by Sam Eden
When he told her that she was to be freed at last, her heart soared and the gloomy atmosphere was forgotten. Business had made the boss a ruthless and cynical man, but the better natured girls brought out a soft spot in him. He enfolded her in a farewell embrace. She was awed by his latent power, knowing that in his past these arms had crushed the breath from strong men. His warm wishes brought tears to her eyes, which embarrassed him, and he took refuge in irony.
‘I nearly forgot; it seems I’ve become your social secretary,’ he said, passing her a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it. Normally liaisons with the customers were forbidden, but he gave a shrug of his shoulders as if to say, but since you’re leaving...
‘He wanted your number,’ he told her.
‘Did you give it to him?’ she asked.
‘No. I told him this wasn’t a dating agency.’
The message had been from Filippo, and she smiled to herself when she compared the brusque handling he would have had from the boss with Bruno’s toadying.
At the end of the interview he returned her passport, something she had not seen for two years. She really did cry then, so he gave her another hug. It was like being comforted by King Kong.
‘Sometimes it is a hard lesson for girls to discover which men are good and which are evil,’ he said gruffly.
He released her and gave the piece of paper in her hand a tap with a forefinger the size of a Cuban cigar. ‘This one, I hear, is not too bad,’ he said.
Maria packed her things and said goodbye to those colleagues already at work. Many of them had not yet arrived, because the club did not open for another two hours, but she didn’t want to stay any longer than she had to.
Bruno was there of course, and Maria waved goodbye to him, prepared to let bygones be bygones. But the floor manager hated her for escaping his clutches and his response was dismissive. In the last few days he had turned his attentions to a pretty Asian waitress who had shown excitement when women were tied up on stage, and Maria suspected it would not be long before the girl found herself part of the show. She just hoped for her sake that the beatings would be as welcome as the bondage.
At first Maria was reluctant to return Filippo’s call. For one thing she was leaving the country soon, so she thought that a relationship couldn’t go anywhere. But more importantly her tribulations had taught her to be wary of men.
On the other hand, she knew the boss’ restrained praise had actually been a glowing testimonial of Filippo. And she was elated by her new freedom: she was a nineteen year old who had not been on a proper date for two years, so it was time to live the normal life of a pretty girl again.
Filippo sounded delighted to hear from her. He apologised, time and time again, for the strapping, claiming it would never have happened if he had not been drunk. With her hard earned wisdom about the male sex Maria took his claims with a pinch of salt. She knew that a man who went to La Pera in the first place probably took pleasure in punishing women, but even so, she accepted a date for dinner the next evening.
They went to a good but homely restaurant. She felt comfortable and relaxed. It was a change for her not to have to please her companion and hang on his every word. She liked being able to talk about herself, but she was guarded: Filippo knew that she had worked in a sex club, but he did not know about the brothel. That would come out in time... if there was to be a time for the two of them.
Filippo treated her courteously and didn’t assume that her old job made her an easy lay. If anything, the memory of their first meeting seemed to make him reluctant to touch her at all. On her doorstep she almost had to make the first move, before he sprung to life and kissed her, tentatively at first and then with increasing enthusiasm.
When his hand rested on her bottom he must have sensed her blush, because he backed off immediately.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I know the bottom is out of bounds.’
She laughed. ‘It’s not completely out of bounds, Filippo. We’ll just have to agree access rights.’
He kissed her fervently again before they said goodnight.
That night La Pera had two very important guests. The gorilla himself showed them to their table, which was secluded but close to the action. Even he treated them with high deference, since they were, through a complex network of companies, the club’s owners.
The elder of the two was a fat man who plumped into his place with a sigh. He let his ample body spread over the plush banquette seating which formed a horseshoe around the table. His lean companion was a much better advertisement for the renowned quality of their tailor. Both wore gold watches of a similar style, but otherwise their only jewellery was plain gold wedding rings. The fat man had obviously been married for many years, because his ring cut deep into his podgy finger.
As the boss left he paused by the next table, towering above the four mere giants who sat there. He shared a relaxed laugh with them. Twenty years previously he had sat at the same table doing the same job; a bodyguard to the two brothers.
When the brothers put their grey heads together to discuss important business it was in total privacy, but minor matters were often ironed out in their leisure time. Tonight they wanted to draw a line under the case of Carlo’s forgeries.
‘How is Francesco?’ asked the fat brother.
‘Happy. There was not enough evidence to prosecute him.’
‘He has lost the business though?’
‘Yes, but the property lease alone is worth a few million. He wants to retire. He’ll work as a consultant now and then, if we need him.’
A drum roll announced the prelude to the floor show. It was to be a special performance tonight and the club was full. Although countless girls were available to take part in the less demanding activities on stage, it was much harder to find suitable candidates for the main event. As La Pera was a legitimate business their consent was necessary, and they often chose to retire after only one or two appearances. Those that carried on needed several weeks to recover after each one. Consequently, many shows tended to be too tame for the strictest aficionados of pain. If on a given night the sternest treatment was to be meted out, usually only one girl would face it. Tonight however three girls were to be, metaphorically, sacrificed in honour of the pagan New Year, but fortunately the expansion of the EU had generated a flow of women from Eastern Europe to replenish the club’s pool of submissive beauties.
