next to and opposite him. They obliged the fearsome man, chewing their portions meekly, wary of the attention of this gregarious giant. Dalila ate from her bowl on the floor.
When the main meal was concluded, they were served freshly baked bene cakes, smeared with honey, 25 year old brandy and fine, fat Havana cigars. The President’s entourage ate outside with the servants, and he politely asked that the remnants of several courses be taken out to them.
Stoner waited for the President to light his cigar before he broached business. “Mr. President, I am glad to be able to give you my hospitality,” he said. Stoner had saved this man’s ass more than once by the intervention of the automatic rifles of his well trained and utterly loyal troops. The President was the recipient of ample largess from Stoner’s operations. He would not be able to maintain the loyalty of his political allies were it not for the flow of cash from Stoner. But the niceties of protocol were always to be followed.
“As you know, we have been facing a mounting problem with local bandits. I have lost two truck convoys and several patrols over the last few months. I need the support of the central government in patrolling the roads from the capital to here so I can free up my men to search out and destroy these criminals.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Stoner,” the President replied, letting out a long stream of grey smoke from his lungs. He drank a sip of cognac. “I am sympathetic with your problem. We are grateful in the capital for the fine work you have done here, north of the Paliba River, in bringing the benefits of Western culture to our people.” This was more protocol since Uzoma was well aware of the penury visited upon the villagers in Stoner’s domain and Stoner’s habit of enforcing his iron rule at the point of an AK-47, a rifle more reliable and more easily available than the American’s M-16. He had heard about the recent raid on Yarukamba, and while he applauded the suppression of rebels, had winced when he learned of the abduction and enslavement of over 150 women.
The President continued. “As you know, we are fighting our own group of bandits in the south. Most of my army is involved in operations there.” The President’s experience was that once crops and livestock had been burnt or confiscated, women could usually be bought quite cheaply. A nice, young woman could feed a family for weeks.
“As you say, Mr. President,” Stoner replied. “But all I ask is that the government protect the road from the capital to Benswala, 150 miles of road. I can cover the remaining thirty. As I am sure you realize, when my operations must be curtailed for security reasons, it cuts down on the taxes I can pay to the government. And my suppression of bandits here, by means at my own disposal, is a boon to the government, freeing up 1,000 men to strike at the government’s enemies in the south.”
Uzoma had known very well what the purpose of Stoner’s invitation was. He had already decided to assign four companies of men to guard the Benswala Road. It was all he could spare.
“I hear your request, Mr. Stoner, and I am happy to say that I will assign a contingent of my best troops to the road. Keeping the road open and suppressing bandits is good for the government and good for business.” The man flashed a wide grin at Stoner. He knew that Stoner held the balance of power in Katango and, when he had put down the rebels in the south, he would consider a lightening strike against this prideful white man who was siphoning off most of the profit from this richly endowed corner of his small country. A contingent of troops thirty miles away from Stoner’s headquarters could provide the spearhead for such a strike. On the other hand, Stoner did have the financial connections that allowed him and many of his key supporters to stash Western aid money abroad against the eventuality of a successful coup against them. Time would tell what course the wily president chose.
Now that business was concluded, it was time for pleasure. Stoner invited the lusting man back into the drawing room. “I have a little entertainment for you, Mr. President. I think that you will enjoy it.”
The men retired to the drawing room followed by the reluctant women. They were available to service this mountain of a man as his whim took him, and one of them would be required to retire to the guestroom with him to face whatever abuse and torment he would have to offer her there.
A television screen had been set up in front of the easy chairs in the room. Jeremiah instructed the wives to kneel at the President’s feet. Uzoma leaned over and stroked Cheryl’s breast, leering lustfully at her. “Not me,” Cheryl pleaded to herself. “Please not me.”
The television flickered into life. On the screen was a frightened blond woman. She was dressed in a short, flowered frock. Her long hair was drawn behind her head. It was Justine. She was standing in front of a blue canvas backdrop. Her wide open, attentive eyes were on someone behind and to the left of the camera.
“I thought that you might like to see a little preview of my whores before you select one for the night, Mr. President,” Stoner told the huge black man. “These videos were made shortly after their capture and were sent over the internet for the benefit of potential bidders for their flesh. They’re quite humorous.”