The trio appeared on stage dressed in the tunics of slave girls in ancient Rome. Two of the girls were white and one was black. The show master appeared, dressed as a Roman centurion and ripped the tunic harshly off each girl, making her stagger. Naked, the girls stood facing the audience as the centurion walked around them. He examined their bodies, prodding and squeezing whichever parts took his fancy. On his command the girls turned their backs to the audience. He manhandled their buttocks in turn, to appreciative murmurs from the onlookers. Then the girls put their arms on each others’ shoulders and circled in the manner of Canova’s Three Graces, showing off their backs and bottoms. The curtain fell and the club’s small band resumed their repertoire.
The fat man signalled to their waitress and gave her instructions. Then he turned back to his brother.
‘Does Sir James know about us?’ he asked.
‘No I don’t think so. Carlo would be afraid to tell him.’
‘He might tell him, if he were threatened with the police.’
The thin man laughed sardonically. ‘He is more afraid of us than of the police.’
‘You think he helped Carlo just because of the girl?’
‘I’m sure of it. She was his secretary and he had an affair with her.’
‘And now she is coming to Italy. An opportune move.’
Whilst it had been a nuisance that James had spotted the first forgery, it seemed that he had withheld informatio
n about the second from the police. All in all the brothers did not feel he was a danger to them. Both believed in the maxim he who does not help my enemy helps me. They considered whether this soft spot in James’ character might be of use to them in the future. Nothing sprang to their minds at the moment, but they had built long and successful careers by manipulating important men.
‘It does no harm to have Sir James in reserve,’ the younger man mused.
‘Can she speak Italian?’ asked the fat one, returning to the subject of Nicola.
‘A little. Her father was a classics professor, I think.’
‘Will she need a job here? We could suggest one to Carlo.’
‘I’ll speak to him. Something very upright and honest for the time being, I think.’
‘Exactly.’
The black girl from the stage had been standing silently at their table waiting for the conversation to end. When the fat man turned to her she said, ‘My Master told me you wish to inspect my bottom, signore.’
The fat man pushed the table away to make room for the girl to lie across his lap. He delicately patted her generous rump. Meanwhile the other made a phone call to his wife, paying no attention whatever to his brother and the girl.
‘I would like to inspect you again later. At my town flat.’
‘Certainly, signore.’
‘Tell your Master to be merciful in the performance.’
‘Yes, signore. Would you like him to accompany me to your flat?’
The fat man smiled. ‘No. I think I can handle you alone. Reassure him that I intend to be very strict with you.’
‘Of course, signore.’
‘My driver will collect you from the dressing room after the show. Be ready for him,’ he said, waving her away.
Now that the black girl had been dismissed the show could begin. The curtain rose on a stage with three identical pillories standing side by side. The centurion led in the naked slaves. Around the neck of each of them was a loop of string, from which hung a thin wooden rod. They stood, one in front of each pillory, heads humbly bowed, facing the audience. Each one took a pace forward as the centurion read out her name and crime from a parchment. Vibia, the black girl, was guilty of stealing a pear. Gaia and Lucia had been caught making love to each other. Gaia was petite, with small firm breasts and a boyish haircut. Her partner in crime had a fuller figure and long blonde hair.
The centurion took each girl to her pillory and locked her head and hands in it. The rods hung freely from their necks. The pillories were barely above waist height, so that the girls had to bend over whilst in them. A post jutted horizontally from each one, along which the girl could rest her upper body to hold her position. The two white girls were set with their bottoms to the audience, and the black girl between them, facing the audience.
The centurion was heavily built with huge hands, which he used to deliver a hard spanking to each slave. His hand seemed to cover the entire surface of one of Gaia’s slender buttocks. As each smack landed the girl’s body jerked, causing her rod to swing like a pendulum. All the girls were experienced and received their spanks in silence, knowing to save their breath for later.
The centurion lifted the rod off each girl in turn, wound the string loop round the end to thicken his grip, and delivered six slashing strokes to her backside. After finishing with each one he replaced the loop of the rod round her neck. He did this three times, each slave receiving eighteen strokes in total, and during the last circuit they began to squeal and hop from foot to foot as the rods sliced into them.
Those customers with a finely tuned ear might have noticed that the cracks of the black girl’s cane sounded hollower than the others; and those experienced in administering beatings would see that her yelps and grimaces were a trifle more theatrical.
The coda to this act of the show was a birthday treat for one of the members. He was invited onto the stage, where the centurion had him give each of the white girls six strokes of their rod. When the member turned towards the black girl the centurion held him back, and asked him to repeat the six to each of the white girls as they were guilty of greater sins.
‘But this time, signore, you must punish them more rigorously.’
The member’s eyes lit up as the centurion helped him off with his jacket. He laid into the girls, his forehead perspiring with effort, and was rewarded with their yelps and twisting bodies, as well as roars from the audience. At the end the white girls stood in their posts shaking with sobs, their welts plain for everyone to see.
When the curtain fell, without further punishment of Vibia, a jeer or two might normally have been expected from the floor, but her visit to the fat man’s table had been noted. No one wished to offend him, and most much preferred not to be noticed by him at all.
As the band struck up once more the brothers turned back to their grappa and their conversation.
‘What about Carlo?’ asked the thin one, refreshing their glasses from the bottle.
‘Leave him for the time being. What he did for his sister was an honourable thing. Besides, if he becomes successful as an artist we might have better uses for him than petty forging.’
They then chatted of family concerns for a few minutes.
Meanwhile a lighter drama had taken to the stage. Two leggy blondes, dressed as schoolgirls in white blouses and tartan miniskirts, had reported to the headmaster to be disciplined for kissing each other lasciviously. The girls were new to tonight’s cast but the headmaster was the centurion reincarnated. His ham-like hands spanked the girls over his knee, first with their white panties up and then with them down. Penitently the girls came down from the stage and circulated through the room, pouting and displaying reddened bottoms to any member who wished to look. If the members so chose, and many did, they could add a few more slaps.
After the schoolgirls returned to the stage they showed that they had not learned their lesson, and when the headmaster re-entered he caught them again. They had taken off their blouses and bras and were kissing and fondling each others’ breasts. Naturally he had to bend them over their school desks and beat them with a long wooden ruler, while they screwed up their faces and shrieked loudly.
The elder man paid little attention to this entertainment, but his lean brother was clearly taken with one of the schoolgirls. Tonight he had to go home to his wife, but he gave orders to Bruno to make the young lady available at the weekend.
After the curtain had fallen on the school scene the brothers arrived at the last item on the evening’s agenda.
‘What of Bianchi?’ asked the fat man. ‘I heard there was a problem with the packaging.’
‘It is time he retired,’ replied the other. ‘Drink is making him sloppy.’ His voice had a cruel edge, perhaps anticipating the scenes soon to be played out on stage.
At the start of the final performance the centurion once more led in the three naked slave girls. They stood eyes down, facing the audience.
Their wrists were bound together in front of them. The centurion ordered them to raise their arms so the audience might see their pubes un-obscured by their hands. Behind each of them was their place of punishment. In the centre a rope hung down from an unseen beam above the stage. A few feet to the left of it stood a wooden whipping post. On the other side was a large, square wooden block.
As they stood submissively before the audience the centurion read out their sentences: for Vibia, twenty lashes for stealing the pear; for Gaia and Lucia, forty and fifty lashes respectively for their lesbian affair. Lucia was deemed to have begun the affair and hence had a harsher sentence. There was a murmur of approval from the audience at the severity of the punishments.
The girls dropped their arms, turned and stood at their stations with their bottoms to the audience. The centurion was in no hurry. Working at a leisurely pace he tied the hanging rope to the cord a
lready around the black girl’s wrists. At a signal from him someone above the stage mechanically drew up the rope until the girl’s arms were stretched and she had to stand on tiptoe.
The centurion removed the top half of his tunic, revealing a powerful torso. Two young maidservants appeared at his side, one holding a bowl, from which he oiled all of Vibia’s body. As he massaged her the girl moaned faintly in pleasure. But when he came to her buttocks the oil was slapped on and his giant hands squeezed her until she squealed. The other maidservant handed him a towel, and after he’d carefully dried his hands she offered him the bullwhip. It was a wicked instrument with a single three foot tail in thick leather. The servants withdrew and the whipping began.
All twenty strokes were delivered to Vibia’s upper back. He was careful to let no lash hit her bottom, which was to be preserved for the fat man. The girl swung and hopped as the strokes fell. By the end she was left to dangle, crying quietly, while the centurion moved on to the petite white girl.
The maidservants appeared again and Gaia’s body was oiled with the same leisurely attention as before. Gaia was then bound to the whipping post, her hands above her head, her feet and waist tied tightly to the post. She looked too slight to survive forty lashes, but survive them she did. Her boyish buttocks could be seen to clench as the thick tail bit into them. She struggled in vain against the cords which bound her. Her screams rent the club and her trim back and bottom soon became an angry montage of welts. The third girl cowered at her station, nervously watching, knowing worse was soon to be visited upon her.
And then her time came. Gaia’s keening continued while Lucia’s body was ritually oiled. She was bent over the block, her wrists and ankles tied to iron rings fitted to its front and back. Her hands were still together, fastened to the back, but her feet were apart, one tied to each side of the front of the base. Thus her sex was displayed to the audience, and as he bound her in place they could hear her frightened whispering.