Stoner clicked the remote, and the young woman on the screen came to life. She looked nervously around her. She seemed dazed, uncertain. A man’s voice spoke in halting, heavily accented English. “Speak, cunt! What is your name?”
The blond women replied in a nervous, tremulous voice, “Justine.”
“How old are you Justine?”
The girl looked at the camera, biting her lips nervously. “Twenty two,” she answered.
“Do you like to fuck, cunt?”
The girl cringed at the question, her eyes brimming with tears. She gave an obviously preprogrammed answer, “Y-yes,”.
Cheryl looked over at Justine. The French girl stared at her own image. Her lips were trembling.
“Do you like to suck cock, Justine?” the voice continued.
The television Justine shuffled her feet. She was wringing her hands before her. She looked as if she was trying to answer the question, but the words would not come out. She started to cry.
“Answer the question, cunt!” the voice commanded.
“Y-yes, monsieur,” was her barely audible answer.
“Yes, what cunt?”
The girl looked at the off camera voice, confused, visibly terrified of making a mistake.
“P-please monsieur, please, I won’t tell anyone. Please let me go!” Justine replied in a forlorn voice. She then spoke something rapidly in French, clearly a continuation of her supplication to the disembodied voice. The voice answered back harshly in French. Whatever he said had a visible impression on the young girl.
She looked at the camera. “Y-yes, I like to suck cock,” she said, finally. Her tears were flowing freely down her face.
“Show us your tits, cunt,” the voice ordered.
Justine looked visibly shaken at the order. She peered intently at the screen. The voice yelled out, “Veit! Veit!”
Clumsily, the blond girl grabbed the straps of her pretty dress and pulled them down off of her shoulders. Her arms were crossed as she lowered the bodice below her braless breasts, blocking the view. She held her arms there momentarily and then dropped them to her sides, her head lowered in shame. The camera zoomed in on her tits. It paused over the display of her womanhood, the nipples taut, the breasts themselves small and firm. There was enough so that the delightful globes drooped slightly on her chest, but the nipples pointed upwards and out. A curt order was issued in French. Justine’s hands reappeared in the camera and she cupped her delicate, pale mounds and squeezed them gently. The camera panned back showing the distraught woman proffering her youthful breasts to the audience.
The President was visibly aroused by the display of Justine’s charms. He looked down at the blond girl at his feet. He grabbed her chin and turned her head upwards to look into her face. “What a pretty little girl,” he said. “Come, sit on my lap
and let me see those nice little titties up close.” Without hesitation, Justine rose to her feet and sat on the large man’s lap. He pressed one hand between her thighs and grabbed the lips of her cunt. Her red satin dress draped over the black man/s lap. Although disconcerted at the view of her own descent into slavery, watching the girl that she once was, Justine had, when she knelt at the President’s feet, continued to stroke her pussy lips, achieving the state of arousal customary in the presence of her master. The President spread her legs wide and plunged his thick, fat fingers inside her. With his other massive hand he enveloped a breast.
The video continued. The harsh voice behind the camera issued another command. “Take off the dress, show us your cunt!”
The video Justine fearfully pulled the dress down over her waist, down her thighs and let it slip to the floor. She kicked it nervously aside. A black clad arm appeared and stole it away. She wore nothing underneath. She looked up nervously. There was another command in French and Justine placed her hands on her head and spread her legs. She closed her eyes. The camera, slowly, lovingly, zoomed in and roamed over her succulent flesh. It paused at her delicate face, her thin red lips. It descended the length of her torso to stop at the furry blond bush at the apex of her thighs. The camera panned back and held a shot displaying Justine in all her naked glory. A message scrolled over the screen, “Justine, French, 22, opening bid €50,000 Euros.”
“She cost me a lot more than that,” Stoner commented. He took a long pull on the cognac in his glass.
“And I’m sure it was worth it,” replied the President. “She has such a pretty cunt,” He added as he thrust his fingers inside her. He addressed Justine. “I hear that you are a good cocksucker, little Justine, is this true?”
Justine had begun to respond to the ministrations of the fingers in her quim. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Yes, Monsieur le President,” she replied.
Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl Page 10
